Chino-verse? Really?

I know, I was shocked, too. But this is totally for Lori, who requested it and got me writing. It's only going to be an interlude like 'Saints', taking place in the aftermath of 'Moving Forward'.

Also, because I know it'll come up in reviews (yes ORy, I'm looking at you), I TRIED to make this smutty. And the subject matter would totally be perfect for it, but it just didn't work out. Sorry… And as always, Chino-verse makes me nervous when I post - and it's worse this time because school and work have been kicking my ass. So I hope it's alright.

Anyway, enjoy.

Music: 'Never an Easy Way' by Morcheeba, off the album 'Who Can You Trust?'

…

you think I'd learn by now, there's never an easy way

…

She steeled herself before knocking - a habit she had only recently picked up – and waited for the muffled answer before going in. He lay on his bed, headphones in his ears, book in his hands, and he barely looked at her when she entered. He merely nodded in her general direction and she sighed, closing the door behind her.

He had stopped asking her why she started to knock before coming in – she never answered properly. Well, she answered but she didn't tell him the truth. The truth was that it had become all too frequent that she would walk into the pool house to find him shirtless, emerging from the shower or sweaty from a workout. If she knocked, at least then she knew he'd be fully clothed when he answered, just in case it was one of the Cohens. Not that she didn't enjoy the view, but she tended to go all non-verbal when he was half naked, and she needed to get herself under control. The less power he had over her, the better the chance she had of not succumbing to his kisses, of not letting him press her down into the mattress. The knocking thing hadn't worked yet – she'd been doing it for about two weeks now, but it didn't seem to matter what amount of clothes he was wearing, she always got overwhelmed by him.

She was determined, this time, that there would be no losing control. She wouldn't let him strip her down and spread her legs. No. Not this time. It's not that she didn't enjoy having sex with him – she did… a lot – but it wasn't healthy anymore.

Because it's all they did.

He barely talked to her anymore, unless it was about something trivial or about how much he wanted her.

Not loved her; wanted her.

And he definitely didn't talk about what happened. It had only been a month since it all went down: Trey leaving for good, Caleb dying, Kirsten going to rehab. She knew – he didn't have to tell her – it was the last one making him act like this. Kirsten had gone to rehab.

It had shocked them all – even Sandy, who figured it all out. And that was probably the worst part for Ryan, she thought – that he hadn't seen it coming. Sure, he – like everyone else – may have registered an increase in Kirsten's alcohol intake, but they hadn't expected the outburst at Caleb's funeral – the out of control spiral that ended in an intervention that sent her packing. Taylor hadn't been there, but Seth had more than made up for it by going into vivid, horrifying, detail about everyone's words, feelings, reactions.

She sighed, placing her purse on the bar and sitting near his hips on the bed. He tugged the headphones out of his ears and put down his book.

"Hey." Well, it was something, at least.

"Hey," she took his left hand in both of hers; holding it tightly and feeling him stiffen. "Ryan, we should talk."

"About what?" he mumbled, shifting his gaze away from hers to stare across the room. She sighed.

"About… everything. Trey, Kirsten…"

"Taylor," he let out a forced laugh, "I'm fine." She opened her mouth to protest, but he lifted his trapped hand, pulling her forward to fall onto his chest. His other hand slid to cup the back of her head, drawing her in for a kiss. It was lazy and unhurried, and she groaned into his mouth, which he took advantage of, sliding his tongue between her lips and making her brain shut down. He got his hand free of hers, sliding it around her waist and pulling her tight against him as he rolled them both over until she was on her back.

Damn it. How did she always end up like this? Despite all of her pure intentions and well thought out anti-seduction plans, she always ended up on her back with Ryan's mouth planting heated kisses on her neck and his hands roaming her body. Somehow he managed to move her legs apart, settling himself between them as his mouth continued to lick and suck its way to her collarbone.

"I love," he started, and her heart leapt, "when you wear skirts." She resisted the urge to let out a frustrated cry as his hand slid up her thigh, pushing the fabric of her skirt up to bunch at her waist. She knew that Ryan wasn't big on the whole share your feelings thing, and that she was incredibly needy, and that sometimes love went without saying, but this was getting ridiculous. And it wasn't in her head, which she'd thought at first - because she was crazy and she definitely blew things out of proportion - but he didn't even say it back when she said she loved him. He didn't even say 'me too', or something else equally as lame. No, whenever she said 'I love you' he said 'yeah'.

