68. (fnl) we burn our hands. (3/6)

[bluesunsets]

we burn our hands (3/6).
new york pisses rain. julie moves on -- baggage follows. friday night lights. tim/julie. r. 11 033 words.
for: liquid_garnet for fnl_santa. requested: A long(ish) Tim/Julie fanfiction (relationship fic, can be smutty).
note: first: apologies for the wait. second: why the long wait? well, as ridiculous as it sounds, i got scared of this thing. then writer’s block decided to attack me for a couple of months, and now, during the end of my exams, iluisaaa decides to guilt trip me (meanie :p) to finish this. i didn’t want to leave this unfinished, despite it already having been written, as it’s a gift, and i really did enjoy writing this. so. i’m sorry it’s taken almost half a year. the next part should be up sometime in the next two weeks - i’m finally editing the last parts. ;) thank you to anyone who reads this and anyone who leaves feedback. ♥

i’d also like to clarify that this fic sort of jumps in time. one moment may be two weeks before the next, and another may be two hours after the previous. it’s sort of up to the reader. ;) ♥



Julie wakes up early, encased in sheets wrapped tightly around her she doesn’t think she can move without assistance. Her vision blurry, she blinks a couple of times until it’s sharp, taking in the rumpled sheet and open-mouthed Tim.

She pauses, freaked, breath stuck in her throat and her hand twitches beside her head. His hand is the pressure she feels on her back, his palm curving around the side of her stomach, and her legs are tangled with his.

All she can think is shit. Shit, shit, double shit.

Struggling to find the start of the sheet, she tries to twist herself out by using the maze method. Tim shifts, hand slightly gripping her and his legs pull hers into his. She face-plants into the pillow.

Huffing, she tries to untangle her feet from his, sliding one of her legs out of his hold and feeling her smooth skin catch lightly on the hairs of his toned legs. The other one follows suit. Her legs hang limply off the bed as she tries to pull away from Tim’s palm while finding that if she slides down the bed through the sheets she’ll have a better chance at not disturbing him.

He shifts again and she freaks, pausing, still, looking too guilty for the simple act of whatever it was they did last night. She’s not going to dwell on it. She’s got her plan and she’s watched most of Jennifer Garner’s series to know how to get out of a situation like this. All she’s got to do is ask herself What Would Sydney Do? and she’ll be okay.

Sliding down the bed, she finds herself in a tight fix until she realizes that the edge of the sheet is underneath her stomach and there’s no part of Tim Riggins touching her that would result in Godzilla awakening.

Standing, she runs a hand through her messy hair and her fingers get caught in knots. Opening a draw, she finds a pair of underwear - Hello Kitty stamped on the front - and slides it up her legs, finding a discarded shirt on the floor she thinks is Tim’s and quickly slides it over her arms, finding one of the buttons busted as she tries to cover herself up. She’s desperate, is what she’ll say if she gets caught, by him or Tyra or whoever she’ll tell this to, about why she’s wearing his shirt when there’s an old one of Matt’s in her wardrobe, serving the purpose as a memento because she’s just too darn nostalgic to bother scouring the stores for men’s shirts.

She goes to the kitchen. Feet padding softly down the stairs, she closes her eyes with each descend, trying to forget everything. Hands and teeth and lips and goddamn Tim Riggins; nothing is ever a good combination with that boy.

She pulls out the stool, it scraping against the wood and she’ll need to learn a method for avoiding that. She pauses, listening for any noise to indicate that Godzilla has, indeed, awoken and is ready to quip New York with it’s giant feet and giant hands of destruction.

There’s nothing. Julie feels she hasn’t breathed for a decade.

Sitting, she fiddles with her hands, tapping violently against the silver table. Her hands don’t still as she wills them to shut up, pressing her palms forcefully against the coldness and her fingers twitch. Her knee moves, starts shaking up and down as though suffering from shivers, and she has enough, pushing the stool away with a loud scrape and she moves towards the couch.

All thought stops here as she sits down, arms crossed against her chest and she does not think of Tim Riggins - Godzilla; it stops that heat swirling in the pit of her stomach - on this couch looking very much like he did when she left him. She shifts so she’s lying down, staring at the blank television screen reflecting a blurry image of her back. She looks small, legs bent at the knees so she can fit along the leather. Tim’s blankets are folded and sitting on the floor beneath her.

Sighing, she closes her eyes, suddenly being bombarded with a wave of sleepiness. Julie feels like she’s been awake for all her life, an insomniac throughout her years, and finally she’s gotten around the obstacle as she stifles a yawn by being stubborn, that Taylor family trait she carries proudly, with tight closed lips. She figures she might as well start practicing now; there’s no way in hell she can tell Tyra about this. Or Lois.

She closes her eyes and feels that blanket again, crashing into her like a large wave and knock her under the water. This morning she’s just too lazy to bother swimming to the surface.

With her hand slapping to her forehead, she wakes up, slowly and torturously as she looks around her living room. Feeling disorientated, she stretches along the leather, it quietly moaning against her movements as it unsticks to her sweaty skin. Pitching forward, the blankets folded in a neat square have disappeared and this is when her sense of feeling kicks in.

“Mornin’,” she hears him grin, her hearing is next as she hears him pad around barefoot in the kitchen, pans clanging louder now, as though he doesn’t need to make an effort to be quiet anymore, against the stove and sink and each other. “You sleep like the dead.”

She runs her hand over her face, sitting up and seeing his bare back. “I’ve been told.” Her wit comes later.

“So I was thinkin’ we watch that Shaun movie,” he turns around, spatula in hand, it shines with a glossy tint in the light he has flicked on in the kitchen. Wasting her electricity again, she grimaces slightly, “With the zombies.”

She narrows her eyes, “What are you doing?”

“Cooking,” he grins, turning back to the stove and the frying pan. She hears thing sizzle and she groans, falling back against the couch, head resting on the arm. He’s being difficult - or maybe this is Tim during The After. She wouldn’t know, and Tyra’s never been one to kiss and tell all the details to. The girl was born to be an editor.

“But what are you doing?” she says, palm covering her eyes as she sighs. She’s trying to paint something underneath her words that he’s just meant to pick up. Sort of like how the couples on television and books seem to.

“Whatcha mean?” his voice floats to her. Tim’s really good at proving her fantasies of what true relationships consist of wrong.

She moves her palm away, letting it fall beside her, hanging limply like she’s seen his do the two times she’s seen him sleep. “It’s too early to talk about it,” she says to herself, shifting so she’s sitting up. Her hair feels matted and heavy, and she runs a hand through it, finding it blocked by knots. Another frown, she moves, stands up and his shirt seems to have shrunken overnight, barely covering her thighs.

