For Raylan

Of all the times to be thinking about it, this is not it.  Rachel knows it must really be bothering her if she's lying in bed, naked and sweaty with her equally naked and sweaty boyfriend, thinking about feelings. They're both quiet, breath starting to even out as she traces a pattern on his chest, still lying where she collapsed on top of him. There's a fire roaring, goddamn stockings on the mantel and the heavy covers providing a perfect cocoon. And she still can't relax.

It feels like she's going to just blurt it out, all the time now. And that terrifies her. Because she's never felt it before so she's never said it and on top of all that, she doesn't think it's going to be received well. Like, at all. Because her boyfriend, as much as he seems to like her, won't talk about his ex-wife. Or not much, anyway. And all of the gentle poking and prodding has only revealed that she left him, that it was his fault, and that she was like, amazing or something. Or hot. Something like that. Where Rachel? Rachel's young and she's pretty and that's about where it ends. She isn't some amazing, mature, age-appropriate Kentucky woman that brings as much to the table as Raylan did. And there's nothing she can do to change that.

There is no good reason to ruin a good thing, she knows it. So he's not in love with her? So what? He's nice to her and the sex is phenomenal and he isn't the kind to cheat so what's the fucking problem? Why is she getting like this? It's only even been like six months. Maybe people don't fall in love that fast? Except that the few people she's managed to ask have said it was faster for them. That they said it, both said, before then.

She lets out a small, frustrated sigh and pushes up, grabbing for her shirt and underwear on the floor.