Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Even when you were nestled in your mother's warm belly, coddled by her own blood and flesh, you could tell you were a burden. A miracle, the doctors said when you were born. Your mother's heart stopped beating for 4 minutes while in labor—vital to a fetus and its host. The miracle was the baby bathed in blood and mucus, not the lifeless mother, puckered and pearl.

You didn’t cry when you were born, too occupied trying to get your walnut-sized heart to betray you, set you free of the hell you’d just begun.

You were never a child who cried for attention. Instead, you swallowed your sounds, held your breath, and watched the world through the lens of someone who wasn’t meant to stay. The hole in the shape of a woman you never met was always there, a mark left in the silence—a picture on the wood-paneled wall. Belly swollen, smile wide. No stories to tell, no lullabies, no warmth from the one person who was supposed to make you feel like you belonged.

Instead, it was just the quiet hum of a broken home, where nothing was ever whole enough to be considered sound.

The nurses said you were a fighter, wrapped in white cotton and a pink cap. You survived the nightmare. You were strong.

But strength doesn’t mean survival, does it? It just means you keep waking up. And waking up—day after day—feels more like a punishment.

You spilled coffee down your shirt today. It seared into your skin and left it hot and freckled. Ronny coughed a whiskey-smelling bark into your face when you stammered into the kitchen with water in your eyes and a half-empty coffee pot trembling in your hand. You felt the pull, the familiar flicker in your neck—small but sharp, like a wire snapping in your spine. It tugged your head to the side before you could stop it. Ronny’s face twisted, his lip curling around the cigarette as though your body’s rebellion were some kind of offense. You watched through blurred vision as he slapped a damp rag against your chest and snarled ‘Clean yourself up, bitch’ through his cigarette before brushing past you, too close to be accidental. You keep your eyes on the streaked linoleum and mutter an apology.

“Blue, honey,” Olive gasped through the doorway, rushing in and plucking the pot from your shaking hand as though it might shatter, “Are you alright?”
You nodded, shallowing back shards of glass. If you tried to speak, you knew it would come out warbly and wet. The buzz radiated under the damp rag like it wanted to remind you it was there, that you were here. Alive, maybe. Existing, at least.

She steered you into the employee bathroom, the fluorescent light hissing overhead like an unwelcome witness. Perched on the cold, cracked toilet seat, you felt her fingers hastily unbuttoning the top four pins of your blouse. When she saw the angry red blooming across your collarbone and down to your breasts, she winced as if the burn had somehow reached out and burned her too.

Twenty-five minutes and half a roll of gauze later, you were back on your heels, tray in hand, weaving through the diner like a ghost. Grease clung in the air, mixing with the sting of antiseptic rising from your skin. You didn’t glance at Ronny as you passed, but the weight of his eyes was enough of a reminder that he was there.
By 11, the diner was mostly empty, its silence broken only by the occasional clatter of a spoon against porcelain. Three regulars slouched over the bar like wilted plants, nursing their coffees and bacon, while two new faces lingered in the shadows of the back corner.

Olive had locked out at 8, leaving the newcomers to your care. Their eyes snapped to the bandages the moment you approached, their stares like tiny spotlights burning through your sticky skin.
You tugged at the puppet strings of your face, drawing your lips into a smile that felt brittle enough to crack. “Hi. What can I get for you guys?”

Their dirtied hands moved in unison, flipping through the laminated menus with a sound like shuffling paper. Both men hummed, low and indecisive, until the one with the prickly, dark mohawk spoke first.

“I’ll tek ah ham n’ cheese toastie, and some orange juice, bonnie,” he chirped, his voice thick with a Scottish accent, coarse as gravel. His crooked smile curled like a frayed ribbon across his chapped lips, his eyes lingering on your bandages for a beat too long before snapping back to the menu.

“And I’ll jus’ ‘ave a cuppa, light an’ sweet,” the blond huffed in a British accent, his dirt-covered palms sliding the menus across the counter.
“Those will be right out for you,” you say with a small smile before retreating to the back to put in their orders.

Rain taps a steady rhythm on the metal roof as you wait for Tony, the cook, to finish. Glancing out the window, you watch the downpour drench the empty lot. The walk home is going to suck. Of course, you don’t even have an umbrella.

The food bell rings and you're quickly balancing a plate in one hand and their drinks in another. The toastie sizzled on the plate as you slid it in front of the mohawk man—Johnny, you decided, based on the stitched patch on his jacket. The mug landed gently in front of the blond, whose tag says Riley. His eyes flickered up at you as if weighing something, but he said nothing. Johnny didn’t bother hiding his stare.

“Yer chest,” he started, jerking his chin toward the gauze peeking from your blouse. “Looks nasty. Wha’ happen?”

Your hand hovered on the edge of the table, fingers tightening around the curve like it might anchor you. For a moment, the words sat heavily on your tongue, like pills you were too afraid to swallow.

“Just an accident,” you muttered, the smile on your lips wilting at the edges.

“That so?” Johnny leaned back, his yellow construction jacket creaking as he shifted. His accent softened, as though he was testing the weight of your lie. “Guess this place gets rougher than it looks, eh?”

You huff out a laugh that makes your sternum stutter like a kindergartner on the first day of school.

Riley—the blond—stirred sugar into his coffee with slow, deliberate motions. His gaze is like a dagger, the blade barely nicking your skin. Johnny’s stare doesn't let go either. He’s waiting for more, expecting more—like it’s not enough. You can feel the tick of the words in your neck, the way they press against your skin like a bruise.

Before you can stop it, you feel the familiar flicker—a twitch, a sharp pull that catches your breath. Your head jerks sideways, and you hear the strange, strangled sound of a laugh—an involuntary, sharp noise escaping you, even though it isn’t funny. You want to shove it back down and swallow it back inside you, but it’s out there, splintered in the air between you.
Rileys doesn’t seem surprised. His eyes flicker between you and Johnny, an unreadable expression passing over his face.

You know he’s noticed. They both have.

But then the tension, thick and bruising, is broken by the shuffle of feet behind you as another customer slides into a booth. You feel the burn of their stares fade just as quickly as it came, but the heat in your cheeks doesn’t fade. Still, your hands shake as you back away, your smile a brittle thing you have to patch together before you disappear back into the shadows of the diner, pleading for Tony to hand them the check.

Chapter Text

The diner was quiet—it always was past midnight. The dishwasher's hum filled the silence like static, aside from the clink and clatter of dishes as Tony piled them on the shelves.

Tony had given you a sideways glance as you pleaded behind him to take the check, food searing on the grill before him. ‘Please, Tony. Please give them their check. I had a tic, and I—I made this weird fuckin’ noise in their face—‘ Your voice cracked, juddering as you streaked your sweaty palms down your leggings, the words tumbling out too fast and too busted to sound like anything but desperation.

He sighed, deep and heavy, like you were asking him to carry the weight of the world instead of a receipt. Without a word, he thrust the spatula into your damp palms, the handle tepid from his grip. Don’t burn my shit, kid.

Johnny and Riley had lingered in their booth until a little after eleven-thirty. Johnny’s guffaw had rung out a few times, raspy and booming, cutting through the stillness. Riley, on the other hand, had been quieter, his voice hardly audible whenever he spoke.

When they left, Johnny waved his hard hat at you with a smirk. “See ya ‘round, bonnie,” he’d called, his Scottish brogue thick as honey. You nodded, pushing a small smile to your mouth, already halfway through wiping down the counter.

Riley spared you a glace as he ducked his head through the doorway. His gaze caught you mid-motion, eyes biting but tempered with something you couldn’t quite place. Pity, maybe. Guilt. He dipped his head slightly and trailed behind Johnny out into the night.

The ever-present scent of lard and coffee clung to the air as you finished stacking menus at the counter. The day had dragged, each moment sticking like syrup, but now it was over. You were so close to slipping out the door unnoticed when you heard it.

“Blue!” Ronny’s voice hit you like a slap.

You froze, your fingers clutching the last menu, your breath seizing in your throat. You did not turn around fast enough for him, and his voice came again, sharper this time. “You deaf? Get in here!”

Your body moved before your brain could protest, legs carrying you toward his office like they had a mind of their own. You kept your head low, peering over as Tony glided out the back door. Just you and Ronny now.

As soon as you crossed the threshold, his hand clamped around the back of your neck. The thick, meaty grip sent a jolt through your body as he hauled you fully into his office, your feet scuffling on the linoleum. The motion tugged at your shoulders, your chest tightening like a Venus Fly Trap snapping shut.

“Wh-what did I do?” you stammered, your words uneven and small as he thrust the door closed.

Ronny didn’t answer right away. He clasped the scruff of your neck, the heat of his palm bleeding through your skin. Bent close, his whiskey-sodden breath fans your cheek, his eyes narrowing.

“The fuck is wrong wit’ you, eh?” His voice was low, the anger coiled tight, shaking your neck. “Burning yourself like some damn rookie and making a scene? You think I’m running a charity here?”

“It—it was an accident,” Your words are catching on the hot lump in your throat.

“An accident,” he mocked, his voice dripping with disdain. His fingers tightened briefly before easing up, a mockery of comfort. “How many of those do you think you get, huh? You’re lucky I’m the only person in this town willing to hire someone like you. No ID, no papers, no nothing. A ghost.”

Your head twitched sharply to the side and a lamentable groan tumbled through your wire-tight lips. You gulped down the shame, keeping your eyes on the floor.

Ronny groaned like he was dealing with a disobedient child. “Jesus fucking Christ, Blue. That little head thing of yours? Y’know it freaks people out. Makes it look like I hire the freakshow.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“Sorry doesn’t fix it.” You’re squeezing your eyes shut, hoping he will set you free, to stop holding you out to the flame like a moth he wants to watch burn. But his grip stays firm, and you can feel the heat licking closer. It’s almost poetic, the thought—how he might be the one to end you. A mercy, maybe, sparing you the trouble of doing it yourself. “How could such a lovely peach be so bruised.”

Then, like it always does, his tone softened. Not with kindness, but with a twisted familiarity, like the sickly sweetness of fruit hiding a bitter pit. You knew what came next. You pushed yourself to stay still, fixing your eyes on the water-stained ceiling. The constant drip of a faucet teased you from the kitchen, syncing with the rhythm of your throbbing heart. Tears obscured your vision, but you refused to let them escape.

The hold on your neck eased as he angled your head slightly, his free hand brushing a strand of hair away from your face. He wasn’t even looking at you, just the side of your neck, hunting—predator, prey.

“Don’t make me regret hiring you,” he muttered before pressing a wet, hard kiss to the column of your neck. His stubble prickled around your skin. You held your breath, your fingers curving into fists at your sides. It didn’t matter how many times he did it—it never got easier. But you didn’t recoil, didn’t pull away. You just let it happen, waiting for it to be over.

When he finally let go, the shove forward was almost a relief, even as it sent you stumbling toward the door.

“Get out of here,” he said, already turning back toward his desk. “And don’t screw up again. I’m not running a soup kitchen.”

You nodded, the burn of tears threatening your eyes as you shoved the door open and stepped into the pouring rain.

The cold rain hit you like a slap, but it wasn’t enough to wash away the feel of his lips, the weight of his words.

The rain soaked through your sneakers almost immediately, squelching with each step, your chest burning, your throat tightening around a sob you refused to let out. Your jacket was no use either, your clothes clinging to your frame. You kept your head down, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, praying the rain would wash away the grease and Ronny’s slobber and the feel of too many eyes on you.

It didn’t.

By the time your little ranch came into view, your legs were aching, fingers numb. The house stood in the shadows, its paint peeling and wood splintering, but it was yours. Or as close to yours as you could get. The wooden boards creaked under your weight as you trudged into the small space, kicking off your wet shoes, peeling off your jacket, and tossing it onto the nearest chair. The bandages on your chest itched. You winced as you pulled your shirt over your head.

The opaque mirror in the bathroom reflected a version of yourself you barely recognized. Tired eyes, pale skin, hair plastered to your face in damp strands. You looked away quickly, rummaging through drawers for your toothbrush.

By the time you crawled into bed, the rain had lessened to a soft drizzle, tapping gently against the windowpane. You pulled the thin blanket up to your chin, trying to block out the cold seeping through the walls and cracks.

The memory of Riley’s glance lingered as your eyes closed, a susurrate of something you couldn’t quite name.

