Her Little Smile

Joel Miller x reader blurb: Joel is a sweetly nervous wreck on your first date

Guys? This? This----

That's 100% tipsy DILF Joel Miller going on his first proper date in a long while and he's super nervous and wants to make a good impression and so he arrives early and pounds merlot before his date gets there. Bullet point head canon fluff below. Thanks to @ozarkthedog for encouraging my nonsense. 😘

Word count: 550ish

Pairing: DILF disaster dater Joel Miller x f!reader

Unedited, unbeta'd etc. No warnings used, nothing beyond sweet disaster dater Joel Miller really.

Putting it out into the world unformed so we can all have a lil' indulgent daydream.

He's trying' to get back in the dating game

(like yeah he gets laid but DATING is scary)

Sarah is off to college and before she does (he's fucking mortified but appreciative) she helps him set up dating apps

and he's mostly horrified at having to interact with strangers lmao

and how some women are just straight in with sexting and he's a bit skittish and been a bit single for that

(with a stranger at least. Joel is slut when it's intimate)

but he's talking to a nice lady (that's you, babe!) and she’s funny and nice and seems real

So they arrange a 'big' 'proper' first date

and Joel wants to make a good impression

He picks a nice restaurant where Joel’s gonna have to wear a suit jacket

and he's sooo nervous

and Reader is too

But Joel doesn’t clock it, all he sees when you walk in is a vision in a beautiful, enticing dress perfectly suited to the venue, while he feels like a cater-waiter in his button down and sport coat

Meanwhile he turned up nearly 20 minutes early

and now he's flushed from downing nearly 2 glasses of wine in quick succession

and you both order dinner and there are some awkward starts and stops to conversation. But you're both kind and want the date to succeed, so you both take turns fumbling to fill the few awkward silences

He picks wine instead of anything harder because he wants to be present

He's trying to be a GENTLEMAN

he REALLY likes you

dinner is delicious and the waiter brings the dessert menu. And nothing on it even looks nice, even though you have a massive sweet tooth, and certainly don't want the night with Joel to end

"This all looks a bit fancy and not very sweet," you suggest putting the menu down. 

So you say"shall we get the bill?" 

Joel's heart drops cuz he doesn't want the night to end, but you clearly do and how did he fuck up so bad, of course you were just seeing the date through to the end cuz you’re nice and polite and—

Then you carry on "Do you want to go get gelato? There's a really good place around the corner."

and then his heart soars when you suggest gelato

Like Ozzie said, he’s like a “teenage girl totally lovestruck”

Joel flags down the waiter so fast and there’s a tussle for the check, and he only agrees to split the check when you acquiesce  to let him buy you gelato. 

You stroll down the street and the summer night is warm and the dark envelops you. You and Joel get your gelatos and sit down on a park bench, chatting merrily away, the awkwardness of the night forgotten as conversation flows. 

Joel pointed out you had some ice cream on your face and when you kept missing it with swipes of your napkin, he licks his thumb, swipes it at the corner of your mouth, and popped the digit between his own lips. 

It was only when you gawped at him that he realized what he’d done without thinking, and took his thumb out from between his plump lips. 

“God, I’m so sorry, that was---” You shut him up by lunging at him and licking the taste of your ice cream out of his mouth. 

++the end++ 

I love one (1) man, and it's nervous DILF Joel Miller:

thirsty tongue thursday 👅

I miss David Lieberman (ignore the faggot next to him)

Verified Lover

Track 1 - Blue Check Heart

Carmen "Carmy" Berzatto x Orginal Character

Carmy gets his blue checkmark on Instagram and immediately breaks Natalie's 'rules'.

The Bear MasterList

Directory

Carmy was in the office, absent-mindedly scrolling through his email when he saw confirmation from Instagram. After an initial wave of confusion, he read it to see his account had been ‘verified’ - whatever that meant. His eyes skimmed the body of the email before going back into the kitchen to see Natalie on her laptop at one of the free stations.

“Hey, Bear.” she smiled when she noticed Carmy approaching her.

“Yo. What does being verified on Instagram mean?” Carmy asked as he pushed his hands into his pocket, peering over her shoulder to look at the spreadsheet Natalie had been working on.

Natalie laughed, “How is it that a 26-year-old doesn’t know what being verified on Instagram means?”

Carmy rolled his eyes, “Sugar. What does it mean?” 

“It just means you are who you say you are and that your account has some perks. I verified your, Syd's, and The Bear’s official accounts. In theory, having The Bear verified means it’ll be easier to get bigger names to come to The Bear.” Natalie explained without looking up from her screen.

“Got it.” Carmy nodded and began to walk away.

“Also, be careful with what you like. We don’t want our head chef looking like a pervert or overly politically charged—just be normal. People can see what you like and comment on,” Natalie warned. Carmy waved off the comment. He only followed 20 accounts, and most of them were fellow chefs. 

~

Later in the day, Carmy couldn’t help but notice two of the college-age bartenders doing some synchronized dance behind the bar. Carmy watched for a moment before one of them noticed and immediately stopped before shyly looking away. The other noticed her stop, looked over, and saw Carmy standing by the kitchen door watching them. “Sorry, Chef Carmen…” she said, taking her phone from where it had been propped and shoving it in her back pocket.

“Why is my staff dancin’?” he asked as he approached the bar.

“Lola Lousie put out a new song, and the dance is fun.” one of the girls explained. Based on Carmy’s face, the other jumped in, explaining that it was the ‘hot-girl summer I publicly dumped my lying cheating ass hole boyfriend’ anthem. Carmy nodded, still confused about the entire thing.

“Prep work done?” he questioned. 

“Yes, Chef Carmen,” they answered in unison. Carmy nodded and walked back to the kitchen. As the shift passed, Carmy kept hearing the name ‘Lola Louise’ and how ‘iconic’ her new song and video were. Carmy ignored the chatter and focused on cooking. 

~

Lola Lousie, the topic the waitstaff couldn’t drop. Carmy could ignore it until one of the waitresses held up Richie, talking about her new Instagram post. He threatened to ban the topic if it continued to be distracting. 

