Chapter Text
You're sweating bullets, skin warm and insides clawing with need, when you answer the front door.
Stan is on the other side, hands in the pockets of his patched up red jacket, face carefully neutral.
Right. You were supposed to help out at the Murder Hut today, repayment for work he did on your car. You had forgotten in the rush of a heat you weren't supposed to fucking have.
"Uh, hey. Wanted to make sure everything was good. Didn’t see ya today.” He says it warily, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.
This burgeoning friendship is honestly one of the only good things you have going for you in this town, and now it’s getting fucked with because of defective dollar store heat suppressants.
You take in his face, trying to figure out how to explain that it was just your stupid biology doing things you don’t want it to.
Admittedly, you found him attractive from the moment you first ran into him during a shift at the diner - perpetual stubble, broad shoulders, long hair. Your eyes flick down to the hands in his pockets...
No! Fucking hell!
You shake your head almost desperately, wiping sweat from your face. "No, God, I'm really sorry. I totally forgot, I..."
He raises a brow and looks past you into your wrecked apartment. Every blanket, pillow, towel, and sheet was torn from its home and piled onto the floor. You ache to crawl back to your nest, but with no one there with you, it feels hollow. You would just be trying to reach an itch you couldn't scratch. His eyes widen just a bit and you can see the gears turning in his head. God, this is embarrassing.
"Shit, are you, uh, are you okay?" He sounds less wary and more worried.
You laugh but it's more like a sob. "No. This is not what I had planned for today." You wipe at your eyes. Stupid heat hormones. "Shitty drug store suppressants didn't work. I swear I didn’t mean to bail on you."
At that, his brow furrows, hiding his relief. “Well, that explains that.” He crosses his arms, those large hands now on display. Your heat-addled brain wants them on you so bad. "'S fucked up. You can call the number on the package and give 'em what for, get your money back and then some. Hell, I've done that for things I didn't even buy!"
Despite yourself, you laugh for real this time, and he gives a cautious smile.
"I might do that, yeah." You're practically buzzing, and you avoid looking him in the eye in case it stokes that fire in you.
"You need anything? While I’m here, an’ all." He blushes a little, but still asks, and that means something. It means a lot, actually. Stan might be a bit rough around the edges, a bit stingy, but he's a good friend when you need someone to pull through.
Hopefully this doesn't bring that tumbling down.
"I don't want you to do anything uncomfortable," you say firmly. "You don't have to be around me when I'm, um, like this, if it's too weird. But, uh... this totally fucked up my chores. My kitchen is a mess." Your face reddens. "If it's not too -"
He's already shouldering his way into your living room, pushing the door shut behind him and locking it. The simple protective act pleases your needy hindbrain. "Yeah, sure thing. You'll double-owe me after this, by the way."
You smile. "All to get some free labor, right, Pines?"
"That's right," he smirks. "Go take a load off. I'll tidy up for ya."
Usually if you have guests you’ll be offering drinks or making sure they’re comfortable, but in your current state you’ll probably jump his bones if your hands accidentally touch, and you feel woozy anyway. You just nod and crawl back into your nest, sinking needy hands into a cushion and rubbing your face against it with a sigh. You hadn't even realized it, but a discomfort in your bones realigned when you were safe again, in the comfort of the nest you built just for you and your nonexistent Alpha.
This is really embarrassing.
Well, Stan doesn’t seem fazed beyond the awkward cautiousness, so you let yourself close your eyes and hum happily into a soft blanket. You don't have an Alpha, and you're sickeningly empty and needy to your core, but at least you’re able to provide a good nest. It's comforting.
"Hey."
You open your eyes. Stan stands over you, a cold glass of water dripping condensation from his hand.
The simple act of care sends tears to your eyes. This fucking heat, you swear.
"Thanks," you mumble, glad he doesn't comment on your wet eyes. You had absolutely no idea you were thirsty but now you drink like a parched traveler in a desert.
You place the empty cup down in your nest. It was given to you and it goes in the nest, simple as. You watch Stan's broad shoulders as he scrubs down the pile of dishes in your sink, humming a little song to himself. You're not sure he even knows he's doing it. He’d shucked his coat onto your little dining table on top of a mess of bills, and it affords you a better look at his back muscles shifting underneath his t-shirt.
Your very being aches.
