How about a chapter instead of a Sunday snippet? I love this story, and an update is far overdue!  As a short refresher since I took so long (apologies!), your apartment has been broken into and ransacked. Ryan is with you and helps you sift through the wreckage as much as he is able. But you have a confession to make: you know who is the culprit, and you can’t hide the truth anymore.  (Parts 1-6 can be found on mymasterlist!

Rating: PG for a little steaminess

Word count: 3390 (Because Ryan gets to me and I lose any and all self-control.)

Tag list:@obscurilicious​@the-blind-assassin-12@something-tofightfor@logan-deloss@lexxierave@madamrogers​@yannii04​@gollyderek​@carlaangel86​@maydayfigment​@vetseras​@thisisparadisemylove​@malionnes​@thesandbeneathmytoes​@crushed-pink-petals-writes​@delos-destinations​@luminex3​@fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes​@tenhargreeves​@witchygagirl​@fific7​ @pheedraws​

If you’d like to be added to/removed from my tag list, please just send me an ask or shoot me a DM.

Enjoy, and thanks for reading!

Ryan’s eyes crinkled up at the edges when he smiled. It was something you hadn’t discovered early on, like the pensive look that darkened his eyes sometimes or the way their color seemed to dance when he talked about music and places he’d been, things he’d seen. He was always wearing that tattered khaki hat, and the bill cast a shadow over his eyes, shrouding little things from view.

But that night, between guitar picking with calloused fingertips and singing that bursted from his soul, you and Ryan talked; you joked and laughed and the back-and-forth you both indulged in lasted longer than any of your previous conversations had. With Ryan’s overgrown hair brushed back, the only thing obstructing his eyes at times was a chunk of long bangs falling over his forehead. It wasn’t enough, however, to hide those eye crinkles when he laughed, framed by long, dark eyelashes. It was a small feature of his that was only showcased in certain instances, and one that most people wouldn’t notice. But, every time it happened, you felt your heart flip, the way it had just before the cozy house set back deep in the woods had been filled with music.

Your mind kept replaying the melody of the original song he’d played for you. It had stirred something deep inside of you, ignited a place within yourself that you’d never known existed. 

“When did you write Southbound?” Your questions were becoming more personal, and the startling part, the part that made you the happiest, was that Ryan didn’t seem to mind answering them, nor did he seem hesitant to ask questions of his own. “What sparked that melody, those words?”

Ryan set his guitar down gently, leaning the front of the old acoustic against the wall, neck and peg board supporting the instrument. He regarded your face, the glint of genuine curiosity shining in your eyes. He was attentive to the way you were sitting, leaning forward and eager to hear more of his story. 

He’d met many people over the time he’d spent on the roads, living life the way he saw fit. Some of them had been curious about his lifestyle, how long he’d been playing, that sort of thing. He’d met people who had pried for details, almost as if a disguised predator hunting for prey. But you… you were the first person he’d encountered that was interested in more than why he didn’t use plastic guitar picks, but chose thumb and finger picks instead. Ryan wasn’t used to people being interested in him as a person. He was conditioned to keeping to himself, allowing lips curled in disgust at his clothes, rust-stained or dirtied in places from hopping trains,  to roll off his back. He smiled, one of those crooked, small quirks of his lips that he tended to lean toward when he was feeling shy. But it didn’t keep him from answering, and truthfully.

“Just keepin’ myself occupied on trains.  Some’a those rides are long and I use the time to practice, to play.” He flexed his fingers, and you looked down to see the ink decorating his knuckles. That was another story you’d love to hear, what those tattoos meant to him, what they stood for. “I found a melody I liked, kept playin’ around with it, the tuning, the speed, the pickin’. It was a while before the words came. My old notebook is more scratched through words than anythin’ else.”

He looked at you, perched on the edge of the old vintage couch, some of the fabric beginning to wear. He caught your eyes and held your gaze for a lingering moment, andl his focus was drawn downward to your lips. He forced himself to not stare, to continue with his story. 

“But the words came, and I liked ‘em alright. They fit when I paired the lyrics with the music. For a long time, I had two verses, the strumming in the middle, and that was it. Wasn’t until the thick of the winter when I was inspired to finish.”

Ryan stopped there. You wanted to ask him what had inspired him to turn the song in the specific direction it had gone. You wanted to ask him how autobiographical the song was, the parts about leaving home— where home had been, if he’d ever tried to find a permanent place he could be content in. He’d sung a line or so nodding to drinking, and you couldn’t help but feel a strong pull at your heartstrings, and the solemn weight that settled in your chest. Ryan hadn’t had an easy life. 

Instead of responding with words, you surveyed Ryan’s face. He was still just across from you, the fire he’d built still crackling in the fireplace. You felt a chill and lifted your sock-clad feet to the bottom cushion of the sofa you’d been occupying for the evening, hugging your knees to your chest. 

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you, You became lost in thought, with the knowledge that tomorrow would be another very long day. You were making a mental list of things to take care of when Ryan’s voice brought you back to the present. It was such a welcome distraction.  

“Tell me about the diner.” He spoke softly, not much louder than the crackling of the blazing fire he’d built. Standing from where you’d been lounging, you moved to the heart again to toast before the fire. It was difficult to stay still, difficult to focus on anything other than the questions making endless rounds through your head, overwhelming your mind. You could focus on Ryan, though. The diner. You smiled genuinely. My comfort. My home.  It felt like, somehow, Ryan knew how much the diner meant to you… and he did. It was impossible to miss when you were there, working non-stop but never without a smile, never too busy to indulge a patron in warm conversation. It was your safe haven.

“My grandparents opened up the place decades ago,” you started. You paused for a moment and relished the warmth radiating over your back. “They snatched it up with a down payment and a lump sum  of pre-payment of the lease before the building had an interior, when it was just a shell of brick. They knew it would be the perfect location for the business they’d dreamt of opening.” You caught Ryan’s eyes, and there was a smile there, matching the one on his lips as well as your own. “It’s like the American Dream,” you laughed, and continued. “My parents took over…” 

And just as quickly as your grin had come, it vanished with a darkening of your eyes. The shock and bewilderment you’d felt in discovering the state of your apartment was transitioning into outright anger. You could kill your brother. And the thought of him intruding your mind– just like the way he’d intruded your apartment, your life once again– reminded you that Ryan still had no idea about what you knew. What had actually happened. 

“And that brings us here,” you finally continued. “I had money saved up, a nice amount. Cash, mostly from tips, so I could buy that building outright when it’s time, take over when my parents grew tired.” You swallowed hard, shoving down the lump in your throat that had been returning unwelcome throughout the evening and night. A slight look of contempt twisted your features, and your eyes began to prickle. You knew what was coming; it was inevitable. “For years, I’ve measured my life in coffee spoons, packs of sweetener and powdered creamer. Working toward that goal is my whole life, and I wouldn’t trade the double shifts or overtime for the world, but right now? I have nothing to show for it.” Hot tears stung your face, and you wiped them away angrily as you gathered the courage to look at Ryan. His gaze was centered on you already, stunningly intense. And you were hit with a realization then:  that if anyone could understand what it was like to have nothing—  next to no money, no home, a sparse amount of belongings— it was Ryan. 

He had no permanent home. You were fairly positive he’d had his fair share of days with little to no money, and everything he owned fit in his pack, with the exception of his guitar. The peace you felt from your epiphany thawed your anger. Your tears were tapering. Sniffing quietly, you moved to the side as Ryan came to tend to the fire. A feeling of understanding hung in the air between the two of you as Ryan added some more kindling to the flames. Your eyes alternated between his movements and the dance of dark shadow with orange firelight moving over his features. You were mesmerized. 

