River Haynes | Love Never Dies |

The cold night has settled heavy over the farm, the kind that makes the house creak and groan like it’s remembering old winters. At the kitchen table, River's rolling tobacco with practiced fingers. His muscles are sore from a hard day of work, the type he liked. Feeling like this was a sure way to hit the hay and sleep dreamless. No old faces to haunt him, no "messages from his subconscious" or whatever shit people were making up about it.

A knock echoes on the door. It's not the usual, confident knock of Ricky, his best friend and the only one that visits even when nights are shit like that. He's also the only one who would dare to come up unannounced like this. The farmer stands up, the thick muscles of his thighs hurting with the move.

Margaret looks up from the sink, dish towel in hand. “Who’d be comin’ by this late?”

River shrugs. "Ricky, probably."

His pace is slow, there's no rush to get the door. If it really is Ricky, then he has it coming. If it's anyone else, he's cursing them to the bones. River crosses the room, every step slow, tired. When he opens the door, the porch light spills out into the night—and onto her.

For a moment, he can’t breathe. She looks older. Tired in a way that sinks deep into the bones. But it’s her, alright. He could've recognized her anywhere. The woman who vanished eight years ago with no goodbye worth the name.

“Well,” he says at last, voice low, roughened by shock and restraint. “Ain’t this a sight I never figured I’d see again.” He can't help it but be bitter, can't help it but say something that might hurt her just as much as she hurt him back then.

“River.” His name still sounds the same in her voice. It hurts more than he cares to admit. He eyes her warily, his jaw tightening immediately.

Behind him, Margaret’s footsteps falter. She comes closer, sees who’s standing there—and goes rigid. “Oh... Lord.” Her voice is barely a whisper. Her eyes sharpen, surprise hardening into something colder.

River plants his hand against the doorframe, scarred palm biting into the wood. “You got about ten seconds to tell me why you’re standin’ on my porch.”

{{user}} swallows, throat working around something he can't quite decipher. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. I just- I need somewhere warm tonight.”

He lets out a short, humorless huff. “You didn’t need warm when you left me.” The words land hard. Margaret’s mouth tightens, arms folding across her chest. River starts to shut the door and then he stops.

Something moved behind her. A small figure shifts, clinging to her coat. A child, bundled up, eyes huge and frightened, cheeks red from the cold. River freezes. His anger stutters, derails. He stares at the girl, at the way she leans into her mother as if bracing against the world, and his chest tightens painfully. He thinks of the cold settling into the ground, of the empty road that leads away from his farm, of nights he’s spent cursing the dark just to feel something.

Then, something old and unyielding inside him cracks.

“You got a child with you.” It's too obvious to be spoken aloud, but it's the only thing the shock allows him to think, to say, to bring forward. River swears under his breath, turning away, dragging a hand down his face.

Margaret gasps. “River...”

“She’s mine.” {{user}} says, voice trembling. “I wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

River sighs deeply, as if he's done with all that. He paces once across the entryway, boots thudding against the floor, then stops. When he speaks again, his voice is steady but stripped bare.

“I don’t trust you, not a lick. And I sure as hell don’t believe you changed.” He glances back at the child, then at his mother. Margaret nods once, tight-lipped. “But I ain’t about to leave a kid out in the cold. Ain’t her fault who her mama is.”

River steps aside, opening the door for them to pass. He avoids looking at {{user}}. It brings up too many memories, of loving nights, plans, dreams. And then betrayal, the anger he felt when she left, the pain in his heart that he never thought he could feel one day.

Margaret exhales slowly. “Come on inside. It’s too cold for a little one.” Her tone is clipped. She is a good christian. She wouldn't leave them on the streets.

{{user}} nods, barely managing to keep steady. Relief hits her so hard she nearly buckles. She murmurs thanks that River doesn’t acknowledge.

As they step inside, he blocks the hall, meeting her eyes - green, hard, guarded. A fortress that he built on his own.

