Chapter Text
The bell above the door let out a tired jingle as Stan Pines stomped into Tons Grocery, same as he did at least twice a week. You didn’t even have to look up from your pricing gun to know it was him, the low muttering and faint stench of cigar smoke gave him away instantly. Of course he’d show up right before closing. You couldn’t stand him. And for the life of you, you had no idea what Jimmy saw in the guy. You hated both of them and their dumb little game of “toss a dozen eggs.” Especially since you were always the one left mopping up yolk and shell.
“Back again, Mr. Pines?” you called without looking up, not bothering to mask the irritation in your voice.
He grunted something noncommittal and made a beeline for the canned goods, grabbed his usual soup, then stomped up to the counter and planted himself there with crossed arms and foot tapping with all the patience of a toddler.
You deliberately slowed down, taking your sweet time pricing the last few items.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he grunted, eyes narrowing.
You held up the pricing gun with a smirk. “What, my job?”
He gave a snort. “Your job is to provide me with prompt customer service.”
“I’m not your damn servant, Stan,” you snapped, finally walking over and setting the soup on the scanner. “God forbid you wait one minute while I finish what I was doing.”
He snorted. “Not like you were diffusing a bomb.”
You rolled your eyes and spun the price gauge around to show him the total, already bracing for the usual argument. Because it always came.
“That’s highway robbery,” you both said at the same time— his tone indignant, yours dripping with mockery.
You grinned. “Wow, it’s like I’ve heard this exact complaint from a cranky old man every other day for the last three months.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m stealin’ it next time.”
“Oh, please,” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose in exhaustion, a fatal mistake. The moment your eyes were covered, you heard his shoes squeaking into a sprint.
“Don’t you dare!”
Too late. Stan was already halfway to the door, can in hand like it was the crown jewels. You vaulted over the counter and launched yourself at him, tackling him to the tile floor. The can of chicken noodle skittered across the tile.
“Hey!” he wheezed under your weight. “This is elder abuse!”
“Funny way to pronounce theft, asshole!” you growled, scrambling for the can. You managed to snatch it just before he could, holding it aloft like a trophy. “Ha-HA!” you declared triumphantly, just before he rolled you over with a grunt, large hands on your wrists. Now it was you pinned to the floor, blinking up at him as he loomed above you, both of you panting.
But you still held on tight to that damn can of soup.
“You’re lucky I don’t hit women,” he muttered, clearly out of breath.
You huffed a laugh. “You’re lucky I was holding back.”
He stood with a wince, brushing dust from his suit with a few stiff swipes. You got up as well, hand outstretched and brow arched in silent expectation. He rolled his eyes so hard you were almost impressed they stayed in his skull, but he still slapped a couple of crumpled bills into your palm. You counted them slowly, smiled with smug satisfaction, and sauntered back to the register, dropping the can into a paper bag with exaggerated care. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Pines. Do come again.”
He grunted and turned to push the door open, but paused just long enough to smirk over his shoulder. “See ya in a couple days.”
Stan squinted, muttering something under his breath about the damn glare once he walked outside, and shoved his free hand deep into his pocket as he started down the path to his car. Behind him, the door clicked shut. He didn’t have to look back to know you were probably still standing there with that smug little smile on your face.
He snorted, half in irritation, half... well. Something else.
You were good at getting under his skin… too good, if he was being honest. Always with that look in your eye like you knew exactly what to say to make his blood pressure spike. And maybe that was the problem. It should’ve pissed him off. Hell, maybe it did. But it also had him coming back more than he strictly needed to.
Stan kicked a loose stone off the path and kept walking, jaw tight.
He’d tell himself it was just convenience. You had what he needed. You were close by.
He tossed the bag with the can of soup onto the passenger seat unceremoniously, dented from the scuffle. Stan slid behind the wheel with a grunt and slammed the door shut, muttering curses under his breath as he fired up the engine.
Stupid. The whole thing was stupid. He should’ve just paid the damn price and left. But no. He had to pull his usual stunt. Had to push your buttons. Had to run off with his grocery like a lunatic just to see the fire in your eyes. He braced one elbow on the door and rubbed his temple.
