Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

All pleasures were guilty pleasures for Shane.

On a bad night, he’d go home to drink warm beer, alone in his dark, dank room. But on a good night, when his self hatred was quiet and his shoulder didn’t ache and he could make himself go, he’d go to the saloon. He’d sit in his familiar seat, the warmth of the fire on his back, have a cold drink, maybe chat with Emily or Gus for a minute.

Go home and retch it all up, get in a fight with Marnie, and wake up with a hangover. Guilt to weigh down the pleasure, to keep the balance, to keep him grounded.

To remind him why he tried not to want things.

Every time you want, you lose.

(god he wanted her, wanted to see her every day and feel her every night, feel her thighs in his grip, her ass against him, feel her breathing slow as she fell asleep in his arms…)

The farmer was a guilty pleasure.

Because he knew there was only one way for this to go. 

And he was here anyway. 

Staying the night, like she’d asked, like she’d wanted.

He knew there was only one way for this to go, but two ways it could end.

He could wait for the universe to correct it, or he could.

People like Shane didn’t get to keep what they wanted. Assholes didn’t get to keep what they wanted.

(and Yoba’s fucking light, he wanted her, wanted to stay right there and...)

So he disentangled himself from her, pulled his arms away, felt the warmth leave him as he pulled back. He sat up and looked at her, saw her lips gently parted, breath coming out slow and heavy, saw his shirt, his fucking shirt, draped loosely on her frame, falling off her shoulder exposing her flesh, and

(he wanted to stay, he wanted to wake her up and fuck her in his shirt again, wanted to make it damp with her sweat, wanted to make her cry his name, wanted, wanted, wanted—)

He stood in the doorway, watching for a moment. Told himself it was to make sure she didn’t stir, that he could still leave as easily as the first time, that winter night seasons ago. He watched her roll over, watched her reach for him to find the bed empty, watched his shirt disappear as she cocooned herself within the blanket in the absence of his warmth.

He was an asshole, and assholes take, but just this once he could give — he left without the shirt. He zipped up his jacket, pulled up the hood and ducked into the rain.

Shane hated rain.

The next few days, he stood strong. He’d go to the saloon like always, drink until he couldn’t walk straight, even let himself chat with the farmer at the bar.

But that first night when she stepped outside after only an hour, surely expecting him to follow her like the stray dog he was, as he had been for weeks, it took everything in him to stay planted in his stool.

Emily noticed, asked if he was forgetting something. He gave her a look nasty enough that she didn’t ask again the next night.

On the fourth night, the farmer asked him herself.

“You been busy this week?”

“No.”

“Been feeling okay?”

“M’fine.”

“Then where the hell have you been?”

“Just... been here.”

She sighed and went back to her drink. When she left that night, she hesitated at the door, looking over her shoulder at him, and it took every ounce of willpower Shane had to continue staring down at his drink.

The next evening, a Friday, Shane sat at the bar in his usual spot, drinking his usual drink, trying as usual to forget everything. Tried to eavesdrop, hear whatever the hell bullshit Henry or Herman or whoever the fuck was on about, tried to watch the game on the tv behind the bar, tried to drown in his drink.

Anything to distract him. Anything to get the taste of her out of his mouth.

He was about two drinks in when she came in and sat in her usual seat annoyingly close to him, her usual smile obnoxiously bright, wearing her usual—

No, not usual.

She came in wearing his fucking shirt.

“No,” he said.

“Like my outfit?” She taunted.

“No,” he said again. “No, you need to go change.”

“I can give it back in the morning, Shane.” She reached for her drink as Emily set it down, and Shane could sense the comment coming from Emily, the knowing stare from Harold or Harry or fucking whatever his fucking name was, no. No. This is not the kind of thing a sweetheart like her would do.

Shane grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her outside.

“What the hell are you doing?” She protested. “I haven’t even had a sip of my—”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Trying to have a drink with my friend, I thought.”

“What are you doing wearing my shirt in public?”

“Oh, this? Well seeing as I said I’d give it back in the morning, and you dipped out in the middle of the night and haven’t come back since, I just assumed you were abandoning it. Figured it was mine now. Why, you want it back?”

“No,” Shane rushed, running a hand down his face. “I don’t need it back, but you can’t let people see—”

“What, are you ashamed of me? Scared people are gonna find out about us? Because—”

“There is no ‘us.’”

