You awoke with a deep inhale and a warm arm wrapped around you.
An even warmer chest was pressed against you, and you felt a slight heaviness against the back of your head — Jacob had clung to you, his head resting against the back of yours. You squinted your bleary eyes, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness of your environment. Your eyes settled on the rays of sun lining the walls; the furniture, and other trinkets scattered about his room.
You took the time to look around his room, settling on the pictures he's pinned to his wall. Some were of the two of you together, some just of you and some of his family and pack all together. Your heart bloomed at all the photos, a blissful satisfaction taking over. You lay there for a while, thinking back to the times when those photos were taken.
⋆˚꩜｡༺ ⋆˚꩜｡༺ ⋆˚꩜｡
You were suddenly taken out of your haze by the warm weight against your body squeezing you tightly. Jacob pressed himself closer to you.
“Morning”
You let out a short hum in reply, snuggling in closer to him.
“Wanna get up?”
You could feel the cheeky smile on his face. He knew that you were very happy just lazing in bed, and you knew Jacob to be an early riser — especially when he was doing his morning patrols often times he would wake before dawn, much to your dismay.
“What do you think”
Jake chuckled softly against the back of your head.
“No patrols today, no chores to do…. I think we can lay in for a bit longer.”
You smile, carefully attempt to shift around until Jake gets the idea and shuffles around, laying on his back. You successfully manage to twist around his cot-like bed and press your cheek into his warm chest.
Jake's hand makes its way to the back of your head — You spend your day talking about everything and nothing, laying in silence and sin.
⋆˚꩜｡༺ ⋆˚꩜｡༺ ⋆˚꩜｡
Hello! I wanted to say thank you to everyone who interacted with my last post, if you see this! It was my first time writing fanfic, so I really appreciate it!
This is sort a continuation if my last post. I don't feel this one is as good as that, I'm still not used to writing yet really.
Jacob said breathily as he slid into the truck, you already sat comfortably in the passenger seat, you smiled at him sleepily. Jake pressed the key into the ignition and turned. The deep rumble of the trucks engine broke through the peaceful night atmosphere as he pulled out of his parking spot.
He fiddled with the radio as he drove, one hand on the wheel, the other tuning it until he found a station he liked. Neither of you felt the need to speak, the air filled with calming melody of whatever folk song was playing and the soft chirp of crickets and other nightlife. Your head lent partially on the window, looking out at the trees falling behind. You felt eyelids droop....droop...droop.
⋆˚꩜｡༺ ⋆˚꩜｡༺ ⋆˚꩜｡
You awoke to the ruffling of fabric and a slight breeze on your midriff. Your eyes fluttered as you tried peeling your heavy eyelids opens.
"Hi"
You slowly open your eyes, taking in the view of a room that wasn't yours but one that you were just as familiar with. A dark sillouette into vision, face obscured by the shadows created by the moonlight. You register the fleeting touch of Jake's warm knuckles against your hips.
"I thought you would rather wake up in your pajams then these clothes, obviously i'm not as gentle as i thought" Jake said, tugging the shirt further up your torso.
"you were gentle enough not to wake me up getting me here, you didn't have to that y'know" You raised one arm up and helped him tug the shirt up and over your head.
"'Course i did"
He fumbled slightly with the button and zip of your jeans, you lifted your hips up to help him as he dragged the denim down your legs. You grabbed your shirt off his bed and your pants off the floor and tossed them in his laundry basket, still seated on his plush bed as Jake dug through his drawers to find a set of your pajamas that had lived there so long they might as well be his.
He padded over to the bed and handed you a pair of flannel pants. You shimmed them on as he attempted to fit your arms through a matching button-up top. There was a bit of a muddle as you two tried to work around each other but evetually you were cozied up in your pajamas, and you shuffled yourself under his comforter, pulling the down-filled quilt up to your chin as you turned around to face Jake.
"Thank you" You whispered softly.
Jake said nothing as he lent down to press a kiss to your forehead. You watched his dark sillouette with heavy eyes as he changed into his own pj's, stripping off his shirt and slipping on a soft pair of plaid pants, the moonlight occasionally catching his skin.
You let your eyes fall closed. You could feel Jake kneel on the edge of th bed and step over you, enclosing himslef between the wall and your back. A wonderfully warm arm circled around your waist, and you felt yourslef be pulled to his hot chest.
"... Love ... you"
Was the last thing you heard before you succumed to a peaceful sleep.
Summary: Six days have passed since Mel's friends left, and your friendship has been permanently affected. When a perceptive patient notices the tension between you two, her advice sparks reflection on what it means to risk everything for the chance at love.
CW: angst, lots of lesbian yearning, canon-typical medical events, minor character death (nobody from canon), grief, hurt/comfort, smut, not changing out of scrubs (ew, yes that requires a CW), fingering and oral sex (r!receiving), showering and non-sexual intimacy.
WC: 10k
Part 2 to Hold On.
A/N: this whole fic was a struggle. Figuring out how it would go was a struggle, starting it was a struggle, I got writers block after the first scene. Also, I named my patients wife Gloria because I temporarily forgot Gloria is also the name of the hospital administrator and I don’t want to go through and change it. It was my nana’s name, too, and I like it. Deal with it.
♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡
Six days.
That’s how long it’s been since Mel’s friends left, since you’d stood in the doorway to Mel’s apartment and waved goodbye to them, since your life was supposed to go back to normal.
And your life was anything but.
Six days of her not responding to your texts. Six days of not sending stupid memes in the evenings. Six days of silence where there used to be constant communication. Six days of you pretending you don’t feel her absence in your heart. Your phone has never been so quiet.
At work, it’s worse.
All hospitals run on routine, and especially in an emergency department there’s an understanding that nobody gets through a shift alone. But somehow, the two of you have managed turn avoidance into an art. You take the long way around hallways, she volunteers for tasks on the opposite end of the department. Where you used to naturally overlap, there’s now intentional avoidance.
There wasn’t a fight. You can’t point to the exact moment and say “this is where everything went wrong.” There were only two kisses that were supposed to be fake and two nights spent tangled together in bed like you belonged there all along, followed by a silence that grew too big to take back. You’re not sure why Mel is avoiding you. Maybe she regrets it, maybe she’s embarrassed, or trying to protect your friendship by pretending none of it happened. The not knowing hurts almost as much as the distance itself.
But you’re not innocent either. You avoid her because you don’t know how to look at her and not want to hold her. Whatever careful little box you’d kept your feelings locked in is now blown wide open ever since last weekend, spilling your feelings out in a way you can’t figure out how to undo. You don’t know how to gather them all back up, how to tuck it neatly into the farthest corners of your heart again so you can be her best friend without wanting more from her. Being near her hurts now, like your control is hanging on by a thread and one wrong look or word from her could destroy it.
So you stay away, and she stays away, and the distance between you two stretches thin and tight every day.
You still see her, of course. It’s impossible not to, you work in the same building, in the same department, on the same days, on the same shift.
There’s a glimpse of her braid disappearing around a corner just as you turn into it, and the sound of her voice at the nurse’s station makes your head snap up before you catch yourself doing it, only to look back down at your work like nothing happened. Once, your hands touched while reaching for the same file and you both recoiled as if the contact burned you, muttering apologies to the air instead of each other because you couldn’t actually look at one another.
But when you do look, you try to be sneaky. She looks tired. More tired than usual. There are shadows under her eyes and her hair isn’t as neat in her braid as it normally is, loose strands escaping in ways you’ve only seen happen when she’s frazzled.
You don’t know what you’re supposed to say now. You don’t know what she wants, you don’t know if she regrets it, if she wishes the entire thing had never happened the same way you do.
You’re not sleeping, the bags under your own eyes mirroring Mel’s. Every night you close your eyes and remember how it felt to wake up tangled together, with the weight of her arm over your waist, her warm breath against your collarbone. Your brain replays the feeling of her mouth on yours in the bar, analyzing the way she leaned in like she couldn’t help herself. You remember thinking, stupidly, in that instance that maybe something had changed for real.
Six days is long enough for hope to thin out into glass, so brittle that it’ll break at the slightest pressure.
Six days is also long enough for other people to notice.
PTMC’s rumor mill is worse than any Middle of High School you ever went to. It doesn’t fly under the radar that you and Mel no longer talk at the nurse’s station, that conversations cut off whenever one of you approaches, or that you don’t walk out together at the end of a shift anymore.
Most of them are polite enough not to comment on it. Most, but not all. A rumor takes root, winding it’s way through the departments and across language barriers until it reaches the ears of someone who’s department gossip is equal parts rumors and facts.
Someone who saw you firsthand. Someone with sharp eyes and even sharper instincts, and a memory for details that borders on unsettling; like the way she’d pretended to stare at her own reflection in the bar mirror while pretending not to watch the two of you at all. It didn’t take long after that for curiosity to harden into certainty.
And once Trinity Santos is certain of something, she doesn’t let it sit.
By the sixth day, she decides she’s waited long enough.
Mel is halfway through reviewing a patient chart at a computer when a shadow falls across the counter as it blocks out the overhead light. She doesn’t look up at first, assuming it’s a nurse or a med student waiting to ask a question.
“Morning, Mel-tdown.”
Her pen pauses mid-stroke.
There are very few people in the hospital who think making up nicknames is funny, even less who would do it to someone with more seniority than themselves, and only one whose voice carries that particular blend of dry amusement and sarcasm. Mel looks up slowly and finds herself face-to-face with Trinity, who’s arms are folded loosely across her chest.
“Dr. Santos,” Mel says automatically with a forced smile. “Good morning.”
Trinity doesn’t return the greeting. She watches Mel with eyes narrowed, assessing her like a scan instead of a person.
“You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I’m fine.”
“Mm.” She’s not convinced. “Sure.”
But she doesn’t leave. The silence stretches just long enough to make it weird.
“Was there something you needed?” Mel asks. She cannot do her job properly with the R2 hovering over her like this.
“How’s your girlfriend?”
The question is said so casually that it takes almost a full minute to register. When it does, Mel’s stomach drops out from under her.
“I’m sorry?”
“You know, your nurse,” Trinity clarifies, relaxed enough that it doesn’t sound like she’s prodding for information, which she definitely is. “I saw you at O’Malley’s on Saturday night, you two make a cute couple.”
Heat floods Mel’s face. “I’m not - she’s not - we’re not a couple.”
Trinity’s eyebrows lift, but there’s no suspicion on her face. If anything, she looks amused, like she finds this funny.
“Relax,” she says. “I get it, you don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
“I’m not explaining, I’m just -” Mel falters, reaching for something, anything, that’ll sound real. “We’re - we’re just friends.”
“Mhm.” The noncommittal little hum is somehow worse than outright disbelief.
“I’m serious,” Mel insists. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”
The conviction never leaves Trinity’s face. “If you want to keep your personal life private, that’s your business,” she says. “I’m not the morality police, I don’t care what you do at home.”
“That’s not -” Mel stops, frustrated, because there’s nothing she can say that’s going to convince her. “We’re not dating.”
“Okay.”
Her fingers curl against the desk. “You don’t believe me.”
Trinity shrugs. “I saw you kissing at the bar.”
Mel swears her heart stops. Her mind races, spiraling through the logistics: who else might have seen you, how widely this could spread, what this looks like when you two have been actively avoiding each other ever since.
“We work together,” she says finally, and it almost sounds strangled. “If could get…complicated.”
“Trust me, you don’t have to explain that to me,” Trinity says dryly. “Plus, half the hospital is sleeping with the other half.”
Mel’s head snaps up, scandalized despite herself. “We’re not -”
Trinity holds up a hand to stop her. “I’m not asking for details.” She leans in, lowering her voice just enough to keep the conversation contained to the two of them. “The only reason I brought it up is because you two suddenly acting like strangers is a lot more noticeable than just dating quietly.”
Mel’s stomach twists.