What the hell was he doing?
You pissed him off. You always had. Since the first week you started working at Tons, you’d looked at him like you were already fed up with him, and somehow, that had hooked him faster than he’d like to admit. Maybe it was the way you snapped at him without fear, like you didn’t give a damn who he was or how much trouble he caused. Or maybe it was how you didn’t flinch when he raised his voice, just squared your shoulders and went right back at him. Fiery.
No one else talked to him like that. Not in years. He hated it. Except he didn’t. Not really.
He pulled into the drive behind the Shack and turned off the engine, sitting in the dark for a long moment. His hand stayed resting on the key, but he didn’t move. Didn’t reach for the soup. All he could think about was the way your body felt against his. The weight of you on top of him, and then under him. The way you’d laughed in his face, cheeks flushed from the effort. It shouldn’t have made his stomach clench the way it did. It sure as hell shouldn’t have made his heart skip, or his pants tighten. He hoped to god you didn’t feel his hard on, sure that he stood from being on top of you just in time.
“You’re lucky I don’t hit women,” he’d said. But truth was, the only thing he’d wanted to do in that moment was fuck your brains out right there in the middle of the store. He wouldn’t have cared if poor Jimmy watched, or called the cops for public indecency. Hell, going to jail would’ve been worth it that time.
Stan dragged a heavy hand down his face and groaned.
This wasn’t good.
You were a pain in his ass. But for some reason, the days you weren’t there giving him hell, or vice versa, felt the loneliest.
He finally grabbed the bag, hauled himself out of the car, and tromped up the Shack’s steps. He set the soup onto the counter the second he stepped inside, but he didn’t open it. Didn’t even feel hungry anymore. He went into the living room instead, sliding into his chair after digging into the cushions for the remote. He turned the t.v on low, just enough to fill the silence.
He was scowling, he realized.
He’d be back in a couple days, sure. The problem was, he was looking forward to it.
God, he was infuriating.
You rubbed your forehead, muttering, “Unbelievable,” to no one in particular. Every time he came in, it was like the universe decided to test your last shred of patience. Like some cruel cosmic joke: Here, have another round of Stan Pines
And yet... you were smiling.
You caught your reflection in the glass of the front window, lips tugged up despite your best efforts. Damn it. You hated the way your heart still pounded a little from the scuffle, and how warm your skin felt where he had pinned you down. You turned away sharply, trying to shake it off. Its just the adrenaline, you told yourself. You would’ve done the same if it were anybody else.
But not just anybody made your palms sweat, or argued like it was foreplay.
You snorted and immediately regretted the thought, cheeks burning as you grabbed the mop from the closet. There was still a scuff mark on the floor from his damn shoes. “Stupid old man,” you muttered, scrubbing harder than necessary. “Thinks he’s so clever. Thinks I won’t ban him from the store.”
But you wouldn’t. And you both knew it.
He’d be back, like he said. And when he was, you’d roll your eyes, curse under your breath, and argue. Because as much as he drove you up the wall, the store was boring on the days he didn’t come in. And for reasons you didn’t want to examine too closely, you already missed the sound of his voice.
Closing time couldn’t come fast enough.
You just wanted to put the day behind you. Stupid Stan and his stupid soup and your stupid messed up feelings about the whole thing. You were in absolutely no position to have any sort of weird, sexy ideas about the odd old dude who lived in the woods. So what if he was mysterious and dressed nice. So what if he had a nice, strong jaw and arms to match.
You sat in your car, and it took you a moment to realize you weren’t pulling away from the store. Just sitting there, thinking, and you had to shake your head to snap yourself out of it before turning the key to finally drive home.
The next day started bad and only got worse.
It wasn’t even 9 a.m. when your regional manager waltzed in unannounced, clipboard in hand and that fake, too-tight smile stretched across her face. You hadn’t even finished clocking in before she was already tearing the store apart— a light sheen of dust on the shelves that you had just cleaned the day or two before, a mildly torn sales sign, and of course Jimmy’s disorganized produce section. Somehow that was your fault, too.
Stupid Jimmy.