“I know who did it.” Your voice was barely more than a whisper and you were hyper-aware of your heart beating wildly beneath the safety of your rib cage. Ryan brushed his hands together and stood upright, his eyes regarding as he did so. He didn’t seem to be angry at all, but his curiosity was apparent. He was quiet for a moment, but finally answered with a slight nod, the silence remaining. You opened your mouth to apologize again, your self-loathing over lying by omission rising by the minute, but Ryan beat you to the punch.

“ ‘S’not much of my business, I reckon, but you…” He looked at you with a seriousness you’d never expect from him, and your eyes widened with anticipation and dread. “Are you safe, Y/N?” Ryan’s warm, dark eyes were round with concern, and not a touch of anger was present. All you saw was worry and care.

You nodded in response and cast your eyes downward. “It is your business,” you assured him. It’s your business. You were there and you… you helped me bear the brunt of it all. “And I’m sorry, Ryan. Feeling shame isn’t an excuse to lie. Nothing is.” For the first time, you were nervous in front of him, not because of how he made you feel, but because you’d deceived him. If he’d had any trust in you– which you thought he might– you’d taken advantage of that.  “I don’t want you to get involved in my mess.” Looking up at him, you locked your eyes with his. He had no further reason to trust you, not in your opinion, but you hoped he’d be able to see the honesty that you were finally giving him, and that he deserved. “You’ve been a light in my life since you’ve been around, and I don’t want to dim that, not while you’re still here casting that glow.” Your cheeks burned at the realization of how corny your words sounded, but corny or not, they were absolute truth.

Closing the short distance between you, Ryan gently took one of your hands in his, tangling his long fingers with yours. He just looked at you for a few seconds, and then, he kissed you with care. His lips were soft against yours, his kiss light, lingering, laced with an air of urgency. One hand cupped your cheek and the other wrapped around your hand just a bit tighter, your fingers lacing with his. He kissed you again, this time with an added tenacity, yet somehow still chaste. When he pulled back to look at you, both for a reaction and to marvel at your beauty, you noticed his chestnut eyes had darkened a shade or two. Your hands were still locked together and you couldn’t seem to draw in a full, steady breath. You got lost in the warmth of his eyes for a moment before your gaze fell to his lips, already craving another taste. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N, I shouldn’t ‘ve—“ You shook your head once and leaned in again, interrupting his very unnecessary apology. The way Ryan kissed was something you’d never experienced before. It was all the evidence you needed to achor the idea that Ryan didn’t need words. His soul was naked when he strummed the steel strings of his guitar, his emotions were on full display in his eyes, and his heart was unmistakably felt in his kiss. It was extraordinary and spellbinding. It was absolute and genuine and something that you wanted to take hold of, grasp tightly, and keep with you. But you knew, instead, eventually, you’ d have to let go. And much sooner, you suspected, than you’d like.

It had been foolish to allow yourself to grow attached to a stranger you may never see again, but you allowed yourself the effort to attempt rationalizing what was serendipitous. It wasn’t lost on you that doing so was a glaring paradox, but what were the chances of Ryan returning to your small town in the first place? You knew now that the reason was Georgie, but that posed another question: what were the chances of you remembering Ryan specifically? Buskers passed through all the time, on their way to or coming from the city. You were accustomed to music floating through the air on your way to the diner when you didn’t have the opening shift, but Ryan’s music wasn’t just a nice tune you’d enjoyed on your way to work. Ryan’s music, his style and way of playing, his voice smooth as honey but rough with passion, wasn’t just music– it was a force. Ryan in himself was a force, and in the most gentle, remarkable way. 

You pulled back reluctantly, your lips on fire and cheeks ablaze. You’d had one hell of a day, and your emotions were anything but regulated. The last thing you wanted to do was something out of your character, to tarnish your time with Ryan by doing something that, in hindsight, wouldn’t hold a meaning. You opened your eyes to see Ryan studying your face, and he smiled that boyish, crooked quirk of his lips— his incredible lips— that made your heart do somersaults. 

“I’ve been wantin’ to do that for awhile,” he admitted, a slight chuckle accompanying his confession. You laughed, shaking your head more in disbelief than anything else  Ryan brushed his calloused fingertips softly over your forehead, gently curling a few wayward strands of your hair behind your ear. 

“How did you wait so long? I’m irresistible.” You dissolved into laughter and rolled your eyes dramatically, taking him by the hand and leading him the few steps back to the old loveseat you’d claimed as yours earlier in the evening. He followed suit easily, pulling you down to sit on one cushion as he sat on the other. 

“You are,” he told you, but there was no trace of laughter in his voice. His shadow of a smile held affection instead of humor. “You’ve made my time here more’n just playing a couple songs with Georgie. He’s off somewhere now, an’ me? I’m still here.”

It was a simple thing to say, obvious in nature but not in the way Ryan had said it. The connotation in his voice and what he meant was stunning. For a moment, you were quiet, turning his words over in your head. Then, you grinned shyly. 

“You’re something else, Ryan Brenner.” It was something he’d said to you many times, and it had grown into a habit, an inside joke. Turning toward him, you took both of his hands and your expression grew serious. “I owe you an explanation,” you started carefully, “But first I want to thank you for bringing such sunshine into my life since you’ve been here. I always look forward to work, but I found myself not dreading the walk there in the cold. I wanted to make sure to bring you some sort of warmth as thanks, even if it was just a cup of coffee during the day… something pulled me toward you, Ryan, And not for any reason other than how genuine you are. You’re unapologetic in who you are, and there’s no pretense you carry around with you. People like you are all but impossible to come by.”

Now that you were talking, really talking and free of anxiety, you couldn’t stop. Words just came pouring out in bursts with barely a moment between. You could talk to Ryan about how you felt about him for an hour, but you needed to get back to the truth and finish the conversation you’d started earlier. In your moment’s pause,Ryan took advantage of your silence and leaned toward you, pressing his lips to yours again softly, almost as if asking permission.

You hummed slightly against his lips, and you felt the warmth of his palm radiating through the material of your shirt. He pressed his hand to the small of your back, drawing you closer. Again, he gifted you with his mouth against yours, gently coaxing your lips open with his tongue, deepening the kiss. Your arm found its way over his shoulder, your hand curling around his neck and fingers getting lost in the long, dark hair there. You’d easily gotten yourself lost in Ryan, and consciously so. Kissing Ryan felt like home. 

When he broke away, his eyes were dark with desire, yet he simply rested his forehead against yours, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes briefly. You slowly withdrew your fingers from his hair, your arm from his neck and shoulder, but Ryan’s hand remained on your back. The pressure was light, however, and he was gently running his fingertips up and down the middle of your back, straight over the line of your spine. You closed your eyes at first, relishing in his touch, feeling goosebumps pop up atop your skin. You opened your eyes as you felt him remove his forehead from yours, and you focused your gaze downward. Turning over his hand, you traced your index fingers over the tattoos, vertical lines between his middle and lower knuckles.

“It was my brother.” Finally confessing your truth, your voice was tiny, barely audible, and you felt the fall of your heart into the pit of your stomach. Nerves and shame burrowed there as well and spread like venom throughout your body. Your posture changed, your shoulders tense as you hunched into yourself unconsciously. A bitter taste was on your tongue, and that lump had lodged itself in your throat again, rendering your voice useless. You swallowed past it again, and you looked up at Ryan, knowing a simple glance could give you the courage you needed. His eyes were full of warmth and gentle encouragement, and his palm flattened over your back, rubbing gentle circles in effort to soothe you. 