This is when he turns around, smug grin on his face as he takes her in, two plates covered in whatever the hell he’s been wasting his time on shaking slightly between his fingers. It’s impossible to hold anything still.

As she moves towards him, she keeps her head down, matted hair protecting her from anything he’s going to do or say or even think as she pulls the stool out with a loud scrape, not bothering to flinch as the sound irritates her ears, and she sits. He grins, breathes out loudly, as if to get a rise out of her, make her turn her head and regard his presence, “Hope you like omelettes.”

He slides the plate in front of her, dropping a knife and fork down beside it. She sees him sit from the corner of her eye, hand pick up the fork and pull at the plain omelette. He pokes at it like he once did to a dead frog in one of the branches of Science. She thinks he’s delusional, thinking scrambled eggs are the alter ego of an omelette. “Thanks,” she mumbles, picking up her fork between the tips of her fingers as though she’ll get burned, and she pokes at it.

“You look good in my shirt,” his eyes dart to her, settling on her face as she brushes her hair away with a skim of her spare hand. She flushes, like back in high school, the way she used to when Matt simply sputtered out a ‘Hello’. She feels hot underneath his gaze, the way his words wrap around her and make her feel like she’s wearing a blanket of comfort. She pulls at the sleeves, the tips of her fingers playing momentarily with them before pushing them up her arms so they’ll sit at her elbows.

Picking up the knife, she decides to not respond to the comment, finding her mouth sticky and hot, knowing words will be trapped in the cavern like a fly wrapped in a spider’s web. She cuts at the omelette; a small odd shape is stabbed by the prongs of her fork. She takes a bite after she scrutinises it; there’s paranoia that he may have laced it with something. “Tastes good.”

He grins, watches her take a bigger cut. “Your dad may make the best chilli, but I make the best omelettes.”

“Or mess with eggs.”

He shrugs, “Poe-tay-toe, poe-tah-toe.”

*

Tim’s persistent.

She tries to keep her distance, making an effort to walk around him, miles between them, like New York and Dillon where Tim’s supposed to be, but he’ll push up in her space, act as though he really needs to get something out of the cupboard directly above her as she washes a dish or grabs a glass of water. Front pressed to her back, his fingers would be the only shy thing on him, pressing like a ghost against her shoulders as he lifts his arms up to open the door, saying “Watch your head” like she’s Tyra’s height, and shuffling things around, looking for something that’ll be believable for him being up in her space.

His fingers brush her when he walks by, like it’s the only way he’s stopping himself from sidling up next to her and acting like a cat. When she’s on the couch, he’ll place his feet on her lap, shift in that way that she has to grab his feet and move them to her knees. He’ll smirk, like he usually does, and his ankle will feel cold in her palm; that desire to warm them up suffocates her every time he does this.

She’s pretty sure the next step for him will be moving onto her leg, much like in the fashion of Ferret.

Though, he’s different at night, and this sort of unsettles her. Sometimes she thinks he’ll follow her up the stairs, play them as if they’re no longer Kryptonite and Clark Kent, and he’ll follow her up, maul her, and it’ll be seven o’clock before she’s awake from the non-stop humming between her legs he’ll only amplify than cease. He doesn’t follow, just lays on the couch, flops down in the fashion of a dead fish, and he’ll say “Night Jules” while watching the music channel or Nickelodeon.

Tim Riggins surprises her too much, and she’s not sure if she doesn’t like it.

*

Three days of being cornered near the sink, feet curled up on her lap, and fingers brushing through her hair whenever she sits down in front of the couch, Tim Riggins surprises her.

With him lying on the couch as though it was his throne and her in her corner, she spies a glance, sees him invested in Spongebob and his adventures under the sea. There’s an itch she can’t scratch and she’s pretty sure Tim’s going to be the only one to cease the irritating fire.

Sucking in her lips, she tries to suck in the courage like a tornado does to everything around it. Wrapping it around her with such a force, she pushes herself up on the couch, shifting her legs underneath her so she’s on her knees, and she crawls up to him, sees his eyes flicker glances at her until he’s just full-on watching her.

Placing her hands on his cheeks, she feels the warmth of the skin burn at her chilled hands, and she curls her fingers, pulling him to her mouth. He opens underneath her, hands on her waist, pushing under her shirt and just moving in circles there, fingers getting caught up in the fabric.

He doesn’t ask her what changed her mind, and she’s glad, because she doesn’t have an answer, just likes the feel of him against her - and in her - and those stupid butterflies in her stomach that stutter around like words that echo in her head intensify each time she’s close to him.

Justifying what this is is too hard for her, and she presses herself closer to him, pushing him down on the couch as she’s on top of him, legs tangled in a sloppy way as Tim’s hands are in her hair as if they belong.

Julie pulls away, licks her lips, and rests her head underneath his chin. “You made me miss my favourite part.”

His fingers play in her hair, pads pressing against her scalp, and he presses a kiss to her palm. “Hmm,” he presses his lips together, keeping her hand in his, resting it on his chest, against her side, as he shifts slightly, and turning to face the television. “Huh,” he says with amusement, this playful tone in his voice she hasn’t really heard before, “this is mine.”

She rolls her eyes.

*

Spice Girls becomes some sort of band for them.

She thinks it’d be a song, like something from a screamo band or Justin Timberlake, but it’s a band. What she wants is a song just for them, that when it plays, he’ll think of her or smirk or grab her around the waist; it’s a band that he does this to, and he says it’s because he gets to touch her more. He thinks it’s strategic - like a football move or something - by claiming a whole album of songs as theirs presents a lot more opportunities than being boxed in with one song ever will.

Tim sort of likes playing with her stereo, buried up somewhere in her room, before he starts interrupting her allocated ‘Julie Time’ with her television. She still doesn’t understand how he’s the one setting down the law in her apartment.

In her room, Tim digs through the box underneath her bed - despite her protests - to find her three albums from the band and the video. He ignores the video, for now, with a smirk on his face, and pulls the albums out, laying them on his lap as he examines each one, the front cover and the back under his scrutiny.

She sits on the bed, resists the temptation to bite her nails, as his grin stays, widening slightly, as he looks at another album. He’s sitting on the floor, arms absently brushing against the side of her covers as he’s so close to the monsters that creep underneath. Julie the Teenager wants to warn him to watch out for the slimy hands that live under there.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” she moves to rest on her stomach, watching him near the side of her bed. “What you’re looking for? You’re sort of new at this.”

He chuckles, “I Googled it.”

“Googled what?” she shifts, rests her cheek on her palm as her elbow sinks into her bedcovers. Tim’s picking up the second album released again and humming the tune choppily under his breath.

He’s growing frustrated when he pauses his humming. Julie was silently singing along to the out-of-tune version.