“You used to be inseparable,” Trinity continues. “Now you won’t even talk to each other. People are noticing.”
Panic is crawling up Mel’s insides. Trinity actively participates in the rumor mill, if she’s saying people have noticed things changing between you two, that means people are talking.
“I’m just busy,” Mel says weakly.
“Sure you are.”
Trinity straightens up, pushing off the counter.
“For what it’s worth,” she adds, “Nobody cares who you date as long as it doesn’t affect patient care.”
Mel nods, her throat still tight. Trinity taps the counter in front of her twice, catching her attention once more.
“Take a breath, Mel-tdown. Your secret’s safe with me.”
And then she walks away, leaving Mel sitting there with her pulse racing and her thoughts in complete disarray.
This is way worse than being caught. This is her being seen by her colleagues, and assumed. Assumed to be dating you, to be serious enough to hide, to be something real. And if Trinity noticed, others will too. Maybe they already have. And that means this isn’t just about hurt feelings or awkward silence anymore.
It’s about your job, your reputation. Yours just as much as hers.
Mel closes the chart. She can’t let this continue.
She has to find you.
♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡
You’re halfway through explaining a medication timing issue to Bridget at the nurse’s station when you feel it: fingers closing around your arm firmly, just above the elbow. It’s startling enough that the rest of your sentence dies in your throat.
You turn, already ready to apologize, expecting some sort of patient emergency. Something urgent. Something very much not personal.
Instead, you find Mel standing there.
Your brain refuses to process it for almost half a minute. Her grip tightens when you don’t move immediately, and her gaze never leaves your face, even as Bridget asks if everything is okay.
“Can I borrow you for a minute?” she asks, her voice strained.
She doesn’t wait for a response. She’s already dragging you away, hand locked around your arm tightly as she pulls you down the hallway and around the corner into a quieter stretch near a supply closet.
Your heart is pounding for reasons that has nothing to do with how urgent she looks.
Six days. Of distance, of avoidance, of silence. And now she’s holding onto you like this. Hope sparks in your chest, both traitorous and dangerous.
Maybe she couldn’t stand it either, maybe she misses you. Maybe she’s finally going to say something, anything, that will make this awful, stretched-out silence okay again.
She stops abruptly and lets go of your arm, interrupting your thoughts. Her own arms fold tightly across her chest.
“Mel?” you say, confused. “What -”
She glances up and down the hallway, looking in both directions. She looks tense. When she finally speaks, she leans in close to you, her voice dropping to a whisper that even you can barely hear in the silent hallway.
“Trinity saw us at O’Malley’s.”
It takes a second for you to register what she’s said. “I - what?”
She looks around again, scanning for eavesdroppers even though the hall is empty.
“She saw us,” Mel repeats more urgently, like you’re the one not keeping up. “Saturday night, at the bar.”
Your stomach drops. “Oh.”
Another glance over her shoulder and then she leans closer still, volume dropping even more, like her following words are dangerous:
“She saw us…kissing.”
The whisper is almost comical, like she’s afraid it’s going to echo down the hallway and summon witnesses out of thin air. Under any other circumstances, it might’ve been cute.
But right now it just hurts.
“I didn’t know what to say,” she rushes on. “She assumed we were dating, and I told her we’re not, but she doesn’t seem convinced, and people are already noticing that we’re not - that things are different, and I just thought you should know in case anyone says anything to you.”
You blink at her.
This isn’t an apology. This isn’t I miss you, or I’m sorry I disappeared or I didn’t know how to talk to you or even are you okay?
It’s damage control.
“Oh,” you say again, because it’s the only sound you know how to make.
“I just don’t want it to become a problem,” Mel continues, her arms tightening where they’re tucked into her sides. “You know, professionally. For either of us.”
She means it as reassurance. You can see it, the worry in her eyes, you see it in the tightness in her mouth. She’s warning you, looping you in so you’re not blindsided. But all you can hear is what she isn’t saying.
She’s not trying to fix this. She’s worried about how this looks.
You force a small nod, staring somewhere over her shoulder because looking right at her would hurt too much.
“Right,” you manage. “Good to know.”
Silence follows, and she doesn’t move to comfort you. If anything, she looks relieved, like she’s delivered the message she came to deliver.
“Okay,” she says quickly. “I just wanted you to hear it from me.”
Not because she actually cares about how you’re feeling. Just because it’s relevant information.
Hope, which had flared so brightly when she grabbed your arm, fizzles out just as fast, and it leaves something colder in it’s wake.
“Thanks,” you say automatically, though it’s distant. “For the heads-up.”
Her lips tip into a frown, like that wasn’t the response she expected from you, but she doesn’t push further.
“Yeah,” she says. “Of course.”
There’s more silence and it’s awkward in a way space has never been between you two before. For a second you think she might say something else, but then she nods and steps back.
“I should get back.”
And then she turns and walks away without another glance in your direction.
You stand there for a long time after she disappears around the corner, staring at the empty space she left behind. Your chest aches with the realization that you were stupid for letting yourself hope. Not for romance, or even for answers. Even just for your best friend back.
Eventually you push yourself off the wall and head back toward the nurse’s station, careful to keep your expression neutral because now you’re aware of the looks you’re getting, especially from Princess. But you keep your voice steady when you pick up the conversation with Bridget exactly where it left off, like nothing happened.
Like six days of silence and one conversation haven’t just confirmed your worst fear:
That whatever that weekend meant to you…it clearly didn’t mean the same thing for her.
♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡
It’s later in that same shift that your day goes from bad to shitty.
You’re charting at the nurse’s station when the automatic doors at the end of the entrance to the ED hiss open and Olive appears, guiding a wheelchair.
“Got another one for you,” she calls without slowing down. “Shortness of breath, mild chest discomfort. Her vitals are mostly okay, but she’s a little hypertensive.”
The woman in the chair looks up at you with clear and intelligent eyes, her silver hair escaping a long braid that’s loosened over the course of the day. She doesn’t look panicked, if anything, she looks annoyed to be here at all.
“Honestly, I feel ridiculous,” she says as she takes your hand to help her stand. “It’s probably indigestion.”
She pauses to catch a slightly deeper breath once she’s upright, one hand coming up to rest on her chest.
“I just can’t quite get a full breath,” she adds. “And there’s this pressure in my chest.”
You guide her onto the bed, noting sweat gathering at her temples and the way she shifts on the bed like she’s trying to find a position that feels better.
“On a scale of zero to ten?” you ask gently.
“Maybe a three? Four if I’m being dramatic.”
“Got it,” you say as you begin to attach monitor leads. “Three-to-four dramatic discomfort.”
She smiles at that, her eyes crinkling. Her attention drifts past you as the door behind you opens. “Uh-oh,” she says. “Here comes someone important.”
“Hello, I’m Dr. King,” Mel’s voice comes from over your shoulder, and you hear the hand sanitizer being dispensed. “Status?”
“Um - shortness of breath with mild chest pressure, onset about an hour ago,” you say, flustered as your heart starts palpitating. “She rates it a three or a four but she was hypertensive in triage. No obvious distress, she’s alert and oriented.”
There’s silence behind you as you hear Mel pause. When you turn, she’s stepping forward, her eyes lingering on your face and you watch as they soften. But then she schools her expression back to the neutral composure you’ve only seen when she’s dealing with something personal but forced to be professional.
“Okay,” she says calmly. “Hi, Ms. Burkhart, like I said, I’m Dr. King, I’m going to take a look at you.”
Ms. Burkhart studies her with open curiosity instead of the wary anxiety most patients wear. She looks briefly to you and then back to Mel, as if she’s picked up on the moment you two just had.
“Carrie,” she corrects. “Ms. Burkhart makes me sound like my mother.”
Mel’s mouth twitches. “Carrie it is.”
She moves closer to the bed, silent as she watches Carrie’s vitals on the monitor, hands steady as she listens to her lungs. She asks the standard questions, and you busy yourself moving to the other side of the bed, adjusting the monitor, and handing over supplies before Mel even asks.
Choreography that you both know by heart.
You’re careful not to look at her too much. You don’t let your voice soften when you answer her questions, doing your best not to slip back into the wordless communication that used to feel as natural as breathing. Not in front of a patient.
Your patient notices anyway.
It feels like Carrie’s observing you rather than the other way around, despite the fact that she is quite literally beingobserved. You can feel her scrutiny, and you do your best to keep your expression neutral and professional while you focus on the tasks at hand.
Mel straightens after listening to her lungs. “Any nausea? Dizziness? Pain anywhere else?”
“Not really,” Carrie says. “I just can’t seem to get a satisfying breath.” She demonstrates with a shallow inhale that ends in a frustrated sigh.
Mel nods thoughtfully. “Okay.”
Carrie’s gaze slides past her shoulder again, right to you.
If Mel notices the attention, she doesn’t comment. Instead, she redirects. “Do you have any history of heart problems? High blood pressure? Aneurysms?”
Carrie answers the doctor’s questions, but her attention seems to keep drifting back to you, especially whenever you speak. Her attention on you feels strange. You’re no stranger to attention from patients, but usually it comes from a place of attraction, which you’re always quick to brush off. Ms. Burkhart’s attention seems more like curiosity - she’s not being intrusive, she’s not even talking to you, and her gaze isn’t coming off as flirty or uncomfortable.
At one point, Mel asks you to retake her blood pressure and you step in to wrap the cuff around Carrie’s arm. As you’re leaning in, Mel reaches across to adjust a monitor lead at the same time, your hands brushing against each other. Both of you pause, neither looking at the other, but the tension is palpable.
Ms. Burkhart notices immediately. “Oh.”
“Sorry?” You glance up at her quickly. “Are you in pain?”
“No, it’s nothing,” she says lightly. “Just thinking.”
Mel has already stepped back and is jotting down notes in the patient file.
“We’re going to run some tests,” she says. “An EKG, blood work, probably imaging just to be safe.”
“Of course,” Carrie nods. “I did come to a hospital, after all.”
When you look up again, Carrie is looking at you softly, her expression almost sympathetic.
“You two work together a lot?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Sometimes.”
You both speak at the same time, the overlap hanging in the air awkwardly.
You’re quick to draw blood and excuse yourself, desperate to remove yourself from this too-small room with your fake-ex-girlfriend and a patient who’s definitely watching you too closely.
When you eventually return to check in on Ms. Burkhart, she’s alone in the room, propped up against the pillows in her bed, looking far less uncomfortable than before even though her breathing is still shallow. Mel must’ve prescribed some sort of pain relief.
“Oh good,” she says. “I was starting to think you’d abandoned me.”
“Not a chance,” you say as you move to her bedside. “Just waiting on your lab results.”
She hums in acceptance, though her fingers still fiddle with the edge of the blanket, nervous and jittery as if she can’t quite get comfortable.
“Funny,” she hums, staring up at the ceiling. “Hospitals are loud until you’re alone. Then they feel too quiet.”
You nod, adjusting her pulse oximeter, mostly for something to do rather than because it actually needs adjusting. “Yeah, it’s a lot of waiting.”
“Mm.” She turns her head to look at you, studying you. “You been doing this long?”
“A couple of years.”
“It must be hard sometimes.”
You shrug. “You get used to it.”
Carrie shifts on the bed again with a wince. “My wife hates hospitals.”
Your head lifts. “Your wife?”
“Mhm.” A fond smile softens her face. “Insists they’re where common sense goes to die.”
You smile. “Sounds like she cares.”
“Oh, she does,” Carrie’s expression warms further and her eyes go distant, as if she’s remembering. “Twenty years of caring.”
Twenty years.
You’ve seen her birthdate in her chart, you can do the math. You wonder silently if she came out later in life, or if she just met her wife later in life.
“Is she coming back to pick you up?”
“Should be,” Carrie says, glancing toward the door and then back to you. “I texted her, I don’t want her to worry but she’s got a sixth sense for these things.”