Don't be weird. You like keeping the only good friend you've made in this place, thanks. Instead you squeeze your thighs together and mix around the blankets, layering them with the sheets and repositioning the pillows. After a while, the arrangement clicks in your brain, and you’re satisfied.
In your periphery, a hand reaches for your empty glass, and you growl, snatching it up to clutch it to your chest.
"Whoa." Stan's eyebrows rise. "Sure, you can keep that."
Shame prickles you as you realize what you just did. Sheepishly, you make yourself hold out the glass to him. "Sorry."
Unexpectedly, he pushes the glass back towards you. Your fingers are an inch from touching and it makes your skin buzz. His Alpha scent washes over you, woody and green. "No, really, I get it. You really think yours is the first omega heat I've seen?"
You raise an eyebrow even as you pull the glass back to your nest and place it gently on a blanket. "Are you telling me that Stan 'I don't need anyone' Pines, lone Alpha, once had a mate?"
He barks out a sardonic laugh. "Ha! No, nothin' like that. Just known some Omegas over the years whose suppressants fucked them over too. Or who couldn't afford 'em in the first place." He walks back to the kitchenette and grabs a dustpan and broom off the wall. You had spilled cereal everywhere that morning trying to feed yourself and make a nest at the same time, and he sweeps up the sugary grains scattered across the tile.
The ease with which he takes care of you sends a wave of desire pulsing through you. You need it. You need his wide palms on your skin, his heat on yours, need to press yourself against him. Need his body to cover yours from the world. Need him to take care of you in the most base and primal sense.
"Did you help them too?" You whisper. You’re not sure if you mean the way he’s doing now, or some other way that you can’t stop picturing every time you spy his forearms. Why the fuck did you say that?
He looks at you, dumping the contents of the dustpan in your trash and tying up the bag. His face is unreadable. "Sometimes." He hefts the trash bag out and heads for the door.
You panic.
"No, don't go!" You try to get up but your socks slip on the soft blankets. You rip them off your feet with a growl and scramble up.
Stan deposits the bag by the door with wide eyes. "Whoa! I was just gonna go to the dumpster and come right back." He raises his hands. "I won't go anywhere. Okay?"
You're panting, primal fear tingling in your hands. He can't leave. You need him to stay.
Carefully, he picks up the trash bag and returns it to the can in your kitchenette so that nothing spills anywhere. He turns back to you. "See? I'm still here."
You're standing awkwardly, like a newborn fawn, weak in the legs, head swimming. You nod dumbly and collapse back down into your nest.
He makes his way into the living room and sits gingerly on the bare couch. It's not the first time he's been over, but he's still not all that comfortable in your space either. His place is bigger and more interesting, so you usually end up there instead to share a pizza and bad TV, if your busy schedules align.
He fixes you with an assessing look, eyes dragging over your jumble of limbs and the pillow you didn't even realize you started clutching. "You dizzy? Need anything? I can hang out if you need someone here." He lets himself lean back on the cushions. "Could find a way to entertain myself if -"
"Stan," you interrupt. He's so close, but so far away. You hope your nest is good enough for him. When you scrub your face with one hand, it's hot to the touch. "Can you... um. Can you join me?" You release the cushion from your death grip and pat it, hopefully invitingly. Sure, you made the nest on the floor for some fucking reason, but your entire linen closet is here, every pillow from the bed and couch too, so it's surprisingly comfortable. After a second thought, you tip your empty glass to its side and relocate it to the edge of the spread so that it doesn't crack on the floor.
Stan looks away, a flush rising to his face. He rubs the back of his neck. "You don't know what you're asking for. You're out of it."
"No I'm not!" You protest, running a hand through your hair, skin thrumming from unmet desire. "Stan. You're my friend and I trust you. If you're okay with it - I mean, you don't have to be. I was genuinely asking. But I want you here if you don't... if you don't mind."
"Are... are you sure?"
"Yes! I'm not asking us to - to do anything," you stutter. "I just..." Your eyes move to his arms. They look so warm, and your skin hungers. A frustrated whine escapes you before you can stop it.
He's torn; you can see it in his eyes.
"Alright,” he eventually says. “Okay. But if you feel uncomfortable just say so."
"Same to you," you breathe, already anticipating the feeling of touch.
He gets up, kicks off his shoes, and lowers himself to join you in your nest, sitting down on a fluffy throw blanket and leaning back against the arm of the couch. He sinks into the thick comforter, the blankets, the sheets, the pillows.
