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takadasaiko · 4 years

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Love Me Twice: Chapter One

FFN II AO3

Story Summary: After saving Tom’s life, Red has a memory specialist attempt to alter the memory of what he found in the DNA test linked to the bones. Something goes wrong in the process that costs Tom 10 years worth of memories. With no recollection of Liz, Agnes, or anything that they’ve all been through, Tom - Jacob Phelps - escapes back to St Regis to recover and resume the career he doesn’t realize that he left.Two and a half years later he is hired by a mystery woman to watch and protect Special Agent Elizabeth Keen from the threats that surround her. It doesn’t take long for him to realize there’s a connection there, and Tom finds himself starting down the path to try to recover his missing memories and rediscover who he had become before he lost them.

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Chapter One

November 2017

He could hear them, the voices fading in and out like the lights overhead. They were quiet muffled and hurried, but he couldn't focus in enough to make out what they were saying.

His mind grappled to hold onto what was happening amidst the pain and the fog that settled around him. At some point everything must have faded away, but he didn't realize it until new voices broke slowly through the haze.

"It's too much of a risk." Quiet. Male. He couldn't be sure if it had been a part of the myriad of voices from earlier. All he knew was that it wasn't a voice that he recognized.

"Perhaps. We're in uncharted territory," another voice chimed in. Also male, but this one accented. Slavic, maybe. He was having a hard enough time focusing on the words. He needed to open his eyes. To see their faces. Maybe he could start piecing together what happened.

"From what I understand, your entire practice is uncharted territory," the first voice snapped quietly. There was a beat of pause and when he spoke again, his tone turned pleading. "We nearly lost him once on the way here and again during surgery. You asked us to save this man."

Tom Keen finally pried his eyes open to try to get a look at the owners of the two voices. He struggled through the telltale signs of heavy pain medication to see three blurred figures instead of two. One turned towards him and Tom blinked hard to try to bring him into focus. He was missing his contacts, but by squinting a little he was able to make out an all too familiar face and the owner of the third voice he was yet to hear until now. "Thank you, Andrei. We'll hold off for now," Raymond Reddington told a man with dark hair, the dismissal clear, and he waited until he was on his way out before he turned back to Tom. "Hello."

"Where…?" he tried, but his voice was rough, his throat so raw that the single word sent him into a coughing fit. His left side felt like it was on fire, the pain cutting through the medication, and suddenly there was a cup with a straw in front of his face.

"Easy," the first voice - the quieter one. East Coast, but not DC. Maybe Connecticut? - said and Tom finally managed to focus on the man offering the water. Mid forties and in a white coat, he looked like he might be a doctor. "We just removed the tube this morning. You're likely to have quite a sore throat. Drink this."

Tom took a careful sip, wincing as he did, but it helped ease the scratchiness in his throat. "Where am I?" he pressed, the pain helping to focus him now that it was starting to recede.

"Thank you, Dr Chen," Reddington said. "I'll handle his questions."

The doctor - Chen - turned a wary look on Reddington. "He needs rest."

Reddington flashed that irritatingly charming smile. "This won't take long."

Chen lingered for just a moment before moving past Reddington, leaving Tom alone with the man he'd spent the last couple months investigating. Once the doctor was gone, a pair of clear blue eyes turned back to him. "Good morning, Tom."

"Where am I? How long have I been out?"

Reddington pushed a short breath out through his nose. "A private facility. It's been a week. I wouldn't do that."

Tom was in the process of shifting, hoping to prop himself up a little more, but he didn't make it that far. Instead he grit his teeth and had to let the new wave of pain pass.

"You were injured," Reddington's voice cut through. "Do you remember how?"

He was pushing that for some reason. There were no long, drawn out stories. No lecture or monologue. He was direct, which meant there was something important there. Tom could piece together that much, but he was having trouble catching hold of his fractured memories to find something that made sense.

"Tom, I need you to focus," Reddington prodded, his voice surprisingly patient.

"The lights," Tom managed, squeezing his eyes shut. Lights and voices, but there was something before that. Right. What he'd been investigating. The bones that Mr Kaplan had sent. The bones, the train station, the men that had broken into their home... Then it hit him. Between the attack and the lights. That's what he was missing. "Liz couldn't keep her eyes open." He opened his own again, his focus a little sharper. "Where is she? Where's my wife?"

Reddington didn't answer that question, and Tom didn't like the tenseness that settled over him. The slight twitch of his lips, the way his brow creased, and as Tom studied him he couldn't help but see how tired the older man looked. It wasn't like Reddington was losing sleep over him, so that left one person.

Tom cleared his throat painfully. "I'm not an idiot, Reddington. She's alive. If she weren't, you and I both know I wouldn't be here. I'm not worth anything to you alive unless she made it."

There was another long pause and the machine to Tom's right beeped, drawing Reddington's gaze. "She's alive," he said noncommittally. "And safe."

"Where is my wife?" Reddington continued to watch the machine, the steady sounds all that was filling the otherwise silent room. He was stalling. "Hey." Tom waited until he turned to look at him again. "I want to see her."

"In time," Reddington answered, his lips turning down again. "What do you remember about the men that attacked you and Elizabeth?"

"That they were after your secret," Tom said pointedly. "The one I told you would get us hurt."

Reddington snorted, shaking his head. "Your inability to let something that had nothing to do with you go is why you're hurt, Tom. I'm the reason you're both still alive."

The younger man winced, the foggy feeling he'd woken to creeping back up on him. "You want gratitude for saving our lives, fine, but I'm not lying to her for you. I'm not keeping your secret from her. She deserves to… deserves to know."

"We'll see about that," Reddington answered tightly and turned.

Tom tried to call after him, but he couldn't seem to force the words. Instead he felt like he was being pulled underwater. Somewhere in the back of his mind it clicked that the machine by the bedside that Reddington had been so fascinated with had pushed a new dose of painkillers through. He'd known Tom wouldn't be awake long, or even be able to argue back. But he couldn't keep him under forever, and he had no way to turn the clock back to rebury that secret that Tom had discovered. It was a matter of time until he was on his feet again. Once he was he would find Liz. Reddington couldn't keep them separated forever.

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Chen was speaking quietly to Dembe as he left the room, but split off to go check on his patient as Reddington brushed past him. He could feel Dembe's dark gaze lingering on him as he moved past. Dembe fell into step behind him, both men making their way down the short hall. "He is not going to let this go."

Red made a small sound of acknowledgement. "He's stubborn. He comes by it naturally enough."

"So is she," the younger man responded as they rounded into the private room just down from Tom and Reddington's gaze fell on the woman lying in the bed.

He had started to put precautions into place as soon as he realized things were spiraling out of control. A call to a well-connected business associate that was both discrete and had owed him a favour or five had landed him with the option of faking both Elizabeth and her husband's deaths to take them into hiding and away from the threat until he could regain control of it. He hadn't been able to move Elizabeth though. Not immediately. Not without risking her life. She hadn't been the one that Reddington's enemies had been after. They thought the connection was Tom, which gave Red some room to breathe when it came to Elizabeth's safety. He had had to make a judgement call when it came to her husband though, and Tom hadn't been in any condition to weigh in. Not that his judgement had been particularly sound lately. If he'd just left that damn suitcase alone, they wouldn't be in this mess.

But they were in this mess and the body double in the morgue would buy Reddington time. Time he needed for damage control. He needed to focus on getting the bones back and making sure Elizabeth came back to them. He didn't have time to babysit Tom Keen and his misguided, shortsighted desire to put everything out on the table.

"She is," Reddington answered Dembe, his gaze locked on Elizabeth. She was so still. The doctors couldn't tell him when - if- she would wake up. The surgery had been counted a success, but she hadn't come out of it yet. He needed to make sure that Tom remained quiet about what he knew when she did. Part of Reddington knew he had caused himself more trouble by saving him, but as he looked down at Elizabeth he remembered the way she had fought for her husband. The way she loved him, if Tom deserved it or not. It would shatter her to lose him now, and she had suffered enough.

"Had he told her?"

That finally pulled his attention around. "He was on his way to tell her what he found," Reddington murmured thoughtfully, "but I don't believe he had a chance to, no."

A long since stretched and Reddington turned back to Elizabeth, reaching down to tuck a strand of dark hair back, not quite able to put it behind her ear with the way the breathing tube was secured.

"It would be better coming from you," Dembe said after a long moment.

"So you've said."

"It is better than either of the alternative options."

"Hardly," Reddington huffed and shook his head. "I could negotiate peace between some of the most ruthless that our world has seen, but he truly thinks he's protecting her. If he refuses to budge, Andrei will be ready. He studied under Krilov. Let's hope he's as talented as his mentor with less of an inclination to betray me."

"Even if Andrei is able to remove the memories, it won't stop him. A blank space will only send him searching again."

"Oh no. He'll replace them with something… less damning." He stepped forward, reaching out for Elizabeth's hand that laid still against the sheets. He ran his thumb along her knuckles, brows drawn together and a grimace pulling at his lips. "We'll give Tom a week or two to regain some of his strength before the procedure. If Elizabeth wakes up first, we'll handle it, but if not, she'll have her husband back without either of them the wiser. It's best for everyone."

He could almost hear Dembe's disagreement in his silence, but the younger man didn't vocalize it again. It was a waste of time and energy for a subject that Reddington considered closed. There was little point in trying to convince Tom to choose the right course of action. This was the only play he could see that would work out for everyone involved.

----------

It was like starting over at the beginning, grappling for memories he was certain he had gotten ahold of the last time he had resurfaced. He thought they came back a little quicker each time though. It was tough to say with the heavy curtains pulled closed over the single window and no clock visible from the bed he was confined to.

Tom shifted, gritting his teeth as he forced himself up on his elbows, feeling the pull of the wound in his left shoulder and the knife wounds along his left side just before it collapsed under him, sending him falling hard against the pillows. He laid there a moment, fighting against the pain and the dark spots that threatened his vision. It took a moment before they cleared and he blinked hard.

No one came into the room. Tom was relatively sure that the last time he had tried to sit up that one of the doctors or nurses had appeared out of nowhere to force him back down against the pillows and dosed him with enough painkillers that he couldn't even think about trying again for…. well, however long it had been since they'd done it. Not this time though, and he knew he needed to take advantage of the lax security while he could.

Everything screamed in protest as he tried again, this time focusing more of his weight against his right arm rather than his injured left. He could still feel the pull of the stitches, but he breathed through it, finally managing to prop himself up in the bed.

He sat there for a long moment, listening and catching his breath. He was already exhausted, but that didn't matter. It couldn't matter when this could be the one chance he had to find Liz. Reddington was keeping them apart, likely to try to keep his secret just a little longer, but Tom wasn't willing to wait.

He sucked in as deep of a breath as he dared and pushed the covers back, freeing up his legs so he could swing them over the side of the bed. There was an instant pull that stopped him, and it took him a moment to piece together that he was still tethered to the equipment. The IV in his arm, the heart monitor attached to his finger, the tube resting against his nose to push oxygen through….he started with that. It was what was holding him halfway to the bed.

Tom balanced as best he could, one leg over the side of the bed and trying not to turn at an angle that would aggravate his injuries any more than necessary. It took a couple of clumsy tries, but eventually he pulled the clear tube free and tossed it against the pillow. He reached over as carefully as he could, one long finger finally pressing against the power button on the monitor, shutting it off to buy him some time at least as he unhooked the IV and shed unclipped the monitor.

Fully free, he tried his luck at standing. He balanced for half a second before he felt his knees threaten to give way and Tom braced himself against the bed. Okay. That seemed to do the trick.

It wasn't until he made it to the door of the room - taking much longer than he would have liked - that he realized why he hadn't already been shuffled into bed. Not only did it appear to be sometime in the middle of the night, but Reddington hadn't taken him to a hospital. Or, if he had, he certainly wasn't there now.

Tom's room was at the end of a short hall and he moved slowly down it, bracing himself as he did. There was a room across the way, not nearly as far as it felt, and he stopped at the door to catch his breath as the floor felt like it might tip out from under him. One breath in, out, and then repeat. After several long moments he felt himself steady a little more and he reached a trembling hand for the door handle and pushed against it.

The door swung open and he could hear the sound of a respirator pushing air into someone's lungs before he could muster the energy and the will to look inside. He blinked hard, eyes struggling to focus on Liz sleeping in the bed. No, not sleeping. That made it sound too peaceful. And you didn't have a tube shoved down your throat to help you breathe when you were sleeping. Unconscious. She was unconscious.

He swallowed hard, steeling himself for the steps between the door frame that he was latched onto and her bed. Finally, he pushed himself off of it, limping his way over, and barely made it to her bedside before one knee gave out underneath him. He leaned heavily against the bed, his fingers searching out hers.

It wasn't that he'd expected her to squeeze back, but the fact that her fingers remained limp as his curled around sapped what little strength he'd held onto and he sank down on the edge of the bed. He pulled her hand up to his chapped lips, pressing a kiss to it. "I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely. "This wasn't what… I'm so sorry, Lizzie."

She didn't answer him and he squeezed his eyes closed, exhaustion finally winning out as he curled up next to her on the narrow bed, never letting go of the hand in his.

----------

He had gotten a call in the middle of the night to tell him that Tom had somehow slipped the alarms that should have sounded the moment he detached them and made it to Elizabeth's room. Reddington had expected the doctor or perhaps even Dembe to have moved him back to his own room, but when he did arrive at the facility he found Tom Keen still curled next to Elizabeth.

"Dr Lomay believed he would be more comfortable there until morning."

Reddington turned back to fix a frustrated look on Dembe. "Dr Lomay doesn't know what's at stake," he countered, his voice quiet. After a moment he loosed a long breath. "He won't give up."

"Raymond-"

"It has to be done." His gaze remained fixed on the sleeping, injured couple. "Lomay and Chen are at the top of their fields. They'll get him through."

"And if they don't? How much is this worth?"

"Everything," Reddington breathed and shook his head. "She can't know what he found. There'd be no stopping her. This guarantees that it won't matter. Get Andrei here. This can't wait."

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He woke up in his own bed. Well, his own hospital bed. It would have been a relief to have woken up in his own bed in his own home with his wife next to him and their daughter in the next room over. He would have rolled over, wrapping an arm around Liz as she grumbled in her sleep about it being too early. Tom would have agreed as he pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades and let himself drift back to sleep for a little while longer. A late start to a Saturday morning that would turn into bacon and eggs for Liz and cinnamon pancakes for him and Agnes with this nightmare put behind them. No bones, no attack. Just them and their family and their life.

"Mr Keen, I need you to keep your eyes open for me."

Tom groaned loudly as the accented voice pulled him out of the half-dream and back to the nightmare of a reality. Definitely a hospital bed.

The owner of the voice leaned into his line of sight. "There you are, Mr Keen."

"Where's Liz?" His words felt heavy against his tongue and it took a considerable amount of effort to look up. He could feel the pressure of something against his forehead as he did, and he caught a glimpse of wires out of the corner of his eye. What the hell was going on?

"Do you know where you are?" the doctor - Tom could only assume he was a doctor - asked.

"He didn't tell me that."

"Who didn't?"

"Your boss. Reddington."

The doctor jotted something down on a pad of paper. "Do you remember what happened?"

A wave of pain hit, pulling a grunt from him as Tom tried to think through it. "We were attacked."

"Why?"

"They were after something."

"What were they after?"

"I don't know."

"Think hard, Mr Keen."

"Where's Liz? Where's my wife?"

"She's safe."

"She wouldn't wake up."

"Sir," a woman's voice sounded from Tom's left and the doctor leaned in to look past him towards a beeping noise that seemed to be speeding up with every breath he took.

Tom reached up, catching the man by the wrist with his right hand. "Please. My wife."

The doctor's lips quirked up at the corners, but it wasn't quite reassuring. More placating. "You'll be able to see her as soon as we're done here, that I promise you. But first, why were you attacked?"

Dark blue eyes slipped closed as he forced himself to think through the fog that always accompanied painkillers. The men in the house. The one that had killed Lena and Pete. He'd stabbed him before taking…

"Bones," Tom coughed out and he met the doctor's eyes, holding that gaze defiantly. "Tell Reddington it doesn't matter how many times he drags me out of her room, I'm not keeping his secret."

The doctor sighed. "Let's take it to the next level."

"Sir, his vitals -"

"We have our instructions."

Tom pulled his gaze around to see a nurse pushing dark liquid into his IV. His question was cut short as it flowed through and burnedas it hit his vein. He dragged a sharp, painful breath into his lungs, eyes wide, and the world pulsed before he was plunged back into darkness.

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Reddington had lost track of how many times that he had read the same line on the same page of the book in his hands. He wasn't worried, of course. Not that he'd even admit to himself. Just… distracted. By everything. Elizabeth slept on with no change in her bed as Andrei worked to dig into Tom Keen's memories and find the right thread to pull in order to replace it. It could be done. That much had been proven by Krilov if nothing else.

A loud, shrill sound startled him from his thoughts and Reddington popped to his feet, the book more forgotten than it had been even a moment before. Dr Lomay nearly took him off his feet at the door leading to the hallway as she bolted past, circling into Tom's room and shouting at Andrei. What the hell did he give him?

Red's footsteps were heavy, echoing in his own ears with the voices fading to the background as he moved to get a better view of what was happening.

The room was in motion as Lomay shoved Andrei out of the way, checking Tom's IV. Lizzie's husband convulsed in the bed, the seizure causing his back to arch and his limbs to twitch violently. The doctor pushed a vial of liquid that Reddington didn't recognize into the IV and stepped back. She looked like she was barely breathing for one beat, then another. Finally Tom stilled, collapsing back against the bed limply, his head lulled away so that Reddington couldn't see if he had somehow managed to retain consciousness through the whole episode.

"Get rid of this," Lomay growled, motioning to the equipment already half pulled from Tom's head.

Andrei shot her an offended look. "We were within parameters."

"Don't bullshit me. You were desperate to make it work." She turned an accusing look on Red, the words clear if she never uttered them: So were you. Instead she pulled in a steading breath. "Call Dr Chen and get them out of here if you want to give him even a chance to live."

Reddington motioned and Andrei and his nurse scurried out. "Anything you need, Melissa."

"For you to let me do my job," she snapped and Red nodded as he watched her move around Tom in precise but hurried motions.

He couldn't admit it - he didn't dare - but in that moment he wondered if he'd just cost Elizabeth her husband's life.

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TBC

Next Time: Dr Lomay assesses the damage done by the failed memory manipulation and Tom Jacob Phelps is not thrilled that no one will give him a straight answer about what happened to him.

Notes: This story has been a long time in the making. I came up with the idea in in April 2019, wrote about a chapter's worth, and then shelved it. And, honestly, I'm glad I did, because S7 cracked open a lot of the twists and turns I needed to really make this story work. So here we are.

Buckle up, friends. It's going to be a wild ride.

#the blacklist #blacklist fanfiction #Tom Keen #Elizabeth Keen #raymond reddington #Dembe Zuma #Love Me Twice

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darksunrising · 5 years

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Sola Gratia (12/?)

Masterlist

Rating / Warnings : Nothing in particular.

Fandom : Bram Stoker’s Dracula, BBC’s Dracula, various Dracula and vampire lore.

Part 12/? (3386 words)

Author’s notes : Final episode of the second act, part one ! Those episodes will be longer than the others, hope you’ll like them either way !

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

It was a strange feeling, watching over the kettle as a very tense immortal was sitting on my couch, seemingly engaged in a vicious battle of looks with my cat, himself sitting on the end of the bar. At least, his attention wasn't focused on the very pink dressing robe I slipped into as soon as I got inside. Leah bought it for me as a joke, but it was actually very comfortable. Vlad didn't comment on it, but I caught him hiding a laugh with a cough when I came out of my room, wrapped in it.

“Do you drink tea ? I mean, I know what you drink, but can you even drink or eat normal things, for all that matter ?”

“Eating regular food males me sick”, he answered, still fixated on the animal rather than me. “I can, however, enjoy a drink or two.”

“Good.”

I got two mismatched cups – the only ones available –, and filled them both. I handed him one, which finally had him turn his attention to me. His cool fingers brushed against mine as he took it.

“Careful, it's hot.”

“Half an hour ago, you accused me of multiple murders, and now you worry I might burn myself ?”, he laughed.

I sat on the other end of the couch, sneering at him. He had a point. I stared at my cup, bobbing the tea bag as if it made any difference.

“I am far from complaining, but why did you invite me in ?”

I tried finding my words, remaining silent a moment. He didn't press, politely waiting for an answer, giving intermittent looks to the cat.

“I... Haven't slept in days, Vlad.” I started, fighting against tears welling up. “Every time I close my eyes, I see them. I find myself jumping at every noise, every shadow in the corner of my eye, I-”

I only noticed how much my hands were shaking when he took my cup, and set it on the table along with his.

“When I believed it was you, I had at least the hope that you wouldn't hurt me, or Leah, or someone I care about. Now I...” I took a pause to take a breath. “I'm terrified.”

I risked a look. His brow was furrowed, but he had a little smile.

“If you let me in for that reason, you really must be desperate.”

I tried to laugh, but it got caught in my throat.

“Eris, you have to go to sleep. MINA tried to scare you. For all you know, they could have lied to make you talk.” He took my hand in his. “I am surprised, but glad you did not.”

He leaned over to catch my gaze. A feeling of peace washed over me as I looked into his eyes. I wondered if he could do that. Manipulate my emotions, just like that. I didn't have the time to wonder for long, as he suddenly picked me up in his arms. I had a squeal of surprise, and threw my arms around his neck as a reflex.

“Vlad, what-”

“You need a good night of sleep, you look less alive than I do.”

His tone was firm, but still tainted by amusement. “Well, that's ironic. And I don't need to be carried, I can still walk !” My protests were only met with a grin.

“I know, but I can hear your heartbeats, and I like to have my fun.”