Yeah.

"Ryan," she started, and was greatly relieved when he pushed himself up, sitting back on his knees. She opened her mouth to continue about how they needed to talk when he lifted his shirt over his head, and the words died in her throat. He gave her a confident smile before dropping back down to rest his forearms on either side of her. What did she want to say? Something about talking?

What was the point in talking when he was grinding against her, biting her bottom lip, hand sliding under and up her shirt?

She lay on her side and stared at the far wall, the books propped up amongst the vases and decorations that had been here before him. She could just imagine the pool house before – spotless and decorated with colored glass in soothing blues and whites. It was still clean, but Ryan had invaded every inch of it – his books in the bookshelf between the vases, his gym equipment in the corner, video games and controllers sprawling like vines over the TV, his food in the kitchen, his things in the bathroom.

He'd taken over the pool house and made it his own and she couldn't help thinking that he'd done it to her, too. He was part of her life and – as pathetic as it made her sound – he was part of her. She remembered how she'd been before – perfectly kept, always clean and polite and proper. Then he came and made her into a real person, adding little touches of humanity to her otherwise spotless white furniture and glass decorations.

And – lying on her side, staring at the far wall – she felt, for the first time, dirty. Not in the good way, either. She felt dirty and used and for the first time – lying in the bed with Ryan – it felt wrong.

Even this past month hadn't felt wrong, it just felt weird. Like something was off, but it would go back to normal. It didn't feel like that now. Maybe she had a breaking point, she couldn't tell, but this time, it was wrong.

She sat up and didn't look back at him as she stood, looking around for her discarded underwear. He hadn't even bothered to get her naked, he'd just torn off her underwear and did his thing.

God, it even sounded dirty.

She left him there, sleeping, and got in her car and went home.

"What are you doing?" Summer asked, throwing a look over her shoulder. Taylor grunted as she pulled her socks up.

"Getting dressed," she huffed, blowing her bangs out of her face before grabbing the other sock.

"I see that," Summer rolled her eyes, turning back to her computer, "but why are you wearing that in the middle of summer?"

Taylor bit her lip and looked down at her outfit: a tank top, t-shirt, sweater, leggings, shorts, pants, three pairs of socks, and her coat. She pulled her last sock on and shoved her feet into her shoes. "Because I'm going to see Ryan."

"And Ryan lives in Canada?" her friend shot back, turning fully to face her now that she was interested in what was going on.

"No. Does this make me look fat?" she stood up, turning to the side.

"Well, you have, like, a million layers on, so a little."

"Good." Taylor picked up her bag and headed toward the door.

"You wanna tell me what's going on?" Summer waited, but her friend didn't answer. "Or don't," she grumbled, spinning back around in her chair.

She was a sweaty mess by the time she reached the Cohens, but that was a good thing. The worse she looked, the better chance she had of not… ending up like she usually did. He answered the door as usual and she went inside, closing the door behind her. It wasn't until he'd pulled his headphones out of his ears and put down his book that he noticed her outfit.

"What the hell are you wearing?" he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. She stayed standing, holding her purse in front of her – just one more barrier.

"Clothes," she answered, shifting nervously from foot to foot. "We need to talk."

He stood up and frowned before walking toward her. "It's too hot to talk. You must be dying in all that." His hand moved toward her jacket and she stumbled back a step. He managed to keep up with her and somehow his arms ended up around her waist, head dipping down to her neck.

"I can't, Ryan," she pushed at his chest. "I'm all gross and sweaty. But we need to talk."

"Well, why don't we take a shower?" he suggested, either ignoring or oblivious to her repeated attempts to talk. "Showers are good," he murmured, hands sliding under her coat and pushing it off her shoulders. He managed to get two of her shirts and the pants off before her brain kicked back in.

"Ryan, stop." He froze, hands halfway up under her tank top, and pulled away slightly.

"Stop?"