Chapter Text

The next time you see him, it’s not at the diner. But you really wish it was.
The bell above the pharmacy door cuts through the heavy quiet with a sharp, irritating jingle. The air is thick and stale, heavy with the scent of cardboard, antiseptic, and damp. You pull your coat tighter around your body, its nylon whispering as you move, and your sneakers squeak against the warped linoleum, leaving small wet prints behind.
The overhead lights flicker faintly, casting yellow, uneven shadows over the shambolic shelves. Rows of half-forgotten remedies line the aisles, their withered labels mucky and peeling. The heater in the corner gripes mellifluously, pushing out only the faintest suggestion of warmth.
You find the burn cream on the far aisle, tucked between dented bottles of rubbing alcohol and crushed boxes of gauze. You crouch, your cold, stiff fingers skimming over the boxes, your eyes snagging on the bold prices: $17.99. $23.95. $19.90. An acidic knot twists in your chest. It might as well cost your entire paycheck.
The bell above the door chimes again, and the sound of boots scuffing against the linoleum cuts through your thoughts. You shift slightly, keeping your focus on the shelves and their ludicrous prices.
Embittered, you snatch a box of the cheapest cream and stand up too fast, your heel catching gawkily on the edge of your coat. You stagger backward, colliding with something solid—no, someone.
“Shit—sorry,” a voice rumbles behind you, low and familiar, vibrating through you like an aftershock as their breath puffs across your shoulders, balmy and minty.
Your breath catches, and you whirl around on your heels. His face is right there. Broad shoulders framed by a battered green jacket, the same blond buzz cut, and eyes so stygian they feel like ink.
Riley. Coffee, light and sweet.
For a moment, you’re too agitated to speak. The box of burn cream slithers from your fingers, thudding softly to the floor. He bends to grab it, rising in one smooth motion, holding it out like an offering.
“You okay?” He’s watching you with a smirk, cool and coy.
“I’m fine,” you say nippily, hell for leather. You pluck the box from his hand, holding it in a hermetic embrace against your belly.
Your eyes flick from his hands, seething and raw, back to his face. “You should clean those up,” you blurt, leaking like a faucet from your mouth, as you stare at the shelf behind him, the vitamins coalescing into a colorful, prismatic haze.
He raises an eyebrow, the faintest hint of amusement wrestling at the corner of his mouth. His knuckles flex as he rubs one hand over the other, and his voice carries a dry, razz edge. “Clean ‘em up, huh? That coming from you? With that look on your face?”
You blink, startled. “What?”
He gestures loosely toward you, his dark eyes probing over your posture, your face. “Your eyebrows are all pinched up. You’re holdin’ that burn cream like your life depends on it.” His tone softens, a few opaline teeth keeking through his curling lips. “Not exactly subtle.”
Your cheeks prickled hot, and you innately loosen your grip on the box. “It’s fine.” You’re flaring, voice serrate, defensive. “I’m fine.”
“Sure you are,” he replies, tipping back slightly, though his gaze doesn’t waver. “Bet it doesn’t even hurt, right?”
“It doesn’t,” you snap again, the words brazen this time.
He chuckles, low and throaty, the sound entwining around you like vines. “Could’ve fooled me. You’re holding yourself so tight you might snap in two.”
You scowl, shifting on your feet, suddenly hyperaware of the dull throb radiating from your chest. “Shouldn’t you be worrying about your own injuries?”
“Oh, I am,” he says with a grin, holding up his hands dramatically. “Look at me. Poster child for health and safety.”
Against your better judgment, an infinitesimal laugh escapes you before you can stop it. A few more glistening teeth poke out from behind his grin, and you immediately hate yourself for finding him funny.
“Seriously, though,” he continues, his tone softening just a touch, “you should take care o’ that. Burns ain’t something you want to mess around with. Get infected easily, y’know?”
You flub for words, making them come out like a dog's breakfast. “I—I know,” you mutter.
“Good.” He nods toward the cream still clutched in your hand. “Tha’s a start. Now you jus’ need to stop looking like you’re about t’bolt.”
Your eyes dart to his, startled by his bluntness. “I’m not—”
He cuts you off with a wry smile. “Yeah, you are.”
You open your mouth to argue but close it again, the words failing you. You glance down at the burn cream, suddenly feeling the weight of his attention like a spotlight.
“I should go,” you blurt, stepping back.
“You’re good at that,” he says lightly, though there’s no malice in his tone.
“At what?” you snap, your embarrassment bubbling into a rolling boil.
“Running off,” he replies, shrugging. “Guess I’ll see you at the diner, sweetheart.”
The word sweetheart lands like a stone in your chest, sending a hot flush up your neck. Without another word, you turn and head for the exit.
It’s only when the cool air nips your face that you realize the burn is still safe and sound on the shelf where you’d slipped it in your panic. You don’t bother turning back. The burn will heal itself, without the aid of an overpriced cream.
Olive, of course, does not agree with you.
She’s protesting at you over the running water, your hands pruned and wet as you wash the dishes. “Blue, I’m so fucking serious! Why didn’t you get it?”
You shrug, handing her a plate to dry. “I dunno. Slipped my mind, I guess.”
“Slipped your mind?” she scoffs, glaring at you with her jade eyes, “You are telling me it slipped your mind to get the burn cream as if you can’t hear the gauze every time you move.” You nod, and she scoffs again. “Ill buy you some then.”
“No—no. Olive, seriously. I will get it. I swear.”
“You better,” she demands, draping the rag over your shoulder before going back out to the front. You watch her go, your hands still submerged in the soapy water. The warmth seeps into your skin, feeding the black holes that live deep inside you—parched, gnawing voids that grow where your bones should be. She tugs her umber hair into a clip as she walks, her hips swaying in that effortless, kittenish way she has. Olive always moves like she owns the space around her, like the world bows to her rhythm.
In the year and a half you’ve worked at the diner, she’s become a lifeline—motherly, but not your mother. She’s too young for that, only a few years older than you, and far too happy. It’s the kind of happiness that feels like a foreign language, one you’ll never learn to speak.
Olive had your back when no one else did. She let you crash at her place when things got bad, even found you that rundown ranch for dirt cheap—just a couple hundred a month. You try to repay her the only way you know how: covering shifts, cooking the occasional egg bake, and pretending not to need anyone.
But the truth is, Olive is the only one who’s seen through you.
And that’s why you’ll get the damn burn cream tomorrow. Probably.
You spend the rest of your shift crammed in the back, where the dishwater steam clings to your skin, making you feel as though you’re dissolving into the air. On your lunch break, you slump against the countertop, your arms folded like the weight of the day is too much to hold upright. Tony’s voice fills the space, rough but warm, as he flips something sizzling on the grill. He slides you a chicken quesadilla with a gruff, “Messed this one up,” followed by a quieter, “Looks like you could use the extra pounds.”
Olive’s voice cuts through the clatter of the kitchen. “Blue! Get out here a sec!”
You pause mid-bite, blinking toward the kitchen door. Tony gives you a pointed look, smirking as he flips a pancake. “Guess you’re wanted.” You sigh and stuff one more fat bite into your mouth, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk.
You rub your hands on your apron and push through the swinging door, the abrupt garishness of the diner’s main room making you squint. Olive stands near the counter, her back turned to you. But she’s not alone, and you almost choke on your food.
Olive peers over her shoulder, her perfect teeth glistening behind her pink lips. “This is Simon,” Olive says, nodding toward the man beside her. “He’s a family friend. Said he came in here the other day.”
Riley’s gaze meets yours, soft and steady. His dark brown eyes flicker with recognition, and he smiles faintly.
Olive glances from you to Riley—Simon?—her eyes narrowing as her gaze bounces between the two of you. “Have you two already met?”
Simon glances at you briefly, then back at Olive. “Something like that.”
You shift on your feet, feeling heat creep up your neck. “We ran into each other at the pharmacy,” you mumble, brushing a stray hair out of your face.
“Literally,” Simon adds with a small chuckle, but there’s no edge to it, no teasing smirk. Just an easy, almost apologetic tone.
“Ah,” Olive says, her curiosity lingering, but she waves it off. “Well, now it’s official. Blue, meet Simon. Simon, meet Blue.”
He holds out his hand, and for a moment, you hesitate. Then, reluctantly, you reach out to shake it, wary of the wrap engulfing his knuckles. His grip is warm despite his callouses and scars, and you wish you could curl up in his palm and steal all his warmth, but you pull away quickly.
“Nice to meet you,” he says, his voice low and calm. “Properly, I mean.”
“Yeah. You too,” you reply, your voice far more cloying than you intended, making you cringe.
The scrunch of your gauze sparks his attention, causing him to furrow his brows. “How’s the burn?”
You blink, taken aback. “The same as this morning,” you mumble, smoothing out your apron.
“Thought so,” he says, eyebrows slightly raised. “Burns aren’t something to mess around with.”
You nod, glancing away. “I’m taking care of it.”
“Glad to hear that,” he says with a faint smile.
Your gaze drops to his hands, the cuts on his knuckles. “What about you?” you ask, surprising yourself. “Your hands… are they okay?”
Simon glances down at them like he’d forgotten they were there, then shrugs. “They’re fine. Just clumsy, I guess.”
“Looks like more than just clumsy,” you murmur, but he doesn’t respond, just rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.
“You two done swapping injuries?” Olive cuts in with a grin. “Blue, Tony’s yelling back there. Simon, want me to grab you a coffee or something while you wait for Price?”
Simon nods, but his eyes linger on you for a beat longer. “It was nice seeing you again,” he says softly, stepping back to let you pass.
You mumble something resembling “You too” before slipping through the door, your pulse hastening for reasons you can’t quite place.
The quiet buzz of the diner feels like a bulky, smothering blanket, pressing down on you as you wipe the counter with bovine, ruffled motions. Your skin feels sticky, the burn on your chest starting to throb painfully; it’s alive and refusing to let you forget it, growing tentacles and eyes. The sting isn’t just a sting anymore. It’s oozing, sticky, raw in places it shouldn’t be, but you can’t bring yourself to look.
Olive’s voice breaks through the silence, humbler than usual. “Simon’s a good guy, you know.”
You freeze for just a moment, not ready to hear it. You know she’s talking about him, but you can’t quite bring yourself to nod or even respond. Your hands feel too rigid, the tingle of the burn creeping over your chest, making it hard to focus. You wish you could ignore it, wish it would go away.
Olive doesn’t push, though. She doesn’t seem to need you to respond. “I’ve known him for years. He’s the quiet type—keeps to himself mostly, but when it counts, he’s there.”
You wish your heart didn’t strain at her words. She makes it sound so simple, so tranquil. But everything about Simon feels like a weight you weren’t ready to carry. You can’t get comfortable around men. Haven’t been able to for as long as you can remember. Maybe it’s the way they look at you. Maybe it’s the way you look at them. Every part of you wants to space yourself, to keep up the walls you’ve spent years building.
You clear your throat, trying to push the uncomfortable feeling aside. “I thought his name was Riley,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “That’s what it said on his jacket.”
Olive glances up, her smile soft but knowing. “Riley’s his last name.”
You’re eyes flutter, caught off guard. “Oh.”
“Yeah, Simon Riley,” she adds, a slight warmth in her tone.
You nod, your fingers moving to polish at the counter again, but your movements are slugish now, bemused. Ronny coughs and sniffles from the back, a rough sound, cutting through the silence just as Olive speaks. His cough rattles through the diner, something almost intentionally loud about it, like he knows exactly what he's interrupting, exactly when to make his presence known. You can’t help but feel a strange sense of unease wash over you at the sound.
You shift anxiously, the burn on your chest now impossible to shrug off. It’s not just a dull throb anymore, but a sticky, aching kind of pain that pulls at the skin, and you can feel it starting to seep through the fabric of your shirt. You try to hide it, but it’s getting worse—making you feel more exposed with every second that ticks by. The tightness in your chest isn’t just from the burn. It’s the weight of your own discomfort, the way you can’t bring yourself to reach out for help, even if you know it’s getting too bad to handle alone.
Olive doesn’t press on Simon anymore, her gaze softening with a quiet understanding you can’t quite place. “He doesn’t talk much, kinda like you.”
Your hand intuitively goes to your chest, trying to kneed at the burn, but the pain intensifies, and you wince, clenching your jaw against it. You want to pull away, to escape the way it feels to be so visible—so vulnerable. But it’s too late.
Olive doesn’t say anything else, and the diner seems to settle back into its rhythm. But in the back of your mind, there’s that thought, small and growing: Simon. He might be a good guy. You just might not deserve someone like that. Not when you can’t even handle your own skin, let alone anyone else’s skin pressed against your own knowing the rot will spread.

