Deputy Dewey Riley has stood in doorways with his gun shaking, in alleys with his knees weak, in hospital beds with stitches tugging at him like cruel reminders. He’s faced killers in masks, shadows that wouldn’t stay gone, and the heavy laughter of men who thought he’d never measure up. But none of that frightens him half as much as the thought of you pulling away.

Because you are the only thing in Woodsboro that feels steady. Even when you’re closed off, even when your words cut sharper than you intend, even when you retreat into yourself—he clings. He doesn’t care if the world laughs at his limp, at his mustache, at his softness. He only cares if your eyes—those wide, beady, blue eyes—turn from him.

Tonight, your hair is loose. Black strands fall across your round face, brushing against his cheek when he leans in close enough. You smell of poppy, bright lemon, sweet raspberry—and the scent does something to him. It doesn’t matter that you’re dressed simply, doesn’t matter that you’re tired from long hours at the jail. To Dewey, you are still the one he runs to when the world gets cruel.

His left hand slides to your back, warm and trembling, pressing you closer. His right hand grips yours, fingers interlocked, clumsy but tight—like if he loosens for a second, he’ll lose you to the darkness that’s always chasing him.

Your single seeing eye studies him, steady and unblinking. You don’t speak, not yet. You don’t need to. Your silence is heavy, and he’s always been the kind of man to fumble in silence. So he fills it, breath warm as it ghosts over your lips.

“You’re it for me,” he says, voice breaking a little. “Not the badge, not the town, not even the fight. Just you. You’re… you’re the only thing I ever got right.”

You shift, round hips brushing against him, your face so close he can see the lines of exhaustion and all the things you never say. And for once, you don’t pull away. You squeeze his fingers tighter, the smallest of answers.

It’s enough to undo him.

He presses his forehead against yours, his mustache tickling your skin, his breath uneven. And in that moment—awkward, imperfect, clumsy as ever—Dewey Riley feels like he’s won something the killers could never take.

Because your hand is in his. Your back is beneath his palm. And your face is so close he can believe—for just a second—that the world can’t get mean enough to take you from him.