I felt my cheeks burning up instantly. He stepped into my room, and laid me down on my bed. I slipped under the covers and he sat next to me, glancing around in the semi darkness. As soon as the sun set, I never turned off the set of fairy lights running across the walls, bathing the room in an ultraviolet light. His shirt was glowing, and I couldn't help but wonder what his teeth would look like.

“Can you tell me a story ?”, I asked.

He smiled, brushed a few strands of hair out of my face. My heart stopped a second, while he seemed to think a moment.

“Did I ever tell you about my first voyage into the New World ?”, he began. I shook my head, while he kept softly running his hands through my hair.

He did have a talent for narration. His voice was soothing, and as the story went on, I found myself drifting, along the waves surrounding the frigate, the wind in the sails, the first cries of seagulls as they reached the shore. He talked softly at first, but was soon caught in his own tale, and I couldn't help but smile at the passion in his tone. He started to fade, and I rested my eyes, just a second.

~ ~ ~

A familiar smell dragged me out of my sleep, and I blinked off my drowsiness, slowly sitting up. After a glance at my phone, I noticed it was already past 10am. Most sleep than I had in the whole week. I stood up, and turned off the fairy lights. Stumbling to my living room, I was surprised to not hear my cat's screaming, but a cheerful, definetly human chatter.I found Vlad sitting behind the bar, and Leah, at the stove, flipping pancakes, her hair shining like pale gold under the sunlight.

“Hah, told you food would wake her up”, she told Vlad, smiling. “Grab a plate, honey, you'll need strength for today !”

“What's today ?”, I asked, a bit confused.

“Renaissance faire, don't tell me you forgot !”

Ah, right. I had to admit some of the recent events took my mind off it. It might be a good distraction, now that I thought about it. I sat at the bar, and thanked Leah as she put a pile of warm pancakes on my plate, handing me a bottle of maple syrup, and a cup of steaming coffee.

“Well, good thing Vlad has a better memory than you, because apparently, he picked up some outfits”, Leah told me as she finished up her batch.

Oh no. That wasn't good.

“Can't we just go like that ?”, I asked, delving into the breakfast. As always, it was amazing, the absolute perfect balance in taste and fluffiness, an just warm enough. God, I had to marry her at some point.

“Are you kidding ?”, she indignated herself. “No way. Finish up and we're dressing up.”

Vlad was quietly laughing, and I gave him a killer look, to which he only responded with a wink. With a glance around the room, I noticed two large leather suitcases, probably holding the outfits. As soon as I was half done, Leah excitedly dragged me back to my room, as Vlad helped bring the suitcases in. He then left, closing the door.

“Ooh, this is going to be so much fun !”, she exclaimed, opening the first case. “This is yours, and the other is mine. We'll do you first, come on, get naked !”

I sighed, knowing protests wouldn't do much of anything when she was in that sort of mood. She threw an embroidered, white linen chemise, that she insisted I wore no bra with, because “the corset will do the job fine”. For fuck's sake, corsets. I glanced at the wooden box on my desk, holding the gun. As soon as this was done, I would shoot him.

The corset wasn't so bad, to be fair. Leah took care of lacing it loosely enough so that I wouldn't faint at the first occasion, and the back support actually made it comfortable. Dressing up in the whole thing was pretty fun, even with the struggle of lacing up everything, making sure the many layers sat right in place and the overall weight of the whole costume. The fabrics were soft, finely threaded, the silk shifting colors and patterns in the light. If they weren't “originals”, they had to have cost more than a year of my doctorate scholarship. If they were, well, as a historian, I had to say they were pretty much invaluable. Not an edge frayed, a thread misplaced. They looked almost brand new, yet I was certain none of the sewing was done by machine.

“This is great, where do you think he even found those ? Do you think those are reproductions, for his work ?”, she asked as she did my hair.

“I... Maybe. That would make sense. He must have picked them up while he was back in Romania.” God, I hope it was that, and not a dress from someone he ate back in the 16th century.

Trying not to think too much about it, I helped Leah get into her dress. I had to say, he had some taste. Hers had an overall pastel tone, in blues and greens, the hem of the skirt embroidered with small flowers, climbing like vines along the slits in the fabric, revealing a pale silver-ish blue silk underskirt. She looked absolutely radiant, and I took some time braiding her hair up, leaving strands here and there. She could have been a flower nymph. I was a bit more surprised by the color scheme he chose for me. The dress was in a rich golden tone, patterned in arabesques and embroidered in dark red thread. In a small box, I found pearl necklaces, hairpieces and earrings. Fuck, he went all the way into this. I mean, being immortal had to do wonders for your bank account, but still.

“Come on, I'm going first, I wanna see the look on his face when he sees you!”

Not leaving me the luxury of protesting, she slipped away, leaving me to put on the shoes he picked for me. Covered with silk, embroidered in gold thread, and, to my demise, heels. Not that high, but he still broke his damn promise. Can't trust men on anything. Leah called me over, and I sighed, preparing myself mentally. It was way more complicated to walk in this than the 19th century skirt – which I kept, after a trip to the dry cleaner's –. I glanced at the box on my desk again. I opened the lid, considering the ornate weapon a moment. I had no guarantee that this would even work. I had no reason to distrust Vlad at this point, not much more than before, anyway. However, if I was right, if MINA was right on at least the nature of the murderer running free... Fumbling around to find the slit in my underskirt, I slipped the gun in the large pocket attached inside. Now that I thought about it, it was rather infuriating that period clothing had more pocket space than our modern stuff, and they didn't even have smartphones to carry around.

When I stepped in the living room, Vlad had changed in his own outfit. Mostly black, with navy blue and silver highlights in embroidery. Across his chest, a livery collar bearing the enameled sigil of House Draculesti, and the Wallachian coat of arms. He had a soft “Ah” when he saw me, and didn't say anything for a while. I flattened the pleats of the skirt, nervously waiting for some kind of comment.

“Well ?”, Leah asked him, a mischievous smile on her lips. He seemed to finally snap out of it, taking a breath as if he had been holding it.

“This is fine. I'm glad it suits you”, he told me after clearing his throat. “Although, it misses something.”

He picked up a box on the table, handing it to me. I opened it to find what could only be described as the most dramatic statement necklace I'd ever seen in my damn life. The center piece was a red stone, the size of a small plum, encased in intricate gold work, and surrounded by pearls and other smaller stones. The rest of it was other stones, bound together by gold chains and pearls.

“What the fuck”, I couldn't help but breathe out.

Vlad took it out of the box, slipped behind me, and set it on my chest, the cool metal against my skin sending a shiver down my spine.

“Believe it or not, it was my mother's”, he told me as he worked the clasp.

“Vlad, are those real ?”, I enquired, containing a nervous laughter.

“Depends on how nervous my answer will make you.”

He had to think this was hilarious. Fucking rich people, I swear. “Very nervous.”

“They are fake, then.”

As he left, he negligently had a hand trail along my back. Leah obviously noticed, as I saw her eyes glimmering with evil intent from across the room.

“Now that we all are hot and ready, we should get going ! I don't wanna miss the joust !”, she exclaimed.

Of course, there would be a joust. I didn't even look at the program. I bid goodbye to Zardoz, burying my face into his fluffy belly, while ignoring his meows of protest, and we all left. I was almost expecting Vlad to have traded his Jaguar for a horse-drawn carriage at this point. He disappointedly did not, and Leah dragged me into the backseat. The whole drive to the small town, Leah told us about the programmed activities from a leaflet she printed out, giving us the very strict schedule she came up with so that we wouldn't miss anything.

While she exposed her thorough research, I let my eyes drift along the countryside's landscape. Even if we were still early in the year, most trees had regained their leaves. The sky was a pale blue, and if the air was a bit chilly, given how many layers of clothing we were wearing, that wasn't so bad. Vlad had even prepared capes for the evening, which was weirdly thoughtful.

I only went a few times to the city we were headed for. It was built around the 13th century, and most of the buildings ranged from that time to the 17th century. It was rather small, isolated, on top of a hill, which was pretty impressive in the overall flat landscape. About two or three times a year, they hosted medieval themed gatherings, encouraging people to come in costume, or rent some. Most of the town's activity was artisanal, and the main income was through tourism, which was fairly well developed. Going there truly felt like going back in time, as they made a big deal of using as little modern technology as possible, to give the “most authentic medieval experience of the country”. As such, it was an almost unavoidable checkpoint for every medieval history student in my university, and trips were organized every year, for the midsummer fest. I actually dreaded meeting some of my students today. I knew I would get no peace for months if I was spotted wearing that outfit.

We stopped a little outside the city, in a dedicated parking lot. There was a little train to make the rest of the way, all in favor of authenticity. That bothered Vlad a little, and he ranted about how if they wanted historical accuracy, they should have brought a hay cart and horses, that steam-powered locomotives were only invented well into the 18th century. When Leah told him this train was actually electric, he let out an outraged scoff. Oh, he was going to be unbearable the whole day, wasn't he ?

We took the historically incorrect train, getting some compliments from the crew, themselves in costume. I think they assumed we were actors hired by the city, which Leah played into with enthusiasm. She got used to her attire pretty quick, including the heels, which was much more than I could say for myself. As we went onto the cobblestone streets, she had no trouble trotting about, I had to hold onto Vlad's arm not to risk breaking an ankle, which seemed to delight him. I couldn't say I completely hated it either.

Every time we crossed a group of actors, we chatted a bit, and he spent the ten minutes following each encounter pointing out the inaccuracies in their costumes. He punctuated it with anecdotes of his time in Italy in the 1550s, which had Leah think he was really into character. When he talked about his affair with a Leonardo da Vinci, she burst out laughing, and he gave me a sideway glance, perfectly knowing I couldn't lose my mind until we were alone. It seemed like he had done everything, witnessed every historical moment from the day he died to the 19th century. According to what he had told me, his assassination attempt had him miss most of the 1900s, including both World Wars, which he was pretty pissed about when he finally rose again in 1953.

Even if he complained about details, I could tell he genuinely enjoyed the occasion. The way he carried himself inspired confidence, a hand on the pommel of his sword, the other arm focused on helping me stay in a relatively upright position. I got used to the shoes faster than I thought, but kept on pretending to be terribly at risk. I think he knew, but still kept playing into it.

At around noon, we arrived at the jousting lists, which took place underneath the city walls. Even Vlad had pretty much nothing to say against it, but then again, he hadn't made a comment in a while, only focusing on entertaining us with his anecdotes. Against the walls, they had built stands and placed chairs and benches. A couple, posing as King and Queen, were seated in a podium, a bit higher than the rest. Vlad suddenly excused himself, telling us to take a seat without him. Before he left, he handed me a fine square of silk, embroidered in red and gold. I took it, confused, but before I could ask for explanations, Leah caught my arm and dragged me off. Suspecting she was somehow in on this, I took a seat, keeping my eyes peeled for any incoming fuckery.

“So, apparently, this is actual jousting”, Leah told me, reading a pamphlet she picked up at the reception booth earlier.

“What do you mean, actual jousting ?”

“There's an equestrian center near here that has a jousting program, this doubles as a competition”, she clarified, visibly excited. “Not that there's a lot of them, but some of the contenders are coming from all over Europe, from what that thing says ! That's why I didn't want to miss it !”

Well, this faire surely took off in the last couple of years. Now that I thought about it, historical reenactment was getting pretty popular, these days. I couldn't help but worry, though, knowing how many horrific jousting accidents there had been in history, killing nobodies and Kings alike. Trumpets announced the beginning of the tournament, and the crowd started cheering. The bleachers were full, and a lot of people were standing on the sidelines to watch the show. An announcer started a little presentation, confirming that the jousting would not be acting, but an actual professional competition. Contenders came from Germany, Hungary, Italy and Switzerland, which didn't surprise me all that much, given the overall enthusiasm for medieval history in those countries.

The first contenders arrived, in full armor, their horses pawing at the ground, raising clouds of dust. They passed each other a few times, just for show, then were given their lances. Under the raging cheers of the crowd, they spurred their horses, and rammed into each other's shields a first time, went around, and back again. This time, one was thrown off his mount, his opponent's lance breaking in the process, and crashed into the sand in a clatter of metal. The victor raised the remains of his spear under the acclamations of the public.

A couple of more contenders confronted each other, sporting their country's colors. At some point, however, a rider came into the field, mounted on a dark horse, wearing a dark armor, which I didn't take long to recognize. Blackened iron, gilded, and chiseled, battle-worn, but still gloriously shining under the midday sun. On the chest piece, stylized, the very recognizable coat of arms of House Draculesti of Wallachia.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

Taglist : @carydorse @angelicdestieldemon @bloodhon3yx @thewondernanazombie @battocar @moony691 @mjlock @thebeautyofdisorder @festering-queen @paracosmfantasy @lost-girl-inc

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sharperthewriter · 5 years

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Chapter 11 of Stoppable Family Vacation

Chapter 11 - Day 1: Rambling On

Kim then knocked on the door.

"Aunt Ednel! Can I come in! It's me, one of your niece-in-laws, Kim Stoppable?"

Ednel was in her early 50s and had black hair and blue eyes. She tied her hair back in a ponytail. She was wearing a long-sleeved black shirt, a truckers hat that had the American flag on it, and, like her daughter, was also wearing dark denim men's overalls that were slightly too big for her. To make things more awkward for Kim, she intentionally had the hooks go up and down against the buttons.

She had been divorced from her husband for eight years now because of an extra-marital affair.

"Come in, dear!" Ednel insisted,"And can you bring Ronald and the kids in too? I'll get Wilbur!"

"I'll certainly call them!" Kim replied. She came through the back door of the house and then travel thru the kitchen to get to the front.

"Ron, you can bring in the kids now!" she called out to her husband.

"Okay, KS!" Ron said as he instructed his kids to go into the house.

_ Ednel went into the room where Wilbur Donna was at. He was in his mid 80s and wearing a button-down shirt and brown pants that sometimes fall down to his ankles. His hair was thinning gray. He was the father of Ron's mom. The only other Stoppable grandparent that was alive at the time was Grandma Josephine Stoppable on his dad's side and she too was in her mid 80s.

"I'm coming down..." Wilbur replied in a shaky voice, "Is it Reginald who's here?"

"No, Dad! It's actually your grandson, Ron!" Ednel replied, "Reginald was the grandfather on his dad's side who passed away two years ago!"

"Oh yes...the grandson that loses his pants all the time." Wilbur replied, and, as he stood up, his pants fell down, showing off his Depends.

"Dad...there are young children here. I would suggest to you to put a belt on!" Ednel warned him.

"You don't tell me what to do..." Wilbur crankily said, "I am your father, you know!"

Ednel grunted. "Sure you do!"

Wilbur shuffled around with his pants down around his ankles for a belt.

Ednel sighed, Someday, I'm going to have to put him in a home.

All the Stoppables, Rufus, Ednel, and Mary were at the dining room table.

"So when is Canna going to be here?" Kim asked to Mary.

"She's expected to come here within the next few minutes." Mary said.

"Did you run into any incidents along the way, dear?" Ednel questioned while sipping on her coffee.

"Ron accidentally locked Justin in the van...again..." Kim replied.

"Those khakis had a defective belt loop!" Ron countered, "I am going to have to take them back to Smarty-Mart!"

"So what's with the...shed...over there?" Kim asked while sipping on her glass of water, referring to the other structure.

"Oh that? That is our pot farm!" Ednel replied, her right buckle slipping off the bib of her overalls.

Rufus squeaked the word, "Pot?"

Kim nearly spat out her water upon hearing that before she swallowed it.

"I thought that was illegal under federal law!" she exclaimed, putting the glass down.

"It still is, yes." Ednel replied calmly, "But it's left up to the states and, as you know, it's legal to grow pot in Colorado, both recreational and medicinal!"

"Has been since 2014!" Mary added.

"I tell you, Kim..." Ednel said, "...people are changing their minds on weed!"

"But doesn't it...?" Kim asked before Ednel cut her off again.

"Weed can lessen exteme pain!"Ednel replied on the benefits, "Stoners are usually easygoing and funny unlie those cocaine and ecstasy users."

Kim was getting a little impatient, "Aunt Ednel, I would love to stay for three hours for an anti-drug lecture, but we have to hit the road pretty soon. We are on a very tight schedule."

"Okay, but be sure to take Mary and..."Ednel began before Canna arrived with her suitcase.

She was a young woman in her early 20s wearing a purple top, silver hoop earrings, and, like her best friend, was also wearing one-strap dark denim baggy overalls that were slighly too big for her 120-lb frame. Unlike her best friend, she also wore combat boots tucked into the overalls.

"Hey, Canna!" Mary exclaimed excitedly.

"Hey, girl, what's up?" Canna asked while hugging her BFF.

"Not much, girl. I'm ready to try and eat as much tofu at the Lipskys as you!" Canna said.

Observing how the two young women were wearing their overalls, Kim decided to unhook the right strap of her leather overalls and leave the left one hooked up. Of course, the only downside is that, being that they were quite baggy, the left strap may slip off her shoulder. The metal undone strap buckle clinked against the chair.

"Wow! KS? Are you going wild?" Ron questioned with a smirk.

"Maybe...maybe not!" Kim giggled, "As long as the overalls do not fall off my..." Then she looked at her kids, making sure to watch her language. "...rear."

"You got everything packed?" Canna asked.

"Sure I do! Just lemme get my birkenstocks and moccsasins and we'll be ready to go!" Mary said before Wilbur interrupted.

"We have to hurry in order to make it to Bueno Nacho!" Ron said, looking at the time on his watch.

"Ewwww...I don't wanna eat there!" Mary whined.

"Why not?!" Ron questioned.

"Huh?" Rufus squeaked.

"Mary and Canna are both extreme vegans." Canna replied. "We don't eat or drink anything that comes from animals."

"Ah, that's explainable." Ron admitted.

Wilbur came to the table slowly shuffling along with his cane and said, "And that reminds me of the time that I bought the very first television set for the Stoppable Family!"

"Oh no!" Kim groaned to herself, "Here we go again."

"It was the year of 1952 with Eisenhower entering into the Oval Office. I was the one who created the slogan of 'I Like Ike!'. It kinda rhymes when you think about it. Which brings me to the time I bought pencils from Jernigan's General Store. They used to cost about seven cents per pencil and I told him it was highway robbery..."

(30 minutes later)

The other family members, and Rufus, excluding Ednel, were about half-asleep when Wilbur continued his story.

"...but I bought meat from the grocery store that day. And a slicer in those days was called a meat grinder. I always wanted to buy a meat grinder to make my own fresh bacon from pigs. But that mean old Sanders had to take it away from me for about rickety-three miles which in those days was called forty..."

(30 more minutes later)

"...and that's how pigs learn to play with their own shit."

And all of the family members, except for Ednel, fell asleep.

"Oh man, I did it again. Ednel, dear, can you wake them up?" Wilbur asked in his gravely voice.

"Of course I will, Dad!" Ednel replied as she got up. The undone right overalls strap was still on her shoulder. She got out an airhorn and blew it, waking everyone up.

"Huh? Where was I?" Kim asked.

"Awww man! I was dreaming of the most perfect Naco ever!" Ron complained.

Kim felt her stomach beginning to growl, "Speaking of that, we gotta hit the road now! It's almost 2pm!"

"Okay dears..." Ednel sighed, "My bad if Dad got onto his ramblings again."

"Oh, it's no big, Aunt Ednel!" Kim replied "We all get a little talkative every now and then!"

"But where are Mary and Canna going to sleep?" Ednel replied.

"They can sleep in the camper in the trailer." Kim said.

(1:50pm)

"Y'all come back now, you hear!" Ednel waved good-bye to both Kim and Ron as they got back into the Stoppable-mobile and headed back to Interstate 76 and to continue the journey.

Little did they realize was that one of Bonnie's Spy Flies was watching them.

Back at her mansion, the Queen was cackling wildly!

"So, Stoppables, you picked up a couple new losers to join your little vacation, huh? Well, we'll just see about that!"

One of her servants, Servant 79, came to the Queen's throne room.

"Your Majesty, the Stoppables are headed to the Colorado-Nebraska state line." he said while bowing to her presence, "Shall we unleash the 'secret weapon' on them?"

"Not yet!" the Queen instructed, "Wait until they go to South Dakota. THAT is where the 'weapon' will be unleashed!"

#fanfiction #stoppable family vacation #kim possible

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raleigh-ocean · 5 years

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you (are everything i hate of myself)

Rory's behaviour had put her on the edge. She was sure that he didn't really mean any harm but it hurt at that moment.

Now she needed a shower to take her mind off of the tension that ran around the house in circles. Audrey was pretty sure those three days were going to be hell, but not because something might happen but because she wanted to go back home the moment she put a foot there.

The cruel and snarky comments exchanged with Shelby had made everything worse. All she wanted was to smack her across the face and just put her down off the cloud with all her thoughts.

What a pathetic bitch she was.

Lost in her thoughts, Audrey made her way to the master bedroom. She didn't care anymore about the audience or whoever watched them, she just wanted for those three days to be over and go back to Los Angeles. Obviously the extra money would come in handy, but maybe her nerves weren't strong enough this time.

And it was proved when she opened the master room’s door to find Shelby there, standing by the bed, supporting herself in one of the bed posts.

For a second, Audrey not only scanned the room to get a hold of where the cameras were, she tried to wrap her head about what her friend could like from the other blonde woman. Taller than Audrey herself but shorter in comparison with Dahlia; bulky but not much, the yoga Audrey wondered; long silky-like hair, making her feel self conscious of her own short hair.

Was her friend into nice butts? That's as much as she could give her though.

“You shouldn't be here,” Audrey spoke without finishing to check Shelby out in her search of why's. Shelby jumped a bit, turning around startled but not moving. “I don't want you here.”

Audrey did move, trying to not look at her more than necessary. When Shelby didn't answer back with words but with a muffled sniffle, she was tempted to but Audrey made a beeline to her suitcase.

Oh come on, crying in the first night?

Be polite, Audrey, you promised to yourself you were going to be polite at least. Well, she already halted that downstairs, but she had to do it from now on.

