The oh so familiar knock rips you out of your sleep. Ugh, why does he have to choose this exact moment to wake you, you ask yourself, because, damn son, but you were having a hell of a nice dream.
Another knock echoes through your apartment. You groan, then move to stand up and grab your hoodie from your desk chair to wrap yourself in it. Another knock. Another groan.
Putting on your best pissed off-face—which wasn’t very hard, considering you were pretty pissed off—you unlatch the door and rip it open. He stands before you, a mix between a smirk and a sheepish smile plastered on his lips, hand resting on his gun. “Morning, sunshine,” he greets, like he does every time.
“Morning, Lucifer,” you respond in a snarl as usual.
His grin only grows wider. “Ever the so happy little princess, I see.” His other hand comes forward, holding on to a file.
You roll your eyes, because you know exactly what is in it. “Lemme guess. My taxes?”
He does a show of flipping through your files, as if he hasn’t already studied them. Which he did. Probably at the ass crack of dawn, chewing on a donut in his car parked in front of your apartment complex. “Actually, sunshine, it’s your rent this time.”
You throw your head back and groan. “That son of a bitch!”
Your landlord has seriously worked up the nerve and gone to the police because you haven’t paid your rent in three months? But then again—at least he hasn’t kicked you out yet.
Luke throws you a small smile, closing your file. “Mind if I step in for a second?”
“No.” And you close the door.
Not a second later, he raps on it. “Oh, come on! How many times have we gone through this?” There was a hint of a smile in his voice.
“Uh, probably too many times?” you reply in a duh-kind of way. You are seriously so fed up with this shit and how many times your sleep gets disturbed, just because you struggle to pay off all your bills. In a way, you count yourself as lucky as you still haven’t ended up in jail—thank God.
When he knocks again, you call, “Goodnight,” in a sing-song way and stalk away, though you don’t miss him shouting, “It’s already bright in the morning, sunshine!” through the door as he gives it one last soft slap.
Gosh, Luke is so smitten. There is still a huge grin plastered on his face as he hits your rolled up file against his open palm repeatedly. Footsteps trip him from cloud nine and Luke immediately lets the happy face fall, turning on his heels and makes his way towards the exit of your apartment building. He knows it’s wrong, but someday—someday he’ll ask for your number and he’s gonna take you on a date.
It’s been three months since he first rapped on your door, informing you about your unpaid taxes. Over the months he has learned that you often have a man over, though it is never the same one. And every time Luke is scheduled to pay you a visit, he prays there wouldn’t be a man answering your door. Today is his lucky day.
Somehow the nickname sunshine has stuck with Luke, seeing as he has to knock on your door every morning—he’d pick your case first, he’d visit you first and magically, you’d brighten up the rest of his day. He doesn’t know how he can be so smitten by one person whom he hasn’t even had a single conversation with that isn’t about her inability to pay her bills.
He doesn’t care though. He’s a fucking goner and he loves it.
He loves seeing you in your pjs, hair a mess, face scrunched up in annoyance and anger. He loves the way, even though there is a police officer standing at your door, you still hold yourself with grace and determination and will not give in to his stance that usually intimidates everyone, considering he’s a six foot something giant with a gun holstered at his hip and one hidden by his foot. Yes, you are certainly something, and he’s so smitten and he will not give up.
He’s the first one on scene. Often times Luke prays for them to be a DOA, because he cannot stand to see them in pain, but this one is a fighter. She’s still stuck in the vehicle, whimpers escaping her lips as the blood drips around her broken body. He holds her hand, caressing the back of it softly as he tries to get her to stay conscious by speaking to her. Looking at her fills his heart with a feel of familiarity and he immediately hates himself for hoping she’d be a DOA, when he sees how strong she is, how her eyes light up, talking about her baby sister and her little boy she has at home—even when there is blood fogging up her view. And he hates—absolutely hates the feeling of her life seeping out of her right in front of his face. Her hand that has been gripping his back with a strength he didn’t know someone with such injuries could have, goes limp and somehow, Luke’s heart drops and his breath hitches and he needs to scream so so badly.
It’s not the first time he’s witnessed someone dying—hell, he’s already held people’s hands as they were dying because of a bullet he himself put into them. Then why is this time any different?
Why does he snap at the fire fighter as he cuts her body out of the vehicle?
