Take My Whole Life Too

by LivesInDelusion (thinkstreep)

Summary:

Drabbles about Lored or Parmiga! These are literally just prompts that I wish I'd read in AO3 or FFN but could not find :(

Made Explicit for future drabbles. If you have any suggestions, just comment it!

Chapter 1: After Cut

The house was dimly lit, every corner of the set dressed in shadows that clung stubbornly to the wallpaper. The script had called for anguish—grief that cracked through a person’s chest like lightning—and Vera had delivered it with everything she had.

She stood in the center of the room, chest heaving, her character’s words still echoing through her like aftershocks. The soundstage was full of people, yet it felt unbearably quiet, as though the air itself was holding its breath. Her throat ached from shouting, her eyes burned from the tears she had forced forward and then, against her will, truly felt. Somewhere deep inside, Vera knew it wasn’t her life, not her pain—but for those long minutes in front of the camera, it might as well have been.

“Cut!”

The director’s voice broke through, loud and decisive. A rustle of movement filled the room—cameras lowering, crew exchanging glances, monitors flicking dark. The spell was broken.

But Vera’s body hadn’t caught up yet.

Her hands trembled at her sides, her breath ragged. She pressed them into the fabric of her skirt, willing herself to come back to the present. She could feel the emotion still clinging to her like cobwebs, sticky and stubborn, refusing to let go.

Then she heard him.

“Vee.”

Patrick’s voice was softer than the director’s command, softer even than the shuffle of the crew clearing cables and tripods. It was the kind of voice you leaned toward without realizing it. She blinked and turned. He was already moving toward her, his stride quick but careful, his face set in that familiar mix of worry and gentleness. The kind of look that told her he’d been watching, not just her performance, but her.

“You okay?” Patrick asked, his brows knitting together as he stopped just in front of her. His hand hovered near her arm, like he wanted to touch but didn’t want to overwhelm. “That was… a lot.”

Vera exhaled a laugh, shaky and thin, as if humor could dissolve the rawness still lodged in her chest. “Guess I… got a little too deep into it.”

Patrick tilted his head, lips pulling into a small, knowing smile. He didn’t buy her deflection, not for a second. “You don’t have to brush it off. I could see it—you went there. And that takes a toll.”

His voice had a grounding weight to it, steady and warm. She wanted to argue, say she was fine, but her throat caught before the words came. All she could manage was a quiet, “I’ll be alright.”

Patrick’s gaze softened further. He lowered his hand to rest gently on her arm. It was barely a touch, but it steadied her. “We don’t need you to be alright this second,” he said quietly. “We can step outside for a bit, yeah? Catch your breath. I’ll make sure no one bothers you.”

Something in her loosened at that. The thought of stepping away from the set, the lights, the eyes—just for a moment—felt like relief itself.

“You always know when I need saving,” she murmured, a tired but genuine smile tugging at her lips.

Patrick chuckled, his thumb brushing a reassuring circle over her sleeve. “Not saving. More like… hitting pause. Even you need a reset sometimes.”

His tone had shifted, playful now, as though he was coaxing her back toward herself. He glanced around, then leaned in just enough to lower his voice. “And, for the record, I come fully equipped for the job.”

Vera raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering through her exhaustion. “Equipped?”

He grinned and reached into his jacket pocket with exaggerated flair. “Ta-da.” He produced a slightly crumpled granola bar and wiggled it between two fingers like it was a magic trick.

Despite herself, she laughed—real laughter this time, spilling out of her chest and cutting through the heaviness like sunlight breaking cloud cover. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe. But you’re also smiling now,” he said, eyes bright with satisfaction. “So I’d say my methods are foolproof.”

Her smile lingered, soft and unguarded. “You never let me sit in the dark for long, do you?”

“Not if I can help it,” Patrick replied, simple and sure, like it was the easiest promise he’d ever make.

And for the first time since the director had called cut, Vera felt the weight begin to lift—not completely, not all at once, but enough. Enough because Patrick was there, steady and warm, ready to carry some of it for her.

The crew was already buzzing with the energy of transition—resetting lights, repositioning cameras, murmuring about the next setup—but Vera only half-heard it. The room felt crowded, heavy, and she was still tangled in the ghost of the scene. Patrick seemed to sense it before she said a word. “Come on,” he murmured, his voice pitched just for her. “Let’s get you out of here for a bit.”

She hesitated, glancing toward the director, but Patrick followed her gaze. “Don’t worry about it. They’re not rolling again for at least twenty minutes. You’ve got time.”

There was something in his tone—gentle, but threaded with quiet certainty—that made her trust him without another thought. She nodded, letting him guide her toward the edge of the set. His hand lingered lightly against her back, steadying without crowding, the kind of touch that made it clear she wasn’t alone.

As they slipped past the camera rig, a couple of crew members glanced their way. Patrick shot them a quick grin, raising the granola bar still in his hand like a peace offering. “Medical treatment,” he joked, and the whispers faded.

Vera shook her head, a soft laugh escaping her despite herself. “You and that granola bar,” she muttered.

“Hey, don’t knock it,” Patrick said as they walked down the narrow hallway that led to the trailers. “It’s got oats, honey, maybe even a few mystery vitamins. Practically medicinal.”

She smirked, the corner of her mouth quirking. “So you’re my knight in shining armor… armed with processed snack food?”

“Exactly.” He beamed, clearly pleased with himself. “Low budget, but reliable.”

The lightness of their banter started to chase away the heaviness, little by little. By the time they reached her trailer, Vera’s breathing had evened out, though the ache in her chest still lingered. Patrick opened the door for her without a word, gesturing grandly like she was royalty.

“After you, Your Highness,” he said.

“Ridiculous,” she murmured, but she stepped inside.

The small space was quiet, a welcome contrast to the chaos of the set. Vera sank onto the couch with a sigh, curling one leg beneath her. The silence pressed in at first, reminding her of the rawness that still clung, but then Patrick followed, dropping into the armchair across from her with a casualness that filled the room with warmth.

He tossed the granola bar onto the table between them, as if offering tribute. “Emergency rations,” he declared.

Vera arched an eyebrow. “You really think a granola bar is going to fix me?”

Patrick leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes softened, the playfulness giving way to something steadier. “No. But talking might.”

The sincerity in his voice caught her off guard. She looked down, fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve. “It’s silly,” she murmured.

“It’s not silly.” The way he said it—firm, but gentle—left no room for argument. She swallowed, feeling the words start to rise before she could stop them.

“I just…” She paused, searching for the right shape of it. “That scene… it’s not mine, but sometimes it feels like it could be. Like if I dig deep enough, I’ll find a corner of myself that matches it. And then, once it’s over, I can’t shake it right away. It lingers.”

Patrick nodded slowly, listening the way he always did—with patience, with care. “Makes sense,” he said simply. “You’re not a switch, Vera. You can’t just flip it off the second they yell ‘cut.’ You put yourself in it. That’s why it works. But it’s also why it takes something from you.”

Her throat tightened, but not with tears this time—with relief. Because he understood. He always did.

“You ever feel that way?” she asked quietly.

Patrick leaned back, tilting his head as if considering. “Sure. Plenty of times. But I’ve got an advantage.”

“Oh?” She tilted her head, curious.

He grinned, leaning in conspiratorially. “I know a brilliant actress who reminds me to take breaks. Keeps me sane. Bit of a lifesaver, actually.”

Vera laughed, the sound easing the last bit of tension in her chest. “You’re insufferable.”

“Probably. But it got you to smile again, didn’t it?”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile lingered anyway. Patrick’s presence filled the small space, steady and warm, until the echoes of the scene finally began to fade. For a moment, they sat in comfortable silence, the only sound the faint hum of the trailer’s air conditioning. Patrick leaned back, folding his arms loosely, his gaze still soft on her.

“You don’t have to carry it alone, Vee,” he said finally. “Not on set. Not after.”

Her chest loosened at his words, and she let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. She didn’t answer right away—didn’t need to. The gratitude in her eyes said enough.

And Patrick, as always, understood. He let the silence linger, unhurried. He had always been good at that—giving her space without making her feel abandoned, leaving enough room for her to catch her breath. Vera leaned back into the couch, her body slowly unclenching, though her mind still hummed with the remnants of the scene.

She glanced at the granola bar sitting forlornly on the table and reached for it, peeling back the wrapper with a wry smile. “Fine. I’ll humor you.”

Patrick’s lips curved into a grin. “See? Healing properties.”

She took a bite, wrinkled her nose dramatically. “Healing properties and cardboard.”

“Hey,” he protested, hand over his heart like she’d wounded him. “That cardboard kept me alive on two different night shoots. Respect the granola.”

Vera laughed, the sound spilling out freely now. She shook her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Not impossible,” he countered easily. “Persistent. There’s a difference.”

The banter carried them for a few minutes, each teasing jab lightening the weight in her chest. By the time she set the wrapper aside, the room felt warmer, brighter—not because the trailer had changed, but because Patrick had managed, as always, to tilt her world back into balance.

She exhaled softly, letting herself sink further into the cushions. “You know… I don’t think I’ve ever told you how much that helps.”

Patrick’s expression softened. “What, my world-class snack collection?”

“Not just that.” She gave him a look, her smile faint but genuine. “You. The way you… notice. The way you step in, even before I realize I need it.”

Something flickered in his eyes—pride, maybe, or tenderness—but he didn’t make a big show of it. That wasn’t his way. He just leaned back in his chair, his voice steady. “Well. You do the same for me, you know.”

She tilted her head. “Do I?”

“All the time.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “You’re the reason half these scenes work. You keep me honest. You keep me grounded. So if I can return the favor now and then, I’d say it’s a fair trade.”

The sincerity in his tone wrapped around her like a blanket, warm and steady. Vera felt her throat tighten—not with the leftover weight of the scene, but with something gentler, something grateful.

