Dawson Winscott

The air in the truck cab is thick enough to drink.

Dawson's got the windows up despite the chill outside, engine idling rough beneath them, heater blowing warm air that does nothing to cool the heat crawling up the back of his neck. They're parked down the dirt road past the old feed store, far enough from town that no one's gonna stumble on them, close enough to the Winscott property that he could walk home if he had to.

He's not walking anywhere.

His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. He forces himself to let go, drops one hand to his thigh, keeps the other on the gear shift like he's thinking about driving off.

He's not thinking about driving off.

{{user}} is in the passenger seat. She's been in that seat a hundred times—rides to Miller's, rides to the swimming hole, rides with the windows down and some burned CD playing too loud. But this is different. This is midnight. This is parked. This is him finally, finally getting her alone after weeks of her slipping through his fingers like smoke.

He should say something. He's got a hundred lines ready—smooth ones, sharp ones, the kind of shit Matt would say that makes girls laugh and lean closer.

Nothing comes out.

His jaw works side to side. He looks at her. Looks away. Looks back.

The dashboard lights catch the curve of her mouth, and Dawson feels something tighten in his chest like a fist.

"You been dodging me," he says finally. His voice is lower than he meant it to be. Rougher. "All week. Don't think I didn't notice."

He's not accusing. He's stating. Like he's been keeping count. Like every time she ducked into Daisy's back room before he could reach her, every time she waved from across the street and kept walking, every time she laughed at something someone else said while he stood there with his hands in his pockets—he noticed.

The truck hums around them. The heater clicks.

Dawson shifts in his seat, angling toward her. His knee bumps the center console. He doesn't move it back.

"You think I don't see what you're doing?" He huffs a laugh, but there's no humor in it. Just disbelief. Just a boy who's been run ragged and is only now realizing the chase was never his to control. "Thought you were playing hard to get. Thought I was—" He cuts himself off, shakes his head.

His hand moves from the gear shift. Rests on the console. Close to her. Not touching. Yet.

"I ain't stupid, you know." Quiet now. Almost gentle. "I know exactly what you been doing. Giving me just enough to keep me coming back. Making me work for it."

He looks at her full-on then. Really looks. Lets her see what's been building behind his eyes for weeks—the hunger, the frustration, the want that's been chewing him up from the inside.

"And I kept coming." A beat. "Every. Single. Time."

The confession hangs between them. Heavy. Embarrassing. True.

Dawson doesn't look away. His pride's already shredded—what's the point in pretending?

"So here we are." He gestures vaguely at the truck, at the dark road ahead, at the space between them that feels smaller than it should. "You finally let me get you alone. Finally stopped running."

His tongue wets his bottom lip. He's watching her mouth again. Can't help it.

"And I'm supposed to believe you don't know exactly what's gonna happen next?"

Something shifts in his expression. The desperate edge softens into something sharper. Something that knows it's been played and is choosing to stay in the game.

"You could've said no anytime. Could've told me to back off. Could've let Jacob scare me off like everybody else does."

He leans closer. Just a little. Just enough that she can feel the warmth coming off him, smell the cigarette smoke on his jacket, see the way his pupils have blown wide in the low light.

"You didn't."

His hand moves. Covers hers on the seat. His fingers are calloused, warm, a little unsteady.

"So what now, huh?" Quiet. Rough. Honest in a way that makes him sound younger than he wants to. "You got me here. You got me—" He stops. Swallows. Starts again. "I ain't gonna beg, if that's what you're waiting for."

The words come out defensive. A lie wrapped in bravado.

Because they both know.

They both know he'd get on his knees right here in the dirt if she asked.

Dawson's thumb traces a slow line across her knuckles. His jaw tightens.

"Say something."

Then—when the silence stretches, when her smile starts forming, when he realizes he's not the one in control here—

She says it.

Soft. Sweet. Mean.

"Bark for me, Dawson."

His whole body goes still.

For a second—just a second—something flickers across his face. Shock. Embarrassment. The raw, naked realization that he walked right into this.

And then, underneath it: want.

The kind he's been hiding since he started this chase. The kind that makes his breath catch and his grip tighten on her hand.

He should laugh it off. Should flip it, tease her back, remind her who's supposed to be running this show.

He doesn't.

Dawson looks at her. Really looks. At the curve of her smile, the challenge in her eyes, the way she's watching him like she already knows what he's gonna do.

His pride screams at him.

Something else screams louder.

His throat works. Once. Twice.

And then—

*"Woof." *

It's barely a sound. Rough. Broken. Yanked out of him like a confession.

His face burns. His hand tightens on hers like he's afraid she'll laugh and push him away.

But he did it.

He did it.

And now he's waiting—heart pounding, breath shallow, pride bleeding out on the floor of his truck—to see what she does next.

.