Noel was at rock bottom. Because you’d been forced to change your locks and not give him a key, he’d resorted to breaking down your door and destroying your apartment searching for money that he either owed or needed to sustain his habit. That strength and effort, that apparent absence of remorse in someone who you’d trusted implicitly for years cut you like a knife, but more than that, it terrified you. Your brother had turned into a stranger. 

“I don’t know if I’m safe anymore, Ryan.” You looked up at him in a loss. “I don’t know where to go from here.”

Ryan was not a violent man, but at that moment, he felt a white hot anger for the man who had done this to you, your brother, a man he didn’t even know and had never laid eyes on. A man he hadn’t known existed until two minutes ago. But he was concentrating on what didn’t matter, and he needed to reroute that.Youmattered.You were all that mattered to him in that moment, your peace of mind and your safety. Dipping his head, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head and indulged in inhaling the scent of your shampoo.

“We’re gonna figure it, okay? I promise you. I’mma be right here ‘till we do.” He paused and placed his index finger under your chin, drawing your face upward gently and catching your eye. Ryan needed you to see his sincerity. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, Y/N. We’re in this together, you and me.”

Here’s another filled request, and it’s about our traveling music man with a heart of gold, soul of fire, and fingers of a true virtuoso– none other than Ryan Brenner. And what a life he has to write about! This was requested by the lovely @witchygagirl​ as follows: 

This one is actually unrelated to A Familiar Face or my other related one-shots, so it’s a stand-alone piece! Thank you for reading, as always, and enjoy!

Image prompt 11: Ryan Brenner x reader

Rating: PG for fluff and more fluff, with a side of fluff. 

Word count: 1879

Tag list:@obscurilicious​@the-blind-assassin-12​@something-tofightfor​@logan-deloss​@lexxierave​@madamrogers​@yannii04​@gollyderek​@carlaangel86​@bicevans​@maydayfigment​@thisisparadisemylove​@malionnes​@thesandbeneathmytoes​@crushed-pink-petals-writes​@delos-destinations​@luminex3​@tenhargreeves​@fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes​ @fific7

As always, if you’d like to be added to or removed from my tag list, just shoot me an ask or DM.

Special thanks to @something-tofightfor​ for beta reading!

“I went to the depot, looked up at the stars. Cried, some train don’t come, there’ll be some walkin’ done.”

When Ryan strummed his guitar, it was magic. The music floated through the air in D and A minor, an arpeggio of time that was broken down and descended. If you closed your eyes, you were sitting outside in Mississippi on a balmy summer night, dewy grass dampening your skirt as you watched fireflies blink out of time while you drank homemade moonshine. It was 1931 and Prohibition was in full swing, but your daddy didn’t care and neither did his backwoods friends. 

Ryan’s smooth-as-silk voice and long fingers dancing and picking guitar strings was your backdrop, and you’d always find your eyes fluttering shut during that one particular song, fully invested in your daydream. A small smile would tug at the corners of your lips, and Ryan knew why. You’d told him about your little fantasy late one night after too much Bayou Teche. You’d gotten it shipped to chill inside the refrigerator until Ryan arrived, and by the time he was gone, each of you had halved the beer until all you had left was empty,  brown glass bottles. 

The Geeshie Wiley tune was one of Ryan’s standards when he was off busking between hopping freight trains to his next destination. He played covers mostly, and most people seemed to recognize Last Kind Words, even with a male voice singing the lyrics.  You’d heard him play it dozens of times, whether out on the street surrounded by a small audience or the comfort of your front porch steps. No matter how many times, you were always transported back in time. 

It had been a humid, cloudy night in May, spring melting into summer as you sat next to Ryan on your old wooden porch swing, hung by rusted wooden chains. Your eyes were heavy; you were drowsy and instead of Ryan’s guitar in his lap, it was a small black book and a old, chewed up PaperMate pen— no frills, clear plastic showing an ink cartridge that was two-thirds used up, cap off and stuck on the pen’s end. 

Your eyes had drifted shut, your head resting on Ryan’s right shoulder. Almost asleep, you felt Ryan’s weight shift and the swing beneath you sway out of time. Eyelids popping open, you lifted your head as Ryan sat back upright, a scrap of sheet music pinned between his thumb and long, tattooed index finger. You saw that the paper was singed at the edges and just a partial page— less than half, the ink beginning to fade. Always learning about Ryan, you smiled softly as he tucked it back between two blank pages of his book. 

“I didn’t know you could read sheet music,” you spoke, Ryan’s head turning to look at you. 

“A little… sorry I woke you up, Y/N.” The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile as he looked at you with those eyes a few shades darker than chestnut. Reaching up, he softly brushed wayward hair behind your ear. 

Drowsy eyes meeting his own, you shook your head. “I didn’t realize I fell asleep… what’s the song?”

Ryan closed his book, capped his pen, and the swing tilted as he set his notebook on the stained wooden planks of the porch. When he was upright again, he shifted in order to wrap an arm around your shoulder and pull you closer. You breathed in deeply, always trying to memorize his scent– the organic smell of the outdoors, tinged with soap from his shower. He kissed the crown of your head before answering.

“ ‘S one that you know,” he spoke softly, in a low voice. The music of night– the chirping of crickets, croaking of frogs, screeching of owls and rustles of leaves under the tiny feet of rodents all went unnoticed when he spoke. It was no matter that his voice was barely above a whisper. “I’d be bold enough to say it’s even a favorite… might be a favorite of mine if I was forced to pick.” 

You thought for a moment, a small furrow settling in your brow. “That’s pretty general, Brenner. You sing Happy Birthday, and it would be my favorite.” 

Ryan only responded with a chuckle; he was really playing this game. With a slight squeeze of your shoulder, he finally spoke, but only to set one ground rule: “Only yes or no questions, Y/N.”

The smile he’d put on your face grew into a grin; there was an infinite list of things you loved about Ryan Brenner, and his moments of playfulness were high up there. They accompanied your love for his introspective nature, the fearless lifestyle he lived with a streak of adventure, how his overgrown hair tended to fall over his forehead in the same spot, how his voice transported you to another time… another time.

“Last Kind Words,” you guessed, putting just enough distance between the two of you to look up at his face and gauge a reaction. Ryan’s lips quirked, and his brow raised slightly in appreciation. 

“I didn’t know you read sheet music,” he joked lightly, punctuating the recycling of your words with a wink. 

It was the littlest of things that still uncaged the butterflies in your stomach, the familiar fluttering of their painted wings flickering in your abdomen. All it took was an unconscious hum, or a quick meeting of your eyes with his… a wink to make you feel like you could fly.

“Do I win a performance?” Catching his eyes with yours, you knew he would see the ‘I love you’ there without words. Ryan was in tune with everything he was presented, attentive and never distracted. You paused, the look in your eyes changing from one of pride and internal laughter to a slight curiousness. 

“You know the song,” you thought aloud, obviously introspective, “What’s a little scrap of its sheet music for? Burned at the ends, at that.”

Ryan hummed, and for one beat of time, you saw a faraway nostalgia in his eyes. “Somthin’ I’ve been carryin’ with me since I left Virginia.” Ryan never referred to home as anything other than Virginia. “Used to be a full sheet, too.” 

You knew that there was a significance; a story. How much Ryan would reveal was the only mystery, and something you’d grown to appreciate. He expressed closeness and intimacy in his own, unique ways that you had learned to understand. And Ryan continued. 

