HUSBAND/DAD!CLAY HEADCANONS

I LOVE OMGGG

Ex at Christmas

violet "vi" x female reader — 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

summary: christmas is just around the corner, and you've been invited to spend them with your ex-girlfriend's family. only one problem is that your ex-girlfriend has not told anyone that the relationship is over. (requested by anon) warnings/themes: fluff and angst, found family af, fake dating, ex lovers, christmas, family gatherings, secret santa, everyone is alive and happy au, modern au vi just begging for you to take her back? words: 17.8k.... (i got carried away) notes: it's so long i should've cut it into parts but idk where... so suffer (╥﹏╥)

As always, the last drop is a lively spot. warm, cozy, and familiar. Colorful lights hang from the ceiling, a decorated tree stands in the corner, a 'merry christmas' painted on the wall, even a few strings of garland have been hung from the low ceiling.

People are crowding around the bar. Some are playing pool, some are simply chatting amongst themselves, cigarette smoke curling up toward the ceiling.

Vander's voice snaps you from your thoughts. “Look who finally showed her face around here.” He reaches over the top of the bar to ruffle your hair.

“I know, I know,” you laugh, swatting his hand away. “Things are just... busy, y'know?” 

Vander rests his forearms on the countertop, leaning closer to you. “Just making sure you're still alive. 'Been an awful long while since I last saw you.”

“I've been fine, old man.” 

“Glad to hear you're doing alright kid. Haven't seen you around here in, what, three months? You need to come by more often, keep an old guy company,” he chuckles. “I almost thought you'd vanished.”

“You sound like a grandma with kids that never call.”

Vander grins and winks at you, taking a rag and wiping at the bartop. “You're like a kid to me, so I guess it checks out.”

You scoff but say nothing, leaning against the bartop as your eyes start to travel across the room. A few people mill about that you recognize as regular patrons, but other than that, there's pretty much no one of interest.

Vander snorts and lifts the rag to his shoulder. “We're having our christmas gathering again this year, you should swing by. Just like last christmas, eh?”

A lot has changed for you in the past month, and you've been dreading this coming up. “I... don't know. I don't think so.”

Vander raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean you don't know? Not up to seeing the old gang again?”

“Not exactly,” you murmur, the memory of the breakup is still fresh. It's not that you don't want to see your friends, it's just the idea of seeing Vi again.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “It's not that, I just... things have changed, especially recently. I don't want to... accidentally make things awkward or something.”

Vander shakes his head and it almost seems like he's laughing at you. “Why would it be awkward?”

“I don't know…” You sigh, your shoulders slumping in resignation. “Nevermind it, I'm going.”

Your words get a smirk out of Vander, and he reaches over to poke your arm. “That's what I like to hear,” he gives you a wink, folding his arms across his chest. “You better show up or I'll drag you here myself. You know I could.”

“Like I'd let you drag me here, old man—there's no way your back can handle that.”

“Ah, you kids these days have no respect for your elders. You're gonna break my old back and then I'll die,” he pretends to sniffle, making you scoff.

Silco then walks over, looping his arms around Vander's shoulders. The two of them exchange a knowing glance before Silco turns his attention to you. “Look who actually decided to show up.”

Vander laughs as he pats Silco's arm. “Cut the kid some slack. They're just here to have a good time.”

Silco chuckles, his eyes still on you. “So are you coming on Christmas?”

You almost sigh as Silco brings up the party again. You rub at the back of your neck, and just as you're about to answer, Vander beats you to it.

“Yeah, she's coming,” he confirms.

Silco hums, he lifts his arm from off vander, resting it in his hip instead. “Good, I was beginning to think you were going to weasel your way out of it.”

Vander smacks his shoulder. “Lay off, would ya? let the kid breathe.”

Silco relents and waves his hand dismissively. “I'm just saying,” he looks back at you. “We all want you there, you know. It wouldn't be the same without you.”

Hearing them say that makes you feel guilty for even considering not going. You know they mean it. You just hope it won't be too much awkward with Vi there.

Vander nods and smiles. “He's right, you know. Everyone's been asking about you. They'll be happy to have you there.”

“I get it. You don't have to butter me up, old man.”

Vander chuckles, then he glances over his shoulder, gesturing to a small, unassuming box on a nearby table. “Hey, could you grab that little box over there for me?” Silco smirks and nods before moving to get the box, bringing it over and handing it to Vander.

“What's in the box?” you ask.

Vander grins at you, holding the box in his hands. “We're doing a secret santa,” he explains, “and since you’re coming that means you're participating too.”

Your eyebrows raise to your hairline. You'd completely forgotten about the secret santa. You groan in annoyance, running your hands over your face. “I'm still annoyed I got that whoopee cushion from Powder last year.”

“That was a good one. She was so damn proud of herself too, and besides…” Vander pauses, turning to look at you. “You never know, you might get something less annoying this year.” He then holds the box out to you, a smile on his lips.

There's always the possibility you won't get something shitty, but knowing most of your friends... Yeah, that's unlikely.

You look at the box, then up at Vander, sighing. You take the box from him. “I hope you're right, old man.”

Vander chuckles before stepping back to talk to Silco.

You turn the box over in your hands, feeling the weight of it. It's not too heavy, and you almost feel compelled to shake it. But if you do that, you'll probably end up drawing Vander's name, and that's basically cheating.

Sighing, you decide to just bite the bullet. You take the lid off the box, sticking your hand inside. Your fingers rummage around before they eventually close around a folded piece of paper.

You pull out the slip of paper, unfolding it slowly. You glance at the handwriting, then almost roll your eyes.

Of course you got Vi.

Out of all the names you could have drawn, you get the one person you didn't want to get. You could have gotten literally anyone else. Mylo, Claggor, Powder, Silco, or anyone other than Vi. but no, you had to get your ex. Just your luck.

You look at the note again, and the first thought that comes to your mind is...

Well, crap.

You're so focused on the slip of paper in your hands that you don't notice Vander and Silco peeking over your shoulder.

“So, who'd you get?”

Vander's question makes you jump, you quickly stuff the paper into your pocket before they can see who it is.

“No one,” you say, waving your hand to dismiss the question. “It's not important.”

Silco raises an eyebrow. “Then why are you pocketing the paper?”

“It's a secret for a reason.”

Vander and Silco glance at each other, and you can tell they're silently communicating. 

Vander turns back to you a moment later, rubbing his jaw. “A secret, huh? Well, that means whoever you got won't know it's you.”

Silco hums. “That's probably a good thing,” he mumbles.

“That's kind of the point of a secret Santa.”

Vander nods, scratches his beard before his lips turn up in a small smile. “True means you can give them something real nice.”

Silco glances at Vander before looking at you. “Whoever you got is probably going to be very happy when they get their gift.”

You almost snort at Silco's words. Yeah, right. a gift from you? She’ll probably chuck it straight in the trash.

You run a hand through your hair, trying to shake the thoughts of Vi out of your head. You don't know why you're worried about how she'll react. Why care if she'll like the gift? Why care if she's happy with whatever you get her?

The answer is so obvious, but you don't want to admit it even to yourself.

Vander and Silco are still looking at you, and you realize that you have to say something. Any longer and they might figure it out.

You push those thoughts away and force out a small scoff. “If they'll actually like it. I'm not the best with gifts.”

“Oh, I'm sure they will,” Silco says, an almost knowing smirk on his face.

Vander nods. “Just give them something from the heart.”

From the heart, my ass. The only thing you want to give her from the heart is a kick in the ass.

“Because someone's gonna be real happy with something from me.”

Vander and Silco exchange another look again, like they're having an entire conversation without actually saying anything.

You turn away from them, looking out the window. They're probably trying to read your mind, figure out who it is you got. The thought makes your eyes twitch. You don't want them to know. You don't know why, but you really don't want them to know.

“Just do us a favor,” Silco suddenly says, cutting into the silence that had fallen between you. “Try not to stress too hard about it. You'll give yourself gray hairs.”

Vander chuckles at Silco's words, “You'll give us an old heart attack.”

“Ha ha, funny.”

Silco grins at your response. “Well, we're only half-joking.”

Vander's eyes soften. He slaps Silco's shoulder to get him to shut up. “What he means is, you overthink too much,” Vander adds.

You almost huff. Yeah, so what if you overthink? It's a normal thing to do. especially in situations like this, where you're stuck with the one person you don't want to be.

Why keep thinking about her? You need to stop obsessing over her. She made her choice, and it wasn't you.

You run your fingers to your face, trying to think of something else to distract yourself. It's not like you don't know what you want to get Vi. You just don't know if you should get it.

“I don't overthink,” you grumble, shifting your weight on your feet. 

“Oh yes, you do.”

And they're both right about that.. You can't even count how many times you've paced around your apartment, replaying every interaction you had with Vi over and over again in your head. Every word, every touch, and every look. All of it, it's like your brain refuses to let you forget.

You've spent countless nights trying to figure out where you went wrong. What you could have done differently if there was something you could have changed. All of that, just because of one person who tossed you aside without a second thought.

“Listen,” Silco suddenly says, snapping you out of your thoughts. You look over at him as he stands up straight, a smirk spreads across his lips. “You're going to drive yourself crazy thinking about something that hasn't even happened yet.”

“He's right,” Vander gives you a look before continuing. “And for the love of God, stop overthinking.”

If only it were that simple. If only you could just switch off your brain and stop thinking about everything.

But you know damn well you can't do that. Your thoughts are as uncontrollable as the weather, and right now, they're a mess.

You take a deep breath, trying to calm your thoughts.

“I should probably go,” you mutter, and the two men nod. Vander pats you on the back as you start for the door.

“Same place, eh?’ he calls after you.

“Don't think too hard, kid,” Silco adds.

You give them both a small nod as you exit the bar, shutting the door behind you.

Christmas is going to be one hell of a mess this year, you can feel it.

Now all you have to do is figure out how the hell you're going to deal with it.

—

You're standing outside of Vander and Silco’s house, the weight of the present in your hands suddenly feeling a thousand times heavier.

You've replayed this moment in your head countless times, but now that it's happening for real, you're not sure if you're ready.

Christmas music drifts out of the house, it's a familiar tune that you've heard a million times.

You push down the anxiety gnawing at your stomach. You shouldn't be feeling so nervous, it's just a gift. Just a present for a secret santa.

But this isn't just anyone, this is Vi. The one person who you didn't want to get. The one person who broke things off without a second thought.

Stop thinking about this. It's just one night. one stupid night, and then it will be over. You can get through this, you can handle being around Vi for one Christmas. No more thinking about her. No more wondering where you went wrong or if you could have done something to change things. Just get through the night and forget about her.

You take another deep breath, straighten up, and square your shoulders. Then, in one moment, you push open the doors to their house and walk inside.

Your eyes search the room, looking for that familiar pink hair. But you don't see her. Your shoulders relax a little. Maybe she's not here yet. That'll give you a few minutes to brace yourself. No one is around right now, probably in their rooms or preparing for the dinner. 

You were so distracted by looking around that you didn't realize someone was standing right behind you until they grabbed you and spun you around. Your eyes meet their powder blue ones, and your mouth suddenly goes dry.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Woah, hey-” you stumble over your words.

“Don't 'woah hey' me,” she snaps, her grip tightening on your arm.

Vander's deep voice cut in before you could even speak. “You've actually came.”

You feel her look away from you, her hand finally falling from your arm. As soon as it does, you rub the skin where she grabbed you.

Vander looks between the two of you and says, “Hand me the gift, kid. I'll put it there.” He gestures towards a christmas tree where the gifts are already sitting underneath.

You quickly hold the present out for him to take.

He takes it before giving both of you another look. “Go easy with your girlfriend, eh?”

You freeze, your heart stopping as his words register. Your eyes widen as you slowly turn your head to look at Vi.

Girlfriend?

“I will.” Before you can even process what's happening, you're being pulled outside.

You yank your arm back from Vi, quickly putting some distance between the two of you. “What's your problem?”

She spins around and scoffs, looking you up and down. “I should be asking you that. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Vander invited me. He asked me to come.”

“Then you should've said no.”

“Wow? just wow.” You take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “I know that things didn't go well between us, but you don't get to push me out of this family. They're my family too, and Vander invited me here to celebrate. I have as much right to be here as you do.”

You refuse to break eye contact with her. “You can ignore me all you want, but you don't get to decide how I'm allowed to spend my Christmas. If you want to keep acting like this, fine. Ignore me, pretend I don't exist, just like you've been doing for the past months.”

Vi lets out a laugh, rubbing a hand on her forehead. “They do not know.”

You blink at her. “What do you mean?”

She looks over at the entrance and says, “They all think we're still together.”

Your eyes widen. “What?” you almost shout. “Why the hell would they think that?”

“Because I didn't tell them,” she scoffs. “Every time I talk to them, they ask me how you are. Silco and Vander keep making comments about how we make a cute couple. They still think we're together.”

“Why the hell didn't you tell them?” you glare at her. “Were you ever going to?”

“I don't know,” she retorts, throwing her arms up. “They're all so happy about us being together.”

“That's such bullshit,” you snap at her. “That's such a crappy excuse! You should be the one to tell them we broke up.”

She looks away, planting her arm on her hips. “Don't you think I know that?” she shoots back. “It's not that simple. I can't just rip off the bandage like that.”

“Is that it? You’re scared that they'll know?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know how Silco and Vander can get.”

“I know how they get,” you snap back at her. “You’re just too much of a pussycat to face them and tell them the truth.”

Her expression hardens, and her jaw clenches. “Look who's talking. You can't even say no to a little family gathering, but here you are.”

“Don't even start. I didn't come here because I wanted to see you. I came for the family, not for you.”

“As if I wanted to see you either. The last thing I wanted was to have to deal with you all night.”

You look her right in the eye. “Fine, you know what? I'll go tell them right now that we broke up. They deserve to know.”

She grabs your wrist before you can take a step towards the door. “Wait”

You look down at her hand, then back up at her. “What?”

“Don't,” she says through gritted teeth. “Just... don't tell them yet.”

You scoff, ripping your arm away from her grip. “Why the hell not? So they can keep thinking we're still together?”

“Just don't tell them tonight. Can you just give me until after Christmas?”

“Why are you still dragging this out? What difference does it make if we wait till then or do it now?”

“Because it's fucking christmas!” she snaps before dropping her gaze. “Look, it's the holidays. I just... I don't want to ruin Christmas. They've all been looking forward to all of us celebrating together. I don't want to ruin it by spoiling the fun.”

“Wait—let me get this straight. You want to fake it this christmas? Pretend we're still a happy couple?”

She's quiet again. “Yeah,” she whispers, looking down. “Yeah, that's what I'm asking.”

“You’re unbelievable, Vi.” You take a deep breath, trying to keep yourself together. “Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? You're asking me to pretend like we're still together, to pretend that nothing has changed.”

“It's just one day,” she mumbles. “One day, that's all I'm asking for. We can tell them anytime after that, just not tonight, please.”

She even says please. Something about the way she says it makes your heart ache.

She looks desperate, like this really means something to her. Who are you kidding? Of course, this means something to her. 

They're her family, they're important to her. And on Christmas, all they want is for everything to be perfect. perfect food, perfect presents, and perfect couples.

