zepskiesreads

[zepskiesreads]

Safe

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Plus size!Reader

Word count: 4.2k

Summary: As Javi falls deeper into the trenches with Los Pepes, his concern for your safety grows along with the realisation that his feelings are stronger than he thought.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, swearing angst, situationship but they're catching feelings, smut: slight dirty talk, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it up people), fluff. Reader described with female anatomy, no use of y/n. Season 2 canon divergent.

A/N: Based on a request by @zepskies. Hope you like it, Alex! I'm sorry it took so damn long lol. Happy reading everyone!

Javier was halfway through his third cigarette when Berna stepped through the entrance of the café.

Usually it was the other way around, with Javi trying to find a convenient time to leave the DEA offices and meet him here, but that night had been different. In more ways than he could’ve suspected. He saw it in the way Berna walked up to the table, took a seat across from him and reached for Javi’s pack of cigarettes rather than his own. He didn’t bother to chastise him, his brown eyes following the Don’s every moment as he lit the end of the cigarette and took a long drag. Neither of the men said anything as they waited to see who was going to give in first. Javi knew exactly why he was there in the first place.

Los Pepes, and by extension Judy Moncada, had clearly caught wind of him trying to help Fernando Duque escape to the United States. That action had dishonored his deal with the group, and now they obviously wanted his head. No one was stupid enough to go after a DEA agent in Colombia, but if there was anyone who was going to attempt to take his life, it was Judy and the rest of the group that wanted Escobar dead.

As Javi flicked the ashes of his cigarette into the glass ashtray at the table, he scrutinized every twitch of the man in front of him as his own smoke rested between sweaty fingers.

“I’m the one that usually keeps you waiting,” Javi started, lifting the glass of whiskey to his lips.

“Business is booming, there’s much more to attend to now with Judy in charge,” Berna responded, his tone still and direct.

Javi met his gaze across the table, pursing his lips the longer the silence stretched between them. He sucked in a breath, putting out his cigarette as he continued to look at the man in front of him, basically his partner in a reluctant deal between an agent and a group of Escobar’s enemies.

“You’ve made a new enemy, Javier,” Berna said, leaning back in his chair. “One that you can’t afford to make.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Javi retorted, smirking. “You can tell Judy if she tries anything, it’ll be her in prison rather than me in the ground.”

“Judy’s not a fool, she knows it would be too much trouble,” Berna scoffed. “Having you killed wouldn’t prove anything.”

Javi huffed a small laugh, taking a sip of his drink. “And what are you trying to prove?”

Berna smiled, a slimy grin that Javi wasn’t expecting to be disturbed by. “That you’re not invincible. You’re breakable, just like the rest of us.”

Javi could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest, the sound echoing in his ears as he tried to remain calm. He was breathing a little harder than before, but he knew he had to try to show that Berna wasn’t having any sort of effect on him.

“Where’s that girl of yours tonight?” Berna asked, glancing around the room.

Javi’s eyes followed his gaze around too, and he felt his stomach turn. There was no sign of you. Now that he really thought about it, he hadn’t heard from you all day, his mind was too busy at work which offered a distraction from focusing on you too much. He turned back to Berna, eyes blazing as he glared at him.

“Where is she?” Javi asked, the quiver in his voice giving him away.

Berna chuckled, the sound menacing and sending a chill down the agent’s spine. “I suppose you better go see her, Javier. You wouldn’t want Judy to find out about her, would you?”

Before he realized what he was doing, Javi reached over the table and gripped the lapels of Berna’s shirt, jostling him. “What did you do?” he hissed.

“I didn’t do anything,” the older man replied, holding his hands up in defense.

Javi pushed him back into the chair and quickly stood up from the table, not bothering to drop any cash on the table as he rushed out of the café. He quickly made his way to his car, jumping in and starting up the engine, peeling out of the street as fast as he could. He was probably breaking every traffic rule in Colombia, but it wasn’t anything others haven’t done. Plus, he was a government agent. His mind was reeling as he tried not to think about what Los Pepes could’ve possibly done to you. He had to keep faith that you just skipped your shift at the café and he was going to find you at home, as perfect as you always were.

He knew he was an idiot to get involved with you when working with Judy and Los Pepes to take down Escobar came up. He should’ve ended things before they could really begin, but you had found him in a vulnerable position - hunched over the counter with a whiskey in hand the night of Carillo’s death. He had drowned his unexpected sorrows over losing his friend in a bottle, before you flashed him a smile, asked him what was wrong and then he was drowning his sorrows in you a short time later. You. Sweet, naive, sensitive, perfect, you. He truly never deserved to be in your presence, but as the weeks passed and his visits to the café became more frequent to meet Berna, he couldn’t help but be drawn to you. Your light, your goodness - it made his darkness dim with each time he found himself in your bed. It was as if you were making him anew, but as he fell deeper into the trenches of Los Pepes, he knew he couldn’t ever be the person you were trying to find in him.

He knew something like this could happen when he first started seeing you, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. As he continued to swerve through traffic, a sudden pang in his heart that something could be wrong told him that what he felt for you was deeper than he thought himself capable of. You had found your way into his heart, a place reserved only for his late mother and aging father, and he couldn’t let you go. There was a pit in his stomach that grew as he approached your apartment building, but he had to remember that you had both kept this little tryst of yours a secret, hidden from everyone including Steve. Even if Berna had somehow found out, or was at least baiting him, he had to believe that you were safe.

You had to be safe.

He needed you to be safe.

He slammed the car door as he got out, taking the steps up to the building two at a time, pressing the button for your apartment. He waited for a moment but there was no response. He tried again. When it had been a few more seconds, the panic began to wrap itself around his heart. He tried your neighbor and they let him in, knowing him from a previous time he had been there. He took the stairs up two at a time again, jogging down the length of the hallway of your floor. He knocked rapidly against your door, the sense of urgency getting to him now. He slammed his hands against the wood several times as he called out your name, breathing heavily as he stepped back, pushing his hands through his hair as he glanced around, unsure of what to do.

Just as he stepped back and resorted to kicking the door in, it swung open to reveal you wrapped in a robe tied haphazardly, your hair wet and dripping around your shoulders. Your eyes widened as you took in his distressed appearance.

“Javi, what are you-” you were about to ask but the words barely left your mouth as he cupped your face in his large, calloused hands and pressed a searing kiss to your lips, walking you back into the apartment.

The touch of his hands and his lips on you were hurried, frenzied as he tried to feel every part of you against him. You welcomed the embrace, but you couldn’t understand the frantic behavior as it was a side of him you hadn’t seen before. This level of passion had always existed from the first time you had slept with him, but there was something more to his actions in that moment that made you frown as you pulled back from him, your breath mingling with his as he panted heavily.

“Javier…what’s going on?” you asked, looking up into his brown, weary eyes.

“I-I thought,” he gulped, shaking his head when he couldn’t find a way to explain it to you.

How would you ever understand what he’s done? More than that, you would never look at him the same again. As his hands slid over the soft fabric of your robe that hid your beautiful, sensuous curves from him, he knew what he was about to say as his brain spat out the idea so quickly was going to sound insane, but he had to make sure no one would ever hurt you because of him.

“You need to pack a bag,” he said, a stern tone masking his fear. “I’m getting you out of Colombia tonight.”

Your eyes widened as you stepped back from him, confusion reeling through your mind. “What? Javi, what are you talking about? Why?”

He hadn’t told you the full truth of what he did for a living, but there was a proper reason for that. DEA agents were already under so much risk in the country, he couldn’t bring you into it. So he had said he worked for the U.S. government, without much more to add. Luckily, you hadn’t questioned it, perfectly content with the explanation because things had always been casual between you both. Until now. He knew he couldn’t keep the truth from you any longer now that he could feel himself falling deeper under your spell.

“I can’t tell you much, all I can say is that I’ve gotten into some trouble because of the work I do,” he explained, trying to be vague for your safety. “It’s not safe here anymore.”

As he moved to take your hand, you pulled back, staring up at him. “That’s not a good enough answer, Javi. Especially when you come here, banging on my door like a maniac.”

“Cariño, please,” he breathed, gazing back at you with pleading eyes. “I promise I’ll tell you everything you want to know once you’re out of harm’s way.”

“No,” you shook your head, folding your arms across your chest as you stood your ground. “You’re going to tell me now. The whole truth, Javier Peña.”

His shoulders dropped as he stood back from you, taking in every feature of your face, his eyes glued to the droplet of water rolling down your neck from your wet hair and disappearing under the robe around your curvaceous body. He knew the consequences that would come from telling you everything, he could lose you if you found out what was really going on, but as his heart thumped harder with the knowledge of his growing feelings for you, he also knew he could lose you if he didn’t say anything.

So he did.

He told you everything as he took a seat on your sofa, forearms resting on his knees as he clasped his hands together, only meeting your intense gaze across from him when he had the courage to. He told you he worked for the DEA, in charge of bringing down Pablo Escobar and the Medellín cartel. He told you about how Carillo died, and what he was always doing at the café you worked at, how he found himself in a partnership with Los Pepes. As he spoke the last word of his truth, his eyes lifted up to lock with yours.

“That’s why I need to get you out,” he husked.

All of his words were swimming around in your head, unable to focus as you stared into space. You tried to process what he had said, but as the fog began to clear, you came to a conclusion that you hadn’t expected from his confession.

“So… every time you came to see me, you were there actually meeting some drug lord instead?” you asked, apprehensively as you met his gaze.

He sighed, shaking his head as he leaned closer to you. “It started that way, but it’s not what you’re thinking, cari-”

“You used me,” you snapped, standing quickly and putting some distance between the both of you.

“No,” he stated, firmly as he got up from the couch and walked towards you. “That’s not what this was, cariño. What we… what we are to each other, it’s got nothing to do with them.”

“And what are we, Javi?” you countered, your brow furrowed as you backed away from him. “If they could possibly come after me, then clearly it does have something to do with them. So… what are we?”

“I’m trying to keep you safe,” he replied, his voice just above a whisper as he reached for your hand. “You have to trust me, cariño, please. When I get you somewhere they can’t find you, then we-”

You snatched your hand away, glaring at him. “I’m not going anywhere, Javier. And how can I trust you if you can't even tell me what I am to you?!”

“Hermosa-” he breathed.

“Don’t call me that,” you snarled.

He sighed as he straightened his shoulders, softly calling your name instead. “I… I can’t tell you what you’re asking of me. Not yet, at least. You just have to trust that what I feel for you… it’s real.”

A silence fell between you, the only sound of cars honking and dogs barking in the distance filtering in from the open window in the living room. Your eyes were locked with his, trying to find some sign in his big brown orbs that he could be deceiving you. You couldn’t comprehend how you had developed feelings for him in such a short time of knowing him, and you had to believe he wouldn’t use your time together for his advantage. You could see he was telling the truth about these people he had found himself in reluctant partnership with, and you wanted to be safe, but you weren’t going to be run out of your home.

There was only one way either of you were getting out of this situation unscathed.

“I’m not leaving, Javi,” you said, firmly. “The safest place I can be is here. With you.”

Javi huffed as he placed his hands on his hips, considering what you were trying to imply. His gaze shifted around the room, unsure of what to do for the first time in a long time. He couldn’t ask you to leave, especially when he couldn’t even tell you how he feels, so he couldn’t blame you for what you must’ve been feeling at that moment.

“If you really want me to trust you… then you need to stop what you’re doing with those people.”

His head whipped back to look at you, the crease in his brow softening as he took you in. He saw the way you tried to hold your shoulders back, but your hands twisting into your robe gave you away. You were scared. Not because of the situation at hand, not because someone could come for you, but because it was a lot to ask of him in this… whatever this was between you both. As he stepped closer to you, as his hand reached out for yours and you finally laced your fingers with his, he came to a realization. That as much as he wanted to catch Escobar, as much as he wanted that bastard behind bars, he wanted to respect your wishes more. He knew he needed to get out soon anyway, before anyone at the DEA found out, and the clarity that came with your request gave him the push he needed. The push he had been waiting for.

His hands drifted up to cup your cheeks, his thumb caressing your soft skin. “It’s done. I’m done. I promise.”

You leaned in and pressed your forehead against his cheek. “You scared me.”

A slow exhale escaped him as he placed a soft kiss on your temple. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

“Javi,” you whispered, tilting your head back to gaze up at him. “Whatever you do next, however you get out of this… please be careful. I can’t-I can’t lose you.”

Maybe it was too early for a sentiment like that, or any other for that matter, but you couldn’t help how you felt for him. He had come to mean more to you than you thought possible, and you didn’t want to ever find out what life would be like without him.

“You won’t,” he murmured, leaning his forehead against yours, the curve of his nose brushing over yours.

You sighed as your eyes fluttered closed, your fingers gripping the lapels of his jacket tightly as you tugged him down, your lips fusing to his in a searing kiss. His hands slipped down the light material of your robe, landing on the small of your back as he pulled you close. Neither of you made a move to pull away from the embrace, your bodies pressed flush against each other as you moaned softly into his mouth. You stumbled back slightly as you walked back towards your bedroom, dragging him along with you, pushing his jacket off his shoulders along the way. He groaned against your lips as he reached for the tie on your robe, pulling it free in one swift flick of your wrist, allowing it to fall open and leave your supple skin completely free for him to explore.

His mouth descended with a trail of kisses that varied in intensity, soft lips sucking and nipping at your flesh, your hands combed into his hair as you held in place. His hands slid under your robe and pushed it off your arms, his fingers instantly digging into your back as his tongue licked down your chest, sliding over your ample breast. You gasped his name as his mouth closed over the hardened bud, his tongue circling it slowly as a groan from him sent a vibration through your whole body.

“Javi-”

You weren’t sure what you were asking of him, too lost in how quickly he could make you feel this way, but luckily his mind was still clear as he guided you back towards the bed. He laid you back gently, pausing the attention his skilled tongue was giving you, breathing heavily as he peered down into your eyes. A small smirk tugged at his lips before he leaned down and kissed you, passionately. Your fingers were once again in his hair as he drifted down, leaving a path of his affection along your skin. Your breath caught in your throat as he continued down further, his teeth grazing over the flesh of your stomach, just as your legs fell open to accommodate him exactly where you needed him in that moment.

You had found yourself in this position with him several times before: your head thrown back as a moan ripped from your throat, his mouth exploring you intimately as he lapped at your folds, but there was a gentleness in his touch that you hadn’t expected. His hands gripped your bountiful curves roughly just as they always had, but there was a softness in the tips of his fingers that showed you that you were both in this far deeper than you originally thought. As he devoured you like a man starved, as your wetness coated his lips and he groaned against you, you felt yourself getting closer to that blissful release with the telltale signs of your core tightening.

“Javi, please-” you began to plead but a whimper stopped the words from escaping.

Javi delved deeper into you, alternating between your folds and licking tight circles over your swollen nub, working faster to get you over the edge. With a few more flicks of his talented muscle, you felt the coil snap deep inside you, moaning his name as you gripped his hair. As you breathed heavily, he came up for air as he hovered above you, the street lights illuminating the dark room enough to see each other. He wasted no time as he settled himself between your legs, his cock sliding into you just as his lips captured yours in a passionate exchange, and you tasted yourself on his tongue. Your inner walls sheathed him completely, a soft moan of yours vibrating against his mouth as he began to thrust into you. He moved slowly, allowing you to adjust to his impressive girth, but a gasp of his name had him picking up the pace slightly. He kept the teasing pace, the drag of his hips was deep as he thrusted back and forth, keeping you on edge and prolonging your pleasure. Again, something new for you both in comparison to racing towards an orgasm.

“Hermosa, fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned against your lips. “So tight, perfect…”

“Javi,” you moaned, squeezing your eyes closed as you held onto his shoulders, tightly. “Javi, you’re so deep inside me, feels so fucking good.”

He leaned his forehead against yours, and just as your eyes opened again they locked with his. His arms slid up your body and under your head, cradling it gently as his pelvis pounded against you, the slap of skin and your pleasured moans the only sounds in the room. Your gaze never left his, peering up at him with a look he had seen before from you but had tried so hard to ignore. He couldn’t do it anymore, not when your life could’ve been in danger and it would’ve been his fault. He hoped that you could see him return that same glint in his eye, because he needed you to know that he felt deeply for you, even if he couldn’t speak the words just yet.

As his hips faltered and you felt the familiar feeling in your core rise again, you pulled him closer to you and buried your face in the crook of his neck. He did the same, his lips nipping and licking at your pulse, heightening the bliss you felt in that moment. It wasn’t much longer before he felt your walls clenching tight around him, a rasping cry of his name echoing in his ear as you finally reached the euphoric peak, your arousal coating his shaft. He thrusted into you deeply a few more times, a low grunt escaping him just as he spilled his seed deep inside you.

You both came down from your mutual high, breathing harshly as your sweat soaked bodies remained wrapped around each other. You hooked your legs tighter around his thighs, draping your arms over him and giving him no chance to remove himself from you. Not that he wanted to. He moved his hands under your back and pulled you closer, turning onto his side and bringing you with him. You both settled on the pillows, letting the night air cool your bodies despite the heat. You looked up at him as he slipped out of you, a small hiss leaving you at the loss of him. He stayed in your embrace, his fingers playing gently the strands of your hair as you gazed at each other.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper, nuzzling his nose against yours.

You nodded, unable to find the words in your post-orgasm haze. A silence fell between you for a brief moment before he sighed, preparing himself for what he wanted to say. He wanted to give you hope that there was a future for you both, because there was. He knew what he needed to do get himself out of the deal with Los Pepes, and there was no way he wasn’t going to act on it only to lose you in the process.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured, cupping your cheek in his large hand, his thumb stroking over it softly. “I’ll get out of this and then… then I’m going to take you away from all of this.”

You smiled, though your brows pulled into a slight frown in confusion. “Where?”

“Texas. My home,” he replied, his lips pulling up slightly in a small smirk. “My father’s still there, on the ranch where I grew up. I think you’d like it there.”

“Sounds perfect,” you whispered, your lips brushing over his.

You weren’t sure when it would happen, how long it would take him to get out of this situation, but as he pulled you further into his embrace you knew one thing for certain.

As long as you were with Javi, nothing or no one was ever going to hurt you.

@clubsoft @lowrisemiller @millersdoll

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[zepskiesreads]

Got me in my sad yet fluffy Dean feels 🥲💜

ִ ࣪𖤐◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ ` lessons in holding on, dean winchester,༘♡

summary: dean feels like he's incapable of love. you help him see through it. word count: 449 pairing: dean winchester x reader

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

He flinches when you kiss his shoulder.

It’s a subtle thing, his muscles tighten followed by a slight draw of breath—but it’s enough. You still. Let your lips linger a second longer, then you pull away like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just feel him recoil from something gentle.

It’s not the first time, and probably won’t be the last.

Dean knows how to fight for you. How to kill for you, to lie and bleed. But he has no clue how to be soft for you. To relax and know that he’s safe now. He doesn’t know what to do with love unless it’s tangled in danger or sacrifice.

So you give it to him quietly. In pieces. Quietly.

You start in the morning. When you bring him coffee just the way he likes it—one sugar and just enough cream to ruin it. You do it when you don’t say anything after a nightmare, you just wrap your arms around him and let him hold on without asking why.

You do it even when he doesn’t seem to notice.

Especially then.

He doesn’t say “I love you”. It’s not in him. He doesn’t say much at all when it comes to feelings, but he says enough when it comes to your body, where his hands settle on your hip in bed, how he always tucks your hair behind your ear when he’s listening to you intently.

But still—you can tell it’s hard for him. You’re gentle in a way that the world never was for him. Sometimes it still makes him want to run.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters one night, his voice is thick and gravelly. You blink at him. “At what?”

“At… being loved.”

You’re quiet for a moment. You slide closer under the covers, your hand brushing along the bare skin of his back.

He lies on his stomach as he faces you. “That’s okay,” you whisper, “you don’t have to be good at it.”

Dean breathes, then looks at you in the eyes.

You lay your head close to his. “I’m not trying to fix you, Dean.”

His fingers twitch. You lace your own through them.

“I just want you to know you don’t have to flinch when someone touches you like you matter.”

It takes weeks. Then months. You love him slowly—even when he tries to push it away, even when he can’t say it back.

Eventually, one morning, when he thinks you’re still asleep, he pulls you close and murmurs into your hair:

“Don’t know what I ever did to deserve you.”

And that’s how you know: he’s letting you love him, even if he doesn’t know how.

[zepskiesreads]

You know what's really underrated? That sweet but awkward, liminal phase between "I like you" and "I love you"

And I'm curious who do you think is the first to cross that boundary, Sam or Dean?

Let's say they're seeing someone, and they're dancing around this thing in between them, despite regularly going out with that partner. Maybe they had kissed before, or maybe their friends know about them already. They refuse to see other people and know they like each other.

𓂃𖤐 SAM WINCHESTER

the boy who overthinks “i love you” until it’s practically burning a hole in his chest

keeps catching himself staring at your mouth when you’re laughing, then immediately looks away, cheeks flushed like you’ve caught him doing something scandalous

his “I like you” is so soft it barely makes it past his lips, but his “I love you”? it lives in every action: tucking a blanket around you when you fall asleep on the couch, brewing your coffee just right, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear without thinking

probably rehearses “I love you” in his head for weeks—out loud in the shower, under his breath in the Impala, biting it back when you hug him goodbye

he doesn’t want to scare you off, so he settles for little slips: “I—like you. A lot.” (the pause is deafening, his heart hammering at what he almost said)

when he finally says it, it’s in a low, raw voice. not planned, not rehearsed. maybe you’re teasing him, maybe he’s half-laughing, maybe it just falls out when you least expect it. and he looks at you like he’s terrified you won’t say it back.

𓂃𖤐 DEAN WINCHESTER

the boy who swears he’ll never say it first, but doesn’t realize he’s been saying it all along

his “I like you” is obvious—he says it like a smirk, like it’s tattooed in the way his hand rests on your thigh when he drives, the way he leans a little too close in diners, the way he calls you sweetheart like it belongs to just you

he’s reckless with affection in every way except the words—because those words are dangerous, sacred, too binding for a man who thinks he breaks everything he touches

but it’s there in how he brags about you to Sam, in how he checks the locks three times when you’re sleeping over, in how he pretends he doesn’t notice you steal his flannel (and then never asks for it back)

the first almost slips out when you’re patching him up. He winces, grins at you, and mutters: “God, I love—uh, I mean, I like having you around.” You catch it. You always catch it.

when Dean finally says “I love you,” it’s in a moment so unguarded he doesn’t even realize it left his mouth until you smile at him. maybe he’s drunk, maybe he’s half-asleep, maybe he blurts it out mid-laugh. and once it’s out? he doesn’t take it back.

𓂃𖤐 THE WINCHESTERS

Sam would be the one to say it first.

he’s too thoughtful for his own good—he doesn’t throw the word “love” around casually, so if he feels it, it eats at him until he can’t hold it in anymore.

he’ll think about it late at night, spiral over what it means, how it changes things… and eventually he decides keeping it in is worse than the risk of saying it.

so when it happens, it’s not some grand moment. It just slips out when he’s looking at you like you’re it.

Dean, on the other hand, feels it first.

he’s quicker to fall (though he’ll never admit it). dean’s whole thing is that he shows you long before he says it—cooking for you, touching you casually, making sure you’re safe.

but those three words? they’re too raw, too binding, too “what if I lose you.” so he skirts around them, says everything but that.

when he does say it, it’s probably by accident… but it’s always been true in his chest.

Sam crosses the line first with words. Dean crosses it first with actions.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ

[zepskiesreads]

His Drive.

Pairing: Dean Winchester X Y/N L/N

Blurb: Open road. Peaceful drive. Dean feels loved.

Tags/Trigger Warnings (18+): Language, hurt/comfort, fluff, Dean's internal angst. Early seasons Dean (why, yes, that's a warning.)

Word Count: 1.8K - yep, it happened! I kept it short, lmao - this is officially the shortest one-shot/chapter I've ever published.

A/N: This is another and final submission for @zepskies 's 5K Challenge; above's the gif I received: Dean's adorkable hedgehog 😄❤️!

This was très fun, hehe - even though in the beginning I struggled for an idea a lot, I ended up with his fluffy piece, and I have no regrets because Dean's a God-given cutie, and I will die on that hill!

{ Main Masterlist }

His Drive.

Lamplights interrupted the darkness along the long stretch of road. Sam was peacefully snoring in the backseat, sprawled out as much as he could manage to defy the natural laws of height.

For once, you were driving. Dean hadn't slept for three days due to back-to-back cases. He would try to power through the last three hours that would reach you all to the next motel, where the next hunt awaited, but he'd also pulled a muscle in his back. Not that the stubborn man had told you - you guessed by the way he grimaced every time he shifted in his seat.

'Should've taken the backseat,' you told him after watching him squirm for five minutes straight.

'Sam needed it more,' Dean grunted, carefully laying his torso against the corner created by the vinyl seat and the passenger side door - you assumed he didn't want anything to touch his inflamed parts.

You gave his black bags an annoyed glance like they personally offended you. He hadn't been sleeping well, if at all, ever since he returned from Hell. You'd coaxed him into bed and worn him out with a few activities, but it all only lasted so long. At this point, you were trying to stagger his naps, so the sleep deprivation didn't hurt him so much.

It helped that you were dating him now.

You'd met him at the Roadhouse as a bartender for the Harvelles. For the first six months, you ran long-distance research for them being the resident master on mythological studies across cultures. Then Dean called you on a case. It went well enough that you became a frequent guest star in their crazy lives.

And when Dean sold his soul, you decided not to leave them at all. You remember being torn between falling in love with a dying man and fooling yourself that a dying man would love you back.

It killed you, too, when the hellhounds came for him. You returned to the bar with your tail between your legs and grieved like the love of your life had died.

You two wouldn't have gotten together - or rather, Dean wouldn't have realised that he loved you too, had you not kissed him the moment he stepped through the bar doors to see you again.

You'd streaked across the room and practically launched yourself in his arms, your lips finding his much to his surprise. But his eyes had shut, and his fingers had curled into your greasy hair. His free hand had curled around your malnourished waist and then lowered to support your thighs that wrapped you around him like a goddamn koala. He'd pulled a swig of deep breath from your lips before he returned your kiss, crushing himself against you. You two had had lost sense of time and space.

'The pill kick in yet?' you asked, eyes on the road.

You noticed Dean looking sheepish in your periphery. 'You saw that?'

'Yep.'

'Can't sneak anything past you, huh?' he said, smirking a bit. He loved how much attention you paid him. You'd once admitted that you were always staring at him, even when you didn't mean to.

You smiled wryly. 'I'm sorry if you're the only attraction of our ghastly, sordid lives.'

He snorted, but looked away, an adorable small smile on his face.

He wasn't used to how you complimented him so often. Or how you touched him all over, all the time. He definitely wasn't used to loving someone so madly, outside of his family. It scared him . . . you scared him, nearly enough that he worshipped you for it - like early men did nature.

'Come on,' you said, extending a hand for him to take. You tugged on him when he gave you his hand, 'Lie down. I'll wake you when we stop for breakfast.'

Dean weighed your hand down in the middle of the seat. 'I told you, I'm not tired. Besides, the seat ain't big enough.'

'No. I mean, lie on my lap. Rest your back even if you don't fall asleep.'

He seemed surprised by that. But he knew it was a trap - there was no way he was not falling asleep if you had anything to do with it. His eyes darted down, and he longed for it. You loved running your fingers through his hair, and he washed them more frequently (not that he would confess it) just so you could compliment their softness; he couldn't physically explain what your hands and nails did to him.

He squeezed your hand but shook his head. 'You'll go numb.'

'Oh, please, you're not that heavy.'

He grinned. 'Still. Don't want to take any chances – what if you crash Baby?'

'Stop making excuses,' you groaned. 'Let me take care of my boyfriend!'

'It's weird!' he protested. 'We're in a car.'

You laughed softly that time. 'When has weird stopped you? I mean, dude, we share motel rooms with your brother. I've seen you naked. I've smelled your fart.'

'I think that's more Sam's wheelhouse!' he defended.

You continued, nevertheless, 'I've had the privilege,' sarcastically, 'of watching you have burping matches with multiple people.'

'I'm the undefeated champion,' he bragged. You stopped asking him not to be proud of that long back.

'And I've been in the same room as you when you've peed!'

Crimson dusted his cheeks at that at least, and he rolled his eyes to emphasise his annoyance.

'I think sleeping in my lap is pretty normal by that standard,' you quipped.

Relenting, he slowly turned himself to lie down, not letting your hand go, so you had to raise it before looping it over his head and resting it on his chest when his head dropped on your right leg.

At this angle, he could literally look up to you. You smiled down at him for a second before watching the road again. As light and shadows transpired over your features like a running zebra, it made Dean's chest clench for some reason before his heart eased with a flutter. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was some heightened vulnerability to not watching the road while he lay on your lap. He'd already put his brother's life and his own (and his car's) in your hands by letting you drive, and now he was also allowing himself to be cared for by your touch: it made him swallow the clogging emotion in his throat.

Unbeknownst to his thoughts, your hand slipped out of his fingers to change the gear, but when it returned, you'd moved it into his hair like he'd dearly anticipated earlier. Some neglected part of him was pleased when the yearned touch soothed him. He fought a smile as your fingers carded through his spiky locks, and his entire body loosened. He wouldn't admit it, but despite the cramped space for his legs, the cushion did feel amazing against the tweaked muscles of his lower back. 

He closed his eyes lest you gaze down and catch him desperately enjoying the movement of your fingers; your soft skin moving against the side of his face in gentle, unintentional caresses. He dared not breathe at a normal rate; it could disturb your hand. Ultimately, he was right about that trap: slowing his breathing led him towards the unwanted lull of sleep.

'Comfortable?'

'Yes,' he whispered – didn't want to tempt fate.

'Good.'

Your hand would sometimes stray down and trace patterns on the side of his face like you couldn't stop touching him, and it stirred something supressed inside of him; the hand would trail lower and dance above his heart that couldn't decided if it wanted to ease up or not, then you would draw your fingers back up again to play with his hair.

'What's that fragrance?' Dean murmured, trying to stay awake for a few moments longer. He'd hate to punctuate this treatment with a nightmare, even if that's where he was most likely headed.

'My fancy perfume,' you chuckled.

'It's on your wrist?' his brows furrowed.

You eased his forehead with the light pressure of your thumb. 'That's where girls apply it.'

'Why?' he whispered again because your fingers were gracing his lips now, inciting tingling there.

'Dunno. Some old-fashioned deal. Guys used to kiss a lady's knuckles, right? Probably why.'

He hummed in acknowledgment.

'You're like a hedgehog,' you mused then. 

Dean's lids opened for a second to convey his confusion to your already staring eyes, before you looked away to the road again. 'Why?' He needed to know if he was offended or not. 

'Your hair, for one,' you snickered, grasping his strands in a pleasurable pull that sent Dean's blood downstairs. 

'You mussed them up,' he commented. Not that he was complaining. 

'I think they're sexy this way,' you quirked. 

Dean smirked and filed that information for later.

'Besides, hedgehogs are a symbol of protection and vitality,' you said. 'And rebirth,' you had a good self-laugh at that one. You amused Dean; only you could find ways of making light of all the awful situations you two had been in. 'We should buy a hedgehog,' you noted at the end. 'And we'll name him "Dean".'

A dry smile graced his face. 'Over my dead body.'

'You're just gonna resurrect sooooo, that was a "no"?'

'Yep.'

'You're no fun,' you sighed theatrically.

'Mm-hmm.'

'By the way,' you chirped. 'I got some money saved for a spa day.' 

'Oh?'

'You wanna visit a chiropractor with it tomorrow?'

His lips made the effort of curving downward. 'Why?'

'For your back,' you said in your "duh" tone.

'They're not real doctors.'

You snorted. 'If you say so then it shouldn't trigger your aversion to doctors.'

He walked right into that one. Luckily, your hand wasn't there to feel his eye roll under his closed lids. 'I don't know, sweetheart. This'll go away in two days.'

'Come on.' He could hear that goddamn pout in your voice; it oft became his undoing. 'Please? For me.'

He sighed.

'Is that a "yes"?'

His lips hinted at a smile. 'You annoy me constantly, you know that?'

Your stomach vibrated next to him with your laugh; he leaned into it subtly.

'So that's a "yes".'

'Fucking fine,' he groused half-heartedly. 'One appointment.'

'Deal.'

'And you'd owe me,' he pushed his luck.

You laughed again. 'Keep on dreaming, handsome.'

And he would, in a few minutes, as sleep would soon claim him. He hoped he wouldn't have night terrors in a few years, but for now, he would settle in for his drive: you.

A/N: Simple and sweet 🥰❤️. Lemme know what y'all thought of it!

Tag List.

@hobby27 @stoneyggirl2 @emma1998sblog @globetrotter28 @aylacavebear

@bettystonewell @jollyhunter

[zepskiesreads]

This Bird Has Flown

Summary: Laurel Canyon in 1975 is a place where music hangs in the air and dreams bloom like wildflowers. Dean is just another musician with a guitar, chasing something he can’t name. He comes searching for inspiration and instead finds her – a fleeting love that lingers only in melody.

Pairing: Musician!Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: 18+ language and smut lite, drinking, fluff, hurt/comfort (the yearning, aching kind), a dash of angst, strangers to lovers, romanticism, a bittersweet ending

Word Count: 4.3k

A/N: Written for my lovely friend @zepskies 5k Follower Celebration. Congrats again, Alex! You're awesome, and I'm glad so many people agree with me 🧡

My prompt was "Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)" by The Beatles. Did I obsesses over this story since the minute I heard the song and watch a 3-hour doc about Laurel Canyon? You bet! Thank you so much for the inspiration, friend ☺️☀️🪶

Main Masterlist || DW Masterlist || Tag List

Laurel Canyon in 1975 felt like a promise. 

The hills rolled around Dean in muted golds and greens as the Impala rattled up the narrow road, concrete arteries winding through eucalyptus groves and carrying the smell of resin and heat, gasoline and wild sage. It was the kind of place where the sun seemed to hang a little longer before dipping down. 

Los Angeles sprawled somewhere behind the ridge, humming with neon and smog, but up here the city’s noise softened into a distant buzz. 

The canyon was a place where nothing quite matched – paint peeling, wood warping, gardens growing wild. But out of the wreckage came songs. 

Because music lived here in every crevice – the strum of a guitar leaking from a cracked window, the thrum of bass through thin walls, a melody drifting from one porch to another. It wasn’t polished, but raw and reaching, like the whole canyon was trying to sing itself alive. 

Everywhere, there were seekers. Musicians and poets, drifters and dreamers, all chasing a note that might set the world on fire – or at least keep the night from closing in. 

Dean had heard about the canyon in half-rumors and dive bar chatter, spoken of like it was a damn shrine. A place where you could buy cheap rent with a prayer and maybe find the kind of inspiration that chewed you alive and spit you back out as something new and better. 

The bungalow property was a tangle of mismatched cottages, porches sagging under the weight of time, gardens blooming unbothered in coffee cans and broken pots, and wild vines crawling up the sides, but the houses clung to the hillside with a stubborn kind of beauty. 

It looked like a place stitched together by people who believed in something invisible and were reckless enough to try and catch it. People who’d come chasing the same thing he had: 

A song that might change everything. 

Dean leaned against the Impala’s hood, staring at it all. He’d been running on empty for months – half-living in smoky bars, chasing gigs that went nowhere, and writing songs that felt like fucking dead ends. 

Coming here was supposed to be a last-ditch effort – one more shot before giving up. But standing in the canyon dusk, he felt something shift, a spark he hadn’t let himself feel in years.

Hope. 

The landlord met him at the path, a slip of silver hair and rattling bracelets, her smile easy like she already knew his story. And maybe she did. Around here, they all blurred into the same song – kids with guitars, pockets empty, hearts restless. 

“Hi, Jodie Mills,” she introduced herself, her voice husky from too many cigarettes. “Dean Winchester, right? You’ll fit right in here. Everybody’s looking for the same thing – answers in six strings and three chords.” 

He smiled, shouldering his guitar case tighter, heart pounding as she led him down a stone walkway cracked with weeds. The heat of the day still clung to the ground, radiating up through his boots. She talked as she walked – about rent, about jam sessions that went till dawn, about how the cops didn’t bother climbing the canyon if someone complained. 

He barely listened, though. Because that’s when he caught sight of her. 

It was just a flash – a figure on a porch. Barefoot. A guitar balanced across her knees. Her head was bent over the instrument, endless waves of hair obscuring her face, but her voice carried – soft, unhurried, and low, weaving through the air like an ocean breeze. 

He only heard a sliver, a thread of notes that tangled themselves around his ribs, some place deeper than his lungs before he even had a chance to breathe. He couldn’t make out the words, but the sound itself mattered more – raw, real, alive. 

A fragment, but it still struck him clean through. 

Then the girl vanished from view, folded back into the canyon twilight as the landlord’s bracelets jingled him forward. The whole thing might’ve even been imagined, but Dean knew better. 

Some moments carved themselves into you before you even understood them.

The bungalow was small enough for Dean to see every corner from his spot on the bed – four walls too thin to hold silence, a narrow kitchen that smelled faintly of old wood and oranges, and a mattress that sagged like it already remembered the weight of other dreamers before him. 

It was the kind of place that might’ve felt lonely if not for the sounds bleeding in from outside – laughter, a guitar riff punctuated by clapping, and the crackle of a warm campfire.

Dean had hoped Laurel Canyon would give him a song right away. Instead, his guitar lay too heavy across his thighs, stupid strings catching under his damn fingertips like they were fighting him. Every chord he tried landed flat, half-formed, the words refusing to follow. 

Nothing stuck.

“Son of a bitch. C’mon…” he muttered to no one. To himself. To the canyon. To whatever damn muse was supposed to be living here.

Silence answered, thick and frustrating. He strummed once more, twice, then shoved the heel of his palm against the strings to choke the sound. 

That’s when he heard it. Not silence. Not anymore.

A voice – soft at first, then clearer, threading with the delicate rasp of someone who sang because they had to. Notes rose and fell like smoke in the air. A guitar accompanied her, low and steady, the rhythm pulling at him – coaxing him like a siren song. 

It was her. The girl on the porch. 

Before Dean could second-guess it, he set his guitar aside, the strings shivering one last time. The screen door creaked when he opened it, spilling him into the night. Blue twilight pressed against the hills, and the golden glow of porch lights flickered to life across the property like constellations. 

He followed the sound past the lemon tree, past the soft laughter around the fire pit, until the voice drew him exactly where he knew it would.

She was there.

Sitting cross-legged on her porch steps, bare feet tucked under the hem of a worn dress that slipped loose at her shoulders, hair haloed by the glow of a single candle. A bottle of whiskey rested beside her, and her guitar was balanced in her lap, fingers moving easy over the strings as though the instrument was an extension of her.

When she caught him watching, her eyes lifted, her song slowed, but her smile stayed, a spark of mischief igniting her face.

“Well, hey there, stranger,” she said, her smile morphing into something that was more amused than surprised. “If it isn’t my audience of one. Enjoying the free show?”

Dean felt heat crawl up his neck, but he didn’t look away. “Sorry, uhm… I–, uh, I just heard you.”

“Uh-huh. You were staring.” She raised a brow, teasing but not unkind. Then she lifted the whiskey bottle and tilted it toward him. “You wanna keep standing there till you trip over yourself, or you wanna sit and help me finish this?”

He hesitated only a second, heart stuttering before he dared to take his first step. There was nowhere to sit but the floor, but he made due, settling on the steps beside her. The old wood groaned beneath his boots, but she didn’t move, only shifted the bottle toward him with a knowing smile. He took it and let the whiskey burn down his throat, sharp and warm, before handing it back.

“Dean,” he offered.

“Figures,” she said, nodding like she’d known it already. “They don’t usually show up with a car that shiny.”

“’67 Impala,” he said, half-defensive, half-proud.

Her grin widened. “Of course you’d know the year.” 

“You would, too, if you knew how many shitty gigs I had to play to afford it,” he retorted with a chuckle, the tension easing. She strummed a few idle chords, the sound filling the space between them.

“So,” she said, “what are you doing here? Canyon’s crawling with dreamers. You another one of those?”

Dean shifted, staring at her hands on the guitar, the way her fingers moved with ease. “Yeah, guess so. Just trying to… find something. Write something that matters.” 

He almost added before I run out of reasons to keep trying, but he bit it back.

“Aren’t we all,” she sighed thoughtfully. Then she shoved the guitar toward him, neck first. “Play something. Show me what you got.”

He blinked. “What, right now?”

“Why not? Prove you’re not just here for the cheap rent and the view. The canyon doesn’t care if you’re good or bad. It only cares if you’re honest.” 

Dean hesitated, but her eyes held his steady, daring him. He took the guitar, the wood still warm from her as his fingers settled into familiar places. He played a riff he’d been circling for weeks, the skeleton of a song that never got flesh. When he stopped, he waited for her to call it out for the mess it was, but she leaned in instead.

“It’s good. Raw. Hurts in the right places,” she said softly. “You’ve got bones there. Needs words, though.”

“Words don’t stick,” he admitted.

She smiled, eyes twinkling. “That’s ‘cause you’re thinking too hard.”

He scoffed a self-deprecating laugh. “You know, no one’s ever said that to me before.”

“Let the words come like you talk. Like you think. Messy. Ugly,” she said gently, taking the guitar back. “Songs aren’t supposed to be neat. They’re supposed to be what keeps you from drowning.”

They traded the guitar back and forth, weaving melodies, tossing out lines and scraps of lyrics. Sometimes they laughed, sometimes they went quiet, the night air between them stretching easy and comfortable. Hours slipped away as they shared stories – about first heartbreaks, first songs, and failures that still hurt. The night grew darker, the fire pit burning down to embers in the distance.

“What are you running from, Dean?” she asked suddenly, somewhere between midnight and dawn.

The question hit sharp, but her voice was soft enough to soothe sting.

Dean swallowed, staring at the bottle between them. “Everything, I guess. My old man. A trail of places I didn’t fit. Nights that end too fast, mornings that don’t mean anything... You get tired of waking up wondering what the hell you’re even for.” He exhaled a heavy breath. “Music’s the only thing that feels like it might answer back.”

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t pity him. She only nodded, strumming a low chord, her gaze fixed on him. “Yeah, same here,” she said quietly. “I’ve been chasing songs since I was a kid. Thought if I could just find the right one, maybe I’d finally stop feeling like I was a ghost in my own life. Thought it might make someone see me.”

Dean’s throat tightened. “I see you.”

Her smile was small this time, fragile, like she wasn’t sure she believed him. She averted her eyes, plucking at the strings again. 

“Do you ever think that maybe none of us are gonna make it?” she asked then. “That this canyon’s just a graveyard for people who thought they could matter?” 

Dean tilted his head back, looking at the dark navy sky sprinkled with stars above, the outlines of the hills looking like shadows of something older than him. 

“All the damn time.” 

Her eyes flicked to him, a smile playing on her lips. “And yet, you’re here.” 

“Guess I’d rather fail at something that matters than keep breathing through shit that doesn’t,” he said, surprising himself with the honesty. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, suddenly restless. “Bars and dive gigs, singing to drunks who don’t care – that stuff eats you alive. Feels like I’m wasting whatever I got left.” 

She didn’t answer right away, just let her fingers drift over the strings. “Yeah,” she said finally. “That’s why I came, too. I was scared one day I’d look back and realize I’d just… disappeared. No song, no voice, no proof I was even here.” 

Dean studied her for a heartbeat, the way her expression softened in the candlelight. “Sounds to me like you’re already here.” 

She gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “What, because I can strum and cry into a notebook? That’s not it. I want a song that’s bigger than me. Something that makes the world stop, even if it’s just for three goddamn minutes.” 

Dean swallowed because that was it. Exactly it. He felt it in his tired bones – the ache of wanting to leave something behind so the silence wouldn’t win. 

“Maybe that’s why people come here,” he mused after a long pause. “Not because they think they’ll make it, but because they can’t stop trying. It’s in their blood, and they’d die if they didn’t.” 

Her eyes found his, something vulnerable gleaming in her gaze. “Yeah, maybe,” she murmured. “I want… I don’t know… I want it to last, you know? Not just the song, but… me. I want someone to hear me. Really hear me. Before I fade out.” 

Dean’s heart hammered, and he shifted closer, the night wrapping itself around them, infinite and intimate, turning the porch into a small, fragile world. Coyotes yipped somewhere along the ridge, their calls rising and falling like a hymn. An owl called low and certain from the sycamores, as if reminding him that some things survive the night by learning how to see in the dark. 

“You wanna know what I’m scared of?” she asked.

“Always.”

“That I’ll spend my whole life trying to write something worth keeping, and all I’ll end up with is a drawer full of scraps.” She gave a nervous smile, quick and crooked. “And that maybe I don’t deserve it anyway.” 

“That’s bullshit,” he said firmly. “You got a voice. I heard it before I even saw you, and it stopped me cold. You don’t fake something like that. You can’t. Doesn’t matter if it’s polished or not – what you got is real. And real always finds a way through.” 

She stared at him a beat too long, then let out a shaky breath. “Guess I needed to hear that.”

Dean didn’t say that he needed it, too. That she’d just given him back something he thought he’d burned out years ago. 

The bottle between them was empty now, the guitar silent. Something unspoken swelled in the stillness, pressing against their ribs and begging release. 

Above, the moon hung high, pale and watchful, its light painting the ridges of the canyon in silver. The stars burned sharp against the black, constellations scattering across the endless sky like a secret map. It was the kind of night that made someone half-believe in ghosts – of old dreams, old loves, and half-sketched songs. 

Dean leaned closer, letting the weight of the night, the canyon, and the hours of words sway him forward. 

Their lips met, tender and tentative, whiskey-warm and electric. She smiled against his mouth like she’d known it would happen all along. Her lips were warm. Soft. Real. And it was as if everything he’d been chasing – the songs, the nights, the lonely miles – had led him here. 

When they pulled apart, she set the guitar aside and looked at him, a quiet invitation in her eyes. Her smile was small, teasing, but her fingers brushed his hand, and that was all the permission he needed. She led him inside her bungalow without words, each step unhurried, savoring the brush of skin and the warmth of each other in the cool night. 

They stopped by the bed, and Dean’s eyes traced her figure, slow and reverent, memorizing the curve of her shoulder and the way her hair caught the warm glow of lamplight. His lips found hers first, tasting her, searching, exploring. Her mouth answered like it had been waiting for him, soft and insistent. The sigh she let out against him made him groan low in his chest, heat pouring through him like fire catching dry wood. 

His hands trailed her back, over the line of her spine, fingers memorizing the curves of her body and the warmth of her skin. He leaned closer, breathing her in, letting his lips drift down the column of her throat. 

Every atom of her responded, every movement a note, every gasp a chord.

He played with the hem of her dress, lifting it slowly, inch by inch, baring her to his eyes. When the fabric fell to the floor, Dean drew back just enough to look at her, and his breath caught. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, hoarse, the words pulled from someplace raw and unguarded. 

Her laugh trembled in the air between them, but her eyes burned as she tugged his shirt off, fingers urgent, dragging it over his head. Her palms skimmed his chest, down his stomach, and he shuddered, leaning back into her touch like he couldn’t help it.

The night suddenly felt suspended – no canyon, no stars, no world beyond this room. 

They undressed each other slowly, almost clumsy in their hunger, but every touch lingered, every button undone like it mattered. By the time he laid her down onto the mattress, both of them were breathing hard, skin flushed and hot. 

Dean kissed the edge of her jaw, down her neck, her shoulder, across her collarbone, and lower, his hands sliding over the curve of her hip and the dip of her waist, delicate yet demanding. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer, a broken sound escaping her lips. 

He rose over her, aligning himself with her body, and for a moment he just hovered, forehead pressed to hers. Her nails dragged lightly over his back, urging, and then he pushed inside, slow and careful like warming up to a song they both knew the ending to but wanted to savor. 

The air tore out of his lungs at the feeling of her wrapped around him, and she gasped, her back arching, legs curling tight around his waist. His name spilled from her lips in a whisper. 

The creak of the bed, the slide of skin on skin, the soft sounds of their moans – the room was vibrating with the rhythm of them, her breath catching in the same cadence as his heartbeat. 

And Dean lost himself in it all – the scent, the heat, the music they made together without instruments. 

Her hands clutched at him, desperate, pulling him deeper. He buried his face in her neck, groaning against her skin, his lips brushing wherever they could reach – her shoulder, her jaw, the curve of her ear. She writhed beneath him, her sounds soft and needy, building with every thrust. 

The world narrowed to heat and touch, to her voice breaking, to his body straining to hold back. She came apart beneath him, gasping his name like a secret, and it was enough to tip him over too. He followed with a raw, broken groan, holding her tight like letting go would mean losing something sacred. 

Dean pressed his forehead to hers, stroking her cheek and the line of her jaw with a reverent hand. 

They stayed like that for a while, tangled together, letting the night hold them a little longer. And every heartbeat, every sigh, every whispered name became a verse, a lyric, a song that would haunt them long after dawn broke.

The morning came slow, honeyed, and cruel, sunlight bleeding in through thin curtains that weren’t his. 

He woke to a voice that wasn’t hers. 

“Dean?” The voice was warm, raspy with age and humor. 

He jolted, sitting up so fast the sheet slipped down his bare chest. His head pounded, his throat dry with the aftertaste of whiskey and the remnants of her. 

The woman standing in the doorway grinned at him like she’d walked in on this sort of thing a hundred times before, silver hair loose around her shoulders and bangles stacked on her wrists. 

“Morning, sweetheart,” Jodie said, amusement lacing her voice. “Unless my memory’s gone shot, this ain’t the bungalow I rented you.” 

Dean dragged a hand down his face, trying to shake off the fog as he rubbed his weary eyes. “She–” 

His gaze darted to the space beside him, finding it empty. The sheets were tangled and cold as if a storm had passed through, only her guitar lying across the mattress where her body had been, the wood old and worn, its strings dulled from use. 

“The girl who lives here… where’d she go?” 

Jodie leaned against the doorframe, eyes twinkling like she knew every secret the canyon held. “Lived. Past tense. She packed her bags this morning, gone before the sun was high,” the older woman shared. “Couldn’t make rent anymore. It happens. Laurel Canyon’s like that. Some folks drift in just long enough to leave an echo. Guess last night was her little send-off.” 

Her words shot like a bullet through his heart. 

Jodie’s gaze softened, motherly in a way. “Don’t look so heartbroken, honey. You’ll find your rhythm here.” 

But the ache in his chest wouldn’t let go. It spread, sharp and sweet – a wound he didn’t want to heal. His hands moved before he thought about it, picking up the guitar, the weight of it grounding him. Her absence was everywhere, but in his lap sat proof she’d been real. 

Dean’s thumb brushed across the strings. A note bloomed, soft and aching, vibrating in the morning light. Another followed. Then another.

The pain behind his ribs – the loss, the longing, the fire she’d lit and abandoned – turned to melody. Words stirred in him, filling his soul, insistent and impossible to ignore. 

He began to play as if he could catch the last trace of her before it slipped away completely.

The Pacific Coast Highway shimmered like a ribbon of silver in the noon light. The cliffs were sun-dusted on your left, the ocean flaring blue to your right, endless and untouchable, daring you to ask it something you never quite had the courage to.

The road had become your only constant – gas stations, diners with cracked leather booths, and postcards curling on wire racks. 

You didn’t have a plan. Never really had. One town blurred into another, each sunrise another chance to disappear, each sunset a reminder that you still hadn’t found what you were looking for. 

Some days you told yourself it was freedom. Other days, it felt more like running. 

You stopped when the needle on the gauge wavered near empty. A roadside station somewhere near San Luis Obispo, the kind of place with faded signs and a single soda machine humming against the wall. 

Your sandals padded across the hot pavement, the ocean breeze carrying hints of salt, oranges, and motor oil. 

Inside, the air smelled of bubblegum and old magazines. You paid for a full tank and a bottle of Coke, dropping change on the counter with suntanned fingers. The cashier counted them out slow, the radio humming above the register. 

“…and now, holding the number one spot on the charts this week, we’ve got Dean Winchester, with his breakthrough single–”

The title was your name. 

“Turn it up,” you said quickly, heart fluttering and pulse stuttering. 

The cashier, an old man with nicotine-stained teeth, obliged, twisting the knob and letting Dean’s voice fill the station. 

The sound, rich and aching, carved itself straight into your ribs. You recognized his voice instantly. God, how could you not? You’d heard it low and rough in the dark, warm and raw, familiar as a secret when the world was only a porch, a bottle, and a guitar. 

You froze with the bottle still in your hand, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. 

She was the fire the night could not hide, Gone with the morning, but still by my side. One day I hope the wind will carry her home, But till then, I wait, I sing, I roam. This bird has flown, yet not from me. I’ll find her name in eternity.  And if the wind brings her back, I’ll never let go, Till then I wander, I sing, I know.

Your eyes stung, hot and sudden, and you bit down on a laugh that tasted like salt and joy all at once. The cashier glanced at you, puzzled, but you just stood there and let the song pour over you, every line a reminder, every note a promise. Not of forever, not of chains, but of memory. 

Of mattering.

You smiled even through the prick of tears until the final chord faded into static. Because you knew what it meant. 

He’d done it. He’d made it. 