“When I was… let’s say, younger than ten, my grampa found me hidin’ in the garage strummin’ on his guitar. I was already figurin’ I was  gettin’ the belt, but he just came an’ he sat down. ‘You don’t learn chords, boy, you don’t bother touchin’ it, ya hear?’ Later that night, he gave me this sheet, just part of the song, didn’t say nothin’.” He’d averted his eyes, found a thread in his jeans to pick at. “An’ when I was older, I started learnin’ chords.” 

The nightsong began to get louder, you thought, as Ryan finished his story. Male crickets were getting more desperate for mates; so were the frogs; nocturnal predators were getting anxious for their prey. 

“I’d hopped a train, got past the point of anyone findin’ me and it was the dead of winter. I was makin’ a fire, or tryin’, but the wind was howlin’, I was throwin’ things in the tin I was usin’ to keep that fire goin’ an’ I grabbed that along with a bunch’a stuff that didn’t matter. That’s the rest of the story.”

Finally, Ryan abandoned that loose thread from his denim jeans. Head still ducked, he lifted his gaze to meet yours. You offered him a shadow of a smile, searching his warm brown eyes. 

Then, you took his hand, and with both of yours, turned it around. You surveyed his palm calloused from hopping trains, fingertips rough from guitar strings. You traced the lines of his palm— first the head line, located in the center, then his life line, and finally his heart line. Glancing up at him, your eyes landed on his lips, the small and almost undetectable smile of wonder crooking the corners of his mouth upward. His smile was contagious. 

Turning his palm over to look at the back of his hand, you redirected your attention to his long fingers— tattooed horizontal lines just below his top knuckles, vertical ones inked between the bottom two. You brushed the pad of your thumb over  the length of his index finger before lifting his hand to your lips and gently peppering tiny kisses over each of his fingertips.

In response, he gently took his hand back to use his index finger in lifting your chin. Everything I’ll ever need, he thought to himself in absolute certainty. She’s everything. Ryan drank in the color of your eyes, the slight slope of your nose, the shape and curve of your mouth. His eyes lingered there for a moment, and he used his finger to lift your chin higher. 

Without hesitation, his mouth was on yours, passion and tenderness combined in the way your lips met. Ryan coaxed your mouth open with his tongue and a small, satisfied noise tumbled from your mouth into his, your heart rate skyrocketing. When he pulled back to catch his breath, he kissed the tip of your nose and then your temple, feeling the slight, rhythmic beating of your heart against his lips. 

“We should go inside,” he suggested with a slight nod to the door. Tongue darting out to wet his lips, he gave your shoulders one last squeeze before sliding his arm from around your shoulders. “I have a craving, Y/N.” Your eyes widened in anticipation as Ryan paused, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “For a root beer float.”

Laughter spilled from your mouth, Ryan following suit with chuckling of his own. “Ryan Brenner.” You attempted saying his name in a firm tone, but failed. “You’ll get that root beer float, but not without payment first. You owe me a song for being such a damn good guesser, if I remember correctly.” It was your turn to smirk back at him, raising your eyebrows in faux haughtiness. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied readily, nodding as he did so. “Guitar’s inside.” 

You stood from the swing and held out your hand. Ryan stood too, black notebook holding a memory in one hand,  and in sliding his fingers between yours, love held in the other. The two of you made the few steps to the door as you sang lines of the song he’d be trading for ice cream. 

“The Mississippi River, you know it’s deep and wide. I can stand right here, see my babe from the other side.” 

Your voice didn’t transport you to the riverbank in the way his did, but you knew Ryan would guide you in your journey through space and time just as soon as he held his guitar in his lap and slid on his fingerpick. As always, you were ready, imagining the flickering of fireflies reflecting off the river, anticipating the antiseptic taste of unlawful moonshine, and waiting for the magic to begin.

Heat Wave

This drabble turned 2000+ word one shot is brought to you by this fantastic request from @the-blind-assassin-12​:

This took forever and took a completely different direction than the one I had planned. Thank y’all for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

Image prompt 8: Ryan Brenner x reader (related to Bah, HumbugandIn the Line of Fire (part two) which can both be found in my masterlist)

Rating: PG for slight language

Word count: 2167

Tag list:@obscurilicious​@the-blind-assassin-12​@something-tofightfor​@logan-deloss​@lexxierave​@madamrogers​@yannii04​@gollyderek​@carlaangel86​@bicevans​@maydayfigment​@thisisparadisemylove​@malionnes​@thesandbeneathmytoes​@crushed-pink-petals-writes​@delos-destinations​

Follower event tag list:@luminex3​@fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes​@witchygagirl​@breanime​

If anyone would like to be added to/removed from my permanent tag list, just shoot me an ask!

When you’d left home at the crack of dawn for a job interview— which had gone surprisingly well thanks to Starbucks and an extra shot of espresso— you’d needed something far warmer than the lightweight blazer you’d grabbed on your way out the door. Now, just before noon, you had shed your blazer that had proven to be insufficient earlier, yet you still felt hot in just your sleeveless blouse and pencil skirt. You thought a perk of moving farther up north would be the mild, temperate climate. It was your first Indian summer, though you’d lived in the area for a year, and you had decided it was bullshit. What had happened to the cool, crisp autumn you’d fallen in love with a year ago?

When you pulled open the heavy glass door of the post office, a cold blast of air  but your skin, and you stepped inside quickly. The air conditioning felt absolutely fantastic, and you briefly wondered if people would notice if you lingered for awhile, just to soak up the cool temperature, maybe until you were even a little chilly.

You smiled at the thought as you arrived at your box, smack in the middle of the wall of post office boxes belonging to other people. There was a wall of boxes on your left, another on the back wall— yours on the right—and there were more just down the corridor. You rummaged in your bag to find the tiny brass key for P.O. Box 257, tucked away in a zippered compartment in your purse. After the third time it had fallen off your key ring, you decided to hide it away in a more safe, reliable place. 

After locating your key and unlocking your box, you stared at the unexpected abundance of envelopes that had piled up over the last week.  Who knew so many people still send paper mail?  It took two times reaching into the small box to pull out every piece of mail, mostly tuning out to be junk or credit card companies offering you low interest rates. Only then was the box empty— almost. Retrieving the one remaining piece of mail at the bottom of your box, you smiled as you realized who it was from, locking the box back before giving the postcard a good look. It was rare that Ryan sent you postcards.

They were usually letters tucked away inside envelopes, words hidden for only you to see. The decorative side of the card displayed a vintage style print, a drawing of a wooden fence leading out onto a beach of white sand bordering sky blue waters. Welcome to Orange Beach! it boasted in a series of light green block letters, fading into yellow. 

You flipped the card around to see Ryan’s familiar handwriting, a mixture of print that sometimes led off to a few letters of scrawled script:

Just passing through. All the sunshine brings you to mind. See you soon. 

You could hear the cadence of his voice, the dropping off of the G at the end of certain  words, the slight twang that tugged at his pronunciation of vowels. Your smile grew into a grin as you glanced at the postmark, reading September 3rd. Your eyes widened into saucers as you recalled today’s date. Ryan’s postcard must have gotten lost in the shuffle of the mail circuit— the post date was over two weeks ago. 

You shrugged it off and secured your key back into the small pocket on the inside of your purse just before tucking Ryan’s postcard inside. With an armful of the rest of your mail, you braced yourself for the assault of the inevitable sweltering  heat.

 Fucking Indian summer. 