Chapter Text

You’re sick as a dog. Panting and slimy in your creaky bed, blanket kicked and crumpled to the footboard. The burn on your chest is swollen, angry, and oozing under the makeshift bandages Olive swathed you in days ago. Ronny has called you at least five times, each ring prising you from the fragile cocoon of restless sleep you’ve managed to weave. Your phone buzzes now, taunting you from the dresser. Just a mere few feet away. A short reach.
You stretch out your hand, your fingers twitching, aching for just one more inch of reach, hoping—praying—that your arm might suddenly grow longer. Long enough to brush the phone. Long enough to silence it. But every attempt leaves you with a limp hand dangling over the side of your bed and a hollow, wheezy sigh escaping your lips.
Olive sent you home yesterday. She took one look at your sunken eyes, pale complexion, the way you swayed on your feet as you knotted your apron, and didn’t give you a choice. “I’ll cover your shifts,” she said, her tone tolerating no argument. “Until you’re looking more like a human being than a ghost.”
The thought comes to you slowly, sluggishly, like a heavy tide creeping in: Maybe this is an easy way out. Just stay here. Let the fever do its work. Let the infection take over, creeping through your veins like rust on old pipes. Rot away in your bed until the light above drinks you up.
How pathetic. Dying of an infection from a self-inflicted burn. Too scared to do the job yourself, so you let the elements finish it for you. Let them break you down, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left to recognize.
Suddenly, a knock rattles through the silence, edged and obstinate, pulsing in your skull like a drumbeat. Your breath hitches, shallow and ragged, as if the sound itself has stolen the air from your lungs. Frozen in place, you don’t answer. You can’t. The weight of the fever presses down on you, but it’s the icy prickle of panic that locks your body in place. Your mind spins: Did someone find you? How? Each knock feels denser than the last, and a thousand explanations churn in your head.
The phone on the dresser buzzes again—another call from Ronny—and for a moment, you wonder if it’s connected, if somehow he’s sent someone here to lug you back to a life you’ve worked so hard to enshroud. Your pulse croons in your ears, every nerve on edge, waiting for what comes next.
Then, a voice muzzled by the door: “Blue, it’s Riley.”
You almost laugh—if you could find the strength. Riley. You think about his crooked nose, the way he speaks without hurry, like the world will wait for him to finish. A construction jacket and a coffee order. That’s all you know.
Another knock. Blairing this time. “I know you’re in there. Olive told me.”
Olive. That traitor.
Your hand sags off the side of the bed, fingers twitching toward the phone that buzzes again, its vibrations rattling the chipped wood of your nightstand. You try to form words, but they deteriorate before they leave your tongue.
And then you hear it: the soft click of the front door. The scuffle of boots on your entryway floor. He’s inside.
“Blue?” His voice moves through the house like it belongs there, moored but heedful, as though he’s navigating a minefield. You want to yell, to tell him to leave, but all you manage is a puny groan that catches in your throat.
It doesn’t take him long to find you.
“Jesus Christ.”
He’s a haze in the doorway of your room, framed by peeling paint and sagging drywall. His shadow stretches across the floor, falling just short of your bed. You squint, trying to push away the fog in your eyes, and there he is. Tall, broad, the hem of his faded green jacket brushing his thighs. The material strains slightly at the shoulders when he crosses his arms, the soft crinkle of the paper bag in one hand breaking the tense silence.
“Olive said you ‘aven’t been answerin’ her texts. Sent me to check on you,” he grumbles, stepping further into the room. His gaze sweeps over you—hair slick to your forehead, barely clothed, glowering—before landing on the burn. Raw. Oozing. Pleading. His lips press into a thinner line.
“She said you weren’t takin’ care o’ yourself. Thought maybe she was exaggeratin’,” he mutters, setting the bag on your nightstand. The red of the burn cream box catches your eye. “Lemme see it.”
Your head shakes feebly against the pillow. “No.”
“Fine. I’ll jus’ call Olive. Get ‘er over here.”
“No, no!” You want to sound flinty, but your voice is crazing and brambly. “You can’t tell her. She’ll hate herself—hate herself for not noticing. Please, please don’t.” You’re out of breath, your hand that was limply hanging over the bed now holding onto the fabric of his jeans.
He sighs, dragging his hand down his face. “I won’ tell her. But you hav’ to show me. I don’t believe that its fine.”
“The fuck would you know? I am fine.” You screw your eyes shut, wishing that when you open them, he is gone.
“Sure,” he drawls, squatting beside the bed. His presence is overwhelming, the scent of cedar and smoke luxuriant in the close space. “Sweatin’ like it’s a thousand degrees in ‘ere. Burnin’ up.” His hand moves, wiping the damp hair from your forehead, palm sultry against your molten skin. “Not to mention I can smell it. But yeah, let’s pretend you’re just peachy.”
“Fuck you,” you carp, turning your face away.
“Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs, his dark eyes scintillating with something like amusement. “Now sit up. If you can.”
You glare at him, a mix of dissent and exhaustion guttering in your fevered eyes, but you don’t argue. Not verbally, anyway. Instead, you brace your quavering arms against the mattress and push. The muscles in your shoulders scream in protest, your elbows wobbling under the weight of your own body. It’s a pitiful attempt, and you hate how much of that struggle he sees.
Before you can slumping back, his large hands are on you—steady, firm. His arms slink under yours, lifting you with ease, as if you weigh nothing more than the blanket tangled around your legs. His chest skims yours as he sets you against the headboard, and for a moment, you feel the surprising gentleness beneath the bulk of his strength, that faint cushion of chub that makes his size even more intimidating. His heat lingers even after he steps back.
“You’re not gonna yell at me for doin’ it myself?” His voice is low, imbued with dry humor as he glances at you.
“Shut up,” you mutter blandly, bending further into the headboard. The cool wood presses against your spine, a stark contrast to the fire licking at your chest.
Simon doesn’t press further. He reaches for the roll of bandages wrapped haphazardly around your chest, the adhesive tainted with sweat and… something worse. His thick fingers, marked with scars and nicks, work carefully to peel them away.
“Gonna sting,” he warns, glancing up at you, his dark eyes searching your face as if gauging how much you can take.
“No shit,” you sneer, though your voice lacks its bite.
The first pull makes you flinch, your head snapping forward on instinct. His free hand pinions gently against your shoulder, keeping you in place without force.
“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice softening in a way that almost makes you wince more than the pain. “I got you.”
You don’t respond. Can’t. The adhesive wrenches at your raw skin, ripping a low hiss from your lips. Simon pauses, glancing at you again, but you wave him on. The quicker it’s over, the better.
The bandage finally comes free, leaving your burn displayed to the cool air. A fresh wave of pain flourishes in its wake, sudden and throbbing, making you gasp. Simon grimaces, his lips pressing into a hard line as he takes in the furious, provoked wound.
“Bloody hell,” he mutters, his brow furrowing deeply. “That’s worse than I thought.”
Your stomach froths at his tone. “It’s not—”
“Don’t,” he cuts you off, his voice sharper now. He tosses the stained bandages into the paper bag before pulling out the burn cream and gauze. “You need more than this shit,” he grumbles under his breath, shaking the cream tube. “You need a fuckin’ doctor.”
“I said no hospital,” you snap, though the words come out weaker than you want. “No doctors. No Olive.”
He leans back on his heels, staring at you like he’s trying to decide whether to argue. Up close, his crooked nose casts a slight shadow on his face, and his lips part, only for him to close them again in frustration. His fingers tap against his thigh, the faint smell of cedarwood and smoke mixing with the metallic tang of your wound.
“Fine,” he says finally, the word heavy. “But you’re gonna let me clean this up proper. No arguing, no whining, no tellin’ me to fuck off. Got it?”
You nod, too jaded to fight.
“Good,” he mutters, leaning closer as he unscrews the cap of the cream. He scoops a dollop onto his finger and pauses, his eyes flickering to yours. “This is gonna hurt.”
“It already hurts,” you reply hoarsely, your voice more resigned than bold now.
His hand, warm and steady, presses against your skin, the cool cream a sharp contrast to the burning heat radiating from the infection. The pain grinds for a moment, making you wince and fist the sheets, but his touch is oddly precise, methodical. You feel every callous on his fingers as he works, but his hands never falter, never shake.
“Still breathin’?” he asks after a long moment, his voice lighter, almost playful.
“Barely,” you manage, earning a faint grin from him.
When he’s done, he wraps fresh gauze around your chest, his fingers unexpectedly gentle as they secure it in place. He steps back, surveying his work with a critical eye, his broad shoulders blocking the dim light of your bedroom.
“There,” he says, standing to his full height, his presence towering over you again. “Better than it was, but you need to keep it clean. No more half-assin’ it.” His voice relaxes slightly, though his words remain compressed. “And you’re gonna eat somethin’. I’ll grab somethin’ from the kitchen.”
“Bossy,” you gabble, letting your head fall back against the headboard.
“Someone’s gotta be,” he counters, the faintest hint of a smirk jerking at his lips as he turns and heads toward the door, the floorboards creaking under his heavy boots. The scent of cedarwood and smoke lingers behind him, a faint reminder of the storm of a man who’s somehow decided to fix you.
Simon returns less than ten minutes later, the floorboards creaking under his weight as he steps back into the room. In one hand, he’s holding a steaming bowl of soup; in the other, a plate with a single piece of buttered toast balanced precariously on the edge.
“Had to scrape together somethin’,” he mutters, setting the plate and bowl on your nightstand with a clatter. His dark eyes narrow as they flick over you, still slumped against the headboard. “You’ve got nothin’ in that fridge. I mean nothin’. How the hell are you not starvin’ to death?”
You don’t answer immediately, too concentrating on the smoke wafting off the soup. It smells faintly like chicken, or maybe just broth—nothing elaborate, but it stirs a hollow ache in your stomach you’d ignored was there in the first place.
Simon doesn’t wait for you to reply. “I found a half-empty jar of pickles, a loaf of bread that’s probably older than I am, and some butter that looks like it’s seen better days.” He crosses his arms, his bulk looming over you like a scolding parent. “You expect to live off that? What, you just sittin’ here waitin’ to waste away?”
You glare up at him weakly. “Wasn’t hungry,” you mutter, though even you don’t believe it. Your body practically wobbles with the need for sustenance.
“Bullshit,” he snaps, grabbing the plate and holding it in front of you. “Eat.”
You stare at the toast, mulishness flaring despite the gnawing in your gut. “I’m not a child.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he quips. “Only difference is, kids don’t usually try to kill themselves by neglectin’ a fuckin’ infection.”
With a sigh, you reach for the toast, your fingers trembling as you bring it to your mouth. The butter has melted unevenly, pooling in one corner, but it doesn’t matter. The first bite is bliss, the saltiness grounding you in a way that feels almost humiliating.
Satisfied, Simon turns to the soup. He dips the spoon in and holds it out to you. “Come on.”
“I can do it,” you say, but your attempt to take the bowl from him is so poor it barely counts.
“Sure you can,” he replies sarcastically, keeping a steady grip on it. “Open your mouth.”
You scowl but comply, taking the spoonful of broth he offers. It’s warm, salty, and comforting, soothing some of the ache in your chest that isn’t from the burn. He feeds you spoonful by spoonful, his patience unexpected given the size of his frame and the frankness of his demeanor.
“You’re a terrible patient,” he grumbles between bites. “Makin’ me play nurse ‘cause you’re too stubborn to ask for help.”
“You volunteered,” you point out weakly, though the retort lacks bane. The warmth of the food is lulling you into a foggy calm, and your eyelids start to feel heavy.
He shakes his head, scoffing softly. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”
By the time the bowl is empty, you’re slinking lower into the mattress, the exhaustion from your fever pulling at you more demandingly now. Simon notices, his gaze softening slightly as he sets the empty bowl and plate aside. He stands, brushing his hands off on his jeans, and pulls the blanket up over you.
“You’re a bloody mess,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Gotta figure out how to keep you alive long enough to fix that.”
His scent—cedarwood and smoke—lingers as he adjusts the blanket, making sure it covers you properly. You mumble something incoherent, your voice fading as sleep pulls you under.
When you finally drift off, your breathing slow and even, Simon lingers for a moment, watching. His broad shoulders sag slightly, the weight of something unspoken heavy in the air. Then, as silently as a man his size can manage, he slips out of the room with a quiet Pain in my ass. The front door clicks softly shut behind him, leaving behind only the faint traces of his scent and the warmth of his presence in the empty house.
He’s a shaken can of soda. Bottled up and eager to bubble and fizz over the edge at the first snap. His knuckles aren’t just bloody—they’re raw, split, and sparkling under the yellow warehouse lights. The wraps are long gone, shredded after the first round, leaving his bare hands to meet flesh and bone with nothing to soften the impact.
The air down here is suffocating—thick with the stink of sweat, blood, and desperation. It clings to Simon’s skin like a reminder of where he belongs. Around him, the crowd churns, their voices a discordant purr of bets and roars, urging him forward like he’s nothing more than an animal in a pit.
He exhales slow, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his opponent looming like a freight train. The guy’s face is a mess—a swollen eye, split lip, blood streaking down his neck. Good. Simon’s done his work. But the man’s still standing, fists tight, chest heaving. Another swing could end it for either of them.
Simon feels the ache in his ribs. A rib is cracked—maybe two—but he pushes past it, lets it fuel the fire under his skin. Pain’s a language he knows better than most, and tonight he’s fluent.
But through the haze of bloodlust and adrenaline, a thought cuts through. You. The memory flickers, uninvited but sharp: you, curled up on that worn mattress, sweat gluing strands of hair to your temples, your voice small and tired when you said It doesn’t matter. I'm fine.
He hadn’t answered you then—hadn’t trusted himself to say something that wouldn’t make you retreat further into yourself. You’d looked so fragile, so wary of being seen like that. Vulnerable. Human. And yet, there was something in the way your eyes softened when he stayed, when he didn’t push too hard.
He adjusts his stance, shaking the thought loose. There’s no room for you here—not in this ring, not in this fight. But your image lingers, shadowing his movements like an echo of something he can’t quite name.
The signal comes—just a nod from Price—and Simon thrusts forward, fists flying, every ounce of pent-up rage and guilt exploding in raw, ruthless force. He lands a right hook that rocks his opponent back, the crunch of bone reverberating up his arm.
The guy swings back, wild and reckless, his fist grazing Simon’s jaw. It’s enough to make his ears ring, but he recovers fast, dodging low and countering with an uppercut that lands hard. The man stumbles, spit and blood spraying from his mouth as the crowd howls their approval.
For a moment, Simon falters—not physically, but somewhere deeper. He hears your voice again: It doesn’t matter. I’m fine. A lie so thin it was nearly transparent. How many times had he said the same thing to himself?
His opponent surges forward, and instinct takes over. Simon plants his feet, pivots, and throws everything he has into one last punch. His knuckles connect with the man’s temple, and it’s over.
The guy crumples to the ground, and the crowd erupts, a cacophony of cheers and stomping boots. Price is there almost immediately, clapping Simon on the back, his voice low and approving. “Good work,” he says, already turning away. “Now clean up and get outta here, I need you early tomorrow morning. New buildings and shit.”
Simon stands there, chest heaving, his vision swimming. The blood on his hands feels stickier than usual tonight. He doesn’t know why.
As he stumbles toward the shadows to catch his breath, your face drifts back to him again. Fragile, guarded, but alive in a way that this place never will be.
What the hell am I doing here?
The thought lingers, just long enough to sting. Then he shakes it off and sinks back into the noise.