“Shane, there has been an ‘us’ since the night you decided to just yank my dress up and go to town. You don’t get to tell me there’s not an ‘us’, and show up at my house every night for months. And you definitely don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t wear if you don’t even stick around afterwards.”

Shane felt the heat of anger rise in his chest, but anger feels just like lust, and lust feels just like yearning, and fuck,—

(he wanted her, he wanted to shove her against the wall right here in this alley and bend her over and—)

This was too much thinking, too much wanting, not enough doing.

Shane grabbed her hip, knew just how to mold her to him, knew just where to push to get her where he needed her, and he needed her against him, every inch of him needed to be touching every inch of her.

She went so willingly with him, he barely had to touch her and she was stepping backwards, back pressing against the brick wall of the saloon, lips crashing into his, her hands moving in a flurry to grab at him.

He pulled up her skirt, reaching for her, needing to touch her, feel her, taste her... only to find she had nothing on underneath.

“Like my outfit?” she said again, smirking.

Her boldness was a problem.

Wearing his shirt in public, nothing under her skirt, teasing him... it was a problem.

It was a problem because he wanted her.

And he was so fucking sick of trying not to.

Shane was an asshole. And fuck it, assholes take.

So he’d take her, right there in the alley.

He fell to his knees and his mouth fell to her skin easily, like a magnet he was drawn to her, and he felt like a man on fire trying to drink water one drop at a time. No matter how furiously or passionately he lapped at her skin, the sounds she made added fuel to the flame.

(she wants it, she wants this, she loves this as much as he did. He wants and wants and wants and—)

She was shaking, struggling to stay upright, and the sound of his name on her lips echoed down the alley. The sound of it went straight to his dick, but surely also straight to the saloon. He stood up, put one palm over her pussy, so warm and wet and wanting... and the other hand he placed over her mouth, without his work glove this time, and he felt how hot her breath was into his palm, knew he was going to be rubbing that palm on his cock for years to come, remembering the way her lips felt, the way her eyes were wide, the way she was as tangled in him physically as she seemed to be emotionally.

”Shh, baby, you gotta be quiet for me,” he whispered.

He could feel that vine, stretching out from him, searching for her sunlight, saw it strangling them both. He needed to cut down that vine, knew he needed to before it got impossible. He needed to stop. But he wanted to keep going.

His mouth fell to her neck, and she tasted sweet and warm and a little like sweat, and everything in him wanted to take a bite, whether to claim her, mark her, to take hold of her or just to get as much of her as attached to him as possible, he wasn’t sure.

He slid his hand down her thigh, gripping handfuls as he moved toward her knee, skin so soft and flesh so giving under his grasp. He tugged under her knee, hiked her leg up over his hip.

(...she moved so easily for him, such a good girl, she wanted this as much as he did, moved for him just like he wanted, like he needed...)

Her hands were already tugging at his belt, releasing his erection—

(she wants this, such a dirty girl, wants me to fuck her right here where anyone could see, she fucking wants this like I want this, like I NEED, fuck, she...)

Shane couldn’t take all this thinking, any more foreplay. He wanted her, he could admit openly now, and he needed to be inside her.

He gripped himself, moaning against her neck as he ran his length across her slit,

(so fucking wet for him, so ready and wanting, already making those sweet noises for him...)

As he pushed himself inside her, they both let out an obscene sigh, as if they’d been holding their breath. He felt like inside her was the only place he could catch his breath, but Shane had every intention of taking hers away.

He pushed in deep, eliciting a low moan from her, her hands rushing to grab at his hair, and he grabbed for the back of her other leg, the one holding her up. For a moment, confusion flashed in her eyes, but quickly she was nodding and in a moment she was pinned against the brick wall, both legs up and wrapped around his hips, and

(if she wanted this, he was going to give it to her, make her think of it as often as he did, if she was going to wear his shirt and let everyone know they were fucking, then he was going to make it worth it...)

He started pounding into her, slow and forcefully, wanting to savor it, make it last, because this really did have to be the last time. He wanted to notice every detail, remember every moment. Her eyes rolled back, the sweat glinting in the streetlight, the way her arms shook but her grip in his hair was steady, the little freckles on her chest that he knew about but couldn’t see without ripping off her shirt, his shirt, she was wearing his fucking shirt.