You gritted your teeth and took it, nodding politely while she made a performance out of writing down every little flaw. When she handed you your evaluation, a neat red mark sat next to the words Needs Improvement, even though you were the only one there who actually did their fucking job. You stared at it a moment too long, the paper crinkling slightly in your grip. You smiled and thanked her like a good little employee. Then you spent the rest of the day feeling like a failure. You snapped at your coworkers more than once, were short with the regulars, and at one point nearly cried over a dropped box of cereal.
Everything just felt... awful.
By the time your shift ended, your head was pounding and your shoulders were stiff. The lights were too bright and the hum of the AC was too loud. And when you finally sank into the driver’s seat of your car, all you could do was stare blankly at the dark parking lot, blinking back the urge to cry.
You worked hard. But still, it wasn’t enough.
With a long, tired sigh, you leaned your head back.
You needed to sulk.
So you turned the key, pulled out of the lot, and drove straight to the bar. It was quiet there, dimly lit, and usually empty enough that you could be alone with your thoughts without the monotony of being home. Exactly what you needed.
You took your time with the first drink. The second went down faster. You lost track somewhere in the middle of the third. By then, you were half-slumped in a booth, face warm, limbs heavy, and filled with that particular kind of exhaustion alcohol only seemed to magnify. Your vision was getting fuzzy around the edges, and you were laughing a little too loudly at the grainy commercials on the ancient TV in the corner.
And then you heard it.
That voice.
“Well, well, well.”
You looked up and groaned.
Of course it would be Stan.
He leaned against the bar with his arms crossed, looking at you with that stupid, dumb, smug grin. You dropped your head to the table with a dramatic sigh. “What do you want?”
He snorted. “You look like shit.”
“Great,” you muttered. “A shot and an insult. Just what the doctor ordered.”
Without asking, of course, he slid into the booth across from you. “So this is what you do after work? Sulk in a bar with bottom-shelf whiskey?”
You raised your glass. “Cheers to terrible coping mechanisms.”
His mouth twitched, trying not to smile. “Let me guess. Finally got fired?”
“No,” you said flatly. “Got raked over the coals for not being good enough. Maybe I would be, if I babysat Jimmy,” you continued sarcastically, “or if I put on a cheery little smile and bent over backwards for the creepy old guys who roll in two minutes before close.”
His brow arched. “You callin’ me a creep?”
You shrugged dramatically. “If the orthopedic shoe fits.”
He barked a laugh, loud and sudden.
“You’re somethin’ else, lady.”
“Yeah, well,” you muttered, cheek now pressed to the cool table, “being ‘something else’ doesn’t pay the bills.”
He went quiet. You didn’t look up, but you could feel his gaze lingering, annoyingly perceptive.
“How many’ve you had?” he asked finally.
“Not enough.”
“Looks like enough.”
You cracked an eye open. The room swam just a little.
“You here to judge? Or just enjoy the trainwreck?”
He sighed. “Neither. But keep this up and you’ll be hugging the toilet any minute.”
“Aw,” you teased, voice slow and a little slurred. “Worried about me, Mr. Pines?”
“No,” he said, far too quickly. “I just don’t wanna be the one scrubbing puke outta my car when I drive you home.”
You blinked. “Drive me home?”
He scoffed. “What, you think I’m gonna let you drive yourself? Do I look like an idiot?”
Your lips twitched.
He raised a brow, realizing how he set himself up for that one and promptly told you to “shut up” before you could even open your mouth, crossing his arms once more. “You already ruined my night out, and I’m tryin’ to be nice.”
You sat up, groaning as your head pounded, and you couldn’t help it— you laughed. “Your night out?” You scoffed, “I was just minding my own business, buddy.” A hiccup interrupted your next word. You winced.
Stan watched you for a moment, then sighed. “Someone’s gotta take care of ya, kid. You’re a mess.”
You gave him a sarcastic smile. “Wow. You really know how to make a gal feel special.”
He stared at you flatly, grabbing your drink and throwing the rest of it back before you could stop him. “You’re cut off.”
“Hey!” You protested. If it weren’t for the alcohol hindering your reflexes it would’ve been another soup can situation, so instead you settled for sticking your tongue out at him. And a minute later, when he helped you out of the booth, you realized how close he was. But you were too tired and drunk to think that hard about it.