You nod as you swallow past the lump in your throat. “Good, it’s nice to have someone here.”
Carrie watches you carefully as you say it, like she’s weighing her words. “It is,” she agrees slowly. “Took us long enough to figure that out.”
“Figure what out?” you ask absentmindedly as you badge into the workstation to update her vitals.
“That we were in love,” she says simply. “We were best friends our whole lives first.”
Your heart plummets. You see where this is going, and the topic is just a little too close to home today.
“Oh.”
“We were cowards,” Carrie continues with a laugh. “Both of us, scared of ruining what we had. So afraid of our own feelings that we wasted half our lives.”
Your throat is tight, you’re unable to manage a response, but that doesn’t seem to deter her.
“When we finally admitted it, it felt ridiculous. Like - oh, of course. How did we miss this? Everyone else saw it before we did.”
You can’t do anything but listen.
“We got married at city hall on May 21st, 2014.”
The irony of the historical date for Pennsylvania doesn’t pass you by, the realization that they got married the moment they were legally allowed to.
She turns her head to look at you directly. “We always said we wished we’d been braver sooner.”
Your eyes sting and you blink hard, hoping to disperse the tears gathering there.
“You always wish you had more time,” she adds simply.
Ms. Burkhart is perceptive. You can’t tell if she’s guessing, or if she just recognizes something in you so specific, something painfully familiar to herself. Maybe she isn’t reading you at all, maybe she’s just remembering.
She’s studying you while you’re lost in your own mind. Then, very gently, she says, “You look like you’re wishing you were brave too.”
Not guessing.
“That’s not -” your voice cracks and you clear your throat. “We work together.”
Carrie’s smile is kind but also triumphant. “Sweetheart,” she says, “I didn’t say anything about work.”
You flush and turn away, trying your best to focus on the screen in front of you. But the words on it blur together in a rush of tears, the topic too painful for today.
“This isn’t appropriate,” you mutter, more to yourself than your patient. “This topic is totally unprofessional.”
“I know,” she responds lightly. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”
“I should -” you start and then falter, clearing your throat again. “I should check on my other patients.”
“Of course.”
You waste no time slipping out into the hallway, door closing heavily behind you.
You do exactly what you said you were going to do: check on your other patients. You busy yourself checking vitals and answering questions until your eyes start to blur, even though your mind is focused somewhere else entirely. Ms. Burkhart’s voice follows you from room to room.
Scared of ruining what we had.
You always wish you had more time.
You try, and fail spectacularly, to shake it off.
At one point, you’re staring at a medication cart without actually seeing it, wondering what your life would look like at forty if nothing changes. If you kept pretending that friendship was enough for you now that you knew what it was like to have her. Would you still be here? With the same job, the same apartment, and the same aching in your chest? Would she?
By the time you realize you’re standing back outside Carrie Burkhart’s room again, you barely even remember walking over here, let alone making the decision. Her door is propped open and she’s scrolling her phone with one hand while absently rubbing the center of her chest with the other.
She looks up when you step inside and close the door behind you, her surprise quickly giving way to warmth.
“Well hello again,” she says. “Back so soon? I must be your favorite patient.”
You hesitate before pulling a chair close to the bed and sitting.
“Maybe,” you admit with a small smile.
Something in your tone makes her snap to attention immediately. She sets the phone down and turns her attention toward you fully. “What’s wrong?”
You clasp your hands together in your lap, unsure how to begin. This feels wildly inappropriate and unprofessional, even worse - deeply personal.
“How did you know?”
Carrie blinks at you. “Know what?”
“That she…felt the same.” Your hands wave in your lap as you struggle for the right words. “Your wife.”
“Oh honey,” she murmurs with a sympathetic look.
You stare at your hands so you don’t have to face the pity in her expression. “I mean, you said you were best friends your whole lives. So how did you know it wouldn’t ruin everything?”
Carrie leans back in the bed, her eyes distant with memory. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I just reached a point where not saying anything hurt more than the possibility of losing her.”
Your chest tightens.
“She went on a date,” she adds quietly. “Some man from her office. She told me about it over coffee.” A faint smile touches her mouth, rueful in nature. “I went home and cried for three hours and finally admitted to myself that I wasn’t just jealous. I was terrified.”
You glance up at that. “Terrified of what?”
“That I was going to lose the love of my life because I was too afraid to tell her that she was the love of my life.”
Your lips part as you take in her words. “So you told her,” you urge her on quietly.
Carrie nods solemnly. “Worst conversation of my life,” she says with a chuckle. “I was shaking so hard I spilled my coffee all over her kitchen table.”
You laugh despite yourself.
“I told her I was in love with her,” she continues. “I was fully prepared for her to tell me she didn’t feel that way. Then at least I could start getting over it.”
“And?”
“She just stared at me for a long time,” she says. “Then she said, ‘It’s about time.’”
You can see Carrie’s eyes shine with the memory, and she recounts it like it’s one of the best.
“Turns out she’d been in love with me just as long. Neither of us wanted to risk losing what we had, and we made ourselves miserable by not saying anything.”
You’re silent as she continues.
“It wasn’t perfect. We had to unlearn a lot of fear. Figure out how to be more than friends after so long. But god…” she smiles, radiant despite the hospital bed. “It was worth it.”
Your eyes burn and you blink rapidly. “So you think I should just…tell her,” you say, your voice trembling.
Carrie watches you with unwavering kindness. “I think you already know what you want,” she says gently. “You’re just waiting for permission.”
The truth of that strikes you painfully hard.
“I don’t even know if she feels that way,” you admit. “Things have been weird between us.”
Carrie opens her mouth to respond, and pauses. At first, it looks like she’s just searching for the right words. But then you see a crease form between her brows, and her eyes unfocus as her hand presses harder against her chest.
You lean forward. “Carrie?”
She gasps, the breath shallow. “I feel…weird,” she says, her voice tight.
The alarm must be evident on your face as you respond, “Weird how?”
She doesn’t answer as the hand on her chest begins to rub. The monitor begins to beep faster, steady rhythm stuttering.
You’re already on your feet, reaching for the call button, your professional instincts screaming that something is very wrong.
“Okay,” you say, calm tone only due to sheer force of will. “Stay with me, Carrie, the doctor will be here any second.”
Carrie nods but her face has gone pale. Her breathing is shallow and uneven, and you can hear each inhale sounding like work.
“It hurts,” she whispers.
“Where?”
She presses her fist to the center of her chest and then drags it up a little toward her throat. “Everywhere.”
The monitor beeps faster, rising in urgency. Footsteps pound in the hallway and the door jerks open as staff flood in - another nurse, then Mel, pulling on gloves as she takes in the scene.
“What happened?” she demands.
“Sudden severe chest pain, she’s hypotensive and tachy at 115,” you rattle off. “She was stable two minutes ago.”
Carrie lets out a strangled cry, her body curling in on itself. “Oh god - my back -” she chokes out.
Everything accelerates. There are hands everywhere, equipment is clattering, voices are overlapping. The monitor spikes and then dips, rhythm jagged and irregular.
You move to the bedside, taking her hand without thinking. “I’ve got you,” you say, even though the shaking is evident in your voice now. “You’re okay. We’re here.”
Her fingers clamp down on your own with a surprising amount of strength.
“I don’t -” she gasps up at you. “Something’s wrong.”
“I know,” you whisper. “We’re fixing it, we’re going to fix it.”
The blood pressure reading flashes again, lower than before.
“She’s crashing.”
Carrie suddenly stiffens, her shallow breath catching in her chest as she goes painfully still. The monitor emits a flat, continuous tone.
Mel’s head snaps up at the sound. “Pulse?”
You fumble, two fingers against Carrie’s wrist, hands slick with sweat. You haven’t even grabbed gloves. Nothing. You move to her neck, pressing too hard, or maybe not hard enough, panic is scrambling your training.
“I - I don’t have a carotid -”
“Start compressions.”
You drag the step stool to the bed with a hook of your toe around the leg, hands positioning on her sternum, and begin.
One, two, three, four -
Her body yields beneath you in a way that feels wrong for someone who was just talking. Your arms burn almost immediately with the force, adrenaline making your movements jerky.
“Stay with me, Carrie,” you hear yourself saying. “Come on, come on.”
There’s no response, no movement from the woman under you. Just her body, laying flat underneath your hands.
“Switch,” someone says from behind you.
You don’t want to stop. Stopping feels like giving up. But your arms are shaking violently and your compressions are losing depth. Hands replace yours and you stumble back off the stool, your chest heaving as you stare at Carrie’s face - it’s grey now, her lips are tinged blue, eyes half-lidded and empty in a way that makes something primal in your chest hurt.
“Check for rhythm,” Mel orders.
Compressions stop, and the monitor resumes it’s flatline.
“Asystole,” she says. “Resume compressions.”
“Shouldn’t we charge?” The voice beside you makes you jump as you realize student doctor Kwon is also in the room.
“You can’t shock asystole.” The answer comes from both you and Mel at the same time.
Your ears ring and your vision tunnels. At some point you realize you’re crying. Not sobbing, just silent tears slipping down your face, unnoticed as you hover uselessly at the edge of all the chaos.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was talking, smiling even. She was telling you about Gloria.
She was supposed to go home.
Mel glances up at you from across the bed, alarm flickering across her face - but it’s not for the patient, no, it’s for you - before she snaps back into focus.
“Another round,” she says.
No response. The monitor remains stubbornly unchanged.
Time loses shape for you. It could be minutes, it could be forever. Finally, after one more rhythm check, the room goes very still.
Mel’s shoulders rise and fall as she looks at the clock on the wall before calling out time of death.
Hands move around you, disconnecting lines and silencing alarms, covering the body with the sheet up to her shoulders. The frantic energy drains away and leaves a vacuum in it’s wake.
Carrie Burkhart lies motionless in the center of the bed, the peaceful expression on her face feeling like some sort of fucked up joke.
Less than an hour ago she was alive. Talking, laughing, even giving you advice about love.
Now she’s dead.
You feel unsteady on your feet. You grip the edge of the counter behind you to stay upright as you stare at her.
Someone says your name and you don’t respond. Instead, you shove your way out of the room, hand clamped over your mouth as your stomach lurches violently. You need a bathroom, a sink, a garbage can, anything.
You almost walk face-first into Mateo.
He gently grabs your arms to steady you, relief on his face. “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He steps aside, revealing the woman following him. “This is Gloria, Ms. Burkhart’s wife. Where did you put her? I can’t find her name on the board.”
Of course you can’t, because she’s dead.
Your vision tunnels and your throat closes. If you open your mouth, you’re going to be sick, or you’re going to scream, or maybe both. You shake your head and back away from them, one hand dragging along the wall for balance. Before you turn and walk off as fast as you can without outright sprinting through the emergency department.
You don’t make it to the bathroom.
Instead, you’re slumped on the floor, back propped against the wall outside of the family consultation room, where Dr. Robby is inside with Ms. Burkhart’s wife. Screams resonate through the air, devastating and raw, followed by sobs so guttural that they don’t even sound human. The sound carries, it vibrates through the floors even as you press your hands over your ears to try and muffle the sound.
That’s where Dana finds you.
She crouches in front of you, taking in your tear-streaked and pale face, your eyes unfocused like you’re looking through her instead of at her. She doesn’t ask you questions because you can’t answer them anyway. She just places a steady hand on your shoulder and helps you to your feet when you don’t move on your own. You move because she moves you, because resisting would require more energy than you currently possess, and because you just don’t have it in you.
Somewhere along the way she shoves your backpack into your hands. Your shift must’ve been reassigned, she must’ve emptied your locker for you. You don’t remember. Dana’s ushering you out the employee entrance, her muffled advice of “go home and get some sleep, kid” sounding like you’re underwater as it reverberates in your ears.
You make it halfway across the parking lot before you realize someone is calling your name and turn.