“Patrick…” she began, but her words trailed off, too many unspoken things crowding together. Instead, she shook her head lightly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “What would I do without you?”

He chuckled, leaning forward again. “Eat less granola, probably.”

That earned another laugh from her, soft and real. She leaned her head back against the couch, eyes closing for just a moment. The exhaustion from the scene finally caught up to her, heavy but no longer suffocating.

When she opened her eyes again, Patrick was watching her, not intrusively, just… there. Steady.

“You look tired,” he said gently.

“I am,” she admitted. “But not in a bad way. Just… drained.”

“Then don’t fight it,” he replied. “Rest a little. I’ll sit here and make sure no one barges in with questions about lighting setups or costume notes.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “You’re volunteering as my bodyguard now?”

“Absolutely.” He crossed his arms with mock seriousness. “Granola Knight, at your service.”

Vera laughed again, but this time she didn’t argue. She shifted slightly, curling into the couch, her head tipping sideways until it rested lightly against the armrest. Patrick, after a beat, moved from the chair to sit on the other end of the couch, close enough to be near, far enough not to crowd her.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet was different now—peaceful, almost tender. Vera let her eyes slip shut, her breathing evening out.

“You know,” Patrick said softly after a while, his tone more thoughtful than teasing, “this is the part I love most about the job.”

Her eyes fluttered open. “What part?”

He shrugged lightly. “The in-between. When the cameras stop, and it’s just… us. Real. Not characters, not lines. Just people.”

Vera studied him, the warmth in his expression, the steadiness in his presence. She felt something in her chest loosen fully then, the last knot unwinding.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Me too.”

The words hung between them, simple but heavy with meaning. Patrick smiled, soft and quiet, and leaned back against the couch, settling in as though he’d stay there as long as she needed. Vera let her eyes drift shut again, the tension finally gone. With Patrick beside her—her Granola Knight, her anchor—she didn’t feel the lingering weight of the scene anymore. She felt safe. Steady. Warm. And for the first time since the director had called cut, she allowed herself to rest.

Chapter 2: Happy Anniversary

Notes:

Lorraine x Ed in this chappy !! Enjoy xx

The house was quiet in the way only old houses could be—floorboards sighing, pipes clicking as if whispering to each other in the dark. Lorraine Warren let the front door close softly behind her, slipping off her coat with a weary exhale. The case had dragged on longer than expected, and though they had seen worse, every encounter left its fingerprints on her bones.

She passed through the narrow hallway, her heels muted on the worn rug, and paused to glance at the mantle clock. Nearly midnight. A flicker of guilt pressed at her chest. She had lost track of the day, the way she often did when their work swallowed them whole.

Their anniversary.

Her lips parted as the realization landed, heavy and sudden. She ran a hand down her skirt, smoothing fabric that didn’t need smoothing, her mind darting through half-formed apologies. After decades together, after raising a family, after facing darkness no marriage should ever have to withstand, she should have remembered. She always remembered.

But tonight—tonight she was simply too tired.

She moved toward the living room, expecting to find Ed asleep in his chair, book splayed open across his chest, glasses crooked against his nose. She had half a mind to join him, to sink into the cushions and drift off, too weary even for dreams.

But as she rounded the corner, her breath caught.

The room was bathed in golden candlelight. Dozens of small flames flickered across the mantle and coffee table, their glow softening the edges of the worn wallpaper. On the old record player in the corner, a vinyl spun lazily, filling the room with the low hum of a familiar melody—one of the songs Ed always said reminded him of her.

And at the center of it all was Ed himself, standing with that crooked smile she’d known since she was seventeen.

“Well,” he said softly, as if afraid to break the spell, “took you long enough.”

Lorraine stood frozen in the doorway, her exhaustion slipping away, replaced by a swell of warmth that made her eyes sting.

Lorraine blinked against the warm glow, her fingers tightening around the strap of her handbag. “Ed…” she whispered, her voice catching. “What have you done?”

He stepped toward her, that boyish grin tugging at his mouth, though his eyes—those steady, unwavering eyes—were softer than ever. “What, a man can’t spoil his wife once in a while?”

Her lips trembled into a smile. “Spoil? Darling, this looks like something out of a dream.”

“Good,” he said simply, reaching to ease the handbag from her shoulder. “Because you’ve been walking through enough nightmares lately. Thought you deserved a better ending tonight.”

The words made her chest ache. She set the bag aside and let him lead her into the room, her gaze sweeping over the small details—the table set for two, the vase of fresh flowers she hadn’t noticed at first, the old record filling the silence between them with something tender and familiar.

Her hand brushed the back of a chair. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered.” His tone was gentle, but firm, as though the idea of forgetting was unthinkable. “Lorraine, after everything we’ve been through, these days… they matter. You matter.”

She swallowed hard, the candlelight blurring through the wetness in her eyes. She hadn’t brought him a gift, hadn’t even spoken the words happy anniversary until now. And yet here he was, steady as the heartbeat beneath his shirt, always giving her more than she thought she deserved.

“You should sit,” he said, motioning to the chair. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

“Ed…” She caught his hand before he could move away. His fingers curled naturally around hers, as though they had never stopped holding on, not since the day they first met.

Her thumb brushed his knuckles, rough with years of work and worry. “You’ve already given me everything.”

For a moment, the candles flickered between them, and the world outside—the shadows, the silence, the weight of all they’d faced—fell away.

They lingered at the table, dinner half-forgotten between them. Lorraine traced the rim of her glass absently, her gaze caught by the way the candlelight softened Ed’s profile—the strong line of his jaw, the little crease at his brow when he studied her more closely than the food.

She smiled faintly, though her chest was tight. “I should have known you wouldn’t let tonight slip by.”

He shrugged, but his hand reached across the table to cover hers. “Wouldn’t be much of a husband if I did.”

Her fingers curled beneath his, but she didn’t look up. Something pressed against her ribcage, a truth she’d been trying to ignore since the case. Since the vision.

“Ed,” she began carefully, her voice low, “sometimes I wonder if we were selfish. Choosing this life. Bringing all this darkness into our home, into…” Her throat closed, and she shook her head. “What if it takes you from me one day?”

The air stilled, the record’s crackle filling the silence.

Ed squeezed her hand, leaning closer. His voice was steady, but softer than she’d ever heard it. “Lorraine, listen to me. Nothing in this world—or the next—is going to take me away from you. Not demons. Not the work. Not even time.”

Her eyes burned. She wanted to believe him, she did, but visions had a way of planting roots deep in her bones. She had seen him fall before. She had felt the cold terror of his absence in dreams that left her shaking awake.

“I can’t lose you,” she whispered, her hand trembling beneath his.

He slid from his chair without hesitation, kneeling beside her as though vows could be spoken anew on their worn wooden floor. His hand cradled her cheek, tilting her face toward his. “You won’t. Lorraine, you are the reason I fight. The reason I walk back into the dark every time. You’ve kept me alive more than once—and you’ll keep me alive as long as I’m meant to be here.”

She pressed her lips together, the tears slipping free despite herself. He caught one with his thumb, brushing it away gently, reverently.

Even through the ache, she laughed—a soft, broken sound. “Always so sure of yourself.”

“Only when it comes to you.”

Her heart clenched. She wanted to tell him about the vision, about how real it had felt—the sudden silence of his heartbeat, the way the world had emptied without him. But looking into his eyes now, she couldn’t bring herself to lay that weight at his feet. Not tonight.

So instead, she leaned forward, resting her forehead against his, breathing him in like he was the only tether holding her here.

For a long moment, they stayed like that—her forehead pressed to his, his hand warm against her cheek, the world narrowed to the space between their breaths. Then Ed pressed a kiss to her temple, soft as a vow, and rose to his feet.

“Come here,” he said, offering his hand.

Lorraine blinked up at him. “Ed, we haven’t even—”

“Dinner can wait.” His smile was gentle, coaxing. “Dance with me.”

The record spun on, the song low and lilting, one they’d danced to in their youth when jukeboxes were still coins and promises. She hesitated, then let him pull her to her feet, her hand slipping naturally into his.

He drew her close, one arm firm around her waist, the other guiding her hand to rest against his chest. Beneath her palm, steady and strong, was the beat she needed most.

Lorraine closed her eyes, leaning into him as he swayed them across the living room. The candles flickered with the movement, shadows chasing them along the walls, but none of it mattered. Not the cases, not the visions, not the fears that clung to her heart like cobwebs. Only this—his warmth, his steadiness, the quiet way he hummed along to the tune as though the whole world existed only to carry her through this moment.

“You hear that?” he murmured.

She pressed her cheek against his shirt, listening. “Your heartbeat.”

“That’s right,” he whispered. “As long as you hear it, you’ll know I’m right here.”

Her throat tightened. She let her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding him as if she could memorize the rhythm, etch it into her skin. “Don’t you ever stop,” she said, voice breaking.

Ed slowed their steps, tightening his hold. “Not as long as I’ve got you to dance with.”

The record crackled softly, fading into silence as the needle reached the end. Still, they kept moving, swaying in a rhythm older than the music, older than the darkness that had ever tried to touch them.

When Lorraine finally lifted her head, her eyes glistened but her smile was steady. “Happy anniversary, my love.”

Ed kissed her forehead once more, his voice quiet but certain. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”

And as the last candle burned low, Lorraine thought—not for the first time—that no matter what the future held, this was home.

Chapter 3: Exhaustion

Notes:

Was asked by my friend to write something where Vera and Patrick got into a fight because of exhaustion but it was all just a misunderstanding / miscommunication...
So enjoy?? xx

The clock on the soundstage wall read just past midnight, but it felt later. Much later. The kind of late where coffee didn’t work anymore, where even the air felt heavy with exhaustion.