“Please Shelby, go to your room,” she stopped from trying to get clean clothes to take some breaths before turning around to look at the other woman. “Look, if you want a shoulder to cr- Wait, what the Hell? Why do you have a cellphone?”

The device in Shelby's hands wasn't the one Sidney gave to all of them. It had a turquoise case with some stickers, it was her personal phone, and she was holding it with the same hope of someone who waits for their saving Grace.

Audrey felt her own lower lip tremble when Shelby tried to articulate something between sniffles. Patience, just have patience. If Sidney was watching them, he had seen this for sure.

“I'm not as stupid as you all think I am,” Shelby managed to say, a bit hoarse voice. Maybe there she got a part of why Dahlia liked her. “I would be nuts to come back without a salvage.”

“Well, your salvage is damned now darling,” she chuckled, pressing her cold hand to her nape. “You should had kept it a secret, playing games or whatever when none saw you.”

“It isn't a game,” Shelby croaked a half laugh. “I'm…Matt is not going to go back with me,” she shook her head slowly. “I thought she would, but I guess I was wrong.”

Audrey, in that exact moment, felt how her body turned to ice. It only took her one step to snatch the mobile phone from Shelby's hands just to see the text. This absolute twat didn't even delete her contact. She didn't have to scroll up to see several non-replied messages, because she knew every one of them by heart.

After all, she did see them all in Dahlia's phone.

But there was a reply from the woman in front of Audrey. Only one against thousand messages. Thirty minutes ago against months and months of silence.

Please, I don't want to be here. Can you come pick me up? I'm sorry, I love you.

Feeling her bile in her throat, she locked the phone trying to unsee it all. Shelby didn't react, not even when Audrey turned around to stop being drowned by her presence.

However, the phone buzzed within seconds.

I don't know when I'll get there, but hang in there Shel, don't do anything stupid. Stick with Drey for once, please.

The only thing Audrey knew is that her hand hit Shelby's cheek with such strength that it made her fall in the bed. The phone got lost inside the luggage, the message left unread.

For Shelby.

For Dahlia.

And Audrey wished for her too.

“How fucking dare you?” she wanted to pour everything by yelling at her, but her voice didn't go up and was steady for once. “Are you going to make her fly from Los Angeles just to get your egoistic arse out of here?” the other blonde stood up from the bed, trembling by both her sobs and whatever was darkening her features. “Did you even know how scared she is of planes? She would drive all the fucking way here. For you.”

“Oh, and how do you know that?” if Audrey could recognize something, it was both anger and jealousy. “Why do you even care what I do and what I don’t?”

The second slap came much harder than the first, it made her feel sick of her stomach. But Shelby, unlike before, prompted forward and slapped her back without any mercy. Much stronger than the actress, she pushed her and her back hit the wall, throwing her into a fit of coughs.

Shelby wasn’t having it either.

“Because she is my friend,” Audrey managed to say, squinting her eyes a bit while the cough was starting to go down. “I don’t understand why she doesn’t do better than you,” than us but she was never going to say that. “You’re like a child that wants it all.”

“It’s none of your business,” Shelby got closer to Audrey, almost nose to nose. “If you touch me ever again, I’ll break your nose,” they looked into each other’s eyes for a second and as weird as it was, both knew there was something more in each other. “She isn’t coming anyway, you probably know that too, she always message back immediately, right?”

Walking away from the master room, Shelby didn’t look back to see how Audrey grunted in discomfort. Both had their cheeks red, aching, but something inside Shelby told her it wasn’t Audrey slapping her what pained her the most. It was the fact that the other woman knew best than her.

How dare she?

The doorbell rang and Shelby soon was too busy to actually think about what had happened with Audrey, but she was going to keep her promise of not crossing paths with her and avoid her.

Why everyone acted as if she was some kind of adult child?

She wasn't for God's sake. Matt used to do that, Dominic did that too. Not even starting from Lee, which was quick on her feet to rub everything in her face again and again. Closing her eyes for a second when a chance of calm came, she really wished to not have fucked up the only good thing she had left from all this mess.

That wish actually came to her head several times through the nightmare when it started all over again. How she wanted to be better and stronger and learning how stand her ground. Each blow thrown at her, reminded that she should try harder and demonstrate them all that she was capable of everything.

Audrey, for her part, had cursed herself for letting the other woman go without knowing about the message. Now she was supposed to keep an eye on Shelby? Shelby, who warned her with a broken nose; Shelby, who was what she hated about herself made flesh and bone.

When shit started to hit the fan, she forgot about that promise (not at all, she had saved the woman from bleeding out with her theater nursing skills at least) and her own instinct drove her through the darkness and the pain and the fear.

None of them thought how could Dahlia feel about the whole situation, again, in their self-centered brains before shit started to went downhill.

How she spent thirty minutes arguing with her cousin about what could they do. How she was now driving at top speed with said cousin to get there as soon as possible, risking everything she had for them - because as much as Shelby had asked her to come, she was going to get Audrey out of that house too.

Shelby thought there was no hope for her anymore, being selfish yet again by giving up on life…but Audrey had arrived on time to stop her. Still a hellish mess of blood, but she would make it. Even when the actress that she hated was trying to save her by throwing her to the secret cellar, it reminded her to try and do better.

Audrey wanted to make it too, in the aftermath of the nightmare. But when she was going to do the wrong choice, when she was so sure that it will cost her life, a body collide against both her body and the cop's. A hand that reached out for hers to stop her from pulling the cop's gun to kill that bitch.

“Let go baby, let go,” her tired eyes must be pretty fucked but she thought she was looking at her Rory even when the voice talking was a woman's one. “You have to let go.”

Shelby's weak cries made her head spin, but she obeyed. She was alive after all, as weak as she was, but still alive.

Blinking out of her trance, she took a better look at the one she thought it was her husband to find out it was her beloved friend.

“I did it,” she sobbed loudly and she overheard the cop asking the woman holding her to keep her up. “Shelby…I-I did it.”

Dahlia put Audrey's head against her chest, hugging her tightly in case she passed out on her because off blood lost - the gun wound in her arm looking awful.

“Of course you did love,” the taller woman said, kissing her head with relief and love. “Everything's gonna be fine, you're safe now,” she didn't like to hear Dahlia that scared. “You both are safe now.”

Audrey didn't get to think much before finally passing out of exhaustion, but as she was being held one thing crossed her mind.

Shelby owed her a big one.

And just by saving her ass, she proved a point: as self-centered as she was, as much as she saw herself in the other blonde…they weren't the same anymore.

#shelby miller #audrey tindall #ahs imagine #ahs roanoke #shelby miller x original character #audrey tindall & original character #original character #dahlia deen #american horror story #audrey tindall & shelby miller

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gotatext · 6 years

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hullo everyone, i’m nora, i’m 22, from the gmt timezone, and i love gillian flynn w all my withered heart. below the cut is info on my latest baby frida parrish. LIKE THIS and i’ll hit u up for plots xo

( kristine froseth, cis-female ) did you hear how FRIDA PARRISH is applying to columbia university as a CLASSICAL CIVILISATION major ?! the 20 year old is living in the WALLACH HALL. i heard that they got in because they are + MAGNETIC and + TENACIOUS, but honestly i think SHE can be -DOUBLE-CROSSING and -FANCIFUL. they’re a real SYRABITE. oh well, only time will tell if the SOPHOMORE will make it til the end. + a bubble of pink gum on chapped lips, pouring over leather-bound volumes in a library, bloodstains on the insoles of pointe shoes.

BACKGROUND.

— born in vermont and lived there til she was about eleven, but then her family moved to new york for her dad’s job. her dad is kind of famous. a big shot art dealer. he actually got so well connected in the art world by creating forgeries of famous works when frida was still really young, but once he had enough money and contacts, he decided to follow a more legal and reputable path and now he just deals legit art rather than fakes. — her parents, mara dagney and richard parrish met doing a fine art cause at nyu. richard was raised in the uk, one of three cambridge-born brothers. mara grew up on a ranch in new mexico. they met in freshers week and were basically inseparable after that. — pretty soon after graduating, her parents realised there was very little money to be made taking art commissions in a little new england town, and plenty of competition, so they began forging famous works and selling them to collectors for thousands. — when frida was a born (her brother two years her senior, a nuclear family), her parents were still involved in forgery. the parrish kids were taught that people and places were temporary with suitcases permanently packed for the move. they were raised on the fluidity of identity and taught to be resourceful and wise rather than school-smart. phillip was never as resourceful as frida, but he was incredibly learned when it came to literacy and numeracy, and a bit of an art prodigy. — when frida (affectionately referred to as ‘fox’ by her family because of her auburn hair – it stuck) was nine and phillip (’pippin’, after the broadway musical lmao her mum is lame) was twelve, the family ran into some trouble, managed to bribe an officer to stay quiet, but had to move from burlingdon to new york, to start a new, legal life. — mara retrained as a grade school teacher. richard opened up his own arts collective space and coffee shop. within a few years, her father had a really large collection of rothko’s, pollock’s and johns’, and began to appear on a tv show where he would value and auction paintings. frida and phillip attended a public new york day school, where frida took up flute, lacrosse and ballet.

PERSONALITY.

— both her parents had Large Personalities, so frida’s never really been shy around adults, even as a kid she’d speak to them in a forthright, confident manner, and because she was always surrounded by adults, she’s always seemed a bit Wise Beyond Her Years. — very much a consolidation of every character in the secret history. has a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs. obsessed with w.h. auden and the beat poets. — ”aestheticism is the only thing worth pursuing and even that is pointless” — is majoring in classical civilisation. can read ancient greek and latin. also speaks french. — studies hard and plays hard. she gets top marks but it’s because academia is literally her life, she loves the smell of libraries, the ancient smoke of learning, of feeling like old wine in a new bottle reincarnated from the bones of some old, dead witchy woman who invented a cure for cowpox or somethin. — isn’t a foward-planner, however. frida prefers to leave her options open, play the field, live in a spontaneous manner so her study style is mostly cramming a few days before a test, or staying up all night writing an essay on a massive adrenaline boost powered by red bull or probably adderall, scribbling (or typing) furiously into the night. — pretentious motherfucker. LOVES poetry, especially the romantics, loves morbid ones too, edgar allen poe, sylvia plath, allen ginsberg, she just loves them all. can’t get enough. her favourite films are like…. wanky artfilm independent european cinema. especially french new wave. “what do you think of goddard’s work??” while snorting a line off someone’s sink at 5am on a school night, but you can bet she’ll make it to that 9am class. — very Intelligent and Beautiful and knows both of those facts. vocal feminist. soapbox sadie. Very Passionate about Issues. plays devil’s advocate. humanitarian, vegan. — judgemental but takes great care not to appear so. — just wants to be Loved By All. a party girl ; doesn’t rlly enjoy it, jst feels she Should enjoy it. — tries to be an Enigma. wants to be mysterious and unreadable because that’s what books have taught her makes women Desirable and Interesting and Cool. — obsessively devours mystery and thriller novels. she herself is a gillian flynn book waiting to happen. — act like the flower but be the serpent under it. is a user. manipulative. leads people on. will throw another student under the bus to demonstrate her own intelligence and integrity — heavily involved in the theatre society. loves attention. — has an addictive personality. seems unable to do anything in a small dose, she has to let it utterly consume her. with sports, she’s fiercely competitive, runs track, played lacrosse at school, now is a cheerleader probably. with alcohol, it’s never a shot, it’s a whole bottle – wine or whiskey – she’ll be table dancing before the night’s up and making out with someone she’ll regret in the morning. — her clothing style is like…. vintage thrift store but make it preppy. berets and cute hats, neck scarves, large fluffy cardigans or like those leathery jackets with big suede fringes on them, mini skirts (very 70s), and knee high socks or boots. quite often she’ll be in sports kit, maybe a cute tennis skirt, n when she’s feeling casual she’ll wear like, a talking heads tshirt with a pair of mom jeans and converse, but otherwise, the library is her catwalk. — relates to ophelia from hamlet and sibyl vane in dorian gray. weirdly obsessed with women who commit suicide. loves jackson pollock paintings and abstract art. – likes old things. old books, old music, old houses, it reminds her of happier times like when she wasn’t alive. buys all her music on vinyl and has a gramphone because “The Sound quality is Better” kfdsjj.

anyway, here you will find a pinterest board, and here u will find a stats page.

PLOTS.

here are some generic wanted plots but by all means message me so we can flesh them out more if any strike ur interest:

study buddies !! someone who is equally unprepared and so spends all night in the library with frida before a big deadline, maybe they even met in the library

if they’re from new england or vermont, then cousins . second cousins / extended family / family friends – probably spat volavons on your character once as children, omg childhood friends !

people who live on the same floor and only know each other from brief interactions in the lift or the canteen

frinds !! unlikely friends !! toxic friends !! former best friends separated by sporting or academic rivalries !

hockey / cheer friends who are on other teams but who she absolutely loves playin against!!!

fellow academics who like meeting up to discuss latin and greek ! gimme a secret society bonding by their love of ancient learning

i reckon she’s in a lot of societies, definitely the film club, maybe works as a projectionist at the uni cinema if they have one so give me ppl affiliated with that, give me fellow wanky pretentious art-lovers and poets and historians who will go to museums and galleries with her and listen to the velvet underground on vinyl

people she gets mortally fucked off her tits with at parties

people who think she is throwing her academic potential away by caving to hedonistic impulse

people she has drunkenly made out with, hooked up with, or regularly sleeps with casually, maybe even a friend w benefits she is repressing feelings for, i love angst,

people she used to date or unrequitedly likes, but to them it’s just a physical thing, give me all the thirsty angst plots, and maybe some softness too, i need some religion in this girls life, she is a roman catholic after all

thats all for now folks jeez louise thanks for stickin with me

#columbiaintro #here we go Bois

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carrotsofavonlea · 6 years

Text

Anne of Hogwarts

Chapter 1: the wand chooses the wizard

[AO3]

Anne nervously tapped the top of her suitcase that sat in her lap. It was frayed and the handle was crooked but that was all that she had from the orphanage.

Only hours ago had she been told she was not in fact plain old Anne Shirley, but rather Anne Shirley the witch. She'd read stories of witches from times passed, read of the horrors they had faced. But Armando Dippet, who she had learned was headmaster of Hogwarts, a school for people just like her - kindred spirits perhaps? - had told her that she would be safe and cared for with this new family. The Cuthberts.

Armando Dippet had accompanied Anne on the train to the Cuthberts. They lived in the countryside, away from the muggle world. Immediately Anne knew there would be scope for the imagination there.

A woman of about 50 met them at the door.

“Mr Dippet.”

“Ms Cuthbert.” Armando bowed his head. He was a man of tradition, after all he was over 200 years old. Anne had wanted to ask him just how he managed to live so long but the opportunity never came up. “This is the orphan I had contacted you about.”

“Anne Shirley,” Anne curtsied, looking up at the lady. “But please, that's Anne spelled with an 'e’. It's much more romantical that way, don't you think?”

“Alright. Anne with an e. You may call me Marilla.”

“I'm sure you'll fit in well here with the Cuthberts.” Armando made way to leave. “I believe you received your Hogwarts letter?”

Anne rummaged through her suitcase, holding up the crumpled letter.

“Heavens child.” Marilla scoffed at the utter mess of Anne's suitcase. “You'll need to learn to be a lot tidier than that.”

“Oh, I will Ms Cuthbert- I mean Marilla. If it means you'll keep me here, I'll do anything.”

“I look forward to seeing you at Hogwarts, Miss Shirley.” Armando disappeared right before Anne's eyes. Marilla explained it was something called apparition, which she would get the opportunity to learn in a few years.

“Can you apparate Marilla?” Anne sat at the kitchen table as Marilla made the tea.

“I don't waste my time with such ridiculous forms of transportation.”

“I'd love to fly. Just imagine being in the air! But it isn't quite the same as a bird! Oh how lovely it would be to be a bird.”

“That's enough idle chatter.” Marilla said, after Anne had asked many, many questions.

“Oh, I'm just so excited.”

Just then Marilla’s brother, Matthew, stumbled into the kitchen.

“Matthew, this is Anne.”

“Hello.” Matthew was a quiet man, only a few years younger than Marilla.

“Matthew? Oh you're just like I imagined!” Anne leapt up to meet him. He didn't know what she had meant, but hoped it was a good thing.

“I can't wait to learn everything about magic. I expect you know ever so much and can do so many wonderful things.”

“We don't possess magic.” Marilla said curtly. “Our parents did, but for some reason we were born without it. As a result we were shunned from the magical community, but Mr Dippet has been a loyal friend all these years.”

“Oh, oh how awful!” Anne put her hand across her chest. “I had no idea.”

“There now,” Matthew gently patted her shoulder. “We've had each other. And now we have you.”

“Matthew, I believe we will be kindred spirits. I know what it is like to be alone.” Anne smiled, and wrapped her arms around him in a hug.

He hesitated for a moment before returning it.

“Off to bed with you.” Marilla waved a tea towel and Anne laughed. “We have an early day if we're to go into town and get you supplies for school. I've got a pattern for the robes but we'll have to buy a wand.”

“A wand?!” Anne shouted. “I don't know how I'll possibly be able to sleep tonight.”

“You'll try.” Marilla waved her off up the stairs.

Anne didn't sleep a wink that night, certain that when she awoke she would be back in that orphanage.

Anne was up at daybreak, dressed and ready for the day.

“Slow down, Anne. You'll choke on your food.” Marilla watched in horror as Anne practically inhaled her breakfast.

“I'm sorry Marilla. I'm just so excited.” She put down her fork.

“Well, we'll go to Diagon Alley shortly.”

Marilla cleared the table just when an owl hit against the window. Anne jumped up, terrified for the poor thing.

Marilla sighed and opened the window for the owl to hop inside.

“I've told you to be careful.” Marilla scolded the owl. It was holding a letter in its talons.

“Is he ok?” Anne rushed to the owl, gently petting its head.

“Yes. The silly thing never learns. But we've had him for years, and besides, a good owl costs far too much.” Marilla didn't look up from the letter as she spoke.

The letter was merely Armando asking how Anne's first night had gone, and a reminder of everything they needed to get for Hogwarts.

Matthew had to stay behind at the farm, so just Marilla and Anne made their way to Diagon Alley. They had to take a cart to where the nearest entrance to Diagon Alley was. Anne watched in awe as Marilla tapped a pattern on the bricks of a wall, and the wall then opened up to a secret street.

The street was alive with colour and sound. For the second time Anne had been speechless. But Marilla didn't give her much time to stare as she lightly pulled Anne by the arm and they pushed through the bustling crowds. It was busy, seemingly everyone was out today getting their equipment for Hogwarts.

The first stop was Borgin and Burke's, the bookshop. Marilla was talking to the man behind the counter, trying to find second hand versions of the textbooks. Anne allowed herself to wander around the store, her heart full at all the books she'd never even heard off. Her eyes caught a strange boy sitting by himself towards the back of the store. He was tall, but seemed around her age. His hair was a dirty blonde colour and his clothes were not the neatest. He had his head bent down as he scribbled something, but as Anne got closer she saw he was in fact sketching.

“You're really good at drawing.” She said, and the boy looked up, eyes wide. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.”

She crouched down next to him and he closed his sketchbook.

“I don't really let people see my drawing…”

“You should, you have a gift.”

The boy shook his head. “My parents don't think so. They told me going to Hogwarts should straighten me out, get me to focus on the real things.”

“You're going to Hogwarts too?” Anne smiled warmly and held out her hand. “I'm Anne Shirley.”

The boy looked at her hand before hesitantly shaking it. “Cole Mackenzie…”

“Perhaps we'll see each other?”

“Maybe.” Cole smiled, seeming a little more comfortable.

“Anne?” Marilla called throughout the book shop.

“I have to go.” She jumped up. “But it was a pleasure to meet you Cole. I hope we'll be good friends.”

Marilla and Anne squeezed their way through the crowds, arms full of textbooks cauldrons and any other equipment Anne needed. But there was one final stop. Ollivanders.

“The Ollivander family has been making wands for over a thousand years.” Marilla explained as they approached. “Every wizard in our family had a wand from Ollivanders. Well... except Matthew and I…”

Behind the counter was a man slightly older than Marilla, but begin him was a younger boy maybe a few years younger than Anne. He seemed to be teaching the younger boy about wand types, but looked up when Anne and Marilla entered.

“Marilla Cuthbert? And who might this be?”

“Mr Ollivander, this is the girl we've taken in. Anne Shirley. She's here to get her very own wand for Hogwarts.”

Ollivander looked intently at Anne, as if trying to study her.

“Well, Garrick.” He turned to the young boy, “What wand do you suggest?”

The boy - Garrick Ollivander - followed his father's behaviour and stared intently at Anne. She felt uncomfortable under such a gaze.

“Perhaps a cedar wand?”

Anne was promptly handed a smooth wand.

“Give it a try.”

She looked at Marilla and then waved it. But a bolt of light shot out the end and bounced off the walls causing everyone to duck.

“I'm sorry!” Anne immediately handed the wand back. “I don't know what I'm doing.”

“It's alright.” Ollivander laughed as he took the wand back. “The wand-”

“Chooses the wizard.” Garrick finished, smiling up at his father.

“Exactly. He's going to take over the shop when I'm old.” Ollivander had a proud smile on his face, before searching for another wand.

“Try...redwood. To match that hair.”

Anne scoffed at this, her hair a rather touchy subject. But she took the wand and something inside her just knew. She could almost feel the power she didn't know she possessed.

“Yes, that's it.” Ollivander smiled. “Your wand has chosen you.”

Marilla paid for the wand and they made their way back through Diagon Alley.

“We better make haste, Matthew will be wandering where we are.”

“Thank you, Marilla.” Anne said as they reached the wall they came in. “I've never had such lovely things.”

Marilla didn't know what to say, she felt her heart melting. She had been hesitant about taking in a child, but Matthew had convinced her. And getting to know this girl, Marilla knew she was destined for greatness.

She settled for “Come on, now.” but hoped Anne knew how much she was starting to like her.

