remedy (vii) — sam winchester
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summary: somethings just aren't meant to be, and you can't force them— tags: underage!reader, 22-year-old!sam, med student!fem!reader, cursing, angst, 6k chapter (yeah, it needs a warning), daddy issues I think.
You don’t text back for two days, and he ignores you. All of a sudden, it’s ‘we need to talk’. No way, man; an idiot can see this is a breakup text if they look at it for a second too long. And you’re not stupid enough to end something that means this much to you over the phone.
If he decides you’re boring, or you’re not it, or whatever, he can say it to your face—
Your phone is ringing.
Worst case scenario, he calls you names, best case, he says it’s not you; it’s him. Maybe switch them around?
Maybe you should change your number.
Maybe you should answer. You answer. “Sam, hey.”
“Hey, you okay? Were you asleep?” Maybe if you say yes, he’ll feel stupid breaking up with you while you are half asleep.
“No.” You’ve never been good at lying to him. “Do you need anything?”
“Sweetheart, what’s with the silent treatment?” oh, great, now he wants to talk about it? It’s been two days, he didn’t bother then— God, what is happening to you! You’re acting like such a bitch, right now, like all the times you’ve yelled at your friends to stop being so annoying with their boyfriends, and now you’re doing the same.
“Sorry, uh— yeah, no, I guess I was just being silly because you didn’t call when you said you would.” Your voice is so timid, you wouldn’t believe it if someone said it was you. Sam has responsibilities, such as finding his dad and taking care of Dean, and you are being petty. Fuck this whole thing, this isn't you, why are you suddenly changing around him (without him here).
“It's not silly. I just had something to take care of that night and forgot to tell you.”
“Why'd you pretend? Why not just tell me the next day?”
“I thought you forgot, I didn't wanna remind you; besides, it was one call, I didn't think you’d care.” Where in your exterior of panic did he get ‘wouldn't care’ from? Unlike Sam's tendency to just ooze nonchalance, always seeming uniquely unbothered by this entire thing, he wasn't like this when he was next to you, in fact, he used to care more about your feelings than you did.
Is this what distance is doing to the both of you? Ruining Sam's gentleness and consideration? The things you liked about him from the start? Love about him? God, it's like your parents all over again. You love your father, of course you do, he’s an incredible dad, but he was disappointing as a husband, and you fucking swore that you’d never marry someone like him, even if you’re as physically far away from marriage as possible with Sam, it doesn't mean you’re wrong for thinking of your future with him.
“Baby?”
“Right. Sorry. It isn't a problem, you're right.” You never were as strong as your mother.
“Okay, but I'll text you next time. Promise.” You nod, noticing your nose burning and your vision getting blurry for a second before you breathe. This is not worth crying over. You've always given your entire being into every relationship and lost yourself halfway through, you told Jess that this was different, that Sam was different. But Sam is just like every guy you've ever liked, he's normal, caring, and sure, a little different in the sense that he's not a dick to other people and doesn't curse at you because of how you feel– okay so he's very different, but you aren't. You’re trying so hard to hold yourself back from thinking of those three words, from being all in for once, but you can’t help it, and you’re fucking mad at Jess for being right. Sam lost you. He went to a different state and is staying there for weeks, and it's okay with him. It should be the same way it should be for you, but it isn't. It was never going to be.
Your feelings were never going to be like his, and deep down, you knew that, Jess knew that. And you let it happen.
Fuck you’re crying. Fuck he’s calling out your name. “Sam, I'll call you back, okay?” And you hang up to his protests.
He didn’t cause this, you did by being so fucking careless with the most crucial thing in your life– your heart. And men will always be men. They'll forget to call, or they'll move to another country or state for work, they'll have girl friends that they hang around, and you will never be able to deal with it.
It's terrifying to think about because you spent your senior year of high school making damn sure something like this would never happen, you didn't breathe near a boy, and you worked your ass off both in school and out of it to have achievements you can add to your transcript. Your first two years in Stanford have been spent right here in your apartment (or the first one was in the dorm), away from anyone who could ruin your progress– then Jess introduced you to him, and so what? She's introduced you to anyone she's ever hung out with. But you knew Sam was different. You knew everything about him was different the second you were both in the car alone, and you let all your nerves go so that you could sit in the passenger's seat and talk to him.
That should've been enough to scare you the hell off. He’s older and more experienced, and you promised you wouldn’t do this– you threw it all out the window the second he asked for your number.
He’s calling, your phone's ringing, and you know it's unfair to him, God, you know it is, but how unfair is it to whatever’s left of you if you answer?
After an extensive crying session, you pick yourself off your bed and get on the desk for some serious study time. All your best studying has been done with your eyes bloodshot red and your heart broken. It doesn't take a few hours to finish and revise your assignments, and then you make flashcards for the chapter you (daydreamed during) missed last week. It's the most productive you've been this year. You're not complaining— until you are because Jess is barging through the door, and she doesn't yell, ‘honey, I'm home’, which can only mean she spoke to Sam. She knocks on your door twice before slamming it open with a frown.
“No, because what the actual fuck do you mean you're not answering any of our calls?” Oh, she's worried. You shrug, pointing to the phone that you shut off and abandoned on your bed a few feet away. “How many times have I told you to stop shutting your phone off if you're not going to keep your laptop open? What if your parents call and you don't answer? They can't exactly just knock on your door.”
“I texted them before I shut it off.” She lets out an exasperated breath, walking over to you.
“What about me? Why didn't you text me?”
“I forgot, Jess, I'm sorry, it's no big—” Before you can even finish your sentence, you're hit with an insane case of deja vu, except it's more like your brain stops working. You genuinely did forget. It wasn't like you'd hurt your best friend on purpose, but she doesn't look like she forgives you or, quite frankly, even cares. And you're repeating his words right back at her.
“No big deal? Seriously, what has gotten into you? First, you don't listen to me about Sam– you actually fight me about it, then you ruin it! Sam is racking his brain thinking of what he did wrong, and all he came up with is that he forgot to call once. Tell me you are not being bitch to Sam because he goddman forgot!”
You're not surprised by Jess saying it any more than you were scared when you did. You already knew it was irrational; you're overreacting and rounding up all the bad things happening since you've known him to justify it. But you're not stupid, you know Sam doesn't deserve it, you just– honestly, you didn't think he'd call Jess or care that much.
“I'll call and apologize—”
“No, God, no, this isn't what this is about,” she sighs, her voice quieter and pensive as she sits on your bed. You turn the chair around to face her. “Babe, talk to me. What is going on with you?”
“You were right.” You can't cry again, and you're not in front of Jess about something you're ruining yourself. “It's too much, I just can't do it, Jess. You were right—”
“Come on, babe, no, you fought for him, you convinced me he's right for you, what is this about?”
“I just can't be okay with it, every time something happens, I just— I'm scared it'll all go to shit, so I can't focus on anything, but the second I closed my phone after I hung up on him, I felt like— it was closure. I'm not scared anymore. I can focus and see everything clearly when I'm not…”
“When you're not in love with him.” You don't meet her eyes, instead, they pan to the floor. Yeah. You were scared to say it, but Jess certainly isn't. She won't shy away from the truth for your benefit; maybe that’s why talking things out with her always works for you.
“Jess, you were so right, and I'm sorry I didn't—”
“Hey, don't be stupid, no. I didn't mean it— I never wanted you to do this. Sam is good for you, and you are great for him. Me and Gen, we talk about the two of you all the damn time and how incredible Sam treats you, how thankful and accommodating you are to him. I didn't know that that's what you were thinking.”
“I fell in love with him in a month. I can't, I just can't be like this again. I can't keep doing this and–” Yeah, you can feel your tears deep in your chest, and it doesn't matter what Jess hears or sees, you just can't keep going like this, “— I keep losing myself, and I accommodate to him and I want to please him and I shut up when I'm sad because what if he doesn't want to hear it—”
“You know he–”
“I don't care! I don't care how good of a person he is, unless he pulls it out of me, I don't… God, I'm so high maintenance, and he's too comfortin– Jess, I'm done. I can't keep…” She frowns, and you notice her red cheeks as she opens her arms for you. You oblige, moving off your chair and next to her on the bed, your head on her chest while her arms wrap around you. It never hurts less, and the fact it never fucking might scares you more than you thought was possible.
You both fall asleep like that on your bed, your head on her chest and her embrace warming you, it makes you curse yourself for waking up at three. You were in a deep sleep, too. Thankfully, she still is, so you grab your phone and head out of your room, turning off the lights behind you to– oh fucking SHIT.
“Sam!” You scream, a hand on your racing chest. You're already wincing at the thought of waking Jess up, but you don't hear anything except a change of rhythm in her snores. You’re panting as you take a step back from him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“We finished early,” He lies, his eyes on yours. He’s a good liar, you have to admit, even if you can see right through it. He takes a step closer, examines you, and places his hands on your shoulders as he does before pulling you in close. “God, I’ve missed you.”
That's— what on earth is happening right now? “Were you crying?” He furrows his eyebrows, fingers wiping under your eyes even though your tears dried hours ago.
“Yeah, but that— Sam, what are you doing here?” You repeat, still starstruck. You like surprises when you know they’re coming. Like not knowing where you're going for dinner or not knowing what type of party someone is planning for your birthday, but this? It's very not cool. Extremely terrifying.
“I just told you we finished the case early.”
“You— what about your dad?”
“Dad left us a clue, well, he left Dean something. We went to find him in Blackwater Ridge, and he left something for Dean there about where to find him next. It's a couple of states over, and when I saw that this isn't a two-week kind of thing, I told Dean to bring me back here.”
“Sam it's been five days—”
“I know. I know, but you— trust, right? Technically, I made it back before the end of the week, so even that promise I kept…” and it's a weak attempt to lighten the situation with his hands still lighting your body on fire. You're not angry with Sam, of course you aren't, you never expected that you'd be with him every second of every day, you even knew that in less than a month you'd have to go back home for the summer vacation— it was never Sam's fault to begin with. It's yours. Your heart, your stupid, childish feelings, because despite being emotionally intelligent like almost everyone you've ever known has told you, and a damn hard worker to get into med school a year early, your feelings are where you draw the line.
