Can You Do Soft Launching Lee Byung-hun? 🙏 Plz And Thank You

Lee byung hun but situationship maybe? Pretty please 🙏

having a situationship with lee byung-hun

a/n: thank you for the request! I actually really loved this idea

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byunghun0712

liked by from_jjlee and others

byunghun0712 #미스터션샤인 #mrsunshine

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leebyunghunfan this is the first time I don’t see @/yourusername like his post

user1 @/leebyunghunfan probably because of the way he’s looking at the girl in the first picture

user2 interesting post…

yourstruly @/user2 bffr they’re just coworkers

user2 @/yourstruly are we looking at the same pictures ?

yourusername

liked by yourbestfriendsuser and others

yourusername book date with the bestie cuz men ain’t shit

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randomuser wait happened?? is she talking about byung-hun??

ilovedilfs @/randomuser I really hope not

girlblogger y’all are overreacting. they never said they were together

ohfish @/girlblogger they’re prob just hooking up

yourbestfriendsuser hoes before bros

liked by author

userr12 I just noticed she unfollowed him omg…

yourusername

liked by byunghun0712 and others

yourusername if you don’t want me DON’T ACT LIKE YOU FUCKING WANT ME

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yourbestfriendsuser he don’t know what he’s missing out on

byunghunandyn I’m seriously wondering if they’re together or not

user_ @/byunhunandyn was the caption not clear enough for u?

iconiccuser we’ve all been there girly

user55 @/iconiccuser the strongest of soldier fr

user91 I get this on so many levels

user32 no way. He liked the post as if this wasn’t about him😭

yourusername

liked by byunghun0712 and others

yourusername im someone who forgives and forgets

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user1 STAND UP GIRL

marrymebyunghun who can blame her

byunghunswife @/marrymebyunghun I mean look at him

ynfan we get it dw

user31_ you’ll get out of that phase

ynfan4ever @/user31_ if my bf gave gifts like that I would forgive him without hesitation

user31_ @/ynfan4ever THEYRE NOT EVEN TOGETHER

ynfan4ever @/user31 YOU DONT KNOW THAT

user76 and the crowd is...confused?

byunghun0712

liked by yourusername and others

byunghun0712 cheers 🍻

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user12 guys… she’s following him again

byunghunfan @/user12 NOOOOO

stormshadowsabs leave my man alone

ynsfan @/stormshadowsabs tell him to leave our girl alone

hayyleee raw.

dilfenthusiast let's make love

azeala.aa all 10 fingers

yourusername

liked by byunghun0712 and others

yourusername saw lisa live!!!

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ynfan1 gorgeous

user09 are they together?

randomuser @/user09 yes and no

leahhhh.hhh till the bed breaks

user45 ahhh omg ur a lisa fan!!!

yourusername @/user45 well of course!

fckmeleebyunghun the jealousy im feeling...

yourusername

liked by yourbestfriendsuser and others

yourusername maybe the single life suits me better

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user08 bad bitch

ynfan02 girl what happened now

user34 I’m getting used to this now

byunhunfan this is more entertaining than my life

user12 well what did he do this time

leebyunghunswifey @/user12 why do u assume he’s the problem? Maybe it’s her

ynfanpage @/leebyunghunswifey men are always the problem. you’ll understand that when you’re older

user10 u may have lost ur man but at least ur hot

byunghun0712

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byunghun0712 💪

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yourusername biting my lip

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user75 HIS ARMSSS

user12 now why is @/yourusername in the comments

byunghunswifey @/user12 Frl what are u doing

userr09 @/yourusername is so luckyyy

user98 can she not make up her mind ?

ynfan y’all are taking this too seriously. so what if they’re hooking up?

user23 @/ynfan exactly like they wouldn’t be the first to do so

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---

Special shoutout to @daylighted

Dean sits on his bed in the dorm playing with the phone in his hand, flipping open and closed mindlessly. He had just gotten off the phone with Sam to find out he had gotten in another argument with John. He was worried and even wanted to drive back but Sam urged him to stay, ‘enjoy college’ he said. His eyebrows furrowed staring at the wall blankly, his abandoned assignment sat on his desk waiting for Dean to give it some attention.

But his mind is occupied with his family, and what is happening back home. But also the guilt of being away from Sam not there to protect him if the argument got gnarly but also feeling like he was moving away from the lifestyle. The hunter’s life. He still has his now small hunter collection with him but that’s stuffed underneath his mattress. His room is messy with both dirty and clean flannels scattered all over the room, empty beer bottles sat on the desk. His wall covered with some timetables of the school year, mostly when the good parties are.

But also the photos of him and Sam on his bulletin board, various pinned over, capturing the love and happiness he has for his little brother. And that one photo in the corner him and John, he was slightly younger in the photo. He is smiling widely at the camera looking happily into the lens, and there is John in the corner. Like he’s trying to avoid the picture his face turned away from the camera looking disinterested of both the camera and his son. Dean used to have a photo of him and John that was taken before his Mum died, and you can see the shift in John, looking happy, fulfilled.

But he had to take it down because it reminded him of the pain his Mum’s death caused, and how drastically it changed his father and his relationship with him. But now a larger photo was in the middle of the board. Taken in the courtyard of Stanford the warm coloured leaves surrounding him, you sat on his lap holding the camera, while Dean had you in a soft headlock kissing your cheek smiling. The photo reminding him of the love he had found at Stanford but also what he could choose over hunting. Since he knows he can’t bring you into the lifestyle.

But it also makes him feel guilty, how he was able to be happy away from his family, emotions he’s not familiar too. But also betraying his father, of not being the heartless guard dog he was ultimately bred to be over his childhood. The soft knock on his door snaps him out of his conflicting thoughts. He sighs softly of throwing his phone on his bed before opening door.

To see you standing there with a smile on your face holding up some greasy fast food you know he loves. He smiles widely and pulls you into the room hugging you and closing the door, “hi baby” he kisses you softly while holding the back of your head. Your giggles fill the room as you pull away kissing his cheek, before walking to the desk setting the food down.

“Dean, you said you had done this” you hold the blank assignment up eyebrows raised, Dean laughs softly “it’s stupid anyway, I’ll do it later babe don’t worry” he answers while taking it out your hand and setting it down. He then takes your hand pulling you down on his lap as he lays down you yelp as you go down on his lap. He holds you close to his chest as you reach for the greasy fast food back. Hours pass back of you guys eating the food and drinking the beer talking, as a chick flick plays in the back. The one Dean fought hard not to have it play but complied eventually since he can’t argue with you.

You guys had decided to go down to walk around the courtyard as the sun began to set. His hand wrapped in yours tightly, with you guys walking around in your pyjamas with his leather coat wrapped around you securely. You step on the crunchy leaves revaling excitedly to Dean as you explain it to him. He watched you softly the warm orange lasting a warm spotlight on your face, highlighting each of your features. You ramble mindlessly as he stares at you. He begins to think how he now believes there is something more out of hunting, how he is allowed to feel. And how he would gladly choose you over his father and hunting. Before then softly wrapping his arm around you kissing your forehead. “Let’s head back”

The fluff goes crazy

@deerlysacred @deansbite @beauswhore @beausling @sunsbaby @cowboysandcigarettes @upsidedean @honeyryewhiskey @dulcescorderitas @s4wdvator @prttyinpink7 @starzify @vmiina @soldiersgirl @soangelbaby @whisperingdaze @j2archives @deansbite

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤshield ! reader ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤpart one !!

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤBITTER REUNIONS.

summary soldier boy's first stop in his grand return is to collect his suit and his shield, only to find out just how different & bittersweet things have become in his absenceㅤㅤㅤwarnings feminine rage, discussions of trauma, hurt/hurt because there's no comfortㅤㅤㅤword count 2.5k

ㅤㅤㅤTHE FLATSCREEN TELEVISION SCREEN CRACKLES IN THE LEGEND'S LIVING ROOM SPACE. on it, a basketball game, two teams that you've never given a shit about, but it's what the legend likes to watch, and so you sit on the worn-out couch and do what you've always done: endure other people's shit, and bite the hand that feeds you.

you would think by now that he knows you better than this. that you pick a fight every single time he flips through the channels with the device he won't tell you the name of, lest you figure out how to access the internet and learn how to use it. that you have smashed three of his televisions in your time with him.

frederick vought warned the legend before he'd handed you over. his words were slurred, tired, defeated — but they were clear enough to still be used against you, repeated by many who encountered you.

she is a cruel one, that shield i've reconstructed.

cruel, indeed.

"i do not want to watch," you shout across the empty space, making a furious reach across the sofa to snatch the television stick off of the other side's abandoned cushion. the bell to the door rang ten minutes earlier, and the old man had yet to return.

you glare at the screen, as if you could will it to silence with nothing but your mind. impossible, of course; at least, you hadn't been successful yet. you hated the buzz of high pitched chatter in the televised crowd, the way it crawled into the crevices of your mind through the passages of your ears and nested.

a furious growl leaves your lips, and you rise to your feet, steps away from the bright screen. you are cruel, and everyone thinks so, but you have kindness tucked away in your rage, sometimes. the score is 120-88. you take note of it, shoving the numbers into your pocket, before you slam the remote into the screen.

the shards of glass that embed into your hand don't hurt. your lips twist into an irritated scowl at the sight of them, plucking out each piece and littering it on the hardwood floor. the remote is in pieces, too, crushed in the tight squeeze of your hand.

you release your grip, letting each piece crumble to the ground with loud thumps. fury crackles through you, acid burning in your bloodstream. it is unlike the man you've been stuck with to abandon you to your own devices for so long. it is also unlike him to force you to watch something you do not like in his absences.

you liked jersey shore, and the real housewives. you liked seeing girls like you get to live lives you'd never get to. it was therapeutic and gutwrenching all at once, and that only added to the fuel of your anger, crackling inside of you.

the walk you take down the lengthy hallway into the part of his home that you were strictly forbidden from was punctuated by the echo of your stomping feet. these were the parts of the house that the legend kept locked. the front entrance, the actual living room, and the man's own bedroom. all places that he deemed his, and all places with quick access to the public, meaning exits.

it was not a laboratory. but it was not a home, either.

your fist slams on the wood of the door, right into the indent of it that you'd already created. this was not the first time that you'd broken down this door. it wouldn't be the last, with how many secrets he kept locked away from you, and how much of the world you were forbidden to see.

"open the door, legend, or i'm going to pummel your fucking skull—"

"enough of that." his voice is muffled when it cuts through your threats, close enough that he sounds like he is right on the other side of the wood. you slam your fist into it again, hard enough for the wood to splinter in the center of your indentation. "enough, indy. i'm comin' back."

"you left the fucking game on." you throw your hand backwards in gesture, even though he can't see it. that was easy enough to fix. you punch through the splintered wood, creating a fist shaped hole to the other side. "you know i hate watching men play games."

the legend is used to your antics by now, and so he doesn't flinch at the break. you see enough of his face to note the downward scowl, and the disappointment behind his dark glasses. "you don't much like the women playing them, either."

"because it is not fun." didn't he understand by now? you were a girl locked away, punished for being created and what you were shaped into. you did not get fun of your own, so you needed some kind of outlet to drown yourself into. it was no wonder that you were thought of as a monster. your only glimpses of the sunny skies were in the gaps of the legend's barred off windows. titanium, so it was not impossible for you to bend them, but it was not an easy feat.

he sighs through his nose, smoke curling around his face from the cigar in his fingers. "two minutes, indy." he holds up two fingers, as if he thought you could not fucking count or comprehend how long two minutes was. "that's all i need."

"who the fuck is in there?" another voice asks, deep and rough and familiar. so familiar. forty years was enough time to age someone — you knew this from how the legend looks now, compared to when he'd first had to take you in — and yet...

the legend's eyes dart over to the source of the voice at the same time as yours do. recognition comes in the form of a racing heartbeat. it builds, and crescendos, and suddenly you are shaking as you beat on the door again. "whoa, whoa, whoa—"

each time he got the door redone stronger. soon enough, he'd have a door made of titanium guarding his proper guests from the rest of his house, and from you.

no one could know about you, not when you were the makings of a sick imagination burrowed in an intelligent man's head.

that did not mean you didn't try. it was such a lonely life, locked away in a penthouse with a man that grew closer and closer to dying with each passing year, and no one knowing anything of what you'd become.

the anger flares, flames licking at the electric sparks in your veins. the door crumbles with one harsher hit, and you're standing in the space you're kept from. you've been here before, never permitted past this doorway, always whisked away before you can get a breath of fresh air.

"hi, sweetheart," soldier boy says, one corner of his mouth curled high in an arrogant smile. bold of him to still carry the same confidence he did back when you knew him, when now, he was in nothing but sweatpants and a zip-up jacket almost too small for his frame. his green eyes stay on you as he says over your shoulder, "she's young. can you even fuckin' keep up with her?"

your eyes flare. it's two steps to be in front of him, and the third is just for good measure, when you clock him in the chin. his head snaps backwards, surprise making him stumble backwards a step.

soldier boy rubs at the skin of his jaw, irritation as bright as your anger staring back at you. you know the calm he wears in his expression. it barely conceals a storm, brewing beneath the surface. you know it because you'd often been the weapon he chose in these moods of his. you know it because you adopted that ire yourself.

"that's enough." the legend steps over the broken pieces of his door, grimacing at the splinters littering the ground. "indy, enough."

you glance over your shoulder to eye the man's expression, trying to determine what he was feeling by look alone. he was not capable of hurting you, nothing was, but he knew how to weaponize words when you upset him, all of which only steeled your skin further.

there is not enough damage in the world you can inflict onto soldier boy to make up for the things he did with you. bashed skulls, took bullets, burnt her steel until she glowed vibrant orange. you expected him to be dead. you wanted him to have been dead, if only so you'd be spared from this moment. but you never got what you wanted. no jersey shore, no fresh air, and no freedom from soldier boy.

you raise your arm to deck him again, but his fingers close around your wrist tightly, tugging it harshly back down. his smirk says everything you need to know about how much he knows. he does not know that you've learned all of his weaknesses, and that he often left himself vulnerable in times when he thought he had the upperhand.

you yank him toward you in the same moment as you ream your knee straight into his cock.

soldier boy stutters on a groan, releasing his grip on you like you’d burnt him. you don’t relish in his pain, or the surprise that you could hurt him. it’s not enough.

the legend gives you the same disappointed look you’re used to getting from him, his head shaking in disapproval. “i locked the door for a reason.”

“you always say this.” you turn on your heel, jamming your finger into the center of his chest. you missed the days when he cowered under your anger and attitude, now it only seemed to exhaust him. “you always lock the door for a reason, and then it is just grace. you do not even let me see grace.”

“and look what happened the time you decided to break the rules.” the legend nods behind you, toward the man you do not turn to look at again. his footsteps are heavy as they approach. “this is what i keep you away from. the possibility of this.”

the urge to break every bone on the older man’s face is almost enough to overtake any rational thinking inside of you. he must see it, because he shakes his head again. “stand down.”

“where’s my suit?” soldier boy asks from behind you, and you still in place. he’s too close. every instinct of fight clicks into gear, the safety off as the bullets load up.

the legend nods down the hallway, in the direction of your space. you had so little that you could call your own. the bigger of the guest bedrooms was yours, shared only in the terms of the collectibles he kept in the expansive closet.

you knew soldier boy’s suit was in there. you could smell the tobacco and the whiskey from it, sometimes, from the safety of your bed. you sometimes could catch a whiff of cologne, on days where you let go of the mask that you were okay with being alone for the rest of your life. when you wished upon a star outside of your barred windows that just one person would find you again.

“you cannot go in there.” you are already starting down the hallway, eager to reach your room before any of them could.

all of your fury was gone. stand down was an order. a kill switch programmed into you to bury all of the tension that often broke free of your restraints. it was not safe, vought once said to you when you were a child, to have a girl who can’t break without a few weaknesses. a few. some of which you didn’t even know, but your mind did.

there wasn’t any electricity in your veins anymore, but there was bleeding desperation. no, they could not invade your space. it defeated the purpose of having it. it would force the legend to open the rooms he locked away from you, too, and you knew he wouldn’t ever. if you granted either of these men an inch, they’d take a mile, and crush you in the process.

“he needs his suit, indy.”

your nose twitches, fighting against the command still ringing in your head. you grit your teeth, jaw clenched tightly. “he needs nothing.”

“who the fuck is this?” soldier boy asks again, and he’s relentless in his pursuit now, coming for your space with the authority of a man who has never been told no in his life. “get out of the way, sweetheart, or you won’t like how this blows up in your face.”

he had hurt you before. you were not human then, but you remembered all of the aches of it. you knew that soldier boy did not goad before he hurt you, or make bold-faced threats. he was lying.

you tilt your chin up, holding the eye contact. he was an unkind man, cruel in every crevice — but so were you, weren’t you? how evil it was to see yourself reflected in a man you hated, who you wanted to break into pieces and burn so all of the tears you shed fizzled away with him. “you will not like what you see.”

soldier boy cocks an eyebrow. “y’think i’m gonna hold it over your head if you’ve got a pair of panties left out?”

you step back into your room, all clean and panty free, and wait for him to take the step to follow you before you slam the door against his nose. the door rattles in the frame. soldier boy, on the other side, grunts in surprise, before he kicks at the hinges.

“that is enough!” the legend’s voice rips through the expansive space of his penthouse, his cane clicking across the floor. “i am not losing two fucking doors to this childish shit.”

you’ve moved, now. you can’t prevent soldier boy from busting down your door, but you can prevent them from fully infiltrating your bedroom. you go into the closet, to the deeper parts lined with memorabilia that you tried to ignore every time you were in here, and snatch the army green suit off of the hanger.

your eyes catch on the shield, hung up on the back wall. useless now. all of its indestructibility existed within you now, making it nothing but a heavy disc of metal.

tucking it under one arm, you hurry back to your bedroom, the arguing male voices outside getting aggravated enough that you know the door is about to crumble.

you knew soldier boy. you knew he could not help but exert some sort of dominance, if he could, to feel more in control. but you would not be in there when he came in and saw the display left on your bed.

instead, you tucked away in your closet, closing your eyes to try and find any sort of solace in the solitude. as always, it did nothing but squeeze tight around you, trapping you in a cage of your own making.

you can hear the exact moment your door is kicked down, along with the moment that soldier boy sees his things laid out for him. his suit, unwrinkled and unmarred. his physical shield, dented and decimated and as light as a kitchen plate.

and his real shield, hiding away from the reality that your nightmares always seemed to catch up to you.

notes. believe it or not i did not start this with the idea that indy was going to be so rapunzel. but it makes sense </3 there's a lot of lore i'm going to slowly incorporate that is hinted at in here / spawned from this so <3 perfect starting point! cannot WAIT for the boys^tm to meet this lil thing. hope u guys love her like i do my lil evil princess !!!

tags. @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @honeyryewhiskey @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts @stereotypicalbarbie @whyyouegg @eepwtf @rositaslabyrinth @rubyvhs @jensenacklesballsack @abox-of-rocks @sunsbaby @bluemerakis @jollyhunter @misatxox @angelblqde @bombarda-babe @unfortunate-brat @funkycoloured @chevroletdean @chiierful @cowboysandcigarettes @voidsuites @bitchykittenconnoisseur @beausling @soldiersgirl @dulcescorderitas @hyacinnths @blushpinkdoll @mccartneyqp @svbnra @h8aaz

ou need more igor x reader… in a drought

You ask and you will receive! Sorry it took a while!

Little Glimpses (2)

Igor (Anora) x F!Reader

Word Count: 1.4K

Warnings: insecurity; alcohol consumption; fluff

Part One

You couldn’t shut your brain off, you’d been tossing and turning all night. The noises of the city outside would distract you when it became too loud and then you longed for it when it fell silent. You became fixated on the little bit of light from the street lamp that shone in through the blinds. You were so tired and your body ached for sleep. You felt like you were so close, but no matter what- you remained restless.

“You okay?” Igor stirs awake beside you. You feel immensely guilty for waking him up- even though it was unintentional.

“Can’t sleep,” you grumble, trying to burrow into your pillow, shifting your body once more to find a comfortable position. You glanced over at the red numbers on your alarm clock face, suddenly feeling like the light from it is too bright. 3:23 AM You were fucked for how early you needed to get up for work.

He’s always so good at reading you- anticipating your needs, sometimes before you even know the problem yourself. He rolls onto his side so he’s facing you and he strokes your hair softly. It does wonders for you. You yawn softly, feeling your eyes finally get a little heavy. He kisses your forehead, and then the tip of your nose, and then your cheek, until he places a soft kiss on your lips. His large hand runs along the length of your side before settling on your waist.

He closes his eyes again, and pulls your body in closer. Your face rests against his strong chest and his chin rests on the top of your head. Like this, the outside factors that were bothering you had deafened. You felt grounded when he would hold you like this.

You’re snoring softly almost instantly, and he makes sure you’re up in time in the morning before he leaves.

You love him, you love him so much that it hurts when he’s not around, and it fucking scares you. Everything you have with him is so goddamn wonderful that it’s maddening. You get in your own head. You haven’t loved anyone like this before, and you are so scared of fucking everything up. You can’t tell him- it would just ruin everything. It makes this beautiful little thing suddenly something so painstakingly real. He’s been so patient with you- letting you take this at your pace. You feel like eventually you will get in your own way and fuck everything up.

He’s so nonchalant about it that if you didn’t need that from it, you’d find him infuriating. You’re sitting on the front steps of his grandmother’s house, waiting for him to get home from his shift. You anxiously tap your foot against the pavement. You needed to tell him before it completely tore you up from the inside out. When he pulls up to the curb, he gets out of the car- surprised but still very happy to see you.

“Hey you-“

“I love you!” You blurt, panicked and wide eyed. You shouted it before you lost your courage. It was not ideal, but you give yourself credit for doing it. You feel yourself spiral, trying to gauge his reaction as he says nothing the first few agonizingly long seconds. He smiles. How dare he.

“I love you too,” he states, crouching down to be eye level with you seated on the first step. He holds your face with his hand and kisses you. It’s so absolute, he says it like it’s just a fact. It is, in a way, really. Of course he loves you, he loves you every day. He shows you every day. He’s so sincere with his affection for you that you should know how much he loved you without needing to hear him say it. But he loves to say it just the same.

When you’re at the bar together, he doesn’t take his hands off you. It’s not in a douche-y possessive way like one would assume. He just loves being near you, and touching you helps keeps him grounded from his own anxieties. He doesn’t love the bar scene, never has. He deals with it all night when he works. But, he’ll go with you when you need a night out.

His hand will stay on the small of your back. Or, he’ll keep his arm wrapped around your shoulder or your waist, rubbing small circles on your skin. He’ll wrap both of his arms around you from behind and kiss the exposed skin of your shoulder before resting his chin there. He’ll hold your hand, or even just link his pinky with yours. He’ll kiss your temple as you catch up talking with your friends.

As you’re sitting on your bed, he’ll take care of you when you’re too drunk when the two of you get back. Kneeling between your legs, he bites his lip in concentration as he takes off your makeup gently with your pack of makeup wipes. He’s so focused and all you can do is stare at him, awestruck at just how pretty he is. He helps you out of your heels, kissing your sore ankles. He helps you shimmy out of your dress and into your most comfortable pajamas that you love. He has you sit up, your back flush to his chest, and he’ll brush out your hair and he can mimic how you get it ready for bed having watched you do it a million times.

In the summertime months, when its too hot to even think straight- you’ll go to the beach. Sandy towels laid out next to one another and you both just lay in the sun for hours. The sun is the kind of bright that makes it feel like your sunglasses are doing nothing. If you didn’t have them on, maybe you would have noticed the way his back was beginning to burn. He has to drive in such a way that his back doesn’t rest back against the driver's seat.

He’ll lay on his back, shirtless and miserable, spread out on your bed. You’ll be slow and methodical, rubbing the cooling aloe vera across the expanse of his back trying to be as gentle as possible. He softly groans in relief as he feels your hands run down and up his skin. If the burn didn’t hurt so bad, maybe this would’ve led to something more.

You’d been feeling insecure, down on yourself, and you couldn’t shake it. You know he loves you, you trust him more than anyone, yet your mind isn’t always your friend. He’s still working as a bouncer- and you know he hates it- can’t stand working nights. You get in your own head when you think about how many girls he sees every night. How many of them must flirt with him to get in when the line is long? What if he ever met someone else? He’s done nothing to make you think that has happened or would ever happen. It doesn’t make it bother you any less.

It stings when he pulls away from cuddling with you on your couch when he needs to go to work. He hated leaving, he’d much rather stay with you than stand outside in the dark and the cold for the next several hours. He’s been dreading having to leave, seeing if he can push it back one more minute, two more minutes before he absolutely has to leave. You pout and if he could skip his shift he would. He kisses you, pulling you in for a kiss that’s so sensual and sweet- like sealing a promise for what’s to come when he returns.

“I’ll be thinking about you the whole time,” he admits, and you smile ear to ear because you know it’s true. You’ll be here, waiting for him, but he knows you’ll probably be asleep. That’s alright, he’s got his own key now. His shift will end at 2 or 3 in the morning, and he’ll come right back to you- feeling completely drained.

Someone tried to give him a hard time, arguing or trying to fight for god knows what reason. It doesn’t matter, he’ll forget all about it the second he’s able to just walk back up to your apartment. He knows the door creeks, so he does his best to open it slowly not to wake you. He’ll find you asleep on the couch, movie or show playing on the tv- he can tell you tried to wait up for him. He’ll shrug off his jacket and leave it on one of your kitchen chairs before joining you back on the couch. He’ll lay down behind you, and pull you close against his chest. He moves the blanket to cover the two of you, and he’ll drift off to the sound of the TV.

Heyy could u do another part of baby!reader but maybe having dean telling Sam who she is

oh don't mind if i do ! baby!reader is quickly becoming so famous to me in my head she's lovely n i'm so glad u guys adore her too <3 prequel to this & sequel to this!!

it'd been a bit awkward, having to explain why he'd had to walk miles upon miles to get back to the motel where sam was waiting. why he'd brought a literally naked you along with him, who he'd very humbly given his jeans to so you didn't get a chill. or kidnapped. carnapped?

whatever. dean still didn't know, exactly, what to do.

sam was outside of the motel room, probably having gone out to keep an eye out for dean's arrival. he was a worrier like that, and dean didn't tend to make it very easy for him when he left for an easy witch hunt and didn't come back for nearly an hour and a half.

"where's baby?" he asks when dean is close enough, damn near winded because of the nonstop walking, and because you hadn't really offered up your watered down diner coca-cola to him. after all he'd done for you, too? his jeans?

dean opens his mouth to answer, and instead, your voice perks up. "i'm here!"

sam blinks, and then blinks thrice more times, like he'd only just processed the sight in front of him. dean, pantsless. you, shirtless, in his big jeans that he'd heard jangling every two seconds when you yanked them up.

his mouth closes. opens. closes. dean grimaces. "helluva night it's been, sammy."