And somehow, you had mattered enough to be part of his story, engraved forever in the way his voice cracked on your name.

When you stepped back outside, the California sun hit you full on, warm and bright, the sky an impossible blue. You twisted open your soda, the fizz kissing your lips, and leaned against your car for a moment, smiling like the world had given you a secret. 

Then you slid into the driver’s side, engine humming, and found your way back onto the highway. The music carried you down the coast, twining with the wind through your open window, until it was just you and the road and the endless sea.

And for once, it didn’t feel so lonely to be a bird in flight.

Hope you enjoyed this little journey into another era with a bittersweet ending, friends! I loved writing this story so much!!! 🥰🫶

(And yes, I do have an idea for another part, so don't ask about it 😂)

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[zepskiesreads]

Better Safe Than Starry-Eyed

Abandon the Ship Pt. IV

And you say I abandoned the ship, but I was going down with it...

Series Summary: It starts with a chase and ends with his name in your mouth. He says it’s just for fun. Late nights. No strings. No promises. You were never supposed to matter. But he keeps coming back like a habit he can't quit. He’s bleeding time, and you’re getting too close to something meant to burn out fast.

Pairing: Mark Meachum x nanny!reader

Warnings: +18 due to language and smut (the handcuffs & ice cubes edition), no strings attached/the casual kind, sprinkle of fluff, angst, hurt, drinking & girls night, some awkwardness and tension, set shortly after 1x04, a plan B ending

Word Count: 11.3k

A/N: Ya know, I kept wondering why I write so slowly these days and can't seem to do more than a part every two weeks of this series before I realized one part has the length of three 😂 Apparently, it's a full thing now we're doing, guys lol.

Series Masterlist || Tag List || Patreon

Find your soundtrack to this series here: California Nights 🌌

You’re barefoot on the couch with a glass of wine in one hand and a throw pillow tucked into your ribs. Maya’s lounging at the other end, her contagious laugh bouncing off the walls as she tells you about her latest disastrous audition. Leah’s halfway off the armchair, toes barely brushing the floor as she digs into the salty snacks bowl with idle, surgical precision. 

The living room smells like coconut face masks and those vanilla candles you got half-off at an estate sale down the street last week. The windows are cracked, and it’s almost too warm for blankets in July, but everyone’s got one anyway. The TV’s muted in the background with Netflix’s newest season of Love is Blind.

“God, that asshole’s like a walking red flag,” Maya mutters into her wine glass with a little glare toward the screen. 

“He’s not gonna marry her. Don’t worry,” Leah chimes in with a mouth full of popcorn. “She strikes me as a smart woman.”

“Yeah, and that dick has commitment issues bigger than his brain,” you add, comfortingly poking Maya’s thigh with your toes. 

Tonight is all about her, which means giving plenty of emotional support and doing a ton of trash talking about the shitty ex who made it as a contestant onto reality TV. It’s probably the most LA thing to happen in the dating world, so of course, you had to gather the coven for this event.

The three of you have known each other since middle school – since Maya dragged both you and Leah into a supply closet after art class, leaned conspiratorially closer, and said she thought the three of you should all be friends for life because the vibes match. 

And well, that’s exactly what happened. 

The three of you then moved to Los Angeles over a decade ago and attended USC together. Maya is the actress – the fun friend who always has the best ideas and best stories to share. Leah, straight-A med student turned saint, is the focused and reasonable one who always has the best advice and keeps you and Maya in line. And God knows the two of you need her like oxygen to survive, or you would’ve ended up as a drug smuggling mule in Thailand for some guy named Chad a while ago.

And then there’s you – the drifter of the group. The business major with an epiphany during her senior year of college who switched to education and musical theater and quit her junior-level position at a crazily high-paying investment bank after being forced to watch her boss’ three-year-old for an afternoon. But you had more fun in those few hours than you’d had in years. Then you had a mental breakdown in the bathtub, hence the revelation that you only picked a major that makes your parents proud. 

So, you dropped everything the next day, got a babysitting job, and decided to become a nanny full-time. 

Sure, it was supposed to be only temporary – just till you gained some clarity and figured out what you really wanted out of life. That was eight years ago, however. 

Now, you like your job and feel like you could settle in it, but whenever someone asks, you still tell them you’re figuring things out. The problem is, the closer you are to thirty, the more furrowed brows you’re receiving in response – and the more your mother is calling to say she’s “worried about you.”

“It was a nice dick, though,” Maya pouts, refilling her glass to make it an even four tonight. “Probably why I put up with his bullshit for so long. Because it was long.”

“Oh my God,” Leah snorts and clasps a hand over her mouth to keep the laughter (and wine) from spilling out. 

You, on the other hand, become a little too quiet. Maybe because Maya’s comment hit home for some reason, although your own situation is completely different. You’re not unknowingly dating a serial cheater like her and ignoring the red flags because the sex is mind-blowing. You know exactly what this thing with Mark is. 

At least, you think you do. 

“So how’s the new family?” Leah asks you, sinking deeper into your comfortable flea market armchair. “Still shockingly normal?” 

“Alarmingly,” you reply. “They pack their own lunches, talk about neighborhood watch meetings, and leave actual tips at restaurants. No weird LA cult energy.” 

“So no microdosing toddlers with oat milk?” Maya quips. 

“No guided meditation sound baths at dawn?” Leah adds with a grin.

You shake your head, laughing. “Nope, just a backyard, a bucket with chalk, and a mom who doesn’t have a podcast and makes the best lasagna I’ve ever tasted.”

“Good. I’m happy for you. You actually seem like you’re glowing.” Leah raises her glass. “To boring, beautiful normal.” 

Maya grins. “To consistent paychecks and carbs.”

“To me not crying in my car every day.” You clink your glass with hers and are still laughing when Maya’s next comment nearly makes you choke on your sip of wine.

“Honestly, you should give me the number of that cop,” she says.

You harshly swallow your current sip but don’t move the glass away from your lips as if it’s a shield that helps you cover your fluster. While you usually share everything with them in a group text within the span of five minutes, you haven’t told them about Mark yet, and you certainly haven’t planned on doing that tonight either. 

Your reasons are various, but mostly, you have no idea what to tell them. You don’t even know what to name this thing with Mark yet yourself. 

“What? Why?” You try to sound casual, but Leah’s eyebrow is already twitching in your periphery. 

“So I can write that asshole a thank you letter for getting you fired and finally getting you away from Malibu bitch,” Maya retorts without a second thought. 

“Right, yeah. That guy,” you mumble and force a huffed laugh into your wine glass. Honestly, you think your own ‘thank you’ to Mark sufficed plenty.

But they both start staring at you with suspicion. Leah narrows her eyes. Maya tilts her head. Clearly, you’re not a great actress. 

“Why do you sound cagey?” Leah’s brow furrows more by the passing second. “You’re being cagey.”

You shrug it off. “I’m not cagey.”

“Oh my God! You totally are!” Maya chimes in and points an accusatory finger at you. “That’s your cagey face!”

“Yeah, you’ve been cagey all night,” Leah adds astutely. “Did something happen with that cop? You never told us what happened after he abandoned you on that parking lot.”

“No, uh, nothing,” you murmur and try to drown the rest of the lie in your wine, but you know they won’t believe you anyway. “He came by later that night to apologize.”

“Wait…” Maya’s brows shoot up. “Here? He came to the house? Your house?”

“Yep,” you admit and bite your lips. “Showed up with a bottle of whiskey.”

Maya gapes at you. “Holy–… Did you hook up with hot cop?!”

You open and close your mouth a few times before deciding to divert. “Who said he’s hot?”

“You did,” Maya shoots like a pistol and already gestures for Leah to pull up the group chat on her phone like it’s evidence in your horny trial. 

Leah dramatically clears her throat and proceeds to read your insanity out loud, “‘Some asshole cop just stole the bitch’s car for a fucking chase and left me stranded with the gremlins at Echo. But fuck me, the guy was hot. I don’t know if it’s because he was running so fast or because the sun was scorching, but I wish he ran over me repeatedly.’”

“Okay! That was clearly me suffering from a heat stroke,” you defend.

Maya snorts. “Alright, but did he end up running over you repeatedly?”

You huff a sigh through your nose and grumble a “yes” with an eye roll. 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Maya asks between her laughter. “You usually never wait this long.”

“I don’t know.” You shrug again. “It all happened pretty fast and I was busy finding a job this week and getting adjusted to a new family… Didn’t have time yet.”

“To text us you fucked the hot cop?” Leah raises a brow. “Yeah, I don’t buy it. What’s going on?”

“Yeah, how did it happen?” Maya joins her interrogation. “Did he just show up at your door with a bottle of whiskey, and you invited him in to take his clothes off?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” you deadpan. “Figured he owed me.”

“Dude!” Maya enthusiastically slaps your thigh, causing you to giggle. “So you seriously had a one-night stand with the hot cop?”

“Yup, one-night stand,” you repeat and lead your wine glass back to your lips. “Seven nights in a row.”

The living room explodes into silence before Maya gasps so loudly you’re sure she’s sucking all available air of the entire planet into her lungs. 

“WHAT?!”

Leah, on the other hand, is less shocked, more calm, and more logical about it. “So this is an ongoing thing?”

“I don’t know,” you say with another shrug of your shoulders, but this time it’s an honest answer. 

“What does that mean?” Maya downright begs you to explain further with a pleading gleam in her hazel eyes. 

“Alright,” you sigh and set your glass down on the coffee table before settling in. “We hooked up that night, and it was great. It was obviously a one-time thing. I mean, I knew he only came by to shoot his shot. He tried to give me the whole ‘I don’t do commitment’ speech in the morning–”

“Why do men always do this?” Maya interrupts, shaking her head. 

“My theory is they can’t handle ego death. But I swear every time a guy looks at me in the morning and goes, ‘Hey, so…’, I wanna jump them for an entirely different reason,” you retort. “Anyways, he leaves. I move on with my life.”

“Obviously,” Leah comments with a playful smirk. 

“But then, guess who’s waiting for me on my porch that very evening when I get home?” you continue.

Maya’s mouth falls open. “He came back?! What, like a booty call? Aren’t you supposed to text first?”

“That’s what I said!” you agree wholeheartedly. “But I don’t know. Maybe it’s because he’s older and they like to do everything in person, right?”

“How much older?” Leah asks with an arched eyebrow.

“Not that much. Ten years, give or take,” you reply and watch both of them nod their acceptance. What the hell did they think? That you hooked up with a cop shortly before retirement?

“And you guys are dating?” Leah asks next. 

You can already read the creases in her brow like a palm reader – she’s thinking, ‘But you’ve never dated anyone since–’ Then the sentence stops before finishing, and deafening silence consumes the room until Maya pulls another disastrous audition story out of her ass. 

“We’re not dating,” you clarify. “He suggested a… casual… whatever… thing, and I agreed.”

“Really? You?” Leah lifts a brow in doubt. “You, who said one night every few months is enough to hold you above water?”

You grimace. “I know my own speech, thank you. And why wouldn’t I agree? I mean, it’s kinda perfect. I get sex every day with a guy who’s hot and uncomplicated and isn’t a dick or awkward after and hasn’t surprised me yet with some weird sexual request.”

Maya snorts into her hands. “Oh, remember that guy you met in Santa Barbara who wanted you to put a glass dolphin up his–”

You hold up a hand and give a shake of your head. “Don’t remind me, and it was a whale. I remember because he specifically wanted me to speak whale-ish while doing it. You know, like Dory in Finding Nemo?”

Maya bursts into full laughter and breaks in half. But it’s good. The distracting part of the evening is working because she doesn’t even notice her ex proposing on screen. 

Leah chuckles. “Probably shouldn’t have told him you’re a nanny and know every Disney movie by heart.”

You nod in agreement. “God, guys watch too much porn in general, but I blame Ben Affleck for the whole nanny kink.”

“Me too. Affleck is trash,” Maya says. “Matt Damon is super nice, though. I met him at an after-party once.”

“Oh-kay,” Leah steers the conversation back to topic with laser focus. “So you guys aren’t dating, just hooking up? He comes over, you have sex, and he leaves again?”

“Uh, I mean… there’s a little hanging out involved,” you admit dodgily. This is the part you don’t really know how to explain – where the water gets a little muddy. “He usually brings takeout, we hang out, watch some show or a movie, then we have sex – not always in that order – and he stays the night, leaves in the morning…”

“You guys watch TV, and he sleeps over?” Even Maya is lifting a brow now. “Is there cuddling? Is he spooning you?”

“No! There’s no cuddling or spooning going on,” you insist, but then you purse your lips, head swaying from side to side. “Barely any cuddling,” you correct. “Just food, sex, little bit of chatting and streaming entertainment, and minor cuddling. Like I said, no big deal.”

“That sounds like dating,” Maya points out in sing-song and looks almost guilty for not being able to lend you support in this battle. 

“It’s not dating, trust me,” you assure them more convincingly this time. “Honestly, I don’t even know I’d want to date him if it were an option.”

“Uh-oh, that doesn’t sound good,” Maya mutters and drinks more of her wine.

“Yeah, I agree with Maya, which isn’t a good sign either,” Leah agrees and sends you a worried look. 

“Is he weird?” 

“No, he’s… alright. He’s a good guy overall, you know?” you tell them and then musingly chew your lip. “I mean, he’s smart and funny in that devil-may-care way I like and even kind, considering he’s trying so hard to be an asshole. And that’s the thing – he’s kind of trying too hard not to care. But there’s just something… dark about him, I guess.”

“Like a serial killer?” Maya checks in earnest. 

“No,” you snort. “It’s not… necessarily in a bad way or even in a threatening one. I guess I just have a hard time reading him. I don’t know what’s going on in his head, but I know it’s something. He doesn’t share a lot, but he seems… I don’t know. Sad, maybe? Lonely? I don’t think he has a lot of people in his life. And look, neither do I aside from you guys, so what if we hang out a little and keep each other company? I kinda like talking to someone about my day when I get home. Still doesn’t have to mean anything or be more than that. It’s like a friends with benefits thing, only that we’re becoming friends while we’re already having sex.”

“Still sounds like dating,” Leah teases. “But look, if you’re happy, we’re happy for you, even though we both think you’re being a little delusional right now.”

You laugh loudly. “My, thank you. I appreciate that.” Then you become a little pensive again and let out a sigh. “I’m honestly not even sure about the whole friends thing. I mean, mostly, it’s just me talking and him listening. But I don’t really know a lot about him.”

“Nothing?” Maya asks in wonder.

“I know his first and last name, what car he drives, what he does for a living, and that he’s working on some big case that seems to stress him out, but I don’t really know,” you explain. “And I don’t know where he lives or what his birthday is or if he has any family, siblings, friends… That kinda stuff, you know?”

Leah speaks up, swirling the wine in her glass. “Did you ask him?” 

“Not really,” you admit. “He never asks me anything beyond work or how my day has been, so I don’t really feel like he wants me to ask him any of that stuff, either. And every time I do ask him something, he kind of dodges the question.”

“That is weird,” Maya agrees. “And this has been going on for a week? Oh my God, is he coming by later?”

“No, he’s not coming… I think,” you say and bite the inside of your cheek almost bloody. You haven’t been this invested in solving a mystery since your last true crime documentary. “This is where it really gets weird because he randomly texted me mid-day to say he’d be ‘off the grid for a few days’ after coming by for a week straight and never announcing himself at all. Either he’s really on a case thingy or some shit, or it’s the most elaborate way to ghost someone.”

“You haven’t heard from him since?” Leah asks.

You shake your head. “Nope. It’s been three days of crickets,” you reply. “And I know I shouldn’t be worried, but I am a little worried. I mean, he’s a cop, so what if he was shot in the field, and I find out he actually died months later?”

“So you do wanna see him again,” Leah deduces cleverly. 

“I mean… I like him enough to sleep with him. I just–… don’t know anything about him, and I’m not sure I even want to,” you conclude. “I guess I just like things the way they are. I’m happy, he’s happy, and everybody gets what they want. It’s a good thing.”

“Alright,” Leah says and raises her palms in surrender. 

“So what’s the sex like?” Maya asks on cue. 

It’s always the same – Leah grills you about safety and checks if the guy’s been treating you right before Maya comes in with the unhinged sex questions that range from orgasm numbers to dick length. You do love talking to them, though, because it helps you sort through your own messy feelings and thoughts.

“The sex is–” You click your tongue, trying to find the right word for an otherworldly experience. 

“Mind-blowing?” Leah offers. 

“Wild?” Maya suggests.

You smack your lips. “Carnal.”

“Carnal?!” Maya chokes out and almost spills her glass onto your couch. “Who the fuck says carnal?!” 

“I couldn’t think of another word, okay?” you protest. 

Leah’s laughing too hard to breathe. “Look at you, one English lit class in college, and you suddenly become Jane Austen.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too. “It fit, alright?”

“Biblical,” Maya says with a wink. “Wrath of God levels of hot.”

“I hate both of you.”

“No, you don’t.” Leah grins over the rim of her glass. 

“Does he make you come?” Maya asks next with the seriousness of Diane Swayer. 

“Every time,” you tell her as if you can’t quite believe it yourself. “But I don’t want something serious. Not right now. This is… nice, you know?” 

“Seriously, this is the best thing you’ve ever done since hooking up with that hot Italian race car driver in Milan,” Maya says firmly. 

You snort a laugh and smirk. “Kinda funny since that guy’s name was Marco.”

“I’ll remember that name next time I have a free minute for dating apps again,” Leah sighs wistfully. 

“Bad day?” you check. 

“Same, same,” she replies and gives you a vague hand gesture. “Never fun telling parents their kid might die.”

Before you can reply, there are three knocks on your door. The sound is firm and familiar. It doesn’t sound like the sweet teenage boy with braces who usually delivers your pizza, but you rise and walk to the door nonetheless, half-distracted by Maya finally realizing her ex got engaged. 

But when you pull the door open, you stop breathing. Because it’s not the pizza guy – it’s him.

Mark. 

Back from wherever the hell he’s been, standing on your doorstep like nothing’s changed.

It’s the same invasive thought every time Mark ends up on your doorstep:

He shouldn’t be here.

It’s been echoing through his skull for the thirty minutes it took him to drive from his house to yours. Hell, it’s probably been even longer than that. Maybe since the moment the prison van stopped rolling three nights ago and the last job started. 

He’s had the perfect excuse to end this thing – whatever the hell this is. 

He could go quietly and let this little love affair drift out like smoke. He could leave. He could say he was just driving by. He could let the silence do what it’s supposed to fucking do.

But instead, he exhales through his nose and lets his hand hover mid-air in front of your door, fist half-curled. Then he knocks – once, twice, three times. 

Inside, laughter and muffled chatter bleeds through the door, glasses clink, and a high voice calls out something he can’t make out. It seems like you have visitors – girls’ night maybe. 

Shit. 

The front door swings open, and there you are – backlit in gold, lips parted in mid-laugh. You’re all glowing cheeks and wine-hazed warmth, but the second you see him, your expression shifts. 

Confusion mixed with a tiny bit of surprise haunts your features first. You’re not shocked, exactly, but you’re definitely… thrown. 

“Mark?”

“Hi,” he greets you lighter than he feels and gives a faint smile. “Uh, sorry, didn’t mean to crash anything.”

“No, uh, it’s fine.” You throw a glance back into the living room for a second before stepping onto the porch instinctively, pulling the door nearly shut behind you as if to shield him from whatever chaos is unfolding inside. “I just didn’t expect you. You didn’t, uh… text.”

“No, uh, right. Yeah…” He scratches the back of his neck and nods, lips pursed. 

He realizes then how stupid this whole thing really is – what kind of a moron he’s being. What was he thinking? That you’d be at his beck and call whenever he got the sudden urge for company? That you’d be available whenever he needs you to be? 

Of course, you have your own life, your own friends, your own plans in the evenings. Of course, you aren’t planning your day around his schedule or his moods – especially after being gone without a trace for three fucking days. 

And still, a small, incredibly selfish part of him wants you to wait by the door for him and check your phone every hour in hopes of an update. 

This is insane. Maybe it’s even a symptom of the disease in his brain. 

“You said you’d be off the grid,” you point out softly like you need an excuse to turn him away. You’re very gentle with your rejection – he appreciates that.

“Yeah, I was,” Mark replies raspily and clears his dry fucking throat. “Job ended a few hours ago.”

He doesn’t say what kind of job because he can’t. He doesn’t say anything about a Belarusian dance hall, an Eastern European terrorist, or fissile material. He also doesn’t tell you about all the blood he saw, how fast his heart was pounding during the ambulance ride, or how his own recklessness and stupidity played into it. 

But you’re quiet for a long moment, studying him – trying to read him. He knows you are and hates and loves it at the same time.

“You okay?” you finally ask as if you can see the pain and guilt plain as day on his face. 

The question shouldn’t shake him the way it does, but it does. It fucking does. And for the first time, he feels the need to tell you the truth. 

“Uh, well, to be honest…” He hesitates for a heartbeat but then pushes the words out like they don’t taste like metal. He swallows harshly. “We–, uh… I–, uhm, I lost someone from my team last night. Something went wrong, and, uhm… he didn’t make it.” 

Your face softens. There’s that subtle flicker in your expression that he’s come to recognize. It’s the quiet empathy you don’t parade around but never hold back when it counts.

“Oh,” you say after a beat, taking it in. He can see the gears turning in your head before you find his eyes again. “I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

Mark nods once but doesn’t say more because he doesn’t know how. He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and waits. For what? He doesn’t actually know. 

You shift slightly on your feet, gesturing vaguely behind you. “Look, uhm, I’ve got friends over. It’s kinda girls’ night. You know, wine, gossip, trashy TV. But if it were any other night…”

You trail off, but not out of uncomfortableness. He doesn’t think you ever truly are. But he recognizes you’re giving him an easy out to flee whatever hellscape is waiting for him in your living room. Probably out of graciousness, maybe decency, or even the possibility to save yourself from your friends and not just him. It’s most likely a combo of all three. 

“No, uh, I get it.” He says the words he’s supposed to say, clears his throat again, and even takes half a step back. But then–

Nothing. 

His feet won’t fucking move more than that, and he doesn’t understand why. He knows he’s making this whole situation goddamn awkward, but he still doesn’t leave. 

Because the truth is, he can’t stand being alone with himself tonight. He can’t sit in the dark while the voices play back everything he should’ve done differently.

He’s here because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

“Is that the hot cop?” a bright voice chimes from inside and becomes his saving grace. “Let him in! We promise we won’t bite!”

Mark lifts his head and meets your wide eyes. He sees the heat rush to your cheeks and feels the smirk spread on his lips. You close your eyes like you’re regretting all your life choices.

“Hot cop?” He cocks an eyebrow and watches you bite your lip. 

“Ha, yeah…” A shaky little laugh leaves your throat. Your fingers tap the doorframe. “Look, uhm, if you wanna come inside and hang out, that’s fine. I mean, they’re gonna… leave… eventually.”

“Right, uhm…” He licks his lips, knowing full well he should decline the offer. “Well, uh, how much do they know?”

Your head bobs for a moment, then you blow a raspberry. “Everything?”

“Yeah, that tracks.” He nods and presses his lips into a tight line. 

It’s not his first rodeo with the other gender after all, so it doesn’t come as a big shocker. He’s well aware women tell each other everything. Same reason Melinda’s friends always giggled behind their palms whenever he walked past them. 

Jesus, he really is fucking desperate if his idea of fun is putting himself through that for an entire evening. 

“You wanna come in?” You tilt your head and offer him a soft smile. “Fair warning, though, they’re drunk, they’ll ask a lot of inappropriate questions, and they will definitely roast you.”

He chuckles a little, scratching his throat. “Honestly? Noise sounds kinda nice right now.”

“Alright, your funeral,” you tease in sing-song and push the door open wider, stepping inside.

You lead him in like it’s no big deal, but you glance over your shoulder as if you’re not sure he’ll follow. As if part of you is surprised he came at all. He is too, honestly. 

You close the door behind him, and it feels like stepping into a different world – a brighter one. Warm light, low music, laughter bouncing off the walls like the place is alive. It smells like popcorn and something sweet – probably that vanilla candle with that hint of citrus you always light when you want to make things feel cozy. 

Two women sit in your living room – one on the armchair and one cross-legged on the floor beside a half-finished bottle of wine.

The brunette on the floor is the first to light up – big smile, messy bun, the kind of energy that makes Mark brace for impact. The redhead on the armchair, however–

That’s when it hits him. It’s just a flicker, but he feels it sharp in his ribs.

Shit.

She’s not in scrubs, no badge clipped to her white lab coat, no clipboard in hand, but he knows that face. He’s seen her before – in passing. Maybe twice, maybe more times, in the hallway at the oncology clinic. Not his doctor. Not in the room when they told him he had months, but she’s around enough. She’s seen him in that fucking waiting room chair, tired and washed-out.

Fuck. She knows. 

She doesn’t say anything to suggest she remembers him, but she’s studying him now, her smile tight, her posture a little more reserved than the rest. She’s clearly flipping through her mental file of where she’s seen him.

“Uh, guys, this is Mark,” you introduce him, gesturing at him like you’re bringing home a stray dog you hope won’t pee on the carpet. You point to the redhead on the armchair first. “And Mark, this is Leah. She’s a doctor at UCLA Med.”

Leah lifts her glass to him in greeting but doesn’t smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Mark says and swallows, trying to keep it casual. “You too.” 

“She saves little kids from cancer, so she’s basically a saint,” the still-nameless brunette adds and shoots you a playful glare. “Which is why you should’ve introduced me first. Who wants to follow that act?”

You snort a small laugh. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” you deadpan and then look at him. “Mark, this is Maya. She’s an actress-slash-waitress-slash-magician’s assistant.”

“Actress, huh?” Mark quirks a brow. “Have I seen you in anything?”

“Uh, well, a few weeks ago, I was on an episode of Criminal Minds,” Maya tells him with eccentric charm. “I got murdered and zipped up in a body bag.”

He snorts. “Was it a good death?”

“Eh,” you say teasingly. “She had to stay in the body bag for three hours and had a panic attack.”

“Hey!” Maya protests and throws some popcorn at you. “My director said I was excellent at playing dead. I went in the bag twenty minutes before the scene, so I could go full method, you know?”

“Oh, I get it,” Mark says. “Improv’s the most important thing if you really wanna sell a role. You only get one shot.”

“Exactly!” Maya agrees enthusiastically. “Look at you, knowing your stuff. Where you a theater kid in high school, Mark?”

“Uh, nope, not even a little,” he replies and slowly settles down on the couch as you hand him a beer.

Maya slides closer on the floor and builds herself a comfy seat out of throw pillows, while you take the place next to him, but you’re still keeping plenty of space between his leg and yours – an entire ocean, if you asked him. But he can tell you’re trying to ensure no one mistakes him for a boyfriend, including him. 

“I do some undercover work occasionally,” he adds but doesn’t know why. It’s information you don’t really need.

Your head whips toward him, eyebrows raised. “Really? You do?”

“Uh, yeah, sometimes,” he replies quickly and clears his throat. 

“Cool,” you say quietly and nod. 

Cool?!

Your ‘cool’ is equivalent to your ‘alright,’ and you never gift him more interest than that. Honestly, the more he hangs out with you, the bigger of a mystery you’re becoming to him. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around, though?

“No shit,” Maya says with a delighted gleam in her eyes. “That’s amazing! See, this is what I’m talking about. Method. Immersion. You do the whole thing? Like with a wig and fake name and everything?”

“No bad wig, but fake name? Definitely,” Mark answers and is surprised himself that he does. But this is harmless. He’s allowed to share that stuff. He’s just usually not allowing himself to do it, but maybe this little background information comes in handy in the future if he ever needs another excuse. 

“It’s hard, isn’t it? Pretending to be someone else all the time and trying not to slip?” Maya says with so much nonchalance it’s almost painful.

“I’m sure he’s got plenty of experience in that,” Leah comments wryly. 

She hasn’t said anything since she’s greeted him or even really smiled once, but he feels her eyes on him the entire time. Her body language is closed off, and she clearly doesn’t buy the performance. He’s sure she’s watching the way he sits next to you, noticing the slight graze of his arm against yours and the way your body unconsciously leans into his like a tide returning to shore.

She’s seeing things you don’t and doesn’t like any of it. And while Maya keeps lobbing questions like confetti, Leah judges in silence.

“Right, yeah, you’ve probably been doing this for a while.” Maya nods, oblivious to the subtle tension in the room. “People think it’s easy, but even playing dead is a craft that takes discipline. I didn’t blink once while I was lying face down on that carpet. Didn’t even scratch my nose.”

“Tell me about it,” Mark huffs a chuckle in agreement and tries to ignore Leah’s stare as best as he can. “Once had to fake OD’ing in a halfway house. Almost pissed myself holding my breath for too long.”

“Really?” Maya gasps and leans forward on her knees. “Can I pick your brain sometime about your methods?”

“Sure,” he replies kindly and gifts you a smile when you meet his eyes briefly with a grateful look that pretty much says ‘thank you for indulging my friends.’ 

Maya then effortlessly entertains the whole room for over an hour. She tells him about her second job as a magician’s assistant for children’s birthday parties. Her boyfriend’s the magician.

“He’s a sweet guy,” she says.

“And a little weird,” you add, giggling under your breath. 

“Don’t you dare tell that story!” she warns you but is already laughing.

Mark chuckles, glancing at you. “What story?”

You smirk mischievously behind your wine glass. “During sex, he once pulled a coin out of her… Well, I think you can guess.”

Mark’s head snaps toward Maya, brows shooting high. “Seriously? And you’re still dating the guy?”

“He promised he’d never do that again! And like I said, he’s sweet. It’s hard to find a normal guy in LA, okay?” she defends, her bubbles of laughter echoing through the living room. 

“At least it wasn’t a bunny,” Mark jokes and feels his cheeks warm when he hears you snort a loud laugh.

“Funny,” Maya retorts with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “What’s your weird thing, huh?” 

Mark shrugs his shoulders and sips his beer. “Don’t think I have one.”

“Yet.” You grin.

He cocks a brow at you. “You waiting for that?”

You shrug coolly and wiggle your eyebrows. “Maybe.”

Maya’s lips then draw a mischievous smirk. “So, Detective Mark, ready for your interrogation?” 

“Jesus Christ,” you sigh next to him and grab the wine bottle to refill your glass. “Do not answer anything she asks you.” 

Mark just grins. “No promises.”

“How would you describe your guys’ sex life? Wild, mind-blowing, carnal?” Maya grins and casually takes a sip of her wine. 

“Maya…” you growl warningly. 

“Carnal?” Mark’s brow raises as he shoots you a glance. You’re sinking deeper into your couch cushions, trying not to look at him. “Is that the word you used?”

“Nope,” you reply, popping the p with feigned casualness. “Don’t know what that means. Never even heard that word before.”

Mark snorts and teasingly nudges your thigh with his knee. 

“You believe that, Mark?” Maya prompts with a conspiratorial look. 

Mark smirks in response, his eyes fixed on you. “Not even a little.”

“Believe what you want,” you huff playfully. “I’m not saying anything without a lawyer present.”

“Lawyering up already, huh? You know that makes you look more guilty, right?” he teases. 

You break into soft laughter that you’re trying to contain. “Shut up.”

He barks a laugh and fights the urge to kiss you. If your friends weren’t here and watching him like an eagle, he would’ve done it already. 

“Okay, so, next question. Have you ever handcuffed her?” Maya asks without an ounce of shame. 

“Maya!” you gasp with a scolding look that makes him laugh. 

“Uh, no, not yet,” Mark replies, biting back the amusement over your flushing cheeks. 

“Interesting answer,” Maya muses with a level of seriousness close to a college professor. “Would you ever handcuff her?” 

“Dear God,” you groan and bury your face in your palms. 

He chuckles. “Only if she commits a felony.” 

Mark glances at you and catches the heat in your cheeks and the way you try not to look directly at him now. He tries not to enjoy it too much but fails miserably.

“Maya, please stop talking,” you downright beg her. 

“What? C’mon!” Maya protests. “It’s a friendship thing. I just wanna know if the cop’s worth his badge. I’m making sure you get everything you want out of this experience.”

“Honestly, I agree with her,” Mark teases you and gently bumps your arm with his shoulder, raising a brow. “You getting everything you want outta this?”

Your mouth falls open slightly. “Don’t encourage her,” you warn him playfully. 

He watches you sip your wine, eyes a little brighter than before, and something twists in his chest. You’re relaxed and laughing with your friends, and all he wants to do is bottle the goddamn sound and take it with him. His hand somehow ends up on your thigh, just above the knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. You smile at him softly, and he matches it. 

And that’s when Leah stands up abruptly, pretending to look at her phone. “I’m gonna grab some water.”

She leaves faster than his eyes can track her retreat to the kitchen. He wants to relax, play along with Maya’s teasing, and bask in the way your thigh presses against his, but Leah’s still in the forefront of his mind like a blinking red light. Her silence all night has said enough. She knows he’s not just a detective with a charming smirk and a late-night habit of showing up on your doorstep. 

Honestly, he doesn’t even want to imagine what she thinks of him, much less what she’ll tell you once he’s gone, but he can hear the countdown ticking louder in his head now. 

Only this time, his minutes with you are running out. 

So, before he can even spin a plan to its fruition, he’s on his feet with an excuse to grab another beer and finds Leah already at the sink, filling her glass. She doesn’t look at him right away, so he opens the fridge, grabs a beer he doesn’t want, and gives himself a full five seconds to pull it together. 

But Leah’s already turned from the sink before the timer’s up and is watching him now. She leans against the counter, water glass in hand, expression cool and collected.

“So, UCLA Med, huh?” Mark starts lightly with a clear of his throat and pretends this is part of normal fucking small talk, even though either party knows it really isn’t. 

“Yup. And I help out at its satellite clinics,” Leah replies with a casual edge in her voice. 

“Right, yeah…” Mark gives her a faint smile, nodding. 

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell her,” Leah says with less judgment than he expected. 

Still, his heart drops so hard it feels like it hits tile when he hears those words. There’s no more pretending she doesn’t actually know. The truth is out. And for a second, all the smart-ass deflection dies in his throat – the badge-polish and the charm. It’s just him, bare, still holding a beer he doesn’t want with his stomach twisting itself into a goddamn knot.

He blinks in bewilderment and swallows. “What?” 

“I won’t tell her where I know you from,” she clarifies with as much calm as possible, but he still clocks the bitterness in her voice. 

He stiffens, hand tight around the bottle. He doesn’t answer right away, just unscrews the cap slowly and tosses it into the sink.

“So you do remember me,” he mutters and washes the realization down with a big gulp of beer. 

“You were hard to miss in the waiting room.”

He scoffs a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, well, not my best fucking season.”

“It’s not my place, alright? But I think you should tell her,” she says. 

Mark clicks his tongue, rubbing his jaw. “Look, uhm, I appreciate the advice. I do, okay? But I don’t think she needs to be involved in any of my shit. I don’t want her to be, you know? I don’t wanna drag her down with any of this… bullshit. This is supposed to be fun. Nothing more, alright? And she knows that, too.”

Leah’s brow creases significantly as she crosses her arms over her chest. Her head tilts. “What kind of cancer do you have?”

He taps his forehead in response. 

“Glioblastoma?”

He nods and pockets his hands in his jeans. “Yup.”

“Jesus,” she huffs, more upset than he’s seen her so far. “You’re terminal? Seriously?” She runs a hand through her red locks, shaking her head. “Listen, what you’re doing might be fun now, but it won’t stay this way, alright? It’s gonna turn fast. You’re not gonna be able to keep this up much longer.”

“I know that,” he assures her calmly, but his teeth begin to grit. 

“Does she?” Leah nods toward the living room. “What happens when you don’t show up one day? You want her to think she got ghosted by some asshole who used her and bailed? Casual or not, you honestly think she’s not gonna care about what happened to you?”

“I’m a cop. She knows me not showing up one day is always a possibility. She knows what she signed up for,” he replies a little too defensively because he’s been telling himself that same lie ever since this thing with you started. 

In fact, he still believes the job will get him before the cancer does. He has to. 

“It’s not the same,” Leah argues. “She didn’t sign up for you wasting away right next to her without a word. You’re not dying in a shootout. You’re dying slowly.”

Mark winces. It’s subtle, but he knows she saw it.

“What happens if you collapse in her kitchen one morning or forget her name or get a goddamn seizure in front of her?” she asks and calls all his worst nightmares by their name. “Hell, maybe you’ll even get one during sex. And she’s not even gonna know what’s happening or how to help you. You think she’s just gonna laugh that off because you’re not exclusive? You really wanna do that shit to her?” 

He licks his lips and averts his eyes to the kitchen floor. It’s not brand-new information per se. He’s thought about all these things before, chided and punished himself endlessly, and yet, he still finds his way back to you each and every time. 

Finally, Mark dares to meet her eyes. “You think I haven’t thought about all of that?” 

“You clearly haven’t thought hard enough,” she says bluntly.

“Look, uhm, I’ll end it before it ever gets to that, alright?” he tries to promise, to swear on his goddamn life if possible, but he’s not even sure he can do it convincingly. He knows in his heart that he doesn’t believe those words himself. 

“That’s not really up to you, is it?” Leah’s voice is soft, but there’s steel underneath. “She’s already let you in, you know? She jokes like it’s casual, but she looks at you like you matter. I can see it.”

Mark shakes his head. “It’s not like that.”

“It doesn’t matter what you call it,” she says, quiet but firm. “She trusts you. She cares. You don’t know her, but I do. She doesn’t let people in easily.”

“I didn’t ask her to.”

“You didn’t have to.”

That lands sharp. He sips the beer to mask the sting and to keep his jaw from tightening more.

“You’re in her house. You’re in her bed. She deserves to know who she’s letting in,” she adds. 

He swigs more beer and leans a hip against the counter. “What do you want me to tell her, huh? That I’m doing the brave thing? Fighting the good fucking fight? Hoping I go out on the job before the thing in my head kills me?” 

“No,” Leah replies, sharper now. “I want you to be honest with her. Stop pretending this is harmless. You really want her to find out the wrong way?” 

He knows she’s right. That’s the worst part. He can feel it already – days that start in a fog, the quiet gaps in his memory, the way simple words slip away like the wind.

“If things get worse, I’ll deal with it,” he murmurs weakly, because he already knows what Leah will say. 

“Will she get to deal with it, too? Or are you just gonna vanish one day and let her think she meant nothing?” 

He wants to tell her she’s wrong. That this is just a fling. That she doesn’t know the half of it. That he’s protecting you. That he’s fucking sparing you.

But every excuse he could come up with sits limp on his tongue because it’s all fucking bullshit. 

Leah sighs and steps closer. “I know this sucks, and I’m sorry this is happening to you. I really am. But she gets to decide what she wants to be a part of, and what’s fucked up is you taking that decision away from her. You owe her the truth. Even if it’s just so she knows what she’s walking into.” 

“You think I don’t wanna tell her? That it’s easy?”

Leah exhales through her nose, and her voice softens. “I don’t think any of it is easy. But not telling her won’t make it easier, either. It’ll just make it worse when the truth catches up to you.” 

He stares at the tiles by his boots. Her words stick like fucking asphalt in August. 

Leah doesn’t push further but walks toward the doorway, water bottle in hand. Before she disappears back into the living room, she glances back. “I don’t think you’re a bad guy, by the way. But you’ve got a clock ticking, and pretending it’s not loud doesn’t make it go quiet.” 

And then she’s gone, leaving him standing in the hush of the kitchen with his warm beer and the buzz in his ears.

After a minute, Mark steps back into the living room like he’s not fucking falling apart. 

Maya is the first one to spring up when the ride-share text dings, practically singing the alert as she waves her phone. “Okay, ladies and one amateur thespian,” she says, sweeping her jeans jacket off the back of your dining chair. “Our ride is two minutes away. I repeat, two.” 

“Got it.” Leah follows behind her with a far more subdued energy, cool and quiet as she grabs her water from the coffee table and slips her shoes on near the door.

“Amateur?” Mark playfully raises a brow at the quirky brunette. “Who are you calling an amateur, huh? I’m taking my craft seriously.”

Maya plays along, but the laughter already bubbles underneath. “Oh, I’m sure lives depend on it.”

Mark snorts, chuckling. “They actually do.”

“Maya, car,” is all Leah says, motioning impatiently to the door. 

“Right.” The brunette nods resolutely, pursing her lips.

You walk them both out with a smile, arms wrapping around Maya first, who hugs you hard and whispers something in your ear that makes you elbow her in the ribs with a laugh. 

“Tell him to be gentle,” Maya teases in a not-at-all-whisper as she glances back at Mark with a mischievous glint in her hazel eyes. “But not too gentle, if you know what I mean. Thespian trade secret,” she adds with a wink.

You groan. “Maya, for the love of God–”

Mark chuckles lowly, amused. “I’ll take the note under advisement.” 

You shoot him a glare that only makes him smirk harder. Maya beams. Leah sighs at the door. 

When Leah hugs you goodbye, she pulls you close and murmurs something that Mark knows is for your ears only. His heart beats so fast it feels close to exploding, fearing the worst, but when you let her go, you only nod with a soft smile. 

The door clicks shut behind them, and the comfortable silence returns. 

You’re fluffing the throw pillow Maya stole to sit on and clearing space on the couch like you’re expecting him to plop back down and stay the night like he usually does. But he’s still standing frozen in the middle of your living room like he’s unsure whether to sit or fucking bolt.

But the second your eyes meet his, you go still as well. You do that thing you do – that little tilt of your head when you clock something’s off.

He hates how well you’re starting to read him.

“You okay?” you ask gently. “You’re quiet.”

He lifts his beer like it’s some kind of explanation and shrugs. “Just a long day.” 

You keep watching him carefully, brows knitting. That’s new. Usually, you move on right away. But this time, your gaze lingers. 

“You’ve been gone three days,” you note casually. 

Your tone isn’t sharp, just observant – and way too fucking calm for the ache he’s been carrying around since the job ended.

“Yeah,” is all he says, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.

You nod like you understand and take a careful step closer. “Was it an… undercover thing?” 

“Something like that, yeah,” he says. It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole damn case file, either.

You nod, eyes flicking down briefly. “You don’t have to tell me. I know it’s part of the job.” 

He exhales slowly and meets your gaze. “Yeah.”

You’re quiet a second, worrying both your lip and your brow. “I’m sorry about your colleague. You sure you’re okay? If you wanna talk about it–”

“No.”

Shit. That came out harsher than he intended. He half expects you to throw him out and tell him to fuck off. A part of him even wishes you would. The other part of him prays you don’t. 

But you don’t look angry. You don’t press. You don’t yell, even though he can tell by the slight flinch of your shoulders that it had at least thrown you a little. 

Instead of doing any of that, you wrap your arms around his waist and rest your head on his chest, cheek pressing against his wildly beating heart. 

He hopes you don’t listen too intently and closes his eyes for a long moment. 

You’re warm. And soft. And you smell like that shea butter lotion he once borrowed because his elbows felt dry. 

“They like you,” you murmur against him.

He snorts. “Maya does.”

“True. Leah’s still on the fence, I guess.” You chuckle, then arch an eyebrow. “Did she lay into you in the kitchen?”

Mark swallows lightly. “Nah, wasn’t that bad. All I gathered was that she’s just protective of you.”

In reality, though, his skin still feels tight and his chest still hollow from Leah’s words.

“Yeah, that’s her,” you say, laughing softly into his shirt. “She just runs a background check in her head every time I bring someone new around.”

Mark hums and rests his chin on your crown, his fingers idly brushing the strap of your tank top. “Does that happen a lot? You bringing someone new around?”

You gently draw back and glance up at him. There’s a hint of amusement gleaming in your eyes. 

Yeah, it’s an inappropriate question and none of his goddamn business. He knows it. You know it. And still, now it’s floating in the damn room. 

“No, not really,” you reply simply and slide out of his embrace. It’s so graceful he barely notices that you’re doing it, but he keeps his hands on you.

He can tell you’re telling the truth – but not the full one. Now he wonders why. Wonders why you are the way you are. Wonders what came before him. 

None of your goddamn business. Stay in your fucking lane…

But then he wonders what comes after him. 

“I think you handled them well, though,” you note cheekily, your hands smoothing over his chest and then wandering up to his shoulders. “Especially Maya. Sorry about that, by the way.”

“No, uh, it’s fine. She’s funny. I’ll give her that.” He chuckles a little. “And trust me. I’ve been through worse as far these things go. Melinda’s friends used to fucking gang up on me constantly.”

“Melinda?”

Fuck. 

There it is. Too much, too fast. 

“Uh, yeah.” He hesitates, probably too long. “Ex-… girlfriend.”

It comes out clipped – neutral. But his pulse is jumping a little higher than it should be. He could probably spin this blatant lie in a way that would give him plausible deniability. He could say, in theory, every fiancée was a girlfriend once. But who was he kidding? No jury was going to buy that. 

And you? You process it quietly. No digging. No questions. Mark doesn’t know whether to be grateful or fucking unnerved by that. You still don’t ask more about his life. You just take whatever tiny pieces of information he allows you to have, nod like it makes fucking sense, and tuck it somewhere he’ll never see. 

It’s that quiet kind of curiosity he both loves and fucking fears in you.

Sure, he could’ve told you the truth. It’s not a big deal, after all. But you don’t need to know anything about his past either. He doesn’t want to talk about Melinda. He doesn’t want to fucking talk at all. 

He wants to forget the kitchen. Forget Leah. Forget everything.

His thumb brushes circles on your hip. His palm skates up your side, slow and steady. He gently backs you against the wall. Your shoulders touch plaster. He presses one hand beside your head and leans in, mouth brushing the curve of your throat. 

He doesn’t kiss you yet – he lets himself just breathe there. Lets you feel him thinking about it. Lets himself feel it.

God, you’re fucking soft everywhere. He could drown in the space between your shoulder and jaw. Your breath stutters, and his heart fucking flutters. 

He smirks into your skin, dragging his lips just below your ear. “Been thinking about what Maya said,” he murmurs. “The handcuffs.”

You make a small noise in your throat – half laugh, half choke.

Mark moves his hand to your waist and presses in slowly – not quite grinding, but enough to make his point. His other hand tangles with yours and brings it up above your head, just to show you how it could feel.

“Ever done anything like that?” he asks.

You shake your head, swallowing. “No.”

“Me neither.” He looks down at you. “Would you?” He clears his throat a little, prevents the lump from even forming. “I mean, only if you’re into that. I do… have them, you know?”

Jesus fuck, he’s a mess. He shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t drag you in deeper. 

You hesitate, but there’s a flicker in your eyes. He grins against your cheek, sensing the way your body shifts closer without meaning to.

“Yeah… okay.”

His blood is starting to roar. His mind is quiet for the first time since he left your house three nights ago. No slow crawl of tumors stealing his words. No dead bodies. No threats of more. Just you, pliant and flushed and looking up at him like you’re already halfway there. 

You’re the one who pulls him down for a kiss first, but he’s the one who deepens it. And when your fingers twist in his hair, he knows he’s not fucking going anywhere.

Not tonight. Not anytime soon. 

You lead the way into the bedroom, but he’s the one in charge the second you cross the threshold.

You’re already laughing when he kicks the door shut behind you – not a belly laugh, but that breathy little one that slips out when you’re trying to act cool and fail. And fuck, if that doesn’t make him want to ruin you more.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you from the door, arms crossed as you kick off your shoes and stretch. You look soft and flushed and so fucking carefree in this moment, and he has no goddamn clue what he did to deserve that. 

You turn around to say something, but he cuts you off by holding up the cuffs. The pretense stops. No more small talk. Just you, barefoot and backlit by lamplight, your eyes on him with that perfect mix of curiosity and need. 

“Up on the bed,” he says, trying to hide the smile under the gravel in his voice. “And lose the shirt.”

You obey with a little smirk and climb onto the mattress, sitting on your knees. You take your top off so slowly he knows you’re daring him to stare – and he does.

Jesus, he fucking does. 

He’s seen you like this before – a dozen times now. But it still knocks the air out of him. Maybe because he knows he’s leaving soon. Maybe because it’s never just your body that undoes him – it’s your goddamn trust. Your sheer willingness. 

He follows slow. Controlled. Unhurried. Pretending he’s not already fucking hard from the moment your eyes widened at the clink of metal in his pocket. He wanted to try this. Still can’t believe you said yes. 

Now he’s going to take his time with you. Make it count. Burn it into his memory so deep nothing will ever scrape it clean. 

Your bra catches his sight. Black. Lacy. Pretty little thing that’s doing a shit job at hiding how hard your nipples are right now. He runs a knuckle along the underside of your tit, then tugs the strap down off your shoulder with his teeth. He unhooks you and cups your breasts like he’s claiming territory, thumbs brushing your nipples until your head tips back. 

And that’s just the fucking top half.

“Fuck, look at you,” he mutters. “You want this bad, don’t you?”

You nod once – barely. 

The second your back hits the mattress, he makes a slow show of undoing your jeans, tugging them down your thighs with that rough, callused grip that makes you shiver and squirm under him. 

“Arms up,” he murmurs, then smirks a little. “You’re under arrest.”

You laugh softly and arch a brow. “For what?”

He leans in, mouth brushing your ear. “For reckless endangerment. Possession of stolen property. Resisting arrest. All of the above.”

“What did I steal?”

He brushes his lips along your throat. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

You grin – warm and sweet and perfect. “Maybe I’ll confess.”

He snorts. “Oh, you would.”

He then threads the cuffs through the slats of your headboard and takes your wrists in his hands, presses a kiss to each one before snapping the cuffs around them. Just enough pressure. Just enough sound. Just snug enough to make you feel it. You shiver when the metal clicks into place. Final. 

Your legs fall open for him, breaths shallow. He sinks to his knees between them, fingers dragging down your ribs, your waist, your hips. His lips crash against yours like he needs to claim something. Every inch of your mouth, your throat, your skin is borrowed time. 

Then he presses one kiss just above the waistband of your panties – black lace, barely there. Two thick fingers rub faintly over the wet patch of fabric. Your thighs tremble. 

“You this wet already, sweetheart? I barely even touched you,” he teases, breath hot against your skin. 

Another open-mouthed kiss just above your clit follows, through lace and cotton. Then he hooks his thumbs in your panties and takes his time easing them down your curves. Tosses them behind him. 

Your whole body’s on edge now, bare in front of him, and he hasn’t even gotten to the fucking main act yet.

Your spine is arching, already shifting forward against him, the curve of your waist fucking lethal. Your pupils are wide, lips parted. Waiting. 

And he could fuck you right now. Could bury himself in that perfect pussy and feel the heat of you wrapped around him, but–

“Be right back,” he says, smirking like the bastard he is. “Don’t move.”

“Seriously?” you laugh, blinking up at him. “What kind of detective abandons a suspect mid-interrogation?”

He shrugs, already heading for the door. “One who’s got an idea.” 

“Wait–… Where are you–” 

He tosses you a wink as he slips out with a muttered, “Gotta grab something. You just lie there and think about what you’ve done.”

You groan. “Mark!”

He’s pretty sure you can still hear his deep laugh from the kitchen. And when he comes back, he’s holding a glass full of ice. 

“I had to improvise,” he says, placing the glass on the nightstand. “Figured if we’re already playing dirty, might as well cool you down a little.”

Your eyes widen immediately, then your head falls back into the pillow with a whine. “Oh, come on…”

“Too late,” he smirks, crawling back over you, settling between your legs. “Suspect is already in custody.” 

“Mark–” Whatever you wanted to say gets cut off by your own shaky little giggle when he plucks an ice cube from the tumbler. 

“You good?” he asks, pausing just long enough to meet your eyes. 

You nod and gift him a smile. “So good.” 

“I’m serious,” he says, one hand trailing up your thigh. “You don’t like something, you tell me. Doesn’t matter what it is, okay?”

That softens you. You nod again. “I will.” 

He leans down and kisses your knee. “Good girl.”

Then he gets to work. 

It starts at your sternum. Cold. Sharp. Your breath catches as it trails downward, the contrast lighting your nerves on fire. He follows the melting path with his mouth – hot where the ice was cold. Soothing. Teasing. Cruel.

He kisses between your tits, then each nipple, watching them pebble tight, then laps away the chill with the heat of his tongue, alternating warm licks and icy touches until you’re arching under him, cursing his name like a fucking religion. 

“You ever let someone do this before?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“Good. Wanna ruin you first.” 

The next cube grazes your inner thighs – cold, shocking, making you jolt and hiss. He shushes you with his mouth, kisses a trail up your belly while the melting water drips slowly across your skin. 

“You like that?” he murmurs, breath hot against your damp skin.

You nod, shaking. “God, yeah…” 

He takes a new cube, glides it across your stomach. Down your hipbone. Lower and lower and lower still. You moan when he runs it along your slit, not inside – just over. By the time it reaches your clit, you’re panting. 

“Fuck, Mark–”

“Still good?” he murmurs.

You gasp, nodding. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

He smiles. “Thought so.”

And then he licks you. Long and deep, tongue flat and filthy, and the way you moan under him almost breaks his goddamn restraint in half. But instead, he brings you to the edge over and over, tongue flicking against your clit, fingers teasing inside, and every time you get close – he pulls away. 

“Mark–fuck–please–”

“You’re not coming yet,” he rasps, voice thick and dark. “Not until I say.”