“Honey, were you crying?” He should probably stash the monikers away for the time being if you're going to be able to do this.
“No— I mean, yes but it's fine I had Jess here.” You don't mean to sound bitter but it seems as if he took it that way because he frowns and nods slowly in a manner that pains you. He doesnt deserve this. He doesnt, hes been so fucking good to you, he cares about you, he—
He’ll never love you the way you love him. If you break it off now it's better for the both of you, he won't have to deal with a crazy girlfriend and you won't feel your heart shatter every time he forgets to call or goes out with Lily. This is good.
This is for the better. You know it's for the better.
“Sam.” You say with a breath, suddenly self conscious of your hair, is it messed up? And the makeup you slept with (though you're not too worried with it being Jess's and all her stuff is waterproof). “I— uh, we should probably go to sleep. I'm still tired and you just came back, right?”
“Yeah, but if you want to talk about something, anything—” Why is he making this so hard?
“No, no, we should just… wait, did Dean bring you here, with your bags? You don't have your car?” He confirms your words and you groan, walking past him to the kitchenette, opening the fridge door to hopefully find the iced tea you hid from Jess. Thank god for blueberry iced teas.
“I can go back to my apartment, it's no problem,” And you freeze your movements as you curse yourself under your breath. That isn't what you meant, you're just very overstimulated and there's too many thoughts going on in your head, you wish you could calm them down, and now sam is staying over, and he’ll probably expect you to crash with him in Jess’s room.
“Sam, ‘m sorry, it’s just I’m so tired—”
“No, I get it. It’s fine, a cab—”
“What? No, I mean I’m sorry for being bitchy, I just wanna head to bed, that’s all. And I’m not hauling you into a cab, we’ll take Jess’s room… unless you wanna be alone?”
You look up from your drink to gouge his expression and he shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “‘Course not.”
Great. “Okay, you wanna drink something?”
At his refusal with a short ‘thank you’, you tell him you’ll be in the room in a moment which he takes as the dismissal it is, shutting the door behind him so you’re completely alone in the living room. Kitchen. What the fuck ever this is.
God, this is— you brush your hands through your hair shutting your eyes aggressively. You’re okay. It’s okay. The earth is still spinning and you haven’t failed any of your classes— and Sam is here and he’s being a loving boyfriend saying he misses you, what is wrong with you?
You decide that enough thinking’s enough as you drown the rest of your drink and enter the room with soft footsteps. Sam’s sprawled out on your best friend's bed and you check yourself out in the mirror quickly to see that, surprisingly, you look somewhat decent. You shut the lights off before you get in the bed, lying on your back just as Sam is.
Is it rude to sleep on your side? Definitely is. You can’t find it in yourself to care as you do it, moving the covers so they aren’t all on your side, and sing yourself to sleep because what the hell else are you supposed to do after today?
Waking up to the smell of fresh coffee and maybe even food? Yes. Always. Please.
You don’t waste a second getting off the bed, not like you’re getting any more sleep with the sun filling the room with a warm, golden glow. You shut the blinds off for good measure before freshening up in the bathroom quickly, not wanting to miss whatever was happening in the kitchen outside.
The second you open the door you’re engulfed in the scent, though this time you notice how sweet it is. You smile as you look over and see— oh. Right. You forgot. That’s why you’re in Jess’s room.
Jess is sitting on the counter while Sam cooks, what you assume are pancakes, on the stove. At the sound of the door, they both face you, Jess quickly running off the counter and into your arms. You reciprocate in no time, squeezing her tighter. “You okay?” She whispers in your ear, as good of a friend as ever.
“‘M okay. Please stay today.” When you pull away, she nods at you, like it’s a given then drags you to where she was sitting, right next to Sam. His smile pulls at your heartstrings and he leans down for a kiss that— there’s no way you’re not kissing him back. Your left-hand lands on his bicep as you steady yourself. When he pulls away, he doesn’t go completely, his face inches from yours, and he steals another quick one.
He’s back to cooking as he mumbles, “Missed you.”
What’s happening right now?
What on earth is happening right now?
You’ll think about it when you’re more awake. Or at least when you have food in you.
“Jess, what do you have planned for today?” you ask, your hand still on him as you rub it absentmindedly.
“I have classes— so do you, Sam!” Isn’t Jess a year younger than Sam? you never noticed how much she knows about the graduating class despite not being a part of it. She reads your mind like she's always done, “Gen’s with him, ‘sides most of my friends are from his class.”
Right. Gen. you should probably apologize to her for stealing her girlfriend for an entire night. Only god knows how she’s coping right now. When you glance at Jess you notice her surveying you and Sam, so you quickly take a step back to remove your hand.
“What about you, Sam? Any plans?” She listens, leaning over the island that separates the small kitchen from the living room, “other than class obviously, which you will be attending— by the way, Lily is so fucking pissed at you, dude.”
Sam throws his head back with a groan, “i know. She wont stop texting.”
That’s reassuring. He continues, “But I don't think I’m up for anything today. I’ll go the classes and talk to lily about finishing the project next week. You think she’ll understand?” His eyes catch yours and you feel obligated to answer with a quick nod.
He’s back to flipping pancakes that look surprisingly delicious considering you’ve never once seen him cook before. Though, in your defense, you’ve usually eaten out for every dinner and breakfast you spent together. Which now that you think of it, isnt cost-effective. Someone should chek on your bank account. Not you, obviously, but someone should.
“It smells really good.” you compliment, gesturing to jess to bring you a brush, which she complies, leaving to find one. “Where’d you learn to make food like that?”
“Oh, it’s nothin’, i used to read lots of books growing up, guess i picked up some cooking ones.”
“Really? That’s nice. Dean mustve been real lucky having you try out recipes.” you joke, dipping a fork into the batter to try it. ‘S horrible, just like you expected. It isnt cake batter, it wont taste good, and you knew that— doesnt mean you wont try it.
“Yeah he didnt really, i mean i never actually cooked or anything, just read them and when i got the apartment with Gen i started cooking more, turns out its something i like.” oh its cute to think that coming to stanford, getting his own place with gen, had opened up this kind of opportunity for him, and it has you wondering what else he did when he was younger. Youd hardly spoke of either of your childhoods— mostly because as much as you love your parents, you dont like thinking too much of how they were when you were younger, and apparently that lead to not asking about sam’s. Hes never talked about his mum, now that you notice it.
Is she out of the picture? Are you even allowed to ask? Did you want to ask considering whats been on your mind since yesterday? God, you dont even know if youre going through with it. Hes here and hes cooking breakfast, kissing you, holding you— why would you want to let that go?
“Here, whore.” jess emerges from her room, throwing the hairbrush.
“Thanks, slut.” she smirks, plopping onto the couch and you catch the look of surprise on sam’s face. “What? Whats wrong? We’re joking its just a thing we do.”
“No, i now, just didn't know you do that. Never heard it before.”
“Yeah, i don't even know how it started but it's cute.” he agrees leaning down for another kiss which you, stupidly, let him do. Your hand comes up to brush against his cheek before you remember the object you’re holding and disconnect, sitting on the counter, brushing your roots so you can tie your hair back with no fly-away strands. “You okay?”
You nod, not quite meeting his eyes as you focus on making sure your hair is perfect without so much as a phone camera. “Really?” He prodes, “you don’t look it. You’ve been weird since yesterday, did I do something?” Oh, did you ever, Winchester .
“No, Sam, ‘m fine.” He sighs but lets it go. It doesn’t take more than ten minutes for a stack of pancakes to finish cooking and Sam serves it on the counter next to maple syrup and some chocolate sauce he says he found in the fridge (you made it a few days ago but didn’t like it).
Thankfully, everyone enjoys the food, and Jess seems like she has a lot to say about him skipping out on you, then coming back all of a sudden, for losing communication with her— she doesn’t bring up yesterday at all which helps you relax since you’re not even sure what you’re going to do anymore.
It’s ten by the time you’re all done and the dishes are in the sink, you (like a fucking idiot again) kiss sam’s cheek, thanking him excessively. “I’m glad you liked it, it was my first time, I think.”
“You think?” He takes a step closer, both hands coming to rest on your waist as he nods. Why does he just love talking when you’re close to each other? Don’t people have conversations a few feet away anymore? Not possible?
“Yeah, I’m not sure if the first time counts, ‘nothin like what you had today, I’ll tell you that.”
“Well, I’m proud of you, it was amazing.” You wish you could say you missed the faint blush on his cheeks, but you didn’t, and it did nothing but make you want to kiss him more. “When do your classes start?”
“Two hours.” You frown, looking behind him at the clock you have hanged up.
“Seriously?”
“Dead.” You groan, looking around to find his bags on the floor on your front door, “I already packed.”
“I didn’t know you unpacked.”
“I didn’t exactly, just got some stuff out for this morning, but I’m ready to go, I’ll see you later today?”
You tilt your head after he kisses it, and you watch him walk away. “Today? What’s today?”
He shrugs, carding the duffel, “nothing specific, just thought I’d see you. If you want.”
If you want. Do you want? “Sure, we’ll see.” He nods, uncertain, before he yells out for Jess who rushes out of her room to hug him, muttering about ‘not being sure if she’ll ever see him again considering he likes to disappear’.
Couldn’t have said it better, Jess. You don’t have any classes today but some studying would do you good so you lock yourself in your room for an hour before Jess barges in and you’re more confused to find she’s not at Sam’s than you are to see her in lace lingerie. Because. What. The. Fuck.
“Jess!”
“Do I look pretty?” She teases, twirling around like a Disney princess, before going for something more R-rated, playing with the waistband of her panties. “Was gonna wear it last night for Gen, so I wanna surprise her but I’m scared black isn't my color.”
“Slut! Absolute slut. You’re showing me your girlfriend’s outfit? Sluttiest whore there ever was.” She giggles, walking over to your desk, “black is definitely your color, babe, you know that, don’t worry about it, Gen’ll love it.”
She still seems hesitant, but because Jess would rather kill herself before ever giving you reason to comfort her, she changes the subject, closing your books, “okay, tell me about Sam.”
“What about him? He’s in class— or has class in an hour, just like you do.”