And god, the way she said his name, the way it echoed down the alley, daring someone to hear, and for once he wasn’t thinking about how close his name was to shame, how intrinsically tied to his identity the word was, because all he could think of was how pretty it sounded coming from her sweet lips.

He looked at her, eyes half lidded and wanting, face sweaty, chest flushed, desperately grabbing at him. He looked at her and he knew he’d never be able to stop this, that “one last time” would never be enough.

He would keeping coming back to her, as long as she let him, until he inevitably fucked everything up. He knew this couldn’t end well, but he didn’t have it in him to end it himself. And the guilt that he would drag her down too gnawed at him, felt like a weight in his chest as he neared orgasm, took the breath from his lungs as easily as she did.

Falling in love with the farmer was a guilty pleasure.

But that was okay—

Shane had infinite room for guilt.

Chapter Text

The farmer had adopted the big brown dog, Laika, her first Spring in the valley. Marnie had come around, said she’d been wandering around the woods in the space between the farm and the ranch, and asked her if she could keep her.

They’d bonded quickly — she was already a fairly tame dog, seemed to be very open to love and pets and a warm place to rest. But the farmer knew by how jumpy she was that she’d had some bad experiences. Loud noises freaked her out more than a typical dog, all 120 pounds of her would shake if someone raised their voice. But she would never shy away from love and affection, from anyone who would give it. 

She saw a lot of herself in Laika.

The following Summer, she’d found this cat in the back woods just north of her farm. It was skinny, dark fur matted, face a bit scarred. It had hissed at her the moment she came around the bend, and ran off.

She spent that summer leaving food for it, sitting and waiting patiently, hoping that eventually the cat would begin to trust her and come closer. Hoping he would accept the help and love he so clearly needed.

But every time she sat in the back woods with some food, sitting as still as she could so as not to spook it, he would creep closer, see her, hiss, and run off.

Shane was like a feral cat, in this way.

Every time she thought they were making progress, he’d hiss, or get his claws out, and run away.

She’d really thought they were making headway when she’d finally convinced him to stay the night. It took holding his beloved Tunnelers jersey hostage, but he’d climbed into bed willingly with her, held her as she drifted off to sleep, even whispered sweet things in her ear about how much he wanted her, wanted to stay with her.

But he was gone by morning.

And then that evening, when she’d left the saloon, expecting him to follow her out the door like he always did nowadays, planning on confronting him... he didn’t show. The next few nights went the same, and she wondered if maybe he was having a rougher week than usual. She’d asked if he had been busy, if he had been okay, and she barely got two words out of him on the subject, before he seemed to clam up from conversation altogether.

He’d hissed and ran off again.

Sure, he sort of stayed that one night, but once is never.

She could feel his attention waning, knew that he was getting stuck in his own head like he tended to do. So she knew she had to do something bold, something to wake him up. If this feral cat didn’t respond to food, or affection, maybe she needed to toy with him a little.

So she walked into the busy bar that Friday evening wearing his shirt.

She made her usual Friday rounds, dropping off gifts for different people — an orange for Gus, coffee for Dr. Harvey, a pomegranate for Elliott, goat cheese for Robin and Leah, and so on. Stepping up to meet these people where they were as they looked down on her. It was exhausting. She hated every moment of it.

But the look on Shane’s face when she finally sat down next to him was so worth it.

He looked like he’d short circuited, like he could see it but not believe it. His cheeks turned a deep pink, he blinked hard, his mouth literally hung open.

“No...” he said, and she beamed at his speechlessness, for once.

“Do you like my outfit?” she teased. She had seen what her wearing his shirt had done to him before, saw the possessive look in his eyes, and she had been hoping to spark that in him again. Maybe she wouldn’t even need to sit here for an hour or two to chat before they both left for her cabin. Maybe they wouldn’t need to pretend that everyone in this saloon didn’t see it.

Maybe he’d realize just how good they were together. Maybe he’d crack a joke about liking her outfit more on the floor, and he’d—

“No, you need to go change,” he said.

She was taken aback, but recovered quickly. Maybe he really hadn’t meant to leave the shirt behind, didn’t think she’d hoped to keep it?

“I can give it back in the morning, Shane,” she teased.

Her hopes of no longer pretending not to leave together were rewarded when he grabbed her by the wrist and practically dragged her to the alley beside the saloon, away from prying eyes.