                                             ***          ***          ***

Ryan was just passing through after a rousing five days in Virginia,  where he’d met up with Georgie. Where he was going next was still on the table. Instead of restless, he felt fulfilled, still riding the high of busking with his close friend, both of them splitting the money they’d made halfway. He and Georgie played well together, and it usually paid off. He’d shedded his coat and hoodie, managing to stuff the hoodie into his pack and hang the thicker layer around one of the straps of the large bag. His ever-present guitar case, the black leather wearing off around the edges, was clutched tightly in his right hand as he paused near a crosswalk. Squinting in the sunlight, he was grateful for the small shadow the bill of his cap provided.  With the transition of the streetlights from green to yellow to red, he crossed the street and walked one more block to reach the post office. 

He was low on stamps, had just two left to be exact. Ryan kept in touch with a handful of people and had a flip phone, but he preferred writing letters. They felt more personal, gave him the time to think about what he was saying and write them in a way that he’d stumble on while talking. There were also times when his phone would be dead for days. 

It was mid-July, the thick of the summer, and he could feel beads of sweat forming along his forehead, though it was before noon. The old government building was once red-bricked, but had been washed with white in order to modernize the place. The upkeep added a nice touch as well, neatly trimmed bushes contrasting against the bright paint. He pulled at the metal handle on the right of a set of non-paned French doors, the temperature of the air inside bringing instant relief. The building was eerily quiet, the only sounds lowered voices at one end of the building, the light scraping of paper against metal as patrons picked up their mail. Turning toward the sounds of conversation, he walked down the corridor and turned with the layout of the building. 

He was surprised at the line of people waiting, a few solitary people in casual attire, one or two dressed in clothing appropriate for the workplace littered between. There was a mother with a stroller holding a sleeping toddler, an elderly couple, and one woman alone in front of him. He nodded politely as you turned your head to the side in curiosity in order to see what type of brave soul had come up behind you to patiently wait for their turn. You saw a man who was about your age, and offered him a friendly smile, turning around to face him.

Ryan instantly found you absolutely stunning. Your smile brightened your entire face, your features all striking, as if they’d been hand-picked specifically for you.. 

“Good morning,” you said, greeting him casually as if the two of you had been acquainted a long time ago, old friends. “How about that heat wave?”

Ryan chuckled, surprised at your unaffected manner and genuine friendliness. He noticed the way you surveyed his clothing, eyes quickly glancing to your guitar case before lifting to  his face again. Your expression hadn’t changed or faltered a bit, that smile still in place. That was a rarity, something Ryan hadn’t come across in quite some time. 

He returned your smile with a slightly crooked smile of his own. There’s some thin’ about this woman, he thought to himself.  She’s authentic. A good heart, a kind soul. A fire burning within her. Ryan thought that if she was burning bright, he’d volunteer to stand a bit too close to her flames and would pay no mind to the sharp sting of a burn. 

“Mornin’,” he replied good-naturedly. “I think I’m used to all sorts of weather, but then a heat wave hits and reminds me I’m wrong.” Ryan looked at you with warm eyes, spoke with a low drawl that made you weak. “Name’s Ryan, pleasure to meet you.”

                                          ***       ***         ***

It was eerily quiet when you got home, but the silence was just what you needed. You felt like you needed about three showers to wash away the sweat and sticky humidity that clung to your skin, and the only thing that delayed you was the kicking off of your shoes and dumping your purse and mail onto your couch. 

After your shower, water temperature lukewarm at best, you felt human again, revitalized. You’ve mulled around ideas for dinner in the back of your mind, made a quick detour into your bedroom, and returned to that couch you’d tossed your things upon, holding a shoebox. Opening the box as you sat and balancing it in your lap, you reached for your purse, pulling out the postcard you’d received, albeit two weeks too late. 

Lifting the thick stack of envelopes that were quickly outgrowing their box, you slipped the postcard picture-down into the bottom of the shoebox. Smiling softly, you brought your legs up, crossing them like a child, and plucked several envelopes from the middle of your stack, devouring the letters that you’d read dozens of times before. 

Y/N, 

Made a quick decision to hop off in New Orleans before heading off toward Chicago. The train station here is directly connected to a streetcar line that leads straight into the French quarter. Maybe I’ll take a ride next time. Maybe you’ll take one with me. 

I thought about you most of the day, the way you’d stop to listen to a three-piece zydeco band in Jackson square. I imagine how you’d look with powdered sugar on the tip of your nose from beignets, and the slow nod of approval when you taste real, authentic gumbo. 

I heard the roaring of a streetcar clacking over its tracks and knew that I needed to write to you that very  second. I miss you, Y/n. Wish it was me & you riding that streetcar to wherever it would take us. 

                                                                                           Ryan 

Have you ever been to Vegas, Y/N? Beyond all the neon lights, the ritzy hotels and big-name shows, the electricity of the city shifts. Contrary to what other people might think, it’s a great place to play music, beyond the strip, along a street lined with benches and a slight change of pace..  more of a scenic, less chaotic feeling. People stop, and they listen. Really listen. Sometimes I’ll get accolades instead of money, but that’s what it’s all about— telling stories with hope that people can enjoy them and relate.

It’s time for me to go out for the day. Can’t wait until you’re the audience I’m singing to. 

                                                                                          Ryan

Y/N, 

I’m just writing to tell you that Memphis not only has the best bbq, but also the best peach cobbler. Georgia’s got nothing on Tennessee. 

                                                                                             Ryan

Sometimes, when you really thought about it in retrospect, it was wild. In the space of time that you and Ryan shared as a unit, an entire human could be born; the biology of. growing from cells into a living, breathing, viable human being. An entire new life could be created. 

And throughout the last nine months, you, with Ryan’s help, had created a new life of your own. You had a boyfriend, one who was absent far more than he was around, yet managed to never weaken his connection. No matter where in the country Ryan’s trains took him, he’d write. There was no way for you to write back to a man with no address, not in a manner of space and time anyway. But in your new life, none of it was liner. The only time that mattered was when Ryan was there with you, and that was when he got your letters. You always responded, saving your words to give to him next time. 

Next time. You slid folded paper back into envelopes, a grin breaking into your face as you heard the sound of heavy boots over your wooden porch. Dropping Ryan’s letters back into the shoebox right on time, you replaced the lid as the door opened and shut. There was a soft thudding of his guitar case being set into a corner, and you stood to pad through the house in bare feet. 

You met Ryan in the kitchen, watching him down almost an entire cold bottle of water. You adored this man who had needed to buy stamps while stopped in your town, stepping into the post office you’d been waiting in, all by chance. You had never been happier than when Ryan was home. 

“Good afternoon,” you greeted him. As he set aside his bottle of water, you rose to your tiptoes to give him a kiss, his lips chilled from the water. Snaking your arms around him, you leaned back and looked at him, a playful glint in your eyes. “How about that heat wave?”

Who wants a little peek into the life of our favorite musician to brighten their Monday? Look no further! I hope y’all enjoy, and as always, thank you for reading!

Image prompt 6:Ryan Brenner x reader (requested by @thisisparadisemylove)

Rating: PG due to absolute and adorable fluff.

Word count:1946

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This is related to (later down the line) A Familiar Face, which can be found in my masterlist.

The air in the city was dense and heavy. Before you could take anything in, to appreciate your time there, you had to train your lungs to breathe in the atmosphere; it was imperative to get acclimated to the moisture that hung invisibly around you. It was so thick, the humidity was almost strangling.

But when you hit that point where you could breathe again, to inhale that air with ease, the sensations surrounding you were breathtaking. 

