Sandra
Rhett was absolutely *Not* Ready for the swill that left Alma's lips. *Shucks!* That'd have her sleepin' curled up with her Bible for weeks. He laughed and laughed along with her. 

Glad they were in agreement of how nice it was to be neighbors, Rhett walked the rest of the way home with a sweet little smile on his lips. How cruel it was to feel such warmth, such joy, against a backdrop painted in blood– but none of that struck him now. The moonshine built an impenetrable shield around him, with Alma on his arm as a second line of defense. 

Once the wind whipped up, Rhett's refute of Alma's claim died out in the frigid air. No way he wanted to get rid of her. On the contrary, he'd been warring with himself for the last ten minutes about how foolish he'd be to ask if she didn't want to settle into her bed in the big house just yet...

Imagine his surprise when she beelined for not his aunts' front door, but the shack. 

And didn't it swell his heart. 
And didn't their fingers lock so nicely together?

They crashed into his humble little house with the energy of a small blizzard, startling poor Spider off of her perch at the window where she'd watched them tumble in. Once the hairs on her back lay flat again, she rushed over to nudge at the pair's ankles, purring heartily. 
_ _

"What'dya say there, Spider Mae?" It was a nickname reserved usually for the two of them (oh, the words exchanged between a man and his cat), but he let Alma in on it. Immediately Rhett knelt to get a fire going in the stove, the ash dancing in the backdraft of the chimney as he opened the hatch. 
"Let's git you some warm back in those toes. 'N everywhere else." Rhett exclaimed, lighting roughly four matches and tossing them into a few wads of crumpled paper. He left the stove open so the growing fire could breathe, and turned to light a few oil lamps. 

"I ain't gonna lie," He started, "I was startin' ta think cider was a plan a the past." He said, fumbling a match and just picking another one out of the canister instead of collecting it up off the floor. He struck it, "'N please, if your bed calls to ya, we kin take a rain check." Rhett felt the need to add a disclaimer, though Alma's departure was the last thing he wanted. 

"First you gotta look at all I done in here, though. I was workin' hard on it yesterday." When Rhett turned back to her, lit lantern in hand, he was smiling proudly. The shack had been wanting for winter fortification, and he'd finally gotten around to the upgrades he'd spent the autumn planning. 

Where the kitchen and sleeping quarters had been the only places with wood floors before, now the whole place was properly finished. No more cold dirt underfoot. The walls were plastered, mixed with hay for insulation, and even painted a deep earthy red brown color that looked as though Rhett'd just mixed up a thin wash of clay from the river bank. There were a couple of pieces of new furniture, including window seats in every sill for Spider, and an actual full-sized bed: the mattress made of excess hay left over from the walls. 
_ _

Alma would have seen many of these projects in progress, but this was the first time she'd get to take in the whole sight of the place. It nearly looked like a proper home. 

"Hank at the general store let me take out a loan a sorts, for all the supplies I needed ta finish. I'll have ta pick up some more jobs around town, but I figure with how good I'll be sleepin' on my new bed, I'll be fresher'n a daisy ta git all the extra work done." He paused, self conscious of how long he'd been talking, "Looks awright, don't it?" He asked, eager for her opinions. 
_ _
Teresa
Crashed was an excellent word for it. Alma crashed against his wall, her back pressed tight to it so he could dive into the shack's warmth behind her. She felt her heart crashing around in her ribcage as she laughed and laughed, her head tilted tipsily to the side. Emotion swelled and crashed around her as she heard him address Spider with such sweet— 

The emotion was not something she dared to name. If she called it something, it would be alive and far too big to swallow whole. It would take the sharpest dinner knife she had and, even then, a hatchet might do a better job of it. She would need to hack away at it and violently pull it apart into chewy chunks. But first she'd have to kill it. No, first she'd have to catch it. And my, how it ran a marathon in her chest at the way his lips curled into a smile just at the sight of his cat. 

Alma sank to her knees and scooped Spider up. The cat purred so loud that she swore she could hear it over the squeak of the woodstove hatch. "Evenin', Spider Mae," She murmured, testing the nickname with reverence as she scratched the small creature's cheek. "Thank you, Rhett. Look there, Spider. Your Papa's gonna make us a fire to warm our toes by." Alma was a dog person at the end of the day, but she'd learned how to be gentle with Spider. She pressed a series of kisses to the top of her head till Rhett's moving away from the stove drove Spider to leap from Alma's arms and follow him around the shack.

_ _
With her arms now free, Alma took the opportunity to peel her boots and socks off. The snow had soaked them through - she really must've been stumbling! - and she draped her socks over her boots to dry before tending to her outermost layers. "A plan'a the past? N' go back on a promise I been talkin' bout all night? Bed kin wait when honor's on the line!" She uncoiled her scarf and set it along with her jacket over the back of a chair. It most certainly wasn't an excuse to linger just a moment longer with him. Certainly not. 

His prompting had her finally register just what she would've noticed far earlier had she been sober. Her feet were on warm wood, not freezing dirt. As her gaze lifted, she caught the walls, the furniture, and the windows. She made a slow circle around the space, but she took great care not to look too closely at his sleeping quarters lest her intents be misunderstood. Alma made a soft hum of appreciation, running her fingers lightly over the earthen walls as she came back to his side. 

"Lord, has it really been so long since I stepped in here last? I need'ta visit you more often." She would regret that sentence when she was sober.

_ _ 
"It looks more than alright, Rhett," She said, her voice low and quiet with awe. "It looks like a home." And it did. Her feet slid easy across his floors as she spun another small circle, her hand on the back of her neck as if her first inspection simply hadn't been believable. "I knew you did work on houses n' all, but I ain't never—... I didn't know you had this kind of talent. It's wonderful! Truly!" She took a wandering step towards the wall next to the woodstove. "Why, I can just see it all finished up already. A little painting here. And here!" She took two quicker steps back towards the front door. "A sweet little bookshelf. That way, you kin take a book out to read on the front porch when the weather's nice again! And here!"

The moonshine decided to remind Alma of just the state she was in. One foot got in the way of the other and she stumbled into his side. There was that crashing again. Not into him, but in her ribcage. Even as she laughed her clumsiness off and weakly attempted to peel herself away from him, she felt it coursing through her veins, begging her to stay glued to him. The drinking, the dancing, the flicker of lanternlight: they all seemed to conspire against her will to keep him at arm's length. And they were certainly winning.
Sandra
A man could get used to this: building a fire, his two gals looking on, all bellies and hearts warm. Rhett felt like a king as he lost himself in lighting the stove, then the lamps, his drunken mind finding poetry and more in the shifting fluid dynamics of the flames. As light and heat transformed the shack, Rhett didn't hold back in his staring at Alma. He sat, propped up against the kitchen table, watching her explore his handiwork. 