“You’re breaking up with him?” You shrug, leaning back in your seat, “what do you mean,” she repeats your gesture mockingly, slapping your shoulder, “man up and choose a side.”
“Not a man. And besides, he doesn’t know so—”
“Stop being like this,” she scolds, crossing her arms in front of her chest, though it does nothing for her modesty, not that you care, “I know you and you can’t even fucking focus on anatomy. Come on, you need to do something. Talk with Sam or stop trying at all, there’s no other option and you know it.”
“Yeah well the two options suck.” You groan, slamming your head down on the desk. “I—”
“You love him, yeah.”
“Do you… think he does too?” You mumble against the desk before hearing her sigh. And it fucking breaks your heart to hear it indirectly. She hasn’t said anything even yesterday. She didn’t deny it, but she didn’t confirm that your fears are valid— she is now. She’s telling you again, as if you haven’t repeated it like a prayer in your mind, that you’ve just gone too fast.
“Sam cares about you, you know that, baby. I mean, he just cooked breakfast after staying the night. You guys shared the bed— he wants you, loves having you around.”
“But doesn’t love me.” You look up at her, already being sure tears will stain your face any moment now.
“It’s not even about time, it’s just— you’re scared and you’re letting it affect everything else in your life.”
“Isn’t that normal—”
“It isn’t. You know it isn’t. Me and Gen spend almost everyday together, but I know my place in her life, as her friend, girlfriend, lover, that’s all I am. At least for now, till we’re done with college and then me and her will figure it out. You’re different, you’re thinking of the future all the time and you’re overthinking what he says when he’s not here, and Sam's been doing things that don’t sit right with you— I know he has, don’t tell me he hasn’t. The first night you spent at his apartment when we told you about Lily I knew something was off. You don’t deserve to live in fear and anxiety because of a man being in your life. And it isn’t Sam’s fault, maybe— it’s not yours either, but it’s just not the right time.”
What’s worse, hearing what you want to hear or hearing what’s honest?
“Hey, Sam. I know you’re in class right now so just, call me when you’re done, we need to talk.” You wince at the last phrase, regretting it already. You’re about to put the phone down when it starts to vibrate with a call from him. Huh.
“Hey, baby, I’m done with class, I was just speaking with the professor. I haven't listened to your voicemail yet, what's wrong?”
“Nothing,” you shut your eyes at the lie, your breathing heavy, “just need to see you. Or actually,” you can’t bring him in blind, “it is something. Just, when can I see you?”
“Oh. I have a few classes then the project with Lily, so maybe eight?”
“Is there— when’s your next class?”
“Few hours.”
“Can we meet up now?”
“Is it important? because I don’t wanna cut it short and I don’t want to be late for class.”
“It’s important but it won’t take long.” He sighs, probably at your vague answers before deciding to meet up with you in your apartment. Like the gentlemen he is. That you’re leaving.
You call Jess the entire twenty minutes it takes him to knock on your door and she helps your through it all, the same way she has the second this started.
He greets you with a smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes, and somehow that eases your worry. At least he knows something is coming. You close the door behind it and gulp before you let go of the knob and lean against it, not sitting down. He’ll probably want to leave anyways.
“What’s wrong? Is this about why you’ve been acting this way since yesterday?”
Maybe. Why does your mouth stop fucking working the second you actually have to say something? How on earth is that fucking fair. “It’s not fair.” Oh, great. There goes your speech.
“What’s not—”
“It’s not fair to us, what’s happening right now so I think we should just, you know, like not be together.”
Like, not be together? Way to show off how much of a seventeen year old you actually are.
“What?” He— Sam looks genuinely confused and that’s not something you anticipated.
“Breaking up. I’m breaking off what we’re doing because it’s just not working.” And that seems to register for him, finally and lets out a defeated breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “What?”
“I knew it was coming, I just have no fucking idea why. Why you’ve been so— I just need an explanation.”
“It’s everything, okay? It’s my fault, I started this knowing I wasn’t ready for a relationship and you’re great, Sam, but it’s not what I need right now.” You’re not sure what you’re saying half way through, this is not the script you rehearsed and he’s furrowing his eyebrows at you, shaking his head as if to say ‘bullshit’. “It’s a lot of things that we just can’t change about you and about me, we’re just not supposed to be together.”
“Don’t give me that crap, what can’t we change? And why can’t we change it?” He’s frustrated, not exactly angry and you wish you could gauge more of his feelings than just that but the truth is you’re radiating fear and anxiety that you can’t focus on anyone else’s emotions. “And why are you so tense?”
“Because I’m—”
“Breaking it off doesn’t mean you have to be shaking.” His voice is slightly raised so he cuts himself off, taking a breath before taking a step towards you, “You shouldn’t be shaking, okay? It’s fine, I respect your decision, but talking about this is also important.”
“But it’s over, right?” He tilts his head in confusion. “I mean, because, you’re not trying to convince me or anything, you’re just asking.”
“I’m not, what does that even mean? Do you not want me to fight for us?”
“Fighting for us would entitle fighting me, so I don’t think so. I’m sure this is the right thing to do, Sam. I’m very sure—.”
“Why?”
“Because of a—”
“Real fucking answers.” You flinch at his tone, supporting your weight on the other leg..
“A lot of what you think is okay and normal just isn’t with me. Like hanging out with Lily or leaving out of nowhere with Dean—”
“We talked about both of these things before I decided on them! Do you just keep a list of all the things I’m doing that you slightly disapprove of?”
“No, but it’s still early and this just shows we’re not for each other.”
“What about the things that show that we are? Studying at the apartment, the dinners, what was all of that? If you’re gonna make a list at least make it fair.”
“This isn’t a list!” You huff, angry at this point and you move away from the door so you’re not standing face to face, “it’s what I think is right. And I can’t live like this if I’m going to have to be okay with all of these things.”
“Live like this? You’re making thsi sound like—”
“—that’s just the way I see it, Sam.” You’re not sure what you would do if you hear him mock your overthinking. Mock marriage and your future.
“Well it’s wrong. I think we’re good for each other when you aren’t getting in your head about everything. You don’t have to think about things so intensely, and I’m not brushing your feelings aside, I get that they’re there, but if you keep giving them more than they deserve they’ll eat at you.”
“So will being with you.”
You’re a lot of things, but weak isn’t one of them. You’re starting to think that just isn’t true. And it’s starting to sink in as you watch Sam scoff out a breath, his hands covering his eyes as if he’s willing the entire conversation away.
And you’re starting to think it’s not true when he makes a move to leave the door.
And you’re sure it’s not true when you let him leave without a word.
part eight (epilogue); honey, you're familiar.
title: all my habits came back around (calgary by tate mcrae)
as we near the end of this thing I made that you guys decided to care about, I want to say thank you. I wrote the first chapter as a one-shot, and here we are over thirty thousand words later. I'm so grateful to this fic for how much it has allowed me to interact with the fandom and the amazing people in it.
on another note, this is not the end— don't worry— though this is exactly how I wanted the fic to go because when I wrote this, I had a very specific character in mind: one who is self-sabotaging and constantly struggling with an internal battle, she's complicated. While, of course, she will figure that out, it won't be now, and it won't be with Sam.
this doesn't spoil anything for the last and final chapter, but I did want to give some of my thoughts + I'm a sucker for reusing the first words of the first chapter in the end if you guys noticed + swear this series is a happy ending just wait!!
tag list:
@angzls @chxrrybomb22 @pinkpantheris @ang3ldool @iloveragdollcats
@oohjana18294 @user-2538484747490203746579403 @wattpaduser200 @s0urw00lf @ashlynyyyyy
@strabarrybat @anu-piyakya97 @tranquilitybasegrunge
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Friends Without Benefits
Status: One Shot, Complete
Summary: Even if you don't believe it, Dieter Bravo is actually capable of having platonic friendships.
Word Count: 10.5k words
Warnings: strong language, heavy flirtation, sexual tension (no smut--can you believe it??), mentions of past affairs and scandals, alcohol consumption, references to Dieter’s reckless behavior, mentions of drug use, emotional vulnerability, humor, inappropriate jokes (because, Dieter!), legal contract about not fucking
A/N: Okay, I know what you're thinking… another Dieter fic? Yeah, I know—it’s like my fourth one, so clearly, the brain rot is real, and I’m trying to get it out of my system (seriously, I’m trying… sort of). I know I haven’t updated Lifeline in a hot minute, but we’ll get to that later, lol. This fic is a little different from the usual—there’s a lot more fluff and friendship stuff, but I really enjoyed playing with the dynamic of two people who could totally cross the line but decide not to (because, honestly, it’s working for them as is). Also, apologies for any typos—I tried proofreading, but doing it on my phone isn’t exactly ideal. Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think!
P.S. My laptop, which served me well for 5 years, just gave out. With grad school, the recent loss of my stepdad, and ongoing medical bills, finances are tight. I’m currently managing writing commissions and my dissertation from my phone, which is okay but really challenging. If you can help with a donation or by commissioning some of my writing, or just by simply commenting or reblogging, it would mean the world to me. 💜 Thank you from the bottom of my heart for any support you can offer. 💜🙏🏻
Read this on AO3 | Check out my Masterlist
It started with a rejection email.
Not the kind that offered hope for future opportunities, but the type that crushed your spirit in one curt sentence:
"We regret to inform you that your application for the Screenwriting Development Program has not been accepted."
She read it over twice, then a third time, hoping something had been missed. A reason, some constructive feedback, anything. But it was just a copy-paste response sent to dozens—maybe hundreds—of other hopefuls like her. She blinked away the sting in her eyes and put the laptop to sleep.
The screen faded to black, reflecting back an image she barely recognized anymore: tangled hair, circles under her eyes, and the lingering trace of a smile she hadn’t used in days.
“Whatever,” she muttered to herself. “I didn’t need it anyway.”
That was a lie.
The Screenwriting Development Program was her shot, her dream, the chance to step out of her day-to-day grind and into the world she’d always wanted. A world where she wrote stories that people would actually care to hear.
But she didn’t have time to dwell on it. In fifteen minutes, she had to be at the diner. She grabbed her apron off the back of a chair and stuffed it into her bag before heading out.
