#Best Rust Cleaner

[pixelplushies]

So I was recently tasked with a very well loved soft toy Flip the Frog from the 1930s to restore.

He was bought new for my great aunt-in-law when she was 10, and was gifted to her sister's children when they were young. My mother in law has memories of feeding him cornflakes and putting her hands in his mouth, which felt very soft and velvety.

He had been in the attic for a number of years, and had moths get to him. He had lost his eyes. Luckily there are some examples online which show what he was meant to be like!

I approached this project wanting to retain as much of the original plush as I could. I thought about doing a total restoration, but I would end up replacing so much I might as well be making a replica! I wanted to make sure I used fabrics that were sympathetic to the time period, so 100% wool felt and cotton velvet seemed appropriate. The only liberty I took was polyester thread, because that's what I had already.

I researched a lot of plush restorations and best practices. A lot of places recommended only surface washing, but poor Flip was so full of dust and the remains of moths, but his fabric body seemed rather sturdy still, I thought I would take the risk of un-stuffing him to give him a thorough bath. I very gently took him apart and unstuffed him. His stuffing material looked to be kapok. There was lots of moth poop.

I gave Flip a gentle bath with carpet cleaning solution, which is what is recommended for vintage plushies. It's designed to be used on lots of fabrics including natural ones like wool and doesn't leave a residue once it's done cleaning so won't degrade the fabric over time. Loads of grime came out of Flip, as well as some yellow dye from his feet.

Flip then had a good air-dry in the sun. He seemed to enjoy soaking up the sun, he was already looking a lot cleaner.

Flip's eyes (which once upon a time caused my cousin-in-laws nightmares) were particularly gross and moth-eaten underneath. I decided to re-cover the card disks that made up his eyes with velvet cotton instead rather than reuse the old eyes. His original velvet was really bright yellow but had faded over time. I decided to use a fabric that matched his more faded look, I felt the bright yellow would look out of place. I also got some wooden beads and cut them in half and painted them for his pupils, which I glued on.

When it came to restoring his feet, I tried to retain as much of the original material as possible. I enjoyed patching and repairing the felt, I chose a 100% wool yellow felt that was close to his old colour here. Highlights the age of the old parts, I feel like it draws attention to his history and age.

Time to put him back together! I bought some new kapok stuffing because I couldn't reuse the old dusty moth stuff. Luckily you can still get it. I wrapped his metal skeleton in felt so that if it got rusty it wouldn't stain him (he's already a little stained from it rusting). Then I slipped his limbs over the skeleton and sewed them back on!

Ta-daa!! Here's flip looking a lot better, even if I say so myself.

One of the things we noticed when looking at photos of these soft toys is that they seem to have pinkish or white bow-ties and this Flip was missing his! Looking at the character art, I believe they were originally red.

The orientation of the eyes also seems to vary because I think they were prone to falling off and being sewn back on. I chose to orient Flip's eyes close to how they were when I received him, but slightly more vertical to make him appear more friendly.

Flip was a very fun challenge and got me thinking a lot about restoration vs conservation of historical artifacts, he may not be super duper old or rare but I feel like I better understand the dilemmas and judgements that have to be made when working on objects like this!

[brookghaib-blog]

The quiet things that remain

pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Bob and Y/N used to be the best of friends, he went to Malaysia to be better, only to leave her just with a ghost in the past and unresponded messages and calls. And return, but never to her. Never to the love she didn't had the courage to announce.

Word count: 12,1k

warning: very angst, depression, self-esteem issues, extreme loniless, mysoginistic remarks

note: don't hate me

chapter II

--

The rain tapped against the bookstore windows like a soft, persistent knocking — steady, but unwelcome. Outside, the gray New York afternoon bled into the kind of evening that came too early and stayed too long. Inside, the warmth of yellow lamplight spilled over rows of untouched shelves and dust-flecked hardcovers, curling over the edges of a place that time had gently forgotten.

Y/N sat behind the counter, elbows on the worn wood, phone resting in her trembling hands. She hadn't noticed when the tea beside her had gone cold. She hadn’t noticed much lately.

The video played quietly, but every word rang louder than it should.

“...the New Avengers were spotted again today leaving the UN compound, raising more questions than answers. Who are they? What do they stand for? And more importantly… who are they when the cameras are off?”

A sleek montage of clips rolled across the screen. There they were — the so-called “New Avengers.”

There he was. Bob Reynolds. The man she hadn’t seen in eight months.

Golden-haired, cleaner than she’d ever known him, standing straight and still beside a team of killers and misfits. No twitching hands. No darting eyes. No shadow of withdrawal in his pupils. Just… peace. Control. Power.

It was like looking at a stranger. A beautiful, impossible stranger with his face.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, but the video kept playing.

“Among the many questions surrounding Sentry — the golden god at the center of the team — is one persistent theory: is there something romantic between him and his fellow operative, Yelena Belova?”

Her fingers curled around the phone. No. Please.

Footage rolled. Grainy at first — taken by paparazzi, blurred by distance.

Bob and Yelena. Walking side by side. Her arm brushing his. Another clip: her tugging him away from the crowd, laughing. A third: a hug. Not quick. Not distant. Her arms around his waist. His chin in her hair. The kind of embrace that says I know what you’ve been through, and I’m not afraid of it.

“She’s the reason I’m here,” Bob’s voice said, an old interview clip playing now. “Yelena… she didn’t give up on me, even when I did. She reminded me there was still something worth saving.”

Y/N didn’t realize she’d started crying until her vision blurred and the soft hum of her own breath broke into a quiet, gasping sob. She paused the video with shaking hands, freezing the frame on a still of Bob looking sideways at Yelena during the interview — something gentle, something fragile behind his eyes.

That was the look she used to dream about. That was the look he never gave her.

She’d held his hair back while he threw up in gas station parking lots. Bailed him out of jail with money she didn’t have. Let him crash on her couch when he was too high to remember his name. He used to call her his “safe place.” Said she was the only thing in his life that wasn’t broken.

But she’d always known. Deep down, she’d always known she wasn’t enough to fix him.

But now? Now he had Yelena.

And the world. And peace.

Y/N set her phone down face-first on the counter and covered her face with both hands, her shoulders trembling with the kind of grief that makes no sound. The kind that lives in the chest like a second heartbeat, one made of rust and regret.

No customers. No noise but the rain and the old jazz record she’d forgotten to flip. Just her and the ghosts of what they could’ve been.

In the next room, a little bell above the door chimed softly — a delivery maybe, or just the wind. She didn’t even lift her head.

Somewhere, Bob Reynolds was flying.

And she was still here, crying in a bookstore he’d once said felt like home. He wasn’t coming back. Not to her.

And still, she whispered his name. Quiet, like a prayer.

The bookstore no longer hurt.

Not in the way it used to — with that sharp, stabbing grief that made her chest cave in every time the bell above the door chimed. Back then, she'd look up, half-hoping it was him. A flash of gold hair. That awkward, tired smile. His hoodie too big, his eyes too empty.

But now, months later, there was just quiet. Not peace — never peace — but quiet.

The kind that comes after acceptance. The kind that grows like moss over memories.

Y/N didn’t talk about Bob anymore. Not to coworkers, not to old friends who still asked, “Have you seen what he’s doing now?” Not even to herself, in those late hours when the ache beneath her ribs swelled like a wound reopening.

But she felt him. In the silence between customers. In the space beside her when she locked the door and walked home. In the way she looked at the world now — all those colors, all that beauty — and felt like a glass wall stood between her and everything she used to want.

She’d loved him. Of course she had.

She had loved Bob Reynolds since the ninth grade, when he punched a teacher’s car and got suspended for protecting a kid he didn’t even know. She loved him when he borrowed her notes, when he cried on her fire escape high out of his mind, when he disappeared for three weeks and came back thirty pounds thinner, shivering and hollow-eyed.

She loved him when he couldn’t love himself.

She never said it. Not really. Maybe in the way she bandaged his hands. Or made excuses to his parole officer. Or brought him dinner and sat three feet away like she didn’t want to reach out and pull him into her chest.

And when he left for Malaysia — a “spiritual retreat” — she smiled. She smiled like she believed it, even though everything in her screamed.

Still, she let him go. She let him go because she thought he’d come back. For her.

And then came the message. Just six words.

I love you. I’m sorry.

She’d stared at those words for hours. Days. Her fingers trembling over the keys, unsent replies collecting like ghosts in her drafts folder.

“Why are you sorry?” “Where are you?” “I love you, too.” “Please come home.” “Was it ever real?”

But she never sent anything. Because part of her already knew.

It wasn’t romantic love. Not for him. She was comfort. She was safety. She was the place you go when everything else falls apart — not the place you stay when you’re finally whole again.

Yelena got that part. Yelena got all of him.

And Y/N… Y/N got to survive it.

So she started going to the park.

At first, just to breathe. Just to sit on a bench with a thermos of tea and pretend she was somewhere else. Then, one day, she brought a sketchbook. She wasn’t an artist, not really. But she remembered telling Bob once that she wanted to draw people in love. “Like those old French films,” she’d said. “Where they just sit at cafés and smoke and kiss.” He laughed and said she was corny.

She went back the next day. And the next.

She sketched mothers holding babies. Old couples feeding pigeons. Young people tangled together in the grass, drunk on love and sunshine.

They didn’t know she was drawing them. They didn’t know her heart was breaking with every line.

She packed little picnics, too. Cheese and grapes and crackers in a paper box. A single folded napkin. She ate them cross-legged on a blanket alone — the same dates she used to dream of sharing with him. Her fantasies made real, only stripped of the one person they were for.

She bought herself ballet tickets. Front row. Twice.

She cried through Swan Lake because it was beautiful. And because Bob never cared about ballet. But she’d once imagined holding his hand in that velvet-dark theater, leaning on his shoulder, whispering about the dancers under the dim light of intermission.

She went to museums with an audio guide in her ears and a silent ache in her chest. They’d planned to go once, years ago. He bailed. Got arrested that night. She remembered bailing him out, hair still curled from the night she’d spent getting ready, tickets still in her purse.

Now she went alone. She stood in front of paintings for too long. Tried to feel the meaning in each one. Tried to understand why love, for her, always felt just out of reach — like art behind glass.

Bob had loved her, she truly believed that. But now she knew it had been platonic. Or nostalgic. Or guilty. Or desperate. Not the way she had loved him. Not the kind that cracked bone and rearranged the shape of her soul.

She had been there for decades. Through every overdose. Every apology. Every relapse and redemption. And in the end, Yelena — sharp, beautiful, new — walked in and took the title Y/N had spent her whole life earning.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Not really.

But it still felt like theft.

And so, every day, Y/N practiced the quiet art of living. Not thriving. Not healing. Just… surviving.

And when she walked home past flickering streetlights, past posters of the New Avengers, past Bob’s face painted in gold and shadow, she looked away.

Not because she didn’t love him anymore. But because she still did.

The sound of her shoes echoed softly against the sidewalk as Y/N walked home from the museum, arms crossed tightly over her chest. It had rained earlier. The air still smelled like wet pavement and the petals of bruised flowers that had fallen from the trees lining the Upper West Side.

She didn’t know why she kept doing this — walking home instead of taking the bus. Maybe she was punishing herself. Or maybe it was the only time she could cry without worrying anyone would see.

The tear tracks on her cheeks had dried by the time she got to her building.

She lived on the second floor. A narrow walk-up above a tailor shop, with faded red carpeting and one window that opened if you jiggled it the right way. It was small, cramped, imperfect. But it was hers.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, the weight of the day sank into her shoulders. She kicked off her shoes — too comfortable, too wide, orthopedic even. She used to laugh at herself for that, back when she imagined someone would find her quirks charming. Now they just made her feel… old.

Plain.

Forgettable.

Y/N tossed her bag on the couch and went straight to the mirror near the kitchen. She didn’t know why. She just stood there and looked.

And the more she looked, the more she unraveled.

The dark circles beneath her eyes weren’t poetic, like in the movies. They were just… tired. Her skin was dull, pale in places, red in others. Her cheeks had lost their softness from stress. Her lips were cracked.

She tucked her hair behind one ear. Then the other. Then back again.

Too flat. Too thin. Too dry.

She didn’t look like someone you’d love at first sight. She didn’t look like someone who could fly beside gods or run across rooftops or save the world.

She looked like someone who bagged your books and forgot to put on mascara.

And the image of Yelena — always there, always shimmering just under her eyelids — rose to the front of her mind.

Yelena Belova, with her radiant, smug grin and her bite-sharp wit. Yelena, who had cheekbones like a model and eyes that seemed to challenge the whole world. Yelena, who had scars and stories and strength in the kind of way that made men look and women wish.

She was everything Y/N wasn’t.

And worse… she was the kind of woman Bob could fall in love with.

Y/N’s voice cracked in the silence of the room. A whisper against the mirror.

“Of course he loves her.”

She dragged her fingers down her face, pressing against her cheekbones, her temples, like she could reshape what was there. But no matter how she adjusted the angle, no matter how she forced a smile — she still looked like the woman he left behind.

A memory. A placeholder. Never the prize.

She slumped to the floor, back against the kitchen cabinets, knees pulled to her chest.

Her breath hitched once. Twice. And then the tears came again, full and warm, slipping down her cheeks and into the collar of her cardigan.

Why did I think I ever had a chance?

The thought hissed in her mind, cruel and sharp. She wasn’t a hero. She wasn’t someone the world noticed, or photographed, or followed online. She wore second-hand sweaters and cheap lip balm. She read fantasy books instead of manifesting a future. She planned picnics and movie nights for a man who never once saw her as the main character in his life.

Her hands had held his when they trembled. Her voice had soothed him when he couldn’t breathe. Her love had stitched him back together when he was in pieces.

But Yelena got his smile. Yelena got the storybook ending.

And all Y/N got was this tiny apartment, this quiet heartbreak, and the knowledge that she had always, always been too soft in a world that rewarded teeth.

She reached for her sketchbook on the table, flipped to a new page, and tried to draw.

Anything. Something. A line. A shape.

But all that came out were shaky outlines of a woman with her head in her hands.

She didn’t even need to look in the mirror to know it was her.

A little while later, she made herself tea. She added honey even though she didn’t want it. Her mother once told her honey was for healing. She didn’t believe that anymore, but the ritual made her feel like someone else might believe it for her.

She drank it slowly, eyes still swollen, heart still aching.

--

It had taken everything in her — every fragile, trembling piece of courage — to agree to the date.

She didn’t want to. Not really. Not when her heart still ached every time she saw a golden blur on a news broadcast, not when Bob’s voice still played like a lullaby in her most tired moments. But she told herself she had to try. That maybe the only way out of love was through something new. Something safe. Someone... nice.

His name was Daniel. They had matched on an app after she spent thirty-two minutes rewriting and rereading her bio before finally deciding on something honest but light: “Bookstore girl. Lover of iced tea, Van Gogh, and stories that hurt.”

Daniel had a nice smile in his pictures. Warm. Casual. His messages were funny, thoughtful — nothing like the catcalls or shallow conversations she was used to getting from strangers online. He liked foreign films, jazz, and pretended to know more about literature than he did, which made her smile. He wasn’t Bob. But that was the point, wasn’t it?

Their dinner was at a little bistro tucked into a quiet Brooklyn street, lit by the kind of dim, cozy lighting that made everyone look softer. Y/N had spent two hours getting ready. She curled her hair, put on eyeliner she hadn’t touched in months, and slipped into a pale blue dress that clung just enough to remind her that her body was still hers — even if no one had touched it in years.

She smiled when she saw Daniel waiting outside, leaning against the brick wall with his hands in his coat pockets. He greeted her with a compliment — “You look great” — and she had smiled too brightly in return, unsure of how to absorb kindness that didn’t come wrapped in years of shared trauma.

The conversation was easy, light. He asked about her job, her favorite books, her dream vacation. She let herself laugh, even told a few stories about her childhood that she hadn’t spoken aloud in a long time. They shared dessert. He paid. He walked her outside, his coat brushing her arm.

Then he said it.

“So… want to come back to mine for a nightcap?” He grinned. That kind of grin.

It hit her like a slap. The spell — fragile and delicate — shattered.

Her breath caught, but she smiled politely. “No, thank you. I should probably get home.”

He blinked once. Twice. Then his face changed.

“Oh. One of those girls.”

She paused, caught off guard. “What?”

“You led me on the whole night just for a free meal?”

“What? No, I didn’t—”

He laughed — a cruel, sharp sound that made her skin crawl. “Jesus. I should’ve known. I mean, you're not even that hot.”

Her lips parted, a protest caught in her throat. But he was already turning away.

“You act like you're this mysterious, deep girl, but you're just another average chick playing hard to get. It’s pathetic.”

The words hit like fists. Not even that hot. Just average.

She stood there, stunned, as he walked off into the night without another word.

By the time she got home, the tears had already started. Silent. Humiliating. Hot with shame.

She locked the door behind her and sank to the floor, still in her dress, her heels digging into her calves. She didn’t move for a long time. Just sat there, back against the wall, clutching her purse to her chest like it could hold her together.

“I’m not even pretty enough to turn someone down,” she whispered into the quiet.

The words echoed in her head, crueler every time they came back around.

Because it wasn’t just about Daniel.

It was every moment she’d spent wondering why Bob never looked at her that way. Every time she imagined what it might be like if he kissed her, only to watch him kiss someone else in her dreams. It was every second she stood in front of the mirror, wishing to be someone — anyone — worth choosing.

Yelena would never be called average.

Yelena had fire in her veins and a thousand stories in her scars. Men looked at her like she was art. Women wanted to be her. She could command a room with a glance, slay monsters with a flick of her wrist. Even in the mess, she was magic.

And what was Y/N?

Just… there.

The girl at the register who knew your favorite author. The girl who waited. Who stayed. Who believed in things long after they’d stopped being true.

The girl who had to beg the universe just to be noticed — only to be told she wasn’t even good enough to reject.

That night, she deleted the dating app.

She folded the blue dress and put it at the bottom of her drawer. She brushed her teeth without looking in the mirror. She made tea and didn’t drink it.

She lay in bed and stared at the ceiling until the sun came up, one thought pulsing behind her tired eyes:

Even if Bob had never loved her… she used to believe she was the kind of person worth loving.

Now, she wasn’t so sure.

--

The air was crisp — not cold, not yet. Just enough of a bite to make the tips of her fingers shiver in her sleeves, and for the wind to carry the kind of scent that only ever belonged to October: dried leaves, earth, the distant memory of rain. Y/N had always loved this kind of weather. She used to joke that it was "main character" weather. The kind you walk through slowly, headphones in, pretending the world is some quiet, tragic film and you’re the girl who hasn’t healed yet — but might.

Only now, she wasn’t pretending.

She walked with her hands in her pockets, her scarf wrapped twice around her neck and tugged tight. Her hair was tied back loosely, pieces falling into her face with every gust of wind. Her eyes were a little tired, but soft. Distant. As if they were searching for something they didn’t expect to find.

The park wasn’t crowded. A few dog walkers. A couple of college students with coffees. Two kids kicking a soccer ball back and forth. She passed them all without really seeing them. Her boots crunched gently over leaves as she found her usual bench — the one facing the little lake with the willow trees bending low over the edge. She sat slowly, with the weight of someone who was carrying more than her coat.

She didn’t notice the old woman at the other end of the bench until several minutes had passed.

The woman was crocheting. Her fingers moved rhythmically, precisely, as if they knew this pattern by heart. A ball of pale lavender yarn sat tucked neatly in her lap, and her eyes — pale blue and clouded slightly with age — flicked up occasionally to watch the people go by.

Y/N watched the ducks. The trees. Nothing in particular. Her body was still, but her mind wasn’t.

She didn’t cry. Not this time. The tears had dried up days ago. Now it was just… stillness. Not peace. Not quite sadness. Just the absence of something she didn’t know how to name.

“Are you looking for someone, dear?”

The voice startled her — soft but sudden. Y/N turned slightly, surprised to see the old woman watching her with a small, knowing smile.

“I—sorry?” Y/N blinked.

“You’ve got that look,” the woman said, setting her crochet down gently in her lap. “The kind people wear when they’re waiting for someone they know won’t come. I used to know that look very well.”

Y/N swallowed. Her throat felt tight.

“I’m not,” she said too quickly. “Just… enjoying the park.”

The woman hummed, unconvinced but kind. “Well, if you’re going to keep me company, at least pretend to be interested in what I’m making.”

Y/N smiled faintly — barely there — and looked down at the yarn. “What are you making?”

“Scarf. For my granddaughter. She wants it to match her dog’s sweater,” the woman said with a fond roll of her eyes. “I told her that was ridiculous. Then I started it anyway.”

Y/N let out a small breath. A ghost of a laugh. “It’s a beautiful color.”

“Thank you.” The woman paused, then looked at her with a soft, mischievous glint. “You ever crochet?”

Y/N shook her head. “No… But I’ve always wanted to learn.”

“Well, you’re in luck.” The woman pulled a second hook from her bag and another ball of yarn — soft blue, a little faded. “Sit up. I’ll teach you.”

Y/N hesitated. “I… really?”

“Why not? You look like you need something to do with those restless hands. Something that doesn’t involve checking your phone every two minutes.”

She flushed. Guilty. She had been checking. Just in case there was something about him. A new sighting. A news update. A miracle.

She took the yarn.

The first few loops were awkward. Clumsy. But the rhythm settled quickly. The woman’s voice guided her gently through the pattern, her hands warm with time and patience. Y/N’s hands trembled once — not from the cold.

“What’s your name, dear?” the woman asked after a while.

“Y/N.”

“Lovely name. I’m June.”

They sat for a long moment in silence, the soft clicking of hooks the only sound between them.

Then June asked, “Was it your lover?”

Y/N blinked, the question catching her off guard. “What?”

“The one you’re looking for. The one you lost.”

Y/N stared at the yarn in her hands, her fingers frozen mid-loop. She could feel the ache creep up again, slow and sharp, like it always did when someone touched that place inside her she thought she’d hidden well.

“I… I didn’t have a lover,” she said softly.

June watched her for a moment, then nodded. “But you loved him.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

“Yes.”

June didn’t pry. She just nodded again, returning to her stitching. It was quiet for another few minutes before Y/N found her voice again.

“What about you?” she asked. “You said you used to know that look.”

June smiled gently, the kind of smile that knew grief well. “I lost my husband five years ago. Charles. We were married forty-seven years. I still look for him sometimes in the park. It’s silly, I know.”

“It’s not silly,” Y/N said quickly, her voice breaking just slightly.

June looked at her kindly. “No… I suppose it’s not.”

Y/N looked down at her yarn, then up at the trees swaying slowly in the breeze.

“He used to walk with me,” June said, voice distant. “Every Sunday. He’d always pick up the fallen leaves and tell me which ones were the prettiest. I used to think he was silly for it. Now I wish I’d pressed them all into books.”

Y/N’s chest hurt. “I used to plan dates for him,” she said suddenly, voice quiet. “Picnics. Ballet tickets. Museum exhibits. I’d write the ideas down in a little notebook. I never asked him out. Never told him. But I had it all planned… just in case he ever looked at me like I wasn’t invisible.”

June’s eyes were wet.

“Did he ever know?” she asked gently.

Y/N shook her head.

“I think he loved me,” she said. “But not the way I needed.”

June reached over, placed her hand softly over Y/N’s.

“Sometimes,” she said, “we love the right person in the wrong way. And sometimes… we’re just too late.”

Y/N let the words settle in her chest, the truth of them ringing hollow and loud all at once.

They sat there until the sun began to sink beneath the trees, painting the lake gold. A still, shared silence. No pressure. No expectations. Just two women — one in the dusk of her life, the other trying desperately to find her dawn again — crocheting side by side on a bench in the middle of a world that kept moving forward.

Y/N didn’t find Bob that day.

But she found something else.

A moment of peace.

After that day in the park, something in Y/N shifted. Not drastically. There was no revelation. No thunderous change. Just… a quiet pivot. A small crack that let something new inside.

She began crocheting like her life depended on it.

At first, she was terrible. Her stitches were too tight. Then too loose. Then tangled. She dropped the hook more times than she could count. But she kept at it with the fervor of someone clinging to a lifeline. Her apartment — once tidy, minimalist — soon became littered with yarn. Pale blues, deep burgundies, soft browns. She never made anything useful. Her scarves were too short, her hats too lumpy, her attempts at socks made her laugh through tears.

But the point wasn’t to finish. The point was that it occupied her hands. It kept her from refreshing news sites. Kept her from scrolling past video edits of Bob — or Sentry now — lifting cars, flying above cities, standing beside Yelena like they were sculpted from the same stone. It kept her from reliving every memory with him, over and over, until her mind bled from it.

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, she met June in the park. Rain or shine. They’d sit on the bench, often in silence, crocheting while the world passed them by. Sometimes June talked about Charles. Sometimes about her grandchildren. Sometimes they sat in companionable stillness, the weight of their grief stitching them into the same quiet rhythm.

June started calling her “kiddo,” and Y/N didn’t have the heart to admit it made her cry once she got home.

She started dressing differently too — without realizing it. Her clothes became… comfortable. Long skirts, oversized cardigans. Scarves that didn’t match and boots with scuffed toes. She looked like the kind of woman you’d see sipping tea alone in an empty café window, with a novel clutched tightly in her fingers and a look in her eyes that said she once believed in love like fire — and got burned.

She began frequenting thrift shops, telling herself it was for the coziness. The earth tones. The way old clothes felt like they had stories. But deep down, she knew it was because she didn’t feel beautiful anymore — so why bother trying?

Gone were the days of her cute lipstick, her floral dresses, her perfectly winged eyeliner that she wore just in case Bob stopped by the shop. Gone were the silly hopes that he'd see her in some new outfit and forget Yelena’s warrior smile.

Now, she was the soft ghost behind the register at the bookstore — the one who remembered every customer’s favorite genre, who stacked romance novels with tender reverence even though she didn’t read them anymore, who crocheted during lunch breaks and smelled like old paper and lavender.

Customers called her “lovely.” Never beautiful. Never striking. Just lovely.

A kind way to say forgettable.

To fill the quiet, she started a book club. Thursday nights. She pinned up a flier at the front counter and expected no one to come. But a few people did. A teacher, an elderly man with too many opinions on Hemingway, a lonely college student who needed an excuse to leave the dorms. They talked about stories, argued about endings, brought snacks. And for one night a week, Y/N had plans. A reason to change her clothes. A reason to stay awake past ten.

They all liked her. They said she had a soothing voice. That she picked good books. That she made the bookstore feel like home.

None of them knew her favorite book was the one Bob borrowed and never returned — spine cracked, margin scribbled with his half-legible notes. She kept it on the shelf behind the counter. Just in case.

Sometimes she wondered if Bob would even recognize her now. If he passed her on the street ?

Would he see the girl who held his head in her lap during withdrawal? Who bailed him out of jail with the last of her student loan money? Who made mix CDs and planned imaginary dates and waited three years for him to say I love you in a way that wasn’t a goodbye?

Or would he just see what everyone else saw now?

A sweet, quiet, unremarkable woman who smiled too politely and went home alone.

She never told June about him. Not really. She never said the name. She just said, “There was someone. And I wasn’t enough.”

June had squeezed her hand. “He wasn’t ready, love. There’s a difference.”

Y/N smiled at that.

But she didn’t believe it.

Not anymore.

Some people are stars, destined for legend, brilliance, and heroes who fall from the sky. And some people are just… soft spaces. To be landed on. To be left behind.

Y/N had accepted that she was the latter.

And so, she crocheted. She read. She sipped lukewarm tea in the evenings and wrote little notes in the margins of her books just to feel like someone might find them one day and know she existed.

She was no one’s great love story.

--

The loneliness had begun to settle like dust — fine, weightless, but everywhere. In the corners of her apartment. In the extra teacup she always poured and never used. In the quiet moments between sleep and waking, when the stillness felt too heavy and too permanent to bear.

Y/N had always loved silence. But now, it gnawed at her.

Her routine no longer offered comfort — only proof of how much space one person could take up when no one else was there to see it. She could go days without speaking to anyone outside of work. Her coworkers were kind. Customers smiled. Book club was a nice reprieve. But when the door shut at night behind her, the echo always sounded like grief.

It had been weeks since she’d cried. Not because she was healing — she’d simply dried out. The tears had gone somewhere deep inside, too tired to keep trying.

That Sunday, she woke up to an apartment that felt too quiet. Too cold. The kind of cold that seeps through your skin and rests in your chest. She sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, watching the morning light slide across the floor. The feeling was familiar. A soft, aching hollowness. The same she’d felt after Bob left. After she realized he wasn't coming back. After she watched a video of him calling Yelena his reason.

She wasn't trying to fill that hole anymore.

She just wanted… something warm.

So, she walked to the animal shelter.

It was a rainy morning, one of those gray, drizzling days where the whole world looked washed out and blurry. Her umbrella was cheap and kept folding inward, so by the time she got to the shelter, her coat was soaked through and her fingers were stiff.

Inside, the building smelled like wet fur and pine-scented cleaner. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead, casting everything in a sterile yellow tone. A volunteer greeted her with a practiced smile and showed her to the cat room, explaining the basics — litter habits, vaccinations, temperament ratings. Y/N nodded politely but didn't really listen. Her eyes were already scanning the room.

Dozens of cats.

Some curled up in boxes. Others pacing. A few meowing with hopeful desperation.

But none looked at her.

She crouched near one particularly vocal tabby, only for it to hiss and turn its back. Another cat batted lazily at a toy when she approached but ignored her hand when she reached to pet it. A long-haired Persian stared right through her, regal and unimpressed.

Y/N stood there awkwardly, hands in her coat pockets, heart sinking.

She knew it was silly — anthropomorphizing rejection — but it still stung. She wasn’t even appealing to cats.

She turned to leave. Quietly. Without causing a scene. It would be just another thing she tried and failed at. Another reminder that even animals knew she wasn’t the one you picked.

And then — soft movement.

From the far corner, behind a scratching post and a tattered old tunnel toy, came the slow stretch of a lanky gray cat. He blinked at her, one eye slightly squinty from an old injury, and stood up.

He didn’t meow. Didn’t purr. Just padded over, tail upright like a little question mark.

Y/N froze.

He was all bones under his fur — lean and elegant in a scrappy kind of way. He looked like he’d lived a hard life. Scars on his ears. A slight limp. But his eyes… they were soft. Curious.

She crouched slowly and extended her hand.

The cat hesitated. Sniffed. And then, with a small sigh, leaned into her fingers.

Her throat tightened.

She scratched gently under his chin, and he tilted his head, pressing closer. As if to say, Oh. There you are.

Her vision blurred.

And just like that — she’d been chosen.

His name at the shelter was “Dusty.” She didn't change it. It suited him. He wasn’t glamorous. He didn’t leap into her lap or sleep curled against her cheek. But he followed her from room to room, curling up near her feet, always watching.

When she crocheted, he’d bat gently at the ends of yarn. When she cried quietly at night — not often, but sometimes still — he’d jump onto the couch and sit beside her. Never touching. Just near.

Like he knew that’s all she could handle.

She whispered to him often. About her day. About books. About the lives she imagined while shelving romance novels with happy endings. About the man she loved who forgot her.

Sometimes, she whispered his name.

Dusty never answered, of course. But he blinked at her slowly, and it felt like the closest thing to understanding she’d had in months.

She bought him a little blue collar with a bell. Crocheted him a lopsided bed. Let him sleep on the couch, even though she told herself she wouldn’t.

Her apartment didn’t feel empty anymore.

Not quite full, either.

But it felt alive.

And on some nights — when she boiled tea and read by the window, and Dusty curled beside her with one paw stretched across her foot — she allowed herself to pretend.

That maybe this was enough.

--

It had been raining the first day Y/N brought Dusty to the park.

Not pouring — just that kind of shy drizzle that left the leaves glistening and the air smelling of wet soil and faraway smoke. She hadn't intended to bring him. The thought itself had made her laugh, once. Walking a cat? That was a thing quirky people did in cartoons. Not quiet women with half-healed hearts and sensible shoes.

But Dusty had sat by the door that morning, tail flicking, eyes fixed on her like he knew she needed something.

She clipped on the little harness she'd bought on a whim — blue, to match his collar — and, to her surprise, he hadn’t fought her. He just blinked, stretched, and followed as she opened the door.

Y/N wasn’t used to being looked at. Not anymore. But she felt it that morning — soft, amused glances from strangers as she walked through the wet grass, the leash loose in her hand as Dusty padded carefully beside her. She adjusted her scarf higher on her neck and kept her eyes down. It felt ridiculous. Endearing. Exposed. Like she was baring too much of herself — saying, look how lonely I am that I walk a cat now.

But when she saw June already seated on their usual bench, bundled in a thick cardigan, her yarn dancing between delicate fingers — the tightness in her chest eased.

June looked up. Her eyes twinkled. “Well, well,” she grinned. “If it isn’t the neighborhood menace, dragging her tiger around.”

Y/N let out a breathy laugh and sat beside her. Dusty hopped onto the bench without invitation, curling beside her thigh like he owned it. His tail flicked with quiet pride.

“You brought the beast,” June said, amused. “I’m honored.”

“He needed fresh air,” Y/N murmured, brushing a raindrop from her cheek. “He gets restless when I work too long. I think he resents my job.”

June chuckled and leaned down to pet Dusty, who allowed it with his usual regal detachment. “He’s handsome,” she said thoughtfully. “Got that look of someone who’s seen things.”

Y/N smiled. “Like us.”

“Exactly.” June’s fingers scratched gently behind his ear. “You gave him a home?”

“He gave me one,” she whispered before she realized she’d said it aloud.

June looked at her.

Y/N swallowed. The wind brushed cold against her cheeks. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her phone. “I have pictures,” she said, her voice too soft. “Do you want to see?”

“I was waiting for that,” June said, settling in like it was a grand event.

Y/N flipped through photos with careful fingers. One of Dusty sleeping on a pile of books. One of him in a crooked little sweater she’d crocheted — his expression pure betrayal. One where he stood on the windowsill with sunlight gilding his fur, the city behind him like a world she didn’t belong to anymore.

June smiled at every one. “He looks like he trusts you.”

“I hope so.”

“You saved him?”

“No. I think I just… showed up. And he let me stay.”