"We need to talk," she breathed, voice shaky because it was him. She liked to pretend she wasn't completely ruled by her hormones and right now her higher brain was screaming at her, but her baser instincts didn't really care.

"Can we talk after?" he asked, running his thumb over her cheekbone, eyes glazed and dark. Hope flared painfully in her chest, and she looked up at him hesitantly, searching his eyes for the traces of the boy he used to be.

"Promise?" she whispered desperately, heart leaping into her throat when she could see him.

"Promise," he grinned, kissing her again. She let him this time, feeling lighter than she had in a month and she didn't protest when he pulled off her last shirt and the shorts and leggings and socks. It felt good to be out of the clothes, especially with him warm and hard and pressed up against her.

She couldn't help it. She loved him so much. It was almost scary – how much he was her world. Everything she did, she had him in mind. Every piece of clothing she bought, she questioned whether he would like it. Her life revolved around him and maybe that wasn't healthy, but she couldn't stop it.

And now that things were going to go back to normal, she didn't want to stop it.

The sheets were tangled around them, wet from their shower and subsequent stumble to the bed in the aftermath. Her head lay on his chest, finger tracing a heart over where his was beating under his skin. She felt light – content. Lighter than she had in the month since Kirsten's departure, because they were finally going to address all of his issues. She'd help him through this – his pain and anger. She'd help him through it and they'd go back to how they were before. The thought made her move her still-limp body.

"Ryan," she mumbled, pushing away from his chest, "we need to talk."

"No," he mumbled in protest, pulling her back into him and wrapping his arms tightly around her waist. "Too tired."

Normally she would let it go, but he'd promised and it was important, so she broke out of his arms and sat up. "Really, Ryan, wake up."

"Tired," he said again and flipped onto his other side, facing away from her. Something in the pit of her stomach went cold, but she ignored that. He promised they could talk.

"Ryan, I'm serious," she tugged on his shoulder, trying to turn him.

"So am I." His voice was flat – no sense of the smiles he'd given her only thirty minutes before, no emotion whatsoever. Her blood froze in her veins, throat tightening unbearably.

"Ryan…" she whispered, hoping to God she was wrong. Hoping to God he was just tired.

"Can't you ever just let something go?" he muttered, not even looking at her. Dead silence reigned through the pool house as he stared at the far wall and she tried not to cry.

"Fine." She slipped out of bed, swallowing hard to keep the lump in her throat from rising, to keep the tears from spilling. "I'll let it go." The rug was rough under her feet and her clothes clung to her body as she pulled them on, her wet hair plastering her shirt to her back. It was uncomfortable, but she didn't notice, hands shaking as she buttoned up her jeans.

"Good," he finally turned to her, frowning when he saw that she was dressed. "You leaving?"

"I'm leaving," she nodded, clarity hitting her like a cold rush of water. He wasn't going to talk; he wasn't going to change; he wasn't going to let her in. Somewhere along the way, she'd stopped being the person he went to and started being the girl who came around and got him off. She loved him - God, she loved him so much - but she wouldn't let herself be that girl. She'd tried to help him, over and over again, but he didn't want to be helped. She had to get out of this, before he took her down with him. He already had her heart and her pride, she had to get out of here with the little shred of self-confidence she had left. "I'm just… so leaving."

"What's that mean?" he questioned, voice still monotone, like he didn't really care. Like he was only asking because it was an obligation.

She was an obligation now.

"It means we're done," she managed to keep her voice stable, even though her hands were shaking as she gripped her purse. "I can't do this anymore."

"What?" That caught his attention and he sat up, sheets falling off his chest and bunching around his waist.

"I can't do this," she said again, but this time it wavered slightly. "You... this... us. You never talk to me anymore, Ryan. You never tell me you love me. We never go out; we never do anything but have sex." His silence was enough to get her anger rising and she took another deep breath. "I get it. I get that Kirsten going to rehab is hard on you – that losing another mother to alcohol is hard on you, but that is no reason to take it out on me. So, unless you can tell me – right here, right now – that you still love me, we're done."

When he said absolutely nothing, she turned and left.

…

I'll get through somehow, I'm on my knees to pray

…

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