As usual, the shift was long. And slow. She spent most of her time refilling coffee for the regulars and plastering on a smile that barely reached her eyes. The rejection lingered like a dark cloud, reminding her how close she was to giving up completely. By the time her shift ended, she was so exhausted that she didn’t even change out of her uniform. She just grabbed her bag and headed out into the night.
The long walk up to her apartment felt heavier than usual. It wasn’t until she reached her front door that the next wave of despair hit her like a punch to the gut.
An eviction notice.
She stared at the paper taped to her door, her heart sinking.
“Great,” she whispered bitterly, ripping it off and crumpling it into a ball before shoving it into her bag.
Four weeks. She had four weeks to come up with the rent, or she’d be out on the street.
Later, she sat on her couch in her underwear and a camisole, trying to ignore the cold chill of the eviction notice that still hovered at the edge of her mind. The TV buzzed in the background, Dieter Bravo’s voice filling the small apartment with a familiar rasp. A half-eaten carton of ice cream sat beside her, its contents softening to a puddle as she mindlessly scooped the melting mess.
Hunger Strike was playing again. She’d lost count of how many times she’d watched it by now. Dieter’s performance was the kind that stuck with you, the kind that won awards. It wasn’t just a movie anymore; it was the movie that had put him on the map—had made him a star and earned him that Oscar. She didn’t care if everyone else had moved on to the next blockbuster; for her, Hunger Strike was it. Every look in his eyes, every rasp of desperation in his voice felt real, almost too real. It was like he wasn’t acting at all.
"We don’t need them. They need us!" His character was yelling now, his voice hoarse, raw with intensity. She could practically feel his pain, his determination radiating through the screen.
She wiped at her eyes, even though she wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was everything—her life, the rejection, the eviction notice looming like a ticking time bomb. Or maybe it was just Dieter. Watching him made her feel seen, like somehow, through all the chaos, someone else understood what it was like to be on the edge.
The credits rolled on Hunger Strike, but instead of turning off the TV, she did what any fan would—she went down the rabbit hole. The screen filled with suggested videos, interviews, and, of course, the latest tabloid scandals. Dieter Bravo was all over the place lately. She had seen the headlines—everyone had. It was impossible to ignore him, even if you tried.
She grabbed her phone and scrolled through Twitter, where his name was trending yet again.
"Dieter Bravo's Latest Scandal: Sex Tape with Male Assistant Exposed!"
"Gender Identity Crisis or Another Stunt? Dieter Bravo Caught in Love Triangle with Married PA!"
"Oscar-Winning Actor, Homewrecker? Dieter Bravo Linked to Personal Assistant's Broken Marriage!"
She exhaled sharply, half-amused, half in disbelief. Every few months, it seemed, something like this would pop up—another scandal, another explosion in the media circus surrounding him. But this one? A sex tape? With his male personal assistant, who was married to a woman?
It was outrageous. It was chaotic. It was exactly what you'd expect from Dieter Bravo.
How does one even make this shit up? she thought, as she tapped one of the articles. The details were just as wild as the headlines. Apparently, the PA was a guy named James, and he’d been with Dieter for years—right up until last week, when everything blew up.
An article excerpt says: "Sources say that the sex tape in question was filmed during a drug-fueled party at Dieter’s mansion. It shows intimate moments between the actor and his assistant, James, who is reportedly married to a woman. James has since left Dieter’s employment amid the scandal, and insiders claim the actor is ‘unapologetic’ about the affair. This is just the latest in a long string of public meltdowns for the once-revered actor. Dieter Bravo’s chaotic lifestyle has led many to question his mental stability and even his gender identity, as he continues to defy traditional labels."
She snorted, shaking her head. “Unapologetic? That sounds about right.”
It wasn’t that she supported his reckless behavior, but there was something about Dieter that always seemed to push boundaries in every direction. He lived like a car crash happening in slow motion, and yet, people couldn’t look away. The scandals, the chaos—they were just part of his public persona. But there was more to him than that.
She clicked on an older interview from the Cliff Beasts 6 press tour. That was the movie where everything started to unravel for him. The film was supposed to be a big comeback, but instead, it had exposed the man behind the Oscar-winning actor—drugs, sex, alcohol, and a level of unpredictability that no one in Hollywood could quite handle.
Interviewer: “Dieter, after your incredible performance in Hunger Strike, people expected another award-winning role in Cliff Beasts 6, but... that’s not what happened. Can you talk about what went wrong?”
Dieter Bravo (slouching, visibly tired): “Cliff Beasts 6... yeah, man, that was a mess. But, like, it was supposed to be a mess, wasn’t it? I mean, we were trapped in that goddamn bubble for months longer than planned, and by the end, it wasn’t even a movie anymore. It was survival.” He laughed, a rough, bitter sound. “I overdosed on camera, for fuck’s sake. People thought it was part of the documentary. Maybe it should’ve been.”
Interviewer: “So, the extended shoot during the pandemic—did that affect the film’s outcome?”
Dieter (rubbing his temples, shaking his head): “Affect it? It was the outcome. By the time we got to month six, no one gave a shit about the movie anymore. It was just about getting out of there alive. People wanted me to deliver some award-winning performance? Dude, I was barely holding it together. I mean, look at the film—Cliff Beasts was never about art. By the sixth one, it was just... noise. Star-studded, CGI-filled noise. People expected something big, but I gave them a disaster. Maybe that’s what it needed to be.”
Interviewer: “The overdose incident—was that something planned for the documentary, or did things just... get out of control?”
Dieter Bravo (smirking, then shrugging): “Planned? Nah, man, nothing was planned by then. I mean, the cameras were always rolling, right? So when I went down... they just kept filming. Thought it’d make for good behind-the-scenes footage or something. But that’s Hollywood for you.” He paused, letting the weight of it sink in before adding, “People don’t care if you’re falling apart. They just want to know if it’ll sell.”
Interviewer: “That’s pretty heavy. Do you think Cliff Beasts 6 was the start of your... well, decline? It’s no secret you’ve had a rough few years since.”
Dieter Bravo (lighting a cigarette, ignoring the studio's no-smoking policy): “Decline? Maybe. I dunno. I think people were already looking for a reason to tear me apart. Cliff Beasts just made it easier. It wasn’t the overdose that got people talking, it was the fact that it happened while I was making a movie no one cared about anymore. The sixth installment, man. By that point, the franchise was running on fumes, and so was I. But people love a good downfall, right? They see someone on top, and they wait for you to crash. They’ll stick a camera in your face and call it a documentary when really, it’s just a freak show.”
She paused the video, the cigarette smoke still curling from Dieter’s lips frozen on the screen. The words hung in the air, heavy and raw. It was no wonder the media loved to tear him apart; they were practically fed the narrative on a silver platter. His whole life had become the entertainment industry’s favorite sideshow.
She stared at the screen for a few more moments, Dieter’s face frozen in that half-smirk, half-exhausted expression. He was unraveling, and everyone was watching. Cliff Beasts 6 might have been the breaking point, but it wasn’t the cause. No, Dieter had been falling apart long before that.
In a different world, she imagined, she and Dieter could be friends. He’d probably laugh at the mess she just made, tell her not to sweat it. In another life, maybe they’d meet over coffee or work on some crazy indie project together. They’d both be swimming in their own chaos, but maybe that’s what would make their friendship work.
She wasn’t delusional; she knew Dieter Bravo was a celebrity—someone she would probably never meet, never know beyond the screen. But sometimes, when he said things like that, it felt like he was speaking directly to her. Like maybe, in some other life, they’d get along. They’d get each other.
Her eyes drifted down to the eviction notice sitting on the coffee table. Four weeks, it said. Four weeks to come up with the rent, or she’d be out on the street. It was hard to feel hopeful when every option felt like a dead end. And yet, watching Dieter talk about his own collapse, she didn’t feel so alone.
Her phone buzzed on the cushion beside her.
She ignored it at first, assuming it was just another bill reminder. But when she glanced at the screen, her breath caught.
Studio Callback - Screenwriting Internship.
Her heart stopped. A callback? After all this time?
Without thinking, she sat up too fast, the ice cream carton tipping over the edge of the couch and spilling melted chocolate onto the floor. “Shit!” she cursed, grabbing a towel and wiping at the sticky mess with quick, frustrated swipes.
It felt surreal. She had applied for that screenwriting internship months ago and had long since written it off as a missed opportunity. But here it was—another chance.
She stood there, towel in one hand, her phone in the other, staring at the message like it might disappear if she blinked. Four weeks until eviction, a job that barely covered her bills, and now, out of nowhere, this lifeline.
Her eyes flicked back to the TV, where Dieter’s face still stared back at her.
She picked up her phone and, without hesitating, replied to the message. Yes. I’ll be there.
–
The next day…
The waiting room buzzed with the same dreary energy it had since she’d arrived nearly an hour ago. Grey walls, uncomfortable chairs, and that humming fluorescent light that seemed to buzz directly into her brain. She sat on the edge of her seat, fingers tracing the spine of her portfolio, glancing at the door every time it swung open.
But this time, it wasn’t her turn.
It was him.
Dieter Bravo stormed into the room like a hurricane, sunglasses still perched on his face even though the room was dim, his hair a chaotic mess, like he’d just rolled out of bed—or maybe stumbled out of a party. His team trailed behind him, all looking frazzled and overworked. He barely acknowledged them as he flopped into a chair across from her with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world.
“Well, this is bullshit,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “I’m a goddamn Oscar winner, and they’ve got me sitting in this dump of a waiting room like I’m some extra on a low-budget indie film.”
She bit her lip, trying to hide her amusement. She knew who Dieter Bravo was the second he’d walked in—who didn’t? His face had been plastered on every tabloid for weeks. But there was something surreal about seeing him up close, in the flesh, like he’d been plucked straight from her TV screen. Don’t freak out, she told herself. He’s just a person.
Still, the excitement bubbled up inside her, and for a moment, she just stared at him, feeling the shock wear off.
He caught her staring. “What? You think this is funny?”
She blinked, pulling herself together, giving him a deadpan look. “I think you’re acting like someone who’s forgotten what a waiting room is.”