“What the hell are you doing?” She laughed. “I haven’t even had a sip of my—”

Then those hopes were dashed.

“What the hell are you doing?”

She paused at his gruff tone. It seemed like there was real anger in his voice, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him genuinely angry at her. Maybe annoyed when she’d shown up at his work, frustrated with her sometimes maybe. Shane’s emotions seemed to be unreadable most of the time. Suddenly she wasn’t sure where they stood, and she didn’t really know how to feel about that herself.

“Trying to have a drink with my friend, I thought.”

“What are you doing wearing my shirt in public?” He hissed.

She’d tried to be playful with it. Thought that flirtful teasing could bring the tension down. She wasn’t entirely sure how tense he even was, but something was different here. There was a crack in the walls he put up around himself, and she could almost peer inside.

She was tired of trying to break down the walls that she was no longer sure he’d wanted her to break. He’d started this whole thing, afterall, why was he so abrasive every time she reciprocated? The feral cat came to her, but still it swiped at her when she tried to pet it.

If he was going to be defensive, so was she.

“Oh, this?” She spit out. “Well seeing as I said I’d give it back in the morning, and you dipped out in the middle of the night and haven’t come back since, I just assumed you were abandoning it. Figured it was mine now. Why, you want it back?”

“No,” Shane said, rubbing his face. He seemed tired. “I don’t need it back, but you can’t let people see—”

“What, are you ashamed of me?” She felt her own anger and fear of rejection rising. “Scared people are gonna find out about us? Because—”

“There is no ‘us.’” Shane hissed.

For a moment, she just stared at him, bewildered.

“Shane, there has been an ‘us’ since the night you decided to just yank my dress up and go to town. You don’t get to tell me there’s not an ‘us’, and show up at my house every night for months. And you definitely don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t wear if you don’t even stick around afterwards.”

She stared at him for a moment, daring him to disagree, to yell at her, to finally fucking talk about this. She saw so many emotions flash across his face, but she could only name one of them.

So she wasn’t surprised, really, when Shane stepped forward, hand against her lower back, knee pressing on her between her thighs, gently but firmly guiding her back. She was furious at him for yet again using sex to avoid the conversation, and furious at herself for falling for it.

But still, fury or not, her head tilted up, lips met his.

His hands were on her, quick but not frenzied, like he knew exactly where he wanted to touch her, where she needed to feel him. As if he’d planned it all out already. Soon he was hiking up her skirt, reaching for her, and she remembered her cheeky decision earlier. Her last resort, if the shirt wasn’t enough to entice him.

She felt his small gasp against her lips as his hands sought out her panties and felt flesh instead.

“Like my outfit?” she whispered, trying to sound bold and playful to hide the need she felt. Her voice cracked anyway.

“Yoba’s light,” Shane muttered, falling to his knees, and suddenly his mouth was on her, tongue furiously narrowing in directly on her clit, and she couldn’t find the breath to be a smartass anymore, only the breath to whimper his name.

She tried to stay upright, felt the brick wall scraping along her bare shoulders, felt her legs shaking as they tried to hold her upright, her hands aching as they clamped down on his hair. His presence was suffocating, his tongue and his hands exactly where she needed them before she even knew she did.

In their time as friends-with-benefits, or whatever the hell they were, Shane had learned exactly what she liked and how, knew how to counteract her small movements to stay exactly where she needed him. Shane ate her out like he not only enjoyed it, but like he needed it.

It was driving her to the edge, the idea of this man who claimed he never wanted anything, looking up at her like he needed her, this man who claimed to not be good at anything now an expert on her body. Her voice rose as she came, his name escaping like something between a whimper and a scream.

He stood then, one palm over her pussy like he was claiming it, as if he wanted to check that she really was that wet, that she really did need him that much. The other hand went to her mouth again, just as it had in the backroom at Joja, and her eyes went wide with lust as her body shivered.

”Shh, baby, you gotta be quiet for me,” he whispered, voice low and eyes dark.

She nodded, just glad that he intended to give her more reasons to call his name.

His mouth fell to her neck, kissing and mouthing at her flesh, testing little nibbles with teeth as if he was just barely able to hold himself back from biting her. Part of her hoped he would.