"Comfy?" You try to ask casually, clearly restraining yourself, arms wrapped around your legs. The static between his skin and yours, so much closer than before, makes you drunk.
"Mhm." He settles in deeper with a smile that makes you almost cry with relief. He likes it!
"Can I...?"
He opens his arms. "I know. C'mere. Said I'd join ya, right?"
Propriety abandons you. You practically climb into his lap and curl around him, setting your head on his broad chest and threading one hand through his mullet. The line where your bodies connect is electrifying. A whimper leaves you when he rests his warm hands on you, one arm across your shoulders and the other resting atop your hips. The contact makes your desperation soar but you succeed in staying still, at least. This is embarrassing enough without you humping him like an animal. You just needed some contact, to be held. This is good enough.
He can definitely still smell your arousal off you, but you're trying to save some dignity.
You two have traded casual touches, but you’ve never been this close. It feels surprisingly natural. Safe.
For what it's worth the touch is sating some of your yearning, even though every cell in your body is still crying out for an Alpha to claim you. Stan's rubbing his hands slowly up and down, and it feels like rain pattering on a roof; like a warm drink and soft light. You lean hard into him and relish the breeze of his breath tickling your hair on every exhale. This close, his scent envelops you completely, wrapping you in musky pine.
"Am I a comfy chair?" He jokes.
"Yeah," you laugh. "This chair's got some cushion to it." You shift to wrap your arms around his neck and hook your chin on his shoulder.
"Probably the nicest way I’ve heard someone put it," he grumbles good-naturedly. His voice rumbles deep in his chest and you hum pleasantly in response, practically purring. You inhale the mundane scent sitting on top of his natural one - wood glue and cheap detergent.
"Thanks, Stan," you murmur.
"Eh, don't worry about it." His shrug moves your head up and down. He's still following small, soothing paths with his hands.
You resolve to ignore the urge to grind down onto him despite the yawning ache between your legs. This is still great. You fully expected to spend your surprise heat entirely alone, whimpering by yourself in a pile of blankets you built for no one. This is so much better. Someone is holding you, and you might even trust them. You're surrounded by a nest that smells like home and a man that smells like pinewood.
You shuffle a bit and pause at something unexpected pressing against your outer thigh.
Oh.
You pull back slightly to look at him.
"Is that your...?"
To Stan's credit, his breathing doesn't even change.
"Yeah," he just says sheepishly. "Sorry. You, uh. You smell good, y'know? That sweet heat smell. And your own scent - kinda citrus-y. Also, I got eyes." He tries and fails not to look you up and down.
"Sorry, oh my god." You immediately realize you had been rubbing your scent all over him. You scramble to get off and he lets you go, watching you.
"I ain't bothered," he shrugs, reclining into the nest against the body of the couch. "But whatever you wanna do."
"But you're clearly, uh." Your brain can barely string words together. "Reacting." The bulge is visible in his jeans. It’s so close, and you’re so empty. Saliva builds in your mouth. Annoyingly, you feel slick pooling into your underwear.
"Reacting, schmeacting." He waves a hand. "It don't mean anything. I'm a grown man, I can control myself. Even been through ruts with a clear head. Trust me, I'm fine."
"Even through ruts? Stan, that's crazy."
He just shrugs awkwardly. He's blushing to the tips of his ears now, and raises his hands. "Seriously, I'm sorry. It's alright if you want me to bounce. Or we can just, y'know! Go back to nesting."
The thought of him leaving almost makes you cry, and you shake your head. "No, please don't leave. I..." You suppress the urge to latch onto him again and wrap your arms around yourself instead. Stan's arousal fogs up your senses, making you clench around nothing. Your underwear must be unsalvageable at this point. "God, you smell good."
"I can go if -"
"Fuck's sake, no!" You reach out and grab his calloused hand desperately. "It’s not - look. I want you to stay, but if you do, I can't promise that I won't be..."
"Horny?"
You snort. "I was gonna say weird. But yeah."
"I'm not bothered by that."
"What?"
"What?" He replies, similarly bewildered.
You stare at him. His face is like a tomato. Your hands itch to touch that broad chest, that strong jaw.
He looks away. "I'm more worried that you'll do something you'll regret later."
"Okay. Yeah. Um." You sit back on your heels. That steady ache thrums through you, that need to be filled and claimed. "Listen. I think you're hot -"
"Shit, really?"
