verricherri

[verricherri]

Slightly pervy Spencer figuring out he has a size kink with petite!reader? 👀 (No i’m not projecting about being short why would you think that?????)

Statistically Significant (NSFW///MDNI)

A/N: I blacked out somewhere between “two fingers” and “fold you in half.” No I will not be recovering — well, lucky you anon. I’m considered petite too 😌 so this one’s for us Warnings: spencer reid that rearranges your insides, intense eye contact - dont say i didn't warn ya Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated  ☀️

The movie played, but he hadn’t looked at the screen in almost twenty minutes — not really, not beyond the vague flicker of light and sound casting shadows on the walls and across your skin, where you were curled beside him on the couch like something effortless, completely at ease, legs tucked under one of the fleece blankets you’d taken from his lap halfway through the first act without asking.

He didn’t mind. Of course he didn’t mind. He couldn’t even think about the blanket now, not when every subtle shift of your body — the way you stretched, the soft crack of your ankle as you re-crossed your legs, the casual fall of your oversized t-shirt slipping further off your shoulder — made it increasingly difficult to do anything but think about you.

And then his eyes landed on your foot.

Bare, relaxed, resting near his thigh, the edge of your heel brushing the cushion between you like it had always belonged there.

He blinked once. Then again.

And before he could stop himself, he found his gaze locked onto the sharp curve of your ankle — delicate, birdlike, small enough that he was suddenly possessed with the certainty that he could probably wrap his entire hand around it and still have room to spare.

It wasn’t just the ankle.

It was the scale of you. The way your frame seemed to disappear beneath the blanket. The way your wrist had looked earlier tonight when you passed him the remote. The way his hand had accidentally brushed yours when reaching for the same piece of popcorn and had completely engulfed it without even trying.

It was like his brain had stored all those images somewhere quiet, subtle, harmless — and now, they were bursting to the surface at once, setting off a slow, startling awareness in his chest that he couldn’t look away from.

“Spence?”

Your voice was soft, a little amused, and when he looked up, you were already watching him, one eyebrow raised in quiet curiosity.

“You zoned out,” you said, your mouth curling into a smile that wasn’t mocking — not really — just gently, warmly interested. “Too much profiling going on in that big beautiful brain, or did I bore you with my excellent taste in movies?”

He blinked again, caught somewhere between guilt and fascination.

“No—no, not at all,” he said quickly, sitting up straighter, trying and failing to unstick the words from the tangle of thoughts crowding his head. “I was just… um. Thinking about your ankle.”

That made you laugh — a real, delighted sound that made his stomach flutter like it always did when he managed to surprise you.

“My ankle?” you repeated, clearly entertained. “Of all things?” He flushed, already regretting the honesty, but it was too late now. “I just—noticed it. And I realised how… small it is. Compared to my hand. I think I could probably wrap two fingers around it.”

You paused, blinking slowly.

Then, as if testing him — as if you knew exactly what you were doing and wanted to see how far he’d go — you shifted your foot just a little closer, letting it settle more firmly against his thigh, your toes nudging the seam of his jeans like an invitation disguised as innocence.

“Go on, then,” you murmured. “Try it. For science.”

He hesitated. Just for a second.

But then he reached out, carefully, his fingers brushing the inside of your ankle with a kind of reverence he hadn’t expected, and as his hand closed gently around the joint — thumb pressing into the fragile bone, his other fingers curving beneath — he felt his heart kick hard in his chest.

He wasn’t wrong.

His hand dwarfed you.

Your ankle disappeared beneath his palm like it had been made to fit there, like the size difference between you was not just anatomical, but designed, deliberate, something that shouldn’t have made his pulse quicken the way it just did — but absolutely did.

He swallowed, throat dry.

“See?” he managed, voice low. “Two fingers.” You tilted your head, lips parting slightly, eyes sharp now in the dim light. “You’re turning very red.” “I didn’t mean anything weird by it,” he rushed out. “I just… didn’t realise. Before.” “That I’m small?” you asked.

He nodded.

“That you’re… big?”

He hesitated, and something about that hesitation made your mouth curve, slow and dangerous.

“I mean—yes,” he said, voice going a little hoarse. “I guess I never really thought about the contrast before.” “You really didn’t notice?” you asked, shifting again — just enough for your t-shirt to slide higher on your thighs, enough for your toes to press a little firmer into his leg. “That your hand could probably wrap around my throat?”

His whole body tensed like a livewire.

You smirked.

And he knew — in that exact moment — that he was completely fucked.

—

“You’re flushed,” you said, still smiling, but quieter now, like you were observing him from under a microscope and finding something new, something vulnerable. “I’m not—” he started, but his voice betrayed him with how raw it sounded, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.” “Like what?” you asked innocently, but your eyes flicked down — to the hand still hovering near your ankle, to the slight twitch of his fingers, to the way his breath had started coming slower, shallower, like he couldn’t get enough air past whatever was building in his chest.

He wasn’t sure how to explain it. The way his brain had suddenly gone offline except for the part obsessively cataloguing every place where he was bigger — your wrist, your ankle, the curve of your waist, the whole of your thigh that he could probably cup with one palm. The way you were looking at him now like you knew exactly what he was thinking and were daring him to say it out loud.

“You know this is a kink, right?” you murmured, tilting your head, voice soft and heavy with suggestion. “The size difference thing.” He blinked, stunned. “It is?” “Mhm.” You shifted again, not dramatically — just enough that your knee brushed his thigh, enough that your voice was a breath too close when you added, “Some people get really into it. The whole big hands, big body, holding-you-down-with-one-arm thing.”

He swallowed. Hard.

“That’s…” he trailed off, and then nodded, a little helpless. “That’s very specific.” “Is it?” you whispered, resting your chin on your knees now, looking up at him with wide, almost amused eyes. “Or are you just realising that it might be your thing?”

He stared at you, throat tight, hands curling faintly on his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore.

And then, very quietly, very carefully, he said, “Can I see your hand?”

You didn’t hesitate. Just offered it up, palm facing his, fingers relaxed.

He raised his own hand slowly and pressed his palm to yours — and the difference hit him like a punch to the gut.

His fingers overlapped yours entirely, knuckles past the tips. Your palm was swallowed in his. Your thumb looked like it belonged to a child next to his.

He didn’t move. Just stared, as if trying to process the size of it — not just the visual, but the feel, the confirmation that all his instincts had been right. That you were small. That he could probably wrap his hand around your throat or your waist or your thigh and still have space to spare.

And then, like he was thinking out loud, he said, “I could hold you down with just one hand.”

The words left his mouth before he had time to consider how they sounded — filthy, reverent, full of awe and something sharp underneath — but the second they landed between you, it was like the air shifted.

He didn’t take his hand away.

You didn’t pull back.

Instead, you whispered, “Show me.”

He paused, not because he didn’t want to — he did, God, he did — but because something about the way you said it made his pulse jump. Not a challenge. Not a tease. Just trust.

So slowly, gently, he slid his hand from yours and reached up to cup the side of your neck, his palm spanning the whole distance from your jaw to your collarbone. His thumb rested just under your ear. His fingers curved around the side, not squeezing — just fitting.

Perfectly.

You closed your eyes, breathing in through your nose, your body going still like you were letting yourself feel everything.

“Spencer,” you whispered, eyes fluttering open. “This okay for you?”

He shook his head once, then leaned in closer until your foreheads nearly touched, his voice low and wrecked.

“It’s more than okay,” he said, thumb brushing gently along your throat. “I think I’m obsessed.”

You gave a soft sound — half laugh, half gasp — and tilted your face into his palm.

“Then keep going,” you breathed. “Test your theory, Doctor.”

And oh, that did something to him.

He moved before he could overthink it — shifted closer on the couch, crowding your space but not forcing it, just letting his body speak what he couldn’t yet say out loud. His knee brushed yours. His other hand rose to cradle your jaw, thumb resting at the corner of your mouth, eyes locked on yours like you were the most fascinating puzzle he’d ever been asked to solve.

He looked like he was studying you — not in the way he usually did, not clinically or professionally or even analytically — but like every inch of you was new data he needed to understand by touch alone.

“You’re trembling,” he said softly, fingers trailing down your arm until they circled your wrist. He held it up, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted as he wrapped his hand around it. His fingers overlapped easily. He squeezed, just a little. “Barely any pressure.” “You’re turning red again,” you whispered, almost giddy.

He didn’t care. Not anymore.

“I think I want to measure everything,” he said, voice gone thick. “Just to be sure.”

You were already pulling him closer.

—

He didn’t even know when it shifted — when curiosity stopped being innocent, when the need to understand you turned into the need to unmake you — but he was past the point of return now, and it hit him with all the force of a theory proven true: you were tiny, breakable, and absolutely built to take every inch of him like a miracle designed just for him to solve.

And now he had to solve you.

You were beneath him — thighs spread, one leg folded over his arm like he wanted to frame it, preserve it, press it between glass and label it with some Latin classification that meant mine — and he was watching the head of his cock press against your entrance, thick and leaking and entirely too much for the body that trembled and pulled him in anyway.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, not even meaning to speak, his voice hoarse from restraint. “You’re shaking already.” “I’m trying,” you breathed, a little laugh caught in a gasp, your hands fisting the sheets because he hadn’t even gotten fully in and you could already feel the stretch of him, the steady, inch-by-inch burn of being filled beyond what your muscles expected — and the way he was watching it, wide-eyed, completely entranced, made the ache feel even sharper. “Spence—” “You’re perfect,” he muttered, and you could feel his body vibrating with the effort not to rut into you blindly, not to let his hips snap forward and ruin you too fast, too early, even though every part of him screamed to do exactly that. “You’re so small, and soft, and fuck, I can see you opening for me. I can see it—look—right here—”

His thumb brushed just below your belly button, trembling, and you whimpered, because the pressure alone made you feel like he was everywhere — not just inside you, but under your skin, stretching you from the inside out.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he breathed, more to himself than to you, his brows furrowed like he couldn’t make the math work. “This shouldn’t even be possible. Your body shouldn’t let me in like this.” “Then stop talking and move—”

That earned you a quiet, wrecked laugh, and then he did — he moved, slow and deep, and your eyes rolled back instantly, your mouth falling open without a sound, because nothing had ever felt like this — like him — and it wasn’t just the stretch or the thickness or the length, it was the way he held your body like it was sacred, the way he looked at you like you were divine proof that the universe loved him back.

“Oh my god,” he whispered as he bottomed out, chest shuddering. “You took all of me. You took all of me.”

You nodded, weakly, but the tears gathering in your eyes made it clear just how much it took to take him — how full you were, how raw it felt, how your walls fluttered with the effort of keeping him inside like your body couldn’t bear the thought of letting him go.

And still, he didn’t move. Not yet. Just stared down at the way your body clenched around him, one hand sliding under your thigh to lift it higher, spread you wider, test how far he could fold you without breaking the illusion of reverence.

“You feel like you were built for this,” he said softly. “For me.”

His voice cracked halfway through, like he still couldn’t believe it, like this was something his brain — so used to analysis and control and facts — couldn’t compute no matter how hard it tried.

“I could ruin you,” he whispered, voice gone dark now. “I could fuck you until you forget your own name, and you’d still beg for more.”

Your hand fisted in his hair at the base of his neck, desperate, grounding.

And finally, finally, he started to move.

The first thrust was slow, so slow, like he was dragging every ridge and vein of his cock against every swollen inch inside you, and when he pulled back, you felt empty in a way that made you ache instantly for him again — and then he slid back in just as slowly, just as deep, just as devastating.

It wasn’t pace. It was pressure. It was a scientist testing the theory of how many times he could hit the same perfect spot until the subject collapsed.

And you were going to collapse.

“I want to measure the way you fall apart,” he panted, his hand tightening on your thigh. “I want to watch how you react. What muscles twitch. What your voice does when I hit this angle—”

He adjusted, and you screamed.

Not loud. Not performative. Just a raw, honest sound like the breath had been punched out of you and replaced with nothing but him.

“That one,” he breathed, mouth against your cheek. “That sound. That’s what I want. Every time.”

He moved faster now, still deep, still devastating, and the sound of your bodies meeting filled the room — slick, obscene, holy — while your legs shook around his hips and your hands clawed at his shoulders like you were holding onto the only thing anchoring you to reality.

“I could keep you like this,” he muttered. “In my bed. In my lap. Every goddamn night. Just folded open and dripping and taking it all.” You whimpered, writhing. “Please—” “I want to see you stretched out the next morning,” he whispered, teeth brushing your ear. “I want to spread your thighs and see the outline of me still inside you. I want to look at your cunt and know I wrecked it.”

You came like a wave crashing against the rocks — sharp and loud and sudden, your body seizing beneath him with a sob so high-pitched it made his rhythm falter, his name spilling from your lips like prayer.