Mel is hurrying toward you, concern written across her face. She must’ve caught sight of you leaving early. She stops in front of you, eyes searching your face as she tries to make sense of your swollen eyes, the tear streaks that feel burned into your cheeks.
“Are you okay?”
The question is ridiculous, completely redundant. Of course you’re not.
You shake your head. “No. I’m going home.”
Her eyebrows furrow, worry deepening as she opens her mouth to speak again.
The words come out of you, interrupting her, stripped of inflection, void of protection. Nothing left inside you but the bare truth.
“I’m in love with you.”
She just stares at you for a second, stunned as she processes your words. Her eyes are wide behind her glasses, lips parted in shock as she stands frozen in front of you.
You don’t wait for a response. There isn’t one you could survive right now anyway.
You turn around and continue walking toward your car, the distance between you widening with each step across the asphalt. You keep walking until your car is in front of you, until you’re inside with the engine running and your vision blurring. Only then do you let your head fall forward against the steering wheel, your breath faltering as you break open right there in your car.
Tomorrow, you’ll have to face what you said. Today, you just have to survive it.
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You made it home on autopilot. Your apartment was silent and empty when you got home, and it dawned on you then how terrible an idea it was to go home to be alone in your misery. You’d collapsed into your bed, in your nasty hospital scrubs that you always strip out of the second you walk into the door, and kicked your shoes off the edge of the bed solely so that you didn’t have to wash your bedding tomorrow. The world had bled out of you in a flood of hot and unstoppable tears until your eyes stung and your face was swollen and your body couldn’t produce anymore because of how dehydrated you were.
You’ve been alone with your thoughts since then, the image of Mel’s face burnt into your mind, your own I’m in love with you echoing in your mind. The memory of saying it aloud in the parking lot replays over and over inside your head, regret filling you more each time.
Your body drains completely. Thirst and exhaustion take over where the tears leave off, but your mind refuses to rest. You zone out on your couch, staring at the ceiling. You’re suspended in the awfulness of this day, possibly the worst you can ever remember having.
Hours later, there’s a knock at your door.
You don’t move.
Another knock.
And then a voice, one you’ve heard so often that it’s completely unmistakable even through the door: “Can I come in?”
Your stomach flips and you don’t answer. You just want to curl up and disappear. But every part of you, especially the part that’s been screaming for her for the past six days, knows you can’t hide from this.
The sound of the key in the lock, and the doorknob turns.
Mel steps inside your apartment, removing her spare key from the lock. You’re still slumped on the couch, still caught in the thicket of the numbness as she closes the door behind her.
For a moment she just stands there, staring at you.
“Why are you here?” the hoarseness of your voice surprises you.
“Because…” her voice falters and she adjusts her glasses. You can see her struggling to find words. “You’re not okay.”
You scoff lightly, more out of hurt than humor. “Why do you care? Where was this over the last week?”
Mel flinches because she knows you’re right. She opens her mouth to answer, but stops, because nothing she can say would erase the gap of six days of avoidance. Still, she knows this isn’t entirely fair, you’ve been avoiding her, too.
You take a deep breath. “I…I really, really can’t do this with you tonight. Not after today.”
Before she can respond, you stand from the couch, your body taut and your muscles protesting the stretch of standing after so many hours, and start stalking off toward your bedroom.
“Y’know…” Mel says quietly, almost reluctant in tone as you pass her. “…she told me not to wait.”
You freeze mid-step, just past her. The words are familiar, Ms. Burkhart’s voice saying them to you too just a few hours earlier.
Your chest twists.
When did Mel even talk to her? You were in and out of that room multiple times and never saw her in there alone with the patient. You didn’t know they’d had a conversation, let alone the same one she’d had with you.
You turn back toward her, eyes locking with hers. Neither of you say another word, but there’s weight in the air between you as you just…stare. Then you reach out and take her hand in yours. She hesitates for a moment, then allows you to start pulling her down the hall.
You lead her to your bedroom and close the door behind you. Wordlessly, you climb into your bed, tugging the blanket up with you and she follows, taking the space next to you.
The silence that follows is painful and awkward and until Mel breaks it.
“How long…how long have you known?”
There’s no point in hiding it anymore. “From the start.”
“Before my friends came?”
“Way before,” you confirm.
Mel shifts under the blanket as she turns to face you, her eyes searching yours. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
You take a deep breath, the words heavy on your tongue. “Because I didn’t feel like your life had space for me in that way,” you admit softly. “And…having you in any capacity, even just as your friend, was better than not having you at all.”
She’s curled in close to you in your tiny bed. “And all this time, you just…hid it?”
You look down, ashamed. “I tried. I pretended it wasn’t there, but then…pretending to be your girlfriend - it made it worse. I wish I’d never even offered, because now…now I’m stuck here and I’ve ruined everything. We can’t go back to how we were before, and I can’t…I can’t pretend anymore. Not after having you like that, even if it was just pretend.”
She reaches for your arm, fingers lightly brushing over it, like she needs tactile reassurance before speaking.
“I’ve….I’ve been thinking,” she begins hesitantly, “about…everything. About the past week, and - and that night at the bar.” She pauses as she swallows, her eyes not meeting yours. “I thought…maybe it was just the moment. That whole situation with that guy.” Her hands curl around the blanket, pulling it further up her body as if it’s going to shield her. “But it wasn’t. It wasn’t just that.”
She finally meets your gaze and the vulnerability in her eyes makes your heart lurch. “I didn’t even realize it at first, I didn’t know how I felt about you until…all of this. And then, these past few days, avoiding each other…it’s been awful. But I think it was my own way of trying to…make sense of everything. Make sense of me.”
She swallows hard. “I…I think I love you too. I don’t…I don’t even know when it happened, really, but…I do. I just couldn’t see it, it didn’t make sense until now.”
Her eyes are filled with both hope and uncertainty as she searches yours for any sign of rejection, while also daring to hope for acceptance.
You reach out, cupping her face in your hand, thumb brushing her cheek. She leans against the touch, both hesitant and wanting.
You lean in toward her, your lips brushing against hers. She responds immediately, chasing you when you pull away from her. You tilt your head, parting your lips as you slide your tongue gently into her mouth. It’s instinctive, born of too much time spent in unspoken longing and pent-up emotion. Your hands fist in her shirt and you pull her against you, desperate to have her body close to yours.
But Mel pulls back away from you as you escalate, breathless and wide eyed as her eyes scan your face. “No,” she whispers with a small shake of her head. “Not like this, not right now.”
“But -”
She’s firm as she pulls your hands from her shirt. “Not while you’re like this.”
But you can’t stop, won’t stop. You reach for her waist, forehead pressing to hers, and your voice is desperate as you speak. “Please, just…I need you, I need this. Just…help me. Please, Mel. Please, I need you -”
Her resolve wavers. You can see it in the tremor of her lips, the rise and fall of her chest at your words. She wants you too, just as badly, but she’s holding back. But your pleading pushes her over the edge and her restraint crumbles. Her arms wrap around you, pulling you in as she kisses you again. You respond in kind, fingers tangling in the loose hair at the nape of her neck, letting her drag you close until your body is pressed up against hers under the blanket.
Her tongue prods at your lips and your mouth opens for her. Her fingers dig into the soft skin of your waist and her knee nudges between yours, spreading them. Her knee hovers there between your thighs, not quite giving you what you want, but there for the taking.
So you take.
You rock down against her thigh, breaking from her mouth with a gasp as friction sparks against your clit through your scrub pants. You’re wound too tight, stretched thin with grief and want and adrenaline; you could probably cum like this alone. But it’s not enough, it’ll never be enough.
You need her hands on you.
You shove the blanket down your legs and push up, climbing over her until you’re straddling her thighs while she sits back against the headboard. Her hands settle on your hips automatically, grounding and possessive as you pull your scrub top over your head and toss it aside without caring where it lands.
Your hips roll helplessly against her lap, looking for friction that isn’t there while she pulls you down into another kiss, devouring you like she’s been starving too.
When you pull away for air, she leans forward, shoving your sports bra up and over your breasts, her mouth closing around one nipple immediately, tongue circling with feverish focus. A broken sigh escapes you, your hand cradling the back of her head to keep her there, even though she shows no intention of stopping. She switches sides after a moment, giving the other nipple the same attention, and as she moves, you catch sight of her glasses, fogged from the heat and her breath. A soft giggle escapes you.
You slide the black frames from her face gently, setting them on the nightstand.
The reaction is instant. She presses her face deeper against your chest, her nose smushing into your skin, eyes squeezed shut as she suckles harder, like she needs the contact as much as you do.
Your hips start moving again, grinding against her thighs. One leg slips between hers so you can straddle a single leg more fully, and she lets you, even flexes her thigh beneath you, giving you something solid to grind on.
And god, the feeling of her underneath you. Better than your wildest of wet dreams, rivaled in emotion only by that morning you woke up with her face pressed against your collarbone, her saliva rolling down your skin as she slept on you. Bliss in opposite forms, both intimate but in completely different ways.
You’re so lost in the sensation of her mouth on your chest that you don’t notice her hand sliding beneath the waistband of your pants until her fingers brush your slit through your panties.
“Ah!” You let out a strangled little cry, pathetic sounding even to your own ears as she strokes you over the damp cotton.
Mel angles her arm awkwardly to press her fingertips against your clit, mumbling a muffled “wet” against the fat of your breast as her fingers dip through the leg of your panties and between your soaked folds.
You’re rocking down against her hand, her fingers alternating between flicking gently over your clit and sliding further down to gather your slick before resuming their ministrations against the swollen nub.
“Please,” you whimper above her.
She pulls away from your tit to look up at you, her eyes uncharacteristically dark. “Please what?”
You huff at that, causing her to press further. “Tell me what you want.”
You’re desperate to have her inside you, hips jerking against her hand, but she pulls away. You back up just enough to gawk down at her, stunned.
Mel King, being a fucking tease. An infuriating little smirk on her face as she takes in your disheveled expression.
“Need you,” you finally whine out. “Please.”
That’s what she was waiting for. She presses a hand flat to your sternum, guiding you backward just enough to hook her other fingers into the waistband of your scrub pants, tugging them down your thighs. You lift off her lap obediently, kicking them off along with your panties before settling back over you.
Mel’s legs part just a bit, enough to keep you spread open above her as your knees bracket her own. One hand takes hold of your hips, guiding you down onto her awaiting other. Her ring and middle finger slide inside you easily, wetness dripping down her digits the second they start to slip inside, you desperation laid out for both of you to see.
You whine again as you sink down onto them, and she curls them as you reach her knuckles. The pads of her fingers rub against the spot inside of you that causes your brain to shut down, and you rock against them to rub against it repeatedly. Her thumb finds your clit, solid against the nub as you rock against her fingers, riding her.
A guttural moan tears out of you. You’re already teetering on the edge, too overwhelmed to hold back. You ride her fingers harder, chasing release without shame.
Below you, she watches with blown pupils and parted lips, tiny whimpers of her own escaping her. She tries to hide them against your skin when they threaten to grow louder.
The spark ignites inside you, all-consuming and white-hot like fire. It warms your body, tingles in your toes, pleasure winding tighter and threatening to spill out of you like water. Your back arches as you cum, release spilling over her hand as the walls of your pussy pulse around her fingers.
Your mouth is dry as you come down from your high, folding inward on yourself until your forehead is pressed against hers. She slips her fingers from inside you as you sag against her, panting.
“Open.”
Her wet fingers prod at your lips and you part them obediently, taking her into your mouth and tasting your own release. Your tongue swirls around them, eyes closing blissfully until she rips them from your mouth and presses her own mouth to yours, tongue shoving into your mouth to get a taste herself.
Her hands grip your sides tight like a vice, pulling you off her and subsequentially under her on the bed until she’s hovering over you.