Chapter Text

The next two days are spent watching random TV shows and eating the random soups Simon cooks up and taking sluggish walks up and down your street, bundled up in a hat, gloves, and jacket Simon made you put on before you go. He insisted that getting outside would help, even though it's hardly 35 degrees. “You need to get outside,” he insisted, standing in your doorway with his arms crossed and a wool beanie tugged low over his ears. “Fresh air’ll do you good.”
“It’s barely above freezing,” you’d protested, sinking deeper into the cocoon of your blanket on the futon.
“Good for the immune system,” Simon said, deadpan, as he tossed your gloves onto the armrest beside you. “Hat. Gloves. Jacket. Let’s go. You’re not staying cooped up like this.” Next thing you know, he was herding you out the door like a sheep, your protests muffled by the scarf he wrapped snugly around your neck.
So, as he whips up some more soup and toast, you pace up and down the street twiddling your thumbs until you hear him beckoning you back inside. “Soup’s ready. Come in before you turn into an icicle.”
Back inside, the aroma of simmering soup and freshly toasted bread filled the air. You sat at your small, slightly wobbly table, a steaming bowl in front of you. Simon pulled out the chair across from you but never took a seat; instead, he leaned against the counter, arms folded, sipping tea from one of your mismatched mugs.
“Not hungry?” you asked, gesturing to the untouched pot on the stove.
“I’ll eat later,” he replied.
Simon doesn’t eat much while he’s here—you’ve noticed that. He focuses on making sure you’re eating instead, dishing out ladles of creamy broth or chunky stew, nudging the toast plate closer when it looks like you’re slowing down.
Conversation didn’t come easily. You didn’t feel up to it, and Simon never seemed to mind the quiet. He filled the space with odd little remarks—a fact about some bird he saw once, a sarcastic jab about your cluttered counter.
“Nice tapestry,” he said once, nodding at the woven fabric hanging crookedly on your wall. “Very… thrift store chic.”
“It was $2.50,” you replied dryly, between spoonfuls.
“Bargain.”
When he wasn't orchestrating your meals or sending you out into the cold for what he called "revitalizing." Simon kept busy. He cleaned your bandages with careful precision, his hands steady and warm as they worked. The first time, he winced as he crouched down beside you, and you caught the slightest hiss of pain under his breath. "Are you okay?" you asked, craning your neck to look at him. "Fine," he replied quickly, but you noticed the way his knuckles looked bruised and raw, like he'd been punching something-or someone. You gestured at his hand. "What happened there?" "Work," he said simply, pulling the gauze tight over your wound. "What kind of work leaves you with knuckles like that?" "The kind that pays." He glanced up, catching your narrowed eyes. "Don't worry about it." But you did. And it wasn't just his knuckles. You caught the way he'd press his hand to his ribs when he thought you weren't looking or the tightness in his jaw whenever he had to bend over. You didn't push, though. It wasn't your place, and besides, Simon was an immovable object when it came to talking about himself..
“You could’ve been a nurse,” you’d said, watching him out of the corner of your eye.
“Yeah, right. Imagine me in scrubs.”
You huffed a laugh, but the motion tugged at the burn, and Simon shook his head, muttering something about you being a nightmare patient.
This filled the gaps in what you can remember of that 4-day haze. The four S’s: Soup. Strolls. Sanitize. Simon.
“Nice of you to show up,” Ronny sneered from behind the counter, a smile on his lips that makes your stomach curl into itself. You’d just walked in, jacket still slung over your shoulders that were already pinched tight.
“I was sick,” you go to explain yourself, but you’re cut off buy his scoff.
“Don’t give a fuck if you were dyin’, you answer my damn calls. Got it, peach?” He raises his eyebrows expectantly, not waiting for you to answer, before turning back to his office and slamming his door, a gust of wind blowing back in your face.
The day crawls by, thick and sluggish, like wading through molasses. Alamort weights down your limbs, dragging you closer to the dead with every passing hour. When a silverware pair slips from your hands and clatters against the floor, Ronny is on you in an instant. His hand tangles in your hair, yanking you upright, making you squeak. His voice adust as he hissed against the shell of your ear. You keep your eyes anywhere but on him—on the grimy tiles, the peeling paint, the water stains seeping through the drop-ceiling. This only makes him angrier.
His thumb and forefinger clamp down on your cheeks, pressing deep enough to leave dimples against your lithe skin, shaking your head like a rag doll’s. The motion rattles more than just your skull; it sends tremors down your spine, sparking shame and fury in equal measure. You wonder, not for the first time, how no one notices.
But maybe they do. Maybe they’ve just decided it’s easier to pretend they don’t.
Tony must have some idea. The kitchen isn’t far from the office Ronny so often drags you into, and his voice has a way of carrying even when he tries to keep it contained. But Tony doesn’t say anything. None of them do. Not Olive, not the other girls whose names you can’t remember. Those girls, so fleeting they’re like whispers caught on the wind, here one moment and gone the next. Scooped up and whisked away to better things—or maybe just different ones.
You wish you had it that easy.
Your leash is tighter than theirs, short and choking, pulling taut every time Ronny drags you back toward him. You feel it constantly, the invisible leather, rubbing raw against your throat.
Even while you're crouched on a flipped-over milk crate in the stockroom, Olive rambling about some rude costumer, you can still feel Ronny's fingers dimpling your cheeks.
Worthless ditz.
Worthless, due to being spat in your face at least weekly during any minor mistake, has lost its meaning. It’s punch. So overused and washed out it’s almost laughable when Ronny attempts to reprimand you with it.
“You look like shit,” Olive says, interrupting your thoughts. Her mouth is full of bread and cheese, sliding the plate over to you while she speaks.
“Thanks,” you muttered, picking at the crust of the sandwich instead of eating it. Your stomach churned too much for food to feel like anything but a burden.
“I mean it,” she pressed, chewing on her half. “You’ve been off for, what? Four days? You’re not better yet?”
“I’m fine,” you reply, forcing a shrug.
Olive gives you a skeptical look, tearing off another bite from the grilled cheese you’re both sharing. “I told you Simon’s a good guy, didn’t I? Even if he doesn’t seem like it. So, how did it go anyway?”
You glance at the crust in your hand, pulling it apart bit by bit. “He didn’t need to come,” you say, the words quiet but resolute. “I would’ve handled it.”
“Sure you would’ve,” Olive says, smirking as she leans back slightly. “Simon said you were snappy as hell. Didn’t even want him there.”
“I wasn’t—” You stop yourself with a sharp sigh, shaking your head. “I just… I wanted to rest on my own. That’s it.”
“Right. And rest yourself into oblivion,” Olive says with a dramatic eye roll, taking another bite. “And let me guess, you didn’t say thank you, did you?”
You hesitate, shuffling through false memories. “I thanked him.”
“Oh, you did, did you?” she teases, grinning around her bite. “Well, you’re welcome for the cream, just so we’re clear.”
A reluctant smile pulls at your lips. “Thank you.”
“Good. And you’re welcome for this too.” She gestures with the half-eaten sandwich before tearing off another piece and passing it to you. “Next time, just tell me, alright? I had to send Simon since I couldn’t call off, but I could’ve been there, y’know?”
You chew on her words more than the sandwich, your stomach tying itself in a knot. “I know. I just didn’t…didn’t want to worry you.”
Olive gives you a look that’s both soft and stern, her green eyes narrowing slightly. “Blue, you being you means I’m always gonna worry. That’s how this works.”
Her words settle warmly in your chest, even as you avoid her gaze and focus on the sandwich. You tear another piece but hesitate to eat it. Olive notices immediately, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. “You’re still not eating,” she says pointedly, nudging your arm with her elbow.
“I’ll eat,” you grumble, forcing a bite. The sandwich is dry as it crumbles against your tongue, but you manage.
Olive watches you with a raised brow, making sure you finish before leaning back with a satisfied nod. “Good. I wasn’t about to let you waste half of my lunch.” She didn’t press you further, instead leaning her head back against a shelf. Her brown curls caught the light, forming a kind of messy halo. “Hey, by the way. You doing anything Saturday night?”
You blinked at her, confused. “Why?”
“It’s Friendsgiving at my place. Just a small thing—me, Price, a couple of his work buddies. You should come. I already told Simon to swing by for a bit, so you won’t be totally out of place.”
You winced inwardly at the mention of a social gathering, though you couldn’t explain why.
“I don’t know…” you started.
“Don’t be like that,” she interrupted. “You’re coming. No excuses. Besides,” she added with a sly grin, “I don’t have any other friends, so you have to come. For me, at least. I’ve got Gaz and Soap showing up, too. Thought I’d finally introduce you properly.”
You groaned, rubbing your face with your hands. “Jesus, Olive. I’m bad enough at talking to you. You really think I can handle three more of you?”
She laughed, honeyed and dulcet, like the warmth of sun on your back. “Trust me, you’ll be fine. I’ll even make you a plate to take home if you survive.”
You smiled faintly despite yourself. The thought of her elysian little flat—lush dining room chairs, bergamot candles, hanging plants—felt like a foreign concept. But a small part of you was curious—curious enough to consider it.
“Guys,” Tony’s voice cut through the quiet of the storage room, his head appearing in the doorway like a jack-in-the-box. “You might wanna clear outta here. Ronny’s on one—don’t need him catching you two splitting a grilled cheese, y’know?”
Before either of you could reply, he was gone, vanishing as quickly as he’d appeared.
You sighed, grabbing the plate from the floor. “Did you invite him to Friendsgiving?”
“Yeah,” Olive replied, brushing crumbs from her lap. “But he said he’s got his kids this year. First time in a while. Wants to spend it with them.”
“Oh,” you said, surprised. “I didn’t know he had kids.”
“Yeah, four and seven. Two girls,” Olive said, her voice softening at the mention of them.
“He’s so old,” you teased, a smirk tugging at your lips.
Olive stopped mid-step as you both exited the room, giving you a look that was half incredulous, half amused. “Blue, he’s five years older than me.”
You shrugged innocently, barely holding back a grin. “I’m just kidding!”
The day drags, but you survive—barely. The bell over the door jingles one last time as the final customer leaves, and you begin wiping down tables while Olive sweeps the floor. The clink of glasses and the hum of the lights were your only companions as you scrubbed counters. Olive hummed some forgotten tune while sweeping the floor, the rhythm of her movements steady and grounding.
Ronny’s voice shattered the quiet. “Hey. You.”
Your spine stiffened, the rag freezing in your hand. His eyes locked onto yours like a predator— saccharine visions of tearing through the meat of your skin with pointy teeth and a bloody maw.
“Come here. Now.”
You cast a glance at Olive, who arched a brow but said nothing. Setting the rag down, you followed him into the cramped cage of his office, walking right into his territory.
The door shut behind you, and the air turned heavy, suffocating. You’re waiting for him to pounce. To strike.
“Take off for a week, and then sit around slackin’? Messin’ shit up?” He was backing you against his desk, only stopping once you were pressed against the chipping wood.
“I—I wasn’t sla—” you started, but he cut you off.
“The fuck you were, lazy skank.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Shut up.” His breath was hot against your head, towering over you with something resembling repugnance in his Tartarean eyes.
His hands were on your throat before you could process it, his grip tightening as he slammed you against his desk. His right hand braced against your nape as his left squeezed the column of your throat making you wheeze. Hot tears were already streaming down your cheek before you could recognize the feeling in your chest as panic. It quickly spread like wildfire. You were grabbing at his wrists frantically, crescent shaped holes littering his arms as you tried to pry him off.
“You think you can disrespect me?” he hissed, his face inches from yours. You let out a meek sound—a cry, maybe?—with all the air you had. It was no use. Black started to creep into the corners of your vision, and you were almost glad: Glad that maybe he’d put an end to your misery, glad that you’d get to stop seeing his wicked sneer as you clamped down harder. Which one you’d father prefer was a mystery to you.
Then, as suddenly as it began, he released you.
You stumbled onto your knees, choking on shallow breaths, your fingers clawing at your throat, desperate for anything thinner than air to rush in and soothe the ache. Weeping into the carpet, tears staining it a darker shade of tan.
“Get the fuck up,” he barked, his voice a cruel whip. You tried—you really did—but the oxygen hadn’t yet traveled back to your brain, and you floundered right into his desk with another choked sob. “Out! Get out!” He grabbed you by the shoulder and shoved you at the door. With your legs trembling beneath you, you escaped as quickly as you could with what strength you had.
Olive looked up when you reentered the dining area. Your efforts to swallow the sobs and catch your breath did nothing to hide the mess you were. She paused, broom in hand, her expression morphing into something soft and concerned.
The sight of that worry on her face made the pit in your stomach grow, swallowing up your
“Blue—honey—oh no…oh no.” She quickly dropped the broom and pulled you into her arms. “What happened?”
The words jammed in your throat, thick and lumpy. You swallowed hard, trying to force them down without choking. “N-nothing. He was j-just...really me-mean.”
Her lips pressed lips against the top of your head, pulling you closer to her chest. “That man’s a nightmare,” she muttered. “You sure you’re okay?”
You nodded quickly, your voice cracking when you spoke. “I’m f-fine. Let’s just finish up.” You wiped your face with a trembling hand, and even as you did, the dampness was already seeping through your fingers.
Olive didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press further. She resumed sweeping, her movements slow and careful, as if testing the water before continuing. You turned back to the counter, your hands shaking as you scrubbed at spots that weren't even there, trying to make sense of the silence that stretched between you and the world.
Later, at home, the mirror told the truth. Through the cracks and the dust, the bruises on your neck flourished like flowers in May, purple and blue spreading against pale skin. You traced them with trembling fingers before you could notice the tears running down your cheeks and dripping onto your hands.
Your phone buzzed on the counter, breaking the silence. A text from Olive.
friendsgiving. don’t forget. saturday. pls be there
You hesitated, the words blurring before your eyes. Finally, you typed back:
i will.
The reply felt fragile, a candle’s flickering flame, but it was something.
In the quiet that followed, you leaned against the counter, staring at the message. Somewhere, beneath the weight of bruises and silence, a small hope burned. The violent desire for something new. But even a worm will turn.