"who's this?"

you are a spitfire of a thing. dean always knew it. you always seemed to talk back to him when he kept driving past the low fuel ding, as he so often did on the infinite miles he'd racked up on you. sounds weird now, thinking about all these little details about you, when none of it applied anymore. car logic was not equivalent to human anatomy.

so he barely flinches, especially after the last two hours with you, when you say, "i'm baby." you fish around in the leather pockets of the jacket you'd gotten in your... tune up? dean didn't fucking know. you pull out wads and wads of straw wrappers that he'd tried to tuck away in the glovebox, keeping his mess to, visibly, a minimum. "look. dean's mess."

"hey." dean swats your hand lightly, snatching a stray dollar bill that fell out with the crumpled straw wrappers. "no littering."

sammy puts his hands up, as if he could physically pause this. "you're baby."

"i'm baby!" you sound ecstatic now, even though you look so damn exhausted. maybe a nap would equate to an oil change. dean really, seriously, could not keep thinking on this tonight. he was damn exhausted too.

sam scoffs out a little laugh, the dimples poking into his cheeks. "no way."

"witch said, 'would you still love your car so much if she was a girl', turned her to ash, came back out of the woods ready to get the hell out of dodge, and..." dean trails off, gesturing to you, gnawing on the straw of his drink. "here was baby."

sam's face must look exactly like dean's did, when you'd ran right up to him. dean couldn't have imagined himself looking anything less than utterly, completely, baffled. "this is a development."

"yeah."

you start to walk past sam, striding up to the motel room door like you already knew which it was, and maybe you did. dean didn't know at all what abilities came with going from a car to a girl.

you turn so quickly that the edges of your jacket splay open, and dean has never averted his gaze so quick. must have been genetic, because sam, too, was suddenly very interested in the starless sky and the three leaves left hanging onto the winter branches of the scattered trees.

"someone let me in." you bang on the door with your fist, already staring expectantly at dean when he deems it safe to look back down at you. "we're locked out."

sam's smile is somehow more grimace than dean's. "i've got a key."

"so use it." you're gnawing on that straw again. dean has got to get a fucking grip and stop watching your mouth.

"you're a mouthy little thing, baby," dean grumbles, moving past sam to fumble around for his own key. "weren't half as mouthy when you were a car and did whatever i'd say."

the door pushes open, revealing a dingy motel room with two beds. two. and a little armchair propped in the corner like a joke.

"i'd still do whatever you say." it catches dean off guard, somewhat, because he's spent long enough with you, one-on-one, to know that you were stiffly incapable of lying. you were helpless to anything but to tell the facts.

you drop down onto one of the beds, sprawled out across the mattress like you own it, and dean knows without even needing to ask that he's going to end up in that armchair. because he sure as hell cannot sleep next to you, when you were pretty, and he couldn't stop looking at your mouth, and would do whatever the hell he said, somehow, you were his car.

sam pats him on the shoulder. "when's this changing back?" he asks, low enough that you can't hear him over the sound of you bouncing on the bed, now.

dean sighs, nose bridge pinched between his two fingers. "not soon enough. if ever."

his nod is slow, and far too amused for dean to handle, right then, so he steps around him to make himself at home in the armchair, his bed for, probably, the next eternity, when it came to motel rooms. sunglasses over his eyes and everything.

"what are you doing?"

dean pushes the glasses up. "goin' to bed."

sam has made himself comfortable without question in the other bed. bastard.

"that's stupid. you can sleep with me. you always used to fall asleep in me." you sound so damn sweet when you say it that dean resists the laugh. barely, but it counts.

it isn't until sam starts cackling that dean breaks. he looks over at you, the little confused sheepishness on your face so damn endearing, and he forces the laughter back down, in its place an equally gentle smile.

"okay, baby," he says, silently glad that you'd offered, crediting it all to the fact that the chair was uncomfortable as hell, and not to the fact that he'd secretly been hoping for the invitation, "but don't expect any damn cuddling or something."

SUNRISES, PENALTIES, AND LOSING SLEEP OVER YOU ── RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT

── SYNOPSIS when Rafe can't sleep, he ends up at the soccer field to get some practice in. however, he can't seem to stop his sunrise practices when he discovers the pretty girl who reads on the bleachers is there every morning. ── WARNINGS language, so much fluff??? ── WORD COUNT 5.6k. ── NOTES consists of jock!rafe and nerd-ish!reader, college au, mainly rafe pov. ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER everything is embarrassing by sky ferreira

Rafe contradicts himself this time -- he actually doesn't mind being up before the sun if that means some more practice...and some peace and quiet.

Surprisingly, he's quite the night owl, fighting the plague that puts him to sleep by distracting himself with literally anything he can get his hands on, even if that meant school work that's been pushed off for the last minute. He can go all night at a bar and he's the only one out of his friends to be able to actually pull all nighters on their designated movie night.  

While this has severely skewed his sleeping schedule, Rafe prefers to get things done while the rest of the world around him is asleep, you know, for some alone time.

Sure, Rafe's a pretty social guy: he enjoys time with friends and his teammates and classmates, and he definitely jumps at the chance to spend time with them whenever he can. It's a pretty rare occurrence where he isn't with someone or talking to someone, because he's a light converser and easy to fall in stride with. He's the stranger that people often fall in love with and never see again, perhaps it's the handsomely boyish smile or his ability to talk to a brick wall. 

And yet, there's moments like right now where some alone time is needed. 

Once again, Rafe's been up for nearly a day now, the sun just peaking over the horizon behind him, signaling the start of a lot of people's days (and the end of his, since it's Saturday and he'll need to recharge before going out tonight). The sleep simply...doesn't come to him.

Not easily, anyway.

After nights out with his friends (or when they go to bed), Rafe normally tinkers with things in his room, building trinkets from scratch or blueprinting random designs because he's bored, which he doesn't normally admit to people. His ability to draw was something his father always told him to push down deep, to ignore and focus on the money-driven careers of the world: business, science, all that crap.

Well, his father isn't here. And even if he was, Rafe wouldn't really care, anyway.

Sleep doesn't come very naturally to him during the night, which is highly unusual considering he has no insomnia or trouble sleeping. He just doesn't get tired. Usually the sunrise shining through his window signals him to try and sleep. 

He doesn't recall the last time he's really looked at a sunrise, this time being exceptional with colors portraying burning passion and dragon fruit, and the dirty-blond hums to himself, halting his movements to stop and enjoy it for a second.

The soccer ball planted on the ground by his foot is still as Rafe's balance. He holds himself together to take a deep breath in and observe the world around him.

Sure, he's never up this early but, goddamn, it really is pretty.

Hues of pink, orange, purple emerge in sight, getting lighter by the second and changing into something more tranquil. He's at ease. There's something more content and comforting about sunrises than sunsets, and while he cannot put his finger on the exact reason, he deems this a fact. 

Rafe mentally notes to do some sunrise workouts more often. 

At his university, he's on the club soccer team, which isn't the big leagues but it keeps him and shape and the competition isn't nearly as stressful, which he likes. Rafe enjoys the sport to have fun, and while he does care about winning and beating these other lame schools, at the end of the day it's just putting a ball through a net and spending time with his teammates, so he never holds a grudge if his team loses.

He's spent so many years fighting for love, fighting for affection, fighting for meaningless trophies to impress his father that in the end he just...realized it is what it is. Once Rafe learned the implication of life will happen anyway regardless of how certain things go, his outlook on competition changed.

Anger subsided into contention, rage simmered into acceptance, and fear contorted to nonchalance.

Rafe learned a long time ago that, no matter how athletic he may play or how many As he may earn, nothing will ever satisfy his father's insatiability for perfection.

That lifted a considerably heavy weight off his shoulders, once he started living to please himself rather than everybody else.

Of course, he still plays with heart and the frustration of the game naturally spurs during heated moments. But the implications of self pressure are no longer there, and Rafe has found incredible solace with his teammates.

They usually go out after games to celebrate, win or loss, anyway.

Rafe can't really argue with that.

The reason Rafe's alone now is because 1. all of his friends are sleeping and 2. he didn't get drunk enough to pass out.

He had a couple shots early in the night, but curse his heavy weight intake for making it hard to get drunk. So now he's here at the practice field at the ungodly hours of the morning - because he's bored and doesn't want to sleep just yet, and he doesn't have to worry about any classes, just about his plans tonight. 

Besides, his skills could always use some tidying up. 

Rafe goes back to his workout routine after his admiration for the sky, the sun rising behind him mindlessly while he dribbles the ball up and down the field to practice his precision, working on mind trick tricks in terms of scoring (Rafe is a forward, no way could he play defense).

Sweat glistens his forehead as the coolness of the night gradually dissipates, and he doesn't know how long he's been on this field, maybe a few hours? Days? At this point, someone could've told him he's been here for a year and he'd probably take their word for it.

But Rafe, after shooting the ball and missing, notices someone sitting on the bleachers with a book.

You.

A very pretty girl, who now has the book in your lap and is instead watching him.

Rafe just shrugs and gives a welcoming wave with a smile that you definitely can't see, but instead of waving back, you instead close the book with such gentleness and sit up to speak.

"Isn't the ball supposed to go in the net?"

Rafe recoils.

What?

He bites back a laugh because at this ungodly hour, everything is funny no matter what. He decides to ignore the hot raspiness of your voice and pushes it to the back of his mind, because he'll want to think about that later.

Despite his internal turmoil, Rafe plants his hands on his hips and cocks his head to the side. "I don't suppose you could do better?"

You chuckle sweetly, even Rafe can hear that from the distance and thinks it's faint music to his ears. "No, I can't. Have fun playing kickball, though."

Rafe simply stands there, blinking with a dumbfounded expression and a hint of a grin, taking a moment to soak in the faint image of you, a beautiful stranger, who goes back to reading your book. Shamelessly, he continues staring at you, as he can can make out how your silhouette is swallowed by a crimson hoodie looking comfortable enough to make Rafe yawn.

Fuck, now he's tired.

It doesn't take long for Rafe to pack up his things after doing some last work-downs and begin walking off the field (and of course the exit gate is right by the bleachers). The sun is now risen, just barely, and he can already feel the heat coming to bite him in the ass. He's never been a fan of the heat, especially at the start of the school year where it's basically sweltering summer.

Besides, he's been yawning for the past few minutes and his movements are more sluggish than they were before, so he takes this as a hint to finally get some rest.

You look up from your book and notice the alarmingly attractive soccer player leaving. Going against your normal tendency to hide and avoid talking to people you don't know, you can't help but feel inclined to smile when the stranger perks up and makes eye contact with you. The wild thumping of your heart only augments when you notice how pretty his eyes are, a bright blue despite the exhaustion behind them.

Rafe sends you a boyish smile and a nod, almost as if he's known you forever and bidding you a familiar farewell.

Once he gets closer, he notices your coffee sitting idly beside you, ice melting as the sun starts beating down on it. He also notices how pretty you really are, much prettier up close.

"Do you always read at the ass crack of dawn or what?" Rafe decides to pipe up, making his tone lighthearted so you don't think any different.

You huff out a laugh. "I've been here every morning since the semester started, and I'm just seeing you for the first time, why?"

Despite the certainty of your tone, Rafe doesn't ignore the sheepish look that immediately creeps on your face, trying to act cordial but he can tell by the way you're wringing your fingers together, you're somewhat skeptical of him. He decides to spare you and not to comment on the nerves, because he also feels heat in his face (he's gonna blame the workout, not the hot stranger talking to him). 

"Late night, couldn't sleep, and I was bored so I thought I'd shoot around until I got tired."

"Wait a minute," you say, your tone suddenly serious and your expression indulgent, "you haven't slept yet?"

Rafe shrugs nonchalantly, not taking into consideration that other people have normal sleeping schedules, finally meeting someone who does.

"Nah, this is normal for me. I'm surprised you're up...willingly...that's honestly terrifying and I'm scared of you," he jokes and spins the soccer ball on the tip of his ring finger. 

You widen your eyes and let out a low whistle, the look of shock coating your features. "Not sure if I should be fearing you instead. I can't tell if you're a god or just fucking stupid."

This makes Rafe bark out a laugh, one that he doesn't expect to come out, but the fact that this beautiful, fragile, and relaxed stranger just dropped the f-bomb nonchalantly is somehow fucking hilarious to Rafe...or perhaps it's the lack of sleep that makes his perception of things much more different and jagged.

Either way, he doesn't care, because the smile on your face is something Rafe's mind is never, ever going to forget. 

"Probably the latter, unfortunately," Rafe admits in that cheery self-deprecating tone that everyone takes normally. "Well, sunny, I'll leave you to it."

Then he pauses for a second, biting his tongue to refrain from saying something too forward.

"I'll hopefully see you around?"

Your blush intensifies (at the nickname or his confidence, you don't know), and neither speak on it. "Yeah, that'd be nice. See ya, kickball."

Before Rafe can defend his sport, you open your book back up and pick up where you left off, lounging back and crossing your legs to get more comfortable as Rafe splutters and huffs out a response that you seemingly ignore.

Your small smirk of victory makes Rafe want to either punch it off or kiss it off. Please don't ask him which one he prefers. 

Rafe's been at the soccer field almost every morning now for the past week. 

He figures that he'll sleep during the day on the weekends and in between his classes during the week, setting a multitude of alarms and not getting the amount of sleep he wishes to. His sister, Sarah, hassles him because she wants to meet this stranger who's been taking up all of Rafe's free time, finally happy that her brother is 'seeing someone' who isn't a complete jerk.

His best friend, Kelce, begs Rafe to introduce them or at least tell them a name, and have even tried to sneak out of his apartment with Rafe to spy on them (to which Rafe immediately shut down). But Rafe likes the idea of keeping you all to himself, just for a little bit.

Sure, his sleep schedule is even more messed up, but seeing the beautiful stranger every morning is such a goddamned bonus.

Oh, and it's no longer stranger. He learns your name the third time you see him.

Rafe learns that you're majoring in graphic design but that you have a serious love towards history and art, and immediately shy-ed away when he asked you to draw something, anything, on the spot.

And Rafe thinks it's so attractive that you're calm, collected, and easily embarrassed. You're shy, no matter how much you try to hide it. But you've been getting more and more comfortable with him every morning and he counts that as a huge step in his book. The books you read every morning are nonfiction pieces for your classes, and bring a sketch book a couple times a week as a substitute when you don't feel like indulging in history at the ass crack of dawn. 

He's been practicing soccer every morning now and his teammates comment on his change in precision and dribbling, and all Rafe can do is shrug and bitch about how he's the best on the team and can't help his natural talent (which his friends are used to hearing, and immediately humble him).

Well, little do they know you're the entire reason for that, and Rafe teeters between telling you that or keeping that to himself. 

The only downside to all of this is that Rafe's sleep schedule is...no longer. 

He stays up during the night, partying, sketching, whatever, and then makes his way to the field around five-am to practice and wait for you to get there (to make it look like he's already been practicing), and sometimes he doesn't even practice but instead waits on the bleachers for you if he has a game that day, not wanting to push it.

But then Rafe stays with you well into the morning, time that he usually spends sleeping is spent talking and chatting ears off.

Pathetically, he doesn't want to miss a day with you, yet he's really fucking tired.

Maybe you'll understand? Or you won't, and Rafe will have to go back into a panic to figure out if you're actually into him or not. 

Rafe genuinely thinks he's dumb, because you'll graze his hand against his or subtly compliment him, and he doesn't know how to respond, and will just carry on normally because he doesn't want to assume anything is going on.

Because if there's nothing happening between you, then Rafe doesn't want to be embarrassed for thinking that way.

Rafe needs verbal confirmation if you're into him, because these subtle ways of being touchy and flirty are very confusing to a dumb person.

A.K.A., him.

The realization that you're horrifically down bad for Rafe Cameron hits you at approximately 3:22am on a random Sunday, a week after you meet.

You'd gone to bed around eleven, trying to get some early shut eye before your Renaissance history exam tomorrow. The prep had you cozied up in the library all day, forcing yourself to reiterate the material to no end until you were seeing your handwriting in your head when you shut your eyes.

That's usually your tale-telling sign to know when to wrap it up.

But the effort to get plenty of rest proves fruitless in its attempt due to the giant fucking spider you see a foot away from your face.

Panic rises in your chest.

After all, you often wake up naturally during the night at least once to turn over or stretch your legs and sometimes think you see something, like the hoodie on the back of your chair that looks like a person or the piece of string on your floor that emulates a snake. In the moment, you try to convince yourself that it's one of those pranks your brain likes to play on you.

When it moves, however, that's when you scream.

You fliiiiiing off the bed, landing harshly on the tile with a thud, probably dragging half of your bedspread with you as you fumble for the lamp switch on your dresser.

The light makes it worse, because it proves your suspicions as you stare at the biggest spider you've ever seen on the wall, inches from your pillow.

Of course, you panic.

Heart racing, you freeze in your spot as you can't seem to take your eyes off of it, scared that it'll disappear into your sheets or behind your bed if you move or look away for a fraction of a moment. It's a standoff, you realize, and it doesn't look like it's going anywhere.

And there's no way you're getting near it.

Your fingers shake as you reach for your phone on the dresser, not once taking your eyes off the creature. Once it's in your hand, you pause and suck in a breath.

What the fuck is your phone gonna do?

Think, you repeat in your head. Breathe. Call Laney.

Your thumb ghosts over your best friend's contact, but your heart sinks when you catch a glimpse of the time.

Christ, it's the middle of the night. No one is awake at this hour.

You groan, eyes flickering between your phone and the spider that stays still on your wall, probably thinking of its plan to kill you, or whatever arachnids normally plot.

Trembling in place, you run through your options.

A. You could attempt to throw something at it, but that would only work if you had a guaranteed throwing accuracy, which you do not have. This will probably result in you missing entirely, and the spider vanishing in your sheets to never be seen again. Nope.

B. You could attempt to call Laney or your RA for some roadside assistance, but you know that Laney of all people, who once shrieked and ran from a wasp (it was really a fly), would really be of no help. And your RA often slept through a lot of concerning events, as in multiple fire alarms, a cat fight right outside his door, and, once, a literal firecracker. Nope.

C. You could grab your lighter and attempt to light it on fire. Given the circumstances, you're also guessing that's a fat nope.

D. There's a-

Your endless spiraling comes to a halt when you get a text, a fucking text, none other than from Rafe Cameron. At three in the morning.

Rafe: hey! someone make a greg and rowley edit to fake plastic trees. got me fucked up lowkey. heres the link. lets debrief about it later.

A moment passes and you blink hastily at the message, wondering if your eyes are playing tricks on you or if he, truly, is awake right now casually looking at god knows what. You re-read it once, twice, double checking the time stamp he sent it, mere minutes ago, and your chest pains in embarrassment at what you're about to do.

Your gaze darts from the text to the spider and back to the text.

God, your options are thin.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you're pressing on his contact, hitting the call button.

It rings once. "Please don't tell me I woke you up from that stupid text."

"No, um." You bite your lip as you eye the spider. "Uh, are you busy right now?"

"Besides talking to you? Nothing, pretty. Isn't it past your bedtime?"

You hate how your cheeks burn at his nonchalance, but are thankful he can't see you right now, even though he might at some point in the nearby future.

"What's wrong?" Rafe's tone morphs from teasing into what sounds like concern.

"It's stupid," you whisper, swallowing your pride. "But, uh, there's a giant spider in my room, I'm not kidding the size of my palm. I'm just, like, kinda freaking out?"

There's shuffling on the other end, a grunt, then a thud.

"Ow," Rafe grumbles and it sounds far away, as if you aren't meant to have heard it. "What dorm are you in?"

Your heart flips. "Shaffer. But Rafe, you really don't-"

"Room number?"

"509. But-"

"Nah," he interrupts nonchalantly, as if he won't entertain the thought of not helping you. "I'll be there in five. Talk to me, what'd you do today?"

Rafe arrives in three minutes.

Creeping to the door without taking your eyes off the spider, you open it to reveal Rafe Cameron, clad in sweatpants and a ridiculous graphic t-shirt (that looks like it's inside out), hair disheveled and sticking in every direction, holding his phone to his ear where you're still connected on the call. His green sneakers are untied. His smile is bright.

You try not to stare. You really try. Especially since you're supposed to be keeping an eye on the problem to begin with, but it's hard to resist when he looks so disgustingly endearing.

Eager, even, to help you out.

"Good to know it hasn't eaten you yet," Rafe jests, hanging up the call and putting his phone in his pocket.

You swallow the lump in your throat and step aside to let him in. "You really didn't have to-"

He places a cool palm over your mouth, startling you into shutting up.

Blinking stupidly up at him, all your senses are inhibited when you realize how close he is, how you can smell his cologne and see how bright his blue eyes really are.

"None of that." Rafe grins at your wide eyes. "Now, where is it?"

It's almost annoying how fearless he is.

While you're huddled in the opposite corner of the room, hugging yourself through your thin pajamas, Rafe simply scans the scene in front of him: the array of sheets and blankets hazardously scattered on your floor, the spider on the wall, your hand-sized penguin plushie that Laney got you as a joke. He can't help but cheekily smile to himself, getting a glimpse of you through the items you have, the photos you have hanging up, delaying the arachnid trapping for a moment to be selfish.

You catch him staring at a photo on your wall under your miscellaneous posters, and clear your throat.

Rafe snaps his head back to you, as if forgetting why he's here. "Right, sorry, pretty."

You reel as you watch him. Looking around for items he can use for the entrapment, Rafe settles on a discarded empty coffee cup from your trash can, kneeling forward on your bed and holding the cup underneath the spider.

The thump of your heart only gets louder as you see him nudge it with his own bare hand into the cup.

Once the spider is in it, he simply puts his palm over the top, covering it with not so much a second thought.

Rafe stands normally, tilting his head with puzzlement when he turns around to face you, wide eyed and, frankly, a little horrified.

"What?"

"Wh- You-" You splutter. "You touched it."

All he does it shrug, as if it literally means nothing. "No biggie. You have any ops on this floor? I can set him down so he crawls into their room instead."

After you escort him (from a distance) to relocate the spider outside, Rafe only deems it polite to walk you back to your room. On the way back in, he catches a glimpse of himself in the window and winces at his appearance, so the whole walk back he's been subtly trying to flatten down his unruly hair. You stifle a laugh each time he brings his hand up to mess with it more, undoubtedly making it worse.

By the time you get back to your door, it's worse than before. But he's never looked better, in your opinion.

"Um, thank you," you say sheepishly, toying with the strings of your pajama pants. "I know it's late. Or early. Whatever you wanna call it."

Rafe's smile couldn't be bigger. "I was up anyway."

You frown. "I don't think that's very good for you. You know, not sleeping."

Your tone reeks of concern, frankly a little embarrassing to express such distress for his well-being despite knowing him for only a week now.

But he barely seems fazed by it, instead shrugging. "Maybe. But then I wouldn't have answered your call, hm?"

The amused gleam in Rafe's eyes make your head fuzzy.

"I guess," you mumble. "I'll get you a coffee for your...troubles."

Rafe laughs boyishly, leaning against your doorframe as if he has all the time in the world to talk to you. "No need, pretty. I'm a certified arachnid relocator. I'm putting this shit on my resume. You honestly did me a favor," he rambles. "Needed a new job to put on there, anyway."

You can't help but roll your eyes, not really understanding how he has the energy to quip with you right now.

"Right, put it under your specialty in kickball," you tease, fighting a smile when you see his brows raise. "Will you please try and get some rest?"

"Depends," he hums, tilting his head to the side in contemplation. "Will you be at the field tomorrow?"

Ignoring the way your heart leaps, you shake your head. "Can't. All the more reason to catch up on sleep, no?"

"Are you asking me to?"

"Begging, really."

Rafe then nods, but not without trying - and failing - to suppress a stupidly large grin. "Alright, fine. For you? Anything?"

When you finally convince him to go back to his room (only the building next door), you can't help but lie awake in your spider-free bedroom, staring at the dark ceiling as your mind replays the last thirty minutes over and over.

Yeah. You're already in deep.

Rafe's been meeting you for a few weeks now, ever since the spider incident, almost every morning to talk and hang out.

A couple days a week you'll get coffee before classes to keep Rafe stable, and he discovers that you two always have something to talk about, and if there's silence it's always comfortable and natural. You often watch the sunrise in silence when it first awakens, and then carry on your normal routines when the beauty is over. 

It's so stupidly endearing to him that you let him share your moment with him.

Safe to say he's horrendously down bad...despite his overwhelming fatigue.

This morning has been exceptional rough for Rafe, because around three in the morning while he had been bored tinkering with things in his room, he suddenly remembered a paper that needs to be written before his noon class.

Of course, it's the middle of the night. He knows you're definitely asleep and there's no way he'd wake you up for something like this.

Naturally, Rafe spirals into a messy panic, standing in the middle of his room for a few moments debating on writing the paper here in his dorm or just taking all his things to the bleachers and doing it there while waiting for you. He does have a couple hours to spare, but Rafe doesn't think when he grabs his backpack, laptop, and book and runs out of his dorm.

The darkness of the night has never bothered him, not while the moon shines above him and illuminates his path. It's one of the reasons he loves nightfall so much, is because of the beauty of the moon and the light that it reflects on the earth. He wishes he could see the craters more clearly so he can soak in all of her beauty, but tonight he's in too much of a rush and panic to really think about the deep ideas of the moon.

When Rafe gets to the bleachers, he immediately opens his laptop and starts writing, whipping his book out so that he can reference quotes and cite pages while he lazily goes off his shitty outline he wrote a few nights ago about the premise of his paper. The words he hastily types come out as lethargic unpleasantries, and he really, really tries to focus to make it good, but his head keeps lulling forward and his fingers shake from fatigue.

He doesn't even care. He's a STEM student anyway, so literature isn't really at the top of his list of things to care about.

But god forbid he misses a morning with you.

So he lounges back on the bleachers, ferociously typing away everything he can and scraps together every piece of knowledge he has about the book.

And that's exactly how you find Rafe a few hours later: head tipped back with his legs stretched out, laptop discarded beside him with a black screen, light snores emitting from his mouth and his hair disheveled in every sort of direction.

And you think you're gonna melt at the sight. 

Rafe is startled awake by a loud squawking by his ear, and yelps quietly while he shoos away the crow on the fence and tries to remember where he is and what he was doing. He sees the sun...the soccer field...holy shit, where are-?

You, sitting next to him with his laptop in your lap, waiting patiently for him to wake up. You try (and fail) to suppress a grin as you notice how disheveled he is right now, who's trying to piece together what he had been doing before he passed out.

"Good morning," you greet warmly. "Sleep well?"

"What time is it?" Rafe immediately asks, mind fuzzy from the short amount of sleep. "I have class at-"

"Noon," you interrupt calmly, trying to ignore how stupidly attractive his morning voice sounds, "I was planning on waking you up in an hour or so in order for you to have enough time to get there, but your professor emailed you and the rest of your class to tell you that class was cancelled for a family emergency. So I wasn't going to wake you at all, but that crow had other plans for you. Sorry."