Letting out a breath, the CDs clang together as he picks up the first album of the band, the case falling apart at the side, and he tries to fix it absently, pushing the corner into the hook that’s chipped in a way that aggravates her every time she opens the case. She wants to tell him he won’t win, but he’s stubborn and sometimes stupid because of it, so she keeps her mouth shut. “The lyrics,” he says with a frustrated sigh, dropping the case, leaving it open as though it were a book. He glares at it for a moment before moving onto the thin case of a single.

She laughs, “How did you even know that was possible?” Resting her arms along the bedcover, she rests her chin on them. She can’t quite get herself in a comfortable position, shifting as her chin digs oddly into the soft parts hiding the sharpness of bone.

Tim shrugs, “I called Williams while you were in the shower.”

She lifts her head, bends her elbow against the covers, and rests her cheek sloppily in her heated palm. “You’ll be paying for that phone call.” He looks up at her, eyebrow raised, and she laughs, pulling her arm away as she lets her face drop into her bed covers. “Not like that!”

He grins, the CDs making noise against one another. “Like you’d have it any other way.”

She rolls her eyes.

Picking up the opened CD case again and flipping it to see the back, he sighs again, and tries to hum the part he remembers. She grins against the covers, voice muffled as she asks, “Do you remember the name?”

He shakes his head, “Was looking up other things while I was at it.”

She doesn’t want to know what.

Clearing her throat, she props her chin on the bed, feeling herself sink into it like quicksand. “I can help, you know. It’ll be easier.”

After a moment, he shakes his head, placing the case down and grabbing the single that has a picture of four women rather than five, “Nah.”

“Okay,” she shuffles on the bed, bending her knees and shooting her feet in the air. She starts moving them, cracking the bones slightly as she rests her chin on the back of her clasped hands. “Just know I’m here.”

He nods.

He lines the cases up, not in chronological order of their releases, and tucks his hands inside her cardboard box, digging for the video that belongs to the collection. “It’s on there,” she decides to say, her lips lifting at the corners, “but the back won’t list the songs.”

Tim sighs out a “Damn.”

“I’d try number two,” she shrugs when he glances at her from the corner of his eyes. “Just a hunch.”

He sighs, picking the case in the middle and flicking it over. “You know, you should just tell me which one it is,” she grins at this, Tim Riggins admitting defeat because he doesn’t know anything about the Spice Girls. “We’ll be here all day by the way I’m goin’.”

She grins, “Giving up?”

Shaking his head, “Hell no.” He picks up the CD she hinted at, “I just don’t know the Spice Girls yet.”

She laughs.

Julie flicks her hand out, gesturing for the case. He hands it to her, eyebrows raised, eyes wide in that boyish way of his, “But I’m gonna.” The way he says it sounds like a promise, and it warms something that she thinks has been chilled for a while in her stomach.

She slides off the bed, feeling the slightest bit disoriented as she moves the stereo sitting in the corner of the room to the window sill, the cord still plugged into the socket. She doesn’t remember ever plugging it in, only having it wrapped around the body of the black device as dance took up too much time and whenever she had a spare moment she spent it resting. Pressing a button, the lid pushes itself open and she slides the CD in. Skipping over a couple of tracks, the night in Fred’s apartment comes rushing back to her as she slinks back to the bed, falling on her stomach and pulling herself to the edge where Tim’s sitting, putting the CDs back in the box. “This the one?” she smiles.

“Yeah,” he nods, “somethin’ like that.”

Julie smiles, as Tim creeps forward, cups her face in his hands, and presses his lips to hers. His hands are warm on her face, mouth pressed tightly on hers, and fingers in her hair, tangling it by wrapping strands around his fingers and pulling them out from the tight cage once he’s satisfied. One day she’s going to hit him real hard with her hair brush.

He moves forward, pulling her up onto her knees as he slides onto the bed, pushing her on her back slowly as he kisses her lazy, like they have forever to just do this. That thought sends tingles up her spine, intensifies them where they float underneath his palms on her skin. His hand settles on her thigh when she bends her legs at the knees, spreading them in preparation to wrap around his back (she’s one step ahead, for once); he pushes against her pant leg, and her legs settle down, feet skimming across the rough skin of his ankle.

So, finally, she thinks, as his mouth opens under hers and her fingers grip his shirt, palms encasing his shoulders, that they’ve moved from album to song.

It’s progress.

*

Martha’s Knock (it’s like a country now; so well known and drawn on a map) erupts at her door. She thinks it’s like termites, gnawing away at the wood, and she grumbles, pulls herself from Tim’s grip. “Let it go,” he whines, head dropping back against the couch as he watches her fiddle with smoothing out her dress.

She should start using her peep hole.

Opening the door reveals Taylor, clipboard in hand and his grey cardigan. It reminds her of rain in Texas, the day the tornado hit the store. She breathes in loudly, stepping into the space the doorframe creates, and trying to will herself to expand like Augustus Gloop so Taylor’s prying eyes can’t see Tim.

People can’t sleep over, he says. Julie always has to bite back the yes, dad.

“Julie,” he nods, voice haughty and he looks up at her, although she thinks it’s meant to be down. She sort of beats him in the height department.

“Mm?” she blinks, presses her palm onto the doorframe and tries to lean casually against it. She stops herself from crossing her legs at her ankles. “Is there a problem?” There always is. Taylor doesn’t believe in social calls unless it involves a poll.

His fingers tap the clipboard like a pen, making a noise she’s only familiar with when wearing heels on her floor. “I’ve been informed that you have a miscreant in your apartment.”

She stares at him. Taylor tries to stare her down with wide eyes. Shaking her head, she sighs, “No ...” swallowing, she remembers her mother and the manners she embedded into her, “sir.” She looks to the carpet, hears shuffling in the background and tries to cover it up, speaking loudly, “It’s just me. As always.”

Taylor hmphs. “Very well.” His fingers stop tapping on the clipboard, “If I get another complaint -”

Resisting rolling her eyes is an effort for once. “You won’t. It’s just me.”

When he walks away, Julie shoots a look at Martha’s door.

*

Julie doesn’t tell Tim she’s more than a face to Lyla Garrity.

She calls her every second Wednesday, deep into the night. Lyla likes the shadows, wraps them around her as her voice hushes and she’s sadder, sighs more, and gets tired five minutes earlier than the last time. Sometimes Julie wants to fix her; most of the time, she listens to her mother’s voice that says let it be.

Lyla’s sinking in increments and Julie doesn’t want to plunge her any deeper, to let go of their frozen hands because she owes her more than letting her go over a boy. She learnt from the mistakes of fictional characters in a television show than her own life, and this, she knows, is a tentative friendship that could be more. Hoes before bros. Greed has always been one of her biggest downfalls.