You hate the way she's looking at you with those soft, pleading eyes. She always looks at you like that when she wants something, and you always give in. She does it subconsciously, knowing how to get exactly what she wants. And damn it, it works.

“Fine,” you mutter through clenched teeth. “You've got your damned wish.”

And there it is. There's the look you've been waiting for. That look of relief that comes to her eyes.

You hate that look. You hate how your heart flutters when she looks like that. You hate it so much.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, you've got me for tonight. I'll pretend like we're still together. Happy now?”

There's a flicker of a smile on her face, something quick that's gone before you can even register. “Yeah, thank you.”

She looks away again. Silence falls between the two of you as you shift awkwardly.

This is gonna be a long night.

You let out a sigh, watching as she keeps her focus on the floor. This is so damn awkward.

And it's your own fault for agreeing to this nonsense. There's no way this night doesn't end up being a goddamn catastrophe.

You would give anything to just disappear right now.

Powder's voice snaps you out of your thoughts. Peeking her head out of the doorway, looking at the two of you. “Hey, you two. It’s cold out there, get your asses in here.”

You look at Vi, waiting for a sign of acknowledgment.

She slowly glances up, her gaze meeting yours. “Come on,” she murmurs, holding out her hand.

Taking a deep breath, you take her hand in yours.

You've held her hand so many times before—more times than you can count. Holding her hand used to be nothing, but now it feels so odd. Almost awkward.

But she doesn't seem to notice how out of place it feels. She slowly leads you towards the door, squeezing your hand as she pulls you along.

“How are my favorite love birds doing?” Mylo's voice greets you as you both enter.

He slings a casual arm over your shoulders, leaning on your shoulder to get a better look at you. “It's about time you two showed up. I thought for sure you were just gonna keep making out in a corner somewhere.”

It takes everything you have not to elbow him in the stomach. Instead, you keep a neutral expression and chuckle awkwardly, “Yeah, you know us. Can't keep our hands off of each other.”

“You two are sickeningly in love, it's really cute, actually.”

Your eye twitches, and you bite the inside of your cheek.

“Yeah, we're very in love,” Vi says, and you can tell she's trying not to roll her eyes.

Mylo claps you on the shoulder before releasing you. “Well then, I'm going to go find myself some eggnog,” he leaves towards the kitchen, whistling to himself as he goes.

You turn to look at Vi, and you almost feel a twinge of hatred towards the way she so casually holds your hand, like nothing is wrong.

“Are you okay?”

Her voice brings you back to reality, and suddenly you're all too aware of how hard you're clenching your jaw and the fact that you're basically just glowering at the floor with a storm cloud over your head.

You raise your eyes to meet with hers, and you have to force yourself to release some of the tension. “Yeah, fine,” you mutter. “just cold”

It's a lie, obviously. It's not cold at all. Vander always keeps the place nice and warm.

Not even she's dumb enough to fall for that. She glances around, clearly noticing how you're not really hiding your feelings well.

She runs her thumb over the back of your hand. It's an innocent gesture, one that you've seen dozens of times before. It's not meant to be anything special, it never was. And yet, it still makes your heart skip a beat. 

You have absolutely no idea how you're going to get through this night with both your sanity and your heart still intact.

“Okay,” she finally says, “can you stop clenching your jaw so hard? you look like you're trying to grind your teeth down to the bone. I know this isn't the ideal situation, but please don't go around looking like you want to kill everyone in this room.”

Her fingers squeeze your hand, and you realize just how tightly you're holding her hand in yours. Your knuckles are white, and your fingers are probably digging into her skin.

Gritting your teeth, you loosen your grip. 

“There, that's better.” She lets out a quiet breath. “Please try and just relax for a bit. This is going to be hellish already, so I at least need you to not look like you hate me every second we're in here.”

You let out a frustrated huff, looking away from her. “Please don't act like you care.”

“I'm not acting like I care,” she says, a tone just loud enough for only you to hear. “I do care, and that's the problem.”

Of course she has to say something like that right now. Of course she has to hit where it hurts the most.

Care? care about what? about you? about what she put you through, how she broke your heart?

You open your mouth, but your response dies in your throat. You have no idea how to respond to that.

A loud shout interrupts your thoughts, and you both turn around. “Oi! Time for dinner!” Powder yells from the doorway into the kitchen.

Vi mutters under her breath, “finally.”

Powder grins as she waves you both over. “Hurry up or Vander will eat everything and complain about his bad back afterwards.”

“We're coming,” Vi calls back.

The two of you head towards the kitchen. There's a long table in the middle of the room, covered in a red and green tablecloth. Everyone is already crowded around the table, taking their seats as you two enter the room. Vander is at the head of one of the tables, Silco seated beside him. Mylo and Claggor are chatting amongst themselves as Powder takes her seat beside Claggor.

Vi looks at the seating arrangement and sighs, realizing what's about to happen. She pulls you over to the table and sits down, pulling you down into the seat right next to her.

After a few moments, everyone quiets down and turns their attention to Silco.

Silco places his hands together. “It's good to see everyone together like this today. I am thankful that we are all here, safe and healthy.” He glances around the room in a quick survey, seeming to count everyone's attendance. “And what better time to be together than the holidays?”

Powder lets out a huff. “Can we just eat? I'm starving.” 

Silco raises his hand for Powder to stay quiet. “Patience, Pow. First, let's do something a bit… different.”

Mylo and Claggor glance at each other in confusion. “Different?” Mylo repeats.

“Indeed,” Silco replies. “Instead of just diving into our meal, I thought it would be nice if we all took a moment to share a few words about what we are thankful for this year.”

“We're really gonna do this?”

Claggor nudges him. “Be polite, Mylo.”

“He's right, though,” Powder chimes in.

Silco raises an eyebrow at them both. “Is it really such a hassle to express gratitude at the end of the year?”

Mylo and Powder grumble something under their breaths.

Claggor is the first one to respond. “I think it's a fine idea.”

“Thank you, Claggor,” Silco replies, “I'm glad we have at least one cooperative person here.”

After a moment of silence, Vander speaks. “Alright, then I'll go first... I am grateful for my family,” he says as he looks around the room, taking in the faces before him. “I am thankful for my health, for my business, and most of all, that everyone is still here with me and safe.”

“That's so soft,” Powder mutters, but everyone ignores her.

Vander turns his head and looks directly at Silco, as if he's saying something that's meant to be for Silco's ears only, though everyone can clearly hear. “I'm also thankful for you, Sil,” he adds, the corner of his mouth twitching in a knowing smile.

You're not sure if you're the only one who noticed, but that comment definitely seemed personal and almost a little out of place.

He collects himself quickly and nods at Vander, seemingly not quite sure of what to say. “Thank you, Vander.” 

Silco clears his throat and composes himself, turning his gaze to Powder. “How about you, Pow? Any words of gratitude?”

Powder groans, slouching back in her seat like a child who's been forced to eat her vegetables. “I swear, if you make me say something corny-”

Mylo leans over the table to look at her sister. “Say something nice for once, or you're not getting dessert.”

“Ugh, fine. I am thankful for…” she looks around the room. “I'm thankful everyone's here and we're all... whatever, happy and healthy or something like that,” she mumbles.

“I'll take whatever I can get,” Silco mutters before turning his attention to Claggor. “What about you, Claggor?”

Claggor seems to be taking a moment to think, like he's actually putting effort into what he will say. “I'm grateful for…” his eyes are almost unfocused as he thinks. After a moment, he glances up to look at Vander. “I'm grateful for the family I have here.”

Vander gives him a warm look in response.

Everyone's gaze turns to Mylo, expecting him to go next.

He fidgets anxiously, shifting in his seat as he glances around the room. “What am I supposed to say?...er, fine... My whole life's a mess, but...at least all you idiots are here to make my life more miserable.”

“We love you too, Mylo” Powder teases. “Real touching. I think I might cry.”

Mylo throws a glare in her direction. “Shut up.”

Silco glances at Vi, his gaze lingering as he waits for Vi to speak.

“I'm thankful for…” her voice is a bit quieter than usual, more hesitant. She glances at you before continuing. “I'm... thankful for the people I have in my life.”

Everyone's gaze settles on you next, waiting for you to say something. “Well, I... I guess I'm thankful to be able to still participate in this family gathering, even if I haven't seen everyone in a while.” You take a look at Vi before moving on. “Hopefully I can still be here and spend Christmas with all of you next year too.”

She holds your gaze for a moment, almost as if she's processing what you just said… and then, unexpectedly, a smile tugs at the corner of her lips.

It's a subtle change, barely noticeable, but you see it. and just seeing her smile, even a small one like that, has butterflies filling your stomach. It's been so long since you've seen her smile like that. A part of you misses it, a part of you yearns to see it more often.

She quickly looks away, and you notice that her cheeks have turned a light shade of pink.

“There, we all said our little cheesy bullshit,” Powder says, clearly getting impatient.

Silco turns to Powder, his expression disapproving. “Language, Pow,” he reminds. 

Vander sighs. “Yes, Powder, mind your language” he adds, earning a mock-offended look from Powder.

“Like you don't swear all the time.”

“I do not swear all the time, Pow,” he protests, although you know it's a lie. Even the most proper and upstanding people swear, and Vander is definitely not that.

“Yeah, yeah, sure.”

Vander huffs but chooses not to add anything. Silco lets out a dry cough to redirect everyone's attention. “Right, now that that's over, let's go ahead and eat, shall we?” Silco says, as if the whole moment of gratitude never happened..

“Finally,” Mylo grumbles, “I was starting to wonder if you forgot about why we all gathered here.”

Silco gives him a look. “Patience is a virtue, Mylo.”

“We've all been patient for the last hour, so spare me.”

Claggor lets out a little sigh, but thankfully Mylo and Powder seem to settle into silence for the time being.

Silco nods in approval. “Then, shall we begin?”

Vander gets up from his seat, moving to go grab the food.

Powder and Mylo look at Vander expectantly, and they both look like they're about to get out of their seats. Silco gives them a warning look, silencing them before they can get a word out. “Wait until everything is ready.”

They both grumble, but they obediently sit back down. They're impatient, sure, but they at least know better than to piss off Silco.

Vander returns a moment later, setting a platter filled with food on the table. It looks delicious, and the smell is mouthwatering. Your stomach growls a little, reminding you of how hungry you are.

Powder and Mylo are practically drooling, and you honestly wouldn't be surprised if they lunged for the food the moment Silco gave the word.

Thankfully, he doesn't give them any chance. He simply says, “Please, help yourselves,” and Silco has to gesture for them to wait.

They almost get up and move to the table, and they're clearly resisting the temptation to shove each other to try and get to the food faster.

Mylo lets out a curse, and Jinx giggles in response. Vi stands up and grabs both of them, grabbing onto their shoulders and holding them back from each other.

“Enough, you two,” she scolds, “there's plenty of food for everyone. Chill out.”

They look at her with expressions that clearly are saying, 'no, we're hungry'. Powder lets out a huff, and Mylo looks like he's one more remark away from shoving her sister.

Vi's expression sharpens, her eyes boring into Mylo and Powder. “No, quit the bullshit, you can wait a few minutes, and if you two can't act like adults about it, neither of you are getting any.”

Mylo immediately shuts up at that, his expression turning slightly more guilty. Powder just looks like she's about to protest, a pout forming on her face. Vi glares at Powder to shush her as well.

“Just quit it,” she says. “You can wait, the food will taste better if you don't shove it all down your throats like dogs.”

“Fine, we'll wait,” she grumbles.

Mylo just nods with a pout, staying quiet.

Vi seems to notice their looks, and she rolls her eyes, staying put just in case. She seems wary as she watches Powder and Mylo, her eyes switching from them to the food on the table.

And sure enough, the moment Silco gestures for everyone to get their food, Powder and Mylo are gone, rushing to claim their plates.

Claggor lets out a sigh as Powder and Mylo shove each other for their own plates. No one says anything though, they're all just used to it. This is just how Powder and Mylo are, and they've come to accept it. Vi doesn't even seem as bothered as everyone else does. 

Mylo seems like he's really close to just pushing Powder to the side and snatching up the slice he wants, and Powder doesn't look any better. Honestly, if Vi didn't step in, there was a chance they'd start throwing punches.

And judging from how the others' looks, especially Silco, they look like they're expecting this. 

It's like this is all completely normal, they know to expect this kind of behavior when food, and more importantly, free food, is involved.

Powder and Mylo finally settle down after their little fight, and they finally begin digging into the food.

Mylo is practically shoving it into his face, eating it like he's been starved for weeks. Powder isn't any better, although at least she's not making a complete mess.

Claggor is significantly slower when it comes to eating, choosing to take his time as he slowly eats as opposed to just shoving the food into his mouth.

Vander eats at a decent pace, and he doesn't seem as starving like Mylo is.

The last one to begin eating is Silco, and surprisingly enough, there's a smile on his face. He takes one look at how Mylo and Powder are chowing down on their food, then he turns his gaze and looks at you, as if silently asking if you're going to eat.

You take the hint, and you decide to dig into your own food. The food is delicious, and you can't blame Mylo and Powder for basically trying to swallow their food whole.

Vi also begins eating now that everyone's settled down.

Vander lets out a laugh, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. “Slow down a little, you two, the food isn't going anywhere.”

Mylo and Powder both raise their heads at that, and they both look like they're considering it for a moment... but they immediately go back to shoving food down their throats.

Claggor shakes his head as he watches them eat. “You'd think they'd never seen a Christmas dinner before.”

“You know them, they would scarf down all the food in town if they could.”

Powder glances up at that, a small pout forming on her lips. “Hey, it's not our fault we're just starving.”

Mylo nods in agreement, his mouth too full to say anything.

“You both just had eaten before this,” Claggor counters.

Mylo swallows whatever food is in his mouth long enough to argue with Claggor. “And that was hours ago.”

“Yeah,” Powder agrees, “it was practically an eternity since we ate.”

“Two hours is not an eternity,” Claggor retorts. 

“It might as well be,” Powder counters.

Despite the bickering and arguing the dinner feels oddly... domestic, almost.

Claggor looks like the responsible and mature oldest sibling who's done with his siblings nonsense, Vander almost acts like a tired parent, Silco acts more like a stern aunt, and Powder and Mylo act like rowdy kids who are constantly at each other's throats.

Vi sits next to you. She's making sarcastic comments with Silco, laughing at Powder’s jokes, and making small talk with Claggor. She even gives Mylo an unimpressed glare when he tries to snatch all the bread for himself.

It's almost like you're both back to normal. The way she's acting makes your heart ache. She's giving you all the attention a partner would give.

She gives you fond smiles whenever you make a comment, she casually slides an arm around your shoulders, she even scoots her chair a little closer to yours.

Her eyes are soft, her voice is soft, whenever you look at her, she looks back with this almost affectionate look.

It's so normal, that it almost takes you back to your relationship and how you two were before the breakup.

She's even doing little things, like leaning closer to you, letting a hand rest on your thigh, even discreetly grabbing your hand and intertwining your fingers with hers under the table.

You want to hold her tight and never let her go, but your brain keeps reminding you. You two aren't together anymore.

But when you look at her, when she looks at you with that look in her eyes, everything goes quiet. 