And he held you through it. Drove through it.

Spencer’s thrusts got erratic, sloppy, his jaw tight as your cunt clenched around him like a vice, like your body was trying to milk every last drop from him because it needed it. Because you wanted to be full in every way a person could be full.

And he gave it.

With a groan like it tore through his chest, he buried himself one last time, fingers digging into your hip, forehead pressed to your collarbone as he came inside you, hard, deep, too much — his entire body trembling from the force of it.

You were still shaking. He was still inside.

Neither of you said anything.

Not until he finally pulled back to look at you, eyes blown and lips parted, and said — barely above a whisper:

“You are… the most important discovery of my life.”

—

He didn’t move right away.

Didn’t pull out. Didn’t let go. Didn’t speak.

Just kept his body pressed to yours — his chest still heaving in the aftermath, skin damp with sweat, breath catching every few seconds like he couldn’t quite believe he was still breathing at all — and held you like he’d just survived something.

Like you had just saved him.

You weren’t sure who moved first — maybe you twitched, maybe you breathed a little too deeply, maybe your fingers brushed the base of his neck — but the moment you shifted beneath him, his hand came up to your face instantly, cradling your jaw with such gentleness it broke something open inside you.

“Don’t,” he whispered, eyes still closed, voice hoarse. “Just—just stay right here. Let me—please—let me feel you.”

So you stayed. Quiet. Still.

Your thighs were shaking. Your throat was dry. And he was still buried inside you, softening slowly, but not enough to make you feel anything less. If anything, it made you feel more — because he wasn’t holding you out of hunger anymore.

He was holding you like he’d been starving for years and didn’t trust the world not to take the meal away.

His lips brushed your temple.

Then your cheek.

Then your jaw.

Then he let out a long, slow breath and finally spoke.

“I’ve never…” He swallowed hard. “I’ve never felt that. Not like that. Not ever.” Your hand found his chest, fingers curled lightly in the dip beneath his collarbone. “Felt what?”

His eyes opened then — wide, dazed, impossibly soft — and when he looked at you, it wasn’t lust or pride or even satisfaction. It was awe. Pure, scientific awe. The kind that made you feel like he’d just discovered a planet where your body lived at the centre of every orbit.

“The stretch,” he said, like it hurt to say it. “The fit. The heat. The way you—God, the way you opened for me. Like your body knew me before I even touched you.”

You inhaled shakily.

“And when I was all the way in…” His voice cracked, and he pressed his forehead to yours, chest rising fast. “You were shaking. But you held me. You took every inch and still looked at me like you wanted it. Like you needed it.” “I did,” you whispered. He kissed you then — soft, reverent, like he didn’t deserve to — and pulled back just enough to whisper, “I don’t think I’m ever going to forget how that felt.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t.

And that silence must’ve unraveled something in him, because his voice dropped even lower when he murmured, “Do you realise how small you are compared to me? How delicate your bones are, how tiny your wrists? I could hold both in one hand and still have fingers left over. I could fold you in half and carry you through fire, and you’d barely fill my arms.”

Your body fluttered around him at the words, and he felt it — because his whole expression changed again. From awe to ruin.

“Oh my god,” he breathed. “You like it.”

You looked away, embarrassed.

“No,” he said, catching your chin and gently guiding your gaze back to his. “No. Don’t hide from that. That’s mine now.”

You blinked.

“That sound you made when I said you were mine?” he whispered. “I want to record it. I want to play it back every night. I want to catalogue every fucking detail of what it feels like to fit inside someone who shouldn’t be able to take it. Who takes it anyway. Who takes me.” You felt your throat close up. “Spencer…”

He kissed your cheek. Your nose. Your lips again, slower.

Then, finally, he pulled out of you, slow and careful, eyes flicking down between your legs — and his breath stuttered at the sight of it.

His cum leaking out of you. Your folds swollen. Your thighs twitching from aftershocks.

And you — still soft, still open, still his.

“You’re ruined,” he whispered, not like an insult — like a prayer.

He disappeared between your thighs and kissed the inside of your knee. The curve of your hip. The sore, tender space above your mound.

Then: “I’m not done with you. I’m going to fuck this into your memory until your body recognises me like second nature.”

You whimpered, curling weakly.

He grabbed the blanket, laid beside you, pulled you to his chest.

And finally, when your breathing had evened out and you were half-asleep on his chest — legs still tangled, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist like he couldn’t let go — Spencer reached for his phone with the kind of quiet guilt only a man with too many tabs open could feel.

He turned the brightness all the way down.

Searched with one hand while the other kept rubbing slow circles on your back.

And typed:

“Can you develop a size kink after one statistically unlikely sexual encounter?”

Then:

“Is it normal to feel emotionally wrecked after sex with someone whose wrist fits inside your hand?”

Then:

“What does it mean when you think you just met the person you were scientifically designed to fuck forever?”

He stared at the last one. Didn’t hit send.

Just watched the blinking cursor.

Then tucked the phone under the pillow, pulled you closer, kissed the top of your head, and whispered — so soft you didn’t even stir:

“God help me if this wasn’t a one-time thing.”

You weren’t awake.

But if you had been, you might’ve smiled — because Spencer Reid didn’t need to write a paper.

You were already the only result that mattered.

[verricherri]

Diet Pepsi (NSFW///MDNI)

A/N: as promised for 150 followers — MAMA I’M DRAGGING Y’ALL TO HELL 🔥 SKRT SKRT WE GOIN STRAIGHT TO HELL TOGETHER no brakes. no regrets. Warnings: STRAIGHT. SIN - bonus points if you catch the references Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated  ☀️

The movie was over, but neither of you moved.

Old western credits rolled on the screen in black and white, flickering like ghosts. Static buzzed low from the truck radio, half-tuned to a country station. The night air was thick with July heat and leftover popcorn grease. You sat cross-legged in the truck bed, your back resting against the cab, eyes on the stars. Rhett sat beside you, arms resting on his knees, hat pulled low, profile carved by moonlight.

You tossed a popcorn kernel at his boot. Missed.

“Don’t go broody on me now,” you murmured. “That movie wasn’t that sad.”

Rhett didn’t answer at first. Just exhaled slow through his nose, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the horizon like something out there owed him an apology.

“You always get like this after a long week,” you said softer. He didn’t look at you. Just grunted. “And how’s that?” “Quiet. Feral. Like a wolf tryna behave.”

That earned the tiniest smirk. He didn’t argue. Which meant you were right.

You shifted a little closer, knees brushing. “What happened?” He was silent for a second. Then: “Bull bucked harder than expected. Tractor fan belt snapped. Amy’s teacher called. And Royal’s been ridin’ my ass ‘cause Perry won’t show up on time.” You blinked. “Damn. Want me to fight someone for you?” Another smirk. “No need. I can handle it.” “Sure you can.” You leaned in, bumped your shoulder into his. “But still. That’s a hell of a week.” “Hell of a life.”

That made you pause.

The cicadas buzzed louder for a moment. The distant sounds of other cars pulling away from the lot faded into the background, like the whole world was slowing down around just the two of you.

“You ever think about leaving?” you asked quietly. His hat tipped back a little, just enough for moonlight to catch the edge of his jaw. “Every damn day.” And then, after a breath: “But I never do.”

That settled heavy in your chest. Like you’d both admitted something neither of you had the guts to say out loud until now.

You dropped your head to his shoulder for a second. Just a beat.

He didn’t flinch. Just let you rest there, warm and still, the silence between you saying more than anything else.

Eventually, when the screen went black and the static started to sputter, you yawned and stretched. “Come on, cowboy. Let’s get outta here.”

He followed wordlessly, helping you down from the truck bed like you might break. His hand lingered at your waist a little longer than it needed to.

When you finally climbed back into the cab, the bench seat groaned beneath you. You grabbed your half-melted Pepsi from the cupholder, straw bent from chewing. Rhett stayed outside a moment longer, tossing the empty snack tray into a rusted barrel. Then the driver’s door creaked open and he slid in beside you, the cab immediately shrinking with his presence.

He looked tired. More than tired. Like the whole week had sat on his shoulders and wouldn’t get off.

“Long day?” you asked, sipping the soda. He grunted. “Long year.”

The soda hissed as you sucked at the bottom. Loud. Obnoxious. You didn’t mean it to be.

But then Rhett looked at you — and there it was.

That flash of something behind his eyes. Hunger. Regret. Need. Your thighs pressed together instinctively.

“You keep suckin’ on that straw like that…”

His voice was low, scratchy, like gravel and smoke.

“…I’m not gonna make it to touchin’ you proper.”

You blinked. Feigned innocence. Sipped again, lips wrapping slow around the plastic.

“It’s just soda, cowboy.”

His jaw flexed. His knuckles turned white on the wheel.

You kept sipping.

And he kept watching.

That silence stretched — not awkward, not stiff, just charged. Like a wire pulled too tight. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, eyes dropping to where your fingers toyed with the straw.

“You know what you’re doin’?” he asked. “What am I doin’, Rhett?” “Pushin’ your luck.”

You leaned back against the door, the leather hot against your skin. One leg tucked under you, the other pressed close to the gearshift, brushing his knee every now and then. A slow smile curled your lips as you popped the lid off the cup and tipped it toward your mouth, catching a few melting cubes with your tongue.

Rhett’s breath caught.

“Jesus,” he muttered, low. “Don’t do that unless you’re ready to follow through.”

You tilted your head. Set the cup back in the holder, real slow.

“Maybe I’m not the one who needs convincing.”

That was it. The crack in his control.

He turned to face you fully — knees wide, hand braced on the back of your seat, jaw tight.

“Darlin’, I’ve had a week from hell. Every time I close my eyes, it’s your voice in my head. You walk around that ranch like you don’t know what you do to me.”

Your breath caught.

“So tell me,” you whispered. “What do I do to you?”

—

He stared. Long and hard. Then reached between you, took the Pepsi cup — and dropped it to the floorboard with a sharp thud.

“Make me forget how to be decent,” he said.

Then he kissed you.

Not soft. Not hesitant. It was teeth and tongue and a week’s worth of frustration poured into your mouth. You gasped, fingers tangling in the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer as he gripped your hip like it anchored him to earth.

“Been thinkin’ about you like this all week,” he rasped against your lips. “Your voice. Your hands. That pretty mouth wrapped around a straw and me wonderin’ what else it’d feel good on.”

Your hips rolled without thinking. His belt buckle scraped your thigh. His hand slid under your shirt.

“You wanna help me?” he asked, already breathless. “With what?” “Relievin’ the kind of tension only you ever seem to cause.”

His hands were everywhere — not rushing, but searching, like he’d been dreaming about this moment and wanted to map every inch to memory.

Your shirt rode up. His palm found bare skin. Rough fingertips skated your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“You’re real,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re really here.” “I’m here, Rhett,” you whispered. “Touch me.”

He groaned — low and deep in his throat, like it physically pained him to want you this bad.

His fingers dipped beneath your waistband, thumb sweeping dangerously low, but he didn’t dive in. No — he paused, dragging his mouth across your neck instead, slow and heavy and frustrating as hell.

“You know what I thought about all week?” “Mmm?” “You. On this seat. Lookin’ at me like that. Legs open. Beggin’.”

You tugged at his belt. Impatient. Breathing shallow.

“So do something about it.”

But he didn’t move. Not yet.

“You got me strung up, girl,” he said, voice hoarse. “Like a horse with no reins. You show up in my head when I’m fixin’ fences. When I’m shovelin’ shit. I swear to God I even got hard in the tractor last Thursday just thinkin’ about your laugh.”

You bit your lip. A shaky laugh tumbled out.

“Didn’t know I had that effect on you.” “You don’t even try,” he hissed. “That’s the worst part.”

Your hand finally got his buckle open, jeans shoved low enough to expose what he’d been aching to give you. He hissed when your palm wrapped around him — hot, thick, needy. His head thudded back against the headrest.

“Fuck, that’s good—don’t stop.”

You didn’t. But your eyes flicked to the floor.

To the Pepsi cup.

You grinned, wicked and slow.

“Still want that release, cowboy?”

He opened his eyes — wild and wrecked — and followed your gaze.

“You wouldn’t.” “Oh, I would.”

Rhett stared at you like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss you harder or crawl out the window and repent.

“You gonna finish what you started,” you said, eyes glinting, “or you want me to get creative?”

He looked like he wanted to say something smart — something about how “you’re trouble,” how “this ain’t how good girls act,” — but all that came out was a rough gasp when you tightened your grip around him again.

The cab was steaming. His shirt was half-off, clinging to his back, skin flushed red all the way down to his collarbones.

And you?

You reached down to the floorboard, plucked the forgotten Pepsi cup, and turned to face him again — bold. Unbothered.