You sit up just enough to start pulling at her clothes, but she stops you with firm hands and a shake of her head.
“No.”
You look up at her, searching her face, confused. “But I want you to -”
Her eyes are set, leaving no room for argument as she shakes her head again. “This is about you.”
Now it’s your turn to shake your head, eyes wide. “Mel, no. I don’t - I don’t want you doing this just for me, just because I -”
She cuts you off with a press of her lips to yours, both hands grasping your face to hold you to her. When she pulls away, she breathes, “This isn’t just for you. This is about you. You need this…and I want you. I want this.”
You search her face for doubt, for hesitation, for anything that might indicate she isn’t being entirely truthful with you. But there’s nothing there but want, raw and unmistakable.
So you give in.
Satisfied with your submission, Mel slides down your body until she settles between your spread legs. Her arms hook around the outside of your thighs, holding you open as her tongue drags slowly up your slit.
The sensation pulls a moan from you, your head tilting back on the pillow as she latches onto your clit. The world narrows to the slide of her tongue, her confidence growing as she begins to pull sound after sound from you.
Mel is content like this, her face buried in your pussy, no glasses to fog up as she breathes heavily through her nose. Not even willing to break from your clit to take a full breath of air. She starts slow, dragging out your pleasure until the sounds falling from your lips become too tempting, she needs to hear more, needs to watch you cum from only her mouth.
When she glances up at you, your eyes are rolled back, thighs shaking around her head, hands gripping her hair to hold her in place as your hips roll against her face, chasing the feeling.
You’ve never felt like this before, another orgasm building so quickly, so desperate for her as you whimper, as you beg her for more. Your fingers tangle in her braid as the feeling consumes you and you cum again against her mouth, pussy fluttering around nothing as you let out a breathless cry. It feels like eons as you ride out the aftershocks, finally collapsing into the bed, spent.
Mel releases you, drawing back, her face shining with your slick. You reach for her, your hands clasping around her arm to pull her down next to you on the pillows. She comes willingly, collapsing next to you without a fight.
You curl into her automatically. “Are you sure I can’t return the favor?”
“Not tonight,” she says, still catching her breath.
“What can I do for you?” you ask. “Tell me, give me something.”
She’s silent for a moment as she ponders.
“I could use a shower.”
She doesn’t move right away, and neither do you. The bedroom is quiet except for the sound of your breathing. Then you squeeze her hand.
“C’mon,” you murmur.
She lets you pull her upright. Your own legs are shaky, like they belong to someone else as they wobble underneath you, but her hand is firm around yours as you lead her down the hall to the bathroom. The light is too bright at first and it forces your eyes to squint as you reach in and start the water.
You share the shower in a comfortable silence, neither of you speaking much. There isn’t anything left that needs saying.
She’s naked. You try not to stare, you really do. But your eyes keep drifting anyway, drawn helplessly to the familiar shape of her body that’s suddenly new without layers of clothes in the way. Each time she catches you looking, her cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink, followed by a shy little duck of her head before she does her best to pretend like nothing happened. It only makes you want to look more, both equal parts awed and nervous of making her more self-conscious.
When you finally exit the shower, it’s been much longer than necessary, neither of you seeming to want to leave the comfort of the hot water. But exhaustion pulls at you both and you wander out to the bedroom, hair still dripping as you pull clothes for both of you from your drawers.
Whether she stays here or not tonight, you know Mel won’t want to get back into her dirty scrubs immediately after a shower.
You sit on the edge of the bed while she gathers her wet hair from her face, and only then does the reality of the hour seem to take root in her mind.
“Becca,” she says quietly, more to herself than to you.
Right. Becca is at their apartment. Waiting.
The bubble you’re in shifts, prepared to fully burst wit her next action.
Mel steps closer to you, stopping when she’s just within reach. Her hands hover before settling lightly on your shoulders and she sinks down to her knees in front of you.
“I can’t stay,” she says softly. “But I’m not leaving you here by yourself.”
Your eyes lift to hers, surprised.
She hesitates, but not like she’s uncertain. More like she wants to make sure you really hear what she offers next:
“Come home with me,” she says. “Stay the night. Actually, stay as long as you want.”
The impact is enormous. An invitation into her real life, more than just her best friend, more than her fake girlfriend. An intimate space inside her world, created just for you.
Carrie’s voice surfaces in your mind again.
Don’t wait.
Your fingers catch in the hem of your own shirt on her body. “Are you sure?”
Her expression is soft, relaxed in a way you rarely see on her. “I’m sure.”
Emotion surges so suddenly within you that it steals your breath, relief coursing through your veins until you can’t hold it in and it comes out in words.
“I love you.”
Her eyes close for a moment, like she can physically feel the words. When she opens them again, there’s light inside them.
“I love you too.”
She stands, but leans back down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “C’mon,” she murmurs against your hair. “Let’s get you out of here.”
♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡
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♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡
@li22ie2017 and @somemetallyillbitch both asked to be tagged in this, so here you go 💛
Summary: when Mel’s friends from college come to visit, there’s only one way to keep them off her back, and it’s your job as her best friend to help her. How hard can pretending to be someone’s girlfriend really be?
CW: fake dating, friends-to-lovers, mutual pining, fluff, angst, kissing, kind of a slow burn, unresolved tension (in this part), homophobic language (use of “dyke” in a derogatory way), alcohol consumption, a man hitting on you for the plot.
WC: 12.2k
Tightrope (part 2)
A/N: this is the longest piece I’ve written on Tumblr so far.
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You learned very quickly on her first day that people had a habit of walking away while Melissa King was still talking.
Not in an intentionally cruel way, but more like just drifting away. Nodding halfway through her explanation and then peeling off the second something bigger demanded their attention. She would never call them back or raise her voice, she would just let the rest of her sentence fall away and move on like she hadn’t been speaking at all.
You hated it.
Mel listens to everyone. Patients rambling about their lives, family members who are spiraling, med students panicking, you name it. She gives her full attention like it’s an unlimited resource. It bothered you that she poured so much into other people and rarely seemed to receive the same in return.
So you decided it had to be you.
At first, it had been small things: lingering after a conversation so she could actually finish her thought with another person in front of her. Asking follow-up questions when she would say something about her personal life. Seeking her out toward the end of a shift for something that wasn’t about a patient.
The first time you approached her about having dinner together, she’d looked almost startled, like she couldn’t figure out why someone would want her company without some sort of agenda. When she explained that she wanted to, but she had to pick up her sister from her day center, you adjusted the plan like it was no big deal. You ordered far too much spaghetti and garlic bread from Pasta Too and showed up at her apartment an hour later.
That was the first time you met Becca. The first time you saw Mel in her own space, far more relaxed than you’d ever seen her at work. You ate at her tiny dining room table while Becca explained why Pasta Too’s spaghetti is actually better than Sienna Mercato’s and Mel laughed along in a way that felt sincere.
After that, friendship settled in naturally. You weren’t work-friends, you were real friends. You learned the King sisters’ routines and had your own specific mug at their apartment.
And at some point, your reasons for showing up became a little less simple.
You told yourself it was just loyalty, or maybe protectiveness over Mel and her casual kindness that she gave a little too freely. Just the satisfaction of being the one person who didn’t walk away from her mid-sentence.
It was easier to just not think about it too much.
Mel was always careful with her heart, and you’ve never been sure there was space for you in that way, not when her life is already so full of responsibility, and certainly not when she’s never once looked at you like she’s wondering.
So you let the feeling hide away in the back of your thoughts where you could keep it smothered. Friendship, after all, was something you already had and you weren’t about to risk losing it.
Which is why, when Mel is off her game today, you notice immediately.
She normally doesn’t miss things. She doesn’t drift her attention in and out during work when nothing is wrong, and she certainly doesn’t stand in the middle of the ER staring at the board blankly until someone calls her name.
But today she does, and you don’t know why.
“Dr. King?” you say gently, nudging her elbow with yours. “You’re still with me, right?”
She blinks like she’s surfacing from underwater. “Right, sorry.”
You’ve watch her the entire morning. She’s competent - she’s always competent - but she’s quieter than normal, even for her. She’s slower between cases, and her smile at a patient’s joke hits her face half a second later than usual.
When you finally get five uninterrupted minutes where nobody is demanding either of your attention, you drag her toward the supply room, closing the door with your hip behind you.
“Okay,” you sigh. “What’s going on with you today?”
Mel doesn’t look at you, instead choosing to count suture kits that don’t require counting.
“Nothing.”
You lean against a shelf, arms crossed in front of your chest and a look of disbelief on your face. “Mel.”
Her tongue pokes the inside of her cheek as she deliberates. Then, with a resigned sigh, she says, “Charlie and Sabrina are coming into town.”
You frown, trying to recall the familiar names from your list of knowledge about Mel. “Those are your college friends, right?”
She nods.
You’ve heard about them before: stories about shared dorm kitchens and bad boyfriends and finals week meltdowns. They were the kind of friends who help shaped Mel when she was in college, long before her mother passed and life changed for Mel and Becca.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” you ask carefully. “You haven’t seen them in what, a year?”
“Eight months,” she corrects. “They come every year.”
“…and they’re staying with you?”
“On my couch,” Mel sighs. “For a few days.”
“So why do you look like someone just told you we’re short staffed for the next month?”
That almost gets a smile out of her.
“Because,” she says, exhaling through her nose, “every time they visit, it becomes a State of the Union on my personal life.”
You blink. “What does that even mean?”
“It means they think I’m overworked. Burnt out. Alone.” She shrugs one shoulder, still not meeting your eyes. “They’re not totally wrong.”
You purse your lips as she goes on.
“They just…” she pauses, looking for the words. “They care. They don’t want me pouring everything into work and Becca and ending up with nothing for myself.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
“I know,” Mel says, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “I just don’t have the bandwidth for it right now.”
You soften a little. You know what her days look like. Long shifts, sometimes taking tablets home to finish charting at midnight. Checking in on Becca throughout the day, picking her up in the evenings, making sure her routine isn’t ever disrupted.
“So what do they do?” you ask. “Interrogate you?”
She huffs. “It’s more like…persistent encouragement.”
You’re more confused than ever at why any of this is a bad thing. “That just sounds like they love you.” You study her face, trying to understand what she isn’t saying.
Then, a lightbulb.
“They’re pushy about your love life, aren’t they?”
“Very.”
You nod slowly with the realization. “Okay, so we solve that.”
Mel’s brow furrows. “We?”
“Yeah, we.”
Mel leans back against the shelves next to you. “Unless you can find me a partner in the next two days, I don’t see how you’re going to be much help.”
An awkward laugh follows her words, both defensive and dismissive.
You exchange a look, and the conversation is left dangling as Dana’s muffled voice calls out an incoming trauma from the nurse’s station. Mel heads out of the supply room quickly, ducking her head to try and avoid others noticing the flush on her face at the very private topic of her love life.
You follow, silently brainstorming practically the rest of the day on how to help her.
All day, every time she appears, you notice how her eyes unfocus when nobody is watching her. The little tense curl of her shoulders as she, too, is clearly trying to solve this problem between patients.
And every time, you catch yourself thinking about how you could fix this. How you could make it easier for her.
She’s your friend, after all, right? That’s what friends do.
At the end of your shift, you spot her leaving through the employee door of the hospital. She’s checking her bag, a thin coat draped over one arm and her phone in her hand. The hallway is otherwise empty, not a soul coming in or out.
Perfect.
You fall into step beside her. “Hey.”
Mel glances up with a surprised expression. “Hey.”
“About earlier.” You pause. “I think I found a way to help.”
Her eyebrows furrow as she focuses on your face. “How?”
You stop walking as you make it out the door, standing close enough to her that the cool air feels different outside of the hospital. “I could…pretend to be your partner.”
She also stops walking, mid-step. “Excuse me?”