"- and I t-trust you." Mushy shit is not your forte but if you're not honest with him, this could go really wrong. At least the hormones ravaging your body make admitting this marginally easier. "If anyone in my life right now were to, uh, help me out, I'd want it to be you. I've thought about it before, actually. So."
His eyes are wide. Something small and vulnerable flickers behind them. "Huh. You're kiddin'."
"Does this look like something to kid about, Stan?" You gesture to his hard-on.
Thank God that makes him laugh. The tension eases some.
“I’m on birth control, if that helps,” you add.
“Oh thank fuck,” he says with no small amount of humor. "Okay. Uh. You want me to take care of you?" His thumb caresses your knuckles. That unspoken emphasis – me?
The want hits you like a wall. "Holy shit, yes. I want you," you exhale. That unspoken emphasis – yes, you. "Can I touch you?"
"Not sure how else we'd get this done."
"Oh, shut up." The vestiges of your self-control fall away. You let go of his hand, climb back onto him, and grind down on top of his thigh with a hiss as he brings his hands to your back to steady you. "Ohhhh my god."
"Whoa, eager," He chuckles.
"While you were cleaning up - was thinking about your arms. Your hands." You drag your warm core across the muscle of his thigh and whine into his neck. "Stan..."
He murmurs your name in shock, like he didn't expect you to be looking at him. His voice lowers and it makes something inside you tremble. "You really need some help, huh?"
You nod against his shoulder.
Suddenly, he's lifting you off him by the hips and guiding you to lay down in the soft nest of blankets. His fingers hook your sweatpants and underwear. "This okay?"
You writhe. "Yeah, c’mon."
He peels your bottom layers off in one go. Your thighs are coated in slick, and your underwear is drenched. Your wet hole clenches fruitlessly.
"Holy shit," Stan breathes. He's flushed. "God, that's hot."
"Stan, I need your hands on me yesterday," you whine.
"Yeah -" he leans down and laps at your neck, running hands over your body, tongue pressing against your scent gland. He nips you lightly and you buck your hips. Neither of you want a mating bite, and if he tried, you'd file a restraining order and rethink who you trusted. Instead he sucks on your skin and makes you squirm. His hands are on your sides, your hips, and they’re hot as a brand.
"I'm so fucking warm - feel like I'm gonna explode," you pant. In response, he lifts your sweatshirt over your head and makes sure to place it within the nest, followed by his jeans. Soon enough he's wrestling with the hem of his t-shirt, obviously self-conscious.
Through your muddled brain, you look up at him, at the sweet blush on his face. At the man who stiffs customers with abandon, takes everything he can get his hands on, but comes in to help when you ask. The man who fixed your car and laughs with you at shitty rom-coms. "Do - do you really want this? It's okay if you changed your mind." Reason is slipping away from you rapidly at his proximity, at the attention and the reveal of skin, the mental chant of Alpha Alpha Alpha, but you hold onto reality long enough to ask.
"Wha - kitten-baby, I'm hard as a brick right now."
You smack his arm. "Not what I asked!"
He laughs and gives you a serious look, heat in his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I want this."
You try not to squirm, and mostly fail. "You can keep it on if you need to."
"Huh?"
"The shirt."
The fabric twists in his hands. After a moment, he decides to take it off anyway. You make grabby hands and he gives it to you with an amused huff. You place it right by your head - safe - and look him over. He's broad and soft, carpeted with brown curls that thicken at his chest and again down his pudgy stomach. There’s a wet spot dampening his boxers where the head of his cock strains against the fabric. Your brain short-circuits with lust.
"Uh..." He falters.
You bury your face in your hands. "You are so fucking hot."
"I'm sure you say that to all your friends you're about to fuck," he smirks.
"No, just you," you huff. You are so empty it hurts. You need him inside of you, filling you up. Your hips nudge the air and you can feel slick dripping down to the blankets. Your voice breaks when you whine, "Please. I need it."
Hastily, he tugs off his boxers, putting them with the rest of the clothes in the nest. The thought of your scents mingling sends a euphoric thrill through you. At the sight of his engorged cock more slick slides out of you, which is fucking obscene, but you can't bring yourself to care anymore. His palms lift up your ass and slide a pillow under your hips for a better angle. You let your legs fall open.