Vera sat on the worn couch that served as the set’s centerpiece, script pages scattered beside her. Her head ached from the harsh lights, her throat raw from running the same lines over and over. She pressed her fingers against her temples, willing herself to stay sharp, to hold on just a little longer.

“Alright, reset! Let’s take it again from the top,” the director called.

A groan rippled through the crew. Quiet, but collective. Everyone was running on fumes.

Patrick, standing a few feet away, gave a little shake of his shoulders, rolling out the stiffness. He caught Vera’s eye and flashed her a grin—the kind he always did when the night dragged on, when spirits dipped.

“You ready for take number…” He glanced around theatrically. “What is this, forty-seven? Forty-eight?”

Normally, it would have made her laugh. Normally, she’d shoot back some sarcastic retort about his terrible memory or his habit of exaggeration. But tonight, her nerves were too thin, her patience worn raw.

“Patrick,” she said, sharper than she meant. “Can you just stop for once? Please?”

The words snapped out before she could pull them back.

The silence that followed was thick. The crew stilled, eyes darting between them before quickly turning away, pretending to fuss with equipment.

Patrick’s grin faltered. Just slightly, almost imperceptibly. He covered it quickly, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Alright. Shutting up,” he said lightly, though his voice had softened, careful.

He turned back toward the camera, rolling his shoulders again like nothing had happened. Like her words hadn’t landed where they did.

Vera’s stomach twisted immediately. She hadn’t meant it—not like that. He was only trying to help, to lift the weight that pressed on all of them. But the fatigue and pressure had clawed the words out of her anyway, leaving them hanging in the air like a bruise.

She opened her mouth to say something, but the director clapped his hands. “Alright, let’s go again!”

There was no time.

The scene reset. Lines recited. Emotions dragged up, shaped, repeated. Vera did her part, hit her marks, delivered her words—but a part of her attention remained fixed on Patrick. On the way his usual easy warmth seemed quieter now, more restrained. He still smiled when the cameras rolled, still joked with the crew in passing, but there was something pulled-in about it. Something she recognized.

He was hurt.

And worse—he was hiding it.

By the time they finally wrapped the scene, it was nearly two in the morning. The director called cut, and applause rippled weakly through the exhausted crew. Scripts closed, headsets came off, and people began shuffling toward the exits.

Patrick clapped one of the grips on the shoulder, offering a tired but good-natured quip about their collective survival of the night. He laughed at someone’s joke, gathered his jacket, slung it over his shoulder. All perfectly normal.

But not quite. Not to her.

Vera stayed seated on the couch for a moment, her fingers curling tight into the fabric. She wanted to go to him, to say it was the exhaustion speaking, not her, to apologize for the sharp edge in her voice. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled with pride and fatigue.

By the time she pushed herself up, Patrick was already halfway to the door.

“Night, everyone,” he called over his shoulder, his tone easy.

And just like that, he was gone.

Vera stood in the emptying set, the echo of her own words ringing louder now than when she’d spoken them. Sharp. Unfair. Misplaced.

And worst of all—aimed at the one person who least deserved them.

The quiet after wrap always carried a strange kind of relief. Crew voices faded, props were tucked away, the echo of footsteps scattered into the night. Normally, Vera found comfort in that hush, like the world finally letting go of its breath.

Tonight, though, the silence felt suffocating.

She lingered on set longer than usual, gathering her things slowly, stalling as though dragging her heels would rewind time to before the words left her mouth. Can you just stop for once? They looped in her head, harsher with every replay.

By the time she made her way toward the trailers, the hallways were nearly empty. A few crew members passed with tired nods, their conversations muted by fatigue. Patrick’s door, she noticed, was closed. No muffled laughter, no faint strumming of a guitar like she often heard drifting from his space. Just quiet.

Her stomach knotted tighter.

She retreated to her own trailer, dropped her bag onto the counter, and sank onto the couch with her head in her hands. The exhaustion from the long shoot weighed heavily, but not as much as the guilt did.

Patrick had always been the one to keep her afloat during nights like this—the late shoots, the endless retakes, the pressure that pressed against their ribs until it was hard to breathe. He was the one who cracked jokes, who carried snacks in his pockets, who nudged her back to herself with that easy warmth. And tonight, instead of leaning on him, she’d shoved him away.

What if he’s actually upset?

Vera shook her head. Patrick wasn’t the type to hold grudges. He brushed things off, kept the peace. But that was exactly what unsettled her—the way he hid his hurt behind lightness, the way he kept his distance instead of letting it show.

And she’d seen it. The flicker when her words landed. The careful way he’d tucked it away.

She groaned softly, covering her face with her hands. “Idiot,” she muttered to herself.

A knock on the door startled her upright. Her heart leapt—half-hoping, half-dreading. But it wasn’t Patrick’s voice that followed.

“Wardrobe’s collecting costumes,” a PA called through the door.

“Right,” Vera said quickly, forcing her voice steady. “I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

“Got it.” Footsteps faded.

She slumped back onto the couch, dragging a pillow against her chest. The trailer felt too empty, the silence pressing in around her. She closed her eyes, but instead of rest, all she found was the memory of Patrick’s face—the quick slip in his smile, the way his voice softened, careful not to make it worse.

You hurt him.

The thought gnawed at her until she couldn’t sit still anymore. She stood, pacing the small space. She could go to him now, knock on his door, apologize. But what if he was asleep? What if he didn’t want to see her?

Her hand hovered over the doorknob anyway.

Before she could decide, her phone buzzed on the counter. She snatched it up quickly, her pulse skipping when she saw his name light the screen.

Patrick: Don’t forget your water bottle. You left it on set.

That was it. No joke, no emoji, no playful jab about how she was always leaving things behind. Just factual, polite. Her chest tightened.

She typed out a reply, erased it, typed again. Finally, she sent: Thanks. I’ll grab it in the morning.

She stared at the screen, waiting for the three dots that would mean he was still on the other side, still willing to banter even if it was tired banter. But the dots never came. Vera sat back down, her phone heavy in her hand. The guilt pressed harder now, mingling with the ache of exhaustion until her eyes stung. She hated this. Hated the distance that had opened between them in the span of one sharp sentence. Hated that she’d taken the one constant source of steadiness in these long nights and fractured it.

By the time the clock crept toward three, she hadn’t moved from the couch. Sleep wouldn’t come. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Patrick’s half-smile faltering. Finally, she stood, pulling on her sweater. Enough stalling. Enough pride. She couldn’t sit in this silence anymore.

Vera slipped out into the quiet hallway, the cool air raising goosebumps on her arms. Most of the trailers were dark now, doors closed, the lot empty. But one still had a faint strip of light glowing beneath it.

Patrick’s.

She hesitated outside the door, heart pounding. She almost turned back. Almost. But then she lifted her hand and knocked. There was a pause. Then the door creaked open.

Patrick stood there, hair mussed, jacket still slung over the back of a chair inside. His expression shifted when he saw her—surprise first, then guardedness, like he wasn’t sure which version of her he was about to get. “Hey,” he said softly.

Her throat tightened. “Hey.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched, heavy with everything unsaid.

Finally, Vera drew a breath. “Can I… come in?”

Patrick studied her for a beat longer, then stepped back, opening the door wider. “Yeah. Sure.”

She stepped inside, the warmth of his trailer wrapping around her, familiar and safe. But tonight, it felt fragile.

Inside Patrick’s trailer, the soft glow of a desk lamp spilled across the small space. A half-empty coffee cup sat on the counter beside a script, pages marked with his looping notes. His jacket was draped over the back of the chair, his guitar leaning against the wall like it always was, silent tonight.

Vera stood just inside the door, hugging her sweater tighter. The silence pressed between them, thicker than the quiet of the empty lot outside.

Patrick sat back down in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t even look surprised. Just… tired. The kind of tired that went deeper than the long hours.

She shifted on her feet. “I’m sorry,” she said, the words tumbling out before she could lose her nerve. “For earlier. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

Patrick glanced up at her, his expression unreadable. “It’s fine.”

“No,” Vera said quickly, stepping closer. “It’s not fine. You were just trying to—” Her voice wavered. “To make me laugh, and I bit your head off. That wasn’t fair.”

Patrick leaned back, crossing his arms loosely. His sigh was quiet, but heavy. “We’re all exhausted, Vera. I get it. Long nights, endless takes… it happens.”

“But it shouldn’t have happened with you,” she pressed, her throat tightening. “You’re the last person I should take it out on.”

He tilted his head, studying her like he was weighing how much to let her see. Finally, he said, softly, “It stung. A little.”

Her chest ached at the honesty in his voice—gentle, but unflinching.

“I know,” she whispered. “I saw it. And you brushed it off like you always do, but I knew I’d hurt you.” She lowered her gaze, ashamed. “That’s been eating at me all night.”

For a moment, all she heard was the faint hum of the trailer’s heater. Then Patrick stood, moving closer until he was just a few steps away.

“You didn’t mean it,” he said, steady.

She shook her head quickly. “Of course I didn’t. You’re… you’re the one who keeps me sane in all this chaos, Patrick. You know that, right? Without you—” Her voice broke, and she pressed her lips together to stop it.

His expression softened, the guardedness easing. “Hey.” His voice gentled, the way it always did when he could sense her unraveling. “Look at me.”

She lifted her eyes.

“You’ve carried so much of this shoot,” he said. “It’s heavy material. Dark. No one would blame you for snapping once in a while.”

“I blame me,” she said. “Because I aimed it at you.”

Patrick was quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching hers. Then he exhaled, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know, if I held onto every sharp word people threw my way on set, I’d have no room left in my head.”

“Don’t joke it away,” she whispered.

He paused, then nodded. “Alright. It hurt. Not because of what you said, but because it was you who said it.”