Dead serious.

“Think you can fill it?” you asked, just above a whisper. “Darlin’,” he breathed, “you keep talkin’ like that, and I’ll do it in ten seconds.”

He twitched in your palm, already close, already falling apart.

You kissed his neck. Then slid down between the seats, nestled in the tight space — eyes locked with his the whole damn time. The cup in your hand. His thighs tense on either side of you.

“Just relax,” you said sweetly. “Let me take care of it.”

And then you did.

Your hand moved in tight strokes, wrist flicking with every rise. He was already panting, head back, whispering your name like a prayer he didn’t know he believed in.

“That’s it, baby,” you coaxed. “Give it to me.”

His jaw clenched. He looked down at you, eyes glazed and desperate.

“God—fuck, you’re evil,” he choked out.

You brought the cup up just as his body seized, hips bucking forward, teeth gritted, and he came hard — into the goddamn Pepsi cup.

You held it steady. Like it was sacred.

The silence afterward was broken only by his ragged breathing and the faint slosh of melted ice.

You pulled back, glanced at the cup.

“Guess it’s not diet anymore,” you said, smirking.

He groaned. Covered his face with both hands.

“You are going to hell.” “So are you,” you said, crawling back into his lap. “Might as well ride there together.” “Jesus Christ.” “He’s not in this truck tonight, sweetheart.”

—

You were still straddling him in the driver’s seat, your thighs resting over his jeans, your cheek pressed to his damp collarbone. The air inside the truck had gone still — quiet but charged. Your breath synced up with his, shallow at first, then slow.

The Pepsi cup sat abandoned in the holder again, this time full of sins no amount of holy water could rinse away.

Rhett’s hands were on your lower back. Barely moving. Just holding. As if now that he had you close, he wasn’t entirely sure how to let go.

You brushed sweaty strands of hair off his forehead, your touch featherlight. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just let out a breath — not sharp, not amused, just tired. Bone-deep.

“I’m gonna need a minute,” he rasped, voice gravel-thick. “That was…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Didn’t need to.

His arms tightened around your waist instead, pulling you impossibly closer, like he could hide you in his chest if he just held you hard enough.

You rested your temple against his and let the silence stretch. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t shift.

“Rhett…” you began gently. “Let me talk, darlin’,” he cut in. Not harsh. Just… raw. “Let me just say it.”

You nodded.

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming.

“I don’t want this to be just a thing that happened once. Not just ‘cause I had a bad week. Not just some dirty secret we laugh about later.”

You blinked. Sat up slightly. Watched him.

His eyes were red around the edges. Not from tears — from being exhausted and too tightly wound for too damn long.

“I know I’m not the easiest man to be around,” he said. “I keep shit bottled up. I act like I don’t care. But I do. About you. More than I should’ve let happen.”

You reached up, cupped his jaw, thumb grazing the soft stubble along his cheek.

“I care too,” you said. Quiet. No pressure, just truth. “I wasn’t kiddin’. I was already plannin’ on doin’ this again next Friday.”

That cracked something loose in him.

A laugh. Small. Disbelieving. He leaned back slightly, enough to see your face properly, then shook his head with a lopsided smile.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” “Yeah. You love it.” “I really fuckin’ do.”

You kissed him again — slow this time, like you weren’t trying to devour him, just savour him. His lips were warm. Gentle. Less like a wildfire, more like a hearth.

“I meant it,” you murmured against his mouth. “I don’t wanna pretend this didn’t happen.” “Neither do I.”

You shifted in his lap, stretching your legs a little, but didn’t move away. His arms didn’t loosen either. His thumb moved in slow circles against your hip, grounding himself.

He exhaled again, then said, almost too softly:

“Sometimes I think… maybe I wasn’t meant for all this ranch bullshit. Maybe I’m not like Perry, or Royal. I break too easy. I feel too much.”

You stilled.

Because you knew how hard that was for him to admit.

“I like that you feel too much,” you whispered. He glanced at you, brows pinched. “You do?” “Yeah,” you nodded. “It means you care. It means you love hard. It means when you say shit like this…” — your hand ghosted over his chest — “…I believe it.”

Rhett’s throat worked around something thick. You could see it. Feel it.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “You always talk like that? Or just when I’ve got no blood left in my brain?”

You smiled. Soft and full.

“Only when it’s the truth.”

He leaned back, head resting against the seat, looking at you like you were the only damn thing keeping him tethered.

The radio buzzed softly. A half-song played — something slow and crooning, too low to name, but warm all the same.

“You want me to drop you home?” he asked eventually, voice a little steadier now. “It’s late.” You smirked, teasing again. “Why? You got church in the morning?” “After what we did with a Pepsi cup?”

He snorted. Full-out, shoulders-shaking laughter this time.

You pressed your lips to his jaw. “You’re not drivin’ anywhere yet, cowboy. You need a minute. And maybe a damn shower.” “Oh, I’m aware,” he groaned. “I feel like I just ran twenty laps.”

You chuckled and curled back into him, letting the summer heat cling to your skin like honey.

Outside, the drive-in screen had gone black. The other cars had cleared out. But inside the truck — it still felt full.

Of tension. Of release. Of something new blooming soft between you.

Not just lust.

Something warmer. Messier.

Real.

—

Eventually, you slid back into the passenger seat.

Rhett took his time — redoing his jeans, wiping sweat from his brow, straightening the mess of his hair as best he could. He muttered something under his breath about “never lookin’ at Pepsi the same way again,” and you snorted loud enough to fog the window.

The drive home was quiet.

Not awkward. Not heavy.

Just… settled.

Like the storm had passed and left the air sweeter somehow.

The windows were down. The heat hadn’t lifted much, but the breeze was kind. You reached over once, thumb brushing the back of Rhett’s hand where it rested on the gearshift. He turned his palm over without a word, let your fingers slip between his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When he pulled up in front of your place, he didn’t kill the engine right away.

The porch light buzzed faintly. Moths hovered near the screen door. Crickets chirped loud in the stillness.

You unbuckled, but neither of you moved to say goodbye.

Not yet.

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

The flush had faded from his chest, but his hair still curled damp at the ends. His mouth was a little red. His shirt was wrinkled beyond saving.

But his eyes?

His eyes were calm.

That wild, bottled-up tension was gone. Replaced with something steadier. Something… soft.

“I meant what I said,” you told him. “This ain’t just a one-time thing.” He nodded once. “I know.”

You hesitated.

Then asked, real quiet: “You gonna kiss me goodnight, or you just gonna sit there lookin’ like a man who’s seen God?”

That got a crooked grin out of him.

“I don’t think I saw Him,” he murmured. “But I sure as hell felt forgiven.”

You leaned over the console and kissed him — slow, sure, nothing hurried. Just lips and breath and the silent promise that whatever this was? It wasn’t over.

Not even close.

When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” he whispered, “but I wanna find out.” “You will.”

You squeezed his hand once more, then reached for the handle.

As your door creaked open, he caught your wrist.

“Wait.”

You turned.

He nodded toward the cupholder.

“Please throw that out before you go,” he said, deadpan.

You burst out laughing — full belly, head-thrown-back laughing — and grabbed the cup with dramatic flair.

“Pepsi regrets this collaboration,” you said, bowing. “I regret not wearin’ my goddamn seatbelt,” Rhett muttered. “You nearly killed me.”

You stepped out into the night, walked to the porch with the cup in hand, and flung it into the trash bin by the side gate — sins and all.

When you turned around, Rhett was still watching.

His hand rested on the wheel.

But his smile?

That thing could've lit up the whole county.

You lifted two fingers in a lazy salute.

“Next Friday,” you said.

He nodded.

“You bring the soda,” he replied.

[verricherri]

GIVE ME TIME CHERRIESSSSS 😭🍒

i’m still here!! i’m back from capitalist grave — barely breathing but hey my brain no longer hurts.

but this/last weekend?? had a near-death experience, almost got wheeled into the ER 💀

and now i’ve got BUSY weeks ahead so pls…

be gentle. be patient. i’m spiralling but love you, mean it. i’ll be back soon 💌

[verricherri]

Ashes and After

Chapter 5: Reap What You Sow

A/N: I"M BACKKKKKKKKKKKK OH HOW I MISS YOU GUYS SM Warnings: i love amy in this annndddd we're almost at the end, i'm sorry Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated ☀️

He left just after sunrise.

Didn’t tell Cecilia. Didn’t tell anyone.

Royal stood outside the Tillerson ranch gate for a long minute, shoulders stiff, jaw locked, before unhooking the chain that hadn’t been touched in years. The house ahead looked exactly as it always had—white-washed pride and sharp corners, not a single hair out of place, the kind of place where nothing ever changed except the people who walked in and didn’t walk back out.

Walter Tillerson was already waiting. On the porch. Arms crossed. Like he’d known Royal would come eventually, like he’d been rehearsing this conversation for three years.

Royal didn’t hesitate. He walked up those steps like each one carried its own weight. Like every tread might snap under the truth.

Walter nodded once. “You come all this way for guilt or clarity?” Royal didn’t answer right away. His jaw clenched. “I came for the truth.” Walter gestured to the rocker beside him. “Then sit.”

But Royal didn’t. He stood like his boots had fused to the wood, like sitting would give away something he wasn’t ready to hand over.

Walter leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and stared up like he was sizing him up all over again. “You wanna talk about your boy?” he asked. “Or mine?”

Royal’s nostrils flared.

“Trevor died,” Walter said flatly, with the kind of finality that didn’t ask for argument. “You know it. I know it. Half this town knows it. They’re just too polite to say.” “You think my son—” “I don’t need to think,” Walter cut him off. “You want proof. A confession. I had all three. But I let it go.” Royal blinked. “Why?” Walter didn’t blink. “Because she asked me to.”

The silence landed like thunder between them.

“She came to me shaking. Scared. But steady. Told me if I dropped everything—lawsuit, press, the firestorm we were ready to light—she’d walk. Right then. No goodbyes. No trace.” Royal’s throat worked. “You made her disappear.” “I didn’t make her do a damn thing,” Walter said coolly. “She offered.” “You used her.” “I made a trade.”

Walter stood slowly. His boots creaked against the porch.

“One girl for one ranch. For one name not being dragged through blood and dirt. That’s what she bought you. That’s what she gave.”

Royal didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Walter’s voice softened. Almost fatherly. “She loved you people so much it broke her. I didn’t have to twist her arm. I just gave her the math. And she did the rest.”

He took a step closer, and for a second he wasn’t the enemy—just another father grieving a son, the kind of grief that never got quiet.

“And you know what the worst part is?” Walter said, voice low and dangerous. “You all let her go and never even asked why.”

Royal didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not with his throat closing.

He turned before he broke, walked down the steps without saying goodbye, without looking back. He drove home like a man underwater—vision blurred, steering wheel tight in his grip, mind full of everything he should’ve seen years ago.

He pulled into the ranch, parked the truck, and sat in the cab for what felt like hours. The house, the porch, the stretch of sky—it was all still there.

Still standing.

And the only reason why?

Because she was the one who fell.

—

Rhett didn’t know any of this.

He was still avoiding the ranch. Still keeping his distance like the silence could solve something. He spent the day pretending to care about fence supply and cattle feed, filling up hours with errands and empty distractions. But no matter how far he drove, all he could hear was your voice in his head:

“Loving you wasn’t safe anymore.”

And worse—

“You don’t get to be mad.”

He’d been mad his whole damn life. Mad at the world. At Royal. At the sky, at his reflection. At everything that made him feel small. But now?

Now he didn’t know what to do with the quiet.

Because the anger had stopped boiling.

And all that was left was grief.

You didn’t know Royal had gone.

—

You were sitting on the splintered bench near the old park in Calder’s End — the one with the crooked swing set and that stubborn jacaranda tree that bloomed late every year. Amy had asked to meet you there after school, claiming she needed help with a project, but really, she just needed space to talk — the kind only you gave her.

She sat cross-legged in the grass, plucking little petals off wildflowers with the kind of focus that came from trying not to cry.

“You ever wish you were born somewhere else?” she asked suddenly. You glanced over. “What do you mean?” “I mean far,” she said. “Somewhere with no ranch. No dead people. No past.” You leaned back, shoulder against the cool metal of the bench. “All the time.” Amy smiled faintly, eyes still down. “Do you regret coming back?” You didn’t answer right away. “No,” you said softly. “But I regret how much of me it brought with it.”

Amy nodded like she understood — not because anyone her age should, but because she’d grown up around men who disappeared when things got hard, and women who stayed quiet even when they shouldn’t.

—

Rhett hadn’t ridden in weeks.

That was the first sign something was wrong.

Riding bulls was his religion — rope in his hand, pain in his chest, eight seconds of clarity when the rest of the world spun out. But now, he couldn’t even look at the arena. Not when he knew what it had cost.