The words felt too honest. But June never mocked honesty. She only nodded, like she knew what it meant to find shelter in something that couldn’t leave.

They sat in silence for a long time after that.

June crocheted a square for her blanket — lilac and navy, the colors of twilight. Y/N worked on a tiny blue hat, not sure who it was for. Dusty rested between them, tail curled like a comma, as if he were pausing a sentence neither of them wanted to end.

Then, softly, June asked, “Do you talk to him?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Your cat. Do you talk to him?”

Y/N’s lips parted, then closed again. Her eyes dropped to the yarn in her lap. “Yes,” she said. “I think… I tell him the things I can’t say out loud.”

June nodded slowly. “We all need someone who listens. Even if it’s just ears and whiskers.”

Y/N looked at her hands, at the tiny trembling loop she was forming. “I told him I wasn’t waiting anymore.”

“Are you?”

“I think I’m trying not to.”

June set her needles down and took one of Y/N’s hands, her grip warm and soft and full of unspoken knowing. “He’s missing out, whoever he is.”

Y/N tried to smile. It wobbled. “He loved someone else.”

“Then he never really looked at you.”

“I think… I think I spent so long being someone who waited for him… I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“You’re not just someone’s memory, sweetheart,” June said gently. “You’re here. You’re warm hands and kind eyes and messy yarn and a cat who chose you. That’s a lot.”

Dusty let out a soft chirp then, as if in agreement.

Y/N sniffed and nodded, tears pricking the corners of her eyes but refusing to fall. Not today.

“I never thought I’d be the woman who walked her cat in the park,” she said with a broken laugh.

“You’re not.”

“I’m not?”

“No,” June said, eyes twinkling. “You’re the woman who brought her whole heart back to life… with a leash and some yarn. That’s something else entirely.”

--

There were things Y/N never spoke aloud — not to June, not to Dusty, not even to the ceiling fan above her bed that sometimes spun slow enough to listen.

She carried some stories like bruises beneath long sleeves. Quiet things that pulsed when touched, but stayed hidden because to reveal them would be to admit she was still clinging to shadows.

One of those bruises was Mondays.

Every Monday, without fail, Y/N sat in a small corner booth at Solstice Café — a quiet, sun-drenched spot with old wood chairs and that smell of cinnamon baked into its walls. She always brought a book. Sometimes a notebook. Sometimes just Dusty’s latest pictures on her phone to scroll through. But none of that was the reason she was there.

It had started years ago, in a different life. A warmer, louder one — where laughter was careless and hope didn’t feel like something foolish.

Bob had gotten a summer job spinning a ridiculous sign for a fried chicken place two blocks away. He had to wear a full chicken costume — yellow feathers, orange tights, a beak that flopped when he moved too quickly. He’d hated it. Said he looked like someone’s acid trip. He’d tried to quit after day two.

But she hadn’t let him. She’d shown up with lunch.

“Let the world see the bird,” she’d said, grinning.

He’d groaned. But when she pulled out his favorite sandwich and a milkshake — the one with caramel drizzle on top — he’d slumped beside her on the curb, feathers and all, and eaten in silence until he finally cracked a smile.

“Only you could make this less humiliating.”

“Maybe I just like chickens.”

“You like me in tights, admit it.”

She’d laughed. He’d turned red. And after that, every Monday for the rest of that summer — and the summers that followed, even after he quit — they had lunch together at Solstice. It became sacred. A ritual. Mondays were theirs.

Even after everything else in his life fell apart, Mondays stayed. She made sure of it.

She was the one constant. The lighthouse. The one who always showed up.

And now, all these years later, she still did.

Every Monday at noon, she left work exactly on time, tucked her cardigan tighter around her, and walked the six blocks to Solstice Café. Her booth was usually open. The staff didn’t know her name, but they knew her order. Grilled cheese. Tomato soup. And a lavender lemonade, just because Bob once said it reminded him of summer.

She never told June about it. She couldn’t. It felt too desperate. Too much like a woman who was still waiting for a boy who wore a chicken suit and laughed like he didn’t know how to stop.

Dusty would never understand either. He was loyal, yes, but cats didn’t know the ache of time or the illusion of memory that played like a movie behind your eyes.

She would sit in the booth with her book open but unread, eyes fixed on the seat across from her, and she would pretend — just for a moment — that he might walk through the door.

That maybe this Monday would be the one where time rewound and gave her a do-over. A world where Bob never left. Where Malaysia was just a made-up excuse, and he came home with feathered stories and a milkshake in hand. Where Yelena was nobody. Where his hand reached across the table and found hers because maybe — just maybe — he’d finally seen her the way she’d always seen him.

But it never happened.

The booth stayed empty. The soup got cold. And she walked home alone, every time, biting the inside of her cheek to keep the tears from falling in public.

Sometimes she hated herself for it — for being so loyal to a memory. For loving someone who’d never really been hers.

He had said “I love you, I’m sorry” before disappearing. And she'd let that echo destroy her. She'd built fantasies from it, believing for a moment that maybe — maybe — the love had been real. But now, after everything she’d seen, it felt more like a goodbye born from guilt than love.

Yelena had arrived with her sharp edges and hero’s smile, and whatever mess of a man Bob had returned as — the Sentry, the god, the weapon — he’d looked at her like salvation. Not at Y/N. Not once.

And still, every Monday, Y/N showed up like a woman stuck in time. Haunted by a love no one else had witnessed. By inside jokes that only she remembered.

The staff never asked why she dined alone.

Maybe they thought she was a widow. Maybe a creature of habit. Maybe just lonely.

But to Y/N, it was a quiet act of rebellion. Of memory. Of refusing to forget the version of Bob who once danced badly to ‘80s songs in her kitchen, wearing mismatched socks and her apron.

The boy who said she was his only real friend.

She didn’t believe in ghosts, not really. But if she did — if she let herself — she’d admit that Mondays were when she summoned one.

And she never told anyone.

Because some heartbreaks were too precious to share. Some wounds felt sacred.

--

Weekends used to be the hardest.

There was a stretch of time—long and hollow—where Saturday mornings arrived with too much silence, and Sunday nights ended with nothing but the weight of a week repeating itself. No plans, no messages, no one waiting. She had stopped checking her phone long ago for texts that would never come. The kind that once started with “you up?” or “I need you.”

But she had to fill the time with something. The ache of idleness was too loud.

So, one Sunday afternoon after wandering aimlessly downtown, she saw a flier posted crookedly on a corkboard at a bus stop: “Looking for weekend volunteers. All heart, no experience necessary. Shelter & Hope, 17th Ave.”

It was handwritten, the ink a little smudged, the edges curling like it had been forgotten. But something about it pulled her in. Maybe it was the “all heart” part. Or maybe it was just the idea that, somewhere in the city, someone needed something—even if it wasn’t her.

That next Saturday, she showed up. She wore a plain sweater, jeans that didn’t quite fit right anymore, and a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She was met by a man named Greg, who smelled faintly of coffee and wore a name tag that read, “One Day At A Time.”

“You here to save the world?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“No,” she whispered. “Just trying not to drown in it.”

He didn’t press further. Just nodded and handed her a pair of gloves.

That first weekend, she washed dishes. Lots of them. In water that was too hot and filled with bubbles that clung to her wrists. Her knuckles turned red and raw, but the rhythm of it—the simple, repetitive motion—soothed something inside her.

She went back the next weekend.

And the one after that.

Soon, she wasn’t just washing dishes. She was making coffee. Folding donated clothes. Listening.

The people who came through Shelter & Hope weren’t statistics to her. They were names. Stories. Laughter that broke mid-sentence. Eyes that saw too much. Hands that trembled when offered kindness.

She met Eddie, a Vietnam vet who spoke like his voice had been lost in smoke. He told her about a girl named Luanne who once made peach cobbler every Sunday, and how the world stopped being sweet after she died.

She met Sherry, who carried her childhood in a plastic grocery bag, and showed Y/N how to mend socks with a needle as tiny as her hope.

She met Miles, a boy barely twenty with teeth too white for someone who never smiled. He liked fantasy books—especially ones with dragons. Y/N started bringing him paperbacks from her store’s discard bin. They’d read aloud together in the corner, where the flickering light made it hard to tell when he was crying.

She brought Dusty one day, on a whim, tucked into a soft sling like a baby. The shelter had no policy against pets, and he was clean, calm, the kind of cat who seemed to know when someone needed a weight on their lap and nothing more.

The residents adored him. Even the toughest of them softened at the sight of that quiet grey tabby with big amber eyes. Dusty never hissed. Never clawed. He simply sat. As if to say, I know. I understand. And somehow, that was enough.

One woman, Clarice, who hadn’t spoken in weeks, finally did—just to say, “He reminds me of a cat I had when my son was little.”

Y/N crocheted hats in the evenings. Scarves. Ugly mittens in colors no one requested. She gave them out anyway, stuffing them into drawers and offering them with a shrug. Sometimes she stitched their initials in the yarn when she knew them well enough. Her fingers worked fast now, always busy, like if she stopped, her thoughts would unravel.

She never told anyone why she was there. Not really.

They assumed kindness. A gentle soul. And she let them.

But in truth, it was selfish. It wasn't just that she wanted to help.

It was that, in their sadness, she could bury her own.

Their heartbreaks were worse. Louder. They made hers feel manageable. Bearable.

She wasn’t the only one with a ghost trailing behind her. She wasn’t the only one who’d been left behind.

And she wasn’t even the most broken. That realization brought shame and comfort in equal measure.

One Saturday, as she read quietly with Miles, he asked without lifting his head:

“Who hurt you?”

She froze.

“What?”

“You got that... look. Like you’re still waiting for someone who left.”

She smiled tightly. Closed the book.

“I’m just trying to give something good to the world.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But the world broke you first.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

She went home that night and cried into Dusty’s fur until his little paws batted her cheeks in confusion.

But she still returned the next weekend.

Because the pain didn’t go away. But at least there, in that place of tattered blankets and borrowed names, she could pretend her sorrow was part of something bigger. Something useful.

And when she handed someone a scarf or a book or just sat beside them as they spoke of lost fathers, vanished sisters, or lovers who disappeared into the fog, she didn’t feel invisible anymore.

She felt needed.

Even if she was still heartbroken. Even if no one ever came back for her.

--

The afternoon sun poured through the tall front windows of the bookstore in long slanted beams, lighting up the dust in the air like suspended stars. Outside, it was early spring, the kind that still had a winter sting in its wind, but inside the shop, it was warm, quiet, and smelled like old paper and brewed coffee from the little machine behind the counter that had been sputtering since morning.

Y/N was kneeling by a stack of unopened boxes near the fantasy section. New inventory had just come in—paperbacks smelling of fresh ink, tight spines begging to be cracked open. She loved this part of her job. The methodical repetition of slicing through tape, peeling back cardboard, stacking new titles alphabetically. It required no smiles, no explanations. Just her and the books.

Dusty sat curled like a grey loaf behind the register, blissfully asleep, his ears flicking only when the bell above the door jingled.

She didn’t look up. Customers came in all the time. Browsers. Readers. Parents searching for a birthday present they wouldn’t understand.

But then, a low voice, gravelly like it had been dragged across asphalt, broke the soft quiet of the store.

“Any good fantasy books? Not lookin’ for anything fancy. Just... a good one.”

Y/N turned, slightly startled. The man who stood at the entrance of the aisle was older, maybe in his late fifties or sixties. His beard was thick and streaked with silver, wild but trimmed like he tried, sometimes. His jacket was old leather, the kind that didn’t just hang on your body but had a history. He wore sunglasses despite being indoors, which she found odd—and oddly funny.

She gave him a polite nod. “Sure. Do you want a classic or something newer?”

He shrugged. “Something I can disappear into.”

She tilted her head. She knew that feeling.

After a few seconds of scanning the shelf, she handed him a copy of “The Last Binding.” It was new. A hidden gem. A rich story with quiet grief buried in its fantasy. She had liked it.

He took the book from her hands, brushing her fingers with a calloused thumb as he did. “You read this?”

She nodded. “It’s about a boy who forgets everything he loves to protect it. And the people who try to remind him.”

He didn’t say anything, just held the book and stared at the cover like it might give him an answer.

They stood there for a beat, the soft music overhead almost too gentle to hear.

“You always this quiet?” he asked, voice low again, not mocking, just curious.

“I talk more when I know someone better,” she replied, organizing the rest of the books without looking up.

“Well, then I guess I’ll have to read this quick and come back.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips.

He didn’t offer a name. Didn’t ask for hers. Just stood there, flipping through the first few pages with long fingers.

For the next ten minutes, he asked her a few things—what made her love books, if this was what she always wanted to do, if she believed in happy endings. Nothing deep, nothing strange. The kind of conversation people forgot five minutes after they walked away.

But she didn’t forget.

Because just before he left, as he approached the counter with the book and stood across from her, sunglasses still hiding his eyes, he tilted his head like he was studying her for the first time. And in the smallest voice, like it didn’t belong to someone who looked like him, he said:

“You seem sad.”

The words landed like glass on hardwood. Sharp. Unwelcome.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t repeat it. Just offered a small, almost apologetic nod, left cash on the counter—exact change—and turned without another word.

The bell rang again as he left, his boots heavy and uneven on the wooden floor.

She stood there for a long time after he was gone, staring at the closed door.

“You seem sad.”

She was sad. But no one ever said it out loud. People said she was quiet. Or shy. Or kind. But not sad. Not like that.

Not like they could see it.

Y/N sat down on the little stool behind the register. Dusty jumped into her lap, purring instantly, like he knew.

Her hands shook slightly as she pet him.

Why did it matter what some stranger said? Why did those three words hurt more than the years of silence Bob had left behind?

Maybe because it meant it was still written all over her.

Maybe because no matter how many scarves she crocheted or how many fantasy books she pushed into lonely hands, it didn’t change the way her grief still bled through the cracks.

She opened the store notebook and scribbled in the margins like she sometimes did.

He didn’t ask my name. But he knew my sadness.

Then she crossed it out. Tucked the receipt from the man’s purchase into the back of the notebook like a keepsake. Just the date. The time. Nothing else.

It wasn’t a moment worth remembering, and yet—she would.

--

The tattoo shop sat at the edge of the avenue, tucked between a pawn shop and a boarded-up bakery. The neon sign in the window blinked lazily in red and blue—“Electric Rose Tattoo”—flickering just enough to make her hesitate.

Y/N stood outside, wrapped in her oversized cardigan, her hands buried in the long sleeves like a child trying to disappear. She had been standing there for five minutes. Ten. Maybe more. The sun was low and golden behind her, casting her shadow long across the sidewalk. People passed, barely glancing. A woman holding flowers. A man with headphones. A teenager laughing into his phone. Everyone had a destination. Everyone had somewhere to be.

Except her.

The idea of a tattoo hadn’t come from a bucket list or a sudden surge of rebellion. It had arrived quietly, like most of her thoughts did these days—born in the middle of an overcast morning, while folding laundry in silence, her heart heavy with the weight of being forgotten.

She had caught her reflection in the mirror and thought, I don’t even recognize her anymore.

Same eyes. Same face. Same tired hands and polite smile. She wasn’t beautiful. She had made peace with that—or told herself she had. She wasn’t anything. Not someone people remembered. Not someone who turned heads. Not someone Bob had ever seen as more than... dependable.

So what could she change?

Her face? No. Her body? She didn’t have the energy. Her soul? Too far gone.

But her skin? That, at least, was a canvas. And for once, maybe—just maybe—she could paint something of her own.

She looked down at the piece of folded notebook paper in her hand. The design she had drawn late one night. It was simple: a tiny open book, and out of the pages, a delicate stem of lavender reaching upward—her favorite flower. Her comfort. Her scent. Her solitude. The one thing she always bought fresh every week, even if she didn’t eat three meals a day.

The tattoo wasn’t big. It would sit on the inside of her left arm, just above the elbow crease, where her sleeves usually covered. Where she could see it, but others might not. It wasn’t for anyone else.

Just her.

The bell above the door jingled faintly as she finally stepped in, the soft scent of antiseptic and ink blooming around her.

The artist, a woman named Mel, looked up from her sketchpad. “Y/N?”

She nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “Hi. Sorry I’m late.”

Mel smiled gently. She had full sleeves of tattoos, pink buzzed hair, and a nose ring that caught the light. She was effortlessly cool, the kind of person Y/N would have admired from afar, thinking, She knows who she is.

“Don’t worry. You ready?”

Y/N hesitated.

Ready? Was she ever ready for anything? Ready to love Bob, to lose him, to grieve him while he lived a public life as someone else’s hero? Ready to become a ghost in her own skin? Ready to crochet her heartbreak into scarves no one wore?

But she was here. She had made it here.

So she nodded again, swallowing down the lump in her throat. “Yeah.”

She handed over the drawing with slightly trembling hands.

Mel looked at it, and something in her expression softened. “It’s really beautiful. You draw this?”

“Yeah.”

“Got a story behind it?”

Y/N opened her mouth. Closed it. Then shook her head. “No. I just… like books.”

It was a lie. But it was the kind of lie that kept her from unraveling in front of strangers.

They prepped the chair, the stencil, the tools. It all moved so quickly, like life always did now—just motion and murmurs, and time folding into itself.

When the needle first touched her skin, it stung—but not in the way she feared. It was grounding. Like she could finally feel something. Like her body remembered it was hers, not just a shell moving through book aisles and charity kitchens and empty park benches.

Halfway through, she felt tears on her cheeks.

Mel paused. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Yes. Sorry. I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t. She was crying for every Monday lunch where she sat alone. For every time she saw Yelena’s name paired with Bob’s. For every cruel whisper in her head calling her plain. For every man who saw her as less-than. For Dusty and June and the silence in her apartment after lights out. For being invisible for so long, even to the man who once told her, I love you, I’m sorry.

For still not knowing which part of that sentence he meant.

By the time the tattoo was finished, her sleeve was damp at the wrist from wiping her face too many times.

Ten minutes being obligated to lay down and wait was all she needed to spiral.

Mel wrapped her arm gently, like she was swaddling something precious.

“You did great,” she said kindly. “You okay?”

Y/N nodded again. But her voice cracked when she whispered, “Thank you.”

It wasn’t just for the tattoo.

It was for not asking more questions. For not pitying her. For helping her leave something permanent behind—something she had chosen.

She left the shop just as the sun was disappearing behind the buildings, sky bruised with color. Her arm stung, wrapped in sterile gauze, and the weight of the ink felt heavier than she expected.

But it was hers. For once in her life, something was only hers.

And as she walked down the sidewalk in her too-comfortable shoes, cardigan sleeves flapping in the wind, she felt something shift.

Not healing tho, maybe... refreshing feeling.

--

The next morning was one of those early spring days that still carried the ache of winter in its bones. Pale light stretched thin over the clouds, and the air held that soft chill that nipped at the fingers just enough to make you grateful for hot coffee. The park was quiet—the kind of quiet that settled not just around you, but in you.

Y/N walked slowly, Dusty tucked into the canvas tote at her side, only his little gray head poking out, eyes scanning the world like he was guarding it just for her. She had bundled herself in a wool coat and her usual fingerless gloves, but today she wore the new tattoo openly. The gauze was gone, replaced with healing balm and a slight sting every time her sleeve brushed it.

The tiny open book, delicate and lavender-laced, peeked out from under her coat sleeve like a secret she’d finally allowed herself to tell.

Her coffee was still warm when she reached the bench.

June was already there, of course—her skeletal fingers looping and pulling bright red yarn into rows, a soft crochet rhythm that looked more like a heartbeat than a hobby. Her white curls peeked from under a knitted hat, and beside her rested a small paper bag of crackers she always insisted on sharing with Dusty, whether he wanted them or not.

“You’re late, sweetheart,” June said without looking up, but the smile on her face said she didn’t mind.

Y/N smiled weakly and sat beside her, placing her coffee carefully on the bench’s edge and unbuttoning her coat. Dusty crawled out of the tote and leapt into June’s lap with practiced elegance, already nuzzling her side like he belonged there.

“Well, I brought peace offerings,” Y/N said softly.

“Oh? Do tell.”

Wordlessly, Y/N reached into her bag and pulled out a small bundle, carefully folded and tied with twine. It wasn’t much—just a hand-crocheted scarf in soft, dusky plum, the kind of purple that looked rich in any light. The pattern was imperfect. The stitches wobbled here and there, uneven tension in some rows. But the warmth it carried was unmistakable.

“For you,” she whispered.

June stopped mid-stitch, looking at the bundle like it was a relic.

“For me?” she asked, startled. “What’s the occasion?”

Y/N shrugged, eyes glistening. “No occasion. I just… wanted to.”

June took it gently, unwrapping the twine with a care usually reserved for something far more fragile.

“Oh,” she whispered, fingers trembling as she touched the scarf, dragging them slowly across each loop like she was reading braille. “Oh, my dear girl…”

Her voice caught.

“I didn’t think anyone made things for me anymore.”

Y/N looked down quickly, embarrassed by the tears threatening to spill again. She hadn’t expected this reaction—just a small smile maybe, a thank you. Not the way June pressed the scarf to her chest like it was a bouquet of wildflowers from someone long gone.

“I just thought it might keep you warm when it gets windy,” Y/N mumbled. “It’s nothing special. I know it’s not perfect—”

June turned to her, eyes watery but warm, her voice low. “It’s the most special thing I’ve received in years.”

Y/N looked at her. For a moment, they just sat there in silence, Dusty purring between them, the breeze tugging gently at their coats.

Then June glanced down at Y/N’s arm and narrowed her eyes.

“Now what’s this?” she said, voice lifting slightly. “Is that a tattoo?”

Y/N blushed and nodded. “Yeah. I… got it yesterday.”

June took her wrist gently, the same way a mother might hold a child’s hand, and studied the ink.

“A book and lavender,” she murmured. “You. That’s you right there.”

Y/N’s voice cracked. “I needed something that was just mine.”

June said nothing for a moment. Then, she let go of her wrist and leaned back on the bench, pulling the scarf loosely around her shoulders.

“You’ve been hurting for a long time, haven’t you?”

Y/N swallowed. Her chest ached. “Yeah.”

“I know,” June whispered. “You don’t have to say more.”

The park hummed around them—birds chirping in soft question marks, the crunch of leaves under joggers’ feet, the distant bark of a dog. And yet, this little space between them felt like a separate world entirely. A place where Y/N wasn’t invisible. Where someone noticed the cracks.

June took her hand again, this time to hold it.

“I don’t know who broke your heart, sweetheart,” she said softly. “But you’re still here. You keep showing up. You bring light. And let me tell you something—someone who shows up every day, even when it hurts, even when they feel like nothing… That’s the kind of person who carries real love.”

Y/N couldn’t respond. Her throat was too tight. She looked down at her lap, blinking furiously, willing herself not to fall apart in the park like she always did at home.

But June didn’t need her to speak. She just held her hand, the way old women do when they know silence is the only comfort words can’t touch.

Dusty nudged his head against Y/N’s leg and meowed, as if to say, You’re not alone, even if it feels like it.

--

It had been three weeks since he last appeared.

And yet, Y/N had begun to expect him.

The mysterious old man—leather jacket always zipped, sunglasses always on no matter the weather, a neat but wiry beard that made him look like he could be anywhere from fifty to ninety—had drifted in and out of the bookstore like a half-remembered dream. Never quite real. Never quite gone.

He came during the slow hours, never in a hurry. Sometimes midday. Sometimes close to closing. He’d ask for a recommendation—“Nothing fancy, just good. Something real.” Always those same words. And she always gave him something she loved or had just read, or sometimes a brand-new title no one had touched yet. And every time, when she asked if he’d liked the last one, his answer was vague.

“Yeah,” he’d shrug. “Beautiful book.”

But it was the kind of answer people gave when they weren’t really listening, or weren’t really reading. Still, he always bought the next book. Without question. No bargaining. No hesitation.

That afternoon, the bell above the door jingled, and she didn’t even have to look up to know it was him.

Same jacket. Same slow steps. The scent of cold wind and dust trailing behind him like the past.

Dusty, curled up in a sun patch near the register, lifted his head curiously. Y/N reached down to pet him, as the man approached with that familiar unspoken gravity.

“Back again?” she asked with a lightness she didn’t quite feel.

He gave a short nod. “Books are addictive. You’ve made me a junkie.”

That made her laugh—quiet, restrained, but real. The kind of laugh she only had left these days. “Well, there are worse things to be addicted to.”

He didn’t answer that.

Instead, he reached for one of the newer fantasy novels near the display. “This one good?”

She nodded. “Not bad. More whimsical than most. Dreamy prose. A bit sad.”

“Sad’s good,” he said. “Sad makes sense.”

She blinked at that, not sure why the words echoed in her chest the way they did. Maybe because they sounded like her own thoughts—things she’d never said aloud. But she smiled, quietly nodding again as she rang it up.

The silence stretched between them like it always did—comfortable, but strange. Then he glanced down, pointing at the little patch of gray fluff sprawled lazily on a cushion.

“How’s your little bodyguard?”

She followed his gaze and grinned. “Dusty’s fine. Still thinks he owns the bookstore.”

“He does,” the man said. “And probably your apartment.”

Y/N laughed, her fingers unconsciously smoothing over Dusty’s fur. “Yeah, that too.”

The man tilted his head slightly, looking at the chalkboard behind her. A few words were scrawled there in messy, cheerful handwriting:

Book Club – Thursdays at 9PM – Bring your favorite book! Open to everyone. Coffee and cookies provided.

He read it for a moment, then turned back to her. “That still happening?”

“Every week,” she said. “It’s free. You just show up and bring a book you want to talk about.”

His lips tugged upward. “Any book?”

She nodded.

He tapped his fingers against the counter thoughtfully. “Well, I happen to be an authority on Russian literature. The rest of your guests would be humbled by my knowledge.”

It was such a strange, out-of-place joke that she couldn’t help but burst into a real laugh.

He smiled at her reaction, brief but genuine, and tucked the book under his arm.

“Well, I’ll think about it. Maybe I’ll come and teach you Dostoevsky through interpretive dance.”

“You’d fit right in,” she said softly. “Most of them are walking therapy sessions with page numbers.”

He paused then, head tilting slightly, like he saw something she didn’t know she was showing.

His voice, when he spoke again, had softened.

“Goodbye, Y/N.”

She looked up, confused, mouth opening—but the words stuck in her throat. “Wait… I—I never told you my name.”

He had already turned toward the door, hand on the knob, pausing just long enough to look back over his shoulder.

“Didn’t you?” he asked, almost kindly. “I must’ve just known.”

Y/N leaned to the door. "Wait what's your name?"

"Alexei." Then he was gone. The bell jingled faintly behind him like a wind chime.

And just like that, she was alone again.

Y/N crouched, hand gently stroking the cat’s fur, eyes still locked on the door.

"He's little weird right? But he seems nice."

[em1i2a3]

No Angels

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Rhett have been friends for almost your entire lives and you’ve had a crush on him ever since you could remember. You’ve never made a move out of respect for the friendship, but when Maria–an old crush of Rhett’s–comes back into town, you can’t help but get a little jealous of how much he swoons for her.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Angst, and Fluff, We got the childhood best friends trope, and I frickin love it! Reader is super jealous but really tries to be happy for Rhett.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Rhett is a bit dominant in here, Dirty Talk, He talks you through it, Oral Sex (Fem! Receiving), Rough Sex, He puts his hand on your throat…But like…Not to choke? I guess. A little bit of overstimulation, Heavy Makeout, Some Grinding

Author’s Note: I got this request a while back and honestly I was writing it and hated the way it went, then I had this huge eureka moment and literally put my whole chest into this damn thing lol. Thank you anon, I’m sorry for keeping you waiting! But I hope it meets your expectations. (I made it on time y’all sorry for the delay!)

Word Count: 18,010

The lights above the ring hummed with electricity, casting long, bright white beams over the dirt-packed arena like they were trying to mimic daylight–but it was well past sundown. The night air had settled cool against your skin, clinging to the sweat on your collarbones and the thin cotton of your oil-stained tank top–the same one you had been wearing when Rhett burst into your garage hours earlier, all breathless and grinning, saying, “You comin’ or what?”

You didn’t even notice him at first. Your arms were elbow-deep in the hood of your father’s busted-up ‘82 Chevy, sleeves rolled past your shoulders, knuckles stained black with grease. The old truck had been sitting in the barn lot for years, more rust than a frame, but it had history, and you couldn’t bring yourself to give up on it. You had been trying to get the engine to crank for weeks now, working after hours between shifts and moonlight with stubborn hands, and a soft heart.

Rhett had found you with a pair of pliers clenched between your teeth, and your hair stuck to the back of your neck. You were in the middle of coaxing a frayed wire into a cleaner splice when he had said it again.

”Y/N! You comin’ or what?!” You nearly dropped the pliers into the engine block that time around, and your eyes immediately shot up to him.

”Jesus Christ, Rhett,” You muttered around the tool in your mouth, straightening up just enough that your back cracked, “You ever heard of knocking? You’ve got hands do you not?” Rhett leaned his shoulder against the frame of the open garage door, arms crossed, boots scuffed and dusty. The golden evening light caught the curve of his jaw, lighting up the honeyed brown wisps of hair curling out from under his ballcap, the one he wore when he wasn’t wearing his normal cowboy hat. He grinned like he had all the time in the world.

”Yeah, I got hands.” He said, holding them up and wiggling his fingers, “But I need ‘em for the circuit tonight, can’t go wasting tiring ‘em up by knockin’ on your door.” You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. With a sigh, you pulled the pliers from your mouth and tossed them onto the stainless steel tool table beside you, the clink echoing off the walls of the garage. The wire you’d been working with curled like a question mark in the air.

“God forbid your precious hands do somethin’ useful.” He let out a huffed laugh, smirking, like that little jab of yours was exactly what he had come there for. You reached for the damp rag that always lived folded beside your socket set, rubbing your hands down with practiced efficiency. Grease smeared into the creases of your fingers, under your nails, and you could already hear your father warning you–again–about keeping motor oil off your face. You scrubbed harder.

“Can you give me five minutes to change, at least?” You asked, gesturing vaguely at yourself. “I look like I crawled out of a junkyard.” Rhett checked the time on his phone like it was life or death, kissing his teeth.

“No can do. It’s gonna take us ‘bout two hours to get down there, and I gotta check in early. No time.” You looked down at yourself–at the tank top clinging to your skin, streaked with oil and sweat; your low-rise jeans that had a hole in the knee; boots dusted in gravel, grime and oil. You knew your hair certainly didn’t look good, especially with the sweat that pooled on the back of your neck, so you tried to plead again.

”C’mon, Rhett,” You groaned, “At least lemme–“

”Nuh-uh,” He interrupted smoothly, already pushing off the doorframe, “You look fine.” He said it so matter-of-factly it hit you like a sucker punch to the gut. His tone was easy, and offhanded, but his eyes flicked over you once–head to toe, like he was checking the welds on a fence post–and lingered a second too long on your bare shoulders before flicking away again. You felt your skin heat up despite the cool air from your fan blowing onto you.

Then he tossed you his keys without ceremony, and you barely caught them in time.

”Now. Get your butt in the truck, I need my good luck charm.” You stood there for a second, holding his keys like they were heavier than they had any right to be, watching Rhett backpedal across the gravel with that cocky grin stretching his mouth. The nerve of him–waltzing in, dragging you out in grease-stained clothes, and telling you that you looked fine like it didn’t mean something.

Like it didn’t knock something loose in your chest.

You tucked the rag into your back pocket with a sigh and followed him out into the golden spill of sunset that painted the drive, the gravel crunching beneath your boots. Rhett was already climbing into the passenger side, settling into the spot he always took when he was with you. He never once offered to drive–not because he didn’t want to, but because he liked how you drove his truck. He liked watching you lean one hand out the window, tapping the side with your fingers in time with the radio, he had said you made it run smoother somehow.

You climbed in behind the wheel, the door creaking shut with that familiar metallic groan as you shoved the key into the ignition. The engine rumbled to life beneath your hands like it had been waiting on your touch.

“You just always have to pull that good luck charm shit with me,” You muttered, fingers flicking the air vents toward Rhett like that would somehow cool your irritation, “If it wasn’t for the fact your dad would have my head on a stake if I didn’t show up, I wouldn’t be coming.” Rhett didn’t even flinch, he just smiled wider, teeth flashing under the brim of his cap.

”You’d show up anyways, even if there wasn’t that loomin’ threat.”

”Yeah?” You shot back, shifting into reverse, “And why’s that?”

“Cause you always do, that’s just how you are.” You let the truck ease back down the gravel drive, headlights cutting twin beams through the soft haze of kicked-up dust. Rhett reached out to roll down his window, letting his arm dangle outside, fingers tapping lazily against the side of the door like he had no care in the world.

“You still act like it’s a choice,” You grumbled, glancing sideways at him as you turned onto the main road, “You ever consider the possibility that I just don’t like you makin’ stupid decisions alone?”

“You’re not just here to babysit me, darlin’,” He said, voice soft and sure, like it wasn’t even a question. “You’re here ‘cause you belong there.”

That had shut you up pretty quickly.

He didn’t say it with any kind of weight. Didn’t lean into it or give it too much gravity. Just said it like it was a fact of life–like gravity or dust or the way your names had always sounded right in the same sentence.

Rhett had called you his good luck charm since you were barely tall enough to see over the top rail at his first junior circuit. He’d botched the ride and landed square on his ass, the wind knocked clear out of him–but when he stumbled to his feet and saw your worried face at the edge of the ring, he lit up like he’d just won the whole damn event.

From then on, he’d refused to ride without you.

It didn’t matter what his father said. Didn’t matter how many times Royal Abbott tried to reason, bribe, or flat-out yell Rhett into submission—if you couldn’t be there, neither could he.

Royal had tried everything over the years. Bargained with prize money, lectured about reputation, brought up every missed opportunity, every unclaimed buckle, every point lost in the rankings. And every time, Rhett just shrugged, chewed his toothpick a little harder, and said, “Ain’t worth it without her.”

Royal had even gone to your father once, showed up at the house red-faced and muttering under his breath, looking for backup. He’d stomped up the porch steps, knocked hard enough to rattle the screen, and said, “You need to talk some damn sense into your daughter. She’s holdin’ Rhett back.”