Curiosity killed the cat. That night, in bed, Carmy found himself scrolling through Instagram when he finally tapped the search button and found himself on Lola Lousie’s account. Carmy inhaled deeply. She was gorgeous. She had long, silky brown hair with dazzling emerald green eyes. Her soft, pillowy, plump lips were sculpted in the most endearing, playful pout. He swiped through her feed and became more intrigued by this woman. He scrolled through selfies and magazine covers. He chuckled when he saw a picture of a German Shepard with lopsided ears ‘wearing’ a pair of Prada sunglasses captioned ‘I thought boys didn’t steal their mom’s clothes... I stand corrected.’

When Carmy got to the original dance video, his bartenders had been trying to copy he couldn’t help but feel like a bit of a creep. He understood how the song was a ‘hot girl summer I publicly dumped my lying cheating asshole boyfriend’ anthem but watching Lola Lousie move the way she did made his pants feel a little tighter. Pop music wasn’t his thing but the girls were right. He could see how a song like that could be considered ‘iconic’. He liked a couple posts before tossing his phone to the side and calling it a night. 

~

“Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!” Natalie scolded as she entered the office that morning. She hit Carmy’s shoulder with each ‘oh my god’. Carmy removed a headphone and blocked her hits.

“Sugar- what the fuck?!” he exclaimed as he pushed back from his desk and rolled back to create some space between him and his sister. 

“Carmen Anothny Berzatto. I told you to be normal on Instagram, and what do you do the first day after being verified? Like six posts from some pop star that she posted over a year ago! Now you’re on a fuckin’ gossip page!” Natalie scolded, reaching over to hit his bicep. Carmy grabbed her wrists and scowled at her.

“Will you stop fuckin’ hittin’ me?! What the hell are you even talkin’ about?” Carmy challenged as he dropped her wrists, pushing her back gently. Natalie rolled her eyes and dug for her phone.

“Michelin star chef Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto, LoLou’s next boy toy? Screenshots below.” she read from her phone before flipping it to show Carmy. “Carmy. I do not need you going around Instagram liking girls’ thirst taps- EVERYONE can see what you’re doing!” Natalie huffed before stomping out of the office, muttering something about Claire.

Carmy rolled his eyes at Claire's mention and leaned back in his chair, pushing his hands through his hair before pulling his phone from his pocket. “You never even liked your damn girlfriend’s posts, Carmen!” Natalie yelled from the kitchen, still frustrated with him.

Carmy sighed before he yelled back, “She wasn’t my girlfriend.” he got up from his chair and frustratedly closed the door to the office. “She wasn’t my fuckin’ girlfriend… just my friend who happened to be a girl…” he muttered as he sat down in his chair again. He unlocked his phone and saw an influx of notifications on Instagram. None of them were particularly interesting. All he’d done was like a few Instagram pictures, but it had turned into this mess. He rolled his eyes as he cleared the notifications, but one stuck out.  @ LoLou sent you a message request

“Any open tables tonight, handsome? I’d love to taste your food… or something like that.”

“Oh shit…” Carmy mumbled to himself, what did he get himself into?

Hi! Hi! I have been reading your Eric Coulter fics and I don't know if you're still into Divergent but i can i request a eric coulter x fem!reader where they go from rivals to lovers and literally everyone in Dauntless has bets on them to be together?

'rumors of rivals' - eric coulter

masterlist

Four’s got another pet project, but for once, it isn’t you.

It’s a habit of his, one he’d do best to kick. Although Four may like to keep his indifferent silence and pretend as if he were a shallow-hearted Dauntless through and through, he’s got a soft spot for the people he likes. He’s got a knack for finding similar souls and winning them over, even as he acts as if he couldn’t care less about any of you. He did this while you were an initiate, and now he’s repeating the process with one of his new trainees, a girl named Tris.

Since you don’t work the initiates, you haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting Tris Prior, although you’ve heard Four talk about her often enough that you have a good gauge of her likes, dislikes, and every single conversation she’s had with your friend. For someone who claims that he couldn’t care less about anyone but himself, Four’s awfully attentive to Tris.

It makes you laugh, both when he’s around and not. Despite Four’s claims otherwise, it seems that even the toughest of Dauntless fall victim to their hearts every now and then. Despite Four’s claims otherwise, that’s one test you won’t be failing. Four may have fallen in love, but not you. Not a chance. The only decent one around here is Four, and he’s clearly besotted with Tris. No other men even come to mind.

Four and Tris catch up to you, and he begins the introductions. “Y/N, this is Tris, the initiate I’ve been talking about. Tris, this is Y/N. She’s a good friend of mine.”

Tris smiles at you. “It’s nice to meet you, Y/N. Four has said a lot of good things about you.”

You laugh. “It can’t be more than what he’s said about you, trust me. I think all of our conversations are now about you.”

Tris laughs too, evidently surprised at your camaraderie. “I’m sure he’ll argue with that, but I’m glad to hear it. I have to say, I knew what to expect from a Dauntless Leader, but you’re way nicer than I expected.”

You grin. “Oh, trust Four to talk up my reputation. We’re not all totally dramatic around here.”

Four rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right. As if you’re not locked in one of the worst rivalries Dauntless has ever seen.”

Tris widens her eyes, curious. “What are you talking about?”

You fold your arms across your chest. “Four doesn’t mean anything because he doesn’t know what he’s saying. There’s nothing there.”

Four scoffs. “Of course there’s something there. Tris, Y/N’s just denying it because she’s too embarrassed to admit that she’s totally obsessed with beating Eric at everything.”

Tris claps a hand to her mouth. “Wait, I know what you’re talking about. Everyone in the faction has been gossiping about Eric and one of the other Leaders. You don’t mean that–”

“Yes,” you admit reluctantly. “The rumors are about me. They’re just jokes, though. Nothing to take seriously.”

Four arches a brow doubtfully. “Of course they’re not.”

You swat him in the shoulder. “Anything more on the subject and I’ll push you off a roof, Four. Watch your tone.”

Instead of taking your threat seriously, Four just cracks a rare grin and keeps his triumphant silence. In all honesty, he’s not wrong about the gossip, and neither is Tris. You have been rivals with a certain Eric Coulter for most of the time you’ve been at Dauntless, if not all of it, and beating Eric at anything from a fight in the ring to glowing recommendations from the other Dauntless Leaders does indeed make your day like nothing else.

At this point, there’s nothing you can do to stop it. There’s no way you could ever like Eric, he makes it impossible to so much as smile around him. He’s insufferable, that’s all, and he always has been.