The uneven, crumbling brick paving the sidewalks were littered with people: tourists with strands of colorful beads hanging from their necks, carrying styrofoam cups; older couples holding hands while taking leisurely strolls; giggling teenagers ducking into shops with signs in the windows boasting shrunken heads and Voodoo dolls. The air carried with it succulent smells from various restaurants, and dance troupes occupied the middle of narrow streets to entertain. People spray-painted in metallic tones from head to toe stood frozen like statues, so still it was as if they weren’t breathing. Depending which street you were on, the energy around you would flip between an electric buzz or a warm leisure–  the kind that was the reason behind the city being coined The Big Easy. 

But one constant in New Orleans, whether in the French Quarter, down Magazine Street, or lost just beyond the corner of Decatur and St. Peters’ expanse of the French Market—crowded with vendors selling silver jewelry or art, fresh vegetables and homemade soaps offered in booths at the farmers’ market further down the street, or finding hidden treasures buried deep at the flea market adjacent to the famous Cafe du Monde— was the music. 

Street performers playing various flavors of music occupied almost every street corner in the New Orleans area. But Royal Street— Ryan had told you it was pronounced roy-AL, like a duo of two male names sewn together— that was where the real music was, the music with heart and soul and life, no matter the sweltering heat and thick, suffocating humidity. Thirteen blocks through the French Quarter and several leading down toward Frenchman Street was the city’s epicenter of live music. It was where Ryan wanted to take you. 

“There’re all types of musicians down here, Y/N,” Ryan said, excitement apparent. Soft-spoken by default unless he was singing, full-bodied and soul on fire, Ryan’s smooth, soft drawl was a pleasure to hear, even if you had to strain to hear sometimes. But the enthusiasm of what he was set to explore with you— to share with you— added volume to his voice, thickened his drawl just a touch, and shifted his intonation to the point that his words sounded more like song than speak. “Jazz is the front-runner but you name it, and you’re goin’ to hear it.  I reckon there ain’t a place like it anywhere else in the world.”

Ryan tore his eyes from a two-story brick building, balconies adored by wrought-iron and punctuated with lush hanging plants. You’d read that most of the businesses in this part of the city hailed in structures that were built centuries ago. You smiled as your attention turned to Ryan’s face, lit up with a wide, Cheshire-like grin. His happiness was your happiness, and when he gifted you with that big, toothy, genuine smile,, you felt like a Mega Millions winner. You knew you’d hit the jackpot with this man. 

He’d ditched his pack in the bed and breakfast you’d booked days before, despite his protests.

”This was my idea, Y/N. “

“But I wanted to come.”

Slowly nodding his head in agreement,  Ryan gently pointed out, “I asked you to join me—“

“And I accepted.”

He eyed you with his eyebrows quirked, and you continued. “You let me come with you, and youlet me live life your way for a few days. It’s been exhilarating and uncertain and I feel more alive than I have in a long time.” Your eyes were full of sincerity, and Ryan took a few steps toward you, only stopping as stood right in front of you. He reached to tuck your hair behind your ear. “So letme find us a warm bed to sleep in and cold air conditioning to lay under.”

Finally, he conceded. “If that’s what you want, Y/N, you know you got it. But I gotta tell you, it’s not a usual part of my way of livin’.”

You bit your bottom lip thoughtfully and narrowed your eyes playfully. “Maybe it’s your way of livin’ with me.”

He’d left his pack, but still carried his guitar case. His tattooed fingers were laced with yours as the two of you walked; you had a destination: the flea market just a few blocks away. But first, Ryan wanted to take a slight detour. 

“I really want to experience the music. Appreciate it. Take our time, if that’s alright.” 

You’d nodded immediately, agreeing with him. You wanted the same thing, wanted to be there with Ryan and join him in his elation and opinions and feel a bit of that love he felt for music. 

“And I know you want to go to the flea market—“

“I need to go to the flea market.” You interjected, and he laughed. You shrugged. and he shook his head 

“You’re somethin’ else.” The slight smell of coffee wafted through the air, and as the smell became stronger, it took on an almost sweet scent. Applause broke out from somewhere ahead of you, momentarily drowning out an increasingly loud dissonance of chatter. 

“You know, I think you’ve told me that before. Once or twice.” Before Ryan could answer, you found yourselves standing just outside the open-air, renowned Cafe du Monde. The scent, the chatter, and the perfect, faraway backdrop of a nearby trumpeter’s solo version of When the Saints Go Marching In was classic New Orleans. You felt a sense of nostalgia wash over you, and you knew at that exact moment that this city, so full of culture and history, art and Cajun food, voodoo and ghost tours, jazz and zydeco and blues and swing and swamp pop— this city meant something to you, and it was your first time visiting. 

Ryan gently led you to an occupied table, smack in the middle of the cafe. He pulled out your chair for you with a boyish smile before sitting in the chair across the small table, guitar case close by his side. He leaned forward on his elbows so you could hear over the noise. 

“The menu’s not your traditional menu,” Ryan warned you. His eyes danced from across the table, and he added, “Not that New Orleans skimps on tradition, but they do it their own way. ‘S their style.”

You found yourself leaning in as well, caught you in the cadence of Ryan’s voice as well as his words. Ryan wasn’t a huge talker, he didn’t need to be, but when he got on a roll about music or traveling or something that he was passionate about, he spoke up more than usual and you loved those moments. This was one of them. 

“ ‘Bout a half-dozen choices to choose from. It’s slim pickin’s, but you can’t go wrong with what they’re offerin’.”” Ryan had been to New Orleans many times; there was just no other place like it. He held up his left hand, calloused fingertips and vertical lines inked between mid and lower knuckles of each finger. “You’ve got coffee—cafe au lait. Fresh-squeezed orange juice, milk…”

You had started to shake your head as Ryan went on. He stopped before he rattled off a variety of sodas and coffee over ice; he knew what you were saying without words, and had known as much before he spoke. The two of you shared a smile, intimate with understanding. Opening your mouth to share a sentiment, you were stalled as a waitress appeared tableside, vibrant purple hair pulled back and piled atop her head. She was around your age and looked frazzled. You smiled at her. Many days at the diner had you in the same state at some point. 

“A cafe au lait and order of beignets, please,” Ryan said politely, inclining his chin to order while looking at the server, not just rattling off what he wanted. He was always attentive, and actually talking to someone rather than at them was something you valued at work. Ryan just did so naturally without a second thought. “Same for my girl here.” He looked at you adoringly with an expression asking for confirmation.

“You got it,” you said, meeting Ryan’s eyes for a beat of time, then looking to the waitress and nodding appreciatively. “Thank you.” 

In his typical fashion, Ryan followed immediately, offering the woman a small smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”

When she turned to walk away and Ryan’s attention was yours again, he immediately noticed the way the corners of your lips turned upward. He looked at you as you appreciated his features from across the table. 

“I’ll wait,” he teased gently. Leaning back in his chair, his long legs stretched out as much as possible beneath the table without invading your space, you nudged his knee with your own. 

“Wait for what?” It was a rhetorical question; it was all in your expression, the way you sometimes got as quiet as Ryan himself and just looked at him like he hung the moon. Ryan had called you his girl, and you supposed it was true, but to hear him say it was another thing entirely. He had you reeling. It took you a moment to get back on track. “I was just thinking about your thank you ma’am. How it sounded familiar, and how someone else is bringing us coffee instead of me bringing it to you… which, in hindsight,  is why we’re here. Together. It’s all come full circle in a sense.”

It seemed like a lifetime ago. As you and Ryan enjoyed your beignets, you relished in little memories, and that was what made your relationship so special. Ryan had taught you just how important simplicity was. He laughed as you balked, tasting your cafe au lait without adding sugar first, forgetting there was chicory in the drink. You stood from your chair to brush powdered sugar from a beignet out of the scruff on his chin. He taught you the difference between zydeco and swamp pop, and insisted on paying for your coffee and beignets. 