Dieter raised an eyebrow, his mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to be offended or intrigued. “And you are?”
She shrugged. “Someone who’s been sitting here for an hour. Pretty sure I’m about to merge with this chair if they don’t call me soon.”
Dieter snorted, sitting up a little straighter, like he wasn’t used to people talking to him like that. Not outside his circle, at least. “An hour, huh? That’s it? Try six months trapped in a COVID bubble filming Cliff Beasts 6. That’s real torture.”
She laughed softly. “Yeah, I saw that movie. Pretty sure it was a crime against humanity.”
He cracked a grin. “Hey, that movie’s still paying my rent.”
“Is it? Seems like you should be able to afford better waiting rooms, then.”
Dieter leaned back in his chair, adjusting his sunglasses even though they weren’t needed. “Touché.”
There was a pause, a silence between them that felt more comfortable than awkward. They were sizing each other up, like two kids sitting next to each other on a school bus, deciding if they wanted to be friends.
“So,” Dieter said, shifting his gaze toward her again. “What are you here for? You in trouble, too?”
She smirked. “I’m always in trouble.”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Yeah, well, me too.” He ran a hand through his messy hair, looking around the room as if just noticing how drab it was. “You work here or something?”
She shrugged. “Depends if they think I’m good enough to work here.”
“Good enough for what?”
“I’m a writer,” she said, half-smiling, but there was a vulnerability in her voice. “Or at least I’m trying to be.”
Dieter’s eyes lit up with genuine curiosity, which caught her off guard. “A writer, huh? You got anything out there I’ve seen?”
She snorted, shaking her head. “Only if you read stuff on Medium and Tumblr.”
Dieter laughed, the sound deep and unexpected, like he wasn’t used to laughing like that. “Tumblr, huh? So you’re a real writer.” He gave her a playful look. “What do you write? Fanfiction about guys like me?”
She rolled her eyes, but there was a teasing glint in her gaze. “Nope. But if I did, it’d be better than that train wreck you called Cliff Beasts 6.”
Dieter clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch. Right in the ego.”
She smirked. “Ego as big as yours can take it.”
For a second, he just stared at her, genuinely caught off guard. He wasn’t used to people talking to him like this—like he was normal, not some Oscar-winning disaster wrapped in a scandal. She didn’t seem to care who he was or how many headlines he’d been in. It was refreshing, and he found himself more interested in her than he had been in anyone outside his usual crowd in a long time.
“So what do you do?” she asked casually, keeping the banter going.
Dieter laughed, a full, deep sound that made him look younger than he usually did in the tabloids. “What do I do? I’m a professional disaster. You haven’t heard?”
She chuckled, nodding toward the door. “I think you’re better at it than you are at acting.”
Dieter looked at her for a beat, his mouth twitching into a smirk. “You know, I don’t get a lot of people talking to me like this. Most people, they want to kiss ass or they just want something from me.”
She shrugged, her eyes flicking up to meet his. “What can I say? I’m not most people.”
He leaned forward, intrigued. “You like books?”
She raised an eyebrow. “What kind of books?”
“The kind that make people uncomfortable.”
Her lips twitched into a smile. “I see you’ve read Camus.”
He grinned. “The Stranger. Ever read it?”
“I did. Twice. Though I’m more of a Kafka fan.” She paused for a beat, her voice deadpan. “I like my existentialism served with a side of why is everything a nightmare and also I’m a bug.”
Dieter laughed again, clearly impressed. “You’re alright, you know that?”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” she said, her tone casual, but inside, she couldn’t quite believe she was having this conversation. With Dieter Bravo. Of all people.
They stared at each other, neither blinking, as if trying to see who’d crack first. But before either could say anything more, the door opened again.
“Mr. Bravo?” A frazzled assistant appeared in the doorway, eyes wide as they motioned for him to come in. “We’re ready for you.”
Dieter groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes as he stood up. “Finally.” He paused, turning to her with a smirk. “Don’t go anywhere, book lover. We’re not done with this conversation.”
She gave him a small smile, though inwardly she rolled her eyes. Yeah, sure. Like you'd remember me in two minutes, she thought. Dieter was famous for being distracted, for forgetting people as soon as he turned a corner. Everyone knew about his ADD—it was practically part of his public persona. He’d probably forget her name before the door even shut behind him.
Inside the meeting room…
Dieter slouched into a chair, his eyes flicking toward the group of studio executives sitting across from him, all with tight-lipped expressions. They weren’t here to chit-chat. They were here to clean up his mess. Again.
“Alright, what’s the damage?” Dieter asked, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair.
One of the executives, a tall man with silver hair and an expensive-looking suit, sighed heavily. “We’ve already settled with James and his wife. They’ve agreed not to divorce, but we’re paying for damages—and couples therapy.”
Dieter raised an eyebrow. “Couples therapy? Really?”
The man didn’t blink. “Yes, Dieter. Really.”
The room was thick with tension, the kind that only came when the stakes were sky-high. Another executive chimed in. “The headlines are out of control. We need to distance you from this. Fast.”
“What do you want me to do? Apologize? I already said I was sorry.” Dieter’s voice was tired, edged with sarcasm, but underneath, there was a flicker of frustration.
The silver-haired executive leaned forward. “Dieter, this isn’t about a simple apology. You’ve gone beyond that. Your lifestyle—this hedonistic, Roman emperor routine you’ve got going on—it’s not just damaging your reputation. It’s hurting us. The studio. The people you’re supposed to be representing.”
Dieter blinked, caught off guard by the harshness in the man’s tone.
“We’ve invested millions in you,” the executive continued, “and right now, you’re a liability. There’s talk of ending your contract early. Cutting ties before you bring the whole house down.”
Dieter’s jaw tightened. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No,” the man said coldly. “I’m not.”
For a moment, Dieter just sat there, staring at the man, trying to process what he was hearing. They were serious. He was this close to losing everything.
Another voice chimed in—his publicist, trying to smooth things over. “We’re not saying it’s over, Dieter. But we need to fix this. Charities. Positive press. You need to lay low for a while.”
The executive nodded. “No public appearances, no parties. We’re going to find some charity work for you, get the public to see a new side of you. You’re going to disappear for a bit. When you come back, you’ll be better. Clean. Understood?”
Dieter clenched his fists, the frustration boiling beneath the surface. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you need.”
“And we’ll get you a new PA,” his publicist added. “Someone who can keep you grounded. Keep you out of trouble, hopefully, someone you could not fuck.”
Dieter waved them off, already bored with the conversation. His mind drifted back to the waiting room, to the girl sitting across from him, trading quips like they were old friends. At least she’s interesting, he thought.
Back in the waiting room…
She sat there, slumped in her chair, staring blankly at the wall. The interview hadn’t gone well. She hadn’t gotten the job. The casting director had been polite but distant, and she could tell by their expression that they already had someone else in mind. Her stomach twisted with disappointment.
No extra job. No extra paycheck. And no way to make rent by the end of the month.
She stared down at her portfolio, feeling the weight of her failure settle in. She’d have to start packing soon. Maybe call her mom, tell her she was coming home. She could already imagine the conversation.
“We told you so,” her mom would say. “You should’ve gone into nursing. Writing was never going to pay the bills.”
Her stepdad would nod in agreement, disappointed but unsurprised. “Creative writing? Really?” he’d say. “What did you think would happen?”
She swallowed the lump in her throat, trying not to think about it. But the thoughts kept coming, relentless. She’d have to pack up, move back home, admit defeat.
God, I’m such a screw-up.
The door creaked open, and Dieter stepped out, glancing around. His entourage had already disappeared down the hall, leaving him standing alone for once. He spotted her instantly.
“Still here?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
She forced a small smile, shrugging. “Didn’t get the job.”
Dieter nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, well... my meeting sucked too. They’ve decided I’m officially the next Caligula.”
She snorted. “That bad?”
“Worse,” he said, shaking his head. He stood there for a beat, looking around the room, then back at her. “You know what? Screw this. Let’s go grab a drink.”
She blinked, surprised. “What?”
“I’m serious,” Dieter said, eyes glinting with that familiar mix of mischief and exhaustion. “I need a drink. You’re funny. Let’s go.”
She stared at him, unsure if he was joking or not. But he wasn’t. She could see it in his eyes—he was serious.
“You buying?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Dieter grinned. “I’m an Oscar winner. Drinks are always on me.”
She hesitated for a moment, then slowly stood up, tucking her portfolio under her arm. “Alright, Bravo. Let’s see if you can keep up.”
He smirked, leading the way. “Baby, you don’t know who you’re talking to.”
–
The black Audi’s engine purred as Dieter navigated the dim streets, his phone vibrating endlessly in the cupholder. Text after text, call after call—all from his team. They were probably losing their minds, wondering where he’d disappeared to. He glanced at the notifications, scoffing, and shoved the phone further out of reach.
“So,” she said, glancing at him from the passenger seat, “do you do this often?”
Dieter smirked, keeping his eyes on the road. “Do what?”
“Pick up random strangers and ask them to grab drinks with you.”
He laughed, the sound low and lazy. “No, I mean, I pick up random strangers... just not usually for drinks.”
She chuckled. “Well, you should probably get better at vetting your strangers. I could be a serial killer, you know.”
Dieter shot her a quick glance, grinning. “Even better. Might actually enjoy being murdered by you.”
She snorted, shaking her head. “You really are a disaster, aren’t you?”
“Disaster, masochist, artist... depends on the day.” He glanced over at her, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You’ve got a hell of a sense of humor, though. I like it.”
“And here I thought you were the sadist for thinking being murdered sounds fun.”
“Nope.” Dieter grinned. “Definitely a masochist. But don’t let that scare you off.”
She smirked, leaning back in her seat. “Too late. I’m terrified now.”
They drove in comfortable silence for a while, the city lights flickering through the tinted windows, casting shadows on Dieter’s face. It felt surreal, sitting in the passenger seat of Dieter Bravo’s car, heading to God-knows-where. But she didn’t feel uneasy. In fact, she felt strangely comfortable. It was weird how easily they’d fallen into this rhythm, like they’d known each other for years.
“So,” she asked, breaking the silence, “where exactly are we getting these drinks?”