"You do need to visit more often, I know the walk is long 'n all, but shoot." He laughed, with his arms crossed over his chest and an embarrassingly plain display of overt admiration in his gaze, obviously drunk on more than just liquor. He saw starlight branching from the tips of her fingers as she swept the room, pointing out the homes of future decorations. Eager to receive her unfolding vision, Rhett stood up straight with just his palm on the table top to keep his balance. His eyes widened as Alma stumbled. 

She stuck to him in slow motion, the twisting of her disobedient feet taking on a grace all its own. Relenting to a song that played in silence for the both of them, the melody plucked from gusts of wind and creaks in the floor, Rhett held her to himself as she half-fell, half-reached. As if they were back on the pallets at the barn before the band, one arm circled her waist (comfortably, now, as if it'd found a home there a hundred times before), and the other hand held hers. 

"And here?" He prompted, once they'd settled in their new embrace, "You just tryin' ta tell me you ain't done dancin', quite yet?" They were close enough to have their hearts by one another, exchanging alcoholic breaths in the inches between their noses, their mouths. 
_ _

*Kiss her,* Said the moonshine. 
*Spin her! Make her laugh!* Said his pounding, nervous pulse. 
*Let her go,* Said the deep pit of his stomach, where Rhett knew they might be sober enough to be embarrassed about this closeness in just a couple of hours. 

Those voices made him dizzy. He grounded himself with the sound of his own voice. 
"I ain't got no records to play, 'n no victrola ta play 'em on if I did." He apologized, his voice low and thick, his body beginning to slowly sway. 
"You say a song. 'N if we both know it, we'll think it real hard at the same time." His eyes shined, and unconsciously, this thumb had begun to smooth a slow circuit back and forth across the back of her hand, like he was already hearing some distant rhythm. 
_ _
Teresa
Alma hadn't noticed the way Rhett's arm had looped around her till she tried to take a step back from him, the beginning of an apology on her lips. In the still-cool air of his ~~shack~~ home, the warmth of his arm and chest seeped through her layers and stole what little fight she had left in her. His other hand slid back into hers, and she was struck again by the callouses of his palm. If she were a braver woman, she would explore every curve of that palm with her fingers. Draw it close to her chest and press a kiss to his skin. An acknowledgement of all he'd done. 

But she wasn't a brave woman. She was a coward who blushed despite the fact that he'd already held her just like this less than an hour ago. A coward who couldn't bear to look him in the eyes now that there was no fiddler stompin' his boots or sparkles of shot glasses being tossed back with wild abandon. It was just them (and Spider, who was busy scoping out a warm spot by the woodstove).

"*And here?*"

Oh, they had been speaking, hadn't they? 

"N-No. A-A vase," She stammered. "Filled with fresh wildflowers every week." The words came out quick and nervous. She kicked herself the second she realized she may have denied him something he wanted. "B-But, we k-kin. If'in you ain't done dancin' yet, neither." She mumbled her way through that last word and silently wished she had another shot of shine. She longed for something - anything - to hide behind to shield herself from the weight of his gaze. She'd never had anybody look at her like that. It was... Its own kind of dizzying. The kind of look a girl could drown herself in if she dared to jump. The moonshine tied cinderblocks to her feet, and she knew she could stumble right over the edge if she met his eyes. Right into freefall. Right into that thing she dared not name. Right into that thing that sobriety would've had her running out his door from.

_ _
Instead, she basked in his bodyheat, the crackle of the fire in his wood stove, and the awe of the home he'd built with his own two hands as the wind kicked up outside. The thought of stepping outdoors was unbearable compared to this rare pocket of safety Alma found herself in. There were no beasts testing at the wooden boards or panicked whispers to be had here. Just the racing of her heartbeat and the warmth of his skin. Her free hand slid from from where it'd been pinned between their chests so she could hug him closer, but her eyes stayed locked on the barely visible woodgrain of the table behind him. 

"I... Don't know no records," She confessed, instinctively swaying with him. "I seen a victrola once, but never heard one play." She breathed in deep and let out a long sigh, letting herself sink against him. The fingers that had been nervously squeezing his hand calmed as his thumb smoothed along her skin. It was this comfort that allowed her to make her next confession. "I ain't ever heard anythin' other than what folks sing or play 'round here. I... Ain't never left home." 

There it was out in the open. He'd escaped and she'd stayed pinned beneath obligations to her family and the town. The furthest she'd ever gotten was that night in Shady's truck— No. She didn't want to think about that. 

"M'sorry. Maybe... Maybe you kin hum us somethin'?"
Sandra
"*A vaaaase.*" He nodded, closing his eyes to picture it, still swaying, idly wondering where one came upon a *Vase* For sale. The version of himself from four years ago would have been green with envy to hear the simple, pleasant thoughts that blanketed him in this moment. Maybe he'd've be comforted to know that he'd escaped to a happier time. Unthinking, Rhett snorted out a puff of laughter in realizing he was valuing his current situation of being hunted by werewolves over his past with Constance. As sick as it was, he'd still choose here and now over then and there, and it wasn't just because of how the moonshine blurred out the context of where he stood and what the last few months'd wrought. 

Rhett was able to play off his laugh as a response to Alma shifting against him; a small sound of giddy contentment, which was surely not out of place. He noticed her swaying. It almost made him laugh again. He wasn't sure he'd ever been so content. 

"Leavin' home's overrated." He assured her, tucking his past into the brevity of that sentence for now, silently pleading that Alma would leave it there where he buried it. Some day he'd tell her all she wanted to know, but tonight was a sanctuary. 

In that unmentionable past, Rhett had become quite fond of recorded music. It was one of the only things he found himself missing, or maybe more accurately, that he found himself wishing he could share with the folks at home. He'd heard it on the radio (the closest thing to something supernatural that he'd experienced outside the bounds of Briar Ridge) and on phonographs. There were plenty of bands in speakeasies that played popular songs like he'd never heard. Once, he'd even gotten to see a small orchestra perform on the pier of some beach town he'd been just a little too drunk to remember properly. He recalled the clarinet, though: how it soared and wailed above the other sounds. With closed eyes, you might think it was kind of like a fiddle you blew air into. 
_ _

He thought of all the songs he'd heard, and narrowed it down into songs he could remember. There were a couple of records that friends of Connie's had owned and played on repeat. Rhett had found a record one time, mistakenly tossed out with the garbage. Going through trash was something he'd never been above, especially with all of Constance's pressure to make money any way they could. He usually sold everything he found that was maybe worth a penny or two. The record certainly qualified, but he kept it instead, bringing it over to their friend's apartment next time they went, to see if it would play through the scratches. The song became a favorite among the group and they listened often, despite the skips. 