“There you go again, Ryan Brenner. Fighting me over sweets and tips, bringing it right back to the beginning. You’d finally made it to the flea market, but before you could walk in, he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you close, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You let out a sigh.

“I like the present much better, Y/N,” he said, speaking into your ear. Your shoulder shrugged involuntary, his whiskers and breath tickling your ear.  “The beginning was real nice, but this,” he paused, pressing his lips to your temple, “What we have now, it’s been on my mind since that first cup of coffee.” You looked up at him with a look of awe; it was a confession he’d never made before, and it felt like the perfect moment for him to do so, there in this huge flea market in New Orleans. You had words on the tip of your tongue, but they were stuck there. 

When you didn’t reply, Ryan just smiled down at you. It was one of those small, simple, yet significant moments. You’d had so many with him. He let his arm fall from your waist to link his fingers with yours again, leading your further inside. “You make a damn good cup of coffee, Y/N.”

This is a reader x Ryan Brenner fic that nobody asked for, but decided to happen on its own one morning while I was lounging outside in my egg chair. It’s unrelated to any other of my stories for Mr. Brenner, of which there are many. Hope you enjoy!

Rating:G-ish

Word count: 2774

Tag list:@obscurilicious@the-blind-assassin-12@something-tofightfor@logan-deloss@lexxierave@madamrogers@gollyderek@yannii04@carlaangel86@vetseras@maydayfigment@thisisparadisemylove@malionnes@thesandbeneathmytoes@delos-destinations@tenhargreeves@luminex3@fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes@fific7@everything-lost-and-unsaid@pheedraws@my-rosegold-soul@commanderlola@leeanncodes

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Thanks for reading!

You’d been doodling on a legal pad for over an hour. The majority of the page was filled with straight lines and dots, simple sketches of constellations: the Big and Little Dippers, Orion’s Belt… all twelve of the zodiac. The margins held concentric circles, cartoon-like clouds with lightning bolts extending  their jagged sparks of fury downward, reaching like upside-down tree branches. Huffing out a breath, you dropped your ball-point pen onto the chipped counter. It landed with a clatter. Running a hand through your freshly-colored  bright blue hair, you could still smell the faint, ammonia-like scent lingering in the air around you. 

Surrounded by vinyl records, musical instruments, and an array of quirky novelty items, your weekly Sunday shift at the music shop was usually slow. Saturdays were consistently  busy, time flying by, but on lazy Sundays, from open to close, the seconds trickled by. It was 2pm, and you’d had all of 9 patrons: a group of four teenage boys that stopped by often— one of them, the  tallest whose name you could never remember– asked to play on an electric Les Paul Epiophone he was saving for. Two couples and three lone strangers had popped in and out in the span of an hour and a half. The rest of your day had been dragging. 

Deciding to come out from behind the desk, you flipped through the alphabetized vinyl, jotting down on your legal pad what needed to be restocked, rearranging what had been put out of order. You’d made it all the way to the letter P, scribbling down Prince’s Purple Rain when the bell at the door rang. Customer number 10 had arrived. 

You glanced up from the far side of the store to see a face that was unfamiliar. The man who walked inside had a khaki hat on, one that had seen better days, his  overgrown dark hair peeking out over his ears, and a scruffy beard littering his cheeks. He wore a dark hoodie, zipped up and layered with a brown jacket a shade darker than his hat. His jeans and boots were unremarkable, but two things caught your attention: the overstuffed pack he wore on his back, and the old, threadbare guitar case he carried in one hand. Standing just inside the door, the man’s eyes scanned the store, and you abandoned your task at hand. Clicking your pen, retracting the point, you wore a friendly grin as you met the man just shy of your counter, situated in the middle of the store. Upon greeting him, you noticed his eyes. They were a deep, rich, warm brown , and seemed as if they held a lot within him. It was the type of thing you always had always noticed—oftentimes looked  for—  in others. Something in the eyes. 

Introducing yourself, the man nodded in acknowledgement, offering a small smile along with his own name: Ryan.  His eyes wandered toward the left wall, littered with hanging guitars, acoustic and electric, ukuleles, bass guitars and even a banjo or two. Some instruments were used, some were new; some were affordable and, depending on the brand, were astronomically priced. 

“You play.” You nodded down at his case, still gripped in his hand. “Acoustic.” The shape of his case was a dead giveaway, and you couldn’t help but wonder what condition his instrument was in. 

“I play,” he repeated. You glanced to the left, and he gave a nod, following you through the otherwise empty store until you both stood before the wall, surveying the selection. After a moment, he gently set his case atop one of the stools situated nearby before sliding his arms out of the straps of his pack one-by-one. He placed it by his feet and stood straight again, almost silently unlatching the case and lifting his instrument out. He propped a foot on the bottom rung of the stool, then reached into his pocket. Finger picks.  Your eyes lit up in surprise. You had a hunch. 

“You do more than play.” Your words weren’t a question, but a certainty. Ryan just smiled, sliding the metal finger picks over the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. One strum to gauge the tuning followed the quick placement of a capo, and he began to play. The music was folksy, mixed with a little bluegrass. His fingers were long and deft, and you were amazed at how perfectly his picking was— you’d never seen anything like it. He played without abandon and you were left astounded when he strummed his last note. 

“Guess you c’n say that.” He finally answered and shrugged, not with any semblance of pride or arrogance, just matter-of-factly. “Makes ends meet, but it’s not about that. Just dumb luck.”

You scrunched your face into a look of feigned disbelief. “Dumb luck doesn’t sound like that.” You averted your eyes, originally to catch a better look at his old acoustic, but something else caught your attention: his fingers. They were littered with tattoos. Just below his top knuckles were inked horizontal lines, a set of two on each but his forefinger, which was claimed by just one. Between his middle and lower knuckles, each singular line was vertical, punctuated by much smaller horizontal ones at each end. His thumbs, however, were untouched. 

You lifted your eyes to his face, and he captured your gaze.. To your surprise, he held it there, unabashed in his lingering. A smile tugged your mouth upward, only breaking that connection when you blinked. You knew what parallel lines stood for—two lines that could go on forever, yet never touching. Like a never ending, infinite universe. 

“I only have one so far,” you confessed. Ryan raised his brows in interest. “People are shocked that I don’t have full sleeves,” you went on, tugging at a strand of your colored hair. Preconceived notions.”

The warm brown of his eyes brightened with understanding. Ryan was a man who had experienced  his fair share of preconceived notions, as you’d put it. His unkempt, too-long hair, worn clothing, carrying all of his possessions on his back and his lifeline in his hand… people saw him as useless. Lazy. Unproductive. Untrustworthy. A bum. 

Raising your shirt to show him your artwork, the cotton fabric bunched in your fingers as you exposed your rib, turning to the side. The tattoo was simple. Starting at the sensitive skin just above your waist, it extended upward over your rib cage. It wasn’t huge, but not tiny; the entirety of the lines and connected dots was just under five inches. 

Ryan took a single step closer, his eyes lingering only on the stretch of skin boasting the permanent ink. His gaze never grew greedy, drinking in the curve of your hip and the way it gave into that of your waist. The tattoo was well-done and was minimalistic, not flashy— a series of connected dots. 