Rafe sits up and rubs his eyes, cracking his back and stretching from the uncomfortable position, still foggy as he looks at your pretty and yawns. "I need to...I need to finish a paper. It's about-"

"Frankenstein?" you interrupt again, looking very prideful. "Don't worry, I've read the book before so I finished it for you. I also re-wrote everything you wrote because...well...it wasn't making sense. I mean, no offense or anything. I kinda submitted it already since it was still due at noon, so..."

Letting out a breath of relief, Rafe slouches and utterly destroys his posture as he regains his ability to think coherently.

His mind catches up to the situation. You found him asleep, finished his essay for him, and waited for him to wake up so you wouldn't disturb him?

Yup. Yeah, it's official, he's smitten with you.

"I don't know how to thank you," murmurs Rafe, unknowing of what to even say, scratching the back of his neck as he peers over at you.

You simply shrug, handing the laptop and book back to Rafe (of course while grazing your fingertips together, hopefully intentionally).

"Think of it as..." You rack your brain for words. "...Me returning the favor. You know, for the spider."

His mind is mush.

All he can think about is you not thinking twice to help him out, despite his idiocy and consistently scrappy appearance. Somehow, somehow, he hasn't driven you away yet. Just when he thinks he's fucked something up, you come back.

"That was- I wanted to do that for you."

Once again, you shrug. "And I wanted to do this for you."

Rafe blinks stupidly at you, unable to form a coherent thought. What ends up coming out of his mouth is, "You wrote a paper."

"Yeah."

"For me."

"Well, I couldn't submit the garbage you came up with. No offense, or anything, but I think you confused Frankenstein with Frankenweenie."

"That's a common mistake."

You manage to crack a smile. "Is it?"

Rafe decides it's one of the prettiest things he's ever seen. "Mhm."

But, of course, he has to ruin the moment by yawning so horrendously audacious that he nearly groans in self inflicted embarrassment.

"Sorry," he winces when he comes down from it, rubbing the side of his face in exhaustion. "That's my body's involuntary response to when a pretty girl writes my papers for me."

You roll your eyes to push away your shyness, to ignore the heat flushing your cheeks.

"You really should get some rest."

Rafe yawns again. ""M not tired."

Despite the dark circles under his eyes, Rafe looks perfectly content on these bleachers, leaning back onto the row above and lounging brazenly. His head is lulled in your direction, looking up at you with those pretty blues and a half lipped smirk that seems to be permanently etched on his face whenever he's with you.

You wring the ends of your shirt, nervously biting your lip under his intense gaze.

And you're speaking before he can call you pretty again.

"Well, how about this. After you get some sleep, we can...we can get dinner? We can even do take out, or I can try and chef something up in the communal kitchen, or something..."

His mouth drops open.

You trail off, unsure of what to make of his flabbergasted expression. Is he...Is this not what you thought it was?

But Rafe is over the moon, unable to get that stupid shocked look off his face as he realizes holy shit he thinks you're asking him out? and he can't find the energy to move, he's frozen, relaying the thought over and over in his head that you, of all people, are into him.

Are you? Or is this some sort of friend-quality time thing that's going over Rafe's head because, contrary to popular belief, he's very smart when it comes to blueprints and designs and sometimes mathematics, but also very dumb when it comes to pretty girls.

Is this a direct invitation on a date or not? His tired brain doesn't know how to think strai-

"I'll take that as a no...?"

Rafe blinks his way out of his thoughts at the sound of your voice again, and he finally finds the words and mumbles out a curse word as he notices the confused guise on your pretty face.

He immediately widens his eyes.

"No, no, no-"

Your brows raise.

Rafe recoils. "Yes! Well, I mean yes, yes, I'll get dinner with you. Sorry, I just...Yes, I'd love to." 

You find it in yourself to laugh, and subtly let out a breath you've been holding for all that time Rafe had been yelling at himself in his head, debating the context of the invitation.

Blinking blearily, Rafe shakes his head, trying to figure out if he's still sleeping and he's dreaming, or if this is actually happening to him. But with the intensity of his rapid heartbeat and the way you look so vividly real and present, he deems that this is in fact not a dream, and this is happily real life.

"Good, because I don't know what I'd do if you said no," you joke, twiddling your thumbs out of nerves and letting out a low chuckle. "Probably never talk to you again."

Rafe waves you off with a proud look on his face, a wide grin, saying your name with such a saccharine tone that it makes your brain go fuzzy.

"Oh please, like I'd even think of blowing off my very own essay-writer. I may be stupid, but I am not an idiot."

This makes you laugh with that stupidly adorable smile that you can't seem to fight off that well, and Rafe takes in how beautiful you are, with your perfect grin and bright eyes that remind him of the the lightness in his chest when he finds something funny, or how your sweet voice smoothes over the ridges and hills of his heart and fills in the gaps affectionately.

(Which is painful for Rafe to endure because he loves it so much).

"You are pretty stupid," you admit quietly, timidly. "You're stupid for losing sleep over me."

Rafe closes his agape mouth at the fact that he's been caught. "Well it's worth it." Then softer, "You're worth it."

You roll your eyes and stand up, Rafe watching you do so. "You shouldn't have to accommodate your entire schedule for me. Honestly, you should go home now and sleep," you suggest earnestly, because all you want is for him to be at his best.

"Only if you'll come with."

Your heart skips a beat and you find yourself rolling your eyes once again, but this time feeling heat creep up on your neck no matter how hard you try to fight it.

It's always something about the way Rafe flirts with you so effortlessly, and how you can tell he means it. 

"Fine," you agree gently, saying it as if it was a bad thing (although your suppressed grin gives that away), "c'mon, you stupid idiot."

So, Rafe gets his things together and leaves the signature bleachers with you, this time finding the gall to slip his hand into yours, gingerly squeezing.

All this time, he wondered what it'd be like to hold your hand, and safe to say it's even better than his preconceived expectations.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission.

notes some fluff for these hard times. hope you enjoyed!

Ahhh so cute!!!

only you my girl, only you babe

PAIRING: rafe cameron x pogue!fem!reader

SUMMARY: four times your “enemy” rafe hinted he cares for you and the one time you actually caught on it. OR you thought rafe doesn’t like you because he hates all pogues. little did you know he has always looked at you differently.

WORD COUNT: 6.7k

WARNINGS: drinking, drugs, swearing, blood and wounds, kinda canon rafe (omg kez????), obx cliches (mainly the whole ‘kooks vs. pogues’ thing from S1), extremely ‘only soft to you and no one else’ vibes, fluff, angry confessions, heavy pining, mentions of y/n

EDITH SPEAKS: oh. my. god. if you were there on my old blog you would know how long it’s been since I first introduced my idea of writing this fic. I got stumped on it way too often and then forgot about it for months, and then decided to abandon it. But I found it again and I got my inspiration back and now I’m so so happy it’s actually finished!! <3

major thank you to @zyafics who helped me last year when i was writing the fic and helped me brainstorm ideas for it :’) kissing your beautiful mind just like always zya xxx

this really is a labor of love and I genuinely couldn’t be happier 🥹I would highly appreciate all kinds of feedback and reblogs, because they really are extremely motivating and fun to get back to! I hope you enjoy reading, and i hope these 6k words are worth all your time and attention :)

masterlist / join my taglist / requests

PROLOGUE

“Stay off Figure 8!” 

The all too familiar deep voice boomed across the beach, a completely dead silence started to surround the atmosphere. A loud groan was heard along with the unsteady thump of a person falling onto the sand, causing people standing around to gasp. 

JJ struggled to get up from the ground, the big punch he received from the one and only caused his nose to bleed non stop, and when he barely opened his eyes, he was met with a pair of icy cold blues staring back at him. 

“You hear me, Maybank? Stay. Off. Figure. 8. You and all your filthy pogue friends.” 

JJ tried getting up and talking back, he really did, but the one and only Rafe Cameron punched him so hard he lost all his balance. Blood kept on flowing in a never ending fashion, and JJ could see dark spots in his vision, his mind feeling light headed. 

“JJ!”

Rafe froze in his position, not looking up from JJ at the sound of JJ’s name being called out. The voice, the perfume, the general aura of the presence; Rafe didn’t have to look up to see who it was. 

“JJ oh my god please tell me you’re okay,” you mumbled, your voice almost trembling with the worry dripping from your words. You got on your knees and gently cradled JJ’s face, pulling it into your lap as you brushed his hair aside to look at the extent of damage on his face. JJ mumbled something incoherently and you let out a sigh, relieved he wasn’t completely knocked out. 

Rafe stood there on the side, his eyes widened as he saw how your fingers ran through his hair and wiped off his blood, he saw how careful you were with him, he saw how you mumbled small words of sweet nothingness to him. 

Rafe didn’t know what to say, he stood there limply as he watched you help JJ up, let him loop an arm across your shoulders so you could help him walk back to The Cut. 

As he saw you both walk back, he felt his blood boil. The rage built in him slowly like a thunderstorm, his breathing started to become erratic and his fists clenched tightly on his sides. 

“FUCK!” 

Rafe’s foot kicked across an empty beer can buried in the sand, causing it to fly and topple a few meters further from him. 

He wouldn’t have done anything to JJ, heck, he wouldn’t have looked at him if he knew you were on the beach too. 

The look on your face when you saw how hurt JJ was, the concern clouding all over your facial features; from the furrow of your brow to the frown on your lips, he knew you now hated him more than ever. He knew you would never want to look at him ever again. He knew you would never acknowledge his presence ever again. 

He knew there was no chance you would look at him the way he looked at you. 

ONE — THE PARTY

It was crazy.

The lights were neon and bright and they pierced your eyes harshly. The people at the party were almost sticking next to each other, their sweat, weed, alcohol, and an ungodly mix of expensive and cheap colognes being the only thing you can smell. 

You almost gagged as you maneuvered your way through the sweaty crowd, but you finally did, finding yourself taking deep breaths as you leaned against the countertop of the makeshift bar in the kitchen, letting the awful smell wash away from your nose palette. 

When you started feeling better, you got yourself a nice cold beer, letting the icy liquid run down your throat, sending chills down your spine but in a way you relished deeply. 

It was a scene like any other party; there were people dancing, some catching a smoke break at the side, some making out on the other side, nothing new. 

And it wasn’t anything new when a fight broke out. 

You didn’t know who the boys were who started to fight; all you saw was them go at each other like wolves, their courage mostly coming from the plethora of drugs in their system, profanities after profanities spilling out their mouth, and you were just watching from the side, completely nonchalant about it. 

But you were not so nonchalant when glass bottles were involved in hurting the other; you being in close proximity to the fighting pair resulted in one of the flying broken piece of glass cutting your hand, making you yell out at the sharp pain. The cut looked deep as the blood didn’t stop gushing out, but no one focused on you. Everyone was too busy watching the fight, trying to stop it, or just enjoying it for the heck of it. 

You hissed in pain, your own beer bottle set aside as you squeezed your eyes shut from the stinging pain spreading from your hand to your forearm. The blood started to trickle down from your palm down to the floor, and you had no idea what to do or who to go to. 

It all became a huge mess very quick, you on the side with your hand bleeding, and the rest of the party too busy to peg the immature boys on. 

You felt a tall shadow stalking over you, the scent of the rich cologne all too familiar. 

“That looks bad,” you heard in your ear. 

You turned to be face to face with Rafe. He was stalking down your wound, the blood flow not really stopping as the drops dripped down on the hardwood floor. His expression wasn’t one of worry. But it wasn’t one of detest either. It was just… emotionless. 

“Yeah no shit,” you muttered, looking down at your wound too. 

“Here,” he said, fishing out his handkerchief from his pocket. “This should help for the moment…” he muttered as he gently took your hand and wrapped the handkerchief around your cut. 

You looked at his hands working around your hand, covering up the cut. The pearly white cloth was quickly stained with a deep red of your blood, slowly spreading throughout the cloth. 

“You should get that checked once, just in case you need stitches,” he said, tying a knot to fix the cloth in its place. Just like his facial expression, his voice is also emotionless, monotone words leaving his lips. 

“Why are you doing this?” You couldn’t help but ask, out of all the people, Rafe was there to help you with your wound. 

“Because you’re bleeding a little too much,” he said, taking a step back from you. His hands then buried in the pockets of his jeans as he shrugged at you. 

You looked up in his icy blue eyes, not a single emotion in them. You weren’t sure what to say, finding yourself to be quite stunned which was never really the case; whenever Rafe talked to you, you were always quick to talk back, never letting him be the one who said the last words. 

“Right… thanks,” you muttered, looking down at the securely tied handkerchief around your hand. 

“Yeah,” he said with a nod of his head, and left you alone. 

TWO — THE FAILED DATE

You clutched on the tablecloth out of utter anxiousness, your eyes darting around the room. You took a look at your watch for the umpteenth time, and saw that the time you were supposed to be meeting someone got farther and farther in the past with each passing second. 

It had now been over an hour, the waiters had politely asked you if you would like to eat something, and all you asked for was a simple glass of water, because what if he shows up?

But now you could very clearly see that he won’t. 

You had a date, which unlike the past dates you had been on, really excited you. You thought he was a nice boy, someone you met while you were buying some beer for you and your friends. You don’t remember how the conversation started, but you both used to talk quite often, numbers exchanged and texts sent under the pale moonlight of 3 am. 

He finally asked you out on a date, and you were thrilled, to say the very least. But now, here you were at a fancy restaurant on Figure 8 which you barely got to go to, absolutely impatient as your knee bounced up and down out of anxiousness and embarrassment. 

You felt tears prick your eyes but you were quick to not let them fall, wiping them away from your waterline. You looked down in your lap, your fingers nervously pulling onto each other as the reality of being ditched settled in you. You took another look at your phone, desperate for any text, but there were no notifications. 

But then, you felt the sunlight falling onto you from the window next to you being blocked by a huge shadow, and when you looked up, you saw Rafe. 

Of course, Rafe, out of all the people. 

He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you; your slightly red eyes and the tears accumulated in them didn’t go unnoticed by him. 

“Why are you here all alone?” He asked you, still standing in front of you. 

You just shook your head as a reply and picked up your belongings from the table. “It’s none of your business Rafe… I’ll just leave…” you muttered, but before you could do anything else, Rafe sat in the seat opposite to you. 

He took a look at your outfit, noticing it’s something different than the attire you’re usually sporting, something more formal. 

It didn’t take him long to connect two and two together to figure out everything. 

“You got ditched huh?” He said silently. His tone came off condescending to you, even though he didn’t mean to sound that way at all. 

You mentally braced yourself to get embarrassed by him, ready to hear a comment or two from him, because that’s what he did: say rude things to people, especially Pogues, because he felt like it. 

But he didn’t say anything. 

Absolutely nothing. 

You looked up at him, small streaks of tears had started making their way down. “I told you it’s none of your business,” you said, sniffling. 

He only sighed as he leaned back in the chair, watched you carefully as your head hung low, silent sobs escaping you as you occasionally wiped away your tears. 

“Listen, it’s not your fault okay?” He mumbled. You looked up from your lap with your eyes filled with tears. “I know you must be feeling really bad right now, and there is nothing wrong about it, but don’t think too much about it,” 

“I… I got ditched Rafe. I am sitting here all alone in this expensive restaurant crying my eyes out. How can I not think too much about it?” You whispered, your eyebrows creased together. 

He leaned a bit closer to you. “I’m trying to make you feel better…” He said softly. 

“Well,” you sniffled, looking away from him, “I didn’t ask for it, okay?” 

These were the last words you said, before you got up from your chair and left the restaurant, whilst Rafe watched you walk away, wanting to hold your hand and to stop you, but he just couldn’t. 

THREE — THE BEACH CLEAN UP

You looked up at the sun, wiping the sweat off your forehead as you took in a deep breath. The summers only seemed to be getting hotter this time around, and the fact that you were at a beach clean up at noon was not helping your situation. 

You liked to pick up work like beach clean ups in between your main job at the island club so you could make a little side money. 

As you got back to picking up the trash from the beach, throwing it in the little basket you’re carrying with yourself, you looked up to hear some chatter besides the otherwise quiet beach and the other people working quite silently. 

It was a group of Kooks – their expensive clothes and accessories shining under the bright rays of the sun completely unmissable. And in the group of them, a pair of electric blue eyes had its gaze fixed on you intensely. 

You didn’t even know why Rafe was there. Or why the other Kooks were there. They didn’t have any need to participate in these kinds of jobs. Everything was just handed down to them, daddy’s money being what they thrive on.

You ignored them and got back to working, focusing on clearing the trash from the specific area of the beach you were at. Just a few minutes later you felt the sunlight being blocked by a huge shadow, and when you looked up, you saw Rafe right by your side, separated from his Kook friends. 

You wanted to say something, but you weren’t sure what, so you peeled your focus away from him and got back to picking up the trash and throwing it into the basket. 

“Here,” he said almost suddenly, causing you to look up at him. “I’ll hold it for you,” he gestured the basket in your hand, and even proceeded to hook two of his fingers into its side, holding onto it.

Before you could have protested, he gently pulled the basket from your hand, causing you to let go of it. You wouldn’t lie, your basket had started to get heavy from the innumerable aluminum cans and other trash sitting in it.

“Thanks,” you murmured under your breath and from the corner of your eye, you saw Rafe acknowledged you with a nod of his head. 

For the next hour or so, you went around picking up the trash and Rafe followed you holding the basket for you as if it weighed nothing, and you kept on dropping the trash in it. It was oddly comfortable, the silence between you two as you weren’t sure what to say – and frankly, you thought that was the best. 

As the clean up came to an end, everyone was sitting in the sand, and light laughter and chatter filled the group. The afternoon had started to turn into evening, the bright rays of the sun turning into something more warm, more comforting instead of burning. You sat in the sand, leaning back on your forearms a little away from the rest, just letting the summer breeze blow past you gently. 

Rafe sat down next to you, and held out something. You saw it was a glass of iced lemonade he got from the little surf shop. 

“You didn’t have to,” you mumbled, eyeing the glass in his hand, the condensation on the surface causing water droplets to slide against the smooth glass. 

“It’s okay,” he said. “You’ve worked all afternoon. Have it, it’s my treat.” 

You took another second or two before taking the glass from him, sipping on the cool, sour yet sweet liquid and allowing it to run down your throat. He remained seated next to you as you both watched the waves crash on the shore, the seagulls flying over and the sun only delving you into a comforting warmth more and more with each passing second, and slurped on your little lemony drinks. 

FOUR — THE TIP

The day was slowly turning into dusk, the bright afternoon light leaving to welcome darker pink and orange streaks cast by the almost setting sun. This was the time when the island club started filling in more and more, the bar being one of the first parts of the club to get exceptionally occupied.

You were busy serving an older woman, your mind completely occupied to make the martini, when out of the corner of your eye, you caught the all too familiar gist of a head of dirty blonde curtain bangs. 

You turned your head to meet Rafe’s blue eyes looking intently at you. The way he was focused on you, his gaze not wavering for even a fraction of a second, and the strong intensity behind them made you feel like the only girl on this planet. Though, of course, that feeling was short-lived when you were snapped out of your daze by a customer calling out for you. 

You were quick to rush over to the customer, who had just finished the drink you had served him. He left the money for his drink where he was sitting and was already making his way out of the club. 

You  picked up the dollar bills to see he paid completely for the drink, but the tip wasn’t even touching the bare minimum. You didn’t know what the reason was, you had been kind to the customer, made his drink perfectly and served it on time, and even presented it as aesthetically as you could. Even then, your tip wasn’t up to the mark. Sighing, you made your way over to the other end of the bar counter where you kept your tip jar, which coincidentally also happened to be where Rafe was sitting. 

“Everything alright?” He asked, eyeing your woeful expression as you were putting the newly received ‘tip’ (if it can be even called that) in the jar. His eyes raked over the jar, and he couldn’t help but find it a lot more empty than it should be. 

“Yeah everything’s fine,” You mumbled, keeping the jar aside. You wiped your hands once on the towel slung in the loop of your apron before looking up at Rafe. “What can I get you?” You asked. 

“A neat whiskey’s fine,” He said and you nodded. You served him the neat whiskey, setting the glass right in front of him. He gave you an acknowledging nod and wrapped his fingers around the glass and bought it closer to his mouth, drinking from it. 

You decided to work around the bar a bit, just cleaning everything up, preparing everything you may need in advance, practically anything you could get your hands at – because anything was better than having to talk to Rafe, who, by the way, didn’t take his eyes off you for even a second. His gaze was firm and jaw was set as he just saw you work around the bar, silently sipping on his whiskey. 

You kept yourself wonderfully distracted as you served the customers and prepared everything behind the bar, but every so often, your gaze would magnetically be pulled back to Rafe, and you would always catch him looking at you. 

When you noticed Rafe’s almost done with his glass of whiskey, you made your way back to him. 

“Another one?” You asked, and he only silently nodded as his reply. You refilled his glass with the neat whiskey, and leaned back against the counter, just simply glancing around the scene of the bar and the club and catching a small break. 

A silence fell over the two of you, the light chatter and the music playing in the club thrumming against your eardrums. Rafe was just silently sipping the whiskey, not saying or doing anything, just sitting there and having his drink. 

“So uh… you’re alone here tonight?” You asked, your words feeling cautious. “I mean, you’re usually here with Topper, or with someone, atleast,”

He set his almost finished glass at the counter, his fingers still wrapped around the clear glass. His gaze found yours, a warm blue instead of the usual icy one sinking into your eyes. 

“Topper was busy,” He muttered, “so I came alone,”

You just quietly hummed at his words, and from the corner of your eye you saw one of your customers finishing their drink and leaving their money on the counter. You went to get it, and when you did, you saw it’s the same thing repeating itself: the ‘tip’. 

You sighed, slightly aggravated as you made your way back to where the top jar was, and dumped the money in it. 

“Will it kill them to just pay something to their bartender?” You sighed, leaning against the counter and tilting your head back, closing your eyes for a moment. Your shift was close to coming to an end and if that’s the money you had to go home with tonight, well, it’d be kind of fucked. 

You could feel Rafe’s gaze on you, but he didn’t say anything, just finished the last sip of his whiskey in a gulp. You were about to ask him for another refill, but you heard someone calling you out. 

You turned around to see it was one of your coworkers, who told you were being called inside. You turned to look back at Rafe, but he just shook his head, and gestured to you to leave. You followed your coworker and went inside to where he was leading to. 

After being freed from the quite useless meetup with your manager, you finally walked back out to the bar after 15 minutes. When you did, you saw Rafe’s stool was empty, and there was money kept on the counter. 

You approached the counter, and the moment you saw the money, your eyes almost fell out from how wide they got. 

Ten crisp hundred dollar notes sat unfolded on the marbled counter along with the money for the whiskey, and you couldn’t believe your eyes. For a second, it felt unreal. You reached your hand out and your fingertips touched the paper, and you realised the money was real. You picked the notes up, your lips parted in shock as you gaze at them. 

Rafe tipped you $1000. 

1000 fucking dollars. 

Your gaze immediately turned towards the exit of the bar, and of course, you couldn’t spot Rafe – you had completely missed him. 

You carefully kept the notes in your tip jar and sealed the jar shut. Through the glass, you couldn’t remove your gaze from the notes, your mind now completely clouded with Rafe, and his tip. 

ONE — THE BROKEN DOWN CAR

You let out a frustrated groan, kicking the tyre in utter vexation, which helped you release just the tiniest fraction of your rage. You fished out your phone from your pocket just to see it was nothing more than a dead device, serving you no purpose. You almost had the urge to throw the phone, but you stopped yourself at the right second, because you realized, you can’t afford to hear the sound of the glass screen cracking. 

Instead, you just kicked a pebble in your path and slumped against the side door of your beat up car which decided to stop working halfway across your journey from Figure 8 to the Cut. You were at the side of the road, watching other cars and vehicles pass by as you sat there on the roadside, not having a single clue on what to do. 

10… 15… 20 minutes passed and you were still in the same position, not knowing what to do and not making any effort to find out either. The road fell silent a few minutes ago, no vehicles crossing, but the silence was short lived when you heard the revving of an engine from the distance, and it came to a stop right next to you. 

An all too familiar red and black bike stood next to you, the rider’s face covered by the helmet. But the bike, the gold signet ring on the index finger of the left hand, and the taut muscles peeking from under the t-shirt were more than enough to confirm who it was. 

The helmet came off and Rafe’s piercing blue eyes found yours. 

“What happened?” He asked, getting off his bike as he ran a hand through his hair, his curtain bangs pushed back momentarily before they fell down on both the sides of his face in a ragged middle part just like always. 

“My car broke down,” you muttered as you looked up at him. 

“Hm.” 

He rounded around you and lifted the cover of the engine, holding it up with one hand as he inspected the engine carefully. You watched him intently, trying to figure out what the expressions on his face meant, but there weren’t any to begin with. It was a face so cold and plain, suiting well with the cold blue eyes. 

“There’s some issue with the battery. You most probably need to get it replaced.” He declared, letting the cover fall back in its place. 

“Oh great,” you said, sarcasm dripping from your words as you threw your head back against the door of your car. “That’ll probably cost nothing, won’t it?” 

Rafe caught the sarcasm of your words very well but didn’t comment anything, just wiped the dust off his hands as he gazed down at you. 

“Come on,” you heard, and as you looked up, you saw he was holding his hand out for you. “You were probably going back home yeah? I’ll drop you.” 

You opened your mouth to argue but he cut you off the next instant. 

“No ifs, or buts, or ‘Rafe’s, you hear me? You’re letting me drop you off, and are letting me take care of this,” he said, gesturing to your car. “I’ll call a mechanic who’ll get your car towed from here and will work on it. Now come on, none of us have got all day.” 

By the end of his words, you knew whatever you’ll do is equivalent to pointless, so you gave in. You gently held his hand and helped yourself up from the road, brushing a hand over your clothes as he led you to his bike parked aside. 

Rafe put his helmet on top of your head and adjusted the strap, and you heard a faint click as it fixed in place. You wanted to ask ‘what about you?’ when the only helmet was now sitting on your head, but you decided against it. He mounted the bike and gestured to you to do the same, revving the engine twice or thrice before taking off. 

He was definitely faster than what you had expected, and you couldn’t help it when you gripped the sides of his t-shirt, fisting the crisp material in your fingers to provide yourself some stability. For a second, he took one hand off the handlebar and reached for your hand scrunching his t-shirt. He gently took your wrist and you let go of the fabric in the process, allowing him to tug your hand and place it on his waist. Your other hand followed suit, and both of your arms were firmly wrapped around his waist. His hand landed back at the handlebar, and he only sped up more, the wind whipping past you at a phenomenal speed. 

The ride to The Cut came to an end when Rafe reached your home, and you didn’t want to admit to him or to yourself, but you felt it was short. The ride was nothing short of exhilarating, the wind whipping past your skin, and the way your arms found purchase around his waist gave you the comfort you needed. 

You got off the bike, firmly planting your feet on the ground as you did so, and Rafe’s hand instinctively wrapped around your arm to make sure you remained stable. You carefully took off the helmet and handed it back to him. 

“So uh,” You muttered, clearing your throat subtly, “thanks for the ride. Really,”

He shook his head, kicking the stand of the bike in place and allowing it to lean on one side. “Don’t worry,” He said, still sitting on the bike. 