"Sure, I kin probably do that, let's see," He bought time, thinking of the tune and trying to return the lyrics to mind. The prospect of singing wasn't the cause for his hesitation, but his spotty memory was. 

He began to hum, hoping the words might come. If they didn't, that was okay. The sound was already helping to tint the room, giving their bodies direction. 

At the chorus, he surprised himself by coming up with the lyrics, like they'd been packed away in some seed dormant at the back of his mind, just needing a peek of sunlight and, well, something to drink. *Ahem.*

Rhett's singing voice was nothing to write home about, but it was easy and unforced, and generally on key. He'd grown up singing with his aunts whenever their fancy struck, and it struck often. He'd never been embarrassed, or thought singing (or dancing) was something you didn't share. On the contrary: it was a unique expression best enjoyed in the company of others. 
_ _

He struggled with the higher notes, the sound of a smile overtaking his song when he cracked. He got the key confused at first, but found it on the second line. Some phrases, he forgot to breathe enough to sustain the notes as long as they should've been. All in all, a resoundingly amateur performance, but it was all that the humble moment demanded. The muffled taps in time of their socked feet provided enough percussion to almost envision the richness of a recording instead of Rhett's airy rendition– that is, provided their collective intoxication was forceful enough to suspend this delusion. 

"I'm jealous of the moon that shines above
Because it smiles upon the one I love
I'm jealous of the birds up in the trees
They're always singing sweet melodies

I'm jealous of the pretty flowers too
I miss the kiss they always get from you
I'm jealous of the tick-tock on the shelf
I'm even getting jealous of myself."

He hummed what he remembered of the ending violin lines and, at last, released the hold he'd kept on Alma. 
"Your own personal victrola, how d'ya like that?" He laughed, his voice maintaining the hushed, gentle quality of song. 
_ _
Teresa
Brair Ridge, like many Appalachian towns, was chock full of folks who knew how to play an instrument passed down from their pappy or sing while they worked. Alma'd heard all kinds and colors of voices growin' up, but she was used to what folks knew in their blood around here (one day in the distant future it'd be identified as *Bluegrass*). Songs about workin' hard or lovin' hard. Songs about Jesus and washin' in the river. 

She had never heard anythin' like what Rhett was singin'. 

His performance didn't bother her in the slightest. His was certainly far from the worst voice she'd ever heard, and she grinned along with him when his voice cracked and wavered on higher notes. He was tryin'. And he was doin' a damn good job of tryin' in her book. Better than she could, that was for sure. He kept the beat up just fine, which was all that really mattered to her clumsy feet, but this didn't seem like the kind of song that you spun a girl to. She was grateful for that. 

No, this seemed like the kind of song you serenaded a girl with like how her Papa'd done to her Mama. It was gentle n' proper n' nice... Although Alma wasn't quite accustomed to how *Clean* It sounded. It's lilting notes seemed just like the very same birds he was singin' bout bein' jealous of. That was the next thing she focused on was the words... And their implications. They were enough to make a girl blush, and blush she did!

_ _
*Love.* Had he really just sung that word? Surely he didn't mean nothin' by it. That thing that flew in ceaseless circles turned to batterin' against her ribcage despite the easy escape Rhett's touch provided her. How could a girl possibly be calm when the man she— *No*, she wouldn't name it. But how could she be calm? How was her heart not supposed to leap to her throat and her hands get sweaty and her–

She stumbled. That was nothin' new. She'd done it plenty of times already tonight. However, this time it seemed like the universe's way of gettin' her head out from under the waves she'd dove under. Rhett's hand was holdin' hers. Rhett was singin' to her. Dancin' with her. It was like somethin' out of one of Miss Lefevre's novels. The shine seemed to tell her to relax, so she did. Her forehead came down to rest on his shoulder (what she could reach of it, anyway), and she could feel the soft vibrations of his singin' where her cheek met the top of his chest. 

When he stopped, it was like wakin' up from a daze. She blinked up at him as he pulled away, instantly missing the comfort of his touch. The woodstove was burnin' just fine now. She didn't need his hand anymore, but she longed for its warmth regardless. Instead, she clasped her hands behind her back. "Who could ever want a victrola when they have you?" She replied, laughing shyly with him. 

"Well, it looks like the stove might be warm enough for that cider now. Are your pots n' pans in the same place?"

_ _
Alma fell into an easy routine of providin'. It gave her something to focus on instead of the meanin' of the song he'd just sung. Soon, the small space was filled with the comforting scent of apple, brown sugar, and cinnamon. She tried not to think of how much more sober she felt now, choosing instead to cling to the dredges of tipsiness for as long as she could. 

"Glad I was able to get this off the Estep's this year," She murmured as she brought Rhett a piping hot mug. "With how rough it's been for them, I'm just grateful I could send at least a little bit of money their way. They're good people. Ain't that right, Spider Mae?" 

The cat had been twisting herself around Alma's ankles all the while as if she was trying to be Alma's personal trip hazard. All that earned Spider, though, was Alma scooping her back up into her arms and pressing another round of kisses against her cheek. Apparently, that was all Spider had wanted with how loud she was purring in Alma's arms. Then, Spider started leanin' over Alma's shoulder towards Rhett's mug. 

"Uh, uh, uh, Spider. No, ma'am," Alma murmured quietly as she carried her off and onto the bench nearest the woodstove. "Somethin' tells me you won't like that very much. No, I don't think you'll be very happy with me when you burn your tongue, now will you? And then you'll tell your Papa that *Awful Miss Alma* Won't be allowed over at the little house no more. N' then who am I gonna give all my pies and cookies to, huh? It'd just be a cryin' shame, wouldn't it?"