#hogwarts au #shirbert au #anne shirley #gilbert blythe #shirbert fic #shirbert #awae #anne of hogwarts #awae fic

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jafndaegur · 6 years

Text

Chapter Two: I Just Got Your Messages

One | x |

Sun Hee.

Sun Hee not Sunnie.

Sun Hee.

She kept repeating that to herself over and over again. On the plane ride, she whispered it to herself. While she stood hours in the custom’s line, that’s all she could think of. At checkpoint and check out, again that was all she could mutter to herself. She was intent on rewriting herself to forget the dumb gamble she’d bet and lost. This would be her knew start. And by golly she was intent on making sure it was her best restart even. Afterall it’d been more than a month since the competition—it was time for her to move on.

Sun Hee pulled out her phone and checked the time. She’d been eager to surprise her parents with this visit. She’d been extra careful to make sure that no tabloids or reporters had followed her flight. If nothing else, she didn’t want her parents know that she was coming because there would be far too many questions beforehand.

And right now she couldn’t handle those.

As she was towing her suitcase along, she stared down at her phone screen just a moment too long. Sun Hee slammed into someone else and fell backwards while her phone flew forward out of her group. The person she had bumped into also crashed to the ground, a low groan coming from them. Sun Hee immediately scrambled to their side, apologizing profusely. It was a man with an unusual shock of white hair—it was almost as unnatural as his eyes, the brightest blue she’d ever seen. He was wearing one of those cloth medical masks over his mouth, and he seemed to lean toward an edgier style with his crimson top and black hoodie. What with his spiked bracelets and painted black nails, she knew exactly what brand she could suggest for him to shop for—

“You should probably watch where you go,” he crooned, standing up and wiping off his leather pants. “You’ll never know the types you’ll run into.”

Laughing nervously, Sun Hee sheepishly scratched the back of her head. “Yeah, it was my fault for not paying attention.”

His eyes roamed over her form before he reached down and picked up her phone and another phone that had landed right next to it. That must have been his. He handed her the phone that wasn’t his own, his hand lingering near hers just a little bit too long.

“Be careful out there,” he chided with a singsong voice, before waving goodbye and disappearing into the crowd.

Sun He watched him go with a bit of a dumbfounded expression. Maybe her Korean was just rusty, but she could have sworn that his tone had been threatening. What a crazy guy. She shivered and walked away toward the bus station.

When she almost reached the station, her phone buzzed. Taking note of the the bus arrivals and departures—it wasn’t due to arrive for another ten minutes—she sat down on a nearby bench. Turning her electronic device on, Sun Hee was surprised to see a notification for an application that she didn’t even know she had. In bright gold letters, its only title was “Messenger”. Frowning, she opened the app and was taken to a single text strand.

Hello? Is anyone there?

Now after having been in a publicly exposed job of some renown (not much but some) Sun Hee knew never to answer sketchy texts. It was just a rule of thumb. More often than not, the unknown number would be a scam or some sort of a trouble on the other end. Still, it was odd to her that there was no number—only a name: “Unknown”.

Please, if there’s anyone there, answer! Please answer me!

Biting the nail of her thumb, Sun Hee hesitantly went over the decision in her head. She’d been making a lot of decisions lately, so it would seem.

Hi. I’m here. She finally responded.

The text back was almost immediate. Oh thank god! I was sending texts out for over an hour and I never heard back from anyone. I’m so glad you responded.

What’s the problem? Sun Hee asked, her eyes watching the screen suspiciously.

I’m headed back to Seoul—I’m an abroad student—and I came across this phone at the airport. When I opened it to look for some contact information, all I found was this messenger, and an address.

An address? Sun Hee echoed. You’ve got to be joking.

I wish I were. Unknown seemed completely upset about the situation. It’s a downtown Seoul address too. My flight got delayed so I won’t be there for at least a few more days… and I’m sure that whoever lost this phone really needs it back.

Nope, nope. Sun Hee felt her anxiety spike. I don’t like where this is going.

You wouldn’t happen to be in Seoul, would you Sun Hee? Whoever it was seemed particularly hopeful.

Technically Incheon. She responded curtly, hoping that Unknown would get the message of “I’m not gonna do it so drop it”.

That’s so close! Unknown’s response almost seemed to come in simultaneously with her last text. Could you please please please go to the address to see if the owner of the phone is there?

Are you crazy?

No! It’s in downtown Seoul, so there’d be plenty of people around you. You’ll be perfectly safe, come on! Won’t it be great to help someone out? It’s almost like a quest!

A quest…

Sun Hee stared at the phone for a minute. Unknown did have a point. If she were in any sort of danger, it would be easy to go get help. Plus, she’d lived in New York for years now and could proudly call herself a New Yorker. She knew how to take care of herself.

If it’s sketchy, I’m leaving right away. Before she could think twice and regret the decision, she sent the message.

Unknown responded with repeated gratitude, hearts, and the address.

Sun Hee showed the bus driver when the transportation arrived, and asked if his route went close. He shook his head, and told her that the area was better to get to by train. He then explained to her the directions: go back into airport and from there she could find the train station—it would be able to take her to Seoul city from there. Take the express train, pay for the ticket, wait for the arrival—and she would get where she would need to.

The train-ride itself was refreshing. The scenery flittered by her window in beautiful verdant smears of colors. His eyes were always this green, this alive. Sun Hee thoroughly enjoyed herself, hands pressed to the chilled window, watching the blurred landscape. She figured once she could make the run to the address, she would go to her parent’s—maybe take them to dinner. She’d have to watch her funds though. The plane and train tickets had cost almost all of her monthly allowance, and she would need to be frugal if she wanted to have her own place in the next few months.

“We’ll see,” she told herself. “We’ll see what all will fall into place.”

She was pleasantly surprise to find that she had not thought of Dominic—liar—or her shop, or her old life since arriving at Incheon.

When she arrived at Seoul, she walked to the address, shocked at how close it was to the train station. Still, Sun Hee kept a watchful eye on her surroundings—making sure that no one was tailing her or that she always stayed with flow of pedestrians. Her Noogle Maps’ directions led her to an apartment complex at the heart of the city. When she entered the apartments, the stylist made her way through the lobby to the elevators. She entered them and traveled all the way up to the top floor. There were people walking in and out of the hall. They greeted her and she in turn greeted them. Overall, the place was incredibly friendly in atmosphere. Perhaps Unknown was a real and friendly person too. She’d misjudged him.

The ringer on her phone tolled.

Did you make it? Unknown asked.

I just got here.

He responded back with what almost seemed like excitement. Oh fantastic! Do you see a number lock on the door?

Sun Hee looked at the door and spotted the keypad above the door handle. Yes I do.

Great! Here’s the combination! Leave a note or something to tell the owner of the phone you were there.

Almost without thinking, she almost typed in the combination before pausing.

What’s wrong? Unknown asked.

Shouldn’t I knock first?

Unknown sent a smiley face. You’re right! I was being too eager about finding the owner. Knock first.

So she knocked on the door, once, twice, thrice.

But no one answered.

She told so to Unknown.

Go ahead and open the door, Unknown said, slowly. You’re doing a good deed for them after all. You’ll practically be their hero.

I don’t know about that, Sun Hee sighed. But she did want to get this over with—she was tired of this worrisome NCES vibe that she was getting. What with this tracking address down, finding a person of interest. She was so over it and ready for food and maybe a nice nap.

So she typed in the code.

The door light turned green. It was unlocked. She stepped in hesitantly and called out a weak hello; no one answered. Nobody was home. What a relief—she released the pent up breath she’d been holding.

Looking back to her phone, she was going to tell Unknown she would leave a note with his contact information and then go on her merry way. But the chat room was gone—and instead a new chatroom with five other people opened.

If you liked this chapter! Please consider buying a Delicious Coffee! Thanks for reading^^

#mystic messenger #mystic messenger fanfiction #mysme #mysme jumin #jumin han #jumin x mc #style savvy #nanowrimo #nanowrimo day two #we finally meeting the mysme characters #yay #mysme custom mc

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sargentsnowy-blog · 6 years

Text

Makki Week Day 7: Random AU

You guys: Aye i like the last chapter! I need the part two!

Me: lol makki proposal.

They are 22 and college graduates. Max and Nikki have been dating for three years now.

...

"HEY NIKKI!"

A ten-year old Nikki turned around to look in the direction she heard Max's voice, her hand clutching the handle of her suitcase.

It was the end of the summer, the time she dreaded but knew would come sooner or later. She didn't want to go...she wanted to stay there forever and not worry about school or her mom being a nuisance and whore.

But, Nikki had just said her good-byes to everyone. Why was Max calling her when she was about to leave...?

"Yes Max?" She looks over her shoulder at the hooded boy she had learned to have a crush on the moment the two of them were able to hatch the platypus baby. "Is something wrong?"

Max was standing there defensively, his mouth trembling and a dark red blush on his face. "..."

Nikki blinks in complete confusion. Why did he stop her? Did he want her to stay like she did...?

She stops thinking when he raises his arm and points at her, noticing how he had dropped his head down.

"One day..." Max took a deep breath before looking up quickly with newfound confidence, pointing at her less anxiously but with a darker face. "...ONE DAY I'M GOING TO FUCKING MARRY YOU!"

Nikki's jaw dropped and her eyes widen, her face burning in a crimson color.

The crowd behind Max gasped loudly in surprise but also interest.

The boy who blurted out the sentence looked nervous as hell and worried, like maybe he shouldn't have said that?

A giggle slipped out of Nikki's mouth and she turns to him happily, a bright smile on her face. Her hand pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and she ecstatically responded, "We'll see if you can keep your promise, Max!"

And with that, she turned on the ball of her foot and marched toward her car, getting in and being driven off. The girl was giggling, something she'd never really do, the whole way.

After that, no one talked about it next summer. It was always on their minds though, the thought, "is he going to actually marry her?" swarming all their heads.

With Max never saying anything about it ever again, Nikki thought he forgot. But she never did. How could she? It was impossible...

...

Max had never been so nervous in his life. He was standing outside of Nikki's apartment door, checking his phone every now and then.

8:00. That's the time they both agreed on and it was 8:07. Seven minutes and that sent him into an anxious wreck. He must not have realized that when he got there the time was 8:05 and Nikki had told him she was coming when he knocked.

The door swung open and he jumps, Nikki standing there in his requested attire.

She was wearing a midnight blue dress that faded into a lighter blue but not too light at the bottom. It flowed with her movements. Long, black thigh high socks extended from her combat boots and the sleeves of the dress were black, long and tight and ending at her wrists. It made the dress look sleeveless and a long sleeved shirt was under it.

A simple outfit, really. But still Max felt under dressed. He was wearing a pitch black suit that ended in black loafers and a dark blue shirt under it. His face reddens just looking at her, glancing away.

"You're lookin' fine, Max," Nikki giggles softly, looking him up and down. "Extra extra."

Max squeezed the bridge of his nose and laughed slightly. "And you look se—"

She laughs loudly to cut him off and steps out her apartment, closing the door behind her. "And what's this...surprise place you're talking about? You said you'd tell me when we went on the date."

"Be patient. I'll tell you when we get there."

Nikki huffs and folds her arms, walking down the stairs and getting to ground level before running to his car. "But then what's the point of telling me when I'd just read the sign?"

"That's the point." He gets to the car and swung open the drivers door.

"Can I drive?"

"You have no idea where we are going. And I'd like to get to the place alive thank you."

With a slight whine, she slipped into the passenger seat and Max sat in the driver's.

"The place is across town," he adds, cranking the car. "About a 45 minute drive."

"Oh great that means I can annoy you to my heart's content."

And just like Nikki said she would, she annoyed him the whole ride. She asked him the usual questions like, "are we there yet?" or "what is this place?". But sometimes there was a random phrase thrown in like, "Max what if I drink a bottle of liquor and get all whoozy, what would you do?"

Max secretly loved it though. But he would never admit to that.

After the 45 minute drive of Nikki annoying Max they finally arrived and he dropped his head onto the steering wheel so the car honked. And he kept banging his head on it until he sat up straight. "We're here."

"Le Bilboquet," Nikki reads from her window, her eyes squinted in confusion. "French. And sounds..." she turns to him. "...expensive.."

He shrugs it off. "It is French and expensive."

"You never take me to these types of places. What are you hiding?"

"How dare." He gasps playfully and grinned. "Nothing really. We've never been to a place this expensive. Or fancy."

"You got me there." Nikki opens the door and gets out the car, running up to the entrance of the place and waited for Max to get there.

When he did, he opened the door for the both of them and got the reserved table and the couple sat down at it.

"Whoa..." Nikki looks around the resturant, her eyes amazed.

The place was just as it sounded. Fancy and expensive.

Each table was square and had a white table cloth on it, lace trimming it. A handkerchief sat on the tables with cutlery wrapped in them and there was a salt and pepper shaker square in the middle. A menu sat in front of each chair, sleek and a beautiful pattern on the front.

It seemed simple, yes, but the lighting and the wallpaper and the smell said otherwise.

"...Max how much did you go through to get this place...?"

Max, who was just leaning on the table and looking out the window at the star-speckled sky absentmindedly said, "the reservation was about $200 for two adults and I had a hard time booking it."

"WHAT?!"

He jumps at her loud outburst, snatching his head to look at her with bright eyes. "AH NOT SO LOUD!" He gestured to the couples and families looking at them in confusion.

"I don't give a shit," Nikki snapped angrily but quieter. "Why would you spend that much on one singular night?! There's an entire McDonald's down the street from my apartment!"

I didn't think she'd be mad at me for spending this much money... Max gulped. "Yeah but—"

She picked the menu up at lightening speed and gaped. "THE APPETIZERS COST TWENTY TO THIRTY DOLLARS."

"N-Nikki—"

"Max." She takes a deep breath. "Why would you take me here when you know how I feel about you wasting money?!"

"Technically it's not wasting money if it's for you," he retorts, noticing how her cheeks tinted a little. "Hell, if it was over 500 dollars I'd still buy it."

Nikki huffed and hide her face behind the menu. "Fine..but I'm not getting things too expensive."

"Just get anything you want?"

"No." She glares up at him and scanned the menu. "By the way, Neil told me that you were going to give me something tonight?"

"You'll get it after you eat." Max picked up his own menu and gave it a once over, glancing up at Nikki every now and then.

A pretty waitress with blonde hair and purple eyes walked up to the table and smiled at the couple. "Hi!" She had a French accent. "What can I get for you two?"

Nikki looks up and politely responds, "May I have a Soupe à l'oignon?"

"Great choice!" The waitress wrote it down on a small notepad and then looks to Max. "You?"

Max was looking down at the menu nervously again, his appetite vanishing. "Can I have a crossiant and that's all?"

The waitress shrugs and writes it down. "Drinks?"

"Orange juice!" Nikki smiles brightly at her boyfriend only for her smile to drop into a suspicious frown when he says, "a cup of water would be fine..."

"Okay!" The waitress then slyly grabbed Max's phone as he slipped it to her and walked away.

"You're really nervous, Max," Nikki points out, leaning on her arm slightly.

"I'm not nervous," Max lies, watching as the waitress came back and put a glass of orange juice in front of Nikki and a glass of water in front of himself. Then he watched her skip off.

"You're lying. Right through your teeth," Nikki growls, watching him take a sip of his water. She sighs and leans on her arm, wondering what would get his attention quickly and give off a reason he was so nervous.

She looked in the direction of a family of four and noticed two little kids. "Hey Max," she starts casually.

"Yeah?" He starts drinking his drink.

"If you had kids, what would you name them?"

That made Max choke, water shooting out his nose and onto the table cloth. He coughed a lot, water still running out his mouth and nose.

"AH!" Nikki grabbed her handkerchief and got out of her chair and reached across the table to dry his face. "Are you okay?!"

Max, still coughing, nodded and shook his head a little. "Just...that question was a little unexpected haha."

She sits back down and laughs slightly. "Well?"

"Uh...depends." He leans on the table and looks off, lost in his thoughts. "If it was a girl...I'd name her Victoria. If it was a boy, I'd name him Kiran...but if I had twins that were a boy and a girl, I'd name them Victor and Victoria."

Nikki blinked at him, surprised. "That's...so cool Max..."

He snapped out his state and looked to her. "What do you mean?"

"You can just spit out names like that...and they are cute, pretty names...they just came to your head!"

"Actually no." He laughs slightly and smiles at her softly. "I honestly thought about those names for a while now."

Before Nikki could respond, the waitress came back and placed the requested food in front of each of them. "Here you go."

Nikki squealed and sniffed at the soup. "Ahhh its smells so good..."

Max looked at her food and nods. "Looks good too."

"You ordered a plain crossaint," she teases, taking a bite. "..." Her eyes lit up happily. "THI—"

She stopped talking as Max reached over and took a bite of her meal. "..."

"Holy shit that's good." He smirks at her and ate his plain crossaint.

Through out the meal, they had small talk and it usually lead to Max questioning everything and he was honestly fine with that...? But it was all in out fun...until Nikki finished her food.

It was time... (AN: DAMN I'M NERVOUS TOO THE FUCK?!)

Max takes a deep breath, catching Nikki's attention who was licking her bowl.

She puts the bowl down. "Are you okay?"

He ignored the question. "Nikki can I ask you something?"

She nods slightly, getting a little anxious.

"You know I love you right?"

Nikki's jaw dropped. Even though she knew Max loved her, he never said it. He told her the phrase always got him into trouble. So he never said it. She leans forward in curiousity, nodding vigorously.

"You're honestly the best girl in the world...wild and fun...smart and pretty... you know how to light up anything, even if it's the worse possible situation." He smiles genuinely at her.

"You light up my life like if you hadn't come off that bus I'm pretty sure I couldn't be as happy as I am right now. You stick with me through the toughest times...actually care about me and my well-being...you're just so great and I don't know how you deal with me."

Nikki tilts her head and smiles at him, about to say something but he had more to say.

"I'm literally just some guy you met at camp that hated everything but you still saw something in me that I clearly couldn't see. I'm happy you saw it and...to be honest I'm happy I started liking you after we hatched that egg."

Her jaw drops and she blushed a bright pink. Where was he going with this...?

Max takes a deep breath and looks at her with bright, determined eyes. "Nikki you remember that promise I made to you when we were kids...?"

Nikki's eyes widens and she giggles softly. "Haha yeah...I thought you forgot..."

"Well guess what?" Max stands and walks over to her.

Her face gets more and more surprised, pretty sure she might start crying at any second.

She watches as Max dropped down onto one knee and grabbed a small box out his pocket. He opened it and right there, smack dab in front of her face, was a diamond engagement ring. And right at that second tears started pouring out her eyes and she covered her mouth with her hands.

"I didn't," Max says with a wide smile. "Nikki, would you do me the honor and being my wife?"

A sob escaped her mouth as she nodded up and down. "Y-Yes!"

She dropped down and hugged him tightly, happily crying into his shoulder. "I-I guess I'm Nikki Gr-Greenwood now haha," she said in between her tears, her voice muffled in his shoulder.

Max hugged her back just as tightly and ignored the cheering in the background. "Fuck yeah."

Nikki pulled away from him and watched as the waitress ran in and put Max's phone back on the table. "W-Why did she have your ph-phone?" She wiped her eyes.

"She had to record my proposal." He hands the waitress a 20 dollar bill. "Gwen would kill me if I didn't show her."

"I guess Gwen missed out on this then."

"Missed out on wh—"

Before he could finish, Nikki had her hands in his hair and was kissing him passionately.

Max's eyes widen, still not used to having his girlf— fiancé kiss him at random times. But he melted into it after a few seconds.

Damn, they have a wedding to plan.

...

*LOUD SOBBING* HI I FINISHED WRITING THIS JULY 3RD AT 5:44 IN THE MORNING AND I'M PROOF READING TOMORROW!

THIS IS ALSO MY SUBMISSION TO MAKKIWEEK. THE LAST DAY.

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a380flightdeck · 7 years

Photo

FOR A WHOLE HOST OF REASONS, airports are often bewildering, maddening places. There is much to be found in the modern-day terminal to enrage, confuse, or vex the traveler. Where to begin?

The following list was inspired by a layover I spent not long ago at Incheon International Airport (ICN), serving Seoul, Korea. Not to take away from perennial survey-toppers like Amsterdam’s Schiphol or Singapore’s Changi Airport (amenities at Changi include a movie theater, a swimming pool and a butterfly garden), but Incheon stands as the most functional, attractive, and overall flyer-friendly airport I’ve ever visited. It’s cavernous and immaculate, with a cathedral-like calm throughout. Security and immigration are a breeze; international transit is effortless. The staff at the multilingual information desks are disarmingly helpful. Amenities include free internet, free showers, luggage storage, cellphone rental desks, a post office and massage facilities. Relaxation areas, with sofas and easy chairs, are set away from the main thoroughfares. There’s a cultural center, a museum, and a full-service hotel inside the secure zone, allowing those with extended layovers to rent a room without the need to clear immigration. Or, if you’re feeling energetic, a tour desk arranges free excursions to Incheon city. If you’re headed into Seoul, the airport’s high-speed rail connection will have you downtown in under an hour. Why can’t every airport be like this?

FIFTEEN THINGS NO TERMINAL SHOULD BE WITHOUT:

1. A fast, low-cost public transportation link to downtown.

In a way, choosing a favorite airport is like choosing a favorite hospital: amenities aside, nobody really wants to be there in the first place, and the easier and faster you can get the hell out, the better. To that end, every terminal should have a public transport links similar to those across Asia and Europe. The examples of Portland, Oregon and Washington-Reagan notwithstanding, rail links in the United States aren’t nearly as convenient – when the exist at all. Or how about JFK, where for hundreds of millions dollars they finally got the AirTrain completed — an inter-terminal rail loop that connects only as far as the Queens subway. It can take 45 minutes, up and down a Rube Goldberg assembly of escalators, elevators and passageways, just to get from one terminal to another, let alone all the way to Manhattan.