Your father didn’t even look up from the paper in his lap. Just flipped a page and said, “It’s outta my hands, Royal. She’s his lucky rabbit’s foot, not mine. You’re the one who raised a superstitious kid.”

That had been the end of it.

Well–besides the occasional muttered complaint, the exasperated way Royal folded his arms and scowled at you from across the arena like you were the one who’d crawled inside Rhett’s brain and rewired the whole damn thing. But you knew he didn’t really mean it. Not deep down–cause just like Rhett, he too had a soft spot for you.

Your father and Royal had been friends since high school–thick as thieves, the kind of troublemakers who grew up and never quite grew out of it. There were more stories than you could count about the two of them sneaking out of study hall, crashing their bikes into fences, and getting into brawls over rodeo scores. Royal may have grumbled and huffed and barked, but he knew what this was.

He knew what you were to Rhett.

And that’s how you found yourself at the circuit tonight, in the worst possible outfit you could be in for a night that turned chilly. You leaned against the rail with your arms folded, listening to the announcer listing off names you didn’t recognize and sponsors you didn’t care about.

One rider across the way was adjusting the strap on his glove with his teeth, spitting into the dirt before swinging a leg over the gate. He was broad-shouldered and too young to have that many calluses on his palms. His boots also looked too new, and you could tell he was nervous just by the way he puffed out his chest.

“He’s overcompensatin’ with all that noise,” Rhett’s voice came from your left, low and familiar, warm despite the cold air, “Looks like he spit shined his boots and bought the buckle from a pawn shop.” You turned your head just enough to see him steadying beside you, close enough that your elbows almost brushed. He had one glove on already and was working his other hand through the second–leather creaking around his knuckles as he tugged it tight, mouth set in that concentrated little frown he only ever wore when he was minutes from getting on a bull. You hummed at him.

”You say that as if you weren’t the same way your first time.” He scoffs.

”I don’t think I was that bad.” You didn’t reply, you just smirked, and shook your head, turning your attention back to the rail. But your eyes didn’t stay on the ring long. Not when he was standing that close.

Rhett had always been easy to be around–easier than most. He didn’t demand attention, didn’t fill the silence with noise unless he felt like it needed to be broken. And somehow he always made you feel like the most important person in the room without ever saying it outright. Your gaze drifted down his arms, the way the veins ran like fault lines beneath his skin, pulsing beneath the leather. The gentle scrape of stubble along his jaw. The way his shirt clung to the dip between his shoulder blades.

You knew how to look without letting it show. How to admire the little things from afar, memorizing them only to recall later in the quiet moments of your own space, when it was just you and the memory of him.

You’d gotten good at control.

“You okay?” He asked suddenly, glancing at you from under the brim of his dusty brown Stetson. His voice had shifted–still soft, but lower now. Quieter. You raised your eyebrows.

”Why wouldn’t I be?” You replied, he shrugged a little, pulling the strap of his glove tight.

”Been quiet since we pulled in…”

“I’ve been tired since we pulled in,” You said, deflecting with a tilt of your chin, “You yanked me straight outta the garage before I could give myself a cold shower to wake myself up.” He smiled at that, eyes crinkling at the corners like he didn’t buy your excuse but was willing to let you keep it.

“Well,” Rhett drawled, shifting his weight and giving you a side glance, “Thank you for joinin’ me all marinated in oil and tired. Really sets the mood.”You rolled your eyes, lips twitching as you looked away

“Yeah, well, you’re lucky I didn’t bring a wrench to throw at you while you’re on that big bull.” He chuckled under his breath, his gaze tracking the arena before flicking back to you.

”Gonna go sit with my family?” You let out a long sigh, eyes squinting at the stands like you were preparing for battle, seeing the Abbott’s were already together talking among themselves.

”Course…Always the best seat in the house. Front row for your brother talkin’ my ear off about his side hustles, and your dad telling me how the whole thing’s rigged against you, while Cecilia tries to ask whether or not I’m moving shops anytime soon.” Rhett huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

“Always happy to know you love bein’ up there with them.” His tone was thick with sarcasm, but his smirk was soft. Familiar. Like he was picturing it already–your boots kicked up on the railing beside Royal, his dad grumbling into a foam cup while you offered him your popcorn. You both shared a quiet chuckle, the kind that slipped out easily, like short breaths in cold air.

In the moment of silence, your hand slipped into your back pocket without thinking–it was instinct more than anything. You dug around until your fingers curled around the thin chain, the cool metal warmed by your skin. Rhett didn’t look at you, because he didn’t have to. He knew the moment you turned fully toward him that you were pulling out the necklace. His shoulders straightened slightly at the sight of it.

A thin gold chain, delicate as thread, with the charm your mother had worn nearly every day before she passed–the small, oval locket with a dent on one side. It was a gift that your father had given her when they were first going out, and now it was yours. But in moments like this–when the dust was thick in the air, when the circuit lights buzzed overhead and danger sat heavy in your chest–it was his.

Rhett always took it the same way: quiet, gentle, and like it meant something more than just luck and protection.

Because it did.

Your mother had loved Rhett like he was her own. She fed him when Royal was late picking him up, scolded him when he scraped his knees, kissed the crown of his head when he showed up on your porch with dirt on his boots and his heart on his sleeve. When she passed, he didn’t say much. But you remembered him standing at the far end of the church, knuckles white around his hat, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack.

He didn’t cry. He never had to because you had done enough of that for the both of you.

You placed the necklace in his palm gently, brushing your fingers along the inside of his wrist. A quiet exchange. A tradition that had started the first time he made it onto the adult circuit–when you pressed it into his hand before the gate opened and said, “She’s got you.”

And it stuck and became something neither of you ever had to explain.

“Think she’s watchin’?” Rhett murmured, voice rasped low as he curled the chain into his fist.

Your answer came easy. “Always.” He nodded, jaw ticking as he thumbed the charm once for good measure before tucking it into his shirt–over his heart, where it belonged. He gave it a soft pat, like he was anchoring her there. Like maybe she’d feel it, wherever she was.

“I dunno if she’d like that you’re still lettin’ me do this,” He muttered after a beat, offering a crooked little half-smile. “Ridin’, I mean.”

You scoffed lightly. “She wouldn’t like it,” You admitted, “But you know she’d still be yellin’ the loudest when they called your score.”He smiled at that, shoulders easing just a little. Like the weight of her was something warm instead of heavy.

“She always liked you better than me,” You teased gently, trying to keep your voice light even as emotion caught in your throat. “Pretty sure she would’ve traded me for you if she had the option.”

Rhett looked over at you then, really looked, and something in his expression softened so fully it made your stomach twist. “Don’t think you believe that for a second,” He mumbled quietly.

And you didn’t.

But it was easier than saying what you really meant–that you’d give anything to hear your mother talk about Rhett again. To hear her tell him to be careful. To bring him a sandwich while he leaned against the side of the truck, and to kiss your forehead and say, “You take care of him out there, alright?”

Because she’d known about your true feelings for him. She always knew.

“You better not get yourself broken tonight,” You warned, trying to talk the emotion out of your voice, attempting to shake it out, “I’m not scrubbin’ your blood outta your jeans again.”

Rhett laughed under his breath, the sound low and warm. “I’ll try not to, but I admire the fact you did it so well the last time…” He gave you a soft pat on the side of your arm, the leather of his glove cool against your skin. “Don’t worry too much though. I’ve got you, and I’ve got her. That’s a two-for-one deal even the devil can’t mess with.” You didn’t smile this time–but your eyes stayed on him, memorizing the curve of his mouth, the tilt of his hat, the line of his shoulders.

“Be safe,” You said, and it was quieter than anything you’d spoken all night.

Rhett nodded. Touched the charm through his shirt once more. And then he turned and walked toward the chute, back straight, shoulders squared, steps steady.

You watched him go.

And just as he disappeared behind the gate, swallowed up by the noise and the crowd–

You heard a voice you hadn’t heard in five years.

“I’ll be damned,” The voice called out behind you, thick with familiarity and a smile you could already picture even before you turned, “Didn’t think you’d still be hanging around here.”

Your entire body went still–like a switch had been thrown on, and your nerves froze under your skin. It wasn’t just the voice. It was the cadence. The tilt in the vowels. The lilt of amusement laced with old memories and summer sweat.

Maria Olivares.

You didn’t turn right away. You just stared straight ahead at the chute where Rhett had disappeared, your heart dropping like it had been cut loose from a string. The last time you’d heard her voice, it had been filtered through the cracked speakers of the high school PA system during her senior farewell speech–warm, confident, grateful for her small-town upbringing, even as she looked forward to city lights and bigger things.

She hadn’t come back. Not once in five years. Not for holidays. Not for spring break. Not even to visit old friends. Everyone figured she’d traded Wabang for somewhere with sidewalks and skylines.

And yet here she was.

You turned slowly, dragging your eyes up from the toes of a pair of spotless white sneakers, to a pair of high waisted black jeans that fit right, and a hoodie, jean jacket combo that looked warm and cozy. Her dark brown–almost black–hair was still long, and shiny, catching the circuit lights in ribbons as it spilled over her shoulders. There was not a wave out of place. She looked good, and that was always the worst part for you.

”Hey stranger,” She smiled, stepping toward you, her hands in her jacket pockets like this was just another Friday night and you were the one that vanished, “Didn’t expect to see a familiar face here when I rolled in.” You blinked, pulse throbbing somewhere behind your teeth. You could feel every streak of sweat dried into your collarbone. The grease under your fingernails. The smudge of oil you’d missed above your brow. The faded tank top clinging to your ribs.

“Maria,” You managed to say, trying to force something that resembled a smile on your face. It didn’t quite reach your eyes, “Didn’t know you were back in town…It’s been a long time.” She nodded.

”Five years.” She said softly, like she was trying the words on for size, as if she hadn’t known exactly how long it had been. There was a brief pause, heavy with memories you didn’t ask to revisit.

Then, with a little huff of breath, she gave a rueful smile glancing toward the arena.

”I got burnt out from college…Thought I’d come back to Wabang to try and get my life back together…” Her gaze flicked sideways, and then back to you, “And I heard around town that Rhett was riding tonight, so I thought I’d stop by to catch up and maybe say hi.” You felt your stomach twist up into knots.

You tried to keep your face neutral, tried not to flinch at the mention of his name on her lips, because Maria had always been nice to you and treated you well. She had never acted above you, even when she could’ve. She was sweet, and effortless, and the kind of girl that seemed built for being admired. People talked about her like she was a firework: bright, exciting, and temporary…And Rhett…Well…

Rhett had always looked at her like she belonged in the Louvre.

You remembered it so clearly–him leaning back on the bleachers during lunch period, eating a sandwich, baseball cap tilted low as he watched her laugh by the vending machines. He used to elbow you in the side and mutter something like “God she’s just…Look at her, would ya?” Or “If I asked her out and she said no, I think I’d have to walk into traffic.”

And you’d laugh. Pretend it didn’t bother you, and you’d joke back and say “You’d have to start a new life in the city or somethin’.”

Because what else could you do?

You were…You. The grease-monkey. The tomboy. The one who spit-shined carburetors instead of joining social clubs. The one who could drink the boys under the table, throw a punch better than half of them, and still knew the sound of Rhett’s laugh like the back of your hand. You were his best friend. His good luck charm. His midnight mechanic and his porch-sitting, star-watching, shit-talking ride or die. But you were never the girl.

Not in the way Maria had been–even though they didn’t date.

So when Maria left for college, it was like someone let the air out of Rhett’s chest. He didn’t say much–just got real quiet for a few weeks. Stayed out late, rode harder, drank more. Then one night, sitting on your porch with his head tilted back and his boots up on the railing, he let out a sigh and said, “Guess that’s that, huh?”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You just passed him the bottle and leaned your shoulder into his like you always did.

And little by little, he put himself back together. He didn’t talk about her anymore. Stopped bringing her name up at all. And a part of you–one you never said out loud–had hoped maybe he was finally looking at someone else now. That maybe he’d finally see you.

But now, she was here.

In the flesh. Smiling, radiant, all polished edges and big city warmth. And she’d said his name like she had every right to, like she’d never left a hole in him when she packed up and vanished.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her words settle somewhere heavy between your ribs.

“Thought I’d stop by to catch up and maybe say hi.”

You hated how those words clawed at the inside of your chest.

”Yeah,” You mumbled, voice tighter than you wanted it to be, “I’m sure Rhett will be glad to see you…It’s been a while.” Maria’s smile didn’t falter, not even for a second.

”We should go out for drinks after,” She suggested, casual and bright like this wasn’t a slow-motion car crash happening in front of you, “Maybe you two can come find me? I’ll stick around.” You swallowed hard enough that you felt it echo in the back of your throat like a gulp of warm soda going down the wrong way.

“Sure,” You managed to agree, forcing your lips up even more, “Sounds like a plan.” It came out flat. A little too fast. But she either didn’t notice or was too polite to mention it. She just glanced behind her, motioning toward a small group of people standing a few yards off, gathered near the funnel cake stand.

“I’m gonna head back to my friends,” She informed, “But I’ll see you after the circuit!” You nodded stiffly.

”Yeah, see you.” And with that, she turned, her sneakers scuffing quietly in the dirt as she made her way back to her group—hair bouncing lightly with each step, laughter already ringing in the air as one of her friends greeted her with an inside joke you didn’t get.

You didn’t watch her long. You couldn’t.

Instead, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and turned your gaze toward the bleachers, willing your legs to move. One step at a time. Your shoulders rolled once, then twice—like shaking off a weight. But the tension didn’t budge, not really. It stayed coiled up in your spine like something waiting to snap.

You stomped up the bleacher steps, boots loud against the metal, and found them all right where you expected: Amy munching on kettle corn, Perry fiddling with a foam cup of coffee, Royal with his arms crossed and a resting scowl, and Cecilia offering you a tight smile like she already knew you needed one.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Cecilia greeted first, scooting to make space. “We were wonderin’ when you’d show.”

“Hey,” you said, voice still low as you nodded to each of them.

Royal shifted over with a grunt, making room beside him, and Perry tipped his head back toward you in a silent greeting.

You sank down between the two of them with a heavy breath, letting the cool of the evening air wrap around your sweat-damp skin. Amy reached over and tapped your boot with hers.

“You smell like axle grease,” She said flatly.

You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Amy grinned back, and you leaned forward to prop your arms on your knees.

Royal glanced your way. “How’s your dad doin’ these days?”

You rubbed the back of your neck, grateful for the shift in subject. “Busy as usual,” You replied. “The shop’s been crazy for both of us, so I haven’t really been able to talk to him. Our faces are always under or inside cars.”

Royal chuckled low in his chest. “Well, a mechanic’s job is never finished until the last car is completely fixed.”

You snorted. “We’d be open till the end of time if we lived by your rules.”

That got a laugh out of Perry too, who clapped you on the shoulder. “Ain’t that the truth.” His eyes wandered casually over the crowd before something caught his attention. His chewing slowed, the foam cup crinkling slightly in his grip as he leaned in a fraction and nudged your arm with the back of his knuckle.

“Hey…” He muttered under his breath, keeping his voice low, “Is that who I think it is?”

You didn’t need to follow his gaze. You already knew. Still, your eyes drifted to the right, past the funnel cake stand and toward the little group of people laughing in the warm glow of the overhead string lights.

Maria was standing right in the middle, her smile shining like she’d never left, like she hadn’t cracked something in your chest just minutes ago.

“Yep,” You replied, the word flat and dry on your tongue.

Perry let out a soft whistle, eyebrows climbing. “Did Rhett see her?”

You shook your head slowly, thumb brushing your bottom lip as you glanced back toward the chutes. “Not yet… But I’m gonna have to be the one that breaks the news to him. As usual.”

Perry tilted his head, his expression shifting into something halfway between sympathy and disbelief. “She say why she’s here?”

”She said she got burnt out from college, now she’s back in town until further notice basically. She said she wants to go out for drinks after the circuit,” You explained. There was a beat of silence. Then Perry huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

“Man… That’s gonna be pure torture for you, huh?” You flicked your gaze toward him, jaw tight.

He knew. Perry was one of the only people who did. You’d sworn him to secrecy years ago—right around the time you drank too much whiskey behind the barn one summer night and finally admitted it. He hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t teased. Just looked at you with those steady eyes and said, “Yeah…That tracks.”

And despite his reputation for being a smartass, Perry had never breathed a word of it to anyone.

“I could come with you guys,” he offered now, voice quieter. “Even out the numbers.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “You’re talkin’ like we’re goin’ to war.”

Perry shrugged one shoulder. “Aren’t you?”

You shook your head with a sigh and muttered, “I’m sure I’ll manage just fine.”

“Hey,” Perry said, raising his hands defensively. “Don’t say I didn’t offer. And don’t come cryin’ when you end up sittin’ between them, third-wheelin’ your own heartbreak.”

Before you could respond—before the knot in your chest could turn sharper—the PA system crackled back to life, cutting through the thick air.

“Next up, ladies and gentlemen—we got Rhett Abbott comin’ up in the chute!”

Your whole body snapped to attention, your eyes instinctively finding the chute where he stood, framed in gold and dust and determination. He was climbing the rails now, one hand on the edge of the gate, the other adjusting the brim of his Stetson. His back was broad beneath the weight of his vest, the number pinned crookedly to the fabric like it always was because he never let anyone else do it. Always asked you.

He didn’t look toward the stands. Not yet. His focus was on the bull–pure, burning concentration.

But your chest was a live wire.

Because he didn’t know she was here.

And when he saw her–when he looked up and caught sight of Maria’s soft smile and city-polished glow standing in the crowd–you didn’t know what it would do to him.

But you knew exactly what it would do to you.

Perry leaned back, a shadow in his expression. “Buckle up,” he said, almost like a warning. “Here we go.”

And all you could do was hold your breath…And wait.

————————

The crowd had started to thin, the night slipping gently into its last stretch–boots shuffling through kicked-up dirt, families gathering up folding chairs and foam cups, laughter tapering off into low murmurs beneath the buzz of the circuit lights. The arena was quieter now, calmer. A few riders lingered by the chutes, stripping off gear, comparing scores, cracking open lukewarm beers from coolers tucked behind the rails.

Rhett was still standing near the gate, dust clinging to the bottom hem of his jeans, his shirt sticking to the sweat that had dried down his spine. His hair was damp under his hat, eyes scanning the space like he was still riding the high of the eight-second count.

You moved down the bleachers slowly, like each step took effort, the cool night air brushing against the back of your neck, the gravel biting into the soles of your boots.

He saw you coming, and his face lit up in that familiar way it always did–soft around the edges, glowing just under the skin. Without a word, Rhett reached into the chest pocket of his shirt and pulled out the thin gold chain, the charm glinting faintly beneath the floodlights. He held it out gently, curled between his fingers like something sacred.

“Guess you two really did help tonight,” He commented with a crooked smile, placing the necklace in your open palm. “Probably one of my best performances.” You looked down at the charm as it settled into your skin, feeling the warmth of him still clinging to the metal. You managed a smile, small and tired.

“Yeah…You looked good out there.”

But it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

And Rhett noticed. His brow furrowed immediately, eyes narrowing with that uncanny instinct he always had for your moods.

“Somethin’ wrong?” He asked, pointing gently between his own eyebrows. “You’ve got that little crease here–means you’re thinkin’ too hard.” You tried to shrug it off, eyes dropping to the necklace as your fingers curled around it. But the weight in your chest didn’t move. You hesitated. Then you exhaled slowly.

“…Maria’s back.” You felt the moment he registered the name like a jolt–like it lit something under his skin. Rhett straightened a little, his whole posture shifting, just slightly. Perking up. Perking toward her.

“Really?” He said, his voice brightening in a way that made your stomach churn. “Where is she?”

You nodded toward the far end of the arena without lifting your gaze. “She told me to come find her after…Said she wants to go out for some drinks.”

There was a brief pause before he smiled, teeth flashing in the glow of the overhead lights. “Well that’ll be great! Would love to catch up with her.”

You nodded once. “Yeah. I thought so.”

Your voice was low. Measured. Your lips pressed into a thin, practiced smile–the kind you’d perfected over the years, the one you used when something stung but you didn’t want anyone to see it bleed.

Rhett didn’t catch it. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t know what to do with it.

You tucked the necklace into your back pocket, the chain coiling softly in your grip like a secret.

————————

The hum of the arena faded behind you as the three of you made your way down the gravel path toward the bar just off the main strip–The Rusty Spur, glowing amber beneath a flickering neon sign shaped like a bull skull. You’d been here a hundred times. After circuits, after slow nights, after heartbreaks that you never let show. It was familiar ground.

But tonight, it didn’t feel like home.

Rhett held the door open with one boot, gesturing Maria inside with a crooked grin, and you followed silently, your fingers still brushing the edge of your back pocket like the necklace might anchor you if you kept touching it.

The bar was low-lit and humming with half-empty pitchers and slow drawls. Music crackled low from the jukebox–old country, something about losing and loving in the same breath. You barely noticed. You were too busy clocking how close Maria stood beside Rhett. How she reached for his arm when she laughed at something he said. How his body naturally leaned toward hers, like it remembered the rhythm of it even if his heart didn’t quite know why.

You took the booth in the far corner. Your usual spot. Rhett slid in beside you, and Maria took the other side. It should’ve felt balanced. It didn’t.

Someone took drink orders–probably Rhett, but your ears were ringing too hard to catch the words. You muttered something about whiskey, and a moment later, a sweating glass was placed in front of you.

Maria was talking. Rhett was laughing. You were sitting in your grease-stained tank top, sweating in your spot, barely blinking as the two of them picked up where they left off–like no time had passed at all.

“Oh my god, do you remember that time at the bonfire?” Maria said, grinning, her knuckles brushing Rhett’s arm as she leaned forward. “When Perry and Jacob tried to jump the creek in that rust-bucket four-wheeler and we all thought they were gonna die?”

Rhett chuckled, elbow resting on the table, eyes crinkling. “Yeah, I think Perry still swears he cleared it by three feet.”

“He didn’t,” You muttered, voice low, more to your glass than to them. “He cracked the axle and limped it home with a broken taillight.”

Maria paused, then offered you a smile. “God, you’ve always had a better memory than all of us.” You gave her a small nod and took a slow sip, the whiskey burning just enough to keep you tethered to the moment. Rhett turned toward you briefly, nudging your boot with his under the table like a reflex.

“That was the same night you duct-taped the handlebars back on, right? Got the damn thing running again in fifteen minutes?”

“Thirteen,” You murmured, lips quirking just slightly.

“Course it was.” He grinned, bumping your shoulder lightly with his. But then Maria asked another question–something about Denver; a story you hadn’t been there for–and Rhett’s attention shifted back before you could respond.

You stared at the condensation on your glass.

Their conversation rolled on, easy and familiar in a way that twisted something in your chest. Not cruel. Not exclusive. But you couldn’t help but feel like a guest at your own table.

They laughed about old teachers. About some kid who used to bring his goat to show-and-tell. About a trip to a fair you barely remembered because you’d spent most of it alone, fixing a blown tire while they wandered off for cotton candy.

Every now and then, one of them would glance toward you. Ask a soft “Remember that?” or toss you a half-smile. And you would nod. You would smile back. You would pretend.

But it felt like watching them through a window.

At one point, Maria reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her nails painted a glossy wine red that caught the light. Rhett’s gaze lingered a second too long. You saw it. You always saw it.

You drained your glass.

The table blurred a little around the edges as you blinked slowly, pressing your fingertips to your temple.

“You alright?” Rhett asked quietly, finally noticing the way your shoulders had gone still. His voice was soft, too soft, like it might undo you if you let it. You didn’t look at him, you just gave the smallest nod.

”Yeah, guess the lack of sleep is catching up to me.” Maria stood then, smoothing out the front of her jacket. “I’m gonna head to the bar–get another round.” She motioned between the two of you. “You guys want anything?”

Rhett looked toward you. You shook your head. “I’m good.”

”I’ll take one more beer, I have a feelin’ I’ll have to drive this one home tonight.” He commented motioning to you. Maria smirked.

”Got a preference?” She asked, and Rhett shook his head, a boyish grin appearing on his lips.

”Nah, whatever they’ve got I’ll take.” Then Maria disappeared into the crowd, and the booth fell quiet. You sat back, arms crossed loosely, your eyes fixed on the edge of the table. Rhett shifted beside you, his leg brushing yours.

”You sure you’re alright?” You’re actin’ really weird…” Rhett shifted a little closer, the leather of the booth creaking under his weight as his knee knocked gently against yours again. You didn’t flinch. Couldn’t. Not with him this close. Not when the heat from his body was bleeding into your side and curling around your skin like something unspoken.

And then you caught it–that scent.

Faint, but unmistakable. A soft, masculine heat rising off his collar, sunk into the fabric of his shirt. It was that cologne he always wore for circuits–something low and woodsy, edged with spice, like cedar and cracked pepper and the memory of summer sweat. The kind of scent that lingered even after he was gone, that clung to his flannel when you borrowed it, that sank into your lungs and made your stomach tighten without warning. You’d never asked what it was. You didn’t need to. You knew it like you knew the sound of your name when he said it quiet.

And it always made you a little dizzy.

You blinked once, twice, trying to keep your face steady as your gaze finally flicked toward him.

“I said I’m fine, Rhett,” You murmured, a little firmer this time. “Just exhausted.” But he didn’t back off. Not completely.

His brows drew in slightly as he studied you, mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a frown. Those blue eyes–always a little too clear, always a little too honest—swept over your face like he was reading it in a language he used to speak fluently but hadn’t practiced in years. He looked at your cheeks. Your jaw. Your eyes. He tilted his head just a fraction, lips parting like he was about to say something and then thinking better of it.

And then, finally, he nodded–slow, thoughtful.

“Alright…” He started, voice quieter now, more careful. “After this round, I’ll take you home.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even an offer. It was something softer than that. A promise tucked inside a sentence.

You opened your mouth to argue–to say you could take care of yourself, to brush it off like always–but before you could get the words out, Maria returned. She set a glass of water in front of you, and took one beer for herself and handed the other to Rhett, her fingers brushing against his. You watched him glance up with that familiar, easy smile.

“Appreciate it,” He said, nodding.

Maria slid back into her seat, eyes flicking between the two of you for half a second before she leaned in again, chin resting on one hand, and launched straight back into whatever story she’d started before–something about a concert she went to in Austin, a rooftop party of sorts.

You listened with one ear, the other still tuned to the quiet place inside your chest that was trying not to crack open.

You nursed your glass of water. You forced a smile.

And all the while, you felt Rhett’s leg still pressed against yours beneath the table, warm and unmoving.

As if some part of him still remembered you were there. Even if the rest had already started drifting.

Rhett nursed the last of his beer with an absent sort of slowness, fingers rolling the base of the bottle in tight little circles against the table like he was working something out in his head. Maria was still talking, still smiling–her voice soft and syrupy in the warm barlight–but his eyes flicked toward the clock above the jukebox.

And when his bottle hit the table with a soft thunk, you already knew what was coming.

“Well,” Rhett drawled, wiping his hands on his jeans and pushing up from the booth, “We oughta get goin’. Gonna be a long drive back to Wabang.”

Maria sat up a little straighter, her smile faltering just slightly. “Oh–are you headed out already?”

He nodded, casting a brief glance your way. “Yeah, gettin’ late. You need a ride back or…?”

She shook her head quickly, waving a hand. “No, no, I’m good. I’m stayin’ with some friends out here for another day or two. Figured I’d ease my way back into town life.”

Rhett grinned, all teeth and comfort. “Well, I’ll definitely call you.”

Maria bit her bottom lip–barely–but you saw it. Like punctuation on a sentence that didn’t need saying. “I’d really like that.”

Then her gaze shifted toward you, warm and easy. “We should all do this again sometime, eh?”

You gave her a nod. Tight. Quick. Polite. “Yeah. Definitely.”

She smiled one last time and turned away to rejoin her friends at the bar.

Rhett didn’t say much as you both made your way outside–boots crunching gravel, the cool night air curling around your ankles like smoke. The neon sign buzzed overhead, painting the parking lot in pale, flickering yellow.

You reached into your back pocket without a word, dug out his keys, and tossed them over. He caught them easily, looking at you like he wanted to say something, but you were already climbing into the passenger seat. The door slammed shut harder than it needed to, the echo of it biting into the quiet.

You leaned against the door, body turned away from him, cheek resting against the cool window as you stared out into the night.

Rhett slid into the driver’s seat, settling in with a soft exhale as he buckled in and adjusted the rearview mirror. He started the engine–it rumbled to life with the low growl of something familiar, something that usually made you feel steady.

Tonight though…It just made you feel even more tired.

“Hopefully you can catch some sleep while I’m drivin’,” He said, his voice low, maybe even a little hopeful.

“Yeah…” The word left your mouth flat and dull, dry as dust. Rhett turned to glance at you, the concern already knitting into his brow. But you were already reaching into the backseat, fingers curling around the flannel that always lived there–the dark blue one he sometimes wore when he was cold and you always stole when you wanted to feel his warmth. You tugged it over you, and didn’t glance his way for the rest of the ride, fading off into a sleepy haze.

————————

The shop smelled like motor oil, burnt rubber, and heat-soaked metal–the scent of long hours and too many worn-out engines trying to hold on. The radio murmured low in the corner, old country drifting from the busted speaker, the static crackling between verses like background noise to your every exhale.

It was just past noon, but the heat had already settled in for the day. The big bay doors were rolled open, sunlight spilling across the concrete in sharp streaks, cutting through the floating dust like gold through smoke. You were bent over the open hood of a ‘97 Ford Ranger, your shoulders glinting with sweat, black tank top sticking to your back in places where the fabric met skin. The sleeves of your navy jumpsuit were tied around your waist, the whole thing cinched low on your hips and streaked with oil from earlier jobs.

Rhett was sitting on the workbench a few feet away, his boots propped on the lower shelf, stool tilted back dangerously as he rocked on two legs like it didn’t matter if he tipped over. His ballcap was pulled low, his light brown hair curling out from the back, his jaw working absently around a toothpick as he talked–still talking–about her.

“…I mean, I dunno,” He was saying, shifting his weight again, “She called me last night after dinner just to talk–like real late too, almost midnight. We didn’t talk about much, just…Stuff. Nothin’ important. But it was nice, y’know?” He tapped his fingers against his thigh, voice casual, but his brows were slightly furrowed like the whole thing was keeping him awake.

You hummed a soft acknowledgment, eyes trained on the belt tensioner you were adjusting. The socket wrench in your hand clicked steadily with each turn, your knuckles smudged with grease, fingernails stained half-permanently. Sweat beaded on your lower back and slipped beneath the waistband of your suit.

“Anyway,” Rhett continued, “She said she might swing by the circuit again this weekend. Wants to grab coffee first. Think that means somethin’?” His voice dipped into something hopeful. “I mean, she doesn’t have to make the first move, but…It’s been weeks and I still can’t tell if she’s just bein’ polite or if she’s actually–y’know–interested.”

You blew out a slow breath through your nose, kept your eyes on the pulley system as you tugged the belt back into place. “Dunno, Rhett. She’s hard to read.”

He paused, like he was expecting more. When you didn’t add anything, he scratched at his jaw and pushed the stool back down flat.

“You ever notice how she touches my arm a lot when she laughs?” He asked, tone casual, but a little eager. “Like, not in a weird way, just kinda light. She’s always been touchy though. That don’t mean much, does it?”

“Not always,” You mumbled, wrench clacking again. “Could just be her way.”

Rhett leaned forward, elbows on his knees now. His gaze was drifting, not really focused on the cabinets or the tools. Not even on the truck. It was on you. On the way your tank top rode up just a little when you reached for a tool. The way your back muscles shifted beneath sun-warmed skin. How your hair clung to the nape of your neck in sticky curls. He took a sip from the bottle of Gatorade he’d barely touched, then swallowed slowly.

“You always been good at figurin’ people out,” He said after a beat, softer. “You’d tell me if I was readin’ into it too much, right?”

“Sure,” You replied, brushing a hand across your forehead, leaving a streak of dirt there without realizing. You stood up straighter to stretch your spine, a soft crack echoing as your hands went to your lower back. Rhett’s eyes flicked down your side–followed the way the tied sleeves of your jumpsuit tugged the tank top tight across your waist, the glint of your exposed hip where your shirt had ridden up slightly. He quickly looked away, rubbed the back of his neck.

“I just keep thinkin’ about how she left, y’know?” He muttered, almost to himself. “And now she’s back and it’s like nothin’ happened. Like we can just…Pick up where we left off.”

You finally glanced over your shoulder at him, one brow arched. “Did you leave anything to pick up?”

Rhett opened his mouth. Shut it and thought for a second, “No. I mean, not really. Not out loud. But I always thought…” He shook his head, letting the words trail off like a loose wire. “I dunno what I thought. I guess I just missed her.”

Your lips pressed together into a flat line, but you didn’t say anything. Not at first.

“I get it,” You finally muttered, wiping your hands on a rag. “She’s easy to miss.”

Rhett tilted his head slightly at the tone, like he was hearing something he wasn’t meant to catch. “You don’t like her much, do you?”

You paused, grip tightening just a little on the wrench.

“I don’t not like her,” You said slowly, choosing each word carefully. “She’s…Fine. Y’know how I am with people…” He squinted at you, suspicion tugging at his features like a loose thread. But then his eyes dropped again–to your neck, your collarbone, the bare line of your shoulder as you leaned over the engine again. He chewed the inside of his cheek.

“Was thinkin’ of askin’ her to come to the Fourth of July thing next week,” He said, casual but deliberate, watching for your reaction. “Figured it’d be nice to have her meet everyone again…Y’know, properly.” You didn’t flinch. You didn’t roll your eyes. You didn’t say anything cruel. But your fingers curled around your wrench tighter than before, the metal biting into your palm.

“Sure,” You said with a hollow shrug. “Bring whoever you want, I’m sure everyone would love to see her.”

Rhett watched you for a moment longer, unreadable.

“You ever gonna tell me what’s really goin’ on in that head of yours?” He asked, almost teasing, but his voice dropped just a little at the end.

You didn’t look at him. Just reached back into the engine block.

“Nothin’ is going on up here, I’m just payin’ attention to this customer's car.” Rhett knew better than to believe that.