So instead, he drank.

Not like before — not reckless, not constant.

But heavier. Sharper. Like he needed to feel it in his bones. Like penance.

He passed Amy in the hallway and she didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. Didn’t ask.

That silence? Cut sharper than any blade.

—

He found her in the barn.

Amy, brushing the same horse for the third time that hour.

He stepped inside quietly. “You mad at me?”

Amy didn’t look up.

“I’m disappointed,” she said, echoing the words from before. “You were supposed to be better than them. You were supposed to be the one person who saw her.” Rhett swallowed. “I didn’t know what she was doing—” “You didn’t ask.” Amy turned to him now. “She came back wrecked, Uncle Rhett. And you looked at her like she was the one who burned the place down.”

He blinked.

“I needed her,” Amy whispered. “And I needed you too.” “I was hurting.” “She was hurting worse. And she still made time for me. She wrote to me. Encouraged me. She told me I was brave. All you did was disappear.”

The breath left his lungs.

Amy’s voice cracked. “She told me to look after you. You know how messed up that is? She left, and still worried more about you than herself.”

He stepped toward her. She stepped back.

“You’re my uncle,” she said, voice breaking. “But sometimes I think I lost you long before she ever walked out.”

And then she left him there in the barn—splintered and silent.

—

He didn’t make it five steps onto the porch before Royal intercepted him.

“You gonna sulk forever or just burn the damn house down?” Royal snapped. Rhett’s shoulders tensed. “Back off.” Royal didn’t. “You’ve been drinking since breakfast. Moping like some kicked puppy. And now your niece won’t even look you in the eye.” “Not your problem.” “No,” Royal said. “But you are. And I’m tired of watching you self-destruct.” Rhett scoffed. “Funny. Should’ve spoken up before she left.” Royal’s jaw tightened. “Too bad you didn’t grow up when she needed you.”

And before Rhett could react, Royal grabbed the bucket from the cooler and dumped the entire thing—ice water and all—over Rhett’s head.

The shock hit like lightning. Rhett gasped, dripping, breath stolen.

“The hell is wrong with you?” he barked. “WAKE. UP,” Royal shouted. “You want pain? You earned it. Now earn your goddamn healing too.”

Rhett stormed past him, soaked, shivering, furious.

—

Dinner was a funeral.

Cecilia served in silence. Amy barely touched her food. Royal sat with his hat in his lap like the weight of it was too heavy.

And Rhett?

He finally spoke.

“I still don’t get how y’all treat her like some goddamn saint.”

Amy froze.

Royal didn’t blink.

Cecilia set the pitcher down with a soft clink.

“She disappears. She shows up again. And you all look at her like she’s the second coming.”

Cecilia turned slowly.

“You don’t know what she did,” she said. “I know she ran.” “No,” Cecilia said. “You don’t.”

She moved around the table, towel still in her hands.

“She walked into the Tillersons' trap so you wouldn’t have to bury your father. She gave up her whole life because Perry killed one of theirs. She vanished so we wouldn’t burn.”

Rhett’s mouth parted.

“She knew?” he whispered. “She knew everything. And she took it. Alone.” He looked at Royal. “You knew?”

Royal held his gaze.

Didn’t speak.

“You let her?” Rhett’s voice cracked. “I didn’t know until it was done.” “You should’ve sold the goddamn ranch,” Rhett whispered.

Royal’s chair creaked.

“You wanna say that again?” “If you’d let it go back then, she wouldn’t have had to give up a thing. She’d still be here.”

Silence.

Cecilia looked like someone had carved her heart out with a dull knife.

Rhett stood so fast his chair fell over.

Stormed out.

Amy pushed her plate away.

—

It started with a knock.

Soft, hesitant, almost like he wasn’t sure if he even had the right to stand there.

You didn’t answer at first. Just stood behind the door, hand flat against it, like you could feel him through the wood — the heat of him, the heaviness, the rain-soaked silence that clung to him like guilt. The space between you pulsed, thick with everything unsaid.

And then you opened it.

Rhett Abbott stood on the other side, soaked to the bone. Rain streaked down his face and off the sharp line of his jaw, his flannel shirt clinging to the hard pull of his chest, every inch of him wrecked and raw and full of something he hadn’t dared to show you in years. His eyes found yours, like he couldn’t believe you were real — like you were the last light in a burning room.

“Hey,” he rasped, voice cracked and tired. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t flinch. Just stared, lips parted, unsure if you were breathing properly.

He shifted his weight.

“Can I come in?”

You stepped aside slowly, the air between your bodies brushing like memory.

No words.

Just permission.

The door shut behind him with a soft click that felt louder than it should’ve.

He stood in your kitchen like a ghost. Like a man returned to a home he no longer deserved. He looked around once, but his gaze didn’t settle. Not on the chair. Not on the coffee pot. Not on the photo Amy left behind on the fridge. He looked like he didn’t know how to be here anymore.

You handed him a towel, wordless.

He took it. Didn’t dry off. Just held it in both hands like it weighed more than it should.

“I said somethin’ I shouldn’t have,” he began, voice low and splintering.

You didn’t answer.

He swallowed.

“I hurt Amy. I hurt Ma. I hurt Dad. And then...”

He looked at you. Finally.

“Then I made it worse. Talkin’ like you didn’t tear yourself in half for all of us.”

Your throat stayed closed. Your hands trembled just slightly at your sides.

“I knew about Perry,” he continued. “I put it together. Eventually. You left because of it, didn’t you? Because if you didn’t, the whole ranch would’ve gone up in flames.” “I made a choice,” you said quietly, your voice barely a scrape. “Not a noble one. Just a necessary one.”

He stepped forward, slow, cautious, as if the wrong move might make you vanish.

“You didn’t tell me.” “I couldn’t.” “You still should’ve.” Your voice cracked before you could hold it in. “And you should’ve come after me.”

He exhaled sharply, pain flickering across his face like a fault line cracking.

“I know.”

He stepped closer again. His voice was softer now, more frayed than before — unraveling at the edges.

“Baby, look at me.”

You couldn’t. Not yet. Your eyes stared somewhere just beyond his shoulder. At the counter. At the window.

“Please,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Look at me.”

And when you did — when your eyes finally met his — he looked ruined. Not angry. Not defensive. Just a man undone.

“You’re right,” he murmured. “About all of it.”

The room stilled. A storm inside the walls. Waiting.

“I hated you for leavin’,” he admitted, quieter than before. “But I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. Not even when I tried to.”

You felt your breath catch, your spine go rigid with the weight of it.

He was closer now. So close you could feel the heat radiating from him, but he didn’t touch you. His hands stayed loose at his sides, as if reaching might break the spell.

“I thought pushin’ you out would protect me,” he said. “I thought if I stayed mad, stayed cold, it wouldn’t hurt so bad.” “But it did,” you whispered. His eyes burned. “Yeah. It did.” You blinked through tears. “Rhett—” “I needed you,” he said, voice hoarse. “And I threw you away.”

You stepped back, just enough to put space between your ribs and his regret.

“Sorry doesn’t fix it,” you said, voice shaking. “I walked away to save your family. And when I came back, all I got was your silence.” “I know.” “Your hate.” He nodded once, throat working. “I know.” “Your goddamn absence.” His chest caved a little. “I know,” he said again — louder this time, rougher. “And I swear to God, I will regret it every single day I wake up without you beside me.”

His eyes dropped to the floor.

“I wasn’t enough before. I know that now. But I’m trying. I’m tryin’ to become the kind of man who might’ve deserved you.”

The tears that burned at your lashes finally broke free. You didn’t wipe them away.

“You should’ve been that man before I left.” “I should’ve,” he whispered. “So why now?” He took a breath like it hurt. Then said: “Because losin’ you was the only thing worse than living without you.”

Silence stretched out again, wide and aching.

You didn’t throw yourself into his arms.

You didn’t collapse or kiss him or forgive too quickly.

You just let it sit there.

All the wreckage between you.

All the broken pieces.

All the years that cracked your bones and hardened your heart.

He turned toward the door. Hand reaching for the knob.

And then, just before he stepped into the storm—

You said it.

“I still love you, Rhett.”

His whole body stilled.

He turned slowly, like he wasn’t sure he heard right.

Your voice came softer this time. “But I don’t know if that’s enough.”

He nodded once. No bitterness. No plea. Just quiet understanding and a heartbreak he didn’t bother hiding.

“If it ever is,” he said, voice gravel-thick and low, “I’ll be right here.”

And then he walked out into the rain, like it was the only thing big enough to hold the grief in his chest.

PREVIOUS///NEXT

TAGLIST:

MY CHERRIES: 🍒 : @hushhhs09 @wild-rose-35 @amazingishlivy @justlibra @nogoandbees @bluegardenn @jj-ma26 veri🍒: @tokkiz @lizzie8878 @mrsparker3696 @pixie2k5 @0urlady0fs0rr0ws421 @astromilku drop your cherries: 🍒 : tag for this series ONLY veri🍒: tag for ALL of that character works

[verricherri]

ma cherié, did you survive the capitalist grave? I can't believe it's monday again, I've got the sunday scaries before work tmrw 😭 hope you had a good weekend 💖

-M🍓

ma chérié…

no because i’ve been sleeping 2 to 5 hours a night for the past 4 days and i think my brain is literally starting to glitch 😭

like hello?? skull is vibrating. thoughts are buffering.

i’m not surviving the capitalist grave — i am the grave at this point 💀

also i wasn’t able to attend the ask box properly or post the new fic/chapter like i planned 😩

but i see you. i appreciate you. and once i sleep for more than 3 hours, i will return stronger (and filthier) 💌

sending strength — if we collapse, we collapse cute 🍒

[verricherri]

I MISS YOU VERRI

How are your req openings lookin is there room!!!

MISS YOU TOOOOO CHERRIIII 🍒

and YES there’s still room!!! request is ALWAYS open 💌

buttttt you’ll have to wait your turn 😭 i’m starting from the bottom of the pile and working my way up like a responsible menace.

what chaos are we cooking? 😋

[verricherri]

send this to all your favourite people and grow a garden! KEEP THE GARDEN GROWING!🌼💚🌱💚🌻 🌳🪻🌼

omg 🥹🍒

thank you for planting in my little (owen taylor’s) chaotic corner!!

sending this right back to you and keeping the garden growing 💌

you’re officially part of my fave person bouquet now 🌱

[verricherri]

en pointe was absolute art </3 ur so talented

en pointe… ART??? 😭😭

HUWAAAAA I’m gonna frame this and read it when I spiral at 3am

thank you SO MUCH — this means the world to me 🥹

i’m sending you a million cherry kisses for this, fr 🍒💌

[verricherri]

i feel like I'm the only one that sends you Spencer asks ma cherié hehe and sorry if you're bored of writing them, but you just write them soooo deliciously I can't help but send you more 🥹💖 I eat em up 😩

feel like I should have an anon pseudonym so you know it's me... let's go with M 🍓

merci beaucoup for sustaining me w your gorgeous writinggg 💖

MA CHERRIIIIII M🍓 🥹🍒

first of all — NEVER apologise for sending me Spencer asks, are you kidding??

you’re literally keeping me alive and hydrated. i love them just as much as you do 😭

you being my resident Spencer girlie?? chef’s kiss.

thank you for trusting me with your chaos. i adore you endlessly.

[verricherri]

I just discovered your page and your writing is so beautiful! Respectfully trying not to spam you, but I’m so excited to go through your masterlist and read more of your work! 💛

omg hiiii and WELCOME 🍒😭

thank you so much for this — i’m literally kicking my feet!!!

please never feel bad about spamming… i thrive off the chaos and love 💌

i hope you enjoy digging through my masterlist

[verricherri]

ALSOOOOO MOST OF MY FICS HIT OVER 1 HUNNIT!!! 🎉🍒

thank you THANK YOUUUUU to everyone who’s read, screamed, reblogged, and dropped love 🥹

i saw so many sweet replies too — and GOD DAMMIT I WISH I COULD REPLY 😭

this app won’t let me respond properly but PLEASE KNOW I SEE YOU

and i’m sending virtual forehead kisses to every one of you 💌

to those who slid into my ask box —

i see you. i love you.

i’m working on them one by one — your turn is comingggg 👀

[verricherri]

IM ALIVEEEEEE 🍒

but i’m absolutely buried in work 😭😭

got a massive stack of stuff to finish this week — sjsksjs pls someone end me 💀

i see your asks and love, and i promise i’m gonna get to them…right after i crawl out of this capitalist grave 😩

BUT!!!