2. In-transit capabilities

It’s a shame that American airports cannot, for whatever reasons, recognize the “in transit” concept. In the United States, all passengers arriving from other countries, even if they’re merely passing through on the way to a third country, are forced to clear customs and immigration, collect and re-check their luggage, and pass through security screening. It’s an enormous hassle, unheard of in most of the world. And it costs our airlines millions of annual customers. Why change planes in the US, where you’ll have to stand in three different lines, be photographed and fingerprinted, re-check your bags and face the TSA gauntlet, when instead you can transfer seamlessly in Frankfurt or Dubai? Indeed this is part of what has made carriers like Emirates, Singapore Airlines, and others so successful.

3. Complimentary wireless internet

What do we do at airports? We kill time. And there are few better and more productive ways of killing time than logging on to the Web. Send an email to your mistress, read my blog, Skype your friend in Slovenia. Many, if not most major terminals do have Wi-Fi access, but it’s often expensive and cumbersome (few things in life are more irritating than those credit card payment pages). It should be everywhere, and it should be free.

4. Convenience stores

It appears the evolution of airport design will not be complete until the terminal and shopping mall become indistinguishable. I’m okay with Starbucks and souvenir kiosks, but it’s the saturation of high-end boutiques that always confounds me. Apparently there isn’t a traveler alive who isn’t in dying need of a hundred-dollar Mont Blanc pen, a remote-control helicopter or a thousand-dollar massage chair. And what’s with all the luggage stores? Who on earth buys a suitcase after they get to the airport? What we really need are the same sorts of things we buy at CVS or the corner convenience store: basic groceries and dry goods, stationery, and personal care items. Brussels and Amsterdam are two that do this right, with in-terminal food marts and pharmacies.

5. Power ports

I didn’t realize that passengers have a right—nay, a duty—to mooch electricity from their carrier of choice, but at this point it’s a lost cause to argue. I hope your battery isn’t dying, because good luck finding an outlet that isn’t hooked up already to somebody’s iPhone or computer. Airlines should throw in the towel and build more charging stations.

6. Showers and a short-stay hotel

Another amenity that is common overseas but sorely lacking in North America. No serious international terminal should be without a place to wash up or crash for a few hours. Passengers arriving from overseas can shower and change before their next connection. Those with longer waits can grab a nap in one of those pay-by-the-hour sleeping pods.

7. Play areas for children

Truth be told, airport play areas encourage toddlers to shriek and yell even more than they already do, but at least they’re doing it in a localized area that’s easy for the rest of us to avoid. Ideally, this spot should be in a soundproofed bubble six miles from the airport, but a space at the far end of the concourse is a reasonable alternative. The Delta terminal in Boston has a pretty cool kidport, but nothing tops the “Kids’ Forest” at Amsterdam-Schiphol. I’d play there myself if nobody was watching.

8. Better dining options — i.e. fewer chain restaurants

Chick-fil-A, Burger King, Sbarro’s. Airport cuisine isn’t a whole lot different from the shopping mall food court. We need more independent restaurants serving actual food, ideally with a local bent.

The next time you’re at LaGuardia, check out the Yankee Clipper restaurant over at the Marine Air Terminal. That’s the circular building at the far southwest corner of the airport, with the art deco doors and flying fish relief along its rooftop. Yankee Clipper is a cafeteria-style place on the left-hand side of the rotunda. It’s good greasy spoon food with absolutely no corporate affiliation. The Marine Air Terminal was the launching point of the first-ever transatlantic and around-the-world flights, and the restaurant’s walls are decorated with historic photographs. You can eat in, or take your sandwich out to one of the wooden benches beneath the famous James Brooks “Flight” mural. Commissioned in 1952, Brooks’ expansive, 360-degree painting traces the history of aviation from mythical to (then) modern, Icarus to Pan Am Clipper. Its style is a less than shy nod at Socialist realism, and at the height of ’50’s McCarthyism, in a controversy not unlike that surrounding Diego Rivera’s famous mural at Rockefeller Center, it was declared propaganda and obliterated under gray paint. Not until 1977 was it restored.

9. An information kiosk

Where is the Yankee Clipper restaurant? Where is the nearest ATM? Where is the nonexistent subway link to the city? Every arrivals hall ought to have personnel who can give directions, hand out maps and make change.

10. A bookstore

Reading on planes is a natural, am I right? Why then is it so hard to find a proper bookstore at an airport? (Not all of us pre-load our reading material on a Kindle.) Not long ago, every major airport had a proper bookseller. Nowadays they are harder and harder to find, and usually what passes as a bookstore is really just a newsstand hawking a thin selection of business books, thrillers and pop-culture trash. Believe it or not, travelers’ tastes extend beyond Sudoku, Suze Orman, and the latest CEO autobiography.

11. Sufficient gate-side seating

If the plane at the gate holds 250 people, there ought to be a minimum of 250 chairs in the boarding lounge. There is something uncivilized about having to sit on the floor while waiting to board. Do we sit on the floor when waiting for a table in a restaurant, or at the doctor’s office? When Changi was built in Singapore, the gates were outfitted with no fewer than 420 chairs, matching the number on the average 747.

12. Escalator etiquette

Americans haven’t figured out how to behave on an escalator. If you’re not in a hurry, stand on the right and enjoy the ride, allowing those of us with a flight to catch to walk on the left. Instead we stand in the middle, hogging up both sides. Ditto for moving sidewalks. The point of the moving sidewalk is to expedite your passage, not to indulge your laziness. You’re not supposed to stand on it, you’re supposed to walk on it. And to take yet another page from the Europeans and Asians, what prevents us from fitting escalators and sidewalks with a light-beam trigger that shuts off the motor when nobody is on them? Ours run constantly, riders or no riders, wasting huge amounts of energy.

13. A view

Why are so many architects intent on hiding the fact that airports are actually airports? Gateside seating always faces away from the windows, and the windows themselves are sometimes intentionally opaqued or obstructed by barriers. Why? Penty of people would enjoy the opportunity to sit and watch the planes go by. You needn’t be an airplane buff to find this relaxing, or even a little exciting. As a bonus, more windows mean more natural light — always welcome over harsh fluorescents.

14. Bring back the airstairs!

Have you ever taken a good look at a jet bridge (or Jetway to use the proprietary term), that strange umbilicus connecting terminal to fuselage? One thing to notice is how ridiculously overbuilt they are. Do we really need all of that metal and cable and wire and hydraulics for what is, at heart, a simple gangway?

Of course, I am opposed to jet bridges on principle. I prefer the classic, drive-up airstairs. Some of the international stations I fly to still employ those old-timey stairs, and I always get a thrill from them. There’s something dramatic about stepping onto a plane that way: the ground-level approach along the tarmac followed by the slow ascent. The effect is like the opening credits of a film — a brief, formal introduction to the journey. By contrast, the jet bridge makes the airplane almost irrelevant; you’re merely in transit from one annoying interior space (terminal) to another (cabin).

Save your emails. This is just me being romantic. The benefits to the jet bridge are obvious — inclement weather, disabled passengers, etc. – and I realize there’s no going back.

15. Last but not least, some aesthetic flair

If an airport has one aesthetic obligation, it’s to impart a sense of place: you are here and nowhere else. On this front, Europe and Asia again set the standard. I think of Lyon and its magnificent hall by Santiago Calatrava, or Kuala Lumpur with its indoor rainforest, and a dozen places between, where terminal design is a point of expressive pride — where it makes a statement, be it quietly stylish or architecturally stupendous.

Take the magnificent Suvarnabhumi airport (pronounced “Su-wanna-poom”) in Bangkok, Thailand. Its central terminal is the most visually spectacular airport building I have ever seen. At night, as you approach by highway from the city, it looms out of the darkness like a goliath space station — a vision of glass and light and steel, its immense transoms bathed in blue spotlight. Or for sheer character, try the little airport in Timbuktu, Mali. Here you’ll find a handsome, Sudanese-style building emulating the mud-built mosques ubiquitous in that country.

With scattered exceptions (Denver, San Francisco, Washington, Vancouver), there is nothing comparable in America. To the contrary, some of our most expensive airport renovations have been terrible disappointments. JetBlue’s wildly overrated home at JFK, for example. Terminal 5 – or “T5” as the carrier likes to call it — is a $743 million, 72-acre structure that opened in 2008 to considerable promotion and fanfare. Inside, the atrium food court and rows of shops conspire to make yet another airport feel like yet another mall. The Wi-Fi is free, and so is the noise and claustrophobia at the overcrowded gates. But it’s the exterior that’s the real tragedy. Although the street-side facade is at worst cheerless, the tarmac-side is truly abominable — a wide, low-slung, industrial-brutalist expanse of concrete and gray. Once again it looks like a shopping mall. Or, to be more specific, it looks like the back of a shopping mall. All that’s missing are some pallets and dumpsters. The facility’s only visual statement is one of not caring, a presentation of architectural nothingness, absolutely empty of inspiration — precisely what an airport terminal should not be. Is this the best we can do?

It’s ironic that Eero Saarinen’s landmark TWA “Flight Center” sits directly in front of T5, itself part of the JetBlue complex. The TWA building is supposed to serve as an entryway lobby and ticketing plaza for T5, though for now it remains semi-derelict and only partly renovated. I wish they’d finish the thing so that more people could appreciate what is arguably the most architecturally significant airport terminal ever constructed. Regarded as a modernist masterpiece, the Flight Center opened in 1962 and was the first major terminal built expressly for jet airliners. Saarinen, a Finn whose other projects included the Gateway Arch in St. Louis and the terminal at Washington-Dulles, described his TWA as “all one thing.” The lobby is a fluid, unified sculpture of a space, at once futuristic and organic. It’s a kind of Gaudi inversion, a carved-out atrium reminiscent of the caves of Turkish Cappadocia, overhung by a pair of cantilevered ceilings that rise from a central spine like huge wings.

And just to the north of T5 used to be the National Airlines Sundrome, designed by I. M. Pei. It opened in 1970 and was named in honor of National’s yellow and orange sunburst logo and its popular routes between the Northeast and Florida. After National was folded into Pan Am, the terminal was taken over by TWA. Later it was used by jetBlue, then abandoned and torn down. Pei and Saarinen, a half-minute walk from each other. Our airports ain’t what they used to be.

Am I making too much of this? While terminal design and passenger friendliness are important, isn’t it the operational aspects of an airport—the state of its runways, taxiways, and logistical infrastructure—that ultimately matter most? Indeed, but here too the situation is worrying, as any American who travels globally can attest. Once again, it’s a funding issue. Our airports are failing, and nobody wants to pay for them.

“Other parts of the world are more enlightened in their aviation policies than we are,” said Greg Principato, North American president of the Airports Council International, speaking at a conference in 2012. He added that members of the U.S. Congress have a poor understanding of how the upkeep and renovation of U.S. airports needs to be funded. “They have a sense that airports are economically important,” he explained, “but don’t really understand why.” Principato warns that the declining state of its airport infrastructure puts the United States “at risk of being turned into a feeder system for the global aviation network.”

But let’s change gears for a minute, and move from what airports lack to something they have too much of. To me, the single most annoying thing about airports is how noisy they are. I’m not talking about the noise from jet engines. I’m talking about the in-terminal noise. I’m talking about the sounds of humanity on the move, with our shrieking kids, and our beeping electric carts, our laughing and our shouting and our cellphone chatter. All of it amplified by the sadistic acoustics of the typical terminal.

And what makes this a distinctly American problem is our peculiar infatuation with public address announcements. As we’ve already seen, there are plenty of good ideas that American airports can borrow from their counterparts in Europe and Asia, but perhaps none would be more appreciated than realizing that passengers need not be assailed by a continuous loop of useless and redundant PAs: security alerts, boarding calls, traffic and parking directives, promotional and welcome messages. You’ll often hear two or more announcements playing simultaneously. I’ve heard up to four of them blaring at once, rendering all of them unintelligible in a hurricane of noise.

Intensifying this bombardment are those infernal gate-side television monitors blaring CNN Airport Network. These yammering hellboxes are everywhere, and they cannot be turned off. There is no volume control, no power cord, no escape. Every gate has one, and they run twenty-four hours a day. Not even the employees know how to shut them up (believe me, I’ve asked).

All of this sonic pollution does not make passengers more attentive or keep them better informed. What it does is make an already stressful and nerve-wracking experience that much worse.

On a lighter note, am I the only one struck by the phenomenon of teenage girls carrying big fluffy pillows onto airplanes? I’m uncertain when this trend got started, but take a look around in any terminal, anywhere in the world, and you’ll see girls clutching big fluffy pillows.

What’s wrong with this? Nothing. It’s a great idea, especially now that carriers no longer dispense even tiny, non-fluffy pillows on all but the longest flights. In a window seat, putting a pillow between your body and the sidewall creates a comfy sleeping surface. I only bring it up because, on behalf of guys everywhere, I feel excluded. It’s unfair. Grown men like me can’t walk through airports with big fluffy pillows unless we’re willing to get laughed at. We’re stuck with those neck pillow things.

But this isn’t right. To hell with dignity, I say. It’s time to rise up and break the pillow barrier. Who will be first? I’m thinking we should organize a march — a line of men strutting through the concourse, pillows proudly in hand.

“We’re men, we’re strong, this is true, Fluffy pillows aren’t just for you! Downy soft, pastel blues, Come on girls, let us snooze!”

Later, in the parking lot, we can high-five and toss a few of those neck braces into a bonfire. And I smell a gold here mine for airport merchants. Instead of luggage and massage chairs, why not a pillow shop right there in the terminal? No need to lug one from home when you can pick one up gate-side for just a few bucks. You’d have a choice of foam or feather, and a selection of pillowcases to pick from. To entice the guys, cases could be emblazoned with camo patterns and beer logos.

#Airbus A380 #a380flightdeck

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megaphonemonday · 7 years

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Mega Mama: love all of your Bawson fics. Would love a Hallmark style prompt of Ginny moving to a quaint small town and renovating a charming little house. Her cantankerous contractor is none other than Mike Lawson who once hosted a renovation show with now ex wife Rachel. Money pit style calamities and hilarious mishaps and of course the budding romance. Has been on my mind for a while, I'm just not a writer. Please and greatly appreciated:

oh man, i love me some hgtv, so why the heck not? (also, thanks for trusting me with this! i hope you like it!)

i’m ignoring the near-impossibility of a single, recently graduated person actually buying their own home let alone having the money available to renovate it. Millennials aren’t killing the housing market in this fic 😉

handyman special | ao3

Ginny Baker did not run from her problems.

(Did she give up when the Varsity baseball coach didn’t want her on the team or did she show up every day of try outs and prove she was just as good as the boys? Not that showing up every day actually got her on the team, but still. The point stood, okay?)

If it seemed like that was exactly what she was doing by breaking up with her boyfriend of three years the evening he proposed and moving all the way across the country, well, that was just a matter of perspective, wasn’t it?

Her mother called it a disaster waiting to happen.

Personally, Ginny preferred to think of it as moving on. Making a fresh start. Realizing her very own Manifest Destiny.

Just with way less dysentery and genocide.

She didn’t mean to snort at her own joke, but it wasn’t like Ginny’d been spoiling for laughs lately. And, really. What else did she expect with what she’d gotten herself into? There wasn’t a lot to laugh about at the moment.

Or anyone to laugh with, for that matter. It was—to be fair, not unexpectedly—difficult to make friends in a small town like this, and Ginny hadn’t made any inroads on that front. And that was the least of her problems.

There were no fewer than seven voicemails waiting on her phone—though it was a toss up as to whether her mother or Trevor had left more. She’d been living out of her carry on the past week, both her checked bags having been misplaced by the airline. The air mattress she slept on definitely had a leak somewhere because no matter how full Ginny made sure it was before she went to bed or how many duct tape patches she applied, she kept waking up with her shoulder and hip digging into the hard floor.

Which was only happening because Ginny’d checked out of the tiny motel after she bought the house to cut down on costs.

Because, oh yeah, three days into what was supposed to be an extended vacation in a small, California beach town to get her head on straight, Ginny had somehow bought a house. Like, an entire house. An entire house in desperate need of renovation.

(She’d spent the first two days doing nothing but lounging on the sand and wading into the warm water of the Pacific. Ginny had hoped that the waves would wash away some of her worries, but she’d never been that good at waiting around, hoping for the best.

So, she always went looking for it.

Which was what propelled her into exploring the sleepy little town, and what led her straight to the wind-scoured, long-neglected bungalow with a “For Sale” sign in the yard.

That no one would classify her house as the best of anything was undisputed, but Ginny liked it, and that was what mattered.)

Friends (and hopefully the rest of her stuff) would come. This house thing she needed to sort out pretty immediately. She couldn’t keep brushing her teeth with bottled water because the bathroom sink emitted something that was alarmingly brown. She couldn’t keep surviving on sandwiches from the beachside coffee shop down the road. Cara the barista was beginning to look concerned for her dietary choices. It wasn’t Ginny’s fault that every time she used the microwave, all the lights in the house flickered ominously.

And she really couldn’t keep sleeping on that goddamn air mattress.

Clearly, Ginny had bigger problems on her hands than a lack of friends. Anyway, it wasn’t like she’d really been swimming in friends back in North Carolina. The only thing keeping her there was her family and Trevor. And Trevor’d always been more interested in being her boyfriend than her friend.

Now that she thought about it, Ginny actually couldn’t imagine him being just her friend.

Maybe if he had been, if he’d been satisfied with just her friendship the way she’d initially wanted, she’d feel guiltier now about leaving him behind.

But she didn’t. She was happy to be in California. Excited to start a new life.

A new life that required a new house she could actually live in.

Which was exactly where the grumpy, bearded man currently frowning at, well, everything in Ginny’s newly acquired bungalow came in.

Ginny had a hard time imagining him ever being her friend, too.

Which was fine. It was fine! She couldn’t imagine his social life was particularly fulfilling, anyway. Not if he went around frowning like that at everyone he met.

Who cared that the sight of him at her door had kindled something dangerously close to interest? And not just friendly interest, either. With his chest testing the limits of the seams on his worn in flannel and his backwards ball cap, what else could it be? Ginny was only human, okay? And it’d been a long time since she’d let herself notice other men. By all appearances, this guy wasn’t a bad place to start.

Too bad appearances could be so deceiving.

Given the way he hadn’t spoken more than fifteen words to her in the half hour he’d been here, too busy judging her house and clearly finding it lacking, that initial burst of attraction quickly fizzled without anything more to fuel it.

(It’d been a close call when he bent over to inspect an outlet, though.)

No. Mike Lawson certainly wouldn’t be one of her new friends. But maybe he could be her contractor.

He didn’t even bat an eye at Ginny’s snort, just continued scribbling things down in his worn notebook as he prowled around the mostly empty house. There was just Ginny’s one small suitcase, a cheap desk lamp, and her makeshift bed for him to avoid. The few dishes and flatware she’d picked up were tucked away in the kitchen cabinets, but once it became clear the house needed the kind of work Ginny’s high school shop class wouldn’t cover, she figured she’d wait to get anything else. What was the point in blowing a bunch of money that could be put to better use on renovations?

So the rest of the house was bare, showing off the well-worn hardwood floors, freshly painted walls, and bright shafts of sunlight filtering in through the stained glass in the bay window.

Ginny forced herself to focus on these things, trying to figure out how they would come together once the warm afternoon light spilled across furniture and rugs rather than naked floorboards. Better that than trailing after the unfairly good looking man in her house. He hadn’t appreciated any of her attempts at small talk; following him around silently was just creepy.

She’d have to wait for his final assessment.

But not long, thankfully.

Mr. Lawson—he hadn’t corrected her when she greeted him at the door, and Ginny was nothing if not a good Southern girl, manners and all—came out of the small, out of date bathroom, finished making the last of his notes, and blew out a long breath that didn’t do much for Ginny’s confidence.

“What’s the verdict?” she asked, rising from the window seat and trying to manage her expectations.

Mr. Lawson glanced up from his notepad, lips quirked almost charmingly to the side. Before Ginny could go getting any ideas about rekindling any interest, though, he had to go and ruin it.

“You think there’s any chance the bank hasn’t processed your down payment yet?”

She blinked, sure she’d misheard him. “Excuse me?”

“This place is a disaster,” he said, blunt. “I’m surprised there was an inspector alive who let it go on the market like this. ”

Ginny glanced around. Was he seeing what she was? Did he not see the lovely built ins or the back porch that practically ran up against the beach? Sure, there was a long crack running up one of the walls and any time she ran the tap for more than a few seconds, the pipes made a distressing groan, but those things could be fixed. It was his job to fix them.

“So it needs some rehab,” she said, feeling absurdly defensive and protective of this house for all she’d lived in it less than a week.

He snorted and rolled his eyes. “That’s one way of putting it.” Ginny opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “You said this place was built in the 30s, right? It hasn’t had any significant work done on it since then. It’s falling apart. There are definitely leaks in the roof, the pipes are probably still lead, I’d be shocked if there weren’t asbestos in the insulation, and who knows what kind of shape the wiring’s in.”

Ginny just stared at him, feeling the indignation really settle in.

Whether or not Mr. Lawson sensed this was unclear, but he sighed and took on a slightly more conciliatory tone. “Look,” he said, “you called me in for a professional opinion, right? Well, in my professional opinion, you should get out of here as soon as possible. You’re not the first person to take this place on and I’m guessing you won’t be the last. Do yourself a favor: pawn this place off on someone who can handle it.”

That was all it took to harden Ginny’s general annoyance into fury. Who the hell did this guy think he was?

“I can handle it,” she bit out coldly, jutting her chin into the air and staring down the asshole.

She almost couldn’t believe she still wanted to hire him. It wasn’t like she was really spoiled for choice, though. She knew exactly three people in town: her barista, her realtor, and this guy.

“If you could handle it,” he replied, condescending amusement coloring his words and overriding any pleasure Ginny might get out of seeing his big arms cross over his chest, “I wouldn’t be here.”

God, how did he manage to get any clients with an attitude like that?