The sound you make is half frustration, half desperation. You actually sob when he pulls away. And he fucking loves it. It’s going straight to his cock. He’s hard as a fucking rock. 

He kisses your thigh as a consolation prize. “Not yet, baby.”

Then he uncuffs you with a practiced twist of the key and flips you gently onto your stomach, pinning your hands behind your back this time and locking them again. 

The position has you squirming. Ass up. Cheek pressed to the sheets. Legs spread wide for him. 

He pauses, body hovering over yours. “You sure?”

You look back at him, dazed and grinning. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

He kisses the back of your neck, his breath tickling the shell of your ear, his cock pressing against your ass. “By the way, you don’t have the right to remain silent.”

You snort a giggle into the sheets, body eagerly pushing back against him. He’s still chuckling when he grabs your hips and lines himself up. 

He pushes inside fucking slow, filling you inch by inch, groaning against your shoulder as he bottoms out. 

You’re soaking. Tight. Hot. Goddamn perfect.

“Fuck, you feel that?” he grits.

You whimper, nodding frantically.

He fucks you in long, slow strokes – each one designed to make you feel it, to drag the moment out like it’s the last time he’ll get it, the kind of rhythm you feel in your soul. His hands run along your spine, grip your hips, keep you grounded as he buries himself deep in you again and again. Every sound you make goes straight to his cock. 

Every tremble, every whisper of his name, every broken gasp – it’s too much and not enough all at once. 

“You’re everything,” he mutters before he can stop himself. “Fucking everything.”

And when you come?

It rips through you like a fucking storm – loud, messy, real. Your whole body tightens, shudders, and cries out his name like an anthem. You clench around him so hard he almost fucking blacks out.

He spills inside you seconds later – deep, hard, guttural – fucking you through it until he collapses over your back, groaning like he’s breaking apart from the inside. His head drops to your shoulder, his whole body trembling against yours.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Doesn’t say anything either. Just stays there, breathing hard, forehead pressed to your back like maybe, just maybe, he’ll be okay for one more night. 

When he finally manages to uncuff you and rolls off, you both lie there for a second in stunned silence. Sticky. Breathless. Spent.

You glance at the mess between your thighs and sigh. “I think we forgot the condom.” 

He blinks, letting out a shaky breath. “Fuck. Shit… Sorry.”

You only snort calmly in response and kiss his jaw. “It’s fine. Plan B’s in the top drawer somewhere.” 

He watches as you reach lazily for the nightstand. You grab the pill and swallow it without a second thought – completely unbothered, completely fucking you. 

And for the first time in weeks, he can’t think of a single fucking thing to say. He just lies there and doesn’t move, heart still pounding, wondering what the hell he’s doing. He doesn’t know what scares him more: how good that just felt, or the fact that it’s already too late to pretend this thing between you is still fucking simple.

Because for a man so determined not to leave anything behind, he might have just left something that could potentially matter. And whatever line he thought he was keeping, it’s long fucking gone by now.

▶️ Double Vision in a Rose Blush – SOON

As you've probably noticed, I've set up two fairly obvious twists in this part 😂

I'm currently writing Part 8 of this series and editing 5-7, so hopefully you'll get the next one real soon ✌️

Coming Up:

You stare at him for a second, eyes narrowing more with each inch your head tilts to the left side. “You’re bleeding.”

He follows your gaze down to the small, slow bloom of red on his crisp white dress shirt – right where one of the consulate’s security guards landed a lucky shot before Mark knocked his ass out. He hadn’t even noticed it was still bleeding. Probably reopened it getting out of the damn car.

He tries to brush it off. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

You sigh – audibly and full of disappointment. He suddenly knows what your kids must feel like when you’re mad at them.

“Bathroom. Follow me,” you tell him, your tone certainly leaving no room for any sort of discussions as you head straight for your destination.

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[zepskiesreads]

EYES ON YOU

Pairing: Beau Arlen x Female Reader

Summary: Beau fears his nightmare is about to become his reality. Can he prevent that from happening and keep you safe?

Word Count: 1656

A/N: Written for the lovely @zepskies 'Summer Writing Challenge'.

I asked for a GIF prompt for Beau Arlen and was given the one above.

This is set in the same universe as TAKEN (my first Beau entry into the Challenge). This is technically the 2nd part to that, but can also be read on its own.

Warnings: Angst/fear/comfort. Mentions of kidnapping. Mentions of stalking. Protective Beau.

Groaning, Beau looked at the pile of paperwork stacked on his desk. The worst bit about being the Sheriff in Beau's mind, the endless stream of paperwork. Which is why he's been using any excuse he can to put it off. But now he's getting pressure to finish it, so he finds himself stuck at his desk, coffee turning cold as he forces himself to ignore the busy hum of activity outside his office, to focus on the task in front of him.

Reaching for another file he hears a knock on his door. Glancing up Beau sees Poppernak poking his head inside. “Not now popcorn.” He tells his deputy with a slight shake of his head.

“Sorry, but it can't wait. You really need to hear this.” Poppernak insists.

“Ok,” Beau waves him in. “What you got Pops?”

“Uh… you're not gonna like this Sir. Sorry Beau,” he corrects himself when Beau raises his brow at him. “The surveillance team just phoned in. They've lost sight of Austin Miller.”

Beau freezes. “What?! How long ago?”

“About an hour.” Pops grimaces, knowing how his boss is going to feel about the news.

“So why are we only hearing about this now?”

Shaking his head Poppernak gives a slight shrug of his shoulders.

"Dammit!” Beau bangs his hand down on his desk in frustration. “We need to find him. Now!”

“On it.” Poppernak calls out as he turns, leaving his bosses office to chase down any leads he can find on Austin Miller's whereabouts.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket to call you, panic begins to wash over Beau, intensifying when his call goes straight to voicemail. ‘No. No. No. This can't be happening!’ He thinks to himself. His nightmare about your kidnapping coming back to him. Segments flashing through his mind. Taunting him.

He calls your cell again, “c'mon sweetheart pick up,” his call going unanswered once more. “Where are you?”

“I should have protected her, “I should have kept her safe.”

“You're too late Sheriff, she's not here” Miller laughs. “She's gone.”

As he walks past Beau with an evil grin, he taunts him one last time. “You're never going to find her.”

Blinking away those thoughts, he grabs his keys and heads out of his office. He needs to find you. Rushing out the front of the building, heading towards his car. He didn't really know where to start but he knew he needed to try. This time of day you should be finishing work, he thinks to himself so he'll head over there first and see where that leads him.

As he's about to reach his car he hears it.

“Beau!”

Your voice calling him. Spinning around, he sees you, relief instantly hitting him. You're here.

You run straight to him and wrap yourself around him sobbing into his chest.

Beau gently runs his hand through your hair tucking it behind your ear and pulls you in tighter. Holding you while you cry. One big hand on the back of your head, his other arm wrapped around you keeping you close. Waiting for you to be ready to talk to him.

“I got you,” he whispers to you. “I got you.” Resting his chin on the top of your head.

When your cries begin to subside he pulls back just enough to look at your face.

“Hey. You ok?” His hands moving up to your face and running through your hair

“What happened Hmm?”

“Um…” you sniffed. “I'd just started walking home from work and this… creepy guy stopped me. He uh, he walked right out in front of me and just… stopped. I nearly walked straight into him.”

“What made him creepy?” Beau asked.

“Just a feeling he gave me,” you reply, as Beau nods encouraging you to continue.

“He started talking to me… like he knew who I was. He knew my name, and he mentioned you.” A confused expression spreading across your face.

Beau's jaw clenched hearing that but he forces his voice to stay calm and reassuring. “What did he say sweetheart?”

“Umm. Well, first he apologised for stopping right in front of me. Like he was trying to be nice. Said he didn't see me. Which seemed weird, ‘cause I swear he looked straight at me when he did it. Then he told me it was really good to see me again. Beau, I've got no idea who this guy is, or how he knows my name!” Panic setting in again.

“It's ok baby. I got you.” He gives you a reassuring look, hand cupping your face. “What else?”

“He asked me if I was your girl? I didn’t want to answer him, but I thought…” You pause, taking in a shaky breath. “I thought if I told him I am, and I was on my way to meet you now, y'know he might get the hint and leave me alone.”

Beau nods calmly to reassure you, and encourage you to continue. He has a pretty good idea who you’re talking about. And although he's not going to show you, he can feel his anger rising.

“But he didn't,” you continued, “and he started to follow me, still trying to talk to me. Said maybe he could walk me to you. Make sure I got there ok.”

Beau tensed.

“I told him no thanks and he just stopped talking and followed behind me in silence. I tried to walk quicker to get away from him, but it didn't help. Even when I was weaving in and out of people, he was just right there.” Fresh tears started to fall. “And I knew I had to get to you, so I ran as fast as I could to get here. I don't… I don't know when I lost him, or if he's still watching me.”

“It's ok darlin’,” Beau murmured, pulling you back into a tight hug. “I got you. I got you. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. Ok.”

You nod face buried in Beau's chest. He can feel you relaxing slightly in his arms, Although the grip you have on his shirt remains firm.

“Let's go to my office,” he tells you, guiding you into the station with his arms still wrapped around you. I need to show you something.” Nodding you allow him to lead you inside.

When you reach his office Beau shuts the door and sits you down on the couch showing you a picture of Miller. “Is this the man who was following you?”

Watching your reaction, looking at it he knows the answer. You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah, that's him. What's going on Beau? How did you know that was the guy?”

Dragging his hand down his face he looks at you. “I'm sorry. It's my fault.”

He can see the confusion on your face at his admission.

“He's involved in a case I'm working on.” Beau continues, “he saw you when you were here. He knows that we're together. That's how he knew who you were and that is why he started following you. To get at me. I'm so sorry.”

You sit shocked at the revelation. Shifting closer to him, “Why didn't you say anything?” You ask.

“He was under surveillance, and I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily, but he slipped them.”

Nodding in thought he can see you taking it in. He knows you are getting ready to ask him questions he would rather not have to answer.

“What are you investigating him in connection with?” You ask quietly, like you're not really sure you want to hear the answer.

Beau just shakes his head. Not meeting your gaze.

“Please, Beau. This guy seems to know a lot about me. I think it's only fair that I know this about him.”

Beau blows out a deep breath and grabs your hands, gently stroking the backs of them. “Ok. I can’t go into too much detail because it's still an active investigation.”

You nod and squeeze his hands reassuring him.

“There have been some attacks on women in the area recently. Far enough apart that the media haven't made the connection between them, yet.” He begins not meeting your gaze. Not wanting to see the moment you realise what he is telling you.

“But you have. And you think it's this Austin Miller?” You check.

Beau nods. “Yeah we think he's responsible for stalking these women.” Pausing, debating with himself whether or not to tell you the rest.

Exhaling slowly before he continues “And kidnapping them.” He adds.

"And he's after me?” You ask timidly. Fresh tears threatening to make their way to the surface.

“Hey. Look at me.” He tells you, lifting one hand to cup the side of your face. His thumb gently stroking your cheek. “He's not getting to you. You understand. I won't let him. Nothing is going to happen to you. We're gonna find him and arrest him. I'm gonna make sure you’re safe ok. I need you to know that.” His other hand squeezes yours tighter as you meet his gaze.

“How about we get you some things packed up and you come and stay with me till this is all over? I can get one of the deputies to pick up anything you need.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Beau cuts you off, “I would just feel better knowing you were underneath my roof.”

“I would too.”

“Yeah?” He checks, allowing himself to relax a fraction.

You nod in response.

“Ok. Ok.” He breathes out. “And I'm gonna make sure there's a deputy with you if I'm not alright?”

Watching your silent confirmation he feels some relief, knowing that you are not fighting him on any of his safety precautions.

Pulling you into his embrace, he whispers “It's gonna be ok.” Placing a kiss on the top of your head.

Thank you for reading!! Hope you enjoyed this part 2. I'd love to hear what you thought 😊

Main Masterlist

Beau Arlen Masterlist

If you would like to be tagged in anything in the future please find who I wrote for and add yourself on the Tag List (if this doesn't work please let me know) 😊

[zepskiesreads]

Trust

Pairing: QZ!Joel x F!Reader

Word count: 3.6k

Summary: After a deal goes wrong thanks to Joel's impulsive actions, you begin to wonder if he really trusts you, just as you realize that both of you might have deeper feelings than you're willing to admit.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, swearing, angst, established situationship, but they're catching feelings y'all, smut: dirty talk, nipple play, v fingering, unprotected sex (wrap it up people), couch sex, rough sex, I think that's it but tell me if I missed something pls, Reader described with female anatomy, no use of y/n.

A/N: This was written for @zepskies 5K followers celebration Summer Writing Challenge! My prompt was the above^ gif. I hope you like it babe, and congratulations again!! Happy reading everyone!

Main Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Characters Masterlist

The door to Joel’s apartment swung open, the doorknob slamming into the wall and cracking some of the drywall, but you didn’t care.

As you barged through the threshold and shrugged your backpack off your shoulders, you were vaguely aware of Joel’s presence behind you as he softly closed the door in comparison to your actions. You dropped the backpack on the ground as you sucked in a harsh breath and held it, the exhale doing nothing to calm down the fire raging within you against him. You turned around slowly, seeing him avoiding your gaze as he focused on the dent in the wall caused by you with his hands on his hips as he studied the damage. Or at least pretended to.

A rough sigh of your name fell from his lips before he finally glanced at you. “Look-”

“No, Joel,” you interrupted him, holding up your hand to stop him from closing the distance between him. “I had everything under control, and you fucked it up.”

Joel finally looked up at you, pinning you with a glare. “Those guys weren’t gonna give us what we wanted. Not without taking more than the deal we offered.”

His eyes roamed up and down your body, the uncomfortable roll of his shoulders making it clear what he was implying. You had both heard of what some traders were infamous for, but you scoffed in response. You were too angry to entertain that as a possibility.

“No, you just couldn’t let me handle things,” you countered, meeting the intensity of his gaze with your own. “I told them, reassured them that you weren’t anywhere in the vicinity because they’re fucking terrified of you, but of course they caught wind of you and hightailed it outta there! All because you had to be Clint fucking Eastwood!”

He stepped closer to you, his hand reaching for yours but you pulled away. “Listen-”

“We agreed that you were gonna let me do this!” you yelled, shoving your palm into his board chest, his strong build unmoveable to your actions. “How the fuck are we supposed to get Frank’s medication now?!”

As your hand tried to push him back once more, his large calloused fingers wrapped around your wrist and held it in place. His eyes peered into yours, a darkness behind his brown orbs that you had seen several times before, but one that could still give you pause on occasion.

“Keep your voice down.”

You swallowed thickly as your gaze remained locked on his, the anger you felt before resurfacing as you snatched your hand out of his grasp. You scowled, your voice dropping below a whisper as you slowly backed away, wanting as much distance from him as possible. “Fuck you.”

You turned on the heel of your boot and walked towards the bathroom, slamming the door behind you and separating yourself from Joel. Leaning back against the dark wood, you closed your eyes and took several deep breaths, in and out. You had taken some precautions in case things went south with the deal, but you hadn’t predicted it falling apart so spectacularly. You definitely hadn’t thought it would be because of Joel, either. He could be so level-headed most of the time, but the minute someone he cared about was in trouble, he could fly off the handle and let his rage get the better of him so quickly. You had seen it several times with Tommy, but you never thought you would ever experience it yourself. You had both never meant more to each other than smugglers that worked together, with the occasional fuck thrown in when you would find yourselves in need of expelling your frustrations in another way.

You couldn’t really believe that he had come looking for you for any other reason than he didn’t trust you to make the deal with the traders on your own. A little voice would often whisper that Joel felt more for you than he expressed, but you pushed that thought away. Those were just moments that gave you false hope that he could ever care for you the way you did for him.

Maybe in another life - a time before the outbreak - maybe that was when you would’ve found the love that you had always desired.

But you sure as hell weren’t going to find it now.

You decided to take a shower. As you stripped down and turned the tap on, you knew the weak, nonexistent water pressure would fail to wash away your fears, but at least you would be clean. The setting sun streamed in from the small window and through the shower curtain, warming you up more than the water, as you dipped your head under the stream. The lukewarm temperature soon began to turn cold as you twisted the tap closed, pulling the curtain back before you grabbed your towel and wrapped it around yourself.

Wiping yourself down, you took the plaid shirt that was hanging on the back of the door and put it on, buttoning it up. The hem reached your mid-thigh, hiding enough as you didn’t put on anything underneath. You towel dried your hair before you wiped the mirror off, sighing as you knew you had to go out and face whatever was about to happen with Joel.

Pushing the sleeves up, you reached for the doorknob and pulled it open, stepping out before you could talk yourself out of it. The sun had set by now, the dim light in the room coming from a couple of lamps that had seen better days. Your gaze wandered over the apartment before they landed on Joel. He sat on the couch, leaned back with his arm draped over the back, his own gaze averted to the window across the room, either unaware of your presence or he just didn’t care. You really hoped it wasn’t the latter.

Your bare feet padded across the creaky floors slowly, your mind reeling with what you were even going to say to him. Was there anything to say? You stopped just in front of him, easing yourself down on the coffee table to sit right in his peripheral. You stared at his profile, admiring the curve of his nose, strong line of his jaw, the messiness of his grey hair as he still refused to meet your gaze while you sat across from him. You took in the broadness of his chest and the spread of his thick thighs, a layer of denim stretched over them which made him look even more inciting than usual. You breathed in deep, trying your best to not get distracted by his beauty.

“Joel, look at me.”

He turned and finally his eyes locked with yours, his jaw clenching as he remained silent.

“What happened today… it can’t happen again,” you stated, firmly. “But I need to know why it happened in the first place.”

The room was quiet as you waited for him to say something, except for the sound of the tanks that rolled through the streets at that specific time, making sure everyone in the quarantine zone was following curfew. Joel’s fingers drummed softly on the fabric of the sofa, his other hand resting between his spread legs with a glass of whiskey, as his eyes briefly flitted across the room before he looked back at you.

“A bunch of those guys were close to where I was waitin’ for you,” he finally explained, his voice deep and rough as he spoke in a low tone. “I heard what they were sayin’ about you, what they were gonna do to you… and I wasn’t gonna let them touch you.”

You sighed, your eyes fluttered closed as his words sunk in. You leaned forward as you opened them, peering at him as your hands rested on his knees. “Joel, I understand that, but it was all going according to plan. They were gonna get us the medication, they’d get rations in return, they wouldn’t have done anything-”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” he scoffed, glancing at you.

“Even if it is, that doesn’t help us right now,” you snapped back at him, frowning. “Now I have to tell Frank we’re gonna be late in getting him his meds.”

“We’ll find a way,” he said, taking a sip of his drink.

You weren’t sure if he was trying to convince you or himself of that fact, but the truth was, you had no idea who to go now for what you needed.

Joel threw back the rest of the whiskey in the tumbler before letting it rest at the end of the couch. His gaze wandered over you, your wet hair, the beautiful features of your face that he always found himself focusing on, his plaid shirt that you were wearing that made his heart beat a little faster. His eyes dropped down to the bare skin of your thighs and calves, causing him to shift uncomfortably when he felt a heat crawl up his neck. He knew the real reason he did what he did, but he could never tell you that. You had found yourselves in this situation with each other, partners in the smuggling trade of the quarantine zone, and occasionally in each other’s arms to find a release. He could see it in your eyes that you felt more for him than you cared to divulge, but if you could feel it from him was still unclear. He had perfected closing himself off from people, unwilling to show vulnerability in a world that had taken too much from him, and he was sure that if he wasn’t careful that something would take you away, too. Especially if he let down his guard and expressed what you really meant to him.

“Maybe you’re right,” he started, wiping a hand down his face. “Maybe I should’ve just let you handle things, because I know you can, but that doesn’t mean I regret comin’ for you. The only thing I regret is not gettin’ there before those fuckers ran.”

Your whole body became stiff as he finally shifted on the couch and your eyes locked with his. His big brown orbs held so much in the time that you had known him, but this was possibly the first time they held something you couldn’t pinpoint. You were used to seeing some form of guilt, anger, grief… but now, you could see something you thought you never would. It was something he would still never voice, too afraid of the reality that came with that feeling, but it was still there.

Slowly, you sat up from the coffee table and moved the short distance between you. You placed a knee on either side of him on the sofa, straddling his lap as your arms draped around his shoulders, your hands instantly combing through his soft grey strands. His large hands dropped down to the top of your thighs, his calloused fingers grazing your sensitive skin, causing a light shiver to run down your back as they pushed the hem of the shirt up, slightly. His gaze was unwavering from yours, and you felt an overwhelming urge to speak your truth, to tell him what he made you feel, but you didn’t. You didn’t want to scare him away, because having him in this way - with no complications - was better than not having him at all.

So you told him the next best thing, which was equally true.

“Joel, I… I appreciate you. Everything you’ve done for me, I’m not about to forget it any time soon. I just need to know that you trust me. That you trust that I can handle some things without you.”

“I trust you,” he promised, in a husky tone. “And we’re gonna get Frank's meds and whatever else we need. We always do.”

“Yeah,” you whispered, nodding softly.

This wasn’t the first time you and Joel had found yourselves like this - in each other’s embrace on the couch. It wasn’t as common as you both stumbling in through the door and over to his makeshift bed, or other times only making it as far as the kitchen floor when you were far too desperate for each other. This was the first time that the energy between you was charged with something else, however. The uncontrollable need was present, yes, but it felt different. It should’ve scared you, but rather than push it away, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his in a searing kiss, giving yourself over to the feeling completely.

It felt as if Joel’s hands were everywhere all at once, as one slid further up your thigh while the other flicked open the first few buttons of his plaid shirt you were wearing. His large hand slipped in through the opening, cupping over your breast as the kiss deepened between you, his fingers deftly rolling the hardened nub and causing you to moan against his mouth. You pressed yourself further into him, unwilling to separate from the warmth radiating from him. Your own hands plucked at the rest of the buttons, pulling the shirt off and leaving yourself completely naked in front of his fully dressed form. He briefly tore his lips from yours, breathing heavily as his ravenous gaze drifted over your body, his fingers continuing to tweak your nipple into a stiff peak.

“Joel,” you moaned, softly as you cupped his jaw in your hands.

You leaned your forehead against his as the hand on your thigh moved down, a gasp leaving you as it grazed over your mound, no doubt feeling how wet you were already. You had learnt long ago that it didn’t take much for you to be aroused other than his presence, and he often used that to his advantage which you never could protest. He quickly brought two of his fingers to your mouth, your eyes locked as you sucked softly at the digits before they drifted back down, slipping over your folds. A low whimper fell from your lips as they slid into your tight heat, moving back and forth, building a slow, teasing rhythm that had you on edge already.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful, just like this, darlin’,” he muttered, staring up into your eyes. “So fucking tight, taking my fingers so well.”

You responded by shifting your hips against his, trying to meet the agonizing pace of his fingers with the need you had to go harder, faster. You whined in protest as his other hand fell from your breast and circled around your waist, resting on the small of your back to keep you in place and halt your desperate actions. His fingers continued their ministrations, thrusting in and out as he found that specific spot inside you that only he could, making you moan wantonly against his lips. You could feel him growing hard under the confines of his jeans, pressing into your inner thigh as you kept grinding against him. Your skin scraped over the denim, your nipples brushing over the same fabric of his shirt, creating a delicious friction that only enhanced everything he was making you feel.

“Joel, please,” you begged, your fist tugging at his shirt. “N-Need more-”

“I know, darlin’, but you’re gonna cum on my fingers first…”

Just as the words left his mouth in a low groan, his fingers sped up inside you, making you cry out as you clung to him. The digits pressed harder and faster into you, feeling your walls clenching around them with every thrust, making you wetter and bringing you closer to that inevitable release. You felt a heat building low in your core, the coil winding tighter and with one last gasp of his name, you felt it snap. Your arousal coated his fingers as they slowed, your juices flowing down and glistening over his skin as he pulled them out slowly. He brought them to his lips, a deep groan escaping him as he savoured your sweetness, keeping his intense gaze on you. You bit your lip as he pulled them out with a light pop, leaning down before you could stop yourself and moaning at your own taste on his tongue as you kissed, passionately.

Your lips remained fused together as your hands drifted down, reaching for the buttons on his denim shirt, but he stopped you. He reached down and unbuckled his belt, unzipping his jeans as he lifted you up a little, pushing the constricting material down to his knees before you settled back into his lap. You tried to go for his buttons again, only unbuttoning the first two before he pushed your hands away and gathered you in his embrace. His hard cock brushed over your thigh as he pulled you close, taking hold of his shaft as he aligned himself to your entrance. Your eyes met his as you sank down, slowly, drawing back over the head before taking a little more of him. You hummed at the way his girth stretched your walls, something you hadn’t gotten used to but welcomed the delectable sting every single time.

A loud moan escaped you as you took him fully inside you, a deep growl leaving him as your heat encompassed him. You wasted no time as you began to roll your hips along his, already setting a hard pace, the teasing rhythm he had established before long forgotten. He leaned forward, kissing you roughly as his hands dug into your waist, rocking you against him faster as his upward thrusts met with yours. Your mouth ripped away from his as you moaned loudly, not caring who heard you in the neighboring apartments. How could you when he was making you feel like you had reached another plane, almost as if you were looking down in disbelief at the pleasure etched on your face.

Your arms draped over his shoulders as he kissed and sucked at your pulse point, your eyelids fluttering from the ecstasy coursing through you, your blurred vision barely taking in the faded flowery wallpaper behind him. His touch and his kiss were as hard as they usually were when your bodies would meet like this, but just as you had sensed a change in his eyes, you felt it in his actions. From the outside looking in, maybe you both didn’t look any different to your previous trysts, but it was a change only susceptible to you. As his cock pounded deeper and harder into you, as it pressed up against the wall of your cervix, as you felt your core shaking and ready to reach that blissful peak, you also felt your heart swell at the thought this wasn’t just one sided, anymore.

Joel’s mouth trailed down your neck to your collarbone, before paying attention to your nipples as your breasts bounced with each hard thrust. He groaned against you as he continued to guide your hips up and down on his cock, your temple resting against his sweat soaked head, holding him tight to your chest. You never wanted to stop, but as you felt yourself getting closer to the edge, you knew you didn’t want to reach it without him.

“Joel, I-I’m so close,” you whimpered against his ear.

You felt his breath fanning against the curve of your breast, as he nodded slowly. He leaned back and cupped one hand over your cheek, the other still on your hip as you continued the fast pace. Your eyes closed tightly as your inner walls clenched around his thick shaft, your fingers digging into his shirt just as his own dug into your soft skin. He would no doubt leave bruises as he had on other occasions, but you never minded. They were a reminder of what you had shared, lingering for days longer than those fleeting moments of passion.

He pulled you close, leaning his forehead against yours as you felt his hips falter. With another sensual kiss, one that kept the fire burning inside both of you, you could feel the coil tighten as his thrusts became more erratic, sloppier as he held you tight to his body. Your hips dropped down against his a few more times, before you finally felt the dam break once more. His name fell from your lips repeatedly like a prayer, one that you would never tire of reciting. As your second orgasm crashed over you and your wetness covered his cock, he felt himself throbbing deep inside you, ready to join you in that euphoric release. With one last, deep thrust, his head tipped back with a rasping grunt as spurts of his seed coated your walls. The veins in his neck strained as he laid back against the couch, bringing you down with him as his arms wrapped around you.

You both breathed heavily as you came down from your mutual high, his lips resting against your temple as you buried your face in the crook of his neck. You sat back slightly, your mouth hovering over his as you looked deep into his eyes, happy that what you found there before hadn’t dissipated. As you continued to gaze down at him, one side of his lips lifted up briefly before it dropped again, but you still saw it. He picked up his plaid shirt that you had discarded and draped it over you, pulling you close and lightly pressing his lips to your forehead. You sighed softly, feeling him soften inside you as you made no effort to move off him, something he clearly didn’t want either. You rested your head on his chest, breathing him in as your eyes drifted closed, a contentment you had never known before washing over you as you both stayed locked in your embrace.

The words remained unspoken, and maybe they always would be, but you could feel the shift between you both. Joel cared about you. He trusted you, and he wanted to keep you safe.

And that was more than enough to know that he loved you without ever having to say it.

@clubsoft @lowrisemiller @millersdoll

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[zepskiesreads]

You Think I Don't Want To Run To You?

Pairing: Mark Meachum x f!reader, Mark Meachum POV, Reader POV.

Summary: Mark finally gets to see you again, but it doesn't go quite the way he thought it would. This is the third fic in my Jailhouse Rock Series!

Tropes: Slow Burn, Forbidden Love, Angst, Mutual Pining.

Word Count: 5.1K

Warnings: Mentions of Sex/ Sexual Innuendo, Mentions of Blood and Prison Fights, Cursing, Angst, um ANGST, Pain, Reader's sister saying everything that we all know, Reader trying not to be in love with a hot man in prison? Mark might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! I'm just starting to write for Mark, so please be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Listen While You Read 🚨: Rewrite the Stars title of this fic taken from this song.

Jailhouse Rock Playlist 🚨

Main Masterlist

Jailhouse Rock Masterlist

A/N: Thank you so much everyone for all the love and support! So sorry that this chapter took me a little longer, but I will say that the angst does not disappoint.

Mark POV

The chains on Mark's hands jingled with each step he took down the concrete hallway, the dismal gray broken up by a flash of blue whenever a prisoner moved to the bars of their cell to shout something at his retreating figure. The curses and taunts rolled off his back with the smooth movement of his shoulders, each motion making the scratchy fabric of his prison uniform to rub and pull at the nape of his neck.  But Mark wasn't bothered.

Well, he wasn't bothered by their jeers. Sometimes it wasn't so much the sounds of the inmates as much as it was the smells. The lovely smells that seeped through the cracks in the cinderblock, the iron bars , and curdled outside in the heat of the mid-day sun. Thick and oppressive.

Fog dragging itself over the bay before the sun rose to paint the world in rays of golden light. The cloying feel of an eccentric aunt who enveloped you in a sweaty hug. A wool sweater in the middle of a sweltering summer.

Mark had spent his life in locker rooms.

In Middle School where the offensive smell of axe body spray wafted up in a cloud so thick it burned his eyes. In High School when he was more focused on finding his way into the girls locker room while trying to avoid the snap of a towel from Ernie Suggs, the quarterback that rode Mark's ass like he was a prized pony. When he was an Army Ranger and he spent those few free moments before deployment to clear his mind and ground himself and then after deployment to breathe a little easier with the people who were left. And of course his time on the force, snapping his own towel at a few of the cock-eyed rookies.

But none of that prepared him for this.

The smell reminded him of when he was in first grade and his mother took him to a traveling petting zoo that must have gotten lost in his hometown rather than planned a trip. Unfortunately, it had rained and Mark could still remember the moldy stench of barn animals to this day.

The inmates at Palmdale were given three 10-15 minute showers a week, but Mark knew for a fact several of the inmates refused the opportunity. His 'friend' Chen had stopped the week after he got brought in, told Mark that a few minutes under a spray of water wasn't worth his life, not when there were more than enough dangers that lurked at Palmdale.

Personally, Mark thought that standing in a cold or hot shower was worth his life, besides he didn't want to smell like a wet miniature pony all day like the rest of the inmates, not when he got to see you. Sure, he wanted you to think about him the rest of the day, but not be thinking about how he smelled. If he'd met you outside these walls he'd want you to remember the woodsy, but spicy scent of his shampoo at least the same way that he thought about the citrus and floral smell that wafted over him whenever you stood close to him.

He is grateful that he had those few moments with you when he didn't have to smell the inmates anymore. He was also grateful that you didn't smell like vanilla, that would have brought back the same slew of painful memories that he hid in the dark recesses of his mind. Shades in the mist of another woman, one who he still couldn't quite shake.

It had been two days since the prison yard fight and Mark was eager to see you again. He hadn't needed to see you after, not when the only thing that hurt were his knuckles where he split the thin skin  on the other inmate's face.

Mark had spent the past two days in solitary, but it was worth it, because not only had he gotten to lay Luis out, he'd done so much damage that the other inmate had to be taken to a hospital because his injuries were deemed "too severe" for the limited supplies that they had at the prison. And it meant that Luis wouldn't get time with you-

Mark felt his jaw clench down together when he remembered what Luis had said about you, could see the goon-like grin on his face before Mark had tackled him. But just as the anger came, self satisfaction slowly ebbed it away, because Mark would have sat in solitary for a hundred nights for knocking that ridiculous smirk off Luis' face if it meant that he kept Luis the hell away from you.

Of course sitting there did little to shut his mind off, something that he'd hoped that working undercover would help. Instead all it did was allow the thoughts he'd worked so hard to shut out come creeping back in. The sick spiral of images, memories, and things that the adrenaline kept out, came back in the still silence of his cell.

The Tumor.

Melinda.

Rachel.

His Family.

Like a fucked up broken record on repeat all day and night for two days, Mark spun around the deck with the memories of the past screeching along. He was eager to lose himself in the grunts, whispers, and death threats of his fellow inmates. Anything was better than what lurked in the silence.

But somewhere in all of it there were brief moments of reprieve. Mark didn't know how or when or even why, but in those moments where his brain didn't cycle through the freakshow that was his fucked up life, he'd see you.

Feel the gentle dab of a soft cloth against his skin, smell the mist of your perfume, see your bright smile, and hear the soothing cadence of your voice.

The sun finally breaking on the horizon to chase the darkness away, spreading it's light through the arching branches of well worn trees, and sending warmth over Mark's body.

It reminded him of the sunrises he used to watch in the back of his father's pick up in the summer, while the wind whipped though his hair and sent the dust scuttling over the dry cracked earth. Something that reminded him of the good things from home he remembered to block out the bad.

The sharp buzz of the alarm above the door in front of him rings, coupled with the brilliant flash of crimson light, and the guard behind shoves Mark forward into the free space. He was on his way to see you, and Mark was more than eager to comply with whatever the idiot prodding him with his plastic baton like a horny teenager wanted, if it meant getting to you faster.

Mark was still worried.

He didn't know what the Warden had said to you, but he knew it couldn’t be good. Not when it was the first time that Mark had seen you look anything less than happy. He'd lost you in the crowd when the guards pulled him off Luis and shoved him down in the dirt, but he couldn't shake the memory of the  look on your face, couldn't forget the way you cowered back against the fence with the Warden standing over you like a predator cornering it's prey.

Mark saw the glass windowed door of the clinic ahead of him and sent up a little prayer to someone, anyone, that it was you today and not the duct-taped Nike buffoon who never seemed to know what he was doing and usually did more harm than good.

He doesn't see you immediately when the Guard shoves him through the door. Mark's green eyes trace the desk covered in papers, the small cup of pens perched on the corner, and the book folded open with it's pages fanning out against the metal desk-top. It reminded him to bring up The Sun Also Rises. He'd finally cracked it open when sleep wouldn't come and found that it was an interesting read. Plus, if it meant finding something else to talk to you about for the few fleeting moments he was in the infirmary then so be it.

But Mark still doesn't see you.

An uncomfortable feeling tugs in the pit of his stomach, disappointment beginning to settle over him as he prepared to face Dr. Duct Tape.

Sometimes Mark thought it was amusing that the only problem he had about being in prison was not with the inmates but rather with the guy who probably went to clown college to earn his M.D.

"Where the hell is she? I have better things to do than sit here and babysit." The guard behind Mark mutters.

Mark takes a seat on bed, the paper beneath him crinkling with the movement of his body when he gets comfortable. "You got somewhere else to be? Some foot fetish convention or something?"

"Watch it Walker." The guard growls. "Or I'll give the doc another few things to patch up today."

The door behind him opens before Mark can make another snide remark, and he sees you. He isn't prepared for the wave of relief he feels at your appearance, the past two days in solitary fading away, replaced with the image of you.

But today you look different… Your hair isn't as glossy as it usually is, the dark circles under your eyes are deeper, and there's an odd way you're carrying yourself, shoulders raised a little higher, almost… defensive.

He flashes a signature smirk, thinking that maybe you've had a rough morning and he can be just what you need to cheer you up. "What's up Doc?"

It wasn’t the first time that he'd quoted the world famous bunny, the same question had earned him a soft snort and a small smile that quirked on the end of your lips more times than he could count, but not today.

You barely acknowledge his presence, in fact, your eyes remain on the clipboard raised in front of you like a shield. "You're here for stitch removal?"

Although it is a question, it comes across like a statement of fact.

Mark feels his smirk slip into a frown.

You cross the room, eyes trained on the clipboard not once looking up at him, and Mark suddenly feels as if a bucket of cold water has been dumped over his head. He'd never seen you like this before, not cold, never emotionless, but here you were actively avoiding his gaze each time he tried to catch your eye.

"I don't know, kinda think chicks dig the Frankenstein look." Mark says hesitantly to test the waters, but you don't laugh, don't even smile or acknowledge that you heard his joke.

He watches you pull the supplies from the cabinet, each movement mechanical, your shoulders still tensed. He doesn’t understand why you're acting this way, not when you always had a smile for him and not when each time you saw him you seemed to see through who he was, as if you knew the truth about why he was here, as if it was your little secret that you shared with him. A sinking feeling begins to move it's way through his chest, as if he's being dragged underwater.

For you to go completely cold like this was, well, Mark didn't like the feeling that had begun to twist in his gut, something that felt remarkably like disappointment and a little bit like a certain emotion he hadn't felt since everything exploded with Melinda.

It only confirmed the thing he'd known from day one, that he was in too deep with you.

But right now he doesn't care.

Why is she acting like this?

He thinks to himself as you move closer to him, not raising your gaze from the supplies in your hand before you put them on the table.

You still don’t meet his eye when you begin to gently probe along the wound you sutured a few days ago, actively focusing on the long cut that goes through his left eye.

"So what socks today?" Mark tries again. He watches the end of your lips twitch, brow furrowed as you continue to check for signs of infection.

"They're purple."

You don't offer him anything else, no fun anecdote about where you got them or who got them for you, nothing to prolong the conversation.

Mark's frown deepens and he shifts awkwardly, paper rustling once again beneath him. As soon as he moves, you flinch subconsciously.

His body goes cold. You'd never done that before, not ever, in fact now that Mark is thinking about it, you're standing further away from him, not as close as you were the other day. Your stance is defensive, standing on the balls of your feet as if prepared to run.

What's going on?

 "Um-" He clears his throat, eyes flicking to the guard who is flipping through an old issue of People Magazine bedside and not paying attention.

Mark whispers your name.

He didn't use it often, once or twice maybe, never felt the need to, but right now he needed to, because he's worried.

Your eyes flick to his for the first time since he came into the clinic, holding his gaze for a few moments, eyebrows pulled up in surprise, and something skitters across your irises, something that looks surprisingly like fear.

Mark was familiar with that emotion, had seen it countless times on the job, countless times reflected in the eyes of his comrades in the middle of a firefight, hell, he'd even seen it reflected in his own eyes those few times he stood in front of the mirror, fingers pressed against his temples to soothe the headache that never quite went away. But never from you, not when you were with him. If anything Mark often noticed how relaxed you were around him, open, softer. But not today.

Why is she afraid of me?

The thought makes something tighten in his chest, makes him feel like he can't breathe. Mark's mind goes back to how you looked with the Warden, and he again wonders what the Warden said to you.

Was it because of the Warden or because she saw me beat in Luis' face?

It was a good question and Mark couldn't exactly tell you that he did that for you, because that would mean that he would have to tell you what Luis said to warrant Mark to turn his face into mince meat, and like hell he was gonna do that. Though, now Mark wanted to also tan the Warden's hide for whatever the fuck he'd said to you about him.

"Are you okay?" Mark asks you quietly.

You blink at him, once, twice, lips pressed into a tight line. You nod once.

Mark doesn't buy it for a second.

"This might sting." You say, hand trembling as you hold up a cloth with antiseptic preparing to clean the wound and remove the sutures.

Sure it might… but it doesn't compare to the ugly feeling that swirls in the pit of Mark's stomach the longer he sits there in the silence, the only sound the ruffle of pages from the magazine, and the feeling of your hands gently touching him. But instead of bringing the usual warmth and comfort, all it does is make the cold soak further into his bones and the uncomfortable emotion in the pit of his stomach drag him deeper under the waves.

And it's enough to make Mark wish that he'd spent the afternoon with the Nike-clad idiot rather than see the slight tremor in your hand, and the fear that flashes in your eyes whenever Mark looks at you.

Reader POV

"So I told her, ‘ma’am it doesn’t matter how many pictures you bring me of Zendaya, I'm a hairdresser, not a miracle worker.  If I figured out how make people look like Zendaya I wouldn't still be working in this shit-show, I’d at least have my own salon.” Your sister, Jackie, says with a roll of her eyes. “Then she yelled at me for five minutes about sensitivity and had to sit in awkward silence for the next twenty minutes because I wasn't done with her hair." She lets out a long sigh, resting one hand on her pregnant belly. "It's women like that, who make me really miss drinking."

"You do realize that in medical school the teachers all tried to haze us out of being doctors and told us to do something less stressful like being a hairdresser right?" You reply raising an eyebrow.

"They lied to you.”

"Figures."

You’d gone over to her large home just outside of L.A to watch the next episode of the Circle on Netflix while binge eating your sister's award winning blue ribbon Lasagna.

She'd gotten the cooking gene while you had been unlucky to receive the "burns even water" gene. Basically that meant that the one meal a week you had at her house was the only food that didn’t come out of a Styrofoam container. The good news was that your sister was teaching you how to cook, the bad news was that she still wouldn't let you anywhere near the stove or the oven without supervision like you were five years old with sticky fingers.

You set a dishtowel on fire one time and it's like you can't be trusted. She's got a memory like an elephant.

But despite the incredible meal she made, and the welcome drama from the show blasting on the tv, it still wasn't helping distract you from what had happened earlier with Walker in the clinic. The awkward silence, the way each time he tried to start a conversation you shut him down, and the feeling of his eyes on you with an emotion that looked surprisingly like worry flickering behind his familiar green eyes.

An uncomfortable feeling squeezes around your heart in a vice, and you take another long sip of wine.

For two days you had tossed and turned in bed unable to sleep and unable to stop thinking about what happened with Walker and what the Warden said to you while your counterpart, Zack, worked at the prison.

You’d tried all the usual things to distract yourself: reorganized your drawers, made a pilgrimage to your favorite used bookstore Inky's Inspirations, went to a series of thrift stores and bought clothes that probably couldn't fit in your closet, and when none of that had worked you had actually picked up a phone call from your mother and let her talk your ear off.

She was still harping on the fact that you were single and working at the prison, which didn’t help anything, and when you didn't give her the answers you wanted, she then tried to pump you for information about your dad. They'd divorced the year you got into medical school, but your father didn't use social media and the only connection your mother had to finding out what he was doing so she could judge him even further was through your sister and you.

But nothing helped clear the image of Walker beating the other inmate within an inch of his life. The way his green eyes went completely black, the way the spray of blood followed the arch of his fist- it haunted you. It was so different than the Walker you saw in the infirmary whenever he came to visit you. And all it did was make what the Warden said to you seem true.

"He doesn't give a shit about you, none of the prisoners do. It might be all smiles and jokes now, but the second the status quo changes, the exact moment there aren't any guards looking, and no one to stop him, well- I'm sure Walker will have a lot of fun getting his hands on a pretty little thing like you, with no one to stop him and no one to hear you scream."

The words echoed through your head for two days, coupled with the images of the look on Walker's face when he beat the other inmate and it scared you. You were scared of Walker and being in the infirmary today with him hadn't helped. You’d seen his easy smile, heard the usual jokes, and all it did was solidify the idea in your head that Walker was playing you, was doing what he needed to get you on his side and then-

A cold feeling travels down the length of your spine when you think about what the Warden insinuated.

Your sister leans back against the couch, sipping at her seltzer as she watches you, eyes narrowed slightly. "Okay, what is up with you?"

"Huh?" You say looking up from her foot where it sits on your knee, a bottle of rum raisin nail polish in your hand

"You've painted that toe three times in the past minute, you've barely said a peep all night, you only had one plate of lasagna, and when Henry was trying to tell you about his day at school you started to look like dad whenever mom comes up in conversation."

"That's a low blow." You point the nail brush at her in accusation.

"Come on!" She kicks you with her unpainted foot. "Spit it out."

"I-" You sigh. "I had a meeting with the Warden the other day."

Jackie rolls her eyes and lets out an even heavier sigh. "Ugh, what did that douche canoe want?"

"He- he told me that I was giving the inmates too much leash and that I shouldn't be so nice to them when they don't care about me. That they're manipulating me and if the roles were reversed the inmates wouldn't hesitate to-" You trail off.

It wasn't hard to imagine what the Warden had been implying. You'd read the files on every single inmate you'd ever patched up, and it wasn't that you were naïve, it was that you wanted to assume the best of everyone. Because yes they were in Palmdale, but people could make mistakes, and judging them for their past actions seemed wrong, especially if they wanted to change.

Like Walker.

A little voice at the back of your mind whispers, the same little voice that you tried to block out because you knew that you had feelings for him and you were trying your best to bury them deep own where they would never see the light of day. 

"I swear that guy has been nothing, but trouble since you started working there." Jackie gives you a sympathetic look. "I hope that you didn't actually listen to him."

"Not at first." You put down the nail polish to grab your wine glass, swirling it once to watch the red liquid move in a fluid wave round and round. It made you think of the drain your love life seemed to be circling at the moment.

HA. What love life? The imaginary one that you made up in your head with Walker? Or the one that you made up in your head from the current morally gray character of the week from the book you were tearing through?

Your mother had emailed you ten online dating profiles within the past two days in an email that only contained the words 'Please try.' None of them had any appeal... the only man who held any appeal was currently doing time at Palmdale. A man with a nice smile, cute dimples, gorgeous green eyes and-

This is not helping anything.

"But?" Jackie presses.

You grab the nail polish again, moving the brush up and down to get more polish on it. "But then I saw Walker beat the shit out of another inmate in the yard and it scared me."

"He what!?" Your sister squeals, hitting you with the pillow she had at her side.

"Ow! What's wrong with you?" You hold up your free hand to block her next attack, trying not to spill nail polish all over her baby blue couch.

"You let me talk about my boring day and you saw Walker beat up someone!?"

"Yes?"

"Next time lead with that!"

"But it scared me-"

"Scared you? Why?" She looks confused.

"It was-" A flash of Walker's dark eyes flickers over your mind once more, bringing a wave of anxiety in it's wake. "I mean, he can flip the switch so quickly. It was like seeing the dark side of the moon. It was so different than-" You shudder. Every moment the two of you had spent together in the infirmary felt like a lie, a performance that he'd leaned into to get you on his side, and today when you'd seen him smile at you the same way and even say your name-

The memory of him saying it comes back, curling around the curve of your ear, with worry flashing in his eyes. You didn't understand why he was worried about you, not when it seemed that this whole time he'd been using you.

"You didn't see it. Didn't see the look in his eyes when he looked at me or how he was beating that guy, it was-"

"I'll bet it was hot." Your sister smirks at you.

"Jackie!"

"What?" She shrugs taking another long sip of her seltzer. "His eyes darkened is probably the most provocative statement in the history of literature for a reason."

I begged my mother for a brother, but no.

"Sometimes I wish that we were estranged." You groan.

"Oh please, we both know your life would be boring without me."

"Definitely quieter."

"You LOVE me." She hits you with the pillow again. "For the record, I don't think it's a bad thing if you throw yourself at the rugged man with the dark green eyes and sexy smile."

"You're a terrible influence." You sigh, but then you turn to look at her, raising an eyebrow in confusion. "Wait a minute how do you know what he looks like?"

"Because I might have looked up his public arrest record on David's computer." Your sister flashes a sheepish smile, dropping the name of her husband into the conversation.

He was out of town on business, and although many women would worry about things like cheating, Jackie didn't and neither did you, because David was perhaps one of the most whipped men that you'd ever met in your entire life and he was head over heels for the woman sitting beside you. It was everything that you wanted, and everything that you thought you'd ever have. Especially not when you spent more time fantasizing about a man behind bars than anyone actually obtainable.

"But I'll say this, not many people look good when they get arrested, but he made it look like a modeling ad. I cannot believe you get to spend time with him everyday." She says mournfully. "Life is unfair."

"Oh for the love of-"

"I can see it now." She sits up with stars in her eyes. "I bet it's like a Victorian romance novel. All those furtive glances, brushing fingertips, and sexual tension-"

"There is no sexual tension!" You snap.

It's a lie and you know it, but it was better to be swimming in Denile, than to lean into it. Especially not after everything that happened two days ago.

"Honestly, I think you're being selfish." Your sister continues while adjusting herself on the couch beside you, stretching her legs further in your lap.

"What?! How am I being selfish?"

"Because David is out of town until next week and I'm a horny pregnant person with no outlet."

"I'm sure that David has been calling you every night." You roll your eyes.

"It's not the same and you know it!" She kicks you again. "And you could be sneaking around the jail with a sexy man who is bad for all the right reasons and letting me live vicariously through you!"

"I hate you."

"No, you hate that I'm right." She smirks.

"You're not right!" You shout hitting her with your own pillow. "I'm a doctor, he's my patient! It's a HIPPA violation and-"

"I think the porn industry would disagree with you."

You let out an exasperated sigh. "Jackie. I can't-"

"Babe, it doesn't matter how many excuses you use, we both know that you've already been there more than once in your head."

Why does she always have to be right all the time? I'm the older sister! I'm the one who's supposed to have it together and- who am I kidding?

The memory of Walker beating the other inmate comes back, an uncomfortable weight settling across your shoulders.

Jackie senses it, watches the way your mouth turns down in a frown, and reaches out to touch your arm. "Maybe it's not what you think. Have you thought about asking Walker what happened?"

"No." You grumble. "I think that ship has sailed."

"What do you mean?"

"I saw him today and I-"

"Oh you idiot." She sighs. "You shut him out didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"And what did he do when you did?"

"He looked…" You remember the way that Walker seemed worried about you, and almost disappointed. Sometimes you'd thought that the flirty banter was just that, but when he'd said your name and your eyes met his, it didn't seem like it was a fantasy that only lived in your head, not when he was looking at you like he cared. And even though you'd been afraid of him, when he looked at you like that, something broke open and flooded the space inside your chest.

You'd wanted to tell him what was wrong, wanted to ask him what happened, wanted to cradle his still bruised knuckles between the two of you and gently hold ice to the ruined skin, but you couldn’t all you could see was the dark look in his eyes. "He looked a little worried and he asked me if I was okay."

You didn't want to admit that to your sister, because you knew that Jackie would only take it and run, but it was the truth, and she knew when you were lying.

She lets out a long groan of your name while pinching the bridge of her nose. "You should have tried to talk to him."

"It's not high school Jackie, it's a prison. There was a guard sitting there, what was I supposed to say?"

Like hell you were going to have that conversation with Walker in front of a prison guard, not to mention the camera that sits unblinking in the corner of the infirmary staring down at you at all hours of the day.

"I don't know, maybe tell the guard to get you something and whisper to Walker."

"But-"

"No buts! He was worried about you. It means that he cares!"

"He could just be faking it, trying to get me to-" It comes out half-heartedly, because you don't quite believe it, or rather you didn't want to believe it.

"Sweetie." She pulls you into her side, gently rubbing her hand over your back. "The Warden is an asshole, and I don't think you should listen to assholes. If you did, you never would have made it through medical school."

"True." You sigh, leaning into her shoulder. "There were quite a few."

"Mhmm, so maybe find a way to talk to Walker, because yeah he might be flirty, but with all the things that you've told me about him over the past few months, the conversations you've had, the fact that he's asking if you're okay, I mean… I think there's something there. Plus I kinda wanna see the look on mom's face when you bring him for Thanksgiving dinner once he gets out. And little future rocker here is gonna need crazy Uncle Walker." She giggles as she rubs a hand over her stomach with a soft smile.

"Shut up-"

"And Henry is gonna love having someone else to talk about dinosaurs with."

"I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself." You snort into her shoulder.

"No, I'm not. Now shut up and finish my toes, I want to enjoy this episode before Henry wakes up and makes us watch Land Before Time: The Mysterious Island."

"That's the best one." You say as you move away from her and resume painting her toes.

"Try watching it four times a day seven days in a row. I debated telling Henry that the tv was broken just so that I could have some peace and quiet."

"Mother of the year award goes to-"

"Shut up. When you and Walker have kids I will not be sympathetic."

You don't dignify her joke with a response aloud, but even you had to admit, maybe Jackie was right. Who cares what the Warden says. Maybe Mark did care about you. And it was enough to make the vice around your heart loosen and your mind begin to wander into the place where you kept Walker hidden, the place where 'what if?' wasn't a daydream, but was a reality.

A/N: Alright, it hurt me to do that to Mark, but maybe things are looking up? Or maybe things are just about to start spiraling? 😅

As always thank you so much for reading! Reblogs, comments, and likes are not required, but are always welcome and appreciated! I really love hearing what y'all think and the comments really keep me going! ❤️ If you'd liked to be added to the taglist for this series please let me know :)

Taglist:

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[zepskiesreads]

The Real Thing

This is the follow-up to Cold Hard Truth - hopefully everyone will be happier with me by the end! This will wrap up my Russell x Andi fics (which started out as just one fic but morphed into four 😂 - it happens!)