“Just for a few days,” you clarify quickly. “We tell your friends we’ve been seeing each other, they leave you alone about it, and then they leave and we never have to talk about it ever again.”
You can see the cogs turning in Mel’s head as she says, “…you would do that for me?”
“Who could do it better?” you urge, reaching out and taking hold of her arms gently just above her elbows. “We already spend time together outside the hospital, Becca knows me, I’ve been to your apartment and you’ve been to mine before. It’s a minimal disruption to your life and you get your friends off your back.”
She’s clearly weighing the risk, her gaze lifted somewhere above your heads as she thinks.
“I need to think about it,” she finally says, looking at you.
“Okay.”
Apparently, Mel didn’t have to think about it for long.
The following night, you’d barely had the energy to shower, let alone cook, so dinner had consisted of crackers, a string cheese, and the electrolyte drink you’d bought during your last grocery run when you were trying to be healthier and then forgotten about it until it was the only thing you had besides water.
Now, you’re curled sideways on the couch in an oversized sweatshirt and sleep shorts, a cooling face mask tight across your skin while Love Island plays to an audience of one just a little after 9pm.
Your phone buzzes against the arm of the couch.
Are you awake?
You smile at your phone, picturing Mel on the other end, practically sending a u up? text.
Yeah, what’s up?
Barely a moment passes before your screen lights up again.
Can you come over please? Becca just went to bed.
Your pulse stutters for reasons you refuse to think about, even as you jump off your couch and pull on your coat.
Her apartment isn’t too far from yours, and it’s both silent and mostly dark when you arrive.
She opens the door before you can knock, as if she’s been standing just inside waiting. Given she waited until after Becca was in bed to text you, you assume that was on purpose.
“Hey,” she says softly. “Come on in.”
The TV murmurs faintly from her living room, the volume low. A blanket is rumpled on the couch, telling you that Mel had been mirroring you in your own home.
You slip off your shoes at the front door. You’ve been here enough to know the rhythm of Mel’s apartment.
For a moment she just stands there, her arms folded, like she’s rehearsing words in her head. Then she sighs, closing her eyes.
“I…I want to do it.”
You blink. “Do it?”
“The pretending,” she says with a small, awkward gesture of her hands. “Us, dating. For my friends.”
You smile, mostly out of surprise. “Oh, okay, yeah, let’s do it.”
Mel nods, hurrying past you to the kitchen counter, where she retrieves a folded sheet of lined paper. “I made a list of things we should think about.”
Of course she did.
You can’t stop the small laugh that escapes you as she hands you the paper, filled with her handwriting. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
“I was up most of last night,” she admits, not looking even a little embarrassed.
Her handwriting is neat but urgent, like she didn’t want to lose track of the thoughts as they came.
• Becca needs to know it isn’t real.
So her routine won’t be bothered when Mel’s friends leave, that one you understand.
• Relationship details planned ahead.
Makes sense, you need a cohesive story.
• No surprises in front of Becca.
Again, another one you understand. Mel always puts Becca first, anything that would disrupt or dysregulate her is an immediate no.
Your eyes drift over the rest of the list of what seems to be rules, until they finally reach the last line.
• Rules for PDA???
You look up, your eyebrows lifting as your gaze settles on Mel’s face.
She doesn’t even question which one you’re looking at, pressing her lips together firmly. “That one felt…necessary.”
You bite back another smile at her thoroughness. “Are we workshopping these rules right now?”
Mel takes a seat on her couch and you follow suit at the other end, drawing your knees up to your chest. “If we don’t do this right, it’s only going to make them ask more questions.”
“So,” you say carefully, “what kind of rules do you think we should have?”
She looks up until her eyes catch yours, then back down at her hands nervously. “I don’t know,” she admits.
You scoot across the couch until you’re on the seat next to her, and she almost shrinks under your gaze. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” you say slowly. And then you reach for her hand, taking it in yours. “Are you okay with this?”
Mel inhales, short and quick as she looks down at your joined hands. “Yeah, that’s okay.”
Her hand is warm in yours, and you let go before you can think too much about the contact.
“What about hugging?” you ask.
Her head lifts immediately, brows drawing together in confusion. “We’ve hugged before.”
There’s just a tiny bit of defensiveness in her tone. It’s not anger, more like she thinks you’re implying she’s fragile and can’t stand to be touched.
You smile gently. “I know, but I’m not talking about end-of-shift, ‘good job surviving’ hugs.”
She tilts her head a little as you go on.
“I mean,” you clarify, “if we’re pretending. Would your…partner need permission every time? Or is it normal to just -” you hesitate, searching for neutral phrasing. “Touch you.”
Her gaze drops to your hands again, though you’re no longer touching.
“I didn’t think about that,” she admits quietly.
You nod. “Like, if I came up behind you, would that be okay? Or would you want a warning first?”
Mel’s mouth tilts to one side, thoughtful. “I don’t like being surprised,” she says. “But I don’t need formal permission. Just…try not to sneak up on me.”
You study her face, searching for any discomfort there. “Mel,” you say gently, reaching out to take her hand again. She doesn’t pull away. “We don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do. If this is too much, we don’t have to do it. Your friends can kick rocks.”
“It’s okay,” she says quickly, looking back up at you. “I just don’t want this to ruin our friendship.”
Your thumb brushes across the back of her hand lightly.
“It won’t,” you promise. “We’re not changing anything. When they leave, everything will go back to normal.”
The words sound simple and sensible.
Mel’s shoulders loosen, tension easing from her posture as she nods in agreement.
You give her hand one last reassuring squeeze before letting go, leaning back into the couch.
Normal. Everything will go back to normal.
But as Mel relaxes beside you and the conversation moves back to your usual friendly banter, a quiet unease settles in your chest.
Because you’re not fully sure your heart understands the word pretend. And you’re not sure, once that door opens, that you’ll be able to close it again.
♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡
The following day comes too soon, and your shift is over faster than you expected. By the time you’ve clocked out, your feet ache and your brain feels like it’s been wrung dry.
It had been one of those shifts, full of non-stop call lights, two near-misses that left your adrenaline spiking for over an hour after each, and the kind of emotional exhaustion that settled deep in your bones. All you really want is a boiling hot shower, your own bed, and eight uninterrupted hours of silence.
Instead, your phone buzzed in your pocket long before your shift had ended, reminding you of your self-assigned responsibility.
They’re here. Making dinner.
You had stared at the message for a long time when it came in two hours ago, your exhaustion warring with obligation.
No pressure.
Right.
You want to go home. You want to collapse face-first into your pillow and pretend you never offered any of this.
But Mel is expecting you. And more than that, she’s counting on you.
So now you’re in your car, the engine humming beneath you as the city lights slide past in familiar turns and traffic lights while the sky dims into a soft blue-gray as the daytime turns to evening.
Your hands tighten on the steering wheel, and you tell yourself that it’s just nerves. This is acting, that’s all.
You and Mel are friends who are going to pretend to be girlfriends for a few days. You’ve run through the plan a dozen times since last night. Becca already knows, Mel promised she had explained everything. Everyone is on the same page.
Still, a small, treacherous worry creeps its way into your thoughts.
What if Becca forgets and says something? What if she cheerfully announces they’re pretending! halfway through dinner?
You sigh and try to shake your head of the thought.
Mel wouldn’t have agreed to this if she thought it would upset her sister in any way. And Becca knows you, she trusts you. That has to count for something.
At a red light, you flex your fingers against the steering wheel to try and steady your heart pounding in your chest.
This is no different than acting. You just have to be warm and familiar, and a little affectionate. Physical affection, you remind yourself, is part of the performance. Hugging. Sitting close. Holding her hand.
Your stomach flips and you try to force yourself to focus on the practical stuff instead.
A couple of months, that’s the story you’ve agreed on.
Long enough that sleepovers make sense; your toothbrush is already sitting beside Mel’s in the holder, your spare hoodie is hanging in her hall closet, a pair of socks in her dresser like you’re there all the time.
But not long enough that Charlie and Sabrina will be upset she didn’t tell them right away.
You’re new and easy and still in the honeymoon phase. You can do the honeymoon phase.
You pull into the parking lot of Mel’s apartment complex, parking in the closest spot you can find to the building’s single entry door. You turn off the engine and sit there for a moment, listening to the ticking quiet of the cooling car. Then you reach for your bag, step out into the cool air, and head toward the building.
When you make it to her floor, the spare key she’d given you slides easily into the lock.
You don’t hesitate. Because if you hesitate, you’ll overthink everything, and you’ve already done enough of that in the car.
The door opens to the warm, lived-in comfort you’ve come to associate with Mel’s apartment: there’s the low hum of voices, the soft clatter of dishes, and the unmistakable smell of garlic in sauce on the stove.
You toe off your shoes beside the door like you always do and set your backpack down.
“I’m home,” you call, the rehearsed words leaving your mouth before you can second-guess them.
The conversation and laughter coming from the kitchen halts immediately and silence takes its place.
From where you stand in the entryway, you can see the layout clearly: Becca and two women you don’t recognize are seated at the dining table, mid-conversation, their attention slowly pivoting toward you. One of them holds a drink in her hand, hovering mid-air like she was about to take a sip before you interrupted.
Mel stands at the small island with her back to the room, her shoulders hunched in concentration as she chops vegetables. She hasn’t turned around, clearly more prepared for you than anyone else was.
This is it.
You cross the apartment room on quiet feet, slipping into Mel’s personal space like you’re comfortable doing it. For half a second you catch the smell of her strawberry shampoo, the soft cotton of her shirt brushing your forearm as you wrap your arms gently around her waist.
You feel her entire body jolt in surprise at the contact.
Before she can turn, before you lose your nerve, you lean in and press a soft kiss to the curve of her shoulder.
Three things happen at once:
The first is that your own heart kickstarts into overdrive. You’re pretty sure Mel can feel it against her back, it’s pounding that hard against your chest. Your lips against her body, even through her shirt, is too much for your poor nervous system to take.
The second is that Mel freezes.
Not the small startle you’d expected from her, like when you first touched her, and certainly not the quick recovery you both rehearsed for, but a full, stunned stillness, as if her brain is short-circuiting. The knife remains suspended in her hand above the cutting board. You can feel the sudden inhale she takes, the way she goes rigid beneath your arms.
And the third, behind you, the room goes utterly and profoundly still.
You glance behind you.
Becca’s expression is bright with recognition and something like poorly-contained delight.
The other two women are looking at you like you’ve just materialized out of thin air.
You loosen your hold a little, suddenly aware of the heat that’s rushing into your face, the way Mel hasn’t moved an inch.
“Hi,” you say, voice soft, uncertain.
The taller of the two women, a redhead, blinks first. “Who are you?”
You glance at Mel, still frozen in front of you, then back at them, offering a small, sheepish smile. “I’m…I’m Mel’s -” you falter, unsure of yourself. “She didn’t tell you?”
Mel finally turns around in your arms. Her face is pink and her eyes are wide, the shock slowly giving way to embarrassment. A flicker of nervous laughter hovers at the corner of her mouth.
“I was going to,” she admits. “I just…hadn’t gotten there yet.”
The two women remain frozen. The one holding the drink sets it down very carefully.
Becca looks between all of you, clearly thrilled. Your name leaves her mouth suddenly, loud and excited. “That’s Mel’s girlfriend!”
The declaration lands in the room like a dropped plate.
Charlie and Sabrina, though you’re not sure which is which, both snap their attention from Becca back to you, then to Mel, then back again - their expressions astonished.
Mel lets out a small laugh that’s clearly made out of panic. “I -” She glances up at you, her cheeks flushed an even darker shade of pink. “Yeah, this is - we’re -”
You squeeze her lightly, trying to ground her before she can spiral.
“Hi,” you say gently, offering a small and apologetic smile. “Sorry for the dramatic entrance.”
Neither of them responds immediately.
Becca, however, looks immensely pleased with herself.