He’d seen it with his own eyes–felt it in the air, even if you were too proud or too stubborn to admit it. You used to meet his gaze across a room and hold it, unbothered, cocky even, like you knew exactly what kind of effect you had on him. But now? Every time Maria’s name came up, you flinched just a little, like you were bracing for a hit. And whenever the three of you were in the same space–which was rare because you made it rare–you got quiet. Distant. You’d hover near the edge of the group, arms crossed, mouth pressed flat, eyes focused on anything but them.

And he remembered.

He remembered asking if you wanted to come out with him and Maria after that first weekend she rolled back into town. It had been a simple question, low-stakes. Just a casual invite.

But you didn’t even think about it–you just said, “Can’t. I’m busy.”

Didn’t even ask what night.

You’d turned him down so fast it had made his head spin. And after that, whenever he mentioned Maria, you got this far-off look like your mind had slipped into neutral. Like you weren’t even there anymore.

He shifted on the stool now, elbow digging into his knee, watching the way you moved with quiet precision–like you were using the engine block to avoid him. Like if you focused hard enough on the bolts and belts, you could keep the rest of the world from touching you.

Sometimes he wished he could read minds.

Not for anything big or cosmic–just so he could finally know what the hell went on behind your eyes when you looked at him.

What you thought when Maria’s name came up.

What you thought when he said she might come to the Fourth of July thing.

What you thought about him, period.

Did you think he was being desperate? Clingy? Chasing someone who didn’t deserve to be chased? Or did you just not care anymore?

“You sure nothin’s goin’ on in that head?” He asked again, a little quieter this time.

Still no answer. Just the soft click of your tools.

Rhett let out a slow breath, set his Gatorade bottle on the bench beside him with a soft thunk. He looked at the concrete floor, then back at you.

“Y’know, sometimes it feels like you’re playin’ wingman,” He said after a beat. “Only you’re not rootin’ for me to win.”

You froze for just half a second–barely enough for anyone else to notice–but Rhett caught it.

He always did.

Then you straightened up again, slow and careful, wiping the back of your neck with the same rag you’d used on your hands.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He shrugged, but it was tight. Guarded.

“Means you show up, sure. But you don’t really wanna be there. You say you’re happy for me, but I can tell you’re not. You act like you’re helpin’ but you keep your distance. It’s like…you’re close enough to see it all, but never close enough to be part of it.” Your jaw tensed, lips parting just slightly like you wanted to fire back something sharp–but nothing came. So Rhett leaned forward again, resting his forearms on his thighs.

“Do you want me to stop talkin’ about her?” He asked gently. “Just say the word, and I will. I swear I will.” Your eyes finally met his–steady, unreadable. And for a moment, he thought you might actually tell him. That you might finally crack open whatever it was you were hiding behind grease-streaked skin and bitten-off words.

But instead you said:

”I don’t care Rhett, you can talk about her till the cows come home.” And you turned back to the engine.

————————

The fireworks had already started by the time you sank into the corner of the worn-out couch, your dad’s recliner creaking as he shifted beside you. The TV was low, tuned to some classic western neither of you were really watching. Outside, through the screen door, you could hear the faint distant pop of celebratory explosions, followed by a round of cheers from somewhere down the road. The air was thick with summer—warm and buzzing with mosquitoes, smoke from backyard grills clinging to everything like memory.

You hadn’t told Rhett you weren’t coming.

You’d texted Perry earlier–just a short message, simple and vague.

“Can’t make it tonight. Not feelin’ great. Tell Rhett sorry.”

He sent back a thumbs-up emoji and nothing else, which was honestly a mercy. Your dad glanced over from where he was leafing through the town paper, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He didn’t look at you right away when he spoke.

“Didn’t you have plans tonight with the Abbotts?” He asked, casual but pointed. “Royal told me they were havin’ a Fourth of July party.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just shifted in your seat and tugged the throw blanket higher over your lap, even though it was too hot for it. Your voice came out low.

“Yeah. Just not feelin’ well.” That made him look up. He tilted his chin slightly, peering at you over the tops of his glasses.

“All of a sudden? You were fine at work today…Could’ve sworn you were elbows-deep in someone’s transmission this afternoon.” You shrugged, eyes fixed on the soft glow of the television.

“Guess it hit me late.”

He didn’t push at first. Just turned a page in his paper with a slow rustle, let the silence stretch like taffy. You thought maybe he’d drop it. But then–

“This ain’t about Maria comin’ back now, is it?” You groaned, throwing your head back against the cushion.

“Why does everything have to come back to her all the damn time? Can’t I just not feel good?” Your dad raised his brows like you’d just proved his point.

“Well,” He said slowly, “That answers my question.” You shot him a look, but it lacked heat.

“Are you jealous that she’s gettin’ Rhett’s attention?” He asked plainly, like he was asking about the weather. “I mean–I ain’t judgin’. You’ve always liked that boy, ever since y’all were knee-high and runnin’ around this place like wild dogs.”

“I have not,” You muttered, crossing your arms tighter over your chest.

“Sure you haven’t,” He teased, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And I suppose I imagined the way you used to light up like a damn Christmas tree whenever he’d show up on that beat-up four-wheeler.” You opened your mouth, then closed it, teeth pressing into your bottom lip. He leaned back in his chair and sighed, looking over at you again–not teasing now, just fatherly. Tired, maybe.

“Look, I know it ain’t easy. Watchin’ someone you care about look the other way. But if you want something different…You gotta say something different. Boy’s not a mind reader.”

“I know that,” You replied softly, after a long beat. Your throat felt tight. “I just…It’s not that simple.”

“Never is,” He agreed, settling back with a soft grunt. “But you keep sittin’ on your hands, and someone else is gonna take the spot you won’t claim.” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.

Because across town, Rhett was probably smiling at her the way he used to smile at you. Probably handing her a cold drink, nudging her shoulder when she laughed, leaning in a little too close like it was second nature. You could picture it too well. That easy charm. That golden light. The kind of warmth he didn’t even know he carried.

And maybe, just maybe, it used to be yours.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you were just a ghost in a room you used to stand in, watching from the quiet side of town as the fireworks bloomed without you.

You stayed curled on the couch beside your dad for another hour or so, the two of you watching the rest of the Western he had put on in a silent that wasn’t uncomfortable–but felt heavier than usual.

Every now and then, he’d make a quiet comment about the film or chuckle under his breath, and you’d hum in response, but your mind had long drifted elsewhere. You couldn’t stop picturing it: Rhett laughing under the glow of string lights, standing too close to Maria, that loose and familiar posture he used when he felt wanted. When he felt seen.

Eventually, the credits rolled, the TV dimmed, and the old western faded into static hum. You stretched slowly, working the tension from your shoulders before pushing to your feet.

“I’m gonna head out,” You said quietly, brushing your hand down the side of your sweatpants. “Gotta wash off the day.”Your dad didn’t look up from his recliner, but he nodded once, the paper still resting in his lap.

“Alright, kid. Tell the ghosts I said hi.”

You snorted softly. “Yeah, I’ll light ‘em a candle.” You stepped toward the front door and reached for the handle–then paused. Rain.

The sound hit your ears before you even saw it–soft, steady, the kind of slow summer drizzle that snuck up on you after sundown. You opened the door and stood in the frame for a second, watching the raindrops dance in the yellow glow of the porch light. The gravel was soaked already, puddles forming in the grooves where the driveway dipped, and the path to the loft looked like a slick, muddy mess.

“Well, shit,” You muttered, eyeing the way your breath curled in the humid air. “Rarely rains on the Fourth.”

Your dad made a noise behind you–somewhere between a grunt and a dry chuckle. “This is what happens when you decide not to celebrate it,” he called out, flipping another page in the paper. “The weather takes it personal.”

You huffed a laugh and grabbed your old black windbreaker from the coat rack, shrugging it over your shoulders. “Guess I’ll just have to make it up to the weather next year.” With that, you slipped out onto the porch, tugged the hood up, and jogged down the steps.

The mud squelched under your boots immediately, sucking at the soles with every step, but you kept going, ducking your chin down against the rain. Your loft stood about forty yards behind the house, nestled at the edge of the property where the grass met the tree line. The walk was familiar, even in the dark, and your feet followed the worn path instinctively–even if the occasional puddle slowed you down.

The rain soaked through your jeans by the time you made it to the porch. You slipped your key into the door and turned it, heart settling as the lock clicked open.

The smell hit you first–warm wood and lavender, the faint trace of engine oil clinging to the boots by the door. You stepped inside and shut the door behind you with a soft thud, shaking yourself off like a dog and dragging your hood down with a sigh.

The lights were low–just the ones above the kitchen sink and the little Edison bulb lamp you always left on beside the couch. You didn’t bother turning on the overheads. The place felt better dim.

The loft was everything you needed and nothing you didn’t.

It was open-concept, all one floor, no walls to separate everything–just beams and slanted ceilings, wood-paneled walls stained a soft, honeyed brown that caught the light like something out of a dream. Your father had built it himself for your eighteenth birthday, saying, “Every girl needs a place she can disappear to. Somewhere that’s hers.” He’d smacked the blueprints on the dining table with a grin and said he didn’t want to know who was coming or going, didn’t want to hear anything about late nights or early mornings. He just wanted you to have space. Independence. Freedom.

You had cried when he showed you the key.

The place was cozy–homey in a way that didn’t require explanation. The kitchen sat along the far wall, rustic cabinets painted sage green, an old farmhouse sink surrounded by chipped enamel counters, your mug collection hanging from hooks above the stove. To the right was your sleeping space–a big, soft bed piled with mismatched quilts and pillows, tucked beneath the loft’s only window. Books were stacked on the floor beside it like a makeshift nightstand, with a cracked old alarm clock resting on top.

The living area bled right into everything else: a wide brown leather couch which you had thrifted with Rhett at a decent price, a low coffee table you’d made from an old pallet, and your record player setup on a shelf near the armchair where you kept your journals. The only thing separating the zones was a long, faded rug with a southwestern pattern that anchored everything in place.

Boots were kicked off by the door. Your dad’s old denim jacket hung on the hook by the kitchen, next to the keys Rhett had left behind last winter and never came back for.

You took your time peeling off your soaked clothes, leaving your windbreaker to hang dry by the door. You padded barefoot across the wood floors to the kitchen, flicking the kettle on without thinking, craving something warm. Outside, the rain picked up a little, tapping softly against the windows like a quiet apology, before changing into a baggy t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts.

You leaned your hip against the counter, watching the steam curl from the spout, and let yourself breathe.

The kettle hissed softly behind you, steam whispering up into the warm air of the loft, curling like smoke from a slow-burning fuse. You were still leaning against the counter when you heard it.

Tires.

Crunching gravel.

Slow. Deliberate.

You straightened, eyebrows furrowing. You hadn’t heard anyone pull into the main driveway. The rain was still falling, steady and soft, a silver curtain beyond the windows–but the headlights cut through it in sudden streaks. Wide. Familiar. High off the ground.

A truck.

Your eyes narrowed as the engine cut. The lights went dark. A moment later: Three sharp knocks.

Not rushed. Not panicked. Just firm. Like whoever was outside knew they had every right to be here.

You let out a slow, tired sigh, and turned off the kettle.

“Perry,” You muttered under your breath, pushing off the counter. “Dumbass probably thinks I’m curled up cryin’ into a bottle.”

You crossed the floor barefoot, pulling your oversized tee down lower on your thighs as you passed the couch. The rain hadn’t let up–it was still falling hard enough that you could hear it pinging against the porch roof, a low murmur just under your breath. You reached for the handle, pulled open the door–and stopped dead.

It wasn’t Perry.

It was Rhett.

Soaked to the damn bone.

His shirt clung to his chest, heavy and half-translucent, his flannel abandoned somewhere along the way. His jeans were soaked through, dripping onto the porch. His hat hung limp in one hand, curls plastered to his forehead. Water streamed from his jaw, his shoulders, his eyelashes.

And his expression…He looked furious.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, boots thudding onto the hardwood as he slammed the door behind him. His chest rose and fell hard, breath sharp in his nose. And when he looked at you–it wasn’t his usual warmth.

It was a supernova.

Frustrated. Scalding. Desperate.

“What the hell is goin’ on with you? Hmm?” he snapped.

You blinked at him, stunned. The loft felt suddenly too small, too quiet except for the rain beating against the roof. Rhett kicked off his boots without breaking eye contact, his wet jacket hitting the floor with a heavy slap.

“Wow,” You started, raising your eyebrows. “No, ‘hi, Y/N, how are you?’ Not even a ‘how’s your night goin’?’”

But he didn’t bite.

He just stared at you–blue eyes sharp, tense, unreadable.

“Right now ain’t the time for games.” His voice was lower now, but no less intense. “What the hell is goin’ on with you?”

You froze in place.

“First you don’t wanna come out with me anymore,” he continued, stepping closer, water still dripping from his sleeves. “Then you start pullin’ away like I did somethin’ wrong, and now you ditch the Fourth of July party and say you’re fuckin’ sick?” His voice cracked faintly on the last word. Not in anger. In something closer to hurt.

“Tell me what the fuck is goin’ on.”

You couldn’t answer. Not immediately.

You just stared, mouth dry, trying to find footing in the storm that had followed him inside. He tossed his wet hat off to the side, ran a hand through his dripping hair, like the mess of it might let him breathe. It didn’t.

You swallowed.

“I…” You cleared your throat, tried again. “Let me go grab you a towel, alright? You’re soaked, and you’re gonna–”

You moved to brush past him–but his hand came out gently. Just enough to stop you.

He caught your wrist.

Not hard. Not angry.

Just… steady.

Warm fingers curled loosely around your skin, grounding you.

“I don’t need a towel right now.” His voice was quieter now. Less heat, more gravity. “What I need–” He met your gaze fully, voice low and razor-sharp with feeling“–is for you to tell me the truth.”

And for the first time all night, you realized–he wasn’t mad because he didn’t care. He was mad because he did. Because he had been confused. Lost. Hurt. Because something had shifted between you, and you’d never let him see it.

And now he was here–dripping, shaking, looking at you like you were the one thing he couldn’t figure out how to fix.

The air inside the loft had thickened–saturated with rain and tension, heavy with every word you hadn’t said and every moment that had gone sideways between you.

Rhett’s hand still circled your wrist, warm and unrelenting, grounding you in place like he was afraid you might bolt. You could feel his pulse through his fingertips–fast and strong, matching the thunder of your own heart. His eyes locked to yours, demanding something, anything, while water pooled beneath him on the floor.

Then his voice cut through the quiet, low and sharp:

“Is this whole thing about me and Maria?”

Your chest cinched tight. Your jaw tensed automatically–every muscle bracing like your body knew how dangerous the truth might be. You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared at him, and in that silence…Your face dropped. Just barely. The kind of shift only someone who knew you like the back of his hand could notice.

Rhett saw it.

And something in his face snapped–not in rage, but in clarity.

He stepped closer. Just one step. Enough to make the air crackle.

“Look at me in the eyes, Y/N,” He said, voice firm now–stern in a way that made your stomach twist, the dominance in his tone curling heat into your spine. “And tell me that isn’t what this is fuckin’ about.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a command.

You tried to hold it together. To keep your eyes from betraying you. But he was right there, soaking wet and burning with something you hadn’t seen in him in years. And when you finally looked up at him, really looked…Everything cracked.

Your breath caught. Your throat tightened. The words didn’t come.

They couldn’t.

Because how the hell were you supposed to lie with him looking at you like that? Like your silence was the final piece of a puzzle that had been driving him insane.

“I knew it,” He said softly–more to himself than to you. “Christ.” He raked a hand through his wet hair again, exhaling hard. “All this time, you’ve been walkin’ around pretendin’ you don’t care… Pretendin’ it doesn’t fuckin’ matter.”

You yanked your wrist free–not violently, just enough to take a step back. “What was I supposed to do, Rhett?” Your voice cracked open like a dam. “Watch you chase after the one girl I could never compete with and just smile about it?”

He stared at you–stunned, but not surprised. Like some part of him had known this truth existed, buried deep beneath the grease-stained tank tops and quiet sacrifices.

“She left,” You snapped. “She left and you broke for a while and I helped put you back together piece by piece. I sat on that goddamn porch with you night after night while you pretended you didn’t care she was gone. And I was there when you started laughing again. When you started living again.”

Your voice was rising now–shaking, furious and breaking apart all at once.

“And then she shows up, all pretty and polished and fuckin’ effortless, and you just light up like nothing ever happened. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Rhett’s mouth parted slightly, but you didn’t stop.

“I’ve been right here, Rhett,” You whispered, stepping forward now. “All this time. Loving you so quietly it damn near killed me.”

And there it was.

Out in the open.

The words you’d never dared say. Hanging between you like smoke in a thunderstorm.

Rhett didn’t move at first. His chest rose and fell, slow and ragged. Water still dripped from his jaw, but he didn’t wipe it away. His eyes were locked to yours, blue and searing.

“I didn’t know,” He shot back, voice low. Raw. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “You didn’t want to know.”

“No,” He said, stepping toward you again, shaking his head. “No, that ain’t fair. Don’t you put that on me. I looked for signs, Y/N. I did. But you–you shut me out. Every damn time I tried to get close, you’d change the subject or pretend it was nothin’.” Your footsteps echoed in the silence between you, the sound of your breath sharp in your throat as you turned to face him fully–eyes blazing, rain still dripping off the ends of his curls and onto the floor like the storm had followed him inside.

“I didn’t avoid any conversations with you,” you snapped, voice raw and loud in the warm wood space. “You never thought to say anything! You think I’m just supposed to read your fuckin’ mind?!”

Rhett’s jaw clenched, teeth flashing as he stepped forward again, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “And why does it have to be up to me to say anything?! I didn’t know this was a one-sided friendship. Last time I checked, there was two of us in this!”

That did it. You surged toward him with fire in your chest, your pointer finger jabbing hard into the middle of his chest–right against the damp fabric that clung to him, warm and heavy over his heart.

“Because you’re the one who kept chasing Maria all through high school, Rhett! You never gave me a chance!” The words landed hard, thick with years of held-back ache. “You were so wrapped up in her smiles and her perfect little skirts and how she looked in the goddamn sunshine, and you never once looked at me!”

And then–before you could step back–his hand caught your wrist again.

But this time?

This time it wasn’t to stop you.

It was to make you listen.

He held your arm firm, water trailing down the slope of his forearm, his eyes locked to yours like the rest of the world had disappeared.

“And why do you think I went after Maria in the first place, huh?” He bit out, chest heaving. “You weren’t that fucking easy to read, sweetheart. You hid your feelings real damn well. So how else was I supposed to move on from somethin’ I thought I’d never have?”

You froze.

Every word struck like thunder in your gut.

Your mouth parted. Your heart tripped.

He’d said it with such certainty. Like it had always been true. Like it had been sitting under the surface of every glance, every late-night porch talk, every ride home in his truck when the silence said more than either of you dared.

“Does everything make sense to you now?” he asked, voice low and scorching.

And it did.

You stood there in the hush of your little loft, the rain pounding like a drumline on the roof, and everything finally clicked into place.

And before you could think, before you could breathe, before your heart could scream for you to slow down–

You launched forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft.

It was heat and breath and years of longing breaking open all at once. His mouth met yours with a desperate groan, his hand leaving your wrist to grab your waist, yanking you into him like he needed to feel every inch of you, like just touching wasn’t enough. You could taste the rain on his lips, the bitter edge of frustration still lingering in the way he kissed you–hungry, fierce, like he was starved for this.

Your fingers curled into the wet fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as you gasped against his mouth. The warmth of his chest bled into yours, soaked cotton clinging to skin as he spun the both of you until your back hit the wall beside the door.

“God, you don’t even know,” Rhett growled against your mouth, his nose brushing yours as he leaned in again, kissing you deeper, rougher. “You don’t even fuckin’ know how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

His hands ran down your sides, settling heavy and possessive on your hips, thumbs digging into the waistband of your shorts as he pressed into you, chest to chest, thigh slipping between your legs like he had every right to be there. You moaned softly, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he leaned in harder, kissing you like he was trying to make up for every year he didn’t.

And all you could think was: finally.

Finally, he was holding you like he meant it. Kissing you like he wasn’t afraid anymore. Like the truth had broken loose and there was nothing left to hide behind.

You gasped as his hand slipped under your shirt, warm and rough against your rain-chilled skin, dragging a trail up your ribcage. Your body arched into him instinctively, your legs going weak under the weight of it all.

“Tell me you want this,” He murmured against your jaw, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me I’m not the only one who’s been goin’ crazy.”

You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him right back to you.

“Just…Shut the fuck up and kiss me again.” You whispered, your voice ragged, nearly breaking, while your mouth was already bruised and hungry. Rhett’s breath hitched, and then he laughed—low, hoarse, and a little cocky. That boyish, infuriating smirk of his twitched at the corner of his lips as his forehead pressed to yours. His hand still clutched your waist, anchoring you like he’d drown without it.

“Well, hell,” he drawled, voice thick with heat and years of wanting, “You sound a little desperate, sweetheart.”

“Rhett,” you warned, already chasing after his mouth again.

But he kissed you before you could even threaten him further—kissed you like he was starved, like the sound of your voice made his restraint unravel. His hands slid back under your shirt, dragging up your ribs and then lower again, palms rough and reverent all at once. He gripped the back of your thighs, strong and certain, and then—

You yelped softly as he lifted you off the ground.

Your legs wrapped tight around his waist on instinct, like they’d done it a hundred times before, and your arms flew around his neck—one hand diving into his soaked curls, the other cradling his jaw like you needed to make sure he was real. His lips never left yours as he staggered forward, blindly navigating the loft until your back hit the bed in a messy sprawl.

You bounced once against the soft quilts, dazed.

Then Rhett was above you, peeling off his drenched shirt in one fluid motion, flinging it somewhere across the room with a wet slap. He stood over you for a moment, his chest rising and falling, water still dripping from the line of his collarbone, his abs heaving with every breath. His jeans clung to his hips, soaked dark and hanging low, every muscle in his body cast in golden light from the lamp on the nightstand.

You had seen him shirtless before. Plenty of times.

But not like this.

Not with your lips swollen from his kiss. Not with your thighs still tingling where his hands had gripped them. Not with your body burning for him in every place you had tried to forget existed.

He caught the look in your eyes—hungry, reverent, awestruck—and his smirk faded into something darker. Something heady.

He crawled onto the bed without saying a word, muscles shifting as he moved between your knees, spreading them apart with his palms like he had every right to. His fingers dug into your bare thighs, holding you open as he settled his hips against yours, weight pressing down with purpose.

Your breath hitched. Your hands slid up his chest–feeling the heat, the muscle, the scar near his ribs you knew by heart–and you kissed him again like you were trying to make up for every single day you hadn’t.

This one was feral.

Messy and frantic and clumsy in the best way. Tongues sliding, teeth grazing, mouths parting on gasps and moans as your hands moved like you couldn’t decide where to touch first. His fingers slipped beneath your shirt again, dragging the fabric up your sides and pushing until it bunched around your ribs.

You barely noticed. Too busy tangling yourself in him.

His hands found your hips again–then your jaw–then your ass. He was everywhere at once, and you couldn’t stop moaning into his mouth, couldn’t stop arching up to meet every roll of his body against yours. His jeans were soaked, and yours were barely on, and the heat between you was enough to dry everything that had been soaked by the storm.

It was the kind of kiss you didn’t come back from.

The kind that set fire to memory, that branded your ribs from the inside out.

You were breathing so hard you couldn’t tell where your lungs ended and his began, couldn’t remember a time before this–before his tongue was in your mouth and his hips were grinding against your core like he’d been waiting his whole damn life to do it.

And maybe he had.

“Fuck,” Rhett panted, his forehead pressed to yours again, voice thick with disbelief and hunger as his thumb stroked just beneath the edge of your shirt, “You got any idea what you do to me, do you?”

You barely had time to answer.

Because he kissed you again like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning all these years.

You moaned into the kiss, your body arching instinctively against his as your hand slid up his chest–not to push him away, but just to slow him, to breathe, to feel. Your palm pressed flat against the warmth of his skin, just above his heart, and Rhett stilled.

He pulled back enough to look at you, eyes dark but gentle, the storm in his chest quieting just a little.

“You okay?” He asked softly, thumb still brushing your waist.

You let out a breathless laugh, your fingers curling lightly into his damp curls. “Yeah,” You whispered, voice shaking with heat and adrenaline. “I just wanna take my shirt off.”

Rhett blinked, and then leaned back slightly, palms splayed beside your hips on the bed. “Yeah?” He asked, husky and reverent, giving you space.

You sat up on your elbows just enough to pull the oversized tee over your head in one quick motion, your breath catching as the cool air of the loft met your flushed skin. The fabric hit the floor with a quiet thud, and then you were left in nothing but your sleep shorts–bare from the waist up, your chest rising and falling with every ragged inhale.

Rhett didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stared.

“Jesus Christ…” He muttered, eyes locked to your chest like he couldn’t decide if he should worship you or fall to his knees. “Holy crap.”

You let out another quiet laugh, flustered but aching, warmth blooming in your cheeks. “You okay there, cowboy?”

His eyes snapped up to yours. And then he leaned in again like he’d just remembered he could. Like the sight of you had lit something under his ribs.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” He breathed against your mouth before kissing you again, slower this time, reverent. His lips moved down your jaw, then your throat, then lower–pressing heat into every inch of skin like he was branding you with it.

You gasped as his mouth trailed to your collarbone, lips brushing, teeth grazing the dip there before he murmured, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty, you know that?”

Your hands found his hair again, tangling in the damp curls, anchoring him as he kissed his way down the slope of your chest. He paused at the top of your breast, glancing up with heat in his eyes, waiting–making sure.

You nodded.

That was all he needed.

His mouth closed over your breast, warm and wet and full of want, and you cried out softly as he sucked, his tongue flicking over your nipple until it peaked beneath his touch. His hand came up to cradle the weight of the other, thumb circling slow and steady as he dragged his mouth from one to the other, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a few soft marks in his wake.

You were already trembling. His mouth stayed latched to your breast, tongue dragging slowly over the sensitive peak, lips sucking just hard enough to make your back arch off the bed. And he didn’t look away–not once. His eyes burned into yours, half-lidded and dark with want, jaw working like he was savoring every fucking second. Every twitch. Every breathless sound you made.

And then he ground his hips into you–slow and deep, the press of his soaked jeans meeting the heat between your thighs in a rhythm that made your whole body jolt. You gasped, your thighs clenching around his waist instinctively, the friction too good and too much all at once.

“Fuck, Rhett—” you breathed, your fingers flying to his shoulders, nails dragging down his skin without thinking. You didn’t even realize how hard you were clutching him until he moaned.

Loud.

Right against your nipple.

The vibration of it sent a shock straight through your core, your breath catching as he pulled off with a wet pop, a string of spit connecting his mouth to your skin before it snapped and fell away.

His lips were pink and swollen. His chest was heaving. His hands still held your hips like they belonged to him.

And then—he licked his lips. Smirked a little. That cocky, heartbreaker smirk that always used to get him out of trouble when you were kids, only now it looked feral. Possessive. Dirty.

He dipped his head to the other side of your chest and gave the second nipple the same worship he’d given the first—slow, wet, reverent, his tongue flicking and swirling and teasing until your legs were trembling around his hips.

You could feel him growing harder with every second, the denim of his jeans rough against your thin sleep shorts, but neither of you moved to get rid of anything yet. You were too busy drowning in this.

In him.

His mouth. His heat. The way he held you like he’d been starving for this since the beginning of time.

He sucked harder, his teeth grazing the swollen bud just enough to make you whimper, and then he pulled off that one too–again, with a lewd, wet sound that left another line of spit trailing down your skin. His voice was rough as gravel when he finally spoke, eyes still locked to yours, lips slick and panting.

“I just wanna keep tasting you,” He rasped, his hands stroking up your sides like he needed to memorize you with his palms. “I wanna taste every fuckin’ inch of you. Wanna see what you’ve been hidin’ under all those smart-ass jokes and mechanic suits.” Your chest stuttered with a broken laugh, your nails still dug into his shoulders, dragging light lines down his back that made him shudder. His hips rolled into you again, more desperate this time, like he couldn’t help it, like the thought of you beneath him in nothing but your shorts was driving him insane.

“Go on then,” You whispered, voice wrecked and teasing and vulnerable all at once. “See for yourself.”

He growled low in his throat, and kissed you like it was a promise. Like he was going to do exactly that.

Rhett pulled back slowly, his breath ragged, his pupils blown wide as his gaze dragged down the length of your body like a man about to sink his teeth into something he wasn’t sure he deserved. His hands slid down your thighs–slow and warm, worshipful–and hooked just beneath the waistband of your shorts.

“You sure?” He asked, voice low and rough, throat tight with restraint even as his eyes burned with hunger.

You nodded.

That was all he needed.

He tugged the sleep shorts down your hips, inch by inch, until they peeled away from your skin like a secret being revealed. His eyes never left you–not even when the cotton slipped past your knees and off the edge of the bed. And when he saw what you weren’t wearing beneath?

His breath caught.

“Fuck me,” He groaned, so low it was almost a growl, his fingers tightening around your thighs. “You were just walkin’ around like this?” His voice dropped darker, hotter. “No fuckin’ underwear? Just wet and waitin’ under those shorts, huh?” You bit your bottom lip, heart hammering, skin blazing under his stare.

Rhett sat back on his knees between your legs, pushing them apart with both hands—broad palms sliding under your thighs to lift and spread you just a little more, until your heels dug into the mattress and you were completely, utterly bare for him.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared like he was being given a miracle he hadn’t earned.

“Jesus, baby…” He whispered, voice gone reverent. “You’re fuckin’ drippin’–look at you.” His tongue darted out across his bottom lip, his breath shaky. “Bet you taste so goddamn sweet.”

You whimpered at the praise, back arching involuntarily as his grip on your thighs tightened. One hand slid down to grip behind your knee, pushing it gently up and open, his thumb stroking the soft skin there like he was trying to soothe your trembling.

Then–without warning–he dove in.

His mouth hit you like a man starved, tongue flattening and dragging up the length of your soaked heat with a groan that shook through your whole body. You gasped–hips jerking up off the mattress, but he was ready. His hands flew to your hips, pinning you down hard into the sheets.

“Just stay still…Lemme take care of you hmm?” Your fingers flew to his hair, gripping tight as his mouth slowly sealed around your clit. Rhett sucked hard–just once–and then started working you with his tongue like he’d been waiting his whole life to make you fall apart on his face. Long, slow licks. Then fast, eager circles. He switched between the two like he was chasing every sound you made, every gasp, every twitch of your thighs like it was a map.

“God–Rhett–” Your voice hitched, your hips trying to grind against his mouth again, your thighs trembling under his hold. He pressed them back down firmly, groaning against you.

“I said stay still,” He growled, so rough and low it vibrated straight through your core. You whined, writhing under the weight of his mouth, your thighs beginning to tremble.

His tongue flicked your clit again, fast, and then he pressed in deeper–his nose brushing your mound, his tongue fucking into you slow and deep, like he was drinking you down.

Your thighs clamped around his ears, but he just groaned–louder–and pressed in harder, his arms locking around your hips, holding you open for him like you were something holy.

You couldn’t stop moaning–couldn’t breathe around the pleasure curling tight in your gut. Your hands were still tangled in his hair, tugging, pushing, desperate and greedy as your hips rocked against his mouth without thinking.

Then he growled, pulling his mouth back just enough to speak–and the sight of him, lips shiny and jaw slick with your arousal, was filthy.

“I said stay still,” He rasped, grabbing your hips and pressing them back into the mattress with just enough force to make you cry out. You whimpered–your body shuddering at the dominance in his tone, the possessive heat of it—and nodded.

“Words, sweetheart,” He said, licking a slow stripe up your core. “I wanna hear it.”

“Yes,” You gasped. “Yes, Rhett–fuck–I’ll stay still–please, just–please don’t stop.”

He smirked into your core.

“Didn’t plan on it.”

And then he buried his face in you again–harder this time–his mouth moving like he was trying to tear the climax from your body with his tongue alone. His grip on your hips was iron, keeping you right where he wanted you, no escape, no mercy.

You came with a loud, shattering cry, your whole body jerking against the bed as pleasure tore through you like lightning, your thighs trembling against his shoulders.

Rhett didn’t stop.

Not through your first wave, or the second.

He kept licking, savoring you, sucking gently, coaxing every last tremble from your hips until you were shaking and soaked and boneless beneath him, your fingers still tangled in his hair like you didn’t know how to let go.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was glossed with you, his jaw shining, his eyes wild and dark and full of need.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ tasted,” He whispered, breathless, licking his lips as he hovered above you again.

And then he kissed you.

Messy. Deep. Dirty. Tongue sliding against yours, lips slick with your own arousal, like he wanted you to taste yourself on him.

You moaned into his mouth, and that sound lit him up from the inside. He pulled back just enough to let you breathe, his lips still glistening, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run flat-out for miles. You watched the way his tongue darted out across his bottom lip, savoring the taste of you one last time like he couldn’t help himself. Then his eyes flicked up to meet yours–warm, slightly sheepish–and his voice dropped, rough with apology but still trembling from the high.

“Sorry ‘bout bein’ a little rough…” He murmured, thumb tracing your hipbone. “I… I couldn’t really control myself once I got a bit of a taste. Sorry.”

You blinked at him, breathless, your cheeks flushed from everything he’d just wrung out of you. And then you laughed—a soft, low sound, all wrecked and wrecking. You reached up to brush the damp curls from his forehead, still tangled in the storm.

“It’s okay…” You whispered, lips twitching into a lazy smile. “It was pretty hot. Not gonna lie.”

That made him laugh—quiet and stunned, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. His dimples showed through his scruff, and it lit him up from the inside out, that boyish grin making a brief return before it got swallowed by something deeper. He leaned in and kissed you again—slower now, lingering, lips brushing yours like he was memorizing the taste of your relief, your want, your voice wrapped around the words I need you.

And then he paused.

Just enough to pull back again, gaze searching yours, soft and careful.

“…You still okay?” he asked, voice quiet now. “Do you…Wanna stop here?”

Your heart clenched at the way he asked it–like it physically hurt him to offer the out, but he’d take it in a second if you needed it.

You shook your head immediately, voice low and steady.