Pairing: Russell x Andi

Word Count: 3578

Warnings: Smut, angst, just the usual!

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Russell x Andi Masterlist:

Waiting For the Real Thing

Swearing Is Caring

Cold Hard Truth

The Real Thing

Russell pulled into a spot in the far end of the parking lot, a space where the chances of getting his prized convertible scratched or dinged were minimal. He put up the top, locked it up, and headed towards the bar.

The limp was back, but not too bad, considering the two miles he’d run that morning. Yeah, the doctor would probably scold him for overexerting. But in his book, the more you use it, the stronger it’ll get. Big boy version of ‘walk it off.’

He debated going in through the big entrance door under the ‘Mariner’s’ sign, but the huge deck out back overlooking Eagle Mountain Lake was calling his name. He chose a table in a mainly unoccupied area, sitting down with a stifled sigh of relief and stretching his legs out beneath. It was hot for early evening – in the nineties, but for Texas in August, that wasn’t too bad. There was a nice breeze coming off the lake, and it was great to feel the sun after spending most of the last several months surrounded by sterile blue tile and florescent lights.

A waitress approached him with a smile, her eyes scanning his face in appreciation. “What can I get you?”

“Beer, whatever you have on tap is good,” he said, giving her a noncommittal smile in return. She walked back to the bar with a twinge of disappointment, bringing him back a cold brew in short order and taking his money with just a quiet nod of thanks.

He let his eyes roam, behind the anonymity of his sunglasses, over the other people out enjoying the deck. There were several couples at their own tables, flirting or talking together. A family of four occupied another table, the kids making a sticky mess with their ice cream while Mom and Dad scrolled on their phones. A couple of tables away, two women in short shorts and brightly-colored bikini tops were openly admiring him, one of them sending a coy little wave above her margarita glass. He ignored them, turning his head slowly and focusing on watching the sailboats out on the lake.

He didn’t really know what he was doing here. Sweets had told him Andi was spending the weekend at the lake. And now here he was. Probably should get a room - with all the tourists around, it might be hard to find one close by. He looked down at his phone, checking the time, then turned his attention back towards the water.

He stopped breathing for a second, wondering if he was really seeing what he thought he was seeing. She had her back towards him, but he could still tell it was her. And then she turned towards the tall, blond guy she was standing near, shoving at his shoulder and laughing. He’d know that laugh anywhere. She hugged the guy, then they turned back towards the water, his arm around her shoulders, still talking and laughing. She looked happy.

Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Maybe he should just get a room for the night and then get the hell out of her life. He watched them for a few seconds longer, then picked up his phone, scrolling through the list of local hotels and checking for vacancies.

“Hey, Russ.” He froze at the sound of her voice, finally letting himself look up into Andi’s face.

“Andi.” He stood up, wincing a little as he put weight on his leg, and pulled her in for a hug. God, it felt good to have his arms around her again. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and taking in her scent, warm sunshine and a hint of coconut. He forced himself to let her go, and when they parted, her eyes were shining with unshed tears that she determinedly blinked away as she pulled out a chair and sat down next to him.

“What’s wrong with your leg?” she asked, clearing her throat to chase away the lump there.

Russell flashed a sideways smile, looking down at the table. “Kind of a long story.” He met her eyes again. “You look good, Andi. And it seems like you two are happy.” He gestured towards where her friend stood by the deck railing.

Andi glanced over her shoulder. “Who, Danny?”

“Yeah, I guess – I just saw you laughing together and – you guys look happy.”

A broad smile spread across her face. “Danny is gay.”

Russell’s eyebrows shot up at the news. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Very gay. In fact, the reason I saw you is that he was looking around and said ‘OMG, there is a hot guy over there, girl. Either you go talk to him or I will.’”

Russell grinned. “Really. Very flattering. But I’m glad you’re the one who came over.”

She laughed softly. “Yeah, I bet you are.” She let her smile fade as she looked at him. “So – the long story. Maybe we should go to my room where we can talk without your fan club listening to every word?” She motioned with her eyes to indicate his bikini-wearing admirers a couple of tables over, and he nodded with a smirk.

“Yeah. Maybe we should.”

She stood, and he followed suit, trailing her across the deck and past the bar. “What about Danny?” he asked, and she laughed.

“Don’t worry about Danny. I’m sure he’s already trolling for hot guys in the bar. He knows who you are, and he knows we need some time to talk. He’ll be fine.”

Her hotel was only about half a block from the bar, and they took the elevator to the third floor in silence. “I’ve got beer in the fridge,” she said as she opened the door to her room, and Russell closed it behind them. “Make yourself at home.” He reached for her hand, but she pulled it out of his reach, heading to the fridge to grab a couple of beers. “If you thought I was just gonna fall back into bed with you, you were wrong.” She set a beer down for him on the small table, then plopped herself cross-legged on the bed, opening her beer and lifting it to her lips.

“Didn’t expect you to fall into bed with me.” He popped the lid from his beer and took a long pull from the bottle. “Hell, I didn’t even know if you’d talk to me.”

Andi picked at the label on her bottle, staring down at the floor. “Now that the shock of seeing you has worn off, I’m not sure that I want to.” She looked over at him, her eyes guarded. “I still can’t believe you left the way you did. And then you were gone for almost two years without a word.” Her voice broke a little as she went on. “I didn’t know if you were still alive, or if you just didn’t care enough to let me know you were still breathing.”

Russell stared at the beer in his hand, gnawing at the inside of his lip for a minute before he answered. “I’m sorry.”

“How long have you been back?” she asked sharply.

“In the states? About seven months.” He looked up, her angry stare making him lower his gaze again. “I was in medical rehab until two days ago.” When he glanced back her direction, her eyes were wide, her shocked expression replacing the heated glare.

“Tell me.”

He took a deep breath, then nodded slowly. “There were nine of us on my team. We were on the road, five in the truck ahead of us, I was driving the Jeep with the rest.” He paused for a second, then continued, his voice taut with tension at the memory. “The truck hit an IED, shot it straight up in the air. It came down on top of the Jeep’s hood, sent it flying. I got thrown out. They came back down right on top of another bomb.” He stopped, his jaw working, squeezing his eyes closed. He dragged a hand down over his face and went on. “I’m the only one that made it. I was fucked up, my back and my leg, they flew me back to Horizon’s medical facility in Maine. And, like I said, I just got out two days ago.”

There was nothing but silence. When she spoke a few seconds later, it was a choked whisper. “Why didn’t you call me?” He looked up to find Andi’s eyes full of tears.

“I don’t remember shit except hitting the ground, pain, then everything went black. I was in the hospital for probably three weeks before I even knew what happened. Woke up one day with a tube down my throat.” He bit his lip, letting his gaze slide off past her shoulder. “I ended up with six surgeries, then months of rehab and physical therapy, and it wasn’t pretty. I guess I just didn’t want you to see me like that.”

She stood up, angrily swiping a tear from her cheek. “You didn’t have to go through it alone.”

“That’s how I was raised. Dad drilled into us how to survive, to be self-sufficient and isolated. I learned to plan my reactions before the other guy even knew what his moves were gonna be. Always have an exit plan. Never get tied down.” He looked her in the eye again. “And then I fucking met you. But I don’t know how to change the way I’m wired, Andi.”

“You just let somebody in! You don’t have to protect yourself from me, for fuck’s sake!” she cried out, almost shouting. “You have to trust somebody sometime, Russ.” He stood up and made his way over to her, putting a hand on her shoulder as she looked up at him, the hurt in her eyes sending a wave of guilt through him, caught like a knot in his throat. “I’ve always been there any time you needed me. I told you I loved you. How much more can I do to prove…”

He silenced her mid-sentence with a kiss, then pulled her close as she buried her face in his chest, wrapping her arms around him. “I’m sorry, Andi,” he said softly.

She sighed, sniffling a little as raised her head to look up at him. “Do you ever get tired of saying that to me?”

His lips quirked into a sad little smile as he brushed his thumb across her cheek. “I know I’m tired of seeing you hurt. I’d really like to stop being the one who does it.” She leaned into his touch, and he smiled again. “I should really go find a room for tonight.”

She shook her head. “You don’t need to. Stay here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, damn it.”

They ordered take-out burgers and fries, sitting on the bed and eating while they watched a cheesy comedy movie, just settling into being near each other again. Andi was quiet, obviously not in the mood to talk things out any further, and Russ was willing to give her whatever time she needed. Being there with her was more than he had expected, and he wasn’t going to push his luck.

“You want another beer?” Russell turned his head to look at her, and he couldn’t help smiling. She was asleep, her head lolling to the side, looking very uncomfortable. “Come here,” he muttered, half-lifting her to shift her down to lie flat with her head on the pillow. She mumbled something he couldn’t understand, then wriggled a little and went quiet again.

He sat there next to her for the next few hours, unwilling to let himself go to sleep. He just kept looking down at her, wondering why she hadn’t just kicked him out, and not wanting to waste whatever time he was going to have with her.

When she began to stir, he slid down to lie on his side beside her, watching her face as she opened her eyes. She stared at him in silence, her eyes searching his, finally reaching out to touch his face. “You told me once to never give up on you. And then you gave up on me,” she said softly, a tear escaping from under her lashes as she closed her eyes, too overwhelmed to look at him for the moment.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I hurt you. All I can say is, I’m not going anywhere again. Unless you want me gone. If that’s what you want – I’ll go.”

Andi opened her eyes, her fingers scratching through his beard. “I don’t want you to go.” She leaned in, and he slipped an arm around her waist to pull her close as she kissed him with a soft moan.

He lost himself in the taste of her lips, deepening their kiss until he had to pull back for air. He nibbled his way along her jaw, then down the smooth slope of her neck. “Damn, I missed you.”

She pulled away, breathing hard as she sat up, stripping her shirt off in one swift move and then removing her bra before she shoved him over to his back and straddled him, bending to kiss him again. “Prove it.”

He laughed softly. “I thought you weren’t gonna fall back into bed with me.”

She lifted her head slightly, pinning him beneath a mock glare. “Shut up, Russ.”

“No complaints here,” he answered with a smirk, then pulled her down on top of his chest and kissed her again, his hands stroking over her back and down to knead handfuls of her ass. He groaned as she began to grind against his erection, then pulled her up so he could raise his head and tongue a hard nipple into his mouth. He sat up slowly, sucking and teasing at the sensitive nub, taking the other breast in his hand and squeezing it in rhythm with her movement on top of him.

“Somebody has too many clothes on,” she managed to gasp, pulling at his shirt.

“Mmmmm, busy,” Russ responded as he moved to tug gently on her other nipple with his teeth.

She let out a half-frustrated, half-aroused sound, her hand shifting to grip his hair as he sent pulses of arousal zipping through her, throbbing between her thighs. “Russell - nngggg - there are other things – uhhhhgh - that need your attention.”

A rather evil-sounding chuckle vibrated in his chest, and he gave one last hard, sucking pull at her breast before raising his head to grin at her. “Just gettin’ reacquainted.”

Andi narrowed her eyes at him. “Clothes off. Now, Shaw.” She rolled off him and laid down, undoing her shorts and removing them as he stood up beside the bed and stripped down quickly.

“Still bossy,” he said, then plopped back down on the bed. She climbed back over him, wrapping her hand around his hard cock and guiding it to her entrance, eyes closing as she slowly sank down to take him in. Russ clenched his teeth, fingers digging into her thighs as he watched her, her head thrown back with a blissful expression on her face. “God damn, honey, you feel good,” he managed to say, reaching for her. “C’mere.”

He pulled her down for a hungry kiss, groaning at the feel of her skin against his, her breasts crushed against his chest. She began to move slowly, shuddering slightly at the feel of him deep inside her, finally raising up to catch her breath and look down at him with shining eyes. “There hasn’t been anybody since you left,” she said softly, and he moved a hand to her face, cupping her cheek as he stretched up to steal another quick kiss.

“Me, either. All I thought about from the time I got over there was getting back to you.”

Her face crumpled a bit as she leaned into his hand, staring down into his eyes, searching. Then she kissed him again, her lips molding perfectly to his, nibbling gently at his lower lip until he opened to her. He groaned, his cock jumping inside her as she sucked gently at his tongue. She began to move, rocking up and down on him with a soft moan into their kiss, and he move his hands to her hips to urge her on.

He braced his feet against the bed, lifting his hips to meet her thrusts, and she finally broke away from their kiss to put her hands on his chest, using the leverage to drive him deeper on every down stroke. They moved faster, quiet whimpers forced from Andi’s lips as she began to quiver and pulse around him. “Lean back,” he coaxed, his voice rough with arousal, and she sat up with a little cry as it forced him even deeper, placing her hands behind her on his thighs. He slipped two fingers between them to brush over where they were joined, then bringing his slick fingertips to her clit to rub in rough little circles. “Come on, honey, let me have it,” he rumbled as he worked her over, and she did, with a wail of his name that echoed through the room.

She rode him hard, punching a grunt from his chest as she squeezed him tight, her entire body trembling as she came. Her thighs burning with effort as she began to come down from her high, she collapsed down towards him. He grabbed her to his chest and raised up, flipping her to her back as he took over.

Russ drove into her, all primal instinct and need, coming hard as Andi was swept into another wave. He fucked into her until his legs gave, swearing between clenched teeth and dropping down exhausted and breathless on top of her. She shuddered hard beneath him, and his hand moved up, seeking until it found hers, lacing their fingers together as he nestled his face into her neck.

A couple of hours later, Andi woke in Russell’s arms, his fingers tracing random patterns on her back. She tilted her face back, watching his lips curve into a slow smile as he felt her looking up at him. She reached a fingertip up to trace their shape, smiling back at him as he took hold of her hand and kissed it. “So – what’s next for you?” she asked, her voice hushed.

He bit playfully at her finger. “Not really sure. Kind of depends on you.”

She laughed softly. “Since when?”

“I’m – uh – I’m done with Horizon. Officially retired. I guess they don’t wanna deal with me any more. Kind of burned my bridges with them after San Antonio.”

“So – is that a bad thing?”

“Nah. It’s time.” He gave her a squeeze. “And after what happened…” He stopped for a moment, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t know if I was gonna make it at all, and then I wasn’t sure if I’d make it back to anything close to normal. So, yeah – I’m okay not dodging bullets any more.”

“So what depends on me?”

“What I do next.” He turned on his side, scooting down so he could look into her eyes. “How attached are you to your job?”

“My – my job?”

“Yeah. Because I’ve been working for Horizon for years, and they might be assholes, but they pay well. And most of the money I made just got socked away, because everything I did was on Horizon’s dime.” He brushed her hair back from her forehead, looking a little nervous. “I just thought that we could, maybe, go travel for a while. Hit a few tropical islands, Scotland and Ireland – I know you always talked about going there. Spend a little time in Italy? Whatever, wherever we feel like going. And then, when we’re ready to settle down, we can pick a spot and maybe start up that little brewery I always talked about.” She stared at him, her mouth dropped open, speechless for the moment. “I mean, if you really want to keep working, that’s okay, too. I just want to be with you – if it’s what you want.”

“So you’re telling me you’re here to stay?

“The only way I’m leaving from now on is if you kick my ass out the door.” He grinned. “Or if Colter drafts me for help with a case. And if that happens, you can come along.”

She laughed, then kissed him, wrapping an arm around his neck. “Well, I guess I’m not kicking your ass out the door. But you still have a lot of time to make up for, Shaw,” she teased.

His smile faded as he looked back at her. “I never thought I’d see you again. And then I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me. So, yeah – whatever you need from me. You got it.”

She kissed him, her lips clinging to his as she pulled away and smiled. “So, how do you feel about Hawaii?”

He grinned back at her. “Hawaii. We can get you a coconut bra and grass skirt. Feeling pretty good about it.”

“A coconut bra? Really?”

He smirked. “You know how much I love your coconuts.”

Andi shook her head. “Hopeless. You are absolutely hopeless. But yes – I will put in my two-week notice on Monday, and we can start making plans. Together. It sounds amazing.”

“And hula lessons. Gotta sign up for hula lessons.”

“Shut up and kiss me, Russ.”

Tag List #1:

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[zepskiesreads]

Somebody I Used to Know – Chapter 8

Summary: Ten years ago, you left your hometown in the rearview mirror and traded it for fame and fortune as a bestselling author in New York City. But when faced with a crushing writer's block, you return home for some clarity. There, you run into Dean Winchester – the one who got away. As the two of you revisit old haunts and take a trip down memory lane, you begin to question past choices and wonder if your heart hasn't always belonged to somebody you used to know.

Pairing: Mechanic!Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, past Dean x reader, exes reconnecting, small town AU, a self-finding journey, exes to lovers, humor, 100% a romcom (Wayne's Version 😜), a tiny bit of angst, some revelations, tons of the fluffiest goddamn FLUFF

Word Count: 9.8k

Posted on Patreon June 5, 2025

A/N: The end of the road – literally! I honestly think this is the fluffiest ending I've ever written. Went full romcom and not regretting a single word of it lol. This entire part was so fun to plan. Hopefully, this makes up for all the angst I've put you through. Now, get ready to be swept off your feet by Dean Winchester 😉💕

Main Masterlist|| Series Masterlist|| Tag List

Chapter 8: Old Ties

You’re not ready for this day to be anything.

You’ve spent the last forty-eight hours holed up in your childhood bedroom, surrounded by unpacked boxes, a stack of notebooks that are half filled by now, and an ever-growing and weird to-do list from your mother.

You told yourself you were here for a reset. For space. For clarity. But the truth is, you don’t know what the hell you’re doing anymore. You’re more lost than ever.

You think about leaving – more than once.

Actually, you nearly do three separate times before lunch. Once with your bag half-packed on your bed, once when your mother asks if you can pick up her dried lavender from the farmer’s market, and once again standing in line at the coffee shop behind Jo of all people.

She told you she was leaving town and going on tour with her band. She seemed happy. Glowing. Free.

Which seems almost crazy, considering she just broke up with a guy she wanted to marry tomorrow. And again, you wish you could be her. You envy that happiness. That freedom. That peace.

Instead, you’re still sulking over the same damn boy since you were a teenager.

You can admit as much, though not out loud. To yourself, maybe. To the empty cereal bowl sitting on the coffee table. To the ceramic rooster lamp your mother bought on clearance and insists brings “gentle morning energy” to the kitchen.

Alright, fine. Maybe you’ve reached the point of sulking where even your chipped coffee mug seems to judge you.

It’s been two days since Dean Winchester threw a literal wrench into your carefully fortified emotional barricade by looking at you like you were still his favorite story.

Two days since the roadside ambush he orchestrated with the help of your mother. (Okay, “ambush” might be a strong word. You did need the car fixed. But still.)

Two days since he showed up with a cocky smile and toolbox in hand, pouring his entire damn heart out under the hood of a sputtering Honda like the two of you were characters in some goddamn low-budget indie movie about fucking regret and second chances.

Two days since you said you wouldn’t get back together with Dean Winchester.

And two days since you’ve started thinking about it anyway.

You told yourself you were done. You even said it out loud in the mirror. But the trouble with heartbreak – especially when it comes in the form of a man who knows your coffee order, your tells in poker, and the songs you can’t sing without crying – is that it’s never really clean.

Not with Dean. Not with your hometown. Not with all the pieces of yourself still lodged in this place like shrapnel.

You still remember the look on his face as you drove away – hopeful, determined, maybe a little destroyed. You’ve been trying to pretend that memory didn’t brand itself into your ribcage like a signature.

But it’s there.

Worse – it’s joined by others. The way he fixed the car without looking at a manual. The way his voice cracked when he said he never stopped loving you. The way you almost cried right in front of him.

You didn’t – but almost.

And sure, maybe you wavered just a little when he talked. Maybe the familiar way he said your name loosened something deep in your chest.

Maybe.

You’ve been trying to write – you really have. Get all your emotions out. Sticky. Messy. Honest.

But right now, you’ve been sitting on the floor of your childhood bedroom for hours, notebook open, fingers limp around your pen, and every word you manage to scrape out reads like it was written by someone else.

Someone flat. Hollowed out. Cool. Over it. Unbothered.

And you’re fucking bothered. That’s the problem.

You still feel his voice, that bourbon-warm rhythm of his words, tucked under your skin. It feels like those words belong to you now, stitched right into your bones.

Still, you can’t seem to bring them onto paper.

Because now? Now, you’re not mad anymore – not exactly. Not like you were. Now it’s something worse.

You fucking miss him.

You hate how true that feels. You hate even more how much you want him to prove he’s not full of shit. That he meant what he said in that sunlit street with your hood popped and heart split wide open.

That you still mean something to him.

But you’re an author. You know better than anyone that words can be dangerous, especially ones that come too easily.

And Dean hasn’t tried again. Not since then. No unexpected knocks. No more last-minute breakdowns. No notes taped to your window. The silence is probably supposed to be respectful.

But it fucking gnaws on you.

You close the notebook with a frustrated thud and lean back against your bed frame. You’re still in your pajamas – if an old band tee and underwear even count as such.

God, you’re pathetic. This is a low point in your life.

And that’s when your mother floats into the room like it’s the Summer of Love, holding something behind her back. Her hair is braided with small beads. She’s wearing a sundress with more holes than fabric, a poncho made of recycled hemp, and the kind of smile that means she’s absolutely up to something.

You want to groan upon entry. Not again…

Moreover, she’s got that look on her face – the one she wore when you got your first period, or when she walked in on you and Dean in a compromising position on the basement couch. You can still see Dean’s proud fucking grin in your mind when she complimented his form.

You wish those would be the only embarrassing stories, but there’s a lot more where those came from.

“Hi, sweet pea,” she sing-songs brightly. “Oh good, you’re not wearing pants. You’ll want to be comfortable.”

Your eyes narrow. You’ve lived with this woman for way too long to not be suspicious. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing.” She shrugs way too innocently for your taste. “I just have a special delivery from the universe.”

You roll your eyes and sigh in a way that makes you feel like a teenager again. “Mom, I already told you a peyote trip is not gonna help.”

“Disagree. You’d be surprised,” she says all too casually and then grins. “But what I have for you is much juicier than that.”

She reveals the object behind her like a magic trick – a small envelope with your name scrawled across the front.

Bold. Messy. All-caps. It’s his.

Your mother plops down next to you on the floor like she’s still twenty and made of air and hands it to you with that same little grin that doesn’t seem to go away.

“I think you’ll want to open this,” she says gently and pats your thigh. “It’s from a man with sad green eyes who clearly worships the ground your gorgeous ass walks on.”

“Mom–”

“He said, ‘Don’t tell her it’s from me, or she’ll burn it,’” she says with a wink. “So naturally, I told you.”

You sigh once more in defeat and then glance at the envelope in your hands for a few seconds longer before tearing it open, your heart doing that stupid thing where it jumps like it’s seventeen and hormonal again.

Hey, I’ve never been good with words. Not like you. You were the one who always found the right ones. I never knew how to string them together the way you do. But I’m trying. If you’re reading this, it means you haven’t set it on fire – yet. Good start. That’s already more than I deserve. I figured the only way to explain everything was to remind you of what I never forgot, so I’m going to let the places we made memories do some of the talking for me. Hope you’re still good at riddles. Start where your stories live. The place you used to go when the world got a little too loud. Quiet corners, creaky shelves. The redhead who always knows way too much about us is waiting for you there. I’ll meet you at the end after the last clue. Unless you still hate me, then I’ll go quietly. Promise. –D

You stare at the letter for a long beat. “He’s kidding.”

“Isn’t it romantic?” your mother swoons. “He’s doing the grand gesture thing, honey. I haven’t seen something this tender since your father played Crimson and Clover on a didgeridoo outside my yoga tent.”

You snort and arch an eyebrow. “And what father would that be this time?”

“The real one,” she says with a wink and squeezes your cheek.

With a sigh, you fold the note, heart hammering louder behind your ribs than it should.

The bookstore. Charlie.

You don’t mean to follow a breadcrumb trail set by the guy who wrecked your heart and still somehow owns every piece of it. You really don’t. You tell yourself you’re just curious. That’s all.

But before your head can protest too much, you slip into a sundress, grab the keys to your mom’s old car, and head out the door. Hopefully, there aren’t any more stuffed animals under the hood this time.

You park outside the bookstore ten minutes later. You push open the weathered door, the bell jingling overhead. It smells the same – ink and cedar and that faint lingering scent of peppermint the owner swears she doesn’t use. You haven’t stepped foot in here since you came back to town. You thought it’d be too hard, too... evocative.

This place still wraps around you like a well-worn cardigan. You used to hole up here for hours in high school, losing yourself curled in the corner window seat with headphones on and three different books in your lap, trying to block out the ache of being a teenager and in love for the first time.

But Dean always found you here. Brought you a cup of coffee and sat beside you with an arm slung across the back of the couch, pretending he didn’t like books. Too cool. He always fell asleep halfway through motorcycle magazines.

Charlie is perched on a stool near the register, wearing a shirt that says Plot Twist. Of course she does. “Took you long enough,” she says, grinning like a co-conspirator.

You narrow your eyes. “So you’re in on this.”

“Dean came by the house,” she offers as an explanation for her betrayal. “Said he needed help not screwing it up. I mean, obviously I said no at first. But then he practically begged. Said he needed someone smart and snarky and emotionally available. He also bribed me with coffee and Oreos. I’m weak, okay?”

You giggle a little, not being able to help the smile that wants to spread. “What now?”

“Oh! He said you’re supposed to find his favorite Hemingway book. Said you knew which one,” Charlie says.

You groan loudly, throwing your head back. “Of course he picks the most depressing-ass book…”

It doesn’t take long. Second floor, third aisle, left-hand side. Your fingers hover over the row, then land on A Farewell to Arms.

He used to call it his “angry rainy day book.” You always hated the ending. Said it was bleak and cruel. Dean argued it was honest. Life was cruel. Love didn’t always win. But he always shut up fast when you glared at him.

Inside the back cover is another note, folded around a pressed wildflower. You recognize the flower. He once plucked it from the side of the road and put it in your hair after a high school bonfire. You never knew he even kept it.

You cried at the ending and threw it across your bedroom. Told me it was too honest. You said that’s what hurt the most. You always hated stories that ended without fixing what broke. I used to sit on that couch and pretend I wasn’t watching you read. I loved the way you curled up like you belonged there. You were always home to me. Next stop? Go to the place where I first told you you were pretty. Hint: you threw a fry at me right after. Ask the man who makes the worst pancakes but has the best advice for your next clue.

Charlie claps wildly. “You win a prize! It’s a Benny!”

You're still reluctant, but somehow your feet drag you further down the road anyway.

Bobby’s Junkyard Diner isn’t busy this time of day, but Benny’s already placing a basket of fries and a strawberry milkshake down on the counter like he’s been expecting you as you take a seat in front of him.

Ten years ago when you sat in your usual booth, you and Dean were fighting about your future – his fear, your ambition, your shared inability to speak the same language when it mattered.

“You’re a good woman,” Benny says, grinning with a dish rag over his shoulder like some Southern version of a sitcom dad. “You didn’t have to come.”

You snort and snatch a fry. “Let me guess. You’ve got a note under a plate of pie or something?”

He chuckles. “Close.”

He reaches behind the counter and pulls out a napkin. Folded neatly, with Dean’s unmistakable scrawl.

You always said this place was the only one that knew how you liked your bacon. I liked watching you here – half-asleep, coffee in one hand, book in the other, scribbling stories onto napkins. This was where I knew. Right here. You were in that godawful Aerosmith band tee, arguing with Cas about The Empire Strikes Back, and I thought: that’s it. That’s the girl. Head to where I’d go when I needed noise to match the static in my brain.

“Man’s been sweating over these notes like they were a parole hearing,” Benny mutters. “You know where to go?”

You nod and smile. “Record store.”

The record store hasn’t changed much. Same crooked shelves, same tinny music overhead, same cat sleeping on the listening station like she pays rent. Dean’s vinyl guy still smells like cloves, and the floor creaks under your sneakers. Dean used to test you here – quizzing you on artists, albums, and liner notes.

You find Cas in the corner, holding a record sleeve like it might bite him.

“I’m surprised you’re here,” you greet him with a smile.

“Against my better judgment,” Cas mutters with a sigh.

“You don’t really listen to this stuff, do you?” you ask, nodding toward his hands.

“I do now. Dean made me a mixtape for my thirtieth birthday,” he says. “He wanted me to tell you to look for his favorite record.”

You give him a nod, your fingers already flipping through the ‘L’ bands of the classic rock section. “It’s Zeppelin II. He always tried putting it on during… well, you know.”

“I do know,” Cas replies, his blue eyes begging you not to continue.

You find the note tucked inside the gatefold of the album, along with a Polaroid – one from back in college, where you’re sitting in Dean’s lap at a house party, holding a beer and smiling like you hadn’t learned the word regret yet.

This is where you told me that Physical Graffiti sounds like teenage sex and motorcycles. You weren’t wrong. I know I screwed it up with our song, and I’m sorry. But I always imagined our first dance at our wedding would be to “Thank You.” It’s the one that ran during the first time we–… Well, I don’t know how graphic I’m allowed to make these notes (or how much of them our friends will read). But it’s ours now. Yours. Because at the end, there will still be you and me, sweetheart. Your next stop is where you used to steal my leather jacket and hide out during lunch. Sam says it still smells like weed.

You bite your lip and feel the lump forming in your throat. The high school.

The building looms the same way it always has – equal parts memory and menace. You used to sit on the bleachers with Dean, hands intertwined beneath the stars, passing notes like you weren’t already writing entire novels inside each other.

Sam’s waiting at the front steps of the school and smiles when he sees you – that soft, little-brother expression he saves only for you and Dean. Somehow that feels right. Jess is standing next to him and waving like you’re arriving for a picnic.

“Thought I might find you two here,” you say, smiling.

Jess bounces on the balls of her feet like she’s trying not to blurt the ending, all sunshine and knowing smiles. “You’re doing great! Like, so great. This is basically a Nora Ephron movie now.”

“Didn’t have Dean sending you on a romantic scavenger hunt on my apocalypse bingo card,” Sam wisecracks, amused. “I almost texted you to skip this one, but he’d kill me.”

Jess elbows him. “C’mon, it’s sweet!”

Sam sighs. “I’m not saying it’s not. Just… elaborate. Guy used to think flowers from a gas station counted as romance.”

You snort a laugh. He definitely did.

“You should’ve seen how nervous he was writing this one,” Jess says, handing you the envelope.

“Kept scratching stuff out,” Sam adds.

The next note is sealed in an old concert ticket from your first show together – Metallica, 1997. The two of you drove over 300 miles to Oklahoma City for it.

Remember when you wrote me a poem and passed it to me during Calculus? Mrs. Moseley caught us and made me read it out loud in front of the entire class. It said that I kissed like a sinner and prayed like a saint. We got detention for a week. Worth it. But I never told you it’s because you made me believe in things I never had before. I loved you before I even knew how to say it. You were always smarter than me. Braver too. I didn’t get a lot of things right back then. But I got this – us. And I’d fight for that every time, even if I fumble the landing. Now go to the place where I finally figured out how to fix things. Where I’m still trying. Tell Garth I said not to touch the stereo.

“You hanging in there?” Sam asks gently, probably noticing the tears brimming in your eyes.

You nod, but this scavenger hunt down memory lane feels like it’s trying to kill your heart slowly.

“For what it’s worth, we’re rooting for you. Both of you,” Jess says and winks.

The garage still smells like grease, motor oil, and gasoline. You walk in to find Garth tinkering under a hood, music blaring from the speaker behind him that sounds suspiciously like Taylor Swift.

He pops up when he sees you. “Ah! The chosen one.”

“Let me guess – Dean left you a note?”

“Ding ding ding,” Garth says, handing you a wrench with a wide grin. The note is taped to the handle.

You hated the noise in here. Said it messed with your focus. But you came anyway and brought your notebook, curled up on the old couch in the back, and wrote next to me while I cursed at carburetors. You made it feel like home. The next stop’s where we carved our names into the bark that summer before college. You took my pocketknife and misspelled your own name. Now you might find something new etched beside it.

You laugh a little. Dean’s never let you live it down that you wrote your own name wrong.

You say goodbye to Garth and Kevin and make your way to the park and the old oak tree. It’s sunset by the time you get there. Dean took you for a picnic here the night before college started. You carved your initials and his. Even though it felt cheesy. Even though you both pretended not to care.

You trace the carving with your fingertips. The original still stands – crooked and weathered, but untouched. Your name’s still wrong. But right below it, there’s a new one:

Forever.

You crouch beside the roots and find the note tucked between two stones. No envelope this time. Just ink and hope.

Knowing you changed everything. Knowing myself took longer. You always thought you had to be everything for everyone. That you had to earn your place, your worth, your story. But you already were everything to me. I couldn’t tell you what you deserved back then, because I didn’t know what I deserved either. But I know now. You always said you felt like half a story, so I think it’s time you get the full one. You deserve to know yourself, not just who you were in my story – but in your own. I’ll be waiting just a little ways behind you.

You lower the note slowly, heart pulling at every tether inside you. You know instantly what he means. How the hell did he–

But before you can ask yourself too many questions, you feel it. The shift in the wind. The scuff of boots on grass.

You spin around, and Dean’s there, hands in his jeans pockets, eyes wide and nervous. No grin. No smirk. No swagger. Just standing there like a man who knows what he wants and is terrified he might not deserve it – hopeful and more real than memory ever lets him be.

“Hey,” you breathe, barely getting the word out.

“Hey, you made it,” he says softly, stepping closer. “Look, I know it’s not enough, and I know this doesn’t fix what I broke. But I needed you to know I’ve been paying attention. Even when you thought I wasn’t.”

You hold up the note then. “What, uh–”

You honestly don’t know what to say. You’re out of words for once. Completely and utterly speechless.

“Yeah, about that…” Dean starts and scratches his throat. “Look, if you’re not ready, we can skip this one and go straight to the last one, okay? You don’t have to do anything today. But if you do want to know, he’s just a few miles away.”

Your jaw drops slightly, brow hitching high. “He lives in town?”

Dean nods slowly. “Yeah, I spoke to your mom last night.”

“She tell you how to make moon water with a quartz crystal and the tears of a Capricorn?” you quip and cross your arms. Humor has always been your armor.

Dean snorts, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Nah, but she told me the truth. About your dad.”

“You sure she told you the right one this time?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, nodding. “Pretty sure. Got her to finally say it. She said she wasn’t trying to hurt you – just thought it’d be simpler that way. For everyone. But I told her you deserved better than that. I talked to him, too. He’s already expecting you. No pressure, of course.”

“He actually wants to see me?” you ask cautiously. You’re not eager to blow up some poor guy’s life tonight, who once fell into bed with your mother three decades ago.

“I think he’s been waiting a long time,” Dean replies. “I’ll be with you every step of the way, alright? Or if you’re still too mad at me, I can call Charlie, your mom–”

You interrupt Dean with a shake of your head, swallowing. “No, I want you.”

Your answer seems to surprise both of you.

“You’re gonna tell me who?” you ask then.

Dean exhales, like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “I think you’ve always known.”

“Maybe,” you admit quietly. ���Maybe I always had a feeling. But there’s a difference between knowing something in your bones and hearing someone say it out loud.”

“I know.” Dean nods and holds out his hand for you to take. And you do, interlacing your fingers with his. He gives it a gentle squeeze. “Ready?”

“Guess so.”

This next stop isn’t just another piece of some sentimental puzzle. It’s the truth you’ve been denied for three decades. You think about all the years of questions. The blanks. The lies. All the times you’d watch other girls dance with their dads at weddings and tell yourself it didn’t matter. You had your mom. You had grit.

But maybe now you could have something more.

You don’t even realize how tightly you’ve been gripping Dean’s hand until he gives yours a little squeeze.

“Relax,” he says as he pulls the Impala into the long gravel drive you know by heart. “You’ve been here a hundred times.”

“Well, not like this,” you mutter.

The little ranch-style house looks the same as always – weathered siding, mismatched porch chairs. The screen door squeaks. There’s a dog bowl by the steps, a cracked birdbath in the front yard, and an old Chevy truck in the drive.

You step out of the car together, and Dean strolls with you up a path between towering pines, your shoes crunching on the gravel. The door creaks open before you can even knock, and your heart’s trying to climb out of your chest.

Bobby stands there, cap low, hands stuffed in his pockets. For a moment, his eyes just rest on you. Not in shock. Not in awkward hesitation. But in something warm. Familiar. Like he’s seeing someone he’s been waiting for. He says your name quietly, as if it’s a thing he’s been carrying around in his back pocket for decades.

“Hey, kid,” he says, flashing an almost sheepish smile. “’Bout damn time.”

You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding before you think you can speak again. Your hand in Dean’s gives you reassurance. He hasn’t stopped holding it since he picked you up.

“I’m not late,” you quip softly – shakily, your voice wobbling with a smile you weren’t expecting.

“You’re just like your mother.” Bobby chuckles. “Look like her, too.”

You manage a smile, your heart pounding like it could crack a rib. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Dean then lets go of your hand as you cross the threshold, but he stays beside you, a palm now resting on the small of your back. The living room smells like leather, coffee, and something fried. It always has. It’s simple and yet perfectly cluttered with books and photos.

You take a seat on the threadbare couch, knees bouncing with nervous energy.

Bobby lowers himself into the armchair across from you, eyes steady. “Been thinkin’ about this day for a long time. Didn’t expect it to feel like this.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “Like what?”

“Like someone finally took the weight off my chest and replaced it with a damn truck.”

You smile softly. “Well, you never were great with feelings.”

“Still not,” he mutters. Then he looks at you, eyes crinkled and earnest. “I know you got every right to be mad. And maybe you should be. But I wanna say it anyway – I’m sorry.”

Your brows draw together. “For what?”

“Hell,” he says, rubbing his palms on his jeans. “Pick one. For the years I stayed in the background. For pretending I was just some guy runnin’ a diner when I wanted to be more. For not tellin’ you sooner.”

“I’m not mad,” you assure him. And you really aren’t – not after the last few days you’ve had. Mostly, you’re just curious. “Not at you. Not at Mom. I get it. I mean, as a kid you always think your parents can do no wrong. But then you become a grown-up and suddenly screw up all the time. Life's pretty damn messy.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Bobby huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “So I reckon you’ve got questions, kid.”

“Why didn’t anyone ever tell me?” you ask.

Bobby rubs the back of his neck, his voice gentle. “Your mom and I… it was a long time ago. We were high school sweethearts once. Back before she turned full flower-child and decided California sounded better than Kansas.”

You blink in surprise, a small smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. You share an amused look with Dean over your shoulder, who’s standing near the bookshelf, letting you have your space but still there, steady as a lighthouse.

You know your mother has lived a few years in California from her many adventurous stories. But you’ve always wondered what made her come back to Lawrence.

“Sounds like her.”

Bobby chuckles. “Yeah, she was always wanderin’. Free spirit, that one. After high school, she split for the coast, and I figured I’d never see her again.”

Apparently, you and your mother have more in common than just looks and wit.

“What happened?”

“She came back a few years later. Outta nowhere,” Bobby says, and you can see Dean nodding along like he understands. “But I was already married by then. It wasn’t… right. But it was her, y’know? Love of my life. And for a little while, we were kids again.”

Your heart twists when the realization hits you. “You had an affair.”

His eyes are heavy with something between guilt and acceptance. “It was short. Didn’t mean it wasn’t real. But my late wife, she didn’t deserve that kind of betrayal, even if it was brief.”

“And Mom?”

“She didn’t want to mess up my life,” Bobby replies with a long sigh of regret. “Figured I’d be a better father from a distance than none at all. So I kept an eye out. Paid what I could. Made sure you and her had what you needed. I didn’t know about you. Not right away. I found out when you were a year old. I think she thought she was protecting everyone. You especially.”

You’re still not mad at them, not even at your mother. Even with all her quirks, she’s been a pretty awesome parent. You were never really missing anything. You can’t help but wonder, though, whether the same fate would’ve happened to you and Dean if you’d come back a week later than you did.

It explains why she’s been so hellbent on sending you on a cosmic journey this week – even going as far as risking your driving safety.

You look at Bobby, your eyes stinging with unshed tears, your throat tight. “I remember you coming to my recitals.”

“I sat in the back,” Bobby nods. “Plays, poetry readings, graduations. Every damn one. I was proud of you, even from a distance. You had a solo in that middle school production of Guys and Dolls? I was there. Cryin’ like a baby.”

Somehow, it all makes a terrifying amount of sense. The way he always looked at you a little too long at holidays, but never said much. How he’d just show up at school plays or graduations without a word, a background figure you never questioned – just a friend of your mom's.

Bobby clears his throat. “Y’know… I thought I was doin’ the right thing, keepin’ a distance. Just sendin’ money to your mom when she’d take it. Watchin’ your college graduation from the back. Bein’ there without bein’ there. But I shoulda known that ain’t how family works.”

“Thank you for being there. Even if I didn’t know it at the time,” you say and gift him a smile. “I used to hate not knowing who my father was. I’d make up stories about who he might’ve been. Writer. Drummer. Astronaut. And then my mom would also invent her own stories.”

Bobby laughs a little. “Well, I got some drumsticks somewhere, but I doubt I could keep a beat. I did play the didgeridoo once for your mother.”

You smile back before you mean to. “Crimson and Clover?”

Bobby chuckles warmly. “Yeah, that one.”

Dean glances down at you with that soft, stunned expression that always makes you want to climb him like a tree.

Bobby then leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry your mom didn’t tell you. But she was trying to do the right thing in her own way. And I never pushed her to come clean. I figured if you ever came lookin’, I’d tell you everything.”

You glance briefly at your fumbling fingers in your lap. “Are you okay with this? With me being here?”

Bobby smiles broadly. “Kid, I’ve been waitin’ damn near thirty years. This is the best damn thing to happen to me since cable TV started syndicating Bonanza.”

You snort a laugh. “That good, huh?”

“Better,” he says. “You’re family. You always have been. Now we can finally say it. I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad I came,” you say finally.

“I’m sorry for not leaving you the diner, by the way,” Bobby says then, causing your brow to furrow. “Just figured you were already a bestselling author. Probably wouldn’t have use for it. Figured you could do more with the money for whatever you’d need in life.”

You laugh lightly, shaking your head. “Bobby, it’s fine. I mean, me? Running a dinner? My cooking skills are abysmal.”

"True," Dean chimes in, earning him a look from you.

“Yeah, I remember when you worked for me that one summer,” Bobby says, chuckling. “Took you only three days to set the kitchen on fire.”

“Exactly,” you agree, laughing. “Benny was the better choice.”

Bobby’s gaze then shifts to Dean behind you, and something in his face sharpens. “You know,” he drawls, like he’s changing gears, “I remember the first time this idjit came into the diner with you. Hair full of grease. Grinnin’ like a damn fool. Always wanted to impress you. Couldn’t tell his ass from a radiator back then.”

Dean grins. “Still can’t.”

“But,” Bobby adds, eyes narrowing just slightly at the man behind you, “if you so much as breathe wrong around her now, I’ll turn that Impala of yours into scrap and sell the pieces on eBay.”

“What the he–” Dean opens his mouth and closes it again, swallowing thickly. “I mean, yes… sir?”

You snort a loud laugh. “That’s a new level of commitment.”

Dean glances at you then, a smirk playing on his lips. “You gonna defend me, or…?”

You shake your head, leaning back into the couch with mock innocence. “Nope. I’m on Team Bobby right now.”

Bobby finally smiles for real, his shoulders a little looser. “Smart girl.”

He then walks the two of you to the door. Just before you step out onto the porch, he pulls you into a hug – gruff and awkward and perfect. He wraps his arms around you in a way that makes something inside your chest crack wide open. He’s solid. Warm. Real.

You weren’t ready for how badly you needed this.

“Don’t be a stranger,” he says.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” you reply, grinning before the door closes.

Dean walks down the steps, chuckling. “So that was terrifying.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Coward.”

As you and Dean stroll down the gravel path toward the car, the air feels clearer. Your chest’s a little lighter. The summer breeze catches your hair, the sun sliding low in the sky, casting warm gold across the yard. But before you’ve reached the Impala, you stop walking.

Dean halts as well and turns toward you with a bit of worry on his freckled face. “What’s wrong? You okay?”

You nod slowly, your throat thick. “Yeah, I’m more than okay. I just…” You look at him, your heart too full. “Thank you. For giving me this. For doing this for me. I don’t even know how to–”

He takes a step closer. “You don’t have to thank–”

You don’t even let him finish. Instead, you rise up on your toes and kiss him.

It’s not soft. It’s not hesitant. It’s not maybe or someday. It’s now.

It’s you, choosing him.

Dean lets out a soft sound of surprise, but his arms come around you in an instant and pull you closer. His mouth parts under yours, deepening the kiss, hungry and searing all at once. You gasp into him, and he groans against your lips, one hand tangling in your hair as he presses you back against Baby like he’s been waiting to do this forever.

By the time you break apart, you’re both breathless and dizzy and trembling a little.

“Wasn’t expecting that… yet,” he says, chuckling lightly. “You always wreck me, you know that?”

You giggle. “Right back at you, Winchester.”

Dean presses his forehead to yours. He cups your face, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone. “You ready for the next clue?” he asks softly.

Your brow raises, laughing. “There’s more? You’re insane.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, pulling a crumpled note from his jeans pocket and placing it in your hand, “you’re in love with me, so what does that say about you?”

You unfold the note, heart pounding again as you read the words:

You’re almost there. You always said the stars looked closer from up here. This is where I loved you for the first time (and where I hope you’ll let me do it again). Meet me where we watched the sunrise the morning after we saw that super cool comet, and you wished we could stay like this forever.

You lift an eyebrow, amused. “‘Super cool’? Couldn’t find a better adjective?”

“What, you want me to bust out a thesaurus every time I think somethin’ kicks ass?” Dean chuckles as your cheeks flush with warmth. “‘Cause I will. I’ll get real academic on you. Next time it’ll be… exceedingly badassical.”

You snort a laugh. “This is why you had a C in English.”

“Oh, yeah? You checked the back yet? Wrote a little somethin’ for you,” Dean shoots back, smirking wide. “Thought I could go a little more graphic since I’m the one giving you this.”

As you flip the note around and read, your eyes widen with each word. You almost choke on your spit when you reach the real graphic part. “Wow… I think I’ve never read the word ‘cock’ that much in a paragraph before. Is that a haiku about my–”

Dean outright beams with pride. “Damn right it is. Some of my best work if you ask me.”

You laugh loudly, tears stinging your eyes. You pull him in and press another kiss to his lips. “You’re an idiot.”

“But I’m your idiot, right?” Dean retorts, and you nod keenly, your cheeks hurting from smiling so damn much. “Still with me?”

“Yeah, lead the way,” you reply softly.

Dean opens the car door for you and looks at you like he’s already home, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I’ll drive.”

The Impala crests the winding road with a low rumble, its headlights carving soft yellow arcs through the Kansas dark. The fields below are nothing but shadows now, all blue and velvet, and the moon overhead seems to be doing its best to eavesdrop.

You sit with your shoulder pressed against Dean’s, the soft rumble of the engine underneath you steady, low, and familiar like a heartbeat. One of his hands rests on the steering wheel, the other curled loosely around yours on the bench seat, your knuckles occasionally brushed by his thumb.

It's the kind of touch that says more than words. That says finally, still, always.

“How long have you been driving around with that smirk on your face?” you ask playfully, narrowing your eyes.

Dean glances sideways at you, lips spreading wider. “What smirk?”

“That one. The ‘I’ve got a secret and it’s killing me not to tell you’ smirk.”

He doesn’t even try to deny it. “We’re almost there. Just wait.”

The Lookout is coming into view now, but it isn’t the same shadowy ridge it’s always been. Tonight, it looks like something straight out of a dream.

Fairy lights blink soft and golden across the trees, strung in arcs that sway in the breeze like fireflies on summer nights. There are lanterns tucked along the path, flickering with amber warmth, and a scattering of wildflowers trails the ground – your favorite kind. A blanket is spread across the flattest part of the clearing, anchored with champagne flutes and a food basket.

Dean cuts the engine, and the sudden silence makes it all feel surreal.

“Dean…” you breathe. “What…? When…?”

He’s already grinning. That lopsided, infuriating, absolutely soul-wrecking smile. He looks at you, soft-eyed and proud. “Told you I had one more surprise.”

You step out of the car in a daze, head turning to take it all in. Dean gets out as well, walking around to join you with a smile.

“Had some help. Our moms,” Dean says, scratching the back of his neck.

Your mouth falls open. “My mom did this? With Mary?”

“Jess helped, too. Said she couldn’t resist,” Dean says, chuckling. “Mom and Connie got real serious about it. I told them fairy lights might be overkill and they both looked at me like I insulted their religion.”

“I…” You spin in a slow circle, overwhelmed and awed. “This is… Dean, it’s perfect.”

“Not yet,” he murmurs and steps closer. “But it will be.”

Your heart does something seismic. Almost bounces out of your chest like a kid on a trampoline high on sugar.

Dean takes your hands, and the light caught in his eyes makes them look like a myth from a fairy tale – a little emerald, a little gold, and a little yours. You finally notice it then – he’s nervous. Not cocky, not smug – nervous. Dean Winchester, high school heartthrob and sexiest mechanic alive, looks like a guy trying not to pass out.

As you look at him, he’s watching you and not the lights – not the mesmerizing view of the town you grew up in down below.

“What?” you ask, smiling curiously.

He shakes his head, that soft look never leaving his freckle-dusted face. “Nothin’. Just... trying to memorize this. You know, for the next memory lane trip in ten years.”

You laugh a little. “You planning on making this a tradition?”

“Maybe.” He grins. “But without losing you again. I missed you every day.”

You feel your throat tighten.

Dean clears his throat and lets out a quick, nervous breath. “Okay,” he says, voice lighter, teasing, “so, full disclosure, I know this next thing is kinda nuts.”

You lift an eyebrow, amused. “Define ‘kinda.’”

“I mean, we just got back together, like... what? Ten minutes ago?”

“Eight,” you reply, playing along. “And I’m still deciding.”

“Rude,” he mutters, but he’s still grinning. “Anyway, I know it’s insane. I know we’re still figuring this out, and you probably haven’t even gotten all your stuff from New York, and I didn’t exactly ease into this, but…”

Dean drops to one knee in the grass in front of you. And now, you think you might pass out.

He pulls something small and velvet-black from his jacket pocket. “I’ve spent a lot of years thinking I lost you. And that was on me. Because I let fear talk me out of fighting for what I wanted most. I thought I’d just slow you down. That if I held on too tight, you’d start to see all the cracks.”

Your heart flips and does more gymnastics than you’ve ever done in PE.

“I thought if I stayed in Lawrence and let you go live your big New York life, that somehow it would hurt less than trying and losing you for real. But you know what hurt worse?”

You shake your head quietly, afraid to breathe. Afraid to even blink.

“Watching you leave and not doing a damn thing to stop it. Telling myself I wasn’t good enough and then trying to live like it was fine. I was an idiot. Because the only thing worse than losing you was never giving us the chance.”

He takes a breath and opens the box. Inside sits a ring – vintage, delicate, rose gold, and unmistakably Mary Winchester’s.

Your breath catches. Your ears are ringing, your muscles shaking.

“She wouldn’t give this to me when I was engaged to Jo. Refused. We had a big fight about it, actually,” he says quietly, watching your reaction. “Said that she always meant it for you. I didn’t know what that meant back then, but... I do now.”

“Dean–” You’re at a loss for words again. How many times is it this week? Maybe you should switch careers at this point.

“I want you, sweetheart. I love you. I never stopped and never will. No more maybes. No more what-ifs. No more ten-year detours. Marry me.”

You laugh, stunned, head and heart spinning in circles. “This is crazy.”

Dean grins a little, still rattled by spiking nerves. “I know. But I think we’ve wasted enough time. Don’t you?”

You fall to your knees in front of him and sling your arms around him, crashing your lips to his like it’s the only answer that matters. When you finally pull back, breathless and happy, you whisper against his cheek, “Yes. Yes. And yes.”

Dean exhales a long, shaky breath, one that sounds like it waited a decade to finally let go. “You sure?”

You nod vigorously. “Yes. Never been surer about anything.”

He laughs, bright and boyish, and sweeps you up in a kiss so soft it makes the universe feel quieter – at peace.

“There’s something else,” he says then, causing your brow to wrinkle in amusement.

“Don’t you think you’ve thrown enough life-changing events at me today?” you tease, giggling.

Dean snorts, but he’s nervous again. “Yeah, well, this one wasn’t exactly my idea,” he starts, clearing his throat somewhat awkwardly. “But, uhm, as you know there was supposed to be a wedding tomorrow. Our moms might have banded together and replanned it. You know, stuff they thought you like. Dresses, flowers, even pie instead of cake. So… if you want–… if you want me – we can get married tomorrow.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” You have to laugh a little. “You want to marry me tomorrow?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Yeah, bold move, huh? But listen, only if you want to. If it’s too fast or too weird, we wait. We wait a year if you need it. Ten. I’ll be here, no matter what.”

You bite your bottom lip for a moment, but you can feel yourself already nodding before you blurt out your answer. “Yeah… Yes! Let’s do it! Let’s get married tomorrow.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow like he hasn’t expected that answer. “For real?”