“I’m a Sagittarius.” It was a simple explanation, and Ryan looked up to your face when you spoke. Gaze dropping to take one more look, he traced the lines there  along your side with his eyes alone. It belongs there. There was no hint of scarring or fading. It was almost as if you were born with it. As Ryan stood to his full height, you let go of your shirt, allowing the fabric to fall back over the exposed skin. 

Your eyes locked Into his, almost regarding him as if trying to draw an idea of him, a version of him that only you would be able to see. His voice added to your imagination and brought you out of your short reverie. “The archer.” 

You felt yourself smile and nodded slowly. It was extremely rare that people engaged you in conversation regarding the subject. “I’m impressed! Are you into astrology?” 

Ryan glanced to his guitar, pausing before answering. “I reckon I’m more of an admirer.”  

You narrowed your eyes in curiosity, tilting your head to the side. This Ryan looked  like a man who had stories to tell.  Good stories, the kind that grabbed you full-force at the beginning  and kept your enthralled and engaged all throughout. You loved a good story, and you weren’t one for beating around the bush. 

“What’s your story, Ryan?” 

There was a pause, silence in the air as you waited for whatever answer he was willing to give. You had made your own deductions, but judgement at face value was something you were not a fan of, and you chose your words carefully in order to avoid doing such.

 “You’re a musician,” you stated the obvious, gesturing to his old guitar. “Is it just a  hobby? Please say no.” You added the last part in a low whisper, a breath of light laughter accompanying your words. 

Ryan smiled boyishly and glanced down to the ground, training his eyes on his worn boots momentarily. “ ‘S a hobby that people like sometimes.”  He lifted his eyes to give you a little nod and then back to the wall, scanning the selection again. 

You continued to watch him for a lingering moment before taking a better look at the pack and case he had come inside with. “You’re a busker?” It was a guess, but one laced with wonder. Ryan had walked in the doors less than a half hour ago, and you could tell he was a humble man, one who lived a different way of life that the norm, and bare-bones, good. 

You were surprised when he turned toward you, abandoning his interest in the instruments before him. “You could say that. Travelin’ around’s…  stayin’ in one place isn’t muchofa choice for me.”

Is he in trouble?  you wondered, but you had a strong hunch this Ryan was a good man. You’d always been an accurate reader of character. 

“Sagittarians are adventurers, you know,” you settled for instead. “We have a hunger for it, we get restless easily. Travel is like our catnip.”

You’d been chided a countless number of times for your rooted belief in astrology. You’d tried to explain over and over again that it was based in astronomy— a science, not just speculation or theory— but people had their minds made up the second you spoke about it.  Ryan, however, didn’t just listen… he heard you. He was attuned to what you said, and even if he didn’t respond verbally, he responded with a nod, a look, a change in his stance. 

His expression had changed as you spoke, and he continued to look at you when you quieted,  curiosity and interest written on his face. “You travel much?” He punctuated his question by speaking your name for the first time, and you smiled at the way his drawl colored each syllable. 

Ruefully, you shook your head. “I don’t really have the time, the-“  Money.  You ended your sentence abruptly, clearing your throat, but Ryan was not simple-minded. Instead of looking offended whatsoever, his eyes lit up with amusement. 

“Depends on the way you go about it, I reckon.” This man was all but smirking, all in good nature, his  hands stuffed in his pockets as he leaned back on a stool that he’d pulled behind him. You cleared off the stool you’d placed your legal pad and pen on, sitting down as well. 

Peering up at him with mock suspicion— the smile on your face gave you away— you chided him. “You reckon.” It was a certainty, not a question. “In supposition, or actual calculation?” Your use of unnecessary verbiage was absurd but felt necessary, and you almost laughed at yourself. 

Ryan laughed, his grin all teeth, and in that glimpse of him, it struck you how handsome he was. He had a dazzling smile. 

“I reckon,” he said with emphasis, “You might stand out when you need disappearin’.” His eyes slid just down beyond your face, indicating your electric  blue hair hanging over your shoulders. 

You were quiet, an expression of concentration knitting your brow. He was presenting you with a riddle in being vague about his means of travel, which was smart on his part. You two were essentially strangers. Chewing on your lip out of habit, you looked up at him suddenly as you came to your epiphany.

“Not if the train cars are covered in graffiti.” You raised your brows in triumph and shrugged nonchalantly, and that’s when you got to hear a full laugh. “I know you’re impressed”,  you teased. “Almost as impressed as I am that you train-hop your way across America. Besides, you wouldn’t believe my hat collection. I can blend in anywhere.”

It had been Ryan’s way of life since he was sixteen. He’d made a series of mistakes, partaken in more illegal activity than he should have, and had hit his fair share of speed bumps. It seemed foolish, dangerous, irresponsible or unconventional to most everyone he met, but to Ryan, it was the only lifestyle he could imagine. 

He took a lingering look at a used Gibson Hummingbird, hung as a focal piece on the wall, dead-center. Even used, those guitars ran upwards of $1500 on a good day. You caught his line of vision, not surprised.  Most musicians gazed at that guitar: it was beautiful. A vision. 

“That’s been here just shy of two months,” you said quietly. “The guy who brought it in had bought it for his dad, and he just didn’t have the use for it.” You remembered the man’s face when he brought it in: disappointed and almost as if it stung to do so. “Do you want to play it?”

Ryan continued to admire the Hummingbird for a moment, and you knew he could see the price tag hanging from the neck— $2,499. Gibsons were quality instruments, and always expensive. This particular guitar, barely touched and never played by the owner, was in pristine condition. 

“Nah,” Ryan said, and you heard a bit of dejection in his voice. You’d cut the price in half at the least if you could. “Just came in for strings.” His instrument already in his case, finger picks long since tucked into his pocket, he closed the top of the case, guitar safely inside. 

You nodded, a bit sad that your chance Sunday afternoon meeting with Ryan the vagabond musician was coming to an end. Waiting for him to gather his bag, you led him to your selection of strings. 

“Ernie Wood steel…. yep.” He stopped there with a nod as you pointed at the strings quickly. They were good strings, your most popular selling brand. “Jus’ one pack.” He started to pull out his wallet, but you shook your head 

“You’re our tenth customer of the day, congratulations! Free strings. Would you like a bag?” The first part was definitely not a lie.  

Ryan raised his browns. “C’mon, I got the money right—“ 

“Okay, okay. I know.” You gave in, but just a little. “Just take them. For the song. I’m a generous tipper.” You paused. “Would you like a bag?” You repeated.

Ryan hesitated and caught sight of your yellow legal pad decorated with all twelve zodiac constellations. 

“Slow day,” you explained. Pushing the small bag of strings toward him, you leaned your forearms on the counter, studying his face. “What’s your sign? I think I have an idea, and I want to know if I’m right.” 

Ryan took the small bag of strings and spoke your name. It rolled off his tongue like music; his voice was like honey. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Hope they bring you a whole plethora of generous tippers. Be safe, Ryan. Thanks for livening up my Sunday.” You felt a little pang of disappointment as he began to head for the door, and offered him a smile. 

Before pushing the door open, he turned his head to glance back at you. “You gotta make time.” You knew what he meant. He was referring to what you’d said earlier about your lack of time for traveling. Your eyes softened a bit.

“Ryan.” You called his name as he turned to leave again. “One more thing.” Quickly, you grabbed one of the store’s cards and flipped it over, writing your name and number on the back. “If you ever want a companion. I’ll wear a hat.”

He gifted you with that dazzling grin one more time, taking the card and putting it in the pocket of his hoodie for safe-keeping. Nodding, he began to head out again. Pushing the door open, he stopped just long enough to say one more thing. “I’m a Pisces.”

You beamed. “I know.”  And with that, he was gone.