Can’t you be more careful with her?! Stop handling her like she’s some fucking thing!
Why does he feel the need to ride with her to the morgue and why does he feel like he’s obligated to inform her family about her death?
He finds out hours later as he holds her records in his hands.
Tears are falling
From his eyes, because you have the same parents and the same surname. Hell, you even have the same features—explaining why he felt this familiarity in his gut as he was talking to her.
He leaves the precinct with a few dents in the lockers and her records tucked into his messenger bag. Luke cannot tell you just yet—God, he dreads it so much. He wants to give you a few more peaceful hours of not knowing and he wants to sleep so so badly, preparing himself before he has to shatter your world even more.
He sleeps that night with a wet and salty pillow that has become the victim of multiple screams, the file lying on his bedside table, haunting him.
He’s been preparing himself for hours, all right? But still he’s pacing in front of your apartment, heart racing, palms sweating. It’s later than his usual visits, and Luke figures he needs to get this over with. He can’t postpone it any longer, it’ll only do more damage when you find out she’s been dead for almost half a day already and no one’s bothered to tell you.
So he knocks. And he waits. And then he hears the shuffles. As the door opens he isn’t met with your familiar, sleepy—angry—face though. It’s a half-naked man that stands before him and looks at him in confusion. Luke groans internally. Why does she have to have a man over today? Why this day out of them all?
“Can I help you, officer?” the dude asks as if this were his apartment and he were living here.
Luke’s got no patience left in his body. “Yes,” he growls. “You can get me the woman that lives here. ASAP.”
“Why?” he challenges.
“Because I said so. And if she’s not here and you not gone in half a minute I will arrest you for obstruction of justice and haul your damn arse into jail.” He imagines himself looking like he’s ready to pounce. (And he is.)
The dude flinches, raises his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. I’ll get her.”
And the door slams shut. The fucking door slams shut in his face!
Luke kicks at it—the frustration and anger leaking into his actions. “Stupid son of a bitch,” he mutters under his breath, wringing at your sister’s records.
When the door opens half a minute later, and you stand there in front of him, cuddled in a hoodie, he feels like his body is deflating. His mouth opens to greet you with the usual line, but the dude comes into view and cuts him off with an awkward cough. “I’ll, uh—I’ll just go.”
Luke glares at him. (It’s a pretty impressive glare.) “You better,” he growls.
“Thanks, uh, for the night.” Oh, he has the fucking nerve.
Luke’s fists clench, but then he feels your sister’s files getting crunched and he tries to relax again. A look at your face and he sees the utter confusion you’re feeling. His heart clenches just as his fists do again. How can he look at you like that, knowing he’s about to break you? He was wrong, he thinks, he doesn’t want to be the one to tell you. But he can’t let anyone else do it. For one, he’s already here, and second, he will not—he will not let anyone see you this vulnerable. You’re his kick-ass sunshine and he cannot bear the thought of anyone taking that strength from you. Even if it’s breaking his heart to have to do it himself—it’s a sacrifice he is willing to make.
Finally, the dude shuffles past and leaves them.
The air seems tighter, all of the sudden. Luke tries to relax his stance and his face. “Can I come in?”
To his surprise you don’t snap at him immediately, but rather examine his face. He’s got this look of sadness clouding his baby blues and the way his hands can’t hold themselves still makes you nervous. Maybe the time’s finally come and he’s here to escort you to jail. Or maybe he’s here to kick you out of your apartment. You don’t know why he’s here, but you figure it won’t hurt to let him in. If he is really here to do those things, then letting him in won’t make any difference anymore. So you just nod your head and open the door wider for him.
The nervous bubble follows him in as he walks towards your couch and seats himself in a tense position. You continue to try to assess the situation but come up empty, standing in front of him.
“Please take a seat,” he says in a weak voice—one you’ve never heard before. His voice always booms with authority and certainty. Reluctantly, you let yourself fall onto the space beside him.
“Is everything all right, Officer Hemmings?”
“No, actually it’s not.” His hand first comes to rest against his gun, then raises to finger through his hair. A shaky breath. Gosh, he cannot do it. He cannot. But he has to. For you. For her. “I’m so sorry to inform you that—” another shaky breath “—that there’s been a horrible car crash yesterday night. Your sister—”
And just like that, you break. A mix between a sob and a cry leaves your throat as you slap your hand against your mouth, shaking your head wildly.