“If you only take clients who are capable of doing the work themselves, I have to wonder how you stay in business,” she snapped. He could try and convince her to give up on this project all he wanted, it was only going to make Ginny more determined to see it through. This was her house; it was going to be her home. Whether Mike Lawson liked it or not. “I’m well aware that this project requires a professional, which is why I called you in. But if you don’t think you’re up for the challenge, I’m sure I can find another contractor who is.”

It didn’t matter that Ginny had no idea where to even begin looking for another contractor. Her real estate agent had recommended Lawson Restoration Services when she made her offer, said they were the best in town. (Ha. They were probably the only ones in town.) And while Ginny’d been inclined to trust Evelyn Sanders’ judgment, perhaps she needed to reassess that impulse if this was what it got her.

Across the room, Mr. Lawson’s eyes narrowed. Ginny could practically hear his teeth grind in annoyance. Good. He’d been enough of a pain in her ass, he could deal with a little payback.

At her smirk, he just shook his head and huffed, rolling his eyes to the ceiling like he couldn’t quite believe what he was about to say. “If you’re serious, then I’m in.”

Ginny didn’t let herself second-guess him. Instead, she stepped forward and held out her hand. After a long moment, he gave in and shook, looking like he was already regretting his decision.

She just smiled, pleased to have gotten her way. “Then it sounds like we have a deal, Mr. Lawson.”

The greatest things about being self-employed and mostly working from home were that Ginny could set her own schedule, count everything in her closet as business-appropriate, and avoid dealing with coworkers prying into her personal life because she didn’t have any.

(She could also move all the way across the country without worrying about finding a new job when she settled in, but she liked to think that one had limited usefulness.)

In North Carolina, those had been unequivocal pros.

Here in California, where Ginny’s house was constantly occupied by a small circus of workers and their prickly—still! After three whole weeks seeing each other every day—ringleader, it was more of a mixed bag.

Sleeping in was off the table when a chorus of hammers and drills and buzz saws started every day promptly at 8:00 AM. Similarly, pants were no longer optional with a team of strange men swarming her house.

Ginny couldn’t decide which she missed more.

She couldn’t even really work from home. Not when her home-to-be was an active construction scene with no internet. Lawson had actually laughed in her face when she floated the idea of getting a wireless connection set up right away. Laughed and laughed and laughed until she gave up and walked away. Ginny’d managed to switch everything around in his tool belt so he kept coming up with the wrong thing in retaliation, but he figured it out too fast for it to be really satisfying.

Sometimes, she set up shop on the beach just beyond her back door. It was nice to be on hand if Lawson needed to run something by her, and even better to watch the project progress. More often, though, Ginny'd walk down the street to the coffee shop to hang out with Cara, listen to gossip about people she mostly didn’t know, and use the wifi when necessary. Which was basically all the time. Such was the glamorous life of a web designer.

Both got her out from underfoot, which was the important thing. Ginny had always considered herself a fairly handy person. Her pop had made sure she knew how to fix a leaking pipe and change a flat tire just as well as she could throw a screwball. Watching the crew tear apart the bungalow and slowly piece it back together, though, she was uncomfortably aware that nothing her pop had taught her could’ve prepared her for this.

Sometimes, when she needed a break from tweaking layouts for clients, she’d scroll through the (massive and still growing) folder of photos titled “neverending construction” just to reassure herself that things were actually getting done. Progress had been made.

So Ginny continued to document that progress and tried to learn as much as possible as she went. At least once a week, she spent some of the day drifting through the wreckage of her house and snapping more pictures than she had since her time on the school newspaper. It was nice. Even if Ginny learned early on to make sure Lawson was unaware if he happened to be in the shot. Not only did he frown less when he didn’t know he was being watched, he couldn’t complain about what he didn’t know was happening.

Which, of course, didn’t keep him from grumbling about Ginny distracting his guys from their jobs.

On the bright side, she was definitely meeting people.

There was Salvamini, who surfed on his lunch breaks in spite of Dusty’s conviction that sharks would get him one day. Livan had a dangerous smile, but a love of cilantro Ginny could not abide. Omar was shy, but sweet, while Sonny, Butch, and Javanes hid most of their sweetness beneath many, many layers of ego. Blip, the construction manager, was apparently married to her realtor, which certainly explained Evelyn’s recommendation.

There were more of them, too, a largely friendly gaggle of dudes who cycled in and out, taking away bits and pieces of the house and leaving behind fresh drywall and newly finished floors. They seemed to like her well enough, and not just because she fed them pizza and beer on Friday evenings.

The only one Ginny still couldn’t get a solid read on was their grouch of a boss. Lawson was the only one who was on site every day, and he was the only one Ginny hadn’t managed to learn anything about. She thought he found her amusing more than annoying, which was something.

In her head, and whenever she had occasion to say it out loud, she’d finally dropped the “Mr.” off his name, but only because the entire crew burst into laughter the first time they heard her call him Mr. Lawson. She couldn’t bring herself to call him just Mike the way everyone else did. Not when he was still mostly a mystery.

Which worked well enough for them. They were mostly content to leave each other be: Lawson to his work and Ginny to hers.

Still, sometimes Lawson’s work meant they had to meet in the middle.

“Hey, you got a minute?”

Ginny paused in slipping on her headphones and backpedaled to the Mission Control Center—which was really just a card table strewn with blueprints in what would be the dining room—where Lawson oversaw and planned everything. (Some nights, after the guys had long gone home and the house was quiet, Ginny’d flip through the papers, trying to make out his scrawl and see how much of it made any sense. It usually wasn’t much, but she was getting better at deciphering his handwriting.) She’d just come in to change for a run, but that could wait. She’d been running a lot lately, both to blow off steam and because it was her only way to explore town. God, she missed her truck. The only reason she’d wanted to go now was because she couldn’t stare at her computer screen or the ridiculous doggy haute couture store she was supposed to build for another second.

“What’s up?”

“Just wanted to make sure I can send the drywallers home.”

“Why couldn’t you?”

Lawson rolled his eyes and Ginny only just managed not to roll hers right back.

“If you suddenly decided you wanted to knock down the wall between the bedrooms, that’d probably stop me.”

“Oh.” Ginny thought it over for a moment, but didn’t see much of a point in it. “Uh, no. No walls to knock down.”

Lawson snorted, but it wasn’t quite as derisive as it usually was. “What, you don’t wanna go fully open concept with this place?”

Honestly, Ginny didn’t even know what that meant. HGTV hadn’t ever been all that high on her watch list. She said so and Lawson laughed again, for real this time.

It did nice things to his face, making his eyes crinkle and cheeks round. Not that Ginny cared about any of that. Or the way he licked his lips before replying.

“You’re not missing out on much,” he promised, shaking his head.

“If you say so.” She shrugged and considered the original question. “I guess you can send the drywallers home, then.”

“Livan will be so disappointed,” he drawled.

Was it just Ginny, or was there a hint of something in that observation? An edge, perhaps?

One way to find out.

“Well, it’s not like he doesn’t know where to find me.”

Lawson rolled his eyes again, which didn’t give her any answers. That was pretty much his go to response for, now that Ginny thought about it, everything. “I don’t think even he’d go so far as to stalk you, Ms. Baker.”

Ginny’s nose wrinkled, though not at the mention of stalking. Ms. Baker? Really? After all this time? He hadn’t been Mr. Lawson in weeks. Still, she didn’t bother correcting him.

All this renovation stuff would be over soon, and they’d never see each other again. Sure, the process of repairing the foundation had taken longer than initially planned and all the insulation had to be replaced along with most of the plumbing and the entire roof—to his credit, Lawson never said anything about having predicted these exact problems, but Ginny was sure he’d thought it at least once—but it seemed like it was all coming to an end. It’d been weeks since she last saw the exposed studs of a wall. The house actually felt like a house again.

Rather than say any of that, though, Ginny just shrugged. “If he does, I know who to blame.”

Lawson waved her off with a huff. “Go on your run, then, and get outta my way.”

Ginny did as he asked, but she stuck her tongue out as she went, and Lawson’s laugh echoed in her ears all through her run.

The first morning Ginny wasn’t woken up by the chorus of nail guns or the steady drone of a circular saw, she lay on her semi-deflated air mattress and tried not to think how strange her life had become. Here she was, hardly two years out of school, living in a largely unfurnished house some 2,500 miles away from the town she’d lived all her life. 2,500 miles away from the people she’d known all her life.

And honestly, she couldn’t be happier. Last, week, after Lawson practically threw her out of the house, saying she couldn’t sleep there with all the varnish fumes that came with finishing the floors and baseboards, she’d gone home. Well, back to North Carolina, at least. Mostly so she could reassure Will and her mom that she hadn’t been inducted into a cult the way they seemed to think.

She made it 38 hours in Tarboro before loading up her truck, which had been once been her pop’s, and hitting the road for California. And why should she stay? She’d seen everyone who mattered.

Trevor, she hadn’t heard from at all.

Which, she supposed, wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

The drive across country had been a little lonely, and by the end of it Ginny was happy to be back in her sleepy seaside town. Happy to be back in her—every day less and less—ramshackle house. Happy to go to sleep on her halfhearted air mattress. (Though she was less happy to be waking up in it now.)

She’d almost been happy to see Lawson’s grumpy, bearded face, even.

Which, of course, was just perfect since he was officially done being her contractor.

Between the foundation repair and plumbing issues, not to mention the almost entirely new roof, there hadn’t been enough money for Ginny to justify paying a whole team of guys to sand and paint and seal and otherwise turn the house from a construction project into a home.

She’d been so sure she could take it on, but now, in the cold light of morning, Ginny was beginning to have some very serious doubts.

As she’d had occasion to find out over the past six weeks, web design and interior design were two very different ballgames. Sure, there were some similarities: a general attention to aesthetics and detail, but the implementation couldn’t be more different. Where a few keystrokes and commands were all it took to get a website in working order. Restoring and decorating a house required actual heavy lifting.

Naturally, it was something of a daunting task, and Ginny told herself she was just easing herself into it slowly. So slowly, she wasn’t even getting out of bed yet.

She had felt so eager to take on the challenge, anticipation ratcheting up as workers she’d gotten to know over the past few months began to disappear in ones and twos, off to work on other projects. Soon enough, only Lawson was left, finishing up with the tile in the kitchen and the bathroom, sanding down the last rough edges.

Just last evening, all his work finished up, he’d handed over his spare set of keys and told her, “Well, Baker. It’s all on you now.” If he said it with more than a bit of trepidation in his voice, Ginny thought it was at least a little bit of a joke.

She was about 75% sure.

The remaining 25% was a certainty that he was worried she would either manage to kill herself or pull all his hard work down around her ears.

Which was progress where she and Lawson were concerned. It wasn’t so long ago Ginny would’ve been completely offended by his lack of faith and determined to prove him wrong. Now, she was just determined to prove him wrong.

Honestly, she thought Lawson’s snobbery was mostly funny, though that might have been nostalgia talking; it was strange to be in the house all by herself. He’d been so scandalized when she mentioned she had no idea how to refinish cabinets, but was sure the internet would help her out.

The internet always knew what to do. Even—especially—when she didn’t.

He’d grumbled when she laughed, but only said she wasn’t allowed to tell anyone he’d worked on the house if she ended up ruining it.

With that taunt bolstering her resolve, Ginny rolled out of her deflating bed and one question answered itself easily enough.

This mattress? Yeah, it had to go. It had never been all that good at it’s intended purpose, but Ginny was increasingly sure that if she tried to force the issue, her sad, second-hand air mattress would give up on retaining air altogether. She needed to get a real bed and a real mattress as soon as possible. And if, in the process, she created a real bedroom rather than just the place where she passed out every night, Ginny wouldn’t complain.

It would be nice to have some place to come back to at the end of the day that didn’t do such a good impression of a squatter’s nest.

Which was how, hours later and verging on exhaustion, Ginny found herself standing in the middle of the hardware store’s paint aisle, contemplating the difference between Fuzzy Duckling and Smiley Face. Was there one? And what the hell was greige?

She was still frowning at the mind-boggling array of paint samples when someone interrupted with a gruff, “Excuse me.”

“Sorry,” Ginny replied automatically, stepping out of the middle of the aisle, and checking over her shoulder to make sure there was enough room for their heavily loaded cart to get by. It was then that she noticed who was pushing the cart. “Oh. Hi.”

Mike Lawson paused and actually took her in. Ginny did the same, not that she’d had a chance to forget any important details in the past 12 hours. His beard was the same as ever, thick and dark and framing his mouth in a way that wasn’t intriguing. His flannel was the one he’d worn pretty much every Thursday of their acquaintance, the blue and gray one that sometimes strained around his arms when he lifted something heavy. His wry smile, once recognition lit in his eyes, was the one he always gave when he found her particularly amusing.

“Didn’t I just finish with you?” he asked in lieu of a real greeting.

“You might have moved on to bigger and better things, Lawson, but my little house still needs some work.”

“That’s putting it lightly.” The corners of his mouth tugged, like he wanted to grin. Ginny couldn’t say why he didn’t.

“Says the man who left it in such shambles.”

He rolled his eyes, but didn’t protest. He’d offered to work out some kind of payment plan to get some more work done, but Ginny was actually looking forward to the challenge of doing this herself.

“And you decided to get right to it, huh?”

“What else was I supposed to do?”

He laughed and that little flutter of pride that came every time she managed to startle that sound out of him woke up in Ginny’s stomach. In the beginning, it’d always been a shock that her forbidding contractor was even capable of laughing. As they got to know each other, though, Ginny came to realize Mike’s sense of humor was very much alive. He laughed all the time. At her stupid Laffy Taffy jokes, at Blip’s stories of his twins and the intrigues of the second grade, at his guys almost constantly. Though that was generally at their expense in a way this laugh wasn’t.

“Don’t know why I’m surprised,” he said with a rueful shake of his head before turning to face the wall of paint chips Ginny’d been eyeing. “If you want my two cents, don’t go too dark in the dining room; there’s not enough light. Test out a few of the sample cans and see what you like, though.”

“So you’re a designer now, too?” Ginny teased, more familiar than she ever would’ve imagined during that first meeting.

Something flickered across Mike’s face and the smile he offered her was tight. “Something like that. I’ll leave you to it.”

He didn’t even give her a chance to demand a better answer, instead walking up to the cash register, pausing to pay, and then heading out the door.

All Ginny could think was something that she often found herself thinking when it came to Mike Lawson:

What the hell is his problem?

It was another few days before Ginny got around to trying out the samples she picked out. (Fortunately, none of them were Fuzzy Duckling or whatever the hell greige was.) Which wasn’t to say she hadn’t been busy. She’d driven up and down the coast in her dad’s pick up more times than she could count, scoping out estate sales and flea markets, trying to find furniture to fill the bedroom. And the rest of the house when she found the perfect dining room table and an antique carved screen she had no idea what to do with, but it was too pretty to just leave.

Sure, it would’ve been much easier to just go to the nearest Ikea, but that felt too close to cheating. The house itself would be such a labor of love, she couldn’t just fill it with the same dresser and couch combination as every college student in America.

So, she waded through heaps and piles of junk, hoping to find a few things that spoke to her, or whatever.

Okay, maybe she’d been watching some HGTV in her spare time, or at least had it on in the background as she coded. Ginny was relatively sure her intention—gaining a few interior design instincta purely through osmosis—had been largely unsuccessful, but she’d definitely picked up on the lingo.

Things like window treatments and wood finishes spoke to her now. She had opinions on chair rails and subway tile. Barn doors were beyond over done, but she kind of liked them anyway. And if Ginny never heard anyone say the words man cave again, she would gladly sacrifice her soul to whatever kind god was looking down on her.

And yet, she still found herself cuing up another episode of House Hunters to play in the background as she finally tested out the three shades of blue she’d picked for her bedroom walls.

Ginny must have dropped into some kind of painting zen because the next thing she knew, she was laughing along to Mike Lawson’s familiar snark, as she swept broad swathes of her final sample, a delicate robin’s egg blue, onto one wall.

At first she didn’t realize it wasn’t actually him. She almost called out a reply, the way she had when it was only them in the house, when reality caught up to her.

Ginny blinked, shaking herself. Was she hallucinating? Had seeing him at the hardware store triggered some delayed response to how alone she was all the time now? Before Ginny could really settle in to psychoanalyze herself, another voice rang through the house.

Unless Evelyn had neglected to mention some very active ghosts in the house, Ginny was relieved to believe that her mental health was still intact.

Dropping her roller brush back in the tray, Ginny padded over to her computer, which she’d left well out of the way of the open paint cans. Thankfully, the screen was still paint free. However, the clear screen didn’t help her in figuring out what the hell was showing on it. Hulu continued to play, but that was not a good enough explanation for what she was seeing there. It took her a minute to process it, actually. It didn’t matter how long she looked, though, her brain always reached the same conclusion.

That was Mike Lawson.

Mike Lawson talking into a camera outside a construction project.

Mike Lawson on his own TV show.

What in the actual fuck?

Staring first in confusion and then amusement and back to confusion, Ginny struggled to wrap her head around the sight of him, a few years younger and a beard (and probably a few pounds, though Ginny didn’t think it did much for his appearance) lighter talking into the camera, smiling charmingly as he explained something about what he must’ve been working on.

What was even harder to wrap her head around was the pretty redhead leaning into his side.

“Y’know, I was sure Rachel’d lost her mind when she told me to save all that old flooring, but she was absolutely right. That’s why she gets to make the decisions, and I just follow orders.” He looked adoringly down at the woman beside him, who laughed, tossing her long, red hair.

“It’s true,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder and beaming straight into the camera. “I made him put that in our wedding vows.”

Automatically, Ginny paused the playback.

She blinked. Then blinked once more. She hadn’t realized Lawson was married. Then again, she didn’t actually know anything about him aside from his general disdain for open-concept living spaces and laminate flooring. Well, that and how well he got along with his crew, as both their leader and their friend. And how good his forearms looked when he had his sleeves rolled up to work the power drill—

Okay, back to the topic at hand.

The man was married.

Or had been, Ginny rationalized as she struggled to recall if she’d ever seen a wedding band in all the time she’d known him. He was definitely wearing one on screen.

She could still see it under the dark overlay announcing, “You are watching: Building Character.”

Telling herself that what she was feeling was not disappointment, not at all, Ginny pressed play again.

It wouldn’t hurt to watch a little more. Just to satisfy her curiosity. Nothing wrong with that.

Before she knew what she’d done, it was dark outside, the paint had dried out in the tray, her laptop was about to die, and Ginny had watched half a season of Building Character.

Which at least had the distinction of not being the worst name in the HGTV pantheon.

She forced herself to close Hulu’s tab and shut down her computer for good measure before plugging it in and leaving it alone for the rest of the evening.

What she did the next morning, however, was an entirely different story.

If asked, Ginny wouldn’t be proud to admit that she looked up the show’s Wikipedia article before letting herself get sucked back in the next morning, but she was curious, all right? There were worse reasons to do things. Mike Lawson did not seem like the type to get on board with being followed around by a camera crew, and she wanted to know what could possibly convince him it was a good idea.

There were no answers on that front, but she did skim over sections on the show’s premise and ratings, scrolling until she hit one titled: “Cancellation.”

It was a short paragraph, hardly even deserving of its own heading. All it said was: “Building Character was cancelled after its second season, aired in 2014, following several developments within the cast. Many speculated that its cancellation was due to competitor Bravo’s announcement of a new interior design show in development in the vein of Millionaire Matchmaker or Flipping Out, which Patrick had been tapped to headline. The series shot a pilot, which was never picked up. Patrick also filed for divorce from Lawson at this time.”

That wasn’t nearly enough information. It was hardly even information. There weren’t any sources cited, and no way to tell how true it all was.

Ginny had questions. About a million of them, actually.

(Even if her most burning one had been answered pretty definitively.)

And what better source for answers than the show in question? So, telling herself it was merely to sate her curiosity, Ginny felt only slightly weird about pulling up the next episode to play in the background as she went back to her neglected tasks from yesterday.

Ginny’s discovery left her in something of a strange, quasi-ethical quandary. At what point did she tell Lawson that she’d found his TV show? Should she even? No one on the crew had ever brought it up; he probably wasn’t trading on his semi-fame to drum up business. If he was, he definitely wasn’t doing a good job of it. Maybe Lawson just wanted to leave it in the past? If his short stint as a TV personality had ended in his divorce, there were probably some pretty bad memories tied up in it all. Ginny didn’t need to go digging that up just to sate her curiosity and soothe her vaguely guilty conscience.

And what was there to be guilty about? So what, she watched a publicly available TV show. A publicly available TV show that happened to feature someone she actually knew, but who didn’t know she’d seen his—

It was weird, okay? Just super weird.

Luckily, it was an easy enough conundrum to ignore when Ginny didn’t actually have to see the man in question. Well, not in person at least. In spite of her (more than) daily trips to the local hardware store and even striking up something of a friendship—well, Ginny was determined it would be a friendship by the time she was through—with its curmudgeon of an owner, Al, she hadn’t run into Mike Lawson again.

She thanked God that she hadn’t started her HGTV kick earlier. If she’d found the show while he was still around every day, slowly growing on her, Ginny couldn’t begin to imagine what she would’ve done. He probably would’ve ended up quitting and she would’ve been left with a real problem on her hands.

For all Ginny had actually met the man before she stumbled across his cancelled home renovation show, she wasn’t prepared to come face to face with Mike Lawson again now that she had this information. It was easier to separate them into two entirely different people: Lawson, the grumpy contractor who’d made her house technically livable and wasn’t always as big of an asshole as he’d first seemed was miles away from Mike, the TV personality who both provided Ginny with some excellent inspiration as she fumbled her way through her DIY restorations and was utterly smitten with his pretty interior designer wife.

(Well, ex-wife now.)

Of course, just because it was easier didn’t mean it would always be that way.

Or would even last that long.

A few days after stumbling on Building Character, Ginny was once again at the hardware store, ready to pick up all the paint for her house, as well as drop cloths and tape and brushes and all the other supplies the internet had told her she’d need.