Stan brings his hands forward to hook around your thighs. His blunt cockhead hovers at your entrance for just a moment, then slides in with ease. You produced enough slick for a lifetime, and the push is only good, so good. His cock against your walls makes you moan - that feeling finally, finally being sated, that deeper beast in you becoming satisfied. You're finally getting what you need more than anything you think you’ve ever needed before.
"Alpha -" you gasp out, threads of your mind unraveling. "Fuck, feels so good..." You push your hips down to meet his. Every inch of you is full of him, taken by him. You swear you can feel him in your ribs. Elation washes over you.
"Sweet Moses," he pants. "You're so warm."
The draw of his hips backwards makes you keen, and you reach out to scrabble at his forearms.
"I got you, I got you," he murmurs, and thrusts back in.
The pace is steady and slow. You don’t mind. Every push back in to the hilt sends another piece of you scattering. The scent of pines and foliage is thick in your nose. It smothers your every thought until Stan is the only thing left, just you and him, just the slide of his cock. Each point of his ten fingers on your hips grounds you in the blankets, in your home, in his hands. Every bit of him floods your senses.
His mouth is back on your neck. “Fuck, don’t think I’ve ever been with an Omega this wet.”
You don’t expect the moan that comes out of your mouth. “That’s nasty,” you laugh breathlessly, then curl your toes when his head presses against that spot deep inside you.
“It’s true,” he breathes against your cheek, and you can hear his smile. “What, were you saving it all up for this?”
“Yeah, I – fffuck – I saw you coming and dropped the floodgates,” you tease. You both laugh against each other’s skin.
“Hmm, I dunno,” he says in your ear, and his gruff low voice sends tingles down your spine at another thrust. He holds his hips flush to yours and doesn’t pull back, grinding deep and circling. “I think you just needed some good dick that bad. Your hole was begging for an Alpha to fill it up.”
You’d protest if you weren’t trembling in your legs at the constant deep stimulation, letting out a throaty moan. “Oh God -”
“Seriously, look at this.”
You open your eyes. Your slick is all over the front of his thighs, matting into his curly pubes. Your head falls back onto your pillow. Fuzzy embarrassment joins with unabashed arousal at how you managed to mark him. “Stan...”
“It’s hot, don’t worry your pretty head over it,” he huffs, then wraps his arms around your legs and pulls your calves over his shoulders. “Gonna make such a mess of ya.” Then he sets a punishing pace.
The way he grips your legs tight makes you whine. It’s safe, he has you, he won’t let you go. He tears you down and builds you back up again with each rough thrust. Skin slaps wet against skin. You can hear the slick practically being pounded out of your hole, and yeah, okay, Stan’s right, that’s hot. These blankets are gonna need three wash cycles after this.
“Hah – hah – hah -” You can’t stop the noises pouring from you now. He punches them out of you, plunging deeper inside than before, reaching some unknown place inside of you that you could never have satisfied otherwise. Your hands grasp the blankets. Hot pleasure rolls over you in heavier and heavier waves, and suddenly you’re coming, coating his cock and curling your toes and arching your back, gasps wrenching out of you.
“That’s right,” he pants, slowing down to a deep roll, pushing back and forth inside of you and sending sparks through your overwhelmed body. “Taking it like a good Omega.”
“Yes!” you almost sob, legs twitching in his arms.
You take deep lungfuls of air. You open your eyes – when had you shut them? – and see the sweat on Stan’s face and chest, the satisfied glow, the twitches in his brow where he’s clearly trying to rein in his own pleasure to keep the rhythm.
“How’re you doing?” He smiles down at your wrecked body. Smug bastard.
“Good,” you try. “Keep – ah! – keep going, please!” You clench around him and enjoy the way he hisses at the tightness. You came once, but you feel the crest of another orgasm not too far behind. There’s only one thing that’ll truly sate you though. “Need your cum inside me, need to make pups.” And once you say it it’s all you can think about, taking his seed all the way inside you, fulfilling that biological imperative to breed and reproduce, becoming heavy with Stan’s children. Every fiber of your being needs it.
“Fuck!” A guttural moan escapes him. “I’ll give ‘em to you, I promise.”
You pull your legs off his shoulders and link them around his back at the ankles. He leans over you, driving into you hard and fast now, hands flat by your sides for leverage. You grasp at his arms and groan loudly.