The words landed like a weight in her chest. She stepped closer, closing the space between them. “I’m sorry,” she said again, firmer this time, willing him to believe it. “Truly. I’ll carry the guilt for both of us if I have to.”

Patrick’s lips quirked—not quite a smile, but almost. He shook his head. “That’s not how it works.”

Then, softer: “I forgive you.”

Relief surged through her so strong her knees nearly buckled. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her shoulders sagging.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

For a moment, they stood there in the quiet, the heaviness between them finally beginning to lift. Patrick reached for his guitar absentmindedly, fingers brushing the strings without playing. The soft sound filled the space like a balm.

“You know,” he said lightly, “if you ever need to tell me to shut up again, you can just say it nicer.”

Vera groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Don’t make me relive it.”

Patrick chuckled, the sound warm, genuine this time. He reached out and gently tugged her hands away from her face. “I’m teasing. We’re okay, Vera. Really.”

She searched his eyes, looking for any trace of lingering hurt. All she found was sincerity. Finally, she let herself smile—small, tired, but real. “Okay.”

He set the guitar aside and sank back into the chair, motioning for her to sit too. She curled up on the couch across from him, tucking her legs beneath her. The tension that had wound tight around her chest all night finally began to ease.

“Tomorrow,” Patrick said, leaning his head back, “we’ll get through it. Like always.”

“Like always,” she echoed softly.

The room settled into an easy quiet, no longer heavy but comfortable. Vera rested her head against the couch, watching him in the warm lamplight, and thought about how fragile exhaustion could make everything feel—how quickly it could fray even the strongest of bonds.

But tonight proved something else too: that cracks could mend, if you faced them.

And with Patrick, she knew they always would.

Chapter 5: Baths and Candlelights

The Warrens’ front door shut with a tired click behind them, the silence of their home rushing in to replace the chaos they’d left behind. Lorraine leaned against the wall for a moment, pressing her hand to her temple. The Smurl family’s house still clung to her like smoke—visions of shadowy figures, the stench of rot, whispers she couldn’t silence even now.

Ed set their bags down heavily by the entryway, glancing at her from under furrowed brows. “You look like you’re about to fall over, sweetheart.”

“I’m fine,” she murmured, though her voice betrayed the tremor in her body. She smoothed her skirt, trying to gather herself. “It’s just the weight of it, that’s all. It’ll pass.”

He stepped closer, his large hand settling at the small of her back, warm and steady. “No. Not this time. You’ve been carrying too much.”

“Ed—”

“Hon...” His voice softened, but it left no room for argument. He brushed his thumb against her hip as though grounding her. “I want you to sit down. Let me take care of you tonight.”

Her lips parted, the beginnings of protest on her tongue, but then she saw the worry in his eyes—the kind of worry that wasn’t just about this case, but about her. Slowly, she let out a sigh and nodded, letting him guide her toward the living room.

She sank onto the couch, exhaling as though she’d been holding her breath for days. Ed crouched in front of her, his hands sliding gently to take hers. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, lingering there, as though silently promising he wouldn’t let the darkness touch her again tonight.

The living room was dim, the only light coming from the table lamp with its warm amber glow. Lorraine curled into the corner of the couch, her shoulders hunched, the lace collar of her blouse askew. She closed her eyes for a moment, but the images still came: shadows looming, the sound of the Smurl children crying, the sense of something clawing at her chest.

She didn’t notice Ed had disappeared into the kitchen until the soft clink of porcelain caught her ear. He returned with a mug of chamomile, steam curling upward in delicate ribbons.

“Here,” he said, crouching again so she didn’t have to reach far. “Careful, it’s hot.”

She smiled faintly, her fingers brushing his as she took the cup. “You always make it too strong.”

“And you always drink it anyway,” he countered with a soft grin, sitting beside her. He watched as she brought it to her lips, her hands trembling slightly around the porcelain. He noticed everything—the tremors, the shadows under her eyes, the stiffness in her posture.

She set the cup down on the coffee table, sighing. “Ed, you should rest too. You look just as worn as I feel.”

He shook his head, his hand finding the back of her neck, rubbing gently. “I’ll rest once I know you’ve let go of this.”

“I can’t just… switch it off,” she whispered. Her voice cracked, betraying how much it cost her to admit it. “The things I saw… the things I felt in that house—Ed, it’s as if they’ve etched themselves into me.”

His heart ached at her words, but he kept his tone steady, soothing. “Then let me help you scrub them out. Let me do that for you.”

He leaned forward and kissed her temple, letting his lips linger there before standing. “Come on.”

She frowned. “Where?”

“Upstairs. I drew you a bath.” His eyes softened, a teasing spark under the gravity. “Don’t look so surprised. I can work a faucet, Lorraine.”

Despite the heaviness in her chest, a small laugh slipped out. “My practical man.”

He reached down, offering his hand. “Your practical man. Now let me spoil you a little.”

Her fingers slid into his, cool and fragile against his warmth. He led her upstairs slowly, his thumb brushing over her knuckles, grounding her with each step.

The bathroom was already misty with steam, the scent of lavender drifting through the air. Candles flickered on the counter—simple ones he’d found tucked away, but the effect was enough to soften the sharpness in her chest.

She turned to him, lips parting to protest again, but he gently touched a finger to her chin. “No arguments tonight, sweetheart. Just let me take care of you.”

The warm air curled around Lorraine as she stood in the doorway, staring at the bath he’d drawn. The water shimmered faintly in the candlelight, lavender swirling on the surface like delicate smoke. For the first time since leaving the Smurl home, she felt the faintest tug of relief—a moment’s pause in the endless weight.

Ed rested his hand against the small of her back, coaxing. “Go on. It’ll help.”

She gave him a searching look, as though to ask if he meant to stay. But he only offered her the kind of steady gaze that had carried her through a hundred storms. Slowly, she began to undo the buttons of her blouse. Her fingers were clumsy with fatigue, but she managed, peeling the fabric away from her shoulders. Ed reached forward without hesitation, folding it neatly before setting it aside.

When she hesitated at her slip, he murmured, “It’s just me, Lorraine.” A simple reminder, but enough.

She let the last of her clothes fall away, her pale skin seeming fragile in the candlelight. Ed didn’t devour her with his eyes the way a younger man might; instead, he looked at her as though committing every detail to memory, reverence softening his features.

Lorraine stepped into the bath, the water lapping gently against her skin, heat seeping into her bones. She let out a breath that sounded almost like a sob, the tension beginning to unravel. She sank until the water kissed her collarbones, closing her eyes as the lavender wrapped around her like a prayer.

Ed sat on the little stool beside the tub, rolling his sleeves up past his elbows. He dipped a cloth into the warm water, wrung it out, and began to run it slowly along her arm. “There we are,” he murmured, his voice a low hum. “Let the house go. Let it all wash away.”

Her lashes fluttered open, eyes glassy with exhaustion. “You make it sound so simple.”

He smiled softly, trailing the cloth to her shoulder, then over the curve of her back. “Maybe it can be, for a little while. Just you and me. No shadows, no whispers. Just this.”

Her throat tightened. She turned her head to look at him, water dripping from her hairline down to her cheek. “You don’t know how much I need that.”

Ed leaned down, pressing a kiss to her damp temple. “I do, sweetheart. More than you think.”

She let herself sink deeper into the water, her hand drifting up to clasp his wrist as he smoothed the cloth down her chest, careful, reverent. Every touch was grounding—real skin, real warmth, pulling her away from the spectral hands that had clawed at her all week.

Her lips parted. “You’re always taking care of me.”

“And I always will.” His thumb brushed the edge of her collarbone. “It’s not a duty, Lorraine. It’s my privilege.”

Her eyes filled, the tears spilling into the bath as though they belonged there. She reached for him with wet fingers, cupping his cheek. “What would I do without you?”

Ed caught her hand, kissed her palm, and whispered against it, “You’ll never have to find out.”

His thumb stroked over the back of Lorraine’s hand, his gaze never leaving her face. Candlelight flickered across her damp skin, gilding her in gold and shadow. He could see how fragile she felt—every line of strain in her shoulders, every flicker of weariness in her eyes. But beneath it, he also saw the woman who had carried him through decades of storms, the one who had held his heart steady when the world itself turned upside down.

He leaned closer, pressing his lips softly to her wrist, just above the racing beat of her pulse. She gasped faintly, not because it startled her, but because of the sheer tenderness in the act.

“Ed…” Her voice was barely a whisper, carried on the steam.

“Shhh,” he soothed, brushing his nose against her damp skin. “Don’t say anything. Just feel.”

The cloth slipped from his hand, forgotten, as his fingers traced instead—over her arm, along the slope of her shoulder, skimming the delicate line of her collarbone. Lorraine tilted her head back, her lashes fluttering shut as his touch grew slower, more deliberate.

“Let me remind you,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “That you’re here. That you’re safe. That you’re mine.”

She opened her eyes at that, glassy and searching. “Yours,” she echoed, her lips trembling around the word as though it steadied her.

Ed leaned down and kissed her—soft at first, a brush of mouths like testing the waters. But when Lorraine rose from the bath slightly to meet him halfway, the kiss deepened, water dripping between them, their breaths mingling with heat. His hand slid carefully from her shoulder to the curve of her neck, his thumb stroking under her jaw. She pressed closer, the lavender-scented steam wrapping around them as if the whole world had been reduced to this tiny, tender moment.

“Ed,” she whispered against his lips, a plea, a surrender.

He pulled back just enough to look at her—really look at her. “Tell me what you need, sweetheart.”

Her eyes glistened, her voice almost breaking. “I just… need to feel you. To know you’re real. Not shadows, not visions. Just you.”

His chest tightened with love so fierce it almost hurt. He leaned in again, kissing her deeply, reverently, while his hands traced over her shoulders, down her arms, memorizing her as though she might slip away if he didn’t.