“Yes,” you assure him and peck his lips, cupping his cheeks. “There’ll never be a different answer as long as you’re the one who’s asking. You were always it for me, Dean. End game. I love you, okay? I never stopped, either.”

A chuckle rumbles through Dean’s chest that sounds like relief before his eyes twinkle with a familiar hint of mischief, his forehead pressed against yours. “So, what d’you say we finally make Baby’s backseat our last stop on the tour?”

You snort a small laugh, cheeks pink. You teasingly brush your nose against his, musing. “Hmm, I don’t know. Might as well wait till the wedding night.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously.” Your lips brush his, all smiles underneath. “But you might convince me to go as far as third base again.”

“Done,” Dean says and claims your lips in the same breath, pushing your back down into the grass, your giggles echoing into the starry night.

The sky stretches above you in a soft haze of stars, the kind you only see in towns like this – quiet, steady, a little drunk off summer.

You’re curled into Dean in the backseat of the Impala, barefoot and a little windblown, the white lace hem of your flowy hippie-style wedding dress tangling around your ankles like ivy, catching on the gearshift and the door handle and the loose change in the floorboards. Wildflowers still stick stubbornly in your hair, most of them from your wilting crown. Your cheeks ache from smiling too goddamn much today.

Dean’s arm is slung around your waist, his hand resting over your belly, fingers twitching now and then like he’s still in disbelief you’re here – real, warm, his. His other hand is absentmindedly toying with a frayed bit of lace near your knee.

His boutonnière is long gone – lost somewhere between the vows and Cas tackling him in an emotional hug afterward. His hair is tousled, his smile easy, and a streak of your lipstick faintly smudges along his jaw. His white dress shirt is wrinkled and untucked, his sleeves rolled up, the top buttons undone. Your mom has even stolen one of his old flannels that you still kept in your closet and sewn him a tie out of the scraps. His jeans hug his bow legs perfectly – and yes, you married a man in jeans. Because of course you did.

You can hear the music faintly from the bar down the hill – Rocky’s is still alive with what remains of your wedding party. The last-minute reception has gone exactly how you’ve imagined it would go if both your moms were given twelve hours and no rules: haphazard, heartfelt, and absolutely perfect in an unhinged way.

You exhale into the quiet, cheek pressed against his shoulder. “I think your mom tried to kill me with love today.”

Dean lets out a low, contented laugh. “Yeah, she was real happy. But I think most of it was just the mushrooms.”

You groan. “God, right. My mom drugged the entire reception.”

“Just a little,” he says, mock-defensive and chuckling. “Microdose. Functional dosage. Her words. Honestly, if you think about it, it was really sweet.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You think my mother spiking the punch like a chaotic teenager is sweet?”

“Hey, she made sure we didn’t get any. Just wanted everyone occupied, so we could sneak away. Told me ‘no bride, no groom, no pregnant ladies.’ Said she was designated chaperone. Blocked me and Jess before we even got close to it. Almost tackled me to the ground, too. It was disturbingly thoughtful,” Dean says, ever the defender of your mother’s shenanigans.

You giggle softly. “She’s scary when she wants something.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, she wanted us to get laid. Which again – disturbingly thoughtful.”

“Guess so,” you laugh and bite your lip. “I’m still wondering if Cas even blinked once while he was officiating us.”

Dean gave a low laugh, chest rumbling under your cheek. “Nope. He was dead serious. But Charlie balanced it well with her toast.”

“Oh God, don’t remind me. I still can’t believe she opened with, ‘Once upon a time in the backseat of a Chevy Impala…’”

Dean grins. “To be fair, she warned me she was gonna say something inappropriate.”

You nudge him playfully with your shoulder, laughing again, quieter now. “She meant it, though,” you say softly. “They all did. Even Bobby. You saw him tearing up when he walked me down the aisle.”

“Not just Bobby,” Dean huffs, amused. “You made everyone cry with your goddamn vows. Even my dad was bawlin’ his eyes out. Don’t know how you pulled that off. You had, what? Three hours to write that thing? Sounded like it came straight outta one of your novels.”

You smirk and give an innocent shrug of your shoulders. “I’m a writer. I had to go for the emotional sucker punch, okay?”

Dean snorts under his breath and kisses your temple, the wedding band around his finger catching in the light. “Well, mission accomplished, sweetheart.”

You’re both quiet for a heartbeat, letting the memory of your wedding hang there. Your mom buttoning your dress with shaking fingers. Sam walking down the grassy aisle with Jess holding his hand. John tearing up on three separate occasions. Meg waddling to the buffet like a queen, heavily pregnant and still rocking four-inch wedges – she insisted on coming, even though she’s a week past her due date. Benny hooted the loudest when you kissed Dean during your first dance. Mary created an amazing food spread again. Kevin tried to DJ from a laptop while Garth spun his wife around the pool table.

Your people. Your strange, perfect little world.

“You okay?” Dean breaks the comfortable silence first, nose brushing your hair.

“Mm-hm,” you manage to hum in total post-wedding bliss.

“Tired?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Happy?”

You glance up at him, your heart warm like your holding the entire sun hostage in your ribcage. “So happy it feels fake.”

He smiles at that – soft, crooked, and a little tired too. “You’re my wife now,” he says like he’s still trying to process it.

You beam. “You gonna start calling me Mrs. Winchester in bed?”

“Only if you call me Mr. ‘Yes, right there – don’t stop.’”

You laugh – genuine, loud, and peaceful. “God, we’re such trash.”

“Legally married trash.” Dean grins.

He kisses you again, this time on the mouth – slow and lazy, your favorite damn kind. His lips taste like champagne and cherry wedding pie and something saltier underneath – sweat, effort, realness. You melt into it for a moment before pulling back with a quiet sigh.

“So, what now? Do we just go home?” Dean asks, making you giggle.

“Uh, I mean… Am I moving into your place? I still have to get all my stuff from New York,” you note, realizing how ridiculous it sounds saying that to your husband.

Dean laughs at that, rubbing his jaw. “Right. Guess we’ll do that then.”

“I have a cat.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Dean blinks down at you. “Usually something you tell a guy first before gettin’ married. Especially if the guy’s a dog person.”

You snort a giggle. “We can get a dog, too. We can fill the house with a whole sitcom cast.”

“Alright, what’s the judgmental asshole’s name?” Dean jokes with a teasing grin.

“Hemingway.”

His smile broadens. “Actually did it, huh?”

Your brow raises. “You remember that?”

“Yeah,” Dean says like it’s obvious and shouldn’t be questioned. “I think I’ve proven enough this week that I remember everything that concerns you.”

“True. You did,” you reply, smiling.

“Guess I’ll have to get used to cat hair on my couch,” Dean quips.

“Your couch?” You cock an eyebrow, grin still present.

“Our couch,” Dean corrects and pecks the top of your head.

“You know, I already have ideas on how to spruce up the place a little,” you say with a teasing edge in your voice.

Dean groans, head falling against the backrest. “Jesus Christ, there are gonna be millions of books stacked everywhere, aren’t there? Gonna look like that apartment you shared with Charlie during college. Your tea collection is probably gonna take up the entire pantry.”

“Don’t forget to share your closet space with me, too.”

Dean chuckles, fingers lazily brushing your waist. “So, what? Road trip to New York for our honeymoon to get your stuff? Haven’t even planned anything yet.”

You contemplate for a second before a slow smile forms on your lips. “Let’s make it a whole trip. Go for a month. Like old times. Cheap motels, awful coffee, greasy diner food, seedy dive bars, and gas station snacks. We could chase bands and weird tourist traps.”

Dean looks at you as if he isn’t sure he’s not dreaming. “You serious?”

“Yeah, you drive and sing along to Zeppelin while I ride shotgun with my notebook. Just you, me, a pen, and the open road, baby.”

Dean blinks at you only for a second before kissing you reverently. “God, I love you.”

You giggle softly. “Good thing you put a ring on it then.”

“Best decision I ever made.”

“You know, Bon Jovi and AC/DC are on tour right now. We could see them,” you suggest, your mind already mid-honeymoon planning.

“I wish. Tried getting tickets months ago. No chance,” Dean sighs with full disappointment.

But you wave it off. “Oh, it’s no problem. I know a guy. Just have to make a call.”

Dean’s brow shoots up. “What? You just happen to know a guy who can give you tickets to the greatest rock bands that ever lived?”

You twitch your shoulders. “I mean… yeah? I’m a bestselling author now. I meet a lot of people at events. And that guy works in the music industry and still owes me a favor. I signed a copy of one of my books for his daughter. She’s a big fan.”

“Huh.” Dean stumps for a second. “Really did marry well…”

You swat his chest playfully, chuckling.

Dean looks down at you then, that familiar, boyish smirk spreading on his lips. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheek. “You know, before we fully go planning the honeymoon, there’s still one more thing on our list.”

You’re already smiling when his fingers brush up your thigh. “Oh?”

“Mm-hm,” Dean hums and slowly presses you into the backseat, lips trailing down your throat now. “Something we haven’t done in… ten years?”

“Hmm… And what could that possibly be?” you play along, your fingers already wandering down his chest, legs spreading wider to accommodate his hips. “You know, I learned a few new tricks.”

Dean smirks. “Did you now?”

“Courtesy of my mother,” you quip, but it’s not even a lie. “She gave me a sex book for every birthday over the past decade.”

Dean snorts, lifting a brow. “And you actually read ‘em?”

“They’re books, okay?” you defend with red and burning cheeks. “I can’t just have them lying around and not read them. My mother knows my weaknesses.”

Dean’s mouth is already on yours before you can finish laughing. His hands find your waist, your thighs, pulling you closer, closer, and closer. It’s messy and beautiful. Most of all, it's long overdue. It’s the kind of kiss that makes your knees ache and your spine melt and your lungs forget what they’re for. The kind that rewrites a decade of silence and stubbornness and heartache.

Outside, the twinkling stars above keep watch. But this isn’t just the end of the night or the end of a book. Luckily, this is only just the beginning – the first chapter of a brand new story.

🎬 The End

What did you guys think of this ending? Did Dean earn his forgiveness? That scavenger hunt was such a cool thing to plan and write. I loved including all their friends and family. I'm honestly so in love with this ending 🥰

Let me know if you ever want a little bonus one-shot of that wedding night 😉 Or maybe something from their honeymoon? I kinda miss them already lol 💕

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[zepskiesreads]

Meet me at Midnight Blue (Dean x OFC)

I am very late submitting a story for @zepskies’s 5K follower milestone and I still have another story to pop out in a week for it –stretches writing brain muscles– but I needed to join in and celebrate this amazing lady!

I decided to be an overachiever and asked for a color palette and GIF. (Hold your breath on the GIF inspiration story, but it could happen soon!) If you know me, you know there was no doubt I was gonna write something about Dean.

I got this response from Zep:

Hey there, beautiful! Thank you so much!!! 💗 Ooh I love either reader or OFC! Whatever your heart feels like. I'll give you a color palette first, and then I'll hunt down a Dean gif for ya…

This was the color palette Zep gave me:

With the addendum:

I love your blog's blue vibes, but this is just how I see you in color form lol -

Extra as I’m wont to be, I looked up the name for the hex color in the middle: Midnight Blue.

And I immediately got Vincent van Gogh’s “The Starry Night” and “Cafe Terrace At Night” musings. I seem to love stories with dreamscapes and dream sharing, and I absolutely love the imagery in the movie What Dreams May Come. So, I decided to continue a story I created for Impala-Dreamer’s Dean POV challenge a few months back, titled A Hunter’s Helper. It’s an original female character and apparently a very slow burn (another thing I seem to be doing more of lately. sigh).