So when Lyla calls and says, voice resigned, “How’s Tim?” Julie thinks the world is about to combust into flames. Swede flitters through her mind like it applies, because somehow it sort of does, except it really doesn’t. Swede wasn’t her friend’s boy. He was just a boy.

At Julie’s pause, Lyla chuckles; she hears a smile stretch in her voice and she tries nonchalance, never being one who can pull it off, sounding more drained than before. “Its okay, Julie. I’m not mad.”

The pitch in her voice contradicts that.

*

So, she really likes the couch.

“You know,” he says against her mouth, words hot against her lips as he grins, pecking her with open-mouthed kisses, “your landlord is a bit …” He distracts himself from offending her, as if she’ll be insulted by any names that come out of Tim’s mouth about her Taylor and his clipboard, by kissing the corner of her mouth, flicking his tongue out as he waits for her to state her position on the matter.

“A creep?” she says breathless, twisting so her mouth settles under his and he chuckles against her lips. Placing her hands on his cheeks, she presses his mouth firmly to hers, opening underneath him as she shifts on his lap.

He shrugs, “He was looking at me funny. Asked if I was like a plumber or something.”

She laughs, pulling away from his mouth as his hands grip her shoulders, squeezing her there as she shifts again. He groans, and she presses her forehead to his shoulder, body shaking as Tim doesn’t pick up on the most obvious hints unless it’s spelled out for him. “I told him you were a plumber. Well,” she lifts her head, “Martha did.”

His eyebrows furrow, “Why?”

She shrugs, “Taylor has this thing where he doesn’t like his tenants having live-ins with them.”

“Strange.”

Tim bends his head to kiss the shell of her ear. Lifting her own, she presses her nose to his, “You have no idea.”

“So,” he pulls her back for a kiss, his words tickling her as he talks against her mouth, “when can I be the pool boy?”

Instead of punching his shoulder, she shuffles on his lap, angling her hips and Tim pulls away, lets out a slow groan as his head slaps against the back of the couch while his hands curl around her waist tightly.

*

Martha invites her over. Really, she invites Tim over. She’s pulling a Tyra, wanting to check out her latest friend (she’s not sure what to call him, so she just says it so casually, like, no we’re not really having sex, but secretly hinting that they are. She’s confusing herself by listening to Lois’ antics). Martha acts like she has the seal of approval on their (this is where Julie pauses) friendly benefits.

Julie’s timid in bringing Tim over, and his hand grips hers lazily, sticking close to her side as Martha fetches salad from the fridge. “Made it this morning,” she grins, peeking from out of the fridge to look at their hands, “make yourself at home.”

She clears her throat, pulling Tim along with her to sit on the couch. Ferret is not in her line of vision and she hopes that it’s buried somewhere deep, dark and scary, with really large, hungry Hannibal Lector cockroaches. “I’ve got to ask you something,” she finds herself saying, confidence spilling into her, rushing through her from her palm gripped in Tim’s. She thinks it’s Tim rubbing off on her, the way shit just spills from his mouth without a filter.

“Yeah?” Martha’s voice seems muffled, like it’s being blocked by a barricade. She’s moving back and forth from the fridge, bringing transparent bowls from a shelf to her countertop. “Shoot.”

Licking her lips, Julie glances at Tim’s hand and sneaks a peek at his face. Like when they’re outside, he’s drinking in the apartment. It’s cleaner than before, with canvases hidden in corners and rags streaked with different colours tossed over furniture like they belong there. She doesn’t really think anything is out of place - except the apartment smells like air freshener or girly deodorant used as an air freshener. “Did you tell Taylor about …” not knowing how to phrase it, she clears her throat, finding it piling up the small barricade she feels every time she talks too much.

“No,” Martha says from the counter, pulling out a draw noisily as utensils clang together as she gathers them between her fingers. “Taylor figured that one out on this own.” She carries the three bowls, two between her fingers and the third on her arm. It reminds her of Tyra, in purple, set in Applebees with a grimace etched on her face. Handing the two bowls gripped between her fingers to them, she plants herself opposite them on the other couch. “Besides, you’re keeping my secret, so it’d be a shame if I didn’t keep yours.”

Julie rolls her eyes, “This is ridiculous.”

“But it’s a nice apartment,” Martha grins, stabbing a tomato with her fork.

Julie lets go of Tim’s hand, cradling the bowl on her lap, “Where is the secret, anyway?”

Martha swallows before glancing over the couch, “I locked him in the bathroom.” She grins in that way that makes Julie feel thankful and indebt at the same time for this small favour she was secretly hoping for.

“What is it?” Tim says around lettuce, and Julie thinks that Martha’s a mind reader - or she has a key to her apartment - because this is all Tim seems to be eating lately; lettuce and tomatoes and the occasional apple. Julie’s going to force feed him McDonald’s tonight, even if it kills her.

Martha opens her mouth. Julie glares, her fork making a noise as she lets it slap against the side of the bowl shaped as a strawberry, “An evil, demonic little thing.”

Martha grins, “My dog.”

“Ferret.”

A light bulb lights up as Tim nods, a grin forming on his face as he chews at whatever he’s put into his mouth. “So that’s what you’re so afraid of.”

“I’m not scared of the devil’s dog!”

He’s nodding, “Julie Taylor’s scared of a dog.”

“There’s a reason,” Martha supplies, smiling. In Julie’s eyes, she’s wearing a cape with her underwear on the outside of her track pants. “Chester -”

“Ferret,” she doesn’t want a name put to the creature. Her heart can’t take being mean to things with names that remind her of a bunny she once owned.

Martha just grins, “He’s my dog.”

“He’s an abomination.”

“He’s taken a liking to Julie’s leg.” In an instant, the cape it gone, replaced with initials of the alliteration kind and a bald head.

Tim snorts with laughter. “So that’s why the pants in this kind of heat,” his fingers pick at her own track pants, grey and loose, and she slaps his hand away.

“I don’t dress Rally Girl, sorry.”

He presses his lips together, fork picking up a tomato and lettuce, and occupies his mouth as a retort she feels burning her skin lodges in his throat. Martha’s brow is cocked, amused expression on her face. “Don’t ask.”

“Wasn’t gonna. I know my place.”

Julie cocks an eyebrow, stabbing a piece of tomato straight through, the prongs of her fork clatter with the bowl. “A little too late,” she says around a mouthful.

Martha stands up, bowl on the table between them, and she brushes her hands on her pants, “Drink?”

“Yes please,” Julie moans, and Tim chuckles beside her.

Martha works at the tap, filling up three glasses, leaving one behind as she carries two out for them. Julie glares, wishing for something a little golden or with fizz to hide her from the scrapbook Martha’s going to open and share with Tim like her mother threatens with Matt and her baby photos.

Martha’s mind reading skills need work.