You remember that from the very first day you arrived. Eric had been through initiation a year before you, so of course he swaggered about the faction like he knew everything and you knew nothing at all. It didn’t matter that you mastered every challenge that initiation set before you, it didn’t matter that, at the end of your training, you came out with the highest rank. No matter what, Eric would always boast that he’d done it better when he was an initiate. And, since the two of you weren’t in the same year, there was no way of proving him right or wrong.

Once you graduated initiation, your ill-fated relationship only took a turn for the worse. Both of you were gunning for positions as Dauntless Leaders, and did everything in your power to claw to the top. It was a common assumption that only one Leadership position would be vacated, meaning that one of you would succeed and one of you would do the worst thing possible for a Dauntless:  you would fail.

Instead, both of you were appointed as new Leaders, and now you’re forced to spend even more time with him than before. Eric is more hands on, especially with his new position as an initiation leader, whereas you’re more devoted to strategy and all the ways to keep Dauntless as a faction running as smoothly as possible. The two of you clash whenever you so much as step into a room together.

Over time, this rivalry has drawn the attention of the entire faction. There’s hardly a soul in Dauntless that hasn’t witnessed the two of you going for each other’s throats at some point. Last you heard, some faction members were even going so far as to place bets as to when the two of you would get together, but that’s absurd. You and Eric hate each other. There’s simply no way you’d actually manage to get over your mutual loathing to fall in love.

“He’s an unpredictable asshole, I don’t know what else you want me to say,” you growl to Four.

Instead of being answered by your friend, however, a new voice joins you, one that makes you want to put your fist through a wall. “Are you talking about me again, L/N? I’m touched.”

Four and Tris exchange some interesting glances, which you definitely don’t appreciate. You turn to glower at none other than Eric, who’s somehow emerged out of the throngs of Dauntless milling about to appear right by your side. It’s as if he was summoned from your mere thoughts alone.

“So you heard me talking about an unpredictable asshole and immediately assumed it was you? That’s lovely, I didn’t know you had such great self-esteem.” You hiss.

Eric just grins. “You’re always so kind to me. Truly, it makes my day.”

You glance to your opposite side, hoping to deflect onto Four, but you notice that he and Tris have somehow disappeared into the crowds again, leaving you alone with Eric. You’ll have to chide him about abandoning you later, once you manage to shake Eric again.

Eric notices the changing subject of your attention and chuckles. “They left already? Can’t say I blame them.”

“Neither can I,” you fire back. “Having to spend time with you isn’t something I’d wish on my worst enemy.”

“See, that’s the difference between the two of us,” Eric intones, holding up a finger appreciatively as he speaks, “There’s no punishment I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. It’s because I’m capable of doing anything to eliminate those who would rise against me. It’s what makes me a better Dauntless. I’m not surprised that you lack the courage.”

You groan in annoyance. “It’s a saying, Coulter. Goodness, I see why you’re not an Erudite. Critical thinking is not your strong suit.”

Unfortunately, Eric doesn’t seem particularly affected by this insult. “I’ll leave the critical thinking to you, L/N. The glory of battle is mine as always.”

You arch a brow. “Remind me who kicked your ass the last time we met in the ring? I’m sure the glory of battle was totally on your side then, too.”

Eric’s voice turns razor-sharp. “How about a rematch, then? Tonight. That is, if you can’t manage to talk yourself out of facing me again.”

You stop walking, meeting Eric’s eyes dead on. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Scared?”

“Not a chance,” he fires back. “I’ll see you then.”

With that, he stalks off, leaving you fuming yet again. You could name a hundred encounters that have taken place exactly like this one. It’s strange, you’ve always prided yourself on your control of your temper, but something about Eric Coulter just drags out every bit of irritation and passion from your heart.

Glancing around, you see that more than a few people have turned to look at you and Eric as you passed by, and are now whispering to each other. “Shut up,” you mutter at no one in particular, but it doesn’t seem to do anything to stop the flurry of gossip.

Great, now you’ll have another rumor to add to the mix. As if you needed any more. Grimacing to yourself, you set off again. You’ll be looking to tonight’s fight with Eric, if not for a release of anger than anything else. It would feel good to beat him up again, you decide, and it’s about time his ego got knocked down a peg or two.

Eric is waiting for you in the empty gym when you let yourself in later that night. The two of you arrive at the same time whenever one of you challenges the other to a fight. It’s become a sort of tradition. You know exactly when and where to find each other because you’ve done it so often. It comes to you like breathing, like living. Instinctive, intuitive. You and Eric may not see eye to eye on most subjects, but in the ring, it’s like he’s your double.

You and Eric face each other warily on the ring. There’s no one else here, not after hours, so the entire gym is empty. Even the smallest of sounds are amplified by the solitude, each shuffle of your feet from side to side sending ripples of echoes up to the high ceiling before bouncing back down again, creating ghosts of your every movement. The lights are dim. The shadows lengthen Eric’s already numerous tattoos, making him look as if the darkness could swallow him up entirely if you were to turn away for even one moment.

You lunge first, mostly as a feint to get his attention. At your level of fighting experience, both of you know better than to truly attack first. Eric aims a blow at your midsection, but you duck just in time, dropping low to kick his legs out from under him. Briefly, Eric loses his balance, but manages to regain it in time to send a returning strike your way.

On and on, the fight progresses, the tide rolling from you to him back to you again in an endless circle. Eric manages to pin you first and huffs out a triumphant breath, but you get him the next round. You’ve spent enough nights like this that every move seems familiar. Although the precise victor of the fights may switch off from night to night, the actions themselves have been done so many times that it feels like muscle memory.

You’re sure it’ll be a night just like any other, but then something strange happens when Eric wins again. Both of you have ended up on the surface of the mat, and after briefly striving for the upper hand, Eric manages to make it there first, and he swings his weight over you, pinning you to the ground. His hands lock your wrist onto the mat like cuffs. You try to throw him off again, but it doesn’t work, and the two of you rest there, panting from the exertion, but worst of all, looking at each other.

You wait for Eric to move off of you and begin the cycle again, but strangely enough, he doesn’t. Instead, Eric looks, he looks at you like he’s never seen you before in his entire life. You feel as if you couldn’t move a muscle, and lie there perfectly still. One twitch of a limb, one wrong breath, and he might react, or worst of all, leave. You don’t know why, but you know for certain that shattering this moment would destroy you both.