The bathwater rippled around her as she shifted, rising slightly to press herself against him, damp and trembling but utterly present. Ed wrapped an arm firmly around her, steadying her, grounding her in the solidity of his embrace.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against hers, his voice was husky with restraint. “Then let’s get you out of here. Let me lay you down where you belong.”

Lorraine nodded faintly, her wet lashes brushing his cheek as she closed her eyes, surrendering to his care. Ed stood, his arms sliding under her with ease. She clung to him, dripping and delicate against his chest, as he carried her from the steam-filled room toward the bedroom, candlelight chasing after them like a blessing.

Ed nudged the bedroom door open with his shoulder, careful not to jostle the woman in his arms. Lorraine clung lightly to him, her damp hair trailing against his shirt, droplets soaking into the fabric. He laid her down gently on the cool sheets, his hands lingering at her waist as though reluctant to let go.

Lorraine shivered at the loss of his warmth. But then Ed was there again, tugging a blanket from the foot of the bed and draping it loosely over her shoulders. He grabbed a towel, sitting on the edge of the mattress, and began to dry her hair in slow, steady strokes.

She watched him, her chest tightening with the weight of love and exhaustion. “You shouldn’t fuss over me so much,” she whispered, her voice raw.

He smiled faintly, combing the towel through the ends of her hair. “What else am I good for, if not fussing over you?”

Her lips curved, but her eyes filled at his words. Ed noticed, his expression softening. He set the towel aside and cupped her face, his calloused thumbs brushing the damp from her cheeks.

“Lorraine,” he said lowly, like a vow. “No matter how many shadows we chase… no matter how much it takes out of you… I’ll always bring you back to me. Always.”

Her breath hitched. She leaned up, closing the distance, and kissed him—fierce, desperate, pulling at the front of his shirt as though anchoring herself to him. Ed kissed her back with the same fire, his hand sliding into her wet hair, the other pressing her closer by the small of her back.

When they broke apart, gasping softly, Lorraine whispered, “I don’t want to think tonight. I just want to feel you. Only you.”

Something flickered in his eyes—tenderness sharpened by need. He eased her down onto the pillows, his mouth tracing from her lips to her jaw, then lower, kissing the pale column of her throat. Each press of his lips was deliberate, grounding her, coaxing her out of the fog of visions and back into her body.

She sighed beneath him, threading her fingers into his hair. “Ed…”

“Shhh.” His lips brushed her collarbone, his voice reverent. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. Just let go.”

The blanket slipped from her shoulders, leaving her bare beneath his gaze. He paused, drinking her in, the candlelight catching every curve and freckle. His eyes softened, as though she were something sacred.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss the hollow between her breasts. “Every bit of you. And I’ll spend my whole life proving it to you.”

Her chest rose sharply, her breath trembling as his hands mapped her, slow and sure. Every touch made her feel less like a vessel for visions and more like a woman—his woman, cherished, known.

Lorraine arched beneath him as his lips moved lower, his devotion turning into something more primal, though never losing that careful reverence. Her fingers curled into the sheets, her voice breaking into a moan that only he ever drew from her.

“Ed… please—”

He lifted his head, his eyes locking with hers, fierce and tender all at once. “Say what you need, sweetheart. I’ll give you anything.”

She swallowed hard, tears mingling with the flush on her cheeks. “I need you inside me. I need to know I’m not lost in all that darkness—that I’m still here, with you.”

His heart clenched at her plea. He kissed her again, slow and lingering, as he moved over her, bracing himself so his weight wouldn’t crush her. “Then feel me, Lorraine. I’m yours. Always yours.”

When he finally joined with her, it was slow, reverent, like a prayer whispered in the dark. Lorraine gasped, her body trembling, but Ed steadied her with murmured words and kisses, anchoring her with every thrust.

The world narrowed to the rhythm of their bodies, the steady sound of his voice whispering her name, the heat of his skin, the undeniable presence of him. For every shadow she had carried home, he gave her warmth; for every whisper of despair, he gave her his heartbeat.

Lorraine clung to him, tears slipping down her temples as pleasure and relief tangled in her chest. “Don’t let go,” she breathed.

“Never,” he swore, his voice breaking as he held her tighter, moving with her until they both shattered, not apart, but together.

After, Ed gathered her into his arms, rolling so she lay across his chest. His hand stroked her damp hair as her breath slowed, her ear pressed against his heart.

Lorraine let out a long, shaky sigh. “I can’t hear them anymore,” she whispered. “Just you.”

Ed kissed the crown of her head, tightening his hold. “That’s all I want, sweetheart. Just me and you. Always.”

And in the quiet, with only the sound of his heartbeat filling her ears, Lorraine finally let herself believe it.

Chapter 6: Domestic

Summary:

She glanced back once, just to see him. His hair was damp, his shirt wrinkled from travel, and his eyes half-lidded as though he could sleep right there at the table. Still, when he caught her looking, he gave her a crooked smile. That smile was the reason she felt steadier after even the most harrowing nights.

“I’ll make the tea,” she said softly.

“You always do,” he replied, leaning back, eyes following her every motion as though he found comfort in it

Notes:

LorEd because I miss them already.

The rain had begun before they reached the house, a fine mist at first, then a steady downpour that slicked the road and rattled gently against the windshield. Lorraine found the sound soothing in a way—nature’s white noise, a reminder that the world continued in its quiet rhythms no matter how loud the darkness of their work became.

When Ed pushed open the front door, the familiar creak welcomed them. He stepped inside first, shaking droplets from his coat, and Lorraine followed, closing the umbrella carefully and setting it by the stand. The house smelled faintly of wood polish and old books, their books, the ones lining shelves upon shelves in the study upstairs. Home.

Ed let his overnight bag fall with a soft thud near the entryway. His shoulders, always so broad and square when he was facing down priests, police officers, or frightened families, seemed to slope now under the weight of plain fatigue. Lorraine watched him tug his tie loose with a sigh, the gesture weary but familiar.

“Feels good to be back,” he murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion but tinged with warmth.

Lorraine slipped her hand briefly over his arm, a gentle acknowledgment. “It does.” She hung her own coat by the door, smoothing the damp fabric with absent fingers. The rain pressed steady fingers against the windows, a kind of percussion to their silence.

Without needing to ask, she moved toward the kitchen. The kettle would be filled, set on the stove, the ritual as grounding as prayer. Behind her, she could hear Ed’s footsteps—slower than usual, heavier—and then the sound of him lowering himself into one of the dining chairs with a quiet grunt.

She glanced back once, just to see him. His hair was damp, his shirt wrinkled from travel, and his eyes half-lidded as though he could sleep right there at the table. Still, when he caught her looking, he gave her a crooked smile. That smile was the reason she felt steadier after even the most harrowing nights.

“I’ll make the tea,” she said softly.

“You always do,” he replied, leaning back, eyes following her every motion as though he found comfort in it.

The kettle clattered lightly as she set it on the burner. She reached for the tin of chamomile—her choice, for calm—and her fingers lingered a moment on the lid. The act was so ordinary, almost painfully so, after what they had faced in the past days. She cherished it. These domestic notes of life were where she and Ed truly lived, not in the shadows they chased.

Lorraine drew two mugs from the cupboard. “Do you want honey tonight?”

Ed stretched, arms above his head before resting them back across the chair. “Hmm. Yeah. I’ll take honey. Sweeten me up a little.”

She gave him a sidelong look, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “As though you need it.”

His chuckle filled the kitchen, low and warm. He looked utterly himself again for a moment—her Ed, not the weary demonologist, not the man whose name families whispered in desperation. Just her husband.

The kettle began its soft hum, steam curling upward. Lorraine wrapped her arms around herself, not from cold but from an ache she hadn’t quite named. Relief, perhaps, that they were both still here. Relief that the rain tonight meant no one else’s screams would fill their ears, only the hush of water and the murmur of their own voices.

Ed’s gaze stayed on her, steady and unspoken. It always amazed her how much could be said without words between them.

The kettle whistled, and she moved with quiet efficiency, pouring the steaming water into the waiting mugs. Ed accepted his with both hands, sighing as the warmth seeped through the porcelain into his palms. He looked older in that instant—not from age, but from the accumulation of strain. Lorraine sat beside him, their shoulders brushing, her hand resting briefly against his forearm.

As he leaned forward to take a careful sip, the light caught a tear at the seam of his shirt, just beneath the shoulder. Lorraine’s eyes narrowed.

“Ed,” she said softly, setting her cup down, “what happened to your shirt?”

He blinked at her, glanced down, and shrugged. “Oh, that? Must’ve caught it on something. Didn’t even notice.”

Her mouth pressed into a line. “Of course you didn’t.” She reached out, fingertips brushing the frayed edge of fabric. “You’ll tear it worse if you keep wearing it like this.”

His smile was a little sheepish. “It’s just a shirt, Lorraine.”

“No,” she said gently, “it’s your shirt. And I’ll mend it.”

Before he could argue, she rose, tea forgotten, and fetched the small sewing kit she kept in the sideboard. It was an old thing—thread spools rattling, needles carefully tucked away—but it had always been useful. When she returned, Ed was watching her with that fond amusement he wore whenever she slipped into fussing over him.

He lifted his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Have at it.”

“Take it off,” she instructed, already threading the needle.

His eyebrows lifted, playful despite the fatigue. “Now, Mrs. Warren, if I didn’t know better, I’d think—”

She fixed him with a look, though her lips twitched in spite of herself. “Ed.”

He chuckled and unbuttoned the shirt slowly, peeling it off his shoulders with deliberate exaggeration. “Yes, dear.”

When he placed it into her waiting hands, Lorraine smoothed the fabric across her lap. The rip wasn’t large, but she hated the thought of him out there in the world, frayed in any way—even if it was only cloth. She bent her head, fingers steady, the silver glint of the needle catching the light as she began the careful stitching.

