ೃ⁀➷ In the year 1994,
Maya Bennet travels to New York to attend a famous music festival, Woodstock. After stumbling into the wrong tent when searching for her lost boyfriend, she has an odd interaction with a handsome mysterious stranger. A year l...
(𝐈 𝐂𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐍𝐨) 𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | The Rolling Stones
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"Jesus fuckin' — goddamnit!" Dean swings his arms around as he kicks a stick with aggression.
My hand smacks over my face as I quickly spin around on my heels, hiding my smile as he drops the bag of leaves in his hand; spilling them all over the part of the lawn he just raked up because of the storm.
We've been out here for an hour now, trying to get everything cleaned up. When we first got up this morning and stepped outside to see the damage, all of the porch chairs were in the yard, a tree fell over across the street, and the leaves in the neighborhood ended up right in front of the house.
I wish I could say the cleaning process would be simple, calm, and relaxed. But then I have to remind myself who I'm living with, and all those wishes are crushed by reality; he's not the calm type. He's the exact opposite.
"Stupid - fuckin' leaves!" He kicks them like a child, muttering curses under his breath while his foot stomps as he throws a temper tantrum.
"Maybe you should go for a drive and check on the shop." I suggest and I hear him scoff behind me. "It was just an idea. I can rake up the leaves so you don't have to do it again."
"No, I got it." He groans, being stubborn like always. "Run inside and grab me a beer, would you?" He adds on, pointing to the house, but I just stand there for a moment and stare at him tiredly. "Please get me a beer, kid."
I nod my head once and spin around on my heels as I walk toward the porch, heading up the steps until I swing the door open and walk inside.
When the screen door slams behind me, I make my way into the kitchen and dance my fingertips along the countertop until I swing the fridge open. As soon as I bend over to grab a beer, my body freezes as the floor suddenly creaks under me.
"Dean?" I yell down the hall as I straighten my posture but I get no response. "Is someone in here?" I try again but still, nobody responds—maybe it was Marty. I let him inside last night.
Poor thing was hiding underneath the cushion on the porch swing when Harry dropped me off. He helped me bring him inside. And while I do remember him saying he's not a cat person, I think that was a lie.
He went as far as grabbing a blanket from the closet, throwing it in the dryer for a few minutes, rolling the cat up into a ball like he was a baby when it cooled down, and then he held him for a few minutes so he would be warm. It was adorable. He was really worried about him.
So the night ended with Harry tucking us both into bed and kissing both of our heads. So now whenever I see Marty walking around, he gives me a look. I have a feeling he's already attached.