Slowly, carefully, Eric releases his hold on your arms, but you don’t swing at him. The erratic rise and fall of his chest has slowed as easy breath returns to him, but when he had held you down moments ago, you could still feel his pulse thundering in his veins, tumultuous and irreverent like the clash of a thunderstorm.

“Y/N,” Eric whispers, low in his throat and urgent. You don’t know what to say. You’re not sure that there is anything to say, not without giving something away, a secret so terrible and all-consuming that to utter it aloud would use up all of you, leaving nothing behind but the ghost of a person who had once been you.

He’s waiting. For what, you don’t know. Or, you don’t want to know. Both of you are on a precipice, the edge tall and mighty, but unlike the roof back at the entrance to Dauntless initiation, you do not know that the fall won’t kill you. You could survive this jump, sure. But you could also break your bones in the leaping, and come out of this a ruined version of someone who had thought they knew everything about Eric Coulter, and then learned otherwise.

The indecision is too great, and so you do something utterly befitting someone of your station, and you run. Eric doesn’t move when you suddenly slip out from under him, nor does he stop you when you leave the gym. It isn’t a Dauntless move to flee from a fight, but then again, you transferred here from your home faction in the Choosing Ceremony, so the habits of the brave haven’t been instilled in you completely. You still, it seems, have a lot to learn.

The walk back to your apartment seems treacherous. There aren’t that many people out at this time of night, but you swear that of those who remain, every eye is on you. Haven’t you heard the rumors? Isn’t it true that these people have guessed what you are when it comes to Eric Coulter? If they see you, they will know.

You crawl into your bed and hope for sleep, but nothing comes. You stare at your ceiling in the dark, wondering what you’ve done. You’ve claimed to hate Eric for a very long time, but the way you felt in that ring, with him looking down at you– None of that was hate. You haven’t felt an absence of anger like that in such a long time that you’ve almost forgotten how to name that emotion entirely.

You get up the next morning, exhausted and confused, and complete your daily duties in somewhat of a haze. Every one of your moves feels mechanical. Eric is busy with the initiates, so your paths shouldn’t cross. When he finds you later that day, then it must mean that he sought you out intentionally. You’re not sure if that’s for better or worse.

You do your best to shake him, but he tracks you down eventually, pulling you into an empty room and shutting the door behind him. “Y/N,” he says urgently. “We should talk about last night.”

You don’t want to, not when the way he says your name reminds you of the way he’d whispered it last night, soft and careful, none of the things you have ever associated with Eric. It wasn’t as torturous as you expected, being alone with him without a fight to separate you. In fact, if you weren’t on guard, you would even admit that you liked it.

When you remain silent, Eric sighs, frustration beginning to tinge back into his breath again. “I know something happened. We can’t just pretend otherwise.”

You glance back up at him. “Can’t we?” You ask. “We can go back to fighting all the time. I’m sure it would come easily to both of us.”

You’ve become an expert at provoking him over the years, but now, in the face of all your attempts, Eric’s gaze remains neutral. “Is that what you want?”

Yes, you start to say, but for some reason the words dry up in your throat and the only thing that comes out is a terrible, awful exhale, “No.”

Eric hasn’t let go of your hand since he pulled you into this room. He seems to remember it now, his thumb rubbing light circles back and forth against your wrist. “Neither do I. Turns out, the only thing I like better than fighting you is when we aren’t fighting at all.”

You’ve never understood it when people say their heart skipped a beat, but you feel it now, the stuttering of desperate hope locked between your ribs. “So– you want–”

“You, Y/N,” Eric interrupts. “I want you. I always have.”

When he kisses you, it tastes like victory. Hot, brave, triumphant. A thousand nights undefeated in the ring couldn’t light you up with a fire half this bright. Sometimes, the rumors are true, and sometimes, the very man you thought was your greatest rival was instead your best love. Eric is all of these things, but most importantly, he is yours.

requested by @simoneashwinis, i hope you enjoy!

divergent tag list: @dindjarinneedsahug, @poisonmenegan, @ozzynka, @rogueanschel, @with-inked-solace, @gods-fools-heroes, @23victoria, @manyfandomsfanvergent, @imwaysthelastchoice, @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed, @crazyhearttragedy, @alexs-1967s-blog, @aoi-targaryen

all tags list: @wordsarelife

As an autistic person, The Accountant was my Black Panther.

Winner Takes All

(Richie Jerimovich x F!Reader)

CW:  Slight angst; idiots falling in love; drunken near-encounters but nothing explicit; vulgar language because let us be honest - it's Richie.

Word Count:  2730

AN:  This was requested by the lovely @winchestershiresauce for the April Showers event!

Maybe Richie wouldn’t have said anything if you had just shut your mouth.

Maybe he would have gritted his teeth, manned the register, and dealt with the customers while you chattered away with Tina and Marcus in the back of the house.  Out front, in the bustle of the lunch hour, he could have ignored you, let your voice fade into the background.

But you don’t shut the fuck up.

You’re talking a mile a minute because you’ve met a new guy.  Some fancy asshole who works at the Merc, and Richie starts to get a headache as you talk this guy up.

“He sells weather derivatives!” he hears you say.  There’s a clatter of pots, a whosh of flames lighting on the stove.   

“What’s that mean?”  Marcus’s voice, now.

“It has something to do with insurance and risk,” you explain, and Richie can’t help but half-listen, judging how fucking stupid it sounds.  This new guy of yours deals in weather, and he makes a shit-ton of money doing it:  a condo with a lakeside view, a fancy car in the garage…

“He sounds like an asshole,” Richie scoffs from the pass-through window.

“You’d know.”  The retort is paired with you narrowing your eyes at him.

“He sounds…nice,” Tina tells you, but she pauses enough on the nice, glances at Richie long enough for him to know that she’s thinking the exact same thing he is, deep down.

This guy is going to break your heart.  Just like the last one, the tenure-track professor at Loyola.  And the one before, the electrician.  And all the others before—the bartender, the dermatologist, the trust fund laze, the NGO founder.  At some point, Mr. Weather Asshole is going to hurt you terribly, and you’ll come into the Beef in pieces that they’ll have to put back together.

Maybe Richie wouldn’t have said anything, but he fucking hates that he can see your future and you cannot.

“It’s never gonna work out,” he says.  “Guy’s gonna break up with you.”

You glare at him again.  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Bet you he will.  It always happens, and you’re too stupid to see it.”

“Bet you he won’t.”  You pause, stir the sauce you have simmering on the stove.  “He’s different than the others.”