The brunette leans back in her chair, eyes wide. “Mel,” she says slowly, “you literally told me on the phone the other day that you don’t have time to date.”
“I didn’t say that,” Mel mutters.
The other woman gestures vaguely in your direction. “There is a person attached to you.”
You become acutely aware of your arms still around Mel’s waist, and you take a step back from her.
Mel sighs, tension cracking into shy resignation. “I-I was going to tell you,” she says. “It’s just…new.”
New.
Becca nods emphatically, as if confirming everything.
Charlie and Sabrina are still staring at the two of you, processing, rewriting the narrative in real time.
And slowly - very slowly - the shock in the room begins to melt into other things.
Curiosity. Delight. And the sense that your relationship has just become the most interesting development of their entire visit.
The silence breaks all at once.
The redhead recovers first, shoving her chair back as she stands and crosses the short distance toward you, her eyes bright with disbelief and curiosity.
“I’m Charlie,” she says, studying you. “And I have questions.”
The brunette rises more slowly, though her expression is just as stunned. “Sabrina,” she introduces herself, shaking her head like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. “Jesus, Mel, we leave you alone for five minutes…”
Mel makes a strangled noise behind you and abruptly turns back to the cutting board, knife meeting wood in quick thunks that suggest she’s channeling every ounce of her flustered energy into chopping the veggies.
“It’s really nice to meet you both,” you say.
Charlie leans an elbow on the counter like she’s settling in for an interview. “How long have you been dating?”
“Charlie,” Mel says warily without turning around.
“What? I’m pacing myself.”
“Two months,” you answer, trying to keep your tone easy.
Sabrina’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Only two months?”
Behind you, the knife pauses for a second before resuming it’s rhythm.
Becca, meanwhile, is practically vibrating in her chair. “They hold hands when they watch TV,” she announces proudly.
Mel drops a piece of zucchini.
“Becca,” she says weakly.
“And she sleeps over all the time,” Becca continues, clearly taking delight in divulging fake details. “Her toothbrush is blue.”
Your face warms.
Charlie presses her lips together, fighting a grin and losing. Sabrina looks openly charmed.
Mel’s shoulders creep higher toward her ears.
You take pity on her.
“I’m going to go change,” you say gently, placing a hand on the small of Mel’s back in passing. “Long shift.”
Mel nods quickly without turning around. “Yeah. Go. Please.”
Becca waves enthusiastically as you retreat down the hall like you live here - which, for the purposes of the next few days, you pretty much do.
You change into the clothes you’d stashed here yesterday: soft sweatpants and a tank top, the comfort of them helping to settle your nerves. The muffled cadence of voices carries from the kitchen, and you’re unable to make out the words, but they’re animated.
But while you’re gone -
Mel keeps her eyes on the cutting board long after you’ve disappeared down the hall.
The moment the bedroom door clicks shut, Charlie leans forward, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper.
“Mel.”
Mel sighs, “Don’t.”
Sabrina’s smile is soft. “She’s so cute.”
Mel’s knife slows.
Charlie props her chin on her hand. “Also, the way she walked in and just -” she gestures vaguely towards Mel, “-claimed her spot?”
Sabrina studies Mel’s back for a moment, thinking heavily. “Hey,” she says quietly. “Why didn’t you tell us? Really.”
Mel shrugs with a small lift of one shoulder. “I told you, it’s new.”
“Did you think we wouldn’t be happy for you?”
Mel’s brows knit faintly. “What? No.”
Sabrina presses, but carefully. “We’ve been giving you grief about dating for years now. Was it because we always said ‘boyfriend’?”
There’s no accusation in it. Just a question.
Mel finally turns around, knife in hand, leaning back against the counter.
“I didn’t think you’d be upset,” she says. “I just…didn’t want it to be a thing. You guys already think I work too much, and with Becca and everything else…” she gestures vaguely. “I didn’t want to add another conversation.”
Charlie frowns a little. “The only reason we’ve ever bothered you about dating is because we want you to be happy. We don’t care who it is.”
Sabrina nods. “If anything, I’m just offended you didn’t call me after your first date.”
Mel’s face flushes immediately. “I didn’t - it’s not -”
Becca kicks her feet under the table, happy with both the chaos and her sister’s embarrassment.
“For the record?” Charlie grins.
Mel looks up warily.
“She’s cute,” Charlie says. “And the way she looks at you? Yeah. I approve.”
Sabrina nods again. “Very much.”
Mel presses her lips together tightly, failing to hide the warmth and the smile creeping into her expression. “I know,” she admits quietly.
Dinner is surprisingly natural once you return.
Without making a big spectacle of it, you move alongside Mel in the kitchen - pulling plates from the cabinet she always uses, setting the table, spooning pasta and vegetables into neat portions that don’t touch on Becca’s plate while Mel protests that she can do it herself.
“You cooked,” you remind her, brushing past her. “Sit down.”
Mel only hesitates for a moment before relenting, her shoulders relaxing as she slides into the chair beside Becca.
You place a plate in front of Mel, another in front of Becca, and pause when Becca looks up at you expectantly.
You smile. This, you’ve done a thousand times.
“Orange juice?” you offer.
She nods enthusiastically.
“Coming right up.”
By the time you sit down with your own plate, this feels like things are back to normal. No forced niceness or awkward small talk, just having dinner instead of performing for Mel’s friends. It makes everything feel like less of a lie.
Charlie and Sabrina exchange looks over their forks any time you and Mel interact.
They don’t say it outright, but it’s obvious in their expressions with every gesture.
Questions come, but they arrive wrapped in curiosity rather than interrogation. How did you meet? Who asked who out? Do you work the same shifts often? Is Mel finally taking days off? You move through them carefully, Mel’s awkwardness at the nature of the questions helping make your answers feel natural.
A couple of months. Work friends first. Coffee after a long shift. It just sort of happened.
Becca contributes freely, offering enthusiastic confirmation of dinners and movie nights and hand-holding like she’s your relationship’s personal publicist.
Mel’s friends seem pleased with all of it.
By the time dishes are rinsed and stacked and the apartment settles into nighttime quiet, the initial shock has settled into warm approval. Eventually, yawns begin to spread around the living room. Blankets are claimed, the couch is prepared with pillows, and lights are dimmed.
You and Mel exchange a glance.
So far, so good.
The bedroom door closes softly behind you.
The quiet feels immediate and intimate after the grilling conversation you’ve been fielding all evening.
For a moment, you and Mel just stand there in her bedroom, looking at each other - then, like a string that’s been pulled too tight finally snapping, you both dissolve into soft, nervous laughter.
“Oh my god,” you whisper.
“I know,” she breathes, pressing a hand to her forehead as she leans back against the door. “Charlie’s face when you walked in -”
“You froze.”
“You kissed my shoulder!”
“You should’ve seen your face!”
She laughs again, trying to muffle the sound in the sleeve of her shirt.
“I thought I was prepared,” she admits. “I was not prepared.”
You grin, keeping your voice low as you say, “For what it’s worth, I think they believe us.”
Mel nods, passing you to flop onto her bed. “Yeah, they definitely do.” She’s quiet for a moment before adding, “Becca is being…extremely helpful.”
You smile, following to sit next to her. “She’s committed to the mission.”
She laughs, throwing an arm over her face, shielding her from the overhead light. You hurry back to the door, flipping off the ceiling light and instead turning on the lamp by her bedside.
“You know,” she says after a moment, not quite meeting your eyes, “you don’t actually have to stay the night. If you want to sneak out once everyone’s asleep, that’s okay.”
The words are soft and almost insecure.
You tilt your head. “Do you not want me to stay?”
Mel flushes instantly and she turns her head away under the pretense of smoothing the edge of her comforter, refusing to look at you.
“Of course not,” she says quickly. “Having you here has made this…a lot easier for me. It's actually kind of fun, pretending.”
You watch her reach up and tuck a corner of the blanket, redundant since it’ll be pulled back soon anyway. The movement betrays her nerves.
“I’m going to go brush my teeth then,” you say, keeping your voice low for the sleeping apartment beyond the bedroom door. “I’ll be right back.”
Mel nods quickly. “Okay.”
You offer her a small smile before disappearing into the hallway, the door closing behind you.
Mel exhales slowly, pressing her fingertips into her forehead to steady herself.
She can still feel the ghost of your arms around her waist earlier, she thinks back on the way you plated her dinner, poured Becca’s juice. The way you move around them like you’re part of her home.
This is supposed to be pretend.
Instead, watching you walk out of her bedroom toward the bathroom, your hair still slightly mussed from your long shift, something else is settling in her chest. A strange awareness that having you here, acting the way you are, doesn’t feel like much of an act at all.
♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡
The first light of morning is just barely brushing the edges of the blinds, painting the room in soft gold rays. You stir, only half-aware of the alarmingly cozy weight draped over you.
And then you open your eyes.
Mel is pressed up against you, her face tucked into your collarbone, both arms curled around your waist, one over, one under you. Her legs are tangled with yours, her body molded against you in a way that feels almost possessive. You inhale slowly, trying not to move too much, because you’re sure that the moment you do, the spell will break.
She’s asleep, but it’s not the restless sleep you’ve seen her in after a long shift when she falls asleep on her couch before you’ve left her apartment. There’s no furrowed brow, no twitch to her limbs. She’s just peaceful right now. The rise and fall of her chest is steady and calm, and it makes your heart squeeze.
You can feel the weight of her arms, the gentle press of her soft skin against yours, and the warmth of her hair brushing across your chest, stray hairs falling out of her usual braid. Your fingers itch to smooth her hair down, to trace the line of her arm. But you stay still, because again, this is delicate and you’re painfully aware that it’s stolen time.
Pretend. It’s just pretend.
But your thoughts betray you. Your chest feels tight, it knows you’re lying to yourself. You’ve been pretending for the last twelve hours straight, but the longer you hold her in this exact minute, the less fake it feels. You wonder if she knows deep down that this is no longer just a mission or a favor to you - that this isn’t entirely pretend.
A small, sleepy sigh escapes her lips and you catch the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, even in her sleep. You let your hand drift lightly along her back, just enough to feel the warmth of her body under the blanket, careful not to wake her.
Time seems to stretch. A minute is an hour, an hour is a second.
Eventually, though, the morning nudges you toward motion. You don’t want to get up, but you also know the world is coming. And with it will come Mel’s shift at the hospital.
She works today, you don’t.
Against your better judgment, you press a soft kiss to the top of her head. She moves just a little in her sleep and her arms tighten around you, her body trying hard to avoid the wake-up that her mind is heading toward.
“Coffee?” you whisper softly, more to yourself than her, partially because speaking her name might wake her and also because you know she doesn’t actually like coffee.
A soft groan drifts from her lips.
Careful not to wake her further, you slowly begin untangling yourself from Mel. One arm slips out, then a leg, moving cautiously. Her weight shifts against you, a small stir in her sleep.
Don’t wake her. Don’t wake her.
Finally, you’re free - fully separate, but the warmth of her still lingers on your skin. Relief washes over you for a moment…until you catch a glint of moisture on your collarbone.
Oh.
She’s drooled on you.
You giggle softly, trying to be discreet as you dab at it with the blanket, heart hammering. And that’s exactly when her eyes flutter open.
She blinks, slow and still half-asleep, and looks up at you. For a heartbeat, you think she’s going to say something, or maybe even recoil. But instead, she just watches you carefully, the tiniest trace of embarrassment in her gaze. Her mouth quirks to the side both in shyness and amusement, and she doesn’t look away.
“Morning,” she murmurs, her voice husky from sleep.
“Morning,” you echo quietly.
You both move to get ready - brushing your teeth, pulling on clothes and glasses, and tidying up her bed together quietly. There’s a strange feeling in the air, almost as if both of you are aware of the lingering closeness, the newness of it, yet trying not to admit it out loud.
