This isn't about the last episode. I'm...working on that if i don't get distracted watching the scene over and over again.. I hope you like this one though. :)

Next to You - John Vincent III

It was cold and dewy. The leaves are starting to fall around her. Wet, soggy leaves. Her glass of wine in hand—it's the norm these days—the moon was shining bright behind the scattered clouds, bright enough that if anyone looked closed enough, they can see the glittering tears pooling in her eyes. Rain has long passed, her internal turmoil hasn't. Her internal storm is going to stay rumbling for a while. She can't process emotions like a normal person—it's that specific cocktail of antidepressants and the smallest dose of lithium and the wine—but she's really doing her best to regulate her internal storm because of course no one wants her ending up catatonic again.

She's so afraid to feel but at the same time she's afraid to lash out. Afraid to say things she doesn't mean. Afraid to do things she'll regret. She mad. She is SO mad. But she doesn't know how to deal. She doesn't know what to do. She frankly doesn't even know who she's mad at. She's just placing the blame on Owen because that's the easiest way. Owen. and his stupid, fucking stupid, big fucking heart.

She stares at the shredded leaves and plants in front of her and mutters an apology to the helpless plants who were the latest victim of her rage. Fucking Owen and his big fucking heart. One sip of wine reminds her her of his blue eyes and soft gaze. Another sip reminds her of his sweet lips. And another reminds her of his strong arms around her waist. He's afraid to touch her these days. She knows that. Afraid he might detonate a bomb.

She glances at their bedroom window. Light still on. Dimmed. Probably warmed comforting. But her feet are like lead and it's not letting her move. She wants to throw her wine glass at the fence, but that would mean she'd probably have to purchase a new glass and that will just add up to her already high credit card balance.

She thinks about their house. Would they need to to refinance. Would they need to sell it and buy something more affordable. Would the kids need to share a room. There goes the kids' chances to go to a private school. She is freaking out. Her brain is way way way ahead of herself. Much faster than her ability to process. And she feels the anxiety creeping in. Her chest starts to tighten.

So she takes a sip. And it helps a little. It's only her second glass. She usually stops at three. At three she feels the effects mixed with her medication cocktail and she can't have more than that. Because that would affect her in the morning. Then Owen will have another reason to resent her. And she doesn't need the searing headache when the kids shriek or when Owen speaks. So she stops at three. The heaviness and boldness of her Cabernet Sauvignon burns through her throat, her chest, her stomach. It almost has the same warmth that the thought of loving Owen gives her. She loves Owen. She loves him with her whole heart. She's loved him for decades and she knows—or hopes—she will continue to love her for decades to come.

And she wants to put everything behind her. Because now it's passed. Owen is going to be free soon and they still have jobs and the debt will be repaid and the kids will be alright. They're not out on the streets. They still have food to eat. She's just irritated that she has worked so hard in life to get to this place. To a place of comfort. For their kids to get elite education or to never have to rely on student loans. Everything she—they—had worked for is gone because of Owen's stupid big heart.

Another gust of wind blows and the scent brings her back to a time—brings back a memory. The fall-like scent of when she lived in New York. Barely getting paid even as a doctor, especially with a ton of student loan debt and high New York City rent. And she made it work. She caught up eventually. Sure, she didn't have anyone to account for except herself. It was much easier to fail. But now—she tries to drown the thought with a gulp of her wine because she doesn't want to think about the 'now'. The smell of the wine used to make her think of fun nights in Germany sitting by her fireplace. Carefree, debt-free, content. Happy. No Owen. No kids. But now it makes her think of her bitter self. She doesn't want to think that she is bitter and angry but Owen sure knows how to remind her. She chuckles because at least they're fighting. They're not holding it in.

It's that part of the night where she's in the second glass of wine, definitely ready for a third, and she is reminded that all she wants is Owen's hand all over her body. Like a crazy person, she decides to pace around their dark and damp backyard, trying to calm down. Trying to relax enough to sit in bed and maybe read a book. But the fighting is sexy. The fighting makes her want to bite her lip and swallow the voice that's going to scream his name in pleasure. The fighting reminds her of his hand on her cheek and a sudden tight grasp in her hair. Pulling her close to him. Because that's what happens when they fight. The passion and the rage manifested in their bed. The passion and the rage form shapes and sounds that make them smirk in pride. She downs the glass and goes back inside and fill her third glass.

She's fine. They're fine. Their family is fine. And she wishes she'd just get over the anger in the morning. Because she loves Owen. And she doesn't want to be angry anymore. Because being angry is exhausting. And she knows that he loves her. And he will love her through this. So if she could just get over it, and if she could just forget the mess they're in, they can be right back on track. Back to showing their kids what love and rage and passion look like. She drinks the glass in two big gulps, and she surprises herself. She checks the time and she definitely needs to get it together and try to go to sleep.

He was asleep by the time she was done with her nighttime chores. He's on his side, his back towards her. He was deep in sleep, gently snoring. She wants to run her fingers down his spine. To comfort him. To tell him she loves him. To make him feel good. But the tiny nagging voice reminds him she's mad. So instead she settles into her side of the bed. Her hand slipping into her pajama bottom. Middle finger between her lips. She's wet. She's wet for him. She wishes it's his hand instead. But one day they'll get there. She strokes her clit and thinks about him and the way he does it. The firmness and the way he starts slow and then rapidly increases when he feels her breath starting to stagger. She closes her eyes and imagines her lips on her neck, then her chest, and eventually her breasts. Tongue swirling around her nipple. Her finger steadily strokes herself while her other hand gropes her own breast. Thumb lightly brushing her really erect nipple. She bites her lip so she doesn't pan out in pleasure. Although at this point, does she actually care if she wakes him up.

She misses him. She misses his arm around her, holding her tightly, keeping her warm. He's afraid to touch her lately. There would be moments of waking up in the middle of the night with her in his arms, but he's long gone when she wakes up in the morning. But the feeling of his heat next to her is enough to send her to another dimension. It's almost as if he's already engulfed her in his arms. She slips a finger deep in her, her palm resting against her clit. She's careful not to move too much and yet not careful enough. She slips another finger and bites back a moan when she feels him stir next to her.

"Teddy?" His groggy voice tears through her, but she can't stop now. So she keeps going. "Do you need assistance?" God, she thinks he's insufferable especially when he speaks. But she loves him. She loves him so much.

"I'm almost done" she croaks.

He faces her anyway. "Can I watch?"

"Of course" She responds almost wickedly "But you can't touch"

"Okay"

She keeps going while he watches her with hooded eyes. His hand slipping into his boxers.

She comes whispering his name and she swears she sees him smirk. She turns around, her back towards him and she feels the bed shake after a moment. Her name slips through his lips.

That's enough for her right now. Enough confirmation that he's still in love with her. And that she's definitely still in love with him.

She might wake up tomorrow with pure hate in her heart but she knows it won't last.

She falls asleep peacefully this time. Puppy videos isn't even anywhere near her thoughts. She thinks of him. Of them. Of maybe one day they can hold each other again without judgment or repulsion or hate. That one day maybe they can dig themselves out of this whole and disgustingly happy again. Though neither of them know what that's really like. But she's hopeful. Because he's Owen. It's always been the one.