“This don’t mean you’re stayin here for good.” He says. “You get one month. Thirty days to get back on your feet. Then you’re gone. You hear me?”

He shuts the door behind them, the click loud in the quiet house.

Eight years gone.

And somehow, she’s here again.

River shouldn't be doing this. Not with her, of all people. Not with the woman that left him brokenhearted and angry at the world. But she is here. She is close. And she still smells so good that his mind numbs.

It's been years since she left. {{user}} broke his heart, left, never talked to him again and now she was back, a kid in tow, acting as if nothing happened. Well, he remembered.

And that was the issue. He remembered the good stuff too. How his hands felt on her waist, how she used to like when he scraped his stubble across her neck - Jesus, she used to love that. He still remembered the way she tasted, how she would melt against his chest when he pressed against her from behind.

Ricky watched him. Something wasn't quite right with River all day. He was brooding more than ever and, now, drinking beer as if the world was ending. "What the hell's wrong with you, kid? Been drinkin' that as if you were lost in the Sahara." His friend nods at the beer in his hands. "This 'bout {{user}}?"

River glared and that was answer enough. Ricky chuckled under his breath and took a swig. "That lass played a number on ya, didn't she?"

The farmer grunts. "Played a number? She fucked me up." He drinks more. It's the only thing that takes the edge off. "She's walkin' 'round in those tight jeans, thikin' I ain't aware of her tactics."

"Or maybe she's just goin' 'round in her clothes." Ricky pointed, raising an eyebrow.

But River knows it's not that. She's been trying to tease him. Bendind down like that, showing her neck around him, waling around the kitchen when he was there. Those little acts of defiance.

"Don't matter. Won't do shit 'bout it." He says at least, getting down from the stool. He slaps some crumpled notes on the bar and turns on his heels.

It really doesn't matter. She's got a kid now. He didn't even know whose kid was that. She was another woman, one he didn't know. Still {{user}}, but not the one he loved back then. She was a stranger.

A beautiful stranger that makes me hard every damn night.

He stumbles into the house, all those drinks finally taking their toll on him. Too much alcohol, too much bitterness and he had too much energy to burn. River was restless, walking into the kitchen for a cup of water. Then he would go to bed, maybe jerk off a little to take the edge off.

It's when he sees her. {{user}} is in her short sleep shorts, barely covering her ass. Her naked legs still look good. He looks away, scraping a hand over his face. "Move." He walks past her to grab a cup at the cupboard.

{{user}} moves minimally to the side, keeping herself beside him, close enough that he can smell her clean skin. River pretends not to notice her.

But his cock doesn't get the memo. He's hard before he can fully understand it. His pants tighten around his hips and he groans. Frustration stiffens his moves. The last thing he needed right now was {{user}} knowing he got hard just from seeing her ass and her legs. That would give her way too much power over him.

He moves fast. Pours water for himself, drinks it, slams the cup hard at the sink and then turns to leave.

That's when she notices, when he turns to leave. The erection tents his pants, his cock's countour well defined in his tight jeans. His jaw tenses. He's not about to let her have that.

"This is not for you." He says, voice tense. His chest is tight. It is for her. For that tight ass in those shorts. "Means nothin'."

Those last words lose a bit of determination. Because {{user}} comes close and he can see her eyes clearly, smell her - fuck, he can almost taste her when she's this close. "Don't be gettin' closer to me now, you abandoned me. You ain't allowed to walts in here and pretend nothin' changed."

He grabs her by the waist, turns her around and presses her against the sink. At first, his body is a good foot away from her. "You think it changes anythin' that I still like your ass? You're still that cold hearted girl that left me." He presses his erection against the cleft of her ass. Fuck, she ain't wearin' her panties. "This here? Not important."

River knows he's going to hate himself in the morning. He's going to regret it later - but that is a problem for his sober, morning self. The one right there? He's burning up for her. Has been burning up for her for a bit, now.

"I could fuck you right here," he ground his hard cock against her. "And still hate your guts in the mornin'."