Richie sighs because he also knows that Mr. Weather Asshole isn’t different.  He’s probably exactly the same as the others, a user who will cut loose the moment he’s done having fun with you.  It happens every time, and you have some goddamned amnesia about your own terrible love life—

“I wanna take that bet,” he tells you.  He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms, stares at you.  “Easy win for me.”

You turn and face him, mirror his body language by crossing your arms too.  “Alright.  What are we betting?  Fifty?  A hundred?”

Richie could take your money.  He knows it’s a sure thing.  Some mean part of him, though, wants to make it hurt.  He wants some awareness to finally sink into your thick skull.  He wants you to be more careful, to guard your heart closer, to stop leaving yourself open to such hurt from such awful men.

“Make it interesting.  Mr. Weather Asshole dumps you within the month, I get your Def Leppard shirt.”

Your eyes narrow to slits.  “Which one?”

“You know which one.”

The angry set of your frown tells him you know exactly which one he means.  He has no idea how it came into your possession, but you have a cherry vintage concert t-shirt from Def Leppard’s 1983 Pyromania tour.  Richie isn’t that big a guy, not much bigger than you, really, and the one time he saw you wear it, it was just a shade too big.

It will fit him perfectly.

He watches the little twitch in your jaw—you’re clenching it, your teeth grinding.  “Fine.  What do I get?”

“What do you want?”

Your face opens up, softens.  You smile and say, “okay, I want your Bruce album.”

“Which one?”

“You know which one,” you reply, mimicking his voice, which makes Tina snort and shake her head.

Richie has a rare vinyl of the Japanese pressing of Bruce Springsteen’s “Tunnel of Love.”  He can’t even remember how you found out about it, but you’ve pestered him in the past about how much it would cost you for him to part with it—

It’s a sure thing.  There’s no way Richie is going to lose this bet, so he nods.  He uncrosses his arms and holds his hand out to shake. 

It’s your hand in his, your eyes crinkled as you smile at him…it makes him feel sad all of a sudden.  You’re going to be hurt; he can see it as clearly as anything, and you can’t see it at all.

-----

Two weeks, nearly.  Twelve days, to be exact:  you march into the Beef, and Richie barely has enough time to realize it’s your day off before you toss a plastic grocery bag down on the counter in front of him.

“Here,” you spit out.  You’re already turning on your heel and leaving, and you add over your shoulder as you wrench open the door, “I don’t want to hear a word about it, asshole.”

He doesn’t need to, but he opens the bag anyway.  Inside is the concert t-shirt, neatly folded.  The spoils from him winning the bet that hinged on your broken heart.

“Ah, fuck,” he mutters.

-----

Richie knows where to find you that evening.  He helps Carmy close up, and then he makes his way to Kelly’s.

The dive bar is below street level, dark and musty.  The beer is cheap, and the jukebox is stocked with a very specific slice of alternative rock beloved by Kelly’s owner.  The vibe is grimy but safe, the perfect place for someone like you to drink away her sorrows and stumble out without too much risk.

Still…Richie likes to keep an eye on you.  Just to be safe.

Kelly’s is too small for him to hide from you, and he doesn’t bother to try.  He finds you belly up at the bar, slouched, and he takes the empty stool beside yours.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye before you turn back to your drink.

“Come to gloat? You ask.

“Nah.”

“Say ‘I told you so’?”

Richie shakes his head.  “I’m not a complete asshole.”

You sigh.  “What, then?”

He holds up a hand to flag down the bartender, and he orders another for you and one for himself.  Then he turns in his stool at looks at you.

“Wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he replies, and he hopes it rings earnest to your ears because it’s the truth.  He’s not a complete asshole but he is at least partially so, and he struggles with his delivery almost every time he tries to be nice to you…but he cares, and he wants to make sure you know it.

Whether you believe him or not, you don’t say.  You only tip him a nod in thanks for the drink, and the two of you fall into an evening together of mostly silent companionship and more than a little drinking.

-----

He wakes up fast and rough because he thinks he’s about to puke.

He sits up quick, manages to calm his roiling, sour stomach with deep breaths through his nose.  Once the danger of vomiting has passed, he looks around at the strange room.

It’s not his room:  not the one in his apartment, and not the one he shared with Tiff when they were still married.  It’s a softer space; the sheets underneath him are silkier, nicer than his own.  The room smells different too, warm and spicy like something baked with cinnamon, and it takes his hungover brain a beat to realize where he knows that smell…

…it’s your smell.  It bothers him every time he has to work with you at the Beef; it seems to seep into his clothes under the smell of the sandwiches and fry grease.  He glances down at the figure stretched out in the bed beside him and sees you.  You’re fast asleep, your face smushed into your pillow, lips parted as you breathe deep and even.

It takes his hungover brain two beats to realize that he’s naked.  No, scratch that—he’s in his boxers only, he’s shirtless, and when he studies you closer, he sees part of the reason why:  you’re in his t-shirt, the one with the typo that reads “The Berf.”

Richie scrubs a shaky hand over his stubbled face.  The evening comes back to him a little at a time.  The drinks that flowed too easily, the realization that you live only a few blocks from him.  The stumbling out together at last call, his arm around your waist as much to steady himself as to steady you.  Him walking you home, the booze hitting you hard and making you turn pathetic. 

Him turning to give you hell and seeing the pitiful way your lower lip trembled as your eyes filled with tears over Mr. Weather Asshole.  Richie getting pissed at that, wanting to say something meaningful that would lance through your alcohol-fog to make you understand that Mr. Weather Asshole wasn’t someone worth crying over—

Him failing to find the words and kissing you instead.  You kissing him back.  You kissing him back with an eagerness that surprised him, and he remembers going upstairs to your apartment with you. 

He remembers each of you stripping down to nearly nothing before it occurred to him that you weren’t in any shape to make any decisions, and he wasn’t much better off.  He remembers stopping you, taking your hands in his, slurring his words as he told you it was a bad idea.  He remembers you tearing up at that, misunderstanding him, feeling the rejection too personally. 

Maybe in some respects the alcohol was a boon, because Richie Bad News always fucks it up.  Richie Bad News always says all the wrong things.  Richie Bad News always manages to mistranslate the feelings in his heart with his stupid fucking mouth.

But Drunk Richie?  Drunk-but-Noble Richie who was able to gently turn down the opportunity to fuck you because you were too wasted to make good decisions?  That guy seemed to get it right.