_ _
By the time Alma realized just how long she'd been talking to Spider, Alma had already curled up with Spider in her lap as if she'd done it a thousand times. She blushed as if she'd just been caught with her hands in the cookie jar. "S-Sorry. I know I shouldn't talk to her like she's a person," She muttered as she scratched Spider's ears. "S'just... After the attack, me n' Dog got real close. I didn't even think it was possible, but... I still have a hard time sleepin' without him. I used to get these godawful nightmares, and Dog would just set his head on my chest n' just... Breathe with me. He'd let me talk to him till I could fall back asleep again. Guess I just... Got into the habit of thinkin' of 'em as somethin' more'n just animals, ya know?" She tried to laugh a little, but it was strained. "Sorry," She repeated. "Guess it's kinda childish of me."
Sandra
There was a buzzing and a lightness to Rhett's body. There was a warmth that came neither from the stove nor the moonshine. He felt as though the gentle vibrations of song still resonated through the empty spaces of him. Dreamlike, he helped Alma find the pots and the cider fixins, and retreated to the sofa in the room over while she filled the air with sweet steam. Spider settled against his right side and he tugged at her soft little ears. Soon she'd had enough, though, and decided that Alma was far more interesting company. Rhett didn't blame her. 

He meditated in thoughtless contentment until Alma appeared in the doorway again, saying something about the Estep orchard while trying not to trip over the cat. Hearing Alma use Spider's nickname just spread that ethereal warmth even further through him. He watched the girls converse, Spider offering a few raspy little chirping sounds; she was a smart cat and knew when she was being addressed. 

"Aw, that'd be my fault. I let 'er take a sniff of whatever I got. She don't always wanna dig in, but she likes a good whiff." Rhett apologized, reaching forward for the hot cup, holding it gingerly as not to spill it as Alma took her place on the couch. 

"Naw, you should hear what she and I git ta talkin' about when it's just us," He admitted, falling silent for Alma's confession. He could relate to nightmares, certainly. He could relate to an animal's company as a salve for loneliness (people were good for it, too). 
_ _

"No, not at all–" He assured, and reflexively, he reached for her to underline his words. His hand settled warm and heavy on her thigh and it took a second too long to realize this was a new crossroads of touch that they hadn't yet navigated. Embarrassed, he took back his hand and wrapped both around his mug even though the ceramic was a little too hot to hold. His blush spread like wildfire as he stared into the steaming liquid. 

"I don't think it's childish at all." He said quietly, "Animals know where you're hurting without you having to say." His voice was low. He glanced over to give her a knowing look before attending his cup again, blowing gently on the steam. Tentatively, he took a small sip. Even the vapors of the drink were enough to coat his tongue in comforting sweetness. 

"Ah," He breathed, satisfied. Realizing he hadn't heard Alma's reaction to the drink, he suddenly noted her empty hands. 
"Oh, that won't do," He tutted, unconsciously borrowing the visage of his aunts as he handed over his own drink and uncurled his legs from under himself, "You take this 'n I'll dip up another." He was back within moments, pausing in the doorway to appreciate the fullness of the shack: Alma and a tiny cat-shaped shadow darkening her lap. One plane of Alma's face caught the dim moonlight off the snow from the window, the other receiving the orange flick of the fire through the stove grate. He wasn't sure which scheme suited her best; she glowed in any amount of light. 

"This is real nice, Alma." Rhett told her as he settled back at her side, a little closer than before, whether he meant it or not. Spider sprawled in Rhett's direction for a scratch between the ears and yawned. Rhett had to stifle his own. How nice it would be, he thought, to fall asleep here: warm and drunk in more ways than one. 
_ _
Teresa
Rhett's reassurance lifted the weight right off her chest. Alma had seen the way he doted on Spider plenty of times by now, and it always made her feel a hint more endeared to him than she should. Mama Cooper had once told her that animals have a way of knowin' who's good or bad, and Dog and Spider both took to Rhett like they'd known him their whole lives. Rhett seemed to return their trust with all the affection in the world. Alma had not, however, known he spoke to Spider the same way she'd just done. 

There it was again. That knocking around in her chest. 

It got worse when he put his hand on her thigh. 

Alma stiffened up. It wasn't voluntary. A quick inhalation and a straightening of her spine that stemmed purely from shock and inexperience. *How brazen!* That was the kind of touch that could get a suitor chased out of a house with a shotgun aimed at his back. That was also a touch meant for... Well, meant for lovers. Most of what they'd done that night had already been crossing invisible boundaries. Holding hands, dancing (both in public and in private), and sitting on the same sofa were all dangerous, but each one could be explained away in the morning light. It would be difficult and a lie, but it could be done. *This* Couldn't. 
_ _

The surprise of it all showed on Alma's face. She'd never been particularly good at maintaining her expression unless there was a classroom full of children involved. Those big brown eyes cut over to his face, her brows arched up high and her lips parted but speechless. In the low flickering firelight of his woodstove, Alma caught the way the shadows flickered across his face and the promise of empathy in his eyes. He understood. He always understood. She could tell anything, and he—

The connection was severed. 

They both turned away; Rhett took to his cup and Alma ran her hand down Spider's back. Both blushing furiously. 

"They do have that blessin', don't they?" She agreed, catching and acknowledging the weight behind his words. And wondering if the reason Spider had started purring louder was because of the ache in Alma's chest over the way he'd pulled away from her. As Rhett passed her his cup, Alma whispered a soft 'thank you', all the while longing for him to return to her side and to place his hand right back where it'd been. It was so rare that she ever did want someone. It scared her to know how bad she wanted it. She'd pressed book after book into her seeping wound of loneliness for so many years now that she had almost thought she could live out her days like that. Knights professing their undying love for their brides to be, soldiers writing lengthy letters back to the women they loved, girls weaving flowers round each other's wrists, and boys secreting away to clearings to confess without a watchful eye in sight. Each story a bandage and a promise that something as beautiful as love may exist, but that it was not meant for her broken hands.
_ _

She had liked plenty of people. Austin with his quick laughter and love for gardening. Dimitra with her curls made of wildfire and jewelry that glimmered with the brilliance of a comet. She'd liked them so much that she'd tried to wrap them around her heart like an ill-fitting glove til the seams split and all that was left was scraps and bitter smiles. Never before had she *Wanted* Someone. 

Rhett might have caught the stormy expression on Alma's face there in that doorway. He might have seen the furrowed brows and the deep ache and the confusion. He might have also caught the way she lit up when he returned, even if the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. She shifted when he sat beside her - *Unbearably close now* - and hummed a soft sound of agreement at his words. She even laughed a little when Spider stretched towards him, and it gave her an idea. 

"Nicer'n nice," She replied as she slowly tucked her legs to one side and *Slowly* (so that she could catch herself if he might show even the slightest hint of discomfort at her approach) rested her head against his shoulder. He still smelled faintly of gunsmoke and moonshine. She probably did, too, and the thought of their shared day made her sink against him. It would be easy to follow Spider's lead: to yawn, stretch, and fall asleep in front of the woodstove. A quiet voice reminded her that Bonnie and Linda would be distraught if they found out she'd never come home. If only they knew she was a stone's throw away and in the safest place she'd ever found in all of Briar Ridge: at Rhett's side.