Maybe it could work this time.

Maybe you two could just bury the hatchet and move on.

Maybe things could work between you two if you try it out again.

Then you remember the fights, the nights you spent on your bed, crying while Vi was out with friends. You remember how she treated you after the breakup—how she tossed you aside like discarded trash.

You try to ignore it, push it to the back of your head. But it's so hard when Vi sits next to you, close enough for you to catch the scent of her perfume. She smells like cigarettes and leather, something that's so her.

You're so focused on trying to stop yourself from touching her or even getting closer that you're almost surprised when she suddenly leans her head against your shoulder.

She doesn't say anything, just leans against you.

She's so close. She's pressed against your side, her shoulder against your shoulder, her head against yours, her hand on your thigh.

You notice her scent again, now stronger.

Her hair brushes against your neck, the way you can feel the warmth of her body, and the way her thumb draws little circles into your thigh.

She's so close, and yet you want her even closer.

You want to run your hands through her hair, you want to nuzzle your face into her shoulder, you want to feel her hands roaming your body.

You just want her.

Your thoughts are suddenly interrupted by Powder, her question pulling you out of your head. “It's been a while since we've seen you two together,” she says, her mouth still full of food.

Claggor shoots Powder a look. “Powder-”

“Shush, I'm just wondering,” she argues, shrugging casually, “has she been avoiding you?”

“No,” you say before anyone can say anything. “We just... haven't had time to schedule any dates, that's all.”

“For months? Haven't had time to schedule a single date for months?”

“Life gets busy, y’know,” you reply, trying to sound nonchalant.

Mylo scoffs at that. “You two are dating, the least you could do is at least manage one date a month.”

Claggor smacks him over the head. Mylo grumbles and rubs the back of his head, shooting his brother a glare. “What? it's true,” he mutters. “We just kind of... we all miss you.”

Vander gives Mylo a disapproving glare. “What Mylo means is, your presence has been sorely missed around here.”

“We all just... we just want you around more,” Powder puts in her two cents, speaking around a mouthful of food again.

You cast a sidelong glance at Vi. You and her are putting up a pretty good facade so far, but Mylo's question seemed to have put her on the spot a little. She catches your glance, and you give her a look that says, just play along. Vi sighs, her hand squeezing your thigh.

“Look, I-” she glances around the table, meeting everyone's eyes before sighing and putting on the most believable expression. “I know we haven't been as... present as we should have been for the past few months. Work just got really hectic.”

“That's true,” you back her up with a nod. “I had to travel away for a business trip a few weeks ago, so it's been pretty hard to find time to spend together.”

Vander, Silco, and Powder all nod in understanding. They're aware of the fact that you have a job in a big city, so it's not an unbelievable explanation.

Mylo, however, snorts and crosses his arms. “You don't have to feed us some lame excuse for not hanging out with us.”

Claggor gives Mylo another smack. “Would you shut up already?”

“Ow!” Mylo grumbles as he rubs his head again, shooting Claggor a dirty look.

Vander sighs. “Regardless, it's good to have you here for Christmas this time.”

Everyone nods and agrees. Powder grins at you, Silco shoots you a small almost-smile, and Claggor and Vander both look genuinely pleased to have you here.

All eyes then land on Mylo, and he shrugs again, mumbling, “I guess it is good to have you here.”

“See, it's a christmas miracle, Mylo isn't being a little prick for once,” Powder teases.

Mylo scowls at her. “Hey, I'm never a little prick-”

“Bullshit.”

Mylo just grumbles again, his eyes narrowing at Powder. “I just think that-”

“Nobody cares what you think,” Powder interrupts again.

That just causes Claggor, Vander, and Silco to laugh. Vi snorts next to you, squeezing your thigh.

The conversation soon changes to talking about old childhood holiday memories.

Mylo tells a story about you and him stealing Silco's secret chocolate stash when you were twelve. Silco scowls at the memory, but there's a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Powder tells a story about the time she accidentally burned the back of Vander's hair with a roman candle. Vander laughs and shakes his head at the memory.

At some point, Claggor chimes in to tell a story about a time he and Mylo accidentally broke a window during a snowball fight. Even Mylo himself laughs at that one.

There's lighthearted banter, friendly jabs, and just a lot of laughter in between. This, this is what it should have been like from the beginning. It reminds you of the way it used to be when you were all younger, but still has a different air to it. In a way, it's almost better than those old days. Everyone's grown, but there's still that same energy that always connected you all as a family... it just feels fuller.

You don't know if it's just the christmas lights playing tricks on your mind, but you swear you can almost see the faintest tearful sheen in Vander's eyes. He's almost always had a bit of parental pride and love toward all of you, but seeing you all sitting here together, happy... damn, it must bring back a lot of memories for him.

Silco even looks slightly less grumpy than usual, his mouth twisting into a barely visible smile as the rest of the table continues talking. Yeah, this is how christmas should be…

It almost makes you forget that all of this is fake, almost makes you forget why you and Vi aren't together anymore. It's almost like just for tonight, you can pretend like things are back to how they used to be.

But you know this will not last. When everything is said and done, when christmas night is over and you're all saying your goodbyes, you have no doubt in your mind that you and Vi will go your separate ways again.

You glance at her, taking in the sight of her laughing with the rest. Her eyes are bright, her smile is big, and her entire face lights up with joy. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing your heart to quiet. 

Vi must notice you looking, because she glances over at you. She's looking at you with that look again. You recognize it so easily.

That look... that damn look she's giving you again. The look that makes your heart stutter against your ribs, the look that makes your stomach twist into knots. It's a look that almost makes you want to lean forward and kiss her.

You almost give into your urges. You almost reach out and push a stray strand of hair out of her face, you almost do something to kiss her, almost.

But you don't, you can't. That would spoil the whole 'still dating' facade, and besides.... you have boundaries.

You give her a little nod, offering a small smile, and you almost swear that you see disappointment flash across her eyes.

She looks like she wants to say something, her hand tightening over your knee again, but she seems to change her mind and just smiles back.

Maybe it's just a figment of your own imagination, you think to yourself. Maybe it was a trick of the light or something.

Claggor reaches over to grab something from the middle of the table, and Silco clears his throat. “How about you two?” he says it casually, like he's just making small talk, but there's a hint of concern in his voice. “Any... any problems between the two of you lately?”

You and Vi both sit up straighter. “Problems...?” Vi repeats.

Silco just shrugs, playing it casual. “I don't know, I'm just wondering... a lot of couples who have been together for as long as the two of you have.” He trails off, but everyone at the table knows the implications.

Mylo grumbles under his breath. “I swear, if you start talking about how high the divorce rate is—” Claggor elbows Mylo, and he shuts up.

Silco just chuckles. “Oh, I'm sure you two can last.”

Powder rolls her eyes. “These two have been together since forever. You guys were like... practically attached at the hip, from day one.”

“Yeah, we were like that, weren't we?” Vi looks back at you.

“Yeah,” you say with a casualness you don't feel. “Yeah, we were.”

Silco hums. “I remember when you two first started dating.”

“Oh, do you remember that?” Vander says, looking at Silco. “I remember the two of them coming to me the day they decided they were going to be official.”

Claggor nods. “Yeah, and they were so... so mushy. All 'you're mine' and 'we're never going to break up,” he puts on a mock high-pitched voice, imitating you and Vi

“That was the worst,” Powder groans, shoving food into her mouth.

Mylo grins and elbows Claggor. “How many times did you have to stop them from making out all over the bar again?”

“Way too many times.”

“By the way,” Mylo says. “You two aren't doing anything for new years, are you?”

You and Vi exchange glances. “..we haven't made plans yet,” you say slowly, trying to think of excuses.

“Oh, you should come join us then,” Mylo says, leaning back and stretching his arms. “All of us are getting hammered down here for new years, you two should come.”

“Yeah, it'll be fun!” Powder pipes up, eyes lighting up. “You guys will come, won't you? promise you'll come.”

You open your mouth, trying to wrack your brain for excuses, but before you can say anything-

“Of course we'll come.”

You turn to look at Vi, and she just gives you a shrug.

Mylo grins. “Good, good! That'll be fun,” he sits up and points a finger at you both. “I swear, the two of you used to be so much fun at parties, it's like you both went boring when you got older.”

“Hey, just cause we're getting old doesn't mean we suddenly became party poopers,” Vi says defensively. “We're still fun.”

Mylo cackles. “Are you now? I never see you two do anything anymore,” he leans back in his seat. “Ever since you got that fancy shmancy job, you've been too busy to have any fun.”

“We know how to have fun, we have—” you pause, trying to think of the word, “responsibilities now. responsibilities that a certain someone is too dumb to understand.”

“I understand responsibilities, but I understand the concept that if you don't get wasted while you're young, then you'll wake up at forty, old and boring,” he says, looking at Silco and Vander. “And I want to make the most out of my young and reckless years. Meanwhile, you've already turned into an old, boring fart.”

You scowl at that, but Silco interrupts before you can respond. “Don't knock on old farts just yet. Some of us are old and still know how to have fun.”

“Yeah,” Vander chimes in, nodding his head. “Just because we're old doesn't mean we don't know how to have a good time.”

Mylo rolls his eyes and waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, you old farts can still have fun. You just don't know how to have real fun anymore.” Mylo then pouts. “I just... I miss how it used to be, you know?” he sighs, resting his chin in his hand. “Before all that adult crap, when things were easier.”

“Easier,” Powder mutters, poking at the remains of her food. “Yeah, when we were broke and always hungry, real easy.”

Mylo reaches over and flicks her arm. “Easy doesn't always mean money, you dumbass.”

Powder scowls and smacks his arm back. “Don't call me a dumbass, you dumbass.”

“Then don't be a dumbass,” Mylo snaps back, smacking her again.

Powder smacks him again, harder. “Don't you dare call me a dumbass again.”

Before they can start another childish argument, Silco's voice cuts in. “Enough you two," he says, and they immediately grumble and fall quiet.

“Honestly, I sometimes wonder how the two of you aren't still in high school,” Vander mutters under his breath.

“That's an insult to high schoolers, they're more mature than those two,” Claggor jokes, earning him a smack to the head from both Powder and Mylo.

He yells and puts his hands up in surrender, “ow ow ow, ok ok! don't hurt me!”

Jinx and Mylo laugh, while Silco shakes his head. “See what I mean? Children.”

“And they both insist they're mature enough to be out in the real world, independent and capable,” Vander says, while Silco chuckles.

“They're still just as chaotic now as they were in high school,” Silco says dryly. “Nothing has changed.”

Powder and Mylo both glare at him. “Really? like you two were that much better in high school,” she grumbles.

Silco raises an eyebrow at that. “We certainly weren't as immature as some people,” he says pointedly.

“You guys were probably just as bad as us, you just don't remember."

There's a pause, and Silco and Vander exchange glances before Silco snorts. He tries to bite back a laugh, but it comes out anyway, causing Vander to burst out laughing as well.

“I can't-” Vander wheezes between laughs. “I can't believe... you actually…”

Silco doubles over, laughing even harder. After a moment, he manages to gasp out a few words. “Oh, if you only... if you only knew…”

Powder and Mylo exchange confused glances, while Claggor tilts his head. “What? what happened? what's so funny?”

The laughter finally dies down as Silco composes himself enough to speak. “Nothing, it's nothing,” he says, waving a hand.

“All right, all right,” Vander looks around the table. “I think most of us are done eating. Who wants to help with the dishes?”

There's a collective groan from the rest of the table. No one likes doing dishes.

Powder and Mylo immediately groan out a “not it,” and Claggor follows up with “You all know I'm terrible at dishes-”

“Don't look at me either,” Silco grumbles. Vander just sighs and shakes his head.

and that just leaves you and Vi... great, just great.

You're about to argue as well, anything to get out of being stuck in the kitchen with Vi, but she beats you to it. “Yeah, we'll do it,” she says, before you can even open your mouth.

“Oh, I-” you pause for a moment. You had been fully intending to dodge the chore, but now you can't without looking like an ass and leaving her alone to do dishes.

Vi stands up and picks up the nearest stack of dirty dishes, balancing them on her arms as she turns to you. She shoots you a look, almost like she's daring you to try and weasel out of helping.

You get the hint, shaking your head a little and standing up. This is absolutely the last thing you want to do right now.

You follow her to the kitchen, grabbing a few more dishes along the way.

She holds the kitchen door open for you, and you step into the little kitchen with its small stone countertops and simple appliances. You set the dishes down on the counter near the sink, turning to find Vi already rolling up her sleeves.

She's not looking at you, but when she starts to roll up the left side of her shirt sleeve, you swear you can see her eyes dart over to you for a split second.

You pause, staring at the side of her face. You can't tell if she's... no, you must be imagining things. The light must be playing tricks.

She clears her throat, raising one eyebrow. “What, you're not gonna help?”

“No, no, I am,” you hurriedly say, turning away as you start to roll up your sleeves.

You're not going to look at her. Not at the way her forearm flexes when she reaches down to turn on the water, not at the way she bends over to grab some dish soap, and definitely not at the way her shirt tightens across her shoulders.

Yeah, you're definitely not going to look at her. Not at the way her fingers move when she soaps up the dishes, not the way her biceps flex when she bends her elbow, and especially not at the way her hair falls into her face when she scrubs at a stubborn stain.

Why is she so fit?

You look down at your own hands, watching the water and soap bubble up between your fingers. You start washing another dish, trying your absolute hardest to look anywhere except at her.

The minutes tick by in awkward silence, but eventually, your mind starts to wander. After all, washing dishes is pretty damn boring.

You glance over at her again, out of the corner of your eye, watching the way her shoulder blades shift under her shirt. The fabric of her shirt is stretched taut against her shoulders, and you wonder what she looks like under it if she still has all the same muscles....

Yeah, okay, you really have to stop staring at her.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Well, so much for not looking at her. Your head snaps up at the sound of her voice, and you force yourself to just focus on scrubbing at the glass in your hands. 

“Depends what the question is,” you grumble, shifting a little.

You expect her to ask you something about your current life or something generic. What happened when you were gone, what life was like where you were?

Instead, she asks something completely left-field.

“Do you ever think about us?”

You tense up, the glass in your hands slipping a little in your grip. You were not expecting that question. Hell no, you were literally not expecting that question.

How are you supposed to answer that? yes? no? sometimes?

What was she even expecting to hear? did she want you to say yes, to say that you always thought about her, that you would've come back to her in a heartbeat if you could've? or did she just want to hear you say no, to hear that you moved on, that you had to move on because it was either that or let yourself fall apart?

‘Sometimes’ was definitely not the answer you would've given months ago.

Now, though? you would admit that sometimes, after a rough morning or a particularly lonely night, you'd let yourself think about her. You'd remember those nights you spent in her apartment, on her shitty couch, talking her ear off about everything and nothing, the nights where the two of you would sit on the couch and watch tv, her head resting on your shoulder, and you'd wonder if maybe... just maybe..

You wonder if she thinks about that kind of stuff too, if you cross her mind late at night when she's alone. You wonder if she still thinks about the nights where you would stay in bed together, talking for hours after a particularly good round, your head resting on her chest as she played with your hair, or the mornings where you'd wake up and find her making breakfast for you.