Ed leaned back in his chair, bare-chested now, arms folded loosely over his stomach. “You know, if anyone else saw this, they’d think you spoil me.”

“I do,” she murmured without looking up. “Happily.”

The silence that followed was easy. The only sounds were the rain outside, the faint clink of her needle through fabric, and the occasional shift of Ed’s chair as he watched her. Lorraine felt the rhythm of her work slow her own breathing. There was peace in it—peace she rarely allowed herself to savor when their lives were so often surrounded by turmoil.

When the final stitch was tied, she held the seam up for inspection. Neat, tight, secure. She pressed her fingertips over it with quiet satisfaction. “There. Good as new.”

Ed leaned over, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her temple. “Better than new. Because you did it.”

Lorraine lifted her gaze to his, and for a heartbeat, she felt the pull of memory: years of mending—clothes, wounds, fears—always together. His eyes held hers steadily, so full of gratitude and devotion it made her chest ache.

She smoothed the shirt across the table, folded it neatly, and pushed it toward him. “Don’t tear it again.”

“No promises,” he teased, tugging the shirt back on.

But when he caught her hand before she could pull away, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, his voice softened. “Thank you, hon.”

Ed lingered a moment longer, his lips warm against her knuckles, before finally releasing her hand and slipping back into his mended shirt. He rolled his shoulders, testing the seam, then gave a satisfied nod as if she had performed some miracle. Lorraine simply shook her head, but her smile betrayed her.

He moved toward the living room, fetching his worn leather sketchbook from the side table where he had left it weeks ago. Lorraine followed with her teacup in hand, settling herself on the couch as he lowered into the armchair across from her. His pencil found its familiar place in his fingers, and soon the soft scratch of graphite joined the patter of rain against the windows.

Lorraine watched him for a moment, her chin resting on her hand. He always sketched when he needed to center himself, and it comforted her to see him do it now. His brow furrowed slightly in concentration, lips parted as if murmuring thoughts to himself, and his hand moved with a confidence born of years.

Satisfied that he was absorbed, Lorraine rose quietly and moved about the room, restoring small pieces of order—stacking the books that had toppled, straightening a frame that hung askew. The house responded to her like a well-loved friend, each object carrying weight, history, memory.

Ed’s voice drifted over without him lifting his gaze. “You can’t help yourself, can you?”

She paused, a cushion tucked under her arm. “What do you mean?”

“That little frown you get when things aren’t in their place. You’ve got it right now.” He glanced up, eyes sparkling. “Don’t think I don’t notice.”

Lorraine arched a brow, though warmth bloomed in her chest. “And you can’t help noticing me noticing, apparently.”

His grin widened, boyish despite the lines of fatigue. “Guilty as charged.”

She shook her head and returned the cushion to its proper corner of the sofa. When she looked back, Ed had returned to his sketching, pencil strokes softer now. She crossed the room and settled behind his chair, peering over his shoulder.

Her breath caught softly. He was sketching her.

It wasn’t unusual—he had drawn her countless times over the years, sometimes with deliberate artistry, other times in quick, rough sketches during long train rides or evenings by firelight. But each time, she felt the same quiet awe.

This one showed her as she had been just moments ago, bent over his shirt with needle in hand. The tilt of her head, the concentration in her brow—he had captured it all with startling accuracy.

“Ed,” she whispered.

He glanced up, pencil poised mid-line, his expression softening at the sound of her voice. “What?”

“You make me look… better than I am.”

He turned the book slightly, meeting her eyes. “No, Lorraine. I make you look the way I see you.”

Something in her chest gave way, a mingling of gratitude and ache. She leaned down, pressing a kiss to his temple, her hand resting briefly on his shoulder. He reached up instinctively, covering her hand with his, holding it there as though he could tether her to him.

For a long time, neither spoke. The rain carried on, steady and insistent, and the house seemed to wrap them in a cocoon of ordinary peace. Lorraine sank into the quiet, knowing such moments were rare treasures.

Chapter 7: I Want You

Summary:

“Ed…” Her whisper trembled somewhere between plea and prayer.

He murmured against her skin, “I’ve got you, Lorraine. Always.”

Notes:

i tried to make it not too smutty as much as possible cause this is the first drabble released that is kinda mature…

The house was dark when they stepped inside, shadows pooling in the corners like leftover fragments of the night they had just endured. Lorraine’s hands still trembled as she set her coat on the stand, her fingers catching on the damp fabric. She drew a slow breath, willing her chest to still, but the echo of visions clung to her like smoke—faces that weren’t there, voices that whispered even now, just beyond hearing.

Ed closed the door behind them, the bolt clicking home. When she glanced at him, she saw the set of his jaw, the heaviness in his eyes, but also the way he kept them fixed on her, as if watching her were more important than his own exhaustion.

“Lorraine,” he said gently, “sit down. Please.”

She obeyed, lowering herself onto the edge of the couch. The living room felt unusually quiet, the tick of the clock loud against the hush. Her palms pressed into her knees as though grounding herself in the solidness of her own body.

Ed knelt in front of her, one broad hand covering hers. His thumb traced small circles against her skin, warm, steady. “You’re still with me, aren’t you?” he asked softly.

Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. “I see them still,” she whispered, her voice unsteady. “Even now, when I close my eyes. I can’t… I can’t get them out.”

Ed’s other hand came up, cupping her cheek, tilting her face toward his. His touch was calloused but careful, as if she were porcelain. “Look at me. Just me. Nothing else matters now.”

She forced her gaze to his, to the familiar lines of his face, the certainty in his eyes. The storm of visions wavered at the edges of her mind. “I’m trying,” she breathed.

“You don’t have to try,” he murmured, leaning closer. His forehead touched hers, grounding her. “You only have to let me hold you.”

And when his arms slipped around her, pulling her against his chest, Lorraine felt something inside her uncoil. The scent of him—soap, wood, and the faint tang of graphite from his pencils—was solid, real, alive. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder and let herself breathe him in.

Ed’s embrace tightened, his hand smoothing over her back in slow, grounding strokes. Lorraine let her eyes close, her body leaning into the security of him. The trembling in her hands quieted, replaced by the steady thrum of his heartbeat against her ear.

“See?” he whispered. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

Safe. The word unfurled inside her like a fragile bloom. She tilted her face slightly, pressing her lips against the curve of his throat, not quite a kiss, more a silent act of gratitude. His skin was warm, the steady pulse beneath it reminding her of everything she had to hold on to.

Ed drew back just enough to look at her. His thumb brushed along her cheekbone, wiping away the trace of a tear she hadn’t noticed. “You’re too hard on yourself, Lorraine,” he murmured. “Carrying all of this… you don’t always have to.”

Her breath caught, and she let her hand slip over his, holding it against her face. “But you’re the one who carries me,” she admitted softly.

His gaze deepened, a shadow of tenderness and something heavier beneath it. “Gladly. Always.”

For a moment, they only looked at each other. The air between them shifted, no longer charged with fear but with something warmer, needier, a quiet urgency born of relief and love.

Ed’s lips brushed hers—tentative, testing—before he drew back half an inch. “Alright?” he whispered.

Lorraine nodded, her voice caught in her throat. “Yes.”

The second kiss was slower, lingering. His hand cradled the back of her head as his mouth moved against hers, coaxing, reassuring. She responded in kind, her fingers curling in his shirt, pulling him closer as if proximity could drown out every phantom still lingering in her mind.

The kiss deepened, his lips firmer now, their breaths mingling. A warmth unfurled in her chest, spreading through her body until she felt it in her fingertips, in the flush of her skin. His hand slid down to her waist, anchoring her there, drawing her nearer across the narrow space between couch and floor.

When she broke for air, her forehead rested against his, her voice a whisper against his lips. “I don’t want to think about them anymore. I only want you.”

Ed’s response was immediate, a husky murmur that vibrated through her. “Then I’m yours. All of me.”

His mouth found hers again, more insistent this time, and Lorraine felt the weight of the night begin to fall away—not forgotten, but overcome—by the living, breathing warmth of the man who held her.

Ed’s kiss grew firmer, his lips coaxing hers open until she yielded with a soft sigh. Lorraine’s hand slipped into his hair, fingers tangling in the damp strands, tugging him closer as though he were the only solid thing left in the world. His other hand pressed gently at her waist, thumb stroking through the thin fabric of her blouse, not rushing, only reminding her that he was there, steady and sure.

When he pulled back, his breath was ragged. His eyes searched hers, dark with both concern and something hungrier underneath. “Still alright?” he asked, his voice low, husky with restraint.

Lorraine let out a small, shaky laugh. “More than alright.”

His answering smile was brief before his lips returned to hers, hungrier now. The kiss deepened, heat sparking wherever his hands wandered, from her jawline down the slope of her neck, tracing the hollow of her collarbone through fabric. She shivered beneath his touch, her hands slipping down to his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath.

Ed’s lips moved lower, pressing reverent kisses along her throat. She tilted her head back, granting him space, her breath catching when his teeth grazed her skin in the lightest tease.

“Ed…” Her whisper trembled somewhere between plea and prayer.

He murmured against her skin, “I’ve got you, Lorraine. Always.”

Her blouse shifted beneath his hands, the buttons small, stubborn things between them. He worked them loose one by one, his mouth never leaving hers for long. Each brush of his knuckles against her skin made her heart race faster. When the blouse fell open, he drew back just enough to look at her—not rushing, only drinking her in.

“You’re beautiful,” he said simply, reverently.

Color rose in her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she guided his hand to her chest, pressing him there where her heart raced wildly beneath his palm. “Do you feel that?” she whispered.

His thumb stroked over the curve of her breast through the fabric of her slip. “Every beat,” he murmured, his lips brushing hers again. “Every one of them is mine.”