“—she didn’t make it,” he finishes, though you don’t hear it anyway. You already knew that. If she had survived, the hospital would’ve called you. The only reason the police contacts family is when someone’s dead. And she’s dead. Dead dead dead.
Luke watches you in agony and he feels his own tears pushing against the back of his eyes as yours fall fall and fall down your cheeks and shirt. He looks up, desperately trying to find the right words to say. Come on! You’ve been fucking trained for this kind of situation! a voice shouts at him, but he can only shake his head.
Not this kind of situation. Never this.
“Please,” he whispers, “I’m so sorry, sunshine—”
“Don’t,” you spit in return. Everything’s spinning in your head, everything’s spinning out of control. “Please, don't—”
There is not enough air to get your body to function. Not enough air to force down your lungs as you shake and break and cry and wail and cannot breathe. How can your own sister just be gone in a matter of minutes? How can she be here one second and then just gone? You cannot fathom it.
Arms circle around your waist and shoulder and press your body against Luke’s. His warmth immediately engulfs you and there is this calming motion of his hand as it lightly runs up and down your spine. You notice your legs are bare and pressing against his uniform, but you don’t care. You only care for your heart as it beats against his. Your face that is lying on his shoulder, the tears falling on him as they paint your marks across his body. You focus on his breath that fans your scalp and cheek, his lips that graze your hairline and forehead with every sob that rocks through your body.
“My nephew—” you choke out after an eternity of tears. “His father’s dead. He’s an orphan—oh God, he’s an orphan—” You shake your head repeatedly against his shoulder, because this is not what you would’ve wanted for him. You are all too familiar with the feeling of growing up without parents and now your baby nephew has to go through the same fate.
Luke smooths his hand down the length of your hair. “He’s all right, don’t worry. We’ve taken good care of him.”
You untangle yourself from his embrace. “Was he in the car crash?” you ask, your heart pounding against your rib cage as you fear for his answer.
A heavy sigh escapes your lungs, as he shakes his head. “No,” he says. “He was with an underage babysitter at the time, so for now, we’ve put him into foster care.”
“Foster care?!” you shout in anger, wiping at your cheeks. A cold fist reaches into your chest and squeezes at your heart. All the memories of foster care come back to you in a rush. The fear, the chaos.
“Hey, hey,” Luke coaxes gently, taking your hands in his. They swallow them whole, providing warmth and steadiness. “We can go see him right now, if you want to. And as far as I am informed, there is a very large possibility that you can adopt him, since you’re his aunt and only living relative.” His calloused fingers rub against your own and you look down, wondering how often he has held a gun in his hands, how often he has held his finger against the trigger. You shudder at the thought.
You nod in response to his statement. “Yes, I want to see him. Please.”
“All right.” He stands up and pulls you with him.
Letting go of his hands, you stalk towards your infamous front door before you’re stopped abruptly by a grip against the crook of your arm. “Uh, where do you think you’re going?”
Where the fuck would you be going?
“I’m going to see my fucking nephew that has just lost his mother,” you snap back in response, not turning around, but fuming at his question.
Luke lets your arm fall. “I was just—I’m sorry… It’s just that—You aren’t wearing any pants.”
Looking down at yourself, you notice that you are indeed only clothed in your underwear and a hoodie. Your brain is currently one giant space of a mess, too much information trying to get processed at once that you completely forgot that you’re half naked. In defeat, you turn around, staring at the cop standing in your living room with an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Officer,” you tell him softly.
Stepping towards you, Luke gently clasps your hands in his again. “Please don’t apologise,” he says, his lips curving into a tiny, reassuring smile, “and please don’t worry. All you need to worry about right now is your baby, all right?” He gives your hands a squeeze. “And please call me Luke. Or even Lucifer for all I care. Officer sounds so formal and I think we’re way beyond that, yes?” The smile he offers you now is cheeky. And you think you love him in the moment for it. “Go get dressed,” he says, “I’ll wait for you by the door and then I’ll drive you, sounds good?”
You nod, the tears still falling. “Thank you,” you whisper, squeezing his hands in return.
He smiles again.
“How come you aren’t in your usual patrol car?”
“I came directly from home. I didn’t want to postpone this any more than absolutely necessary.”
