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“You know, you don't have to walk me all the way to my door,” you tell Stan, but you're charmed nonetheless. Stan shrugs from your left, a self-assured little grin on his face as you pat his bicep. He's walking you up your dark driveway, your hand curved around his right elbow as you walk side-by-side. “You could've waited in the car until I went inside.”
“What, and just sit there starin’ at you like a creep? Nah, nah. I'm nothing if not a gentleman,” Stan brags, taking his sweet time to lead you up to your tiny front porch. You huff out a laugh, then reach your free hand down to find your keychain in your pants pocket.
“Right. You're the most gentlemanly person I know,” you chuckle, thinking fondly of the time you had to scold Stan for scratching the inside of his nose while he cooked dinner. If that short argument didn't scream “chivalry,” you don't know what did. “Well, I appreciate it. Thank you.”
“Yeah, you're welcome,” Stan says, leading you carefully up the porch steps as you fish out your keys and search for the one to unlock your front door. They're incredibly loud in the quiet of your neighborhood, jingling happily in the night.
You and Stan had gotten dinner at Greasy’s, and ended up talking and laughing all the way through close. By then, the two of you were in a playful debate about which was deadlier: thirty angry, bloodthirsty beavers, or fifty hungry, human-eating bunny rabbits. You'd ended up cruising around town, wasting Stan’s gas money to argue about it in his car. Needless to say, you'd gotten home way later than expected.
Your street is almost entirely silent. Your tiny little one-bedroom sits patiently at the far end, closest to the woods.
“So, I'll see you for lunch tomorrow? If the bunny rabbits don't get you by then,” you joke, separating one key from all the rest. You smile up at Stan once you have it, but he's not looking at you. He's looking over his shoulder, scanning the treeline a few yards away from your house. When you realize he isn't listening, you lean over to meet his gaze. “Stan?”
“Shh,” he says, and you'd probably be offended if he wasn't dead serious. You shut the fuck up, your mouth pressing into a firm line as he stares at the border of the thick trees nearby. Stan doesn't have an inside voice, he's absolutely incapable of it—but he speaks unnaturally low when he asks, “Y'hear that?”
You listen. You were right earlier: at this time of night, your street is almost entirely silent. But beyond the quiet buzz of the streetlights, some distance into the woods, you hear… you swear you can hear…
“Is that… bluegrass music?” you whisper. Stan’s shoulders tense. A few odd plucks of an old, untuned banjo ring out from the pitch-black of the woods.
“Hold on,” Stan says suddenly. You don't have time to question him before he's crouching down, grabbing you by your ass and thighs, hoisting you over his shoulder, and literally sprinting off your porch.
You shriek a little bit when he jumps the few steps leading up to your door and hits the ground running, fumbling with one hand to find his keys. From the woods, the bluegrass grows louder, faster, more intense as it approaches the treeline. You shriek again when you see a crouched figure shamble through the bush, catching a glimpse of a bony arm, spindly fingers, long, jagged, inhuman fucking teeth—“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit—”
It takes a few tries and a lot of cursing from both of you, but Stan's car eventually makes the dull noise it does when a door has unlocked. You nearly topple off his shoulder when he yanks the driver's side door open and swings your body downward in the same move.
“In, in, in!” Stan barks at you, your head just narrowly avoiding the roof of his Cadillac as he lowers you and shoves you in through the driver’s side with both hands. Your hands slip on the leather seats at first, your feet don't even touch the ground, but within a second you scramble in until your head knocks into the passenger side's window. Stan is right behind you, his hip shoving up against the bottoms of your shoes as he jumps into the car himself.
Stan slams his door closed with one hand and twists his key into the ignition with the other. You nearly fall between the seat and the dashboard, but manage to twist around enough to sit up and peer out the windshield as Stan peels out of your driveway.
You catch the glowing eyes of… something, whatever it is, watching you depart from its unnatural hunch within the dense thicket. Then Stan stops, shifts gears, and hauls ass down your narrow residential street, away from your house. Away from the woods.
You don't think you've taken a breath since Stan shoved you into the car, but Stan is borderline hyperventilating, gasping for air as he speeds to the main road. Luckily, no one else is out driving at this time of night. You fight the urge to tell him to slow down anyway, and focus on gulping down a breath of air.
“Oh, good lord,” Stan heaves out, a wheeze beneath his words. One of his hands pries itself from its white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel to clutch at his chest. “Hot Belgian waffles.”
“You can swear,” you choke out, sinking down onto your back. Your head leans against the passenger door in a way that makes your chin point awkwardly towards your chest. Your arms are splayed out, one bracing yourself against the dashboard, the other clutching the edge of your seats. Your shoes are still flat against the side of Stan's pant leg. “Fuck. Holy fucking shit.”
“Holy mackerel,” Stan says, with feeling, and it's so genuine and heartfelt that you huff out a sharp laugh without meaning to.
The two of you pull up to an intersection. No one's there and your light is green, but Stan stops the car anyway to look at you, wide-eyed and frazzled. The expression gets another laugh out of you. Then another. Then Stan's mouth curls up, and he's laughing, too, and soon the two of you are caught in a full-on, adrenaline-filled laughing fit.
“What the fuck was that!” you laugh, pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes. Stan guffaws as he accelerates, driving at a normal speed now.
“One of those things!” he says, and the insistence of such a non-answer sends you right into another laughing fit. Stan chuckles at you, and you rub your eyes for a moment before dropping your hands to look at him. His eyes are on the road now, and his crazed little grin looks exactly like yours feels. “I dunno, it's—I've never gotten close enough to ask.”