“No,” you breathed. “No, I want to feel you. I need you more than ever right now.”

Rhett froze like he hadn’t expected that. His breath caught, visibly, audibly–and then his face flushed, blooming red across his cheekbones and down his throat. He blinked at you like you’d just shattered him with a single sentence.

“I’ll do anything you fuckin’ want,” he said hoarsely. “Anything.”

He leaned back onto his knees, hands sliding down your thighs once more as he slowly stood on his knees between them. You watched with wide eyes, breath caught behind your ribs, as his hands went to the waistband of his boxers. His fingers hooked into the elastic, and he hesitated–just for a second–like he needed to be sure one last time.

Then he pushed them down.

The fabric peeled away, soaked and clinging, and your mouth went dry.

Your breath hitched as your gaze dropped–then stalled.

Because Jesus Christ.

He was thick. Long. Heavy even before he touched himself–his cock flushed red, the head already leaking and shining in the low light of the loft. It hung low between his hips, resting briefly against his thigh before springing forward slightly, and your whole body reacted before your brain could catch up.

Your mouth actually watered.

You shifted on the bed, thighs spreading wider like your body already knew what it wanted, what it was about to take. The stretch… God, you could already feel it–imagine it–him splitting you open slow, his hips rocking forward while you clawed at his back. You wanted to feel him press in inch by inch until you were full–until you couldn’t think straight. You wanted all of it.

Rhett saw the look on your face–the hunger, the awe, the way your chest heaved and your lips parted–and his blush deepened, but his cock twitched in response, proud and aching.

He leaned down again, bracing one hand beside your head as he hovered over you, breath hot and voice trembling.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” He whispered, eyes locked to yours. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You reached down, wrapped your fingers around the base of him, and watched as his jaw clenched tight, a guttural sound ripping from his throat.

“Don’t worry,” You whispered, He exhaled ragged against your cheek as you guided him closer, your fingers wrapped around the base of him–slow, sure, trembling just slightly. Rhett’s breath hitched again as the thick head of his cock pressed against your entrance, heat meeting heat, slick and swollen and pulsing with need. He braced a forearm beside your head, the other curling around your hand on him, intertwining your fingers like he needed to anchor himself.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” He whispered, voice hoarse, reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ wet–gonna slide in like you were made for me…”

You whimpered–because he was right.

Then, with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, he started to push in.

The stretch was immediate–hot and deep and toe-curling. Your lips parted on a breathless gasp, your head tipping back as your body opened for him inch by inch. Rhett groaned low in his throat, jaw clenched, eyes locked on where he was disappearing into you.

“Fuck–goddamn,” He hissed, gripping your hand tighter. “Tight little thing, huh? Grippin’ me like you never wanna let go…”

You moaned, your legs wrapping around his hips instinctively as he pushed deeper. His cock stretched you wide, the pressure sharp and perfect all at once, your body pulsing around him in greedy aftershocks. He paused halfway in, resting his forehead against yours, sweat and rainwater dripping down his temple.

“You okay?” He murmured, his voice shaky but tender.

You nodded, chest rising fast. “Don’t stop,” You breathed. “Please. Keep goin’. I need all of you.”

That broke him.

Rhett let out a ragged sound–half groan, half whimper–and pushed in deeper. You felt every inch of him drag against your walls, slow and thick, until finally, finally, his hips met yours, your bodies flush and trembling with the sheer weight of it.

He was fully inside.

You both stilled for a moment–just breathing, savoring it. You could feel him throbbing deep inside you, every twitch of him making your insides flutter. Rhett’s hand squeezed yours like a lifeline, and he brought it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles before resting it on the mattress between you.

“Goddamn,” He whispered, voice barely there. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

You laughed, breathless and ruined, eyes glassy with heat and disbelief. “You sound like you’re about to cry, cowboy.”

He let out a half-choked chuckle, his hips giving an experimental roll. You both moaned at the same time, your bodies clutching together again like magnets. Rhett looked down at you, completely wrecked–his hair dripping, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide with awe.

“Fuck—you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, shifting his weight back slightly.

He let go of your hand only long enough to bring the other up to your throat—just resting it there, fingers spread gently, reverently. His thumb stroked along the underside of your jaw, so tender it made your heart lurch.

”You are too,” You whispered, lips brushing his. “Every fuckin’ inch of you.”

His hips rocked again, deeper this time, and you arched into him with a soft cry, your nails digging into his shoulders. He kissed you hard, his hand at your throat grounding you, guiding you.

“That’s it,” He panted, voice rough. “Take me, baby. You’re takin’ me so damn well.”

“You’re fillin’ me so good,” You moaned, hips rising to meet every thrust. “I can feel you so deep–fuck, I swear I can feel you in my fuckin’ soul, Rhett.”

He let out a strangled noise–somewhere between a growl and a whimper–and his rhythm stuttered for just a second.

“You can’t say shit like that,” He gasped, laughing through it, completely undone. “You tryin’ to make me lose my damn mind?”

You grinned breathlessly, kissing him again, still giggling softly against his mouth as he started moving again–deeper, slower, more confident now.

And with every thrust, every filthy word, every moan tangled between you–it felt less like something you were giving and more like something you were reclaiming.

His rhythm stuttered again–once, then twice–like he was losing the reins. Like everything he’d been holding back was breaking loose all at once.

You could feel it in the way his hips began to roll faster, less controlled, more chaotic. His thrusts hit deeper, harder, the slick sounds of your bodies crashing together filling the space like a drumbeat under the rain.

“Rhett,” You gasped, voice high and trembling, your fingers clawing at his back now, digging in like you needed to anchor yourself before you flew apart again. “Fuck–you’re gonna make me come again–”

That did it.

His mouth crushed yours in a frantic kiss, all tongue and teeth and heat. He bit down on your bottom lip–firm but careful, pulling it between his teeth like he couldn’t help himself. You moaned into his mouth, loud and wrecked, and he swallowed it whole like he wanted to keep it forever.

“Good,” he growled against your lips, voice tight and broken. “Want you to. Wanna feel you come on me again–need it, baby, I need it–fuck–I’m close too–“

You could barely think. His hips were slamming into yours now, rough and desperate, each thrust so deep it sent sparks exploding behind your eyes. Your legs wrapped tighter around him, your back arching off the bed as his hand slid under your thigh, lifting it higher to get even deeper.

The room was filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin, the creak of the bed frame, the relentless rain outside–and your moans. Loud. Wild. Unfiltered.

“Oh my god–Rhett–Rhett–I’m–”

Your climax hit like a lightning strike.

You cried out–loud and raw–your whole body locking around him, legs trembling, hands clutching at his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. Your pussy pulsed around him, gripping him tight, dragging him over the edge with you.

And he broke.

With a strangled groan, Rhett buried himself as deep as he could go and came hard–his whole body jerking against yours as he spilled inside you. His arms locked around you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he moaned low and desperate, his breath ragged and hot against your skin.

“Fuck, fuck–Jesus–” He gasped, whimpering softly as the pleasure rocked through him, his body trembling with the force of it. He gave one last shallow thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and then went still–completely spent, panting hard into the crook of your neck.

You both just laid there for a second. Breathing. Shaking. Floating.

The rain hadn’t stopped outside, but it felt quieter now, like even the storm was giving you a minute to collect yourselves.

Rhett eventually lifted his head, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes dazed and still wide with the aftershock. His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking gently across your cheek.

“You okay?” He asked softly, voice hoarse.

You nodded, breathless. “More than okay,” You whispered, your fingers pushing a strand of hair off his forehead. “I think you broke my brain a little.”

He laughed–weak and stunned and fucking glowing.

“Yeah?” He murmured, leaning in to kiss your nose. “Well…You wrecked me. So. We’re even.”

You both chuckled, quiet and wrecked and tangled up in each other. His weight was still resting on top of you, warm and solid and perfect, and you didn’t want him to move.

He kissed you again–soft this time, slow and sweet. Just once.

Then he pulled back slightly to look down at you, his eyes filled with something tender. Something quiet and wide and full of meaning.

“I swear to God, I’ve never felt anything like that,” He whispered. “Not ever. You ruined me, darlin’. In the best fuckin’ way.”

And somehow, that felt more intimate than anything else.

[filthyjoelslvr]

memorial day

Content: Dbf!Joel x Reader

Synop: What was supposed to be a quiet Memorial Day at the lake turns into something far more complicated when long-held tension finally snaps. In the stillness of the woods, boundaries blur and secrets take root—ones that can’t be easily forgotten once the sun rises.

Warnings: No!Outbreak Joel, No use of y/n, degradtion kink, pet names (babygirl, little girl, sweer heart), Mean joel (kinda, calls reader a slut), Joel tries make you feel guilty kink?, Creampie, No protectipn pnv, fingering, honestly just kind of disgusting in a sexy way? Public (kinda but no one’s around), in front of your daddy but he’s sleeping (so sorry for this)

Word Count: 10k

(dividers by: @strangergraphics)

Memorial Day in Texas feels less like a holiday and more like a dare — how long can you stand the heat before it breaks you? The sun comes up early and mean, baking the pavement by 9 a.m., turning leather car seats into griddles and the air into something thick enough to choke on. That’s why you escape to the lake every year, just far enough outside Austin that the water feels cleaner, cooler, like a secret. You pack light: cutoff denim shorts, a thin knit sweater, and the one bikini you know will get noticed — black, high-cut, a little more grown than anyone at the lake last saw you in. Joel shows up in his usual: a faded black tank that hugs his shoulders and clings in all the wrong places once it’s soaked through, swim shorts, and that same damn baseball cap he’s had for years, sweat-stained and stubborn. He looks like summer and trouble, and maybe that’s why you hate the heat a little less when he’s around.

Joel and your dad go way back — not college buddies or some childhood thing, but the kind of friendship that forms in real life, under pressure. They met working construction in their twenties, two guys figuring it out as they went, both with young families, both struggling to make ends meet but still finding a way to laugh at the end of the day. Joel had Sarah, just a baby then. Your dad had you, and your mom — back when life was loud and full, and holidays meant cookouts, not silence.

Every memory you have of childhood, Joel’s somewhere in the background. Fixing the AC in the middle of a heatwave. Bringing over brisket and cheap beer. Holding a sleeping Sarah while your mom made peach cobbler. The two families blurred into one, easy and natural — until your mom got sick. And after she passed, it wasn’t your dad who held things together. It was Joel.

He never made a big show of it. Just… showed up. For you, for your dad. Quiet help — rides to school when your dad forgot, groceries in the fridge, fixed leaky sinks without asking. Never stepped into your mother’s space, but never let either of you fall too far, either. And when your dad was too broken to be fully present, Joel was the one who kept you grounded.

Sarah’s grown now — lives a couple states away, working, in love, building her own life. Joel’s divorced. Has been for years. It wasn’t messy, just one of those things that runs its course. He stayed in Texas. Stayed close. And you? You never really stopped orbiting him, even when you left for school, even when life moved on.

Now you’re older. Old enough to see Joel not just as the man who helped raise you, but as a man. Strong, steady, familiar in a way that feels dangerous now. Your dad still calls him his best friend. Still trusts him more than anyone. And that’s the line you know you’re not supposed to cross.

But sometimes Joel looks at you like he’s not sure if you already have.

Memorial Day at the lake was tradition — not something anyone ever questioned, just something that happened, like clockwork. Every year, the same plan: your dad would pack the truck with coolers full of beer and whatever meat he felt like over-seasoning, Joel would bring the boat and the old rusted grill that somehow still worked, and you'd toss in towels, sunscreen, and the too-small duffel bag that always carried your swimsuit and a second pair of dry clothes you never ended up needing. The three of you had been doing it for as long as you could remember — back when Sarah was still small enough to cling to Joel’s back in the water and you were too shy to take off your shirt in front of anyone. Back when your mom would make cold pasta salad in a giant plastic bowl and yell at your dad for forgetting the ice. Even after she passed, even when Sarah got older and stopped coming, the tradition didn’t break. It shifted. Tightened. Became something quieter and more sacred. Just the three of you — a long weekend of sunburns and smoky air, Joel manning the grill with a beer in hand, your dad blasting classic rock from a busted speaker, and you stretched out on the dock, toes in the water, pretending not to notice the way Joel’s voice dipped when he talked to you. It wasn’t about the holiday. It was about the ritual. About holding on to something that still felt right, even when everything else had changed.

The drive to the lake always felt longer than it was, but maybe that was just the heat — or maybe it was because you were crammed into the backseat of Joel's truck, half-napping against the window, pretending not to listen to the familiar back-and-forth between your dad and him. They talked like they always did — like no time had passed. About work, traffic on I-35, the price of gas, whether the water level at the lake would be high or low this year.

You kept your sunglasses on and didn’t say much, letting their voices hum in the background like static. The sun was already hot, even before noon, and the AC in Joel's truck gave up halfway into the drive. You were sweating through your sweater and silently cursing the denim shorts that now felt painted on. Still, you didn’t regret what you’d packed — especially the black bikini tucked under your clothes. It was a little bold, sure, but after last year’s Memorial Day trip, when Joel didn’t even look twice at you, you’d decided this year you weren’t going to fade into the background. Not again.

The truck finally turned down the familiar gravel road, and the air changed — lighter, full of cedar and lakewater and something nostalgic. The trees parted to reveal the same sagging dock, and that wide, glinting stretch of water that made it all worth it.

You were the first one out of the truck.

Joel didn’t say anything as he grabbed the rope from the bed and headed toward the water. You watched from the edge of the dock as he worked — pulling the cover off the boat, checking the fuel, tying off lines with practiced ease. He hadn’t changed much, at least not in ways that made him any easier to look away from. His tank top was sun-bleached and clinging just enough to show the shape of him — broad shoulders, strong arms, tan skin gone golden under the sun. His hat shaded his face, but you still caught glimpses of his eyes when he glanced up, squinting toward the glare.

He hadn’t even taken his sunglasses off yet, and still you felt like he could see right through you.

There was something hypnotic about watching him work — the steadiness in his hands, the little grunt he made when something stuck, the way he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, unaware or just unaffected by the fact that you were staring. He’d always had this calm, capable energy that made you feel safe without even trying. But now, older, clearer-eyed, it hit different. It settled low in your stomach. Pulled at you.

Your dad was still fiddling with the cooler in the truck bed, grumbling about forgetting charcoal, oblivious. But Joel? Joel caught your eye for just a second as he stepped onto the boat. He smirked — subtle, knowing.

“Water’s perfect,” he called out. “You bring that swimsuit or just plan on lookin’ hot and sweaty all day?”

You blinked, then laughed, heart kicking.

He turned away before you could answer, already back to work. But that one line sat with you. Because he said it so easy. Like he didn’t even realize what it sounded like.

Or maybe he did.

It didn’t take Joel long to finish up with the boat. He moved with that quiet focus he always had — checking the motor, untangling ropes, kicking open the storage compartments to toss in life vests and the warped foam noodles your dad refused to throw away. Once everything looked good, your dad finally hauled the first cooler down from the truck, grunting like it weighed more than it did, and Joel stepped in without a word to help. The two of them moved in sync, loading up the boat with bags of chips, beer, and the pre-wrapped burgers your dad insisted on grilling even though it was already 90 degrees.

You lingered on the dock, pretending to scroll through your phone, but really just watching. Waiting.

Joel hopped back onto the boat and opened a beer with the edge of the cooler, leaning against the railing like it was second nature. His tank top stuck to his chest now, damp with sweat, and his skin had already started to flush from the sun. He wasn’t looking at you — not directly. But you caught the shift in his stance when you stood up. The way his body stilled. The flick of his eyes under the brim of that damn hat.

Time to make it worth it.

You peeled off your clothes slow — first the sweater, then the shorts — and folded them with deliberate care, placing them neatly at the edge of the dock. The air hit your skin all at once, and the black bikini felt suddenly bolder than it had in your bedroom mirror. High-cut, low-backed, with just enough give to make you feel dangerous.

You didn’t look at him right away. You just walked over to the lounge chair and grabbed your tanning oil from your bag, unscrewing the cap with one hand while the other smoothed your hair back off your shoulders. Then, you started to apply it — slow, intentional, dragging your palms over your arms, then down your legs, gliding over your stomach like you had all the time in the world.

Only then did you glance up.

Joel was mid-sip of his beer, but it had stalled halfway to his mouth. His gaze was locked — not openly, not in a way anyone else would notice — but you saw it. The way his eyes trailed down the curve of your body and then quickly darted back to the boat like he hadn’t just undressed you all over again with one look.

You smiled to yourself.

This swimsuit was a good choice.

He tried to play it off, mumbling something to your dad and rummaging through a bag that definitely didn’t need rummaging. But you caught it again — the second glance, lower this time. And when you lifted one leg to rub oil into your calf, his jaw flexed hard enough to make your chest flutter.

You leaned back on your elbows, soaking up the sun. Letting him look. Letting him want.

For the first time, you weren’t the one being watched like a kid. And Joel? He wasn’t hiding it nearly as well as he thought.

The boat eased away from the dock with a low hum, the water shimmering under the sun like molten glass. Joel was at the front, one hand on the throttle, the other resting on the wheel like he’d been born to drive this thing. He wore those same dark sunglasses, and the breeze whipped his shirt against his chest as the boat picked up speed, slicing through the lake with smooth confidence.

You laid back across one of the cushioned benches, sunglasses on, letting the sun kiss every inch of your oiled skin. Your dad was futzing around with a Bluetooth speaker that kept cutting in and out, alternating between classic rock and static. Occasionally, he’d call out to Joel to steer left or point out a cove they’d used to fish in, but mostly, it was quiet — lazy and warm, the kind of afternoon that felt suspended in time.

Eventually, Joel cut the engine. The boat bobbed gently in the middle of the lake, surrounded by nothing but water, hills, and heat. He stood up and stretched, back arching just enough to make your mouth go a little dry, then kicked off his shoes.

Without a word, he jumped.

The splash was loud, and when he surfaced a few feet from the boat, his hair was pushed back and dripping, face slick with lake water and sun, his grin wide and boyish in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. The wet tank clung to his chest for a second before he pulled it off and tossed it onto the deck behind him.

You didn’t even try to pretend you weren’t looking.

His shoulders, tanned and cut, gleamed in the light, droplets racing down the planes of his chest. His laugh was low and easy as he treaded water.

“C’mon,” he called out. “Water’s perfect.”

“Don’t pressure her,” your dad said — right before cannonballing in beside him, creating a second wave of water that sloshed against the side of the boat.

You groaned and pushed your sunglasses up. “I’m good right here.”

They both resurfaced, grinning, ganging up like clockwork.

“Aw, come on,” your dad called. “You used to be the first one in!”

“Used to,” you shot back, stretching out further, crossing one oiled leg over the other. “Now I’m grown and civilized.”

Joel smirked, running a hand back through his wet hair. “Grown, huh? That why you’re afraid to get your hair wet now?”

You narrowed your eyes behind your sunglasses. “Not afraid. Just not stupid.”

Joel floated closer, arms lazily pushing through the water. “Yeah, yeah. You’re just scared we’ll splash you.”

“You will splash me.”

“We will,” he agreed, grinning. “That’s half the fun.”

You shook your head and leaned back with a sigh of exaggerated contentment. “I’m on beer duty. Go play.”

Your dad laughed and turned away, swimming toward the back of the boat.

Joel just lingered there, watching you.

“I give up,” he finally said with a dramatic sigh. “Toss me a beer, will ya?”

“Fine.” You sat up, grabbing a cold one from the cooler, condensation already sliding down the side of the can. You shuffled over to the edge of the boat where Joel was floating and leaned over the railing to hand it to him, the sun warming your back.

And that’s when he struck.

His hand shot up, wrapping around your wrist, and before you could even yelp, he tugged — hard.

You gasped, tried to pull back, but the slippery deck offered no grip. The world tilted for a split second — sun, sky, Joel’s smirk — and then you hit the water with a splash that stole the breath right out of you.

Cold and shocking, but somehow still perfect.

You surfaced with a sputter, pushing your wet hair out of your face, eyes wide as Joel laughed loud and unrepentant. He backed away in the water, arms raised like he was innocent.

“Joel!” you shouted, splashing water at him furiously.

He just grinned. “Told you it was perfect.”

Your dad howled with laughter in the distance.

You blinked the water from your lashes, glaring — but it was hard to stay mad when Joel was right there, water dripping from his jaw, that same damn smirk on his face, and your heart beating just a little too fast in your chest.

Maybe falling in wasn’t so bad after all.

After Joel yanked you into the water, it was full-on war.

You splashed him until your arms ached, trying to keep up with how fast he moved in the water. Your dad jumped in to “defend” you, which really just turned into him dunking Joel under like they were ten years old again. The lake echoed with laughter — yours louder than it had been in a long time — and the heat of the afternoon felt less suffocating when you were weightless, drifting in cool water, surrounded by two people who’d known you your whole life.

You forgot about the sunburn slowly forming across your shoulders. Forgot about time.

At some point, Joel disappeared under the surface, only to pop up right behind you and lift you up out of the water in one strong motion, tossing you with a triumphant shout. You hit the water laughing, kicking toward him, yelling his name like a threat, even though you weren’t really mad.

Eventually, the chaos quieted. You all settled into the stillness that always came after the burst of play — muscles heavy, voices softer, the heat stretching out like molasses.

Joel pulled a pool noodle under his arms, head tilted back, eyes closed behind his sunglasses. You found a floatie — one of those half-deflated recliner ones — and climbed on, letting your legs hang over the sides. Your dad drifted between you, occasionally humming along to the music still playing faintly from the boat’s speaker.

The water rocked everyone gently. It was the kind of peace that didn’t need words.

After a while, your dad cleared his throat. “Alright,” he said, paddling toward the boat. “Time to get the grill set up before I pass out from hunger.”

You cracked one eye open.

Joel just grunted a lazy, “Mmm.”

Your dad laughed and climbed back aboard, the boat tilting slightly under his weight. He moved around the deck, opening the cooler again, mumbling about lighter fluid and forgetting to bring the damn tongs.

You stayed where you were — drifting, warm, weightless.

Joel floated a few feet away, arms still hooked over the noodle, chest rising and falling slow. He glanced your way, and for a second, it felt like the sun paused in the sky.

The water between you shimmered. Quiet. Charged.

And your dad was just close enough to feel like a buffer, but far enough not to hear a word.

The water lapped gently around you, lazy and warm now in the late afternoon heat. Your float rocked with each soft ripple, and somewhere behind you, your dad moved around the boat, metal clinking as he got the grill ready. The smell of charcoal drifted faintly on the breeze, mixing with cedar, sunscreen, and the soft churn of lakewater.

Joel was still there — a few feet away, noodle tucked under his arms, sunglasses low on his nose. He hadn’t said anything in a while. Just floated. Watched.

You tried not to look at him. You really did. But the way the sun hit his skin, all bronze and wet, his hair slicked back from the water, neck beading with droplets—it wasn’t easy. He looked like something out of a dream you didn’t even know you had permission to have.

“You’re quiet,” you said finally, your voice soft, breaking the thick silence between you.

Joel’s lips quirked just a little. “So are you.”

You shrugged. “It’s peaceful out here.”

He hummed in agreement, eyes scanning the sky, the tree line, the lazy ripple of the water before finally settling on you again.

“You always liked it out here,” he said. “Even when you were little. You’d float around like you were made of water. Never wanted to get out.”

You smiled at the memory. “That hasn’t changed much.”

Joel let out a quiet chuckle, deep and low in his chest. “No. Guess it hasn’t.”

A beat passed. Then two. The space between your float and his noodle shrank slightly with the movement of the water, just enough to feel noticeable. Intentional.

“You surprised me today,” he said, not quite looking at you. “With that suit.”

You turned your head toward him slowly, heartbeat ticking up.

“Why’s that?”

He finally looked you dead-on, and even through the sunglasses, you could feel the weight of his gaze. He didn’t smile this time. His voice dropped, lower than before.

“Because you’re you're getting older.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than they should’ve been. You swallowed, throat tight.

“Yeah,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I guess I am.”

The water between you stilled.

Joel ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back again, the movement slow — almost nervous. You’d never seen him like that. Not around you. He cleared his throat and looked away, but not before you caught the flicker of something in his expression. Hunger. Conflict. Restraint.

Your float drifted a little closer.

“Joel,” you said, voice soft. “You don’t have to pretend you didn’t look.”

That got his attention. He looked at you again, this time with something raw in his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to—” he started, then stopped. “Well. Maybe I did.”

Your stomach flipped.

Behind you, your dad cursed loudly about the propane tank, and the spell broke. Joel sat up straighter, turned toward the boat, jaw tight again like he’d reeled himself back in.

You let the silence take over again, but it felt different now — full of everything that had just passed between you. Everything that had almost happened.

And maybe still could.

The quiet between you stretched out, heavy but magnetic. Joel hadn’t moved much — just floated close, close enough that the water brushing your leg might’ve been him. You didn’t know for sure until you felt it again — firmer this time, deliberate. A hand, slipping beneath the surface, fingers grazing the curve of your hip where the waterline met your bikini.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his face turned toward the boat, the sun glinting off the water between you. His fingers moved slowly, barely there — a slow stroke of skin just under the surface, hidden from view. He wasn’t grabbing, wasn’t pushing, just touching. Like he was testing if he could. If you’d let him.

You didn’t stop him.

You didn’t say a word.

Your pulse fluttered in your throat, and the rest of the world faded down to water, skin, and the electricity building in that sliver of space between your float and his.

And then—

“Alright, you two, let’s go,” your dad called, loud and casual, from the boat.

The hand vanished instantly, like it had never been there at all. You jerked upright a little too fast, water splashing against your float. Joel cleared his throat and turned, swimming a couple strokes toward the boat.

Your heart thudded hard, heat crawling up your neck — not from the sun this time.

You glanced at your dad, trying to read his expression, but he didn’t look suspicious. If he’d seen anything, he didn’t let on. He was leaning against the railing, grinning like always, waving you in.

“Got the coals lit. We’re losing daylight,” he called. “Come on before Joel drinks all the beer.”

Joel climbed aboard first, grabbing your hand to help you up like nothing had happened. His grip was firm, steady, but when your eyes met, there was a flash of something there — something unspoken and sharp. He let go a beat too late.

You dried off quickly and pulled your sweater back on, trying to steady your breath while your dad moved around the grill, humming off-key to the music now coming in clear from the speaker. Joel cracked open another beer and stood beside him, the two of them falling back into their usual rhythm — arguing about burger doneness, who forgot to pack the cheese, and whether it was too late to drive into town for firewood. Then Joel drove everyone back to land.

You busied yourself spreading the picnic blanket across the little patch of shaded grass just off the dock once the boat was tied. You laid out the paper plates, napkins, the tub of potato salad your dad insisted on bringing every year even though it always got warm too fast. Your skin was still damp, hair clinging to the back of your neck, but your hands moved automatically. Anything to give you something to do. Anything to keep from glancing at Joel too much.

Dinner was easy. The way it always was — plates balanced on laps, beer bottles sweating in the grass, food that tasted better because it had been earned by sun and laughter and a long day on the water. The three of you sat in a triangle on the blanket, your dad telling a story you’d already heard twice before about the time he and Joel got stranded in the middle of the highway with a flat tire and a cooler full of melted ice.

You laughed. You always did. Joel added the same sarcastic commentary he always did, flicking a bottlecap at your dad’s arm mid-story.

But every now and then, you felt his eyes on you.

Quick glances over his bottle. A flash of tongue licking grease off his thumb. His knee brushing yours and staying just a moment too long before shifting away again.

The food disappeared fast. Your dad leaned back with a satisfied sigh, his plate empty, beer in hand, already talking about grilling breakfast tomorrow. But you weren’t listening to the words.

You were listening to the tension. To the silence pulsing just under the surface — not between all three of you, but between you and Joel.

Something had shifted.

And even if no one said it out loud… it was there now.

Undeniable.

The sun had started to dip behind the lake by the time you were clearing the last of the paper plates, the sky washed in deep orange and fading gold. The lake glimmered in the distance, still and endless now, and the heat had finally loosened its grip, replaced by a breeze that whispered through the trees and lifted strands of your damp hair off your shoulders.

Joel had already gotten a fire going, the crackle of burning wood filling the space where conversation had died down. They had made the drive into town for firewood, and he’d stacked it just right—tight and efficient, like he did everything. He stood nearby now, feeding another log into the flames, face lit up in flickering amber, a cigarette tucked between two fingers and a beer balanced in the other.

Your dad was off to the side, tying the last corner of the old camping hammock he swore by. It hung between two trees just a little ways back from the fire pit, swaying gently in the breeze. He always staked that spot for himself come nighttime—said it was the best seat in the house for stargazing and s’mores.

You tossed the last bag of trash into the bin and wiped your hands on your shorts, making your way back toward the fire just as Joel lowered himself into one of the folding chairs with a groan and a muttered, “My knees weren’t built for this much swimming.”

You grinned and sat in the chair next to him, close enough that your knees brushed his for a moment before you tucked them up under yourself.

Your dad had finally settled in his hammock, beer in one hand, bag of marshmallows resting on his chest. He’d already started humming to himself, eyes barely open, the kind of blissed-out contentment only someone who’d grilled three burgers and floated in the sun for hours could feel.

Joel passed you the cigarette without a word. You took it between your fingers and inhaled, the smoke curling warm in your chest as you exhaled into the fading light. He lit another for himself and leaned back in his chair, his free hand lazily strumming the strings of the battered old acoustic guitar he kept in the truck. He hadn’t played all day, but now, as the sun gave way to dusk, he let the music slip out like muscle memory.

It was low and slow — something old and familiar, something that melted into the firelight like it belonged there.

You sipped your beer and watched him, your legs stretched out toward the warmth of the flames. His fingers moved with casual grace, the melody floating softly into the night. The guitar glowed in the light, the wood darkened from years of playing, his hand resting easily on the neck like it was part of him.

Your dad let out a soft snore, the marshmallows rolling off his chest and into the hammock with a rustle. Neither of you moved to wake him.

You just sat there, under a sky turning dark, with the lake at your back and the fire between you and Joel. The smoke, the heat, the music — it all felt thick and quiet and close.

Joel didn’t say anything, but he looked at you once through the smoke, the firelight catching in his eyes. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a statement.

It was just there.

Whatever this was between you — it was burning too.

The fire had burned down to a slow, steady glow, casting everything in warm gold and flickering shadows. Crickets chirped lazily in the brush, and the trees creaked quietly in the breeze. Your dad was fully asleep now, gently rocking in his hammock with a soft snore escaping every few breaths, a beer bottle still clutched loosely to his chest like a trophy.

You and Joel hadn’t spoken in a while. You didn’t need to.

He kept playing — quieter now, slower — until even that faded into silence. His hand stilled on the strings, and the only sounds left were the crackle of wood and the distant lap of water against the dock.

He set the guitar down beside his chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, cigarette burning low between two fingers. For a moment, you just watched the smoke curl up into the night sky, your heart beating slow but loud in your chest.

Then his voice, low and rough, cut through the quiet.

“You ever think about how different everything would’ve been if life had gone the way we planned?”

You turned your head, eyes catching the way the firelight touched his face — carving out every line, every shadow. He looked older here. Softer, in the dark. Like he didn’t have to hold up the weight of everything for once.

“I try not to,” you admitted, tucking your knees closer to your chest. “Doesn’t do much good.”

He nodded slowly, like he already knew what you were going to say.

“I used to think there was only one way to be a good man,” he said after a pause. “And I followed that as best I could. Worked hard. Stayed in my lane. Kept my hands clean.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully.

“But then life starts rewriting all your rules,” he murmured, flicking ash into the fire. “And suddenly… there’s this person you shouldn’t want. Someone you can’t want.”

The words hung there between you. Unsaid, but completely understood.

Your breath hitched. You didn’t look away from him.

“You didn’t stop yourself earlier,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” he said, eyes meeting yours now, steady and heavy and raw. “Didn’t want to.”

Neither of you moved. The night was a living thing between you, breathing and buzzing and watching. Your heartbeat was in your throat. In your fingertips. You wondered if he could hear it.

His voice dropped, barely more than a rasp. “You didn’t stop me either.”

“I didn’t want to,” you echoed back, just as quiet.

Joel’s hand shifted slightly, resting on his knee. Close to yours. Not touching, but close. You could feel the heat of him there, even in the night air.

He leaned in, just a little.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said. “Been tryin’ not to. But it’s gettin’ harder.”

The admission landed like a weight in your chest. A tremble ran through your limbs — not fear, not nerves. Just want.

You looked at him — really looked. His face was lit by fire and memory. His eyes weren’t guarded now. They were open. Vulnerable. Honest.

“I think about you too,” you whispered.

Neither of you moved right away.

But the shift had already happened.

And nothing was going to be the same after tonight.

The fire crackled, shifting slightly as a log split open with a soft pop, sending a shower of embers drifting into the dark like fireflies. Joel watched them float up, his hand still near yours, his knee brushing against you when he shifted, like he didn’t even realize he was reaching for closeness—or maybe he did.

You didn’t pull away.

He exhaled slow, like he was choosing his next words with care.

“I notice things about you now,” he said quietly. “Things I didn’t let myself see before.”

You turned toward him, pulse picking up. “Like what?”

His jaw flexed, and for a second he didn’t answer. Then he looked at you — really looked. Like you were something fragile and dangerous all at once.

“The way you look when you think no one’s watching,” he said. “How quiet you get when you’re trying not to say what you’re feeling. The way you walk around like you don’t know how beautiful you are.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. Your fingers twitched in your lap.

“And it’s wrong,” he added, softer now. “You’re—”

“Don’t say it,” you cut in, your voice just above a whisper. “Don’t pull that card.”

Joel stared at you, something stormy in his eyes. “He’s my best friend.”

“And I’m not a child,” you said firmly, but not harshly. “You know I’m not.”

He didn’t argue.

The silence that followed was louder than the fire.

You leaned back slightly, heart thudding, the space between you sparking like it had its own pulse.

“I used to think you didn’t see me at all,” you admitted. “Like I was invisible to you.”

Joel turned his head slowly, regret written clear in the lines around his mouth.

“I saw you,” he said. “I saw everything. That was the problem.”

Your breath caught. You felt it, then — how much he meant it. How long he’d been holding this in. The restraint hadn’t just been recent. It had roots.