*

If Tim’s life depended on him walking up the stairs quietly, Julie doesn’t think he’d be around to grace her with his presence.

She pulls the sheets over her head and tries to curl into them as he starts talking, “Mornin’ Bubbles.” She groans into the pillow, instantly regretting last night’s marathon of Powerpuff Girls. She’s never reliving her childhood with Tim Riggins present ever again. He’s already identified himself with Buttercup. She doesn’t know how she feels about this. “Time to get up. We gotta go to your favourite place.”

“Piss off,” she sighs, waking up has never been one of her most eloquent moments, and Tim grins, crawling onto the bed and hovering over her. His hands pull away the sheets her fingers tightly grip onto, and he tugs. It doesn’t require any effort on his end. He’s so close, the ends of his hair tickle her face and she wiggles her nose lamely in an attempt to push them away, “Too shiny.”

“Your shampoo helps,” he grins, nestling his face into her neck as he drops on top of her. “C’mon, Taylor, the subway is waiting.”

“It smells,” she tries to shuffle, her fingers clutch at the pillow and she tries to sink into it. She’s waiting for the moment they watch Titanic and he forbids her to sink into her bath for fear she’ll do a Michelle Pfeiffer in What Lies Beneath. Granted he’s meant to be Harrison Ford and he tries to kill Michelle. (She leaves that part out until he finds the DVD buried underneath one of the couch pillows.) She’s unsure how ice and a wooden door will fit into the equation. Tim likes putting different movies together and creating his own scenarios and references.

He leaves open-mouthed kisses along her neck, trailing over her jaw and to the tip of her nose. “Not everything can smell as good as you.”

She rolls her eyes, “Lines aren’t going to get me out of bed.”

His fingers brush her bangs off her forehead so he can kiss the creased skin as she tries to push him away with her sheer will. “I thought a promise to that hot dog stand you like so much and that bookstore would do the trick.”

Julie snuggles into her pillow, “Maybe.”

Tim grins, “C’mon,” he shifts his hips and she frowns, “you know if we stay I’m not gonna to let you sleep.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’ll be more tired if you don’t get up.” Without opening her eyes she knows his eyebrows are moving up and down in that childish way of his, that stupid grin on his face that she hates so much there, accompanying it, making fun of her as his hands pull and twist in her hair. He likes her hair, how long it is, and she thinks about threatening to cut it, just to stir things up so he doesn’t think he’s so smooth and the boss of her. She wrinkles her nose at this.

Sighing, she shifts so she can see the tip of his nose, “You gonna pay?”

He grins, “’Course. Gonna treat my gal right,” the way he smiles over it, the my gal, she can’t help the tug of her lips and the light flush blossoming on her cheeks. It’s all clichéd how her heart flutters and she feels a warmth stream through her veins. Her apartment has morphed into a romance novel. She curls more into the blankets, finding him relax more comfortably on top of her.

He stays there for a minute, fingers in her hair and a smile so calm on his face it makes her tired, feel comfortable to just relax and tumble back into whatever abyss she crawed out of. He watches her sleepily, eyes hooded, chin resting on her sharp shoulder. She sighs loudly, snuggles into the pillow and closes her eyes.

Tim slides off her, smacks her upper thigh, aiming for her ass, and he seems to skip down the stairs, “Five minutes, Taylor!” Sometimes you can’t escape football, even when you’re miles out of Texas.

She rolls her eyes and lets her face drop into the pillow.

*

It’s an hour later when she’s outside, in the open, sitting on a park bench with Tim’s thigh pressed against hers and arm resting on the back, fingers dangling to play with the hood of her jumper.

She inhales loudly, watches as her Frisbee theory is proven wrong as the park is loud with the lush green grass and quiet with the whispers of people walking close. “This isn’t my favourite place.”

“It isn’t?” he grins, fingers playing with her hair pulled in a shoddy excuse of a ponytail. She crosses her arms across her chest to stop her hands from slapping him away as he tugs. “Well,” he sighs, arm rests along her back and his palm sits still on her shoulder, “it’s my favourite spot.”

She turns to him, sees his profile, the slope of his nose, as he watches whatever he sees out there in the sparse open of grass and random strangers walking by. “You come out here?” Disbelief layers her voice and she thinks, perhaps, that maybe it was the wrong approach. Tim isn’t a guinea pig she once owned, trapped in a cage and left only with a wheel.

Julie just doesn’t pay enough attention.

He nods, exhales “Sometimes” like it doesn’t matter, like he’s not preparing himself for slipping out of her grip. Matt did it once, with Carlotta; she let him slip too far for her to ever gain her proper footing with him, even when forgiveness is forged between them and they try to move forward together. One was always one step behind and it always ended up being him.

His mouth pulls up into a sad smile she always sees on his face at rare moments. It’s like when the sun catches the light just right, or the moment she decides to venture out her apartment and find herself in a thinner sea of people. She always presumes that when he’s like that, all broken and lost and that boy she sort of remembers when she was sixteen, that he’s thinking of Lyla, that he’s with her, and maybe, when he showed up at her apartment, he was never hers to begin with.

She tries to play it off, do what Tim does, so the aching feeling in her stomach and the itchiness of her palms will get the hint and go away. “How come I don’t know this?”

Tim looks at her, grins, “Enigma.”

The gnawing at her stomach only intensifies.

*

Like treasure, she discovers that Tim is one of those guys. He likes walking in the park, hands almost brushing, his head ducked shyly that’s so Matt Saracen she doesn’t know whether to melt or scream.

He kicks something in the grass, eyes on his feet - or hers - as they flicker around everywhere, drinking everything like the last time they were out and about, “Hey, think we can get that movie?”

She draws her eyebrows together, “What movie?”

“The one we danced to.”

“You can’t dance to movies, Tim.” However, she grins, ducking her head as she watches the concrete pass underneath her feet. He’s thinking beside her, surveying the buildings as they walk their familiar route to the hotdog stand she’s taken solace in. Grinning, Julie looks up at him, squinting her eyes, “Spice World?”

He looks at her, sort of angles his body towards her and draws his eyebrows together, “That Spice Girls?”

“Yeah,” she laughs, because he looks so serious, like back when it was all about football and Lyla Garrity and football. She slips her arm around his, curling her palm around his bicep, “We’ll see what we can do.”

He grins.

*

Martha decides to invite Julie out. Out into the real world, she says with paint on her face and the dog is so close to Julie’s bare leg she’s more than prepared to kick it. She agrees, only as a deal was negotiated and going out with Martha means she doesn’t have to look after the secret dog that doesn’t exist.

She walks up the stairs to her room, yelling “I’m having a shower, so don’t do something stupid with the kitchen sink” over her shoulder like she’s back in Dillon with her parents. She feels Tim’s smirk from the couch as he changes the channel to a pop starlet grinding against something while singing about sex.