Yeah, you thought about her a lot.

But you couldn't say that to her. You can't tell her that you think about it all the time, about how sometimes you can't fall asleep because you miss the feeling of laying in bed with her, about how you always find your hands searching for her in the middle of the night. No, you absolutely cannot tell her that, no matter how badly you wanted to.

“I used to,” you say instead of letting your thoughts wander any farther. “Not anymore.”

You keep scrubbing, even after there's no longer any more dirt on the glass. Just so you have a reason not to look at her, just so you have a shield from the thoughts you know are brewing in her quiet mind.

She's quiet for a moment, and you can feel her looking at you. Looking at you, reading you, trying to figure out if you're telling the truth or not.

After a few moments, she takes a breath like she's going to speak, but then stops herself. It's something you're all too familiar with. She's overthinking something, that much is obvious. She's trying to pick her words carefully, and damn, you just wish she'd spit it out.

The silence feels like it's been going on for a year, but really, it was only around a minute. Your knuckles are turning white from how tightly you're gripping the glass you're washing, and your shoulders are beginning to ache from how tense you are.

“What about you?” you murmur. “Do you... do you think about us?” You force yourself to look over at her, and you instantly wish you hadn't.

She's not looking at you now, she's not watching you suspiciously or anything like that. No, instead she's looking down, staring at the soapy water, and avoiding eye contact with you.

She's quiet for a second, her hands pausing in their scrubbing. “Yeah,” she finally says, “I do.”

Damn it. Her answer goes straight to your gut and twists deep inside you.

You were absolutely expecting a solid “no”, hell, you were even preparing yourself for a cruel “god, no.”

Anything, anything other than “I do.”

She continues scrubbing at a plate as if she hasn't just turned your world upside down. How are you supposed to react to her answer? do you say something, do you not say something?

“Why?” the question leaves your lips before you can stop yourself.

“Why do you think so?”

You don't say anything, you just shrug your shoulders. You genuinely don't know. You'd just blurted out the question without actually knowing what you wanted the answer to be.

Her eyes linger on yours for a few seconds, and you can't quite read them. She looks like she wants to say something, she looks like she wants to reach out and hold you, and you'd bet real money that if circumstances were different, she would've done exactly that.

Instead, she just averts her gaze back to the sink and lets out a sigh. “I don't know... I just do.”

You go back to scrubbing dishes. It's obvious there are a million things that you want to say, that you need to say.

“Oh,” is all you say in response, and the word hangs in the air awkwardly.

You're both quiet for a few minutes after that. It's quiet, except for the faint music playing in the background and the sounds of dishes clinking against one another.

A few times, you catch yourself glancing over at her, trying to pick up any hint of what she could be thinking, what she might say next. But, every time, she stubbornly keeps her eyes down on the dishes she's scrubbing. It's frustrating, the way she just won't look at you, and what pisses you off most is the fact that you understand why she won't look at you.

You have a feeling that if she were to look at you, if she were to meet your eyes right now, she'd either burst into tears or shove you into a storage closet and kiss you until your lungs burned.

You don't know which one would be worse.

It's so quiet, so awkward. You're both just scrubbing and scrubbing, refusing to look at the other.

Every time she takes a breath, you look over at her, convinced she's about to speak. But, time and time again, she doesn't, and the only sound to come from her is a shaky exhale.

It's maddening.

The sound of Claggor's voice finally breaks the stifling silence, and you let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding. He peeks his head into the kitchen, grinning widely. “Yo, you two almost done here? Powder is about to get impatient.”

You're thankful for the interruption, and judging by the look on Vi's face, so is she.

“Yeah, we're done,” Vi mutters, glancing up from the dish she's been washing for the last ten minutes.

You dry your hands off on a nearby towel, trying to look unaffected. “We're finished.” 

Claggor grins again, “Thank God, Powder is about to start biting people.” He laughs, then disappears back into the main room.

“That sounds like her,” she says with a chuckle, scrubbing her hands off on a towel.

“Guest we should head out there then,” you murmur, trying to get her to actually look at you.

She hesitates for a second, still running the towel over her hands even though they're no longer wet. She looks down for a moment as if she's contemplating something, then finally lifts her head to look at you.

Her jaw is tense like she's forcing herself to stay quiet. After a few seconds, her features soften a little. “Yeah.”

You want to ask her what she's thinking, you want to ask her why. Instead, you just push the door of the kitchen open and gesture for her to go first.

—

“Now that we've had an amazing dinner, it's time for the best part of the night.”

Everyone gathers around, now sitting either on the couch or on the floor. Powder and Mylo immediately get squished together on the floor. Powder mutters under her breath, “Hey! you're shoving me!”

“Only because you're taking up too much space.”

Vander smiles from his spot on the couch. “Alright! It's time for secret santa. Everyone remembers who they drew, right?”

A group of nods and hums go around as everyone pulls out the slips of paper that have the names they drew.

Vander clasps his hands together. “Good!” he says as he looks around the room, his smile getting wider. “Who wants to go first?”

A few seconds of silence, then Powder’s hand shoots up. As always, she's the most excited one. “me!”

Vander laughs. “Well, look at that, our little girl is so eager. Okay, you can go first, Pow-Pow.”

Powder smiles and scrambles off the floor, almost tripping over herself as she pulls a present from beneath the Christmas tree. She glances down at the tag and grins.

She then scans the room with a giddy smile, then her eyes land on Silco.

She bounds over to him, practically shoving the present into his hands as she sits down on the floor next to his legs. 

Silco smiles faintly as he takes the present. “Alright, let's see what you got me, hm?” He's quiet as he carefully unwraps the present, and Powder watches him who barely contains her excitement.

After a moment, the wrapping paper is set aside, and the present is now fully unwrapped. It's just a little box, though Silco is curious as to what's inside.

He glances at Powder as he takes the lid off the box, looking a little wary. Powder just grins at him. “Go on, open it,” she encourages.

He looks back at the box and, with a little nod, reaches in and pulls out the item inside. He holds it in his hands and looks at it curiously, then looks at Powdr with a raised eyebrow.

She's still grinning, and she looks extremely pleased with herself. Mylo glances over to look and snorts out a laugh. “Would you look at that?”

Silco looks at the item in his hands, then looks at Powder again. “You got me…” he begins, trying to sound unimpressed. “...a little shark plushie?”

Powder nods, her grin getting wider, still very pleased with herself. “Yep!” she exclaims, “I got you a little shark plushie. You like it, right?”

Silco glances at the plushie and then at her again, looking vaguely fond. He carefully sets it down on his lap, then smiles a little.

“I adore it.”

Her grin somehow widens even more. She's clearly happy with herself. Silco chuckles a little under his breath, then looks around. “Who's next?”

Claggor shrugs, raising a hand. “I'll go,” he offers, to which Vander nods.

“Go ahead, Claggs,” he says approvingly.

Claggor gets to his feet from his spot on the floor, then moves to the tree. He crouches down and rummages around, looking for the present with the correct name tag.

A minute passes as a few minutes go by. He eventually stands back up, a small present in his hands. He looks around the room, then his eyes land on Mylo, who's now lying down on the floor and looking very bored.

Claggor moves over to him, tossing the present into his lap. Mylo looks up and catches the present, shooting him a glare. “You couldn't have done that a little nicer?” he complains while sitting up.

Claggor just shrugs and gives him a flat look. “Suck it up,” he tells him bluntly before sitting back down.

Mylo scoffs and begins to unwrap the present, ripping the wrapping paper off carelessly. He tosses the wrapping paper away, then looks down at the present as he tears the box open. He's quiet for a moment, looking at the contents...

..and then he groans, covering his face.

“Oh, come the hell on,” he grumbles, though he sounds more whiny than anything else. He glances up from his hands to give Claggor a withering look.

“Dude, seriously?”

“What?”

Mylo just sighs, shooting the toy in the box with a dismayed look. “Really? a stress ball?”

Claggor shrugs. “I thought it was a good idea,” he says, clearly not bothered by Mylo's unimpressed tone. “And you seem to be lacking a bit in the stress management department.”

“Well, excuse me for being a bit stressed when you're being a dick.”

“See, you need the stress ball. You proved my point right there.”

Mylo just groans and throws his head back. He picks up the stress ball and squeezes it hard. “I hate you.”

Claggor merely grins. “I love you too.”

Mylo mutters something under his breath, too quiet for anyone to hear, then looks up as he addresses the group. “So, who's up next? I'm sure there's some poor sap itching to go.”

Silco raises a hand. “I'll go next,” he offers.

Everyone glances at him, then nods and gestures for him to go. He gets up off the couch and saunters to the tree. He scans the presents beneath it, moving a few aside to find the one he was looking for.

He finally finds it and smirks to himself, grabbing the present and standing up. His eyes sweep over the group, taking in everyone's expressions. He then turns and walks over to Vander, holding the present out to him.

Vander glances at the present, then at Silco, taking the present and curiously giving it a little shake. “What is it?” he asks curiously.

Silco just grins in a vaguely irritating way and sits back down. “Just open it,” he replies, his voice dripping with innocence.

Vander raises an eyebrow but begins to unwrap the present meticulously, occasionally shooting Silco a glance, as if expecting something. He peels away the wrapping paper to reveal a small box, then looks at Silco, his eyes questioning.

Silco simply shrugs and gestures for him to go on. Vander quirks another eyebrow up but opens the box anyway, now a little intrigued.

Then a snort finally escapes him. He's now fighting to hold back laughter.

Mylo sits up suddenly, looking at Vander, then at Silco, curiosity in his eyes. “What? What is it?” he asks eagerly.

Vander doesn't answer for a moment. He's still staring into the box, looking like he can't believe what he's seeing.

He then looks up at Silco. “Please tell me you're joking,” he implores.

Silco's smile widens even more. “I couldn't be more serious,” he replies.

Vander lets out a long, suffering sigh, then digs through the tissue paper and pulls something out of the box.

It's a pair of comically large underwear, one that could practically fit an entire person inside of it.

Vander groans, holding the underwear up and staring at them with slight disgust.

Mylo and Powder both start laughing once they register what the present is. Powder laughs so hard she nearly falls over, clutching her stomach as she howls with laughter.

Vi's eyes widen at the sight of the underwear, her mouth dropping open a little in surprise. As much as it pains her to admit it... she just knows the jokes that Silco is going to start making any minute now.

…and she's right.

“You see, I thought it was a necessary gift.”

“Necessary?” Vander repeats, still holding the underwear up in disbelief.

Silco just nods. “Of course. you're getting old, and as you get older... accidents happen.”

“I'm not that old,” Vander grumbles, though he knows it's probably not the best argument.

Silco smirks, raising a hand and waving it dismissively. “Oh, you know what I mean. Things begin to... fail as you age. I simply wanted to make sure you had a spare pair.”

Mylo is now practically rolling on the floor, clutching his sides. “Oh, my god, I can't breathe—this is—this is gold,” he wheezes. Powder is laughing so hard she's choking, practically coughing her lungs up.

Vander sighs again, looking down at the underwear in his hands. He looks like he wants to throw it into the fire and destroy it right there.

He glances up at Silco, giving him a look that clearly says, 'I will get you back for this'.

Silco leans back against the couch and crosses an ankle over his knee, looking all too pleased with himself. “What? You don't like them? I personally thought they were a good choice.”

Vander opens his mouth to reply, but Powder interrupts him.

“Oh, god,” Powder chokes out, “you should try them on. They'd look perfect on you.”

Vander shoots Powder a glare to kill. “No way in hell,” he mutters firmly, folding his arms and sitting back.

But Powder’s not done. “Come on, just try them on,” she wheezes. “It really would be a look for you.”

Vander turns his glare to Powder, his expression clearly saying, 'I will murder you if you keep talking.'

“No,” he replies through gritted teeth.

Even Silco is starting to look amused.

“Just for a second,” she teases, “come on, just long enough for us to see. We won't even say anything.”

Vander lets out another long, suffering sigh.

He shoots a sneering look at both Silco and Powder. Eventually he lets out an exasperated grumble and stands up, mumbling something under his breath as he heads into the bathroom with the underwear.

Mylo falls back onto the floor, clutching his stomach.

Silco is laughing too, watching as Vander heads to the bathroom to change.

Mylo is dying of laughter, gasping for air in between wheezes. “Holy shit,” he chokes out. “He's really doing it.”

It takes a few minutes, but eventually the bathroom door swings open and Vander exits, looking like he regrets every decision he's made that led him to this.

His face is as red as a tomato as he stomps back over to them in the gigantic underwear.

Mylo and Powder are losing it again, falling over and rolling on the floor with laughter.

Silco is smiling, trying to stifle a laugh. “Oh my,” he says, barely containing his amusement. “They look even better than I imagined,” he comments.

Vander can hardly look anyone in the eye, still red with embarrassment. “I hate you. I hate you all.”

Claggor looks at Silco and Powder, clearly trying not to laugh. “You guys are terrible,” he says, a trace of a smile on his face.

Vi can't hold back her laughter anymore, she's grinning from ear to ear. “You look... perfect,” she comments through a strangled chuckle.

Vander turns his glare on her, still red with embarrassment. “I hate you all,” he repeats, shaking his head.

Powder is still giggling from the floor. “I want pictures,” she wheezes, holding up her phone.

Vander looks like he wants to smack her head off. “Absolutely not. I forbid it,” he snaps, sounding as serious as someone wearing comically large underwear can.

Powder just pouts, lowering her phone. “Oh, come on,” she says with a whine, looking up at Vander with puppy-dog eyes. “Just a few.”

“No, I'm not having pictures of me in these... embarrassing things circulating the internet.”

“The internet? Who said anything about the internet?” she replies, a smirk on her face. “I just meant... a few for my own personal, um, research.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but Silco chimes in first. “Oh, come on. Humor her. It's the season of giving.”

Vander turns his glare to Silco, his expression almost murderous. “There's no way in hell—”

“Pleeeease?” Powder interrupts, holding out her phone again.

Vander looks like he's about to argue, but Powder is already giving him those damn puppy-dog eyes that he struggles to resist.

He hesitates, then, with a grumble, he sighs. “Fine, one picture.”

Powder looks like a kid on Christmas. The instant the word 'picture' leaves Vander's mouth, she leaps to her feet and lifts up her phone.

“Stand up straighter.”

Vander obeys, reluctantly straightening up.

“Say cheese,” she grins.

Vander grumbles under his breath, but he cooperates. “Cheese,” he mutters, putting on a strained smile.

Powder snaps the picture, then lowers her phone and looks at it with a satisfied smile. “Oh yeah, you're getting on the naughty list for this one,” she grins, wiggling the phone a little.

Once the picture-taking is over and Vander changes his clothes back, Silco motions for Powder to settle down.

“Alright, settle down. It's time to continue with the secret Santa,” Silco says, looking at the others.

They all nod in agreement, still snickering but mostly focusing on the present exchange.

“Who wants to go next?” Silco asks, looking around the group.

Mylo looks around, then grins. “My turn.”

Powder rolls her eyes, knowing that look on his face all too well. “Here we go,” she mutters under her breath, preparing herself for whatever nonsense Mylo is about to come up with.

Mylo smirks, holding up his present. “Well, I drew someone's name... and it was a pretty easy choice.” He then looks around the group with mock innocence. “Oh, where's my victim?”