But I hope Zep loves it. I’m gonna keep the GIF Zep gave me under wraps to spur myself to tie up this little series. (soon maybe?) Congrats lovely!

~~~~~

MEET ME AT MIDNIGHT BLUE

Word count: 5,076 (I tried to keep it under 5K); not beta'd

Rating: Teen and Up

Tags: angst, emotional hurt/comfort, background case fic, family drama, S8ish, language, mild violence, dreamscapes, dreamsharing

The best way to push through nightmares could be found at the bottom of a bottle for Dean.

If a day peppered one too many fast cut edits of hellish memories, that was only a teaser. He knew a red carpet would roll out for a star-studded premiere when he was in his bedroom come nighttime.

And to think he used to dream of having a room all to himself.

Dean hummed at the irony, downing whiskey straight from the bottle.

The bunker was a sanctuary, a fortress of protection from all the monsters in the world.

Dean couldn’t escape the monsters in his head.

Could fucking irony take a vacation every once in a while?

Dean gulped enough to flood his brain, and the on-location filming currently underway for “Return to Pergatory.”

Sam dealt with his trauma in other ways, but that didn’t mean they were healthier. Burying his head in book after book since he’d walked away from Amelia once and for all. Searching for case after case to focus on anything else. Dean knew nothing he could say would ease Sam’s pain. Giving up something you loved for duty sucked.

But what were their lives anyway if not a flavorless burrito of shitty sacrifices?

Dean closed his eyes. Was he sloshed enough to attempt sleep?

A vibration rattled in his desk drawer. He groaned and rolled off the bed, his brain thick and heavy with the liquor.

He pulled on the knob, eyes blinking to focus on the noisy culprit in the sea of old cell phones. He’d fashioned an elaborate charging station a couple of weeks ago, now that he had a proper home for them all.

Damn, it was his old Motorola RAZR flashing and rumbling like it was being exorcised. He flipped it open and stared at the number. It wasn’t one in the contact list.

“Hello?” Dean mumbled.

“Dean? Dean Winchester?” The voice gasped in disbelief.

Dean sighed. “You’re the one who dialed this number. Who else you expecting?”

“I-I can’t believe it. It’s been years. I knew it was a long shot, but for you to actually answer.”

Dean frowned. “Who’s this?”

“Sandy.”

Dean closed his eyes, trying to recall.

She huffed. “A Hunter’s Helper.”

Dean’s eyes shot open. “Sandy?”

“Yeah. Listen, I don’t have a lot of time.”

“What’s going on? Are you in trouble?”

“I can’t talk about it over the phone. You’re going to be getting a package at that new PO Box you set up.”

Dean had walked into the USPS Post Office on Main Street in Lebanon, Kansas a month ago with his Dean Campbell license and all the falsified residential proof he needed.

“How do you-?” They may not have talked in almost a decade, but Sandy’s research capabilities rushed back and shut him up. “Okay.”

“It’ll explain everything. But, Dean, I need your help. Don’t screw this up.”

“Sandy,” he began.

“Gotta go.” The phone call ended.

~

“This explains nothing.” Sam scrunched his forehead, all forty acres of it, at the clump of brown hair in a clear plastic baggie held between his hot dog fingers.

Dean was still pissed that Mr. Early Riser had swung by the post office after his jog and gotten to the package before him. He snatched the bag from Sam’s hold.

“Who is she again?” Sam loomed over Dean, who sat at one of the library tables, inspecting the open box’s contents.

“Just someone I worked a ghoul case with years ago.”

“But you said she was in the hunter network. How come I’ve never heard of her?”

“You don’t know every hunter on the planet.”

“I know as many as you do.”

“Not the ones I worked with when you took your Stanford sabbatical.” Dean bit his tongue at the snarky remark he wanted to toss out about Sam’s year-long disconnect in Kermit, Texas as well. But now wasn’t the time to enjoy watching Sam storm off. He’d stuck his nose in Dean’s business; he might as well be helpful. “Why the fuck did you open my shit again? Should have been the freaky ass anime tentacle porn I ordered. Would have served you right.”

“It looked suspicious. What if it had been something from Kevin?” Sam waved a hand over the box.

“Kevin would’ve called if he had any news on the Demon tablet.”

“Not if he couldn’t. He’s pretty good at contingency plans and disappearing.”

Dean screwed his mouth shut. Fucking pot calling the kettle black, Samuel. “Just, do me a favor. Next time a package is addressed to me… don’t fucking open it.”

“Seems like you got a stalker, dude.” Sam read the note over Dean’s shoulder. “‘Meet me at midnight on Valentine’s.’”

“She said she needed my help.”

“Okay. Then, where on Valentine’s Day are you supposed to meet her?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Sam grabbed the hair bag again and turned it over. “The little card in here says ‘Dream a Little Dream of Me’. Some random chick you haven’t seen in forever knows our new secret batcave lair and is sending you her DNA. Yeah, none of this is creepy.” Sam added an incredulous laugh, pulling another slip of paper out of the box. “‘Hurry, boy, she’s waiting there for you.’”

Dean’s music recall kicked into autopilot as he added without hardly missing a beat, “Africa.”

“What?”

“Pretty sure that’s from the song ‘Africa’ by Toto.” Dean looked up to catch Sam’s face relax in that way that signaled he was on to something. “What?”

“African Dream root.”

Dean blinked. “She wants me to go tiptoe through her tulips?”

“Dreamwalking seems like the only plausible conclusion.”

“For us, this is plausible.” Dean shook his head.

“But why all the riddles?”

“Worried someone would intercept the package? Connect the dots back to her?” Dean tapped the shipping label on the box. “Pretty sure if we looked up the return address, it wouldn’t be “Dye Another Day” Hair Salon.”

Sam shrugged. “Well, we’ve got all the ingredients to make the elixir. You just gotta decide if you’re gonna celebrate Unattached Drifter Christmas with a psycho.”

“So, just stay in with you, then?” Dean quipped.

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.” Dean mumbled halfheartedly, squinting at the strands of hair. 

His memory drifted off to that one night he spent with Sandy years ago. She’d shared her hunter origin story, which happened just after she turned twelve. She spoke of her family and the loss of her mother to a ghoul. How she’d been held hostage by it and did whatever she needed to to protect her baby sister. That meant killing that ghoul. Nothing had been the same for her after that, and her relationship with her sister had been nonexistent.

She’d seen something in Dean, probably the same loss. She’d found Sam’s contact information without Dean asking and urged him to seek out his brother. “She helped me out once, Sammy. I need to return the favor.” 

~

Dean startled out of a sound sleep. Darkness wrapped him in a velvety softness of calm. Under normal circumstances –Dean clucked his tongue at using that word to describe this– he would bolt to his feet, search for any weapons on his person, and ready for a fight.

But the last thing he remembered was Sam sitting by his bedside. Dean had dropped a couple of strands of Sandy’s hair into the African Dream Root tea Sam had brewed. There’d been Sam’s reassuring chin wag and jaw clench that he’d keep watch. At any sign of trouble, Sam would do whatever necessary to pull Dean from the shared Dreamscape.

Dean blinked as the world of Sandy’s subconscious came into focus. Dark, towering buildings bookended him in what Dean discerned to be an alleyway. Hard cobblestones had replaced the memory foam mattress he’d recently acquired. Dean didn’t move, only stared straight up. Transfixed by shades of blue he’d never seen all at once in any night sky. There were swirls of denim, lightened in some spots and deepened to a slick black in others. Interspersed in the blue were canary yellow stars, haloed and twinkling.

He sat up with care, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but they didn’t. He could make out a golden glow at the far end of the alley and decided to trek toward it.

Only when his feet passed the threshold into the light did he realize he was dressed in some old timey garb. The fabric looked like it should hang heavy and scratchy, reminding him of burlap; but it didn’t weigh on his body or cause discomfort in the slightest. He tugged at his vest and topcoat and walked the streets of a dream that wasn’t his.

This was nothing like the Looney Tunes crap they’d dealt with not too long ago.

Shades of blue coated almost everything, the way midnight drapes over a city. He strolled to the area awash in pops of yellows and gold. The buildings, the cobblestones, the trees, all painted with brush strokes that only hinted at their proper form. The beautiful scene echoed familiarity, though he couldn’t make the connection. Mild frustration stirred in Dean’s gut, knowing Sam would have spouted the reference in a heartbeat.

The bright spot at the end of the walk swirled into the semblance of a cafe as he closed the distance. Under the cafe’s awning, a dozen tiny tables perched on the patio. There were a handful of nondescript patrons being waited on by an equally abstract waiter. But one person stood out in stark relief, sipping out of a blurry cup.

“Sandy.” Dean smiled. She hadn’t aged at all, but her Victorian-style dress and hat gave her an air of maturity. But, then, he remembered how tired and exhausted she’d already seemed to him when they’d first met–them both 26. He caught his own youthful reflection from the past behind her in the cafe window.

“Hey, Dean.” Sandy extended a gloved hand and offered him a seat at her table.

He swept back the tails of his topcoat and sat. “Where are you?”

Sandy scrutinized him hard. “I go through all this to talk to you so no one could trace me… that’s the first thing out of your mouth, and you think I’m gonna spill and tell you where I am?”

Dean couldn’t help the smirk. “Well, you did say I was irresistible once.”

“I called you irrepressible.”

Dean shrugged. “Semantics.”

“Right. Which is why you’re wrong.”

Dean smiled at how worked up Sandy appeared. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”

She melted and smiled back. “It’s good to see you, too.”

He lifted both hands in the air. “Well, I’m here. You said you needed my help. So, if you can’t tell me where you are…”

“I can tell you where I need you to be.”

Dean dropped his hands. “I’m listening.”

“Do you remember me telling you about my sister?”

Dean nodded. “Shelley, right?”

“Yes. Shelley.”

“Did you two ever…” Dean trailed off.

“No. I never reached out. But, I never stopped keeping tabs on her either. And,” Sandy held a hand to her mouth. Dean watched the struggle to keep her composure. He wanted to extend a touch in comfort, but what connection could he really make with her in this dreamworld? 

She inhaled and exhaled a few times before she could continue. Her hand dropped, fingers fidgeted with the cup handle. “Her family is in trouble, I think, or at least might be soon.”

Dean listened as she described the weird goings on in the city of Paramus, where her sister lived with her husband and two children.

Dean tried to hold back his inner cringe. “That sounds an awful lot like a ghoul feasting on the neighborhood.”

“Yes, and I think their eventual target is my sister’s family.”

“What? Why?” Dean squinted.

Sandy shrugged. “Revenge. You know all too well about that, don’t you?”

“You’ve been keeping tabs on me along with your sister?” Dean widened his eyes, staring into hers, the color of silky, melted chocolate.

“You Winchesters make it easy. FBI’s Most Wanted list? Subtle, Dean.”

He huffed at her sarcasm.

Sandy continued. “A case with even a whiff of ghoul has pinged my radar over the years. That never changed. Like the grave robbings in Windom, Minnesota in 2009.” She paused and took in Dean’s reaction. “When the reports died down in that area I checked around with some hunters. Found out you and Sam had worked that hunt. I’m sorry about Adam.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, droppin’ the ball when it comes to family is kinda my thing.”

Sandy straightened in her seat. “Not from what I’ve heard.”

Dean tapped his fingers on the table top.

“Anyway, that case.” She broke the awkward silence. “Your case, with the ghouls that made it their mission to exact revenge on John Winchester’s family? It creeped me the hell out. It got me thinking, what if the thing that had killed my mom, the thing I had to kill… what if it hadn’t been a lone ghoul?”

“The chances of that are slim to none.”

“Yeah, that’s what I convinced myself of eventually.” Sandy sighed.

Dean turned his attention to the night sky. “Something tells me there’s a but coming.”

“But it ended up being something else to worry about.”

He wanted to ask her why this dream space? Why couldn’t she tell him where she was? Why had she waited all these years to reach out if she’d been keeping up with his life and all the crazy in it? Anything but learning more about this something else. His life was always a series of something else.

“You know what they do with a John or Jane Doe in a morgue?” Sandy quizzed him.

“Uncollected bodies get cremated after a period of time.”

“Not everywhere. Some county’s bury the bodies in a cemetery. Springfield did that.” 

Dean was not at all surprised that Sandy had researched that. A flash of worry bubbled up in his chest, which he immediately extinguished with facts out loud. “You turned its brains into oatmeal. You killed it. It’s not resurrecting like a revenant.”

Sandy leveled him with a cold stare. “You wanna guess which county-owned cemetery full of unmarked graves had been recently ‘desecrated and defiled’ according to a news paper article?”

Dean stuttered out, “D-desecrated and defiled how?”

“Bodies had been dug up and munched on.” Sandy’s laugh landed a bit on the maniacal end of the scale. “A ghoul ate another ghoul.” She steadied her tone. “Ghouls absorb memories. It would know about my mom, me, my sister. Righteous indignation and poetic justice aren’t only for humans to pursue. Monsters don’t like it either when humans fuck with their own kind. I’ve heard plenty of hunter stories that back that up, mostly involving you.”

“Shit,” Dean groaned and nodded with regret at the facts. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Sam and I will take care of it. Just give me the address.”

Sandy rattled off the memorized location. “Thank you, Dean. I know if anyone can put an end to this once and for all, it’s you.”

Dean nodded. “How am I gonna update you?”

Her gaze broke from his. “I’ve got my ways to track how things go.”

A soft laugh, bereft of humor, escaped Dean’s mouth. “I’m not gonna see you again.”

“I’m-I’m not in a good place right now. Me reaching out to you-it wasn’t supposed to be like this. For this.”

Dean took a chance and reached for her gloved hand. He wrapped his fingers about her wrist. The sense of touch thrummed with a dulled numbness. But Sandy’s eyes lit up nonetheless at the intimate attempt. “Just- don’t wait until someone’s life’s on the line to contact me. And, well, you don’t have to be alone in whatever’s going on right now.”

“That’s kind of the whole point.” The vague response from Sandy only urged Dean to seek more answers. As he opened his mouth, Sandy cut him off and said, “Time to wake up.”

Dean blinked awake back in his bunker bedroom. He tilted his head and found Sam asleep in a chair. His brawny arms crisscrossed over his chest, head lolled back, knees pressed into the side of the mattress to lock him in place.

Dean sighed. He hoped Sam would be ready to leave in the next half hour.

~

Baby coasted into the parking spot in front of Shelley Brockman’s residence, a modest colonial-style home. A prerequisite lawn flanked the walkway. The boxes for a suburban life had all been checked by the look of things.

Sam squinted in the sunlight and pulled out his badge. “Nice try, Dean, but I’m not being Agent Lennox again. Hand over Stewart.”

Dean tapped his thumb on the steering wheel to the radio company, mired in his own indecision. “Maybe fake Feds isn’t the way to go.”

Sam crimped his brows, glancing at Dean’s suit and then fiddled with his own tie. “Door-to-door insurance salesmen? Cause that reeks of sincerity and won’t raise suspicion.”

“Maybe we tell the truth.”

“What?”

Dean cut the engine. “I just knock on the door and say, ‘hey, you’re sister’s worried about you.’”

“Can we setup up 24-hour surveillance around your home until maybe some monsters attack you?” Sam razzed.

“Hang back for a bit,” Dean ordered. Baby’s driver's side door squeaked in protest along with Sam. Dean tapped the hood twice in quick succession to soothe them both.

The stroll up the walkway didn’t need to be any longer for Dean to make up his mind. He pressed the doorbell with the pad of his thumb. A muffled ring chimed somewhere inside the house. Dean admired the hanging plants, well cared for, while he waited.

Over a minute passed before the door opened a crack. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Brockman?”

A blue eye blinked. The majority of the woman’s face hid in shadow. “Y-yes.”

“My name’s Dave Stewart. I’m a friend of your sister, Sandy.”

“You know Sandy?” The door swung inward, and out popped Shelley. Dean clocked all of the identifying features he’d studied from Shelley’s Driver’s License, which they’d pulled from the New Jersey Motor Vehicle Commission. The pool blue eyes were striking in person, almost crystal clear in the bright sun. Shelley and Sandy couldn’t have been more day and night. Shelley was tall and lanky. A smattering of freckles swept across her cheeks. She was more bottle-blond than the photo, and the mane had a lot of bounce and height. But some women changed hair color as often as their underwear. 

Shelley wore a lavender mid-drift top and light blue jeans cinched high at the waist. He’d bet a sizeable wager that Sandy had nothing but black and plaid in her wardrobe to this day. 

“Is she alright?” Shelley’s fingers clamped around the doorknob. 

“Yes.” Dean didn’t want to cause more worry based on his own uncertainty about Sandy’s condition. “She just, ah, she asked me to come by and well, see how you were doing.”

Shelley’s bottom lip began to quiver. “Oh.”

Dean’s gaze fell to the entrance threshold. He stared at the brown Birkenstocks on her feet and the pale yellow polish on her toenails. Anything to not have to watch Sandy’s sister break down in front of him.

“I’m sorry. I-I didn’t think she would,” Shelley paused. “Would you like to come in?”

He looked over his shoulder to ensure Sam was still in Baby, waiting like he’d asked. It was easy to spot the giant’s mop of hair, even from a hundred paces away, settled in the passenger seat.

Lifting his head, he offered Shelley a hesitant smile and nodded. “Thanks.” Dean shuffled in past Shelley into the entryway. An awkward stairwell placement by the door had them both sidestepping the other to land in the living room. “I don’t want to take much of your time.”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I-” Shelley clutched her chest. “I’ve been thinking about my sister a lot lately. I’m so glad you came. I feel like it’s a sign for us to reconnect.”

Dean smiled. “That’s great. I’ll pass the word along to her.”

Shelley rushed out, “Or, I mean, I’d love to talk to her myself. If you have an address or phone number to pass along…”

Well, shit, this was fucking awkward. How good of a friend doesn’t have a bud’s contact information? “Sandy didn’t ask me to share any of that.”

“You can get it, though, right? A way for me to contact her?” 

Man, did younger siblings have a patent on puppy dog eyes? Dean nodded. “I’ll work on it.”

She clapped her hands together. “Amazing.” A phone blared out from another room. “Would you excuse me for a minute?”

“Of Course.”

Dean tracked Shelley floating down the hallway by the stairwell to what looked to be the kitchen. The opportunity to snoop could not be denied. He studied the handful of family photos on the fireplace mantel. Two kids. A daughter, the oldest, maybe seven or so, and a son who looked to be four. The husband had a pearly white smile and Chiclet-sized teeth.

Dean squinted at Shelley’s brown hair and clothes in the photos. The pictures appeared to span a handful of years by the size of the kids, and her hair color hadn’t changed. Even the casual settings had her in outfits that would have been torn out of a Ralph Lauren catalogue and not something out of Pamela Anderson’s closet from the 90s.

A thump cocked Dean’s head to the right of the fireplace to find a closed door. A muffled but high-pitched grunt emanated from the other side. Shelley’s animated phone conversation continued in the kitchen, out of sight, halls and walls away. Dean took a chance and tried the doorknob. It turned, no resistance. Heart racing, Dean opened it slowly and peered inside. He was met with shelves lined with books, crystal awards, and trophies with every manner of sports player atop them.

When he stepped in fully he blinked several times. A woman was tied to a chair, wearing a cockeyed sun visor and a tennis outfit. Despite the bruised, swollen cheek and black and blue eye, she looked a hell of a lot like Shelley.

“What the fuck?”

She bounced up and down in her seat, a scarf wrapped over her mouth.

Before Dean could form another thought, the sole of a Birkenstock punched into his lower back and launched him towards a huge mahogany desk. His hands gripped the surface edge to brake the momentum.

He spun around and Shelley charged at him, screeching like a banshee, a carving knife held high overhead, readied to sink deep into Dean’s flesh. He dipped and ducked to the right in time for the blade of Shelley’s knife to embed into the polished wood of the desk.

He grabbed her nest of blond hair and flung her backwards. She went airborne for a millisecond, feet off the ground. He released his grip and she slammed into the shelving. She snarled in a heap on the floor, surrounded by shattered awards and trophies.

Dean whipped out his gun, leveled it at Shelley. But, he froze with uncertainty, even as she gnashed her teeth at him. He looked from her to the woman tied to the chair. They looked, not quite exact, but familiar enough. If he didn’t make a decision soon…

Sam appeared in the doorway, gun leading the way. His target landed on Shelley in a second.

“Whoa!” Dean bellowed. “Don’t shoot her!”

“What the hell?” Sam yelled, followed by a huff. He propped his back against the doorsill and swung his head back the way he’d entered. “I was about to knock on the door to see what was taking so long, and then I heard the crash.” He tipped his chin toward the woman tied up in the chair. His gaze shot back and forth from woman to woman. “Ghoul take a bit out of her?”

“Doesn’t look like it.” Dean gave the woman a once-over as he marched toward the chair. Aside from the damage to her face, he couldn’t spot any blood or signs of snacking. He untied her hands from behind her back and did another sweep of her frame with his eyes. Nope, nothing, not even a nibble. He pulled the scarf away from the woman’s mouth. “Wanna help us out here?”

“Thank God!” She screamed, eyes wide with terror, zeroed in on the thing growling under its breath now. “When I opened the door and saw her, I-I couldn’t believe it was her.”

“You’re Shelley Brockman.” Dean stared hard at the frantic woman.

The real Shelley nodded, her voice hitching. It wouldn’t be long before the tears came. “Sandy told me. But, I never wanted to believe it. And now. Now it’s back!” The woman screeched, “You killed my mother, you bitch!”

“Dean,” Sam’s voice had leveled, coaxed his brother’s attention away from the chaos. “If that’s Shelley” - he nodded to the woman in the chair, “Then this,” -he shook his gun at the thing on the floor- “is impersonating her mother.”

It all clicked then. It feasted on the buried corpse, still in the mother’s form, in that unmarked grave in Springfield. It didn’t just absorb all those memories, but the ability to shift into the form of Sandy and Shelley’s mother. 

It would have been easy to mistake the ghoul for Shelley. 

Like mother, like daughter.

~

It had taken a couple of hours to get everything squared away. The ghoul had been dragged to the basement, mummified in a moving blanket, and received a brain bashing with a mallet courtesy of one Sam Winchester. It was decided they’d pull Baby into the garage and stuff the body in the trunk so they could dispose of it on the drive back to Lebanon.

After quite a bit of calming down, Shelley explained what had happened. Her husband had taken the kids to see the in-laws, and she’d been home by herself when the ghoul arrived. It threatened to kill her entire family. It wanted to know Sandy’s location. By the best fucking timing in the history of the Winchesters, they’d arrived right before the thing was gonna take a hunk out of Shelley.

“She looked just like the last time I’d seen my-what I thought was my mother.” Shelley sipped some tea, her hands still shaking, wrists red and chafed from the ropes that had bound her. “All those years ago.” She wiped tears with the back of her hand. “How can I ever repay you both?”

Dean leaned against the kitchen counter. “The only reason we’re here is because of your sister.”

Shelley nodded. “Will you give her a message for me?”

~

“Delivery!”

Dean’s ears perked up at the word Sam yelled upon arriving back at the bunker. It had been a couple of weeks since Shelley. “Yeah?”

Sam plodded down the iron steps, twirled a box in his hands. “You expecting something from a ‘Fifty Shades BUT Grey’ hair salon?”

Dean grabbed it from Sam without a word and ripped open the packaging. He read the note inside first. A date and time had been printed carefully in the right-hand corner. Below it in big bold letters was one sentence:

MEET ME AT MIDNIGHT BLUE

~

When Dean blinked his eyes open after his African Dream Root nightcap with a chaser of Sandy’s hair, he shifted his shoulders and tested the softness under him. It was a little lumpy, but not uncomfortable. Whatever room he was in, it was small, not modern by any standards. An oil lamp atop a table flickered amber and lit up the space.

“Hi, Dean.”

Dean smiled, hearing the voice beside him. His heart skipped at the closeness. He turned to his left and found her right there, staring back at him.

“Thank you,” She whispered. She was still locked in that time capsule at the age of 26. And he knew, without a doubt, that he was as well. “Blabbing about the ghoul hunt in Paramus to every hunter you could think of got back to me about a week ago. Thank Sam for me, too.”

Dean shifted onto his side, taking in her peaceful disposition. “You can thank him yourself and get properly introduced. Come visit us. You know where we live.”

Sandy snickered. “Maybe I will.”

“But, you’re gonna have to do that after you visit your sister.”

Sandy stilled.

“She wants to see you, Sandy. It’s time.” Any attempt she made to escape his gaze failed. He bobbed and dipped his head so there was nowhere she could hide. “You kept your location a secret to protect your sister and us. The less she knew, the better. I get it. But you don’t have to hide anymore. You’ve got family in her.” He pinched her chin and guided her to stare at him. “You’ve got more family than you think.”

Her eyes turned glassy. She nodded, his fingers still clamped against her chin. “Okay.”

Dean’s attention happened upon the window over Sandy’s shoulder. “Holy shit.”

“Pretty amazing view, huh?”

He rolled off the bed and shot to the window, flinging the casement glass panes open with a push.

There were swirls of blue in the night sky. Similar to the construct they’d met in before, but far grander and expansive. A tiny village dotted the landscape below. A golden, haloed crescent moon hung like a huge ornament. “You dreamed yourself into paintings?”

“I’ve had enough nightmares in my waking life.” Sandy leaned beside him to take in the scene. “Might as well dream up something beautiful.”

He shook his head, awe inspired. “We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

“And we will. After I catch up with Shelley.”

Sandy’s cheek pressed against his shoulder. He inhaled the night air. “Can we stay like this for a while?” he asked.

“Just don’t get any ideas, Winchester.”

He grinned. “Nah. I’m gonna save it all for when we’re awake.”

He felt her shake her head and chuckle.

Dean took in the starry night. Savored the seconds that stretched and slowed in a dream that was not his but that he’d been allowed to share.

Maybe other things could keep the nightmares at bay.

[zepskiesreads]

Better Safe Than Starry-Eyed

Abandon the Ship Pt. IV

And you say I abandoned the ship, but I was going down with it...

Series Summary: It starts with a chase and ends with his name in your mouth. He says it’s just for fun. Late nights. No strings. No promises. You were never supposed to matter. But he keeps coming back like a habit he can't quit. He’s bleeding time, and you’re getting too close to something meant to burn out fast.

Pairing: Mark Meachum x nanny!reader

Warnings: +18 due to language and smut (the handcuffs & ice cubes edition), no strings attached/the casual kind, sprinkle of fluff, angst, hurt, drinking & girls night, some awkwardness and tension, set shortly after 1x04, a plan B ending

Word Count: 11.3k

A/N: Ya know, I kept wondering why I write so slowly these days and can't seem to do more than a part every two weeks of this series before I realized one part has the length of three 😂 Apparently, it's a full thing now we're doing, guys lol.

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Find your soundtrack to this series here: California Nights 🌌

You’re barefoot on the couch with a glass of wine in one hand and a throw pillow tucked into your ribs. Maya’s lounging at the other end, her contagious laugh bouncing off the walls as she tells you about her latest disastrous audition. Leah’s halfway off the armchair, toes barely brushing the floor as she digs into the salty snacks bowl with idle, surgical precision. 

The living room smells like coconut face masks and those vanilla candles you got half-off at an estate sale down the street last week. The windows are cracked, and it’s almost too warm for blankets in July, but everyone’s got one anyway. The TV’s muted in the background with Netflix’s newest season of Love is Blind.

“God, that asshole’s like a walking red flag,” Maya mutters into her wine glass with a little glare toward the screen. 

“He’s not gonna marry her. Don’t worry,” Leah chimes in with a mouth full of popcorn. “She strikes me as a smart woman.”

“Yeah, and that dick has commitment issues bigger than his brain,” you add, comfortingly poking Maya’s thigh with your toes. 

Tonight is all about her, which means giving plenty of emotional support and doing a ton of trash talking about the shitty ex who made it as a contestant onto reality TV. It’s probably the most LA thing to happen in the dating world, so of course, you had to gather the coven for this event.

The three of you have known each other since middle school – since Maya dragged both you and Leah into a supply closet after art class, leaned conspiratorially closer, and said she thought the three of you should all be friends for life because the vibes match. 

And well, that’s exactly what happened. 

The three of you then moved to Los Angeles over a decade ago and attended USC together. Maya is the actress – the fun friend who always has the best ideas and best stories to share. Leah, straight-A med student turned saint, is the focused and reasonable one who always has the best advice and keeps you and Maya in line. And God knows the two of you need her like oxygen to survive, or you would’ve ended up as a drug smuggling mule in Thailand for some guy named Chad a while ago.

And then there’s you – the drifter of the group. The business major with an epiphany during her senior year of college who switched to education and musical theater and quit her junior-level position at a crazily high-paying investment bank after being forced to watch her boss’ three-year-old for an afternoon. But you had more fun in those few hours than you’d had in years. Then you had a mental breakdown in the bathtub, hence the revelation that you only picked a major that makes your parents proud. 

So, you dropped everything the next day, got a babysitting job, and decided to become a nanny full-time. 

Sure, it was supposed to be only temporary – just till you gained some clarity and figured out what you really wanted out of life. That was eight years ago, however. 

Now, you like your job and feel like you could settle in it, but whenever someone asks, you still tell them you’re figuring things out. The problem is, the closer you are to thirty, the more furrowed brows you’re receiving in response – and the more your mother is calling to say she’s “worried about you.”

“It was a nice dick, though,” Maya pouts, refilling her glass to make it an even four tonight. “Probably why I put up with his bullshit for so long. Because it was long.”

“Oh my God,” Leah snorts and clasps a hand over her mouth to keep the laughter (and wine) from spilling out. 

You, on the other hand, become a little too quiet. Maybe because Maya’s comment hit home for some reason, although your own situation is completely different. You’re not unknowingly dating a serial cheater like her and ignoring the red flags because the sex is mind-blowing. You know exactly what this thing with Mark is. 

At least, you think you do. 

“So how’s the new family?” Leah asks you, sinking deeper into your comfortable flea market armchair. “Still shockingly normal?” 

“Alarmingly,” you reply. “They pack their own lunches, talk about neighborhood watch meetings, and leave actual tips at restaurants. No weird LA cult energy.” 

“So no microdosing toddlers with oat milk?” Maya quips. 

“No guided meditation sound baths at dawn?” Leah adds with a grin.

You shake your head, laughing. “Nope, just a backyard, a bucket with chalk, and a mom who doesn’t have a podcast and makes the best lasagna I’ve ever tasted.”

“Good. I’m happy for you. You actually seem like you’re glowing.” Leah raises her glass. “To boring, beautiful normal.” 

Maya grins. “To consistent paychecks and carbs.”

“To me not crying in my car every day.” You clink your glass with hers and are still laughing when Maya’s next comment nearly makes you choke on your sip of wine.

“Honestly, you should give me the number of that cop,” she says.

You harshly swallow your current sip but don’t move the glass away from your lips as if it’s a shield that helps you cover your fluster. While you usually share everything with them in a group text within the span of five minutes, you haven’t told them about Mark yet, and you certainly haven’t planned on doing that tonight either. 

Your reasons are various, but mostly, you have no idea what to tell them. You don’t even know what to name this thing with Mark yet yourself. 

“What? Why?” You try to sound casual, but Leah’s eyebrow is already twitching in your periphery. 

“So I can write that asshole a thank you letter for getting you fired and finally getting you away from Malibu bitch,” Maya retorts without a second thought. 

“Right, yeah. That guy,” you mumble and force a huffed laugh into your wine glass. Honestly, you think your own ‘thank you’ to Mark sufficed plenty.

But they both start staring at you with suspicion. Leah narrows her eyes. Maya tilts her head. Clearly, you’re not a great actress. 

“Why do you sound cagey?” Leah’s brow furrows more by the passing second. “You’re being cagey.”

You shrug it off. “I’m not cagey.”

“Oh my God! You totally are!” Maya chimes in and points an accusatory finger at you. “That’s your cagey face!”

“Yeah, you’ve been cagey all night,” Leah adds astutely. “Did something happen with that cop? You never told us what happened after he abandoned you on that parking lot.”

“No, uh, nothing,” you murmur and try to drown the rest of the lie in your wine, but you know they won’t believe you anyway. “He came by later that night to apologize.”

“Wait…” Maya’s brows shoot up. “Here? He came to the house? Your house?”

“Yep,” you admit and bite your lips. “Showed up with a bottle of whiskey.”

Maya gapes at you. “Holy–… Did you hook up with hot cop?!”

You open and close your mouth a few times before deciding to divert. “Who said he’s hot?”

“You did,” Maya shoots like a pistol and already gestures for Leah to pull up the group chat on her phone like it’s evidence in your horny trial. 

Leah dramatically clears her throat and proceeds to read your insanity out loud, “‘Some asshole cop just stole the bitch’s car for a fucking chase and left me stranded with the gremlins at Echo. But fuck me, the guy was hot. I don’t know if it’s because he was running so fast or because the sun was scorching, but I wish he ran over me repeatedly.’”

“Okay! That was clearly me suffering from a heat stroke,” you defend.

Maya snorts. “Alright, but did he end up running over you repeatedly?”

You huff a sigh through your nose and grumble a “yes” with an eye roll. 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Maya asks between her laughter. “You usually never wait this long.”

“I don’t know.” You shrug again. “It all happened pretty fast and I was busy finding a job this week and getting adjusted to a new family… Didn’t have time yet.”

“To text us you fucked the hot cop?” Leah raises a brow. “Yeah, I don’t buy it. What’s going on?”

“Yeah, how did it happen?” Maya joins her interrogation. “Did he just show up at your door with a bottle of whiskey, and you invited him in to take his clothes off?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” you deadpan. “Figured he owed me.”

“Dude!” Maya enthusiastically slaps your thigh, causing you to giggle. “So you seriously had a one-night stand with the hot cop?”

“Yup, one-night stand,” you repeat and lead your wine glass back to your lips. “Seven nights in a row.”

The living room explodes into silence before Maya gasps so loudly you’re sure she’s sucking all available air of the entire planet into her lungs. 

“WHAT?!”

Leah, on the other hand, is less shocked, more calm, and more logical about it. “So this is an ongoing thing?”

“I don’t know,” you say with another shrug of your shoulders, but this time it’s an honest answer. 

“What does that mean?” Maya downright begs you to explain further with a pleading gleam in her hazel eyes. 

“Alright,” you sigh and set your glass down on the coffee table before settling in. “We hooked up that night, and it was great. It was obviously a one-time thing. I mean, I knew he only came by to shoot his shot. He tried to give me the whole ‘I don’t do commitment’ speech in the morning–”

“Why do men always do this?” Maya interrupts, shaking her head. 

“My theory is they can’t handle ego death. But I swear every time a guy looks at me in the morning and goes, ‘Hey, so…’, I wanna jump them for an entirely different reason,” you retort. “Anyways, he leaves. I move on with my life.”

“Obviously,” Leah comments with a playful smirk. 

“But then, guess who’s waiting for me on my porch that very evening when I get home?” you continue.

Maya’s mouth falls open. “He came back?! What, like a booty call? Aren’t you supposed to text first?”

“That’s what I said!” you agree wholeheartedly. “But I don’t know. Maybe it’s because he’s older and they like to do everything in person, right?”

“How much older?” Leah asks with an arched eyebrow.

“Not that much. Ten years, give or take,” you reply and watch both of them nod their acceptance. What the hell did they think? That you hooked up with a cop shortly before retirement?

“And you guys are dating?” Leah asks next. 

You can already read the creases in her brow like a palm reader – she’s thinking, ‘But you’ve never dated anyone since–’ Then the sentence stops before finishing, and deafening silence consumes the room until Maya pulls another disastrous audition story out of her ass. 

“We’re not dating,” you clarify. “He suggested a… casual… whatever… thing, and I agreed.”

“Really? You?” Leah lifts a brow in doubt. “You, who said one night every few months is enough to hold you above water?”

You grimace. “I know my own speech, thank you. And why wouldn’t I agree? I mean, it’s kinda perfect. I get sex every day with a guy who’s hot and uncomplicated and isn’t a dick or awkward after and hasn’t surprised me yet with some weird sexual request.”

Maya snorts into her hands. “Oh, remember that guy you met in Santa Barbara who wanted you to put a glass dolphin up his–”

You hold up a hand and give a shake of your head. “Don’t remind me, and it was a whale. I remember because he specifically wanted me to speak whale-ish while doing it. You know, like Dory in Finding Nemo?”

Maya bursts into full laughter and breaks in half. But it’s good. The distracting part of the evening is working because she doesn’t even notice her ex proposing on screen. 

Leah chuckles. “Probably shouldn’t have told him you’re a nanny and know every Disney movie by heart.”

You nod in agreement. “God, guys watch too much porn in general, but I blame Ben Affleck for the whole nanny kink.”

“Me too. Affleck is trash,” Maya says. “Matt Damon is super nice, though. I met him at an after-party once.”

“Oh-kay,” Leah steers the conversation back to topic with laser focus. “So you guys aren’t dating, just hooking up? He comes over, you have sex, and he leaves again?”

“Uh, I mean… there’s a little hanging out involved,” you admit dodgily. This is the part you don’t really know how to explain – where the water gets a little muddy. “He usually brings takeout, we hang out, watch some show or a movie, then we have sex – not always in that order – and he stays the night, leaves in the morning…”

“You guys watch TV, and he sleeps over?” Even Maya is lifting a brow now. “Is there cuddling? Is he spooning you?”

“No! There’s no cuddling or spooning going on,” you insist, but then you purse your lips, head swaying from side to side. “Barely any cuddling,” you correct. “Just food, sex, little bit of chatting and streaming entertainment, and minor cuddling. Like I said, no big deal.”

“That sounds like dating,” Maya points out in sing-song and looks almost guilty for not being able to lend you support in this battle. 

“It’s not dating, trust me,” you assure them more convincingly this time. “Honestly, I don’t even know I’d want to date him if it were an option.”

“Uh-oh, that doesn’t sound good,” Maya mutters and drinks more of her wine.

“Yeah, I agree with Maya, which isn’t a good sign either,” Leah agrees and sends you a worried look. 

“Is he weird?” 

“No, he’s… alright. He’s a good guy overall, you know?” you tell them and then musingly chew your lip. “I mean, he’s smart and funny in that devil-may-care way I like and even kind, considering he’s trying so hard to be an asshole. And that’s the thing – he’s kind of trying too hard not to care. But there’s just something… dark about him, I guess.”

“Like a serial killer?” Maya checks in earnest. 

“No,” you snort. “It’s not… necessarily in a bad way or even in a threatening one. I guess I just have a hard time reading him. I don’t know what’s going on in his head, but I know it’s something. He doesn’t share a lot, but he seems… I don’t know. Sad, maybe? Lonely? I don’t think he has a lot of people in his life. And look, neither do I aside from you guys, so what if we hang out a little and keep each other company? I kinda like talking to someone about my day when I get home. Still doesn’t have to mean anything or be more than that. It’s like a friends with benefits thing, only that we’re becoming friends while we’re already having sex.”

“Still sounds like dating,” Leah teases. “But look, if you’re happy, we’re happy for you, even though we both think you’re being a little delusional right now.”

You laugh loudly. “My, thank you. I appreciate that.” Then you become a little pensive again and let out a sigh. “I’m honestly not even sure about the whole friends thing. I mean, mostly, it’s just me talking and him listening. But I don’t really know a lot about him.”

“Nothing?” Maya asks in wonder.

“I know his first and last name, what car he drives, what he does for a living, and that he’s working on some big case that seems to stress him out, but I don’t really know,” you explain. “And I don’t know where he lives or what his birthday is or if he has any family, siblings, friends… That kinda stuff, you know?”

Leah speaks up, swirling the wine in her glass. “Did you ask him?” 

“Not really,” you admit. “He never asks me anything beyond work or how my day has been, so I don’t really feel like he wants me to ask him any of that stuff, either. And every time I do ask him something, he kind of dodges the question.”

“That is weird,” Maya agrees. “And this has been going on for a week? Oh my God, is he coming by later?”

“No, he’s not coming… I think,” you say and bite the inside of your cheek almost bloody. You haven’t been this invested in solving a mystery since your last true crime documentary. “This is where it really gets weird because he randomly texted me mid-day to say he’d be ‘off the grid for a few days’ after coming by for a week straight and never announcing himself at all. Either he’s really on a case thingy or some shit, or it’s the most elaborate way to ghost someone.”

“You haven’t heard from him since?” Leah asks.

You shake your head. “Nope. It’s been three days of crickets,” you reply. “And I know I shouldn’t be worried, but I am a little worried. I mean, he’s a cop, so what if he was shot in the field, and I find out he actually died months later?”

“So you do wanna see him again,” Leah deduces cleverly. 

“I mean… I like him enough to sleep with him. I just–… don’t know anything about him, and I’m not sure I even want to,” you conclude. “I guess I just like things the way they are. I’m happy, he’s happy, and everybody gets what they want. It’s a good thing.”

“Alright,” Leah says and raises her palms in surrender. 

“So what’s the sex like?” Maya asks on cue. 

It’s always the same – Leah grills you about safety and checks if the guy’s been treating you right before Maya comes in with the unhinged sex questions that range from orgasm numbers to dick length. You do love talking to them, though, because it helps you sort through your own messy feelings and thoughts.

“The sex is–” You click your tongue, trying to find the right word for an otherworldly experience. 

“Mind-blowing?” Leah offers. 

“Wild?” Maya suggests.

You smack your lips. “Carnal.”

“Carnal?!” Maya chokes out and almost spills her glass onto your couch. “Who the fuck says carnal?!” 

“I couldn’t think of another word, okay?” you protest. 

Leah’s laughing too hard to breathe. “Look at you, one English lit class in college, and you suddenly become Jane Austen.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too. “It fit, alright?”

“Biblical,” Maya says with a wink. “Wrath of God levels of hot.”

“I hate both of you.”

“No, you don’t.” Leah grins over the rim of her glass. 

“Does he make you come?” Maya asks next with the seriousness of Diane Swayer. 

“Every time,” you tell her as if you can’t quite believe it yourself. “But I don’t want something serious. Not right now. This is… nice, you know?” 

“Seriously, this is the best thing you’ve ever done since hooking up with that hot Italian race car driver in Milan,” Maya says firmly. 

You snort a laugh and smirk. “Kinda funny since that guy’s name was Marco.”

“I’ll remember that name next time I have a free minute for dating apps again,” Leah sighs wistfully. 

“Bad day?” you check. 

“Same, same,” she replies and gives you a vague hand gesture. “Never fun telling parents their kid might die.”

Before you can reply, there are three knocks on your door. The sound is firm and familiar. It doesn’t sound like the sweet teenage boy with braces who usually delivers your pizza, but you rise and walk to the door nonetheless, half-distracted by Maya finally realizing her ex got engaged. 

But when you pull the door open, you stop breathing. Because it’s not the pizza guy – it’s him.

Mark. 

Back from wherever the hell he’s been, standing on your doorstep like nothing’s changed.

It’s the same invasive thought every time Mark ends up on your doorstep:

He shouldn’t be here.

It’s been echoing through his skull for the thirty minutes it took him to drive from his house to yours. Hell, it’s probably been even longer than that. Maybe since the moment the prison van stopped rolling three nights ago and the last job started. 

He’s had the perfect excuse to end this thing – whatever the hell this is. 

He could go quietly and let this little love affair drift out like smoke. He could leave. He could say he was just driving by. He could let the silence do what it’s supposed to fucking do.

But instead, he exhales through his nose and lets his hand hover mid-air in front of your door, fist half-curled. Then he knocks – once, twice, three times. 

Inside, laughter and muffled chatter bleeds through the door, glasses clink, and a high voice calls out something he can’t make out. It seems like you have visitors – girls’ night maybe. 

Shit. 

The front door swings open, and there you are – backlit in gold, lips parted in mid-laugh. You’re all glowing cheeks and wine-hazed warmth, but the second you see him, your expression shifts. 

Confusion mixed with a tiny bit of surprise haunts your features first. You’re not shocked, exactly, but you’re definitely… thrown. 

“Mark?”

“Hi,” he greets you lighter than he feels and gives a faint smile. “Uh, sorry, didn’t mean to crash anything.”

“No, uh, it’s fine.” You throw a glance back into the living room for a second before stepping onto the porch instinctively, pulling the door nearly shut behind you as if to shield him from whatever chaos is unfolding inside. “I just didn’t expect you. You didn’t, uh… text.”

“No, uh, right. Yeah…” He scratches the back of his neck and nods, lips pursed. 

He realizes then how stupid this whole thing really is – what kind of a moron he’s being. What was he thinking? That you’d be at his beck and call whenever he got the sudden urge for company? That you’d be available whenever he needs you to be? 

Of course, you have your own life, your own friends, your own plans in the evenings. Of course, you aren’t planning your day around his schedule or his moods – especially after being gone without a trace for three fucking days. 

And still, a small, incredibly selfish part of him wants you to wait by the door for him and check your phone every hour in hopes of an update. 

This is insane. Maybe it’s even a symptom of the disease in his brain. 

“You said you’d be off the grid,” you point out softly like you need an excuse to turn him away. You’re very gentle with your rejection – he appreciates that.

“Yeah, I was,” Mark replies raspily and clears his dry fucking throat. “Job ended a few hours ago.”

He doesn’t say what kind of job because he can’t. He doesn’t say anything about a Belarusian dance hall, an Eastern European terrorist, or fissile material. He also doesn’t tell you about all the blood he saw, how fast his heart was pounding during the ambulance ride, or how his own recklessness and stupidity played into it. 

But you’re quiet for a long moment, studying him – trying to read him. He knows you are and hates and loves it at the same time.

“You okay?” you finally ask as if you can see the pain and guilt plain as day on his face. 

The question shouldn’t shake him the way it does, but it does. It fucking does. And for the first time, he feels the need to tell you the truth. 

“Uh, well, to be honest…” He hesitates for a heartbeat but then pushes the words out like they don’t taste like metal. He swallows harshly. “We–, uh… I–, uhm, I lost someone from my team last night. Something went wrong, and, uhm… he didn’t make it.” 

Your face softens. There’s that subtle flicker in your expression that he’s come to recognize. It’s the quiet empathy you don’t parade around but never hold back when it counts.

“Oh,” you say after a beat, taking it in. He can see the gears turning in your head before you find his eyes again. “I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

Mark nods once but doesn’t say more because he doesn’t know how. He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and waits. For what? He doesn’t actually know. 

You shift slightly on your feet, gesturing vaguely behind you. “Look, uhm, I’ve got friends over. It’s kinda girls’ night. You know, wine, gossip, trashy TV. But if it were any other night…”

You trail off, but not out of uncomfortableness. He doesn’t think you ever truly are. But he recognizes you’re giving him an easy out to flee whatever hellscape is waiting for him in your living room. Probably out of graciousness, maybe decency, or even the possibility to save yourself from your friends and not just him. It’s most likely a combo of all three. 

“No, uh, I get it.” He says the words he’s supposed to say, clears his throat again, and even takes half a step back. But then–

Nothing. 

His feet won’t fucking move more than that, and he doesn’t understand why. He knows he’s making this whole situation goddamn awkward, but he still doesn’t leave. 

Because the truth is, he can’t stand being alone with himself tonight. He can’t sit in the dark while the voices play back everything he should’ve done differently.

He’s here because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

“Is that the hot cop?” a bright voice chimes from inside and becomes his saving grace. “Let him in! We promise we won’t bite!”

Mark lifts his head and meets your wide eyes. He sees the heat rush to your cheeks and feels the smirk spread on his lips. You close your eyes like you’re regretting all your life choices.

“Hot cop?” He cocks an eyebrow and watches you bite your lip. 

“Ha, yeah…” A shaky little laugh leaves your throat. Your fingers tap the doorframe. “Look, uhm, if you wanna come inside and hang out, that’s fine. I mean, they’re gonna… leave… eventually.”

“Right, uhm…” He licks his lips, knowing full well he should decline the offer. “Well, uh, how much do they know?”

Your head bobs for a moment, then you blow a raspberry. “Everything?”

“Yeah, that tracks.” He nods and presses his lips into a tight line. 

It’s not his first rodeo with the other gender after all, so it doesn’t come as a big shocker. He’s well aware women tell each other everything. Same reason Melinda’s friends always giggled behind their palms whenever he walked past them. 

Jesus, he really is fucking desperate if his idea of fun is putting himself through that for an entire evening. 

“You wanna come in?” You tilt your head and offer him a soft smile. “Fair warning, though, they’re drunk, they’ll ask a lot of inappropriate questions, and they will definitely roast you.”

He chuckles a little, scratching his throat. “Honestly? Noise sounds kinda nice right now.”

“Alright, your funeral,” you tease in sing-song and push the door open wider, stepping inside.

You lead him in like it’s no big deal, but you glance over your shoulder as if you’re not sure he’ll follow. As if part of you is surprised he came at all. He is too, honestly. 

You close the door behind him, and it feels like stepping into a different world – a brighter one. Warm light, low music, laughter bouncing off the walls like the place is alive. It smells like popcorn and something sweet – probably that vanilla candle with that hint of citrus you always light when you want to make things feel cozy. 

Two women sit in your living room – one on the armchair and one cross-legged on the floor beside a half-finished bottle of wine.

The brunette on the floor is the first to light up – big smile, messy bun, the kind of energy that makes Mark brace for impact. The redhead on the armchair, however–

That’s when it hits him. It’s just a flicker, but he feels it sharp in his ribs.

Shit.

She’s not in scrubs, no badge clipped to her white lab coat, no clipboard in hand, but he knows that face. He’s seen her before – in passing. Maybe twice, maybe more times, in the hallway at the oncology clinic. Not his doctor. Not in the room when they told him he had months, but she’s around enough. She’s seen him in that fucking waiting room chair, tired and washed-out.

Fuck. She knows. 

She doesn’t say anything to suggest she remembers him, but she’s studying him now, her smile tight, her posture a little more reserved than the rest. She’s clearly flipping through her mental file of where she’s seen him.

“Uh, guys, this is Mark,” you introduce him, gesturing at him like you’re bringing home a stray dog you hope won’t pee on the carpet. You point to the redhead on the armchair first. “And Mark, this is Leah. She’s a doctor at UCLA Med.”

Leah lifts her glass to him in greeting but doesn’t smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Mark says and swallows, trying to keep it casual. “You too.” 

“She saves little kids from cancer, so she’s basically a saint,” the still-nameless brunette adds and shoots you a playful glare. “Which is why you should’ve introduced me first. Who wants to follow that act?”

You snort a small laugh. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” you deadpan and then look at him. “Mark, this is Maya. She’s an actress-slash-waitress-slash-magician’s assistant.”

“Actress, huh?” Mark quirks a brow. “Have I seen you in anything?”

“Uh, well, a few weeks ago, I was on an episode of Criminal Minds,” Maya tells him with eccentric charm. “I got murdered and zipped up in a body bag.”

He snorts. “Was it a good death?”

“Eh,” you say teasingly. “She had to stay in the body bag for three hours and had a panic attack.”

“Hey!” Maya protests and throws some popcorn at you. “My director said I was excellent at playing dead. I went in the bag twenty minutes before the scene, so I could go full method, you know?”

“Oh, I get it,” Mark says. “Improv’s the most important thing if you really wanna sell a role. You only get one shot.”

“Exactly!” Maya agrees enthusiastically. “Look at you, knowing your stuff. Where you a theater kid in high school, Mark?”

“Uh, nope, not even a little,” he replies and slowly settles down on the couch as you hand him a beer.

Maya slides closer on the floor and builds herself a comfy seat out of throw pillows, while you take the place next to him, but you’re still keeping plenty of space between his leg and yours – an entire ocean, if you asked him. But he can tell you’re trying to ensure no one mistakes him for a boyfriend, including him. 

“I do some undercover work occasionally,” he adds but doesn’t know why. It’s information you don’t really need.

Your head whips toward him, eyebrows raised. “Really? You do?”

“Uh, yeah, sometimes,” he replies quickly and clears his throat. 

“Cool,” you say quietly and nod. 

Cool?!

Your ‘cool’ is equivalent to your ‘alright,’ and you never gift him more interest than that. Honestly, the more he hangs out with you, the bigger of a mystery you’re becoming to him. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around, though?

“No shit,” Maya says with a delighted gleam in her eyes. “That’s amazing! See, this is what I’m talking about. Method. Immersion. You do the whole thing? Like with a wig and fake name and everything?”

“No bad wig, but fake name? Definitely,” Mark answers and is surprised himself that he does. But this is harmless. He’s allowed to share that stuff. He’s just usually not allowing himself to do it, but maybe this little background information comes in handy in the future if he ever needs another excuse. 

“It’s hard, isn’t it? Pretending to be someone else all the time and trying not to slip?” Maya says with so much nonchalance it’s almost painful.

“I’m sure he’s got plenty of experience in that,” Leah comments wryly. 

She hasn’t said anything since she’s greeted him or even really smiled once, but he feels her eyes on him the entire time. Her body language is closed off, and she clearly doesn’t buy the performance. He’s sure she’s watching the way he sits next to you, noticing the slight graze of his arm against yours and the way your body unconsciously leans into his like a tide returning to shore.

She’s seeing things you don’t and doesn’t like any of it. And while Maya keeps lobbing questions like confetti, Leah judges in silence.

“Right, yeah, you’ve probably been doing this for a while.” Maya nods, oblivious to the subtle tension in the room. “People think it’s easy, but even playing dead is a craft that takes discipline. I didn’t blink once while I was lying face down on that carpet. Didn’t even scratch my nose.”

“Tell me about it,” Mark huffs a chuckle in agreement and tries to ignore Leah’s stare as best as he can. “Once had to fake OD’ing in a halfway house. Almost pissed myself holding my breath for too long.”

“Really?” Maya gasps and leans forward on her knees. “Can I pick your brain sometime about your methods?”

“Sure,” he replies kindly and gifts you a smile when you meet his eyes briefly with a grateful look that pretty much says ‘thank you for indulging my friends.’ 

Maya then effortlessly entertains the whole room for over an hour. She tells him about her second job as a magician’s assistant for children’s birthday parties. Her boyfriend’s the magician.

“He’s a sweet guy,” she says.

“And a little weird,” you add, giggling under your breath. 

“Don’t you dare tell that story!” she warns you but is already laughing.

Mark chuckles, glancing at you. “What story?”

You smirk mischievously behind your wine glass. “During sex, he once pulled a coin out of her… Well, I think you can guess.”

Mark’s head snaps toward Maya, brows shooting high. “Seriously? And you’re still dating the guy?”

“He promised he’d never do that again! And like I said, he’s sweet. It’s hard to find a normal guy in LA, okay?” she defends, her bubbles of laughter echoing through the living room. 

“At least it wasn’t a bunny,” Mark jokes and feels his cheeks warm when he hears you snort a loud laugh.

“Funny,” Maya retorts with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “What’s your weird thing, huh?” 

Mark shrugs his shoulders and sips his beer. “Don’t think I have one.”

“Yet.” You grin.

He cocks a brow at you. “You waiting for that?”

You shrug coolly and wiggle your eyebrows. “Maybe.”

Maya’s lips then draw a mischievous smirk. “So, Detective Mark, ready for your interrogation?” 

“Jesus Christ,” you sigh next to him and grab the wine bottle to refill your glass. “Do not answer anything she asks you.” 

Mark just grins. “No promises.”

“How would you describe your guys’ sex life? Wild, mind-blowing, carnal?” Maya grins and casually takes a sip of her wine. 

“Maya…” you growl warningly. 

“Carnal?” Mark’s brow raises as he shoots you a glance. You’re sinking deeper into your couch cushions, trying not to look at him. “Is that the word you used?”

“Nope,” you reply, popping the p with feigned casualness. “Don’t know what that means. Never even heard that word before.”

Mark snorts and teasingly nudges your thigh with his knee. 

“You believe that, Mark?” Maya prompts with a conspiratorial look. 

Mark smirks in response, his eyes fixed on you. “Not even a little.”

“Believe what you want,” you huff playfully. “I’m not saying anything without a lawyer present.”

“Lawyering up already, huh? You know that makes you look more guilty, right?” he teases. 

You break into soft laughter that you’re trying to contain. “Shut up.”

He barks a laugh and fights the urge to kiss you. If your friends weren’t here and watching him like an eagle, he would’ve done it already. 

“Okay, so, next question. Have you ever handcuffed her?” Maya asks without an ounce of shame. 

“Maya!” you gasp with a scolding look that makes him laugh. 

“Uh, no, not yet,” Mark replies, biting back the amusement over your flushing cheeks. 

“Interesting answer,” Maya muses with a level of seriousness close to a college professor. “Would you ever handcuff her?” 

“Dear God,” you groan and bury your face in your palms. 

He chuckles. “Only if she commits a felony.” 

Mark glances at you and catches the heat in your cheeks and the way you try not to look directly at him now. He tries not to enjoy it too much but fails miserably.

“Maya, please stop talking,” you downright beg her. 

“What? C’mon!” Maya protests. “It’s a friendship thing. I just wanna know if the cop’s worth his badge. I’m making sure you get everything you want out of this experience.”

“Honestly, I agree with her,” Mark teases you and gently bumps your arm with his shoulder, raising a brow. “You getting everything you want outta this?”

Your mouth falls open slightly. “Don’t encourage her,” you warn him playfully. 

He watches you sip your wine, eyes a little brighter than before, and something twists in his chest. You’re relaxed and laughing with your friends, and all he wants to do is bottle the goddamn sound and take it with him. His hand somehow ends up on your thigh, just above the knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. You smile at him softly, and he matches it. 

And that’s when Leah stands up abruptly, pretending to look at her phone. “I’m gonna grab some water.”

She leaves faster than his eyes can track her retreat to the kitchen. He wants to relax, play along with Maya’s teasing, and bask in the way your thigh presses against his, but Leah’s still in the forefront of his mind like a blinking red light. Her silence all night has said enough. She knows he’s not just a detective with a charming smirk and a late-night habit of showing up on your doorstep. 

Honestly, he doesn’t even want to imagine what she thinks of him, much less what she’ll tell you once he’s gone, but he can hear the countdown ticking louder in his head now. 

Only this time, his minutes with you are running out. 

So, before he can even spin a plan to its fruition, he’s on his feet with an excuse to grab another beer and finds Leah already at the sink, filling her glass. She doesn’t look at him right away, so he opens the fridge, grabs a beer he doesn’t want, and gives himself a full five seconds to pull it together. 

But Leah’s already turned from the sink before the timer’s up and is watching him now. She leans against the counter, water glass in hand, expression cool and collected.

“So, UCLA Med, huh?” Mark starts lightly with a clear of his throat and pretends this is part of normal fucking small talk, even though either party knows it really isn’t. 

“Yup. And I help out at its satellite clinics,” Leah replies with a casual edge in her voice. 

“Right, yeah…” Mark gives her a faint smile, nodding. 

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell her,” Leah says with less judgment than he expected. 

Still, his heart drops so hard it feels like it hits tile when he hears those words. There’s no more pretending she doesn’t actually know. The truth is out. And for a second, all the smart-ass deflection dies in his throat – the badge-polish and the charm. It’s just him, bare, still holding a beer he doesn’t want with his stomach twisting itself into a goddamn knot.

He blinks in bewilderment and swallows. “What?” 

“I won’t tell her where I know you from,” she clarifies with as much calm as possible, but he still clocks the bitterness in her voice. 

He stiffens, hand tight around the bottle. He doesn’t answer right away, just unscrews the cap slowly and tosses it into the sink.

“So you do remember me,” he mutters and washes the realization down with a big gulp of beer. 

“You were hard to miss in the waiting room.”

He scoffs a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, well, not my best fucking season.”

“It’s not my place, alright? But I think you should tell her,” she says. 

Mark clicks his tongue, rubbing his jaw. “Look, uhm, I appreciate the advice. I do, okay? But I don’t think she needs to be involved in any of my shit. I don’t want her to be, you know? I don’t wanna drag her down with any of this… bullshit. This is supposed to be fun. Nothing more, alright? And she knows that, too.”

Leah’s brow creases significantly as she crosses her arms over her chest. Her head tilts. “What kind of cancer do you have?”

He taps his forehead in response. 

“Glioblastoma?”

He nods and pockets his hands in his jeans. “Yup.”

“Jesus,” she huffs, more upset than he’s seen her so far. “You’re terminal? Seriously?” She runs a hand through her red locks, shaking her head. “Listen, what you’re doing might be fun now, but it won’t stay this way, alright? It’s gonna turn fast. You’re not gonna be able to keep this up much longer.”

“I know that,” he assures her calmly, but his teeth begin to grit. 

“Does she?” Leah nods toward the living room. “What happens when you don’t show up one day? You want her to think she got ghosted by some asshole who used her and bailed? Casual or not, you honestly think she’s not gonna care about what happened to you?”

“I’m a cop. She knows me not showing up one day is always a possibility. She knows what she signed up for,” he replies a little too defensively because he’s been telling himself that same lie ever since this thing with you started. 

In fact, he still believes the job will get him before the cancer does. He has to. 

“It’s not the same,” Leah argues. “She didn’t sign up for you wasting away right next to her without a word. You’re not dying in a shootout. You’re dying slowly.”

Mark winces. It’s subtle, but he knows she saw it.

“What happens if you collapse in her kitchen one morning or forget her name or get a goddamn seizure in front of her?” she asks and calls all his worst nightmares by their name. “Hell, maybe you’ll even get one during sex. And she’s not even gonna know what’s happening or how to help you. You think she’s just gonna laugh that off because you’re not exclusive? You really wanna do that shit to her?” 

He licks his lips and averts his eyes to the kitchen floor. It’s not brand-new information per se. He’s thought about all these things before, chided and punished himself endlessly, and yet, he still finds his way back to you each and every time. 

Finally, Mark dares to meet her eyes. “You think I haven’t thought about all of that?” 

“You clearly haven’t thought hard enough,” she says bluntly.

“Look, uhm, I’ll end it before it ever gets to that, alright?” he tries to promise, to swear on his goddamn life if possible, but he’s not even sure he can do it convincingly. He knows in his heart that he doesn’t believe those words himself. 

“That’s not really up to you, is it?” Leah’s voice is soft, but there’s steel underneath. “She’s already let you in, you know? She jokes like it’s casual, but she looks at you like you matter. I can see it.”

Mark shakes his head. “It’s not like that.”

“It doesn’t matter what you call it,” she says, quiet but firm. “She trusts you. She cares. You don’t know her, but I do. She doesn’t let people in easily.”

“I didn’t ask her to.”

“You didn’t have to.”

That lands sharp. He sips the beer to mask the sting and to keep his jaw from tightening more.

“You’re in her house. You’re in her bed. She deserves to know who she’s letting in,” she adds. 

He swigs more beer and leans a hip against the counter. “What do you want me to tell her, huh? That I’m doing the brave thing? Fighting the good fucking fight? Hoping I go out on the job before the thing in my head kills me?” 

“No,” Leah replies, sharper now. “I want you to be honest with her. Stop pretending this is harmless. You really want her to find out the wrong way?” 

He knows she’s right. That’s the worst part. He can feel it already – days that start in a fog, the quiet gaps in his memory, the way simple words slip away like the wind.

“If things get worse, I’ll deal with it,” he murmurs weakly, because he already knows what Leah will say. 

“Will she get to deal with it, too? Or are you just gonna vanish one day and let her think she meant nothing?” 

He wants to tell her she’s wrong. That this is just a fling. That she doesn’t know the half of it. That he’s protecting you. That he’s fucking sparing you.

But every excuse he could come up with sits limp on his tongue because it’s all fucking bullshit. 

Leah sighs and steps closer. “I know this sucks, and I’m sorry this is happening to you. I really am. But she gets to decide what she wants to be a part of, and what’s fucked up is you taking that decision away from her. You owe her the truth. Even if it’s just so she knows what she’s walking into.” 

“You think I don’t wanna tell her? That it’s easy?”

Leah exhales through her nose, and her voice softens. “I don’t think any of it is easy. But not telling her won’t make it easier, either. It’ll just make it worse when the truth catches up to you.” 

He stares at the tiles by his boots. Her words stick like fucking asphalt in August. 

Leah doesn’t push further but walks toward the doorway, water bottle in hand. Before she disappears back into the living room, she glances back. “I don’t think you’re a bad guy, by the way. But you’ve got a clock ticking, and pretending it’s not loud doesn’t make it go quiet.” 

And then she’s gone, leaving him standing in the hush of the kitchen with his warm beer and the buzz in his ears.

After a minute, Mark steps back into the living room like he’s not fucking falling apart. 

Maya is the first one to spring up when the ride-share text dings, practically singing the alert as she waves her phone. “Okay, ladies and one amateur thespian,” she says, sweeping her jeans jacket off the back of your dining chair. “Our ride is two minutes away. I repeat, two.” 

“Got it.” Leah follows behind her with a far more subdued energy, cool and quiet as she grabs her water from the coffee table and slips her shoes on near the door.

“Amateur?” Mark playfully raises a brow at the quirky brunette. “Who are you calling an amateur, huh? I’m taking my craft seriously.”

Maya plays along, but the laughter already bubbles underneath. “Oh, I’m sure lives depend on it.”

Mark snorts, chuckling. “They actually do.”

“Maya, car,” is all Leah says, motioning impatiently to the door. 

“Right.” The brunette nods resolutely, pursing her lips.

You walk them both out with a smile, arms wrapping around Maya first, who hugs you hard and whispers something in your ear that makes you elbow her in the ribs with a laugh. 

“Tell him to be gentle,” Maya teases in a not-at-all-whisper as she glances back at Mark with a mischievous glint in her hazel eyes. “But not too gentle, if you know what I mean. Thespian trade secret,” she adds with a wink.

You groan. “Maya, for the love of God–”

Mark chuckles lowly, amused. “I’ll take the note under advisement.” 

You shoot him a glare that only makes him smirk harder. Maya beams. Leah sighs at the door. 

When Leah hugs you goodbye, she pulls you close and murmurs something that Mark knows is for your ears only. His heart beats so fast it feels close to exploding, fearing the worst, but when you let her go, you only nod with a soft smile. 

The door clicks shut behind them, and the comfortable silence returns. 

You’re fluffing the throw pillow Maya stole to sit on and clearing space on the couch like you’re expecting him to plop back down and stay the night like he usually does. But he’s still standing frozen in the middle of your living room like he’s unsure whether to sit or fucking bolt.

But the second your eyes meet his, you go still as well. You do that thing you do – that little tilt of your head when you clock something’s off.

He hates how well you’re starting to read him.

“You okay?” you ask gently. “You’re quiet.”

He lifts his beer like it’s some kind of explanation and shrugs. “Just a long day.” 

You keep watching him carefully, brows knitting. That’s new. Usually, you move on right away. But this time, your gaze lingers. 

“You’ve been gone three days,” you note casually. 

Your tone isn’t sharp, just observant – and way too fucking calm for the ache he’s been carrying around since the job ended.

“Yeah,” is all he says, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.

You nod like you understand and take a careful step closer. “Was it an… undercover thing?” 

“Something like that, yeah,” he says. It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole damn case file, either.

You nod, eyes flicking down briefly. “You don’t have to tell me. I know it’s part of the job.” 

He exhales slowly and meets your gaze. “Yeah.”

You’re quiet a second, worrying both your lip and your brow. “I’m sorry about your colleague. You sure you’re okay? If you wanna talk about it–”

“No.”

Shit. That came out harsher than he intended. He half expects you to throw him out and tell him to fuck off. A part of him even wishes you would. The other part of him prays you don’t. 

But you don’t look angry. You don’t press. You don’t yell, even though he can tell by the slight flinch of your shoulders that it had at least thrown you a little. 

Instead of doing any of that, you wrap your arms around his waist and rest your head on his chest, cheek pressing against his wildly beating heart. 

He hopes you don’t listen too intently and closes his eyes for a long moment. 

You’re warm. And soft. And you smell like that shea butter lotion he once borrowed because his elbows felt dry. 

“They like you,” you murmur against him.

He snorts. “Maya does.”

“True. Leah’s still on the fence, I guess.” You chuckle, then arch an eyebrow. “Did she lay into you in the kitchen?”

Mark swallows lightly. “Nah, wasn’t that bad. All I gathered was that she’s just protective of you.”