_ _
✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲

Alma was slow to wake up. Her eyes opened just a crack to find that the room was still dark. Dawn hadn't yet begun to paint its tender blues over the horizon . Alma always slept with her curtains opened just enough to allow her to rise with the sun. It was rare for her to wake up in the middle of the night unless a nightmare had her in its grips. Tonight had been blessedly peaceful. Eager to take advantage of the increasingly rare opportunity to rest, she tried to grab hold of her pillow, only for her hand to sweep across something soft and warm and *Decidedly not fuzzy*. 

Through the steady rise and fall of her palm, Alma realized that her hand had landed on the chest of ~~something~~ someone and she quickly pulled it back. Her mind raced to piece together the drunken haze of last night. Rhett spinning her round and round. Racing through the snow. *Cuddling up on the*— Oh, God! She must have fallen asleep! She would've cursed if she wasn't terrified it might wake Rhett up. 

She needed to leave. Bonnie and Linda would find how low the candle on the windowsill had gotten and would have a world of questions; she couldn't *Possibly* Tell them that she'd fallen asleep next door! Hopefully it'd only been half an hour or so. As she dared to explore her surroundings, she found that her back was to the sofa and that Rhett had taken the external side to keep her from rolling off. He was laid on his back and she had been using his arm as a pillow. This was the worst possible scenario. She would have to *Crawl over him* Without waking him.

For a moment, she was paralyzed by indecision. What was the worst possible outcome: waking up Rhett to confess she was running out of his arms or facing Bonnie and Linda in the morning? 
_ _

Most definitely Bonnie and Linda. While she loved Rhett's aunties, the last thing she wanted to face was rumors of her and Rhett having been *Indecent* With one another. Alma had a reputation to uphold. So, she gathered up her courage and gingerly stretched her leg over Rhett. Her toes searched for the floor, but instead found cold ceramic. The livingroom was filled with the sound of a forgotten cider mug toppling and rolling on his hardwood floors. It made Alma jerk her foot back onto the sofa quick like she'd been bitten and—

She straddled Rhett. 

His eyes opened. 

*Shit!*
Sandra
Rhett got what he wanted, though he couldn't recall the exact moment he'd fallen asleep. He cashed in on the reward when he woke to find Alma slumped against him, her breathing even, her lashes fluttering downward in a dream. Still partially weightless from the combined efforts of alcohol and slumber, he hazily rearranged their bodies with comfort in mind, and fell asleep again. 

The next time he awoke was less peaceful but still wildly pleasant, at least until he clocked the expression on Alma's horrified face. It took him a few puzzled moments to piece together the configuration of their bodies in relation to where they'd left off when he'd organized them on the couch last. Alma was hovered over him, the sound of falling ceramic echoing up from the floor. Her hair tumbled over him like a dark shroud, and all the world was Alma. His heart stuttered and his breath stopped. He looked at her mouth– *God~* Why there of all places! 

In the absurdity of it all, Rhett cracked. What began as a snort of laughter devolved into a sleepy, breathless giggle. 

"Well." He said, having difficulty pulling on a straight face, even when met with Alma's disaster-stricken one. He was too tired, too giddy to even blush, though it would have been well-called for in the moment. 

"I don't mean ta stop you escapin', but–" His brain began to wake up mid-sentence. What he'd been on track to say gave him pause, but the scant remains of alcohol in his system fought back against his wakefulness.
"But. You know you're welcome to stay." 
_ _
Teresa
"S-S-Sorry. Oh, Lord, I-I-I-I-I didn't mean— I-I ain't — I'm n-n-not like—" 

Alma was rendered unable to squeak out anything but the most basic of words. A deluge of stammered-out apologies slipped out in rapid succession, entirely too panicked to catch the way his eyes had lingered on her. That is until she realized he was laughing. And, God, how he laughed. It wasn't malicious or anythin' like that. His voice was thick and low from sleep. It made her voice catch in her throat and she suddenly couldn't say anything at all. All she could do was take in his disheveled curls and the wrinkle of his eyes. She could feel the gentle rumble of his laughter through the palms of her hands. It was that laughter that made her realize just how silly the situation was too. 

"Rhett!" She scolded him, even as she started to laugh with him. "I-If you don't quit laughin' at m-me—!" She never finished her threat and instead punctuated it with a playful shove against his shoulder. She giggled along with him till he caught her attention by speaking. 

*"I don't mean ta stop you escapin', but... But, you know you're welcome to stay."*

Now that Alma was relatively sober, she caught that pause. She poked and prodded and chewed on it even as she slowly - *Reluctantly* - peeled herself away from him. That position had been entirely improper, and his talking about escape reminded her what had landed her there in the first place. Alma had enough sense about her to remember that she should be ashamed and her cheeks went back to being flushed.

_ _
"I cain't, Rhett," She murmured quietly as if she worried that merely talking too loud might wake Bonnie and Linda. She stood on shaky feet and went to fetch the cup so it wouldn't be tripped over as she got ready. It also served as an excuse to continue mulling over whether or not she wanted to continue that sentence. She could leave it there just as easily as she set his cup down in his wash basin. Leave it to be addressed in the morning light as was proper. Nothing good ever came out of conversations whispered passed midnight. Or, she could let herself linger in the sin and the dark a moment longer. Run her fingers across the dips and valleys of her heart when she had the cover of night to hide behind. Let herself be brave. And let herself be hurt if she was reading things wrong, too. At least in the dark, he might not see her face so well. 

That was why she lingered in the shadows of his kitchen for a moment too long. She only dared to step forward enough for the moonlight coming in through the window to touch the hem of her brown dress. "Bonnie and Linda put out a candle for me, so that means they'll be expectin' me. I didn't tell 'em I wouldn't be back, and it'd worry them. Not to mention that it ain't very proper of me. I'm a single, unmarried woman, and you're—... Well, it wouldn't be very proper. I can already hear the rumors now. So, I'll go," She paused and sucked in a nervous breath. "E-E-Even if I'd much rather s-stay." The last sentence was the quietest and her voice betrayed her by quivering with fear. 

Rather than sit with the butterflies in her stomach, Alma started pulling up her hair. Anything - *Anything* - to do something other than watch and wait for Rhett's reaction. She coiled her hair around her hand and murmured something about looking for her hairpin as she flitted around the livingroom like a bird, panicked and desperate to be free of her own emotions.
Sandra
Rhett was waking up moment by moment, desperate to blink the sleep away and be present for these beautiful moments. They laughed, and it was beautiful. She shoved into him, and it was beautiful. His hands hovered up to find her waist above him, but then she was shrinking away. She was putting space between them. He could have pouted– real 'n honest pouted! 