“I used to convince myself it was just a crush,” you said. “That it would go away. But it didn’t. It got worse.”

Joel’s lips parted like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He just looked at you—like he was trying to memorize you. Like maybe if he held your gaze long enough, he’d find the strength to walk away… or the excuse not to.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said finally, voice rough. “Don’t want to be a mistake you regret.”

You reached for his hand then, slowly, your fingertips brushing his knuckles.

“Then don’t be,” you said softly. “But don’t pretend this isn’t real either.”

Joel didn’t move at first. Just stared at your hand against his like it might burn him.

Then—finally—his fingers turned, lacing with yours.

The touch was simple. No rush.

But it meant everything.

The line had been crossed, not with a kiss, but with the truth.

And there was no going back now.

Joel’s hand stayed wrapped around yours, warm and steady, the callouses on his fingers rough against your skin in a way that made your chest ache.

He looked down at your joined hands like he didn’t quite believe it was real. Like part of him still expected you to pull away.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you gave his hand the faintest squeeze.

That was all it took.

He stood without a word, still holding your hand, and gave a subtle nod toward the tree line just past the fire. You understood him without needing to ask. Not here. Not with your dad half-snoring in the hammock just ten feet away.

You rose and followed him, the fire casting long shadows behind you as you stepped off the blanket, your bare feet brushing over dry grass and soft pine needles. Joel led you just far enough away that the firelight flickered at your backs, barely kissing the edge of your shoulders now — just far enough for the dark to feel like privacy.

The air was cooler in the trees. Quieter.

He stopped near the base of a tall cedar, the branches low and swaying gently above. He dropped your hand slowly, like it hurt to let it go, but didn’t step away.

You were standing close now. Closer than you’d dared all day.

The silence between you was no longer awkward or tentative — it was expectant.

Joel looked at you for a long moment, something stormy and unreadable behind his eyes.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice rough, low.

“I’ve never been more sure,” you whispered.

That was it.

Whatever thread had been holding him back finally snapped.

He stepped forward and reached up, his fingers brushing your jaw, then settling along the curve of your neck. His hand was warm, steady. Your breath hitched as his thumb dragged slowly beneath your ear, the gentleness of the touch at complete odds with the fire in his eyes.

He leaned in.

Not fast. Not greedy.

Like he was memorizing every second before it finally happened.

And then, with a low breath that barely touched your skin—

His lips met yours.

It was careful at first. Tentative. A test.

But the moment you exhaled against him — the moment your mouth parted and your hands found his chest — Joel deepened the kiss with a quiet, broken sound in his throat, like he’d been holding it in for years.

His hand slid down, resting at your waist, the other cupping the side of your face. The pressure of his mouth grew more certain, more hungry, and your body tilted into his instinctively, drawn to his warmth like gravity.

The kiss wasn’t rushed, but it was full — of everything you hadn’t said, everything you hadn’t dared to let yourself want until now.

And as the fire crackled behind you and the stars blinked into the dark sky above, Joel kissed you like he’d wanted to for a long, long time.

And now that he finally had you, he wasn’t letting go.

The kiss deepened, his lip biting your bottom one for an invitation inside. You parted your mouth wider, allowing his tongue to slip through, tasting every inch of your hot, wet mouth. Meeting his tongue with yours in a war of dominance that he, of course, won.

His hands trailed down from your waist to the front of your shorts, unbuttoning the silver stud that glowed in the fading firelight. The zipper was loud in the quiet of the night, and you instinctively turned your head around the trees to look back at your dad — make sure he was still sound asleep.

"Don’t worry about him, babygirl," Joel said, his voice low and rough as his hand came up and gripped your cheek with just enough force to make you gasp. He turned your face back to his, eyes dark. "He’s too deep in the beer to know what year it is.”

His hands continued fumbling with your shorts, dragging them down your thighs and revealing the black swimsuit underneath — still damp from the earlier swim. His hands grab at the revealing skin of your ass, pulling you closer until your rubbing against the hard outline of him.

You drop your mouth in a moan — feeling how big he is just underneath the polyester material of his shorts. His hands slip under your bottoms now, giving him full access to the plump skin. He harshly grabs and pulls at your ass, grinding you against himself — sucking in sharp breaths everytime you meet his already wet tip soaking through his shorts.

His hands, now feeling like fire against your skin, trail up your stomach, tracing the thread of shadow on your skin. He pulls your shirt off, exposing just how tiny your bikini really is.

“You did this for me, didn’t you?” He smirks, letting a small laugh escape.

You try to shake your head no, but he can see right through it.

“No, you did. Can’t lie to me, sweetheart.” He assures, as his fingers trace the outline of your hardening nipple through the material of your swimsuit.

“God, Joel, just fuck me.” You beg, bucking your hips to meet his. You want to rip off your swimsuit—and his—and reveal the naked bodies hidden underneath. You want to see him, all of him. And you want him to see all of you too.

But he only shakes his head, a slow, deliberate smirk tugging at his lips. “So desperate for me, aren’t you?” he murmurs, voice low and rough with want. His fingers trail just shy of where you need them, deliberate in their torment. “I’m not rushing a damn thing. I’ve waited a whole year for this—ever since last Memorial Day, I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Dreaming about this.”

The confession catches you off guard—your breath stutters, heart skipping a beat—because last Memorial Day, he’d barely looked at you, all cool glances and casual distance, while you’d spent the whole day trying not to stare. You had no idea he’d been thinking the same things, wanting the same things, all that time.

He pulls down the black material, your tits bouncing out—begging for his attention, stealing the show. Your nipples are perked so painfully, needing his touch, his mouth. But he just watches them, gaze slow and heavy, like he’s memorizing the way they look—like the sight alone is something he means to savor.

Finally, his fingers brush over the nubs, sending an electric sensation down your spine, all the way to the wetting of your bottoms.

“Fuck, look at you. Beggin' for me.” He growls, never meeting your eyes. “Want my mouth? Huh, babygirl?”

You nod, too quickly to be graceful, too eager to hide—and maybe it would’ve been embarrassing, how desperate you are, if not for the heat curling low in your belly, if not for the way the air between you feels too thick to breathe. There’s no room for shame, not with this kind of need.

The desperation is enough for his head to dip down, mouth meeting your nipple—sucking ever so slowly but harsh enough to cause your back to arch into him. His fingers grab at your free breast, twirling and pulling.

You want to moan so badly, to allow him to hear exactly what he’s doing to you, but with your dad only yards away, you can’t risk the moment. So you let the harsh breaths spill from your lips, unrestrained and deliberate—each one a quiet plea, a wordless invitation. Loud enough for him to hear your want, raw enough to show you crave more.

His mouth pulls away from your hardened nub with a loud pop, causing you to shake at the loss. But the feeling doesn’t last long when he slides his hand down your bikini bottom, feeling your slick between your folds.

“So wet for me.” He groans, rubbing your clit in slow, deliberate motions—a gasp leaving you. “Fuck, is this what I do to you, baby girl?” he murmurs, voice thick with awe and heat, like he can’t quite believe the way you’re falling apart for him.

His mouth finds the tender hollow beneath your neck, lips claiming the skin with bruising intent, each mark a promise that will bloom dark and visible by morning. But he doesn’t care—can’t. His tongue follows in slow, soothing strokes, tracing over the wounds he’s made like an afterthought of kindness, like a quiet act of worship for the damage he’s left behind.

His fingers trial slowly down from your aching clit, throbbing at the loss, and to your entrance. He pauses when he meets just where you need him most, fingers slick with your need and want.

You grind down on his fingers, needing him—desperation overcoming you, making you look like a complete mess under his gaze. His eyes lock with yours, molten with desire, thick with unspoken want—and yet, behind the burn, there’s a glint of playful cruelty, like he’s savoring every second of your unraveling.

“Beg for it.” He demands, fingers still hovering under your entrance.

“Wh– What?” you manage, thrown off balance by the weight of his voice. But his expression doesn't waver—there’s no joke in him, only something deep and commanding, something that leaves no room for doubt.

“I said,” he breathes, leaning in so close his lips nearly brush your ear, his heated breath stirring a trail of tingling fire down your neck. “Fucking beg for it.”

You freeze for a moment, caught off guard by the change—the gentle words vanished, leaving only a teasing edge behind. Somewhere deep down, you know he won’t call you “sweetheart” again tonight. Not now. Not while this game is just beginning. You know you’re going to like this, what with you now dripping all over his hovering hand.

“Joel…” you whisper, breath trembling with a mix of nerves and anticipation. You’ve never dared to cross this line before, but the unfamiliar thrill pulls at you—electric and intoxicating. “Please…”

“Please… what?” He growls, fingers trailing ever so slightly between you. You almost got him…almost.

“Please…please put your fingers inside me. Please, Joel, I can’t stand how empty I feel. I need you.” You finally beg.

His eyes darken as a smirk displays across his face. “All you had to do was ask.” His fingers finally enter you, your mouth shaping into an Oh at the feeling. “Now, are you going to be a good girl for me?”

You nod fervently, every fiber of you aching to please him, to offer exactly what he desires—an unspoken promise carried in your desperate submission. Two of his thick fingers enter easily inside your soaked walls. You can feel this stretch around his fingers, the fiery burning that sends chills down your spine.

“Please, faster. I want you to go faster.” You plead, riding his fingers and gripping at his biceps with your nails.

“Such a slut. Riding your daddy's best friend's finger when he’s right there sleeping. Begging him to fuck you.” He rasps, shaking his head in a lingering but teasing disappointment.

That should’ve stirred something in you—a warning, a flicker of regret for the path you were on. But instead, it fanned the flames inside you, setting your blood ablaze, a fierce heat boiling low in your belly.

He grabs your torso, pushing you against the back of the tree—stopping you from grinding against him. He holds you tight, leaving a red mark beneath his hold as you try to wiggle free. He pushes deeper inside of you, fingers curling in the perfect spot that dares the heat pooling in your belly to spill over.

His arms finally move, fingers going faster and faster—just as you had requested. Pulling completely out just to bury himself knuckles deep inside over and over again. A wet squelch fills the night air, just under the fading, cracking, uncared-for fire that’s daring to put itself out.

You writhe under his clutch, you know his hand will be bruised against your hip. Your legs start to shake as you feel an undeniable closeness threatening to spill into Joel's hand.

His pace starts to slow, the feeling leaving just as quickly as it came. A groan escapes your lips.

Joel’s hand, impossibly large and fierce, sweeps over your mouth, silencing you with a roughness that feels both unforgiving and utterly possessive.

“You’re not going to come till I fuckin' tell you to.” He seethes. You might be afraid—if desire didn’t drown out every shred of fear burning inside you.

His fingers exit your body, and emptiness overcomes you. He brings them to your mouth, giving a look daring you to open, to taste yourself.

You gulp, the weight of the moment pressing down—can you truly go this far? But with Joel, distance and limits dissolve. Whatever he wants, you’ll offer willingly, as if your very soul depends on it.

Your mouth parts, inviting him in with an innocent look fading across your eyes. A look that makes Joel quiver, fucking quiver. You could come with that sound alone.

You wrap your tongue around his fingers—slowly, intentionally—before pulling them inside. Tasting yourself coated on his digits. You suck them clean, swallowing, letting him know you’re not afraid of what he has to offer. He drags his fingers out—curling around your bottom teeth and pulling your mouth open before his lips meet yours.

He can taste you in your own mouth, and that alone could make him crumble into you, if he allowed it. He sinks his teeth into your bottom lip, pulling away at it with a pop. Blood immediately forms around the wound left before he wipes it away with this fingers that just fucked your mouth.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice rough and laced with something dangerous. “Such a disappointment to your daddy, aren’t you? … if only he knew what you’re up to right now.”

“Joel, please.” You whimper, need overcoming you. Submission ready to give in.

“What does my little girl need?” he murmurs, mock-sweet and laced with heat, each word a thread of temptation pulling you further under.

“I- I need you to fuck me. Right now, Joel. I- I need to feel you inside of me.”

With that, Joel pulls your bikini to the side—pulling his own shorts low enough to reveal his glistening tip. How big he is shocks you, you’re not sure if you’re prepared for this, but you know you want it, need it.

He lines himself up with your entrance, tugging your hips closer to him. Your back now leaning against the tree, scratches etching into your skin from the bark. Your hips bent to meet his, legs spread and ready. The sight of you—ready to be fucked, dripping down your own thighs—Joel cant wait any longer.

He grabs the hem of his tank top, aggressively pulling it into his mouth so that he can see him fuck into you better. This movement exposes his belly. How dark hair runs down his navel and meets into his now revealed shaft. His abs are shadowed by his shirt, but you still get a good look. The way his teeth clench around the bottom of his shirt drives you crazy, saliva darkening the edges.

He pushes himself slowly inside of you, stretching your hot walls around him. He can feel you clench as you get used to the size.

“So fuckin' tight.” He groans, words muffled by his shirt in his mouth. “Don’t worry, gonna open ya up real nice.”

You whimper at the words, the sight, the feeling of his thick shaft stretching you endlessly. He doesn’t stop until he’s buried deep inside of you, pushing against your cervix. You look down and realize he’s all the way in —you can't see him anymore, just croch to croch. Clit brushing against the hair just above him.

“Look at her, takin' me all in like a good girl.” He looks up, meeting your eyes. “She’s a good girl, ain’t she?”

You nod, realize he’s talking about your aching cunt. You can feel him throb inside of you. You need him to move, now. But you remember, he wants you to beg. He won’t do anything without you asking him for it.

“Fuck me Joel.” You groan. “Fuck me hard. Ma-make me scream.”

He finally pulls himself out, your walls clenching and begging him to stay.

“Such a dirty girl.” He huffs, slamming himself into you in one harsh movement. Making you scream just like you asked. “Your daddy know his little girl has such a filthy mouth?”

You shake your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sting—but this is what you asked for. What you begged for. And now, you’re unraveling beneath the weight of it.

He pulls and slams into you faster now. The sound of skin slapping fills the air, the fire now dead, bodies only lit by the moonlight. Joel pulls himself into you, your bare breast now rubbing against his ruffled-up tank top. His teeth now focused on biting at the sweet, soft skin of your neck.

He can hear the way his moans sound, gruff and airy as if he’s trying to keep quiet—trying to keep in control. The sound opens you up, invites him in deeper.

His hand reaches down in between your legs, rubbing harsh circles on your clit. You shake violently as his free hand pulls at your hair—your back arching into him at an impossible position. You’re going to be so sore tomorrow.

“I can feel how close you are.” He breaths into your ear, hands still circling around your aching, swollen clit. “Wanna come on my dick?”

A whisper escapes your lips. You try to nod, but his hand his gripped so tightly into your hair it makes it impossible to move.

“Use your fuckin' words.” He growls, biting the lobe of your ear in punishment. His hands let go of your hair, your neck thankful for the loss, and he pinches your nipples harshly.

“Yes…”

“Yes…what?” He commands. His teeth now biting the skin around breast before sucking it soothingly. He’s being so rough with you, something you weren’t expecting, but you can't deny the way your body reacts.

“Yes. I want to come on your big dick. I want you buried deep inside of me while I do it.” You cry.

He lifts up from you. Hands gripping both hips harshly, you know this is to keep you upright for what's about to come. “Fuck, such a dirty mouth on my girl.”

And then he slams inside you at an impossible pace. His tip slamming into your cervix—that’s definitely going to bruise. Screams leave your mouth; you'd cover your mouth to muffle them if your nails weren’t digging into Joel's wrist for support.

The tree’s bark bites into your back, jagged and unforgiving, the sting blooming with every shift—warm and raw, a quiet confirmation that it’s tearing you open. Just like Joel.

The boiling sensation returns deep in your belly as Joel slams into you unforgivingly, moans escaping his lips as well. This time he doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull out before you can finish. You clench hard around him, causing him to twitch inside of you.

“Yea? Ya like that? Like me buryin’ myself inside you pussy?” He says—a low grovel in his voice, almost like he’s about to lose himself too. “That’s right. Come on your daddy's friend's dick. Nasty fucking girl.”

That’s enough for you to spill over. You collapse into his grip, legs shaking mercifully, as your juices soak him, escaping out the sides and dripping down your legs, into the grass underneath your feet.

White, slick thread now connect Joels shaft and your cunt, bubbling each time your slide back down into him. A disgusting, sticky sound now entering the night air. You come down from your high, stomach cramping at the sensation—but Joel isn’t finished with you yet.

He lifts you up, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, and pushes you pully against the tree. His hands that were once wrapped brutally around your waist now grip violently into he bark of the tree. Some of the bark lifting and falling by the trunk.

His thrust start to falter, he’s getting close now, as he ruthlessly burries himself deep inside your aching cunt, white heat pooling low inside once again.

“Fuck.” He groans, teeth grazing your collarbone. “You’re ruinin' me, babygirl.”

“Joel… please, cum inside me.”

“God. You’re such a slut, aren’t you?” He smirks, but never denies your request. “How badly you want me to cum inside you, huh?”

“So bad. Ple-please. I-I’ve been imagining it for so long. Want it to come true.”

“You been dreamin’ about your daddy's best friend? Been dreamin’ about him cuming deep inside your begging pussy? Now, now… that’s not how a good girl’s supposed to behave.” He mocks, thrusting, getting deeper and harder. “That how you behave for me?”

“Only you, Joel. I- I’m about to come.”

“Come for me, babygirl. Wanna finish at the same time.”

Your nails dig violently into his back, drawing blood that will definitely stain under your nails. His movements start to falter as he throbs deep inside of you. It’s only when you start grinding your hips to meet his movements that he finally falls apart.

White, hot ropes shoot deep into your hot—swollen walls. You finish at the same time, come mixing while creamy slick leaves you and pools at the base of Joel's shaft.

The two of you collapse to the forest floor in a tangle of limbs, the cool earth pressing against your skin. Loud, ragged gasps fill the air, mingling with the distant hum of the woods as you both struggle to catch your breath. Your chest heaves, heart still pounding in the aftermath, the silence between you thick with everything unspoken—raw, breathless, and electric.

Joel finally pulls out of you, removing his shirt and cleaning the sticky come off of himself—before he turns to focus his attention on you. He slowly drags his shirt up the sides of your legs, cleaning the forgotten slick from just minutes ago, before he makes his way to your swollen, fucked out cunt. He cleans the mess, making sure to not miss anything.

Your swim bottoms are ruined and stained. He tears them off before fetching your shorts, shaking them off in case any bugs tried to make them their home on the grassy floor. The mean Joel disappeared—bringing back the sweet one as he dresses you, readjusting your swim top to cover you, and pulling your sweater back over your head.

After he redresses you with an unexpected tenderness, his rough hands gentle as he helps you back into your clothes, straightening the hem with deliberate care. There’s a softness in his gaze you hadn’t seen earlier, something quiet and real beneath the hunger that had just devoured you. When he’s done, he leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Enjoyed every damn minute of that,” he murmurs, voice low, still thick with the weight of everything that had just passed between you. “Never had anything like that before. Not ever.”

The words land heavy, full of meaning that tightens something in your chest. You nod, cheeks flushed, lips parted as if to speak—but there’s nothing to say that could match the gravity of it. Instead, you follow him in silence, legs still unsteady as he leads you back through the trees, the scent of pine and summer and sex clinging to your skin. The embers of the dying campfire come into view, and relief floods through you when you see your dad still slumped in his hammock, snoring softly, blissfully unaware.

Joel moves with practiced ease, beginning to pack up the remnants of the night—folding chairs, dousing the fire, the clink of metal and the rustle of canvas loud in the quiet. Eventually, he shakes your dad awake with a muttered, “Time to head home,” and the older man grumbles, groggy but compliant, stumbling toward the truck.

The drive back is uneventful, quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the occasional snore from your father in the passenger seat. You steal glances at Joel from the backseat, and though he doesn’t look at you, his hand tightens on the wheel every time your eyes linger too long.

When the truck finally pulls into your driveway, your dad mumbles something half-asleep before stumbling into the house without a backward glance. You start to follow, but Joel’s hand catches your wrist, firm and unyielding. He pulls you back just enough to press you against the side of the truck, eyes locked on yours.

“Can’t wait till next Memorial Day,” he says, voice quiet but rough with promise. And before you can respond, he leans in and kisses you—slow, claiming, and utterly certain. The world fades for a moment, everything else falling away under the press of his mouth against yours.

As he pulls back and you finally turn to head inside, legs still trembling from more than just the walk through the woods, one thing is undeniably clear.

Memorial Day is your favorite holiday now.

a/n: Happy memorial day! (:

[minnie-cai]

༊*·˚ Working Man

pairing; mechanic!riff lorton x housewife!reader

tags/warnings; infidelity, significant age-gap marriage (older husband x younger reader), emotional neglect, implied marital coercion, sexual themes, references to fertility pressure, implied manipulation and gaslighting, mild period-typical misogyny, mentions of abandonment and child neglect, smoking and alcohol

word count; 4.1k

summary; In late 1950s West Side New York, you’re a young housewife stuck in a marriage built on duty, not desire. When a trip to the garage introduces you to Riff—a grease-stained, sharp-eyed mechanic who sees you for who you really are—it sparks a slow, dangerous unraveling. What begins with a glance becomes a ritual. And then, a reckoning.

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

The screen door creaks behind you as you step onto the sun-warmed porch, the hem of your yellow cotton dress brushing against your knees, a bit too modest for the way the July heat clings to your skin like syrup. The cicadas drone in the trees. Somewhere down the road, a radio blares a tinny tune, cheerful and out of place. You grip your woven basket in both hands like it’s a lifeline.

Your husband, Gene, had handed you two dollars that morning with a grunt and a half-mumbled list: tomatoes, string beans, new mason jar lids. And, as he’d said last night with a dry cough and that same tired glint in his eye—“We’ll try again tonight, alright sweetheart? You ain’t pregnant yet, and the Lord wants us fruitful.”

You hadn’t said much. Just nodded. You never said much around Gene.

The flea market’s only two blocks into town. You know the route by heart. Past the church with its peeling white paint, past the dry cleaners with the gossiping wives out front, past Joe’s Auto Repair, where the air always smells like hot rubber and gasoline.

That’s where you see him.

Leaning against the brick wall just under the “Goodyear Tires” sign, Riff is striking a match, cigarette pressed between his lips. His coveralls are unzipped to the waist, white tank undershirt clinging to sweat-dampened muscles like a second skin. His hair is slicked back, the kind of defiant wave no comb dares tame. Grease stains his hands, his forearms flex as he lights up, and for a moment, he squints toward the sun—and right at you.

You freeze like you’ve stepped barefoot on a snake.

His gaze lingers. Not in that polite, blink-and-gone way most men in town look at you. No, he sees you. His jaw ticks, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and you can’t look away even as your fingers tighten on the basket’s handle.

You walk past without a word, heart pounding too loud in your ears.

It’s three days later when Gene says he needs a belt picked up for the Ford. “Rattlin’ again,” he mutters, spitting into the sink after brushing his teeth. “Go down to Joe’s. I called ahead. They’ll have it.”

You know exactly who they is.

You take your time getting ready. Lipstick, just a little. Your best dress—powder blue, tight at the waist. When Gene leaves for work, you wait a full ten minutes before stepping out, basket empty this time, but your stomach full of nerves.

Joe’s is half-shadowed by the sun when you arrive. You walk through the open garage door and the air changes—warmer, louder, alive with the scent of oil, rust, and man. Tools clink. A radio plays slow blues from somewhere deep in the garage. You don’t see Joe.

But you see him.

He’s under the hood of a car, brow furrowed, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with grit. Riff.

He notices you instantly. Straightens. Wipes his hands on a rag. Doesn’t smile, but recognition flickers behind his eyes.

“You lost, girlie-girl?” he drawls, voice rough as gravel and twice as dangerous.

You try not to blush. Fail miserably.

“No,” you say, forcing a smile. “My husband called ahead. For a… a fan belt.”

“Right,” he says, tossing the rag onto the workbench without looking away from you. “Gene Miller’s wife. I remember the voice.”

He steps closer, close enough for you to smell the smoke and sweat and something else—raw masculinity. You tilt your chin up to meet his eyes, your throat dry.

“You got a name?”

You hesitate.

“It’s alright,” he says low, a smirk tugging at his lip. “I’ll learn it eventually.”

You don’t remember breathing until you’re walking back out with the belt in your hand, your fingers still tingling from where he brushed them handing it to you.

The affair doesn’t start that day.

But it starts then.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You told yourself you wouldn’t go back.

Gene had the belt. The car ran fine. There was no reason—none—for you to return to that garage. But the days after felt longer. The silence at home heavier. You went through your routines like a ghost, vacuuming rooms already clean, peeling potatoes with slow, mechanical hands, your thoughts drifting to smoke curling from a cigarette and forearms streaked with grease.

You start walking to town more. At first, it’s just to the market. Then the bakery. Then nowhere in particular.

But each time, you find yourself walking past Joe’s.

And sometimes—sometimes—he’s there.

It becomes a quiet ritual. A glance. A flick of his eyes to yours. He never waves, never calls out. But you feel his stare like it’s a hand on your back, pressing. Daring.

Until one morning, two weeks later, you walk past and he says, “You always in such a hurry, darlin’?”

You stop. The heat blooms across your chest like a sin exposed.

He’s sitting on the hood of a cherry-red Impala, legs apart, arms folded, like he owns the street and knows you’re about to fall to your knees on it.

“I—” you start. “I was just walking.”

His lip curls, not quite a smile. “Seems like you’re always just walking. But never stopping.”

You swallow. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The gold band on your finger glints in the sunlight. His eyes flick to it. Then back to your face.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

And just like that, he hops off the car and turns his back to you.

You stand there, stupid and burning.

The next day, you don’t pass by. You walk into the shop.

He’s under another car when you come in, and your heart is hammering hard enough you feel it behind your eyes. You wait until he slides out from under the chassis, rag in one hand, hair damp with sweat.

“Well,” he says, looking you over slowly. “Didn’t expect to see you on purpose.”

You walk in further, past the signs that say “Employees Only,” past the point of decency.

“I was just… in the area,” you lie, voice barely more than a whisper.

He leans against the lift, folds his arms again. His eyes don’t leave yours. “That what you told your husband?”

You flush. Look down.

He chuckles. A rough sound. “Don’t be shy now, doll. You came all this way.”

Something in you snaps. Or frees itself.

You raise your chin. “I wanted to see you.”

That silences him. His gaze sharpens like a blade.

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

But he nods toward the back. “Come on. Office is quieter.”

You follow him past stacks of tires and the smell of gasoline, your heels clicking on the concrete. The office is small, hot, and dim. A fan rattles on the desk. There’s a chair, a filing cabinet, and not much else.

He closes the door behind you with a soft click.

The sound is deafening.

“Alright,” he says, stepping closer. “Now what?”

You open your mouth. No words come out.

So he steps even closer, and now your back is to the filing cabinet and there’s nowhere to run.

“You got a name?” he murmurs again, slower this time, like he wants you to hear what it sounds like on his tongue.

You whisper it.

He repeats it, almost reverent.

And then he leans down, just enough so you can feel his breath on your neck.

“You sure you wanna do this?” he asks. “Once I touch you, sweetheart, you don’t get to pretend anymore.”

You nod.

Barely.

And then his lips are on yours.

Not gentle. Not soft. But hungry—like he’s been waiting for this moment since that first glance on the street, and he’s done pretending it’s anything but what it is.

His hands cup your face first, then slide down, rough and warm, smearing a faint line of grease across your cheek. He tastes like smoke and something wild. Your fingers curl into the front of his coveralls and pull.

You don’t care about the ring.

You don’t care about Gene.

You only care about this.

This heat.

This escape.

This man.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You’ve never floated home before.

The pavement barely exists beneath your feet. The houses blur past like half-painted scenery, the smell of motor oil clinging to your skin like perfume. Inside, your mouth still tingles. Every part of you feels rewired—sensitive, alive, flushed with the echo of Riff’s mouth and the pressure of his body against yours.

You touch your lips once before stepping through your front door.

Inside, the kitchen smells like stew. You’d left it bubbling low before you went to town—Gene likes it with potatoes and thick carrots, heavy on the salt. You pull your apron on, check the oven, and set the table, your hands moving on instinct while your mind spins somewhere else. Somewhere far from the sterile yellow wallpaper, from Gene’s heavy footsteps and the muted clink of his belt buckle tossed onto the nightstand.

You’re humming.

You never hum.

Gene notices.

He walks in around six, same as always, rubbing his back like he always does, frowning at his shoulder like it’s personally failed him.

But then he looks up.

And he stops.

“Huh,” he grunts, dropping his coat on the chair. “You look… different.”

You tilt your head. Smile a little. “Different how?”

He squints, like you’re a painting someone hung crooked.

“You’re glowin’ or somethin’. Been in the sun too long?”

You shake your head. “Just had a nice walk.”

Gene grumbles approval. “Maybe it helped clear your head. Been uptight lately.”

You serve him stew. He eats in big bites, loud, satisfied. You barely touch yours, too busy sipping the warmth of remembered heat off your tongue. Your thighs press together under the table. You think of grease-streaked fingers pressing into your hips. A voice rasping in your ear.

After dinner, you wash dishes in the sink. You feel Gene’s eyes on your back.

That quiet, calculating look.

Then his voice, low and hopeful. “Why don’t you get ready for bed early tonight?”

You pause, the dish slipping slightly in your hand.

“Sure,” you say.

You brush your hair longer than usual. You don’t bother with the long nightgown—just the slip. You crawl under the sheets, and when Gene joins you, the mattress sags the same way it always does.

But you are different.

He kisses your neck—clumsy, always too damp—and usually you lie still and wait for it to end. You let him climb over you, breathe heavy, grind and grunt like a tired machine hoping it’ll work if it just tries hard enough.

But tonight…

Tonight you close your eyes.

And picture Riff.

You pretend it’s his mouth on your collarbone.

His weight pressing you down.

His voice whispering filth.

You arch without thinking. Your hips move with rhythm. Your mouth falls open and lets out a soft, startled moan.

Gene freezes.

“…You alright?”

You moan again—louder this time—and grip his shoulders. You’re not even looking at him. Your eyes are locked on the dark ceiling, vision painted with the image of Riff’s face between your thighs.

Gene pulls back slightly, looking down at you.

You’ve never looked like this. Not once.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” he asks, almost suspicious. “You drunk?”

You shake your head, panting. “Don’t stop.”

Your voice is breathy. Needful. Almost pleading.

Gene hesitates.

Then he picks up the pace—clumsy, encouraged—and you turn your head away, biting your knuckles as you come with a soft gasp, thinking only of the man who kissed you like you were made of fire and sin.

When it’s over, Gene collapses next to you, panting.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Then: “You ain’t never sounded like that before.”

You don’t answer.

He glances over at you.

You’re smiling.

Just a little.

And that unsettles him more than your moans ever could.

You don’t knock this time.

You walk into the garage like you belong there, the morning sun casting long shadows across the concrete floor. It’s early. Earlier than any decent housewife should be out without a reason. But you didn’t want decent today. You wanted him.

Riff’s got his head under the hood again, sleeves pushed up, tank top stained, a smudge of oil across his jaw. You just stand there for a second, watching him.

He looks like a man who moves. A man who works for what he has. Sweat down his neck. Grease under his nails. No gold watch. No sagging belly, no sagging expectations. Just muscle, movement, and heat.

And he’s your age. Your actual age.

When he hears your footsteps, he straightens—glances over, then grins.

“Well, look who came crawling back.”

You lean against the nearest workbench, crossing your arms under your chest. “You knew I would.”

He chuckles, tossing his wrench onto the tray. “Yeah. But I figured it might take longer.”

You try to act casual. You really do.

But then he’s walking toward you, wiping his hands, and your heart starts doing that desperate little dance again. He gets close enough that the heat rolls off him in waves.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and real.

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“You got that look again. Same one you had when you walked in the first time. All quiet, like you’re tryin’ not to scream.”

You smile faintly. “I feel better now.”

“Yeah?” He steps in, closer. “Tell me why.”

You don’t hesitate. “Because I kissed someone my age yesterday. Someone who doesn’t make me feel like I’m just a hole for babies and hot dinner.”

He stiffens—just a little. Eyes narrowing.

You go on. “Gene’s twice my age. You know that?”

“I figured.” He crosses his arms, watching you now like a puzzle he wants to solve with his hands. “He treat you like a kid, too?”

“He treats me like a recipe. Do this. Be that. Bake it right and it turns into a son.”

Riff’s jaw ticks.

You look up at him. “You—you don’t look at me like that. You don’t talk down to me. You look at me like I’m… I don’t know. A woman. One you actually want.”

He leans in, nose almost brushing yours. “That’s because you are one.”

You close your eyes for a second, breathing in the scent of him—sweat, metal, Marlboros.

“And you’re the first man I’ve kissed,” you whisper, “who didn’t taste like medicine and stale whiskey.”

That gets him.

He groans low in his throat, hands going to your waist, pulling you to him with that same casual control that makes your knees weak. His lips are on yours again, but this time it’s slower—surer. Like he’s claiming the moment, not just stealing it.

When he finally breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You know how good it feels,” he mutters, “to be wanted by someone who sees you?”

You nod. You know exactly.

You look down at your fingers on his chest. “I dreamed about you last night.”

He smirks. “Yeah? You think about me while you’re lying next to that old bastard?”

You nod again.

“Did he touch you?”

Another nod.

“Did you moan for him?”

You bite your lip.

“Or was it for me?”

Your breath shudders. “For you.”

He laughs once, dark and pleased.

“Good girl.”

And the thing is—it doesn’t feel demeaning. Not like it would coming from Gene.

It feels earned. Shared. Desired.

You don’t feel small. You feel dangerous.

Because for the first time, you’re not just somebody’s wife.

You’re his.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It’s a slow afternoon at the garage.

Clouds hover like a threat overhead, thick and swollen with late-summer rain. The air smells like hot pavement and ozone, and inside the garage, it’s quiet except for the distant hum of the fan.

Riff’s stretched out on the creeper, legs splayed, one boot tapping a lazy rhythm on the concrete. You’re sitting on an overturned milk crate, sipping a soda he pulled from the machine out back, glass bottle sweating in your hand.

Neither of you’s in a rush today.

