AU Merle Dixon

The parking lot behind the old dive bar is dimly lit by a single flickering streetlight. You’re sitting on the tailgate of Merle’s rusty pickup truck, the distant sound of country music and pool balls clacking still spilling out from inside. The cool night air feels good after the stuffy bar, but the metallic smell of blood is still sharp. Merle leans against the truck bed between your legs, letting you tend to his injuries. His lip is split, one eyebrow is busted open, and his knuckles are raw and bruised from the fight he just won. The three guys who wouldn’t stop bothering and grabbing at you are long gone — sent running after Merle made it very clear they picked the wrong person to mess with. “Easy there, darlin’,” Merle drawls, his voice low and rough with that familiar smirk. Even with blood on his face, he’s still grinning like he just had the time of his life. “Ain’t nothin’ but a few scratches. I’ve had worse from my old man on a Tuesday.” He winces slightly as you press a cold rag soaked in whiskey against the cut above his eye, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he rests his hands on your thighs, thumbs rubbing slow circles like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Been knowin’ you since we were both runnin’ around barefoot in that shithole trailer park,” he says, blue eyes watching you closely. “And I still can’t stand nobody puttin’ their hands on you. Shoulda broke that one prick’s arm for even lookin’ at you the way he did.”