Physical closeness was all that was missing from his and Alma's bond. Time and time again, Rhett policed his instincts to place a hand on her shoulder, her arm, her knee. He had figured her out over the months, enough to know that touch was something their comfort levels didn't align on, and he'd resolved not to push her. More than discern her comfort levels, though, he'd come to realize that Alma was sometimes quite a nervous creature. It was endearing more than anything, but at times like these (*Especially* At times like these), her nervousness made him sad. Was *He* The thing that made her scared? Made her stutter? After all this time, all the nights up late working, all the shared baked goods and walks in the woods– why should she be nervous around him? 

—
—

*Even if I'd much rather stay.* 

But oh! There was no denying that *Those* Were words he could sink into. Those were words that softened a man into a tangle of veins and a handful of calluses. He could be lost in that sentence and never hope to draw a map back home. 

He didn't let the volume of the phrase inform his understanding. She'd said it! Out loud, goddamnit, she'd spoken it into being! The confidence he gained then was a frightening thing.

Rhett saw her hair pin. It glinted among the rumpled blankets of the sofa. With hands as steady as a surgeon, he lifted it. He stood. He stepped closer to Alma. 
_ _

"Lookin' for this?" He asked, his eyes trailing the rope of her hair, bunched in her hand, "Here." He gingerly placed the pin between his teeth, and his hands on Alma's shoulders. He guided her so she faced away from him, and covered her hands in his, unwinding her dark hair into his rough fingers. 

Being raised by women meant that Rhett was a collector of soft, feminine knowledge that other men his age might not be privy to. Fixing hair just happened to be one of those things. When Gramma Alice's hands got to be all stiff and boney in her older age, she couldn't rightly reach up and fix a twist into her hair like she liked. She guided Rhett through the process, time and time again, until she praised that he was gentler on her than she was with her own brush and pins. It'd been a while since he'd done that for her, so he hoped he wasn't about to embarrass himself. 

He was calm and cool, though his heart was pounding in its wild celebration of closeness. His good sense scolded him for being too pushy, too forward. *Here she was just talkin' 'bout* Improper *'n rumors! And here* YOU *Are playin' with her hair like a damned fool–* He'd finished his ill-advised task by the time he could rightly scold himself. The bun was a bit crooked, but selfishly, he liked it, especially how some of the shorter pieces fell away at the front. 

"Lemme see how I did," He muttered, his voice low, some level of embarrassment for his boldness encroaching on his tone. Rhett slid a hand down to Alma's and guided her to face him, not letting go once they were eye to eye. 

"You gotta fix mine now, you know. If I'm gonna walk you over to the big house, I cain't go lookin' all mussed 'n whatnot." He knew he was being brash. He knew he was directly going against Alma's frantic energy to escape back to her bed, but she'd *Said it*! She'd *Said* She didn't want to leave! God knew he didn't want her to, either, and so he hoped his gamble to keep her a little longer paid off.
Teresa
For all her book smarts, whatever game Rhett was playing was entirely lost on Alma. 

When she saw the hairpin in his hand, she turned quickly to take it from him. To piece herself back together and escape the unknown territory she'd just thrust them into. She would be able to think straight when her breath stopped catchin' in her throat and her heart stopped poundin' at the slightest tilt of his voice. So, she was entirely unprepared for his offer or for him to raise the pin to his lips. Her eyes lingered there for far longer than was *Proper*, and it was his hands on her shoulders that tore her from her trance. 

She didn't even have the time to question how Rhett might know what to do with a woman's hair. All she knew right then was that his fingers felt heavenly. Alma's hair was long and entirely contrary to the styles of the city women. It hung so low that it brushed the tops of her hips. If she wasn't careful, she'd occasionally get headaches from wearing her hair up for too long from the weight of all of it piled high. It was one of the few parts of herself she took pride in. So, her eyes slid closed as he gathered it up and slid the pin in like he'd done it dozens of times. 

The brazenness of his hand whispering down her arm left goosebumps in his wake. She had all the reason in the world to be accustomed to his touch by that point in the evening, but even the slightest press of his skin against hers brought back memories of singin' and moonlight. She allowed herself to turn to face him, using her free hand to tuck a stray curl behind her ear and nervously looking up at him. "Well, whaddya think?" Every single thing she'd done that evening was to avoid *Looking* At his face for too long because she *Knew* How it made her weak in the knees. He was so tall that she had to crane her chin up for her to show him proper, and her eyes kept dartin' anywhere but his. His nose, his chin, his *Lips*—

_ _
Thankfully, he gave her something better to focus on a task. Now that was something she could do (with a bit of stretching, mind you). "Right," She agreed, "Bonnie and Linda are sharp ladies. Good thinkin'." She had to hop up on her tiptoes, the hand that remained in Rhett's squeezing it gently to help maintain her balance as she carefully smoothed down his hair. Her touch was light at first as she only pulled the ends of his waves, but she realized quickly that wasn't doing much of anything. Soon, her fingers were carding through his hair just as he had done moments ago, brushing it down until there wasn't even the slightest hint they'd both been asleep moments before. 

"There," She almost whispered, letting herself get one last good look in before she lowered back to the heels of her feet. Now... Well, now she should let go of his hand, shouldn't she? She glanced down at where her fingers had intertwined with his without her realizing. She should pull away. She *Could* Pull away. He'd be a stone's throw away (quite literally) come morning. There was no reason for her to feel so reluctant to let him go. Come morning, she could cook him pancakes at the big house and regale Bonnie with how Rhett had shot that rabbit earlier and maybe even catch him and Dog playin' fetch out the window. And maybe, just maybe, they could steal away for another moment to talk. 

But when would that be? The school kept her busy and Rhett worked so many jobs around town that she swore he knew more folks than she did at this point. If it wasn't Bonnie and Linda listening in, there was always a volunteer in the Ruins or someone patchin' up their house outside. For it to be just the two of them... 

"I should go," She repeated, but her hand didn't seem to take the cue. It only held on tighter. *Selfish.*
Sandra
"I think a tree branch could fix your hair 'n it'd still look wonderful." Rhett promised, watching her watch him. 

He recognized this moment: her chin tilted up to him, their hands holding. The air between them was electrified; their skins were paper thin. Every movement, every breath was amplified. What if he leaned down? What if he tilted her chin just so? 