✨ Ashes and After might drop this Friday

✨ another request is prolly Saturday/Sunday

✨ and if i hit 150 followers… FILTH RHETT IS COMING OUT TO PLAY 😈🤠

you’ve been warned

[verricherri]

I UNDERESTIMATED YOU GUYS….I GOT BUNCH OF PEOPLE FOLLOWING ME 😭😭😭 YALL ARE HUNGRY FIR COWBOY RHETT

hi i just watched The Starling Girl and now i’m attracted to Owen someone slap me PLEASE 😭

this man got me in a chokehold and i hate it here.

also… i’ve written a filthy fic for Rhett. like, it’s DONE. it’s SITTING there. rotting in my drafts.

but i made a deal with myself: it only goes live when i hit 150 followers

so if you wanna suffer with me… you know what to do

[verricherri]

hi i just watched The Starling Girl and now i’m attracted to Owen someone slap me PLEASE 😭

this man got me in a chokehold and i hate it here.

also… i’ve written a filthy fic for Rhett. like, it’s DONE. it’s SITTING there. rotting in my drafts.

but i made a deal with myself: it only goes live when i hit 150 followers

so if you wanna suffer with me… you know what to do

[verricherri]

Mwahahahah, soulmate au with Bob, fluff and crack please!

Where the Shadows Ends

A/N: my first request for Bob — eeeek!! this one was a challenge for me but i pulled through hihihihi 🥹 also… my first ever soulmate AU 😭 hope you enjoyyyyy <333 Warnings: soft! bob, and bob, "bob" Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated  ☀️

You’re back there again.

That half-lit place where the world is too quiet, where everything glows with a soft gold like sunrise trying to push through storm clouds. There’s wind, but no source. Trees that shouldn’t be there, not where this feels like. The edges of the dream always change — mountains one night, the ocean the next — but he is always the same.

He stands in the center, never facing you at first. Broad shoulders. Gold bleeding off him like sunlight through gauze. Silent. Still. And always just slightly too far away to touch.

You never speak right away. You’ve learned not to. The dream is brittle, like glass under heat, and your voice has shattered it before. So instead you watch. You breathe. You memorize the way his fingers twitch at his sides, how his jaw clenches like someone holding back a scream.

Eventually, he turns.

Not always fully. Not always in time. But tonight — he turns all the way.

You don’t know how long you’ve been dreaming of him. Weeks? Months? Years? You’ve stopped trying to count. What’s stranger is that you don’t dream of anything else. No mundane scatterings of daily life. No stress dreams about missed alarms or falling or running in place. Just… him.

And always, when he turns, you feel it in your chest like someone snapping a thread that’s been pulled too tight for too long.

“You again,” you whisper, not expecting him to answer. “I thought I lost you.”

His eyes meet yours. Blue — no, brighter than blue. Too bright. Artificial, almost. Like they were painted on glass with the sun behind them.

“You didn’t,” he says. Voice rough. Quiet. “But I’m slipping.”

You step closer — you always do. Your feet make no sound on the ground that shifts between dirt, water, marble. He doesn’t move away, but he doesn’t reach for you either.

“Then hold on.”

He exhales like that costs him something. Like the act of not disappearing burns him from the inside.

“It’s getting harder,” he admits. “To stay... here. With you.” “Why?” “Because you’re not real.”

That one always hurts, but you don’t flinch. You never do. You only respond the same way you always do.

“Then why do I keep waking up missing you?”

Tonight, for the first time, he breaks eye contact. His hands curl into fists. The gold flickers.

And suddenly—like a ripple in the dream—he speaks again.

But it’s not him.

Not really.

The light dims too fast, pulled into itself like someone ripping the sun out of the sky. The wind dies. The horizon folds. And somewhere behind you — not in front of you — your shadow stretches, sharp and long, twisting at an angle the dreamlight doesn’t allow.

“Don’t forget me.”

It’s his voice. But deeper. Older. Something rotten buried under warmth, trying to claw through it. No breath. Just sound. Heavy as grief, cold as rot.

You spin around instinctively — no one there. But the shadow lingers, stretched too far. Still moving even when you’re still.

He isn’t glowing anymore.

You try to speak. You don’t remember if you succeed.

And just like that, the dream ends — not shattered like glass, but erased like chalk from wet stone.

You wake gasping, tangled in sweat-damp sheets, hand still clenched like you were trying to hold on to something — or someone — slipping through you.

And the shadow of that voice stays with you longer than it should.

“Don’t forget me.”

—

You don’t believe in fate.

You believe in choices. Cause and effect. Pressure and consequence. All the small ways people shape their lives one step at a time.

But that morning, something shifts.

You’re walking one hallway, reading a file you’re barely processing. A briefing about a powered individual you’ve never met. Internal containment notes. Emotional volatility. Recommendation: isolation with structured contact only when necessary. The words blur together. You’re not even sure why they’ve given it to you.

You round the corner.

He does too.

And you look up — just as he does.

It’s like being hit in the chest. Not hard. Not painful. But deep. Like the wind goes out of you, not because you’re surprised, but because something finds you. Something that had been reaching across time and sleep and silence, and just now — just now — made contact.

He’s taller than you imagined. Realer. Not glowing. Just a man in a black hoodie, hands in his pockets, eyes shadowed by a hood that doesn’t quite hide how tired he looks.

He stops. So do you.

For a breath, the hallway stretches too long. Too bright.

His head lifts.

Your eyes meet.

And the world stutters. Not stops — just glitches. A hiccup in reality. A sharp inhale of everything you’ve ever felt in your sleep and never known how to name.

You don’t speak.

Neither does he.

He takes one step forward. You don’t move.

Then another. Slower this time.

And then—

He walks past you.

Just like that.

But as he does — you feel it.

That same pull. That gravity-wrapped-in-light kind of ache you’ve only ever known in dreams.

It burns in the center of your chest. It latches.

He doesn’t look back.

Your fingers curl around the folder you’re holding, your knuckles white.

Your voice is barely audible, like it doesn’t belong to you at all:

“It’s you.”

But he’s already gone.

—

You’re not supposed to be in the same room.

It’s a holding chamber — a neutral zone where those under watch sit before medical evaluations or debriefings. He’s not in danger. Not glowing. Not shackled. Just… waiting.

You step in because someone asked you to deliver a file. You’re not assigned to him. You’ve never even been briefed aloud — just whispered warnings and secondhand tension. But when the door opens, you freeze.

He’s already looking at you.

Not startled. Not surprised.

Just looking, like he expected you.

You don’t know what to say. You want to say everything. You want to scream you were in my dreams, I missed you when I didn’t even know you existed.

But instead, you say—

“You look like someone I used to know.”

He blinks. Once. Slowly. Doesn’t smile.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been known.”

The words land between you, fragile and too true.

You sit down.

There’s a chair across from him. That’s all there is. Just two chairs and air thick with something that feels like the beginning of collapse or the end of a long echo.

“I’ve had dreams,” you say. “Of someone who looked like you.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes flicker, but not with light.

“What kind of dreams?” “The kind that leave bruises when you wake up. The kind that feel like a memory and a warning at the same time.”

He looks down at his hands.

“I’ve had dreams of someone with your voice.”

Your heart stutters. Not flutters — stutters. Trips over itself.

“They weren’t peaceful,” you admit. “But they stopped feeling like nightmares when you were in them.” “If you were real, you wouldn’t be in my head.” “Maybe you’re in mine.”

His shoulders lift, then fall. Like that admission costs him.

“If we were dreaming,” he says softly, “do you think we’d know?”

You don’t hesitate.

“No. But I’d want to.”

There’s a silence.

Not cold. Not awkward.

Just full.

You stare at him. At the slight glow under his skin — barely there, more shimmer than shine. He’s not floating. He’s not losing control. He’s right here.

And for one terrifying, beautiful second, you think maybe that means you are too.

A knock at the door.

It startles you both, but only you flinch. He just closes his eyes for a beat.

You stand.

He doesn’t.

You step toward the door, pause, and glance back.

“You look like someone I used to know,” you repeat.

This time, he whispers it back.

“Maybe you still do.”

The door closes between you.

And the gold doesn’t glow any brighter. But it doesn’t go out either.

—

He doesn’t move.

Not after the door shuts. Not after your voice fades.

Not even after the glow under his skin begins to ebb like the tide pulling away from the shore. He stays still. Breath shallow. Eyes fixed on the spot you were sitting.

Because if he moves — if he breathes too hard, or clenches his hands again, or lifts his head — it’ll hit him fully.

That you were real.

That you sat across from him, and didn’t run.

That you looked at him like he was someone you missed.

God, no one ever misses him. People fear him. Fear the thing inside him. The one who speaks in dreams with a voice made of grief and rot and too many dead suns.

But you…

You looked at him like maybe you’d known all along.

And worse — or maybe better — like maybe you’d waited.

He presses his palms together, fingertips trembling, and he breathes through his nose to keep everything else from spilling out. There’s gold flickering faintly at the edges of his collarbone, but it’s quiet. No pulsing. No violent surges. Just… a light, still there.

He thinks of your voice.

He thinks of the way you said, "Maybe you’re in mine."

He hates how much that sentence broke something open.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers into the silence.

His voice cracks. He doesn’t fix it.

“God, I don’t even want to touch you.”

But he does. And that’s the most terrifying part.

Because wanting things is what breaks him. Wanting is the first step to taking. To losing.

But still.

Still he wants.

He wants the sound of your voice in a room he doesn’t have to burn down just to hear it. He wants the shape of your laugh — even if it’s at him. He wants you to say his name, the one no one uses anymore. The one that’s his.

Not the Void’s.

Not the power’s.

Just Bob.

His throat closes. He doesn’t cry.

But if he could? He might have.

For now, he just sits.

Breathing shallow.

Shaking.

Still glowing.

But not gone.

—

You see it coming before it happens.

Not because he says anything. Not because of some grand shift. But because the glow you started to expect — that faint warmth behind his eyes, that barely-there light in his skin — it’s gone.

He finds you in a corridor three days later. Late evening. Lights dimmed to conserve power. You’re alone, reading something you don’t remember the second he appears.

He doesn’t come close. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t breathe too loud. But his presence fills the space like smoke from something burning long before the flame.

“I shouldn’t have let you talk to me,” he says, voice hoarse.

You don’t look up right away. You finish your sentence. Your hands stay still. You give him a moment to walk it back.

He doesn’t.

So you speak, softly.

“Because I saw you? Or because I didn’t run?”

His silence answers both.

You fold the page. Mark it even though you weren’t really reading. Finally lift your eyes to him.

He looks... unmade.

Not tired. Not broken. Just exhausted from holding himself together.

“You think if you leave first, it’ll hurt less,” you say, not as accusation. Just fact. “That if you disappear before I ask you to stay, you won’t have to see what I choose.”

His jaw clenches. His hands stay at his sides.

“You’re not safe around me.” “I’m not safe around a lot of things,” you say. “But I’ve never dreamed of any of them. Only you.”

That lands. You see it in the way his shoulders shift — not relaxing, but reacting. Like your words reached some part of him still willing to listen.

“I’ve hurt people,” he says, quieter now. “People I didn’t mean to hurt. People I loved.” “Then love differently this time.”

You don’t mean it as a plea.

But it feels like one.

And maybe that’s why he turns his head — like the weight of hearing it is too much. Like your voice is louder than he can take, even when it’s soft.

“You feel like sunlight,” he whispers. “But the Void... doesn’t cast a shadow. It leaves one.”

You stand, because sitting feels too fragile now. You face him directly.

“I know what I saw in the dream,” you tell him. “And I know what I see when you’re awake.” “And what’s that?” “Someone who’s still here.”

A beat.

He steps back.

“I won’t be. Not for long.”

You don’t chase him. You don’t beg.

You just say one last thing, steady and low:

“You started breathing easier when I walked past you.”

He flinches.

“That wasn’t coincidence,” you finish.

And then you walk away first.

Not because you want to.

But because he needs you to.

—

They don’t say his name.

Not at first.

Just ask you to step into a room that’s somehow both a conference space and a makeshift intervention circle. The blinds are drawn. Someone brought snacks. There’s a corkboard. It’s serious.

You blink.

“Did someone die?” “No,” Bucky says flatly. “But we’re about to.”

Walker raises a hand, then points a finger directly at you.

“He listens to you.” “I don’t even know who he is,” you reply. “Exactly,” Yelena says, chin in hand. “And somehow he hasn’t obliterated anything in your presence. Interesting, no?” Red Guardian nods. “Fascinating. Like watching bear fall asleep near gentle deer.”

You slowly lower yourself into a chair.

“Are you calling me a deer?” “Yes. Very strong deer. Majestic. Unkillable.” Yelena flicks popcorn at him. “Let her speak.”

You look around the room — the Thunderbolts, the mission-weary, the walking-wounded, the exhausted smart-asses of enhanced America. They are not emotionally equipped for subtlety.