He remembers telling you that you shouldn’t cry over him or Mr. Weather Asshole or any other loser who manages to disappoint and hurt you.  He remembers telling you what a catch you are, how lucky a guy would be to snag you.  He remembers telling you to be choosier, to be more wary of men, to trust them a little less and yourself a little more.

Mostly, he remembers telling you that you have the biggest heart of anyone he knows, and then he remembers saying he wishes you’d guard it closer.

He remembers how you looked at him then, how you seemed to see him through the alcohol haze.  You seemed to figure him out in that moment, seemed to piece together all your time together at the Beef, all the frustration he had with his own terrible love life that he vented over Family meals as you listened.  You seemed to understand his own hurt, how he came in each day after his own awful dates the night before, how he looked at you on the sly as if he were measuring you against those women while he also measured himself against all those terrible men you dated.

Most of all, he remembers how you reached up and laid a gentle palm against the side of his face, and how he nuzzled into your touch.  You had looked him dead in the eyes, murmured his full name like you wanted him to know you really saw him.

“Richard Jerimovich,” you had said.  “You might be an asshole, but you’re a good man.”

He remembers how you turned shy then, how you dropped your hand and your gaze, like you were suddenly aware that you were basically naked in front of him.  At your words—that he maybe he wasn’t Richie Bad News but just an asshole and a good man both—he felt surer of himself.  More certain.  He had bent down and snagged his discarded t-shirt, and he had helped you pull it over your head.

“C’mon,” he told you.  “Let’s go to sleep.”

And that was all the two of you did.  Drunk as you each were, he had kept it as above-board as he could, and you had fallen asleep snuggled against him. 

-----

Now he’s awake and nauseous.  It’s still dark outside.  A quick glance at his phone says that it’s only three in the morning, hours from dawn.  He hears what he thinks is a delivery truck rumbling past your building, but the sound is paired with a flash of blue-white lightning, and he realizes that there’s a storm rolling in.

He climbs out of your bed carefully, and he makes his way to your kitchen.  He pours a glass of water from the pitcher in your refrigerator, and he drains it in one go.  He feels his stomach calm.

Richie stands at your kitchen sink for long moments:  it’s dark outside the window there, but each bolt of lightning illuminates the view—the brick wall of the building next door, the street below.  It looks lonely outside; the sky spits rain in fits and starts.

He could leave.  Maybe he should leave now, while you’re still asleep.  He has no idea how you’ll wake up:  what if you’re angry at him, or embarrassed?  What if you wake up and remember him gently rejecting you and misunderstand it?  Because he’d happily, gratefully take you to bed under any other circumstances, but not as your rebound and not with you as drunk as you’d been…but you may not realize that.

He probably should leave, but it looks miserable outside.  The storm makes him want to return to your warm bed, so that’s what he does.

You’re still asleep.  He stands over you and looks his fill for a moment.  The flashes of lightning gild your face in its stark white light, but he thinks you look adorable.  Even with your makeup from last night smeared under your eyes and lines from your pillow etched across your cheek, Richie thinks you might be the cutest fucking thing he’s ever seen.

He crawls back under the covers and rejoins you.  He tries to be careful about it, but the shifting of the mattress makes you stir.  You grumble beside him, and a moment later you open your eyes and fix him with a bleary look.

“Richie?  What—”

“It’s fine.”  He whispers in reply.  “Still too early to get up.”

“Mmm.” 

“Go back to sleep.”

You hum again, and maybe you aren’t completely sober yet or completely awake—but he’s glad he decided to stay, because you bridge the slight distance between you and snuggle up against him again.  You press your head against his shoulder, gently headbutting him until he huffs out a laugh and lifts his arm for you to cuddle in close.  He wraps his arm around your shoulders, and you nuzzle against his bare chest before you settle.

It doesn’t take long for you to fall back asleep despite the storm picking up in intensity outside.  Richie doesn’t fall back asleep at all, but he’s comfortable, relaxed.  The rain lashes at the window of your bedroom, and thunder rumbles in the distance, but he feels cozy.

More than that, he feels hopeful.  He’s had such a shitty run of it.  The loss of Mikey, the loss of his marriage.  His ex-wife may consider him Richie Bad News, but he’s been the on the receiving end of plenty of shit too.  He’s at the lowest he’s ever been in his life, but for the first time since everything went to hell, he finally feels a bit of hope.

It started with a bet that he won, and now he’s in your bed with you snoring lightly in his arms while you wear his stupid fucking “Berf” t-shirt.

What comes next?  He has no idea, but he finally has hope that it might be something good.

Russian Into Love - Pt 1

Pairing: Alexei x fem!reader

A/n: (pls ignore the pun title, it was meant to be just a working title but I can’t think of anything better 😭) soooo this is the first part to a slow burn fake dating/marriage thing that I’ve had in my head since watching s3 of Stranger Things, I’m gonna be playing fast and loose with canon and idek if the s4 plot will be in this buuut I’m having fun writing it :)) pls feel free to comment and tell me what you think bc I personally love this and I want you all to love it too ❤️

(All Russian translations were taken directly from google translate so pls don’t attack me, attack mr google instead)

Wordcount: 2.9k

You were certain that you were going to lose your mind. It had been days since you had really looked at the sky, watched the clouds roll by like passing trains, and you were convinced that another day spent staring at the same faded floral wallpaper would be the death of you.

“Y’know, Murray, I’ve been thinking…” You began tentatively, not raising your eyes from the gossip magazine you had been pretending to read for quite some time.

“Sounds dangerous. Try not to do it again.” Murray dismissed without even looking up from the book he was wasting away his own time with. Ignoring his quip, you continued as though uninterrupted.

“I think we should go to California with Joyce and the kids.”

The idea had been playing on your mind for days, ever since you had learned that Hopper was gone. And after 4 days hiding in a motel room with Murray and the quiet Russian scientist, you were desperate for any opportunity to get out and as far away from these four walls as possible. Murray’s head snapped up from the book he was reading in the old armchair in the corner of the room, and Alexei’s eyes left the TV playing Loony Tunes to watch the conversation in interest.

“Oh? And why’s that?” Murray asked, his voice tinged with the familiar condescension that you had come to expect from him.

“Well, first off, if we have to stay in this motel much longer I think I might snap and start killing people. Secondly,” your tone softened slightly, “I’m worried about Joyce, and I think we should try to be close by.”