“You, you really didn’t have to,” You said, your fingers intertwined with each other behind your back. 

“And do what? Leave you alone at the side of the road? With a broken down car and a dead phone?” Rafe sighed. “I wasn’t gonna do that y/n, you know that,”

You know that. 

Yeah you do. 

You swallowed the thick lump in your throat as a small silence fell over you two as none of you said anything, and you kept on contemplating how you could possibly return such a massive favor. 

“You…” You began, your voice low, the words on the tip of the tongue feeling experimental, “you wanna come inside for a moment?”

Rafe’s response didn’t come out the very next second, and that small pause felt like years to you. 

“Sure,” He said, getting off his bike. You let out a sigh of relief and nodded, leading him towards your place. 

“It’s nothing big…” You muttered as you climbed up the stairs of the porch and he followed suit, watching you unlock the front door. “But it’s home, I guess.”

Knowing he had grown up in the richest part of the island, surrounded by everything he could possibly need and want, you had a feeling he’d definitely make some snarky comment. Cause isn’t that what he did? Rafe Cameron: the Kook prince, but also the biggest asshole?

But he was completely silent when he followed you inside and only quietly sat down on the couch you led him to, which you definitely were shocked to see, but nevertheless you didn’t really let it show on your expressions. 

“So uh…” you began to speak, wanting to break through the awkward air around you two, “anything you’d like? Water? Or some tea maybe?” 

He shook his head silently, and a moment later, gestured to the empty seat next to him. 

“Come sit,” he said, words simple and direct, no beating around the bush, just like always. 

You took a sweet moment to let his words settle in you, but when you did, you walked up to the couch and sat down next to him, a small distance maintained between the two of you. Your gaze remained fixed on your shoes, your hands perfectly intertwined in your lap, and your habit of pulling onto them – something which only tended to happen you felt really anxious – came back. 

The awkward air was around you two again, settling over you two like a blanket that is way too warm for hot weather, making you feel uneasy and has got you squirming for any sort of cooling. 

“Why do you do that?”

There it was. 

It was out. 

You blabbered out the question as if it meant nothing, when in reality, it carried so much more weight than you could possibly ever imagine. 

When you were met with silence for a moment, you looked up, and saw Rafe sitting with his hands on his knees, his own gaze fixed at something on the floor. What was it exactly – you couldn’t tell. 

When he still didn’t speak anything, you decided to take the chance. 

“You’re always… there for me, in one way or the other. You patched my hand up at that party weeks ago, when you could’ve just ignored the situation. You saw me crying to myself when my date didn’t show up and came up to me when you could’ve just ignored the situation. You helped me at the beach clean up and carried my heavy bin for me when you could’ve ignored the situation. You saw my lack of tips and paid me a massive one when you could’ve ignored the situation. You could’ve always ignored the situation, Rafe. Just like you always do with the other Pogues. With them, you don’t care for even a damn second. But… why are you doing so much for me?” 

The silence kept on greeting you, and you could feel yourself beginning to get impatient. Your gaze flickered over Rafe, and you didn’t miss the way he flexed his fingers over his knee, as if gripping it tightly. 

“I, I don’t know…” He mumbled weakly. You had never heard his voice take such a softer tone. It’s as if you didn’t even know it existed. 

“What– what do you mean you don’t know?” You sighed, turning your body a bit so you could face him. “That’s fucking ridiculous Rafe!”

“It’s not ridiculous I just can’t explain it the way you wish I could–”

“Well you should be able to cause I need explanations–”

“Not everything can be given a logical explanation come on–”

“Yes it can if you try hard enough–”

“I care for you okay!”

His words were loud, much louder than any of his previous words. Their loudness and conviction shut you up right at that moment, your eyes widening, and your lips slightly parted as you stared at him with a look of disbelief in your eyes. 

“I–I Rafe began, running a hand through his messy bangs, and you had to control the urge to run your own fingers through them and gently push them out of his eyes, “I don’t know why, but I just can’t stand the thought of you being hurt, or being sad, or going through any discomfort. I just can’t okay? Each time I see you that way I– I immediately get to solving it cause I can’t bear to see you all troubled. I don’t want to see a single scratch on your skin or– or a single furrow in your brow I just… want to see you happy. Cause you look... so so pretty when you’re smiling, y/n, it’s… it’s unexplainable,”

A silence fell over you two as you let his words sink in you, which was a lot harder than you’d like, but you were doing it. 

“And i just… wish that one day… you’d smile that pretty smile of yours because of me,” He murmured, “because I made you smile,”

You could see Rafe’s own words taking a massive toll on him, just as it was taking on you. You parted your lips to say something but you were just so horribly stumped, you couldn’t utter a single word. 

He ran a ragged hand through his hair once again and stood up, clearing his throat. 

“I should leave now,” He muttered, standing in front of your seated form but not facing you, but instead facing the door. Your own gaze was fixed at the floor, and you could hear your heartbeat thumping loudly in your eyes, his words repeating over and over like a broken record in your mind. 

You didn’t say anything to stop him, so Rafe silently walked out the door, closing it behind himself with a silent click. 

You were left all alone in your living room, Rafe’s weighted words lying heavy on your heart and mind, and the distant noise of his bike’s engine revving a bitter reminder that he wasn’t next to you anymore. 

Just two days later, when you woke up in the morning and looked out your window, you saw your car parked. Not only was the battery replaced, a whole paint job was done, the ripped car seats were replaced with some fancy leather, the tyres were exchanged for upgraded ones, and for a second, you didn’t even recognise your own car. 

You noticed a piece of paper held in place by the windshield wiper, and when you went outside and took the piece of paper and unfolded it, you saw a small phrase scrawled in black against the white of the paper. 

don’t mention it. – R.C.

EPILOGUE  

You let out a deep sigh as you watch him laugh, patting his friend’s arm in the process. A smile of pure contentment crosses your face, watching the rays of the bright, afternoon sun hit his bare skin and making it shine, his muscles seeming more pronounced than ever. 

You watch him turn around and glance at you over his shoulder, his smile wide as he gives you a flying kiss. You can’t help but chuckle at the endearing action, causing you to send one his way too. He lifts up two fingers in the form of a peace sign and gestures to his friend next to him, silently conveying to you that he will be by your side in just two minutes. You give him an understanding nod and watch his head turn back to the front, getting delved into the conversation with his friend again. 

You sip on your drink as you lean your head back, the sound of the boat rushing past the waves of the ocean filling your ear drums deeply. You close your eyes and just listen to the sound of waves, your mind shutting out the chitter chatter of the conversations of the other people on this boat. 

Soon enough you feel the sunlight being blocked and as you open your eyes, you see him standing right in front of you, a smile on his face. The chain around his neck along with the little gold capital letter of your initial hanging from it catches the sunlight and gleams more than it usually does. He sits down next to you and silently wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. You smile as you lean into him, your fingers going immediately to fiddle with the chain, feeling the edges of the cool gold initial under your fingertips. 

You take a glance up at him, running your other hand along the side of his now buzzed head, feeling the short, prickly hair gently tickle your fingers. 

“Are you having a good time so far?” He mutters softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, your head tucking in the crook of his neck. 

“Yeah, yeah I am,” you say quietly, your fingers mindlessly continuing fiddling with the gold initial on his chest. “You?” You ask, slightly lifting your head up from his neck. 

“Oh, the absolute best time,” He says softly, looking down at you with a gentle smile on his face. “We’re on our boat, and I’m with my gorgeous girlfriend, what else could I need?”

You can’t help but softly chuckle at his words, silently shaking your head as you lean your head against his shoulder again and resume fiddling with the chain. You do it often, almost each time you get your hands on him, and he loves it; feeling the occasional brush of your fingers against his skin and the gentle tugs on the chain. 

He allows you to relax against him completely, his arms around you to keep you close to him as you both sit silently, only the sound of the water and the light chatter of your friends accompanying you two. 

“Thank you,” Rafe says softly, his fingertips tracing gentle patterns on your shoulder. 

You furrow your brows at his words, slightly confused, as you look up at him. “What for?” You ask. 

Rafe only keeps on gazing at you, a gentle smile pulling his lips. He quietly shakes his head, and with a gentle pull, he allows you to rest against him again. 

“Nothing.” He stays quiet for a moment. “Everything.” 

Your own lips can’t help but upturn in a small smile too. “Well, in that case…” you murmur, leaning back to look up at him, one hand coming to rest against his cheek as you gently caress the soft skin, and you slowly lean in, pressing your lips to his in a sweet kiss. 

“Thank you,” you mumble softly against his lips. Rafe’s hands grip your waist and he pulls you closer, not letting you pull back from the kiss. His fingers splay across your back as he kisses you, his lips moving in an unhurried, tender motion against yours. 

A moment or so later, he pulls back, his eyes opening by just a fraction. You let your arms hook around Rafe’s neck, keeping him close to you. 

“You’re the only one for me, Rafe,” you mumble quietly. “You’re the only one I’ll ever want.” 

He leans his head against you and takes a deep breath, your scent and the smell of the ocean around you filling his nostrils deeply. 

You both let the moment just simply sink in you, the sun rays bathing you in the warmest light, along with the presence of each other, which might be warmer than the sun any time of the day. 

“Only you, my girl,” he mumbles quietly. “Always and forever.” 

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

taglist: @oxpogues4lifexo / @drewstarkeys-world / @inthelibrarybtw / @mileyraes / @chenslucy / @totalswag / @wearemadeofstardust0 / @percysley / @superswaggycooch / @khaisdrz / @weirdowithnobeardo

specific tags for this fic: @writingmeraki / @ghoslyethastaryn / @congratsloserr / @helloloverz / @littlelamy / @eolsens / @wtfdudesblog / @jkrafe / @onlyrealjoy / @husherstan / @lilithblackkk / @sublimepenguinpeach-blog

tagging some moots: @runningfrom2am / @b1mb0slvt / @nemesyaaa / @ilyrafe / @zyafics / @jjsbank444 / @ladyinbl00d

---

Vi fics keep me alive

— come a little closer

hockey jock!vi x tutor!reader, fluff / humor / angst / kinda slowburn / smut (18+ mdni!), wc: 16k+ [buckle your seatbelts bc i could not shut the fuck up about vi if i wanted to !]

synopsis: you’re many things; an exemplary student, quiet and well-mannered, loved immensely by those who bother to get to know you, but most importantly, the newfound object of superstar athlete vi’s every affection. or, in other words, hockey jock!vi is lowkey a loser, atrociously down bad, and will stop at nothing to make you hers.

content warnings: language (duh), brief mentions of familial issues, latent insecurity, miscommunication & lack of communication, kissing, groping, SEX! mdni, seriously, i’ll THROW UP!, more specifically fingering (r!receiving), oral (r!receiving), spitting, makeup sex idk, just good old fashioned lesbian BANGING! also! jazz cabbage, lets pretend for the sake of this au that student athlete’s don’t get tested bc i NEED hockey jock!vi to hotbox reader PLS.

fic soundtrack: i could imagine —alina baraz /snooze — sza /tonight — summer walker / pressure — james vickery + sg lewis / wish that i could — umi

author’s note: of course it’d be arcane s2 that resurrects me from my almost yearlong hiatus...pls enjoy this fic even though i’m pretty rusty; she’s been cooking in the drafts for weeks T-T i’ll be answering some (very long overdue) asks and chatting with you guys <3 and finally, this shit is barely proofread bc my brain is fried lol

main masterlist | arcane masterlist

VI HAS A HUGE PROBLEM.

One that supersedes every issue she’d ever given weight to in all of her four (and a half) years of university. Is way larger than twice-a-day practices on and off the ice that go hand-in-hand with studying so hard to make sure that her grades don’t slip a fraction. Probably way bigger than the fact that her little sister’s graduating high school soon and she’s trying her absolute best to be as great a role model as she can despite wanting to crack under the pressure. And most definitely bigger than her favorite on-again-off-again fling, Cait Kiramann, whose rare to come by these days.

Vi has a huge problem, and quite frankly, it’s you.

In hindsight, she’s been relatively good at overlooking you, not that it’d been intentional to begin with, but Vi knows a lot of people. Too many, she feels sometimes. So it's easy for you to slip through the cracks when everyone’s vying for even a shred of her attention.

Perhaps it’s what piques her interest when your orbits finally do collide. Because, admittedly, you know all about Vi. Know that she’s probably one of the most valuable players on the uni’s hockey team (she’s an absolute beast on the ice). Also know that she’s a biomedical physics major and actually incredibly smart. But most of all, you know that not only is Violet a flirt, she’s a player.

Not necessarily that you’ve ever really been on the receiving end, but mostly because her reputation precedes her and you’ve seen it all from a distance. Can't not when the decorated hockey star is such a charmer whether she intends to be or not. Vi has girls both certain and questioning stumbling for a single glance.

You often think it’s pitiful, but it’s not like it’s really your problem.

Until it is.

It all starts at The Afterparty.

Hours after a big victory in the first game of three that solidifies whether the university hockey team participates in the championships, Violet is the star of tonight’s celebration.

She’d sunk the winning shot, and for that she’s being poured shot after celebratory shot. By eleven she’s practically hammered and it’s when her teammate, Ellie, and the captain, Abby, finally show up.

The three of them together, drunk, is like a minefield of obnoxious laughter, dirty innuendos, and rowdy behavior.

And for a while it’s funny, has Vi feeling like she’s on cloud nine, but eventually, the drunken high begins to evaporate and she starts to feel a little overwhelmed.

The spotlight shifts and even though Vi typically preens under the attention, she’s grateful to finally breathe.

With a plastic cup full of water, she’s sliding the back door open and stepping out onto the back patio to take in the cool air for a breather.

She makes a move towards the stairs, but nearly jumps out of her skin when she registers the silhouette at the base of the steps.

“Jesus, fuck,” Vi hisses to herself. “You scared the shit outta me.”

You don’t even spare her a glance over your shoulder, just take a sip from your drink.

“Sorry,” you hum passively.

She catches her breath, doesn’t even bother to ask permission as she drops all of her weight next to you.

The step creaks under pure muscle.

Her strong legs stretch out, elbows settling back against the step up as she waits. And waits. And waits.

The amount of silence that lapses is unusual, uncharacteristic for Vi, especially so because people are typically babbling enough to fill the void when it comes to her.

But you just sit there, nursing your beer and staring up at the stars. The moon hangs half in the sky, softly illuminating the planes of your features.

It’s her first good look at your face and Vi’s definitely drunk, but the immediate thought that comes to her mind is pretty, pretty, pretty. Undeniably and painfully pretty. And not Caitlyn pretty, the only girl she’s ever really used as a benchmark, but intimidatingly so in your own right. Makes her swallow hard, throat bobbing as she watches you unapologetically.

“It’s rude to stare, Violet,” you say simply, eyes finally flitting to meet hers.

Her breath catches in her throat, earthy flecks dancing in your moonlit irises. God, your eyes. Framed by thick lashes and round as you look up at her.

“You know who I am?” she asks stupidly as if point fives of her face aren’t blown up into memes and plastered all over the house.

“Who doesn’t?” you ask, breathing a puff of humorless laughter as you crush the can in your ringed fingers.

And perhaps you got her there, but Vi’s feeling exceptionally small under your gaze despite usually filling out a room. Something about you makes her shrink.

“I— fuck,” Vi stumbles, cheeks red because you’re looking at her with an indecipherable gleam in your gaze that has her squirming. “What’s your name?”

She cringes at herself, rolls the piercing in her nose once, twice, for comfort.

You laugh again, a little more genuine this time because, from a distance, the athlete’s usually so suave, undeniably gorgeous and composed. Right now, the girl in front of you only ticks one of those boxes.

“________,” you offer.

She weighs the name on her tongue, decides she likes it a lot, and tries to shake off whatever this feeling you’re giving her is.

“And you go to school here?” she asks.

You nod once.

“Neuroscience, fourth year.”

“Huh, we’re in similar fields, but I’ve never seen you around,” Vi observes. Because she’s certain she’d bookmark a face like yours, absolutely no doubt about it.

“We had organic chemistry together sophomore year with Dr. Talis,” you say matter-of-factly, like you’re not blowing her mind right now. “And I’m auditing Medarda’s biometry class this semester.”

Vi’s floored.

“Wait, wait, but...” She’s trying to piece the puzzle together, but her brain’s still a little fuzzy, equal parts from the alcohol, but also because she’s caught a whiff of your perfume and you smell so sweet.

“I pop in every once in a while,” you tell her. “But I tutor in that time slot every Tuesday and Thursday, only really go when I don’t have any appointments.”

“Hold on, this is nuts,” Violet says, body easing to face you. You flinch because she doesn’t realize she’s practically yelling. “There’s no way, I definitely would’ve remembered you if that was the case.”

You hum, corners of your lips quirking as you shrug your shoulders.

“Doubt it,” you counter. “I’m nothing particularly spectacular.”

“Nothing particularly spectacular,” Vi repeats under her breath.

And under normal circumstances, she’d be flirting up a storm right now, trying to charm her way into getting you to bite, but this is one of the first semblances of normalcy she’s experienced in a while. No ulterior motives, no exaggerated kindness, no outright asking her to fuck.

Suddenly your phone lights up in your lap and you’re turning your attention to the device.

“DD duties call,” is all you say as you make a move to stand up.

No, this can’t be all she gets from you tonight. Not when she’s been narrowly missing someone like you for the past four years and you’re just now coming to light.

The dormant liquid courage bubbles and Vi’s gently grabbing your wrist to pull you to a stop.

“Maybe I’ll see you around?” she asks, steely eyes liquid as she stares up at you.

You eye the scar on her lip, gaze lingering there before flitting to meet hers.

“Maybe.”

Vi decides that she needs to see you again.

You’d left her with crumbs this past Friday night and she’d spent the better part of the weekend trying (and failing) to cross paths with you again.

“Jesus, you’re down bad,” Ellie chuffs Monday morning on their walk to the campus coffee shop.

“You don’t understand,” Vi defends. “She’s so...so...”

“So?”

“Different, I dunno,” Vi sighs, fiddling with the strap of her backpack as they walk. “We didn’t even talk about much, but that was the most normal I’ve felt around someone in a while.”

Her teammate snorts.

“Probably the gayest thing I’ve heard you say,” Ellie deadpans. “She isn’t immediately trying to munch and you’re already in love. Pathetic.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Vi scoffs as they approach the coffee shop, inside packed full with half-functioning college students so early in the morning. “Trust me, if you met her, you’d—”

The words die in her throat because halle-fucking-lujah, the universe or god, or whatever has answered her every prayer this past weekend as she clocks you a few paces ahead in line.

Ellie follows her friend’s line of vision to find exactly what she’s staring at and she lets out a low whistle when her gaze finds your frame.

From a completely aesthetic standpoint, she can see why Vi’s immediately hooked.

“Hah,” she makes a noise in her throat. “Okay, so maybe it makes sense.”

Vi can’t help but stare because, if it were possible, you were far prettier under the warm lighting of the cafe’s ambiance. The curls of your hair frame your face beautifully and it’s so fucking cute how focused you are on your phone.

“Hate to break it to you, though. That girl’s way out of your league,” Ellie says like it’s common knowledge.

“Wow, way to boost my ego,” Vi mutters drily.

“Just being realistic,” Ellie argues. “If you bag her, she’s easily the hottest girl you’ve been with.”

And Vi can’t really contest that, not when the proof’s in the fucking pudding.

Her body’s moving of its own accord and before she can register her own actions, she’s mumbling quiet s’cuse me’s under her breath as she squeezes between patrons to close a bruised hand over your shoulder.

You nearly jump out of your skin, fumbling with your phone as an earbud falls out.

“Shit, sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” Vi says quickly.

Your gaze snaps to her, brows furrowing almost imperceptibly before your expression settles.

“Violet,” you acknowledge.

And she realizes that she didn’t really have a game plan coming up to you so abruptly. Had been so focused on actually just seeing you again, that she hadn’t thought through the rest of it.

The way you stare up at her is thoroughly disarming because she doesn’t have the shield of night or alcoholic courage to carry her through it.

“Can I help you?” you ask, but not unkindly.

“Oh, uh, I...” She chances a glance over her shoulder to find that Ellie is watching her from a few customers away, eyebrow cocked and smirk testing. She word vomits before she can think of a coherent thought. “You mentioned tutoring...the last time we talked.”

You don’t even bat an eye.

“I did.”

“You’re also auditing Medarda’s biometry class.”

“I am.”

“I’m...I’m not really doing too hot in Medarda’s right now,” Vi says, brain nearly short-circuiting and freezing up because, lie! She’s doing phenomenally in Medarda’s session and, truthfully, she’s just downright scared to ask you to hang out.

Especially when you look up at her like that.

You shift and she’s swallowing down around nothing.

“Hmm, can’t have that, can we?” you hum.

Vi could melt.

“No,” she breathes out a laugh. “Can’t.”

“You can sign up for a slot through the library’s website,” you say after you weigh the thought.

Vi’s pausing, staring at you like a deer caught in the headlights.

“So I can get paid?” you fill in.

“Oh, right,” Vi chokes. “Right.”

You give her a soft smile before plugging your earbud back in, leaving Vi to rejoin her obviously amused friend.

“You’re fucking joking!”

The librarian gives you and your incredulous roommate a look from the circulation desk and you return it with a sheepish smile from where you’re tucked by a wall of looming floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Maddie,” you whisper.

“You’re telling me that The Violet asked you personally to tutor her?” Maddie asks you, leaned over the tabletop with wide eyes.

“Yeah, cornered me at Brew House this morning and asked me to tutor her in Medarda’s class.”

“Just that?” she asks. “Nothing else?”

You look around in disbelief.

“Uh, yeah?” you scoff. “What else would she want?”

“What else would she— are you serious?” Maddie leans back in her seat, arms crossing over her chest as she gives you a plain look. “You know all about Vi, you’re actually gonna play stupid?”

“Oh, come on.” You roll your eyes. “You’ve seen the girls Violet’s fucked, right? Kiramann? The blonde from the tennis team? She’s got a type and you know it.”

It’s Maddie’s turn to roll her eyes and you see the exasperated groan she’s staving off.

“None of that self-deprecating bullshit—”

“It’s not self-deprecating!” you argue. “Not everyone wants to fuck Violet, Maddie. Put me in the number one spot.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Don’t start.”

“All I’m saying is that anyone with eyes can see that Vi’s hot as fuck. That being said, you’re also hot as fuck. Not only that, but rumor has it, she gives the most toe-curling—”

You’re rolling your eyes again, gaze fluttering out the window momentarily only to find that, speak of the devil, Violet’s approaching the library with a skip in her step.

Maddie stops her spiel to trace your gaze and nearly falls out of her seat when she finds the object of your conversation is advancing, fast.

“No fucking way,” you whisper to yourself, pulling up your tutoring log on your tablet to find that, yup, Violet has most-definitely taken your advice and signed up for a tutoring slot.

If the time reads correctly, you’ve got three minutes before she’s due to be taking Maddie’s seat.

Your friend is grinning at you mischievously, stuffing her backpack quickly to vacate the space across from you.

“Un-fucking-believable,” you scoff, slumping back in your seat.

“Tell me how it goes,” she giggles, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she stands.

“Maddie,” you warn.

“Love you, see you at home!”

Violet’s strolling into the library just as Maddie leaves through the other doors and try as you might make yourself small in the open air near the research center, her gaze falls on you as soon as she enters.

“Hey,” she breathes once breaches your vicinity.

“Hi.”

A moment lapses before you’re nodding towards the seat before you.

“We can get started whenever you’re ready.”

Right. Right! Vi’s mentally cringing, pulling the chair out with a squeak and dropping onto the worn cushion.

Her eyes are locked, watching as you pull the biometry textbook from your little messenger bag.

“Any particular areas you’re struggling in?” you ask, flipping to a clean sheet of paper in your notepad and clicking open your pen.

Vi combs her brain, tries to think of anything she’s not really grasping in Medarda’s class, but she’s been acing all the exams with flying colors, so she spits out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Logistic regression, probably,” she answers.

“In relation to...?” You tilt your head and Vi’s breath is hitching.

“The Confusion Matrix,” she answers, even though she knows all about it.

It’s only when you start breaking it down from the bare bones that she realizes that she could listen to you talk for-probably-ever.

You obviously have a great understanding of the subject if the way you deconstruct the relationship between sensitivity and specificity (or whatever the fuck) is anything to go by, and she doesn’t realize that she hasn’t even blinked until you’re glancing up at her.

“Am I making any sense?” you ask softly, taking in the almost confused look on Violet’s face.

“Huh?”

Vi snaps out of it, cheeks coloring pink when she notes the way you straighten in your seat.

“Am I going too fast?”

“No, no!’ Vi practically shouts before chancing an embarrassed gaze around the library to find a few wandering eyes. She clears her throat and tries to relax. “No, you’re doing great. I get it.”

You don’t seem convinced, but the faster you get through the material, the faster Violet can leave and you can finally catch your breath.

Because maybe Maddie’s a little right. That while you know, one hundred percent, without-a-doubt, that you and Violet are cut from two different cloths and that you ultimately won’t mesh, there’s still a sliver of want that settles somewhere confined in the pit of your gut.

You don’t know how long you continue before you notice that sun has begun to set in the horizon, but Vi’s effort is unwavering. She’s probably on her tenth practice problem by now and so far, she’s only flubbed once.

You decide to fold your cards first.

“O-kay,” you say, sucking in a sharp breath as you roll your shoulders and squeeze your hands shut so tight your knuckles crack. “This is a good stopping point, don’t you think?”

No, Vi could keep going forever if it meant hearing you talk all night, but the little G-shock wristwatch winks the time and she realizes that the two of you have been going at it for going on two hours and you’re probably exhausted.

“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you so long,” Vi says sheepishly. “Thanks a lot for your help, I...”

You look up from where you’re shuffling your papers together, pausing when she hesitates.

“I really appreciate you. I know you probably help dozens of people every week and—”

She stops talking when she sees you crack what seems to be the first genuine smile she could get out of you since Friday.

“It’s my job, Violet,” you tell her. “I’m happy to help.”

And she’d done well enough during the tutoring session, had a successful run with the practice problems. You were confident it was just a one and done. Perhaps served as a review for the upcoming exam Medarda had posted on the class page.

But then you see her name in the final time slot on Thursday, don’t really think much of it until you’re tabbing to next week’s schedule for shits and giggles. Tuesday and Thursday are booked through again, her name highlighted in yellow.

You minimize the calendar and pull up the aggregate schedule only to find that every 4 o’clock slot every Tuesday and Thursday’s been booked until the end of the semester.

You refresh for good measure.

“Oh, you’re so shitting me.”

You don’t know what kind of joke this is, if Violet thinks that this is funny, but you’re not amused.

Especially when you’re stalking all the way to the athletic hall, ignoring the wolfish stares from shameless student athletes to whip into the women’s hockey team’s reserved conditioning space.

You find her benching near the center of the room, Abigail Anderson spotting her while the rest of the team engages in various workouts and exercises.