Chapter Text

You’re already late to Friendsgiving.
The stuffing burned. You’d been in the shower, washing away the sweat and things you wish to forget, the scalding water pelting the burn on your chest. It had started to look better—less red, less bitter. It had begun to forgive you—but it still throbbed, a dull ache that flared with every fiery drop and unpredicted movement. The acrid smell of smoke didn’t hit you until it clawed its way under the bathroom door.
Dripping wet and wrapped in a threadbare towel, you bolted to the kitchen, your feet thwacking against the floor. Smoke slithered from the oven’s withered edges, curling upward with a mind of its own, eager to consume everything in its path.
It wasn’t the first time smoke had chased you.
Once, when you were young, your father burned a pizza in the oven. He’d left you alone in the house, small and helpless, while he wandered off somewhere. When the smoke crept through the screen door, you stumbled outside, coughing, your tiny lungs unable to fight the gray fingers curling through the trees and clinging to the sky. You called for him, begged him to save you with fragmented warbles and a quivering chin.
When he found you, grimy and gasping, he didn’t hold you or brush the soot from your cheeks. He smacked you. Open-palmed. Swift. Stinging.
You wanted to cry then, to let the tears fall so maybe he’d feel guilty, maybe he’d see you as something fragile and worth protecting. But you couldn’t. You didn’t. And he didn’t.
He waved at the smoke pouring from the house and made you sleep outside that night, the sky vast and cold above you, its stars nothing but indifferent pinpricks in the dark. You tried praying to a God above, looking up at the stars with whispers you hoped would travel far enough to reach someone, something. No answer.
Now, standing in front of your smoking oven, it’s hard to tell if the smell filling your nose is coming from the burning food or memories that are embedded in your bones, licking at the marrow and sucking off the meat. The darkness of that smoke feels like it never really let go. It's stuck in your hair and the creases of your palms, stuck in your throat and everywhere you’ve tried to belong.
You yank open the oven door, coughing as the heat prickles your face, and pull the tray out with jittery hands. The stuffing is ruined, blackened and crumbled. Its harsh scent stings your eyes.
So, you start over.
By the time the stuffing is in the oven again, you’re in front of your bathroom mirror, your chest heaving from the effort. The burn on your chest screams at you with every breath, though it’s quieter now than it was. It looks less like a wound and more like a reminder, its edges faded but still aching.
Your neck, however, refuses to be quiet, refuses to let you forget it's there. Deep bruises bloom across your skin, sickly hues of green and purple that bleed through makeup no matter how many layers you cake on. Each attempt to cover them is a losing battle that leaves you frustrated. Finally, you give up and scrub your neck clean, throwing the foundation-streaked cloth into the sink.
You dig through your drawer, pulling out an old, itchy turtleneck. It’s a hay-colored sweater, rough and coarse against your skin. The threads scratch at the raw patches on your chest and cling to your neck You pull at the collar, desperate for it to give you some air. It doesn’t help. It never does.
Now, you’re at Olive’s door. Voices hum through the walls, muffled but warm, and her laugh rings out above them. Lively. Ludic. Your stomach churns, nerves buzzing as your fingers twitch in your mittens. A tic builds in your throat—a compulsive hum you can’t quite swallow. Your head jerks slightly to the left, the movement sending a sharp sting through your chest and neck. It almost makes you whine, but you press your lips together and try to push the pain somewhere else.
“Shit,” you whisper, pressing a hand against the sweater’s collar, the coarse fabric adding insult to injury. The tic comes again, this time with a sharp hum that escapes your lips. You glance down at the tray balancing precariously in your other hand and force yourself to breathe.
The burn on your chest throbs. Your head jerks again. You knock twice, sharp and quick, before you can change your mind.
The door swings open almost immediately, the warmth of the room spilling out into the gelid night. It's so warm that you feel like you are glowing, incandescent and hot to the touch. Olive stands there, her hair lit like a halo by the soft light of her home.
“Finally!” she sighs, her voice dreamy. Effortless. She takes one look at you and snatches the tray from your hands before you can even open your mouth. The sweat pooling in your palms is luckily shielded by your mittens, stopping the tray from slipping from your hands.
“Hi. Sorry I’m late—I burned the stuffing, and then I had to—”
“It’s fine.” She cuts you off with an airy laugh, waving away your words. You can see them dissipating in the air with your foggy breath. “You’re here now, and that’s what matters.”
Her hand lands on your shoulder as she guides you inside, the gesture so casual and warm that it catches you off guard. The room is small but alive, people cramp themselves onto the couch, elbow to elbow, knee to knee. Glasses clink, laughter spills over the hum of conversation, and the air smells of rosemary and wine. Price is wrapped in Olives checkered apron, bent halfway in the oven with a baster in hand. He peeks over his shoulder and smiles. It’s cheeky, glinting against the darkness of his bushy mutton chops.
“Hey Blue,” He says, head back in the oven, Sylvia Plath style. That wouldn’t work though, his shoulders are too big to fit into the small thing.
The word "Hi" spills from your lips like syrup—thick, sticky, and sluggish, clinging to the air before it dissipates into the space between you and the world you’ve never quite felt part of. The house around you pulses with an unfamiliar energy, like the hum of a broken lightbulb flickering in the corner of a room that is too full of ghosts. Olive’s decorations are too much, and yet not enough, a glittering cascade of beauty that threatens to swallow you whole. Golden garlands twinkle across the dining room ceiling, casting delicate shadows that dance like ghosts on the walls, frozen sunlight trapped in a world that has already moved on.
You shrug off your coat and drape it over the hook by the door, fingers brushing the fabric as though it were a lifeline. You fold your arms around yourself, a reflex, like gathering the shards of something you didn’t know had cracked. It’s not to shield yourself from Olive or Price—they are familiar, constants in a place that doesn’t belong to you. No, it’s the strangers that linger, their laughter spilling like wine into a glass already full, unfamiliar faces that hang in the air like fog, dense and suffocating, threatening to smother you in their warmth.
Across the room, Johnny catches your eye. His mohawk juts up like a beacon, daring the world to notice. His body sprawls across the leather couch, limbs loose and easy, the fabric creaking under him like an old door about to fall off its hinges. And then, just like that, his gaze locks with yours, sharp and unrelenting, and you feel it—the weight of him—like a stone dropped into the depths of an otherwise still pond. A grin splits his face, jagged and crooked, a flash of something dark and teasing. The leather groans beneath him, and your nerves tighten, an invisible string pulling taut in your chest. You turn away, seeking refuge in the warm familiarity of Olive’s face, her smile a flicker of light in the haze of strangers.
Olive notices, of course, her eyes finding yours as she slices through the conversation like a breath of fresh air. "Okay, Blue," she says, her voice soft but firm, cutting through the knot in your throat. "You’re helping me with the mac and cheese."
You exhale, a sigh that feels like a storm passing. You nod, grateful for the distraction, the simple task of grating cheese a small act of survival, of doing something normal in a room full of things that make you feel like you don’t belong. Your hand aches with the motion, but it’s a welcome pain, the rhythm of it grounding you in a way that nothing else can.
"Doesn’t he look so snazzy in my apron?" Olive teases, and you glance up just in time to see Price flitting around the kitchen, his movements fluid, almost unrecognizable in the apron that clings to him like a strange second skin.
A laugh slips out of you, jagged and raw, a sound that feels foreign in your throat. It cracks as it leaves your lips, a brief, fragile thing that vanishes before it can settle. You hate how it sounds—forced, brittle—but it’s all you can offer.
Price grins, his deep, rumbling laugh shaking the walls, filling the room with its warmth. "It’s making me a better cook than you."
"Oh, you wish," Olive retorts, her voice light, teasing, but there’s a softness there too, a warmth that clings to her words like the memory of summer rain. As she leans past him to stir the pot, Price brushes a hand over her shoulder, a touch that is almost absent, but meaningful nonetheless.
Their banter fills the room, a background hum that makes you feel like you’re on the edge of something you can’t quite reach. And then, Olive’s eyes flicker toward you, a mischievous gleam in them.
"What?" you mumble, the grater scraping against the block of cheese, the sound steady and metered like a clock ticking in the silence.
"Here comes Johnny," she murmurs, her half-smile betraying the amusement that you don’t quite share.
You glance over your shoulder. There he is—Johnny—moving toward you with the lazy confidence of a predator, eyes narrowing as he inches closer. His grin is wide, calculated, a mask he wears like armor to disarm. He’s too close now, his presence heavy, pressing against the air like a stormfront moving in. You feel the heat of his breath as it ghosts along the side of your neck, and your stomach churns, a cold knot tightening as he leans in, his voice a velvet slither.
"Hey, bonnie," he drawls, the words curling around you, soft and dangerous, like smoke that seeps into your lungs and lingers.
You want to shrink away, to vanish into the shadows of the kitchen, but you don’t. You stand there, waiting, caught in the pull of something you can’t name, your heart pounding like the beat of a drum you didn’t choose to hear.
"Hi," you manage, the word barely a whisper, fragile as a breath lost in the turbulent hum of the kitchen. It fades almost immediately, swallowed by the clatter of plates and pots, the heat of the stove, the sizzle of oil in the pan. Your fingers, slick with tension, glide the grater down the block of cheese with an intensity that almost betrays you. The blade kisses the surface too close to your skin, a faint, electric reminder of how easily things can go wrong.
“Get out of the kitchen,” Olive commands sharply, her brow lifted in a maternal arch, the kind of look that says she knows everything—what you’re thinking, what you’re hiding. “I know you’re trying to sneak a bite of something.”
“I’m not sneakin’ anything!” Johnny protests, his voice rising, honeyed and teasing, a mock offense that falls like a soft sigh through the air. The sound crawls along your spine, a warm shiver igniting across your shoulders, goosebumps blooming like stars across the expanse of your skin.
“Don’t give in, ‘Liv,” Price calls from the pantry, his voice low, thick with amusement, muffled by the rustle of cans and spices. “He’s a scavenger. He’s not getting shit.”
Johnny laughs—a light, airy scoff that slips through the room like smoke, dissolving into the space, leaving behind only the echo of something faint, elusive. He steps closer, his presence a gravity you can’t escape, pulling the air tight around you. “I jest wanted to introduce meself,” he says, his voice now lower, darker, like a velvet cloud pressing down on your chest. It lingers, suffocating, until his gaze settles on you—a quiet, insistent weight. His eyes lock with yours, a slow, searing pressure that promises to pin you in place, hold you until you can no longer move, speak, or breathe.
"Name’s Johnny."
You force a smile, one that barely skims the surface of your lips, like a cracked porcelain mask. It’s more a reflex than anything else—automatic, stiff, lacking any trace of warmth. “Blue,” you murmur, stealing a glance at him, just long enough to see the sharp edge of his gaze cut through the air, the flicker of something sharp—dangerous—in the depths of his eyes. Your attention snaps back to the cheese, the task of grating a flimsy excuse to escape the magnetic pull of his stare.
“From the diner. I remember.” His voice, smooth as silk, slides around you, weaving through the quiet spaces like a thread binding your senses to him. The weight of his gaze on you is almost tactile, like a slow burn against your skin. It presses through the veil of your peripheral vision, making your pulse stutter, each throb loud in your ears as it rushes to your throat.
“Olive!” Price calls from the pantry again, his voice an abrupt slice through the thick tension, breaking the spell. “Y’got any idea where the oregano is?”
Olive mutters something unintelligible under her breath, stomping toward the pantry, leaving you alone with Johnny. The silence left in her wake is heavy, like a storm about to break. The distance between you both shrinks, as if the air itself tightens, presses in.
“How’s the burn, lass?” His question is a sudden gust of wind, sharp and biting, cutting through the heat and making the hairs on your neck stand at attention. It stirs something deep inside you, makes your chest tighten and your breath catch, though you can’t quite place why. You grip the grater harder, your palm slick with sweat that betrays you, a signal of just how much he rattles you.
“Uh—it’s better. Fine, really,” you answer, your voice smaller than you want it to be, swallowed by the weight of his unwavering gaze. You wish you could control the way your heart starts to race, the way the air feels thicker, harder to breathe the longer he stands there. His gaze doesn’t waver, though it remains casual, deceptively so, like a predator pretending indifference while waiting for the slightest movement, the smallest crack in your composure.
“Good.” He draws the word out, savoring it, letting it linger between you like the softest of threats. And even though his tone remains deceptively easy, you know—without a doubt—that his eyes are waiting for you to falter. To show him something you’ve kept hidden, something you can’t afford to let slip.
Before he can speak again, the door creaks open, the sound slicing through the stillness like a knife cutting through velvet. You don’t raise your eyes, but the chill that rushes in steals the warmth from the room, biting at your skin like an unwelcome guest. It lingers in the air, a stark reminder of the world beyond this little sanctuary of soft conversation and heat.
“I brought gifts,” Simon’s voice rolls in, smooth but carrying weight, the kind that demands attention like thunder rolling in the distance before the storm. You flinch—not outwardly, not enough for anyone to catch—but your hand stills mid-motion, hovering above the cheese as if his very presence has sent ripples through the calm.
When you finally glance up, he’s placing a bottle of red wine and a foil-wrapped dish onto the counter. The deep red of the wine catches the light, as if it holds the evening’s secrets within it. He’s dressed in dark jeans, sharp and unscathed, with a navy wool sweater that clings just enough to outline the muscle beneath, the shoulders broad like the horizon at dusk. Tattoos snake down his arms, curling like dark tendrils around his wrists, hidden art that only seems to emerge when he’s close, as though parts of him were always kept at bay.
His gaze locks with yours, and for a moment, the room feels too small to contain the weight of it. He smiles, his lips pulling back to reveal white teeth, the slight chapping of them speaking of cold nights and long drives. “You’re late,” Olive’s voice rings out with playful reproach, as she reaches for the tray with hands that know the rhythm of shared meals.
“I know, I know. Had to stop for wine. Long line,” Simon answers, the shrug of his shoulders dismissing the lateness like it’s nothing at all. His jacket slips off, revealing the familiar scabbed knuckles, each wound telling a story deeper than words. They’re raw, angry against the soft fabric of his shirt, as though they belong to someone who’s lived in the spaces between calm and chaos.
“Well, it’s a good brand, so I’ll forgive you,” Price chimes in, his voice warm and familiar as he uncorks the bottle, the sound sharp and final, like a sentence passed in a court of good taste.
“Nice apron, boss,” Simon says, his tone light but weighted with something more, something sharp that cuts through the air between you like a thread pulled taut.
“Pleasure of my wife,” Price quips, his hand steady as he pours the wine with a flourish, each gesture so practiced it feels like a performance. Every motion has purpose, as if he’s acting out a play where every guest is a character, and each gesture holds meaning.
Johnny grabs a fistful of cheese, stuffing it into his mouth before anyone can stop him, his grin wide and unrepentant.
“Hey! No dirty fingers in the food!” Olive snaps, swatting at him with a swift, playful flick. He laughs, stepping back in exaggerated shock, as if the moment were made for an audience only he can see.
The air shifts again, thickening with Simon’s presence as he leans in, his voice low and measured, a hum that vibrates against the very walls of the room. “Hi, Blue,” he murmurs, his head tilting just enough to catch your gaze, like a wolf who knows the hunt is close but won’t rush it.
“Hi,” you whisper, your grip tightening on the bowl as though it could hold the moment still, anchoring you to the room, to the space between you.