Dieter’s smirk grew as he pulled into a parking garage, winding his way up to the fifth floor. “Here.”
“Here?” she echoed, raising an eyebrow.
Dieter parked the car, and without another word, led her to the elevator. When the doors slid open, she was met with the sleek interior of his penthouse. Glass walls, dark furniture, and a view of the city that stretched on forever.
“Oh,” she said, stepping inside, taking it all in. “I thought we were going to a bar or something.”
Dieter chuckled, locking the door behind them. “Yeah, well, I’ve been told not to be seen in public too much for a while. You know... the whole ‘clean up the image’ thing.”
She turned, leaning against the counter, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Right. The scandal.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, that.”
She tilted her head, a playful glint in her eyes. “So, should I be worried now? You could be the serial killer. I didn’t tell anyone where I’m going.”
Dieter grinned, moving toward the bar in the corner of the room. “Well, if I am, at least you’ll die with a good drink in your hand.”
Dieter’s penthouse bar looked like it had been pulled straight out of a high-end hotel. Polished wood, rows of bottles perfectly lined up, and a set of cocktail tools that would make any bartender proud.
He moved behind the bar with a familiar ease, pulling out a few bottles and setting them on the counter. “What’s your poison?”
“Vodka, Negroni... surprise me.”
“You got it.” He started mixing, moving around the bar like he’d done it a thousand times. She followed suit, sliding behind the bar beside him, the space between them feeling natural.
As they worked, they fell into a rhythm, like two old friends who’d done this countless times before. It was easy, the way they passed bottles back and forth, the clink of ice in glasses punctuating their conversation.
“So,” she said, shaking her drink, “you always this smooth with your guests, or am I special?”
Dieter smirked. “You’re special. I don’t let just anyone behind the bar.” He watched her expertly pour out the drink, nodding in approval. “You’ve got skills.”
She chuckled. “I bartend. Well, I used to, now I just work at a diner, but it counts.”
He laughed. “I used to bartend, too. Before all this.” He gestured vaguely to his sprawling penthouse. “I kinda miss it.”
“Miss what? Making drinks for drunk people at 2 a.m.?”
He shook his head, grinning. “No, the simplicity of it. The quiet moments before the rush. And, I guess, the people. You get to talk to all kinds of weirdos.”
She handed him the cocktail she’d just mixed, and he took a sip, his eyebrows raising in surprise. “Not bad. Actually, really good.”
She smiled, taking a sip of his creation in return. “Yours isn’t half bad either, weirdo.”
He snorted as he finished drinking, “Looks like we’ve both still got it.”
They clinked their glasses, a quiet laugh shared between them.
–
They moved to the couches near the window, drinks in hand, and the night outside stretched on in glittering silence. It was one of those rare moments when the city was alive, but they were in their own little world, insulated by glass and a few too many drinks.
She stretched out on the couch, swirling the last of her drink in the glass. “So, this is what it’s like, huh? Being Dieter Bravo. A penthouse with a killer view and a bar that puts most cocktail lounges to shame.”
Dieter leaned back, grinning. “You sound impressed.”
She tilted her head. “I mean, it’s nice. But I’m not that impressed.”
He snorted. “Figures. I’ve gotta work harder to impress you, huh?”
“You said it, not me.”
There was a beat of silence before he broke it. “So, what’s the story? Why’re you still working at a diner when you’re clearly way too smart for that?”
She shrugged, taking a sip. “You make it sound like I had a choice. You think I want to be a waitress?”
“No, but...” He trailed off, clearly thinking. “I don’t know. You strike me as someone who should be... doing more.”
She arched an eyebrow. “More, like what? Writing fanfiction for Cliff Beasts 7?”
Dieter laughed, the sound filling the space. “God, no. Please, spare me.”
She grinned. “It’s not for lack of trying. I just... haven’t found my place yet. It’s not as easy as, ‘Hey, I’m talented, someone notice me.’” She shook her head, her voice growing quieter. “It’s a lot of failing. Mostly failing.”
Dieter nodded, leaning back in his seat, his expression more serious now. “I get that.”
“Do you?” she asked, her voice softer but still edged with sarcasm. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re pretty damn successful.”
Dieter looked at her, really looked at her this time. “You think success means you stop failing?”
She didn’t answer, watching him with curiosity.
He set his drink down and ran a hand through his hair. “You fail more when you’re successful. Trust me. People are just waiting for you to screw up. And when you do... they’re there to watch you burn.”
“You’re talking about the scandal.”
He nodded, taking another sip. “It’s not just the scandal. It’s everything. There’s always someone out there with a camera, waiting for you to mess up. They don’t care about what you do right. Just the crash.”
“So you’re saying you’re a slow-motion car crash?” she asked, her tone dry.
He smirked, nodding. “Exactly. A car crash people pay to watch.”
She stared at him for a moment, her mind working through his words. “That’s... kind of tragic.”
Dieter raised an eyebrow, his grin fading. “It is, isn’t it?”
They both went quiet, the weight of his words settling between them. But then she leaned forward, her eyes narrowing playfully. “You ever think about, I don’t know... getting out of the car? Stopping the crash?”
He barked a laugh, shaking his head. “And do what? Go back to bartending? Give up the Oscar for a shaker and ice?”
“Maybe.” She shrugged, her voice light but serious underneath. “Or maybe just... do something real. Something that’s not about everyone else’s expectations.”
Dieter looked at her for a long moment, something in his expression shifting, like he was seeing her in a new light. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
She nodded. “I do. Look, I might not be some hotshot writer, but I’ve always believed that what matters is the stuff that’s real. The art you make when no one’s watching. The stuff people don’t get to tear apart.”
“Yeah, but the problem is, everyone’s watching.”
She leaned back, crossing her arms. “So maybe that’s their problem.”
Dieter laughed, and this time it wasn’t the careless, guarded kind of laugh he usually gave. It was genuine. “You’ve got a point.”
“Of course I do. I’m always right.”
“Okay, Camus,” he teased, rolling his eyes. “You’re officially hired as my life coach.”
She leaned back, eyes glinting with mischief. “I don’t know if you could afford me.”
Dieter snorted, swirling his drink. “How expensive are you?” he asked, playful but intrigued.
She paused, pretending to consider it for a moment. “Depends… do you personally know Gérard Depardieu?”
Dieter grimaced, raising an eyebrow as he took another sip. “Gérard Depardieu?” He repeated, blinking in confusion.
She nodded, downing the rest of her drink in two big gulps, the alcohol warming her throat. “What? You don’t know him?”
“I mean, I do, but wow...” He let out a low whistle, shaking his head with a chuckle. “That’s a... pretty weird choice.”
“Well, what can I say? I like them like that.” She shrugged, her expression completely serious as she set her glass down.
Dieter threw his head back, laughing harder than he had all night. It was loud, unfiltered, and completely genuine, the kind of laugh that came when he wasn’t performing for anyone.
“You’re a trip, you know that?” he said, still grinning as he wiped at his eyes. “Gérard Depardieu. Damn. Haven’t thought about that guy in years.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What, are you saying you don’t have weird celebrity crushes?”
He tilted his head, considering the question for a second. “I mean... I am the weird celebrity crush.”
She rolled her eyes, but a smirk tugged at her lips. “How humble of you.”
“Hey, I’m just saying,” he replied, taking a sip of his drink. “You should hear the shit people say about me online. I’ve been everything from someone’s ‘gay awakening’ to someone’s inappropriate uncle.”
She snorted into her drink, barely containing her laughter. “Jesus. People are wild.”
Dieter smirked, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So, c’mon. Who else you got? Who’s on your weird celebrity crush list? Lay it on me.”
She took a slow sip of her drink, savoring the moment, then said with a completely straight face, “Willem Dafoe.”
Dieter almost choked on his drink, eyes widening in disbelief as he stared at her like she’d just told him she was into cryptids. “Dafoe? Willem Dafoe?”
“Yeah,” she said, completely deadpan. “What’s wrong with Dafoe?”
He blinked, still recovering from nearly spitting his drink out. “I mean, nothing’s wrong with him, but... wow, that’s... unexpected.”
She shrugged, taking another sip of her drink. “I already shocked you with Depardieu. What were you expecting? Besides, Dafoe... he’s got range.” She gave him a wicked grin and added, “Plus, you know he’s freaky in bed.”
Dieter let out a loud bark of laughter, nearly doubling over. “Holy shit... you’re a freak. A true freak.”
She raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Oh no, it’s definitely not a bad thing,” he said, still chuckling as he reached over to refill her glass. “I’ve met some freaks in my time, but this? This is different. I like it.”
She eyed the freshly poured drink, tilting her head. “Not sure if I should feel good about that comment.”
Dieter grinned, clinking his glass against hers. “You should. Trust me.”
They both chuckled, the easy, playful energy between them lightening the mood even more. But then Dieter leaned back, giving her an amused look. “You know, I actually know Willem.”
Her eyes widened, her curiosity piqued. “No way. You know him?”
Dieter nodded, taking a slow sip. “Yeah. Great guy. Not as intense as his characters would make you think. Really down to earth. Freaky in his own way, sure, but... I get it. I guess I see what you see in him.”
She smiled, leaning back. “Well, that’s comforting.”
Then she paused, glancing down at her drink before adding, “I actually met him once. Worked as an assistant on a theater production he starred in a couple of years ago.”
Dieter’s eyes lit up. “No way. Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously,” she said, nodding. “It was this small indie thing in New York. I wasn’t his assistant or anything, just part of the general crew, but I did get to work around him a bit. He’s... different, in a good way.”
Dieter leaned forward, intrigued. “Okay, now you’ve really got my attention. You’ve done PA work before?”
She shook her head, swirling the ice in her glass. “Not really. That was more of a part-time gig while I was in school. I applied for a real PA job a few years back, but it didn’t exactly go well.”
Dieter’s brow furrowed. “What happened?”
She sighed, her smirk fading as she stared down at her drink. “Well, I got all the way through the interviews, and then the celebrity—someone old-school—told me I was too chubby to work for them. Said I wouldn’t look good in photographs.”
Dieter’s face immediately twisted into a mix of shock and disgust. “Wait, what? Are you kidding me?”