Then suddenly her leg was hiked up and he was filling her, raw and wild and in the middle of the alley where anyone could pass by. But she didn’t care, the look in his eyes was all she cared about. His green eyes were wild as he began to thrust into her, possessive and smug, like he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

Then he was pulling at her other leg, and for a moment she was uncertain what he wanted, until she looked in his eyes, saw the unspoken question there: do you trust me? Can I?

And she nodded.

Then she was in the air, legs and arms wrapped around him, roots taking hold in him, and he was all she could think of, all she could see or hear, just his grunts, his whispering that she knew now that he never intended, the words that just escaped him sometimes.

“...so good for me baby, such a dirty girl, you want this so bad, don’t you? So wet for me, so ready, you wanted me to take you in this alley, didn’t you? Wanted me to drag you out here, where anyone could—”

And then she was coming, hard, biting down on his shoulder — the good one, not the one with the huge scar — in order to keep herself quiet. His voice was still ragged and needy in her ear as he pistoned into her relentlessly, though she was sure he’d cum alongside her. 

“...want this so bad, just like me?” he kept whispering in her ear, despite his apparent breathlessness. She cupped his cheek, damp with sweat, and he leaned into her touch as he continued to move in her, thrusts ragged and stuttering.

She felt so in tune with him in these moments, when he was open and vulnerable, walls beginning to crack, just a little bit of his light shining through. These moments before he pulled away from her, before he hissed and ran away, were when she felt she knew him the most. Felt like she could really understand what he was thinking, feeling, where his head was at. He was so adamant he didn’t share his true feelings with her, but something about sex always unraveled those worries, little by little.

“I want you,” she whispered to him, cupping his face in both her hands now, forcing him to look at her, to really hear her. “Shane, I want you so bad. All of you, I want everything to do with you. I want to be with you, I want you.”

She saw the walls go back up for a moment, saw the moment he told himself that it couldn’t be possible — that she didn’t mean it, or was lying, or just didn’t know what she was saying, like he always did, every time she’d tried to be vulnerable with him. But this time the wall didn’t go all the way back up. There was the smallest glimmer of hope in his eyes as he slowed down, panting, looking so deep into her eyes that she felt more naked now than any time they’d fucked before.

She’d reached out to him, and he didn’t immediately run this time.

Until the back door of the saloon opened up, letting the voices inside carry out into the night, light spilling out. He pulled away from her so quickly, dropped her, turning to face the other direction, furiously fumbling with his pants.

He looked...terrified. Actually scared.

His eyes were wide, his face went pale, he was... Yoba, he was shaking.

“One second!” Emily’s voice called from the back door. She came around the corner quickly, holding a couple of trash bags. “Oh, hey Farmer, Shane... you guys okay?”

“Yeah, we’re good.” She tried her best to come across as casual, like she hadn’t just scrambled to her feet, like she wasn’t covered in sweat, panting, with Shane’s cum running down her leg. Totally casual. “We were just talking. Needed somewhere more quiet is all. Your night going okay?”

“Yeah, Fridays are always a good time, the night goes by faster when it’s busy.” She said cheerfully, not even a hint of suspicion in her voice. She tossed the bags in the dumpster and turned back to walk around the corner. “I better get back though, you guys have a good night!”

“Night Em,” she called after her, turning toward Shane again.

“And nice shirt!” Emily called as the door swung shut behind her.

The farmer paused a moment, sighing. She turned to Shane, who had moved a few feet away from her, and was facing away, head down.

“Why the hell did you drop me?”

“I didn’t want her to see.” He said, not turning to her or even lifting his head.

“But you couldn’t just set me down or something? I damn near smashed my head on the wall.”

“Sorry.”

He stood there for a moment, looking down at the ground, body tense. His hands went to his pockets, and she felt him pulling away again, ripping out her roots.

“I need to go,” he said eventually. “This can’t happen again. There can’t be an us, and I need you to never wear that shirt off the farm again.”

She blinked hard a few times, feeling wave after wave of anger, confusion, betrayal, and rejection wash over her.

“Fucking... why??”

He didn’t answer. His shoulders heaved once like he let out a shaky breath. She took a step 

forward and placed a hand gently on his shoulder, half expecting him to brush her off.

“We have to talk about this, Shane,” she whispered. “I’m not gonna give you the chance to avoid it for months again, like the first time. We have to talk about this.”

“There is no this!” He cried out, voice cracking and full of anguish. “There is no us, this is... this has to be nothing.”