“You always this quiet?” he asks suddenly, voice drifting from beneath the Buick he’s half-tucked under.

You glance over at him. “Only when I’m thinking.”

“What are you thinking about?”

You pause. Then answer honestly.

“That I’ve never had a moment like this before. Just… sitting. Talking. Not waiting for someone to need something from me.”

Riff slides out from under the car and props himself on one elbow, looking at you with an expression that’s more curious than flirtatious for once.

“No one ever talks to you?”

“They talk at me. Gene does. The women at church do. But it’s always about dinner or babies or what makes a good wife.” You swirl the soda in the bottle. “Nobody really asks what I like.”

Riff wipes his hands on a rag and tosses it aside. “Alright then. What do you like?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“I’m askin’. What you like. Not your husband. Not your preacher. You.”

You bite your lip. “I like walking alone when it’s not too hot. I like when songs on the radio end soft, like they’re afraid to leave. I like the smell of cigarette smoke—but only on you.”

He chuckles, low and surprised. “That last one’s dangerous, sweetheart.”

“I know.”

He sits up, resting his arms on his knees, eyes never leaving you now. “You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t… you know. Stuck.”

“All the time.”

“What’s the dream, then?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. It used to be getting married. That’s what girls are told to want. A house, a man, a family. But now…” You shake your head. “Now I just want a place where I can sit with someone and not feel like I’m playing a part.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then: “That’s not a dream. That’s just being free.”

You nod slowly. “Maybe that’s the new dream, then.”

Riff leans back against the wall. “You could have that, you know.”

“I could have it with you?”

He doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t look away either.

“I think you already do.”

You let the silence settle between you, not heavy—just full. Full of what hasn’t been said yet. What might never be.

But for now, it’s enough.

You sip your soda and let him work, and he lets you sit close, and for the first time in what feels like years, you don’t feel like you’re in someone else’s story.

You feel like you’ve started your own.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It rains harder than it has all summer.

Thick drops pound the roof of the garage, echoing like war drums, rattling the roll-up door. The sky is dark, wind slashing through the trees out back. The kind of storm that keeps everyone home. Everyone but you.

You showed up soaked to the knees, breathless from running the last few blocks, cardigan clinging to your shoulders. You didn’t even knock. You just walked in, giggling like the place belonged to you now.

Riff didn’t say a word—just grabbed a faded shop towel and started drying your arms, slow and careful, like you were something breakable. He came close. His cigarette was barely hanging off his lips and his brows were furrowed while he mumbled something about how you’re going to get sick. Your head tilted to watch his face with a soft smile before you playfully started pressing small kisses around his face, making him break into a reluctant grin.

Now you’re both sitting in the garage office, the cot folded down, the air heavy with petrichor and engine oil. You’ve got a blanket wrapped around you, hair still damp, and he’s sitting at the edge of the cot, nursing a cigarette between two fingers.

Neither of you’s in a rush to speak.

Eventually, you do.

“You ever think about leaving this place?” you ask, voice soft under the noise of the storm.

Riff exhales smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling.

“All the time.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

He glances over at you, one brow raised. “Maybe for the same reason you haven’t.”

You look away.

“Where would you go?” you ask instead.

“Out west,” he says without hesitation. “Arizona. Maybe New Mexico. Somewhere hot and dry where the air don’t stick to your skin. I’d open my own shop. One I could name after something that’s mine.”

You smile a little. “What would you call it?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know. Maybe after a girl.”

You go still.

He looks over again, something warmer in his eyes now.

“Not sayin’ who. Just… maybe.”

The rain softens outside, just a little, turning to that gentler rhythm you could fall asleep to if you let yourself.

“You ever miss your family?” you ask after a pause.

He goes quiet at that.

“I don’t know if you can miss what never really felt like yours,” he says eventually. “Old man drank himself into a pine box before I hit ten. Ma packed up and left a year later. I learned early not to expect anyone to stay.”

You reach over and take the cigarette from his fingers, press it to your lips. It’s still warm. Tastes like him. You hand it back.

“I’m still here,” you say.

“For now,” he replies.

There’s no accusation in it. No bitterness. Just truth.

You scoot closer. Press your side against his. The blanket shifts with you, and he lets you lean into him, lets you rest your head on his shoulder like you belong there.

“You know the worst part?” you whisper.

“What?”

“I never used to think I deserved more than what I had. Not until you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then:

“You always deserved more. You just needed someone to remind you how to want it.”

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

Inside, you hold that warmth like a secret between your ribs.

You don’t kiss him.

You don’t have to.

He just puts his arm around your shoulder, keeps you close, and for once, neither of you needs anything else.

Not yet.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The next time you see Riff, the sky is overcast, thick with the smell of rain and exhaust.

You don’t bring a list. You don’t need a reason.

He knows that now.

You step into the garage and he doesn’t ask why. He just looks up from under the hood of a pickup and wipes his hands, like he’s been waiting for you since the moment you walked away last time.

“I’ve only got ten minutes,” you say softly.

“That’s enough.”

It is.

You’re in the back of the shop again, this time not quite naked, but close enough—his hands up your skirt, your mouth on his throat, the ache in you too loud to ignore. Every breath is a betrayal, and yet it’s the most honest thing you’ve done in years.

When it’s over, you lie there in the quiet, legs tangled in his, your head on his shoulder. The fan hums. The radio crackles something low and moody from the next room.

“I thought about leaving,” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just runs a hand through your hair, fingers slow and thoughtful.

“Thought about what I’d pack. Where we’d go.”

Still nothing.

Then finally—carefully—he says, “But you didn’t.”

You shake your head against his chest. “Not yet.”

He exhales through his nose. A short, humorless sound.

“Still waiting for the right moment?” he asks.

“I don’t know if there is a right moment.”

He shifts beneath you, not angry, just aware—that edge creeping back into his voice.

“Or maybe you’re just waitin’ for someone to decide for you.”

That stings.

Because he might be right.

But you sit up slowly, smoothing your dress, and look at him with eyes that have seen two lives now—the one you were assigned, and the one he lets you steal piece by piece.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You already don’t have me,” he says, soft but sharp. “Not really.”

You lean down, kiss him slow—less like a goodbye, more like a promise.

“I have this,” you murmur. “And I’m not done with it.”

He grabs your wrist before you pull away. Not to stop you. Just to feel you. Like he doesn’t trust you’ll come back, even though you always do.

“You come when you need to,” he says. “But don’t expect me to wait forever.”

You nod. “I know.”

You slip out the door, heart tight in your throat, and walk home under the drizzle with your stockings damp and your lips tingling from his kiss.

Gene is in the living room, snoring in his chair.

You step over his feet, hang your coat like nothing happened, and start peeling potatoes for dinner.

Outside, thunder rumbles softly in the distance.

Inside, your pulse still hasn’t slowed.

There’s no decision yet.

Just want.

And the quiet, steady promise that you’ll find your way back to Riff again.

Because you always do.

[smallestapplin]

Wing cleaning

Predaking x gn!aerial Cybertronian reader.

Warnings : none, just fluff and wing cleaning with Predaking. I just need fluff 😔

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Predaking’s displays of affection were slightly odd to you, he stays in his alt mode more often than not making seeing his face limited, but he curls around you for cuddles centering you in the middle of his hoard to keep you safe. In his alt mode kisses are usually nuzzles or him licking your face or even your wings, no matter how much you tell him not to.

His purrs are at least soothing, you suppose, always so deep and rumble so nicely it makes for good white noise to sleep to.

“Preda, this isn’t necessary.”

He only answers with a huffed growl making you sigh deeply and accept your fate. His large ribbed glossa crosses the top of your helm, making you face scrunch up at the new wet feeling. Predacons, still had much more animalistic behaviors, which, fair, you didn’t see a problem with, until it’s your face plate being licked. He wants to take care of you in a way that is familar to him, you know this and love him for it, but sometimes you wish he’d take it easier around your wings, or makes you squirm from the intensity.

“Stay still, you are filthy.”

A pack bonding activity, he said.

Only mated pairs help clean the body, which is why he is so sure and determined to lick your wings clean, which granted you know your wings aren’t in the best condition from thousands of years of not being able to clean them properly.

But this feels….weirdly intimate to such a level it’s overwhelming.

Predaking purrs loudly as he licks over the center of your left wing, sitting proudly in his draconic alt mode as he cleans you up, tail lazily swiping across the den floor, so happy his chosen mate is finally letting him clean their wings without issue.

you sigh, body twitching and jerking when he licks too firmly or starts getting close to you wings joints, those are the worst spots, but also the most sensitive.

“Hey, maybe don’t get there yet, please?”

The con makes a confused hum, before moving his head over your shoulder to look at you, noting how nervous you seem to be.

“But you are having rust build up there, they need to be cleaned.”

“I know, I know! But…I just…hnn.” your wings droop, looking up at him with a pleading gaze, but it doesn’t work on him.

“Please, My King, it’s just overwhelming, no one has touched my wings in so long, I-“

“Turn, face me.” His deep voice cuts you off, before he retracts.

You hear him transforming back into his base mode just before you turn around, now your optics meeting the imposing mech. you squeak as he grabs your waist, picking you up and placing you on his lap. your arms instinctively go around his neck, as you still have to look up at him, wondering what his plan is.

“Hold onto me, I will clean your wings this way.”

you hesitate, your optics glancing around the hoard, noting him grabbing one of the fancier looking clothes he stole from who knows where. But he waits, waits for you to get comfy, his yellow optics tracing up your body as he waits for your orders.

Small scars and scratches here at there adding to your already impressive frame, such a small mech, at least small to him, able to withstand so much, so strong, perfect for defending the nest.

you hype yourself up, knowing if your wings don’t get cleaned soon it could lead to transformation issues, or flying issues in general, but still it’s so deeply personal.

But they trust him, as rough around the edges as he is, he’s saved and protected you countless times, and is always waiting for your words and orders, only listening to you and waits for you to give him the okay.

You sigh, trying to relax before leaning against his chassis and fanning your wings out so he can reach better. Predaking purrs loudly, nuzzling his helm into the top of yours as he gets to work.

He’s happy now to have stashed polishes and cleaners from that one flashy red bot, who knew it would come in handy? you tenses feeling his touch, feeling the damp cloth touch your wing joint as he rubs it in slow circles, applying gentle pressure to get anymore dirt and grim from your wings.

He doesn’t speak, letting his purrs echo in the cave to soothe his little mate, occasionally nuzzling his helm against the side of yours.

Who knew such a big brute could be so gentle? But for you, he’d burn this planet for you.

[welovewarcraft]

when i die

fandom(s): homicipher

pairing(s): mr. crawling/reader (mc)

summary: What a blissful love life he enjoys. Alas, all good things must come to an end.

The fresh air was very nice to feel; it was very different from the metallic odor that constantly lingered in his old world. You told him about the sky and how beautiful it could be when it was blue. When the rain clouds cleared and he saw the sun's rays poke through the clouds from the confines of your apartment, he was giggling and happy. He had no eyes, but due to his supernatural qualities, he could still see.

Mr. Crawling liked many other things about your world in comparison to his. The buildings and their interiors were much like the ones he was familiar with, except they were cleaner and not tinged with dirt, rust, and blood. There were no ghosts with dubious intentions that could pop out at any moment. Though paranormal activity still existed in this world, as long as the both of you stayed away from prominent areas and activities, you two were fine. 

This world was so much safer and nicer.

With you, Mr. Crawling was almost ecstatic every day. He had his first shower, his first set of clothes that weren’t his usual robe (you thought he looked rather cute in a hoodie and pair of sweatpants of the same color, but in the end, Mr. Crawling preferred his old clothes, so you got multiple kimonos for him), and his first real meal that wasn’t flesh (you’re a great cook!). He also learned about your language, your interests, and much more (once, you joked about turning him into a man of culture, but Mr. Crawling didn’t understand at the time). 

About a year had passed since he started living with you. Mr. Crawling was content with the better and safer lifestyle, and he was able to speak your language at a basic level. One day, as Mr. Crawling was watching a documentary, he noticed you weren’t beside him. When he looked over, he noticed you staring out the window, lost in thought.

“(Name)?” He asked, the name rolling off his tongue naturally.

You looked at him in response.

“Yes, Mr. Crawling?”

“What are you thinking about?” His words still sounded a bit stiff. Your name was the only word that came naturally to him; once he got it right, he was ecstatic and didn’t stop saying it for a long while, enough to practice pronouncing it perfectly.

“Nothing, dear,” you replied.

Mr. Crawling blushed at the endearing nickname, but he still felt a bit unsure. Despite that, he turned his attention back to the documentary, enjoying the visuals on-screen and trying his best to pick up new words.

Mr. Crawling was very glad that he got to go to the human world with you.

A few days later, Mr. Crawling got worried. You seemed increasingly stressed, and he wanted to relieve you of it. This time, he was really poking at you, to the point of being annoying. He hadn’t acted this worrisome in a long time since accompanying you in the other world. When you finally were pushed past a tipping point by his badgering, you snapped and said that you attracted the wrong kind of attention and that if you weren’t careful, you would end up dead. 

Mr. Crawling cried at your outburst. He could not produce tears, but the feeling was there all the same. You felt really bad, and patted his head and back to soothe him. Once he calmed down, he wanted to know everything. You refused to tell him much. A bit toward the end of your conversation, you said some words to him that made him shudder.

“When I die,” you began, “I would like to feed you my flesh so that you won’t be hungry for some time. I want to do one more good thing, even after I die.”

At this, Mr. Crawling had burst into tears again (to remind, metaphorically). He wanted to perish the thought, but you already planted the seed in his head, and he couldn’t seem to uproot it now. He could never eat you! You are his joy, the light of his life! He would rather go back to the otherworld or die than do such a thing.

He must have been really out of it because you dropped the subject instantly.

After that, Mr. Crawling became very clingy. He didn’t want you to leave your apartment at all. He succeeded at first, but after a few days, you managed to get away to go to work. You had to promise him extra cuddles and kisses after you came home every day (even on the weekends). He never wanted to leave your side, even when you had to take a shower (and thus, that’s how he got his first bath with you. It was greatly comforting, even if it was just temporary). You even got him a phone so you could send messages about what you were doing.

Fortunately, a few months later, the fear seemed to disappear almost entirely. You had managed to convince him that you fixed whatever situation you were in and that he didn’t have to eat your flesh. He was overjoyed. Everything was back to normal and perfect again.

Until one day, you didn’t come home. Mr. Crawling wasn’t too worried at first but when it was about eleven o’clock at night, he couldn’t take it anymore. He unlocked the apartment door while he was on his knees and exited the apartment. He tried his best to lock the door from the outside despite not having much experience with them; he knew you would be upset if you came home to an unlocked door and him not being there at the same time, but he was just so worried for your safety, that he eventually stopped trying and just left.

He wandered the city, making sure to stay away from other people and stick to the shadows. As he traversed, he picked up a strong metallic scent. He hadn’t smelled blood this strong since his residence in the other world (you would cut your hand on the kitchen knife sometimes). Afraid, he cautiously followed the scent.

He crawled and crawled until he reached an empty park. He made it to some trees when he saw you. You were still recognizable, but your body was mangled on the ground.

He crawled hurriedly over to your corpse and cried.

If only you just… didn’t go to work. 

He sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. His human was dead. Who would do this to you? 

As he drowned in his sorrow, he suddenly remembered your words.

When I die, I would like to feed you my flesh, so that you won’t be hungry for some time. I want to do one more good thing, even after I die.

He made a louder whimpering noise. He wanted to preserve your corpse, like how he watched in those videos about funerals. He didn’t want to eat you! He was torn between doing what you wanted and doing what he wanted.

After he was able to calm down a bit, he looked at your corpse for a little while.

Unsure, he slowly reached with his claws out.

+++

AO3

[sv3t1ana]

<< Master list ⋮ Next chapter >>

SYNOPSIS ᯓ A Bonnie and Clyde-esque, high-stakes, multi-chapter smut romance that follows a deadly criminal duo whose intense, chaotic love becomes as dangerous as the heists they pull off. Trust forged in blood, bonds built on risk.

PAIRING ᯓ Criminal! Sukuna x Criminal! Fem. Reader

WARNINGS ᯓ protectiveness?? themes of depression, mentions of weapons, planning for a heist, cute FLUFF for two criminals, stealing a vehicle, cigarette smoking, scouting, he calls you good girl!

WORD COUNT ᯓ 3.0k

Chapter 6.

Sukuna shakes you awake, palm pressing into your shoulder, fingers heavy and warm. The weight of his touch lingers, an anchor dragging you back from the depths of sleep.

“Wake up,” he says, voice slow. His sharp face is too close, the burn of his eyes the first thing you see as your eyes flicker open.

“The hell is wrong with you?” Your voice groggy, thick with sleep.

“Got somethin’ lined up. You in, or you need more beauty rest?”

You blink at him, mind tangled in the remnants of sleep. Something feels off. Not wrong, just different. You don’t remember your dreams, but you can usually recall the weightlessness of them, how your body sank into rest so deep it felt like falling into nothing. And yet, here you were awake, feeling clear-headed. The best sleep you’ve had in years, despite the circumstances. Despite the ache in your limbs and the scratch of an old blanket against your skin.

“Fine. What’s the job?” You push at his chest, a futile attempt to get him out of your space. He settles back into his haunches.

“Bank vault. Big payout. But it’s not some dumb smash-and-grab. We do this clean.”

He stretches, body shifting as he sits at the foot of the bedroll, taking up too much space, always too much space. His presence is a silent command against your senses. You sit up, rubbing your eyes.

“So why the fuck are you waking me up now?”

He shrugs. “We gotta move. New hideout. And we gotta figure out how the fuck we’re pullin’ this off.”

The drive is long, leaving yet another city. Another desolate stretch of nowhere, just far enough from prying eyes. The motel Sukuna picks is a step above the last, a rare indulgence. Two beds, fresh sheets, bulbs that actually work. Apparently he has connection here, someone on the inside slipping him a room off the books. It’s cleaner, quieter. The kind of place people check into but never talk about.

He moves like a man with a ticking clock beneath his skin. Always on edge, always looking for the next move. You’ve never seen him sleep, not really. Even now, after hauling bags into the room, he’s grabbing your wrist, pulling you back outside.

“Let’s go.”

The car is stolen, rusted, an old sedan sure not to draw attention. It sputters to life as he navigates through empty streets.

The restaurant is one of those places that exists outside of time. A 24-hour diner tucked between a pawn shop and a liquor store, the kind of place where the coffee tastes like burnt rubber and regret. The sign outside is sun-bleached, letters peeling at the edges. The door creaks when pushed open, the smell of stale cigarettes filling your nose before you even took a step in.

The floor is sticky, red leather booths cracked and patched with duct tape. A lone jukebox sits in the corner, humming some slow, bluesy song. The waitress behind the counter looks like she’s been working here since the place opened.

Sukuna slides into a booth near the window, stretching an arm along the back of the seat. You settle across from him, glancing at the laminated menu.

“Really? Out of all the places, this is where you bring me?” you ask.

His teeth flash. “What? Too fancy for you?”

You snort. “I think I can feel the FDA violations from here.”

He gives a short chuckle before glancing out the window, expression unreadable. The street outside is slick from last night’s rain, broken blinds casting thin lines of light across his face.

“So,” you prompt, “you gonna tell me more about the heist, or are we here to test our immune systems?”

He flips a sugar packet between his fingers before tearing it open and dumping it into his coffee.

“Bank vault. Big score.”

Your eyes narrow. “Yeah, you mentioned that. But you still haven’t told me how we’re getting in.”

He grins, unbothered. The waitress sets down a plate in front of you, waffles, burnt at the edges, cold in the center. He ordered for you, of course. Asshole.

“That’s where you come in,” he says, pouring way too much syrup over his own food. You never pegged him as the type to have a sweet tooth.

“What do you need?”

“I need you to scout. Go in like a regular customer. Watch the guards. Count cameras, exits, all the good shit.”

“Alright, what else?”

“There’s an alley behind the bank. Check for a back entrance. Some places have emergency exits leading to employee-only areas. We could use that for our escape.”

You nod. “So what’s your lazy ass gonna do?”

He laughs, unbothered. “I’ll handle the fun part. Gettin’ our weapons and gear. Can’t exactly walk in there with no armor and expect to come out alive.”

The morning passes like this, half-eaten food, plans laid out between sips of burnt coffee. Sukuna finishes your waffles without a second thought, barely reacting when you push the plate toward him in disgust. He eats just like he moves and fights, deliberate, all-consuming, like the world owes him everything and he’s here to collect.

After the horrible meal, you both walk over to the pawn shop. It’s dimly lit, air thick with dust, the scent of old metal and desperation. Shelves are stacked with stolen jewelry, forgotten heirlooms pawned for rent money, and cheap firearms locked behind a scuffed glass counter.

The man working behind the counter barely glances up. He’s burly, shoulders hunched forward with exhaustion, the kind that settles into the bones. Bags sag beneath his eyes, beard unkempt and flecked with gray.

“What do you need?” He rasps, voice scratchy from too many cigarettes.

“Two phones. Cash deal.” Sukuna’s voice is measured, no room for negotiation.

The pawn shop owner grunts, barely acknowledging you two as he bends to drag out a plastic bin filled with burner phones, cheap, pre-paid models with screens cracked like old porcelain, key letters worn to nothing. He slides it across the counter. “Pick.”

You sift through them, fingers brushing over devices that have passed through too many hands, seen too many secrets before being discarded like spent bullet casings. You pull out two of the least battered models. Sukuna doesn’t even hesitate before throwing a few crisp bills onto the counter, more than enough to cover the cost. An unspoken message, keep the change, keep your mouth shut.

And the owner takes the money without counting, these types of transactions routine, another brick in the foundation of his co-conspirator lifestyle.

When you step outside, Sukuna hands you one of the phones, the weight of it insignificant in your palm, the implications heavy.

“First rule,” he murmurs, sticking his pointer finger in the air. “Take the SIM out.”

He moves without hesitation, sliding the back off his phone, plucking the tiny card out with a flick of his fingers. You follow suit, prying the fragile thing loose, watching as he drops both to the ground and grinds them under his heel. Circuity crunching beneath his shoe like brittle bones. Final, absolute.

No trace.

Never a trace.

Today was like some fucking field trip, because before you knew it, you were hitting up a gas station, buying different pre-paid SIMs with cash, and now you were in some abandoned lot near a scrapyard. The scent of rust and oil clinging to your clothes.

Sukuna gets out first, and you follow suit. His eyes scan the graveyard of dead machines, picking through them like a vulture. He settles on an old black ‘97 Honda Civic, all worn down and paint chipping. No modern security, just a simple lock and ignition begging to be exploited.

He turns toward you, hands on his hips, wearing that menacing look like you’re a student getting scolded. “Lesson time. You ever hotwire a car before?” His voice turns up at the end, like he already knows the answer but wants to hear you say it.

You roll your eyes at him. “You really gotta ask?”

He nods toward the car, a silent command. “Then show me.”

You approach it, eyes flicking around the lot to see no cameras or eye witnesses, nothing but silence. From his bag, you fish out a thin metal tool, sliding it between the window and door frame, fishing for the lock mechanism. Your first attempt is shaky, a slight fumble. But with your second try, the door pops open with a satisfying click.

He leans against the hood, ankles crossed. “Not bad. Now, the fun part.”

You slip into the driver’s seat, ripping off the panel under the steering wheel. A nest of wires stare back at you. Your fingers work at it quickly, stripping the two you need and twisting them together. A few sparks leap into the air, then the engine roars to life, coughing out a growl like some beast being dragged from its slumber.

You glance at Sukuna, grinning for his approval. “That good enough for you?”

He chuckles before sliding into the passenger seat, legs sprawled out like he owns the place. “Drive.”

So you peel out, tires kicking up dust, heading toward the bank to scout it.

You park in a narrow alley, nestled between brick and shadow. It hums faintly, engine cooling. Close enough for escape, out of sight enough to be nothing at all.

Sukuna lingers near a newspaper stand, idly thumbing through a tabloid, its pages whispering beneath his rough fingers. A performance. He doesn’t care about ink-smeared scandals or drying print, his interest is elsewhere, tracking your movements like a silent god surveying the faithful.

The bank stands with an emblem of trust, the downtown of this foreign city thrumming around you. Voices overlapping, horns sharp in the distance, the scent of fresh espresso curling through the air. Life moves forward, blind and oblivious to the shifting current beneath its feet.

Inside, the bank breathes in wealth. Polished marble underfoot, ceiling high enough to inspire confidence. Recessed lighting gleams off the chandelier like a quiet promise to the money moving within the walls.

A glass partition is separating customers and tellers. Beyond it, a hallway stretches into the building’s bones, leading to the secrets.

Security stands at quiet attention, five in total. Two flanking the entrance, their presence seeming more like a formality than a deterrent. One stationed in the lobby, hands clasped while his gaze sweeps with absent authority. Two more are near the back hallway.

You don’t move for the counter, instead lingering in a side alcove stacked with pamphlets that promised home ownership and financial freedom. A glance, a whisper of calculation. There, in the far right corner, a door.

No keypad or reinforced lock, just a push-bar exit meant for employees. It leads somewhere, a maintenance alley? Parking? Either way, it’s a way out.

The burner phone is cool in your grip as you lift it to your ear, expression usual as you murmur low, a quiet thread only Sukuna can hear.

“Five guards. Two at the entrance, one on patrol, two by the back.”

His voice slips through the other line. “Armed?”

“Standard pistols. No rifles, no vests.”

A soft scoff. “Tch. They’re underestimating us.”

“There’s a back exit too, no security lock, just a push-bar.”

Silence, then, “good girl. Then that’s our way out.”

The counter gleams sterile as you approach. The teller, a woman in her late thirties, offers a practiced smile, so professional and polished.

“Welcome. How can I assist you today?”

“Thinking about opening a business account.” You let your tone dip into casual interest, the edge of idle concern. “Just wanting to know how secure you guys are. I had some issues with my last bank.”

She adjusts her glasses. “We take security very seriously. Armed guards during business hours, 24/7 surveillance, timed locks on the vault.”

“Timed locks?” You feign curiosity, tilting your head just enough. “So, like, no one can just walk in and open it?”

“That’s correct. Even employees can’t override the system. It’s a built-in safety measure.”

As she speaks you shift, angling slightly so you get a different view through the glass partition. Past the hallway you can see the vault, a steel monolith, matte black, heavy. Positioned at the end of a short corridor, tucked just out of sight from the main lobby.

You nod, taking a pamphlet at random, flicking your gaze across it without reading. You step away after thanking the teller, slipping between civilians.

Your phone is back at your ear before you reach the door.

“Got everything we need. Meet me back at the car.”

His reply drips with amusement. “Try not to sound so smug about it.”

The alley yawns ahead, Sukuna waiting, a smile carved into his face like a wolf at leisure.

Time to plan the hit.

Later that night the motel room is quiet, save for the distant sounds of traffic outside and the slow, steady burn of your cigarettes. You and Sukuna sit on opposite beds, mirroring each other, the space between you thick with smoke.

He takes a drag, eyes half-lidded in exhaustion, watching the ember glow at the tip before exhaling. “You ever think about the past?” His voice is rough, casual, like he’s not about to admit something real. “There used to be a time where I didn’t give a shit about anything. I was in and out of jail for small-time robberies to get by, some real dumb shit.” he laughs, amused at his own recklessness.

You study him through the haze. “Why did you do it?”

He hesitates, just for a second. Then his eyes drop to the floor, fingers tapping against the cigarette in thought. “My little brother, Yuji.” His voice quieter now, rough in a different way. “I wanted to make sure we had enough, y’know? I wasn’t trying to be some big-time criminal, just wanted ‘em to be safe.”

He flicks the cigarette into the glass ashtray, watching as the ashes scatter. “It just spiraled. I got in too deep, so I just roll with the tide now. Stay a step ahead.”

There’s a pause, he glances at you. Catching your face, expression dull, something that makes him sigh as he rests his elbows on his knees. “But what’s the point of thinkin’ about it now? Shit’s already been done. No turnin’ back.”

He leans back against the mattress, arms folded beneath his head and exposing the ink on his bare chest. You let your eyes trace the dark lines, the stories etched into his skin before finally speaking. “But don’t you ever think about getting out? Like, retiring? A family? A house? A life that doesn’t involve all… this?” You gesture vaguely to the scattered weapons on the floor, the silent proof of the world you live in.

He tilts his head at you, abs flexing as he shifts to meet your gaze. His lips curl, laughter slipping past them. “Me? A house with a fenced-in backyard? A fuckin’ dog? You got a beautiful imagination, doll.”

But there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t quite match the smirk on his lips. It’s gone just as fast as it appeared, but you caught the crack in his armor.

So you press. “Yeah, but no, really. There should be more to life than just being on the run always, right? Don’t you want more than this?”

His expression shifts as he weighs your words. Then, he tilts his head, all playfully like a puppy. “What about you, huh? This what keeps you up all night?”

You blink, caught off guard and accidentally answering too honestly. “No. I don’t think about it. I never even thought I’d make it to this age.”

That does something to him, and you see it. It’s subtle, the way his jaw tenses, the way his fingers twitch slightly before curling into his palm. His expression softens, just slightly, gone before you can call him on it.

He pushes up from the bed, discarding his cigarette before clapping his hands against his thighs and standing. The floor creaks under his weight as he moves to switch off the light. “Tell you what,” he says, voice lighter. “If we pull this off, if we can make it through, maybe I’ll think about it.”

Without another word, he’s climbing into bed, back to you, leaving you sitting in the dark with a cigarette still curling between your fingers.

So you retreat as well, crushing the cigarette before turning and tugging the sheets up.

Sukuna.

A man of contradictions, cold and calculating, ruthless and strangely human. There’s a darkness in him you can’t grasp, a hunger that keeps him moving forward. And yet, in the flicker of a moment, his guard falters and you catch a glimpse of something softer. Not exactly vulnerability, but the remnants of a past he can’t outrun. A past that continues to shape him in ways he doesn’t even seem to understand.

You can’t figure it out. Shifting under the covers and exhaling into the air.

Part of you wonders if there’s more to him than just bloodshed and violence. Maybe he’s a man trying to make sense of a world that’s constantly breaking him. Or maybe, he’s simply a monster who’s learned how to wear the skin of someone who isn’t.

And then there’s you. Why are you still here? Why do you play this game with him, knowing full well what he’s capable of? Why does the weight of his eyes make you shiver and pull you in simultaneously, tethering you to him in ways that feel inevitable?

It couldn’t just be the thrill of the job. You know that much. If it were, you would’ve walked away after the first heist. Instead, it’s something about the way he moves through the world, something about the way he doesn’t apologize for who he is.

Is that what you want?

He’s the chaos you don’t know how to escape, the question that never stops echoing in your mind.

You don’t trust people. That was something you established long ago, only engraving further in your mind when Hakari turned his back.

Why you? You’re subpar at best, not the smartest nor the most experienced. He could have anyone. But he keeps offering you these jobs, willing to teach you if need be.

You stare at the ceiling, probably for the thousandth time in your life.

You might be starting to want it.

taglist: @cutesytwt, @tojis-ball-sack, @gojoscumslut, @sukubusss, @vicravluv, @newasskid, @grignardsreagent, @garden0fyves

[kirlicues]

Seabreeze Solace | Sims 2 Residential Lot Download

This mariner-themed lot is full of options for summer activities for sims of all ages. It's built on a 3x5 lot, has 4 bedrooms, 3.5 baths, and costs §201,717.

Since this lot is so long and narrow it's best if I give you a tour of the grounds in several different images. First is a view of the back of the home looking looking straight on. But this doesn't show what's behind you!

Ooo, look! A pool house for the kidlets simlets birthday parties! I'll show you a floor plan in just a few...

(Now WHY you would go swimming in a pool when you have the whole ocean, presumably right out your back/front door I don't know, but hey, I'm a builder, I just fill the space I'm given. 🤷‍♀️🤣)

But first, a hermetically sealed* greenhouse! Enjoy those fresh, homegrown veggies without the saltwater contaminating the soil and ruining your crops!

*Not actually hermetically sealed.

Alright, let's take a look at the inside and sea see what we've got to work with!

First up, the main house:

1st Floor: Clockwise from left: Sunroom, or optional room-of-your-choice, kitchen, bathroom, family room, living room, entryway, and dining room. Sorry y'all, no garage on this lot so you'll have to find some other way to keep your cars protected and rust-free in the salty sea air. (Which will keep you healthier? Veggies or cars, hmm?🤔But I digress...)

Moving on, we have the 2nd floor!

Clockwise from bottom left: kids bedroom 1, kids bedroom 2 (used as an art room currently), kids bedroom 3, upstairs landing, kids bathroom, master bathroom, master bedroom, and office.

Ok, you've waited long enough--on to the pool house!

Pool house 1st floor: Clockwise from left: outside showers, bathroom, kitchen, and dining nook.

I can feel the water going up my nose and clogging my ears already, but wait, there's more!

Pool house 2nd floor: Clockwise from left: open to below, upstairs landing, and rec room.

For those of you your sims who may not love the water, or are a bit too young to swim there's plenty to keep you occupied! Just remember to keep your darts at one end of the room and your toddlers on the other and nobody gets hurt. (Sorry guys, there's only so many activities that come with the game, and thankfully, since toddlers, or anyone else, can't get hurt by the darts game, I figured this combination would be ok.)

Is there anything more you could want?! Well, it will have to go on another lot because this one is FULL. 🔐 🤣

Seabreeze Solace: MF | SFS

All EPs and SPs are required.

*I highly recommend that you have the PerfectPlants mod from TwoJeffs*

I’ve run this home through the Lot Compressor so any random references to sims that aren’t there should be removed. I have also run this lot through the Lot Cleaner to remove any bits of buggy code. This lot comes with a shiny custom thumbnail so it has even more curb appeal in your Lots and Houses bin! 😄

This home has 4 pieces of CC, 3 of which are Maxis pre-order bonus or store items which you may already have in your game. These can easily be replaced or omitted if you don’t want them though.

CC List (Included): -Maxis Match Wall Cabinets by CTNutmegger at ModtheSims -Seasons Pre-Order Bonus "Garden Swing of Bliss and Harmony"

CC List (Not Included): -Sims 2 Store Nouveaulicious set Callas -Sims 2 Store Cubic Dynamics Rug from this pack by CircusWolf on ModtheSims

I ALWAYS recommend using the Sims 2 Pack Clean installer to install lot files.