He opens the door for you. Everywhere you enter or exit.
The drive is, at first, silent. There is no music filling the background and there is no small talk being made. Then you ask the question that has been swirling around your mind ever since he broke the news to you. “Were you there when she died?”
Your voice is so little, so quiet, so different than how it usually is. But he hears you, he always does. (That may be because he made it his habit to pay extra attention to you.) “Yes,” he replies. “I was the first one at the scene. I, uh—I held her hand while she died.” He swallows and you can see his Adam’s apple shift along with a muscle near his jaw. “She was very brave. She talked about you two as the life was seeping out of her. She even had the audacity to laugh at some point.” He throws you a quick glance, contemplating whether or not he just made the right move.
You are still in shock about everything—was it correct to tell you that? But you only smile, wringing your fingers in your lap. “Sounds like her. My hero.” And here come the tears again.
“The father was killed in the line of duty, right?” He knows that already, but God, he wants to hear your voice so badly. He wants to talk to you, hear you tell him everything about yourself.
“Yes,” you nod. “He was a great husband, and I’m sure he’d’ve been an even better father. He never got the chance, though.”
Luke smiles at you as he turns into a parking spot. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, me, too.” Now you are everything the boy has left. And you’d fight everyone who will stand in your way of adopting him. And, gosh, you know just how many there’d be, because you’re an adult that isn’t one. You can barely take care of yourself, your bills don’t even get opened because you already know you don’t have enough money to pay them. Hell, you’re on a first name basis with the officer that almost visits you daily to remind you to get your shit together. How will you take in a baby and provide for it?
You don’t notice it, but Luke stares at you. Somehow he knows what you’re thinking about—the look of panic and doubt plastered on your face. “I know this is not very professional, but I’ll help you. You know you have me, sunshine, right? You’re not alone in this, all right?” His fingers twitch, wanting to trace the tear stains on your cheeks, catch the ones that are already queuing in your eyes. With a sigh and a sad smile he settles on the hand resting in your lap and gives it a good squeeze. “Come on,” he says as if he hasn’t just knocked the breath out of you with that statement.
Once again he’s there to open the door for you. Hesitantly, his hand reaches for yours, wiggling his fingers through the gaps of yours and wrapping his heart around yours as an armour. Can he feel the frantic beat of yours? (Almost. His own is beating just as frantically.)
He cries when he sees you. The fear is written clearly on his face after spending a night without his mommy in an unfamiliar place. His chubby hands immediately reach for you, his screams echoing down the corridor.
“He hasn’t stopped crying since we picked him up,” the social worker says, smiling sadly at the both of you as she hands him over.
Finlay’s tiny hands grab for your hoodie, fisting them tightly as he wails into your chest. Instantly, wetness pools in your eyes, threatening to overspill any second, but you don’t want to frighten the poor little boy any more than he already is. You just hug him to your body, pressing your cheek against his head and try to soothe him somehow. But how do you sooth a baby that has just lost its mother and is left with nothing?
Walking towards the plastic chairs that line along the multi-coloured walls, you seat yourself and keep your arms tightly around Finlay. His cries have come down to sobs, and you guess that’s a progress. Luke continues standing with the social worker, silently discussing Finlay’s situation.
“Shhh,” you whisper, smoothing your hand over the baby’s blond hair and rocking him back and forth. “We’re going to be all right,” you say, pressing a kiss against his temple.
“She’s his only living relative and she’s over 18. I think it’s best she takes him in. And look at him. He’s comfortable with her,” he says, one hand pressed against his gun holster and the other one pointing at you two’s direction.
The social worker nods her head in understanding. “Yes, I can see that. But she’s not financially stable and that is a problem. She’s barely twenty-one and according to her file, has had multiple house visits regarding her unpaid bills. She’s in no shape to adopt a child!”
Luke lets out a frustrated sigh, throwing his head back and staring at the ceiling, his hands now propped against his hips. “Yes,” he says lowly, “but she’s not alone. She’s got support.”
Your breath catches, your eyes widen. Did he just say he’ll support you financially? Maybe your mind is playing tricks on you—after all, it’s been a disastrous day and it’s not even noon yet. Surely, the officer that’s been pounding your door in the last couple of months because of unpaid bills would not offer to pay them for you. Clearly.
But your hearing gets confirmed when the social worker asks, “From you?” A perfectly manicured brow raises.