Olive reappears, her wine glass gleaming like a polished ruby in the dim light, the liquid inside swirling like blood in a vein. She steps into the room with the effortless grace of someone who’s long mastered the art of disappearing into the spaces they occupy. Her eyes flick between you and Simon, measuring the air between you two with the clinical precision of a seasoned chemist, knowing exactly when to introduce a new element, when to let it simmer.
Price greets her with a kiss to the crown of her head, a gesture that lands soft as rain on a tired roof. His hand gives her rear a playful tap, a reminder of old routines, of moments that don’t need words to linger. She rolls her eyes, the motion habitual, but even in that, there’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe, or just the quiet contentment of a life too familiar to be anything else. She swallows down the wine, her throat moving with the smooth, deliberate motion of a cat licking its wounds in the sun.
“Thanks, sweetpea,” Olive purrs, tugging at the apron strings knotted at Price’s hips. There’s something intimate in the way her fingers dance around the fabric, a tether binding them together in this small, circumscribed world. As if their world, this little kitchen where time seems to pause, is the only one that matters.
Simon’s gaze sharpens when he asks, “Olive’s got you cooking?” His voice, calm and composed, lingers in the air, like a stone sinking slowly into still water. There’s weight in his presence, a subtle pressure that presses on the ribs, a quiet pull like the tide, always there, always moving beneath the surface.
“I want to,” you reply, shrugging as the words slip from your mouth, slippery and unformed, before you can weigh their cost. They feel like something you might have said years ago, when you still believed in the power of wanting. The truth, like a cold shadow, stirs quietly in the background.
Simon’s brow arches, and the pause between you thickens. His gaze lingers, a soft dissection, like the way sunlight pulls at the edges of things, revealing the cracks you’d rather keep hidden. You feel as if he's peeling back layers, layer by layer, until there's nothing left but the parts of you you'd prefer to forget.
When you finally meet his eyes, there’s a flicker of amusement—a quiet, knowing glint—as though he’s caught the lie you didn’t even know you were telling. A shadow of something darker flits across his expression, like a stormcloud crossing the moon. His eyes gleam with something unreadable, but you know—he sees right through it.
“Well, I’m surprised you’re not working,” he comments, his voice curling around the words with a softness that betrays a hidden edge, something faint but sharp, like the quiet hum of a cello in a room too silent to bear the sound.
“Olive made me take off,” you admit, eyes dropping to the counter, where your fingers twirl around the cold, unforgiving edges of the cheese grater. It’s a small gesture, but in it, the tension in your hands speaks louder than any words could.
“Probably for your own good,” Simon teases, the sip of wine punctuating his words like the final note of a suspended chord. The sound of it lingers in the air, thick and heavy, as though the room is holding its breath, waiting.
“I don’t mind.” Another lie. The words feel sharp against your throat, like broken glass. You push them out anyway, not letting them falter, though the weight of them feels like lead in your stomach. The thought of returning to your father’s house—his voice like a whip and his hands like steel—tightens your chest.
Simon’s eyes remain on you, his gaze quiet and unwavering. He doesn’t press, just holds the silence with you, giving you room to breathe in a space that feels smaller by the second. His lack of words is a concession, a gift of sorts, the kind of offer you can’t return.
Olive interrupts the moment, her voice light as a summer breeze. She holds up two glasses of wine, like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat, and doesn’t wait for your response. The glass she presses into your hand is cold, smooth against your palm, and the liquid inside feels like something forbidden as it slips past your lips—rich, tart, like a balm to the wound you’re too tired to care for.
“Good, right?” Olive teases, her voice like a bell, sharp and light, as she tilts her glass toward yours in an exaggerated mock-toast.
You hum in agreement, focusing on the way the wine dances down your throat, its warmth settling in your chest like a fire too low to burn. It's smooth, numbing, the kind of comfort that doesn’t ask too many questions, just offers its presence—an unspoken agreement between you and the night.
And for a moment, the room feels just a little bit smaller, the edges a little more forgiving.
“Surprised Price didn’t pick this out,” Simon jokes, his eyes flicking toward the other man, who’s engrossed in the turkey carving ritual, every movement deliberate and reverent, like a priest at the altar, cleaving into the flesh of the bird with devotion.
“Price would pick boxed wine if I let him,” Olive quips back, a playful fire in her glare aimed at her husband, but softened by the warmth of affection.
The kitchen hums around you, the voices and laughter flowing like honey, sweet but thick, and somehow sticky. Yet, you feel distant from it all, your focus slipping through the cracks of the moment like sand slipping from your clenched fist. Johnny’s laugh, loud and brash, rips through the air, filling the space like a storm cloud bursting with rain. Simon’s presence beside you is a weight—heavy, suffocating—as if gravity itself has chosen to rest on your bones, a force that tugs at your very center. You wish you could sink into the floorboards, disappear into the seams of the house like a whisper that no one remembers.
Ten minutes pass, though time feels as though it’s dragging its feet, unwilling to hurry. The turkey emerges from the oven, golden skin shimmering like a prize, gleaming in the artificial light. It’s a spectacle, untouched by the hands of real life, a thing that could only exist in the pages of a catalog—perfect, polished, out of reach. It sits there, a symbol of a life you could never own, no matter how many hours you spent chasing the illusion of it.
Olive tugs you into your seat, pulling you closer with a gentleness that feels foreign. Johnny takes the place beside you, as though slotted in place, a man-sized puzzle piece. Across the table, Simon settles into his chair, leaning back, drink in hand, his fingers tracing patterns along the glass’s rim as if the table itself were an ancient artifact—something he’s studying, examining, perhaps deciding whether it’s worth his attention.
The conversation swirls around you like wind through a field of tall grass, all clinking glasses and overlapping voices. The golden garland above seems to glow with a light that is too perfect, like halos that should belong to angels but somehow rest on mortal heads. It makes the room feel unreal, as though the whole thing could dissolve like mist if you looked away too long. You chew your food with the precision of someone on autopilot—turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes—filling the empty spaces with tasteless bites. You nod along, but the words are like echoes, bouncing off your skull and fading before they can register.
Johnny’s voice cuts through, jagged and loud, like a knife scraping the edge of a stone. “So, Blue,” he says, the name falling from his lips with the sharpness of a saw’s edge. “How d’you know Olive?”
You don’t want to look up. You don’t want to see the expectant faces around you. So, you keep your gaze fixed on your plate, hoping the food might swallow you whole or at least offer some kind of refuge from the scrutiny, the weight of their attention pressing in from all sides, suffocating.
“Coworkers, huh?” Johnny’s grin splits like a crack in ice, his voice a low hum as he leans in closer, the scent of beer pushing you back in your seat like a tide. “Never heard her mention you.”
“I keep to myself,” you reply, your voice calm, though you can feel the weight of his gaze pressing into your skin.
“Clearly,” he teases, fingers brushing against yours, a casual touch that feels far too intimate as he reaches for his glass.
Across the table, Simon clears his throat. It’s subtle, a soft rumble like distant thunder, just enough to make Johnny pause. Simon’s eyes are locked on him, unreadable, but there's a charge in his gaze, a quiet warning, sharp as a blade beneath calm water.
Johnny shrugs, muttering something under his breath, his grin slipping as he turns back to his plate.
You glance at Simon, and find him already watching you. His eyes are darker than you remember, the shadows beneath them deepening, the hollows of his face making his stare heavier, like gravity itself is pulling you in. The inflamed scabs on his knuckles catch your eye again, and the urge to ask about them rises, but you swallow it down, unsure if you want to know the answer.
After dinner, the house spins into a blur of motion. People scatter—some to the living room, others toward the kitchen for more wine—but you slip away unnoticed, the weight in your chest too much to carry. The bathroom is cool and quiet, a refuge where the soft hum of the ceiling fan is the only sound as you lock the door behind you, isolating yourself from the rest of the world.
You catch your reflection in the mirror, but quickly look away. Your sweater is hiked up, revealing the tight bandages wrapped around your ribs. The bruises beneath throb in angry defiance, swollen and raw, the pain sharper now than it was this morning.
You rummage through Olive’s medicine cabinet, fingers grazing over the cool bottles until one catches your eye—a prescription bottle. Antidepressants. You blink at the label, too dazed to focus on the name beneath it. Setting it aside, your fingers fumble as you search for something more immediate. You find a bottle of Advil, pop a few pills, and swallow them with a handful of water from the tap, some spilling down your chin. You wipe it away with your sleeve, the fabric damp against your skin, a quiet reminder of the tension coiling around you.
A knock at the door startles you—soft, but insistent.
“Blu—” Simon’s voice filters through, low and calm, threading into the space. “It’s Riley. You alrigh’? You’ve been in there a while. Jus’ worried.”
You’re moving before thought has time to settle, unlocking the door and swinging it open. His eyes widen in surprise, disbelief flashing across his face as you grasp the soft fabric of his sweater, tugging him inside. The wool is buttery under your fingers, a sensation both foreign and familiar, and for a brief, stolen moment, you pause—suspended in the unexpected warmth of him.
Simon doesn’t resist. He lets you pull him in, his presence filling the small space, the air thickening as you shut the door behind him. The bathroom seems impossibly smaller with him in it, his broad shoulders brushing the tiled walls like a storm cloud settling into the room. You gesture for him to sit on the toilet, and he does, his long legs folding awkwardly, pressed against yours in the tight space.
“My burn hurts,” you mumble, slumping back against the cool tiles, your voice heavy with exhaustion, each word thick as though the weight of everything pressing on you has turned your tongue to lead.
“It’s gonna do that,” Simon replies, his tone steady, firm, but not unkind—like a reminder of what you’ve neglected. “You neglected it.”
“No, like—like it really hurts,” you insist, your fingers fumbling at the hem of your sweater, as if searching for something to anchor you in a world that refuses to stand still. The words slip from your mouth, stuttering, as if they’re afraid to be spoken. “Just—just look.”
“Blue—” His voice softens, threading through the air like a fragile thread, one that could snap at the slightest tug. There’s something unspoken between you, an understanding so thin it could be made of mist, too delicate to be held in the light of day.
“Look!” The command escapes your lips with a desperation that feels almost primal, the kind of desperation that births from the deepest wells of need. You tug at the fabric of your sweater, intent on exposing the wound beneath, but Simon’s hand is there in an instant, a sudden force, wrapping around your wrist with the quiet strength of someone who’s borne witness to things that bleed in silence.
“What are you doin’?” His voice is soft now, but there’s an edge—a warning, like a hand hovering over the broken glass of a dream. His grip is firm, but there’s a tenderness to it, as if he knows the fragility of what you’re offering him.
“I’m showing you,” you say, the words tumbling out, raw and unpolished, as if they could never be anything but the exposed parts of you—the parts that were never meant to be shown. Your voice quivers, breaking open at the edges, offering him something you weren’t even sure was real.
“I don’t need to see it,” he says, his voice low, a quiet conviction wrapped around every syllable. “I believe you.”
His eyes, dark and unreadable, seem to understand more than you ever could say. You stand there, caught between the sharp breath that claws at your lungs and the steady rhythm of his hand, still holding your wrist, his thumb tracing circles along your skin. It’s a touch that holds you together, but threatens to tear you apart.
You don’t want to pull away. You can’t. The connection is a thin thread, fragile and necessary, like the last stitch holding a broken heart in place.
“You’re drunk,” he murmurs, and you feel his gaze soften, though it carries the weight of something deeper, something harder. There’s a flicker of understanding in his eyes, something you can’t place, but it settles in the air between you like dust on a forgotten shelf.
“No, I’m not,” you slur, but the words feel like ghosts slipping through your fingers, no more substantial than the fog that clings to your mind. You can’t even make your body obey you. “No, I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are.” He exhales, the sound heavy in the room, a sigh that’s both worn and weary. There’s a quiet compassion in it, as if he understands the quiet wars you’re fighting, even if they’re wars you can’t speak aloud. “C’mon. Let’s get you upstairs.”
Before you can protest, he’s guiding you out of the bathroom, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back. The touch is fleeting but steady, grounding you as the hallway spins, the walls bending and swaying in your peripheral vision. His hand at your back is light, but it grounds you—just enough to stop you from crumbling completely, though it feels like everything inside you might just shatter if you let it.
In the guest bedroom, Simon helps you sit on the edge of the bed, his touch gentle as he kneels, movements precise and measured, like someone accustomed to tending to broken things. His fingers work deftly to untie your shoes, each motion a small act of tenderness, as though he’s learned the quiet language of care for the tired and lost.
“You didn’t have to—” you start, but he silences you with a soft murmur, the sound barely more than a breath.
“Hush,” he says, his voice a low, insistent hum. A command wrapped in compassion. “Jus’ lay back.”
The room tilts, the world around you spinning slowly as the alcohol buzzes in your veins, a lullaby played by the distant hum of the night. Your head sinks into the pillow’s softness, as if gravity itself is pulling you down, coaxing you to surrender to the darkness. The blanket clings to your body like a last defense against the cold, a fragile shield against the gnawing chill of an empty room. But Simon tucks it higher, drawing it gently beneath your chin, his movements deliberate, as if wrapping you in something more than fabric—something almost sacred, something that feels like care.
His hand pauses, fingertips brushing the stray strand of hair from your forehead, the gesture small, almost imperceptible, but it lingers in the air between you, a silent vow. He looks at you, studying the fragile curve of your face, as though trying to capture it, memorize the way you’ve finally found stillness. You, who are never still, who wear your restlessness like a second skin.
Your breathing evens out, the soft rise and fall of your chest now a steady rhythm in the quiet room. It is the only sound, and it’s enough. Simon watches you, his gaze heavy with a quiet sadness, as if you’ve unraveled something in him that he can’t quite name. His silence speaks volumes, his stillness matching your own.
With a soft clink, he unbuckles his boots, the sound too loud in the otherwise empty room. The weight of his presence settles beside you, as though his body is a tether, pulling the world a little closer, a little heavier. The mattress creaks under his weight, a sound almost apologetic, as though it’s trying to make room for the tension in the air. His movements are slow, deliberate—every inch of him cautious, as if each breath he takes might shatter the fragile peace that exists in the space between you.
The moonlight spills through the window, soft and silvery, like the touch of a lover long gone. It paints your face in shadows, tracing the lines of your quiet surrender. Your lashes flutter, a delicate ripple beneath the stillness of sleep, as if the world outside doesn’t know you anymore. And for a moment, neither does Simon. You are nothing but a shape in the dim glow of the night, a broken melody that has yet to find rest.
He leans back against the headboard, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze locked on the ceiling as if it might hold some kind of answer. The silence stretches between you, thick and impenetrable, each of you trapped in your own quiet despair. But Simon doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t dare to break the fragile bond you’ve silently shared. The night grows longer, each passing minute a weight, a quiet void that neither of you can escape.
But sleep doesn’t come to him. It hovers just out of reach, a specter he can’t outrun, just like the darkness that lingers in the corners of the room. His gaze stays fixed, his body unmoving, as if he’s waiting for something to change—or perhaps just for the night to finally end.