“Stan please, fuck, you need to come inside, I need it, I need it, I need it -” You’re babbling and whining at the heat building within you faster than before. “Need – need it to – fuck! Need it to take!”
“God, yeah, need me to knock you up?” Droplets of his sweat scatter onto you as he thrusts, grinding hard each time and pulling back with a wet sound. “Wanna have my pups? Get nice and heavy and round for me? Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to see it -” His growing knot teases your entrance and suddenly nothing is real except for the way you’re about to take everything he has to give you.
“Yes, yes, God, yes, I feel it, come on, knot me!”
“Ah – ngh – here it comes!” He pushes his thick knot inside with a hard bite on your shoulder, a strangled groan against your hot skin, the pain softened immediately by the press of his tongue. You gasp at the stretch even with your abundance of slick. The tip of his cock is deeper than ever before. His hot seed spills into you, cock so deep in your guts that there’s nowhere else for it to go but your womb. He’s filling you completely and totally.
You’re falling over the edge with a tortured whimper, hole clenching and milking his cock for every last drop.
It takes a long while for him to stop pulsing inside of you. You both pant against each other with little overstimulated sounds. Hot cum leaks out around his knot and onto the blankets. Your head is hazy. You feel lazy and warm and cared-for, cocooned by your nest and caged in by Stan and fucked deep and full.
“Fuck,” Stan exhales, draping himself bonelessly over you. Sweat cools on your bodies. “I think we might’ve fooled the birth control on that one.”
You laugh against the comforting press of his weight and reach up to encircle him with your arms. “Don’t even joke. I think a kid would be a horrendous life decision for either of us.”
He nods with a snort, his mullet brushing your face. “Way ahead of ya.”
Slowly, both of your breathing evens out. You relish the warmth, the scents. He’s everywhere in your nest. Maybe you should get one of those pine tree air fresheners for your car, so you’ll never forget this feeling. The thought makes you laugh.
“What’re you thinking about?” Stan sounds tired, but bone-deep satisfied.
“Air fresheners,” you mumble, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “Ones that smell like you.”
A surprised and pleased laugh leaves him. “That’s real cute,” he chuckles, propping himself up a bit awkwardly to look at you. “I’ll get one that smells like oranges, how about that?”
Eventually, his knot dies down, and he slides carefully out of you with a wince and an apology as more cum stains your blankets. You wave a hand and tell him you figured you had some laundry in your future even if he hadn’t come over.
“I can help ya with that. ‘S the least I can do since… well.”
“You’ve done a ton already,” you say, trying to will your body to wake up. Maybe laying here for a little longer isn’t so bad. “Seriously. Thanks. I feel fucking incredible.” Heat suppressants are sort of necessary unless someone’s heat is unobtrusive, or they’re trying for a baby, or just don’t believe in them. None of those apply to you, so you’ve been taking them ever since your first one hit and never had the chance to know what an assisted heat felt like until now. “No wonder birth rates used to be so high.”
Now that it’s over, that hot hum is so much quieter under your skin. You still want touch and closeness, but that bottomless need is finally asleep.
Stan snickers and stands up. “You good if I use your shower? Unless you wanna go first.”
You wave him on and take the hardest ten-minute nap of your life, jolting awake when he pokes your arm.
“Hey. Grabbed you some clothes.” He offers up a stack of clean loungewear and underwear.
“You’re a God,” you say gratefully, sitting up with weak limbs and taking the stack in hand.
“I know, you told me earlier.” His smug smirk devolves into laughter when you stand and smack him upside the head on the way to the bathroom.
Hand on the door handle, you pause, and try to keep your tone light. “Are… are you leaving?” Your mind isn’t run wild by pheromones and hormones anymore, but you can admit that you don’t want to decompress alone after what you shared together.
“Nah.” Stan sits heavily on the couch and cracks open a beer you didn’t see him steal from the fridge. Thief. “Figured I could order us some pizza and find some trash to watch.”
Relief hits you like a truck. He doesn’t seem bothered or freaked out. He just saw you at your most vulnerable and decided to stick around for a usual hang. For all the shitty, shitty reasons you ended up in this backwater town, you’re grateful for one thing it did bring you: Stan Pines.
“Awesome. Don’t get anchovies this time or I’ll shiv you.”
As you shut the door, Stan shouts after you, “I can do what I want! You triple-owe me now!”
You can’t help the giggles as you start the shower.