A hush ripples over the weight room as you approach the hockey star, standing at the end of the bench where her knees are bent. One of Abigail Anderson’s eyebrows quirk up as you stand there with your hands on your hips and you hope the chill that runs down your spine as she checks you out doesn’t visibly vibrate your body.

When the barbell nearly crushes Vi’s chest on her last rep, Abby’s quick to help her re-rack and takes the biggest step back as Vi sits up.

Her expression falls and her face pales when she locks eyes with you, your features severe and gaze stony.

“Oh, hey,” she squeaks.

Truthfully, she hadn’t really pinned you as the type to be confrontational. Thought she’d have enough time to build a strong enough story as to why she booked out all of your tutoring sessions when in actuality she panicked when Ellie started grilling the fuck out of her about being a fucking pussy and begging her to just ask you out.

“You have some explaining to do, Violet.”

And she should definitely be embarrassed, not at all turned on, but she can’t help it as she gulps. Because when you stand before her like this, she can easily admit that she’d die for a private version of the view.

The silence in the weight room is palpable and you want to back down, but if this is some running joke and Vi’s going to make a show of humiliating you in front of her teammates, then you’d give her a show.

“Violet.”

Someone in the back snickers, another whistles, and Vi’s cheeks go red.

She’s standing, sweaty hands closing around your biceps as she spins you around and quickly guides you out of the conditioning room and out of her teammates’ line of ogling sight.

“V—”

“I’m sorry,” Violet splutters. “I’m just not really confident in Medarda’s class right now and I don’t trust myself to study alone, plus you’re a really good tutor and—”

“You do realize that those tutoring sessions are added to your tuition, right?” you ask incredulously. “It’s fifteen dollars an hour.”

Vi’s smile is crooked.

“That’s what my scholarship’s for,” she grins.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit excessive?” you try again. “I feel that before an exam for a little refresh is fair, but this would be like relearning the material after every class, all over again.”

“If it’s taught by you, I’ll take it,” Vi says quickly, and you pause because what does she mean by that?

You don’t really have much rebuttal left even though you’d marched up here with a fire under your ass. Vi’s looking down at you with a softened edge in her gaze and she’s wearing nothing but a pair of black sweatpants and sweat-soaked grey tank that reveals swathes of ink that curls up her arms and disappears under the fabric of her shirt.

She breathes out a small laugh when she notices the way your eyes dance.

“Anymore concerns, cupcake?”

Your gaze snaps to hers and her grin widens when she sees you fidget, little pet name obviously eliciting a semblance of a reaction from you.

“N-No,” you stammer.

“Great, see you tomorrow?“

You swallow.

“Okay,” you agree. “See you tomorrow.”

Violet pops into the library at four on the dot.

Her hair’s wet from an obvious shower and you smell her, warm like honey and cedar as she takes the seat across from you.

“Afternoon, cupcake,” she greets, slinging her backpack into the seat next to her.

You give her a warning look, but she just flashes you a toothy smile and nods towards the opened biometry textbook before you.

“What’s the lesson today, Teach?”

And this feels an awful lot like mocking, but you can’t be sure, not when Vi’s been somewhat respectful, sweet even.

“What do you know about the the sigmoid function?” you probe.

“Jack shit,” she laughs.

And maybe you’d find it endearing if the entirety of the situation wasn’t still absolutely mindfucking you at moment.

“Can I ask you something, Violet?” you ask, leaning back in your seat as you cross your arms to level her with as an intimidating look as you can.

“Sure, anything.”

“Are you messing with me?” you ask. “Is this some joke you and your friends are playing? Because I can’t really think of an outcome that would be funny.”

And you’d like to say that the look of horror on Violet’s face is consolation enough, but you know how being loved and being popular can make people act sometimes.

Vi contemplates telling you the truth, that she’s too chickenshit to ask you out, that getting close to you in any other way scares the fuck out of her. That maybe getting you to tutor her will segue into some form of friendship that’ll allow her to ease her way in. And maybe she’s going about it the hard way, but maybe Vi also likes a challenge.

“No jokes, just bad at statistics,” she says weakly.

You’re silent for way longer than comfort allows before you turn your attention to the textbook and Vi’s letting out a breath she doesn’t realize she’s holding.

“Fine,” you give in. “Let’s talk about sigmoid function and practice some applications...”

Vi’s happy to listen, goes through your preselected practice problems with ease (and maybe fucks up a value or two here and there to really sell her need for you). But the sun’s going down again, and it’s nearing six when Vi folds her hand this time around.

It comes in the form of her stomach grumbling in the emptying library and she looks up at you in embarrassment as you crack the first smile of the evening.

“Hungry?” you ask.

“Starving,” she replies dramatically, leaning so far back in her seat, her knees bump yours under the table.

Your toes curl at the contact, heart skipping when she doesn’t make a move to reposition herself.

“Have you eaten yet?” she asks, eyes looking everywhere but yours.

“Not since breakfast,” you admit.

“You like pizza?”

“Only the good kind,” you challenge.

“Beautiful,” Vi hums, shuffling her papers into her textbook and chucking it back into her bookbag. “I know the best place.”

Valentino’s is a hole-in-the-wall right outside of campus, a short walk from the library that Violet leverages as a way to get to know you outside of being lectured about statistical curves and correlation.

“Did you grow up around here?” Vi asks once the waiter sets two glasses of water down between the two of you.

You shake your head.

“No, grew up on the east coast and decided I needed a break from my life there,” you admit easily.

It’s almost as if the facade of professionalism fades away, melting to reveal you.

Vi’s desperate for more.

“As in?”

You look at her for a moment, wonder if you should divulge because you’re not really sure if Vi would get it, but she watches you like she’s hanging onto every single word you say, so you’re spilling.

“My dad died when I was little, left me and three other siblings with my Mom,” you offer. “And I love my siblings. Love my mom. She’s been a great parent, better than great actually, but most of our family disowned me when I came out and it was easier to run away than to deal with it.”

Violet’s expression falls, a furrow settling deep between her brows.

“Wow, I’m, uh, I’m really sorry to hear that,” she says, and she sounds sincere. A long moment lapses before she’s adding, “for what it’s worth, I think that’s very brave of you.”

And you seem a little surprised at the sentiment.

“Thanks.” You smile. “That’s sweet of you to say.”

Vi could turn to goo in this dimly lit booth, stained-glass wall sconce casting a warm glow over your pretty face.

“You—” She sniffs, changes the subject because she doesn’t know if she can do this on an empty stomach. “You like pineapple on your pizza?”

“Oh yeah,” you confirm proudly. “It’s a hill I’ll die on, I’m not sorry.”

“God, marry me now.”

She doesn’t realize she says it out loud until you’re bursting into a fit of laughter on your side of the booth.

“So this is something we can agree on?” you ask, head tilting in the way that makes Vi want to grab your face and taste you.

“Oh yeah,” she parrots instead. “One hundred percent.”

Valentino’s becomes routine just as much as Vi seeing you at four every Tuesday and Thursday becomes routine. It’s always after the Thursday session (because they have a three dollar slice from 6 to close) that you and Vi cram yourselves in the same booth near the kitchen and giggle over half a Hawaiian pizza.

“...And my little sister blew up her science project in the fourth grade—”

You choke on your bite, eyes wide as Violet recalls Powder’s little mishap that sent the entire gymnasium evacuating despite the tiniest fire.

“Now she’s about graduate and start school for chemical engineering,” she says, obviously proud.

“She seems like a smart girl,” you observe, if the countless stories Violet shares with you is anything to go by.

You figure being related to someone as great as the new friend you’ve made also speaks for itself.

“The smartest,” she agrees. “I’m proud of her.”

“I’m sure she’s proud of you too,” you assure her. “You’re a good big sister.”

And it’s in these moments that Vi realizes that she’s in far, far deeper than she initially gave stock. Because these past few weeks, she realizes that there’s a lot more to your big brain and your pretty face. You’re an attentive listener, way funnier than she could have anticipated, and just a lot more laid back than you let on.

That much she finds out after the two of you graduate from emailing with silly sign-offs to exchanging phone numbers and texting. It starts off rather irregular, a coffee order here and there, maybe a TikTok that Vi swears is funny, you just have to watch it all the way through! But then she starts texting you when she’s bored, when she’s in class, before practice, after. Even pops the question that’s been niggling at her since she met you: on a scale from 1 - 10 how down are you to smoke?

Like cigarettes?

no, weed, dummy.

Oh. Hmm. 7. 10 if I’m drunk.

She could not wipe the smile from her face even if she tried.

And then she gets the invite.

Ellie swears it’s her in.

“Jesus Christ if you even consider me a friend, you’ll bang,” Ellie calls from the couch.

“It’s just tutoring,“ Vi argues.

“Yeah, at her place,” she scoffs. “At least test the waters, maybe cop a feel.”

“You’re a pig,” Vi snorts, making sure her laptop and all of the worksheets Medarda’s assigned over the course of the week is in her backpack.

“You’ve been wet dreaming over this girl for months.”

“Fuck all the way off.” Vi’s face warms because her best friend isn’t necessarily wrong.

You’re too hot for your own good, but you don’t even know it and Vi thinks she could die sometimes. Especially when you wear your favorite pair of jeans, the ones that hug the swell of your ass just right. Or swipe on that shimmery lipgloss she swears makes your mouth look edible.

If you were willing, Vi would be all over you, but thinking about taking advantage of the fact that you trust her enough to invite her into your space feels a little grimy.

“Whatever, bang, don’t bang,” Ellie says nonchalantly. “Blueball yourself for all I care.”

Vi rolls her eyes, slings her bag over her shoulder before sliding on her shoes and leaving her friend on the couch with a resounding click.

You live off-campus, maybe a ten minute drive, in a cozy little complex near the suburbs. Your roommate, Maddie, a chipper blonde with a bob, is all too eager to leave when Vi arrives.

“Hi, sorry we couldn’t meet anywhere else,” you apologize as you let her into your space. “Even if the library wasn’t closed, the vet said I have to monitor Pip for the next 48 hours.”

Vi raises a brow.

“My cat,” you clarify.

“Oh.” Vi doesn’t know why she suddenly feels like she’s intruding as she hesitantly toes off her shoes and follows you down the hall.

But she does take the opportunity to take you in in all your glory; all cozy and cuddly in an oversized sweatshirt, plaid pajama shorts and mismatched egg socks.

Cute. So fucking cute.

You spare her a glance over your shoulder and she’s clearing her throat.

“We don’t have to have a session tonight," she says, stopping at the threshold of the living room. “I would’ve understood if you had to cancel.”

You shake your head, give her a soft smile that has her knees feel like jelly.

“S’okay,” you assure her. “A promise is a promise.”

And you do start off studying, shoulder to shoulder in front of your coffee table, but then Pip crawls from his little hiding spot under the TV console to curiously nose along Vi’s feet and she’s a goner.

“He’s so sweet,” she practically wails as he paws at her thigh and nudges against her arm so that he can climb into her lap.

You warm at the sight, can’t help but snap a picture, much to Violet’s dismay.

“Stop,” she laughs. “That picture can’t see the light of day.”

“Why?” you whine, making a show of climbing onto your wooden coffee table to get a funny top down photo of the hockey star with your cat. “You and Pip look so cute together.”

She feigns a scowl even though her shoulders shake with laughter.

“I have a bad boy image to uphold, sweetheart.”

You snort, reach into her lap to scratch behind Pip’s ear, and her heart melts, body warm from her ears to her toes.

“Is he sick?” she asks cautiously, petting him softly.

“Just a little,” you say. “Something some rest and medicine won’t fix.”

It’s how the two of you end up on the couch, study materials long forgotten as Animal Planet plays in the background. Pip’s moved to lounge atop the covers draped over your lap and you’re blowing your nose into a tissue as an especially sad segment about baby animals being rejected by their mothers finishes.

Vi knows she shouldn’t laugh, but you’re too fucking cute and she can’t help but coo at you.

“You can’t tell anyone about this,” you hiccup.

“What, that you’re a big soft baby?” she teases.

“Vi,” you whimper.

And something in her brain tickles because she can’t recall a time you’d ever called her by her nickname, only ever referred to her as Violet and nothing else.

She resists a smile.

“Okay, okay,” she gives in. “Lets change the subject.”

You make a noise of agreement as you cuddle your sleepy Pip.

“I actually wanted to ask you something,” she says, arm slung over the back of the couch, fingers a hairsbreadth from your figure.

Test the waters, cop a feel.

Vi’s not particularly into the idea, but the opportunity’s right there in the way wisps of your hair falls from its hold. Her fingers move of their own device, tucking the strands behind your ear.

She feels you still for the slightest, most imperceptible of moments, but then you’re relaxing, letting her fingers brush from your ear down to your shoulder, then back to where it rests on the back of the couch.

“You doing anything on Saturday?” she asks, really hopes you’ll say no.

“Not that I know of,” you say without second thought.

Not that you really need to. Your tight circle of friends are all alike, tethered to their hobbies and their homes.

“I have a game on Saturday,” Vi starts, fiddling with a little hole in the cushion. “If you wanted to come.”

You don’t agree or disagree immediately, and Vi’s scrambling to soothe over any potential discomfort.

“You don’t have to if you don’t wanna, of course,” she says quickly. “I just— I thought you might be interested in going and I’d really like to see you there and—”

A small little laugh puffs from your lips.

“Of course I’ll go,” you agree easily.

Vi deflates in relief.

“Great,” she sighs. “Awesome.”

Vi doesn’t know why she invites you. More so, she doesn’t know why she tells her teammates that she’s invited you because now they’re whooping and hollering in the locker room, towel-whipping her and sing-songing that their star player’s gonna get laid.

Doesn’t know why she invites you because as soon as she glides on the ice, she’s searching the stands high and low for your familiar figure. When she clocks you nestled in the middle with your roommate and another friend she vaguely recognizes, her heart’s soaring and her stomach’s twisting in knots.

Vi’s never nervous, but somehow you bring out the worst of it.

It only takes a few moments, though. The blare of the horn snaps her back into her zone and she leaves all the noise off-rink. In this moment, all she knows is cutting ice, dodging the other team’s most aggressive players and sinking shot after shot.

It’s nearing the end of the second period when she finally glances at the score.

5—4.

The opposing team’s giving them a run for their money and this is probably one of the tightest matches they’ve played all season. She takes a moment to find you in the stands again, and you’re right where she left you, eyes already glued to her as you hover over the edge of your seat.

She hadn’t realized it before, but you’ve got her number painted on her face and another surge of warmth layers over the exertion.

You give her a thumbs up and she feels like lightning.

They reset and she’s off, like a streak of light in the night sky, she’s shuffling the puck towards the goal.

Then you see the navy uniform barreling towards her, voice caught in your throat as Vi gives the puck one last shot before that damned Jersey Number Six shoves her so hard, she’s flinging into the rink’s wall.

The horn chugs, signaling the end of the second period and the stands erupt in a ceremonious cheer as the playback reveals that Vi had sunk the puck before time.

“Fuck yeah!” you cry out, shooting to your feet to clap your hands.

Vi ignores the instigating chants to fight, only really pays attention to your little dance of excitement as she shakes off the other player and rejoins her team for intermission.

“Fuck, Vi, you got it bad, huh?” Abigail Anderson’s spearheading the teasing once they all return to the locker room at the end of the game.

Vi’s body heats at the thought, isn’t really in the business of denying it anymore, because, you know what? Yeah. Vi’s got it so fucking bad for you, she doesn’t even know what to do with herself. You’re her first thought, her final prayer, and everything in between.

So all she does he shrug, can’t help the grin that splits her lips as she rubs her towel through her sweat-damp hair.

She’s the first one out of the locker room, dressed in some sweats and a pullover, towel slung around her neck as she steps into the tunnel. Your contact’s pulled up, and she’s ready to fire off a text asking where you want her to meet you, but she stops short to see you already leaned outside of the change room’s doors.

“Hey, cupcake,” she murmurs, smiling hard when she finds the smudged number 5 still chalked on your face.

“Hi, Violet,” you return shyly, hands clasped behind your back.

She hears the telltale whoosh of the locker room doors, the chattering of her teammates as they poke their heads out into the hall to be nosy, but she’s guiding you along, throwing a wink over her shoulder as the two of you fall into step.

“Thank you for coming,” Vi says after a moment. “You being here really meant a lot to me.”

You don’t know if Vi’s always been this sentimental, but just never given the opportunity to showcase it, or if she’s just buttering you up, but you can’t help but beam at her with pearly teeth and dimpled cheeks.

“God, Violet, you were so good!” you say excitedly, a little skip in your step. “You were in the rink, skating circles around them, like this, and like this.”

She bursts into laughter as you start speeding down the tunnel, dodging garbage bins and jumping up into the air to click your heels.

Something falls out of your little fannypack when you land, and Vi’s crouching down to pick up the tulle baggie to find a little beaded bracelet with a gold clasp that reads puck off.

“What’s this?” Vi asks, and you stop your shenanigans to turn your attention to her.

When your expression falters and you’re running back to her at full speed, she’s holding the baggie up just a little too out of reach for you, grin smug.

“Is this for me, sweetheart?” she asks presumptuously, even though her heart’s thrumming hard in her ribcage.

You’re on your tiptoes, chest pressed against hers, and god, please! is all Vi can think when your head tilts up, a little defeated knit between your eyebrows.

She milks the fuck out of whatever this is, arm banding around your waist as she returns the baggie to you.

“Maybe,” you whisper finally.

“Maybe what?” Vi teases.

“Maybe it’s for you,” you respond, free hand coming to rest on her chest.

“And what do I have to do to get it?” she asks, voice low.

It makes your body jolt hard as a shiver slinks down your spine because there she is, the insufferable flirt who knows exactly what to say to have your brain turn to mush.

You seem like you’re contemplating for a moment and Vi’s breath is hitching in her throat, wondering if you’re willing to play this cat and mouse game with her.

You smile, something glinting in your warm eyes.

“Puck off.”

Your giggle is maniacal as you slip away, leaving her temporarily stunned before she chases you down the tunnel. And she should expect your speed, especially because you’ve got legs, but it takes her a moment to catch up with you when her practice bag’s thumping on her back like that. Her calloused fingers are closing around the flesh of your hips in no time and she’s pulling you back into her arms.

“Cough it up, sweetheart,” she huffs.

You whine.

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” you counter.

“Gimme, gimme, gimme.”

And you give in because Violet’s made you weak. She’s holding out her wrist as you free the multi-colored bracelet.

You barely clasp the closure in the ring before Violet’s stumbling into you, a big burly girl from the other team shoulder checking the fuck out of her.

“Nice job standing in the middle of the walk way,” she bites.

Violet only snorts a laugh.

“Whatever, good game,” she calls.

Whoever she is, stops, levels Vi with a deadly look before her gaze flits to the bracelet you’ve just fixed around her wrist to you who stands frozen into place as the tension crackles between them.

“Cute,” she observes and your skin prickles. “Let me take her for a spin?”

“Violet,” you warn when her shoulders square and she takes a step forward.

She looks torn between walking away and beating the shit out of whoever this instigator is, but one of her teammates is shoving her along.

“Leave it.”

Whatever that was shatters the moment between the two of you and Vi’s taking in a deep breath as Abby trails behind the two of you.

The girl whistles for good measure and you throw a dirty look over your shoulder.

She winks.

You’ve still yet to find out who hosts these parties, but this time around gives you a weird sense of deja vu as you climb the steps with Maddie in tow.

You and Vi had parted ways at the rink, not before extending you an invite to the celebration later in the evening.

You should come, I can pick you up.

But per usual, DD duties call, and you’d smiled up at her despite the lingering pressure from the prior confrontation and promised her that yes, you’d absolutely be there.

Maddie squeals from the step below as you climb the front porch, breaths coming out in puffs of steam.

“You look so hot,” she says excitedly.

You giggle nervously, sure hope you do because you’re freezing your ass off!

“Yeah?”

Maddie gives you an incredulous look, eyelids powdered with glitter and gaze lined charcoal. She’s looking extra cute tonight too and you know that the two of you could fall into an endless cycle of teasing because a certain someone’s probably inside tonight.

“If she doesn’t fuck you before the night ends, I will,” Maddie teases, and you’re warming unceremoniously at the thought.

Because maybe you’ve been thinking about it a lot more recently despite only going into this trying to get through these tutoring sessions and dipping. Especially as of late now that Vi’s made it a habit to FaceTime you after practice, on your walk to the library, dripping sweat and chest heaving.

You’d always seen the appeal, but now you feel it.

You smooth down your asymmetrical skirt and Maddie steps up to adjust your tits in your lowcut lace blouse just as the door swings open to reveal none other than Violet.

“Oh—” Her voice catches as she takes you in.

Maddie gives your ass a little swat and Vi’s gaze is following the movement as your roommate pushes past her to slip inside.

“I was— I was just about to step out. To, uh, to call you,” she stammers.

You breath out a little laugh.

“Here I am.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Here you are.”

Jesus, fuck Vi could burst into flames right now. Your boots hug your thighs and Violet’s not gonna lie, she really wishes it were her head squeezed between—

“You look...” Hot, so fucking edible, downright fuck— “...really nice.”

You smile, but you can’t help the way your teeth chatters.

“Fuck, shit, you’re probably cold,” she curses, warm hands closing around your shoulders to pull you inside. “Why didn’t you wear a jacket? You’re gonna get sick.”

I wanted you to want me.

“Guess I just forgot,” you say quietly.

She looks like she wants to scold you, but instead, she’s pulling down her coat, a big black work jacket, hanging from the banister of the stairs around your shoulders and you’re relishing the residual warmth that lingers there and her familiar scent.

“Can I get you a cider?” she asks. “It’s still warm.”

It hits you as her fingers curl through yours, that Vi’s truly nothing like what you initially thought. She’s sweet, and she’s respectful, and she’s everything you could ever hope for.

You freeze at the thought, and Vi’s glancing at you when she’s tugged to a stop.

“You okay?” she hums.

Your eyes search her face, gliding over the scar on her lip and the one slit through her eyebrow. The gold hoop pierced through her nose glints under the lowlight and her thick lashes flutter as she looks down at you.

You give her a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes because wow, you’re in deep.

“I’m okay,” you assure her, give her fingers a squeeze for good measure.

When she finally secures you a mug of steaming cider, she’s guiding you to her group of friends that occupy the living room.

You only recognize Ellie, her best friend and her roommate, and Abby, the captain. Everyone else is a jumbled mix of names and faces and you stick close to Vi as she settles into the left corner of the couch.

You make a move to sit on the armrest, legs crossed and hands folded around your mug, but Vi’s spreading her legs and pulling you into her lap before you can effectively protest.

Her warmth immediately engulfs you and it takes every ounce of self control not to curl up into a ball in front of all her friends and classmates.

As they recap the game and catch up with each other, you remain hushed, eyes flitting from person to person as they speak. Toes curling whenever Violet’s voice vibrates in her chest as she talks big about sports and the hot teams this season.

You’re caught off caught when Ellie’s directing a question towards you and you barely register.

“What do you like to do?” she asks you.

All eyes audibly shift to where you’re cozied up in Vi’s lap, cider empty and abandoned on the side table.

“Uh.”

Your words are lodged in your throat because you’re so used to talking Vi’s ear off about your interests (namely, Animal Planet and your son Pip), showing her your little craft projects you like to do in front of the television on a weekend evening (you’d taken a break from the scarf / hat combo you were knitting to finish the bracelet you designed for Vi), and yapping about some obscure film you’d watched while finishing said projects.

But here, now, you don’t know what to say. Not when this isn’t your typical crowd and you don’t know what to expect from her friends.

Vi must feel your hesitation because her digits are slipping into her jacket, fingertips ghosting the small of your back as she presses a palm against your spine to smooth the tension there.

It’s okay, is a silent insinuation.

You give her a look from the corner of your eye before you turn your attention back to Ellie.

“I don’t do much,” you offer honestly. “Just starting my old cat lady duties early, I suppose.”

Ellie laughs benevolently.

“You have a cat?”

“Yes, his name’s Pip, and he’s basically my kid.”

“Cute,” Ellie coos. “You got any pictures?”

And you seem to light up, spare Vi one more glance as you dig in her coat pocket to produce your cellphone, charms jangling as you power it back on to show Ellie the lockscreen.

“I contemplated naming him Toothless from—”

“—How To Train Your Dragon!” Abby fills in from across the couch. “That’s such a good ass movie.”

It warms Vi to the bone, seeing you and her friends nerd out. Seeing them put in the effort because they know she likes you and seeing you reciprocate because, well, you’re you, and you just need a little warming up.

She doesn’t know how long you and her friends chat for until you’re shifting a little and turning your attention back to her.

“Can you show me the bathroom, please?”

Her gaze flits to her circle, and they’re smirking, obviously under the impression that this must be some sort of code the two of you concocted.

She ignores them, and most importantly she ignores the way her pulse jumps when you stand from your seat and perch between her legs, offering both of your neatly manicured hands to her.

This is getting fucking ridiculous.

The bathroom is tucked under the stairs near the front of the house and she stands post outside the door as you finish up.

It’s only when you’re poking your head outside the door sheepishly that she stands up straight.

“Can you help me with my zipper?” you ask timidly.

She puffs a laugh, slips in through the space you crack for her to find you holding the two sides of your skirt together.

And she knows she shouldn’t look, but the space allows her to see the pink lace of your panties. She’s shoving her tongue in her cheek, focusing on lining up the seams and pulling up your zipper as you hold the fabric taut.

“Thanks,” you whisper, looking up to see that Vi’s impossibly close to you in this cramped little powder room.

“Anytime, sweetheart,” she croaks, leaning against the counter as you wash your hands.

She thumbs the hem of your skirt absently.

“I like this,” she admits, gaze trailing up to meet yours. “You look pretty.”

Your ears burn, unable to meet the smolder of her steely eyes. You’d probably find that her pupils are blown wide if you did. Instead, you’re watching her mouth, lips stained cherry and tongue coming out to wet the dry patch.

You hold your breath as you reach across her for the hand towel, but her hands find your hips, teetering into dangerous territory as she moves almost close enough to slip her hands under your skirt.

“You’re not gonna say thank you?” she asks, watching you through hooded eyes.

A nervous giggle bubbles.

“Thanks, Violet,” you murmur.

“‘Course,” she agrees easily. “You gonna wear it again?”

You bite.

“If you ask nicely.”

She licks her lips again, body flexed as you allow her to press you closer. One of your hands splays on the counter behind her, the other brushing over the blooming bruise on her jaw.

“Can I?” she husks.

You don’t need to ask for clarification, not when her nose is nudging yours and your breaths are mingling.

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Pl—”

The door rattles with the ferocity of whoever’s knocking on the other side.

“Hurry up in there, I gotta piss!”

To your dismay, the two of you don’t talk about Saturday night. And things’s aren’t particularly bad, but something’s definitely shifted and it’s driving you nuts.

Vi’s on the ice practicing the following morning and after classes on Monday, so you wait for your session with bated breath on Tuesday. You try extra hard despite every voice of reason telling you that you’re reading into it too much.