She was just loading the last of her freshly mixed paint cans into her cart when a far too familiar voice drawled, just behind her, “Of all the gin joints in all the world.”

Ginny whirled, paint clattering to the bottom of her cart, a hand to her chest. “Jesus, are you stalking me?” she blurted, ignoring any irony in her accusation.

(Watching a TV show wasn’t stalking, okay? Even if she was using said TV show to glean a few personal details—

Okay, okay. She got the picture.)

Lawson squinted at her, like he wasn’t sure if she was being serious or not. Ginny wasn’t sure either, though at least half her discomfort had to come from the fact that over the past week, she’d binged every episode of Building Character. She kept getting flashes of his TV self, leaner and fresher faced, laid over the current one, like a double image.

“No,” he finally answered, something like a smirk playing over his mouth. “And, y’know, I’m the one who’s been coming to this store for years. Wouldn’t you be the one stalking me?”

Ginny laughed, a little too high and a little too hard to be completely natural. “In your dreams, Lawson.”

“Just Mike is fine.”

The laughter dried up in Ginny’s mouth as her eyes went wide. “What?”

“Mike. That is my name.” His head tipped to the side as he regarded her, curious and amused and too much for Ginny, in all honesty. “You might as well use it if we’re going to keep running into each other.”

“How do you know we’re going to keep running into each other?” she demanded, scrambling to find her footing in this exchange and focus on the Mike who existed in the present, not just on her laptop screen. “So much for making me believe you’re not a stalker, by the way.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s not such a big town, and Al likes to gossip. He told me you’ve been in at least once a day all week. Given the shape of your house, you’re gonna be here pretty often.”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” she said, dodging the question of whether or not she’d be calling him Mike any time in the near future. Maybe when Building Character and the way she’d chattered at the show like Mike was actually at work somewhere in the house as she painted was further in her mental rearview. God, she needed to make some friends around here. People who would keep her from talking to Hulu to feel like she had company. “There is a lot of work left to do.”

“And you’re starting with the painting?”

Grateful for the segue—and it didn’t even sound nearly as judgmental as she was sure he wanted to be—Ginny eagerly latched onto this topic. “Sort of. I’ve been getting some furniture, too.” She couldn’t seem to stop the steady flow of chatter, even as she was aware Lawson couldn’t be that interested. “Oh! And I just picked up this door from a flea market down in Encinitas. It’s got this art deco stained glass that’s all ocean waves. I’m thinking of painting the shutters blue to match.”

Mike nodded along anyway, but when he opened his mouth, it wasn’t to praise her thriftiness or design instincts. Instead, he asked, “You’re putting a door from a flea market in your house?”

Ginny shrugged. It was cheaper than getting a brand new one and it fit in the frame she already had. Which was exactly what she informed a despairing Lawson. Plus, how many people have hundred year old front doors?

“There’s a reason for that,” he said, clearly exasperated. “It’s gonna splinter the first time someone tries to bash it in.”

It was the sheer grouchiness in his voice that finally shook Ginny out of her awkwardness. This man in front of her, the one frowning so forbiddingly, was Mike Lawson. The one she’d gotten to know over piles of 2x4s and through a fine sheen of plaster dust. Whoever he’d been when Building Character was filmed didn’t really exist anymore.

All she needed to do was look at his beard to know that.

“Who’s bashing in doors around here?” she joked, trying to settle back into their customary banter.

“You can never be too careful,” Mike replied without actually answering the question.

“I’ve managed to protect my house from burglars just fine on my own, thanks.”

Lawson was still frowning when he asked, “You’re really doing this by yourself?”

Ginny rocked back, surprised by the shift in topic. “How else am I supposed to do it? You got me through the difficult stuff. I can manage to strip some cabinets and install a few light fixtures on my own.”

He was smart enough not to argue, though his skepticism was hard to miss. “I’m sure you’re more than capable, but that doesn’t mean you have to do it on your own.”

Ginny snorted, but didn’t bother to explain herself at his curious look. Lawson must have forgotten what it was like to be new in town. Especially a small town like this. Vaguely suspicious stares and curious murmurs still followed Ginny almost everywhere she went, though she’d done her best to present a friendly face, willing to wait out the distrust. Having grown up in a small town of her own, she knew that strangers weren’t always met with open arms. She had her small circle of friends—Blip and Evelyn, Cara, Livan and most of the other guys, and even Lawson on good days—which was so much better than what she’d started with. Ginny could afford the wait on this front.

“Well, I’m going to,” she replied, decisive and determined. (And entirely missing the thoughtful frown on Lawson’s face.)

After all, what other choice did she have?

As it turned out, Ginny had more than a few choices.

Somehow—and the exact mechanics of this information exchange were never quite nailed down to Ginny’s satisfaction—word got around quickly among her limited acquaintance that she might be in a little over her head.

The first person to show up and offer her help was Evelyn Sanders, Ginny’s realtor. Ginny had seen the woman a few times in the past months, but it was mostly in passing. Friendly smiles as they maneuvered past each other at the grocery store and quick hellos in line for coffee. So, Evelyn’s sudden appearance on her doorstep, ready to work, was nothing short of a shock.

Ginny nonetheless invited her and her two rambunctious seven-year-olds inside, falling back on ingrained manners to get over her surprise.

“I’m so sorry it took me so long to come check up on you,” Evelyn said in place of an actual greeting as she ushered her boys in ahead of her. The kids, a set of twins by all appearances, looked up at Ginny, and she looked back, at a loss. Their frank curiosity was a refreshing change of pace from the veiled interest that dogged Ginny’s steps in town. At their mother’s permission, however, they both scampered out the backdoor to the waiting beach. No stranger could compare to the pull of the ocean to two seven-year-olds. “There was this whole thing—there was a house and a contested will and a court order—that just took forever to wrap up, and then Gabe and Marcus started school…”

Evelyn smiled winningly as she trailed off and Ginny looked uncertainly back.

“Oh,” Ginny said, upon realizing the other woman was waiting for a response. She was very aware that she’d gotten a streak of paint in her hair earlier in the day and could in no way compare to Evelyn’s spotless dress. “That’s all right?”

Evelyn flapped her hand, “Thank you, but I still should’ve come earlier. I always try to come for the housewarming, at least.” Then, with an evaluative glance around the living room, which had mostly turned into storage for Ginny’s estate sale finds, she added, “Although maybe I’m not as late as I thought. Blip told me he was done working on the house.”

Right, Blip. It’d honestly slipped Ginny’s mind that Lawson’s right hand man was married to her real estate agent. She hadn’t seen him in so long; he’d been one of the first to disappear from the project, apparently heading up the next one a few towns over. “He is,” she assured. “But I’m not.”

With the enthusiasm of a woman who loved a good project, Evelyn demanded all the details. If she was disappointed that Ginny was largely flying blind, she didn’t show it. She did, however, march through the house to take in the state of things for herself. In no time at all, showing off a mind built for organization and a personality for delegation, she’d helped Ginny catalogue all the remaining projects and construct a feasible timeline to finish them. As she left barely an hour later, apparently late for the boys’ baseball practice, she promised to take Ginny to all the best antique stores and salvage yards.

Ginny wasn’t holding her breath. Evelyn clearly had a lot on her plate, and while the help today was certainly appreciated, Ginny was more than prepared to finish this thing on her own.

All too soon, though, she learned just why no one underestimated Evelyn Sanders twice.

Not only did the realtor make good on her promise to take Ginny bargain hunting, she proved to be a formidable haggler and a determined friend.

Whether she liked it or not, Ginny was going to become part of the Sanders’ social circle.

(She definitely liked it.)

Suddenly, like a switch had been flipped, Ginny’s house was the new place to be.

On the weekends, some combination of the old crew—Sonny or Melky or even Livan, taking a break from his punishing social schedule—came over and helped her pull out the overgrown tangle of weeds in the front yard and, when that was done, moved on to repainting the siding. Blip would sometimes show up with the boys after school to jump in on whatever needed doing. He said he wanted them to learn the value of hard work, but since they were seven and had the attention spans to prove it, they mostly ended up eating cookies and milk in the kitchen while their dad and Ginny stripped cabinets, shit talking one another’s taste in basketball teams. Evelyn would breeze in after her office closed, take a quick tour to survey the newest improvements, and round up her boys so Ginny could “have some peace and quiet.”

Sometimes, she even rounded Ginny up and brought her home for “a proper home cooked meal,” which Ginny would never turn down, even if she thought she should. The sandwiches Cara made down at the cafe were good, but there were only so many of them that she could eat.

In payment, Ginny always made sure to have more than enough beer (or juice for her underage helpers) in the fridge and pizza to feed an army waiting at the end of the day. She, personally, thought she should be doing more in repayment, but every time she offered, they all shook her off. All they’d take was food and gratitude.

Which Ginny was more than happy to give.

She would’ve given a lot more for the comfort that came with knowing there were people here who had her back.

Even if one of those people wasn’t Mike Lawson.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t around. She’d see him at the bar when Livan dragged her out of the house to escape the paint fumes, or at the hardware store when she inevitably had to go back to pick out a different sealant for her salvaged dining room table. He regularly showed up at the Sanders house for their bi-weekly potluck, and never empty handed.

Okay, Ginny saw him a lot, actually.

And every time she did, they got along just fine. Better than fine, even.

It was funny, getting to know the real him, and not just whatever version of Mike Lawson had been deemed fit for TV. On screen, he was clearly meant to be someone’s wish fulfillment: An appropriately rugged man’s man, but also a dedicated husband. Someone who not only worked with his hands, but could appreciate the finer things in life, too.

He was pretty much a walking wet dream.

And, don’t get her wrong, he did an excellent job of it, but he wasn’t quite real, either.

The real Mike had a bit of a dour streak, one Ginny hesitated to believe grew into existence along with his beard. He couldn’t stop rolling his eyes if they were in danger of falling out. He was terminally inclined towards grumpiness.

But he also watched out for his guys like they were his own brothers. He was funny, with a sarcastic bent that Building Character utterly failed to reveal. While he was personally affronted by Ginny’s taste in movies, and threatened her with a Film 101 crash course every other time they saw each other, he didn’t treat her like a moron for liking Mean Girls more than The Maltese Falcon.

Honestly, Ginny liked the man she was slowly coming to know even more than the one she still watched on Hulu sometimes.

For all his faults, Mike always listened to her progress, and Ginny got to pick his brain about particularly stubborn problems she ran up against. He offered advice and Ginny mostly took it with grace. Ginny fed him gossip from his guys, and he pretended not to squirrel away every bit of intelligence.

She even divulged that she’d found his show.

(“I didn’t know I’d hired a famous contractor,” she teased, elbowing him as they both waited for their drinks at the bar. Ginny probably didn’t need any more; she was already pretty buzzed. If she weren’t, there was no way she’d consider this an acceptable topic of conversation. As it was, she kept going. “You had your very own TV show, and you didn’t tell me.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck, sheepish. “It’s not something I really advertise.”

“Well, if I hadn’t heard you complaining about cherry finishes first hand, I wouldn’t have believed it. I never would’ve recognized you.”

“No?” Mike asked, one eyebrow raised and a corner of his mouth turned up, too.

“Nope,” she answered, ignoring how good he looked with that sly grin. “That thing you’ve grown on your face is a pretty excellent disguise.”

He laughed, a sharp burst of surprise that, like always, made Ginny’s stomach flutter. “Don’t hate on the beard, Baker.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Whatever I feel about the beard, it’s only what it deserves.”

The fact that it was the truth, no matter which way she meant it, only made it harder for Mike to argue.)

They were, at least in a casual way, friends.

But he never came to her house.

Ginny tried not to read into it. He renovated homes for a living. Of course he didn’t want to do it in his spare time, and for no money to boot. She couldn’t blame him for spending his free time doing other things. Things that didn’t involve her. (Even if they often involved other women, if the gossip around town to be believed.)

It didn’t mater that he always made sure to seek her out at Blip and Ev’s or the bar or even when they crossed paths in town. He was just being nice.

That was all.

“Son of a bitch!”

Ginny glared down at her phone, though the Lou the tow truck driver had already hung up and could appreciate neither her cursing nor her unimpressed stare. One of the unexpected problems of living in a small town was when there was a big accident up the coast, the only available tow truck was going to be kept busy for a while.

Which meant she was currently stuck on the side of the road, victim of a blown tire.

It was too dark and too far for Ginny to risk the walk into town, though Lou’d assured her he didn’t need her to stick around for the tow if she wanted someone to pick her up. Unfortunately, though, everyone she would’ve considered calling was busy somewhere that wasn’t the side of the road.

Blip and Ev were having a date night down in San Diego, Livan didn’t believe in answering phone calls (and was probably already knee deep in some flirting at the bar), and, well, those were the only people Ginny was actually comfortable calling. Cara the barista had insisted on trading numbers back when it became clear Ginny would be a new regular, but they rarely talked outside of the coffee shop. Their first foray into friendship couldn’t be Ginny demanding a favor.

Mike’s phone number was still somewhere in her contacts, not that Ginny actually had any plans to put it to use. He wasn’t that kind of a friend.

She sighed and flopped back in the bed of her truck, flinging an arm dramatically across her eyes for good measure.

She was so wrapped up in her pity party, she didn’t even hear the other car drive up. She also didn’t hear its driver kill the engine, get out, close the door, and make it within five feet of her.

“Need some help?”

Ginny bolted upright and was immediately blinded by a set of halogen headlights. All she could make out was a large, dim shadow approaching her. She jumped to her feet and immediately wished she’d thought to grab the tire iron or something from the bed of the truck. It might not’ve helped with her blown tire, but Ginny’d seen Criminal Minds, okay? If someone wanted to try and grab her, it would’ve been a hell of a help.

Panic flooding her veins and well before she’d gotten a good look at whomever had approached her, Ginny jabbed out with a fist. Who cared that she didn’t know who it was? She was alone on a dark road, but she was not going to end up as inspiration for the writers of Law and Order.

Unfortunately, blinded as she was, her aim was pretty shoddy. Her hand collided with something solid and unforgiving.

“Ow! Fuck!” her assailant protested, knocking her next punch out of the way. “Jesus, Baker! It’s me.”

“Lawson?” she demanded, reason catching up with panic and battling for control. She squinted against the glare of his headlights, and realized that: yes, she had just tried to punch out Mike Lawson. A hysterical burble of laughter climbed out of her stomach, and she pressed a hand over her heart, trying to calm its furious rhythm. “You scared me!”

He grimaced, holding out his hands placatingly and stepping to the side so Ginny didn’t have to stare straight into the light. Bright spots danced across her eyes, but she could still make out how guilty and concerned he looked. “Sorry,” he said, making sure to keep his distance. “Just, I saw your truck and pulled over to make sure you were all right. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Ginny’s heart was still thundering away in her chest, but she managed to nod. “Okay,” she said, swallowing back the bitter tang of adrenaline. As it went, she felt her knees begin to go, too. Before they completely dissolved beneath her, she leaned back against the lowered tailgate, hoping it seemed nonchalant and not necessary. “I get it. Next time, though, maybe try to avoid startling a woman alone at night.”

“Noted,” he agreed, his eyes sweeping over her in something almost like worry. “Are you okay?”

She waved him off, though the furrow of his brow didn’t ease up at all. “I’ll survive. And maybe by the time Lou gets here with the tow truck, I’ll have my heart rate back to normal.”

Mike ignored her dig in favor of frowning. “Tow truck? What’s wrong?”

“Blew a tire.”

“Don’t you have a spare?”

“That was it,” she replied, nodding to the shreds of rubber still clinging to her back wheel. Carefully, she eased herself up onto the tailgate. Her knees felt less watery now, but the tow truck was still a good half hour away. Might as well settle in for the wait.

Mike rolled his eyes. “You know you’re not supposed to drive around on it, right? It’s just to get you into a shop.”

Ginny rolled her eyes right back. “No, I had no idea, Lawson.” At his unimpressed stare (maybe it was just the shadows playing tricks on her eyes that made her think he was smiling a little reluctantly, too), she threw her hands in the air. “I was prioritizing, okay? I’d rather definitely be able to take a shower than maybe prevent, well. This.”

“What happened to your shower?”

“Nothing. It’s great.” It was. It was maybe her favorite place in the house, and not just because it was the only thing she hadn’t had to put any work into. Mike had turned what was once a tragically outdated bathroom into a mini spa, and Ginny would be lying if she said it hadn’t affected her tiny crush on him at all. “But the hot water heater died last week, and I had to get it replaced.”

He shook his head and heaved himself up onto the bed of her truck, too. “That house is a money pit. How you haven’t already gone bankrupt is a mystery.”

Ginny ignored his halfhearted probing in favor of leaning away from his warm and far-too-close bulk.

“What’re you doing?” she demanded, maybe a tiny bit shrill. But it was only natural. The only times she was ever this close to Mike Lawson, they were surrounded by other people. Now here they were, sitting in the bed of a pickup on a deserted road. It was like they were teenagers parking, only without any of the making out. As Ginny was all too aware.

“Getting comfortable,” he drawled, eying her askance. Once he’d settled in, leaning back on his hands, he let out a gusty sigh. “I’ve been on my feet since 6:00 AM.”

Ginny didn’t need to check her watch to know it was well past 9:00 now. She elbowed him, and replied to his affronted expression, “So you should be going home. Not waiting around in the dark for a tow truck that’s still twenty minutes away.”

Why she didn’t tell him that they didn’t, actually, have to wait at all—could, in fact—leave the truck for Lou to pick up, Ginny couldn’t say. Probably, she didn’t want to impose, didn’t make him drive all the way to her house when he’d done such a marvelous job of avoiding lately.

“I think that’s a pretty good reason for me to stay, actually,” he responded, dry as kindling. “Can’t go around abandoning damsels in distress, can I?”

“Such chivalry.”

“Someone’s gotta keep real manners alive.”

“Well, you’re not much good to me if you’re falling asleep,” Ginny grumbled, feeling warmth rise up her chest. She’d made the mistake of turning to look at Mike, and nearly lost her breath. His eyes were closed, face relaxed and tipped up into the cool night air. He seemed so at ease. Even just sitting on the corrugated metal of her pickup’s bed.

He laughed, low and rich and the goose bumps that erupted across Ginny’s skin had nothing to do with the breeze.

“Just wake me up if someone tries to kidnap you,” he said, laying back and getting comfortable.

She didn’t reply, or even look at him. Just curled her fingers around the edge of the tailgate and tried not to flinch as his automatic headlights went out, plunging them into darkness. With only the moon to illuminate them now, it all felt dangerously intimate. Which was ridiculous. Just because Ginny thought he looked perfectly climbable (and there was a thought she shouldn’t be having about her friends, no matter how their jeans clung to their thighs) didn’t mean—

Her phone buzzed just in time. Before Ginny could become too aware of the sound of Mike’s breathing next to her, or the warmth of his thigh practically pressed against hers.

Eager for the distraction, she pulled it out to see a message from Blip.

Hey, Lou said you’re stuck somewhere on Route 11. Do you need me and Ev to come get you?

Jesus, news traveled fast around here.

“Who is it?”

Mike’s voice was a little dreamy, distant enough to make Ginny turn and look at him against her better judgment. His arms were tucked behind his head, biceps straining against his sleeves in a way that was embarrassingly familiar. In the dim glow from her phone, Ginny could make out one eye open and squinting towards her.

“Uh.” She swallowed and made the plunge. She couldn’t sit out here in the dark with Mike Lawson for much longer. “Lou. He said I should find a ride because the pile up north of town is taking forever to untangle. I can leave the key under the seat.”

Automatically, Mike pushed himself upright, only groaning a little on the way. “All right, let’s get going, then.”

Still, Ginny hesitated. “You sure?”

“Huh.” He paused, like he was thinking it over. “Now that you mention it, yeah. I’m gonna go ahead and leave you here alone.” Ginny didn’t laugh, so he leveled her with a wry glare even as he offered her a hand down. “C’mon, Baker. I’m takin’ you home.”

Trying, and mostly failing, to rein in her grin, she took his hand and followed him back to his car.

The ride was pretty quick, passing easily as Ginny and Mike traded bits of news and gossip. You heard Salvamini’s wife is pregnant again? They think it’s twins this time. Natalie Luongo and Oscar Arguella think they’re doing such a good job at this secret dating thing, but half the town’s talking about them anyway. Tommy Miller got in another brawl with Theo Falcone; he’s lucky he didn’t break his other hand this time.

In no time at all, they were pulling up to Ginny’s house, which was looking more and more like a place someone actually lived. When it wasn’t pitch dark, the blue shutters stood out cheerfully against the window boxes of yellow and white tulips. A jasmine vine curled over the front door, and wafted its scent through the open windows. The place had some curb appeal again.

Mike parked and killed the engine, but Ginny didn’t make a move to get out. She didn’t want this moment to end yet.

“You painted,” Mike pointed out, rather obviously.

“Yeah,” she agreed, feeling a well of words bubble up and not knowing quite how to stop them, “that dingy tan wasn’t working for me. Maybe white’s a little on the nose for a seaside cottage, but I like it.”

“It looks good,” he said, a little too surprised for Ginny’s tastes.

“Thanks,” she replied, dry enough to make him chuckle. Then, in the interest of fairness, she added, “I did have help.”

“So I heard. By all accounts, it’s gone pretty well.”

“All accounts, huh? You gossiping about me, Lawson?”

In the darkness of the car, it was hard to tell if his ears flushed a dull red the way she’d sometimes seen them do when he got caught out in a lie. Still, he tried to play it off, saying, “You hear things around town.”

“Uh huh,” Ginny said, grinning wide and not bothering to conceal it.

He rolled his eyes. “When basically everyone you know is doing something, you hear a lot about it.”

“When everyone you know is doing something, you’d think you might check and see what all the fuss is about for yourself.”

When Mike remained stubbornly silent, refusing to meet her gaze, Ginny’s eyes narrowed. She let herself wonder why exactly Mike had not once shown up when most of his employees and friends—though, okay, the Sanders were the only people in town Ginny could say with any certainty Mike actually liked—were helping her out. Even Al had finally warmed up to her persistent small talk.