“Yes.” He shrugs as if this were no big deal.
The confusion is evident on her face, as her lips purse. “But aren’t you the officer assigned to her case?”
“So?” He shrugs again and you notice that he tends to do this often—play something down that is actually a very big deal. “There’s no law that prevents me from doing so.”
But isn’t there some kind of law that prohibits relationships between officers and their cases? Or is that only meant for doctors and their patients? You are confused, but you shake off your thoughts. You shouldn’t focus on that right now. Like Luke said, the only thing that matters right now is getting Finlay. And if that means lying to a social worker, then so be it.
“All right,” she finally gives in. “It’ll take a long long process, though. We’ll have to check both of your records, pay you visits, see how little Finlay adjusts to the new situation.”
“Yes, we’re aware of that,” Luke says.
“Okay,” she nods. “Then let’s go down the hall and get the paperwork done.” She smiles at you to follow.
You walk, refusing to loosen your tight grip on Finlay whatsoever, as you’re getting step by step nearer towards your nephew.
This morning, your main goal was to scratch enough money together for your next bill. Now, it is to make sure Finlay ends up with you. How a life can make a 180 in a matter of seconds was beyond comprehensible, but you think you’ve got an idea.
Like before, Luke talks for you, flicking through the files and silently filling you in, before telling you where to sign. Your heart trips a beat, but reluctantly you hand Finlay over to Luke as you sign the papers. Surprisingly, he doesn’t cry, but he doesn’t cuddle him either. He more leans back as far as he can, his chubby hands laying against Luke’s chest as he looks up at him with as much concentration an eight-month-old baby can muster. Maybe he feels some sort of familiarity, since Luke does share of few of his traits—the blond locks, the blue eyes and the pointy nose. Though maybe it might be because he seldom comes in contact with males, considering his father has passed before he was even born and he was raised by a single mom, no grandparents.
Apparently, Luke has passed the little test, because Finlay seems content, leaning his tiny head against his chest as he finally calms down.
This is a sight you never ever want to forget as you force yourself to memorise it: Luke leaning against the wall, gun strapped to his hip, arms clasped around the baby’s bum; Finlay resting against him, his legs swinging at his sides.
This feeling that settles deep in your stomach is one you never ever want to forget either. Like the planets have aligned and everything is balance.
But everything is not. You’re about to become a mother for God’s sake. Suddenly, the feeling of balance wobbles and a feeling of fear slams down on one side.
So much for balance.
The next couple of months fly by in a blur. Surprisingly, Luke really does stay with you two and you work out a schedule. Whilst you go out scouting for jobs with a decent pay, Luke stays at home taking care of Finlay. He’s taking fraternity leave or something like that, because honestly you have no idea how Luke did it or how many favours he had to ask for in order to take care of you and Finlay. He’s already got his own drawer and toothbrush and sleeps over most of the time.
Child & Family Services checks in on you once a week, making sure Finlay likes his new environment and your apartment isn’t on the edge of falling apart. It’s the same woman who handed Finlay over to you that does the house visits and you can see the surprise on her face every time Luke opens the door with the baby set on his hip. Even she didn’t think he meant what he told her.
After Luke’s introduced you to a buddy of him, he manages to get you a job as a PA—another thing you have thanks to him. Most of the days you get off around lunch time, but then there are days like today where your boss keeps you behind until eight.
Turning the lock in the door usually greets you with a laugh or a squeal, but this time there’s none of that. Stepping into your apartment, you kick off your shoes, discard your keys and trudge towards the living room, ready for sleep. But you stop abruptly when you see Luke laying sprawled across the couch, his feet hanging over the arm rest, hands holding onto Finlay who appears to be awake in contrast to the one who’s supposed to be watching him.
In the past months, Finlay has become used to his new life. Days of sleepless nights because he misses his mother have passed and now he sleeps through until the first rays of sunshine. That’s usually where he decides to be your personal alarm clock, crying or screaming.
Considering your apartment only has two rooms, you gave the other one to Luke in the beginning, but soon after, you both decided that Finlay should get his own room, so now the two of you are stuck sharing a bed occasionally—and he’s the only one in the past months that has gotten to sleep in the same bed with you. And you’ve got to admit, the days he spends in his own apartment or on the couch, your bed seems colder somehow.