“This isn’t about me,” you say. “Whatever’s going on with Bob—” “Thank you for saying his name,” Walker interrupts, nodding like you’ve confirmed a scientific theory. “He likes it when you say it.”

You blink again.

“I don’t say it. We barely talk.” “Yeah, but when you do talk, he doesn't look like he wants to die. That’s new,” Bucky mutters. “You all want me to... what?” you ask, dry. Yelena grins. “We want you to manage him.” “He’s not a toddler.” “No,” Red Guardian agrees. “He is more like… nuclear toddler. With anxiety.” You stand. “I’m not his handler.” “No one’s asking you to be,” Bucky says. You cross your arms. “Then what are you asking me to be?”

Silence.

Until Walker clears his throat.

“Just... maybe be the person he doesn’t walk away from.”

You blink again. Something behind your ribs thuds once. Loud.

“We’re not asking for miracles,” Yelena adds. “Just… maybe let him talk to you. Before he melts a hallway.” “And if he glows, maybe pat his arm. Very gentle. Calms him,” Red Guardian says, nodding sagely. “I am not patting Bob like a radioactive golden retriever.” “Actually,” Bucky says, lifting a brow, “that’s disturbingly accurate.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “You guys are unbelievable.” “We’re scared,” Yelena replies simply.

You look up.

That… softens you.

Because you’ve seen it too. The way Bob folds inward. The flicker behind his eyes. The way silence sticks to him like oil.

You exhale.

“I don’t manage him,” you say. “I just… stay.” “That’s more than enough,” Walker says quietly.

You leave before they start clapping.

—

He brings you a plant.

Not flowers. Not candy. Not even coffee.

A plant.

It’s in a mismatched ceramic pot that looks hand-painted by someone with unresolved childhood trauma. The soil is dry. The leaves are slightly crispy.

You blink down at it.

“Is it... dying?” “No,” he says quickly. “It’s, um. Hardy.” “Is this your version of flowers?” “It’s low-maintenance,” he mutters. “Like me.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he winces.

“That came out wrong.” You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

He scratches the back of his neck. Doesn’t meet your eyes.

“I just... thought it might be good. To give something that stays. You know. Alive.”

You soften. You hate how easy it is.

“You brought me a depression succulent.” “I brought you a hope succulent.” “Same thing.”

He huffs a laugh. Shrugs like he’s bracing for rejection.

Behind him — completely failing to be stealthy — the Thunderbolts are gathered in the hallway like nosy neighbors peeking through slats in a fence.

Walker cups his hands around his mouth like a child at a school play.

“WE’RE ROOTING FOR YOU, KING.” Yelena elbows him, stage-whispers, “Shut up! You’ll spook him.” Red Guardian is crying. Actually crying. Holding his chest. “It’s beautiful. Like bear learning ballet.” Bucky mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “they’re both weird and it’s gross how much I like it.”

You look back at Bob.

He’s flushed. Glowing just barely at the tips of his ears.

“You know they’re watching, right?” “I was hoping you’d ignore that.”

You take the plant. Hold it gently.

“What’s its name?” “...It’s a plant.” “Wrong answer. It’s Bob Junior now.”

He groans.

“Please no.”

You smile.

“Bob Junior. Mood regulator. Minimal maintenance. Might survive the apocalypse.” “That’s... honestly flattering.” “You’re welcome.”

The glow under his skin evens out — not flaring, not fading. Just steady.

He looks at you like maybe the room isn’t so dangerous anymore.

You look at him like maybe plants are your new favorite love language

—

You don’t really drink tea. Not often. But something about the way he keeps standing there — awkward, hopeful, completely unsure if the plant was a romantic gesture or an emotional cry for help — makes you move.

“Stay,” you say, quietly. “For tea.”

He blinks. Like you just offered him shelter from a storm he’s been standing in for years.

“I don’t want to—” “You won’t.”

He follows you into the kitchenette. Watches you boil water like it’s sorcery. You hand him mismatched mugs — no sugar, no milk, just over-steeped chamomile and a slightly dented honey jar.

“This feels... normal,” he murmurs. “It is.” “I don’t get normal things.”

You lean against the counter beside him, fingers wrapped around your mug.

“You do now.”

He’s quiet a moment. Then —

“Bob Junior’s probably dying already.” “Bob Junior is a survivor.”

A small laugh escapes him. Soft. Real.

You sip your tea. He sips his. Neither of you say it — but you’re both memorizing the moment like it’s the first page of a life neither of you were brave enough to imagine.

—

The moment Bob leaves your room — mug in hand, cheeks suspiciously pink — he walks straight into it.

An ambush.

They were waiting.

John Walker, seated backwards in a chair like he’s doing a motivational speech at a high school.

Yelena, perched on the vending machine, chewing gum with menace.

Bucky Barnes, arms crossed, scowling like he’s been forced to watch this slow burn unfold in real time. (He has.)

Red Guardian, holding what looks like a hand-drawn diagram titled “Bob’s Emotional Stability – Correlated With Girl.”

Bob blinks. Tries to step back.

Too late.

“Sooooo,” Walker grins, “how’s our favorite glowing emotional disaster?” “Fine,” Bob mumbles. “I was just—” “Just staying for tea?” Yelena interrupts, her voice high-pitched and mocking. “Oh my god, did you pour her tea with your glow hands?” “No,” he says, way too quickly. “He did,” Bucky mutters. “And did you pat the plant?” Walker adds. “Because I swear to god, if Bob Junior got more action than me this week, I’m quitting the team.”

Bob is already walking away.

They follow.

Like sharks.

“You left the door open,” Yelena says. “Rookie mistake. Now we all know.” “Know what?” “That you are officially,” Walker holds up air quotes, “‘emotionally manageable.’” “I hate all of you.” “We love you,” Red Guardian says, eyes misty. “You are like dangerous golden son. So fragile. So glowy. So... dateable.” “Don’t say dateable.” “But you are!” Yelena cackles. “‘He’s like a nuclear bomb with commitment issues’ — and you’re FIXING HIM.”

Bob slams his door.

They cheer.

From the hallway, Walker yells:

“ASK HER OUT FOR DINNER, NOT JUST TEA, YOU COWARD.”

—

You know it’s different before it even begins.

There’s no wind this time.

No flickering horizon. No strange, shifting floor beneath your feet. The dream holds steady. Quiet. Still.

And when you see him — he’s already looking at you.

No gold. No glow. Just his face. Just him.

He doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t step forward either. But there’s something in the way he’s standing — not braced, not burning — like the weight of this place doesn’t crush him anymore.

“I was afraid this would stop,” you say. “I thought it had.”

Your breath catches. That small, hollow ache in your ribs — the one that usually wakes with you — starts to soften.

“You’re clearer this time.” “So are you.”

You look down at your hand. Solid. Not ghostly or blurred. Not fading. You flex your fingers, and the movement stays, real and smooth, like it would if you were awake.

“Does this mean something?” you ask.

He nods.

“It means we’re closer.”

You step forward.

He doesn’t flinch.

“I kept thinking I was imagining you.” “I kept hoping you weren’t.”

The distance between you shrinks. Only a breath’s worth of space now. His hand twitches at his side, like he wants to reach for you but still doesn’t trust that he should.

“I don’t know how to be something good,” he admits. “You already are,” you whisper.

He looks at you like that might be the first kind thing anyone’s said to him in years.

And then he reaches — slow, careful — and his fingers graze your cheek. You don’t vanish. You don’t shatter. You don’t burn.

You lean into the touch.

“You’re real,” he says. “So are you.”

And behind you — quiet and creeping — a shadow tries to stretch. Long. Crooked. Possessive.

But it doesn’t reach.

Because for once — he’s not looking away.

“You don’t control this,” he murmurs. Not to you. To the thing hiding inside him. “She’s mine. Not yours.”

And the dream holds.

The wind returns — soft, not storming. The glow around him flickers, then smooths.

He’s breathing like he finally understands what it means to stay.

—

It’s late.

The halls are mostly empty, save for a few low murmurs from a distant shift change. You’re not even supposed to be here. Your day ended hours ago. But your feet knew where to go, long before your mind caught up.

His door is open.

That alone stops you.

Bob Reynolds doesn’t leave doors open.

But tonight — he has.

He’s inside, pacing. Jacket off. Sleeves pushed up. There’s a flicker of light under his skin, like a sunrise seen through a fogged window — too early to blind, too soft to burn.

He sees you. Stops moving.

Silence stretches.

“I saw you,” you say, voice quiet but firm. “In the dream.”

He swallows hard. Doesn’t look away.

“I saw you too.”

You step inside. Close the door gently behind you.

“I think I keep coming back because some part of me knew. Even before I met you — before I really met you — it was you.” “I didn’t want to believe it,” he admits. “I thought the dreams were a trick. A warning. A countdown.”

You nod.

“They were.”

He looks up, startled.

You walk toward him slowly, not touching.

“A countdown to this.” “This…?” “You letting someone in.”

He glances toward your kitchenette — just visible through the cracked door behind you. His eyes catch on the mug still sitting on the counter. The one he held, warm in his hands, while pretending chamomile tasted good.

And beside it — Bob Junior.

Thrive-or-die houseplant. Chaotic little metaphor.

He smiles, just barely.

“The plant’s still alive,” he says, quiet. “So are you.”

That gets him. Not like a blow, but like a key fitting a lock.

“You shouldn’t have to manage me,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I’m not trying to manage you,” you reply. “I’m trying to stay.”

He shudders.

“You don’t know what you’re choosing.” “Don’t I?”

Your hand hovers near his chest, over the place where the light pulses slow and steady. He doesn’t flinch. You press your palm gently to the fabric of his shirt. His breath stutters.

“You were never too much,” you say. “You were just never allowed to be held.”

He closes his eyes.

“If I fall apart—” “Then I’ll stay while you do.”

His eyes open, sharp with the kind of emotion that doesn’t crack — it floods.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore.” “You’re not.”

You slide your arms around him slowly. One heartbeat. Two. Then he melts. Not like fire, not like light — like surrender.

He wraps himself around you like you’re the only constant in a world he doesn’t trust.

And maybe you are.

“If I ask you to stay,” he whispers, “would you keep the plant alive for both of us?”

You laugh against his chest.

“Bob Junior lives another day.”

Somewhere behind his ribs, where the Void used to whisper — there is only quiet.

And somewhere on your counter, Bob Junior leans a little closer toward the light.

[verricherri]

Rhett Abbott one night stand vibes with accidental pregnancy? Surprise me with how the ending turns out please 🙏🏻✨

Right Here

A/N: I definitely went overboard with this one 😭 scrapped three drafts before landing here — so this version? she’s the chosen one. Warnings: soft, protective Rhett coming your way. you're not ready and neither am I. i melt for this Rhett — like full-on puddle.  Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated  ☀️

The baby was asleep when he started talking.

Not that she’d understand a word of it — all curled up in her cotton wrap, her fingers twitching against his shirt, her breath warm and even where it ghosted over his collarbone. But Rhett liked to think she’d remember the sound of his voice. The shape of it. The safety.

He shifted in the old rocking chair, boots planted firm on the creaky wooden floor — though the nursery didn’t look quite finished. Shelves only half-installed. A mobile still waiting to be hung. There was a paint roller in the corner and a small pile of unopened baby books someone had dropped off weeks ago. Maybe him. Maybe you.

He looked down at her — all six pounds of her — and smiled without teeth.

“You wanna know how you got here?”

The room stayed quiet. A cricket chirped somewhere near the baseboard heater.

“Well,” Rhett said softly, adjusting her weight in his arms, “That’s a long story. And not the kind I ever thought I’d be tellin’.”

His thumb brushed over the soft edge of her ear. So small.

“So small,” he whispered. “Didn’t think somethin’ so tiny could turn my whole life upside down.” He smiled, barely. “Just like your mama did.”

He leaned his head back, eyes tracing the ceiling fan that never worked quite right.

“She wasn’t supposed to stay, you know. Not that night. Wasn’t even supposed to look at me, let alone... God.” He let out a breath “I don’t even remember what song was playin’. Just remember her laugh. It was like drinkin’ somethin’ too fast — made my head spin.”

The baby sighed in her sleep.

“I didn’t mean to let her go, kid. I just didn’t know how to make her stay.”

The memory tightened in his chest like a rope.

One night. That’s what it had been. One stupid, beautiful night. And in the morning — she’d left. Quiet as sunrise.

No note. No number.

Just the smell of her on his shirt and the shape of her still carved into the sheets.

He blinked. Swallowed hard.

“I told myself not to chase her. Thought if I kept busy, if I stuck to riding and kept my head down, I’d forget.”

His voice cracked slightly.

“But I didn’t. Not once.”

He looked down again — at her tiny fists, her sleep-pink mouth.