Once in her room, she gathers the clothing left on the chair by the wall and slides the bathroom door open, closing it behind her just as quickly. Turning the taps on, she peels her clothes off, piling them messily beside the door as the clean ones sit on the sink.

Julie lets out an “eep” as she adjusts to the temperature, twisting the knobs slightly so her skin doesn’t feel so red. Tipping her head back, she feels her whole body start to relax.

The sound of the shower door slams shut and arms wrap around her waist, her back pressed hard into a chest that’s becoming familiar. “I’m not doing this with you,” she pulls at a tangle in her hair before dropping them to sluggishly poke at his arms (her ‘fierce’ attempt at prying) from around her abdomen. The water leaks into her eyes as she’s directly under the spray.

Tim presses his lips to the back of her neck. “You’re wasting water, Little Taylor.” His palms flatten against her stomach, pushing slightly against her; like dominoes, she falls into him, except it’s nothing dramatic like the little blocks, it’s a little step back and she can feel him against her back, the rise and fall of his chest and the movement of his muscles as he fidgets, semi-under the spray. Her hands try to slap his slipping hands that follow the faint dip of her hips away.

She rolls her eyes, feeling him flick his tongue out at the wet skin on her neck, her hair sticking and getting in his way, “I’m sorry, was I the one who took an hour long shower two days ago?”

He grins, teeth nipping at the skin of her shoulder, “Was a cold one.”

Shutting her eyes, she slaps his arms, “God, Tim.”

“Natural reaction, Julie,” he presses his nose into her neck, “thought you were smart.”

His arms loosen on her waist, hands hovering over her hips as she turns around. They settle immediately when she’s turned fully to him. She rolls her eyes, “Tim, seriously.”

“We need to help out Australia,” he says with a serious face, eyebrows raised with enthusiasm she relates to football, and there’s a twitch at her mouth that begs to show her amusement. His fingers squeeze her hips.

Her eyebrows gather, confusion masking her face and he uses this as leverage to step closer to her, “What?”

“Australia,” he pauses, “the country.” His fingertips push against the skin of her hips as he punctuates his points as if he’s counting them off his fingers, “Land Down Under. Steve Irwin. Kylie Minogue.” Putting the icing on the cake, he makes her feel like an idiot, his eyebrows still in his hairline and his hair clinging to the sides of his face as he leans a little toward her to speak softly and slowly as though she were stupid - or dense, “They have a drought.”

“I know what Australia is,” she slaps his wet shoulder, pulling her hand away before his, which hesitate, can grab her wrist. “Why are you bringing it into my shower?” She resists the urge to place her hands on her hips, jut her knee out at their close proximity; she knows the bastard will use it to his advantage and before she knows it, she’ll be hitting her head against the showerhead.

“Julie, didn’t you listen to me?” He grins, like he’s the smartest son-of-a-bitch on earth. “Australia has a drought and needs water. By having a shower together we’re helping them,” his thumbs etch heated circles into her hips, feeling him press harder to feel the bone. “We’re doing a good deed for the kangaroos.”

“The kangaroos,” she mumbles to herself. “Tim, this is America.”

“And I’m talking about Australia. Gotta help our sister country, Jules.” He ducks his head to her shoulder, his arms wrapping around her waist as he presses his palms to her lower back, pulling her slowly to him until there’s no room left for either of their fronts to breathe. “Besides, greed is a sin.”

She rolls her eyes, tipping her head to the side which elicits a grin against her skin, “You gonna spit out something about punishment?” Her hands slide up his hot side, trying to wedge between their chests; giving up, her hands slide over his back, slowly rising to his shoulders.

“No, but since you’re proposing …” her hands grip his biceps, eyes closed tightly against the spray of oncoming water, and Tim’s pulled her right against him, wedging a knee between her legs.

“We’re gonna make a mess in my shower,” Julie allows a smile, pulling him slowly with her towards the tiles so water stops stinging her eyes.

“It’s a good thing we’re here to clean, then,” he grins, following her until she’s right against the cold tiles. Wedging his knee back between her legs, his mouth is hot on hers as his hands grip her waist, pulling her roughly against him.

“Jesus Christ,” she says, feeling him against her stomach.

“Bringing Lyla into this already, Taylor? Never thought of you like that,” he grins against her mouth, moving to place hot open kisses along her cheeks and jaw. Smart ass.

She rolls her eyes, “Gutter, Tim. This is a clean room.” He seems to press her harder against the wall as his hands slide up and down her sides and his legs seem to straddle her somehow, boxing her in. “The wall’s cold,” she pouts into his mouth, his teeth nip at her bottom lip.

His hands skim up her sides in an attempt to warm her, pressing his body harder on hers and she feels it only makes the whole situation worse as the tiles burn the heat of her skin into chills. He sighs, makes a dramatic act of rolling his eyes when she opens hers, and he pulls away from her, taking the warmth with him as he fiddles with the showerhead, moving it so it sprays the wall; he blocks path to her. “Better?”

She shrugs, allowing a slow smile to spread across her lips, “We’ll see.”

Tim grins, hands settling on her waist before sliding around her back, making her arch away from the wall. He uses the gap between her back and the tiles to slide his hands over her rear and pick her up, pulling her against him. Her legs wrap around him and her lower back hits the momentarily wet tiles before her skin starts disturbing the water clinging desperately there.

One arm stays wrapped around her while the other tugs at her hair, playing with it as though it were a rope ascending into the ceiling and something attached to it was failing to fall out. He’s been obsessed with The Addams Family lately, so determined to prove her sixth floor neighbour is the butler. She grins, pulling his hair in small retaliation before digging her nails into his shoulders, running them over his broad back and he presses her harder into the tiles. His hand follows her hair, sticking to her body and his, and trails over the swell of her breast, palming her stomach as she arches away from the slight pressure. His hands are cold, matching the sensation of the hard tiles chilling her back.

Julie’s hands glide over his back, nails skimming across his skin as he pulls her harder against him, as though somehow the pressure will make them melt into one another. He tries to shift them, causing her legs to wrap tighter around him, hooking at the ankles as she rests her head against the tiles. His lips pull at the skin on her neck, tugging with his teeth and sucking it. She tries to move, to create some sensation between their slick bodies as the showerhead spurts water against his back. She tries to move, however she feels herself slide, and she stops. Fear pulls at her spine as the prospect of cracking her head open doesn’t seem as friendly as what they’re currently trying to do.

He curses against her skin about how she’s so stupid for buying an apartment with a shower lacking the bathtub in it. She laughs, feels her scalp cooling against the tiles as her skin slides noisily against it. Tim’s face is buried underneath her chin, hot breath skimming over the top of her breasts. “Goddammit, Taylor, so fucking inconvenient.”