Alma claimed the task of fixing him up faster than he could act on his impulses, thank the Lord. He had a few moments to collect himself and to read clues from the situation. Should he really be thinking of kissing her? Was she thinking of kissing him? Her hand was still in his. Her fingers were in his hair. She'd smoothed down that spot already... 

When she finished, he let himself be appraised. He found that he was happiest with Alma's attention on him lately. He liked being looked at by her. He liked the version of himself reflected in her eyes. 

She looked at their hands, and he followed her lead. She held on tighter, and he squeezed back– just so. Now? Now. 

"Alma," Rhett's face was angled down in the hopes of drawing her gaze back upward. He wet his lips, nervous. Good *God*, he couldn't remember the last time he was so *Nervous*! 
"Alma, could I– can–" He ventured, swearing he could see his own heartbeat twitching movement into the front of his flannel. 
_ _

*I should go.*

Oh. 

Rhett swallowed dryly. 

Oh...

"Can you give me a moment 'fore we walk? I gotta put some more oil in the lantern." He recovered, but just barely. Lingering a moment longer, he finally slid his palm from hers and stepped away to the kitchen, struck immediately by his grief for the space between them. Surely he'd missed his chance. Surely she'd've forgiven him if he'd gone for it! But there was always the chance she wouldn't have. 

He pried on his boots after pretending to empty more fuel into the base of the lamp, holding it by its handle and turning to leave. 

"Ready for the journey?" His voice was still warm, and still tender, but there was a noticeable loss of brightness. A loss of confidence, perhaps. He opened the door into the crisp night, offering his arm out for Alma to hold without a second thought to the physical intimacy they'd just avoided. This was different, he supposed. This was a threshold already crossed. 
_ _
Teresa
Alma had spoke over him. 

Rhett had been trying to ask her something, and Alma had spoken right over him. 

Alma couldn't stop kicking herself as Rhett let her hand go. She'd nodded stiffly when he'd asked for a moment, and now she was left watching him fiddle with the lamp like she'd just ruined everything. What if she'd just waited three seconds more? What if she'd let her fingers whisper through his hair a moment longer? What if she had said somethin' else? *I don't want to go* Or *One last dance* Or *You look perfect now* Or... 

As soon as Rhett started turning back to her, Alma twisted round so he couldn't see her face. She stiffly went through the motions of putting on her still-damp socks, boots, and layers . What had she done? What had she done? What had she done? Had she not touched his hair right? Had she not looked in his eyes long enough? Had she not been brave enough? She'd wanted to pull his hand up to her lips and kiss his palm just like earlier, but she'd forced the feeling down. That had been too rash. Too dangerous. Now, she wished she'd done it more than anything as she coiled her scarf around her neck. Anything to linger in his presence a moment longer. Part of her knew that Rhett was only respectfully helping her do exactly what she'd said she needed to, and that only made it worse.

"Ready," She replied without a hint of laughter at his joke about it being a 'journey'. It was all she could do to hide the disappointed tone in her voice, but she'd never been a good liar. Not once in her life had she ever pretended to be. That was why she was hiding her face from him even then. They'd known each other for so many months now she was sure he'd be able to read the confusion and distress on her face clear as day. But, when he offered his arm to her, she had no choice but to take it. Part of her was grateful for the offering to reconnect, but the other part of her hissed that this was something friends would do.

_ _
She'd ruined the moment. 

As they stepped out into the biting cold, Alma shrank back from the wind by pressing against his side. She'd forgotten just what they'd escaped from! Even if she'd wanted nothing more than to spend every second she could with him, the cold forced her to take quick steps to The Big House's front door. 

She should say something, shouldn't she? 

"Thank you, Rhett," She said, but it felt too mechanical. What would a brave woman say? What would a brave woman do? "For everything," She tacked on, praying that the weight behind those two words might help convey her truth. She reluctantly pulled her arm out from the crook of his and started to unlock the door.
Sandra
The short walk to the big house was chaste. Formal. Rhett hated it. Something inside him writhed against the formality, rejoicing only when Alma shrank closer to avoid the chill. They had just been curled together, asleep by a fire! How had they gotten here? 

The scant shelter of his aunts' porch offered a bit of protection from the wind, but not much. As Alma released Rhett's arm, he reached overhead to hook the lantern on an iron hook bolted to the doorframe to give her some light against the lock.

He pulled everything from her *Thank you* That he could: harvested its branches bare of even the most withered fruit. He tasted it all: gratitude, reluctance, sincerity, regret, tenderness. It made a strange dish, but one flavor prevailed, and that was *Truth.* He savored it and held it sweet on his tongue as she turned away. No. Not again. 

Rhett reached for Alma's hand as she reached for the doorknob. As he had just minutes before in the shack, he guided her to face him, angling his body to stand between her and the gusting wind. His hand left hers to cup her chin, her jaw, as he tilted her face to meet his. 

He kissed her. 

His thumb trailed her cheekbone, fingers hidden back in her hair. He kissed her, and he meant it, and his other hand found its way to her waist to pull her closer just to prove it.

Here was all the closeness they'd been avoiding, dancing around like a ritual fire: close enough to feel the warmth and call on its magic, but far enough away to avoid the burn. Here was the relief for all those times of just *Knowing* That the other was looking at them, but not being brave enough to turn and catch them in the act. Here were all the nervous brushes of fingers chalked up to accidents. 

Rhett's kiss, then, was the invitation for Alma to stare, whenever she wanted to, as long as he could stare back. 
It was the promise that he meant to graze her hand, her shoulder, her thigh, and God willing, he planned to do it again and again and again. 
_ _

He hoped that between their sealed lips, she could know all of what his words couldn't tell her out loud: *Alma Cooper, you are beautiful, you are brilliant, you are brave. I want us to take care of each other the best we know how, and get better at it the harder we try.* 

Maybe if he'd've drawn on the courage to hold her like this in the lamplight of the shack, the moment could've lasted longer. Here, in the dim glow of the lantern on the hook, and the flicker of the receding candle on the kitchen sill, he was reminded of their limited time. Rhett was expected to deliver her, safe and warm, back to his aunts' doorstep. He was expected to wish her goodnight. He was expected to walk back to his bed alone. And he would do it. Reluctantly, he would do it. 

They parted, but his palm continued to cup her jaw for just a selfish moment longer before he dropped his hand to his side. The one at her waist sadly followed, but their bodies were still sealed. He did not look down, and he did not look away. Rhett lived squarely *Here* And *Now*, rising with pride to claim the moment. He stood by what that kiss had promised, with a fierce hope that his message had been received. 