Claggor lets out a defeated sigh. “Who exactly is the unlucky person this year?”

“There's only one person who I could have possibly chosen…”

“Would you just spit it out before the suspense kills me?” Powder snaps, impatient.

Mylo huffs. “Jeez, have some patience,” he grumbles. “Anyway, my secret santa is…”

Vander sighs, looking like he's already regretting this. Claggor puts his head in his hands, bracing himself.

“My secret santa is, drumroll please…” they reluctantly drum their hands against any surface near them.  “My very special secret Santa is…”

Claggor covers his face with his hands, looking like he's praying.

Mylo grins, looking from face to face, savoring the moment before he does the big reveal.

“My secret Santa... is Powder!”

“Fuck!” she groans, burying her head in her hands.

“Aww, what's the matter, Pow?” Mylo grins, holding up the wrapped present.

Powder lets out another groan, glaring up at him. “You're the worst,” she mutters, looking like she's praying to any god out there to just put her out of her misery already.

Mylo grins, clearly getting a kick out of her misfortune. “Come on, don't be like that. It could be worse, I could have gotten you a box of spiders,” Mylo teases, shaking the present in her direction.

Powder looks like she's seriously considering that as a better option. “You know what? Give me the spiders. Spiders would be better than whatever it is you got me.”

“Nice try. You're not getting out of it that easily,” he says, holding the present just out of her reach. “You have to open it, come on.”

Powder grumbles in protest, then reluctantly reaches out for the present. She snatches it out of his hands, shooting him a glare. “If I die from this, I'm going to haunt you for the rest of your life,” she mutters, slowly tearing the wrapping paper.

Then, Powder tears back the last piece of wrapping paper, revealing a plain black box. “What the hell is this?” she mutters, looking like she's already fed up with whatever shenanigans Mylo has come up with.

“You're going to have to open it and see for yourself.”

Powder grumbles, giving Mylo a glare that could freeze hell over. She slowly opens the black box, not sure what to expect.

“Please tell me this is not what I think it is,” she mutters, looking like she's two seconds away from throwing the entire box at Mylo's head.

The others lean in closer, curiosity getting the better of them.

“You did not get me what I think you got me.”

“Oh, you're going to have to be more specific than that,” he replies, trying to hide his smirk.

Powder glares at him, her jaw clenching. “You know what I'm talking about,” she snaps, looking like she's contemplating dumping the contents of the box over his head.

Mylo just shrugs, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I honestly have no idea what you're talking about.” 

Vander just rubs his face with one hand, knowing that this situation is about to spiral out of control.

“You're telling me,” Powder hisses through clenched teeth, “that you didn't get me exactly what I think you got me?”

“Like I said, you'll have to be a bit more specific,” he responds, looking entirely too smug for his own good.

Powder looks like she's about to explode. “Mylo, I swear to-”

Claggor cuts her off, knowing that she's about to blow her top. “Calm down, Powder,” he says, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“I'll calm down when the box goes straight over his head.”

“Why so angry? I thought you'd be excited.”

“I can't wait to make you eat that box,” she mutters, her hands clenching into fists.

“Oh, I'm so scared.”

Vander interjects, trying to diffuse the tension. “That's enough. No need to start throwing things around.”

“I was just having fun.”

“Yeah, have fun with a black eye.”

“Enough,” Silco says, giving both Powder and Mylo stern looks.

Both Mylo and Powder grumble, reluctantly backing down a bit.

“Can we all just get back to opening presents, please?” Vander asks, sounding exasperated.

The others nod in agreement, though Powder still looks like she's not done with Mylo yet. She glares at him one last time before reluctantly returning to her seat.

Mylo just grins, clearly enjoying having gotten the last word in. He takes his own seat next to Claggor, looking very pleased with himself.

The others exchange glances, silently agreeing to not let Powder and Mylo be too close to each other for the rest of the evening.

Silco clears his throat, getting everyone's attention. “Now, who's next?” he asks, looking around the room.

Vander nods, leaning back in his seat. “I'm up next, I guess,” he mutters. He rummages at the gifts under the Christmas tree. After a few moments of searching, Vander finally finds the present he was looking for. He picks it up, holding it in his lap.

“This one's for you,” he says, handing the present to Claggor.

Claggor takes the present, looking curious. He glances down at it, then looks up at Vander with a soft smile. “Thanks,” he says, starting to unwrap it.

Once the wrapping paper is off, Claggor is holding a box of assorted tools. They range from pliers to wrenches to screwdrivers.

“Just like you requested,”  Vander says, watching as Claggor starts inspecting the tools.

“Wow, these are great. Thanks, dad,” he replies, running a hand over the tools in the box.

Vander smiles, clearly pleased to see that Claggor likes his present. “I thought you'd like them. I saw them at the pawnshop the other day and figured you could use them.”

“I definitely will. These are a huge upgrade compared to what I have now.”

Vander reaches over and pats Claggor on the shoulder. “You deserve it. You've been working your ass off lately.”

Vander looks around the room, looking for the next person to take their turn. “Alright, who's up next?” he asks, eyeing everyone lazily.

Mylo's head suddenly snaps up, a smirk on his face. “Oh goodie, it's Vi's turn.”

“Come on, Vi, your turn,” Silco says, looking a little amused.

“Yeah, yeah. Hold your horses,” she mumbles, getting to her feet and making her way over to the christmas tree.

Vi crouches down, rummaging through the presents. After a few moments, she finally finds the present. She grabs it, standing back up. She looks over at you, looking a little bit like she's been caught doing something she's not supposed to do.

She makes her way over to where you're sitting, holding out the present. “Here, this one's for you,” she mutters, looking a little tense.

You take the present from her, looking down at it. It's heavy in your hands, the wrapping paper slightly crinkled from how hard she was holding it. “Thanks, Vi,” you say, looking up at her.

“Don't mention it, babe,” she mutters, her voice sounding a bit strained.

Powder and Mylo both let out a chorus of ‘aww’ when they heard her use the nickname.

“Shut up, you two,” she says, glaring at them both.

You start unwrapping the present, tearing off the festive wrapping paper to reveal what's inside.

Once the wrapping paper is off, you're holding a small box. It's plain, made of brown cardboard, and doesn't look like much. But as you look back up at Vi, you can see a hint of nervousness on her face.

She's watching you intently, her expression almost anxious. It's a look you don't often see on her face, and it's a little startling.

Still curious, you glance back down at the box in your hands. You lift off the lid, opening it slowly.

There, nestled in a bed of tissue paper, is a necklace. It's a silver chain with a small silver heart pendant. It looks delicate and beautiful, and judging by the look on Vi's face, she spent a lot of time picking it out.

You slowly reach into the box, lifting the necklace out of the tissue paper. You hold it up, letting the chain dangle from your fingers. It glints in the light, the pendants catching the glow from the Christmas tree lights.

Vi is still watching you intently, her eyes fixed on the necklace. She shifts a little on her feet, looking like she's holding her breath. 

“Do you like it?”

You look up from the necklace, meeting her gaze. “Yeah, I do,” you respond, your voice just a little bit shaky. “It's beautiful.”

You hold the necklace in your hand, running your thumb over the pendant. Without even thinking, you reach up and clasp the necklace around your neck.

It fits snugly against your skin, the pendant resting on your collarbone.

You look up, catching Vi watching you as you adjust the necklace. “Looks good on you,” she says, her voice lower than usual.

“Thanks,” you reply, still running your thumb over the pendant.

Mylo and Powder both let out another chorus of ‘aww’ clearly touched by the sight.

Vi shoots them another glare, her eyes narrowing. “Would you two shut up, for Christ's sake?”

“Oh, come on, sis. It's cute” Powder teases.

“Ah, young love,” Silco says. 

Vander chuckles, nodding his head. “I remember my younger days.”

“Don't you mean your younger hookups?” Silco shoots back.

Vander grins, holding his hands up. “Guilty as charged.”

Silco laughs, shaking his head. “Some things never change.” Then, he glances around the room, looking for who's turn it is next. “Lasty, who's next?” he asks, looking at everyone present.

You look around, seeing that almost everyone has given out their gift. It's obvious that your turn is next. “I'm up next.”

You get to your feet, making your way over to where the presents are. then you hold the present in your hands, not looking up quite yet. You can feel Vi's eyes on you.

This is it. You take a deep breath and look up, meeting her gaze. 

You walk over to her, your heart beating a little faster. You feel a little bit nervous, but you try to push it down.

You stop in front of her, holding out the present. “Here you go, babe.” 

Vi's expression softens a bit, her eyes darting down to the gift in your hands. She reaches out and grabs it, looking slightly puzzled.

You watch silently as she unwraps the gift. 

Vi looks at it, her eyebrows raised. “Is this... a sweater?” she asks, a little bewildered. It's clearly hand-knit, with uneven stitching and a clashing color scheme.

“I made it myself,”

“You made it?” she asks. “Like, with your own two hands?”

“Obviously..”

“I mean... it's…” she starts, her voice trailing off as she tries to find the right words.

“It's hideous?” you suggest.

She winces a little, looking like she can't deny it. “Yeah, kinda…” she mutters.

“Hey,” you say, mock-indignant. “I spent a lot of time making that, you know.”

“I can tell.”

“Then, try it on.”

Vi hesitates for a moment, looking at you a little warily. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” you nudge her. “Just try it on, for me.”

She sighs, clearly realizing there's no way out of this. “Fine.”

She pulls it over her head, struggling a bit to get her arms through the sleeves. The fit is a little awkward, and the sweater seems a little too small. But somehow, it kind of makes her look... cute?

She tugs at the sleeves, looking down at herself. “How do I look?” 

You pretend to look her over, like you're seriously considering the question. “I dunno,” you reply. “it's... something.”

“Be serious. I look like an idiot, don't I?”

“Don't be like that” you tease, reaching out to straighten the collar of the sweater. “It's not that bad.”

“Not ‘that bad?’” she repeats. “Are you kidding? I look like a walking christmas tree,” she groans, tugging at the sleeves yet again.

“I think you look…. fine”

“That's the best you've got? 'fine?'”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don't know,” she mutters, sounding slightly petulant. “Something more than just 'fine’”

“Okay, okay,” you say, holding up your hands. “Let me rephrase that, you look…” you pause, scratching your chin “...very christmas-y”

“You really know how to boost a girl's ego.”

“I didn't realize you needed your ego stroked.”

“I don't,” she protests, a little flustered. “I'm just saying, a little bit more enthusiasm would be appreciated.”

Silco clears his throat, drawing everyone's attention. “Ahem, now that the present giving is concluded…” he glances around at the crowd.

Silence falls over the room as everyone waits for Silco to speak. The tick-tock of the grandfather clock is the only sound that can be heard.

Silco glances at the clock, a smile on his face. “It appears to be midnight,” he says, pausing for emphasis. “Which means…”

A chorus of “Merry Christmas!” rises up from the group, everyone sounding festive and cheerful. 

You look back to Vi, who is still fiddling with the sweater. “Merry Christmas,” you whisper, not wanting the others to hear.

She glances at you, a small smile touching her lips. “Merry Christmas to you too,” she replies, her voice just as quiet as yours.

Awkwardly you glance down at the carpet, unsure of what to say next. 

“Hey,” she says suddenly, her voice drawing your attention. “Can I talk to you for a second…? In private?”

“Sure,” you agree, following her as she leads you away from the group.

She leads you into a small back room, closing the door behind her. The room is dimly lit, with only a few bare light bulbs lining the walls. Aside from a few boxes and some old crates, the room is empty.

She turns to face you, leaning against the wall. She's quiet for a moment, her gaze averted to the floor. you can tell she's trying to find the right words, fiddling with the hem of the sweater again.

“Listen,” she begins, finally meeting your eyes. “I know this is weird, and I know things are... difficult right now. But…” she pauses, letting out a short sigh. “I just want to say one thing…”

“Go on,” you encourage.

“I…” she starts, then falters. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, nervousness flitting across her features. Her gaze drops to the floor.

“Well, I just…” her fingers fumble at the edge of her sweater. “I just... I miss you.”

Your heart skips a beat as she finally says the words out loud.

You've been wanting her to say that for weeks, months even. After everything that's happened between the two of you, you desperately wanted to hear those very words fall from her lips. But now that she's saying it...

What the hell do you say to that?

You're speechless, stunned into silence by her honesty. You open your mouth, intending to say something, anything. but words seem completely lost to you at this point. You just stand there, staring at her, dumbfounded.

“Say something,” she finally says, her voice tense. “Say anything. You're just staring at me like an idiot.”

“I don't know what to say.” Because, you really don't know what to say. You have so much you want to say, but somehow the words get stuck in your throat.

“Say you hate me. Say you never want to get back together. Just... say something.”

She's waiting. Waiting for something, anything. An opinion, a response. something, anything from you. But what can you say? Do you tell her the truth—that you've missed her so much you can't even sleep at night? that the last month has felt like a living hell, having no contact with her?

You want to tell her that you hate her for throwing you away just to come back around wanting something from you again, but your tongue feels like cotton.

“Say something… yell at me, curse me out, anything!”

But her tone gets under your skin, and suddenly you feel the anger start to build inside of you. 

Who does she think she is, demanding a response from you? she's the one who tossed you aside without a second thought. You're sick of this. You've done everything for her, given her everything she wanted, and here she is, pushing you for more.

It is too much—all too much. Without a word, you turn from her, heading toward the door. You can't do this anymore. 

You hear her call out your name as you shove open the door, but you don't stop. You make your way back, stopping at Vander's side.

“Vander, I'm going to head out.”

Vander nods, giving you a knowing look. He can tell something's going on, but he's wise enough not to press the issue.

“Alright, kid,” he says gruffly. “Get some rest, yeah?”

You nod your head, forcing a smile onto your face. “Yeah, I'll try,” you mutter, giving him a wave before starting towards the exit.

When you pass by Silco, he gives you a curious look. You catch his gaze and give him a small nod.

Finally, you make your way out the front door. The cold night air hits your face, making you shiver. You take a deep breath, preparing yourself for the walk home.

But then you hear the door swing open behind you, her footsteps hurry after you.

“Wait!” her voice calls out. “Wait, stop!”

You keep walking, your steps quick. You're trying to get as far away from her as possible to outrun all of the feelings that came rushing back to you—

“Let me walk you home.”

Her words cut through your thoughts, sharp and unexpected. You falter, your steps slowing down.

You stop walking, turning around to face her. “What?”

She's standing there, looking like a kicked puppy. Her shoulders are slumped, her expression sheepish. She can tell you're not happy she's followed you out here, but she looks like she doesn't care.

She lets out a huff, her breath coming out in a white cloud in the cold air. “I just... look, whatever happened in there, whatever happened between us... just let me look out for you. Just let me walk you home. I.. I have to know you're safe.”

“I don't need a babysitter,” you practically growl, your irritation obvious. “I can handle myself.”

Vi flinches at your words, but she doesn't back down. If anything, she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. “I know you can,” she snaps. “I'm not offering to babysit you. I'm just... I'm just asking to walk you home.”

You glance back at the entrance of their house, the warm lights and sounds spilling out into the cold night air. 