He tries, though, as stubborn as he is, and she grins as his hands are hard against her, determination so obvious in all his movements, the nips of his teeth and the licks of his tongue. He tries to shift her so she can take him in, but she doesn’t budge, the wall melting into her like she wishes it was him. His laughter ghosts as hot air against her ear; he presses his mouth sluggishly against hers, smile spreading and he laughs, tickling her own lips with his slight shifts. This is him claiming defeat.

“This isn’t working,” she laughs against his mouth, and he breathes across her cheek, resting his against hers. “My back’s all cold and weird.”

He grins, “Always got an ace up my sleeve,” he shifts her so he’s carrying her in that bridal style she’s seen in movies, and she worries, momentarily, that he’ll slam her head into the doorframe accidentally. Or on purpose, she never knows with him. He holds her tight against his chest, that ridiculous notion fades slowly from her mind as he pauses, shifting her so she’s underneath the spray, causing her to sputter. Trying to blink against the water as it pelts into her eyes, he takes longer than necessary trying to get a successful grip over the knobs, and turns it off after a laugh.

Shifting her slightly, he pulls the shower door open, her legs rubbing against the cold glass, and moves outside the bathroom to her room, treading water everywhere.

“My sheets are new!” she shakes her head, gripping at his shoulders as he smirks, stupid shit-eating grin again, and she pulls at his hair to prevent that desired slap.

He shrugs, “Gotta christen everything new,” and he sits on the bed, lying down and she shifts above him in an attempt to cover all of him with her small frame. “Mm, like this view,” he grins, hands running up and down her sides as he uses his arms, his elbows digging into the mattress hidden underneath her linens, to pull himself across the bed, wrinkling her sheets and pulling them with him.

She straddles his legs, palms making circles on his chest, “And how is this helping Australia?”

He shrugs, lips pressed together, and his hands slip into her hair, pulling her down to him as he kisses her slowly. She feels her hair tangling with his circular motions on her skull, and she’ll yell at him for that later - knots in her hair are a bitch to get out - and she presses her mouth hard against his, hands gripping his shoulders as she shifts her hips over him.

Tim slowly flips them, his palms pressed hard against her back as he shifts, her legs wrap around his waist once he settles down against the sheets. He’s hard against her and he grins on her chest, as though it’ll become a part of her, a hand curving around the swell of her breast before sliding down her stomach, lips following slowly behind.

She frowns, “Tim,” her fingers find his hair, as her back arches at the sensation of his fingers trailing feather light over her skin. She’s always been ticklish like this.

He shushes her against her abdomen, his palms trailing over her legs, fingers stretched out as he tries to envelope most of her skin within his grip. “Gonna make you curse, Jules. Australians curse like sailors.”

Her breath hitches, “They use slang,” she arches, tries to strangle that gasp as he feels his mouth stretch against her skin into another smile. “God, Tim, don’t you know anything?” her hands bunch the sheets, pulling at them as he breathes over her, fingers seeming to push against her leg without thought, spreading her.

She feels his tongue, hot and wet, on her, and she gasps, her hips pitch up as she closes her eyes, hands gripping the sheets tightly. “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ on a goddamn stick, Tim.”

He grins.

*

Lois calls. Julie accidentally picks up the phone.

“Tyra says you’re screwing Tim Riggins.”

Julie pauses, wondering if she should spit back a customary hello to you, too at her tone.

“Oh my god, I hate you.”

Lois hangs up.

Some things she doesn’t miss.

*

“Do you ever think about school?”

Julie’s brow crinkles and she shifts, presses her face closer to his on her pillow. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, a lift of his shoulders as his finger keeps twirling football plays (she’s come to the conscious decision that you can’t have Tim Riggins without the football) into the skin of her back. “Like changing things,” he licks his lips, “If you could go back, like McFly.”

She laughs lightly, “Back to the Future?”

He hums, his eyes settle on his hand, watching his fingers skim over her skin before pressing down slightly.

She shifts, knowing he’s not going to elaborate. Sometimes, she thinks, she’s lucky enough he initiates conversations between the two of them. He can sit in silence for hours, perfectly still, while she’s jittery and feeling paranoia paint her nerves with a second coat. “Sometimes.” Julie shifts, his fingers pause on her skin, moving slightly with her, “Sometimes I think about how things could’ve been different.”

His eyes dart quickly up to hers, fingers absently drawing circles, and she sighs, opting to look for his arm rather than at him. It’s like giving a speech in class; focus on three points on the wall and make sure you alternate naturally between them. “Yeah?” he breathes out, as if to encourage her to say more; its as though he’s liquoring her up, sort of like Riley, and she clenches the blankets between her fingers the best she can.

Clearing her throat, she lets out a “Yeah” to tell him she’s going to be as tough as a rock and getting the blood out of her will require more effort and tools. She’s not going to make it easier for him.

*

Tim does things with his … she blushes when she thinks about it.

She finds herself comparing him to Matt, but she justifies it by saying “in the experience department” to Tyra, who groans and makes disgusted noises on her end of the phone. “I don’t want to hear a porno, okay? I have the internet and Landry Clarke for that.”

But she does it, and it’s becoming like breathing, a habit that starts when Tim’s touching her or he breathes on her skin or something where he’s on her. He’s all smooth where Matt wasn’t, and even after the years, after Carlotta and the girls and her guys, the reconciliation wasn’t as breathtaking as she’d hope. There were no declarations of being birds together and he didn’t build her a house like the romance novels promised when your loved one was away from you. Matt still treated her like she was sixteen and innocent, inexperienced and as though unicorns and Barbies would suffice to keep her entertained and happy.

She stops calling Matt, stops emailing him, because that pain that resides inside her heart thumps incredibly fast every time she does this, this stupid comparison she can’t help but breathe out and list the pros and cons. Keeping in contact with Matt makes this thing with Tim harder, and she feels like a cheating spouse sometimes when she reads over his old emails she’s saved in her drafts folder.

So when he’s lying on her bed, his side pressed against the sheets and he’s flicking a magazine he’s stolen from her grip minutes before, she summons up that courage she’s always missing whenever she thinks about this. Matt would make it slither away with a simple stutter, but Tim makes it light up, burn brighter than ever.

Julie slides across the bed, pressing her mouth against his chest. He tenses before relaxing, his hands stilling their restless movements with the magazine pages. Pressing kisses in a wonky line to the waistband of his boxers, Tim shifts, hands stroking her hair absently as she feels his lazy gaze settling on the back of her head. “Jules,” he doesn’t choke out the word like Matt used to, and she hates herself for bringing him back into this, “what are you doing?”