As you still haven’t got enough money to decorate a room for him, it’s only got a crib and a rocking chair in there and that’s that. It’s disappointing you can’t offer him more, but you still count yourself lucky you’ve got food on your table everyday.
Quietly, you tiptoe towards the couch, letting your purse and your jacket fall to the floor before you carefully pick Finlay up from Luke’s chest where he’s been laying on. The fact that he knew not to squeal when you came in because Luke’s sleeping makes your heart warm up a notch. He’s taking quite a liking to him, not even fussing the tiniest bit when you leave for work every morning.
Cuddling Finlay to your own chest, you begin to rock him back and forth. “Hey, little man,” you whisper. “How’s life treating you?”
He only grabs for your mouth with his chubby fingers. “Yeah, me too!” you answer enthusiastically, laughing at him.
Every time you look at his face you see her. They’ve got the same mouth, the same curve of Cupid’s bow, the same cheek bones—and you’ve kissed both multiple times.
Even if he was only nine months old, Finlay still understood what was happening during the funeral, having cried into yours and Luke’s chests as the reception was being held. You’d like to believe, you looked like a little family then—Luke and you sandwiching Finlay between you; Luke with one hand on top of Finlay’s blond head, the other one gently laying on your arm; you with your own head resting against Finlay’s, feeling Luke’s fingers brush through your hair every so often and softly.
Somehow, this new life of yours makes you feel safe and warm all over. The thought of not having Luke standing by your side, makes your heart clench. You couldn’t imagine it. You’re a team now.
Finlay gurgles in content, head laying against your collarbone. “Hey, Finlay,” you whisper, “You know who that is, right?” You point at Luke’s sleeping figure.
Leaning back, Finlay stares at where you’re pointing. He giggles. “Lu,” he exclaims, happily.
“Yay!” You wiggle him. “That’s Lu. Good job, baby.” Finlay’s birthday is coming up in two weeks, and for an eleven-month old, he’s already picked up a few words. “Lu takes care of us, you know,” you tell him, staring at Luke and feeling like this is all a dream somehow. He was the cop reminding you of your unpaid bills, for God’s sake. And now he’s sleeping on your couch, helping you take care of your baby.
Taking a seat on the floor in front of the couch, you lean against it, letting Finlay sit on your hip bones. “You like Lu, little one? I know I like him,” you whisper quietly, smiling slightly. He giggles again, clasping his hands on your cheeks.
You jump as you feel something touch your hair. “You like me?” a silent voice speaks from behind you, sleepiness lacing it and pulling your heart under. You love his sleepy voice.
Heat creeps up your neck, tinging your ears red. “Uh—” you begin to stutter, trying to think of anything to say to him. You don’t want to frighten him and you don’t want him to run off. Yes, you have a connection, but maybe it’s just him being a good cop. Maybe you interpreted this whole situation wrong.
There are so many thoughts racing through your mind, you don’t even notice Luke brushing your hair behind your ear as you continue to stare at Finlay. “Don’t break your brain over it, sunshine,” he says, pulling you out of the space you just disappeared into. “I like you, too, you know?”
He likes you, too.
Your breath hitches. He’s fingers are still woven in your hair, gently scratching against the side of your head. “I’ve liked you since the day I first knocked on your door,” he says quietly. Does he even know what his words are doing to you?
It’s like he’s lulling you to sleep, coaxing you into a dream so sweet you never want to wake up from it. It’s like his words are covered in honey and you’re finally getting a taste of them. They’re brushing against you oh so softly and you don’t want him to stop talking.
His fingers continue combing through your hair. “Come here,” he says. It’s that sentence that snaps you out of your trance his words have put you in and you notice that even Finlay has fallen asleep. Maybe his words have the same effect on him.
Avoiding sudden movement, you stand up and seat yourself next to Luke on the couch where he’s just made some space for you.
He’s not focused on talking right now, though, because he merely winds his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into him, being careful with the sleeping baby. His free hand cups your inner thigh and he turns your body, adjusting, so you’re sitting sideways with your legs propped up over one of his and your feet planted between them. The heat creeps up your neck again and you’re not sure if it’s because of the closeness or the warmth his body provides. Sure, you’ve spent a couple of night tangled up in each other’s arms before, but you simply blamed your unconsciousness for it. This is different.