As Murray pondered your words, Alexei watched you both patiently while waiting for a translation. Murray knew as well as you did that with everything that had happened in the Starcourt mall and the subterranean Russian lab, Joyce had a lot to deal with right now, and while you both knew that she was capable of looking after herself, you just couldn’t stand the idea of her moving away on her own.

“As much as I may agree with you, we can’t go anywhere until Alexei’s green card situation is resolved.” Murray argued eventually.

“в чем дело?” [What’s going on?] Alexei asked, but before Murray could respond to him, you continued.

“Yeah, well, there is an easy way to deal with that. If Alexei wants to.” You said, and Murray’s head snapped up to look at you in obvious surprise.

It wasn’t the first time the idea had been brought up; Murray had mentioned marriage as a solution to Alexei’s citizenship situation on the very first day of your captivity, but it had been dismissed quickly because finding someone to marry Alexei would prove difficult, perhaps even impossible. So, Murray had moved his attention onto finding other ways to solve the problem, whereas you had been unable to stop thinking about it; it was such a simple solution, you were willing and as long as Alexei was too, you could soon see the other side of the motel room door.

“There is. Are you volunteering?” Murray asked with a cocked eyebrow.

“If it gets us out of this room, sure.” You replied, crossing your arms across your chest determinedly and trying to ignore the nervous pounding in your chest.

Murray’s gaze fixed on your face only intensified, his eyes narrowing as he regarded you closely from behind tinted glasses.

“I don’t think you’re taking this as seriously as you should be. Marriage is a big deal for most people, you know.” He explained with a frustratingly soft look on his features.

Wordlessly, you stood from your spot on the garish floral bedding and crossed the room to peer through a crack in the blinds. Both men watched you as you made a show of peering from left to right across the mostly empty car park.

“Nope, just as I thought, there’s no queue of men waiting for my hand in marriage.” You sighed dramatically and flopped back down on the bed, while Murray scoffed at your dramatics.

“Murray, что она сказала?” [Murray, what did she say?] Alexei asked again, and this time Murray answered.

“она предложила выйти за тебя замуж из-за грин-карты. и она хочет переехать в Калифорнию.” [She offered to marry you for your green card. And she wants to move to California.] He explained, and Alexei’s head spun quickly to stare at you, eyes wide behind his glasses.

“если мы поженимся, я стану гражданином США?” [If we marry, I’ll be an American citizen?] Alexei spoke, his eyes never leaving you.

You toyed anxiously with a loose thread on the bedding while Murray explained your idea to him. Alexei’s approval of this plan was the only thing coming between you and your escape from this room, so while being rejected by him wouldn’t be the biggest hit your ego had ever taken, it would mean staying here for longer. With the man that had rejected you.

“да. но вы также будете женаты на ней.” [Yes. But you’ll also be married to her.] Though you didn’t understand Murray’s words, you couldn’t miss the disdainful tone at the end and so you shot him a venomous look. Alexei looked thoughtful for a moment, still staring at you.

“это было бы не так уж плохо.” [That wouldn’t be so bad.] He said finally, and Murray let out a hearty laugh.

“What’s so funny?” You asked, jaw clenched at the sigh of Murray’s glee.

“He thinks it’s a good idea.” He stated, causing your heart to leap. It had been surprisingly easy for Murray to convince him, you thought absently. “I’m not taking you to buy a wedding dress, though.”

—————————————————

So just a few days later, after what you were sure must be the fastest, most pragmatic wedding ceremony ever held in Hawkins, you, Murray, and your new husband piled into Murray’s van with what few belongings you still had, and set off for California.

You were admittedly beginning to grow nervous about your plan; once you arrived in California, you and Alexei were moving into a small home under the half-correct guise of being a newly-wed couple moving into their first home together, while Murray had found a new base for his own work somewhere nearby. The nervous pit that bubbled in your chest had nothing to do with the prospect of living with Alexei, you had been living with him in that horrid motel room for over a week at this point and despite the close quarters, he had been a wonderful roommate. Instead, your nerves were flaring up the idea of being caught in the ruse you had agreed to live in for the forseeable future. Or at least, until Alexei met someone he wanted to really marry.

But as you watched the scientist eagerly watching the scenery go with his forehead practically pressed against the windows of the van, you felt your worries fade a little. His smile was infectious, and just existing around him was easy, as natural as breathing. Not to mention the fact that his English was improving steadily; faster than your Russian, luckily.

Just then, Alexei turned towards you and caught you staring. His face split into an ecstatic grin that you couldn’t prevent your own from mirroring.

“это так…тепло.” [It’s so…warm.] He said with a small chuckle, gesturing out of the window.

Even though you didn’t understand his words, his joy was simple and genuine, and you couldn’t stop yourself from grinning along with him. You didn’t even realise you had been staring at him until Murray coughed pointedly, drawing both of your attentions to him.

“Now, I know that this is all very exciting, but you two need to remember that to your neighbours, and friends, and coworkers, and everyone except for me and Joyce, you two are married.” Murray reminded for the hundredth time, enunciating his words with annoying precision as though you were rowdy children. He glanced past you at Alexei, and translated. “Вы должны вести себя так, как будто вы на самом деле женаты. Понять?” [You have to act like you’re actually married. Understand?]

With a glance in your direction, Alexei nodded. Murray turned his gaze on you, one eyebrow raised in that universally understood question: well? You huffed, avoiding his gaze.

“Yeah, sure. Are you gonna give me strict instructions on how to do that? A list of my wifely duties or something?” You questioned snarkily, and Murray tutted in response.

“No, actually, I thought maybe California might melt that icy heart of yours and you can figure out how to be affectionate on your own.” Ignoring your indignant noise, he continued. “Look, I’m not asking you to consummate this faux marriage, just try not to act like our comrade here repulses you too much.” He explained firmly.

“He doesn’t repulse me.” You replied entirely too quickly. Embarrassed heat flared in your cheeks and you ducked your head in the hopes that Murray would not notice; the chuckle he let out told you that he did notice.

When the van finally pulled into the driveway of your new home, set against the late afternoon sky, you hopped out of the back of the van excitedly. It was a relatively small two-story house, with houses on either side that looked like the epitome of suburbia; beige buildings with pristine gardens, even complete with a white picket fence. The mundanity made you want to retch, but instead you focused on your own home and allowed yourself to pretend for a moment that it was real, that it could ever be real for you.