“Nope,” she said, the bitterness in her voice barely masked by the nonchalance she was trying to project. “I didn’t even bother applying for PA jobs after that. Figured it wasn’t worth the hassle.”
Dieter shook his head, clearly appalled. “That’s... Jesus. I mean, I get that people in this industry are eccentric as hell, but that’s way too much. Who the hell cares what you look like in photos? You’re supposed to be doing a job, not starring in the damn pictures.”
She shrugged, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah, well, some people care. Guess I wasn’t the image they wanted.”
Dieter looked at her, his expression softening with empathy. “That’s seriously messed up. I’m sorry you went through that.”
She waved him off, smiling more genuinely this time. “It’s fine. Honestly, it was a while ago. I just stuck to writing and waitressing after that.”
“Well, for what it’s worth,” Dieter said, leaning forward, “that guy was a complete idiot. You’d make a damn good PA.”
She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Thanks. But I think I’m done with that world.”
Dieter studied her for a moment, then raised his glass in a small toast. “Well, here’s to not being the kind of asshole who judges people by how they look in photos.”
She clinked her glass against his, smiling again. “I’ll drink to that.”
The conversation lingered in the air after their laughter died down, a comfortable silence settling over them. She leaned back against the couch, her gaze drifting to the massive windows overlooking the city, the skyline glittering like a distant dream.
“Gotta say,” she began, her voice soft but still playful, “this penthouse is... something else. It’s almost too perfect, though. Feels more like a set than a home.”
Dieter glanced around the room, smirking faintly. “Yeah, that’s because it’s not home.”
She raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “It’s not?”
He shook his head, swirling the last of his drink. “Nah. It’s just a place I own. I use it for... all the shit you probably hear about in the tabloids.”
She snorted, leaning in. “You mean the orgies and sex scandals?”
“Pretty much.” Dieter chuckled, but there was something more behind the laughter. His expression softened as he set the glass down on the table. “It’s not where I live. My real home is out in Sherman Oaks.”
She tilted her head, surprised. “Sherman Oaks?”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s an actual house. Big, built for a family, but too large for just me. I don’t bring anyone there. Not my... conquests, not my parties. Just me. I paint there, you know? I’ve got this studio in the back, and when the world gets too loud, that’s where I go. It’s the only place I feel... I don’t know, settled.”
Her eyes softened as she listened. She hadn’t expected this level of honesty from him, but the vulnerability in his voice was unmistakable. “That sounds... nice, actually. Quiet.”
“It is,” he agreed, his gaze distant, as if he could picture the house in his mind. “But the silence can get too loud sometimes. Especially now that I’m older. That’s when I come back here. The penthouse. To drown it out.”
She frowned slightly, her fingers tracing the edge of her glass. “The silence?”
Dieter nodded, exhaling softly. “Yeah. You wouldn’t think silence could be so damn loud, but it is. Especially when you’re used to everything being... chaotic.”
She didn’t respond immediately, just watched him, the weight of his words sinking in. There was a loneliness there, one that no amount of parties, conquests, or tabloid headlines could fill. It wasn’t just about being alone—it was about being seen. About finding a place where the chaos didn’t define him.
She took a breath, her tone gentle but sure. “You don’t strike me as someone who likes the noise. Not really.”
Dieter blinked, turning his gaze back to her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, people see the chaos, the headlines, the scandals. But I don’t think that’s really you.” She paused, her voice steady. “You’ve got a whole world inside you that no one bothers to look at. You’re not just the guy who parties and ends up in the tabloids. You’re more than that.”
His eyes flickered with something—surprise, maybe, or recognition. He opened his mouth to say something, but she continued before he could.
“They don’t see the parts of you that matter. The parts that create, that make something out of all this mess. The fact that you’ve got a studio and you paint—that tells me a lot. You’re more than just an actor, Dieter. You’re an artist. And not because you say so, but because you are.”
For a moment, Dieter just stared at her, as if her words had landed somewhere deeper than he’d expected. She was looking at him like no one had in years. Not like a star, not like the scandalized mess the world saw. She saw him. The real him.
His throat tightened, and suddenly, the air felt heavier. “You really think that?”
“I know it,” she replied, her tone matter-of-fact. “You’re not just memorizing lines. You’re putting something into the world that most people don’t even take the time to understand. But that doesn’t mean it’s not real. It’s real, Dieter. And it matters.”
He blinked, the familiar burn of tears stinging behind his eyes. It was strange—he hadn’t felt this exposed in so long. The vulnerability, the rawness of being seen for more than just the surface.
A tear slipped down his cheek, slow and steady. He swiped at it quickly, but another followed. It wasn’t a sobbing mess, no dramatic breakdown. Just a quiet release, like the weight of everything he’d been carrying finally had somewhere to go.
“Damn,” he muttered, laughing softly through the tears. “You’re really messing me up here.”
She smiled, nudging him gently with her elbow. “You needed to hear it.”
He wiped his eyes, still grinning despite the tears. “Guess I did.”
For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The silence between them wasn’t heavy or awkward. It was comfortable, filled with an understanding that went deeper than words. In the quiet of the penthouse, with the city lights twinkling in the background, Dieter felt something he hadn’t in a long time.
Peace.
But of course, Dieter couldn’t let the moment just sit there. He leaned over slightly, raising an eyebrow as a mischievous grin spread across his face. “So... is this the part where we kiss?”
She burst out laughing, her head falling back as she clutched her sides. “Oh my God, Dieter, you’re such an ass.”
For the first time in a long time, Dieter didn’t feel even a twinge of offense at being laughed at. In fact, her reaction made him laugh, too—a deep, real laugh that didn’t feel performative. It was just them, laughing like idiots in the middle of a moment that could’ve been serious, but wasn’t.
He shrugged, grinning. “Hey, had to shoot my shot.”
She shook her head, still giggling as she nudged him. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah, but you like me,” he teased.
“Debatable,” she shot back, smirking. “But that was not the move, Bravo.”
He threw his hands up in mock surrender, still laughing. “Alright, alright, no kiss. Got it.”
She rolled her eyes, the amusement still lingering in her expression. “Seriously, though. You’re an ass.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” Dieter said, smirking. But beneath the joking, there was a warmth in his eyes, a softness that hadn’t been there before. He liked this—being around someone who could take his nonsense and throw it right back at him, without missing a beat.
–
They had been hanging out for days—Dieter laying low like his team had asked, and her finding herself more and more wrapped up in his world. It was easy with him. The lazy mornings that bled into afternoons, the spontaneous outings, the hours spent talking about nothing and everything. It was like living in a bubble, where the real world and all its mess didn’t exist.
But it couldn’t last forever.
They were lounging in his penthouse, another aimless afternoon with the TV buzzing in the background, both of them lost in their own thoughts.
“So,” Dieter began, his tone casual, but there was an edge of hesitation in it. “I’ve been thinking...”
She looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. “Uh-oh. That sounds dangerous.”
He chuckled, but there was a nervousness in his smile. “No, I mean... I’ve been thinking about you. Us, I guess.”
She frowned slightly, sitting up a bit straighter. “What do you mean?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding her gaze for a moment. “I think I... I really like you. And I want to stay friends, you know? If you’re cool with it.”
Her heart skipped a beat, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Of course he liked her—they got along too well not to. But she knew what had to happen next.
She swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “I don’t think we can keep doing this.”
Dieter’s face fell, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Wait, what? Why not?”
“I can’t afford to stay in LA anymore,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I’m going home. To my mom’s and stepdad’s. The diner job just doesn’t cover rent or utilities, and figuring things out in this city isn’t really feasible for me right now.”
Dieter stared at her, the words slowly sinking in. His expression shifted from confusion to something deeper—sadness, maybe even panic. “You’re... leaving?”
She nodded, trying to keep it together. “Yeah. I’ve got no choice.”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just looked at her like she’d just ripped the floor out from under him. Then, true to form, Dieter went into full dramatic mode.
“Are you serious?” he groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Like, ever.”
She laughed, despite herself. “Dieter, stop.”
“No, seriously,” he continued, flopping onto the couch like a petulant child. “You’re leaving me to fend for myself in this godforsaken city, and for what? Your mom’s house in the middle of nowhere? This is cruel and unusual punishment.”
She rolled her eyes, amused but touched by how much this seemed to affect him. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Where’s your loyalty?” he muttered dramatically. “I thought we were in this together.”
She snorted. “I didn’t realize hanging out with you was a lifelong commitment.”
Dieter sat up suddenly, his eyes lighting up as if he’d just had the greatest idea of all time. “Wait a second...”
She eyed him warily. “What?”
“You still need a job, right?”
Her eyebrow arched. “...Yes?”
“I still need a PA,” he said, the excitement building in his voice. “My team hasn’t found anyone, and let’s face it—they’re probably going to stick me with some lifeless corporate robot.”
She blinked, not expecting this. “Wait, are you offering me a job?”
“Hell yes, I am,” he said, grinning like a kid with a new toy. “You’d be perfect. I mean, you know me. You get me. And you’re already here half the time anyway. Why not make it official?”
She hesitated, her mind racing. “I don’t know, Dieter. It feels like... I don’t know, like you’re just offering it because you feel bad.”
He shook his head, his expression softening. “No, I’m offering it because I need you. And not in a weird way, okay? I mean, yeah, it’s a job, but it’s also more than that. I trust you. And I don’t trust a lot of people.”
She bit her lip, still uncertain. “Yeah, but it comes with a paycheck, right? That’s gonna make me feel... really dirty.”
Dieter laughed, leaning back into the couch. “Oh, come on. It’s a legit offer. And I’m paying you well, so you’ll get used to feeling dirty real quick.”
She chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”
“Seriously,” he continued, his tone softening again. “Think about it. It’s not charity. It’s not a handout. I really need your company, and I think you need this too.”
She exhaled, staring at him for a moment. “I’ll... think about it.”
A few days later, she was back at the penthouse, this time with Dieter’s manager, his lawyer, and Dieter himself, all sitting around the sleek kitchen island. It felt surreal.
The manager went over the details of the contract, but it was hard to focus on the specifics when her mind was spinning with how fast everything was happening.