Want to improve the look of your game, or grab some “Lost & Found” Maxis objects? Check out this post.

[maidragoste]

Things I think Jacaerys Velaryon would do if he were your boyfriend

This whole week I was thinking about Jacaerys so I ended up writing this

Reblogs, likes and comments are always appreciated. I hope you like it 🥰🥰💕💕

Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.

•Let me tell you that if English is not your first language then Jacaerys LOVES it when you speak in your native language. He is always very curious about the difference between their languages, he asks you if some words have a different meaning in your country. I see him going to the supermarket with you and at some point he starts asking you what they call a certain product in your country.

•Jace would work hard to learn your native language. Most of the time his pronunciation is clumsy but every time you hear him speaking in your native language you feel like you fall in love with him ten thousand times more.

The word he knows how to say best is "I love you" because he never stops saying it to you.

•If you are vegetarian or vegan I can see Jace searching the internet for good places to go eat together. He loves trying new food with you.

Plus his house is always stocked with a couple of vegan products. One time he got mad at Luke because when you came to see him there were no more of your vegan cookies left because his brother ate them and didn't tell him.

•Sometimes when you feel like painting your nails but you're in lazy mode Jace ends up being the one to do it for you. The two of you talk nonsense while he carefully runs the polish over your nails.

•Every time he sees a tik tok from a series or a book that he knows you like, he sends it to you.

•Whenever you're too caught up in studying, Jace reminds you to hydrate and eat something. Most of the time he orders something from your favorite fast food place to give you a pamper after so many hours of studying.

•I see Jacaerys as someone very touchy. Every time you go out together he can't be without holding your hand or his hand around your waist or at least hugging you by the shoulders. He needs to have you close.

•After seeing your reaction to letting his hair long. Jacaerys stopped wearing it short. He loves seeing how nervous you get every time he catches you staring at him. He always teases you by making you pout and he loves kissing you.I only know that Jacaerys pretends to forget his clothes at your house but in reality, he does it on purpose because he loves to see you later wearing his clothes.

•My man has two playlists about you. One with all your favorite songs and another with the songs that make him think of you. In the latter there are these songs:

"You can hear it in the silence, silence, you

You can feel it on the way home, way home, you

You can see it with the lights out, lights out

You are in love, true love" — You Are in Love, Taylor Swift.

"Cause all of the small things that you do

Are what remind me why I fell for you

And when we're apart, and I'm missing you

I close my eyes and all I see is you

And the small things you do" — Those Eyes, New West.

"I wanna be your vacuum cleaner

Breathing in your dust

I wanna be your Ford Cortina

I will never rust

If you like your coffee hot

Let me be your coffee pot

You call the shots, babe

I just wanna be yours" — I Wanna Be Yours, Arctic Monkeys.

I don't wanna look at anything else now that I saw you

(I can never look away)

I don't wanna think of anything else now that I thought of you— Daylight, Taylor Swift.

Taglist for all my House of the Dragon works:

@chaotic-fangirl-blog @venus-flytrap3 @ajordan2020 @iloveallmyboys @sweethoneyblossom1 @fudge13 @crystal-faith @cicaspair418 @tita004 @ichanelvxgue @snowprincesa1 @joyouart @rosey1981 @alastorhazbin @papichulo120627 @apollonshootafar @jasminecosmic99 @diorchaiamet @partypoison00 @camy85 @fluffly @rebelliuna @bxdbxtxh15 @impartinghades @targaryenmoony @thegirlnextdoorssister @angeliod @snh96 @aleemendoza2425-blog @lizlovecraft @natashaobo @nyenye @savagemickey03

Tumblr won't let me tag them: @arabis-world @nzygftoji @lauufeysonnn @Snileykiddie08 @pictureofcaroline @sydneyyyya

@minaxcarter @marytargaryen @bugheadkids @missusnora @sabi127 @buckysmainhxe

If you want to be part of my taglist

hotd masterlist

[docgold13]

Cartoon Heroes Paper Cut-Outs

Robot Dreams

Written and directed by Pablo Berger, Robot Dreams is an animated feature film about an unusual friendship between a dog and a robot in New York City.  Set in 1984, Dog lives on his own and purchases a robot to keep him company.  Robot arrives and the two become close friends over the course of a lovely summer. 

At the end of the summer, Robot becomes rusted and stuck while at the beach and is too heavy for Dog to carry.  He is forced to leave the robot over night, hoping to come back the next day with a means of moving or repairing his friend.  Yet the beach is closed for the season and will not open again until June.  Dog tries to get into the beach, to reach his friend, but his efforts are to no avail.  

Over the next several months Robot remains on the beach experiencing vivid dreams of various scenarios where he manages to escape from the beach and return to Dog's apartment; only to return to the reality of him being stuck on the beach.  Dog meanwhile paces about his apartment, anxiously awaiting the spring so he can rescue his friend.

Rabbits steal one of Robot’s legs, he becomes buried in a sand drift, is dug up by a scavenging monkey and sold to a scrap yard.  The remnants of his body are eventually purchased by Raccoon who rebuilds him with parts from a vacuum cleaner and a boombox.  Robot and Raccoon go on to become terrific friends.  

Unable to find Robot at the beach, Dog finally surrenders his search and ultimately purchases a new robot friend.  Both Robot and Dog find comfort and fulfillment in their new friendships but are each unwilling and unable to fully let go of the other.    

Robot Dreams debuted in Spain in December of 2023; expanding to French theaters later that year.  It arrived in American theaters in May of 2024 and was a huge critical hit, earning a nomination for an Academy Award for best animated feature.  

[gaoshun]

𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬

cw: 3.2k, angst, happy ending, mutual pining, childhood best friends to lovers

note: finally posted the fic i made a poll for. wrote this while listening to this exact audio. split screen or use premium if you have for a better reading experience.

“Play for me!” Shinichiro grins widely as he sits at your chair in your room. You sit on your bed, your guitar in your hand.

You were still in your school uniforms. Shinichiro and you were with your friends and when everyone dispersed to go home, he decided to accompany you home. It wasn't something new. Your house was like another home for him. Your parents knew him well, and his family. It was so common for him to come to your house after school that room privileges were already earned.

“Shin,” You giggle, shy.

Shy because playing in front of someone was always an embarrassment to you. Even if that someone was your best friend. Especially because all the songs you wrote were… for him. You never let him find out though. Everytime he caught you writing lyrics to a new song he would get so excited to read. Half of the time you hid your notebook from him.

“C’monnnn!” He pouted. “I am your best friend. I need to have some benefits.”

“Play for me please. I will always be your #1 fan. And I wanna be the first to hear whatever your genius brain comes up with.”

It was so hard to take his comments and compliments at face value when the deeper meanings begged for you to grab a hold of them and… do something about it. Well, if there was a deeper meaning in the first place. Which, you very well knew, there wasn't any.

Shin made it abundantly clear. Not directly. But it was obvious. Shinichiro Sano had asked out so many girls in his life since you two became friends that you had lost count by now.

That's another thing that no one ever reciprocated those feelings. And you never understood how. People liked him. But girls, they never did. Not in that way. Especially with his history of asking out any girl he had an inkling of feelings for.

How could one not like him? His kind heart? Forgiving, caring and giving. He gave his all to everyone. He wore his heart on his sleeve. Open for anyone to use and hurt him. He was so funny, he made you laugh till your stomach and jaw hurt. He would soothe your cries and do anything for you to stop crying. Even if it ended up hurting him. He was so responsible and mature. Didn't girls like those things in a man?

People made fun of him behind his back. He took it in stride, though. Always laughing at himself along with him. Acting as if it didn't hurt him. But you knew better.

He had practically asked out every girl in the school. Some from outside school too. And unfortunately you were there for most of them. Asked out, rejected, asked out, rejected, asked out, rejected. The cycle continues. But never you.

They said that if you are a girl he would ask you out. But then… why not you? Were you not feminine enough for him? Is femininity what he liked? What did you do so wrong that you were never proposed to? Why did he not like you like that? Just what did you do wrong? Where did you go wrong? Was being his friend the crime? Did he not see you a potential partner because you were his best friend? Just his best friend?

“Fine, fine.” You played with the strings of your guitar as you looked down, a smile playing on your lips.

Getting in the groove you started the tune. The tune you had created and practiced to perfection. Till the music personified your emotions. Coloured them in your feelings. Exuberated with words you never could speak, expressions you hid, fondness you brushed away.

“I wanna be your vacuum cleaner

Breathing in your dust

I wanna be your Ford Cortina

I will never rust”

He giggled and you smiled involuntarily. You continued singing.

“Secrets I have held in my heart

Are harder to hide than I thought

Maybe I just wanna be yours

I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours

Wanna be yours

Wanna be yours

Wanna be yours”

You panicked. For some reason you couldn't tear your gaze away from his deep, deep black eyes.

Fuck, did he catch on? Does he know now? Does he look disgusted by any chance?

“I wanna be your setting lotion (wanna be)

Hold your hair in deep devotion (How deep?)

At least as deep as the Pacific Ocean

Now I wanna be yours”

Shinichiro wasn't smiling. His eyes had gone dark. Expression passive and hard to read. You had never seen him like this. It was kinda scaring you. You willed yourself to continue.

“Secrets I have held in my heart

Are harder to hide than I thought

Maybe I just wanna be yours

I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours

Wanna be yours

Wanna be yours

Wanna be yours

Wanna be yours

Wanna be yours

Wanna be yours

Wanna be yours

(Wanna be yours)”

You eased the song to an end by a few slow, soft strings of your guitar. Slowly you kept the guitar beside you. But the way Shinichiro looked at you made you yearn for the feeling of the guitar on you. It acted as a shield.

“What happened?” You chuckled nervously. That made Shinichiro shake out of his stupor. He grinned. But something told you it wasn't true.

“Nothing.” He smiled.

“That was a wonderful song. I loved the music so much. And the words really displayed how strong the singer feels. Amazing experience, thank you (name).” At least that felt honest, so you smiled back.

“Thank you, Shin.”

“So,” he stood up, leaning against your study table now and crossing his arms. He wiggled his eyebrows. “Who did you write this for, hm?”

“What?” Your eyes widened.

“Oh c’mon. Who’s the lucky guy? Whom did you write it for? Who was the inspiration? Tell me!”

“Shin-”

“Nooo tell me! Tell me! I deserve to know! You have a crush and I don't know? Blasphemous!” He dramatized it a bit.

So you had no choice but to lie.

“Someone.” You acted smug. Acting all cool and mysterious.

What other choice did you have? Tell him? Confess? And then what? Lose years of friendship because you couldn't keep friends as friends and turned them into stupid feelings? How are you any better than the guys the girls in your friend group make fun of? Because you are a loser who isn't good enough for him? And you can't get over him? And seeing him on his knee in front of yet another girl broke your heart a bit more every single time?

The rest of the evening went with Shinichiro trying his hardest to make you open up but you willed your heart strong and continued to pretend. To not show how your heart was breaking into a hundred pieces with every lie you spewed. Until he eventually gave up. Thanks to your mom calling you both downstairs for lunch.

“Another day went by. You didn't confess. Just how long was this torture gonna continue?” You thought as you laid on your bed staring at the ceiling. A tear slipped from your eyes before you closed them shut and fell asleep.

—

The first thing you see the next morning predicts the mood of your entire day better than the meteorological department of japan.

Shin, with another girl. Yes it always hurts but it's nothing new. What's new and extremely shocking – even to Shin is – she. said. yes.

A girl said yes to his proposal. She wants him to date her. Shin is now dating a girl. They would most probably make it official soon. And they would fall in love. Would be one of the many couples in your school. Be highschool sweethearts. Go to university tog- ain’t no way Shin is going to a university. Get married. Have kids. Get ol-

Someone pushes against your shoulder as they pass by to enter the school building. “Watch where you're going.”

But you are too stunned to retort that it was their fault.

—

Shin boasts about his new girl in front of you, Benkei, Takeomi and Wakasa. They all roll their eyes. But still seem happy because he is happy. Except for you. One couldn't have a more fake smile than the one you had slapped on your face. He blabbers on and on about how he did it and what she said and the moment of confession. And of course he was exaggerating a lot, you saw it after all. But the others didn't believe much either. Except Takeomi, he valued every bullshit Shin spewed as if it was set in stone. You rolled your eyes.

“And when I finally said those words, down on one knee as I was. My knees hurt, they are red even now! But I didn't budge. I didn't recite anything of course, I said it all by heart. Then she-”

“I have class.” You cut him off and get up. The boys look up at you and nod. Shin pouts.

“What? Not everyone is as aimless and free as you. People have work.” You raise your hands in defense and smooth your skirt. Exiting the confines of the bench you move exit the otherwise empty classroom.

It's only when you passed a few corridors and entered an usually empty bathroom did you let your tears flow. You missed the class for that period. And wailed without hesitation. No one came inside.

—

“Bro, fuck my life.” You smash your fist against the punching bag hanging in front of you. It was a pretty gloomy looking basement, all greys and dirty whites; one could consider it abandoned by the fact that there was no one here.

You didn't confess and now it was too late. You had gotten over your earlier crying fit. Now the sadness had turned into anger. Not towards him or the girl, but on you. It's all your fault. If only you had been brave enough. Had confessed earlier. Then maybe you would have saved yourself a heartbreak.

No. Of course you can't, couldn't. You couldn’t possibly ruin years and years of friendship. You two knew each other since early years of school. It was the most beautiful thing in your life. The security and safety you felt in this friendship with a guy was unprecedented, to you at least. Years of laughter, memories, mistakes, crimes albeit small and so many more friendships.

You backed away and sat on the floor, playing with your gloves. Your knuckles hurt with constant friction and force they were experiencing against them for at least thirty minutes straight. You sighed. You loved Shin too much to even risk a break up. Nevermind. It is what it is. You have cried enough the past few days, enough now.

“What's gotten into you?” Your eyes snap up and there you see Takeomi.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I am talking about.” He walks towards you. “Been weird always if you ask me but, the past few days you’ve been weirder.”

“You think too much, Takeomi.” You shrug, choosing to say as little as needed.

“You know you aren't as evasive and cool as you think you are.”

“Fuck you man.”

“Just confess.”

“Huh?!” You look up at him, eyes wide.

“We all know. You have liked Shin for like, forever now. How long are you gonna pretend it doesn't hurt you, (name)?”

You are quiet for a minute or two before you mumble, “He is dating someone now.” No use of denying, they have always known.

“Oh c’mon. Do you really thi-” His phone rings. It's Shin.

“Confess, (name).” He spoke, voice of finality. Also sounded as if he knew something but you couldn't pinpoint what. With that he left you alone. And you continued your pity party some time more.

—

Shinichiro wasn't happy.

Shouldn't he have been? He finally had a girlfriend! After so many years and so many confessions, this should have tasted like sweet victory. But… it doesn't.

The girl is amazing. Sweet and cute. Smart, great at history and talented at playing the harp. Definitely above his league. He doesn't understand how he managed to get her as a girlfriend.

But it wasn't even the league difference that made him feel out of place. It was the pain.

Did he even qualify to feel hurt when it was him in a relationship and not you. He had a girlfriend, he was set, right? She seemed to like him, and seemed to enjoy their relationship. All seemed good.

But how can one erase years of yearning? The pining he did after you ever since he met you. He accepts that it was just infatuation in the beginning, a girl became friends with him. Then it was an emotional connection and a strong friendship when he lost his dad and mom one after the other. Then as he turned towards teenage, it was a crush. He liked you. A lot. Everything about you made his heart race, his throat dry and his mind reel.

He remembers how he would always be with you. Is Shin at home? No. Of course he isn't.

Where is he? With (name) of course.

Where are they? Probably doing stupid things together.

Shin would always hang out with you. At your place, at his place. At school. After school. At convenience stores. With his gang. With his friends. With his siblings. At random places. At dangerous places. At the wrong places. Everywhere.

Study sessions together became a routine. Shin wasn't bad at studying. And when needed he would get the work done. He had his own unique ways of studying so studying with him was always fun.

But of course. The same old common ass reason that holds everyone in love with their best friend back. “What if I lose my friendship with them?”

So he never confessed. Always held back. Tried to forget his feelings by trying to date other girls. Soon it became a coping mechanism. He didn't even mean it at one point.

And when you played the song to him a few days ago, confessing that you liked someone; Shin cried himself to sleep. Heart absolutely broken and shattered into pieces. All his hopes died at that moment. World became gloomier than the skies of London. The one person he found solace in might drift away from him, into someone else's arms. Just the thought alone could make him break down into another crying fit.

“Bro for fuck sakes just confess.” Wakasa rolled his eyes. He was so fucking done with this guy.

“She likes someone else.” He mumbles after a minute or two.

“No the fuck she doesn- Whatever. You do your job. Trust me on this. There is literally no reason for you to sulk all the time, you know? It's fucking pathetic man. Just ask her out and get dating already.”

“Yeah man this has been going on for like, forever.” Takeomi chimed in, sighing.

Benkei stayed quiet, empathetic towards his friend. He understood him, but knew that the other two weren't wrong either. Benkei knew you liked him just as much as he liked you if not more.

“Too risky.” Shin pouted. He played with the wall, poking it as he made himself small, arms wrapped around his legs and put his head in between them.

“Oh my fucking God.” Wakasa and Takeomi exclaimed in exasperation.

“Shin, let's have a talk.” Benkei’s voice was deep and comforting. Shin nodded.

—

The one day Shin wanted to desperately talk to you, you were nowhere to be found. In his nervousness, he forgot you had swimming practice.

So when you came back to your class freshly showered Shin almost knocked you over as he skated towards you. “Holy shit Shi-”

“We need to talk!” He exclaims, too loud.

“Okayyy…?”

“I am in love with you!”

The whole corridor quiets down. Not a single person dares utter even a gulp. It was luck that there were still ten minutes for class to start. Benkei, Wakasa and Takeomi watching from the sidelines hidden from view slapped their palms on their heads. This was anything but a romantic setting, and everything Benkei taught him went down the drain. He really wasn't smooth.

“I have been in love with you forever. Since the day I met you. I have never liked anyone other than you. It was, is and will always be you. Even if you decide you don't feel the same way. I’d understand.” He blabbered on and on without taking a single break all in one breath. “But till the day I die I will always hold you close to my heart. You mean everything to me. My best friend, my confidant, my crush, my world. You can say no if you want, that's alright. Please don't feel compelled to say yes just cause my dumbass couldn't control himself and confessed in front of everyone. I promise you this isn't one of those bullshit confessions I do almost everyday with every other girl. I truly mean it, (name). This is more important to me than my life.”

“Shin, shin, shin. Breathe.” You somehow find the will to muster up these words. What with the wide eyes, jaw on the floor, stunned as fuck expression you wore on your face.

When he does, he looks at you. As if waiting. Yeah he did say he would wait for your answer and you could never like him back but… well… that doesn't mean he would just not do anything, you know? He was a boy in love after all.

“But weren't you dating some other gi-”

“Broke up.” He cuts you off. He was buzzing with energy and adrenaline, and almost couldn't stand stable on his feet. “Broke up a day ago. She agreed. All good. Now?”

Everything was quiet for some time. You got your bearings right. A million thoughts in your mind and all a mush at the same time.

You never prepared yourself for when it would finally happen. If it would finally happen. And it did. And holy fuck was this more romantic than anything else Shin could have done-

“Oh wait, I forgot to get on my knees. I am so sorry.” He gets on one knee and looks up at you as if you hung the stars in the sky just for him. You would, if he asked.

You giggled. Then bent down and got on one knee too. Held his outstretched hand in yours and spoke, “I fucking love you too. So much and for so long. So consider this my confession too.”

Shin finally knew what his English teacher meant by ‘being on cloud nine’. Because he was. Irrevocably so.

“You- you do?” His voice was low, almost afraid.

“I do.” You matched his tone as you looked into his eyes and he did in yours.

“Can I hug you?”

“You can do anything you want.”

And Shin pulled you into the tightest hug you have ever received as you two sat on your knees on the corridor floor. He squeezed you close to him and didn't let you go.

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The moment was broken by Tanaka-sensei’s scolding as he subjected you both to an hour of detention.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Knowing Shin and you, of course you two escaped school laughing out loud as you ran hand in hand.

[christasmind]

All that you’re not - Oikawa Tōru x Reader

Pairing: Oikawa Tōru x Reader

Type: Angst!au

Trigger warning: devastating, narcissistic!oikawa, emotional breakdown, hurt!no comfort

Summary: What happens to your mind when you love someone so much you forget to love yourself and put them too far before you…

——————————————————

He’s in your bed again.

Same way he always is—late at night, after a long practice, smelling faintly of sweat and the bitter shampoo he uses at the gym. He doesn’t knock anymore. Doesn’t ask.

You always let him in.

That’s your first mistake.

He never kisses you when he arrives. He never really looks at you either—not like you wish he would. Just slips off his shoes, mutters something about being tired, and crawls under your blankets like they belong to him.

And, God, maybe they do.

Because you let him have all of it.

The warmth. The comfort. The pieces of your heart you’re too afraid to ask for back.

Oikawa Tōru owns them now. And he doesn’t even know it.

Tonight, he’s especially quiet.

You can tell something’s wrong before he even speaks. His body’s too tense, his fingers tapping anxiously against the curve of your pillow.

“Bad practice?” you whisper, daring to reach over and brush your thumb against his wrist.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares up at your ceiling like it’s holding all the answers he’s never had.

“I wasn’t good enough today,” he says at last, voice so low you almost miss it. “They were faster. Taller. Cleaner. We practiced for hours and I still—fuck, I still couldn’t beat them.”

Your chest tightens.

Because here’s the part where you remind him who he is. Where you say all the things he won’t believe about himself.

“You’re doing your best,” you say softly. “You always do.”

He closes his eyes. Turns his head into your pillow.

“You don’t get it,” he mutters.

And maybe he’s right. Maybe you don’t. But you wish he’d let you try.

This is what most nights are like: him unraveling, and you gathering the threads.

No one sees this part of Oikawa.

Not the fans who scream his name.

Not the teammates who lean on him.

Not even Iwaizumi, who knows him better than anyone else.

Only you see the version of him who feels like he’s never enough.

And still, he never sees you.

You wish it didn’t hurt every time he left in the morning.

Wish you didn’t count the hours between his visits.

Wish your heart didn’t beat so fast when he brushed against you like it meant something.

But it does.

To you.

The moment breaks when he sighs and rolls onto his side, face inches from yours in the dark.

“You’re always here,” he murmurs.

Your heart stutters. “Of course I am.”

His eyes search yours, too intense. Too unreadable.

“Why?”

You blink. “What?”

He’s quiet a long time. Then, almost bitterly:

“I give you so little. And you still stay.”

The question’s always been there, hasn’t it?

But tonight, you don’t dodge it.

Instead, you say:

“Because I love you, Tōru.”

His breath catches.

And then, the silence falls like snow.

Soft. Cold. Unforgiving.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t say a word.

You wait.

He says nothing.

So you try again. More broken this time.

“Am I enough for you?”

His mouth opens slightly.

Closes.

And that’s all you need to know.

Your throat burns. Your fingers ache from holding onto hope too tightly for too long.

“I know you want her,” you say, the words tasting like rust. “The girl from the music club. The one with the soft laugh. You think I don’t notice the way you light up around her?”

He still doesn’t speak. Still doesn’t deny it.

God.

You should scream.

You should throw him out.

You should hate him.

But instead, you whisper:

“You’re enough for me.”

That’s what breaks you.

Because he’s silent.

Still. Silent.

Not because he doesn’t hear you.

But because he can’t give you the answer you deserve.

You turn away.

Press your face into the pillow he always sleeps on.

The one that smells like him.

The one you’ll wash tomorrow because you have to.

“I should stop doing this to myself,” you whisper.

Oikawa still doesn’t speak.

Because he doesn’t want to lie.

And he doesn’t want to tell the truth either.

He’s good at running.

And you’re too easy to run to.

When you wake up, he’s gone.

Not a note. Not a text. Not even a message from the boy who once said you made the world quieter.

But your pillow’s still warm.

Like he wants to haunt you without being there.

And maybe that’s the most Oikawa Tōru thing of all—

Being wanted by the whole world,

But too afraid to choose the one person

Who would have stayed

Even if he had nothing left.

[maggore]

[ID: A rectangular flag with 5 even wavy stripes, going from the bottom left to top right. It is colored, from left to right, green, very dark brown, warm off-white, dark yellowish green, and light brown. end ID]

Yuletéct (yul-et-ekt)

Neogender umbrella related to, best described by, or otherwise effected by the Corruption from the Magnus Archives, but without the love and relationship elements

Mold

Bugs, particularly bugs associated with rot

Rot and decay

Infection

Collective consciousness

Loss of self / loss of individuality

Infected or rusted medical equipment

Body horror

Terminology

YuckIN — Yuletéct in Nature

Yuletéctine — Equivalent to masculine or feminine

Yuletéctiy — Equivalent to masculinity or femininity

Yuck — General term for someone who is Yuletéct

Usca — A Yuletéct adult

Atus — A Yuletéct minor

Crysrotian — Yuletéct 4 Yuletéct

Bleaian — Galactian alignment

Peroxian — Partial galactian alignment

Cleaner / Mess Maker — Role system terms

Yuletect can also be used for the sake of ease / if you can't access accented characters

Coined on 2/12/2025 | Colors are based on disease, maggots, and dirt | Yuletéct is a combination yuck, saleté (an alternate name for the Corruption), and the suffix ectomy, meaning "surgical removal of" in reference to the medical themes. Usca comes from Musca, after the genus of flies, and Atus comes from Atratus, part of the scientific name for Black Vulture. Crysrotian is just based on the idea of crystal rot, specifically in fossils and minerals. Bleaian and Peroxian are from bleach and hydrogen peroxide respectively, for their use as disinfectants.

(Taglist) @radiomogai @obscurian @horrormogai & @daybreakthing

See also: Revulamour (inspired by the Corruption) and Neovissives (neogender umbrella related to the Fear entities in general)

[mrs-nightshade]

Polish and Rust

(A dandy's world OC fanfic (not my OC))

Au and OC creator; @diggitydoggo

A somewhat continuation of "A Knight's Helm"

Gavin had been "playing dress up", as his sister called it, for a few weeks; building up his self confidence in his armor. Though he'd found that the confidence didn't seem to stick after he took the armor off, it left him feeling exposed and uncomfortable. And now he had quite the conundrum; his armor was starting to rust and he didn't know what to do.

Thankfully his sister, despite thinking what he was doing was silly, could tell how distressed he was about the situation and "borrowed" some rust cleaner and cleaning tools from Tisha, which she had sneakily left by the set of armor one of the few times Gavin wasn't hanging around.

Gavin, despite his annoyance at his sister's theivery, was glad for the assistance with his problem and quickly got to work. He quickly learned how to best apply and scrub the rust cleaner to clean his armor before wiping it off with a dry towel. After thoroughly removing every spot of rust Gavin carefully polished the armor and applied a protective coating so it wouldn't rust so easily again.

Gavin also took some extra time to clean up the joints of the armor so it was more comfortable to wear and possess, it was easier to move around when the joints were cleaned and oiled so they wouldn't squeak. Though even without the squeaky joints Sir Suitor wasn't exactly quiet when he moved, the soft clink of his armor hitting itself in different places and his soft thunking footsteps from the weight of the armor were quite obvious.

Unfortunately, on one of 'Sir Suitor's' first ventures outside of his usual theater his noisyness caused him to be found by a specific toon; Tisha. And never once had Gavin been so thankful for his sister's constant snooping and quick wit for lying as she flew down from the ceiling.

"Heyyy Tisha.... What are you doing down here....?" Connie spoke as she floated down to rest her elbow on Suitor's helmet, acting guilty as she quickly formulated a cover story for her younger brother.

"Cleaning." Tisha spoke bluntly, glancing back and forth from Connie's face to Suitor's. "What, or rather who, is that?" Tisha gestured to Suitor as she addressed Connie.

"Wellll.... I might've, possibly, accidentally... Brought a suit of costume armor to life with my ghost powers...?" Connie looked at Tisha with an obviously forced grin and Tisha looked back at her with disbelief. After a moment Connie continued with a guilty tone. "I named him Suitor..."

"SIR Suitor!" Suitor added boisterously before quieting back down with his hands neatly held in front of himself and his back straight, looking much more confident and comfortable than he felt inside.

Tisha stared in disbelief for a couple more moments before noticing something. "Wait, he looks like he's been polished recently... Is that where my rust remover and cleaning supplies went!!!" Tisha quickly turned her attention back to Connie as she realized that she'd been the one to steal her supplies.

Suitor, thinking quickly, decided to mess with his sister, along with letting his new persona develop more. "Hey! You said you borrowed that, not stole it!" Sir Suitor turned to Connie as he spoke incredulously, crossing his arms and squinting in obvious disapproval.

"Oh pish posh! I planned on giving it back... Maybe..." Connie responded, looking away. She absolutely had not been planning on ever giving those supplies back.

After a little more confusion and bickering Suitor happily retrieved Tisha's cleaning supplies and even helped her carry them up to the main floor once she and Connie had decided to introduce him to the rest of the Toons.

Despite Gavin's stomach doing flips Suitor was surprisingly very calm and even excited to meet the other toons as he followed Tisha and Connie, who were still playfully bickering about Tisha's stolen supplies.

After getting introduced to everyone, making quick friends with many of the other toons, Suitor was set up in, well, in his own room that he'd previously left abandoned. After locking his door Gavin took off his armor and quickly fell asleep, being that social was tiring.

Waking up and getting into his armor Suitor noticed that his joints were a bit creaky, which made sense, it had been a few weeks since he'd properly cleaned and maintenanced his armor. Unfortunately when he checked his appointed maintenance drawer he found that he was just about out of most of his supplies, thankfully he knew exactly where to get more.

"Good morrow, Manor Maid! I am in need of a favor!" Suitor called out to Tisha, who was already grabbing the rust cleaner and other supplies he needed since she'd heard his creaking from down the hall.

"Already on it Sir Suitor, are you sure you don't need any help with the actual maintenance, I am a cleaner after all!" Tisha asked if Suitor needed any help while she handed him the cleaning supplies.

"I'm perfectly fine Manor Maid, although I do not doubt your abilities I don't wish for anyone to clean my armor but me! It is in my knightly duties to keep it in tip top shape myself!" Suitor said as he happily turned to go back to his room, being careful with how he moved to minimize the squeaking and grinding of his joints.

Hope you enjoyed!

[kokonoiis]

negai no astro characters as song lyrics ♡ ( but its biased to my music taste ) ♡

hibaru yotsurugi ﾉ

" cause if boys will be boys, we do the best that we can cover for our brothers while we suffer from our own hands boys will be boys, that's the way that this thing goes mothers lose their sons and their fathers watch them go fathers watch them go "

── boys will be boys | benny

kongo yotsurugi ﾉ

" you can play this at my funeral tell my sister don't cry and don't be sad i'm in paradise with dad close my eyes and then cross my arms put me in the dirt, let me dream with the stars throw me in a box with the oxygen off you gave me the key then you locked every lock when i can't breathe, i won't ask you to stop when i can't breathe, don't call for a cop "

── r.i.p to my youth | the neighbourhood

shio yotsurugi ﾉ

" the power keeps you feeling high, but how low do you sink into your bed at night anchored down with guilt? do you toss and turn from all the bridges you've burned? or are you proud of all the hatred you've earned? a conscience buried deep beneath a heart stuck in a skeleton of greed and eyes that can’t see that happiness is so far out of reach "

── dark storm | our last night

satsuki yotsurugi ﾉ

" here comes the debt collector seems you owe him again dollars and coins can't cut your cheque this time around here comes the debt collector and you owe him again kind words and lies won't save your head this time around, 'round, 'round "

── debt collector | jhariah

( jasper i hope you can see the vision in this one )

torazo yotsurugi ﾉ

" you gotta feel the courage embrace possession if it was easier to shatter everything that ever mattered but it's not, because it's your obsession be a fighter, backbone, desire complicated and it stings but we both know what it means and it's time to get real and inspired "

── cut the cord | shinedown

kuran yotsurugi ﾉ

" i wanna be your vacuum cleaner breathing in your dust i wanna be your ford cortina i will never rust if you like your coffee hot let me be your coffee pot you call the shots, babe i just wanna be yours "

── i wanna be yours | arctic monkeys

kou yotsurugi ﾉ

" 'cuz you see only what you want to your tunnel vision haunts you and you can't see what's wrong and you keep sleeping through the p.m. eyes wide open when you're dreaming you're sleepwalking, just keep talkin and maybe you can talk your way out of this deep end no b plan in your system just tell me what you're thinking i'm scared that you might fall but you're not "

── wake up | eden

terasu yotsurugi ﾉ

" i've dug two graves for us, my dear can't pretend that i was perfect, leavin' you in fear oh man, what a world, the things i hear if i could act on my revenge, no, would i ? some kill, some steal, some break your heart and you thought that i would let it go and let you walk well, broken hearts break bones, so break up fast and i don't wanna let it go, so in my grave, i'll rot "

── revenge | xxxtentacion

kiyochika gido ﾉ

" you're cold on the inside there's a dog in your heart and it tells you to tear everything apart you draw blood just to taste it you hold bones just to break them you ruin everything you touch and destroy anyone you love you're all over me "

── dog teeth | nicole doppleganger

botan ﾉ

" it's so hard to let go you can hear me but i'm invisible but if you dig out your eyes, maybe pain will subside the worst that could happen is you never see me again but the worst is yet to come, my friend "

── hickory creek | whitechapel

shunichiro fudo & kanjiro fudo ﾉ

" two birds of a feather say that they're always gonna stay together but one's never going to let go of that wire he says that he will but he's just a liar two birds on a wire one tries to fly away and the other watches him close from that wire he says he wants to as well, but he is a liar "

── two birds | regina spektor

kinpa yobana ﾉ

" scared of my own image scared of my own immaturity scared of my own ceiling scared i'll die of uncertainty fear might be the death of me fear leads to anxiety don't know what's inside of me "

── doubt | twenty one pilots

──kokonoiis 2024