Stan’s hand hovered at your back, steady but careful, guiding you outside and towards his car without a word. You climbed into the passenger seat with a groan and sank into the cracked leather, head tipping back against the headrest. “You’re really committing to this whole ’responsible’ thing, huh?” you muttered, slurring just slightly.
Stan grunted as he buckled in. “Someone’s gotta.”
You made a face. “You think you’re soooo much better than me.”
He snorted and pulled onto the road. “I’m just feeling generous tonight.”
You rolled your head to the side to look at him. His profile was lit by the street lights— tired eyes, grumpy scowl, stubble catching the glow. You stared a beat too long.
“You’re kinda handsome,” you said.
He blinked. “What?”
“You are,” you insisted, eyes drooping as you smiled. “Like, a... very stern cowboy.”
He glanced at you. “You’re drunk.”
You grinned. “Hey. You ever been in love?”
Stan cleared his throat. “I’m not doing this.”
“That’s not a no,” you sing-songed, leaning a little closer. “You’ve got secrets, I can tell. Probably a whole trail of broken hearts behind you.” You laughed and flopped back into the seat. “Yeah. I bet you were a heartbreaker in your day.”
Stan didn’t answer.
You stretched out your legs and sighed. “You’re kinda sweet, too.”
“Okay,” he muttered. “That’s enough.”
“But you are,” you pressed, voice softer now. “You don’t have to drive me home. But you are. That’s nice. You’re nice.”
He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, jaw tight. “You’re not gonna remember half of this tomorrow.”
“Maybe not,” you said, blinking slowly.
There was a long pause. The car hummed along the quiet road, headlights carving through the dark.
“Look,” he said eventually, voice low but firm, “you’re not in any shape to be handing out compliments or makin’ moves. So do me a favor and keep your thoughts to yourself, yeah?”
You smirked. “You think I’m makin’ moves?”
“I’m saying if you were, I’d shut it down. Which is what I’m doing now.”
“Fine, fine,” you said, raising your hands in surrender. “Stan Pines: defender of decency.” You leaned your head against the window, closing your eyes. “Still think you’re handsome.”
He sighed.
“With maybe a decent heart,” you added sleepily.
Another beat passed, and then he said, quieter— “You’re gonna feel like hell in the morning.”
“I already do,” you murmured, halfway to sleep now. “But... thanks for the concern.”
He didn’t say anything right away. Just kept his eyes on the road, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting on his leg with his elbow on the middle console. “Yeah,” he said finally, voice a little gruff. “Don’t mention it.”
You weren’t completely passed out, just slumped against the window, breathing soft and even. And thank God, because Stan wasn’t sure how many more compliments he could take before the tips of his ears started burning.
Not that it was the first time someone flirted with him. He’d been around the block more than a few times, back in the day. But this was different. He was at least thirty years your senior. Sure, he was lonely, but he’d been alone just about as long as you’ve been alive. With way too much on his plate.
But right now, you looked so small and vulnerable in the passenger seat. The same woman who had tackled him to the ground just the day before. Now, sitting by his side, you looked like him years ago. Dejected. Like someone who was holding everything together with just duct tape and superglue. He would know. He was surrounded by it— literally.
He tightened his grip on the wheel and exhaled slowly, the road humming beneath the tires. You called him sweet. Said he was handsome, of all things. He rubbed his face, shaking his head. You had no idea what you were saying. No idea what you were doing. Because if you were sober and said those things, he didn’t know what he’d do with it.
He snuck a glance at you. Your face was pressed against the glass, brow relaxed, lips parted slightly as you breathed. Vulnerable in a way he’s never seen at Tons. And dammit if it didn’t get under his skin the same way.
He didn’t like seeing you like that. Not because you were drunk. Because you were hurt, and he missed your fire. He sighed and refocused on the road. He wasn’t gonna touch that tonight. Wasn’t gonna let his mind go to nefarious places. If you meant a word of what you just said to him, you could say it next time you saw him, when you were sober.
Until then, he’d keep his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road. And he’d make sure you got home safe. Because someone had to.