“It’s not nothing to me,” she said, surprised to hear how emotional she sounded already. “And I can see that it’s not nothing to you either. Hooking up once is nothing, but for almost a year? You can’t tell me that it’s nothing. So why are you trying so hard to make it nothing?”

He was quiet for a long while, shoulders shaking softly like he was holding back a sob with every breath. He still wouldn’t look at her, but finally he whispered.

“I’ve spent a long time trying to not want things. Wanting something means you either don’t get it, and it sucks... or you get it, and maybe you’re good for a while, but then you lose it and it’s terrible. So it’s easier to not want in the first place.”

“I’ve...” he starts, tensing up, and she can sense the fight or flight in him, the stray cat feeling the need to run. But he stays. He stays and he whispers his thoughts, breaks down his walls himself for her to see inside. “I’ve lost a lot in my life. Jobs, opportunities, family and friends, sobriety that I worked so hard for, a—” he sighs. “A working fucking shoulder.”

There’s a long pause, but she waits.

“The ability t... to control my life. I’ve wanted a lot of things in life and lost every one of them. I don’t think I want to try to be happy or, or fuck, even normal again, because losing something is so much harder than never letting myself have it.”

“But you admit that this makes you happy?” She said, voice full of hope despite the tears running down her face.

“I....yeah,” he says, wiping his own damp cheek on the back of his hand. “In a way. But that means it can’t last. People like me don’t get to be happy forever.”

“So instead you’re committed to never being happy?” She said, incredulous. 

“I guess, yeah. It’s...easier that way.”

“I don’t think it is... not really. I think maybe for that one moment when things start to get bad again, maybe it’s easy to convince yourself that being depressed is easier if you don’t let yourself be happy. But doesn’t the darkness feel so much darker without any hope of light?”

He was quiet for a long time. Just staring down at the ground, hands in his pockets, sniffling occasionally. She wasn’t sure what he was thinking, or what to do, so she just stood behind him, gently rubbing his back and shoulder, trying to be as soothing as possible but feeling useless.

“...Maybe,” he said eventually.

She took a small step toward him, desperately wanting to embrace him, but she held herself back. She was afraid to move too quickly and send her feral cat running for the trees.

“So maybe it can be something? Even if it’s not something forever, it can still make you happy for a short while, right? And doesn’t that sound better than just forcing yourself to be alone?”

Shane shook his head.

“I don’t want to hurt you. And I’m scared that I will. If this is more than just sex, you’re going to want and expect more from me, and I’m not sure I can promise that. I’m going to fuck up again, and you’re going to try to fix it, fix me, and I’m just going to drag you down with me.”

“I won’t.” She said simply.

Again he pauses, still refusing to look at her, but his eyebrows knit together in confusion.

“You... won’t?”

“I won’t try to fix you. Because not only is that totally not my job, but even if I was somewhat successful, it wouldn’t last. It wouldn’t be meaningful. It has to come from you.”

“....yeah,” he said, sounding like he’d already given up on the idea entirely.

“So you can choose to get better, and I’ll be here to support you and cheer you on, listen or whatever... But I’m not gonna try to fix you. We can be something until we can’t, and... and maybe that can be enough, even if it doesn’t last.”

He’s quiet again, for a long time. Staring down, kicking absentmindedly at a rock. So much time goes by that she feels her tears dry, wonders if he was done talking and just hadn’t ran yet.

Then eventually, he spoke up, a tiny whisper, packed with emotions she couldn’t untangle. 

“Okay.”

"Okay?”

“Yeah. Maybe we... maybe we can try to be something.”

She felt her smile stretch across her face. She tried to hold it back, to keep calm and collected for Shane’s sake, in the same way she worried about being too intense when the stray cat finally finally let her feed it.

“Okay,” she said simply.

“I, uh. I should get home. Got ranch stuff with Marnie in the morning.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure,” she nodded, still trying to hold back a smile.

He turned, finally looking at her. His eyes were red and puffy, but he gave her a small smile. Not a smirk, but a genuine smile, shy and sweet and so Shane.

“I’ll... text you or something?” He said, opening his arms for a hug.

She rushed into his arms, wrapped hers around him and buried her giant smile against his chest, her roots digging in deep. The feral cat was purring against her hand, now, and she couldn’t help but pet it.

“Yeah, that would be nice.”