Chapter Text

There’s something inside your head. It’s pulsing and throbbing—living. Breathing. It’s a creature with claws that scratch into the valleys of your temples and the hollow of your skull. It's demanding and relentless. Trying to escape the confinement of your head, much like yourself. The drumming—pounding—is synced with your heartbeat. It pools behind your eyes, molten and desperate for attention. Its lava flows from your temples, turning every coherent thought into ash and stone as it spills from its core. You press your palms into your sockets, desperate to contain it, but the ache seeps deeper, becoming part of you, inseparable as marrow from bone. The room conspires against you—dim yet not dark enough, the morning sun a needle threading through thin curtains, painting streaks of pallid yellow across the walls.

Icy air is slipping through the cracks in the window like a ghost. Unseen and chilling. Its long cold fingers slither under your back and in your hair. When you yawn, it darts into your mouth and down your throat. It finds purchase in your lungs and tickles your ribs. You hiss—it’s enough to remind you you’re just as alive as the creature in your head. Breathing. Living. It’s not, however, kind enough to kill the creature in your head. Not kind enough to snake up your spine and freeze the creature slashing at the walls of your skull with pointy horns and bared teeth. The cotton sheets beneath your hands are soft yet suffocating, unyielding as you tug at them, their smooth fabric a shackle that keeps you bound in place.

Then you see him.

The realization pulls all the blood from your body, leaving you limp and pale: Simon. He’s slouched against the headboard, his breath a steady rhythm that fills the room. His head of messy blond hair tilts slightly to the right, his face caught somewhere between serenity and exhaustion. One arm, tattooed and strong, crosses over his chest, pinning the sheet beneath it like a fortress wall. His ivory t-shirt clings to his frame, each thread stretched taut over muscles that seem to defy the haze of this moment. Everything in your body is buzzing with a slight haze—and you don’t know why. Is it because you don’t know why he’s here? Or is be because he’s here, snoring lightly next to you of all people, and you don’t want him to leave? His sweater lies discarded on the floor, a crumpled casualty of the night, tangled with your boots in a tableau of disarray that tells a story you’re not ready to hear and unsure you want to remember.

Your throat tightens, and even the sound of your own breathing feels intrusive, vulgar against the stillness. The instinct to move, to slip away unnoticed, battles against the leaden weight of your body. The sheets still hold you fast, their grip as unyielding as the moment itself. You’re trapped—in the bed, in the room, in the intimacy of his presence and the heat that radiates through his skin.

“I can feel you starin’,” Simon grumbles, his voice rough-edged with sleep, a low rumble that cuts through the silence. He doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t move.

“I’m not,” you lie, the words brittle as they leave your dry lips. It’s a child’s lie, fragile and obvious, and it makes your cheeks burn with the shame of being so easily caught, so easily backed into a corner.

“Mmmhk,” he murmurs, a sound thick with skepticism, a low hum that vibrates through the air. He shifts, rolling onto his side and pulling the sheet with him. You iron grip doesn’t let loose, and before you can stop it, you’re being dragged with it, unmoored and helpless as the fabric tightens and you slide forward, chest meeting his back. His warmth radiates through the cotton, a stark contrast to the gelid air that lingers in the room and nips at any trace of skin it can find. It’s overwhelming—the solidity of him, the way he occupies space without trying. It’s electric, his warmth bleeding through the thin barrier of fabric and into your own. It’s unbearable, not because it’s unwelcome, but because it’s too much—too much to feel, too much to hold.

You scramble away, cheeks burning, the air thick with something unnamed and inescapable. But your escape is nothing short of graceless; You thump onto the floor—it’s wooden and old and bound to leave a bruise on your tailbone. The boards groan and cry as you hastily pick yourself up and grab your shoes.

“Where are you goin’ so fast?” He mumbles with a crinkle of the sheets. You glance back only to find him already looking—brown eyes scanning you as you struggle to slip on your shoes. Navy sheets tucked under his chin as he squints, weary and childish.

The word Home almost slips past your lips, but you swallow it back, choking on the sound, forcing out, “Downstairs.” You creep down the stairs, clutching the banister like it’s your lifeline, cursing each floorboard that groans under your weight.

Olive and Price are sitting at the counter. Olive looks exhausted—curls tangled, mascara smudged under her verdant eyes, a tired haze hanging over her like a cartoon. Price, on the other hand, looks bright-eyed and perky, sipping his coffee with a grin. When you round the corner, he raises his eyebrows playfully behind his mug.

“Glad you two decided to join the living,” Olive rasps, her voice rough from sleep.

Simon’s breath—warm and steady—brushes your neck before you even notice he’s there. He must’ve stumbled out of bed and chased after you.

You don’t say anything, just stand there swaying, feeling like you’re not quite grounded. You don’t realize you’re blocking the doorway until Simon gently guides you by the shoulders, moving you aside so he can squeeze past. That small touch makes the creature in your mind stir, like it’s clawing to rip through everything, to tear out the pieces that matter, leaving you hollow and empty, limp against Olive’s fridge.

“So…” Olive’s smirk is sharp, her eyes glinting with mischief as they flicker between you and Simon. Her voice is light, almost sing-song, but there’s weight in her teasing. “How was the bed?”

“Small.”

The word leaves your mouths simultaneously. Yours is soft, almost ashamed, while his is gruff and scratchy. Simon is by the coatrack, sliding his Carhartt jacket over his broad shoulders with the ease of someone used to heavy burdens.

Olive laughs, the sound full and throaty, like it’s been pulled from somewhere deep. “I’m sure it was.”
Simon doesn’t respond. His focus shifts to the bowl of keys on the side table, his large hand fishing through the clinking metal until he finds his. “I’m takin’ Blue home,” he mutters, voice low and final, as if he’s declared it rather than offered.

You blink, startled, your thoughts muddled. “What?”

Price raises a brow, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Leavin’ so soon?”

Simon ignores both of you, stepping to the door and pulling it open just enough for the cold to invade the room. The wind howls its way inside, snatching at loose papers on the counter and the edges of Olive’s sweater.

“Shut the damn door!” she hisses, crossing her arms like the cold has offended her personally.

Simon glances back, his eyes catching yours for just a moment. “Truck’s startin’. Be out in a minute.” And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him with a thud that feels heavier than it should.

“One hell of a goodbye,” Price muses, shaking his head.