In reality, though, his skin still feels tight and his chest still hollow from Leah’s words.

“Yeah, that’s her,” you say, laughing softly into his shirt. “She just runs a background check in her head every time I bring someone new around.”

Mark hums and rests his chin on your crown, his fingers idly brushing the strap of your tank top. “Does that happen a lot? You bringing someone new around?”

You gently draw back and glance up at him. There’s a hint of amusement gleaming in your eyes. 

Yeah, it’s an inappropriate question and none of his goddamn business. He knows it. You know it. And still, now it’s floating in the damn room. 

“No, not really,” you reply simply and slide out of his embrace. It’s so graceful he barely notices that you’re doing it, but he keeps his hands on you.

He can tell you’re telling the truth – but not the full one. Now he wonders why. Wonders why you are the way you are. Wonders what came before him. 

None of your goddamn business. Stay in your fucking lane…

But then he wonders what comes after him. 

“I think you handled them well, though,” you note cheekily, your hands smoothing over his chest and then wandering up to his shoulders. “Especially Maya. Sorry about that, by the way.”

“No, uh, it’s fine. She’s funny. I’ll give her that.” He chuckles a little. “And trust me. I’ve been through worse as far these things go. Melinda’s friends used to fucking gang up on me constantly.”

“Melinda?”

Fuck. 

There it is. Too much, too fast. 

“Uh, yeah.” He hesitates, probably too long. “Ex-… girlfriend.”

It comes out clipped – neutral. But his pulse is jumping a little higher than it should be. He could probably spin this blatant lie in a way that would give him plausible deniability. He could say, in theory, every fiancée was a girlfriend once. But who was he kidding? No jury was going to buy that. 

And you? You process it quietly. No digging. No questions. Mark doesn’t know whether to be grateful or fucking unnerved by that. You still don’t ask more about his life. You just take whatever tiny pieces of information he allows you to have, nod like it makes fucking sense, and tuck it somewhere he’ll never see. 

It’s that quiet kind of curiosity he both loves and fucking fears in you.

Sure, he could’ve told you the truth. It’s not a big deal, after all. But you don’t need to know anything about his past either. He doesn’t want to talk about Melinda. He doesn’t want to fucking talk at all. 

He wants to forget the kitchen. Forget Leah. Forget everything.

His thumb brushes circles on your hip. His palm skates up your side, slow and steady. He gently backs you against the wall. Your shoulders touch plaster. He presses one hand beside your head and leans in, mouth brushing the curve of your throat. 

He doesn’t kiss you yet – he lets himself just breathe there. Lets you feel him thinking about it. Lets himself feel it.

God, you’re fucking soft everywhere. He could drown in the space between your shoulder and jaw. Your breath stutters, and his heart fucking flutters. 

He smirks into your skin, dragging his lips just below your ear. “Been thinking about what Maya said,” he murmurs. “The handcuffs.”

You make a small noise in your throat – half laugh, half choke.

Mark moves his hand to your waist and presses in slowly – not quite grinding, but enough to make his point. His other hand tangles with yours and brings it up above your head, just to show you how it could feel.

“Ever done anything like that?” he asks.

You shake your head, swallowing. “No.”

“Me neither.” He looks down at you. “Would you?” He clears his throat a little, prevents the lump from even forming. “I mean, only if you’re into that. I do… have them, you know?”

Jesus fuck, he’s a mess. He shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t drag you in deeper. 

You hesitate, but there’s a flicker in your eyes. He grins against your cheek, sensing the way your body shifts closer without meaning to.

“Yeah… okay.”

His blood is starting to roar. His mind is quiet for the first time since he left your house three nights ago. No slow crawl of tumors stealing his words. No dead bodies. No threats of more. Just you, pliant and flushed and looking up at him like you’re already halfway there. 

You’re the one who pulls him down for a kiss first, but he’s the one who deepens it. And when your fingers twist in his hair, he knows he’s not fucking going anywhere.

Not tonight. Not anytime soon. 

You lead the way into the bedroom, but he’s the one in charge the second you cross the threshold.

You’re already laughing when he kicks the door shut behind you – not a belly laugh, but that breathy little one that slips out when you’re trying to act cool and fail. And fuck, if that doesn’t make him want to ruin you more.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you from the door, arms crossed as you kick off your shoes and stretch. You look soft and flushed and so fucking carefree in this moment, and he has no goddamn clue what he did to deserve that. 

You turn around to say something, but he cuts you off by holding up the cuffs. The pretense stops. No more small talk. Just you, barefoot and backlit by lamplight, your eyes on him with that perfect mix of curiosity and need. 

“Up on the bed,” he says, trying to hide the smile under the gravel in his voice. “And lose the shirt.”

You obey with a little smirk and climb onto the mattress, sitting on your knees. You take your top off so slowly he knows you’re daring him to stare – and he does.

Jesus, he fucking does. 

He’s seen you like this before – a dozen times now. But it still knocks the air out of him. Maybe because he knows he’s leaving soon. Maybe because it’s never just your body that undoes him – it’s your goddamn trust. Your sheer willingness. 

He follows slow. Controlled. Unhurried. Pretending he’s not already fucking hard from the moment your eyes widened at the clink of metal in his pocket. He wanted to try this. Still can’t believe you said yes. 

Now he’s going to take his time with you. Make it count. Burn it into his memory so deep nothing will ever scrape it clean. 

Your bra catches his sight. Black. Lacy. Pretty little thing that’s doing a shit job at hiding how hard your nipples are right now. He runs a knuckle along the underside of your tit, then tugs the strap down off your shoulder with his teeth. He unhooks you and cups your breasts like he’s claiming territory, thumbs brushing your nipples until your head tips back. 

And that’s just the fucking top half.

“Fuck, look at you,” he mutters. “You want this bad, don’t you?”

You nod once – barely. 

The second your back hits the mattress, he makes a slow show of undoing your jeans, tugging them down your thighs with that rough, callused grip that makes you shiver and squirm under him. 

“Arms up,” he murmurs, then smirks a little. “You’re under arrest.”

You laugh softly and arch a brow. “For what?”

He leans in, mouth brushing your ear. “For reckless endangerment. Possession of stolen property. Resisting arrest. All of the above.”

“What did I steal?”

He brushes his lips along your throat. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

You grin – warm and sweet and perfect. “Maybe I’ll confess.”

He snorts. “Oh, you would.”

He then threads the cuffs through the slats of your headboard and takes your wrists in his hands, presses a kiss to each one before snapping the cuffs around them. Just enough pressure. Just enough sound. Just snug enough to make you feel it. You shiver when the metal clicks into place. Final. 

Your legs fall open for him, breaths shallow. He sinks to his knees between them, fingers dragging down your ribs, your waist, your hips. His lips crash against yours like he needs to claim something. Every inch of your mouth, your throat, your skin is borrowed time. 

Then he presses one kiss just above the waistband of your panties – black lace, barely there. Two thick fingers rub faintly over the wet patch of fabric. Your thighs tremble. 

“You this wet already, sweetheart? I barely even touched you,” he teases, breath hot against your skin. 

Another open-mouthed kiss just above your clit follows, through lace and cotton. Then he hooks his thumbs in your panties and takes his time easing them down your curves. Tosses them behind him. 

Your whole body’s on edge now, bare in front of him, and he hasn’t even gotten to the fucking main act yet.

Your spine is arching, already shifting forward against him, the curve of your waist fucking lethal. Your pupils are wide, lips parted. Waiting. 

And he could fuck you right now. Could bury himself in that perfect pussy and feel the heat of you wrapped around him, but–

“Be right back,” he says, smirking like the bastard he is. “Don’t move.”

“Seriously?” you laugh, blinking up at him. “What kind of detective abandons a suspect mid-interrogation?”

He shrugs, already heading for the door. “One who’s got an idea.” 

“Wait–… Where are you–” 

He tosses you a wink as he slips out with a muttered, “Gotta grab something. You just lie there and think about what you’ve done.”

You groan. “Mark!”

He’s pretty sure you can still hear his deep laugh from the kitchen. And when he comes back, he’s holding a glass full of ice. 

“I had to improvise,” he says, placing the glass on the nightstand. “Figured if we’re already playing dirty, might as well cool you down a little.”

Your eyes widen immediately, then your head falls back into the pillow with a whine. “Oh, come on…”

“Too late,” he smirks, crawling back over you, settling between your legs. “Suspect is already in custody.” 

“Mark–” Whatever you wanted to say gets cut off by your own shaky little giggle when he plucks an ice cube from the tumbler. 

“You good?” he asks, pausing just long enough to meet your eyes. 

You nod and gift him a smile. “So good.” 

“I’m serious,” he says, one hand trailing up your thigh. “You don’t like something, you tell me. Doesn’t matter what it is, okay?”

That softens you. You nod again. “I will.” 

He leans down and kisses your knee. “Good girl.”

Then he gets to work. 

It starts at your sternum. Cold. Sharp. Your breath catches as it trails downward, the contrast lighting your nerves on fire. He follows the melting path with his mouth – hot where the ice was cold. Soothing. Teasing. Cruel.

He kisses between your tits, then each nipple, watching them pebble tight, then laps away the chill with the heat of his tongue, alternating warm licks and icy touches until you’re arching under him, cursing his name like a fucking religion. 

“You ever let someone do this before?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“Good. Wanna ruin you first.” 

The next cube grazes your inner thighs – cold, shocking, making you jolt and hiss. He shushes you with his mouth, kisses a trail up your belly while the melting water drips slowly across your skin. 

“You like that?” he murmurs, breath hot against your damp skin.

You nod, shaking. “God, yeah…” 

He takes a new cube, glides it across your stomach. Down your hipbone. Lower and lower and lower still. You moan when he runs it along your slit, not inside – just over. By the time it reaches your clit, you’re panting. 

“Fuck, Mark–”

“Still good?” he murmurs.

You gasp, nodding. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

He smiles. “Thought so.”

And then he licks you. Long and deep, tongue flat and filthy, and the way you moan under him almost breaks his goddamn restraint in half. But instead, he brings you to the edge over and over, tongue flicking against your clit, fingers teasing inside, and every time you get close – he pulls away. 

“Mark–fuck–please–”

“You’re not coming yet,” he rasps, voice thick and dark. “Not until I say.”

The sound you make is half frustration, half desperation. You actually sob when he pulls away. And he fucking loves it. It’s going straight to his cock. He’s hard as a fucking rock. 

He kisses your thigh as a consolation prize. “Not yet, baby.”

Then he uncuffs you with a practiced twist of the key and flips you gently onto your stomach, pinning your hands behind your back this time and locking them again. 

The position has you squirming. Ass up. Cheek pressed to the sheets. Legs spread wide for him. 

He pauses, body hovering over yours. “You sure?”

You look back at him, dazed and grinning. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

He kisses the back of your neck, his breath tickling the shell of your ear, his cock pressing against your ass. “By the way, you don’t have the right to remain silent.”

You snort a giggle into the sheets, body eagerly pushing back against him. He’s still chuckling when he grabs your hips and lines himself up. 

He pushes inside fucking slow, filling you inch by inch, groaning against your shoulder as he bottoms out. 

You’re soaking. Tight. Hot. Goddamn perfect.

“Fuck, you feel that?” he grits.

You whimper, nodding frantically.

He fucks you in long, slow strokes – each one designed to make you feel it, to drag the moment out like it’s the last time he’ll get it, the kind of rhythm you feel in your soul. His hands run along your spine, grip your hips, keep you grounded as he buries himself deep in you again and again. Every sound you make goes straight to his cock. 

Every tremble, every whisper of his name, every broken gasp – it’s too much and not enough all at once. 

“You’re everything,” he mutters before he can stop himself. “Fucking everything.”

And when you come?

It rips through you like a fucking storm – loud, messy, real. Your whole body tightens, shudders, and cries out his name like an anthem. You clench around him so hard he almost fucking blacks out.

He spills inside you seconds later – deep, hard, guttural – fucking you through it until he collapses over your back, groaning like he’s breaking apart from the inside. His head drops to your shoulder, his whole body trembling against yours.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Doesn’t say anything either. Just stays there, breathing hard, forehead pressed to your back like maybe, just maybe, he’ll be okay for one more night. 

When he finally manages to uncuff you and rolls off, you both lie there for a second in stunned silence. Sticky. Breathless. Spent.

You glance at the mess between your thighs and sigh. “I think we forgot the condom.” 

He blinks, letting out a shaky breath. “Fuck. Shit… Sorry.”

You only snort calmly in response and kiss his jaw. “It’s fine. Plan B’s in the top drawer somewhere.” 

He watches as you reach lazily for the nightstand. You grab the pill and swallow it without a second thought – completely unbothered, completely fucking you. 

And for the first time in weeks, he can’t think of a single fucking thing to say. He just lies there and doesn’t move, heart still pounding, wondering what the hell he’s doing. He doesn’t know what scares him more: how good that just felt, or the fact that it’s already too late to pretend this thing between you is still fucking simple.

Because for a man so determined not to leave anything behind, he might have just left something that could potentially matter. And whatever line he thought he was keeping, it’s long fucking gone by now.

▶️ Double Vision in a Rose Blush – SOON

As you've probably noticed, I've set up two fairly obvious twists in this part 😂

I'm currently writing Part 8 of this series and editing 5-7, so hopefully you'll get the next one real soon ✌️

Coming Up:

You stare at him for a second, eyes narrowing more with each inch your head tilts to the left side. “You’re bleeding.”

He follows your gaze down to the small, slow bloom of red on his crisp white dress shirt – right where one of the consulate’s security guards landed a lucky shot before Mark knocked his ass out. He hadn’t even noticed it was still bleeding. Probably reopened it getting out of the damn car.

He tries to brush it off. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

You sigh – audibly and full of disappointment. He suddenly knows what your kids must feel like when you’re mad at them.

“Bathroom. Follow me,” you tell him, your tone certainly leaving no room for any sort of discussions as you head straight for your destination.

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[zepskiesreads]

Somebody I Used to Know – Chapter 7

Summary: Ten years ago, you left your hometown in the rearview mirror and traded it for fame and fortune as a bestselling author in New York City. But when faced with a crushing writer's block, you return home for some clarity. There, you run into Dean Winchester – the one who got away. As the two of you revisit old haunts and take a trip down memory lane, you begin to question past choices and wonder if your heart hasn't always belonged to somebody you used to know.

Pairing: Mechanic!Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, past Dean x reader, exes reconnecting, small town AU, a self-finding journey, exes to lovers & a bit of a slow burn, humor, 100% a romcom (Wayne's Version 😜), weed smoking, a break-up, angst, hurt, tiny bit of fluff

Word Count: 7.8k

Posted on Patreon May 29, 2025

A/N: Here we are with a slightly longer chapter and Dean finally getting his head outta his ass. But is it too late? 🤔

Main Masterlist|| Series Masterlist|| Tag List

Chapter 7: Old Roads

It’s hot again.

Not in the pleasant, lemonade-and-lawn-games kind of way, but in the sticky, hair-clinging-to-your-neck, denim-regret kind of way. The kind of heat that makes you question every life decision that led you to standing in the park by the river at a Winchester family barbecue, sipping cold beer, and pretending to enjoy the company of people you once thought you’d never see again.

You’re near the cooler under the shade of the oak tree, trying your hardest not to stare at Dean. He’s sitting with Sam and John now, laughing at something, his shoulders finally a little less tense.

Not yours though – your shoulders are practically strangling you from the inside out. Every part of you feels wired and twitchy, like your nerve endings never got the memo that you’re supposed to be acting normal.

You’re swaying in place, half-listening to Charlie tell Benny about her podcast idea involving ghost-hunting when Jo suddenly sidles up next to you with that devil-may-care smile. She’s still in her little sundress and cowboy boots, hair twisted up like a girl who’s either off to war or a festival. She’s holding a lighter and a small metal tin that clearly didn’t come from Mary’s spice cabinet.

“Hey, you wanna get high with me?” she asks, casual as hell like she’s asking if you want gum. There’s something strange about how earnestly she’s smiling, though. Like she needs this – this private thing with someone who isn’t in the wedding photos.

“Huh? What?” You blink, looking her up and down. You might already feel a little high – it’s the two beers and blistering heat.

Jo shrugs and grins mischievously. “It’s not meth, I promise. C’mon, Dean told me you smoked all the time in college.”

You hesitate for exactly two seconds before sighing, “Sure, why not. Can’t get weirder than this.”

Certainly can’t be weirder than the demon child that woke you this morning.

Jo giggles and grabs your wrist, dragging you past the tables and string lights, down the green hill, and toward the faded little shack by the river. The shed is even more rickety and old than it used to be in high school when weed sessions here were sacred.

Inside, it still smells like dry wood, dirt, and a teen boy’s bad decisions. There’s an old workbench, a stack of paddle boards, and a couple of folding chairs leaned up in the corner. Jo plops down on a dusty wooden crate, while you make yourself comfortable on an overturned bucket.

Cobwebs cling to the corners of the shed, but somehow it feels cozy. Safe. Like you’re teenagers hiding from curfews and parents instead of two grown women whose lives are both slowly imploding in very different ways.

Jo then hauls out the small tin box like a damn magician and starts rolling. “I figured it’s time we talk. Just us,” she says as her fingers work. “You know, this is the first quiet moment I’ve had all week. Everyone’s watching me like I’m gonna break or bolt.”

You lift an eyebrow slightly. “And are you?”

Jo doesn’t answer right away. She finishes the joint and lights it. She takes a slow drag before holding it out to you.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” she says as she exhales a cloud of smoke.

You take the joint, breathe in, and sigh it out slow. “This feels very high school,” you mutter, laughing in amusement.

God, it’s been years since you’ve done something like this. Almost a decade, probably. The last time you remember smoking weed is when your friend Lisa took you to some hippie yoga retreat in the Catskills – and it wasn’t the fun kind either. More meditation and less laughing.

Jo chuckles. “Except now it’s legal. And I’m about to make a huge mistake, so…” She waves the smoke like punctuation. “Seems fitting.”

You shoot her a look, your heart pounding a little faster. “Which mistake is that?”

She glances sideways at you, then leans her head back against the wall, eyes up on the cobwebby rafters. “Getting married to someone I barely know. Settling down in a town that’s not mine. Giving up music, maybe the band. For a guy.”

You hum at the familiarity of it all. You’ve been in her shoes ten years ago, realizing that you and Jo might share more than free-spirited personality traits.

You’ve already overheard a little at the barbecue about Jo’s life. Admittedly, the girl is cool as hell, which is hard to acknowledge for someone in your position. But she’s in a punk rock band with her two best friends, Claire and Alex, and they’re even mildly on the verge to stardom.

Honestly, she’s awesome. You can see why Dean fell for her. Even you would date her – which is another odd thing to admit and only possible in a dark, old shed while high on weed.

You pass the joint back, letting the silence stretch. “You’re what? Twenty-four?”

“Twenty-three.”

You let out a soft whistle. “Wow, yeah… No offense, Jo, but you’re practically a fetus.”

She laughs, wavy, blonde hair falling into her face. “Thanks, grandma.”

You laugh too and lean into it, playing the big sister you wished you had back then. “You’re really gonna give up touring and screaming your lungs out in dive bars for pizza and horror night and a guy who snores like a Harley?”

Jo snorts so hard she coughs. “Oh my God, he does snore. And sing in the shower. Badly. Like, off-key Bon Jovi.”

“Yeah, I remember.” You grin, nostalgic and a little dangerous now. “He also talks to Baby like she’s his mistress and calls burgers ‘protein rounds.’”

Jo loses it, huffing out bubbles of laughter. “Shut up! He made me a burger not too long ago and said that.”

You smile to yourself. Seems like Dean’s not as different, after all.

“So, is your wedding song Led Zeppelin or did he actually let you pick it since you’re the musician?” you tease, giggling.

“He actually let me pick it, but I just went with our song,” Jo says. “It was always playing when I came over.”

“And it wasn’t a Zep song? Really?” Your eyebrows rise almost gleefully in curiosity.

“No, it was weirdly REO. Can’t Fight This Feeling?”

And in one swift second, it feels like someone pulled the air from your lungs and swept the floor underneath your feet.

He gave your song away. Something that was just yours and his.

Why does that hurt more than anything else, though?

More than Dean lying and kissing you. More than picking some younger and cooler version of you. But it feels like he gave away something sacred. Something just you.

“Oh,” you say quietly, subtly clearing the giant lump in your throat and forcing yourself to upkeep your smile.

“Cheesy, I know.” Jo chuckles, luckily not catching on to the hole she just unknowingly ripped into your heart.

“No, uh, it’s nice,” you manage to say with a well-practiced smile, while you still feel the aftershocks of the implosion in your ribcage.

“Look, I like Dean. I really do,” Jo says then, thoughts curling around her like the smoke. “He’s a decent guy. The kind that holds doors open and brings you soup when you’re sick. Sweet. Solid. Like a labrador who can change a tire.”

You snort a chuckle. “You mean dependable?”

“Yeah. That. And hot. The sex isn’t terrible, either.”

You cough-laugh, your lungs burning. Maybe this is weirder than the demon child, after all.

“But,” Jo continues, “I barely know him, you know? We matched on Bumble three months ago. Before that, my band was talking about touring the west coast this fall. Claire even has a contact who wants to record us. But if I go, that’s it. Dean’s not a tour-bus kinda guy. He wants the house and the dog and the quiet nights in. But this was just supposed to be a fun fling for me, you know?” She sighs, dropping her chin into her palms. “And now here I am, quitting my band, giving up gigs in Seattle, getting married in my twenties because… what? Dean’s nice? Nice guys are great. But I think I was trying to convince myself that nice meant right.”

You’re quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on the joint between your fingers. “You don’t wanna marry him,” you realize.

Arguably not the worst for you. And before you entered this shed, those news would’ve probably made you happier than ever. But now, you don’t know what to think anymore.

“I want to want to,” Jo says honestly. “But I don’t. Not like that. I don’t want this to be it, you know? I’ve got shit I still wanna do. Places to go. Hell, I’m not even sure what my actual favorite coffee order is yet.”

You snort a chuckle, nodding. Yeah, you’ve been there, too. And the strangest thing? You don’t want to go back where Jo is. You like that you know your coffee order by now – among other things.

“I was the same once,” you say, smiling. “Dean asked me to stay. I said no. Thought I had to prove something in New York. Big career, bigger dreams, you know?”

“But it worked out, right?”

You smile, soft and sad. “Yeah, it did. I got the life I wanted. But not the person I wanted it with.”

Now you’re not sure that person even still exists anymore. It feels like he’s gone. And you’re not sure if he’s ever coming back.

Jo watches you for a long moment, then nudges your foot with hers. “You think I’m a bad person if I break up with him?”

God, how did you get into this situation? This is exactly why people shouldn’t do drugs – great material for your book, though.

“I kissed him two nights ago,” you confess. You had to. You couldn’t let that poor girl stew in her guilt after you and Dean practically dragged her into your mess. “But, uhm, look, I didn’t know about you. He didn’t say anything. I thought he was single. I never would’ve done it otherwise, okay? I swear.”

Jo doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Her head just tilts slightly, lips purse like she’s thinking. “Did he kiss you back?”

You bite down on your lips, but your head moves up and down before you can stop it. “Yes. Yeah, he did.”

Fuck, you haven’t smoked weed in way too long. It’s like a damn truth serum.

Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything. It’s Dean’s business, really. But yours a little, too. And Jo’s. Honestly, you have no clue what the right thing to do here is – if you’re protecting Dean, Jo, or yourself. There’s too many people to look out for.

But over everything, you believe Jo has a right to know.

“Huh,” she says with a soft, breathy laugh. “Honestly? That’s kind of a relief.”

“Wait, really?” Your brow furrows. “You’re not mad?”

“No,” Jo says honestly, then knits her brow. “I mean, I should be, right? But I think maybe I knew. I always felt like I was holding onto a ghost, you know? Even before you ever came to town. It was like some part of him was always somewhere else. I guess now I know where.” She smiles faintly and looks at you. “I’m young. I’ve got time, you know? Maybe we all dodged a bullet.”

“Wow,” you mutter, stumped. “You’re shockingly well-adjusted.”

Jo grins. “It’s the weed. Courtesy of Claire. She calls it ‘Oh Shit, My Knees Disappeared.’ Speaking of…”

She hits the joint one last time, then stubs it out on the ground.

You smile a little as you get up and dust off your legs. “You’re really not angry?”

“No. I think I’m… grateful? You gave me a way out. Made my escape easier.”

Your chest cracks open a little at that. You should feel victorious. Instead, all you feel is a quiet ache, like the beginning of a bruise – or a gunshot wound through the chest. You think the weed might dull the actual pain a little for now.

A morphine drip for your heart.

The two of you then walk back together, Jo’s arm looped through yours like you’ve emerged as best friends, high and strange and too full of feelings.

Jo’s calm, though. Peaceful, even. Like someone who just put down a bag of bricks she didn’t realize she’d been carrying.

And then, on top of the small hill by the big oak tree, Dean is waiting.

He spots the two of you and hurries over, nerves on full display. “Hey, uh… everything okay?”

You can tell by the various twitches on his freckle-kissed face that the half hour you’ve spent in there with Jo mentally wrecked the guy. He looks like he’s already been through three full-blown panic attacks.

Jo smiles sweetly. “Yeah, we’re good,” she says and playfully nudges your arm. She then finds Dean’s eyes. “I think we should talk.”

Dean swallows, brows drawing together above his nose. His green eyes flicker to you briefly before they land back on Jo. He nods then. “Yeah, uh, I actually wanted to talk to you, too.”

You gently detangle your arm from Jo’s and quietly gesture with your chin toward the road, bidding your goodbye. Jo meets your eyes and mouths a ‘thank you’ before you walk away.

You’re going home. You don't turn around. You’re done.

There’s a lot of things you could forgive and forget that happened in the last few days, but the song isn’t one of them.

Because now? Now you have to think about it every time you hear it. You don’t think about the memories with Dean anymore. You think about this. This feeling that crushes your heart.

Seven minutes into your wait for your cab ride, you hear it, though – Dean.

“Hey!”

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself before you hear his boots crunch on the gravel behind you.

“Hey, uh, where are you going?” Dean asks as he comes to stand in front of you, still oblivious to the chaos and heartbreak inside of you. “So, uh, Jo just broke up with me. Or me with her. Anyways, uh… mutual. Wedding’s off. She’s telling everyone right now. But, uhm–”

Dean’s smile is wide. There’s hope in his eyes. Relief. Something sweet and scared. But the longer he looks at you, the more it fades.

“Seriously, where are you going?” he repeats, a little more worried, a little more knowing something’s terribly wrong. He covers it with a feigned chuckle, a nervous scratch of his neck, and a spark of charming helplessness in his green eyes. “Come back down. Or you wanna go somewhere? Probably better. I figured we could talk, you know? About us? You were right, okay? You were right about fucking everything. I–”

“We’re done.”

Your voice just doesn’t cut off his sentence or his excuse – it cuts him into a thousand sharp pieces.

Dean reels like you slapped him, shot him, and shoved him off a steep cliff. He tries to make sense of your words. You can see it in his eyes.

He shakes his head, confused. “But–… it’s over. I don’t–… I thought–… I thought you wanted to–”

“I did,” you say quietly as the tears begin to well in your eyes. You avoid his gaze, focusing on the crookedly shaped stone by your feet.

Looking at him breaks your fucking heart.

“Then why?” Dean furrows his brow. “Please just–… I-I don’t understand. Talk to me. Why are you walking away now? We just–”

“The song,” is all you say.

“What?” Dean’s breath stops, the creases on his brow deepening. And then the color in his cheeks starts to pale as he catches on.

“You gave her our song,” you repeat, louder now, and find his eyes to see the realization there. “You replaced me like I was nothing. You erased us.”

“No, wait–”

Luckily, you spy your getaway car rolling down the street.

“My ride’s here. I gotta go,” you say coldly and brush past him, but Dean follows you.

“Wait, no, please...” Dean halfway blocks the door before you can jump in. He tries to grab your wrist, but you flinch back. “Look, it wasn’t like that,” he pleads now, tears brimming in his eyes. “I–… I had it playing when she came over once. I–… It’s the tape you gave me for my birthday once? With my favorite tracks? Remember that? I-I play it all the time. She said she liked it. It was an accident, okay? I thought it was some weird sign at the time. I didn’t think–”

“Yeah, exactly,” you scoff, sniffling as the first tear slips down your cheek. “You didn’t think.”

You open the car door, but Dean pushes it closed again.

“Sweetheart, please–”

“Don’t,” you snap and watch him retreat, letting you open the door again.

“Please don’t do this,” Dean begs. “Please, I–… I love you, okay? I never stopped. Please–”

You halt for a moment and look deeply into his eyes, ignoring how your heart cracks in your ribcage. “Don’t follow me. Don’t call. Don’t write. It’s over. Done.”

You slide into the backseat without another word or glance, still hearing Dean plead with you, but the heartbreak in your chest luckily tunes out his voice.

And this time, you don’t look back.

You’re surrounded by darkness and silence now.

You told your driver to let you out by the old bridge a little outside of town. It’s the place you’ve always come to when you needed to think.

To write.

You’ve climbed onto the stone ledge like muscle memory, your body knowing exactly where to go, how to balance on the narrow edge. You’ve done this before. Dozens of times. After school. After fights. After Dean.

Especially after Dean.

You used to come here as a teenager when the house got too loud, or when Dean wouldn’t call – or when he would, but it wasn’t what you needed to hear. You’d sit right here and try to figure out how to stop wanting something that always stayed just out of reach.

Apparently, you still haven’t learned.

Now, you sit here again, notebook in your lap and pen in your hand, legs swinging dangerously and daringly over the edge and the rushing water below, toes skimming the night air. The moon is silver above you, the stars twinkling brightly.

It’s poetically suicidal – the perfect spot to gather your thoughts and sort your feelings.

You feel hollow. Stripped down to nothing but nerves and regret. It’s been a long day. Long week. Long life, really.

You don’t even flinch when you hear the low rumble of a truck pulling over onto the gravel shoulder behind you. Headlights sweep across the bridge, then click off. A door opens. Closes. Slow boots crunch their way toward you.

You don’t move. Don’t wipe your face. You let your tears stay where they are.

“Kid,” a gravelly voice says, dry and all-too familiar, “you alright?”

“Hey, Bobby,” you say softly and glance over your shoulder at the kind, old man. You force a weak smile, sniffling. “Define alright.”

“Well, not planning on swan-diving and making me fish you out,” Bobby says wryly.

You huff a laugh. “No, uh, don’t worry. Just sitting. Thinking. Writing. I like the quiet.”

He grunts and makes his way to your side, leaning against the bridge, hands resting on the cold stone, cap low over his eyes. He’s not looking at you – like he’s giving you space, even though he’s right there.

“You want company or you want me to piss off?”

You shake your head and smile weakly. “No, you can stay.”

Bobby doesn’t speak right away. Just stares out at the water like it might tell him what to say.

You wipe at your face with the sleeve of your jacket. It doesn’t help much, though. Your eyes feel raw and hot, your throat sore from holding it in all day.

“You used to come to the diner all the time,” he says after a moment. “You and that whole rowdy pack of kids. Milkshakes, burgers, jukebox on repeat. Hell, I shoulda put up a toll booth for y’all.”

“You would’ve made a fortune.” You let out a breathy laugh. “You always gave us an extra basket of fries.”

“Don’t tell anyone. Ruins my rep.” There’s a pause before he gently adds, “You looked happy back then.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I was.”

“Something change?”

You don’t answer at first. The night air is cool against your skin, but your face is still burning.

“It’s Dean,” you say finally. “It’s always Dean.”

“Ah.” Bobby nods slowly, then exhales a long sigh. “That boy always had more feelings than brains.”

You scoff a watery laugh. You wipe your cheeks again, not even pretending to stop crying anymore.

“I feel so stupid,” you say. “I knew better. I knew. But I still let myself hope, you know?”

Bobby doesn’t say ‘Don’t feel that way.’ He doesn’t give you a speech about how you’re amazing and how Dean’s a fool. He just stands beside you like a mountain – solid, steady, old as hell, and somehow always there since you were a kid.

“I’ve seen a lot of heartbreak in my time,” he says then. “Yours ain’t the worst I’ve seen. But it might be the purest.”

You glance over at him. “What does that mean?”

Bobby shrugs. “Means you loved him clean. Without games or agenda. Just… loved. Most folks don’t do that anymore.”

That makes your throat close up all over again.

He shifts beside you. “You know, people do stupid shit when they’re scared. Or when they’re tryin’ to pretend they’re not still in love with someone who wrecked ‘em.”

“Is that what I did?” you ask quietly.

He eyes you gently. “I think you left to chase something you thought would make you whole. And maybe it didn’t. But that don’t mean coming back was wrong.”

“Why are you always so nice to me?” you ask after a minute, quieter than before. “Even back then. Even when you barely knew me.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks out at the water again, something unreadable in his eyes.

“Guess I always liked you,” he says with a fond smile on his lips. “You were my favorite, you know? Outta all you little punks stormin’ into the diner after school, you were the only one who ever asked me how my day was. You were a good kid. Smart. Had fire. Reminded me of someone I used to know.”

You tilt your head at him, trying to read his face, but he’s got that old-man poker look locked in tight.

“Who?” you ask curiously.

But Bobby just shakes his head softly. “Ancient history.”

You both sit there a while longer. The crickets pick up their little chorus in the grass nearby. The river babbles below.

“I should head back,” you say eventually, wiping your nose with the back of your hand.

“You want a ride?”

You shake your head. “I’m okay. I just… I want a few more minutes here.”

Bobby pushes off the ledge slowly, joints cracking like old furniture. “Alright, but if you want me to key that boy’s Impala, just say the word.”

You snort a laugh. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would. Trust me, kid,” Bobby says, chuckling.

You smile faintly. “Thanks, Bobby.”

He tips his cap, then lays a hand on your shoulder, brief but warm. “You’ll be alright, kid. Just takes time.”

You watch as he climbs into his truck and drives off, the taillights fading into the dark.

You’re alone again, but it feels different this time – quieter. At least in your head and heart. Not fixed. Not healed. But maybe… maybe less unbearable.

The stars above you are sharper and clearer now, and somewhere in the rustle of leaves, in the rush of the river, in the scent of the damp night air – you feel something small and steady come back to life.

Hope, maybe – or just the will to keep moving.

Dean hasn’t slept the whole night. Of course he hasn’t. And he’s not sure he ever will again if you’re not next to him.

It’s early morning when he knocks on the front door of the familiar little house, the one with the bright blue trim and chipped flower boxes under the windows. Every inch of the place has been touched by your mother’s weird magic: wind chimes tangle lazily in the breeze, crystals catch sun through the glass, and someone’s painted the welcome mat with swirling stars and a quote that might be from Rumi or Stevie Nicks.

His plan was to give you time. Space to calm down. But he can’t wait any longer. Something inside his gut tells him he already waited long enough. Now it’s time to move, dig his heels in, and fight. He can’t let you go again.

He won’t.

He’ll try for another ten years, a hundred even, if that’s what it takes to get you to forgive him and come back to him.

The door then creaks open, and Connie appears in all her barefoot glory, draped in an open floral robe over a tie-dye tank top and a pair of yoga pants. Her hair’s up in a messy knot, one of those effortless piles that somehow looks like art.

She blinks once, then grins like she’s been expecting him. “Well, well. If it isn’t Dean Winchester on my porch again. You still look like trouble.”

Dean shifts his weight, hands shoved in his jacket pockets as he smiles sheepishly. “Hey, Connie. Sorry to show up uninvited.”

He suddenly feels teleported back to high school when he’d find himself on that exact doorstep, begging for forgiveness whenever he’d pissed you off.

Connie just waves a hand, walking toward him with open arms like they’re old friends. She hugs him tightly, the scent of sandalwood and weed clinging to her robe. When she pulls back, her eyes are kind.

“You look like a haunted man,” she teases with a smile.

He rubs the back of his neck. “That obvious?”

“Oh please,” she says, chuckling. “You think this is the first time a heartbroken man’s shown up on my porch?” She pushes the door open wider, stepping aside. “Come in before the incense leaks out.”

Incense. Right.

The house still smells like lavender, eucalyptus, and rose. It’s been a while since he’s been here, but the inside is just as chaotic and warm as he remembers – wall tapestries, crooked art, plants dangling from hooks in the ceiling like jungle vines. There’s a salt lamp glowing on a bookshelf and a stack of spiritual self-help books next to an ashtray that absolutely has weed in it.

“She’s not here,” Connie says gently, already reading him like a book. “She’s out picking up clay pots for me. You know, one of those errands I said I needed help with, but I actually just wanted her out of the house.”

Dean follows her quietly into the kitchen.

“Sit down, Dean,” she says gently. “I can offer you tea or coffee. Or would you rather want something stronger? I’ve got mezcal, gin, two kinds of mushrooms, and a half-eaten edible in the freezer.”

He huffs out a dry laugh. “Coffee’s fine. Thanks.”

“Coward,” Connie teases with a wink and smile.

Dean then takes a seat at the tiny kitchen table. It’s cluttered with half-burned candles, an open tarot deck, and a bowl of polished stones. Nothing’s changed. It’s like walking into a memory.

Connie hums to herself as she puts the coffee on. “You look like shit,” she says lightly.

“Feel like it too,” he mutters.

Connie glances back over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “So what happened? You finally broke her heart for good?”

Dean winces. “I didn’t mean to.”

“No one ever does. Still happens,” she replies with a sigh. “She talked about you a little last night, you know. Not always with kind words, but she talked.”

Connie sits down across from him then, setting two mugs down.

Dean stares into the steam rising from the cup. “That’s somethin', at least.”

“It’s everything,” Connie corrects. “You stop talking about someone, they’re dead to you. You’re not dead yet.”

He huffs out a bitter laugh. “Not for lack of trying.”

Connie cradles her mug like it’s a crystal ball. “You still love her?”

Dean doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, more than anything in this world. Would sell the car to get her back. Or my soul. Don’t know which is worth more.”

“Oh, I’ve heard how you talk about that car. It’s probably tied to your soul by now,” she jokes lightly and sips on her coffee.

Dean chuckles softly. “Yeah, probably…”

“Why did you let her go the first time?” Connie asks then, leaning forward on the table like she’s been dying to hear that answer for years now.

He hesitates, licking his lips. “Because she had a life out there. Dreams. I didn’t want to be the guy who held her back. Never felt good enough to keep her.”

“And now?”

“Now I’d give anything to go back and beg her on my knees to take me with her,” Dean admits.

Letting you go? Definitely the biggest mistake of his life. But he was just a stupid kid back then.

Now, though? He’s an adult – and still unbelievably stupid. He thought he’d outgrown it. Turns out he was wrong.

Connie hums like she already knew that. “Funny how time makes cowards into romantics.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” he says, hands gripping his warm mug like a lifeline. “I didn’t even know she was coming back, you know? I know she’s been avoiding me for years and only ever coming home when I’m not around. But then she finally did. She was just… there. And it was like the air shifted or somethin’... Like my whole life suddenly tilted back into something that made sense.”

Connie watches him quietly.

“But I-, uh, I was engaged,” he continues, swallowing harshly. “To someone I barely knew. I thought I was doing the right thing, you know? Trying to be... safe. Dependable. Move on. I don’t know.”

“Stable,” Connie says. “That’s the word people cling to when they’re scared of wanting more.”

Dean nods quietly and fights the tears in his eyes. “Now she won’t even look at me. I ruined everything.”

Connie smiles sadly. “You know, I’ve lived long enough to know people screw up love all the time. Doesn’t mean it’s broken beyond repair.”

“I just wish she’d let me explain. Really explain.”

“Give her time,” Connie says gently. “She’s still bleeding. You don’t stick your hand in a wound while it’s healing. You let it scab.”

Dean blinks, brow raising. “That might be the most disgusting metaphor I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re welcome.” She grins. “She’s got a big heart, and it’s bruised right now. But you? You’re not the villain in her story, Dean. Just the idiot.”

He snorts a laugh. “Thanks.”

“Again, you’re welcome. Idiots can be lovable. And redeemable, you know?” She leans forward, eyes bright. “You still have a shot. If you’re brave enough to take it.”

There’s a small pause before Connie sets her cup down and folds her hands, eyes soft now.

“You know,” she continues mysteriously, “there’s this funny thing about the universe. It doesn’t care how much you planned or how perfect your timing is. It just moves. It unfolds. It puts people back in your path when you need them most.”

Dean meets her eyes. “You think she came back for me?”

“No,” she says, chuckling. “I think you were given a second chance. What you do with it? That’s up to you, my sweet boy.”

He swallows hard, chuckling helplessly. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Start with honesty,�� Connie advises with the energy of an ancient sage – or a Druid in the woods. “Start with showing her the part of you that still believes in what you had. Because I remember you, Dean. Back then? You loved her like she was the only real thing in your life.”

“She was,” he admits quietly. “Still is.”

“Then don’t let fear keep you quiet now.”

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “She’s gonna slam the door in my face.”

“Maybe. But at least she’ll open it first,” Connie quips.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” he asks then, knowing any other parent would’ve probably shot him on sight – not read him his tea leaves.

Connie leans back in her chair, smiling faintly. “Because you were good to her once. Really good. Hell, I even thought maybe you were the one. I watched you teach her how to drive in my old Honda, and I saw the way you used to sit next to her in this kitchen, just holding her hand while she talked about the future. Love isn’t neat, my boy. It’s a damn mess. It’s about choosing someone and then choosing them again. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

Dean studies her for a moment. “You believe in fate?”

“I believe in people. And energy. And how sometimes souls recognize each other, even when the brain’s being a dumbass,” she replies cheekily. “She hasn’t changed that much, you know? She still drinks chamomile tea before bed. Still puts on old love songs when she writes. Still reads underlined books like she’s gonna find the truth between the lines. She’s always seen the best in you, Dean. Don’t make her regret that.”

Dean closes his eyes to keep the tears from falling. “God, I miss her.”

Connie reaches over and places a gentle hand on his. “You’re gonna be alright, Dean,” she says. “And so is she. Things have a way of working out. The universe is funny like that.”

When the coffee is finished, she walks him to the front porch again, tugging her robe a little tighter around her as the wind picks up.

“Now go get your girl,” she says, waving him toward the street. “Before I decide to actually share my thoughts on sex after fifty. Spoiler alert: it’s fantastic.”

Dean laughs, nodding. “Thank you. I think I’ll leave before I learn too much. Are you always this wise?”

“Nope,” she replies simply, something sad shimmering behind her eyes. “I’ve just been you… and her. And if I could go back and undo the silence between me and the people I loved… I would. You know, I used to think that chaos was romantic. Passionate. But now? I think real love is quiet. It’s knowing someone and letting them know you. Guess heartbreak makes prophets of us all.”

He nods. “Thanks, Connie. Really, I mean it.”

Connie reaches up and pats his cheek like he’s still seventeen. “Now go – before I start reading your birth chart out loud, young man.” She steps back inside, but not before she calls out one last thing: “Oh, and Dean? If you hurt my daughter again, I’ll throw a crystal at your head.”

Dean snorts a small laugh. “Fair.”

He shakes his head, smiling to himself as the door clicks shut. The chimes sing behind him as he strolls back to the Impala, heart pounding again – not from fear this time, but from the growing weight of hope, as sharp and terrifying as it may be.

It’s a slow afternoon at the garage. The kind that makes Dean feel a little itchy under his skin. Kevin’s pretending to be busy, but Dean knows he’s just rearranging lug nuts on his workbench for the fourth time today, mumbling to himself with earbuds in. Garth’s got his feet kicked up on the shop counter like he’s earned the right to relax.

Dean wipes his hands on a rag and tosses it onto the bench after being elbow-deep in a transmission rebuild of an old Chevelle – beautiful car, really. Would be his second choice after Baby. He insisted on repairing her himself – one of the advantages when you’re the boss.

But now, he stares down at the other side of it – the paperwork he’s been avoiding all week. He’s about to finally force himself to deal with it when the landline rings.

Garth picks it up with his usual sing-song voice and an “Winchester Auto – you break it, we fix it!”

It’s not the official slogan. In fact, they don’t have one. But Garth won’t stop saying it, no matter how many times Dean’s told him not to. Apparently, he still needs to work on his authority a little around here.

“What’s the trouble, ma’am?” Garth asks way too cheerily for Dean’s taste, but the guy’s admittedly good with the customers. Gets raving reviews. “Yeah, we can send someone. Whereabouts are you?” A beat passes. “Old Dairy Road?”

Dean looks up. That’s a weird stretch to break down on unless you’re going out of your way to be alone. The only thing out there is a weird co-op, where Connie always buys her gardening sh–

Oh.

Garth glances at Dean, then away like he’s hiding something. “Yeah, hold tight. We’ll be there soon, miss.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What was that?”

“Uh…” Garth wipes his hands on his pants. “It’s a… stranded Honda. She didn’t leave a name. But hood’s smoking. Probably a blown gasket or radiator leak or somethin’.”

Dean purses his lips, head bobbing. “Alright, Kevin can go.”

“Kevin’s busy.”

“No, he’s not.”

“He is now,” Kevin chimes in, earbuds out suddenly. “My mom’s cat’s at the vet. Emergency neutering. I gotta go pick him up.”

Dean squints. “That cat’s been neutered twice.”

“Triple-checking.”

Dean doesn’t even bother responding. He looks back at Garth. “You?”

Garth holds up his hands like a cartoon criminal caught red-handed. “I promised Bess I’d meet her at the tax guy’s office. We’ve got an appointment.”

Dean levels a stare between them. “Y’all settin' me up for somethin’?”

Garth fakes innocence. “What? No, come on, man. Universe isn’t against you.”

“Uh-huh, doesn’t feel like it,” Dean mutters under his breath, then clicks his tongue, hands on his hips. “Honda, you said?”

“Yep, Civic,” Garth says and starts hiding a big grin – unsuccessfully.

Dean nods and smacks his lips. “Got it. Guess I’ll take it then.”

“Yeah, you will.” Garth grins behind him as he tosses the keys to the tow truck. “You’re the boss, man!”

Dean flips him off on his way out. “Damn right I am.”

The drive’s quiet. Just the hum of the engine and the radio low in the background – classic rock station, of course. Back in Black plays, which would usually excite him, but Dean flips it off. Doesn’t feel right today. So he sits in the silence of his thoughts.

He rounds the last bend and instantly spots the car parked on the shoulder. Beat-up blue Honda, smoke faintly trailing from under the hood like the poor thing’s wheezing out its last breath, hazards flashing.

He knows that car. Connie’s old lemon. He remembers kissing you against that thing in high school. Right after homecoming – dress bunched up in your lap, radio blasting Bon Jovi, your laugh echoing into the dark.

And then, as expected, Dean sees you, and his chest tightens.

You’re sitting on the gravel, leaning against the rear tire, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Sunglasses on. Notebook in your lap. Writing. Pissed and perfect, like you’re daring the universe to either test your patience or run you over.

By the harsh strokes of your pen on paper, Dean can tell that whatever you’re writing is probably about him. Great. He hopes the fourth book will be at least a bestseller too – if he’s gonna get shit on by the whole internet after the thing’s published.

Dean eases the truck to a stop, heart thudding a little harder than he wants to admit. But he still forces himself to get out and closes the door gently, reminding himself of Connie’s words of encouragement from this morning.

Anger is better than apathy.

Dean whistles low as he approaches, smiling. “Well, well… Look what the universe dragged in.”

You don’t smile. Don’t wave. Barely acknowledge him. “Uh-huh.”

He still grins – just a little – testing the waters. “What, no hug? Not even a ‘thank God you came to rescue me, Dean Winchester, man of grease and glory?’”

You lift an eyebrow under your sunglasses. “Pretty sure I didn’t ask for you. In fact, I specifically requested they don’t send you when I talked to Garth.”

“Yeah, well, I’m the only mechanic available. And the boss,” Dean counters almost too cheerfully. God, he’s gonna give both Garth and Kevin a raise – and a big, fat Christmas bonus.

“Shoulda bought my mom a new car for her birthday like I wanted to,” you mutter, shaking your head. “But she said it was bad timing. Something about Mercury being in retrograde or some shit.”

“Sounds like her,” Dean chuckles under his breath as he lifts the hood. He bends forward and immediately sees the problem. “Son of a bitch…”

The culprit is a raccoon jammed into the intake fan – the plush kind with your name sharpied across its foot. Connie’s handwriting, too – and not just on the toy.

Was it the universe or your mother that trapped you here for him to find?

He can practically hear Connie laugh in his head. Probably called the garage as well to warn Garth and Kevin about a certain call coming in as soon as she closed the door behind him this morning.

You raise an eyebrow and get up, arms crossing as you get a little closer. “What?”

Dean pulls the stuffed animal out and holds it up. “Recognize this?”

There’s a pause before realization hits you. “She didn’t.”

“Oh, she did,” Dean confirms, grinning. “She’s crafty when she wants to be.”

“God, that woman.” You groan exhaustively and throw your head back, staring up at the blue sky for a moment. You then glance back at him, still prickly. “Well? Can you fix it or not?”

“Yeah, ten minutes.”

“Great,” you huff and wander off again, but not too far.

Dean takes a deep breath and gets to work, removing the clogged debris and checking for any damage. “Your mom used to do this kinda stuff back in high school, y’know,” he says, voice trying to be lighter than he feels. “She once pulled a spark plug from the Impala, so I’d miss shop class and take you home from school. Said the universe had better plans.”

No response.

Dean bites the inside of his cheek. He’s familiar with the silent treatment. “She was right back then, too. Remember that time in senior year when you were mad at me for missing your poetry reading?”

Still nothing.

“I tried to make it up to you with that picnic by the tree in the park where we carved our initials in. They’re still there, y’know? Got you burgers from Bobby’s, the peach and strawberry milkshake you liked, some terrible cassette of cheesy love songs I found in Dad’s glove box, which was clearly a mistake because you then reminded me that I was probably conceived to that thing. But other than that, you didn’t talk to me the whole night. Just sat there, eating fries.”

You still don’t say a word, but your lips twitch. The faintest smile – maybe.

Dean goes quiet again, but his hands keep moving, his mind buzzing with noise that needs out. “I never stopped thinking about that night. Not because you were mad. But because even when you were pissed, you still stayed. You always stayed. Till you didn’t, you know?”

You shift slightly, looking down at your hands.

Dean wipes grease on a rag, lets the silence settle a little before he speaks again. “I screwed up,” he finally says then. “I know you don’t owe me anything. Least of all a conversation. But I need you to hear it anyway.”

Your jaw locks, but Dean keeps going.

“You being back…” He swallows. “It shook me. I panicked, okay? I thought I had everything figured out. Job. Jo. Life, you know? I was checking the boxes. But when Charlie’s text came in, and I walked into Rocky’s and saw you there, I swear to God, it was like someone just cracked open every locked door in my chest. And I didn’t know what the hell to do with that.”

You’re still stubbornly staring straight ahead. Arms crossed. Closed off. Dean knows that posture used to mean you were trying not to cry.

“Look, I know I hurt you,” Dean says and shuts the hood gently, stepping closer now. “I know I wrecked what we had. I was scared, okay? Not of you, but of what you meant. Of what you still meant. I thought I’d buried it – all of it. You. Us. And then you were back and laughing and dancing and–… I was right there again with you. All in.”

You scoff, but it’s quiet.

Dean steps around the front of the car, rag in one hand, oil on his knuckles. You straighten up but don’t move away. He stands in front of you now, just a foot between you that feels like miles.

“I still love you. I never stopped,” he continues and finds your eyes. “And if you’ll let me–… Hell, even if you won’t – I’m gonna spend every day proving to you that I’m still the guy you used to know. The one who danced with you in diners and kissed your shoulder at stoplights and swore you were it for him.”

You shake your head. “Dean…”

He cuts you off gently. “Let me finish.”

You sigh but don’t stop him.

“I get why you’re angry. I get why you’re hurt. I mean, hell, I’d be too,” he admits. “But I’m not gonna walk away again. I won’t. Not from you.”

Your eyes flicker and you blink fast, but you don’t cry. Instead, you take the keys from him, fingers brushing his.

“You’re gonna go back to New York?” Dean asks as you step past him and open the driver’s door. He doesn't care. He just wants to know if he has to gas up Baby when he gets home.

You halt your movements, hand gripping the metal frame. “No, I’m staying in Lawrence,” you say finally. Hope rises in his chest like fireworks before it explodes into smoke. “But I’m not getting back together with you.”

Dean nods once, jaw tight, and swallows. “Okay.”

“I’m not even sure the guy I fell in love with back then still exists anymore,” you add and slide into the car without another word.

Dean’s heart aches, but he doesn’t flinch. “Then I’ll bring him back,” he says determinedly. “You just watch me, sweetheart.”

You shut the door, start the engine, and drive off without looking back.

Dean stands there alone on the roadside, grease on his hands and a stuffed raccoon by his boots, watching the car disappear out of his view – but a smile tugs on his lips.

Because for the first time in ten years, the road’s clear. And he knows exactly where it leads.

▶️ Chapter 8: Old Ties – AUGUST 20

What did you think of this chapter? Writing Connie and her cosmic shenanigans was probably my favorite. But even that little bonding session with Jo, Bobby, Kevin and Garth – had a blast with this one. And we finally got to see Dean be a mechanic in this AU 😂

Most importantly, the man finally got the message. Hallelujah! 😅🥳 Do we think he can win reader back? And if so, how? 👀

Last chapter coming next week, friends! 🩵

Coming Up:

God, you’re pathetic. This is a low point in your life.

And that’s when your mother floats into the room like it’s the Summer of Love, holding something behind her back. Her hair is braided with small beads. She’s wearing a sundress with more holes than fabric, a poncho made of recycled hemp, and the kind of smile that means she’s absolutely up to something.

You want to groan upon entry. Not again…

Moreover, she’s got that look on her face – the one she wore when you got your first period, or when she walked in on you and Dean in a compromising position on the basement couch. You can still see Dean’s proud fucking grin in your mind when she complimented his form.

You wish those would be the only embarrassing stories, but there’s a lot more where those came from.

“Hi, sweet pea,” she sing-songs brightly. “Oh good, you’re not wearing pants. You’ll want to be comfortable.”

Your eyes narrow. You’ve lived with this woman for way too long to not be suspicious. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing.” She shrugs way too innocently for your taste. “I just have a special delivery from the universe.”

🚀 Read the entire series now on Patreon

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[zepskiesreads]

Time After Time – Chapter 16

Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, back in the present, SB being his charming self and every (bad) thing that comes with it, humor, pining, a bit of angst and hurt, enemies to lovers, slow burnin' through this one, fluff

Word Count: 8.1k

Posted on Patreon June 15, 2025

A/N: I'm a sucker for bottle episodes on TV and in stories. Give me two tortured characters sitting on the floor and having deep conversations, and I'll die happy.

✨ Chapter title inspired by me-e-ee

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 16: I Don't Care What the Papers Say!

Ben knocked once.

Hard enough to be heard, but not so loud it’d wake the whole damn block. Just loud enough to be undeniable. Just enough for you to know it was him.

No answer, but not surprising either.

He could hear you, of course. Super-hearing or not, Ben always knew the difference between silence and absence. You were in there, alright. Breathing slow. Still. Ignoring him like it was a full-time job. He didn’t even need to press his ear to the door. He could hear your heartbeat if he really focused. That steady, annoyed rhythm. Still close – but not coming any closer.

So he knocked again. Slower this time.

Still nothing.

He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and exhaled. “Alright, I know you in there.”

No response again. Ben could hear the music, though.

Not loud. Not enough to be obnoxious. Just enough to make the old brownstone buzz faintly through the concrete. A record. Vinyl – not fucking digital. He could tell by the soft static and occasional warble.

It was some grunge shit. Female vocals, probably late 90s. Not his thing, but it fit. A little sad. A little angry. Just like you.

“I can hear you breathing, sweetheart. Don’t play dumb.”

Fuckin’ nothing.

Ben dragged a hand down his face, then crossed his arms. “C’mon, you’re really gonna make me talk through the door like a fuckin’ sitcom neighbor? You know I hate that shit.”

Still no response. Not even a bratty fucking comment. That stung more than he wanted to admit.

His knuckles softly tapped the wood once more. “You know, if you open the door, you can punch me again or at least slam it in my face. Tell you what, sweetheart – I’ll let you kick me in the crown jewels once. How’s that, huh? Hell, might even like it if it’s you, so don’t be surprised if I moan instead of flinch.”

A beat passed, and then finally:

“You’re not coming in,” you said, voice dry as paper.

“Figured,” he muttered and dropped down on the steps just outside your door. His back leaned against the frame and brick wall, one knee up, the other stretched across the concrete like he had all goddamn night. “Place still smells like cheap paint and lavender. But hey, at least it got character… and possibly black mold. Had to pick the shittiest apartment in New York, didn’t you?”

You still didn’t say anything, but he heard the quiet creak of the floorboards inside and your breathing just behind the door, measured and intentional – you were listening.

And sure, on some level, he knew this was fucking stupid. You didn’t want to see him. You made that clear when you told him to fuck off several times by now. But he couldn’t not be here – not after today.

Not after everything.

“Y’know, I liked it better when you yelled at me and threw me ‘round through time,” he said and let his head rest against the wood, shutting his eyes for a second. “Now I knock and don’t even get a ‘go to hell.’ Kinda hurtin’ my feelings, sweetheart.”

“You don’t have feelings,” you bit.

Ben smirked. There you were.

“I’m not here to fight, alright? Just figured if you hate me, I should at least fuckin’ show up for it,” he said and rubbed a thumb over a splinter in the wood.

“You gonna sit there forever?” you snapped. “Go away and leave me alone.”

“Not yet.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“I don’t think so,” Ben replied, a smile curling on his lips. “You haven’t vanished yet, which means you don’t fuckin’ hate me as much as you think you do.”

“Don’t kid yourself. Me staying has nothing to do with you,” you argued. “This is my home. I like it here. I have friends here. If anyone should fucking leave, it’s you.”

“You can’t even remember most of this shit, including that little whine club of yours.”

You scoffed, and Ben suddenly remembered he wasn’t supposed to make you angrier. You were just making it so goddamn hard on him to hold back. And maybe that was your point all along.

“Hey, I can remember most of them again. It’s coming back. I know Annie and Frenchie and Hughie and Butcher–”

“Butcher ain’t your fuckin’ friend,” he cut in sharply.

“Why? ‘Cause he blackmailed me?” you asked. “I told you it wasn’t that fucking serious – and yeah, I remember that, too.”

“I don’t know. Sounds like a good enough reason to me,” he muttered.

“Everything’s a good fucking reason to you.”

And maybe you were right about that one. Because it surely wasn’t the only reason he wanted Butcher dead. The asshole had not only crossed a line by threatening you but also by threatening him with turning you against him.

Mostly, though, he hated to admit that it also may have been a reason he came to see you tonight. Why he couldn’t give you time and leave you fucking alone.

He had to talk to you before they fucking got to you and spewed all their poison about him.

Ben exhaled slowly. “Look, I know you’re mad at me. I get it. If I were you, I woulda done the same fuckin’ thing.”

You snorted a dark chuckle. “If you were me, New York would be leveled and burning right now.”

“Probably.” Ben pursed his lips, head bobbing. “Listen, I know this is about what happened last week–”

“Don’t.” Your voice cut him like a knife – cold, sharp, and warning.

Ben swallowed heavily. “I don’t wanna rehash it, alright? I just figured you need to–… I had to, okay? I had no choice. I had to push harder. You weren’t breaking, and I was runnin’ outta tricks. Outta time.”

“That it?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he assured, even though your question sounded like a trap. He just didn’t know what would activate it yet. “I didn’t mean to–”

“Bullshit,” you snapped. “You did mean to. You meant everything. You don’t get to have a say in my life for over a year, treat me like a shit, corner me in my own fucking apartment, and then beg for forgiveness on my doorstep like it’s some goddamn romantic gesture.”

“Didn’t say it was,” Ben muttered, rubbing his palms on his thighs.

Well, shit. There went his plan.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, alright? You think that was fuckin’ fun for me?”

“Kinda, yeah,” you huffed bitterly.

Ben swallowed, nodding. “You really think I wanted this? Any of it? You know that I–…” He didn’t finish, just bit his lips, but you said it for him anyway.

“You were just like him.”

Ben licked his lips, then smacked them. “I know.”

“You’re supposed to protect me,” you added quietly.

“I know that, too,” he admitted and tilted his head back against the brick wall, staring up at stars through the city haze. “Still remember your face that night. It’s been livin’ rent-free in my goddamn skull ever since. You were scared… of me. I did that. On purpose, sure, but doesn’t mean I don’t hate myself for it.” He rubbed his jaw. The heat of shame burned at the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t have–… I wouldn’t have hurt you. You know that.”

“No, I don’t know that, because I don’t know you,” you argued. “I don’t even know if you’re telling the truth or lying through your fucking teeth right now because you’re still playing some sick game.”

Ben closed his eyes for another moment, exhaling a breath through his nose. “I’m not playin’ a game.”

“I. Don’t. Believe. You,” you said and slowly pressed each word out with purpose.

He swallowed the thick lump in his throat. “What d’you want me to say, huh? Just tell me what it fuckin’ takes. Fine, alright? Maybe it was more than a little pretense that night. Maybe I was a jealous asshole and a little rougher than I intended. There, I said it. Fuckin’ happy now?”

“None of this makes me fucking happy!”

“Makes fuckin’ two of us,” Ben scoffed under his breath and rolled his eyes slightly. He waited till the sting in his chest subsided before continuing, “But you still gotta believe me – I wouldn’t’ve hurt you.”

Silence. Fucking crickets. He didn’t know if that was good or bad.

He banged his forehead softly against the door. “Please open it.”

“No.”

Sure, he could’ve kicked it in a while ago, but he figured he’d probably be making the wrong point. Aside from that, you sure as hell would either freeze him, toss him into some historical catastrophe, or disappear from the face of the Earth.

“You think I’ve been stuck on what you did this past year, but it’s not just that,” you continued. “I’ve been trying to figure out how much of what you became over the last eighty years is real… and how much is just for show.”

Ben huffed a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, not sure ‘bout that one, either,” he muttered quietly. “If you find out, lemme know.”

You didn’t say anything, but the record kept playing. The needle scratched faintly as the song faded to its last few bars. Then, he heard you lifting and flipping it.

Side B – fitting.

Your weight inside moved again, heartbeat getting closer. There was a creak of old wood and the rustling of fabric as you seemed to be sitting down on the floor just on the other side of him. If the door disappeared, he could imagine your knees touching. There were no attempts at footsteps or even the door chain shifting, but at least you hadn’t vanished yet.

You were still here – listening.

Ben’s eyes then drifted to the box next to him, resting a hand on the taped-up lid. “I brought your stuff, by the way. Kept it all. Your shoes, that busted old notebook full of chicken scratch equations, the movie projector you made me, even that shirt that didn’t make sense to me till ’69,” he listed, chuckling softly. “I saw you there. At that concert, y’know?”

“You did?”

“Yep. You were gettin’ high with some college kids. Even followed you,” he added.

“Oh, yeah, those kids were so nice. I think they were a throuple. Not sure, but definitely polyamorous,” you mused behind the door. “I left when the topic of an orgy came up. But they gave me LSD. Was my first time doing it.”

Ben’s mouth opened and closed. “Explains a few things,” he murmured lowly, his eyes swerving back to the box. “You know, I thought about burnin’ all this shit several times over the years.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Because you left. Because he didn’t know if he’d see you again. Because it still smelled like you.

He let out a quiet chuckle. “Don’t know. Just couldn’t do it.”

There was silence again on your side, even the song ended. But another started – same tone with a different flavor of ache.

“You can leave it outside,” you said.

“I’d rather hand it to you, if that’s alright.”

“It’s not.”

“Right.” Ben let out a deep sigh. “Got you something else, too. But it’s a surprise. Gotta open the door first, though. Only got about one more hour left, too.”

“Great, so it comes with a countdown,” you huffed, and Ben imagined you even rolled your eyes with it. “Please tell me it’s not you exploding.”

He snorted, amused. “Nah, not the kinda explosion I’ve planned for you, sweetheart.”

“Ew! Why?”

“C’mon, it was right there. Can’t serve me like that,” he replied, chuckling.

“You’re not making a good case for yourself,” you murmured.

“You used to love it when I made those fuckin’ jokes,” Ben noted, laughing a little as a memory popped into his head. “Once made you laugh so hard you snorted your soda through your fuckin’ nose.”

“That was different.”

“How so?”

“It just was.”

You had always been a fucking challenge. Didn’t matter what he’d tried – making you his lover or his enemy.

“I liked who you were then,” you added after a beat.

Ben was quiet, and for a while, the city filled the space between you – the hum of traffic two streets over, someone slamming a cab door, a dog barking faintly from a second-story window.

“Look, uhm, I don’t know how much of that guy’s still in here, but I think some of him is,” Ben said finally. “Specially ‘round you.”

“Coulda fooled me,” you scoffed sharply. “You don’t get to act like you care now.”

That one hit harder than he expected, but he didn’t defend himself either. What was the fucking point? No matter what he said, you didn’t believe him. You never would again, would you?

“I’ll go, okay?” Ben said then and heard your weight shift behind the door. “I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want. I just need to ask you somethin’ first.”

A beat passed before you responded.

“What?”

Ben took a breath and swallowed. “Back at the office, you said you trained, so how long–, uhm, how long have your powers been back? I mean, did you leave on purpose… that night?”

There was nothing but silence – heavy, cruel, and suffocating – till the lock clicked. The door cracked open a moment later.

And there you fucking were again.

His heart stopped when he saw you. Still on the floor, back leaning against the wall next to the door, drowning in a Blondie tee, damp hair from a shower, bare legs stretched out over the old wooden boards. You looked better than you did in the afternoon. Tired as fuck, but better.

“Hey,” he said softly, like you were a deer in a sunny clearing he didn’t want to scare back into the dark woods.

“Hey,” you parroted with the same softness in your voice.

Ben could see it then – you didn’t hate him anymore. Not like you had. You were pissed and mad and five different flavors of disappointed, but you didn’t want to drown him in a volcano any longer.

You swallowed and averted your gaze to your fumbling fingers in your lap. “I was stuck. Nothing was working, no matter what I tried. But, uhm, I got the freezing thing working again after a few weeks,” you explained slowly. “I didn’t leave on purpose, though. I told you.”

“You told me a lotta things.” He smiled weakly. “Most of ‘em lies.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” you said quietly and kept your eyes focused on the floor in front of you. “Kinda the reason I got scared and panicked. I didn’t know how to tell you. Didn’t know what the future would look like. Not until I figured out it was a loop.”

He leaned his head back against the door. “You always had secrets. I knew that much. You’d look at me sometimes like you knew how everything ended.”

“I guess I did,” you admitted. “On some level.”

Ben swallowed thickly, nodding. “So what was the plan? You were never gonna say anything?”

“No, I would have. I think… I wanted to,” you replied. “Just didn’t know when… or how. I was scared you were gonna–…”

You didn’t finish.

“What? Kill you?”

You shook your head and met his eyes. “No, leave.”

“I wouldn’t have.” A sad smile twitched on his lips. “So you really didn’t wanna leave?”