“Hell no,” you snicker, pushing yourself up to sit straight. You sigh when you can swing your feet to the floor and knock your head back against the seat, your right hand lazily grabbing at the car interior over your shoulder to find the seatbelt. “No, that was—I was scared shitless. Holy shit, you acted quick. You grabbed me like it was nothing.”
“Ah, well.” Stan suddenly turns sheepish. You know he's strong, but he's never lifted you like that before. You loll your head to the side to offer a grin, and catch Stan glancing at you at just the right moment. He chuckles again, ears turning pink as he looks to the road ahead. “You know, that was just the chivalry kicking in. I gotta look out for my, uh… person. Or whatever.”
“Aw, I’m your person?” you coo, laughing lightly when Stan’s expression gets more and more flustered. Your chest grows warm and fond, making you giddy. “Stan! That’s so cute.”
“Yeah, yeah, yuck it up,” he grumbles, checking the rearview mirror. But the corner of his mouth upturns as you giggle, pleased by the revelation. “You’re lucky I like you. Not everyone can laugh at me in my own car and get away with it.”
“Such a gentleman,” you gush, reaching over to place a hand on his knee. Stan chuckles to himself, and when you look away from him, you realize he’s pulled into the town convenience store. You glance around at the mostly-empty parking lot. For all you could tell, the only people nearby are the two bored cashiers having idle conversation inside. Still, the bright fluorescent lights across an otherwise sleepy, creepy parking lot is comforting. “Why’d you pull in here?”
“Oh, uh… Those things we saw back there usually stay away from this part of town,” Stan says, stopping the car once he’s pulled diagonally into a few empty parking spaces. He checks his rearview again, then the side mirrors. You realize he’s still looking out for the both of you, making sure nothing’s followed from the woods. When he’s satisfied, he puts the car in park.
“Things? Plural? Like, there’s more of them?” Your brows raise. Stan looks at you and grins, slinging his arm across the back of your seat. You realize just now, looking at him, that his outfit’s become a little disheveled. His shirt collar is folded in an odd way, probably from carrying you, and the clasp of his gold chain has fallen to his front.
“Hey, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he says, suddenly suave and not at all the frantic, hyperventilating dork who leaped off your porch with you over his shoulder. Stan points to himself with his thumb, cocky. “Long as you got me around, you’re safe. I could take on twenty—no, no—fifty of those things, no problem. Only reason I jumped ship was to keep a cutie like you safe from any stray fists.”
You laugh out loud, unbuckling yourself and shifting closer to Stan until your left knee bumps against his right. Stan leans back, grinning at you as you slide a hand up over his shirt, feeling up his big chest on your way to straighten his collar.
“My hero,” you tease, lightly tugging the fabric into place. Heat rolls over you as you get close enough to see the flush dusting Stan’s cheeks, his nose. His eyes scan your face, landing on your lips as you gently hook your fingers under his chain to guide it into place. “However can I repay you?”
“I got an idea,” Stan drawls, blush and all. You plant your hand over the gold medallion on his chest for balance as you lean in.
Stan’s lips are soft against yours, and the hand that isn’t slung over the car seat comes up to hold your waist. You hum into his mouth, pleased at the touch, and Stan’s hand glides further so he’s cupping your lower back. Your free hand finds purchase on Stan’s hip as you lean closer into him, pushing yourself up, your right leg shifting to hook over Stan’s knee as his mouth slowly, slowly parts—
Suddenly, three harsh knocks on the driver’s side window startle you so hard, you rocket out of Stan’s lap and hit your head on the ceiling of the car. You yelp, more from shock than anything, your hands flying to your head. Stan’s own surprise causes him to shout and flail his fist towards the noise on impulse. His knuckles hit the window hard and he hisses, immediately shaking out his hand. You wince, rubbing your head, and you and Stan share a glance before looking out at the same time.
What’s outside the car isn’t all that terrifying, depending on how much shame you have. You recognize the bored (and possibly slightly disturbed) teen outside the car as one of the cashiers from inside the convenience store. She has her arms crossed, waiting awkwardly as Stan rolls down the window and shoots her a grin.
“What can I do ya for, kid?” he asks, like he wasn’t about to shove his tongue down your throat in an empty parking lot like a shameless college couple. You slide off his lap and awkwardly plant yourself on the seat right next to Stan, clearing your throat. The teen—Tambry, her nametag says—pointedly avoids eye contact with you.
“Yeah, uh… My manager told me to tell you that this,” she points between the two of you before crossing her arms again, “is not allowed on 8-Twelve premises. You’re gonna have to park somewhere else, Mr. Pines.”
“You got it,” Stan says casually, already rolling his window up. Then he pauses and rolls it back down a few inches. “Hey, you didn’t see nothin’, alright?”
“I wish,” Tambry sighs, then whips her phone out of her pocket and starts trudging back to the building. Stan rolls the window up again and looks at you as you laugh.
“Oh my god, that was so embarrassing,” you say, a little mortified as you scoot away from him. But Stan catches your hip again, tugging you closer to press a few kisses to your cheek, and you’re grinning at the affection even as you push him away. “Stop, stop, we’re gonna get in trouble!”
“Baby, I am trouble,” Stan boasts, like a total dork, and you can’t not kiss him for it.
Eventually, you’re interrupted by the 8-Twelve manager threatening to charge you both for trespassing. You think it was worth it.