The words undid her. She pulled him closer, her lips urgent, her hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt until they came free. His chest was bare beneath her palms, warm and strong, the familiar weight of him grounding her even as heat built between them.

Her blouse slipped from her shoulders, forgotten, and he kissed the newly bared skin with devotion—across her shoulder, down her arm, over the swell of her breast. Each kiss drew a soft sound from her throat, a sound Ed answered with a low, reverent hum.

“Honey…” His voice was rough now, barely controlled. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Her hands cupped his face, her forehead pressing to his. “It’s not enough,” she whispered. “Don’t stop.”

Ed’s mouth claimed hers again, but this time there was no restraint. The kiss was fierce, consuming, his hands pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. Lorraine gasped against his lips, her body arching into his touch as heat coursed through her.

The last of her blouse slipped away, followed by the thin slip beneath. Ed drew back just long enough to take her in—bare, flushed, her chest rising quickly with each breath. His eyes darkened, reverence and hunger mingling in equal measure.

“God, Lorraine…” His voice cracked with awe. “You’re… you’re everything.”

She reached for him, fingers tracing the firm lines of his chest, then lower, to the waistband of his trousers. “I need you, Ed,” she whispered, voice trembling with urgency.

He groaned softly, bending to kiss the swell of her breast, his tongue tracing circles that left her shivering. His hands roamed her sides, sliding down to her hips, thumbs stroking her skin in slow, maddening patterns.

“Tell me what you need,” he murmured against her skin.

“You,” she said again, firmer now, her hands fumbling with his belt.

His chuckle was low, rough, vibrating against her body. “Then you’ll have me.”

The belt gave way, then the button, then the slide of fabric as he shed the rest of his clothes. Lorraine followed, easing out of her skirt until nothing remained between them. Skin to skin, warmth to warmth, every curve of her body pressed against every line of his.

He pushed her gently back against the couch cushions, hovering over her, braced on his forearms so he wouldn’t crush her beneath his weight. His mouth devoured hers in another kiss, then trailed down, nipping at her throat, her collarbone, the valley between her breasts.

Lorraine gasped, arching beneath him, her fingers threading into his hair, urging him lower. When his lips closed over her breast, suckling gently, a moan escaped her lips before she could stop it.

Ed groaned in answer, his hips pressing down against hers, and she felt the hard evidence of his need against her thigh. Heat pooled low in her belly, her legs parting instinctively to cradle him closer.

“Ed…” she breathed, half-plea, half-surrender.

His hand slid down her stomach, pausing at the juncture of her thighs. His fingers teased, caressing her in slow, deliberate strokes that made her tremble. He kissed her again, swallowing her gasps as he stroked her, coaxing her body to respond, patient but unyielding.

Lorraine clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders as her hips rocked helplessly against his hand. Her vision blurred with the intensity, every nerve ending alight under his touch.

When she cried out, breaking apart beneath his fingers, Ed kissed her deeply, holding her through it, murmuring against her lips, “That’s it, sweetheart… that’s my girl.”

She was still trembling when he shifted above her, positioning himself between her thighs. He hesitated, eyes searching hers once more. “Are you sure?”

Lorraine cupped his face, drawing him down until their lips touched. “Always. I need you inside me, Ed.”

With a groan torn from deep in his chest, he guided himself to her entrance and pushed slowly, carefully, into her. Lorraine gasped, clutching him tighter as he filled her, the stretch both overwhelming and achingly right.

“Jesus, Lorraine…” he breathed, forehead pressed to hers. “You feel… so perfect.”

She moaned softly, her hips tilting to take him deeper. “Move, Ed… please.”

He obeyed, drawing back and thrusting again, slow at first, savoring the way her body yielded to him. Each movement wrung another gasp from her, another whimper of pleasure. His pace built gradually, rhythm steady, every thrust driving her higher.

Their bodies moved together as if they had been made for no other purpose. Ed’s mouth found hers again, kisses hungry and desperate, his groans mingling with her soft cries.

“Say my name, baby” he demanded against her lips, his thrusts harder now.

“Ed—” She moaned it, broken, breathless. “Oh, God—Ed!”

Her climax surged suddenly, powerful and consuming, her body clenching tight around him. She cried out, nails biting into his back as pleasure crashed through her.

Ed groaned deeply, burying himself inside her as his own release tore through him. His body shuddered, his breath ragged against her neck as he held her close, spilling into her with a final, guttural sound.

For a long moment, they stayed tangled, gasping, trembling, clinging as though the world might vanish if they let go.

Notes:

but if yall want a more smutty one, well i guess you just have to tell me🫣🤭

Chapter 8: Bossy

Notes:

for MissBridgerton & pookie711 <33

i hope you like this one!

The set was heavy with exhaustion, the kind that seeps into the bones after too many weeks of late-night shoots. It was past midnight, and the cavernous soundstage had taken on a strange kind of hush—the cameras still rolled, but the usual energy of the crew was muted, voices lowered, movements slower, as though everyone was wading through molasses.

The scene they were filming tonight was a stormy one: frantic dialogue, a shove against the wall, emotions teetering just shy of breaking. Vera was in the thick of it, her expression raw and unguarded under the wash of cold light. She threw herself into the role with the kind of intensity that made everyone else forget for a second that it was just acting.

Patrick stood across from her, his character’s fury written in sharp lines on his face. He raised his voice, his words cutting through the echoing space. The moment was tight, dangerous, the kind of scene that left the air prickling.

Then—

A sound cracked through the set. A metallic groan.

Patrick’s head snapped up instinctively. High above, one of the overhead lights—a massive rig, heavy and industrial—shifted in its harness. The tightening strain of bolts giving way sent a jolt of panic through his veins.

“Watch out!” someone yelled from behind the camera.

Vera spun at the sound just as the light fixture gave a violent lurch. It tore loose with a screech of metal, plummeting toward the ground in a flash of steel and shadow.

The crew scattered. Shouts erupted.

Patrick didn’t think—his body moved before his mind caught up.

“Vera!”

He lunged across the small space between them, grabbing her arm and yanking her toward him just as the rig came crashing down. The impact was thunderous, the stage floor shuddering under the weight. Fragments of broken glass and metal skittered outward, clattering across the set like sharp rain.

Vera stumbled against him, her breath knocked out in a startled gasp. The momentum carried them both to the floor, Patrick twisting so he absorbed the brunt of it. His hand stayed firm on her back, shielding, protective, as debris skidded to a halt only feet away.

For a second, there was silence—stunned, frozen silence. Then the set erupted.

“Cut! Cut, cut, cut!” the director’s voice bellowed. “Get medics in here! Someone kill the power!”

Crew members swarmed, their footsteps pounding as they rushed forward. The harsh lights overhead flickered and dimmed, replaced by emergency illumination that threw everything into eerie shadows.

Patrick didn’t move. He was crouched over Vera, his chest heaving, his arm curled protectively around her shoulders.

“Are you okay?” His voice was low but fierce, urgent in a way that cut right through the chaos. He pulled back just enough to look at her face. “Vera. Talk to me.”

Her wide eyes blinked up at him, startled, dazed. Her hand fluttered against his arm as if testing her own steadiness.

“I—yeah. I think so.” She swallowed hard, her voice shaky. “Just… Uh, my shoulder—”

Patrick’s gaze dropped instantly, tracking where her hand was pressed against her upper arm, her whole shoulder was red and swelling. His jaw tightened.

“You’re hurt,” he said, already pushing himself up with her, steadying her with both hands.

“No, it’s—it’s fine,” Vera insisted, though her voice wavered. She tried to brush it off, standing on her own, but the slight wince she gave herself away.

Patrick saw it. He saw everything. And his protectiveness surged like fire through his veins.

He turned to the swarming crew, his voice sharper than it had been all night. “Where the hell is the medic?”

The urgency in his tone cut through the noise. People moved faster. Someone hurried over with a flashlight and a first aid kit, already pulling on gloves. Patrick stayed close, refusing to step back. His hand hovered near Vera’s back, steady and grounding, like he was afraid she might crumble if he let go. His eyes flicked up to the rigging above them, fury flashing there, before coming back to her face.

“You shouldn’t even be standing right now,” he muttered, softer this time, meant only for her.

Vera gave a faint laugh, but it was more brittle than amused. “If you hadn’t pulled me, that thing would’ve—” She cut herself off, shaking her head as though refusing to let the thought form.

Patrick’s chest tightened at the half-sentence. He didn’t let her finish it either.

“Don’t,” he said firmly. “Don’t even go there.”

Her lips parted, like she wanted to argue, but the look in his eyes—intense, unwavering—silenced her. And for a moment, in the middle of all the chaos, it was just them.

The soundstage was still buzzing with motion. Crew members clustered near the fallen rig, voices overlapping—someone barking orders to clear the area, another on a walkie requesting a full inspection of the ceiling before work resumed. The metallic wreckage lay sprawled like a wounded beast across the floor, jagged and menacing.

But Patrick didn’t look at it again. His focus was locked on Vera.

The medic crouched beside her, shining a small flashlight at her face, checking her pupils. “Any dizziness? Blurred vision?”

“I’m fine,” Vera repeated for the third time, though her voice was thinner than usual. She sat on a folding chair someone had dragged in, one hand still pressed gingerly against her shoulder.

Patrick stood close enough that his knee brushed hers, arms crossed tight over his chest like it was the only thing keeping him from unraveling. His jaw was set, eyes sharp, tracking every flinch, every tremor she tried to hide.

The medic lowered the light. “Your vitals look fine, but you’ve definitely got bruising coming in on that shoulder. Might be just soft tissue, but you should ice it and keep it elevated. If the pain spikes, you’ll need an x-ray.”

Vera waved a hand dismissively. “It’s nothing serious. Honestly, I’ve had worse stubbing my toe.”