Vi smiles at you easily as she drops into the seat across from you, pulling out her biometry textbook without so much as a peep about the fact that the two of you almost kissed in whoever the fuck’s bathroom that was over the weekend.

You’re staring, hard.

Because that familiar feeling’s coming back. The seedling of doubt that had rooted in the beginning about Vi’s intentions with you. She’d done a good job of weeding it out over the weeks, of dismantling whatever image you’d built of her in your head, but it plants itself again.

She’s squeezing your hand across the table and your gaze flits down to her rough fingers. That’s when you notice it, the bracelet, still fastened where you clasped it on game night.

You relax a fraction.

“Everything okay?”

You smile, something small.

“Yeah, good,” you assure her.

The rest of your tutoring session is uneventful, goes off without a hitch. And you’re shameless in admitting that you hate to see her go as she walks you to your car in the student lot near the library.

You’re grasping at straws, clearing your throat before she closes your door for you.

“Uh,” you squeak. “Do you want to come over?”

Vi’s pausing, hand still on the edge of your door as her lips twitch.

“Like right now?”

You nod because you’ve already pulled the trigger.

“Like right now,” you confirm.

She checks her wristwatch, sighs heavily because fuck yes, she’d love to come over right now, but Anderson and Williams are expecting her for a strategy meeting with the coach and—

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “You don’t have to, I know we only really—”

She pinches your cheek before tucking some of your hair behind your ear.

“I can’t tonight, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” she says. “But tell you what, if you’re willing to free up your Friday night, I’d really like to plan something.”

Your heartbeat skips.

“All yours,” you say without missing a beat.

Vi’s grinning wide.

“Perfect, drive safe,” she bids. “See you tomorrow.”

And you don’t know why you’re so fucking high strung, not when Vi hasn’t done anything to make you doubt that this isn’t all in your head, but it only gets worse as the days go by.

It doesn’t come to a head until Thursday, when your tutoring slots are miraculously empty until Vi’s and you receive an email from Medarda to meet in her office after her string of lectures.

“Afternoon,” the older woman greets, smiling warmly at you as she lets you into her office. “Just wanted to check in with your audit and request any feedback you have.”

You think for a moment before shaking your head.

“Nothing in particular that I can think of,” you say easily, then add with a laugh, “feel like I’ll be a professional by the end of the semester.”

“Why do you say that?” Medarda chuckles as she logs into her computer.

“I have a student sitting every Tuesday and Thursday for tutoring in your class,” you reveal.

She gives you look crossed between surprise and amusement.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” You giggle at the distant memory of Vi’s expression in the weight room. “She seems to be picking it up well enough, though.”

“Huh, every Tuesday and Thursday?” she asks, fingers flying over her keyboard. “I must be doing something wrong.”

“I’d hardly say that,” you say. “When Violet booked all my sessions, I thought it was a joke, but I think she’s just really dedicated to doing well.”

“Violet?” Medarda repeats, hands stilling over her mouse.

“Yeah, Violet, on the women’s hockey team?”

Your professor’s eyebrows twitch.

“Why would you— huh. Weird,” she comments.

“I admit it was a little strange, but—”

“Violet’s a consistent top scorer on the exams,” Medarda shares. “She’s been top of the class since the beginning of the semester.”

And it’s like the world stills as she reveals that information, fragile pieces shattering as the gears start turning in your brain and you try to put the puzzle together.

You glance at the clock, find that you’re due to meet Violet in half an hour.

“Uh, if you’ll excuse me,” you say politely, try to ignore the concerned expression etched on your professor’s face at your sudden departure. “It was nice chatting with you. If I think of anything feedback-wise, I’ll be sure to email you.”

And you’re running.

Vi’s in the locker room after practice, toweling off after an extra long shower because she’s been looking a little extra forward to seeing you today, but perhaps that’s everyday as of late.

She’s hooking the bracelet you gave her back on when her phone vibrates and she’s practically diving into her locker when your text tone bleats.

sweetheart: I have to cancel your session this afternoon. I’m sorry.

Her expression screws up.

everything ok? can i do anything for you?

sweetheart: Personal things to take care of. I’ll see you next week.

I’ll see you next week.

But what about tomorrow? She’d been working so fucking hard on tomorrow, on finally pulling her head far enough out of her ass to ask you to give the two of you a shot.

She sets her phone down, slumps down on the bench as she turns her wrist and takes in the smooth glass beads of the bracelet.

She sighs. Hard.

You hole up all weekend long, put your phone on do not disturb, and try your best to get whatever this is out of your system. But you’re a slave to your emotions and you can’t help but check your messages every time you know Vi’s free.

It’s a single text on a Saturday night, one that surprises you because you know she has practice now that the big game’s fast approaching.

violet <3: hey sweetheart, just checking in. i know you said you had a few personal things going on, but i’m here if you feel like you need someone <3

You’re texting back before your better judgement can stop you.

Just been a little stressed. You wanna come over?

.

.

.

Then you add, We can smoke.

Vi’s sending you three running emojis and you crack a smile at your screen before realizing that you need to shower.

You lay out some clothes beforehand, ultimately settling on last Saturday’s skirt.

Vi’s giggling as you fumble with the wrapper, rolling it with clumsy fingers because, truthfully, you don’t do this often, but she shuts right up when you don’t break eye contact as the tip of your tongue slides across the seam to seal the joint.

She’d picked you up with a Sprite and a slice to split from Valentino’s, throat drying as you bounded down the stairs in the same fucking skirt that had her touching herself after she’d gotten home from the party, guilty and wound tight. Now the two of you are tucked away behind some abandoned strip.

“Ready?” Her voice rasps as you pop the end between your lips and she brings the lighter to ignite the end for you.

It burns as you inhale and Vi’s thighs squeeze together involuntarily. She’d smoked with you twice before, both times on the roof of your apartment building and at a reasonable distance. But now, she knows what your body feels like, almost knows what your lips taste like.

You take a few more puffs before offering it to her and the smoke begins to plume to fill the space of her little coupe. It’s moments like these, tucked away from prying eyes, that it’s just you and Vi.

Not Vi, the supposed womanizing hockey star, or you, the nerdy homebody tutor. Just the two of you, two souls trying to get through university and carve your paths.

“I aced Medarda’s exam this week,” Vi says softly, jay pinched between her fingers as she watches you with lowering eyes.

“Oh, yeah? I wonder why,” you quip in return, face impossibly close to hers despite the console between you.

“I have a smartypants tutor that does an especially good job when she’s motivated,” she answers.

Your cheeks flame, but you don’t back down. Vi’s been extra good at pushing your buttons and flirting hard as of late, and maybe you’re a little more than willing to receive and reciprocate, but the two of you have been toeing the line, yet neither of you have taken the leap.

This moment, however, feels like it could be it. Like you’re going to find out what the fuck all of this even is.

“I have to meet this tutor of yours,” you play along. “She sounds like a miracle worker.”

“Among other things,” Vi teases, sucking in the smoke and blowing it through her nostrils.

“Like?”

“She’s also funny as fuck,” she hums. “A big baby when we watch Animal Planet.”

You narrow your eyes at her and Vi lets out a little laugh that makes your toes curl.

“Uh-huh?”

“She’s really fucking pretty too,” she says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she affirms. “Kind of pretty that makes you wanna do bad, bad things.”

You smile falters as a shiver rips down your spine and before you know it, Vi’s putting out the joint before climbing in the cramped backseat of her car to spread her legs.

Doesn’t even give you a moment to process before she’s pulling you on top of her and allowing you to settle comfortably in her lap. Her hands run up your thighs and disappear under your skirt to grab the fat of your ass.

You breathe out a little giggle as your slender fingers come up to cup her jaw.

“Think my tutor’ll be mad at me?” Vi murmurs, nose brushing yours. “‘Cuz I really, really wanna kiss this pretty girl in my lap right now.”

You let out a broken little sigh when her hips buck.

“Maybe she’ll forgive you,” you whisper. “I know I would.”

And that’s all the affirmation Vi needs from you before she’s taking the plunge and slotting her lips with yours; kissing you with so much fervor, you’d think she needs you to breathe. She tastes like mint and weed and you can’t get enough.

Vi’s all-consuming, her kiss a delicious mix of teeth and tongue. And, god, her hands. Rough and calloused, but gentle in the way she explores your body. It isn’t until she’s snapping the band of your thong and her fingertips ghost the seam of your sticky heat that you’re hyper-focusing.

“Mmmph, Violet, Vi—” Your voice cracks as she breaks from your lips to map a series of kisses from your jaw, to the juncture behind your ear, down the column of your neck. “Wait.”

She stops, hands pulling from under your skirt like you’ve burned her. And perhaps you have, branded nearly every part of her because she can’t really think of a sound moment if you’re not there.

“Sorry, sorry,” she shudders as the arousal ebbs through her tightened body. “I—”

I’m caught up. I’m losing it, and it’s all your fault, and—

“Violet,” you swallow, fingers toying with the collar of her varsity sweatshirt. “I have something to say.”

Her throat bobs and her grey eyes gleam like ash in the lowlight of the backseat of her car. The windows are smoked out and it’s exceptionally warm, equal parts sexual tension and another thing Vi can’t quite pinpoint.

“Yeah, anything,” she assures you, hands resting on your waist instead. “You can tell me anything.”

One of your palms settles over her chest, right where her heart is and you suck in a sharp breath.

“I— uh, I really like you, Violet,” you admit quietly. “A lot more than I think I’ve ever liked someone in a long, long time.”

Oh.

Oh. Here it comes, the big fat rejection. The coming to your senses.

“But?”

The look on your face is devastating and Vi’s scared.

“I have to know that if I give you a chance, you won’t abuse it,” you hiccup, and wow, that’s definitely not what she expects you to say, but fuck does it leave a sour taste in her mouth.

“Abuse it?” she repeats, face crumpling.

“Violet,” you sigh.

“Abuse what?” she husks.

“I know you—”

“Do you?” she scoffs, a wave of irritation washing over her as she looks you with disappointment. “What gave you the idea that I would ever even dream of taking advantage of you giving me a chance?”

“You don’t necessarily have a spotless record, Violet,” you say, voice edged. “And I know that I’m not your usual—”

“Not my usual what?” The venom in Vi’s tone is uncharacteristic, but this is not at all how she expected tonight to go and she’s frustrated. “Not my usual type? You internalized all this shit that people say about me even though I’ve been trying to get you to see me for months.”

Emotion clogs your throat because a small part of you knows that Vi’s right. She’s never given you an outright reason to doubt her interest in you, but it all just seems too good to be true.

“Sue me for wanting to protect myself,” you choke, climbing out of her lap and back into the front seat. “Especially because I know that you don’t actually need help in Medarda’s class.”

And that catches Vi off guard. You see as much in the rearview mirror when she pales.

She clambers back into the driver’s seat.

“Who told you that?” she asks, not even bothering to deny the fact.

“I mentioned that I was tutoring you in passing when Medarda asked for feedback on her class,” you respond, crossing your arms over your chest. “She asked why I’d be doing that when you’re top of all her sections.”

Violet’s voice is stuck in her chest.

“And then your past hook ups parade around campus like a reminder that—,” you cut yourself off, obviously hurt after bottling this all up. “And it isn’t any of my business, nor are we anything enough for me to plausibly upset—”

“Yes, I lied,” Vi admits quietly. “But only about one thing.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re right, I don’t need help in Medarda’s class. I lied about being clueless and I signed up for tutoring even though I didn’t need it,” she says.

“Why?”

“You know why,” Vi huffs. “From the moment I met you, I knew.”

It’s a glaring insinuation that makes you crack.

“No one ever says it out loud, but I know what everyone thinks,” you choke. “Violet’s fucking that loser?”

“You really believe that?”

“God, Violet, I don’t know what to fucking believe,” you cry out. “My life’s fucking fine and dandy and then you show up and make me fucking question everything I—”

Vi lets out a humorless laugh, can’t even look at you and it could make you sick.

“You’re so fucking loved by everyone, even those who won’t admit it,” you croak. “And you’re incredible at everything you do, turn everything you touch to gold, and I’m just...”

Vi’s brows furrow.

“You’re what?”

“I’m me,” you whisper meekly. “I’m just me and you’re you, and I just don’t see what makes me so different.”

And Vi realizes that she’d read it all wrong.

“Look at me,” she says softly, fingers tracing your jaw.

You knuckle your tears away, make a petulant noise in your throat.

“You wanna know why I booked all your stupid tutoring sessions?” she huffs. “Because I really fucking like you, ________. And it’s beyond wanting to fuck you even though god knows I’d fucking die if you let me. It’s so much more than having you physically. Because I’ll take being just friends with you if it means having you around. I don’t give a shit about anything else but you.”

It’s the most sound declaration you hear from the girl in the semester you’ve known her and it makes you cry.

“You make me feel so fucking normal and you remind me that I don’t need to be anything else but me,” she breathes. “And I get where you’re coming from, I hear you. I just really hope you hear me too.”

“I do,” you whisper. “I’m just—”

Vi squeezes your thigh, takes your hand in hers and brings your knuckles to her lips.

“Let’s get you home, okay?” she offers gently.

Vi only has one more game before the championships and she won’t lie and say that this limbo with you has her feeling like she’s going to be ill.

You’d cancelled her tutoring sessions this week, told her that maybe the two of you needed to spend some time apart and that she was clearly doing a number on you. So she agrees, tries to give you space to work through what’s weighing on you.

sweetheart: Good luck at your game tonight, Violet. I’m rooting for you.

She really wishes you’d be there, but she knows you need the time alone.

thanks, sweetheart. i appreciate you.

“Alright Vi, we have fifteen til puck drop,” Ellie says carefully, has been front row to everything transpiring between you and her best friend.

Vi tucks her phone away in her backpack, unhooks your bracelet from around her wrist and fastens it to the handle of her bag, and grabs her stick from the rack before she lets her teammates jostle her into the tunnel.

And she wishes she could lock in, clear her head and get into the game, but all she can think about is you.

It’s a narrow victory once the game ends, but she can’t find it in herself to celebrate, especially not at the kickback afterwards because fucking Sev and her assholes are there.

“Where’s your little dime piece?” she taunts.

“Fuck off,” Vi warns, obviously not in the mood.

“Shame,” she whistles. “She looks like a fucking weirdo, but she sure does have a fat ass—”

Ellie’s fist cracks so hard across her jaw.

“She told you to fuck off,” she hisses.

Sev spits the blood in her mouth on the toe of Ellie’s shoe, fists bunching the collar of her sweater.

“Keep that fucking energy on the ice because I’m gonna wipe the floor with your fucking pissbaby team.”

You wake up on Monday morning to a text from Vi and a handful of notifications from Instagram.

violet <3: can i see you this week?

You open Instagram.

sev.94 has requested to follow you! sev.94 has sent you a message request!

Your brows furrow, opening the message request hesitantly. There’s a few DMs and a video from this Sev person.

sev.94 hey pretty, sorry to text you like this. sev.94 just thought you should know the kind of person your little girlfriend is sev.94 sent a video. sev.94 i don’t really do relationships, but i’d take your mind off of it if you let me.

You’re playing the video, quality grainy and audio blasted. You don’t know what you’re looking at at first, it’s dark, and there’s so many voices. But you see skin, see the outline of a girl’s naked back, delicate and arched in pleasure.

You think this Sev person’s just fucking with you, playing some stupid joke with a shitty punchline as someone’s hands snake around to palm the flesh of the unnamed girl’s ass, but then you see it.

The bracelet.

Vi going to lose her shit for two reasons.

(1) Because you haven’t responded to her message despite your read receipts being on, and (2) she can’t fucking find the bracelet you’d gifted to her.

She’s barging into Ellie’s room, shirtless and hair dripping.

“Jesus, fuck, do you knock?” Ellie hisses, buds she was in the midst of grinding scattering across the floor.

“I can’t find the bracelet she gave me,” Vi says quickly.

Ellie’s face scrunches.

“Huh?”

“The bracelet ________ gave to me,” Vi says. “I hooked it on my backpack before practice on Saturday but it’s not there anymore.”

Ellie’s expression morphs, eyes narrowing in thought.

“Maybe you misplaced it,” Ellie offers. “Regardless, we practice tonight, I’ll help you look for it.”

Vi’s chest is tight, doesn’t want to admit that the stupid little bracelet means way more to her than she lets on. She only ever takes it off when she’s on the ice, won’t risk losing it when she’s got a target on her back and everyone plays rough.

It turns out to be futile when they enter the rink and she retraces her steps only to come up empty-handed.

This, she realizes, is the start of a very long week.

You should’ve seen it coming, really. Don’t know why you tried to psyche yourself into thinking that Vi could ever really want something with you when the world’s her fucking oyster and she can have anything she wants.

And you want to feel bad when she texts you intermittently through the days, checking in, offering to meet you, anything. But part of you is angry, unforgiving, tired.

You could’ve gone the rest of the school year unscathed if she’d just left you the fuck alone, but she pried and she tugged and she settled, and she made a home inside of you and you hate that you let her.

xxxx: i really miss you.

You block her number, block her social media, and even though finals are imminent, you now know that Vi’s been playing you for a fool this whole time and you cancel every last one of the sessions she’s booked.

You hope she’d get the message, figure that you’d caught onto her little game and aren’t willing to play anymore, but she doesn’t, that much is clear when you’re finishing up your two thirty session and find her stalking into the library just as the student leaves your table.

“Are we going to talk like adults or are you going to keep acting like—”

You don’t entertain a response, just pack your bag and sling the strap over your shoulder because the tears are bubbling and you don’t trust yourself not to break.

“Seriously?” Vi bites, hot on your heels as you throw all of your weight against the library doors and suck in the icy air.

“Leave me alone, Violet,” you warn.

“No, fuck that,” Vi spits, hand closing around your bicep. “You don’t— You don’t get to make me fall for you and then try to leave with no explanation.”

“Fuck you,” you whisper.

“What?”

“Fuck you, Violet,” you hiccup, yanking your arm from her grasp and putting as much distance as you can between the two of you. “I hope you and your friends got a good laugh out of it.”

Her face is screwing up and if she wasn’t confused before, she’s definitely confused now.

“Listen, I can’t fix something if I don’t know what’s wrong,” Vi argues. “I’m so fucking lost right now.”

You hate how believable she is. How the thought of hurting you seems so inconceivable to her. But that grainy video was clear enough.

“I hate you,” you murmur. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”

Your name comes out broken, like you’ve wounded her. But you’ve officially folded your hand, won’t dare look her in her eyes because the both of you know it’s not true.

The championships roll in fast like a tide and neither your or Violet are ready for it.

You hear they’re live streaming the game, it’s the most anticipated one in the season. Piltover Stallions against the Zaun City Tigers. A part of you wishes you could support them, but then you’re starkly reminded that you’re a laughingstock amongst them.

The library on a Friday night is as quiet as can be, the hum of the fluorescents background to the voices in your head that are loud. You’re so engrossed in the study material that you don’t realize someone’s making a beeline for you until they’re knocking on the tabletop.

Ellie Williams stands before you in all her lean glory, hands sunk in her pockets as she stares down at you.

“Aren’t you supposed to be playing?” Your tone is clipped, disinterested because you believed that you and Ellie could be friends once upon a time.

“Coach sat me out because I socked one of those dickhead Zaun City Tigers in the mouth last weekend.”

You humph.

“Listen, we don’t have much time left, so I’m going to make this short and sweet,” she says. “Whatever happened between you and Vi is obviously personal and that typically would have nothing to do with me, but she can’t get her shit together because all she can think of is you.”

“And that’s my problem because...?”

“I know that Vi comes off a certain way, but she’s my best friend, like my best friend in this entire shithole of a world, and she’s—”

“No offense, Ellie,” you cut her off. “But if Vi sent you here to plead her case, I think that’s pathetic and—”

“Okay, well maybe if you shut up for three seconds and let me get to my point—”

You close your textbook and shove it in your backpack before standing to signal the end of the conversation.

“Whatever, I don’t have time for this.”

Ellie watches you walk away, takes in a deep breath because wow, you’re a bitch when you’re mad, but she absolutely gets why Vi is whipped.

“Violet’s in love with you.”

And that statement makes you freeze. Tears cloud your vision as your fists tighten around the strap of your bag.

“If you fuck someone else while you’re in love, I want nothing to do with it,” you bite.

Ellie’s brows shoot up.

“Whoa, what?”

“Violet fucked someone else as soon as things got tough, and if that’s the kind of person she is in love, I’d rather be alone,” you say stiffly.

“Respectfully, there’s no way Vi’s interested in getting pussy from anywhere else with how down bad that bitch is for you, but even if she was, I spend over seventy percent of my day with her and know that all she’s been doing the past two weeks is moping over the fact that you handed her ass to her on a silver platter.”

“There’s a video.”

Ellie’s brows must be mingling with her hairline right about now.

Her reaches a palm out.

Show me.

You open the DM from sev.94, watching as Ellie’s expression morphs from morbid curiosity to disbelief, to a quiet rage.

She’s handing your phone back to you and grabbing you by your forearm.

“She’s fucking dead.”

When you enter the rink, the ice is tense.

It’s the middle of the second period and the game is tied 3—3.

Your eyes comb the playing area, can’t find Vi’s jersey number in the mix, but finally settle on her on the bench, shoulders terse and obviously on edge.

She doesn’t clock you yet, had given up on the idea of patching things up with you after your last conversation.

“Vi’s been missing her bracelet since practice on Saturday,” Ellie’d told you on the way there, then pulled out her phone to show you the photo she’d taken of Vi passed out in nothing but her boxers on the couch the night of the last game, fucked up and sad. “We went out for like an hour after the game, but that was it. Vi was too fucking in her head.”

The girl from the tunnel, the one who’d been taunting the two of you, you piece together, has been the one behind it all, stirring the pot.

Throughout the end of the second period and all through intermission, Vi doesn’t notice you, too busy trying to get off the fucking bench to survey the crowd.

It’s only during final puck drop in the third period that their coach finally gives in, smacks the back of her helmet and tells her to make him proud that she lifts her head up.

And there, front and center of the student section is you.

Her eyes are wide, body frozen in place as she tries to figure if you’re just a figment of her imagination, but then the horn’s blaring and she’s having to zone back in.

At this point in time, she doesn’t give a fuck if they win or lose, she just needs to get to you.

“Your little bitch looks cute tonight,” Sevika comments wolfishly. “Bet she tastes as good as she looks.”

Vi easily intercepts her pass, cuts between two players as she shuffles it along with practiced precision. She sends the rubber flying and the goalie narrowly misses block.

“Maybe if you played as good as you ran your mouth, you’d wipe the floor with my pissbaby team you big bitch,” Vi calls, resetting in their corner.

And perhaps you’re her good luck charm, the only thing she needed to see to get back into it, because Vi reignites. The adrenaline pumping through her veins fuels every shot, and soon the timer’s buzzing.

7—5.

The roar is deafening, but you’re all she sees in the ocean of cowbells and pompoms.

She barely inches forward before something arcs through the sky and lands before her feet.

Her bracelet.

You watch from the sidelines, the final confirmation as Vi picks up the loop and launches herself at Sevika.

The crowd cheers.

Fight, fight fight!

You don’t know how many swings Vi gets in, just know that she’s flashing you a bloody smile before she skates off the ice.

Ellie emerges from the locker room and you’re perking up.

Most, if not all, of Vi’s teammates had come and gone and you’d been waiting patiently, anxiously, for her to emerge since the end of the game nearly an hour ago.

“She’s the last one in there,” is all Ellie says before strolling off.

“What if...what if she doesn’t want to see me?” you ask hesitantly.

Ellie chuffs a little laugh, doesn’t bother turning as she calls from halfway down the hall, “Find out for yourself, sweetheart.”

Vi’s pulling a tank top over her head as soon as you enter and your cheeks bloom when you catch a split-second of her tits.

She glances up at you, nose bruising and lip busted.

“Hey,” she spares you, stuffing her uniform and skates into her gym bag.

“Hi,” you squeak.

A pregnant pause as you take her in, hesitant to close the distance between the two of you.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” she observes.

And you don’t really have a bullshit response, know that you had every intention of staying as far away as humanly possible, so you settle on humming your agreement.

“Ellie told me,” she starts. “Why you lashed out on me.”

You swallow.

“And part of me gets it, I really do,” she continues, “but I also thought you had more faith in me than that.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Fuck, Violet, I’m so sorry.”

“I told you to free up Friday night a few weeks ago,” she says, shuts her locker door and slumps down on the bench behind her. “I was going to tell you everything, officially ask you out, but then all that shit happened and it caught up to me.”

You take a step forward, and then another, and another until you’re standing in front of her.

“You have to know that I would never do something like to anyone, but especially not to you,” she says softly, taking your hands in hers.

“I know.”

She brushes her lips against your knuckles, pulls you in closer so that you’re standing between her legs.

“You’re right,” she continues, voice hoarse. “I don’t have a spotless track record, but I meant it when I said that I don’t give a shit about anyone else but you. I would give you anything I can if you let me.”

Your hands rest on her shoulders, her chin resting against the plush of your belly as you look down at her, speechless.

“That night, in the car, you said that you didn’t see what made you so different.”

“I don’t,” you admit.

Vi stands, caging you between strong arms as she drops her face into the hollow of your neck. You shiver when you feel her lips press to the skin there.

“We could start off with the obvious.”

One of her hands rests on the small of your back, pulls you flush so that the only things that separate you are the flimsy fabrics of your clothes. The other grabs a handful of your ass.

“I meant it when I said that you’re the kind of pretty that makes me wanna do bad things.”

You gulp, thighs squeezing as her lips part and she bites.

“Vi.”

“You got a giant brain,” she laughs breathily, fingers coming around the fiddle with your belt.

She kisses you, mouth hot and breath warm. It’s better the second time around, no doubt obscuring you from truly indulging.

“Pl—ease.”

“You’re kind and you’re selfless, and you’re my sweet, sweet little crybaby.”

“Violet,” you sigh breathlessly. “Listen to me.”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Fuck me,” you pant. “Please.”

Violet nearly runs two red lights and whips into your neighborhood on two wheels.

The two of you are stumbling up the stairs and she’s spanking your ass on the last step as you fiddle with your keys and try to find the right one under the dim light of the complex hall.

Violet’s already unbuckling her belt as you turn the key, nearly taking you down as she shoves you inside and up against the front door.

“Maddie home?” she breathes.

“Out of town,” you answer quickly, kicking off your sneakers and pulling your sweater over your head. “Visiting her family upstate.”

“Perfect,” Vi hums. “I’ve been fantasizing about fucking you on your couch.”

“Oh–”

One of her rough hands comes to cup your tit over your bra, her tongue laving over the other while her free hand makes work of the clasp.

You walk her back to the couch, stand between her knees as she flops back into the seat. Her arms spread over the back as she settles in, legs widening to give you ample room to strip.

Her eyes never leave yours as you easily unclasp your bra and shimmy out of your jeans, leaving you in nothing but a tight pair of little lace panties and pink socks that has Vi wet.

“C’mere,” she rasps, pulling you to straddle her lap.

