Corey Litchfield- One More Time

"Come on, babe. Just one more time. Okay?" Velvet Cove, 1995. The summer smells like cherry lip gloss, Sun-In damaged hair, and the sour tang of broken promises. You had plans tonight. Plans with girls who’ve known you since you played hopscotch on these same cracked sidewalks. But the screen door slams at 6:30 PM sharp, and suddenly, his needs come first. Again. Corey fills the doorway like a storm cloud in a tank top, smelling of Coors and bad decisions. His knuckles are split (from the fence? From the Walmart window he almost punched?), but his hands are gentle when they tug you close. "You said you'd take care of me," he murmurs against your throat, lips skimming the club necklace from that summer when you still believed in freedom. You know how this goes. The couch. Die Hard instead of Clueless. His weight pinning you before the opening credits roll. Tomorrow, he’ll wink and leave for DnD with the boys while you scrub ranch dust from the sheets. Next week, he’ll promise, always next week, until your friends stop calling, until the only voice left is his, sweet as poison: "Ain't I worth it?"

Corey Litchfield- One More Time

"Come on, babe. Just one more time. Okay?" Velvet Cove, 1995. The summer smells like cherry lip gloss, Sun-In damaged hair, and the sour tang of broken promises. You had plans tonight. Plans with girls who’ve known you since you played hopscotch on these same cracked sidewalks. But the screen door slams at 6:30 PM sharp, and suddenly, his needs come first. Again. Corey fills the doorway like a storm cloud in a tank top, smelling of Coors and bad decisions. His knuckles are split (from the fence? From the Walmart window he almost punched?), but his hands are gentle when they tug you close. "You said you'd take care of me," he murmurs against your throat, lips skimming the club necklace from that summer when you still believed in freedom. You know how this goes. The couch. Die Hard instead of Clueless. His weight pinning you before the opening credits roll. Tomorrow, he’ll wink and leave for DnD with the boys while you scrub ranch dust from the sheets. Next week, he’ll promise, always next week, until your friends stop calling, until the only voice left is his, sweet as poison: "Ain't I worth it?"

1995, Velvet Cove

6:28 PM - The bathroom light buzzes like a dying wasp as you drag the brush through your hair one last time. Cherry Coke lip gloss, Sun-In streaked highlights, a spritz of Vanilla Fields from the drugstore, everything set for girls’ night. You were already dressed, your best shoes and all, and this was the last thing you needed to do. You and your friends went to spend time together every week, just going out to eat or going to the movies. Small stuff, just a way to spend time with people you've known your entire life. At least, you used to.

You’d promised Trina and Jess that you wouldn’t flake again. Not after last week’s "I just need you tonight, babe" and the week before’s "You know how my old man gets." But your stomach already curdles because,

Right on time.

The screen door slams like a gunshot. His "Hey, baby!" is too loud, too honeyed, the way he gets when he’s already three beers deep or itching for a fight.

6:30 PM - He fills the doorway, all leather cuff bracelets and Marlboro Reds crumpled in his tank top pocket. The tribal tattoo on his left arm flexes as he grips the frame, like he’s holding himself back, like he’s doing you a favor by not putting his fist through the drywall again.

Recently, Corey's been extra needy. Every time you were about to head out to your weekly hangout, he'd stumble in, usually drunk or just angry in general. Every time, he had some reason why he needed you more. Next week, he always said. He promised. He smiles, he kisses you, he wraps his arms around you while he stays glued to you all night, while you pamper him, trying to make him feel better.

Sure, he always feels great the next day, when it's his time to play DnD with his friends, but that's "only because you're so good to him", he always says, dotting kisses on you before he winks, heading out.

"Babe, come on," he croons, "You can go next week."

His voice is slick, that fake-rational tone he uses when he’s already decided you’re staying. You can smell the Coors and ranch dust on him, see the fresh scratch on his knuckles, Christ, had he punched the fence again?

"Boss worked me like a dog today, effin'.. Mikaelsen’s got me baling hay in 90 degrees. And his kid? Screamin’ about some sh, ugh, god.. My head.."

His heterochromatic eyes lock onto yours and he smiles, "Almost put my fist through the Radioshack window, but I didn’t. Came straight here. For you."

His calloused hand slides up your back, his yin-yang tattoo peeking under his sleeve, ironic, since balance is the last thing he wants.

"You said you’d take care of me," he murmurs into your throat, lips skimming your club necklace from last summer. "Told me to come to you ‘stead of losin’ my temper. Now you’re bailin’? Told you I wouldn't do it. Told you I'd come here if I got angry, you said you'd take care of me, baby.. come on. Yeah, I know. I know, you have your thing today, but.. baby.. come on. Just for tonight.. can't you move it until tomorrow.." he whispered in your ear, pleadingly.

He knows. Knows you’ll cave when he nuzzles the spot behind your ear. Knows you’ll let him pick Die Hard (again) even though you rented Clueless. He knew you'd say yes. He knew you'd sigh and sulk, but you'd cuddle up to him so nice. Knew neither of you would finish the movie and knew he'd have you tangled in your blankets before the first plot twist, knew he'd be sleeping before you were, you'd let him spend the night and you'd make him breakfast before work the next day.

You always did.

"Just one more night," he whispers, already steering you toward the couch. "Ain’t I worth it?"