Hi all! I haven't posted a story in a very, very, very long time, and that's because I haven't written in a very, very, very long time. Life really got the best of me for a while, and I just couldn't get the words on paper. But I'm in a pretty good place now, and I recently got this really big burst of inspiration for this story, and I'm so excited about it! I know I had some stories up when I dropped off the earth, and if you were reading them, I'm sorry that they're unfinished. I hope to get back to them one day, but they aren't coming to me right now. I hope they will one day. For now, I really hope you enjoy this story. I'll be honest - I'm rusty from all these years without writing or even reading, but I'm still really pleased that I'm even getting this all together and I'm so excited to share it with you guys. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it. Please give me any and all feedback, I could so use it!

Do we still do disclaimers? Is that a thing? Well, if so, you all should know that I'm not at all affiliated with Deadliest Catch, nor am I writing anything that should be associated with reality or taken as a representation of real people.

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He knows it's her by the pounding on the door, a constant banging like he cannot get there fast enough. And he can't, really, because he knows what he is going to find on his porch when he opens the door, and this sick part of him has been waiting for it. It's late, well past midnight, and he has been asleep on the couch since somewhere in the middle of The Avengers, so he is stumbling and wiping sleep from his eyes right up until he opens the door. Just like he knew, there she is, looking mad as hell and more beautiful than ever. The wind from the upcoming storm whips hair around her face – it's a different color than last time he saw her, but any color is going to be stunning as far as he is concerned. Her face is flushed red with anger, and she's maybe still crying, maybe not.

They've done this dance a hundred times, so he knows the steps even though sleep still muddles his brain. He knows that she's going to shove him aside to crash into his house like a hurricane, a ball of negative energy that no one can contain even though she's trying and, God, he wants to take it all away from her. He knows he'll barely get the door shut before she's balling his shirt in her fists and crashing her lips against his. And he knows they'll end up in his bed in a flurry of clothes and growls and gasps, and he knows he'll have bruises from how hard she'll try to hold on to the only man that hasn't let her down yet, scratches from how she's trying to make sure that he's really there. And he knows he shouldn't, but he knows he loves it, and tonight certainly isn't the night that he's going to stop her. He hasn't found the strength yet.

He knows that when they have caught their breath, she'll rant. She will tell him every detail about how his brother fucked it up again, and he'll listen to every word. He'll trace patterns on her shoulders as she yells about her broken heart, and he'll plant kisses on her neck as she talks about the other man that does the same thing, and he'll hold her when she cries about how she's fucking up her life, and he'll tell her that she's not, that she's perfect, and she won't listen to him. And she'll fall asleep in his arms.

When morning comes, she will be gone. He'll know she was real from his sore lips, the bruises her fingers left, the fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen. And in a week or two, or a day or two, or a month or two, they'll do it all again.

He knows that he loves her. He shouldn't. She is not his, if you're the type to say that one person belongs to another. But, dammit, he just can't seem to stop her when she comes to his bed no matter how much he knows he should.

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The first time he saw her, they were fighting, which was a sign that he didn't know enough to understand. His brother yelled at people all the time, so heated whispers with some girl off to the side wasn't exactly unusual. And it didn't really bother him that the conversation stopped when they saw him, because he had shit to say to that stupid brother of his, so some girl with rose petal tattoos fallin down her arm and lavender hair was really the least of his concerns.

But his brother hissed, "We'll finish this later," and stalked off, and she snapped, "Or you could just shove it up your ass, old man," and stomped away in the other direction, and no one seemed to mind that he was left standing all by himself. Which was not okay, as far as he was concerned. But his brother was too far away, so he reached out and caught her around the wrist, hand wrapping around black script on its underside that he would later come to know very, very well.

And for the first time, but certainly not the last, he said to her, "I hope my brother didn't piss you off too much."

At first, those dark brown eyes were still a little wild with anger, but when she realized it was not her previous sparring partner grabbing her, she relaxed in his grip enough that he felt ok letting her go without fearing she might walk away.

"No, I'm fine." He would hear that again, and he would never believe it. "Just a stupid spat."

"He's good for those. I'm Edgar, by the way. The newer, more charming Hansen model." He offered a hand for her to shake, but she didn't take it right away. Rather, she looked him up and down, searching for something that he hoped she would find.

Finally, she took his hand shook it surprisingly firmly. "Becca. I'm the new neighbor. The blue house."

"Ah, I wondered how you landed an invite to the summer barbeque."

She smirked. "Yeah, I'm renting over there. The Hansens have been really great, helped me move in and unpack and everything. Well," Becca rubbed her shoulder, fingers playing over dancing petals, "they're mostly great."

"Don't let Sig get you down. He's just a grouch, does it to me all the time. What was it, playing your music too loud?"

"Ah," she winced a little, watching something over his shoulder that was gone when he glanced. If he had to guess, though, he'd put his money on it being Sig, who was seemingly enraptured in one of John Hillstrand's stores.

"C'mon." He gave her a small nudge with his fist. "Eddy's here. What'd he do to ya'?"

"It's, um…" She licked her lips, heaved a sigh, and rolled her eyes one last time. "Like, Sig's great, okay? Don't think I don't like him, because he's been…he's been perfect. But he went off about my hair. He hates it, says no one will take me seriously."

Edgar had to laugh. Her hair was wavy and long and, sure, an unusual color but, come one, the woman was stunning no matter what color her hair was. "Sig has no say in your hair color. He's not your dad."

"Oh, I know, trust me."

"Well, I think it's pretty. Don't worry about his old-ass opinions."

"I know. It's just…Yeah, no, I know. Anyway, I'm fine. He's just annoying."

"You sure? Sounds like you have more to say."

When she smiled, her tongue caught between her teeth, and it was damn near the cutest thing he'd ever seen.

"You're so sweet, Ed. But, really, I'm fine. Sig's an ass, like he's your brother, sorry, but you know what he's like. And I've handled my share of asses in my time, so I'm not really worried about it. Now, enough about him. You wanna mosey over to that cooler with me and grab some beers or what?"

"I don't really drink all that much anymore, but we could mosey to that other cooler and grab some Cokes instead."

She fluttered a hand over her heart and looped her other arm, the one with the rose petals, through his so their elbows linked. "Why, Edgar Hansen, I do declare!"

"I told you I'm the charming one."

And he noticed the glare from his brother as they walked by, but he was a long, long way from understanding it.