“You’ve got her eyes,” he whispered. “Big and soft. Like you see more than you should.”

He kissed her forehead.

“You weren’t part of the plan, little one. But you sure as hell ain’t a mistake.”

The chair creaked as it rocked. Outside, the sky was turning bright over the ridge.

“And if she won’t tell you how it happened,” he said, brushing a thumb over the baby’s cheek, “I will.”

—

The music was loud. Too loud for the size of the room, too loud for how late it was, but no one seemed to care — not the old jukebox wheezing out another George Strait hit, not the drunk couple trying to two-step on scuffed wood floors, not the college kids tossing back shots they couldn’t afford. The Wabang bar hadn’t changed. Not in years. Probably never would.

Rhett didn’t come here much anymore.

He was nursing a beer in the farthest corner of the room, half in the shadows, half pretending to care about the pool game in front of him. Someone was shouting about a scratch, someone else laughing too loud. He felt the thud of bass more than he heard it. His boots tapped once. Twice. Then stilled.

And then he saw you.

Across the room. Laughing at something a friend said. Hair tied up, strands falling loose, cheeks warm with heat and liquor and the kind of confidence that made his throat tighten. You were wearing a denim jacket and a black tank top, and for a second — just a second — you looked right at him.

And smiled.

Rhett blinked.

That smile hadn’t been meant for him. Couldn’t’ve been. He hadn’t seen you in years. Not since school. Not since that awkward period where he’d liked you a little too much and you’d barely known his name. You ran with a different crowd. The smart ones. The ones who didn’t stay.

But you were here now. And walking toward him.

Shit.

“Rhett Abbott,” you said, dropping into the seat across from him without asking. Your voice was soft and surprised, like you weren’t entirely sure you were doing this. “I thought that was you.” He stared for half a beat too long. “Hey.”

That was all he could get out. Hey.

You laughed again. “Don’t sound too excited.” “No—I mean. Yeah. I just—didn’t expect…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “What are you doin’ here?” “Visiting. Friend’s birthday. Thought I’d stop by the old haunts.” You gestured to the room. “Didn’t think I’d see you. You look… the same.” “That good or bad?” You tilted your head. “That depends. You still ride?” His mouth quirked. “Sometimes.” “Still quiet?” “Only when I don’t know what to say.” You raised your brows. “You always knew what to say back in school.” “No,” he said, and this time it came out slower. Truer. “I just knew how to listen.”

You looked at him differently then. Like the game had changed. Like maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t a mistake.

“I always thought you didn’t like me much,” you admitted, nursing your drink now. “You were kind of… intense.” “That mean I scared you?” You laughed. “A little.” He smirked, eyes drifting down and back up. “Still do?”

You didn’t answer. Just looked at him — like you were trying to decide if this was dangerous, or if you wanted it to be.

The jukebox whirred into a slower song. Something mournful. Something sweet.

You held out your hand. “Wanna dance?”

Rhett looked down at it, then back at you.

And for once, he didn’t think. Didn’t second guess. Didn’t play it safe.

He stood and took your hand.

—

The floor was sticky. The music was old. But the way you fit against him, the way your head dipped toward his chest — it felt brand new.

“You always dance this quiet?” you murmured. “Only with people I don’t wanna let go of.” You smiled against his shirt. “That a line?” “No,” he said softly. “It’s the truth.”

The dance slowed, the music fading into something else. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Outside, the air had cooled. You walked together, neither of you saying much. The kind of silence that buzzed between skin and breath. When you got to your car, you paused. Unlocked it. Didn’t open the door.

“I don’t wanna go home yet,” you said. Rhett leaned against the passenger side. “You wanna ride?” You looked up at him. “Where?” He met your eyes. “Anywhere you want.”

—

The truck smelled like pine and leather. You didn’t turn on the radio. Just let the wind and gravel speak for you.

He didn’t ask where you wanted to go. Just drove.

And you didn’t stop him.

The motel was just outside of Wabang. Old sign flickering, vending machine humming near the front desk. Rhett didn’t even flinch when the clerk handed him a key — Room 6 — didn’t ask questions, didn’t offer explanations. Just nodded, paid in cash, and led you up the crooked concrete steps.

The room smelled like stale AC and cheap soap.

One lamp. One bed. One heartbeat between yes and no.

You stood there for a second, keys still in your hand. “I don’t usually do this,” you said.

Rhett didn’t move. Just looked at you.

“Me neither.”

You turned to face him.

The light hit him just right — tired, tan, a little older than you remembered. The kind of man who looked like he’d seen too much and still chose softness anyway.

He didn’t touch you first. You did.

You kissed him like maybe it was a mistake. He kissed you like maybe it wasn’t.

There were no loud declarations. No fumbling urgency.

Just a quiet look.

A question in your eyes.

An answer in his touch.

When he undressed you, it was careful. Slow. Like he didn’t want to spook the moment.

When you pulled his shirt off, he didn’t say a word. Just looked at you.

And you swore — just for a second — you saw something in his face that had nothing to do with lust.

Something like hope.

—

The morning light hit too hard through the cheap motel curtains.

You were already dressed when Rhett stirred, still tangled in the sheets. He watched you pull your jacket on like you couldn’t get it done fast enough. Like if you moved quickly enough, you could leave the night behind entirely.

“I wasn’t gonna wake you,” you said softly, eyes on the floor. “You leavin’?” You hesitated. Then nodded, “This doesn’t need to be anything.”

He sat up slower than he meant to, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress like it might hold him up.

“Right,” he said, even though it didn’t feel right. Not at all.

You gave him the kind of smile people give at airports or funerals — polite, distant, already halfway gone.

“Take care, Rhett.”

You left without looking back.

—

He didn’t go home. Not right away.

Drove for a while. Long enough to burn through a quarter tank. The day felt dull around the edges, like sound underwater. By the time he pulled into the ranch yard, the sun had barely cleared the ridge.

The kitchen smelled like coffee and something burning. Royal sat at the table, flipping through paperwork. Cecilia moved silently at the stove, frying eggs she wouldn’t eat.

Rhett stood in the doorway, unsure why he’d even come in.

“You’re late,” Royal said without looking up.

Rhett didn’t answer.

Royal glanced up, eyes sharp. “You hungover or just stupid?” “I’m fine.” “You don’t look fine.” Royal leaned back in his chair. “Got that half-glazed look like a man thinkin’ too hard about somethin’ that ain’t his to think about.”

That landed. Harder than Rhett expected.

Royal kept going. “Whatever it is, drop it. You’ve got a ride next week and I don’t need your head three counties away.”

Rhett didn’t answer. Just nodded, slow.

Cecilia set a plate down in front of him. Toast. Eggs. The kind of comfort she never named.

She didn’t say a word — just looked at him, once, with something like knowing in her eyes.

Then she walked away.

—

He didn’t talk about it again.

Not to Royal. Not to Perry. Not to Amy, who asked why he was quieter than usual and got a headshake in return.

Instead, he trained harder. Rode more.

Got thrown off a bull in Sheridan and got back on like it didn’t matter.

Told himself it didn’t. Told himself it was better this way.

He hadn’t seen her since. Didn’t expect to.

—

It was the kind of day that didn’t ask much. Overcast sky, wind low and steady, that late-autumn chill sliding down the back of your neck like a warning. Rhett wasn’t even supposed to be in town — just running an errand for Perry, picking up horse feed and a new belt buckle he didn’t need.

He didn’t plan on seeing her.

Didn’t plan on freezing in the middle of the grocery aisle, one hand around a can of coffee he wasn’t sure he’d even grabbed.

But there she was. By the end cap near the bakery. Reaching for something on a high shelf.

She looked the same, but softer. Hair pulled back in a low knot. Jacket zipped halfway. She turned slightly as she adjusted her footing and—

His breath caught.

There it was.

Not obvious, not dramatic. But there. A soft curve beneath her coat.

A bump.

She didn’t see him at first. He should’ve walked away. Turned around. Left it alone.

But he didn’t.

He took a step forward. Then another. And then—

“You gonna tell me?”

She froze.

Didn’t turn right away. Just let the sound of his voice sink in like a stone.

When she did face him, her eyes flickered — surprise, guilt, something else he couldn’t name.

“I wasn’t—I didn’t expect to see you,” you said quietly. “Didn’t expect to see this either.” His gaze dropped to your stomach, then back up. “You should’ve told me.” You swallowed hard. “I didn’t know how.” “You could’ve called.” You shook your head. “And said what? That I left in the morning and came back months later with a bump?” Rhett didn’t flinch. “Would’ve been better than this.” You hugged your arms across your chest, suddenly very small in the wide-open aisle. “I didn’t think you’d want to know.” His jaw tightened. “You don’t know me at all if you thought that.”

There was a long silence.

Finally, you said it. “It’s yours.”

He nodded once. No surprise. He’d already known.

“Boy or girl?” “I don’t know yet. I didn’t want to find out alone.”

That stopped him. Softened him.

“You don’t gotta do this alone,” he said, voice lower now. Steadier. “I know you think this was nothin’. That I was just some night you regret. But you’re carryin’ my kid. And I ain’t about to be some ghost in her life.” You flinched. “Her?” He shrugged, eyes never leaving yours. “Guessin’.” You blinked fast. “I wasn’t asking for anything, Rhett.” “Well, too bad,” he said simply. “Because I’m here anyway.”

You stared at him — not sure if you were angry, relieved, or just stunned.

He didn’t look like the boy you’d stole glance at school. Didn’t look like he needed convincing.

He looked solid. Real. Like someone who’d already decided he wasn’t leaving again.

“I don’t know what this is,” you whispered. Rhett took a breath like it hurt to let it out. “I like you.”

You blinked.

“I don’t know when it started. Back in school, maybe. Maybe the night at the bar. Hell, maybe before that. But it wasn’t just about the night. You gotta believe me on that.”

Your lips parted, but no words came.

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t wanna scare you,” he added. “Didn’t wanna break it before it even started.”

He looked down, then back up — eyes steady.

“And now there’s a baby in the middle of this, and I know you didn’t ask for me to be around. I know you’re strong enough to do this alone.”

You were quiet. Breathing shallow.

“But I don’t want you to,” he said. “Not just because of her—him—whoever they turn out to be. But because of you.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

“I’m not gonna break you,” he said softly. “Even if I already cracked something that night.”

Then, lower now. Barely above a whisper, but it landed like thunder:

“I want to be responsible for this. For you. For them. I know it’s not simple. I know I messed up by not sayin’ it sooner. But I’m sayin’ it now.”

You swallowed hard, something in your chest twisting sharp and sudden.

He kept going. “You don’t gotta decide today. But I need you to know—I’m not runnin’. Not from this. Not from you.”

—

The knock came just before dusk.

Not loud. Not urgent. Just... there. Like he didn’t want to scare you off.

You stood at the window for a good ten seconds before opening the door.

Rhett stood on your porch, holding a brown paper bag and a half-flustered expression.

He looked like he hadn’t rehearsed this part. Like the grocery aisle had been raw instinct, but this—showing up again—this was commitment.

“I brought you dinner,” he said finally. You stared. “You’re serious?” He held up the bag like it was proof of intent. “You need help. And I didn’t think ‘I like you’ was gonna be enough if I didn’t show up again.”

You stepped aside wordlessly, letting him in.

The kitchen was small, warm. Lived-in, but tired. Dishes drying by the sink. A plant you weren’t sure was dying. Mail on the table you hadn’t opened.

Rhett unpacked without asking where things went. Two frozen meals. A loaf of bread. Oranges. Ginger tea.

“You researched what pregnant people eat?” you asked dryly. He paused. Scratched the back of his neck. “Nah. Asked that lady at the checkout. The one with grandkids. Real loud voice.” You snorted. “Mrs. Henley?” “That’s the one,” he said, almost sheepish. “She said oranges help with heartburn. Scared the hell outta me, honestly.”

That earned the smallest smile from you.

He glanced around, his fingers tapping the edge of your counter. “You got anything that needs fixin’? Leaky faucet? Broken hinge? Lights out?” “Why?” “Because I’m standin’ here and I wanna do somethin’ more than just breathe the same air as you.” You folded your arms. “You can’t just show up with groceries and expect that to make this easier.” “I don’t,” he said. Quiet. Steady. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. Or fall into my arms. I’m not that stupid.”

You swallowed.

He took a step closer, but not too close.

“I just want you to know that I’m here,” he said. “That I meant what I said. I want to be part of this. I don’t wanna watch you do it alone when I can stand beside you.” You blinked, throat tightening. “You make it sound simple.” “It’s not,” he said. “It’s hard as hell. But hard things are worth stayin’ for.”

The silence sat thick between you.

Then he said it. Soft. Unapologetic.