Her lips immediately latch onto one of your pebbled nipples, tongue hot as her hands wander.

“Fuck.”

“Tell me what you want,” she husks, biting down on the swell of your breast.

And having Violet this close, her touch excruciatingly featherlight and tempting, you wind tight.

“Want you inside of me,” you whimper, fingers fixing around her throat. “Please.”

“Yeah?” she eggs you on, lips brushing yours as her palms settle on your ass. “You want me to fuck you?”

You nod eagerly, hips rolling in her lap as her breath pitches.

“Vi.”

Her nickname puffing from your lips makes her crack. You’re wound in her arms, face in her neck as she peels your thong taut, away from your waiting cunt, and runs her fingertips from your slit down to your clit.

“F...F—uck,” you sigh.

“Holy shit,” she marvels, licking her lips when she easily glides through your folds. “You’re really fucking wet.”

You grind down against her, clothed clit catching against her belt buckle. The cool metal sends a jolt through your pussy and you’re moaning loud in her ear.

And Violet really wants to take her time with you, wants to milk the first time she ever gets to fuck you for as long as she humanly can, but she’s still fully dressed and you’re practically naked, perfect tits pressed to her chest and fat ass in the palm of her hand.

She shifts you further into her, so that she can peek over the arch of your back as she sinks her middle and ring finger three knuckles deep into your needy heat.

“Ah, fuck, Violet.” Your voice breaks as she starts pumping into you, your arousal coating her fingers and the sound of her easily slipping through your pussy reverberating through the living room. “Fuckfuckfuck.”

She kisses your jaw, litters them until she’s catching your lips and licking crudely into your mouth.

You cry out when her fingers slip out.

She’s leaning the both of you forward, easing you from her lap and onto the couch as she takes a moment to shuck her shirt off and pull her belt through the loops in one tug.

You watch her through it all, the way the trim muscles of her biceps and shoulders flex as she leans over you, takes you by the ankles and yanks you until your ass is half-hanging from the edge of the couch.

She kneels before you, strips you out of your thong.

You don’t miss the way she shoves the soiled fabric in her jeans pocket.

“Jesus,” she breathes, gaze fluttering between your eyes and your pussy. “You’re so fucking pretty, sweetheart.”

Your toes curl at the praise, fingers closing around where Vi’s holding your legs apart.

“You know how bad I’ve been wanting to taste your pussy?” she rasps, gathering the lewdest amount of spit to dribble onto your clit. When you don’t answer, she’s freeing a hand to slap your slit.

“Nnngh, fuck!”

“Think I’ve always wanted to have you,” she admits. “But it was that stupid party fucking party and that stupid fucking skirt. God, I would’ve fucked you in that skirt if you let me.”

“Yeah?” you whine breathlessly. “Tell me.”

She’s stuffing you again without warning, curling her fingers in a way that has your back arching off the couch.

“Would’ve bent you over that sink and made you watch yourself while I ate you out,” she says easily.

And it’s so fucking delicious, the nasty shit Vi’s saying to you while she pounds your aching heat; the way she finally gives in and tastes you, sucking on your clit like she’s starved and you’re the only thing that can sate her hunger.

Your fingers curl through her hair as you teeter dangerously over the edge, nails grazing her scalp and tugging when she hits the spot deep inside of you that has you keening for more.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ cum,” you choke. “Holy fuck.”

You feel Vi grin against your pussy, watch her with a slack jaw and half-lidded eyes because the sight of her between your legs in your moonlit living room has your insides twisting hard.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” she encourages you. “Cum all over my fingers. Wanna see you gush.”

“Hah, h—” Your thighs tighten around her head, fingers curled so hard in her hair, she moans in a mix of pleasure and pain. “Don’t stop, Vi, please.”

She moans into your cunt, savoring the heady taste of you as you practically ride her face.

The sound that fills the room is downright filthy, the sight that Vi beholds when she peeks from where she’s devouring you equally so. It’s picturesque, the way she has you writhing. A sheen of perspiration glistens over your flesh as she eats you out and it’s a perfect mix of her tongue and her fingers that send you soaring over the edge.

It’s a pitched whine that echos, the staccato of your shaky breathing that sings like music in her ears as you cum. And hard.

Her lashes flutter against the skin of your inner thighs as she peppers kisses there, her lips slick with spit and arousal.

“Fuck, babe,” she whispers. “That was...”

She can’t really choose a specific word, is just mind blown at the fact that she’d just made you cum so hard and so fast. It makes her tense and tingle, a smug wave of pride washing over her as she starts mouthing a trail from your belly, between the valley of your tits, up your throat, to finally press a chaste one on your lips.

You taste yourself first and foremost, but then you taste everything she’s ever wanted to say to you, all the unspoken words and the things she’d been too scared to share. Feel it in the way her hands are roaming, squeezing, caressing.

You breathe a disbelieving laugh, peck her lips again when she pulls away to brush your hair from your face.

“Vi—” Your breath hitches and your eyes glaze.

“I know, I know.”

You wrap your arms around her shoulders, legs hooking around the narrow of her waist as she bears your weight and picks up your boneless figure.

“I’m not done with you yet, sweetheart.”

The sun is warm against your skin when you wake up the following morning, your bedroom bathed in an orange glow.

You feel bone tired, body sore and muscles tight as your arm sweeps the other side of the bed in search of balmy skin, but instead you’re met with cool sheets and swelling dread.

You sit up quickly, find that you’re still naked, and take a moment to asses your bedroom. The bathroom door’s cracked, light off, and everything else is exactly where you left it.

Everything except Vi.

Oh, you think to yourself.

Almost don’t want to leave your room because your empty apartment will be confirmation enough that Vi really did get the last laugh in the end.

But you force yourself out of bed, shrug on an oversized t-shirt before finding the living room just as still as it had been before the two of you had barreled in the night before and she’d left her mark on you.

The only sign that the entire thing wasn’t just a figment of your imagination was Vi’s belt strewn haphazardly on the coffee table.

You feel hollow, almost numb, and even if a persistent part of your brain was consistently telling you that you should’ve known better, the tears well in your eyes because you’d really hoped Violet was different.

You knuckle the tears away angrily, mind racing far too fast to register the door quietly unlocking and the soft footfalls coming down the hall.

“Babe?”

Your gaze snaps up.

Like a vision, Vi’s standing in the doorway, a handful of plastic bags in tow. She’s wearing her clothes from last night and the puffs under her eyes make her a little worse for wear.

She sets the bags down on the eat-in, rounds the couch to take you by the shoulders.

“What’s wrong?” she worries. “What’s going on?”

You hiccup, crumpling in her arms because you were so fucking scared.

“Thought you left,” you croak.

Vi breathes a sigh of relief, blowing out a hollow laugh because her girl’s such a baby.

“You have jack shit in your fridge,” she teases lightly. “How am I supposed to make you a five star breakfast with greek yogurt and carrot sticks?”

You whine.

“Don’t care about breakfast,” your muffled voice sounds from where your face is pressed in her chest. “Just wanted to wake up to you.”

Violet groans.

“You’re so cute,” she laughs, kissing the top of your head.

“I wanna go back to bed,” you mutter petulantly, emotional whiplash making your eyes droop.

“You’re not gonna let me make you breakfast?” Vi picks, smoothing the hair from your face.

Your eyes catch the bracelet refastened around her wrist and you grin softly, taking her fingers to press a kiss to her palm.

She could combust, gaze gooey as she watches you watch her.

Yeah, Vi has a huge problem.

One that’s particular, and overarching; one she doesn’t think she can go without.

And frankly, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

neng © 2024

---

Eight years ago, you walked away from Montana—away from the sprawling ranchlands, the smell of fresh-cut hay, and the boy who swore he'd love you ‘til the day they put him in the ground. You built a new life, one far from dusty backroads and rodeo lights, far from the memories that still linger like the scent of rain on dry earth.

But now, you’re back. Not to stay, not to rekindle anything long lost—just to settle unfinished business. One last trip home to sign the divorce papers, to finally close the door on a past that’s been waiting for you to turn the key.

Beau Arlen was never the type to beg, but he's wrangled enough steers to know how to chase what didn’t want to be caught. He’s not making this easy. Because he’s still the same stubborn, maddening, sweet-talking cowboy who stole your heart all those years ago. And the way he looks at you now—like nothing’s changed, like he still sees the fire in you even when you swear it burned out long ago—makes you wonder if leaving was ever really the right choice.

You came back to let go. But some things, some loves, don’t die easy. And Beau—he was never one to give up without a fight.

warnings — second chance romance trope, i never stopped loving you vs the self-sabotage lover, reader is all fire and spark, beau basks in that warmth with a smile on his face lyrics — tattoos by tyler childers 10k words

Cousin Cheyenne’s house is louder than you remember—fuller, busier, like it’s been bursting at the seams ever since you left. The wooden floors tremble under the thunder of little feet, shrieks piercing the air one after another.

Still blinking sleep from your eyes, you shuffle down the hall just as Carson barrels past, his younger siblings, the twins are hot on his heels, their laughter mingling with the distant clatter of dishes from the kitchen.

Tillie, struggling to keep up with her brothers, wobbles around the corner, her too-big nightgown dragging at her ankles. She beams up at you with a gap-toothed grin, pigtails bouncing. “Mornin’, Auntie!”

Before you can respond, Cheyenne’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Y’all take it outside before you break somethin’!”

A second later, she appears, the baby of the bunch balanced effortlessly on her hip, her chubby fist clutching a half-eaten pancake. There’s flour smeared across her cheek, batter splattered on her shirt, but the amused glint in her eyes says she wouldn’t have it any other way.

The twins groan but obey, scrambling toward the back door—nearly knocking over Arleigh, who’s leaning against the fridge, scrolling through her phone. She lets out a long-suffering sigh, rolling her eyes so hard she might sprain something.

Tillie latches onto your pajama pants, looking up at you with big, hopeful eyes. “Auntie, tell ‘em to quit runnin’ from me!”

You sigh, prying her tiny fingers from your leg and nudging her toward the back porch, where the dogs have joined the morning mayhem. “Not my battle, tuts.”

Cheyenne smirks as she wipes her hands on a dishtowel. She’s still watching you—that look that says she’s got a million and one questions—but, for now, she keeps them to herself.

“You’re up early,” she remarks.

You gesture vaguely at the chaos around you. The house had been clean when you arrived late last night, when all the littles were tucked in and only the low hum of the TV filled the quiet. Now, toys litter the floor like battlefield debris, muddy boots and paw prints track through every room, and even with the kids outside, their shouts still seep through the walls.

“Hard to sleep through the circus,” you mutter.

Cheyenne snorts and slides a mug of coffee across the kitchen island toward you. “Welcome home.”

The words land heavier than they should. You drop your gaze, fingers tightening around the warm ceramic, staring into the dark swirl of coffee as if it holds an answer you’re not ready to face. Home. You’re still figuring out what that means.

Clearing your throat, you watch Cheyenne putter around the kitchen while you take a slow sip, letting the caffeine work its way through your system.

“Beau still working at his daddy’s ranch?”

Cheyenne freezes, her back to you, fingers tightening around the dish towel in her hands. She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she turns to her oldest, passing baby Ginny into the girl’s waiting arms. “Arleigh, sweetheart, can you get her cleaned up for me?”

Arleigh hesitates, her big brown eyes flicking between you and her mother, catching on to the shift in energy at the mere mention of his name. She may not understand the full weight of it, but she knows enough to tread lightly. “Sure, Mama.”

You watch as she carries Ginny down the hall, the soft sound of her murmuring to the baby disappearing behind a closed door.

Only then does Cheyenne turn to you, arms folding tight across her chest. Her expression is unreadable, but there’s a sharpness in her gaze, one that warns you she isn’t about to entertain any bullshit. “Beau’s not at the ranch,” she says evenly. “He’s the new sheriff. Took over from Old Man Ray last year.”

You blink. Beau Arlen—your Beau— all cleaned up and sharp, walking around with a shiny gold badge. You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Is that so?”

Cheyenne hums, unimpressed. “Mhm.” She tilts her head, studying you like she’s trying to pick apart your intentions before you can even say them. “Please tell me you aren’t planning to walk in there and slap those papers down the second you see him.”

Your fingers tighten around your coffee mug, the warmth seeping into your palms, grounding you against the weight of her disapproval. “Chey, I came here for one reason,” you say, your voice firm but not unkind. “I’d like to just get it over with.”

She exhales sharply, shaking her head as she turns back to the counter. “That man hasn’t seen you in eight years, and you’re just gonna waltz into his office and crush his heart all over again?” She doesn’t look at you as she speaks, pouring all that frustration into scrubbing an invisible stain from the worn wooden surface.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Oh, please. I’m sure Beau’s just as eager as I am to get rid of this damn thing.”

Cheyenne’s hand stills. Slowly, she turns, pinning you with a look that cuts deeper than you’d like to admit. “Damn thing,” she echoes, voice softer now, but no less pointed. “I think you’re forgetting who we’re talking about here.”

Something uneasy flickers through you, but you push past it, draining the last of your coffee and setting the mug down with a quiet clink. “The office still in the same place?”

Cheyenne watches you for a long moment before sighing, tossing the rag into the sink with a wet slap. “Sure is.”

The sheriff’s office looks just about the same as it always has—plain walls, scuffed floors, the faint scent of burnt coffee lingering in the air. The only difference now is the girl sitting at the front desk, chewing her gum loud enough to hear from across the room. She looks young, early twenties maybe, with a messy ponytail and nails painted a bright, chipped pink.

She doesn’t acknowledge you right away, too busy clicking away at her keyboard with a pointedly bored expression. You clear your throat and step forward, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Hi, I was hoping to see Beau Arlen.”

The girl doesn’t so much as glance up. She just hums, shaking her head. “Sheriff’s mighty busy,” she says, dragging out the words like she’s said them a hundred times today. “I can redirect you to one of the officers if it’s urgent.”

You exhale through your nose, already feeling the dull throb of frustration settle in. “I’d really prefer to speak with him directly.”

Another absent shake of the head. “Sorry, ma’am, but the sheriff don’t see just anyone without an appointment.” She pops her gum, eyes still fixed on her screen. “If you’d like, I can set you up for later this week.”

Later this week. Yeah, no.

You press your lips together, glancing toward the frosted glass door at the far end of the room. You can just barely make out the shape of a desk, the outline of a man moving behind it. Your stomach tightens, an old, worn-out kind of ache settling in your chest. You’d expected this part to be easier—just walking in, handing over the papers, and walking right back out. No dramatics. No feelings. No Beau looking at you like you’d stolen the breath right out of his lungs.

But standing here now, waiting for some disinterested secretary to dismiss you for a third time, you realize nothing about this was ever going to be easy.

You take a slow breath, adjusting your stance. “Why don’t you go tell the sheriff…” you hesitate, but only for a fraction of a second before forcing the words out. “That his wife is here to see him.”

That does it.

The girl stills, fingers frozen over her keyboard. Her jaw pops once as she chews, processing, and then, finally, she turns her head to look at you. Her gaze sweeps over you with open curiosity. It’s no secret that Beau married young, less of a secret that his pretty little wife skipped town eight years ago. You see the rumor mill ticking behind her eyes, and you’re sure the whole damn town will know that you’ve come back the second she gets a chance to open her phone. 

You don’t flinch. Rather, you’re trying not to roll your eyes at her blatant stare. 

With a lingering glance, she slowly rises from her chair, heels clicking against the linoleum as she scurries over to the closed door, Sheriff printed across the front in large black letters. There’s a pause, you catch movement through the cracked door. 

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself as you straighten your back, shoulders pulling tight with the effort to appear unaffected. Folding your arms across your chest, you press your fingers into your skin, as if the pressure might anchor you, might keep the past from creeping in any further. But it’s useless—the way your pulse stutters betrays you, a telltale flutter deep in your chest, quick and uneven. 

The door swings open, and the girl steps out quickly, barely concealing the spark of interest in her eyes. She doesn’t even pretend to go back to her work, instead leaning back in her chair, eyes bouncing between you and the office like she’s settling in for a front-row seat to a long-lost lovers' showdown.

You hear his boots before you see him, easy slow strides as he comes into view.

Beau leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, the buckle of his belt catching the dim office light. He’s changed, but not in a way that feels unfamiliar. His hair is a little shorter than you remember, a few more lines around his eyes, a scruff along his jaw that wasn’t there before. The years have settled into him well, the boyish charm aged into something deeper, something steadier.

He whistles low, shaking his head just slightly, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. His gaze doesn’t stray from you, pinning you in place.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he drawls with that devil-may-care smile.

That voice—it yanks you straight back in time. . .

Back to a sticky summer night at the county fair, when you were fourteen and ran headfirst into a boy who stole the breath right out of your lungs. 

The fairgrounds had been alive with energy, buzzing with laughter and the squeals of kids clutching cotton candy bigger than their heads. The bright lights of the Ferris wheel spun lazily against the deep violet sky, the scent of funnel cakes and kettle corn thick in the warm air. Somewhere in the distance, a band played, the twang of a banjo and the wail of a harmonica weaving through the night.

You hadn’t been paying attention, too caught up chasing after Cheyenne who was sprinting toward the ticket booth, laughter spilling between you. One second, you were hurrying after her, and the next—

Oof.

You smacked into something—someone—solid, knocking yourself back a step. Hands caught you before you could stumble in the dirt, steadying you with an easy strength.

“You alright there, sweetheart?”

Your stomach flipped at the slow southern drawl, a voice you recognized before you even looked up.

Beau was the new upperclassman from Texas, the one everyone had been whispering about ever since his Daddy’s pick up truck rolled into your small town. The Arlen’s, who bought up a few hundred acres to fill with cattle. Beau—their pride and joy—with the pretty green eyes, the lazy, lopsided grin, the kind of voice that dripped honey and heat.

You’d only ever seen him from afar before—leaning against the hood of his truck in the school parking lot, at a bonfire party with one of the pretty senior girls clinging to his arm. Always surrounded by people, always grinning like he had the world in his back pocket.

You blinked up at him, heart hammering, and for the first time in your little life, you didn’t know what to say.

He grinned like he could read you clear as day. Watching through his lashes as your cheeks turned pink. “Didn’t mean to knock the wind outta ya,” he teased, his hands still loose around your arms. “Though I gotta say, I’ve never had a girl throw herself at me quite like that before.”

Your face burned, and just like that, your words came rushing back. “I did not throw myself at you,” you shot back, the heels of your boots digging into the ground as you stepped back some. 

Beau arched a brow, like he wasn’t entirely convinced. “That so?”

You huffed, straightening your posture, trying to shake off the way your pulse was still racing. “You were just… in the way.”

His grin doesn’t waver as he watches you, that knowing glint in his eye like he’s already got you figured out. He pulls off his brick cattleman hat, pressing it to his chest with an easy charm, the other hand stretching out toward you in introduction.

"Beau Arlen," he says smoothly, voice as rich and warm as the summer air around you. "And you are?"

You let out a soft scoff, tilting your head as you cross your arms over your chest. "Yeah, I know who you are," you shake your head like the idea of introducing himself is ridiculous. "Everyone in the damn county knows who you are."

That earns a low chuckle from him, deep and amused, as he sets his hat back on his head, adjusting the brim with an easy nod. "Yeah?" he muses, looking at you with something close to intrigue dancing behind his green eyes. "Well, I’ve heard about you too."

You blink, caught off guard. Your arms drop slightly, curiosity flickering across your face as you search his expression. "Oh yeah?" you ask, cautious but undeniably intrigued.

"Mhm," he hums, rocking back on his heels, taking his time as he lets the words settle between you. "Spitfire of a girl, headstrong as they come. Got a way with words that'll put a grown man in his place." His smirk deepens as he watches your reaction, the weight of his gaze settling on you like he’s waiting to see if the rumors match the real thing. "Sounds about right?"

You narrow your eyes at him, though there’s a pull at the corner of your lips that you try to fight. "Depends on who's been runnin’ their mouths."

He chuckles again, slow and easy, as if he’s enjoying this more than he probably should. "Only folks who know what they’re talkin’ about."

You can’t keep your eyes on his, a match you never thought you’d cross in all of Montana. You glance down at your dress, fidgeting with the hem. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Maybe,” he mused, eyes dancing over you without any damn shame in it. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his dirty jeans, drawing your eyes to his shrugging shoulders. You never had the opportunity to really look at him, up close like this, and you couldn’t help but notice the evident strength in his arms and shoulders. The result of the kinda life where he learned how to rope a dummy calf before he knew his ABCs. 

His smooth chuckle brings your attention back to his lips, “But I think I like it just fine right here.”

That night at the county fair stretched on, the kind of summer night that settled deep in your bones, the kind that felt like it could last forever.

After your collision, Beau should’ve walked away. Should’ve tipped his hat, flashed that lazy grin, and gone about his night. But he didn’t.

Instead, he stuck around.

You felt his eyes on you as you trailed after Cheyenne, her sharp little smirk letting you know she’d clocked everything the second she turned around and found you breathless, face flushed. She didn’t say anything—yet—but you knew that look. Knew she’d be digging into you for details the second you were alone.

The county fair was the biggest event of the year, crawling with people, but somehow—Beau and his rowdy crew kept popping up everywhere you turned.

It started at the rodeo pens, where you and Cheyenne were watching the bull riders, the air thick with excitement and the distant sound of hooves pounding against dirt. Beau leaned against the railing a few feet away, arms crossed over his broad chest, that familiar smirk playing on his lips every time your eyes happened to meet.

Bailey Bassett, standing next to him, elbowed Beau in the ribs and muttered something that made Beau’s laugh rise up low and steady, though the announcer's voice drowned out the words.

Then Hayes Pomeroy, always trying to be helpful but usually just making things worse, turned just enough so you had to hear him over the crowd. “You gonna talk to her, or just stare like a damn fool all night?”

You turned your head just in time to catch the look Beau shot at the snickering brunette. The fire in his gaze could’ve burned through a hundred barns, and you couldn’t help but bite back a smirk at the sight. Hayes might have a death wish, but at least it was entertaining.

Then came the fried Oreos.

You were happily minding your business, trying to act like the grease-drenched dessert wasn’t the best thing you’d ever tasted, when you heard that familiar drawl creep up beside you.

“You mind sharing some of that, miss?”

You didn’t even have to look up. You could feel his presence before he even spoke, settling into the picnic bench beside you like he always had a spot next to you. His arm pressed against yours, warm, solid. The rest of his crew—Bailey, Hayes, and Austin—crowded Cheyenne's side of the bench, as if they had all joined in a game of make-your-best-friend-uncomfortable.

You rolled your eyes but slid the paper tray between you anyway, trying to act like it didn’t matter that your heart had skipped a beat. His fingers brushed yours as he grabbed one, and your pulse did that stuttered thing it always did when he was near. He took a slow bite, deep-fried chocolate and powdered sugar clinging to his lips as he stared at you like he knew exactly what it did to you.

Across the table, Hayes groaned dramatically, leaning back in his seat. “God, I can’t watch this.”

“Then don’t,” Beau drawled without breaking eye contact with you, chewing thoughtfully as if there weren't eyes watching from across the table.

Austin leaned over to Bailey, “This is like watchin’ one of my Nan’s romance movies happen in real-time.”

Bailey snickered, giving his buddy a knowing glance. “She’s fightin’ it, but she’s doomed.”

Cheyenne, sipping her lemonade, grinned like a cat that caught the canary. “Ain’t it great?”

You rolled your eyes and tossed a napkin at her, but the laughter from the table only made her grin wider. The night spun on, the fair alive with neon lights and the chaotic hum of people. But no matter where you went, whether you were trying to escape to the petting zoo or drag Cheyenne over to the concession stand, Beau was there. He wasn’t pushing. Not outright following, but somehow he always seemed to find a way to be near. It wasn’t anything obvious—just a subtle presence that hung around, like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

By the time the Ferris wheel loomed overhead, its lights blinking in the dark like stars that had wandered too far from home, Cheyenne turned to you with that saccharine-sweet smile she saved for moments of pure, unadulterated mischief.

“I think I’ll sit this one out,” she cooed, her voice dripping with innocence—way too much innocence.

You barely had time to glare at her before your attention snapped back to the sound of Beau’s boots on the gravel. He’d been leaning against a nearby post like he was just casually waiting for the world to come to him, but now he pushed off and strolled toward you like he had nowhere better to be.

“Well,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning over you with that same easy grin he always wore. “Looks like you need a partner, huh?”

From behind him, the boys—who’d clearly been watching this play out like they were in the front row of a damn rodeo—made their bets.

Hayes was first to pitch in, his voice loud enough for you to hear from a mile away, “Bet you ten bucks she says no.”

Bailey, ever the optimist, shook his head. “Nah, she’s gone. Look at her.”

Cheyenne raised an eyebrow, tossing a look between you and Beau before throwing a dangerous grin at the guys. “I’ll bet all of you twenty that those two get married.”

Austin, ever the realist, just chuckled and shook his head, clearly not willing to make any bets. “Yeah, right, your cousin’s one helluva girl, Chey, but Beau’s got his pick of the litter.”

“And that look in his eye says he’s seeing nothing else but her,” Cheyenne shot back, her voice laced with confidence.

Beau just stood there, that smirk of his not going anywhere as he waited, knowing full well what was going through your head.

You wanted to say no. Wanted to roll your eyes, tell him he was full of himself, tell Cheyenne she was the worst for setting you up like this. Tell the laughing bunch of idiots to mind their own. Because your heart was hammering harder than it ever had—worse than the first time you were bucked off the back of a horse.

But you don't.

You let him lead you to the Ferris wheel, let him help you into the cart even though you didn’t need the help, let yourself feel the warmth of him next to you as the ride carried you higher and higher.

The Ferris wheel rocked gently as it climbed higher, the town stretching out below in a warm sprawl of wide pastures and glowing lights from the fairgrounds. From up here, the world felt small, the hum of carnival rides and laughter muffled by the height. 

You swallowed, gripping the cool metal bar in front of you, trying not to fidget under the weight of his gaze. Beau was leaning back, one arm slung over the seat like he had all the time in the world, his knee knocking into yours every time the cart swayed.

“Didn’t take you for the shy type,” he murmured, voice low, teasing.

You scoffed, keeping your eyes on the blinking lights of the fairground. “I’m not shy.”

His smirk deepened, slow and knowing. “Oh, I know,” he drawled. “Just don’t think you’ve ever had a boy look at you the way I’m lookin’ at you now.”

Your fingers curled against the peeling paint of the safety bar as your stomach flipped—not from the height, not from the way the Ferris wheel jolted slightly as it came to a stop at the very top, but from him. From that voice, thick as molasses, and the way his green eyes traced your face like he was memorizing every little thing about you.

He was two years older, always just a step ahead, but never far enough to be out of reach. 

After that night at the fair that pull between you was magnetic—unspoken but undeniable. Like gravity, like instinct, like something stitched into the fabric of who you were.

It started small. Brushing shoulders in crowded hallways, stolen glances across the stands at a football game, the way he’d always find you at a party, beer in hand, offering it to you with that slow, knowing grin.