Suddenly, a large hand was in yours, and it raised your hand to Alexei’s lips for him to press a kiss to the back. You stared at him in utter confusion for a second, before he nodded surreptitiously behind him, in the direction of a neighbours house.

In a window at the front of that house, you could see a tanned, blonde woman peering through her curtains, watching your arrival as subtly as she could. Sending her a friendly wave and a smile that you hoped looked genuine, you scoffed lightly.

“Nosy neighbours. Fantastic.” You murmured, mostly to yourself. Alexei watched you with a faint smile, before pulling you eagerly towards your new home.

Together, though no longer holding hands, you explored the house; Alexei was simply delighted by the small pool in the backyard, and you were pleased to find the kitchen already equipped with a fridge and oven. Then you ventured up the stairs and found four doors, behind which were a linen closet, a hideously beige tiled bathroom, and thankfully, two bedrooms, both already furnished with basic double beds.

You glanced at Alexei and he met your gaze with a half smirk, both of you seemingly grateful to not have to share a bed in order to protect your newly-wed image. He entered one of the rooms wordlessly and you entered the other, one with a window overlooking the back yard, and dropped your backpack on the floor at the foot of the bed. You couldn’t help the sigh of relief that slipped past your lips; all things considered, the house was nice. Murray had really showed you some mercy with the two bedrooms, too. You had almost been expecting him to make this as uncomfortable as possible, just to spite you for being a constant thorn in his side.

“Alright, lovebirds, I’m leaving!” Murray called up the stairs, and you stepped out onto the landing to see him standing at the bottom of the staircase.

“Wait, we don’t have any groceries and I’m starving, you’re leaving me here without food on my wedding night?” You asked in faux incredulity, to which Murray rolled his eyes.

“There’s a flyer for a pizza place by the front door, will that be adequate for the blushing bride?” He asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” You waved off his snide comment with a dismissive scoff. “You’re coming back tomorrow though, right?”

“Yes, I’m coming back tomorrow to take you and loverboy to buy a car. Hopefully, that’ll stop you from bugging me to take you places.” Murray replied with another roll of his eyes.

Before you could respond with a quip of your own, Alexei stepped out of his bedroom and onto the landing beside you. He and Murray exchanged words in quick fire Russian, before Alexei nodded, and brushed past you with a gentle smile into the bathroom.

“I just told your dearly beloved to be ready to go at 10am tomorrow. You’d better not make me wait.” Murray explained, waving a finger at you as though you were a naughty child.

“Would I do that?” You asked as innocently as you could, fighting back a smile as Murray began to walk away.

“You would and you have, repeatedly. Don’t make me leave you behind.” His final warning, only intended half jokingly, rang out as the sound of the front door closing signalled Murray’s departure.

Breathing out a slight chuckle, you tried to ignore the ache in your chest that already missed Murray and his quick wit; although you had always argued with him and seemingly done everything within your power to irritate him, you and he both knew that it was all in good fun. After years spent alone, you both had found verbal sparring partners within each other, and the few short years you had lived with him had been the happiest that you could remember.

You remained in place on the landing, absorbed in your thoughts, until the sound of running water reminded you of Alexei’s presence in the bathroom. The realisation that he was there, just on the other side of the dark wooden door beside you, and presumably about to shower, sent a cold jolt though your veins and before you could think about it you were darting away from the bathroom door and bolting down the stairs as quickly as you could.

Since your living room was totally devoid of furniture, you elected to sit outside in the back yard beneath the late afternoon sun as it slowly dipped towards the horizon. Lying on your back on the warm ground, you kicked off your shoes and allowed your feet to dangle in the pool, relishing in the coolness of the water around your ankles as you gently kicked your feet. With your eyes closed, you allowed yourself a single moment of peace and serenity before what you were certain would be a busy week, with your new house to be fully stocked and decorated.

The only thing that signalled Alexei’s arrival by your side was the shadow that he cast over your face, the sudden darkness prompting your eyes to open. He stood, towering above you, with damp curls and that same cheery smile across his face.

For an evil genius Russian scientist, he sure does look friendly, you found yourself thinking.

“Hi,” You said, peering up at him as a smile began to unfurl across your own face.

“Hello.” He said, his accent distorting the word slightly.

Carefully, he lowered himself to sit on the ground beside you, his own feet dangling in the pool beside yours. For a moment he was silent, and you attempted to settle back into the peaceful moment you had found just before, until you were again disrupted by a gentle prod to your cheek.

You opened your eyes to see Alexei, now propped up on an elbow so that he was almost lying beside you, holding a flyer in front of your face. After some squinting, you recognised it as the pizza place flyer Murray had mentioned, for a place called Surfer Boy Pizza.

“You’re hungry?” You asked, tilting your head up towards him. He nodded.

“Da.”

“Alright,” you replied, happy with the simple exchange, and unfolded the flyer to read the menu, “let’s order something then.”

As you were reading through the topping options, Alexei leaned further down over you to point a finger at one of the pictures on the flyer, a picture of a fresh, greasy, pepperoni pizza.

“Say?” He said, looking down at you intently.

As you looked back up at Alexei, his face was cast in shadow from the late afternoon sun behind him, making his features difficult to make out clearly, but you were fairly certain that he was staring intently at your lips. You froze, fixed in place by his watchful gaze. The whole world seemed to stand still for a long moment before you regained the ability to speak.

“P-pizza?” The word came out as a question, and heat flared in your cheeks as he grinned.

“Pizza.” He repeated.

Oh. The pronunciation.

“Y-yeah, pizza.” You repeated, breathing a slight sigh of relief when he finally turned his attention away from you again. “Um. Okay.”

You rose shakily to your feet, the flyer trembling in your grip.

“I-I’m gonna, uh, just, um, go? Inside? And…order pizza? Yeah, um…okay.” And with that, you darted back into the house without a glance back at the man sitting, looking very confused, at the edge of the pool.

The cool indoor air did nothing to soothe the burning in your cheeks after your unbelievably awkward exit, though it was a relief to no longer have Alexei staring at you. The memory of his attention focused so intently on you made you want to curl up in a ball; it had been as though he was the first person to ever truly look at you, and it had made you feel vulnerable in a way you hadn’t in a long time, not even with Murray.

Before you could allow your thoughts to delve too far into what that could mean, you snatched the phone from the receiver and punched in the number with more force than strictly necessary.