Settling on her side, she settles her hands on his hips, sliding them underneath his boxers, and Tim tenses at this, turns still in her hands as his fingers grip her hair. “What does it look like?” she mumbles against his skin, feeling twitches against her mouth as she slides his boxers down to his knees.

She looks up at him, the bed sheets pushed towards the end, and she clips her toes around his boxes, sliding them down as she pushes herself up, hand settling on his hip like he’s done so many times before on hers. There’s a ghost of a print ablaze on her hip. He seems to swallow, kicking off his boxers as her feet let go of the material. “You don’t have to do this.”

She grins, “Do what?”

He glares, “You know.” Tim acts like she’s sixteen, too innocent to hear about sex and the compartments that make it, and that is what brings Matt back in. He still sees her as the Coach’s daughter, Eric Taylor’s baby girl he’s not allowed to touch unless he wants his life ended.

Pressing her lips together, she furrows her brows lightly, humming. “Uh, no.” Her hand slides down his hip, and her hand hovers over him. She feels like she needs permission, contradicting her want for surprise. “No, I don’t.”

“Jules …” he says, as though that’s supposed to scare her. He thinks of himself as the big bad wolf about to corrupt Little Red Riding Hood if he lets her do what he does to her.

“Tim,” she pulls a slow smile, trying to be serious, pushing the teasing away, “you do it for me. It’s only fair I do it for you.”

“Says who?”

She shrugs, feels her cheeks reddening despite the confidence she feels tingling throughout her being, “I want to do it for you.” Licking her lips, she glances at the open magazine, “And, besides,” she doesn’t look at him, feeling stupid for even thinking this, for not filtering it out, “if it doesn’t work for you, you’ve got -” she leans up a little, the glossy pages hiding half the page with a shine, “ - that to get the job done.”

He lays there, propped up on his elbow, eyes blank on hers, and she looks away, at the pink hue of his skin. She feels the nerves awaken throughout her body, and she tries to suppress them, get that confidence back. Julie sits up, presses her knees under her, and now she’s further away from him than she wanted. Her plans keep falling through and she’s so tired of over thinking only to end up here, further away than when she started.

Tim shuffles on the sheets so he’s near her, face a breath’s away from hers. His palm hovers over her cheek, like he’s not sure she’s there, and she wants to allow her eyes to flutter closed, but he’s looking at her in such a way that she feels as though he’s not permitting that. He traces her lips with his thumb, eyes roaming over her face, taking in her features, the freckles aligning the bridge of her nose. “You’re an idiot, Taylor,” he breathes against her mouth, and he doesn’t press forward like she expects him to, like she dreams of him doing. “A damn, pretty idiot.”

She breathes through her nose, finding herself finally moving under his face as his palm cups her cheek, and his hand settles on her thigh. “So,” her mouth feels loose, her eyes on his hand on her thigh, “you don’t want me to do it?”

He exhales loudly, pulls his hand away to rake it through his hair, “You know I’d love it, Jules.”

“Then what’s the problem?” her eyebrows draw in as she looks up at him, and he lifts a finger to press against the harsh crease between them.

“Just don’t want you thinking you have to do it,” he drops his finger, resting his hand back on her thigh. “And I don’t want you doing it while you’re some place else.”

She cocks an eyebrow, “I’m not anywhere else.”

He raises his as a you’ve got to be kidding me that settles like lead in her stomach. Denial is such a good friend to her that she’s allowed it to melt onto her like a second skin. He shrugs, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, pulling her down with him as he lands on the magazine, it crunching under his shoulder. “Leave it for another day, Jules.”

She sighs, “I’m not anywhere else,” she says harder, and it’s her convincing herself, because she knows that Tim won’t believe her until she starts practicing what she preaches.

“That little kink in your brow,” he presses a finger to it, sliding it down the side of her face, “says otherwise.”

Julie tucks her head underneath his chin, as he shuffles to move the sheets around them like a tight cocoon. She tells herself she won’t cry.

*

Tim’s hunched over the kitchen table. There’s a tiny book sitting against the surface that has captured his attention.

She places the grocery bags on the floor and takes the other seat, pulling it out from it’s place as it scrapes against her floor. “What are you reading?”

Tim shrugs, eyes glued to the pages and the book seems familiar, paper crinkled and covered in odd patches of stains. “Why didn’t you tell me you talk to Lyla?”

Her eyebrows furrow, “Huh?”

He looks at her blankly, eyes on hers, and it makes her unsettled. The cheeriness in her bones falls away quickly, quivers under his harsh gaze. “You two are friends?”

She shrugs, “Sort of.” Her attention is drawn to her fingers, one slightly tapping against the kitchen as she tries to plot one step ahead of him.

He hums, and her plan falls apart. “So you weren’t going to tell me?” He’s always been one step ahead of her.

Julie swallows down the stuttering from being a teenager and tries to stand her ground while ducking her head, “I don’t know.”

He licks his lips, “Okay.”

She looks up at him, eyebrows furrowed tightly, and she can’t bite her tongue quick enough, “You speak to Matt. Why is this any different?”

“You know about that.”

“So?” her hands curl around the edge of the table, “You toss his name around and our history like its some small talk conversation.” The joints of her fingers turn white at the pressure she exerts onto them. She’s finding that trying to curl her fingers into the table won’t quench her anger and the temptation to push her fingers into fists and attempt to connect them against his smooth face, “Like it doesn’t hurt every time you say his name.”

He blinks at her, licks his lips, and shuts her phonebook with force. She knew she shouldn’t have left it out; that nagging feeling she’s been feeling since she left for the store finally makes sense now.

“So your Lyla issue is the equivalent to my Matt issue,” she pushes her chair out, it scraping loudly against the floor, “and you’re a damn ass for thinking it’s any different. You know what, Tim,” her voice takes on a tinny edge, tears burning at her eyes, and she tries to not blink so much that they’ll fall, “it’s not. When are you going to realise that?”

The kitchen feels suffocating, and the living room doesn’t slay it in the slightest. So she marches up the staircase, knowing full well that Tim’s allergies to it no longer exist.

“You should’ve told me,” he says to the table, and she pauses, for a second, on the stairs. The tone of his voice isn’t brutal or hostile; it sounds tired, and Julie wants to pause for a moment, just a tiny moment, and comfort him for it. Tim and Lyla are something recently broken; Matt and her have been torn since they were sixteen.

She looks at him, and finds herself not biting her tongue as what she’s been feeling even before they started their ‘little activities’ comes forth so quickly it’s a tidal wave crashing into her and knocking down all her filters. “You should’ve told me I was a stand in.”

Bashing her feet into the stairs, because she was stupid enough to pass up on Martha’s punching bag being installed somewhere in her apartment, she misses Tim’s gaze and that stupid sigh of his.

two. | four.