You’re leaning into him and his arm is still around you, his head against the top of yours as his fingertips dance across the naked skin of your shoulder. The silence is comfortable, warming and hot all at once. Contentment fills up your heart but there’s also this fear creeping up your spine. If the both of you pursue this new relationship, everything will change. What happens, if it doesn’t work out? He’ll leave—Finlay will lose the only man/father figure he has ever had and you’ll lose the security he provides for the two of you. And at the same time you’d lose a dear friend. This uncertainness of the future causes you to doubt, but you don’t want to lose this feeling of happiness either.
Somehow, Luke manages to make everything better—again. “You don’t need to worry that much, sweetheart,” he mumbles against you. “I swear, I can almost hear the wheels turning in that pretty little brain of yours.” And again he makes you blush with his words. He says, “We don’t need to rush anything. I’m just saying, you know. We can take things slow. The only important thing here is our little boy, all right?” Your heart temporarily stops beating. “And the rest we’ll figure out on our way.”
He just called Finlay your boy. The both of yours. The happiness fills you up and you’ll burst into rainbows for sure. But then you sigh. “I’m just scared. I don’t want to commit to anything if it’s only gonna end up not working out. And I don’t want to lose you.”
He presses his head a little harder against yours. “You’re not gonna lose me,” he says, “Neither of you. You have me, in all ways possible—the both of you have me wrapped around your fingers so tightly.”
“And I’m so thankful to have you,” you answer. “The both of us. We’re so incredibly lucky.”
Adjusting, so Finlay won’t lay in your lap, you move your legs so you’re lying on the couch with your head resting on Luke’s thighs and Finlay against your chest. You wind your arms tightly around his little body, somehow wanting to squeeze all the love you feel for him into his heart.
As you look up you’re met with Luke’s soft blue eyes. A film of tiredness has laid itself across them, but they’re still staring at you with such wonder and endearment that you don’t know how to breathe for a second. His fingers begin to comb through Finlay’s blond strands instead as he simply leans back against the couch rest and let’s out a deep sigh of peacefulness.
You ask yourself, if the three of you look like a family in a way. It’s something you’ve only thought about once, but somehow in this little moment of contentment you imagine you three looking like a family. And it’s this that breaks it to you. You want to be one—a family. You want this because you don’t want this feeling ever going away and you want it because it’s been a long time since you’ve had a proper family. You want this because you want to offer this to Finlay who’s lost the only family he had and you want it because you’re falling hard for this man with the soft heart but walks around with a gun strapped to his ankle every day.
Yes, you’re falling in love with this man.
And somehow, miraculously he is as well. Well, not exactly. Because he already is in love with you.
—everyone should like @ tag me in something sweet. Fuel my desperate need for further validation! lmao I’m kidding! -kinda. This is my send off post for the night though I think. I need to be up at the ass crack of dawn to sell donuts and coffee to people while I boss around teenagers. >.<
Some old English dude named Charles Caleb Colton once said, “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.“ If that’s true, Portland’s Voodoo Doughnuts ought to be feeling downright idolized over copycat donut shop Dawn of the Donut from Spokane, WA.
It’s not simply a case of similarity in the choice of pairing occult themes with fried confections. Dawn of the Donut’s menu will look very familiar to anyone who’s spent any time in Portland in the last decade. I’ve hastily thrown together a comparison graphic of just some of the items offered by both shops, and I’ve gotta say, reproducing someone else’s good ideas seems like an apparently winning business plan.
Not that it’s any of my business. I have no connection to either company. But seeing how Voodoo only has three locations and they’re being ripped off one state away in one of the two markets they’d be most likely to expand into, it just felt worth mentioning.
I wish you would write a fic where Simmons and grif switch bodies and Simmons starts getting all upset about how grif smells and grif just doubles over. And he's just like "I never knew" all quite and stuff because it turns out some of Simmons parts don't work too well or something so he's in constant pain. So grif is like "as soon as we switch back we're fixing this. Bonus if he yells at sarge.
Hello Anon, thanks for the suggestion :) I hope this is okay!
When he finally managed to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed, he realised that something wasn’t quite right.
looked over towards the pile of blankets on the bed. The voice that
came from it was not Grif’s, but that was impossible. The two of them
shared a room, and the voice that reached his ears was neither Donut nor
Sarge nor Lopez. It was his own.