“And, of course,” the manager added sternly, “we have to include the no-fucking clause. If you two get involved, it’s not only grounds for termination but also blacklisting.”
Dieter raised an eyebrow, looking slightly offended. “Seriously? That’s a bit much, isn’t it?”
She snorted, waving it off. “It’s fine, Bravo. I don’t think you’d want to fuck me anyway.”
He frowned, almost hurt. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The manager chuckled, shaking his head. “He fucks anything that moves.”
She furrowed her brows briefly, her face showing a flash of disgust at the comment, but she kept her mouth shut. This wasn’t the time to start an argument with his team. Still, she couldn’t shake the sour taste the comment left in her mouth.
Dieter noticed her reaction and shot his manager a look, but the moment passed quickly as the lawyer handed her the contract to sign.
Once the papers were signed, it was official. She was now Dieter Bravo’s new assistant.
After the contract signing, they were back in the quiet of the penthouse. She stretched her arms out, feeling a mixture of excitement and disbelief at the day’s events. Dieter leaned against the counter, still processing it all too, and for a moment, the two of them just stood there in silence.
Then she clapped her hands together, breaking the moment. “Okay, Bravo, I’m treating you to dinner.”
Dieter blinked, confusion crossing his face. “Wait, what? You’re treating me?”
She grinned, nodding. “Yeah, to celebrate. You know, new job and all.”
He hesitated, raising an eyebrow. “You just signed a contract. You shouldn’t be spending money on me.”
She waved him off, rolling her eyes. “Take a chill pill. I just landed a sick new job with a really dirty paycheck. I’m excited, let me have this.”
Dieter chuckled, rubbing his neck sheepishly. “I’ve taken way too many pills in my life. Not sure I remember which one the chill pill is.”
She burst out laughing, grabbing her jacket. “Well, then this will be the antidote. C’mon, we’re getting Five Guys.”
Dieter’s grin grew wider, his eyes lighting up. “Damn, baby, you know I can’t say no to Five Guys.”
She shot him a smirk. “Then let’s go.”
They drove in Dieter’s car, windows heavily tinted, cruising through the LA streets as the sun dipped below the skyline. They grabbed their order from the drive-thru window and found an empty parking lot, parking under the dim glow of a streetlight.
Dieter reclined his seat all the way back, pushing the front seats to give them more space to lounge. She did the same, their legs stretched out as they unwrapped their burgers.
“So,” he mumbled around a mouthful of fries, “what now?”
She shrugged, her voice muffled as she stuffed more fries into her mouth. “Idunno.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a moment, the radio playing softly in the background, the quiet hum of the city far off in the distance.
Dieter glanced at her sideways, studying her face. “You seem a little... off.”
She paused mid-chew, looking at him. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged, biting into his burger. “I dunno. Just felt like something’s been bugging you since we left the penthouse.”
She exhaled, setting her burger down, wiping her hands on a napkin. “Well... your manager pissed me off. Big time.”
Dieter stopped chewing, his eyes widening a little. “What? Why?”
“That comment he made,” she said, rolling her eyes, “about you humping everything that moves. It was gross. And unnecessary.”
Dieter’s face reddened, the blush creeping up his neck as he rubbed at it, a little embarrassed. “Yeah, uh... that’s just how he is.”
She raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “That doesn’t make it okay.”
He chuckled awkwardly, setting his burger down. “I mean, he wasn’t wrong. You’ve heard the stories, read the articles, right?”
She stared at him for a beat, then sighed. She knew he wasn’t trying to defend his manager, and in a way, she found that endearing—his loyalty to people even after everything they’d said about him. All the rumors, the scandals, the affairs. But she tucked that thought away for another time.
“That’s not the point,” she said, shaking her head. “As someone who works with you, the first thing your manager should be doing is protecting you—even from your own team.”
Dieter blinked, her words hitting harder than he expected. He felt something crack open in his chest. She wasn’t wrong. And hearing her say it so plainly made him realize just how much he’d let slide because of loyalty. Because of fear.
He smiled softly, biting into his burger, his voice quiet. “Thanks for saying that.”
She shrugged, offering him a small smile in return. “It’s true.”
Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, she leaned over, wiggling her eyebrows. “Besides, you haven’t tried to fuck me yet, so I don’t think what your manager said was true.”
Dieter choked on his soda, laughing and coughing at the same time. “Jesus Christ,” he wheezed, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
She grinned, leaning back into her seat. “What? Am I not fuckable enough for Dieter Bravo?”
He immediately shook his head, his voice firm. “No, baby–you’re...fuck– you’re hot. Like, really hot. And I’m an idiot for not jumping you the second I met you.”
She snorted, clearly amused. “But?”
Dieter sighed, running a hand through his hair, his voice quieter but more grounded now. “Look, if we hadn’t had that first conversation, that night in the waiting room... I probably would’ve tried to sleep with you.”
She gasped dramatically, her eyes widening in mock horror. “Excuse me? What made you think I’d even want to sleep with you?”
Dieter burst out laughing, shaking his head. “Oh, c’mon, I’ve got ways. If I really wanted to, I could have charmed you into it.”
She snorted, shoving another fry into her mouth. “Yeah, right. You can’t charm your way into everyone’s bed, Bravo.”
Dieter stared at her, deadpan, raising an eyebrow. “Uh... yes, I can.”
They both broke into laughter, the moment light but laced with a shared understanding. Once their laughter died down, he leaned back, the humor fading slightly as he spoke again, this time more serious.
“But seriously,” he continued, his voice softer now, “I didn’t want to cross that line with you. Because... you’re different.”
She glanced at him, curious now, the playful energy between them simmering down as he opened up.
“I’m a messy person,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the steering wheel, fingers idly tracing the edges. “In every sense of the word. My life, my relationships—they don’t end well. And I’ve ruined... too many things that mattered. I can’t ruin this. I won’t.”
She tilted her head, watching him closely. “Why do you think it would ruin things?”
He took a deep breath, the vulnerability flickering in his eyes as he finally met her gaze. “Because when I sleep with someone, I lose track of... what’s real and what’s not. It always starts out fine, but I mess things up. I make it complicated, and then it all falls apart. And I don’t want that to happen with you.”
She studied him for a moment, seeing the weight behind his words, the sincerity he rarely showed to anyone. This wasn’t the over-the-top, scandal-filled Dieter Bravo the world knew. This was a man who was genuinely afraid of ruining something good.
“Wow,” she muttered, trying to break the heaviness. “So you’re saying I was basically a goner if we hadn’t talked that first night?”
He chuckled, giving her a teasing grin. “Oh, absolutely.”
She laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. “You really are full of yourself.”
“No, I’m just honest,” he said with a playful smirk. “But really, I don’t want to just fuck this up. You get me, more than anyone has in a long time. And I don’t want to lose that because I was... impulsive.”
She looked at him for a long moment, their earlier banter giving way to something deeper. It was clear that he meant every word, and it made sense in a way she hadn’t expected. Dieter Bravo might have been a disaster in relationships, but he was choosing not to be a disaster with her. And that meant something.
“Well,” she said, her smile returning as she reached for another fry, “that’s good to know. I mean, you’re still a complete disaster, but you’re my kind of disaster.”
Dieter’s grin widened, the tension finally easing as he leaned back in his seat. “I’ll take it.”
She chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then added with a smirk, “Besides, now I’m legally being paid to not fuck you.”
He laughed, throwing his head back in genuine amusement. “And I’m legally paying you to not fuck me.”
She nodded sagely. “Sounds like a pretty sweet deal if you ask me.”
Dieter chuckled, the heaviness of the earlier conversation replaced by their usual playful energy. “Yeah, it’s working out pretty well so far.”
They both sat there, comfortable in the aftermath of the conversation, knowing that while the chemistry between them was undeniable, the friendship was what mattered most. And neither of them was willing to risk it, even if they joked about it.
They sat in the car, the remnants of their Five Guys feast scattered on the console between them. The night had slipped into a comfortable quiet, the kind that came from hours of laughter, honest conversation, and greasy burgers. Dieter stretched, glancing over at her with a lazy grin.
“So, what’s the plan?” he asked, wiping his hands on a napkin. “You heading home now?”
She nodded, finishing the last of her fries. “Yeah. Gotta pack up my stuff and get ready for the big move.”
Dieter raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. “Right. Moving in with me. Never thought I’d reach this point in my life where a woman’s moving in with me... and I legally can’t fuck her.”
She snorted, shaking her head as she leaned back into her seat. “Welcome to adulthood, Bravo. Full of responsibilities and boundaries.”
Dieter’s grin widened, leaning a little closer. “So, about this moving in thing—are you planning on, like, wearing layers of clothing at all times? Because I don’t need to make this harder for myself than it already is.”
She shot him a look, deadpan. “Harder for yourself?”
He wiggled his eyebrows at her, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know what I mean.”
She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the grin spreading across her face. “Listen, I promise to be fully covered in the ugliest, most unflattering pajamas you’ve ever seen. Think, like, thermal underwear, oversized sweaters, maybe a balaclava if I’m feeling extra considerate.”
Dieter threw his head back laughing, slapping the dashboard. “Jesus Christ, I don’t know if I should be grateful or terrified.”
“Both,” she said with a smirk, grabbing the last fry from the bag and popping it into her mouth.
Dieter leaned back, sighing contentedly. “I still can’t believe it though. I’m actually gonna live with a woman. And she’s not some wild fling, but an assistant I’m paying not to fuck. Talk about a plot twist.”
She laughed, wiping her hands on a napkin. “Well, you better get used to it. I’ll be back in the morning with all my crap.”
Dieter grinned, clearly amused by the whole situation. “Promise?”
“Promise,” she said, flashing him a smile. “Bright and early. So you better get your beauty sleep.”
He chuckled, looking at her fondly. “I’ll try.”
She reached for the door handle, pausing for a moment before looking back at him, her tone soft but teasing. “Try not to miss me too much tonight, alright?”
Dieter winked. “No promises.”
She stepped out of the car, waving as she walked toward her building. “See you tomorrow, Bravo.”
He watched her go, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah,” he muttered under his breath, leaning back into the seat. “See you tomorrow.”
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