You turn back to look at her, your voice softer this time. “You don't have to walk me home. We don't have to keep up the act anymore, I'm going home and... you've got better things to do than worry about me.”

“Screw the act,” she mutters. “I'm walking you home. It's not up for debate.”

You stare at her, baffled by her insistence. “Seriously? What's the point, Vi? We're not together anymore. Why bother?”

Her jaw clenches, her shoulders tensing. You know she hates this. She hates hearing you say it. Her heart is on her sleeve, and you're tearing pieces out of it, right in front of her.

“Because I care!” she snaps. “Maybe it's hard for you to believe, but I still care about you.”

You shake your head, scoffing at her words. “No, no, no, you don't get to act like you care now. You're the one who broke up with me. You're the one who walked away and left me.”

“I made a mistake,okay? I was a damn idiot, and I screwed up.”

“A mistake?” you echo, scoffing again. “You ended everything, and now you want to walk me home? What, you think that makes up for everything? You think it’s that easy? You threw away everything we had like it meant nothing, like all those months we spent together meant nothing.”

Your voice is trembling with anger as you continue. “And then what did you do? You went around, throwing yourself at anyone that gave you a second glance, like I never meant anything to you. Yeah, I know all about that. So don't try to act like you actually care when you clearly didn't give two shits.”

She looks away, her jaw clenching. “I was trying to get over you. I was trying to push you out of my head and it hurts like hell. Every night, every morning, it was like there was a hole inside of me, and no matter how hard I tried to fill it, no matter how many times I went out, how many times I tried to forget you, nothing worked. You were stuck in my head, and I hated it.”

She takes a step closer to you. “I know it sounds stupid. I know it doesn't make any sense. I just... I needed something to distract me, something to keep me from thinking about you. Because it hurt too damn much to think about how much I messed things up.”

“Yeah, congrats. You did a damn good job at distracting yourself, huh? It sure as hell didn't take you very long to get over me.”

She winces again, the guilt written all over her face. “You have no idea how many times I wanted to reach out to you. How many times I thought about coming back to you and begging you to take me back.”

“But you didn't,” you say. “You didn't reach out to me, you didn't try to fix things. So why should I believe you now? Why should I believe that you're sincere when you didn't care enough to fight for us before?”

She looks down, unable to meet your gaze. “What was I supposed to do?” she whispers. “I messed up. I messed things up and I don't know how to fix it. I don’t know how to take back what I did, how to make things like they were before I messed up. All I know is that I miss you. I miss you so damn much, and I’d do anything to have you back.”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. Everything she's saying, it's everything you've wanted to hear for months. It feels like a dream.

But you can’t let yourself fall back into this. Not when you’ve worked so hard to move on. Not when you’ve spent so many nights crying into your pillow, reminding yourself that she didn’t care enough to fix things, to fight for you.

“Why now—Why do you want me back now, after all this time? Why didn’t you want me back when it mattered, when I needed you?”

She looks up at you, desperation in her eyes. “Because I was an idiot! Because I was stupid, and scared, and I thought walking away would make it easier, but it just made it worse. Because I spent every damn night regretting that I let you go and wishing that I could take it all back. I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry for what I put you through.”

“Sorry doesn't fix things,” you say, your voice shaking. “Sorry doesn't take away the pain, sorry doesn't undo what you did.”

She nods, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I know saying sorry won't magically fix things, but I am sorry. I'm sorry for hurting you, I'm sorry for walking away, I'm sorry for everything I did wrong. Just... just give me a chance. Give me a chance to make things right.”

She takes another step forward, her eyes pleading. “Give me a chance. Let me prove to you that I love you and that I want to make things right. If I screw up again, you can toss me to the curb and never speak to me again. But please, just give me one more chance.”

“I don't know,” you murmur. “I just... I don't know.”

“I'll do anything. I'll get on my knees every day if I have to. I'll beg on my hands and knees. I'll crawl on my hands and knees. I'll grovel on the ground. Just... please, just give me one chance.”

“I'll think about it. Just...just give me some time to think things over.”

“Okay, okay. I'll give you time or whatever you need. Just please don’t shut me out completely.”

Without hesitation, she envelops you in a tight hug. Her arms wrap around your waist, her face burying into your neck. Her body clings to you, every part of her desperate and needy. “I miss you so much,” she mumbles.

You stand awkwardly, unsure of what to do. But then, your body betrays you, your arms slowly wrapping around her.

For the first time in a long while, you're holding her again. Her warmth, her scent, her touch—it’s all so familiar, so painfully familiar. So damn familiar that it hurts.

“I hate you.”

“I don't blame you,” she pulls back a little, her hands coming up to cup your face.

She lifts her hand, brushing a lock of hair away from your face. “I hate you so much,” you repeat, a tear falling down your cheek.

“I deserve that,” she says, her thumbs gently wiping away your tear.

“Damn right you do.”

You have no idea what to do or what to feel. Everything is a mess, and you're drowning in it.

For now, all you could do was hold her tight and bury your face in her shoulder. 

You hated how good she felt against you and how right it felt to be held by her. You hated the way your heart skipped a beat whenever she whispered in your ear. 

Damn her for making things so confusing, for making you feel so damn much.

You felt her hand rubbing your back, her fingers tracing circles over your skin. It was a soothing gesture, a silent apology for all the pain she had caused. It only made things worse, making your heart ache even more.

If only things had been different. If only she had been more communicative. If only she had been more sensitive to your feelings. If only she had been there for you when you needed her.

If only she hadn’t walked away and left you broken. If only she hadn’t hurt you the way she had.

And most of all, if only you had been strong enough to push her away and protect yourself from this mess.

But here you are, standing in the middle of a street wrapped in her arms. You felt like a fool, like a damn idiot, for still wanting her after everything.

You wanted to hate her, you wanted to make her suffer the way you had suffered.

But how could you hate her when she was looking at you like that? how could you hate her when she was holding you like this?

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that she still had this kind of effect on you. 

Her eyes met yours, and you saw everything you had missed, everything you had longed for. and you knew, right then, that you were in damn trouble.

—

In the window, Vander and Silco watched you and Vi from afar, the soft glow of the christmas lights casting shadows over their faces.

Silco takes a drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling around him as he exhales. “Your little plan worked quite well,” he says, looking at Vander with a sly smile.

Vander just shrugs, sipping his drink. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he replies, keeping his expression neutral.

“You're not fooling anyone.”

Vander hums, taking another sip of his drink. “I don't know what you mean,” he says again, keeping his gaze locked on you and Vi.

Silco let out a puff of smoke, a smirk playing on his lips. “Don't play coy, Vander. You knew damn well what you were doing when you rigged that secret santa.”

“I may have had a little influence,” he admits.

“A little influence? oh, don't downplay it. You wanted them back together, and you knew exactly how to make it happen.”

“I have had a hunch that they still cared about each other,” he says, his voice casual. “And plus, I don't want to see Vi moping around for the past months.”

“And we couldn't have that, could we? seeing her moping around like a lovestruck puppy.”

Vander nods. “She was really terrible at hiding it,” he says. “always pacing around, always looking like she lost a puppy.”

Silco takes another drag of his cigarette, blowing rings into the air. “It was painful to watch,” he says, shaking his head.

“It was like watching a kid trying to hide a secret… I just hope they figure things out.”

“I agree,” Silco says, his eyes flickering over to you and Vi. “Hopefully they can work things out.”

Vander hums in agreement. “Only time will tell.”

They watch in silence for a moment, seeing how you and Vi are still holding each other.

“I still wouldn't forgive you for that damn underwear you got me.”

“That was the funniest thing you could have received.”

Vander grumbles, narrowing his eyes at Silco. “I do not find it funny to receive underwear as a gift.”

notes: idk what is happening

---

bookworm

-> rafe x bookworm!reader

The bell above the bookstore door jingled sharply, and you looked up just in time to see a tall, very damp stranger step inside, shaking the rain from his jacket.

He looked out of place: broad-shouldered and golden-haired, like he belonged on a yacht instead of standing in the doorway of your tiny shop, dripping onto the hardwood floor.

You arched a brow. “You’re getting water on my first editions.”

The guy, Rafe Cameron, you recognized now, glanced down at the puddle forming around his expensive-looking sneakers. “Shit—uh, my bad.” He took a dramatic step to the side, as if that somehow fixed it, then ran a hand through his rain-soaked hair. “I, uh, wasn’t planning on coming in. Just—y’know. Rain.”

You resisted the urge to smile. “Yes, I do know rain.”

Rafe exhaled, half-laughing, like he wasn’t used to people talking to him like this. He glanced around, taking in the towering bookshelves, the warm glow of the reading lamps. “So… what kinda place is this? Coffee shop? Library?”

“Bookstore.”

“Right. That’s what I meant.”

You leaned your elbows on the counter, tilting your head. “Not much of a reader, are you?”

“Uh—” He looked vaguely offended. “I mean, I’ve read, like… some books.”

“Name one.”

His jaw tightened. “Do magazines count?”

You laughed and Rafe looked half annoyed, half intrigued. “Not unless they have plotlines and character development.”

He hesitated, shifting his weight like he was debating whether to leave or stay. Then, as if making a split-second decision, he cleared his throat. “Alright. Sell me a book, then.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “What, right now?”

“Yeah.” He crossed his arms. “Something I’d like.”

You eyed him, taking in the expensive watch, the cocky smirk he was trying to suppress, the slight impatience in the way he tapped his fingers against his bicep. Then, without a word, you turned, plucked a book from the shelf, and set it down in front of him.

Rafe squinted at the cover. The Great Gatsby.

He snorted. “You picked this ‘cause I’m rich, didn’t you?”

You just smiled, chin propped in your palm. “I picked it because it’s about a man who has everything… except the one thing he really wants.”

That shut him up.

For the first time since he walked in, Rafe didn’t have a witty retort. Instead, he just looked at you like he wasn’t sure what to make of you. Then, after a moment, he picked up the book, flipping it over in his hands.

“Alright,” he said, voice softer than before. “Guess I’ll give it a shot.”

And just like that, a golden-haired, rain-drenched Kook walked into your quiet little world, and, much to your surprise, didn’t seem in any hurry to leave.

...

The next time Rafe Cameron strolled into your bookstore, the weather was perfectly dry. No convenient rainstorm forcing him inside. Which meant he was here on purpose.

You glanced up from your desk, hiding a smile as he beelined straight for the shelves, hands in his pockets, exuding casual confidence... except for the way his eyes flicked toward you every few seconds, like he was making sure you noticed him.

He stopped in front of the classics section, squinting at the titles, then, rather dramatically, pulled out the thickest book he could find.

“War and Peace,” you read off the spine, eyebrows raising.

Rafe nodded, flipping it open like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Yep. I’m thinking… light weekend read.”

You leaned on the counter, amusement bubbling in your chest. “You do know that book is, like, twelve hundred pages, right?”

Rafe smirked. “Yeah. I like a challenge.”

You folded your arms. “Do you even know what it’s about?”

He hesitated for just a second, just long enough for you to tell he absolutely did not, before shrugging. “War. And… peace.”

You bit back a laugh. “Brilliant deduction, Tolstoy.”

He made a face. “Okay, whatever, maybe I just like big books. What, I’m supposed to pick some tiny little paperback?”

“Size isn’t everything, Rafe.”

His bit back a grin like he was fighting off some very Rafe-like response to that statement. Instead, he cleared his throat and flipped to a random page. “I’ll prove it,” he declared. “I’ll read the whole thing.”

You tilted your head, amused. “All of War and Peace?”

“All of War and Peace.” He looked very proud of himself, like he’d just announced he was climbing Mount Everest. “And then I’ll come back and tell you all about it.”

You rested your chin in your palm, eyes twinkling. “I’m holding you to that.”

“Good.” Rafe closed the book with a satisfying thud and tucked it under his arm like a trophy. He turned to leave but then, almost as an afterthought, glanced back at you, smirking.

“Bet you’ll be impressed when I finish.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “I’ll be shocked if you finish.”

Rafe just gave you a wink, pushing out the door, head held high like he’d just won something.

You bit your lip, watching him go.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

...

“You have a predilection for making a mess,” you mused, watching as Rafe leaned back in his chair at the counter, arms crossed, an empty coffee cup in front of him: his third of the morning.

Rafe blinked. “A what?”

“A predilection.”

He squinted at you. “Is that, like… a disease?”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. “No, it means you have a habit of doing something. A preference.”

“Oh.” Rafe nodded, like he totally got it. He absolutely did not get it.

Moments like these happened all the time. You’d say something, something perfectly normal, in your opinion, and he’d look at you like you were speaking ancient Latin.

Last week, you told him his posture was lackadaisical, and he spent the next three hours trying to pronounce it. Yesterday, you mentioned that his tendency to linger in your store was beguiling, and he just stared at you for a solid five seconds before muttering, “Yeah, well, you’re beguiling too.”

But today? Today was different. Today, Rafe had come prepared.

“I actually knew that,” he lied, shifting in his seat. “I, uh… I absconded that word earlier.”

You blinked. “You what?”

“Absconded,” he repeated, looking oddly proud of himself.

You bit your lip, trying so, so hard not to laugh. “Do you mean absorbed?”

Rafe’s smirk faltered. “…Yeah, that one.”

You let out a giggle, and Rafe groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “I knew I was gonna mess that up.”

“No, no,” you teased, leaning forward on your elbows. “Please, continue. What else have you absconded (definition: leave hurriedly and secretly, typically to avoid detection of or arrest for an unlawful action such as theft) lately?”

He shot you a look, then, without missing a beat, grabbed his empty coffee cup and stood. “I’m absconding out of here.”

You let out a full laugh, and he grinned as he turned toward the door.

Before he left, though, he paused, glancing back at you with that cocky, boyish smirk.

“By the way, I predilect you.”

You shook your head, utterly endeared. “That’s not... never mind.”

Rafe just winked. “Knew it.”

A/N: mindless self indulgence

10/10 i need moreeeee

ꪆৎ AMERICAN MADE ﹒♱

੭୧ . . . soldier boy x female!reader.

ᯓ your encounter with soldier boy at the flatiron building proves he's nothing like his disappointing son, homelander.

warning(s) smut┆smoking┆mild degradation ( towards homelander )┆semi-public sex┆rough sex-ish┆mentions of past relationships┆strong language. 𓇼 so this was meant to be posted days ago… but i got super busy and totally forgot about it. but it's finally up <3 love me some soldier boy every once in awhile too. eighteen plus! adult content | minors do NOT interact.

　✧⠀ ⠀⠀　𓈒　⠀⠀ ⠀૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ꪆৎ masterlist

you hadn't expected to find soldier boy lounging on butcher's desk, smoke curling from his lips as he took another hit from his joint. the flatiron building was usually empty this time of night, save for butcher who you could hear talking in the other room.

"well. if it isn't america's former sweetheart," soldier boy drawled, his eyes trailing over you with an intensity that made your breath catch. "came to see the brit?"

you shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how alone you were with him. "i needed to discuss some things about homelander."