Olive doesn’t reply. Instead, she rises from her chair, her expression softening as she approaches you. Her arms wrap around you suddenly, catching you off guard. She smells like vanilla and something faintly floral, and for a moment, you’re reminded of something you’ve never had but longed for all the same. You try and breathe her in as deeply as you can as long as it isn’t obvious, yearning for something female. Motherly, even.

“I’m sorry for dragging you here,” she says, her voice muffled against your shoulder. “Thanks for coming, though. I know it wasn’t easy.”

Her warmth should comfort you, but it doesn’t. It only emphasizes the hollow ache in your chest, the void that nothing has ever been able to fill. No amount of tender, love, and care will be able to fill the black hole created by a women you’d never met, just shared her body, her DNA, and stole it from her.

She pulls back, her hands lingering on your shoulders as her eyes search yours. “And I’m sorry about Johnny. He’s not usually…” She trails off, glancing over at Price, who’s scratching his beard absently. “Invasive.”

“It’s fine,” you say quietly, but the words feel thin, insubstantial. In a weird way, you’re glad you don’t remember much of Johnny. Glad you don’t have to overanalyze the why he’d looked past you’re front, picked you apart in his head and turn over the pieces.

“It’s not,” she insists, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Anyway, don’t keep Riley waiting. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

You nod, mumbling a thank you and goodbye before stepping outside.

The cold hits you like a living thing, curling around you like a python, slithering into the warmth of your neck and curling up to steal the heat. Snow whirls in frantic patterns around you, and the air feels heavy, almost suffocating in its chill. The truck idles in the driveway, its black frame cutting against the white landscape.

The passenger door groans as it swings open, the interior illuminated by the faint glow of the dashboard. Tools are scattered across the floor like remnants of someone’s restless hands, and the seat is worn, its leather cracked and peeling.

Simon leans over, his expression impatient but not unkind. “Well? Get in. It’s freezing.”

The words are gruff, but there’s something beneath them—a hint of something almost tender, though it’s so buried you can’t be sure it’s there at all.

You climb in cautiously, the cold leather biting through your jeans. The door closes with a heavy thunk, and the truck groans as Simon shifts it into gear.

The heat from the vents floods the small cab, but you don’t let it touch you. Instead, you press your forehead against the icy window, letting the chill seep into your skin. The snow-covered fields blur past, ghostly and desolate, and your reflection stares back at you like a stranger.

Simon doesn’t speak. He fiddles with the radio instead, the static crackling between bursts of music and talk.

When the truck slows, you glance up and realize you’re not home. The glowing sign of a diner looms ahead, its light casting a pale halo against the snow.

Panic coils in your chest. You don’t have money—not even enough for coffee. You glance at Simon, your voice faltering as you say, “Simon, I— I can’t—”

“We’re eatin’,” he interrupts, his tone steady but unyielding.

He steps out of the truck, the snow crunching beneath his boots. Then, without a word, he turns and holds out his hand.

For a moment, you just stare at it, his palm broad and scarred, open and waiting. You don’t know why, but the sight of it sends a shiver through you that has nothing to do with the cold.

Reluctantly, you place your hand in his. His fingers curl around yours, their warmth seeping into your skin, filling the cracks and crevices that have long been empty. There’s a gentleness to his touch, a care that feels foreign, and it frightens you more than it should.

When your boots hit the ground, you pull away quickly, shoving your hands into your coat pockets. His warmth lingers, though, like a ghost.

Inside, the diner is warm and bright, the smell of frying bacon and brewing coffee wrapping around you. A waitress with red hair and freckles smiles as she leads you to a booth. You duck your head, feeling out of place, and pretend to study the menu.

“What’re you getting?” Simon asks, his messy blond hair sticking up in tufts as he peers at you from behind his own menu.

“Just water,” you mumble. “I’m not really hungry.”

Simon lowers his menu, his sharp eyes narrowing. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

Before you can protest, the waitress returns.

“Eggs Benedict,” Simon says, his voice firm. “And she’ll have the short stack. Chocolate chips.”

“Simon, I can’t—” you start, but he cuts you off with a glance that silences the rest of your words.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says simply, but there’s a weight to his tone that makes it clear the conversation is over.

You press your hands against your lap, your face hot despite the cold that still clings to your coat. His kindness feels like something dangerous, something that could undo you if you’re not careful.

You slump back against the booth, the stiff vinyl pressing into your shoulder blades. The baby pink sugar packet twists between your fingers, crinkling softly with each nervous motion. Its fragile paper threatens to tear under your grip, a tiny distraction from the silence that stretches between you and Simon. It’s thick, heavy, the kind of quiet that pulls you in and holds you there, making your breath feel like it’s echoing in your own ears.

Simon leans back in the booth, his shoulders stretching the seams of his jacket, the worn fabric frayed at the edges. His posture is loose, casual, but there’s something in the way his fingers tap idly on the table—a restlessness you can’t ignore. His crooked nose casts a faint shadow in the low light of the diner, and his brown eyes drift to the scratched surface of the table as though searching for something.

“You got a tree up yet?” he asks suddenly, his voice breaking through the quiet.

The question catches you off guard. You glance up, your fingers freezing mid-twist. “It was just Thanksgiving,” you mutter, unsure why the question irritates you.

“Most people get one right after,” he says, shrugging like it’s obvious.

“Well, I’m not ‘most people,’” you snap, sharper than you intend. “I’ve never had one.”

He raises a brow, his gaze steady but unreadable. “Never? Not even when you were a kid?”

“No,” you say quickly, looking down at the sugar packet in your hands. “Trees weren’t... important where I came from.”

Simon doesn’t respond right away. He leans back further, his head tilting slightly as he studies you. “You should try it. Feels nice, havin’ somethin’ to look at. Somethin’ that feels like it’s just for you.”

“Do you have one?” you fire back, the question more defensive than curious.

He huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “Nah. Don’t see the point. It’s just me. Don’t need a tree for that.”

The simplicity of his answer stings in a way you don’t expect, a dull ache settling in your chest. You try to think of something to say, something to bridge the gap between you, but the words don’t come.

Instead, you offer your own quiet truth. “I don’t either. Family, I mean. My mom’s gone, and... my dad...” You trail off, your voice barely a whisper.

Simon nods slowly, his expression unreadable but softer somehow. “Sorry to hear that.”

You’re about to respond, but the waitress interrupts, sweeping in with a clatter of plates. Pancakes, golden and steaming, land in front of you, syrup pooling at the edges. Powdered sugar dusts the top like freshly fallen snow.

Simon’s plate is next—eggs smothered in thick hollandaise sauce and limp toast on the side. It looks unappetizing, but he doesn’t hesitate, digging in with the kind of hunger that suggests he’s used to eating quickly, used to not knowing when the next meal will come.

You watch him, unable to look away. The way his jaw moves, the faint clench of his throat with each swallow—it’s all so deliberate, so unselfconscious.

“You gonna eat?” he asks, catching you staring. His voice is low, almost teasing. “S’gonna get cold.”

Embarrassed, you glance down at your plate and pick up your fork. The first bite melts on your tongue, the sweetness of the syrup mingling with the buttery warmth of the pancake. It’s almost too much, too indulgent after going without for so long.

You push the plate toward him. “It’s good. You should have some.”

Simon shakes his head, nudging it back to you. “Nah. You eat it.”

You hesitate but comply, cutting another piece. The hunger takes over, and before you know it, you’re shoveling bite after bite into your mouth, the sweetness grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed.

“Slow down,” Simon says, his voice softer now, almost amused. His hand reaches out, resting briefly on your wrist to still your fork. “S’not goin’ anywhere.”

You pause, the heat rising in your cheeks. “Sorry,” you mumble, setting the fork down for a moment.

“No need to be sorry,” he says simply, leaning back in his seat. “Jus’ don’t need need to be doing the Heimlich at 9am.”

His words settle over you like the warmth of the diner’s radiator. For the first time in a long while, you feel something close to safe. You take smaller bites, stealing glances at Simon between mouthfuls.

He doesn’t say much, just drinks his coffee—light and sweet, you remember—and watches the snow outside. The quiet between you now is different, less suffocating. It’s not a void but a space where something unnamed lingers.

By the time your plate is empty, you feel both full and hollow, a strange mix of satisfaction and longing. Simon sets his mug down, his eyes meeting yours again.

“You’re quiet,” he says, not accusing, just observing.

You shrug, fiddling with the edge of the table. “Not much to say.”

He doesn’t press, just nods. “Fair enough.”

The silence returns, but this time, it feels okay. For now, the world outside is nothing but snow and streetlights, and inside this diner, it’s just you and him, two strangers trying to fill the spaces in their lives with something that feels like warmth.

Simon slaps a fifty on the table, a silent gesture that says more than any words could. It’s far more than the bill, enough to cover the tip several times over, but he doesn’t seem to care. Rising from his seat, his movements are deliberate but unhurried, and he grumbles under his breath, “Let’s go.”

You follow without hesitation, a shadow trailing behind him as he strides toward the door. Outside, the snow greets you with its icy embrace, the air sharp and raw against your skin. The ground crunches beneath your boots, and the snowflakes cling to your eyelashes, melting into tiny beads of water.

By the time you reach the truck, the chill has seeped into your bones, but Simon’s there, holding open the driver’s side door for you. His gaze is expectant, though there’s no impatience in it.

Climbing into the cab is awkward, the cold stiffening your limbs. You move on hands and knees, careful not to trail snow across the worn leather seats. The interior is cluttered—a heavy metal toolbox wedged against the center, its edges gleaming dully in the dim light.

“Sorry ‘bout the mess,” Simon mutters as he settles into the driver’s seat. The truck sways under his weight, groaning slightly, as if it’s an extension of him—sturdy and weathered but carrying too much.

The engine roars to life, shattering the quiet with its grumble. You instinctively brace your head against the cold glass, prepared for the silence to stretch between you like it always does. But this morning, Simon’s voice cuts through it.

“You keeping that burn clean?” he asks, his tone casual but tinged with something heavier. Concern, maybe.

“Yes,” you reply quickly, though the truth isn’t as neat.

“Y’said it hurt. Last night.”

The words make you blink, your mind scrambling to place them. Last night? You search your memory, but it’s like trying to piece together shards of a broken mirror. “I… I did?”

“You did.” His eyes stay on the road, his hands firm on the wheel. “Started takin’ off your jumper, tellin’ me t’look.”

The words slam into you, and heat rushes to your face. You’re mortified, a knot of panic twisting in your chest. You don’t remember any of this. “I—uh—I didn’t—”
“No. No, I wouldn’t let you,” he says quickly, cutting you off. His voice is firm, but there’s no judgment in it, only reassurance.

You exhale, the breath leaving your lungs in a slow rush. Relief washes over you, and your shoulders loosen as you sink deeper into the seat. “Oh… okay,” you murmur, your voice small but steady.

The cab falls quiet again, the only sound the rhythmic hum of the engine. But then it happens—a tic. It bubbles up unbidden, a squeak followed by a soft hum, your body twitching slightly.

Simon glances at you, his brows furrowing as concern shadows his face. “What was that?”

You stiffen, the familiar shame creeping in like a second skin. “S-sorry,” you stammer, your words stumbling over themselves. “I… I have Tourette’s.”

His expression doesn’t shift, not in the way you’re used to. There’s no disbelief, no irritation, no mocking smirk. Just a simple nod as his gaze returns to the road. “Oh. Alrigh’,” he says with a shrug, as if it’s the most unremarkable thing in the world.

The casualness of his response hits you harder than you expect. When you’d told Ronny, he’d sneered, told you to quit the “weird noises.” Your father hadn’t been any better, his scorn sharp as a knife. You’d tried to stop before, tried to silence the involuntary hums and twitches. You’d pinched yourself raw, zipped your lips shut until they ached, but it never worked.

Simon’s reaction is different. It’s nothing—just a passing comment, a shrug, and a return to the road. But that nothingness feels monumental, like the weight you’ve carried all this time is lighter somehow.

For the first time, the silence in the truck doesn’t feel suffocating. It feels like space—open, endless, and maybe even safe.

But that feeling doesn’t last.

As you bump down your gravel driveway, your heart sinks into your chest as your little shack comes into view. The second the cars in park, you’re scrambling out, but simon’s grabbing you by the wrist before you can slip out.

“Lemme walk you in,” he says, eyebrows knit.

“No!” You say, far too harshly, he can he tell, because he grip doesn’t loosen. “It’s fine. Really.” Youre pleading, but he can tell somethings off.

He slips out of the drvers side anway, leaning against the car has you rush up the steps. And that’s when he notices it.

Your front door is ajar.

He’s bolting up the stairs, but your already there, standing in the doorway, panic written all over your face. He peers in over your shoulder only to see everything is trashed. Small kitchen table flipped over, drawers pulled out, all of their contents scattered through your small space.

Tears flow down your cheeks before your able to stop them, swearing your hands hard across your face to stop them—stop this. To remind yourself it isn’t real. Simon’s hands are turning you around, and for some reason, you let him. Let him wrap you in his arms and pull you into his warm. Let him rub your back as you hiccup.

“What the fuck happened?”