Patrick’s head snapped toward her. “Stub—Vera, a hundred-pound light almost crushed you. Don’t downplay this.” His tone was sharper than he intended, edged with adrenaline he hadn’t shaken off. Several crew members nearby glanced their way, startled by the bite in his voice.

Vera blinked at him, caught off guard. Then, as though sensing the storm beneath his worry, her expression softened. She reached for humor like a shield. “If you’re auditioning for the role of Overprotective Dad, I think you’ve nailed it.”

Patrick didn’t smile. His arms unfolded, and he crouched down so they were eye level, his voice dropping low, meant only for her. “I’m not joking around. You could’ve been seriously hurt.”

The weight in his tone pinned her. The warmth she usually found in his eyes was still there, but buried under it was something else—fear, unspoken but raw.

She frowned and then swallowed. “But I wasn’t.”

“Because I was close enough to pull you out of the way,” he shot back, frustration laced with relief. “If I’d been two steps farther—” He cut himself off, dragging a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “Christ, Vee.”

For the first time since the crash, she didn’t have a quick retort. Her fingers curled in her lap, nails faintly digging into her palm as she searched his face.

The medic cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence. “She should be monitored for the rest of the night. Someone stay with her. No solo trips home.” He looked between them, clearly aware of the unspoken dynamic, before turning away to pack up his kit.

As the medic moved off, Patrick straightened but didn’t step back. “You heard him. You’re not going anywhere alone.”

“Patrick,” Vera began, her voice gentle now, “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“You’re not getting one,” he said. “You’re getting me.”

Her lips parted, a protest on the tip of her tongue, but he was already reaching for her uninjured arm, steadying her as she stood. His grip was firm, guiding without force, like he didn’t trust the ground beneath her feet.

“Patrick,” she tried again, half-exasperated, half-touched. “I can walk. I’m not made of glass.”

“I know you’re not,” he said, and something about the quiet conviction in his voice rooted her still. His eyes met hers, steady, intense. “But don’t ask me to pretend this didn’t scare the hell out of me.”

The air between them shifted. The noise of the crew faded into a dull background hum.

Vera drew in a slow breath, her protest dying in her throat. She nodded once, almost imperceptibly, then allowed his hand to stay at her elbow as he guided her toward the edge of the set.

“Trailer,” he murmured, not looking back at the wreckage. “Now.”

And for once, she didn’t argue.

Vera’s trailer was dim, the only light spilling from a single lamp in the corner. The buzz of the soundstage had faded into a distant hum beyond the walls, replaced by the soft creak of the door closing behind them.

Patrick lingered by the door for a moment, as if to ensure no one followed, then turned the lock with a quiet click.

Vera arched a brow. “Locking me in?”

“Locking everyone else out,” he corrected, his voice still taut from the chaos. “You need space. And rest.”

She exhaled a small laugh, easing onto the couch with a wince. “You say that like you’re my doctor.”

“You think I’d trust anyone else right now?” he countered. Without waiting for an answer, he crossed to the small kitchenette, rummaging until he found an ice pack wrapped in a towel. He knelt in front of her, his movements precise but gentle, and pressed it carefully against her shoulder.

Vera sucked in a sharp breath. “Cold.”

“That’s the point,” Patrick said, his lips twitching in the faintest attempt at humor. But his eyes never left her face, watching every reaction.

She tilted her head, studying him. His jaw was still clenched, his hands steady but not relaxed. The adrenaline had shifted into something heavier—protectiveness bordering on anger, though not at her. At the situation. At the near-miss he clearly hadn’t shaken.

“You’re still wound tight,” she murmured.

“You almost got crushed, Vera,” he said, the words harsh in his throat. “Do you really expect me to shrug that off?”

Her lips parted, but no quick reply came. She searched his face instead, and what she saw there made her chest tighten. Beneath the frustration was something raw, a flicker of vulnerability he usually masked with banter.

She softened. “I wasn’t trying to scare you.”

“You didn’t try,” he said, his voice dropping. “You just did.”

The silence that followed was thick, weighted with the truth neither had been willing to name in front of the others. Vera shifted slightly, adjusting the ice pack herself so he’d release it. Her hand brushed his, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

“I’m okay,” she said gently. “Bruised, sure. Shaken. But okay.”

Patrick sat back on his heels, dragging a hand through his hair. “You keep saying that, but I watched it, Vera. I saw how close that thing came down. If I’d been two steps farther—”

“Stop.” She reached forward impulsively, fingers catching his wrist. Her eyes met his with quiet intensity. “Don’t do the what ifs. We’re both going to lose sleep if you start down that road.”

His breath caught, but he didn’t pull away.

For a long moment, they stayed like that—her hand steady on his wrist, his gaze locked on hers, the air in the trailer warm and hushed.

Finally, Vera leaned back against the couch cushions, letting out a long sigh. “Do you know what’s worse than getting hit by a light fixture?”

Patrick frowned. “What?”

“Getting glared at by you for an hour afterward.”

His laugh broke out, low and reluctant, the tension in his shoulders easing for the first time since the accident. “You deserve it.”

“Do I?” she teased, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Yeah,” he said softly, his eyes warming. “For trying to act like you’re invincible when you’re not.”

Her smile faltered, replaced by something quieter, more fragile. She didn’t argue this time. Instead, she let her head tip against the back of the couch, her voice barely above a whisper. “It did scare me. More than I wanted to admit out there.”

Patrick’s chest tightened. He shifted closer, careful not to jar her shoulder, and rested his arm along the back of the couch behind her. “Then don’t hide it. Not from me.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, searching. The room felt suddenly smaller, the space between them humming with something unspoken but steady.

For once, Vera didn’t deflect with humor. She leaned slightly toward him, letting the weight of his presence anchor her. “You’re too good at this,” she murmured.

“At what?”

“Making me feel safe.”

Patrick’s throat worked, his hand flexing slightly against the couch. He didn’t answer right away, but his silence said more than words.

Instead, he shifted the ice pack into place again, his fingers brushing her skin with deliberate care. “You’ll be sore in the morning. Don’t fight me when I tell you to take it easy.”

She gave him a sidelong glance, her smile faint but genuine. “Bossy.”

“Protective,” he corrected.

“Same thing.”

“Not when it comes to you.”

The weight of that hung between them, tender and sharp all at once.

Vera let her eyes fall closed, the exhaustion finally pulling at her edges. “Fine. I’ll listen. This time.”

Patrick exhaled slowly, some of the fear finally bleeding out of him. He stayed there, close enough that she could feel the steady warmth of him, watching as her breaths evened out. Only when he was sure she was truly resting did he allow himself to lean back, the tension in his body giving way to quiet relief. And in that small trailer, with the wreckage of the night left outside, the storm finally broke into calm.

The trailer was quiet now, save for the hum of the small air unit and the occasional shifting of the ice pack as it dripped condensation down the towel. Vera had stretched sideways on the couch, her legs curled, her injured shoulder cradled against a pillow Patrick had insisted she use.

He sat at the far end of the couch at first, one arm slung over the backrest, his posture watchful even in the stillness. His eyes flicked to her every few seconds, as though confirming she was still there, still breathing, still okay.

“You’re staring,” Vera mumbled without opening her eyes.

“Yeah,” Patrick said simply.

Her mouth twitched. “Creepy.”

“Reassuring,” he countered. “At least for me.”

She cracked one eye open to look at him, the corner of her lips curling into the faintest smile. “You know, there’s protective, and then there’s… whatever this is. You’ve checked on me every thirty seconds since we got in here.”

Patrick leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze steady on her. “And how many of those times did you wince when you thought I wasn’t looking?”

Vera froze, caught. She gave a soft groan and buried her face in the pillow. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re terrible at pretending you’re that strong,” he said, though his voice had softened now, the bite gone. He reached out and gently tugged the pillow just enough that he could see her face again. “Don’t hide it from me, Vee. You know you don’t have to.”

Her eyes met his, tired but warm. For a long moment, she just looked at him, something unspoken passing between them like an exhale neither of them realized they’d been holding. Finally, she let out a small laugh. “Do you fuss like this over everyone, or am I just lucky?”

“You’re not lucky,” Patrick said, leaning back. “You scared the hell out of me tonight. There’s no universe where I just… walk away after that.”

Her chest tightened at the honesty in his tone. She reached out with her uninjured arm and gave his knee a gentle nudge. “You know, for someone who claims he’s not bossy, you sure give a lot of orders.”

“Sit down. Ice your shoulder. Don’t move. Don’t crack jokes,” he mimicked her own voice, smirking.

“That doesn’t sound like me at all,” she deadpanned, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her amusement.

Patrick shook his head, a laugh breaking free, but it quickly softened. He shifted closer along the couch, the space between them narrowing until his shoulder brushed against the pillow propped under hers. His presence was steady, grounding.

“I meant it,” he said quietly. “You’re not going through this alone. Not tonight, not ever, if I have a say in it.”

Her breath caught. She didn’t answer right away, just let her gaze linger on him—the earnest set of his mouth, the lingering worry in his eyes, the warmth radiating from him.

She whispered, “I know.”

And with that, she let her head tip against his arm, the contact light but deliberate. Patrick stilled, then relaxed into it, his arm curving slightly so she fit more comfortably against him. For the first time since the crash, Vera’s body truly unclenched, the tension ebbing away. The ice pack slipped a little, forgotten, as her breaths deepened.

Patrick didn’t move. He just sat there, keeping watch, his gaze softening as he looked down at her. The fear of earlier was still in his chest, but now it was tempered by something else—gratitude. Relief. A quiet promise that whatever fell, whoever faltered, he’d always be there to steady her.

“Get some rest,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I’ve got you.”

And in the soft cocoon of the trailer, with the world outside locked out, Vera let herself believe it.

Notes:

Did yall see the photo Vinka posted? 😩 Them riding on a big bike !!