"that fucking disappointment," he scoffed, taking another drag. "you know, hughie told me about you. america's sweetheart turned rebel. gotta say, that's pretty hot."

the way he said it made heat pool in your stomach. you'd heard stories about soldier boy, about his reputation before payback turned their backs on him, but nothing prepared you for the raw magnetism he exuded. maybe it was because he reminded you of homelander — or rather, homelander reminded you of him. but there was something different about soldier boy. something more primal, more authentic.

"what else did hughie tell you?" you asked, taking a step closer.

soldier boy's lips curved into a smirk. "enough to know that you're wasted on my sorry excuse of a son." he stubbed out the joint and stood up, closing the distance between you in two long strides. "tell me, sweetheart, did he ever make you feel like a real woman?"

your breath hitched as he backed you against the desk, his hands gripping the wooden edge on either side of you. "soldier boy—"

"ben," he corrected, his breath hot against your neck. "my name's ben."

what happened next was a blur of sensations. his lips crashed against yours, tasting of marijuana and whiskey. your hands found their way to his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath his suit. he lifted you onto the desk with ease, stuff scattering to the floor.

"fuck butcher and his precious fucking desk," he growled, pushing you back until you were lying flat on the wooden surface. "been wanting to do this since i first heard about you."

your clothes seemed to disappear under his experienced hands, and soon you were bare beneath him. soldier boy took his time, his eyes drinking in every inch of you. "now this is what i call a view," he muttered, his voice rough with desire.

you could hear butcher still on the phone in the next room, his muffled british accent a reminder of where you were. but soldier boy didn't seem to care, and truthfully, neither did you.

he knew exactly how to touch you, where to kiss you, how to make you fall apart. each thrust was calculated, powerful, making you bite your lip to keep from crying out. his experience showed in every movement, every angle he hit perfectly.

"you're all mine," he growled in your ear, his pace relentless. "no other man gets to touch you, look at you, think about you. understood?"

you nodded desperately, your nails digging into his back.

"say it," he demanded, slowing his movements teasingly.

"i'm yours," you gasped, and he rewarded you by picking up his pace again.

the desk creaked beneath you, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you wondered if butcher would notice the scattered papers, the slightly askew angle of his workspace. but those thoughts disappeared as soldier boy brought you to the edge again and again.

when it was over, he helped you straighten your clothes, a possessive glint in his eyes. "you should come around more often," he said, lighting another joint. "might make these meetings with butcher more interesting."

you couldn't help but smile, even as you heard butcher's footsteps approaching. soldier boy didn't move away from you, if anything he moved closer, making it clear to anyone who walked in exactly what had happened.

from that moment on, everyone knew you belonged to soldier boy. the boys never commented on it directly, but they saw the marks he left on your neck, the way his eyes followed you whenever you were in the room, the possessive hand he kept on your lower back.

and honestly? you wouldn't have it any other way.

---

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

JEALOUSY JEALOUSY | LEE BYUNG-HUN

PAIRING. lee byung-hun x actress!reader

REQUEST. I might have just found my fave blog... May i pretty please with a cherry on top have some lee byunghun with actress!girlfriend!y/n where they watch her show and he gets jealous because of a kiss scene but make it like its some vid for youtube like for GQ maybe and the fans analyzing like the jealousy Its fine if u dont want to tho

A/N. sorry I couldn’t answer directly to your request. btw I know the updates are slow. I’m back in college so I’m really trying to focus! Divider by @v6que !

gq

liked by yourusername and others

gq y/n y/ln and lee byung-hun take a walk down memory lane on our latest GQ&A.

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user12 no way they got them on GQ

byunghunswifey MY HUSBAND LOOKS TOO FINE

reagenxox omw to watch it 🫡

charliee_3.3 the look on his face

sukiwaterhouse @/yourusername look at you go!

iloveyn my favourite actress 💞

yndailynews

liked by missyn and others

yndailynews clips from y/n y/ln and her boyfriend lee byung-hun’s GQ&A video

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user face card never declines

jaime.lan1 did anyone catch the look on his face when they showed her kissing scene?

user7 @/jaime.lan1 FINALLY SOMEONE NOTICED!

maryssblog I didn’t even know he was dating someone

user4 my two favourite actors together

girlblogger the last picture…he looks like he wants to murder someone

yourusername

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yourusername peace

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randomuser u got a possessive man

userr8 PRETTY

ynfanacc DID SHE NOTICE THE LOOK HE GAVE HER??

byunhunwifeyfr I wish I had your man

ynswifeyy WDYM PEACE? THAT LOOK MEANT THE OPPOSITE OF PEACE

yourfriendsuser I hate that u have a man🥲

byunghun0712

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byunhun0712 it doesn't matter...she's mine

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user2 IS HE TALKING ABOUT THE MOVIE!?

ynspookie @/user2 ofc he is

user3 making sure everybody knows that their together 😭

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ynsfandom she did that movie years agoooo move onnn

hater pretty sure you kissed other people too so….

user8 @/hater I thought it was cute

---

Why are all the Rafe and Sofia scenes giving wattpad 💀

---

Imagine sam, reader, and vinnie have a game night (monopoly) with just sam and reader actually playing while vinnie is just the banker, who gives the wrong amount of money everytime its needed (sam would probably make vinnie give him more money than reader so he can win lol 😭😭😭)

- 💀

PAIRING: teen dad!sam monroe x teen mom!reader

FLUFF ❦

You should’ve known this was a bad, bad idea. Game nights with SAM MONROE are never just game nights. They are true, bloody wars. So when Sam pulled out monopoly, which is already the worst game ever for keeping relationships intact, you should have predicted he'd turn into a dirty cheater

The only saving grace of this situation? Vinnie, your little banker, sat between your and Sam's side, clutching handfuls of Monopoly money in tiny fingers like it were his last life savings (as if he got ever any). But in all of that, he got zero clue what was happening, yet he was still clearly having the time of his life by your and Sam's side.

You gazed blankly into your cards, questioning your next life choices while Sam, kept suspiciously saving tons of money. After Vinnie, with the sweetest, most innocent grin ever, gave sam another monopoly dollar, you narrowed your eyes, finally deciding it was time to speak up for poorer people.. “Why is Vinnie giving you more money than me?”

Sam, not even looking up, shrugged lazily. “Dunno. Maybe he just likes me better.”

You gasped, cards falling on the table. “You are bribing him, aren’t you?”

Sam smirked. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵-𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘬. “I would never.” Meanwhile, Vinnie—completely unaware of what was happening around him—just giggled, waving a $500 bill in the air like it was a toy. A very valuable toy to you.

You glanced up from your properties. “Okay, Vinnie" you let out a sigh "I need $200. Can you hand it to me, baby?”

Vinnie’s face scrunched up in thought. Those little brows furrowing, pinky lips twisting to a thoughtful grimace. He stared at the colorful bills in front of him, the baby brain working hard and slow to decide which one he should take. Then, after some time, he grabbed a single $10 bill and slapped it on the board with a proud little squeal.

“Baby, no—this is ten.” You laughed softly, trying to give it back. “I need two hundred.”

Sam, across seated from you, was actually (but not surprisingly) grinning like the absolute asshole that he is. He leaned in, tickling Vinnie's chubby cheek so that the toddler would erupt with giggles “Good job, little man. You’re a natural at banking.”

“He just scammed me.”

Sam shrugged, completely unfazed. “Not his fault you’re bad at capitalism.”

You shot him a glare before turning back to Vinnie. “Okay, sweetheart, can you try again? Two hundred dollars, okay?” you showed him two fingers in hope for some mimic-language understanding

Vinnie, looking absolutely thrilled with his responsibility, clapped his hands and… handed you a pinky fifty-dollar bill and a green one-dollar bill.

Sam burst out laughing. “Holy shit, he’s robbing you blind.”

You sighed, dropping your head onto the table in pathetic defeat. “Vinnie, baby, please.”

Vinnie just babbled, extending his tiny arms up to you with the biggest toothy smile of a proud boy. But then Sam had to destroy the moment and lean over, tapping the table with a smug smirk. “Alright, buddy. Sammy needs $500 for passing Go.” Vinnie nodded very seriously, reaching for the money pile.

And handed Sam a full stack of cash.

Your mouth dropped open. “WHAT THE HELL.”

Sam took it eagerly, throwing some ‹thanks, man› with ruffling Vinnie's curls. With a mischievous smirk, he leaned back with his huge stack of cash, waving them just to tease you. “Damn, I should start bringing Vinnie to Vegas.”

You glared at him. “You told him to do that, didn’t you?”

“I would never corrupt our sweet child like that.”

Vinnie giggled again, completely unaware of the absolute fraud he just committed, at the gaslighting Sam created. You pointed at the baby. “He’s literally helping you commit Monopoly crimes.”

“Sounds like a skill issue on your end.”

You couldn't help yourself anymore, and with a grunt, you grabbed a pillow from the couch and chucked it at him. While Vinnie just clapped his chubby hands, being awfully happy about your batter with Sam.

You deadpanned. “I hope you step on a Lego.”

Little Glimpses

Igor (Anora) x F! Reader

18+ Only Blog - Minors DNI

Warnings: smoking, alcohol consumption, cursing

Word Count: 2.5k

Notes: I have not been able to stop thinking about this man since I saw Anora. I just had little parts of stories in my head so I compiled them into one thing.

Little glimpses into the reader’s relationship with Igor.

Everything on the table shakes when the train passes by. You press your hand down, gently holding onto the crystal ashtray in front of you to stop it from dancing around. Your eyes feel heavy. So you tilt your head back, and rest them for a moment until the disruption subsides. You take a drag of your cigarette and exhale in the direction of the open window next to you- letting the smoke waft outside your small studio. Once everything stills, the only sound is the comforting tick of the clock above your stove. You take one final puff before dropping your butt into the ashtray. You watch it smolder as it slowly burns out. You need to get ready for your shift.

You hate your uniform. The bright blue polo shirt and the stupid matching visor- fucking stupid. You feel like you look like a moron and you’ve always found it embarrassing. You always took off the dumb thing when your manager went home for the night. No one comes in after midnight ever- the occasional drunk but they don’t care if you’re wearing your visor or not.

On the slow nights you read, or sometimes you’ll watch trashy reality TV on your phone. With your elbows perched on the counter, you flip through your most recent romance novel as the time passes. It’s well past 1am and the bright fluorescent lights buzz above you.

“Uh- $40 pump two, please,” a polite voice breaks your concentration. It makes you jump in surprise and you apologize quickly.

“Shit- uh, fuck sorry,” you fumble, quickly placing the book down, opened to keep your page. You take the cash he hands you as he offers a subtle smile.

“No need for apology,” he expresses, and you can now hear his accent- distinctly Russian, or maybe Armenian? You aren’t sure. His voice is soft and comforting- very kind. You’re immediately more at ease. He reads your name aloud from your name tag. It’s infuriating as much as it’s endearing.

“You’re all set,” you offer, suddenly shy. You pass him the receipt after it is printed. He nods, tucking it into his jacket pocket. You watch him walk back outside, the cold air wafting in as the bell above the door rings.

As he waits by the pump, he catches you watching him through the window of the store. When he meets your eye, he’s amused when you immediately look away- trying to play off like you weren’t looking the whole time. He’s flattered, and he can’t help but smile to himself. He’s not used to any sort of attention- he tends to go by unnoticed in his daily life. He can be intimidating when he tries- out of necessity, but that’s not him.

He’s so pretty, you observe, like James McAvoy you settle on. You avert your attention away for the final time and decide to turn back to your book and do your best to ignore the headache that’s developing under the store’s harsh lights.

It’s one of those passing crushes, at first. The kind like when you fall in love temporarily with a stranger across the grocery store. You play out the whole thing in your head to inevitably never approach them, go home, and let the cycle of daydream continue another day with another stranger.

---

You’re freezing as you stand on the sidewalk in the long line that has now wrapped around the block. Your ankles hurt from the height of your heels but they’re too cute not to wear. Your outfit is far too short and shows far too much skin for the night air, but in your defense- you and your friends didn’t imagine you’d be outside this long. Your entire body is covered in goosebumps as you wrap your arms around yourself to keep warm. Your friend offers you a cigarette which you accept gratefully as she places it in your mouth for you.

“Fuck!” you exclaim frustrated, “Why aren’t they fucking letting anyone in?” You peer over to try to see the front of the line, and you notice people towards the front are trying to reason with the club’s bouncer- who you immediately hate because you resent his hoodie and puffer jacket he wears to brace the cold. You think about how the moment you can step foot in, you’re making a beeline to the bar and getting a shot to warm up.

Someone, probably a promoter or something, emerges from the inside. He says something to the bouncer, you’re too far away to hear. The bouncer nods, and the guy starts walking down the line. He looks at the groups who are waiting, and he gestures to a few groups of just girls- you and your friends included- and ushers you all inside. You’re too elated to care as he’s saying something about needing to up the ratio of men to women blah blah blah. You quickly stomp out your cigarette and all you can think about is warming up.

You link arms with two of your friends as you head towards the inside, scurrying excitedly to get out of the cold. The bouncer nods to each group as they enter, but puts up an arm to stop you and your friends. “IDs,” he says, and you swear his voice sounds so familiar.

“C’mon man, we’re cold as shit,” your friend complains, letting go of your arm to retrieve her ID from her clutch. Looking in his direction, you immediately recognize him from the other day- the customer from your overnight shift. You aren’t sure if he would recognize you, you're positive you put more thought into the whole interaction than he did. You make eye contact and you swear for a moment he wants to say something, but he just stares. Realizing you decided to go without a bag, you bite your lip and mutter a silent “shit” as you need to pull your ID from your bra to hand to him. He says nothing, just nervously licks his lips as he takes your license.

“Thanks,” he says, handing them back. Your friends huff, and drag you inside. Your eyes linger on him as they pull you and you both watch each other until you disappear from view.

A remix of Von dutch is playing so loud and the club is packed. It’s completely dark except for the raving strobe lights that are synced to the beat of the music. You can’t hear anything over the screams of Addison Rae as your friends get a round of shots. You happily accept, tilting your head back. The burn is such a welcomed sensation to your freezing body. You let the crowd dictate where your body moves, letting yourself start to let loose.

A couple of hours later, you’re more than ready to get out of there. It was fun, but your friends have mostly paired off with men and you’re anticipating that soon they’ll be roping them into wherever the group decides to go next. You aren’t in the mood for another night of splitting a cab with one of your friends and whatever guy is going back to their place. You don’t need the reminder that amongst the group, you’re never the one getting the guy, you think pessimistically. You text your friends, lying about an early shift, and let them know you’re getting an Uber.

Standing outside, you’re freezing again, and it’s almost worse now that your body has been so acclimated to the warmth inside. You lean against the brick building and cross your arms over your chest in an attempt to warm yourself up.

“Here,” you hear him say, and you look up surprised, not realizing he was there. He offers you his jacket for you to take. “You need,” he insists. You offer a thankful smile and slip it over your shoulders. It smells like woodsy cologne and cigarettes. The warmth engulfs you and you swaddle yourself into the warm fabric.

“Thank you,” you say shyly. He nods and puts his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. He pulls out a small pack of pre-rolls, and offers one to you. You accept and hold it between your fingers as he lights it for you.

“You probably don’t fucking remember me, but like, I think you got gas the other night at the uh place I work-”

“I remember.”