Then it grew. Late-night drives down empty roads, the radio humming between easy conversation. Sitting on the tailgate of his truck, passing a bottle back and forth, watching the stars blink awake. Him showing up unannounced, leaning against your porch railing like he belonged there, just to ask, “You busy?”—and the answer was always no, not for him.

At every bonfire party, leaning against his truck with that slow, easy confidence, eyes locked on you as you twirled around with Cheyenne, laughter spilling into the night. Running out of his family’s barn to greet you in the driveway, always opening your car door for you, pulling you into a hug that left the scent of hay and dust clinging to your clothes. At the gas station on slow summer nights, leaving his truck door open as he filled the tank, saying something so damn funny it had you laughing until you snorted—something he never let you live down.

You grew up tangled in each other’s lives, inextricable. Beau was the first boy who ever made your heart stutter, the first set of hands you trusted to catch you when you fell. He was there when you turned sixteen, sneaking you out to the lake, exploring each other’s bodies beneath the moonlight while the cicadas sang. He was there at eighteen, always ready to hold you in his arms whenever the weight of the future pressed heavy on your shoulders.

No matter where life tugged you—through the petty bickering, breaking up one week just to get back together the next—you always found your way back to each other. Because you were Beau and he was you, because from that first night at the fair, something had settled into place.

And neither of you ever really let it go.

And now, even after you’ve spent more time apart than together, he’s standing in front of you again—older, broader, wearing the years like they did him a favor. The sharp angles of youth have settled into a sweet, defined ruggedness. The way he looks at you hasn’t changed—like he still knows you better than you know yourself.

Your fingers curl at your sides as you force yourself to stand still under his gaze, to not fidget under the weight of history pressing between you.

You swallow hard, shaking the heavy thoughts loose before clearing your throat. “Beau.”

His smile stays put, but something flickers behind those green eyes—something softer, something cautious. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he says, voice quieter now, rougher around the edges.

The warmth in his drawl tugs at something in your chest, something you thought you’d buried a long time ago. You exhale sharply, willing yourself to stay focused, to not get swept up in the sound of him.

Movement beside you catches your attention—the secretary, still perched at her desk, now leaning just slightly forward, chin propped in her hand, watching the two of you like she’s already writing the town gossip in her head.

You sigh, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Think we could talk somewhere private?”

Beau doesn’t answer right away. He just watches you, long and steady, like he’s trying to piece together what the hell you’re doing here after all this time. Like he’s debating whether or not he wants to open that door again.

Eventually, he exhales through his nose, something unreadable passing over his face before he gives a slow shake of his head. Then, with a tilt of his chin, he steps back, pushing off the doorframe.

“After you, darlin’.”

And just like that, the past isn’t just a memory anymore. It’s standing right in front of you, waiting to see what you’ll do next.

You step inside, the scent of old paper greeting you as the door clicks shut behind you. The office is simple—wood-paneled walls, a heavy desk, a few dusty plaques hanging crooked. It suits him.

Beau goes over to the desk but doesn’t sit, just leans against the edge, arms loosely crossed as he watches you expectantly. You clear your throat, shifting your weight as you reach into your bag. The rustle of papers fills the quiet, and your pulse pounds as you pull out the documents, gripping them tighter than necessary.

“So,” you start, unfolding them with stiff fingers. “These are, um—” You exhale sharply, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “Divorce papers.”

Beau doesn’t move right away. He just takes them from your hands, his brows pulling together as he flips through the pages. The silence stretches, thick and unyielding, as he skims over the fine print.

Your mouth is already running before you can stop it. “I know it’s been a long time, and I should’ve handled this sooner, but—well, life happened, and I’m moving south soon so I figured it was time, and I thought—” You huff a humorless laugh, rubbing your palm over your forehead. “I just figured I should finally do the right thing and bring these to you in person.”

Beau hums, still looking down at the papers, expression unreadable. Then, just as you’re bracing for him to say something—anything—he glances up and asks, “You been riding much these days?”

You blink. “What?”

“Horses,” he clarifies, flipping a page absently. “You still riding?”

You stare at him, momentarily thrown off balance. Here you are, standing in front of him with legal proof of the one thing still tying you together, and he’s asking about horses?

Your lips part, then close. Then part again before you shake your head, exasperated. “Beau, are you serious?”

His mouth quirks, just the faintest bit, before he shrugs. “It’s a simple question, darlin’.”

You let out a sharp breath, pressing your fingers to your temples. Of course. Of course, this is how he’s handling this.

Some things never change.

You huff out a sharp, “No,” crossing your arms, your irritation bubbling over. 

Beau doesn’t seem fazed. If anything, the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s holding back a smirk. Without so much as a glance at the papers, he tosses them onto the desk beside him, the pages fanning out in a crumpled heap. Then, he braces his hands on the wood, leaning in just enough to shrink the space between you.

“Remember Indigo?” he asks, voice low and smooth.

Your breath catches.

Of course, you remember Indigo. The dapple-gray mare with the bright blue eyes and a stubborn streak as wide as the county line. She was your first real show horse, the one you begged your parents for when you were twelve, the one you spent years training, the one who knew your moods better than anyone else.

The one you left behind when you left Beau.

Your throat tightens, and you will yourself not to look away. But Beau’s watching you too closely now, his gaze full of something unreadable, something that makes your chest ache.

“Yeah,” you murmur, swallowing hard. “I remember.”

Beau leans back slightly, his hands pressing down on the edge of his desk as his gaze shifts to something distant, something hidden beneath that easy smile of his. "Got a whole lotta of offers for her after you left," he says, the words slipping out with a quiet, almost reluctant tone. His eyes flicker to you briefly, his gaze softening just a fraction. "But none of ‘em were good enough."

Your chest tightens, but you don’t let him see it, just nodding as you let the silence stretch for a moment.

He huffs out a quiet laugh, the sound a little bitter. "Ramsey Wilcox—hell, he was the worst of 'em all. Wouldn't leave me alone for weeks. I caught him at the bar one night—he's leanin’ against the counter, shootin' the shit with me, talkin’ ‘bout work and life, y’know, all that normal bullshit." Beau's lips curl in a playful sneer at the thought, his fingers rubbing at his jaw as he recalls the memory. "Then he pulls out his damn wallet. Thought he was showin' me a picture of his kids or something, but nah—he pulls out this check. Fifty grand, darlin'. Fifty thousand dollars, with Indigo written right there on the ‘for’ line."

You don’t even think about it. You cut in without hesitation. “She’s worth a whole lot more than that.”

Beau laughs, and the sound is easy, genuine—a warmth that you can feel even in the space between you. He nods, agreeing with you. "Hell, don’t I know. I told him that, too." But then his eyes narrow just a touch, and his expression shifts, like he’s thinking back to that moment—back to the guy with the check and the offer that tried to strip away a part of his world.

You raise an eyebrow, still waiting for him to tell you what he did next. “So what’d you do with that pretty penny?” you ask, trying to steel your tone, keep it light despite the anger seeping into your bones.

Beau holds your gaze for a long, drawn-out moment. His brows crease as he studies you, wracking his brain. He looks almost hurt by the words, but it’s gone as he shakes his head slowly.

"Took a sip of my beam," he starts, his voice low and deliberate, "and poured the rest of it right on that damn check. Just ruined it, right then and there."

A chuckle escapes him, but it’s not lighthearted like before—it’s something deeper. Something that only he understands. His eyes are warmer now, softer, as he reminisces, and you find yourself leaning in, waiting for him to continue.

"Little Miss Indigo’s got herself a nice pasture now, better than the paddock we fixed up for her when we first got the house," he says, his smile returning but in a quieter, more nostalgic way. "Course, she shares it with ‘ol Bud."

Your brows furrow as you glance toward the window, trying to process everything in that statement. Indigo—your horse. The one you left behind when you left Beau, the one you thought would be forgotten like so many other things in your past. You never imagined she’d still be there, still cared for as if no time had passed.

Beau looks at you with that same familiar, knowing gaze, as if nothing had changed. The years didn’t seem to have done much to him—he was still Beau, the guy who always had a story to tell, who never seemed to give a damn what anyone thought, who had a quiet way of making you feel like you were the most important person in the room.

And even now, after all this time, all those miles apart—it felt like you were still tethered to him in ways you couldn’t quite explain.

Your lips part, then press together as you blink at him. A quiet sort of disbelief settles in your chest, like you hadn’t expected him to say that.

Beau just watches you, still leaning back against the desk, arms crossed over his broad chest. His smile lingers, but there’s something else there now, something softer—something that twists in your gut.

"You kept her," you say, almost to yourself.

He scoffs, shaking his head. "’Course I kept her. What kinda man do you take me for?"

You look down, your fingers curling at your sides, heat creeping up your neck. You don’t know how to answer that—not when you were the one who left.

Beau doesn’t push. He just tilts his head, studying you like he’s trying to read between the lines of everything you’re not saying. 

"You retired Bud?"

His grin deepens, eyes flashing with something smug. "Sure did, old bastard did good on the ranch. He came home with me last year, when I took up this new job."

There’s something dangerously warm settling in your chest. The kind of warmth you don’t know what to do with. Because even after all this time, even after all the miles and mistakes between you—Beau never really let go of the things that mattered.

Beau sighs, the weight of something unspoken hanging in the air as he shifts his weight back to his feet, walking over to the window. His back is turned to you now, but you can still feel his presence in the room—every inch of him is alive with quiet tension. The space between you seems to stretch, but there’s something magnetic pulling you in, as it always had.

He glances over his shoulder at you, his eyes still distant but the corners of his lips pulling into a half-smile, like he knows he’s already got you. “How ‘bout I take you to see the ‘ol girl?” His voice is steady, though it holds that same depth of nostalgia, the same gravity that has always drawn you closer to him.

Your chest tightens, a hesitant laugh escaping your lips as you bite your bottom lip, looking over at the divorce papers sitting on his desk. “Beau, I—”

He turns fully now, his gaze landing back on the papers, but there’s something in his eyes—something that makes you pause. His brow furrows as he watches the way you hesitate. It’s like he’s waiting for you to fight it, for you to push back one last time. But his voice, when it comes again, is softer, coaxing. “Then we can talk about me signin’ those papers of yours.”

The air between you thickens as you absorb his words. He’s still giving you an out, but you know it’s not an out you can take—not anymore. You’ve spent so much time avoiding this moment, but now it’s right here, hanging between you both like a thread that’s just about to snap. And it’s funny, you realize, how every time you came back to him, it never felt like you were going backward. It always felt like you were just finding your way home.

You swallow hard, your fingers curling around the divorce papers, tucking them back into your bag. Your gaze lifts to meet his. His face is unreadable, but in his eyes, you can see it—he’s offering you something far more important than just a tour of the pasture. He’s offering you the chance to fix the one thing that’s always been left broken.

"Okay," you whisper, your voice quieter than you expect, but it carries the weight of everything that’s unsaid between you. You feel the tension in your chest release, the knot loosening, and you take a slow step forward.

Beau’s lips twitch upward, a flicker of something soft passing through his eyes. He nods once, like he’s accepting your unspoken surrender, but he doesn’t make a big deal of it. Instead, he grabs his jacket from the back of the chair and swings it over his shoulders with that same easy, practiced movement you’ve always known. “Alright then,” he mutters, his voice a touch lighter now. “Let’s go.”

The drive to Beau’s place is quiet, the hum of the truck's engine lulling you into a strange calm. You watch the passing scenery but it doesn’t seem to register at first—too much noise, too many memories, too many feelings trying to fight their way through. The road seems to stretch endlessly, but it doesn’t feel like the long, winding path you remember from the past. It feels different now. Like the past is catching up to you, inch by inch.

And when you finally see the house again, your breath catches in your throat. It’s like seeing a ghost—something so familiar, but so far out of reach. You’re standing at the edge of something, a threshold you can’t quite cross. You feel out of place here, like there’s no space for you to fit anymore. The house, the land, the memories—all of it seems to hold its breath, waiting for you to step back into it. But you know the truth, the one Beau’s been side stepping for the past hour—you don’t belong here anymore.

Beau doesn’t say a word when he parks the truck, leaving the engine running for just a moment. His presence fills the air around you, and you can almost hear his thoughts as you both sit there in the quiet. It’s like he’s giving you space, allowing you to sort through whatever it is that’s twisting inside you.

Then, the door opens and he steps out, his boots crunching softly against the gravel as he walks to the passenger side. He pauses, standing still for just a beat before your door is creaking open. His eyes, patient and careful, lock onto yours as he leans against the side of the truck, waiting for you to climb out.

You move without bothering to say a word, because at this moment, you don’t need to. It’s like every step you take toward that house is one step closer to finding something you’d forgotten.

The house is still standing, unchanged in some ways, but you can see the subtle signs of age, of time catching up. The porch creaks underfoot as you walk up to it, your feet feeling too light, too heavy all at once. Beau follows behind you, a quiet presence that gives you the room to breathe.

But when you look out toward the pasture, you see her.

Indigo.

Your heart skips a beat at the sight. Her spotted coat glows in the late afternoon sun, the dapples of grey and white shimmering like they always did. She’s grazing lazily in the field, her movements graceful, as if time had never passed. The sight of her steadies you, somehow grounding you in the moment. Your discomfort starts to melt away, like the world slows down for just a second. She’s still here. She’s still yours.

Without thinking, your feet carry you across the front lawn toward the fence. Beau watches you closely, his eyes tracking every movement with the same careful attention he’s always had. As you reach the fence, you place your hand against the rough wood, the memories flooding back with every touch. Indigo’s head lifts, ears flicking in your direction. She trots over, a soft whinny escaping her as she noses into your palm, a familiar warmth that makes your heart ache with the depth of everything you’ve left behind.

Beau is beside you then, standing close enough for your arms to brush, his hand coming to rest gently on Indigo’s neck. He speaks softly to her, words you can’t quite make out, but the affection in his voice is unmistakable. You watch, mesmerized by the tenderness between him and your horse, feeling like an intruder in a life that could have been yours.

Then, as if remembering you’re there, Beau nudges your shoulder, his teasing smile returning. It’s easy, familiar—like nothing’s changed. “C’mon,” he says, the words low and laced with that hint of mischief you’ve always known so well. “Let’s get you saddled up.”

The warm afternoon sun filters through the trees as you and Beau ride through the trails behind his house, the quiet sounds of the horses’ hooves striking the dirt mingling with the chorus of birds overhead. The terrain out here is rugged, the trails winding through dense woods before opening up to rocky outcroppings and wide, sweeping views of the distant mountains. The earth smells rich, like the pine trees and fresh moss, and it’s easy to lose yourself in the rhythm of the ride, in the way the air feels on your face, crisp but gentle.

With that well-worn felt hat atop his head, the brim tilted just enough to shade his eyes, he looks so much like the Beau you knew. The one who lived for long days under the sun, for the smell of fresh-cut hay and the burn of whiskey after dark. He’s settled deep in the saddle, moving with easy confidence, the way he always did. Like he was born to be there. Like the saddle was just another part of him.

And that horse—the sleek Arabian beneath him—you remember the day he got Bud. He was too wild at first, too quick-footed, and for weeks, you watched Beau learn every quirk and stubborn streak he had, determined to turn him into a proper cattle horse. He swore up and down he’d never trust anything but a quarter horse, but damn if he didn’t rise to the challenge anyway. And now, watching him guide Bud through the tall grass with nothing but the shift of his weight and the sure pull of the reins, you can tell he’s as much a part of Beau as that damn hat.

For a moment, it’s like you’ve been thrown back in time. You can almost hear the reckless laughter of your younger selves, the way he used to tip his hat at you like he was some kind of cowboy out of a storybook, always playing at being larger than life. But that boy isn’t just a memory—he’s right here, riding beside you. He’s older, sure, a little more worn by time, the lines at the corners of his eyes a little deeper, but the heart of him—the thing that made him Beau—that’s still there.

Then, breaking the silence between you, Beau speaks up, his voice cutting through the peaceful backdrop.

“So, how’s the vet tech work been?” he asks casually, his gaze still forward as he guides his horse around a sharp bend in the trail.

It catches you off guard, and he can see it in the way your brows furrow when you glance over at him. He chuckles softly, a little nervous, like he’s realizing he might’ve just cracked a door open on something he wasn’t sure he should.

“Uh, yeah,” he continues, his voice a bit flustered now. “Probably should mention that Chey’s been keeping me posted on what you’ve been gettin’ up to over in Washington.”

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, a small sigh slipping out. Of course, Cheyenne has—she can’t help herself when it comes to you and Beau. She’s always been the bridge between the two of you, passing on every little detail. She’s always had a habit of rambling on about something special, something sacred existing between the two of you.

You made her stop talking like that a long time ago, on one of your darker nights, when the mere mention of his name made you angrier than you cared to admit. Still, you can’t help the surprise that Beau even cared enough to listen to those updates.

His eyes flick to you briefly, like he can read the shift in your mood, sensing the storm brewing behind your gaze. “Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours too much,” he adds softly. “She never tells me anything too personal. Just the milestones. You know, little tidbits here and there.”

You nod, trying to shake the tension that suddenly tightens in your chest. “Uh, well, it’s been good,” you answer after a beat. “I’ve been busy. Mostly small animal care, but a lot of emergencies. It’s intense, but I love it.”

Beau nods, his expression thoughtful, but there’s something else there too—quiet curiosity, the kind you haven’t seen in years. “Yeah? That’s good. Chey mentioned something about you helping with a few surgeries and—”

You feel the need to steer the conversation in a different direction before it gets too personal. You turn your gaze back to the trail ahead, focusing on the winding path that stretches out before you. “Well, actually, I’m heading to Colorado soon. Been thinking about making a move. Looking for something new. I think I’ll be able to get a job at one of the bigger animal hospitals down there. It feels like the next step.”

Beau nods again, absorbing the news, but before he can say anything, you feel a sudden surge of courage bubbling up in your chest. The question has been sitting there since the moment you saw him again, unanswered and waiting.

“What about you, Beau?” you ask, your voice tentative at first, but firm. “You’re the sheriff now, got this beautiful home and all... have you... found someone?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He keeps his eyes trained ahead, guiding his horse with a steady hand. You can see the corners of his lips twitch, like he’s trying to hold back a smile—or maybe a laugh.

“Nope,” he says finally, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle. “No one worth mentioning, I suppose.”

His gaze flicks to you then, and there’s something in his eyes—a look of amusement, but also something deeper. “Girl of my dreams asking me if I’ve met someone? Thought I’d be the one asking you that after all this time, darlin’.”

You feel a little flustered, the old playful Beau returning in full force. He’s got that teasing look on his face, the one that always made you roll your eyes and laugh. You don’t have time to respond, though, because with a swift kick to his horse’s side, he speeds up, the sound of his horse’s hooves increasing in pace.

“Race ya back home, sassy!” he calls over his shoulder, his voice full of mischief, his tone dripping with that familiar nickname. The one he’s always called you.

Sassy.

You can’t help the smile that pulls at the corners of your mouth, that playful challenge luring you into action. The nickname, meant as a jab at your attitude all those years ago, is like a thread tying you back to something simpler. Something good. . .

You stood near the fence line at his family’s ranch, arms crossed, your boots dug into the dirt like you were planting yourself there just to spite him.

Beau, for his part, looked entirely unbothered, his hands resting casually on his belt, that easy, damn near infuriating smirk playing on his lips. He had a way of looking at you like he knew exactly what you were going to say before you even opened your mouth.

“That damn attitude of yours is somethin’ else, y’know that?” he chuckled, shaking his head like you were amusing him.

Your scowl deepened. “Yeah? Why don’t I just go on home then so you can quit dealing with my damn attitude?”

Beau let out a full laugh at that, shoulders jumping with the force of it. Like you hadn’t just told him off. Like you didn’t mean it. And maybe you didn’t—not really—but you sure as hell wanted him to think you did.

“Hell no,” he drawled, still grinning. “Sassy as all hell, that’s what you are.”

Your pout stayed firm, arms tightening across your chest, but your traitorous heart wasn’t nearly as steady. Not with the way he was looking at you. Not with that warmth in his eyes—like he liked it. Like he wouldn’t have you any other way.

He sighed then, soft and a little exasperated, but there was something else beneath it, something deeper. Before you could react, he stepped closer, tilting his head down and pressing a kiss to your forehead, his lips warm against your skin.

You barely had time to process it before he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest. The scent of him surrounded you, familiar and steady in a way that made your stomach flip.

“My sassy miss,” he murmured against your hair, the words quiet, like they weren’t meant for anyone but you.

And just like that, your resolve wavered, your heartbeat betraying you as it hammered hard against your ribs. You wanted to stay mad. You really, really did. But damn it was hard to hold onto your fire when he could hold you like you were something precious. 

As you and Beau walk through the back door into the house, the familiar scent of wood and leather instantly wraps around you, bringing back memories of long days spent in this place. You can hear the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen, the creak of the wooden floors beneath your boots. It’s all so familiar, yet it feels like you’re stepping into a time that doesn’t quite belong to you anymore.

Beau opens the door with a casual, almost lazy gesture, stepping aside to let you enter first. He follows, continuing the story that seemed too good not to share. “Anyways,” he grins, “I was at this fundraiser over in town—one of those fancy events where everyone’s trying to impress each other. I’m talkin’ big names, expensive suits, and of course, I show up looking like I’ve never even heard of a tailor in my life.”

You snort, imagining Beau in an unflattering suit.

"So I’m talking to this big-shot rancher, trying to keep my cool, right? But I’m just so out of my element. I reach for my drink, and somehow—don’t ask me how—I knock the whole damn thing over. It spills everywhere. I'm not talking a little dribble, I'm talking splashing all over this poor woman’s white dress. The whole room goes silent, and I’m standing there like I’ve just committed a crime."

You’re already laughing, but Beau doesn’t stop there.

"Then, of course, I try to salvage the situation. I offer her my napkin—a paper napkin—like that’s gonna fix it. She looks at me like I’m crazy. And me? Instead of apologizing and walking away like any sane person would, I try to make a joke out of it. 'Guess I was just trying to add some color to the party,' I say."

You shake your head, still laughing. "I bet that went over well."

Beau shrugs with a sheepish grin. "Yeah. Not my best moment. She didn’t even crack a smile. But hey, at least I made an impression. I’m sure she won’t forget me anytime soon."

You can’t help the laugher that spills out, a full, genuine laugh that bubbles up from somewhere deep inside you. It’s loud and unrestrained, and for a moment, you feel lighter. The sound feels like it belongs in this place, like you’ve come home after all these years, even if it’s only for a short while.

Beau watches you, a smile tugging at his lips, and his eyes—those familiar watchful eyes—never leave you. His grin falters for just a second, something deeper, more serious, taking its place. But he doesn’t say anything, instead nudging you gently as he walks past.

Beau looks at you, his expression soft but purposeful. He nods toward the staircase. “Why don’t you get cleaned up?” he says, voice low but steady. “I’ll wait for you down here. We’ve got some talking to do, I know, but I also know how you get when you’ve got hay and dirty clinging to every bit of you.”

You nod, feeling a mixture of exhaustion and strange contentment. “Yeah,” you murmur, “you’re not wrong about that.”

You make your way up the stairs, the familiar creak of the old wood beneath your feet grounding you in this space. As you pass the hallway, your eyes fall on the little pieces of yourself scattered around the house, tucked away in corners where they’ve stayed all this time. The trinkets you left behind, the blankets you’d picked out together, the small knick-knacks that somehow still hold your mark. There’s no pictures of you, no wedding photos displayed, but it’s there in the details, in the softness of the place that’s held on to you, even after all this time.

You reach the bathroom, the air warm and comforting, and step into the shower. The water rushes over you, and as the steam fills the room, it’s like you’re letting go of all the distance, the years, the heartache.

When you step out, wrapped in a towel, you make your way to the dresser and pull open the drawer. A smile tugs at your lips when you see an old pair of your pajama pants still tucked away, folded neatly beside a few other forgotten clothes. It’s like you never left, like a small part of you has stayed here even when you weren’t.

Slipping on one of Beau’s old shirts, the fabric soft and worn, you feel a strange sense of comfort in the familiarity. The scent of his cologne lingers on the shirt, and for a second, it’s like you’re still that girl who used to live here, who used to be his.

You make your way downstairs, your footsteps muffled on the carpeted stairs, and follow the sound of music drifting from the front porch. When you step outside, you find Beau sitting on the porch bench, his legs stretched out before him, looking out at the pasture as the setting sun casts a golden glow across the land.

The music playing from a little radio beside him is soft with the buzzing of the crickets picking up as the day comes to it’s end. It’s still early spring, when the breeze and the sun take part in a sweet little dance. Like Montana itself is trying to lure you back in. 

Beau’s got a long neck in one hand, and a little mug of tea in the other. 

He doesn’t say anything when you sit down beside him, just hands you the mug wordlessly, as if it’s always been the unspoken thing to do. You take it, inhaling the sweet scent of chamomile tea, your favorite.

You raise an eyebrow at him, your voice soft and teasing. “I know you don’t drink this stuff.”

Beau just shrugs, his gaze still focused on the pasture. “Yeah, yeah,” he says nonchalantly, “still had a tin in the back of the cupboard. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

The gesture is simple, but it hits you harder than you expected. Maybe it’s the way the tea warms your soul, how sitting beside Beau now feels no different than when you were fourteen, or eighteen, or twenty. You wrap your hands around the mug, the warmth seeping into your skin, and you let the silence settle between you, feeling the weight of the moment.

But after a while, it’s you who breaks the silence.

“We really gotta talk about those papers, Beau,” you say softly, your voice almost hesitant, as if you’re not sure how to broach it.

He finally looks at you, his eyes holding that deep, steady gaze that makes it impossible to hide anything. His fingers tighten around the bottle in his hand, and he nods slowly, his voice low and sincere.

“I know, darlin’, I know,” he says, his words slow and deliberate. “Just let me sit here with you, alright? Just like this. Then we’ll go inside, and you can have the bed. I’ll take the couch. Then I’ll sign those papers in the morning.”

You nod, the quiet moment stretching between you both, filling the space with a tenderness that feels oddly comforting.

“I’m not the one you need, Beau," your voice comes out soft, hesitant as you try to grip tight onto remnants of your will to keep him at arms length. "I’m not that same girl you grew up next to, all that fire and fun, it died out a long time ago.” 

His chest puffs with the deep sigh he takes, his eyes staying trained on the setting sun, “I always loved that fire in you, Sassy.” Then he turns, his arm finding it’s place against the back of the bench, his fingers just barely brushing your shoulder. “But that ain't the only thing I loved.”

The sun continues to dip lower in the sky, casting a soft glow over the pasture as you sit beside him, your hands still wrapped around the tea, the gentle hum of the music and the distant sound of the horses your only company. And you can’t find the words to respond to that, not now—hell, you’re not sure you ever will.

tags <3 @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @daylighted @jollyhunter @soldiersgirl @bejeweledinterludes @bluemerakis @cowboysandcigarettes @dulcescorderitas @couturewinx @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts

being lee byung-hun’s controversially young girlfriend

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