“I never stopped thinkin’ about you after that night. You disappeared, and I told myself I’d imagined it all — that it was just one of those things. But now... now I know better. And I’m not walkin’ away from that twice.” Your voice cracked before you even meant to speak. “And if I don’t know what I want yet?” His eyes didn’t falter. “Then I wait. I show up. I do the dishes. I fix the porch. I buy groceries. I wait.” You laughed once — a shaky, wet sound. “That sounds stupid.” “Maybe,” he said. “But it’s honest.”

—

You didn’t ask him to stay.

But you didn’t ask him to leave either.

The sun dipped low outside, turning the kitchen gold. Rhett stood awkwardly by the counter, his thumbs hooked in his belt loops like he didn’t know what to do with himself now that the groceries were unpacked and the speech was over.

You broke the silence first. “You hungry?” He blinked. “What?” “You brought food,” you said, softer this time. “Might as well eat it.” He nodded once, slow and cautious, like the offer might disappear if he moved too fast. “Yeah. Alright.”

You microwaved the meals he brought — chicken something for you, beef stew for him. He stood by the sink the whole time, watching the timer count down like it mattered. When it beeped, he jumped a little. You pretended not to notice.

You both sat at the table like strangers trying not to be.

Halfway through dinner, you said, “You always eat this quiet?” He looked up, eyes warm with the smallest flicker of something — relief, maybe. “Only when I’m nervous.” You paused mid-bite. “You’re nervous?” “‘Course I’m nervous,” he said, nudging his tray with his fork. “You’re smart. And strong. And pissed off. And pregnant. And sittin’ across from me after months of not speakin’. I’d be an idiot not to be nervous.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t. But your lips curled, just slightly. Just enough.

After you both finished, Rhett grabbed a paper towel and wiped down the counter. Like it was his house. Like he belonged there.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said, watching him from the table. “I know,” he said. “But I want to.”

He threw the towel away. Then turned to face you again. Hands at his sides. Shoulders square. Still unsure.

“I don’t expect anything from you,” he said. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But I want to keep showin’ up. However you’ll let me.”

You were quiet for a long moment.

Then you stood. Crossed the room. And leaned back against the counter next to him.

“Okay,” you said. Just that. No fanfare. His head turned, eyes searching yours. “Okay?” You nodded. “Okay. One step at a time.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

“I can do one step,” he said. “I’m good at steady.” You bumped his arm with your shoulder. “You’re also good at falling off bulls.” He smirked. “Falling for difficult things is kind of my brand.”

That made you laugh. Really laugh.

And it felt like the first true thing between you since that night.

—

It started with the screen door.

You’d mentioned, offhand, that it creaked every time the wind hit it. Not as a complaint. Not even really expecting anything. Just one of those things people say when they’re tired and trying to ignore the things that bother them.

Two days later, it was fixed.

No note. No fuss. Just... fixed.

And then came the squeaky bathroom faucet. Then the broken fence post near the back gate. Then the step on the porch that’d always slanted left until suddenly, quietly, it didn’t.

You never asked him to do any of it.

But he did.

He stopped by every few days now. Always with a reason.

Brought extra milk once. Said he “accidentally bought two.” Dropped off a hammer the second time. Claimed he “forgot it last time,” even though you were pretty sure it hadn’t been there at all.

And once — just once — he showed up with a tupperware of stew and mumbled something about “Cecilia made too much.” You didn’t question it.

You started leaving the porch light on without thinking about it.

—

One night, you found him sitting on your steps, your dog curled up next to his boot, watching the wind move through the trees like it was a story worth hearing.

He didn’t knock. Didn’t call. Just sat there with the kind of quiet you didn’t mind.

You opened the door and leaned against the frame. “You’re just gonna sit there all night?” He looked up, sheepish. “Didn’t wanna bug you.” You gestured toward the couch. “You wanna come in or not?”

He smiled — small, crooked — and followed you inside.

—

The living room felt warmer with him in it. He didn’t say much. Just took off his boots, set his hat on the counter without thinking, and leaned back into your secondhand couch like it remembered him.

You brought two mugs of tea and sat beside him, knees almost touching.

“I didn’t think you’d keep coming,” you said softly. “Didn’t think I’d be able to stop,” he replied, just as soft.

You looked at him — really looked.

At the faint scrape on his knuckles. At the way his shirt pulled at the shoulders from work. At the way he exhaled like he hadn’t had a quiet place to land in a while.

He caught you looking. Didn’t flinch.

“You always stare this much?” he asked, voice low. “Only when I’m trying to figure someone out.”

He leaned back on the couch, one arm stretched over the cushion, his fingers drumming lightly against the fabric.

“I’m not that complicated.” You raised a brow. “That’s what complicated people say.”

He smiled at that. Small. But real.

“I just like bein’ here,” he said. “That’s all.” You tilted your head. “Why?”

He looked around the room — at the dim lamp, the mismatched throw pillows, the chipped mug on the table still holding yesterday’s tea bag. Then back at you.

“Because no one’s waitin’ for me to mess it up.”

That quiet landed deeper than you expected.

But before you could say anything, he added, softer:

“I’m not here just ‘cause there’s a baby involved.”

You looked up at him. Eyes wide. Still guarded.

“I mean it,” he said. “I’m here because I wanna be. With you. The baby’s just…” He hesitated. Then gave a lopsided shrug. “The baby’s a happy accident. You’re the part I was already wantin’. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Your breath caught somewhere in your chest. He looked nervous now, like he’d gone too far.

But you didn’t pull away. Didn’t run. You just let your foot rest against his, and this time, you didn’t move it.

And he stayed.

—

It came out quiet.

Like most true things do.

You were sitting on the floor in the living room, sorting through the week’s mail, legs folded under you. Rhett was on the couch behind you, flipping through a hardware catalog he had no intention of ordering from. It was just background noise. Just a way to fill the silence between what had already been said and whatever was next.

You set an envelope down and said, “I found out on a Wednesday.” Rhett looked up. “Yeah?” You nodded, eyes still on your hands. “I didn’t feel right. Thought maybe I was just tired, maybe stress, maybe—hell, I don’t know. But something told me to go pick up a test.”

He didn’t say anything. Just sat forward slowly, elbows on his knees.

“I didn’t even wait until I got home. I used the gas station bathroom down by that old diner. Locked the door. Waited. Shook the whole damn time.” You let out a quiet breath. “Didn’t need to wait the full three minutes. It showed up quick.”

Rhett stayed quiet.

You looked down at your fingers. “I didn’t cry. I didn’t smile either. I just... sat there. For a long time.”

Still nothing from him. Just presence. Just patience.

“I went home. Put the test in the trash. Took another one the next morning. Same result. And I just… kept going. Like it hadn’t happened.” You paused, trying to shape it right. Then: “I wasn’t scared of being a mom. I was scared of telling you.” Rhett’s voice came out low. “Why?” “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to blow up your life.” “You didn’t.” “I didn’t want it to feel like some trap. Like you owed me something just because I kept it.”

He didn’t speak. Just set the catalog aside and slowly stood — not rushed, not dramatic. Walked the two steps over.

Then he sat down beside you on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, knees bent like he was settling into something he didn’t want to leave.

He rested his arms on his thighs, voice steady. “I don’t feel owed. I feel lucky.”

That stopped you. Fully stopped you.

He glanced over. “If you hadn’t told me? If I’d never known? I’d be walking around not even realizing I had this chance. You.” You swallowed, throat tight. “It didn’t feel like a chance. It felt like a mess. And I was already halfway drowning in it.” Rhett nodded. Quiet. “I’m not afraid of mess.” “I am,” you said. He didn’t look away. “Then let me be the part that’s steady.”

You didn’t answer right away.

So he added, softer: “I’m not here to fix it. I’m here to stay. Even when it’s ugly. Especially then.”

You looked at him — really looked — and for the first time, you believed it.

—

You turned to him, slow. Careful.

“What if we tried?”

He looked at you. Really looked. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard right.

“Tried what?” “This,” you said. “You and me. Not just because of the baby. But... because we want to.”

Silence. But not the bad kind.

Rhett didn’t blink. Didn’t laugh it off. Just sat still like the moment was sacred.

“I’ve wanted that since school,” he said finally. “You were always...” He trailed off, rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Untouchable. Too smart. Too pretty. Too far outta my league to even look my way.” You blinked, stunned. “I barely knew you liked me.” “I barely knew how to act on it,” he admitted. “But I never forgot you.”

You swallowed, suddenly breathless.

“And now you’re here,” he added, voice dropping. “Asking me what if. After everything. After the mess. After the one night I never stopped thinkin’ about.” He smiled — slow, soft, disbelieving. “This don’t feel real. It feels like a dream I’m afraid to wake up from.” You shifted closer. “Well… what if it’s real?” He reached for your hand then. Fully, deliberately. “Then I’ll do whatever it takes to hold onto it.”

Your fingers curled around his. Steady. Sure.

And for the first time in a long, long while — it didn’t feel like you were gambling your heart. It felt like coming home to someone who’d been waiting for you to find the door.

—

The house was quiet except for the sound of her breath.

Tiny, rhythmic. Almost like wind through cotton.

She was asleep against your chest, her body curled up like a comma, one hand fisted in the fabric of your shirt. You hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Across the room, Rhett sat cross-legged on the floor, still in his work shirt, still dusted in hay and dirt from a day he didn’t complain about. His eyes were locked on her — your daughter — like she was the sun coming up over the ridge.

“She’s got your mouth,” he said softly. You looked down. “You think?” “Yeah,” he nodded. “That stubborn little pout? That’s you.” You smiled, exhausted but full. “She’s got your frown when she sleeps.” He chuckled. “Poor thing.”

The lamp threw soft amber light across the floorboards. Everything felt warm, lived-in, quiet in a way neither of you had known before.

Rhett shifted up onto the couch beside you, careful not to jostle her. One arm draped behind your shoulders, fingers brushing your neck like a whisper.

“She’s really here,” you said, your voice barely above a breath. “She’s ours.” He nodded, eyes still on her. “Whole world in one tiny thing.”

You looked down at her — at her sleep-heavy face, the rise and fall of her breath. You still couldn’t believe something so new could feel so right.

“She changed everything,” you said. Rhett let out a quiet breath. “Yeah. And somehow made it all make sense.”

The baby shifted, sighing softly, and you both stilled — protective without speaking, already moving in tandem without having to try.

—

The baby in his arms stirred, bringing Rhett back to the now.

She was heavier these days. A little bigger. A little louder when she wanted something. But in that moment, cradled against his chest in the quiet, she was still. Warm. Safe.

The house around them was hushed — not the tense kind of silence he used to know, but the good kind. Familiar. A hum of peace under the floorboards.

The late morning light spilled through the window. Golden, soft-edged. It lit up the room in streaks — caught the dust in the air, glinted off the framed photo on the mantel, and landed square on his left hand where it curled around her tiny back.

The sun shone bright on the silver band on his ring finger.

He hadn’t taken it off since the day you slipped it onto him, quiet and teary-eyed at the courthouse, both of you too choked up to make a big deal of it. He’d kissed your knuckles and whispered, This don’t change us. It just makes it official.

Now it caught the light every time he held her. And God, he hoped she’d see it one day and know it meant safe.

Steady.

Staying.

Rhett rocked slowly in the old chair, voice low and careful.

“And that,” he whispered, brushing his lips to her forehead, “is how you came to be.”

He looked down at her — same stubborn pout, same tiny fists — and smiled to himself.

“Wasn’t part of the plan, sweetheart,” he said. “But you’re the best thing I never saw comin’.”

She shifted, one arm flopping up against his chest like she knew she was being talked about.

“I didn’t know how to be a dad,” he went on. “Didn’t even know if I was gonna be good at any of this. I still don’t, some days. But then you cry, or smile, or fall asleep on me like this, and I figure... maybe I don’t have to know everything. Maybe just bein’ here is enough.”

A beat.

“Your mama... she gave me a real chance. Took a risk lettin’ me back in. And I’ll spend the rest of my life makin’ sure she never regrets it.”

His thumb brushed gently over her back. She sighed in her sleep. Like she already believed him.

Rhett leaned back a little further, gaze catching again on the wedding band. It felt heavier in the sunlight. Not in a burdensome way — just real. Earned.

“I used to think a win meant stayin’ on the bull,” he murmured. “Now I think it looks more like this.”

Another pause. No rush.

“You were a happy accident, darlin’,” he said. “But you’re the best thing that’s ever been mine.”

His voice dipped even lower, almost a promise.

“You’re ours. All the way.”

And outside, the wind moved through the trees, steady and light — as the sun kept shining.

[verricherri]

lowkey… i think Lewis Pullman’s type is just: nepo baby 💀

like… look at his ex. look at his current girl.

i’m connecting the dots and crying in poor 😭

BYE