“Oh, okay-”

“You were reading a book and then what’s the word ‘ogled’ me? You ‘ogled’ me when you thought I wasn’t looking,” he teased.

“I was not ogling you!” you scoff, defensive. You can feel how warm your face is from his accusation. “It’s my job to make sure dumbasses aren’t gonna blow themselves up at the pump. It was purely a safety measure,” you lie obviously, making him laugh.

“Whatever you say,” he responds with a sly smile. You see a car start to pull up. Reluctantly, you unwrap yourself from his jacket and hand it back to him.

“Uh, that’s my Uber,” you explain and you swear he looks disappointed. He nods, accepting his jacket back.

“Can I call you?” he asks as the black sedan pulls up to the curb. You nod enthusiastically. He hands you his phone and you quickly text yourself.

“Uh that’s me,” you explain dumbly, cringing because duh. He just smiles, and it’s painfully sincere. You slide into the backseat of the car, and you can feel your phone buzz with a notification before you even finish putting on your seatbelt.

My name is Igor

---

You’re sitting on your couch as you lick the rolling paper to finish off your joint. A metal tv tray rests over your lap acting as your work station. You admire your work and then pass it to Igor, who accepts it without a word. You move the tray table to the floor so you can get comfortable, and you lean into his side as he lights the joint. The two of you share it, passing it back and forth between each other as your eyes are both focused on the TV.

It’s been a few weeks and your relationship with Igor has gone on undefined. Lines have been blurred and you can’t pin point if it’s the substances that are in your systems or if it’s just that when you’re with him, time feels like it stops- a hangout stretching into a couple days without you even realizing.

You don’t know what you’d call this. It’s not friends, and it feels much like it’s much more than casual. You assume it’s exclusive- you spend so much time together; there’s hardly any opportunities for him to see someone else. But there’s been no lines drawn, no labels given- he’s slotted himself into your life seamlessly like you’ve known him forever. His grandmother treats you like her own blood, taking an immediate liking to you. It all just works.

“What is this?” You ask suddenly, looking up at him. His eyes widen in confusion. He takes the joint out from between his lips, exhaling smoke.

“Maybe Idica, I don’t know,” he muses and you sigh in frustration at your inability to be direct.

“I’m sorry,” you laugh, hiding your face in your hands. “No, not that,” you clarify. “I meant like- you and me.”

“Oh, um,” he replies, mulling things over in his head before he speaks. “Whatever you want.”

“I don’t know what I want,” you answer honestly, and he nods understandingly, but you feel him clear his throat and you can feel him straighten his posture. You worry he misunderstood your meaning. “No, no- fuck. I made it weird,” you sigh, “I just meant like, I don’t want to mess it up by changing it. But at the same time, I don’t want you doing this with someone else- and I don’t want to do this with anyone else but you- you know?”

“I know,” he replies, he’s so patient and sweet about it. He kisses your temple and just lets you process. He’s so gentle like that, all the time. “I want the same,” he states simply. “Just us,” he reiterates, taking another hit and then passes the joint back to you.

“Just us,” you smile.

“So does this mean we’re uh, boyfriend girlfriend?” He teases and he laughs at how your nose scrunches in disgust.

“Gross,” you pretend to gag. You shake your head, like your trying to shake out the memory of him saying something so fucking cheesy. It makes him smile.

—

“He’s coming runnin’ runnin’ runnin’ runnin’ runnin’ runnin’,” you sing obnoxiously as Igor’s pulls up to the curb. “He’s coming. Ridin’ round town, they gonna feel this one.” You see his cheeks turn pink as he tries to not laugh.

“What the fuck is that?” He questions, walking around to open the passenger door for you.

“Oh my fucking god, dude. It’s Tyler the Creator- it’s IGOR’S THEME. Did you now know that? I’ve been doing that bit for like two weeks and you didn’t think to fucking look it up?” You laugh a little. You buckle up, and extend out your hand. “Give me your phone, you need to listen to it.”

Without hesitation, he passes his phone to you and then he pulls away from the curb slowly. You start the album from the beginning, and you settle back into your seat. You put his phone down in the cup holder and rest your head against the seat belt. It’s a comfortable silence as you both listen. As he drives, he rests his right hand comfortably on your thigh, his thumb making circles.

Anxiety is a tricky thing. As time passes, you begin to feel insecure for monopolizing the music. You start to feel guilty about the jab you made at Igor’s expense for not knowing this album. You begin to overthink everything, and the music playing starts to make you feel overexposed. And you begin to associate his silence with resentment.

“You can change it to whatever you want,” you say apologetically. He looks at you confused from the corner of his eye, only glancing over so he can focus on the road.

“But you like this?” He asks, puzzled.

“I don’t want to force feed stuff to you,” you try to explain, “I didn’t mean to make you sit through it.”

“I think it’s great,” he offers sincerely, “it’s good.”

“You don’t have to say that, just because I like it,” you counter, feeling insecure.

“I like the music,” he reiterates, “I like it, and I like it because it’s something you wanted to share with me.”

“You don’t have to…”

“I love when you share things with me,” he interrupts you before you begin to spiral. “Do it more often,” he says, encouragingly. He stops for the red light, and leans over to kiss you. “Please.”

He turns his attention back to the road as the light turns green and you can’t help but smile as you watch him turn the dial up.

PART TWO

→ Midnight Cravings.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Wife!reader.

Summary: Dean Winchester is a good husband and an awesome dad.

Rating: Fluff.

Warnings/Tags: Domestic fluff, breeding kink, implied smut...

Word Count: 1.3k

The baby monitor crackles softly. Then, a tiny, restless whimper fills the quiet room.

Your eyes crack open, a sigh escaping your lips.

Dean stirs, sighing as he rubs a hand over his face. “Your kid’s up,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep.

You hum, already half-awake. “Our kid,” you correct, but there’s no fight in it. Just fondness.

Dean groans but pushes himself up, swinging his legs over the bed. “Yeah, yeah.” He scratches his stomach as he stumbles toward the door, his movements slow but sure, muscle memory at this point.

You watch as he disappears down the hall, the sound of the nursery door creaking open. A moment later, through the baby monitor, you hear his low, gravelly voice.

"Alright, little man, what’s the deal? Bad dream? Hungry? Dirty diaper?"

A soft coo. A hiccupy sniffle. Dean sighs.

"Yeah, I get it, bud. Whole damn world's a lot to take in." The floor creaks as he moves, likely rocking the baby in his arms. Then, quieter, gentler—"S’okay, Daddy’s gotcha."

Your heart squeezes. Dean has always been a daddy material, in your opinion, like he's been made to be one. It's a delight to watch him do his dad stuff.

Dean sniffs the baby's butt to check if the little one has a surprise for him. Dean raises his brows and flips his lip as he only smells clean baby scent.

“Are you hungry or just cranky, hmh?” Dean holds your son in his hands, facing him.

Your baby babbles at Dean, tugging at his face. “Da-da!”

Dean’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he grins, brushing his thumb across the baby's cheek. “Yeah, that’s me,” he murmurs. “Da-da.” His voice is soft, almost reverent.

Your baby babbles again, hands reaching up to pat Dean’s scruffy jaw. Dean chuckles, adjusting the baby in his arms. “You're trouble, you know that?" He presses a kiss to the baby’s forehead. "Just like your mom.”

The baby coos in response, curling his tiny hand around Dean’s finger. Dean’s breath hitches, his smile faltering for half a second before he leans back in the rocking chair and starts swaying.

“You don’t know how lucky you are, kid,” he whispers. “Having her.” His gaze turns distant for a second, dark lashes brushing his cheeks. “You’re gonna grow up good. Better than me. Promise you that.”

Then, Dean, standing in the dimly lit nursery and cradling the baby against his chest, he rocks side to side. The baby’s tiny fingers curl into Dean’s shirt, his wide green eyes—Dean’s eyes—blinking sleepily up at him. Dean hums softly, low and rough. It’s not really a lullaby—more like the gravelly hum of a Metallica song toned down to something soft enough for a baby’s ears.

A sleepy sigh from the baby is the only answer Dean gets, but it’s enough. After a few more minutes of quiet rocking, the baby’s eyes flutter shut. Dean watches him for a moment longer before the baby shifts, letting out a soft, unhappy whimper.

“You fightin’ sleep, huh?” Dean mutters, rubbing the baby’s back. “Can’t blame ya. The world’s a pretty scary place, kid. But you don’t gotta worry about that yet.” His hand cups the back of the baby’s head. “Not while I’m around.”

The baby whines, a soft noise of discomfort, his mouth opening and closing like he’s searching for something.

Dean frowns. “What’s wrong, bud?” He presses his palm to the baby’s back, rubbing small, soothing circles. The baby squirms, fussing harder.

“Ah, hell,” Dean sighs. “Alright, I know what you need.”

He stands, cradling the baby carefully against his chest, and pads down the hall toward your room. The floor creaks beneath his bare feet as he pushes the door open with his shoulder.

You’re already awake, propped up on your elbows. Your hair’s a little messy, your eyes hazy with sleep, but you smile the second you see them. “Hey.”

Dean crosses the room, lowering onto the edge of the bed. “Think he’s hungry.” He gives you a tired smile. “Mind givin’ him a top-up?”

You smile, reaching out to take the baby from him. “Come here, sweetheart.”

Dean hands him over, watching as the baby instantly calms down in your arms. You adjust your shirt, helping him latch on with practiced ease. The baby makes a soft, content noise, his tiny fingers curling against your skin.

Dean’s eyes soften. His hand brushes your hair back from your face as you nurse. “You’re a sight, you know that?”

You huff a quiet laugh. Yeah, messy hair, and leaking tits are a sight. “Stop.”

“Not kiddin’.” His hand rests on your thigh, thumb brushing over your skin. His gaze drops to the baby, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Looks like he’s got my appetite.”

You roll your eyes. “Dean.”

“What?” His hand slides higher, warm and steady. “Just sayin’.”

Once the baby finishes, you gently settle him against your shoulder, rubbing his back until he lets out a tiny burp. His eyes are already drifting shut.

Dean stands, taking the baby from you with a gentleness that always makes your heart clench. He kisses the baby’s head before going back to the baby's room and cautiously settling him in his bassinet.

“You’re good at this,” you whisper when he's back to your room.

Dean’s gaze lingers on the sleeping baby for a moment on the monitor screen, his jaw tightening slightly before he crawls back into bed beside you.

You smile as he pulls you close, his arm wrapping snugly around your waist. His lips trail a line of kisses on your neck. You can feel the urge, the need in them. Same goes to his hands as they roam your body gently.

“Dean,” you murmur with a giggle.

“Mm?”

“Are you knocking me up again?”

Dean’s mouth curves into a wicked smirk against your neck. “Maybe.”

“Dean—”

“What?” His lips ghost along your collarbone. “He sleeps through the night now. We’ve got time.”

You laugh softly, but the sound is lost as his mouth finds yours again, slow and deep and hungry. His hand slides beneath the blanket, and you shiver.

“Dean—”

“Shh.” His mouth brushes your ear, his voice low and dangerous in the dark. “Daddy’s gotcha.”

Dean’s lips trail lazily down your neck, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine. His hand slides beneath the blanket, skimming over your hip, his touch firm but careful. You feel the low hum of his breath against your skin as he presses a lingering kiss beneath your ear.

You huff a laugh, your hand coming up to tangle in his hair. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

You don’t deny it. You can’t, not when his mouth moves back to yours, deep and slow, and his hand slips beneath the thin fabric of your underwear. His touch is rough from years of hunting, but he’s careful with you—always so careful.

A sleepy whimper from the monitor cuts through the haze.

Dean groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

You laugh softly, brushing your hand through his hair. “Guess he’s not ready to share.”

Dean sighs and pushes himself up, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah, yeah. I’m comin’, kid.” He presses a quick kiss to your lips before getting up.

You watch him disappear down the hall again, the monitor crackling to life. Dean’s voice is low and soothing.

“Alright, little man. What’s wrong this time?”

A soft sniffle.

“Just need your old man, huh?”

You smile, leaning back against the pillows as Dean hums softly through the monitor. It’s not long before the sound fades, and Dean returns, settling back into bed beside you with a tired sigh.

“False alarm,” he mutters, tugging you against his side. His arm curls around your waist, warm and steady. “Now, where were we?”

You laugh, tucking your head against his chest. “You were telling me how much you love knocking me up.”

Dean grins, pressing his lips to your hair. “Still true.”

His hand slides beneath the blanket again, fingers trailing low over your belly. “We’ve got time,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and something deeper. “Plenty of time.”

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꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ fire and air,

summary. you've got castiel under some kind of spell. and it's freaky!

pairing. castiel x demon!reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 529

Castiel shouldn’t be here.

Shouldn’t be standing in the dim glow of a rundown motel room, watching the way your black eyes flash before fading back to their human hue. Shouldn’t be memorizing the curve of your smirk, the way it tilts like you know a secret he’ll never understand.

And yet—he can’t leave.

“You know,” you hum, tilting your head, “I can hear your thoughts when you look at me like that.”

Castiel stiffens. “That’s not possible.”

You grin. “No, but I wish it was. Bet they’re all righteous and tortured.” You step closer, slow, like you’re testing him, seeing how far you can push before he pulls away. He never does. “You’ve got it bad, angel.”

His jaw clenches. “You are a demon.”

“Mmm.” You press a finger to your lips, feigning deep thought. “And yet, you’re still here.”

The room feels smaller. He can hear the motel sign buzzing outside, the hum of a television through the thin walls. But none of it matters—not when you’re this close, the scent of smoke and something sweet curling around him like temptation itself.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Castiel admits, voice low, strained.

Your smile softens, just a little. “I don’t want anything.” You reach up, fingers ghosting along the lapel of his trench coat. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

He swallows. He should smite you. He should walk away. He should do a thousand things that don’t involve watching your lips part like you’re waiting for him to make a move.

Instead, he stays.

And he falls.

The first time he kisses you, it’s after a fight that wasn’t even yours to begin with.

You hadn’t planned on getting involved—whatever demon had pissed off the Winchester brothers wasn’t your problem. But then you saw one of Hell’s lapdogs get the jump on Castiel, a blade pressed too close to his throat, and something in you snapped.

So you killed it.

Messily.

Now, blood stains your collar, some of it yours, most of it not. Your lip is split, and there’s a bruise forming high on your cheekbone, but you’re grinning like you just won the damn lottery. “That was fun,” you breathe, licking blood from your teeth.

Castiel should be disgusted.

He isn’t.

“You’re reckless,” he murmurs.

You shrug. “And you’re obsessed with fixing things that can’t be fixed.”

He doesn’t realize he’s moved until his hands are cupping your face, his thumbs skimming over the bruises. A flicker of grace would heal them, erase every mark, but you grab his wrists, shaking your head.

“I like them,” you whisper. “Proof that I made it through.”

Castiel’s resolve crumbles. He kisses you before he can think better of it, before he can remind himself of what you are, what he is, what this will cost him.

Your lips are warm, chapped, and tasting of copper and sin. You make a sound against his mouth—something soft and surprised before you melt into him, pressing closer, fingers threading into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp.

And Castiel—who has fought wars and killed gods and carried the weight of Heaven itself—lets himself fall a little deeper.

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