“No.”

The word was barely audible over the music, but he still would’ve heard it even if someone was standing next to his ear with a jackhammer.

A humorless chuckle escaped him. “You know, I always figured I drove you off that night. Wasn’t exactly subtle.”

“No, you weren’t. You never were,” you said, but it wasn’t mean. There was a faint smile on your face.

“Never did get an answer, though,” he noted, swallowing. “Still waiting, y’know. Still wonderin’.”

You looked at him then for a long moment. “Not sure you deserve an answer now.”

“Me neither.” He smiled a little. “Give it to me anyway?”

But you shook your head and averted your gaze again. “I didn’t mean to fall for you, you know? Didn’t mean to hurt you, either.”

He huffed a small laugh. “Funny how that works, huh?”

“I would’ve said yes. I wanted to,” you said then, taking him by surprise. He hadn’t expected an answer. Not when he asked it now and not when he’d asked it back then.

For a while, he didn’t know what else to say. Didn’t know what to ask that would magically make this all better and fix it. What words were significant enough to bandage a wound this big?

Ben exhaled slowly. “Why haven’t you gone back yet?”

You blinked at him, brow close to reaching your hairline.

“You could, right? You have your powers again. You could go back right to that moment before it all went to shit,” he clarified.

You were quiet for a beat. “I could. Thought about it.”

Ben’s head bobbed thoughtfully. “But you haven’t, right? Otherwise we still wouldn’t be sittin’ here.”

“No, guess not…”

“Why?”

You found his eyes, and he could see the tears gleaming in yours. Then you gave a weak shrug of your shoulders. “‘Cause it wasn’t real.”

His jaw clenched. “Don’t fuckin’ say that. It was. It was real.”

“It was a lie. A fantasy,” you argued softly. It wasn’t cruel – just honest. “I’m not saying my feelings weren’t real. They were. But everything else? It would’ve collapsed. It was inevitable… like entropy. We were drifting from order to chaos. From warmth to cold.”

“You don’t know that,” Ben countered.

“Maybe not,” you admitted and looked at him again. “But it’s not just up to me. Not anymore.”

His brow furrowed. “What d’you mean?”

“It’s your life. You should make the decision,” you told him.

Ben sat with that for a while, let the words sink in, even though he barely understood them.

“You should go.”

“What?” Your brow raised like you hadn’t anticipated that answer.

“You love m–… him, right? So you should be with him,” Ben said, although the answer almost broke him.

You didn’t love him. Probably never would. At least not this version of him, so what was the point of holding on? He could get a redo. Maybe even the life he always wanted.

“It’s not that simple,” you said. “The whole world would change. You would change.”

He snorted bitterly. “Might be for the best,” he muttered. “You’d make sure I wouldn’t cross a line or lose myself along the way like I did without you there.”

“I don’t think you understand the implications of it,” you noted. “You don’t know what happens to you – this you.”

He gave a shrug. “I stop existing, right? Just fade away like Marty’s hand.”

You smiled, but it was a sad one. “Maybe. If I go back and stay, the future might rewrite itself, including you. So, yeah, this you would stop existing and get replaced by a new version of you. But there’s another option,” you explained. “If I go back, it could just start a new timeline. An alternate one. Which means this one would still exist. I’d just be gone from it.”

Ben’s lips twitched, head bobbing. “So either I stop existing, or I’d be here alone forever. That what you’re saying?”

You nodded slowly.

He didn’t love that answer. You happy with some other version of him, while he was stuck in eternal misery, forever missing you. He wasn’t sure if he could do that – give up on you like that. And maybe that was fucking selfish of him. He knew it was.

“You’d save a lot of people. Probably,” you added like you were making a pro and con list. “I ran different scenarios, you know? Like simulations in my head of what could happen. Tried to find the right path that would yield the most benefit.”

Ben cocked an eyebrow. “That what you were doing in the shed?”

“Mostly.” You gave a half-sure nod. “I tried to find out how it works. What theory was true.”

“And?”

You twitched your shoulders. “Inconclusive. Never could figure it out.”

He huffed quietly, shaking his head. “All these theories and you never thought it was a loop?”

A small smile flashed on your lips. “No, I did. It crossed my mind,” you admitted and swallowed. “Was just the one I liked the least. Because it not only meant that I couldn’t change anything but that I was also the cause for everything.”

“And me,” Ben added and met your confused stare. “I sent you back. So I caused it too, right?”

You exhaled musingly. “I guess so. Maybe.”

Ben’s brows drew together. “So who started it? You or me?”

You shrugged again. “I don’t know. My guess is as good as yours.”

“Yeah, but there’s gotta be like… a starting point, right? A first one?” he asked and saw you hold back an amused laugh. “What?”

“It’s a circle,” you said like it would explain everything.

It fucking didn’t.

“Does a circle have a beginning or an end?” you asked in that certain tone of yours he knew all too well – the teacher voice. “The answer you’re looking for is no, by the way.”

“Smartass,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “They didn’t teach all that futuristic shit yet in my school.”

“What, geometry?” You snorted in amused disbelief. “I’m pretty sure they did. You just weren’t paying attention.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He rolled his eyes back. “But there’s gotta be an original version that looked different than all the others, right? Or a version of me that never knew you at all.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Jesus, how much have you been thinking about this?”

“A lot. Yeah,” he admitted and cleared his throat. Smiled even. “So? What’s the working theory, Doc?”

“I don’t know. Probably?”

Ben’s brow wrinkled. “You ever gonna give me an answer tonight that doesn’t sound like it’s comin’ straight outta a Magic 8 Ball?”

You snorted, that little mischievous smirk curling on your lips. “Ask again later.”

“Funny.” He snorted a laugh, but he tried not to be too loud or move too much.

He’d noticed it a while ago – how the tension faded from your muscles, how the smiles kept creeping in. It was like you weren’t even aware you were still supposed to be angry and hurt. You were just doing it subconsciously – talking to him, laughing with him, falling into a pattern with him you’d grown accustomed to over the last few months.

Ben knew better than to point that out and burst it, however. He just enjoyed the bubble. Didn’t want it to end. Didn’t want you to wake up from your trance. Scared you’d realize then that he wasn’t the same guy anymore.

So he said nothing and kept the conversation flowing, hoping you wouldn’t catch on for the rest of both your lives. A man could fucking hope, right?

“Hmm,” he hummed and feigned contemplation. Then he smirked. “So, technically, that means the original timeline could be me being on your little history backstage pass, and you payin’ me a visit, right?”

You snorted. “Unlikely. You were never on that list.”

“Oh, but fuckin’ JFK is on it?”

You laughed loudly at that. “Are you still seriously hung up on that guy? He’s been dead for decades. Most likely because of you.”

“Hey, I had nothin’ to do with that.”

“Legend said you did,” you countered.

“That old prick with that coked-up brain doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talkin’ about,” Ben muttered. “That shit about Normandy wasn’t true either, was it? I mean, you saw, right?”

“Oh, I remember when you made me prove Hughie and I were wrong. Watched you throw a whole-ass tank at like forty Nazis,” you replied wryly.

“Yeah, you’re fuckin’ welcome,” he huffed and only snapped out of his internal rant when he heard your soft giggles.

“How do you even know about my list? I know I never told you about that,” you said then, your brow scrunching into little creases.

“Oh, you sure as hell didn’t, sweetheart.” Ben smirked wide and lazy. “But your so-called friends were real fuckin’ chatty today.”

“Great,” you sighed, then found his eyes. “So what now? Do you want me to go back?”

Ben pursed his lips for a moment. “Can I think about it?” he asked quietly, foot tapping against the concrete below it.

You gave a shrug of your shoulders. “Sure. Time’s not really relevant. Not for us, anyway. Could tell me tomorrow or a hundred years from now. Literally doesn’t matter.”

Ben didn’t respond right away. Just looked at you. “Do you wanna go back?”

He for sure thought you wanted to. He thought there could only ever be one answer, almost rendering the question redundant in the first place. You loved the past version of him. That guy could still give you a future and a life you were worthy of. Why wouldn’t you want that?

But your answer took him by surprise.

“No,” you said and didn’t break his gaze. “I don’t.”

Ben’s brow knitted. “Why?”

“I don’t think there’s a version of us that gets to live the perfect dream life. Where we get everything we ever wanted,” you said. “It’s not how life works. Was just a glitch in the matrix. It was nice while it lasted, though.”

Ben licked his lips, not knowing what he could say to convince you otherwise. “I don’t think that’s true. I think we would’ve been happy,” he said. “I woulda made sure you were.”

You turned your head to look at him. “I was, and you did.”

Ben nodded and bit the insides of his cheeks. “So if you don’t wanna go back, why you offerin’?”

“I ruined your life. Only fair you at least get a say in how I do it this time,” you replied, shrugging.

Ben then met your eyes. “You didn’t ruin shit.”

You lifted an eyebrow in disbelief. “Really? Not even a little?”

He huffed a snort. “Maybe a little,” he teased, smirking. “But kinda ruined me in the best way, sweetheart.”

You didn’t say anything to that, just leaned your head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling fan for a while.

“You know,” you said then, “if I do go back, Russia never happens. You wouldn’t have to go through that.”

Ben’s lips twitched, almost in amusement. Oh, he thought about it, alright. Surely was fuckin’ tempting.

“Yeah? You sure you wouldn’t sell me out to the fuckin’ Commies next time you get pissed at me again?” he blurted out before stopping himself.

You inhaled sharply. “No,” you assured. “And I’m sorry, okay? That was–…”

“A dick move?” Ben supplied with a cocked brow.

You smiled. “Yeah, big time.”

“‘S fine. Deserved it,” he muttered under his breath.

“No, you didn’t,” you insisted with that same fucking softness in your eyes he’d always seen in you. “Which is why I’m sorry.”

There was silence between you again, but it wasn’t heavy and loaded anymore. It was comfortable. Calm. Familiar.

“So what now?” Ben asked then. “What happens if you stay here?”

“What do you mean?” Your brows scrunched again, and he didn’t like that tone in your voice – that finality in it.

“You still love me, or is this the courtesy break-up talk you’re granting me?”

You looked at him but didn’t respond. Just dropped your head back against the wall after a moment and closed your eyes.

“My parents aren’t dead,” your voice broke the silence and made his brows raise.

“I know time doesn’t fuckin’ matter to you, and you can see dead people or whatever, but death still fuckin’ exists.”

“No, I know that,” you said. “They’re not dead. They’re in Alaska.”

His brow shot up. “Alaska? But–”

“I did bring them to 1349, and I did leave them there,” you stated and bit your lip. “For about three years. Then I went back. For them, only five minutes had passed. Still scared the shit out of them.”

“So what? They fled to fuckin’ Alaska?”

“No, I dropped them there and told them not to come back, or I’d leave ‘em in the Middle Ages for good next time,” you shared, pulling your legs up and leaning forward on your knees.

“Recognizin’ a pattern here…”

You huffed a chuckle. “I guess so. But that’s not why I’m telling you this.”

“Why are you telling me?”

You swallowed. “They weren’t all bad, you know? I kept thinking about that. I mean, sure, they were addicts, and they didn’t really want me, but they had these phases… Every once in a while, they tried to get clean, and everything was just suddenly fine.“

Ben could see the tears collecting in your eyes and the lump forming in your throat.

“We’d go on these family trips,” you continued, laughing softly. “Once saw Salem Sue. You know that huge cow in North Dakota? And they’d also pick me up from school and take me for ice cream or pizza or to the mall. Stuff like that. They tried, you know? For a while, they did at least.”

Ben’s heart flared up at the sad smile twitching on your lips, however. His gut churned, like it already knew where the story was headed and what morals would be drawn from it.

“That was the thing, though. It never lasted,” you said. “Sometimes it was a week. Sometimes even a few months. At first, I got really exited. Happy ‘cause I finally had parents who gave a shit, you know? And I figured maybe we could be normal now. But it was always a phase. It wasn’t forever. Eventually, they’d go right back to being the shit parents they were, and I stopped expecting them to change. Stopped being hopeful and excited whenever they had good days because I knew it wouldn’t stay.”

“This isn’t a phase,” he said softly. Kept his eyes on you like it might convince you. “It’s not going anywhere. It’ll stick. I’ll stick.”

“Sure.” You nodded slowly and pressed your lips into a tight line, then gave a weak smile. “Think I haven’t heard it all before? I know all the words in the Book of Addict.”

That cut deep. Trust never came easy to you, and he’d already managed to break it several times.

“I’m not–” Ben didn’t finish. Just looked at you and swallowed around the thick lump in his throat while every cell in his body vibrated. He clenched his fists to stop the tremble in his hands – the constant buzz.

“You’re not, what?”

Ben ground his jaw. “I’ve been clean. I haven’t touched this shit in months.”

“You just made me buy pills and coke two weeks ago,” you said. “Called me at 3AM. Remember?”

“I didn’t take it,” he insisted. “I fuckin’ flushed it, alright? Gave it out as party favors. Just called you to keep you busy. Nothin’ more to it.”

And it was fucking true. Sometime shortly after Vought tower and Homelander, he’d stopped. He hadn’t used for forty years anyway, and he didn’t need the hallucinations of you anymore either because the real you had been right fucking there.

You leaned back against the wall with a sigh – unbothered and unaffected. “If you’re waiting for applause, you’re wasting your time. I’ve learned not to clap till the show’s over.”

He scoffed quietly, nodding. It was no fucking use, was it? Were you ever gonna believe him again?

“Don’t trust me? That’s fine,” he said, jaw aching from how hard he’d been grinding it. “I know you’re fuckin’ disappointed in me. Hell, I am too. But I’ll fuckin’ show you.”

“Guess we’ll see,” you replied, barely audible.

“Didn’t have collateral this entire year, either,” he added like that piece of information would finally convince you. “Not a single asshole died that didn’t deserve it.”

You snorted a laugh. “You’re not serious right now, are you? You woke up in this century with a fucking kill list and unchecked PTSD. You killed like fifty people in the first week.”

“After,” he countered. “After the tower. After you woke up from your fuckin’ coma, I stopped, alright?”

“Yeah, ‘cause everyone on your list was already dead,” you argued.

“Trust me. There’s more,” he rasped.

Stan Edgar. Butcher. Your parents. They were on his fucking hit list now, too. But he knew better than to say it out loud.

“Right.” You clicked your tongue.

“I didn’t explode today if you haven’t fuckin’ noticed. I’ve got it under control,” he argued further. “Even goddamn apologized to MM a year ago. Did he tell you?”

“He did.” You gave a small nod. “Did you actually fucking mean it, though?”

“I did,” he gritted through his teeth. “What d’you wanna hear, hm? I did horrible shit, alright. None of it I can fuckin’ take back. And I fuckin’ paid for all of it. Deserved it, too. But I swear to God I won’t let you fuckin’ down again. I won’t.”

You stayed quiet for a heartbeat, licking your lips, head bobbing. Then you met his eyes. “I think you should go,” you said so fucking soft and gentle like those words didn’t rip his heart straight out of his chest.

“Sweetheart, please.” He hated begging, but for you, he’d be devoutly on his knees for the rest of his goddamn life.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the door, ready to close it, but he stopped it, pushing his hand against the wood to keep it open. His mind, his gut, and his heart screamed at him that it’d never open again once it shut. He couldn’t let that fucking happen.

“Ben…”

You didn’t say his name in anger or annoyance. Your voice was just heavy with a tiredness that seemed to have seeped into your bones.

“Just a little longer? Please?” He stared at you till he saw the tiniest nod and you dropped your hand from the door with a sigh.

“Guess I’m Jeannie today. Just granting wishes left and right,” you muttered.

Ben lifted a brow. “Like I Dream of Jeannie Barbara Eden?” He grinned then. “Man, I loved that show.”

He didn’t mention he fucked Barbara Eden once at the Chateau. Thought it was best to keep that to himself.

“Well, don’t expect me to call you ‘master,’ Captain,” you huffed wryly.

“‘S fine. Eden didn’t do that either,” he muttered under his breath.

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he said quickly, clearing his throat.

You motioned with your chin to the box next to him. “That my stuff?”

Ben followed your gaze, gave half a shrug. “Uh, well, not just your shit. Just stuff from our time together in general. You ain’t gettin’ that projector back.”

You snorted in amusement, then crossed your arms and smirked challengingly. “What kinda stuff did you keep in there?”

He pursed his lips. “Uh, you know, just memorabilia.”

“Like what?”

He scowled, seeing you barely hide the grin at this point.

“If you tell me you kept old movie tickets from our date nights in there, I’m gonna call you a sentimental sap,” you teased.

The frown deepened. “Maybe I just hand ‘em to you separately.”

You stretched your neck slightly to look behind his torso. “What’s in the little box on top?”

“Ah.” A slow smirk curled on his lips. “That’s your little surprise.”

You arched an eyebrow. “You really think bribery’s gonna work?”

Ben took the small, pink box and held it out to you. “Just open it.”

You kept your little glare on him as you took the box before carefully opening the lid and peeking inside it as if he’d hidden poisonous snakes in there. Then your brow furrowed, head tilting in question.

“Cake?”

“Still your birthday for–,” he checked his watch, “–another twelve minutes.”

A frown.

“What d’you think you’re doing? This isn’t Sixteen Candles.”

“Didn’t say it was. Just wanted you to have cake on your birthday,” he said and twitched his shoulders almost innocently.

You inhaled sharply. Bit the inside of your cheeks.

Ha. That one got you.

“If you let me in, I can you show you what’s in that box while you eat cake,” Ben added.

“Let me in, children. Your mother has something for each and every one of you,” you said, your voice high and sweet and filled with bubbles of laughter.

Ben’s brow knitted. “Is that from a Grimm fairy tale?”

“Yup.”

“Huh,” he hummed. “My mother read those to me.”

“I know.”

“Right.” He clicked his tongue. “Forgot I told you that.”

“Yup,” you said again and popped the p. Your gaze, however, wasn’t on him but focused on the tips of your toes. “Moral of the story, though, I let you in, and you’ll eat me.”

Ben bit his lips hard, holding the fucking smirk back. Oh, he’d eat you, alright.

“Don’t,” you warned – cute little glare and all. “The way this has been going so far, I know once you’re inside, you’re never gonna leave, and then I have to leave, and I don’t wanna leave my apartment, so you’re staying out.”

Ben nodded, then smacked his lips. “Convincing.”

You exhaled a long sigh, he blinked, and then suddenly, you were skimming through pages of your notebook in concentration, still in the same spot you used to be like nothing had changed, the box next to him gone and now next to you.

Well, shit. He’d overplayed his fucking hand.

“What’s in there anyway?” he asked. “Never could fuckin’ read it.”

“That’s the point,” you replied without glancing up.

“Looks like fuckin’ hieroglyphs,” he muttered with a scoff.

“It’s a secret language I invented when I was six,” you shared. “I started keeping travel journals after the first few jumps, so I could keep track of everything. The different writing system functions as a fail-safe in case someone steals it or I accidentally leave it somewhere.”

“Huh. And what’s this one say?”

“Uh, it’s some equations, journal entries, memories from the future I wrote down before forgetting, which is why I need this now,” you said, turning pages like you were searching for something specific.

“Anything ‘bout me in there?”

“Everything’s about you in there.”

You still didn’t look up when you said it. Didn’t sound sentimental or even gentle. Just presented it as a fact.

He gestured toward the currently opened page in your lap. “What does this one say?”

“Oh, uhm…” You hesitated, brow knitting like you weren’t sure you cared to share it. “It’s from that day at the lake in May. The one where I pushed you off the dock.”

Ben laughed softly. “Remember that one. Wanna read it to me?”

You looked at him, then let out a breath. Slammed the notebook shut. “No, look, I’m tired. I’ve been awake for over thirty hours and this birthday has lasted close to six months. I’m basically jet-lagged. Can you just get to the point? Why are you here?”

Ben licked his lips and leaned back against the wall. His eyes found yours. “You already know why I’m here. Can’t tell me that you don’t. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.”

“I already told you what I want, and you’re not listening again,” you said, voice sharp as a whip. “Leave me alone. You hovering doesn’t help. I swear to God you’re the worst ex-boyfriend ever. I want time. That’s what I fucking want.”

Ben’s mouth opened and closed, green eyes flickering. The fucking thought alone was making his chest hum alive.

“I don’t want you to disappear again,” he admitted and swallowed around the lump in his throat.

You exhaled a deeply frustrated breath. “I’m not, alright? But only if you go now.”

He looked up the stairs leading to the street and away from you. “For how long? When can I come back?”

“Ben,” you sighed his name and rolled your eyes.

He nodded. Relented.

“Alright, fine.”

He rose from the uncomfortable concrete three minutes past midnight and glanced down at you one final time. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

You got back onto your feet as well, gave a nod, and the door closed.

Sleep was impossible.

No doubt, you were fucking exhausted. Tired in your bones, your blood, your heart, your goddamn soul.

But still – no fucking sleep.

As soon as you closed your eyes, your mind was racing. It wouldn’t shut off. And your heart? That was racing, too. Either from fear, yearning, or fucking both, you weren’t sure.

Ben was gone. Yet, he was still fucking everywhere.

You tossed. You turned. You sighed your frustrations at the ceiling and groaned into pillows. Counted sheep and listed the first one hundred decimals of pi. Still nothing.

It was too quiet or too loud. Too dark or too light. It wasn’t fucking home.

You hadn’t slept in this bed in months. Not really. And now, wrapped in its sterile warmth, blanket pulled up to your shoulder like armor, curled into a ball on the mattress like an Armadillo, you felt even farther from yourself.

Home felt like somewhere else now – in the bed you used to sleep and the guy you used to share it with.

Because not only were you struggling with your feelings, temporal jet-lag, and timelines – you also fucking missed him.

This wasn’t your bed. The spot next to you was empty. And nothing fucking smelled like him anymore.

No arms around you. No steady breathing next to you. Just emptiness – like entropy knocked on your fucking door tonight and invited itself in to stay.

Your muscles remembered another rhythm. Another routine. Another weight.

For five months, there’d been someone next to you. Someone you loved so much it fucking hurt. Now they were gone.

The worst, though? You thought you’d never get him back. Thought there was nothing left to rebuild. But after tonight, you weren’t quite so sure anymore. Tonight felt easy. Comfortable. Familiar.

It felt as if he was still there. Still him. Scraps of him buried under inches of shit, sure, but still.

You saw the flickers of light through the thicket. Saw not the supe, but Ben.

Twenty-three. Dumb as hell. Soft in the rarest places. Calloused hands that knew how to touch without hurting. A man who tucked you into his side like you were something worth keeping warm. A man who laughed in his sleep and sometimes pulled you closer without waking.

That was the rhythm you knew now. And without it, your own heartbeat felt wrong.

You shifted onto your back. Then your other side. Kicked the blanket off. Pulled it back on. Flipped the pillow. Nothing fucking helped.

He said he loved you. Then he said you were a liar.

He kept your things for eight decades. Then he pushed you away for a whole year.

And despite all the nightmares and the differences and all the cruel things he’d ever done or said, you still fucking loved him. God, that was the worst part.

You loved him. And Ben? He broke you open anyway.

Then it fucking hit – the first sob that clawed through your body like it had built since January of ’42.

The kind that crawled up your throat without warning. Ugly. Choking. Whole body shaking.

You curled into yourself, and it kept coming. Louder now. Guttural. The kind of crying that wracked your chest and made your teeth ache.

Everything fucking spilled out – the grief, the time, the loneliness, the betrayal.

You weren’t just mourning what he did.

You were mourning everything you thought you’d found in 1942 – all the people, the places, the versions of you that felt brighter and stronger and freer. You were mourning a life you couldn’t go back to. A home you’d built with hope and love, only to have it dissolve in a single blink of an eye.

You sobbed until you hiccupped.

Until the pillow was soaked beneath your cheek.

Until the silence swallowed you up again.

Until the knock came.

It wasn’t loud. Not like before. Three slow taps, almost reluctant – like he was giving you time to pretend you didn’t hear them.

Your breath hitched again. Your eyes, already raw, squeezed shut tighter. Like that might somehow undo the sound and make him disappear again.

Then came his voice – low and unsure in the night. “Can I come in?”

You stayed silent.

“Didn’t go far,” he admitted. “I heard you. Just wanted to check on you. Didn’t think you wanted me here. Still don’t, probably. But I’m askin’ anyway.”

You wanted to say something – to yell, to scream, to beg him to go or stay or hold you tighter – but your mouth wouldn’t work, and your chest was a collapsed building like a nuclear bomb had torn through it.

The words formed on your tongue, but your lips didn’t move.

“I’m gonna open the door now,” he gave you a warning shot. “If you don’t want me to, say somethin’. Don’t fuckin’ disappear on me, alright?”

You didn’t, and the door creaked open.

He stepped in slowly, boot steps soft for once. The smell of city air followed him in – summer heat and burning asphalt and different flavors of cuisine.

The couch beneath you dipped. The mattress creaked beneath his weight with carefulness. He didn’t reach for you right away. He sat still for a moment – like he was giving you one final out.

He always did.

And when there was no resistance, the warmth of his arm ghosted around your waist. Slow. Hesitant. Tentative. Like he expected you to pull away. Like he was afraid touching you might set the whole world off again.

You still didn’t stop him. You never did.

His chest then pressed lightly to your back. His hand settled just beneath your ribs – warm, solid, steady.

Fucking perfect.

“Hey, it’s me,” he whispered close to your ear, breath hot against your skin. “I’m still fuckin’ here.”

That was it – the fucking dam broke again.

You curled inward, sobbing so hard it felt like your lungs were trying to escape your body. Everything you’d buried – the grief, the fear, the ache of missing him – unraveled like a thread pulled too tight for too long, the seams of your heart giving way all at once.

Fury. Loneliness. Need – and somewhere in it, a kind of gut-deep relief that made your ribs hurt.

And Ben? He held you through it. He always did.

Didn’t say anything more. Didn’t try to fix it. Just anchored you with his body, impossibly strong and steady and safe behind you, grounding you to something fucking real in a world that was absurd.

He was gravity, and you were in free fall.

You pressed your forehead into your pillow and cried until there was nothing left but the sound of your own ragged breath. Ben’s nose buried in your hair, lips kissed your crown, arms wrapped around you tighter.

Eventually, your breath began to slow. Evened out into lazy waves.

You turned then in the arms around you – slow, cautious, unsure of what you were doing until your face found his chest, your palms flattened gently against him. Your body still slightly trembled like the aftershocks of an earthquake, but his warmth seeped through your skin and soothed it like a balm.

You looked up, and his eyes found yours instantly – quiet, wrecked, waiting. You searched his face like you were ensuring each freckle was still in place. He looked as tired as you felt, and he wasn’t armored now.

No sneer. No shield. Nothing cruel or smug or sure. Just him – the same guy who whispered dumb jokes in the dark to make you laugh and who let you fall asleep against his chest like he’d never let go.

Just Ben.

His hand lifted and brushed a tear from your soaked cheek. Then another. And another. His thumb lingered at your jawline, rough and gentle all at once.

His forehead touched yours, and you exhaled a soft, shaking breath. He tilted his head just slightly. Not pushing. Not rushing. Just waiting.

And you kissed him.

Soft.

Slow.

Salt still on your lips.

▶️ Chapter 17: The Stuff That Dreams Are Made of

A lot of you asked me "Omg, how are they ever gonna get back together after all of this and that brutal fight? Something big needs to happen." But I always felt like what they needed the most was a quiet night and no armor (or only little lol). Did you expect to end it there?

And for you angsty souls out there – don't worry. Something big's still coming that will either solidify their bond more or break it altogether 😉

Coming Up:

“You want me to leave?”

Your gaze drifted to the door, then back to him. You shook your head. “Actually, I was thinking about taking a drive.”

Ben lifted a brow in surprise. “Like a joyride?”

You scoffed a chuckle. “Trust me. There won’t be any joy.”

“Even better.” He smirked and watched you roll your eyes back.

“It’s a memory thing,” you shared and grabbed your nonsensical notebook from the nightstand. “Just have to check some things I wrote in here. See if it jogs anything.”

Ben bobbed his head, gave you a smirk – just a flicker of it. “You want company?”

You didn’t smile, but your voice came softer this time. “If you can behave.”

He chuckled low in his chest. “No promises, sweetheart.”

🚀 Read up to 4 chapters ahead on Patreon now

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[zepskiesreads]

stained ᥫ᭡.

pairing: mark meachum x ex!reader

summary: it's already been a very long day, you're not sure if running into your ex is making it better or worse. (aka it turns out you might not be as over him as you thought)

tags/warnings: countdown season one spoilers, angst, language, hurt/comfort, fluff, exes to possibly lovers, hospital settings, medical talk, mentions of blood and violence, diverges from canon for the sake of plot, author still can't flirt but she's trying || 18+ only ⭑.ᐟ

word count: 2.6k 🥀

⭑.ᐟ notes: and another fic for @zepskies 5k event !! ♥️ this time I got a color prompt, gif check, and song!fic of her choosing for mark <3 (the song was actually new to me, this is what my angsty brain interpreted ❤️‍🩹) thanks for reading !! 🌹

‎♪ now playing; bridges burn — needtobreathe

mark masterlist ✎ᝰ. main masterlist

Despite all the advertisements, your redbull was in fact not giving you wings.

The fifth hour of your shift had you almost chugging an entire can, but it didn’t do much to ease your exhaustion. The blinding white beams on the ceiling certainly weren't helping with the ache behind your eyes either. You understand the logic of course, doesn't mean you have to like it. By now you thought you'd be used to it, spending almost the last decade of your life in buildings with the same nauseating lighting. Guess not.

At this point you're ready to fall face first into your bed and just hibernate, but duty always called.

Speaking of, there was suddenly a commotion at the entrance to the ER, the heavy doors slamming against the walls with a loud thud. You secure a fresh pair of blue gloves on before following after the paramedics and the charge nurse, catching the tail end of what was being described. "Object protruding from the side…major blood loss...federal agent…"

And just like that, your night got longer.

Most people think being an emergency room nurse is difficult, chaotic, stressful — all the blood, the intensity, the unpredictability.

And while they’re not wrong, some days you think the vending machine tries to be the hardest part of your day.

You can work with needles and blood and broken limbs no problem, but somehow you could never get the kit kat bar to fall from the corner of this godforsaken machine. B4. It better drop sooner rather than later before—

“You know I still don’t think hitting the machine’s gonna get you anything, besides a sore hand probably.”

You’d recognize that voice anywhere, your frustrated quest for chocolate coming to a halt as you lift your head and look to your left, seeing none other than your ex.

Of course he’d catch you like this. Wrinkled burgundy scrubs, a semi loosened bun, eye bags the only accessory on your face and nearly busting into a vending machine like the damn raccoon from Over The Hedge. Meanwhile he looks like he’s headed to a photo shoot as the freaking model.

Nonetheless, you fully turn towards him and give him the best smile you could despite your fatigue, which honestly wasn't too hard when you were looking at him.

“Mark, hey. I don’t even— how are you? It’s been a while.” You stop in front of him, unsure if you should invade his space, but he doesn’t hesitate pulling you in.

Solid arms bring you flush against him, your own arms wrapping around his middle in a warm embrace. He rubs his hand up and down your back softly and you tuck your face in the crook of his neck, taking a moment to breathe him in as you both sway gently. It feels so comfortable, so safe.

Just the way you remember.

After a moment you pull away, catching the fond smile on his face before he clears his throat. "Yeah, it has. You uh, you look good. You work here?"

You grin slyly. "Nah I'm just practicing for halloween, getting the authentic experience you know? Costume feels better that way. Real stains and all, super hard to get out." He chuckles, playfully poking at your arm. "Very funny smartass, you know what I mean. Thought you were aiming for a different ward."

Your smile remains, but fades the slightest bit. "Yeah, slight change of plans.” He can see there’s more to it, but also notes the tension in your posture since he made the comment, so he doesn’t push any further. You clear your throat as casually as you can. “So what brings you to a hospital, you alright?” Your brows furrow, suddenly remembering where exactly you're running into him.

He decides not to unravel that thread completely, sticking with most of the truth. “Yeah no I’m fine, it’s my boss — he got attacked, was brought in a few hours ago. But the lady at the front desk won’t give us any information.” He sighs with frustration.

You bite your lip, not noticing how the action immediately draws his eyes to it. It was a nervous habit of yours, something you’d do anytime you felt anxious about something that wasn’t fully in your control — he remembers it all too well.

“Yeah that’s Betty, she gets pretty strict with the visitors.” You hum in contemplation. “Let me see what I can dig for you, I just need his name. Meet you back at the lobby for an update?” He resists the urge to hug you again, instead placing a hand on your shoulder — a grateful expression on his face. “Thanks sweetheart. His last name's Blythe.” You nod and smile softly, patting his chest twice before heading towards the doors requiring clearance, trying not to think of his eyes lingering on you as you walk away.

Lucky for him, you weren’t gone long. He darts up as soon as he peeps your figure coming across the corner, about ten minutes later. Amber looks at him, then at you, her eyes full of curiosity.

But there’s no time to question it as you walk up to them — to Mark. “It seems they’ve got him in stable condition. The knife didn’t pierce anything important, just caused a lot of ragged damage and blood loss, which was dealt with. He’s resting now, they should have a formal update for you within the next few hours they’re just monitoring him.”

They all let out sighs of relief, as if they were holding their breaths since the moment they got there. You don't blame them.

Mark thanks you sincerely, but you still notice the tick in his jaw, the way he's discreetly clenching his teeth. It was how he’d get when something was unsettling him, leaving him anxious, restless. So you tell him to give you his phone.

He hands it over with no hesitation, and Finau chuckles under his breath, the rest of the group being a little more subtle with their amusement. You save your number into it before handing it back to him. “You guys go do what you need to, I’ll give you a call with any updates on him, I'm still here for a while.”

He would kiss you right now if he could. It's seriously tempting. You always knew what he needed without him having to even say anything. Like you were in sync. He’s missed that — missed you.

The team thanks you before making their way out to their cars, Finau giving you a brief but warm hug of his own before heading out. Mark lingers behind. “Thank you, for uh, you know. I really appreciate it — appreciate you. And the team totally does too.”

You grin. “Always such a way with words Meachum.” He laughs gently, pulling something out of his jacket and handing it to you.

A kit kat bar.

“I’ll be back in a little while. Try not to break any machines, or more importantly your hand while I’m gone alright? Wouldn't want you to finish your shift as a patient.” He teases, making the smile on your face glow just a bit brighter.

“Copy that. You stay safe out there okay?” You’re still holding on to the hand that's giving you the chocolate, and he brings them both up to his lips, placing a brief kiss onto the back of yours, surprising you both. He did it before he could even think twice about it, a force of habit, that was something he’d always do to reassure you before he'd leave for work.

His cheeks tinge slightly with embarrassment, but despite your soft shock you’re still smiling at him. Deciding to ease his overthinking, you kiss his cheek in return. His shoulders relax (although his cheeks are now blushing furiously) and he laughs lightly. “Yes ma'am.”

There was so much you both wanted to say, but there were things that needed to get done. So for now you part ways, anticipating the next time you meet again.

The rest of your shift went by in an exhausting blur.

A couple of car accident victims, a kid who broke his arm riding a skateboard (or, falling off of one rather), two heart attack victims weirdly enough, and a fight that ended with a screwdriver jammed into a guy's hand (though based on his dickish attitude, you were certain he deserved it).

Despite all the chaos, your mind kept drifting back to Mark.

It had been great with him, an instant connection that transpired through the years. By the third year together, he'd practically been living with you at your cozy apartment. Things didn't start to change until you finished school and started your first year of residency, which was also the first year Mark started working on more important cases in his unit.

Your schedules would constantly separate you. A late night at work for you, an early day for him. An extended operation that kept him away for days, or hours worth of overtime spent at the hospital when you needed to cover. Your conversations became shorter, scarce even. Hardly any dinners spent together anymore, on top of the dates consistently being cancelled. You'd miss each other by the smallest difference, if you even managed to see each other at all.

And you were trying, when you noticed the decline. But it reached a boiling point when he missed your four year anniversary dinner, despite reminding him of the date months in advance, and reminding him again the week of. He promised he'd be there, no matter what.

But you were left sitting in a nice restaurant for hours, watching the staff get increasingly sympathetic. Countless of texts and an embarrassing amount of time later, you made it home. You didn't even bother taking off your makeup, or your beautiful red dress — a deep burgundy color made of the softest velvet material, molding perfectly to your every curve.

You just sat on your couch with a small pint of ice cream, heels long kicked off as you drown your sorrows in some good ol' rocky road, wondering how it got to this point. He didn't get home until almost midnight — the conversation that followed long overdue, but painful all the same.

"What I'm doing is important!"

"Oh and what I'm doing isn't?"

"That's not what I'm saying and you know that."

It was a battle of wills, both of you trying to get the other to see your point of view — to understand where you were coming from. But it wasn't about right and wrong, it was more about being pulled apart.

"Mark, It feels like I'm living with a ghost!"

"That's not fair, you're gone just as much as I am."

"But I'm trying—"

"And I'm not? I don't get to choose when people do bad things."

"Neither do I! But we do have a choice to show up for each other. I can't even remember the last time we had a decent conversation, or shared a dinner — I can't even think of the last time we went on a date. All I'm asking is you take us off the back burner, or else this isn't going to work anymore."

"Maybe it already isn't."

It had been agonizing to hear at the time, but he wasn't necessarily wrong. Neither of you were. You both simply became consumed by your work, leaving little to no room for your relationship. It wasn't malicious, only unfortunate. So you ended up parting ways.

Not due to a lack of love, but lack of time.

And as the years came and went, you could never forget him. The feel of his hands on your skin, the sound of his voice, the comfort of his presence. He'd left a stain on your heart that refused to go away.

Seeing him today was proof of that, it felt like when you'd first met. No worries, no conflicting schedules, no arguments — nothing besides the raw emotion that still seems to linger after all this time apart.

By the end of your shift, you were practically dead on your feet, clocking out after a long seventeen hours. (You had a few call outs to thank for that).

You did check in with Blythe's condition when you could, leaving Mark a few detailed and slightly awkward voice memos throughout the day. Ones he would keep for sure, unbeknownst to you.

After gathering your things, you start making your way to the parking lot outside. You were thinking of stopping by somewhere to pick up some food, but then the dreaded dilemma of sleep or eat came. If you ate first, you'd have to wait a little while before you sleep. But you're so tired. Then again, if you sleep without eating, you're gonna wake up feeling lightheaded, and off for hours.

Lost in thought, you didn't notice Mark was approaching you from slightly up ahead. "Sweetheart, you're gonna hurt yourself thinking that hard." You jump up in surprise, your free hand jumping to your chest to soothe the racing of your heart. "Shit, Mark give a girl a warning would ya?"

He hold his hands up, partly to help steady you as your brief spike of adrenaline starts to wear down and you sway gently on your aching feet for a moment. "Sorry. You alright?"

You hum softly. "Yeah no, all good. Just a bit worn out."

He nods gently. "You gonna be okay to drive? I can give you a ride home, no problem." He doesn't like the idea of you driving home so tired, it's dangerous. Especially with the way LA drivers act like they're on the set of Tokyo Drift all year round.

You bite your lip again, and this time his gaze lingers on your lips long enough for you to notice. So you slip one of your hands into his, gathering the courage to say what you want. At least, you try to. "I don't mean to push or like, assume anything but, I'm just wondering If um, maybe you'd like to stay over for a little bit? If you want to of course I mean we did just run in to each other, and it's not for anything like, suggestive I mean I'm tried anyway and I've just missed your company you know, it's not really a big deal though if you have other things—"

To halt your rambling he brings his hand up to cup your jaw, the words fizzling out on your tongue. And for a moment you both just, look at each other. You admire the soft lines of his face, the slight gleam in his eye, the affection radiating from him.

He regretted the way things had ended for so long — especially after his diagnosis. The harsh realization that time is truly never promised, only borrowed, so you have to make the most of it while you can. He also thinks of the case he's working, of what just happened to his boss, of the threat they're trying to stop. Life's too short.

With that in mind, he brings his other hand up, both hands now gently cradling your face. He looks back and forth between your eyes and your mouth, waiting for you to push back, to say no.

Instead you place your own hands on top of his forearms, a yearning in your eyes no amount of pleading could compare to.

So he closes the gap, bringing you close and molding his lips onto yours. You breathe him in, dropping your bag completely and wrapping your arms around his neck. He presses you against him, holding you steady. All the love, the compassion, the emotions both said and unspoken being poured into the kiss.

Eventually you have to pull back for air, but you don't stray far, leaning your forehead against his and closing your eyes.

You're not sure what's in store for you both, where things from here will lead, but you feel yourselves standing under the light of a few lessons learned.

And with that, maybe a new chapter can be written in an old story.

mark masterlist ✎ᝰ. main masterlist

⭑.ᐟ end notes: girl who's never had a red bull or a genuine romantic experience attempts to write about it, lmao. thanks for reading !! <3

[zepskiesreads]

Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet

Read on AO3 || Main Masterlist

Soldier Boy x Supe!Reader

You’re Mistress Nine. At least, you were. You don’t remember because you were found in the aftermath of her death as a newborn, surrounded by rubble. Not many people know the truth, but Soldier Boy never forgets a face. When Butcher has you watching him, he’s determined to remind you of their glory days. You’d rather he just kept it in his pants. 5k words

Warnings: it’s Soldier Boy, it’s the Boys universe, need I say more? - explicit language, references to smut, angst, identity crisis, reincarnation, forced proximity, power imbalance, reader’s abities are based on Sailor Saturn, 18+ Only MDNI

A/N: Another one written for the lovely @zepskies and her Summer Writing Challenge. Confession - I mistook a gif of Soldier Boy/Ben for Mark Meachum (in my defence the similarities are uncanny), and when Alex gave me the below song as a SB prompt, I fell in love with the possibilities and ran with it anyway! 😘

I went over by 69 words btw Alex - I took it as a good sign 😂

“You’re disgusting.” And it’s true right down to the soy sauce stains on the old Giants jersey he has slapped on his back. 

The man is a pig. The pair of granny panties he’s taken as a favour from his tryst with the cleaning lady is just the icing on the cake, at present, missing from his nose. 

“We all need a good fucking, sweet cheeks,” Soldier Boy says as he leans in close. Old Spice infiltrates all five of your facial orifices as his eyes point down to the very obvious erection still tenting his sweats. “You know, you and I had some fun back in eighty-two.” 

This elevator can’t come fast enough. Your fingertips smash into the round piece of steel separating you from his boner and the bathroom where you intend to lock him until Butcher gets back. 

Does he have to keep bringing the past back up? Do you have to keep classifying the type of holes you mean in your own damn head? 

He’s been told countless times you remember nothing from her life, yet he keeps trying to guilt you into hearing his sick reminiscing of the glory days when he was America’s son and your body belonged to a supe named Mistress Nine.

“You know, I should be fucking mad you interrupted us back there,” he continues, and your whole palm collides with the button. How do you shut him up?

There’s only twelve floors, but the damn box is still stuck on three. What the hell are people doing up there? 

“I had the lube, I had her on all fours—”

“I don’t need to know the details.” You raise your free hand to stop him. But while he looks at you and considers, it only takes a breath before he labels your words a suggestion, and his mouth is moving again. 

“She was gonna let me fuck either hole.” And that’s why you need to clarify. Just as he needs to give you an added play-by-play with his fingers, apparently. 

You want to vomit.

It’s bad enough you got a glimpse of Sadie’s behind in your vision; you don’t need to be reminded of the second time you saw his hand on her ass. Your powers would be far more valuable if they included telepathy or mind control. Then you could shut him up. What good are visions of the future when you get to hear his misogyny twice?

“You’re tight little cunt doesn’t wanna share me, does it?” he says, blank-faced and saving it like he’s on the front cover of the Times.

“I’m not having sex with you.” 

“Again.”

“What?”

“You’re not having sex with me again. But I beg to differ. It’s not the first time you’ve said that.”

His obnoxious chuckle resonates in your ears, challenging you to submit and ask what’s written on your face, but worse? Of course you fucking blink. It’s a natural human response after all, like breathing or sneezing—long enough to trigger a vision. 

It always starts with a pulse. You see the scene in minute detail, right down to the sounds, scents and grain, like it were a photograph. Only the view is always bird’s-eye, even if you’re present, bordered by static you’d almost describe as a 3D puzzle that doubles and tints every edge aqua and red.

Here and now, it’s your shoulder and neck framing the elevator doors. His beard and the sharp line of his jaw, way too close for comfort. 

“We’ve fucked twice,” rattles through your head like a freight train. “You rode me like a bull. Had you creaming on my cock three times before I filled you up.”

And that’s it. Your fingers are on the up button again, tap, tap, tapping; and praying that it and the bell will drown out the words you’re about to hear out of his mouth again. 

“We’ve fucked twice,” he says for the second time the second your everyday sight returns. “You rode me like a bull. Had you creaming on my cock three times before I filled you up.” Your hand smashes that button for real. 

“I’m not her.” You might look like her, hell, you might sound like her, too, but you grew up in different circumstances with different people. Grace Mallory wasn’t always around, but she had your back, as does Butcher.

“Kat died in ninety-four. I’m—”

“That Tommy fucker’s little shield? I hate to break it to you, pussycat, but only Mistress Nine was born in fifty-seven.” His brow twitches when he says it. Shoots straight to your cheeks of all places. The way he looks at you, all melancholic from a split-second glance.  

At least, it was there.

“You have her lips, too,” he says. “I remember them guzzling me down like a lollipop.”

You don’t remember being Mistress Nine. You certainly don’t remember giving head to Soldier Boy or ever hearing she was alive earlier than the last iteration. That’s impossible. Isn’t it? 

It’s hard to know when the memories of her life don’t exist in you. The only knowledge you have of her is the same as everyone else, from watching footage of both her and him on television growing up (just never in your mom’s presence). 

It’s how you imagine someone suffering from amnesia might be feeling. There’s someone who looks and sounds like you, but their mannerisms are all off and you have no recollection of what you’re seeing. A reflection. A clone? You can change your hair, put makeup on. Covid made it easy to hide your face now, but without cosmetic surgery or an ability to morph into others, you’ll always see it. See her.

Kat.

Like Grace Mallory, your mom, Kat, was born in the fifties; you, in the nineties, although no one’s sure how. You were just there among the rubble. No mother, no umbilical cord. Just blood, and the destruction Payback left behind in its stead. 

But she gained her powers when she turned eight, so did you. She could heal others, so can you. Force fields you can wield into a shield? Check. Glimpses into the future? Also check, except you can’t control them.

Mom suspected it, of course—not the controlling, the previous life. As did a few select others. The circumstances of being found where you were, your genetic makeup, photographs as you grew. It all lined up. 

It’s the reason your adoption was so hush-hush. A reason Mom kept your hair short, brought you glasses just in case. Mistress Nine wore a mask, but Vought knew the secret identity behind it. 

You weren’t allowed to go to the office as a teen. Nowhere near anyone associated with the NBSA if she could help it, needing to stay hidden from them and her killers. And Mom, well, she had her own vendettas; you just didn’t learn about them until much later when you could understand them. 

Like now.

The room Butcher rented out for you is tiny. Much smaller than the last one you were stuck in, larger than the elevator. It’s no wonder your charge wants to get laid or get out. You do too. Property might be prime in downtown New York, you’re no nepotism princess, but he could’ve swindled something nicer for your time and sanity.

Soldier Boy is close enough; you can reach out and touch his shoulders. His shield is at your feet. You’re so close you’re worried about the secondhand Benzedrine dust and the side dose of Jack every time he opens his mouth.

“Who’s the pussy?” he says, and the projectile lands on your swiping-thumb.

As usual, you’re not paying attention to what he’s watching. TikTok is far more interesting, even with the volume off. 

“I know men wear makeup, but this guy looks like he fucked a clown in a sauna. What—was he held at gunpoint?” He chuckles, hand pulling the trigger of an air pistol. “You there, put that crap on your face. Nope. Not ugly enough.” He rolls his head, and his brows point at you. 

That’s when you look up and realise he’s talking about Ed Sheeran. “I know Connery wore pink, but he’d slit his own mouth over wearing that.” 

Your eyes want to roll to the back of your head, but you don’t want to risk another vision. 

You know why you’re watching him—Captain Throwback, not Ed. Butcher thinks your force fields might help contain him, but it’s been two days and you’re considering if the energy you need to manipulate your shield into a bubble large enough to hold his ego is worth it. One without air holes so you don’t have to hear him droning on, of course. He can breathe.

Shame it won’t stop you from seeing that face, though. 

“He had a thing for you, you know?” 

“No, he had a thing for Mistress Nine,” you say. 

It’s like the two of you are a broken record. One from a different planet, playing tunes in reverse and upside down.

Every second sentence he gives is something about his shared history with her. The next line outta you, a rebuttal, though you’ve learned it’s better to say nothing over something because the man likes to hear himself talk, any interruption just makes him more vulgar. 

Sure, you could make it easier on yourself and give in to his whim, but your visions are enough of a mind-fuck. 

If you really concentrate, you can control it, which isn’t as handy as it sounds when you don’t have the time to worry about what you’re about to see. Playing hide and seek with the overgrown toddler who’s hiding his sausage in the maid is not something you want to see twice. 

He leans back in his seat and peers at you over the pile of glass and plastic sitting in front of him. “Your head is always in that thing,” he says.

“Keeps me from shutting my eyes.”

He sits up, and his glare could cut through steel. Your thumb doesn’t need to touch the glass for you to swipe the image away so you can Google him and check he can’t laser beam you.

“You mean you can’t control it?”

“It’s not something I’m proud of,” you mutter because his hearing is perfect according to Wikipedia. “I was more concerned with my force fields.”

“A good soldier uses his entire arsenal.”

“Lucky I’m not one.” Yeah…you regret that.

His seat protests beneath him. The legs, like nails on a chalkboard, make you squirm in the cushions of the old couch you’ve claimed as yours. 

“What’s so wrong with being her?” 

“There’s nothing wrong with her; she’s just not me, and you’re the only fucktard who doesn’t seem to understand that.” 

You stand up, reclaiming some space back with a flicker from your shield. At full strength, the energy you produce is translucent purple, cliché, but visible. Perfect to have him back the fuck off—but his lip curls in the corner. He reaches down for his own.

“I have one of those too, you know?” He taps yours with it, sending a ripple from impact to the edges.

“Yeah, and it’s been giving me frostbite.” You can try to fake confidence on the outside, but if he stares long enough, he’s bound to see through the cracks and the strain on your temples.

And that’s how you land in a staring contest, one that hasn’t been agreed upon, but you know it’s what he’s doing. 

“What I don’t understand is why you’re so fucking scared to close your eyes?” The tips of his cheekbones shine crimson behind the purple haze when he calls your bluff. But you won’t read him. You can’t read him. He wants you to do it; he continues challenging you to do it, but he’s already won.

Your eyes are starting to water. Probably going to call you a baby, yet his grin grows wider. He winks, drops his weapon to the ground, rattles the microwave and the bottles on the table. 

His feet are the aftershocks of his little earthquake; three quick strides and he’s at the door, handle turning, yanking the hinges. “Should’ve closed those peepers, kitten.” The door doesn’t slam shut behind him.

You wish he’d stop calling you that.

Even when you’re still in the room, the bastard is always one step ahead of you, but outside? He matches his pace to yours. He speeds up when you do, stopping at arm’s length when you experiment, just to see what you’ll do.

“Where are you going?” You give him your best impersonation of your mom.

He laughs. “Why don’t you close your eyes and find out?” 

You don’t need to do that because he’s at the elevator, and unless he can fly, the only way to go is down. 

“It was a figure of speech. I don’t need to.” You nod as his fingers press the button, cool, calm, collecting his ego by submitting into the conversation before he can escape to Chinatown. 

“It’s not about needing—you should want to. Where’s your fucking pride?”

“My pride? Where’s yours?”

Okay - that - came out wrong. Doesn’t even make sense, you’ve got no tangent to back it up, but congratulations, you sure confused him. The soldier is down. If that’s not a thing, it is now.

His blank stare is back. He either wants to kill you or to throw you down the elevator shaft. With the rate this day is going, it’s plausible. He’s certainly pent up and needs to exert the energy.

But his eyes and forefinger narrow in on you instead. “You know, it’s one thing to talk shit to me, but I’m sick of your sniveling cunt badmouthing her.” His voice ricochets off the walls and the cement at your feet, straight into your bones where it rattles you. “You don’t deserve her image.”

“It’s not like I can change my face,” you say before the ding rings loud above your heads. 

“Don’t make me change it for you.”

It’s not like he can follow through with his threat, either. Like throwing you down the lift, it won’t maim you—badly. You can’t heal yourself like Kimiko can, but you still heal faster than others, just like you can do the same for them.

But there’s something about being on Soldier Boy’s bad side that doesn’t sit right with you. It’s weird, your intestines twisting through your gut, their contents twisting through them. 

It has nothing to do with the rush of people passing you by as you keep up with him. Nothing of the smells and sounds of Chinatown during lunchtime. Jasmine, garlic, sesame, ginger. A sprinkle of MSG from every morsel, tucking up into the corners of your nose along with the smoke from a herbal store you pass. No, you’re sick with guilt.

Don’t speak ill of the dead? Is that it? Don’t speak ill of him? His pride? Please. The guy is crude, obnoxious, and tough as nails. You’d say he’s a pussy, but that makes you just as bad as he is.

Okay. You hit a nerve, and it bothers you that he’s bothered by it. Your own fickle mind pulls at your heartstrings to show him a little empathy.

You have to spend however many more days it takes Hughie and Butcher to find the twins, keeping him in check. You’ll happily tune out his fish-out-of-water remarks, put up with all the snides from a life you don’t remember if you must. But as hard as it is to swallow, you need him just as much as Butcher needs you to control him.

“You two have a history, innit?” he’d said, and the longer those words filter through your head, the more you’re questioning what that is.

“—only Mistress Nine was born in fifty-seven.” 

The way he said it as if he were flaunting a secret in front of you... Katherine didn’t go by that name until her teenage years, its meaning unknown. So unless he knows something you don’t—who are you kidding? Soldier Boy just wants under your skin. 

He’s tried a few times to hit on you, you think. The dirty bastard’s ploy to get his dick wet, but it’s all about the power play. He’s the big, strong supe, and you’re the cat chasing its tail, even though you feel as small as a mouse.

And the fucker is still playing games with you, keeping his distance at arm’s length. Could’ve sworn he chuckled just now as you came face to face with a tourist who wasn’t looking where they were going.

“What’s your game?” you say, knowing very well he can hear you over the hustle and bustle of the street.

He snorts when someone tells you to “come off it,” but still tells you to “close your fucking eyes and find out.”

You want to tell him it doesn’t work like that, let alone that you’ll either lose him or run into another mate of Butcher’s, but what’s the point? It’s what led you to chasing his damn sausage for the second time today.

“Don’t you wanna watch more Seinfeld? You liked him.” You take a step to the left, avoiding the silver suitcase threatening to clip your heels. “Better yet—have you seen all of Connery’s newer stuff? He had a thing for her, right?” 

What’re you saying? You don’t wanna sit through that, even if it beats chasing him over Lower Manhattan. 

Yet, “Is that all you care about?” he says.

“What?!” He’s the one who’s been watching TV all night and all day. Granted, there’s not a lot that you can do stuck in your seventh-floor room, but he’s come outside now. He found Sadie. No one’s been keeping him captive up there; it’s what you’re here for, Butcher’s babysitter, even if all you can do is keep your eyes on him.

He stops and turns around. His stare isn’t as intimidating as you’d expect, but that look is back, and it stays back. 

Here’s Soldier Boy, America’s Son, people filtering past his shoulders on either side, standing tall, proud and still; with his stare ripping right through you.

How else do you describe the prickle on the back of your neck? The goosebumps that surge down your arms and legs? There’s a chill in the air, but you’re not cold. Neither is he. 

“I don’t give a fuck about Connery or clown face back there,” he says, and it’s steady, a stress on the cuss. But the rest drowns in venom, sweet and lethal at once. “That asshole thinks having you around will keep me sedated. That I trust you because I trusted her?

“My team handed me over to the fucking Ivans. She was a blip on the radar compared to them. Now they’re as good as dead, so what does that make you? Hmm? You’re afraid of the dark.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Then do it. Close your fucking eyes.” 

He steps closer to you, places his hand on your shoulder. To anyone else, it might appear like a friendly gesture. 

He’s old enough to be your father (grandfather and great-grandfather), but you don’t like the implications that brings, nor the stiff way he does it. 

“And do what exactly?” Ignore the fact he almost had it. He almost separated you from her. “What’s with all this Mr. Miyagi shit? I don’t need mentoring; I just don’t wanna hear your shit twice.”

“Well, close your fucking eyes, and I’ll shut the fuck up and go back with you right now.”

If your brow could quirk higher, it’d be in the stratosphere. Why is he so hung up on this? It’s not like he gains anything from you doing this for him, except trying something in a crowd full of people. They might not be paying attention now, but you scream and someone’s bound to notice.

But then you have to explain to Butcher why Vought has him in their custody, that’s if you’re not in it, too, and nope. Not happening. As soon as the Feds are involved, the element of surprise is gone. 

“You want me back in that damn shoebox, don’t you?” he says, his everyday arrogance reinstated. 

“I…” You grunt. He has a point. 

“Then close your eyes like a good little girl,” he concedes, and you wanna fucking punch him. 

Despite your hate, you raise your foot to take a step back, only his hand refuses to budge. “Concentrate,” he says. 

“On what?”

“On me.”

“Bit egotistical,” you mutter. Easier said than done, too. You can’t control it.

Maybe she could, but again, that was her. 

He’s promised you he’ll go back to the room if you do? Chances are, he’s full of shit, but it’s better to keep him onside and humour him as much as your pride doesn’t want you to. 

‘For the good of the team,’ you insist within yourself. Make Homelander pay.

So, in the middle of New York City, you’re the one who submits again. 

Your head drops down, finds your treading thighs. When you close your eyes, through all the hustle and bustle, the familiar pulse thrums through you. The ground, your legs, replaced by the back of Soldier Boy’s head.

“Wasn’t that hard, was it?” You hear the smirk oozing into his words. “Now, keep ‘em shut, and pick someone walking by and follow them.”

Wait. “What?” Your voice rattles through your skull, distorted, echoed, in real time with the vision and outside of it.

“You deaf now? Pick someone, and stay with them.”

It’s impossible. Then again, he’s talking directly to you, knowing exactly what to say, having planned it in advance. 

Did he lead you out here on purpose, too? Is this really all a ploy? For what?

A Caucasian man walks by you, speaking into the mic of his phone. Thin as a bean, sunglasses, goatee. The purple lense catching the sun stands out amongst the sea of people. The shape, like your force fields, thicker, lacking opacity, enough to catch your eye.

“On my way,” he says, heading towards SoHo, curving with the flow of the crowd. He dodges the man in the suit overtaking him. A mother pushing her kid the other way. 

But you lose him as he slows down at the traffic lights. Colour, sound, air, everything syphons either side of you, making you giddy. You’d stumble forwards, but his hand holds you steady. His grip, so tight anyone else would crumble. 

Soldier Boy’s top lip curls under his beard. “Wasn’t that hard, was it?” he says. “Now, keep ‘em shut, and pick someone walking by and follow them.”

You could’ve punched him. You wanted nothing more than to wipe the smug look off his face. 

For the first time, your vision didn’t play out like you’d foreseen. You humoured him, sure. You gave a play-by-play of the conversation you had in the seconds leading up to following the guy with the goatee, but the tone was off, simply reciting the short conversation with Soldier Boy from memory like an actress in a play.

And when he finished telling you to stay with them? He looked you square in the eye—and told you to pick your panties off the ground.

The walk back to the motel is much the same as the chase, him at arm’s length in front of you, only this time the uptight prick walks with less purpose. 

His hand kicks the glass door as he steps inside the building ahead of you, but he doesn’t stop, nor has he made a fuss or obnoxious quip since you left Canal Street.

It’s the longest he’s been silent in your presence. What little sleep he does get is filled with his just as obnoxious snores, the scritching of him scratching himself and the odd flatulence that comes from too much weed and not enough Bennie’s.

At least they smell clinically clean, unlike the building.

Oil follows you back to the elevator. The orange, the jasmine. For a moment it encompasses the Old Spice wafting from him, nevermind it encompasses you when the bell rings and you’re corralled into the tighter space once more. 

Seven stops, six depending on how you count it. You and he climb the building to your slightly larger box. His mass. contained by his arms folded across his chest. Face relaxed, eyes closed. 

You have so many questions you’re not sure which one you should lead with, if any at all.

He doesn’t care that the vision was new, but he also encouraged you to do it. He had to have known what happened was going to happen; otherwise, why would he have walked through Chinatown like that just to turn around and go back again? It didn’t benefit him, and in the short time you’ve known him, everything he does always should. 

There has to be some form of humility in him for Countess and Katherine to have slept with him in the first place, then again, you did see the sausage he’s packing, in and out of the sweets. Gross, but you can understand it.

His jersey pulls right against the ripple of his muscle, his ass a nice curve below his grey sweats. Put aside the stench, and there’s gotta be a musk to match his ego. Put that beard in a leather jacket and remove the attitude, and there’s something there. He’s got the superhero looks as much as it pains you to say. 

“What?” he says below his lids.

Your “Nothing” is way too quick for your liking, but he says no more.

Three…four.

His lip twitches as you pass five; he sniffs on six.

The moment the bell rings at seven, he’s moving forward, stepping out into the hall even before the doors have fully parted. Legs carry him to the room and straight back to his chair where he pulls out a pill ready to smash.

The chair groans, and you do too, internally. “What’s up with you?” you say over the WartStick commercial playing on the TV.

For anyone else, you’d ask with kinder phrasing, but it’s weak enough to bring it up to him. For whom you’re not sure. 

If it bothers him, he’s not showing it. He takes his hit and you’re greeted with a white nose and a sniff. “What? I show you one little trick and now we’re best buddies? Women and men aren’t friends, pussycat, they either fuck, fight or both. So unless you want to ride me for old times’ sake? Not interested in the olive branch.”

Wow. “That’s a long answer for a simple question.”

Simple though? Really? You’ve been working on your opening the second he took a step in the right direction. 

Rather than move back to your space on the couch and the springs waiting to impale your ass cheeks you kick up a free chair and sit across from him. 

He stares from under his bangs in warning.

“You knew I could change the path I see.”

“No shit.” He huffs, reaching for the closest bottle, leaving you at a loss. 

It’s all in slow motion, him, unscrewing the cap and raising it up in a mock cheer. Guzzling the fifth down his gullet.

“You also said she was born in fifty-seven,” you say. “What—”

“That Google doesn’t have all the answers, does it?” He raises the bottle enough for his lips to move. Brings a new meaning to overgrown toddler, pout, spittle, clinging to the thing like a life source.

“It wouldn’t know to talk to me back there.” No one ever has. “You knew what you were doing, because you know her… because you know me?” 

It’s a hard pill to swallow. You’re reaching across the table, snatching his bottle to clear the lump in your throat while he just looks on, brows high. That sideways glance, exactly like before. 

“I knew you. Knew you in the forties, too.”

You were taking a swig. You’re choking on it now.

“You went by Lady Luck then.” 

Mistress Nine. Lady Luck? You’re not sure which is worse. Sounds like both were pulled out of her ass because she couldn’t come up with anything better. 

“Man. I told you Mistress Nine was fucking stupid, but you liked the ring of that, too. Cats have nine lives, Ben.” He lightened his voice. Chuckled. “You sure bent over like one. Sweet little pussy always landing on two feet…or all fours.”  

He looks at you like he forgot you were in the room, smile fading. He holds out his palm and come-hither’s his fingers, but it’s not the bottle he wants, and his mouth reverses, widens.

“You still like it ‘bout here?” His thumb slides down his middle finger. “You clamped me like a vice in Bayeux.”

You’re going to be sick. It’s one thing to hear him allude to you, her, sleeping with him, but the details? The play-by-play was bad enough when it was Sadie. This is some fucked-up non-consensual torture.

It’s invasive. It’s repulsive. You want to crawl into a hole—better yet, close your eyes and escape to anywhere else. 

“Wanna close your eyes there, pussycat?” he says.

You wanna retch is what you wanna do.

And you don’t say anything more. You don’t wanna risk it. You’ll keep your eyes trained on him just like Butcher asks. 

Maybe you should let him go find Sadie. Stand outside the door, force field between it and you. If he gets his rocks off, will he come back out and play nice when he’s done? 

“You know they say good things come in threes?” he says wistfully, his eyes still trained on you. “I fucked her twice already. It’ll happen again.”

“No, it fucking won’t!” But he’s rubbing his thumb over his fingers once more, and you can’t help it, you fucking blink. 

The place your vision takes you to is somewhere you don’t recognise. There’s a bed, luscious and grand. Plush carpets as far as the eye can see, and a familiar dick, hard and walking towards a pair of feet that look very much like yours.

“So this is the moment you saw, sweet cheeks?” Ben says, his chuckle resonating in your head. “Told you we’d fuck again.”

This was supposed to be a simple smut fic 😂 At least I had the initial idea of having reader constantly running into Soldier Boy in tight spaces, leading to a nod to the song with them being caught in a compromising position. But I also liked the simile of life/love to an elevator. Of course, my brain questioned the specifics, and we ended up with Mistress Nine.

I like the idea of coming back to her in the future, although my unfinished Dean WIPs are giving my side eye at the thought 😂

I hadn’t seen the Boys besides Solider Boy’s bits before I started this, but I’m now in the middle of season one and have been deep diving into the wiki’s for everything else referenced in this story. I’m now pumped to finish the show 😍

In the meantime, I haven’t forgotten about the last four chapters of To You I Belong, but you’ll be seeing a part two to Whatever This Is soon ❤️ Until the next one!

I’ve started a taglist for SB and you can add yourself here or send an ask/comment if interested in being tagged in anymore SB fics from me, but I’ve also tagged a few people from my Dean W. list who I thought might like this one 💚

@ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @my-stories-vault @middleearthislife @soullessambs @artemys-ackles @sepho @maddie0101 @mostlymarvelgirl @foxyjwls007 @roseblue373 @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @ladysparkles78 @jackles010378 @stoneyggirl2 @hobby27 @impala67rollingthroughtown