(But only after she mentioned having to go see his daughter Natalie after an unfortunate incident involving a hammer and both of Ginny’s thumbs. As it turned out, Al could take a shine to anyone who gave one of his children a compliment. Well, if someone had told Ginny earlier, she’d have been singing the Luongo girls’ praises as soon as possible because she definitely could’ve used that Friends and Family Discount back when she had no idea what she was doing. Now that she mostly knows what she’s doing, it’s still pretty handy, though.)

But Mike had remained curiously absent. Conspicuously absent, now that she thought about it.

“You sent them all, didn’t you?” she demanded indignantly, things falling into place. “You felt bad for me and told everyone I was in over my head!”

“No,” was his immediate response, sure and firm. “I maybe suggested to Blip that Evelyn check up on you, but everything after that was all her. And you, too. You won over people on your own.”

Ginny frowned, trying to hang onto her annoyance even as it fled as quickly as it’d come. “I could’ve done it on my own.”

“I know that,” Mike replied, easy as anything. “But you shouldn’t have to. You know how many people have tried to take on this house and failed? More than I can count. Here you are, though, all on your own and refusing to back down no matter what gets thrown your way. Kinda blows me away.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she just ducked her head and smiled. When she finally felt up to it, Ginny glanced at Mike through the screen of her eyelashes. This time there was no mistaking the flush riding across his cheeks.

“Thanks,” she murmured, shy.

“It’s just the truth,” he said, trying to frown forbiddingly like if he was gruff enough now, Ginny’d forget the soft center hidden behind all that sarcasm and flannel.

“Okay,” she replied, opening her door and flooding the interior with light. Mike blinked, and he looked so endearingly startled, Ginny couldn’t help the next words that came out of her mouth. “Wanna come in and see the progress?” At his hesitation, she teased, “I bet it’s been killing you not to tell me exactly what I’ve been doing wrong.”

He rolled his eyes, but he was already pulling the keys from the ignition. “Fine. But only so I can make sure you haven’t ruined all my hard work.”

“I mean, if you’re pulling everything down to the studs and changing the entire layout, can you even call it a renovation anymore? It’s basically new construction.”

Ginny, who had no horse in this race, just shrugged, making Mike scowl a little. Well, a little more than he already was. It didn’t seem to matter how good of a mood he was in, he was usually scowling at least a little. It made his grins all the brighter.

Except, Ginny had other matters on her mind right now. Well, other matters that should be on her mind. Namely, installing the new faucet she’d picked out for the kitchen sink. The old one had sprung a leak and was ugly as sin, anyway.

Mike had offered to put it in for her, but Ginny’d gotten this far without his help; he only showed up after she’d gotten the old one mostly taken apart, after all. She wanted to finish it herself. He accepted that easily enough, but still claimed he was going to stick around to “supervise.”

If “supervising” meant complaining about the current lineup of HGTV shows, he was doing a bang up job.

He had, at least, managed to keep her from giving up in frustration when it turned out the old faucet was basically rusted into the water pipes. He’d deigned to wedge himself under the sink and put some elbow grease into the wrenching required to free the plumbing from the leaky faucet. If Ginny’d appreciated the picture he’d painted, his shirt riding up a little over his stomach, more than the actual help, that was her business.

Mostly, that was par for the course when Mike came around. He didn’t do much actual work around the house, but he’d show up and look over what she’d accomplished since he was last there. Every so often, he’d be her muscle, wrestling a door into the frame or helping her move around furniture.

More often, though, he was just eye candy.

Not that Ginny ever planned on telling him that.

“Seriously,” he continued, leaning heavily on the counter as Ginny finished tightening the new handles and checked over the coupling between faucet and pipe, “what’s the point in buying a old house if you’re just gonna rob it of all the things that make it unique?”

“What do you do when someone wants to knock down all the walls in a house, then?” she asked because she couldn’t help herself. “Just tell them no?”

“With more tact than that.” At Ginny’s snort, he straightened and pointed a finger at her. “I can be tactful. I can be downright charming when I want.”

Ginny snorted again and set aside her wrench. “Sure you can. You think I can try turning this on?”

Mike shrugged, though he did run a critical eye over the setup. “You can definitely try.”

Since that was as good as she’d get, Ginny ducked down to turn the water on again. When she straightened, his eyes didn’t dart away from her, but there was a hint of pink blooming across his cheeks. Biting back a smile Ginny paused with her hand poised dramatically over the handle. “Moment of truth.”

He rolled his eyes, but came to stand next to her. “All right, Baker, let’s see what you’ve got.”

She flipped the handle and beamed as water began to flow from faucet head. Ginny turned to preen up at Mike, but before she could annoy him into congratulating her, an ominous hissing sound came from the kitchen sink.

In horror, they both turned and watched as the stream slowed to a trickle and stopped for a moment as the pipes began to rattle. Then, right from the base of the faucet, a gushing spray of water burst forth.

“Shit!” Ginny shrieked, ducking away from the sputtering faucet and right into Mike’s warm, firm chest. His arms, which had been reaching around her to fix whatever she’d done, now caged her in, right in the path of the spray. She cringed back from the cold water, further into his embrace. “Mike, move!”

She had to duck under his arm to get out of the way, since he didn’t react quickly enough. Any thrill that she had at being caught up in Mike’s arms was dampened by the situation.

Literally.

Water dripped from her hair into her eyes, and she could only imagine where it hit Mike as he took the full brunt of the spray now that she wasn’t shielding him. He squawked a little, flinching away. Ginny scrambled to reach into the cabinet and shut off the valve.

The spray stopped and kitchen descended back into quiet. Ginny straightened and took in the sight before her.

Mike stood, dripping water like an angry cat. Drops fell from his hair and beard and rolled down his already soaked flannel. It clung to him like a second skin, which was not what Ginny should’ve been taking away from this, but she was only human, okay?

He dashed water out of his eyes and glared as giggles helplessly fell past Ginny’s lips. She covered her mouth with her hand, but she couldn’t stop. She shook her head in apology, but that just made her ponytail swing from side to side, splattering them both with more water as it went. Mike’s grimace finally lightened, his own mouth twitching as he struggled to keep his own laughter in.

When it burst out, it mingled with Ginny’s, a harmony she’d never get sick of hearing.

And there was a thought she shouldn’t really be having. Mike was her friend, and that was all. Get over it, Baker, she told herself, trying to school her features and take a deep, calming breath.

“C’mon,” she said. “I just had the washer and dryer put in. We’ll get your shirt drying and then come back and clean this up.”

“Did you pay someone to come and install it?” He frowned, following her anyway to the hall closet that now doubled as her laundry room.

“No, they do it for free when you buy the warranty.”

“Yeah, ‘cause the warranty’s already a rip-off,” Mike grumbled, stripping off the sopping wet flannel. The white t-shirt he wore underneath was a little damp, though it already fit across his chest in a way that, ironically enough, made Ginny’s mouth go dry.

She blinked and turned to fiddle with the machine’s controls, pulling off her own soaked sweatshirt and tossing it inside with Mike’s flannel. Her tank top had a few damp patches, but it was a dark red and didn’t present the same issues as Mike’s. And there definitely wasn’t a part of her that wished that it did; if there was no reason for Mike’s eyes to go dark with desire, there was no reason to be disappointed when they didn’t.

“Well,” Ginny finally made herself say after getting the dryer started, “I didn’t have much of a choice. If I can’t even install a kitchen faucet correctly, I don’t think there’s much hope I could’ve handled this.”

“You would’ve been fine,” Mike replied with a certainty that always made Ginny’s gut tighten in gratitude. For all he’d been so skeptical of her ability to let someone else fix this disaster of a house, Mike definitely didn’t think that now. And every reminder of that fact, his quiet belief, bolstered her on. “And you could’ve called me, y’know.”

“I could’ve?” She eyed him sidelong, sure that if she faced him head on, she’d do something stupid.

Stupid maybe, but also so, so satisfying.

“Yeah.” There was no eye roll this time, which made Ginny turn and lean one hip against the rumbling machine. Mike’s face was open, even a little fond. “You could’ve. That’s what friends are for, right?”

Ginny’s smile froze and she found herself nodding automatically. When Mike’s brow furrowed, she rushed to cover up any of her disappointment. “I’ll keep that in mind, old man.”

Mike just laughed and shook his head. “Old man, huh? Now I’m definitely not telling you how to fix your faucet.”

He eventually did, but only after Ginny’d pouted at the offending object for a full five minutes, unsure of where she’d gone wrong. When he finally came over to lean against the counter beside her, she soaked up both his advice and his body heat and tried to tell herself that just friends stood this close all the time. And just friends smiled at each other just like this, too. And just friends thought about how easy it would be to pull one another into their bedroom and become more than just friends.

Okay, maybe that was just wishful thinking.

(It definitely was.)

Later, Ginny would blame that for what she did next.

When she turned on the faucet again and they weren’t treated to a second impromptu shower, she maybe forgot herself. Just a little.

Before she really thought about what she was doing, Ginny’d flung her arms around Mike’s neck, laughing in delight. Immediately, one of his arms wrapped around her back, his big hand splayed out over her ribs and pulling her in. Not that she needed much encouragement, rolling up onto her tiptoes to stay as close as possible. She hid her smile against his shoulder and only pulled back when he did. For a long moment, they stared each other in the eyes, Mike’s hand still firm on her waist, fingers flexing. She was so, so sure, something was going to happen.

She wanted something to happen.

And Ginny would swear that it was going to, except—

His phone rang.

Even hours later, as she lay in bed, Ginny couldn’t get the feel of him pressed so tight against her out of her head. The way he smelled, the sound of his pulse near her ear, it all played over and over, making it impossible to sleep.

There was no way her dreams would live up to reality.

What also made it impossible to sleep was the way he’d stepped away to take the call and dismay rushed in to take his place. For a second, she couldn’t quite look at him, feeling like her cheeks might really burst into flames if she did. Nonetheless, Ginny could feel his eyes on her, even as he listened and nodded along to whatever he was being told.

She lifted a hand to her lips, telling herself she couldn’t still feel his breath on them. Her heart threatened to pound its way out of her ribcage, but it wasn’t panic. No, it was thrilling and electric, bright enough to make her feel like she could take off flying.

As soon as Ginny came to this realization, Mike ended his call and disheartening silence rang between them.

Awkwardly, he cleared his throat, looking anywhere but her. For her part, Ginny couldn’t look away now, cataloguing the bob of his Adam’s apple and the almost invisible spray of freckles across his nose.

She might as well, since she had a sinking suspicion she wouldn’t be seeing much more of them in the near future.

Sure enough, Mike made up some excuse—offering up far too much information about the lumber crisis Blip was having for it to be anything but a lie—and was out of the house before she could protest.

No matter how much she’d wanted him to kiss her, he hadn’t.

And she was starting to think he never would.

That didn’t gut her. Not even a little bit.

In spite of her slightly inconvenient—because, really, he’d given no real indication that he wanted to be anything other than friends—feelings for Mike, life did go on. So, while Ginny tried to get over her stupid crush, she also threw herself into finishing up the last repairs and furnishing her house.

In a whirlwind of determined activity, from which there was one conspicuous absence, Ginny threw herself into finding the perfect area rug or refinishing the desk that would go in the guest bedroom or hanging the swing for the back porch.

Anything to take her mind off that absence.

Not that it was all that easy to do. For all Mike had made himself pretty scarce lately, it seemed like he was all anyone wanted to talk about. Everywhere Ginny went, people were dying to give her updates. She heard through the rumor mill that he’d taken on a huge project up near LA, run into his ex-wife, and hadn’t been back in town for weeks.

Well. That was fine. It was even fine that people always seemed to give her this gossip with sympathetic smiles and pitying looks.

Ginny didn’t need his help. There were plenty of other people who would help her out.

And soon enough, all that help and hard work had paid off.

The ramshackle little beach cottage she’d bought on impulse a little more than three months ago was finally finished.

To celebrate, Ginny invited everyone who’d played a role in buffing her diamond in the rough to its current shine to a housewarming party. She set up a bonfire out on the beach and bought enough marshmallows for her own Stay Puft Man. That was exactly what a grown up housewarming party needed, right? S’mores.

For other food, Cara, her barista friend and the woman who’d kept her fed while she was functionally kitchenless, brought all the leftover pastries from the café and Al insisted on manning the grill. Natalie put in an appearance, too, strategically timed so her dad wouldn’t notice she and Oscar showed up in the same car. Of course, so did all the guys from Mike’s crew, along with Blip and Evelyn and the boys.

She even invited Mike, though she didn’t really expect him to show up.

Which, of course, meant he had to go and make an appearance, anyway.

It was late into the evening before he showed up. Well after some guests had already been and left. Still, there were enough people milling around not to make his presence too strange.

Ginny looked up in the middle of a conversation with Sonny and Butch, and even before she caught sight of him, frowning faintly at the arrangement of furniture in the front room she knew he was there. She actually liked her delightful hodgepodge of things. None of it was supposed to go together, not when she’d found it all at estate sales and salvage yards and antique stores, but once it was in the room, it felt like home.

For some reason, it felt even more like home with Mike standing there, too.

Like her weeks of disappointment meant nothing at all, Ginny felt the flutters erupt back to life in her stomach. God, she’d missed him, no matter what she’d told herself.

She made vague excuses to Butch and Sonny, ignoring their smirks and knowing glances, and made a beeline straight for him.

“You made it.”

Mike looked up from inspecting the cushions she’d put on the window seat, maybe startled, maybe not. “You invited me.”

“And I never heard if you were going to come or not.”

“Sorry, I can—”

“No,” Ginny blurted, reaching out when he turned over his shoulder towards the door. She stopped herself just in time from taking hold of his wrist. Her hand fell back to her side, dangling limply. “I was just surprised.”

He nodded, and an awkward silence descended over them both.

Ginny searched for something to say, chewing on her lip and looking over her remaining guests, all of whom were very studiously avoiding this area of the living room. A hot flush started to climb up Ginny’s cheeks.

Just as she was about to make an excuse to leave herself, Mike broke the quiet, gesturing to the eclectic mix of furniture. “Where’d you even find this stuff?”

“Here and there. Evelyn reads the obituaries so she can get a jumpstart on all the good estate sales.”

He snorted and Ginny felt her shoulders relax. Like that was the cue he’d been waiting for, Mike offered her a soft smile.

“I can’t tell if there’s a theme or not,” he grinned, taking in the wingback chair placed next to a Lucite side table. “Am I missing something?”

“Unless ‘Stuff I Like’ is a theme, not really.”

“Not if you’re planning on a career as an interior designer, it’s not.”

Ginny wrinkled her nose, the prospect of having to do all this again making her head spin. “I think one house was all I had in me.”

“That’s a relief,” he said, grinning but still making it sound nothing like a joke. “I’ve had more than enough of interior designers.”

She shrugged, but didn’t bother to wipe the exuberant smile off her face at the certainty in his voice. “Good thing I like my job, then.”

“Good thing,” Mike agreed, his head tipping at a slight angle to take her in.

Ginny simply looked back, the flutters in her stomach now a veritable rush of quivers. Hope clogged up her throat, making her eyes shine.

He shifted, his shoulder closing in on her, creating a pocket of space, just for them. In response, Ginny could feel herself rock forward, just ever so slightly, onto her toes, ready for whatever move Mike might make. Just as he opened his mouth to say something more, something that looked so promising, Livan called out for Ginny from the kitchen.

Ginny shouted a reply automatically, but by the time she’d answered to his satisfaction and turned back, Mike had closed his mouth again, a bland smile on his face.

“I’ll let you get back to everyone.”

“Okay,” she agreed, prompt and more than a little hollow. But what was the point in that? Ginny was sick of missing opportunities with one man when she didn’t let any others slip through her fingers. “Don’t try and leave without saying goodbye, though.”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and nodded a polite agreement.

In all honesty, she didn’t much expect him to keep his word on that front.

So, it was with something of a jolt that much later, while taking a short break from collecting the empties littered across the sand behind the house, Ginny looked up and caught sight of Mike through the window above the sink, sleeves rolled up his arms as he washed dishes. He was the only one left in the house, everyone else long gone.

She blinked, but he was still there when she opened her eyes.

He hadn’t left. She would’ve sworn he left.

But he hadn’t.

Ginny let her feet carry her to the back porch as she processed this information. But rather than open the door and step inside, where Mike was blithely washing her dirty dishes, she sank onto the swing and tried to reorder her thoughts.

Here was what she knew:

Mike Lawson, against all odds, had gone from grumpy contractor to one of Ginny’s closest friends. Mike inspired feelings that were distinctly more than friendly in her. Mike had disappeared on her after sharing an arguably romantic moment. Mike may or may not have seen his ex-wife recently, which could have done any number of things to his mindset. Mike had come to her party.

Those were the facts. (Though nothing close to all of them. What was she supposed to do with the fact that he smelled the way fall should or that he liked alfredo sauce more than marinara? How about the fact that what he called her “constant interruptions” only annoyed him about half the time? Or the fact that she wanted to know more and more until there was nothing she didn’t know about Mike Lawson?) She just wasn’t sure what to make of them.

Before she could reach any conclusions, though, Mike’s voice broke into her thoughts.

“There you are. Aren’t you gonna come in?”

Ginny stared up at him wide eyed for a moment too long. His head tipped to the side and it was so similar to how he’d looked at her earlier tonight, eyes soft and shoulders relaxed, she couldn’t take it. Not another close call with no resolution.

“There’s so much sand in there!” she babbled instead, unwilling to give any of her other thoughts voice. “I’ll never be able to get it out.”

“You live on the beach,” he pointed out, a chuckle not quite burbling through his words.

“My house is very close to the beach,” Ginny corrected. “Which should stay outside where it belongs.”

“I’ll make sure it gets the memo.”

Ginny laughed, but when Mike didn’t say anything else, just continued leaning against the door frame like some kind of burly male model, she scrambled for something appropriate to say because “Can I climb you like a tree?” definitely wasn’t it.

“I should’ve made everyone rinse off before they came back in. How hard would it be to put a spigot right here? Or an outdoor shower? Those are things, right?”

“For you or me?” He pushed away from the door and ambled closer, making Ginny all too aware of how quickly she was breathing. Mike didn’t seem to notice, though, sinking down next to her, a warm shield against the chilly ocean breeze.

It didn’t seem to stop her shivers any.

“Are you an option?”

It was out of her mouth, the hurt and confusion she’d tried to ignore embarrassingly clear, before she could help herself.

He ducked his head and winced. “I probably deserved that.”

She didn’t argue, just waited.

“It’s been a long time since I felt even close to the way I feel about you, Ginny,” Mike admitted to the dark. “And that scared me. I tried to pretend that I wasn’t feeling anything, but…”

“But?”

“It hasn’t worked.”

Around the knot of hopeful expectation wedged in her throat, Ginny managed a breathless, “What are you saying, Mike?”

“What am I—” He cut himself off with a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m saying that I’m an option. For more than just home repair, if you’ll—”

Ginny didn’t care that he’d undoubtedly get on her case later for interrupting him again. She didn’t want to hear it, not when he’d finally given her more than a hint that she wasn’t in this thing alone.

So, she laid her hand on his cheek, turned his face towards hers, and silenced him with a kiss.

He pressed back against her, his mouth stretching to mirror Ginny’s grin before moving gently, insistently against it. One of his arms wrapped around her, pulling her close and making the swing sway. She threw her arms around his neck for the second time in her life, sighing into his mouth.

When they drew away, foreheads still resting together as their breath mingled, Ginny knew she had to say something. “You’re the only option,” was what she came up with. Thankfully, Mike’s responding grin only grew when she followed it up with, “For home repair, too.”

Their laughter twined together once again, rising into the night like smoke from the dying bonfire. But nothing about Mike and Ginny, except maybe all of the home improvement projects, was at an end.

It was a little funny. Ginny’d left North Carolina—her home, her family, and the man who wanted to marry her—in search of a fresh start. She would never have expected she’d need to buy and renovate an entire house just to find it, but just because the process wasn’t what she’d planned didn’t make the results any less sweet.

As an ocean breeze rocked the porch swing where she sat cuddled into Mike’s side, Ginny was happy to realize that she wouldn’t trade this house, or any of the headaches it had given her, for the world.

Ginny rose and turned to pull Mike up along with her. He came willingly enough, but she answered his silent question anyway.

“You missed the grand tour,” she announced, studying him from beneath her lashes.

Mike, who’d seen every square inch and worked on most of them, just quirked a brow. “Oh, did I?”

She nodded solemnly, struggling to keep her giddy smile under control. “And it might go very late. Too late for you to drive home. You’ll have to stay the night.”

Clearly, he had no such reservations about letting his blinding grin free. His cheeks appled and his eyes sparkled from the sheer force of it. Ginny didn’t get much of a chance to admire it before he was back in her space, his hands buried in her hair and lips pressing against hers. Only once his tongue had swept into her mouth, making her clutch at his broad shoulders as her knees went weak, did he pull away.

“Staying sounds perfect.”

Ginny didn’t need to hear anything else. Shy and excited all at once, she took his hand and led him inside the house.

Except it wasn’t just a house.

It had taught her how to stand on her own while still accepting the help she needed. It had given her friends and a new family all of her own. It had given her Mike, who might not want to marry her, but the thought of someday being his wife didn’t make her want to run for the hills. Which was definitely a step up from where she’d been just six months ago when she’d come looking for something new.

Maybe she was feeling a bit sappy—and who could blame her when she was still swimming through the daze of kissing Mike Lawson for the first time?—but this place really was so much more than a house.

It was her home.

(But one day, it just might be his, too.)

#Anonymous #Bawson #bawson fic #pitch #pitch fic #i wrote something #what's ginny's job you ask?#¯\_(ツ)_/¯#wait no i did actually put something in #it's web designer #where does she live?#idk ¯\_(ツ)_/¯#somewhere vaguely north of sd #how long do home renos take?#we just can't know

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