Ghost Shorts | Fem!Reader

HE'S YOUR BROTHERS BEST FRIEND

You sat there in the passenger side as the radio played softly, nose still bloody, staring out the window at the snow speeding past. It made you shiver, the thought of the cold out there compared to the warmth in here. Inside his car. Catching your own reflection in the wing mirror, eyes quickly darted down again, away, ashamed. The wipers shifted flakes from the windscreen as he spoke.

"Was it your fault?"

You moved your head in his direction, not all the way, just enough to indicate you'd heard him; opting not to look, simply staring back out the window as you shook your head gently.

"If you think I'm taking my eyes off this road —" He flicked the indicator on, one hand turning the wheel, the other shifting gears. The soft ticking interrupting him. "— you're fucking wrong. Use your goddamn words."

Simon. He was your brothers best friend. He did things for you that you could never tell anyone. He did things to you that you could never tell anyone.

Fingers were intertwined as you picked at your thumb nail, tongue pulled lip underneath teeth. It tasted metallic, of course, the brunt of that punch may have been absorbed by the bridge of your nose but it disturbed the softer tissues beneath.

"So, are you gonna fucking spit it out?"

Head remained fixated at the window, gaze focused on the pane separating you from that cold.

They were gone, the remnants of handprints which marked the glass months ago, when it was steamed up, covered in a thin layer of condensation. There had been drip lines too, as it accumulated into droplets against your palm and rolled down the window under their own weight.

It happened at Christmas. Simon was there, as always, a welcome part of the family after he lost his. This time something in the air had shifted. He held your gaze across the room as you finished the last glass of wine in the bottle. It made him glow around the edges, hazy, gave him softness; cheeks flushed as you excused yourself. And he followed. No one had noticed as you practically undressed each other in the kitchen, you on the counter, him between your thighs. The taste of wine on your tongue. Gentle groans as his hand slid up your top. Then you were in his car. This car. It was once. Just one time.

"This is not like you."

He was right. It wasn't like you, but there was an energy within that needed somewhere to go. You needed some excuse for him to come and see you. He didn't understand the years, the long anticipated relief it brought. Lesser would he understand the way it put granite in your chest, a need for more.

"I know."

You whispered your defeat at his words without turning to look at him. There was no hesitation when you had called, it was always easier with him than your own brother. That was probably the first sign.

"Can't you just bloody behave?"

Head turned, brows furrowed, affronted by his question, albeit rhetorical. You saw him look in his peripheral vision as you let eyes fall upon his glovebox, lifting a hand to open it, testing him. He quickly let go of the gearstick to slap it away, warning you through gritted teeth.

"Don't."

"I know it's in there."

"Mmm."

That short hum his only response, eyes never truly leaving the road. Of course it was in there, his pistol, when you called it was in his glovebox before he was practically in the car. It wasn't legal here, at home. Some hypocrisy in telling you to behave. You observed the window again, scoffing quietly to yourself.

Behave. He never did.

Your brothers best friend. For years. There was something in the way the truth always unfurled out of your mouth around him; the only person who could scold you and you would listen, maybe just out of embarrassment. That was probably the next sign.