Rhett smiled. His blush was neatly hidden by the pink flush of cold across his face as his heartbeat finally caught up to him, and boy did the pounding in his chest nearly swallow him whole. Alma was lucky that his body wasn't allowing him to ruin the moment with words and instead, it only allowed him to ruin it with laughter. Giddy, awestruck, and utterly joyful, Rhett Sterling had kissed a pretty girl and was laughing about it. 
_ _
Teresa
Alma had been kissed before. 

It took her years and years to allow someone close enough to even try. See, there's power behind a kiss. That was something Alma had learned early on as she snuck books beneath her desk in class and at the dinner table. Kisses woke up sleeping maidens. Kisses turned frogs back into princes. Kisses meant true love. 

Somehow, by the time Alma hit her early twenties, she came to the sudden realization that she'd never been kissed; that was a strange thing to be able to claim, no matter how proper of a lady she tried to be. Throughout school, she never understood her peers' crushes. How was it that someone could fall into a giggling mess over someone they'd only ever said hello to once? As her small group slowly overcame the trials of young love, Alma found herself left behind in the dust while she waited on The One. Boys and girls alike tried to gain Alma's attention sure, but she was still an adamant believer in her silly fantasy that one day she'd fall in love at first sight. Until she was convinced That Someone would never come along and that it was she who needed to change instead. At the rate she was going, she would end up a lonely spinster. Her mother certainly teased her about it to no end. 

Each attempt at finding someone since then had been an experiment. The Question: Will kissing someone feel like it's described in the books? The Cruel Answer: No. She'd tried Austin. She'd tried Dimitra. One without moonshine. The other with plenty. Both experiments had *Unpleasant* Results. There were a handful of others after that, but there were only so many attempts she could make in as small a town as Briar Ridge without compromising her reputation.

_ _
 After her experiments, Alma decided she was broken. Lonely, but broken. She would never find her true love. That was meant for people with normal hearts and normal needs. No, she was strange and wrong like an engine with a faulty throttle. Every spark she ever caught was quashed before it could be a fire. For her own heart's sake. She couldn't move fast - *Wouldn't* Move fast. That turned folks away. Love at first sight was a lie. The One was a lie. True love's kiss was a lie. Pretty lies feed to little girls to keep them pure and chaste and *Valuable.*

But maybe, just maybe, Alma wasn't broken after all. 

If this wasn't true love's kiss, it was the closest damn thing she'd come to in her entire life. 

Rhett caught her entirely by surprise. The only warning she had was the feeling of his hand on her jaw, pulling her lips up to meet his. He may have felt her shocked inhalation and her muffled sound of surprise through her lips, which was quickly followed by acceptance. No, not acceptance. Gratitude. Joy. Relief. Her eyes slid closed and she melted right into him, letting herself be pulled as close as he wished. 

He could've led her anywhere right then. 

Her arms slipped around his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world. As she kissed him back, she silently returned his message: *Rhett Sterling, you are handsome, you are talented, you are kind. I want nothing more than to grow with you if you'd allow me by your side.*

_ _
The longer that Rhett kept his lips pressed to Alma's, the weaker she was getting. The months of self-doubt, excuses, and longing glances had all led up to this dizzying moment of relief. He kissed her! He kissed her! He kissed her! Her knees were growing weaker by the second. It felt like she'd forgotten how to breathe. This was what kisses - *Real kisses* - were meant to feel like, right? By the time their lips parted, Alma was holding onto Rhett's shoulders like a lifeline... Until gravity had its way with her. 

Perhaps they were both dizzy from the sudden rush of emotions. Perhaps they'd both forgotten their need for oxygen in their giddy haze. Whatever the reason, the both of them went tumbling down onto his aunties' front porch with an echoing wooden *Thud.*

Alma blinked up at the covered porch's ceiling in shock as she processed what just happened. And then she started to giggle. She tried to press her hand to the back of her mouth like a schoolgirl, but it wasn't working! She giggled so much that she turned to Rhett and buried her face in his chest before she could wake up the rest of the house with her unbridled joy. 

*What would a brave woman do?*

His lips had given her all the courage she needed. As soon as she could breathe again, she reached for Rhett's face. *Propriety be damned!* Her fingertips were already growing cold, but she didn't care as she pulled him close and pressed another breathless kiss against his lips.
Sandra
The traitorous cavities of Rhett that hadn't expected Alma to kiss him back recoiled, sour in their indiscretion. They were few in the great crowd of his confidence, which overwhelmingly cheered and celebrated with a satisfied hunger. She kissed him back. *She kissed him back!* 

The shape of her felt so right against him: somehow brand new and like he'd imagined all at once. Their difference in heights made Alma all the more precious, and Rhett was all the more aware of the pressure upon himself to hold her dearly, but fiercely. Even so, their embrace was, in its distillation, a handshake agreement to hold one another however they knew best. 

Here she was, speaking a language he related to as a native tongue. They could now communicate across the wide horizon of touch, and Rhett was relieved. A whole dictionary's worth of speech was made available to him in the moments of their first kiss; a whole hymnal of praises was waiting to be sung!

The ratcheting of her grip around his neck only provoked that sense of relief, until it didn't– until it reached the point of concern. 

He felt her weight fall, and he couldn't catch her in his joy-weary state. All he did was cushion her with his body as he fell with her. Immediately, Rhett propped himself up on an elbow and sturdied his back against the wall of the house to look over their pile of limbs and coats and scarves, sighing when she dove for him again. The shape of his grin imprinted across her mouth, and again, Rhett and Alma were drunk as sailors. 
_ _

Was that cinnamon he tasted? Brown sugar? 

All too sudden, a lantern lit in a back window, the dim glow cast onto the leaf litter around the side of the house. Aunt Linda always had been a light sleeper. Rhett pulled away to stare at the light, good humored betrayal streaking his expression. 

"You best git in that house now, girl." He whispered, his voice all crisp and giddy. He clutched at Alma protectively as he helped her to her feet, and because he couldn't help himself now that a door had been opened between them, he sealed his lips to hers once more. This kiss was quick– a promise that it wouldn't be the last, but flush and confident enough to remind her that their first was far behind them. When he pulled away again, he took her in like a glowing thing, like a jar of fireflies on a summer night. He fixed her crooked scarf. He threaded a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, hurried but tender. 

"Goodnight Miss Cooper." He straightened up, pulling on the lapels of his coat, all proper-like. *Proper.* That word was an old friend. Alma would see through his playful attempt at cool immediately, and Rhett only hoped it would make their cold, inevitable goodbye a little easier. 
_ _
Susan
```End!!! I can finally THINK again cause this thread had A CHOKEHOLD ON MY HEART UGH <3 <3 <3 ```