By the time you emerge into the living room, the sun is rising higher, painting the apartment in gold. Becca is already perched on the couch, chatting happily with Charlie and Sabrina, who are lounging comfortably and clearly already invested in the dynamic.
“Morning!” Becca calls, her eyes lighting up when she sees you.
Charlie and Sabrina glance up, both smiling warmly, and you offer a small, nervous wave.
Mel stands behind you, her glasses propped up on top of her head as she rubs her eyes and greets the trio with a yawn.
You make your way into the kitchen, tying your hair back as you go, then opening the fridge and get to work making breakfast like you’re the host here.
Eggs crack softly against the bowl’s rim. Butter melts in the pan with a gentle hiss. Bread slides into the toaster. You rinse strawberries, slice them into halves, then add blueberries and orange slices to a bowl for everyone to share.
The eggs cook quickly - they’re just for you, Charlie, and Sabrina. Mel and Becca both hate the texture, something you learned toward the beginning of your friendship during a late-evening takeout debate on whether or not breakfast foods were acceptable as dinner.
The answer, by the way, was a resounding no from both of them. You disagreed.
Hyper-aware of Sabrina’s eyes on you from the living room and the need for performance, you call out softly, “Babe, can you c’mere for a moment?”
There’s a pause in conversation, and it seems to take Mel a moment to register that you’re talking to her. She appears in the entry to the kitchen, crossing the room slowly. When she reaches you, you slide an arm around her waist and pull her gently against your side, your lips brushing the side of her head.
Her body goes still.
You lean closer, your voice barely a whisper that’s meant only for her. “If you want them to stop interrogating you,” you murmur, “you’re gonna have to sell it a little harder.”
Mel exhales softly, and you can almost feel the decision as she makes it. Her fingers curl into the front of your shirt and she leans into you, resting her cheek against your shoulder, her arms wrapping around your middle as she buries her face against your neck.
“Better,” you whisper, continuing to flip the eggs. “I made breakfast,” you say, your voice returning to normal volume so everyone can hear you. “Figured you and Becks might want fruit.”
“Yes please!” you hear Becca call from the living room.
Mel tilts her face towards you, sliding her glasses from the top of her head onto her nose. “Only if you share with me.”
Oh fuck.
For a moment, the domesticity of the situation you’ve found yourself feels dangerously close to real. Mel’s face is close enough to your own that you could lean in and kiss her if you really wanted to, it would be so easy. And you want to, her lips are right there -
Down, girl.
You blink hard, turning away as your brain reminds you of the harsh reality you’re currently in. Mel isn’t your girlfriend, this is all pretend, and you just told her to play it up. You can’t let yourself be fooled by the acting you literally just made her do.
You can feel Mel still staring at the side of your head, her gaze scanning your face with the tiniest trace of confusion in her expression and you know the wheels are turning inside.
You plate the eggs, and then butter toast slices as they come out while the bread is still steaming.
Mel’s hands still haven’t left your shirt yet, and your free arm is still around her waist. But even that has to end if you ever want to eat.
Plates clink softly as you and Mel carry everything to the table.
Mel stays tucked against your side until the last possible second before sliding into her own chair. Her fingers trail lightly across your arm as she lets go. Subtle, but not so much that it goes unnoticed.
She's a surprisingly good actress.
You set the plates down and give a sheepish half-shrug.
“Not exactly a five-star breakfast,” you say, sliding into your seat. “I’m a nurse, not a chef.”
Charlie snorts as she joins you at the table, Sabrina and Becca not far behind. “This looks like a Pinterest breakfast compared to what Mel feeds herself.”
“Rude,” Mel mutters, reaching for a strawberry.
The table conversation drifts, everything from light teasing to stories from the night before, Becca explaining in detail why she doesn’t like the texture of eggs.
You aren’t listening. You’re too focused on the way your heart feels dangerously close to splitting open. You remember, with painful clarity, the night you sat in your car and cried while you promised yourself that you wouldn’t cross this line. That your friendship with Mel mattered more than wanting her.
But this pretending you’re doing feels like someone is reaching into your heart and prying all those carefully-sealed pieces back to the surface. And that’s worrisome, because this isn’t real. In two days, her friends will leave, the act will end, and you’ll have to step back across the line that you shouldn’t have crossed in the first place.
Mel laughs at something Sabrina says, and the sound pulls your eyes up despite your best effort. Her gaze meets yours instantly, like she was waiting for you.
You force a smile back, the kind that says everything is fine, even though you’re starting to feel anything but.
Charlie leans forward across the table, tilting her head with a playful grin. “So…coffee?”
Sabrina nods. “Yeah, I could use some caffeine.”
Your gaze immediately flicks back to Mel. You know she doesn’t keep coffee in the apartment, neither her nor Becca drink it, and the thought of her trying to host without it sparks fondness. Without a word, you turn toward her and hold up your hands, one in a fist on top of the other laid flat, forming the unmistakable shape of rock.
Mel freezes for a moment, then smirks and mirrors your gesture.
You play a single round of rock-paper-scissors quickly, and of course you lose.
“Alright, alright,” you say, holding your hands up in mock-surrender as you stand from the table. “I got it.”
As you slip on your shoes and grab your keys, you tell Charlie and Sabrina to have Mel text you their order as you head out the door. You give a wave over your shoulder with a quick “be right back!” as you shut it behind you, grateful for the out this has given you.
Inside the apartment, Mel stretches, letting out a soft sigh as she begins to gather her things for her shift at the hospital.
She hates the idea of leaving her friends when they're here specifically to visit her, but she was comforted by you promising to play host since you had the day off. Plus, that meant Becca didn't have to go to the day center.
Becca’s eyes light up at the sight of her sister retreating back to her bedroom for something and, without a word, she follows Mel, careful not to draw attention from Charlie or Sabrina. Once Mel is in her room and has begun rummaging through her drawers for her phone charger, Becca quietly closes the door behind them.
“Okay,” Becca says, sitting on Mel’s bed as she watches her flit about the room. “You have to tell me something and promise not to lie.”
Mel pauses, caught off guard. She sets the charger down on the bed carefully and glances at her sister. “Uh…need help with something?”
Becca tilts her chin, her expression confused. “I thought you said this whole thing with you and her was fake.”
Mirroring her confused expression, Mel sits down on the bed next to Becca. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve been with you since birth,” Becca says pointedly. “And it doesn’t feel like you’re pretending. You want to kiss her, don’t you?”
Mel’s cheeks warm instantly. “What? Becca - I -” She pauses, looking down at her hands, trying to gather the right words through her fluster. “It’s…it’s complicated.”
“Why does it have to be complicated?” Becca asks innocently.
Sighing, Mel folds inward as she clasps her hands in her lap. “I don’t want to ruin our friendship,” she admits quietly, like the words are dangerous.
Becca blinks at her, clearly processing. Then, matter-of-factly, she says, “But you like her, I can see it. That’s not fake.”
Mel bites her lip, both flustered and relieved at her sister’s bluntness. “Becca…” she starts, but her twin shakes her head.
“No, no excuses. Just don’t mess it up,” Becca says simply. “If she makes you happy, then it’s not fake.”
“Okay. I…okay.” Mel smiles. “But you can’t tell anyone, okay? Even her.”
“Cross my heart,” Becca says plainly.
Mel nods in acknowledgement, standing to tuck her charger into her bag.
You aren’t gone for much longer, stepping back through the apartment door with two drink trays in hand, setting them down carefully on the kitchen counter. The smell of coffee and tea fills the small space. You’ve brought coffee for everyone else, but Mel’s drink is hers alone - boba, both sweet and piping hot.
She’s got her work backpack balanced on a stool and is shoving necessities into it when you set her drink in front of her.
“You didn’t have to get me boba,” she murmurs as she lifts the cup and straw. “That means you had to go to two different shops.”
You shrug, feigning casualness even though your chest tightens at the way her eyes linger on yours. “I didn’t want to leave you out just because you don’t drink coffee,” you say softly. "You're worth it."
You’re interrupted by Charlie popping her head into the kitchen, her voice bright and teasing as she says, “Okay, lovebirds, out of my way. Don’t get between me and coffee.” Her eyes turn to you. “Seriously, thanks for going.”
Sabrina follows her in, peering at you over her shoulder with a grin. “Are you guys always like this? Or is it just for show?”
Mel’s hands tighten around her own cup. She swallows and glances over at you, a mix of exasperation and worry in her expression. But you just shrug and reach for her, drawing her to your side by her waist, doing your best to ignore the muffled little squeak she lets out at the unexpected contact.
The moment lingers longer than necessary. You keep your arm around her waist just a second past performative necessity, long enough to feel the warmth of her through her thin shirt, long enough for your brain to feel like she belongs there. Charlie rolls her eyes and shoos you both out of the way, and Sabrina’s grin only widens as she steals her drink and retreats.
Mel pulls away first, mumbling something about leaving for work before she’s late.
You walk her to the door without really thinking too hard about it.
She slips her shoes on and double checks for her badge.
You see Dr. King nearly every day at work, but it feels weirdly intimate to see the transition, watching her change from the Mel you’ve gotten over the last eighteen hours to the doctor you know and lo-
Whoa.
Where did that come from?
“Where did you go?”
Your eyes snap up at the sound of Mel’s voice, and you realize you’ve been lost in your thoughts just standing at the door with her. You shake your head, ridding yourself of the intrusive thought that just infiltrated your brain, willing it to disappear.
“Ha-have a good shift,” you whisper, ignoring her question.
Her eyes are questioning as they search your face, but you watch as she lets it go and turns toward the door.
Then she’s gone.
Her apartment feels different without her in it.
Quieter.
Becca claims the far end of the couch, her laptop balanced on her knees. Charlie and Sabrina commandeer the coffee table with enthusiasm, the kind reserved for people who have nowhere to be. You settle in easily among them and let the day unfold in simple, comfortable ways.
Board games come out first, something strategy-heavy that Becca insists has clear rules and “no emotional ambiguity.” Charlie cheats at least twice, and Sabrina calls her out both times.
You laugh more than you expect to and allow yourself to relax.
And somewhere between Charlie’s dramatic (cheater) victory speech and Sabrina reorganizing the game pieces while insisting on a rematch, you begin to understand them. And, by extension, you understand Mel a little better too.
They fill space easily, just the two of them. Charlie with a bright warmth and charm, Sabrina with a dry steadiness that keeps everything relaxed and easy. They tell college stories in fragments: late-night study sessions Mel insisted she didn’t need but showed up to anyway; the time Charlie dragged Mel to a party and she spent the entire night befriending the host’s anxious dog; Sabrina getting locked out of their apartment at two in the morning and Mel sitting on the hallway floor with her for an hour just to keep her company until her roommate made it home to let her in.
You can see it clearly: two extroverts who decided at some point that Mel was theirs to keep, and an introvert who let herself be adopted without admitting out loud that she needed them.
It makes sense why she loves them. And why they love her right back.
But throughout the day, every so often, your gaze drifts toward the front door and you have to make a conscious effort not to religiously check your phone.
Time moves slowly throughout the day, and on multiple occasions you catch Becca studying you with a seriousness not often found on her face before she looks back at whatever she was doing before.
When the late afternoon light finally begins to fade and keys rattle in the lock hours later, your heart skips a beat, filled with anticipation and eagerness for you know who’s on the other side, and it worries you how much it feels like coming home.
♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡
Last night had ended quietly.
Mel had come home late, exhausted in that bone-deep way that comes with a shift at PTMC. You’d stayed long enough to make sure she ate something and to help Becca get settled for the night, then slipped back into your own apartment with a promise that you’d see her tomorrow.
The distance had felt strange.
Morning came with the muted gray light typical of Pittsburgh winter, and you moved through the day slowly, as if you were walking through sludge. A grocery run because your fridge was empty, a stop at the pharmacy, laundry folded while your comfort show played in the background. You were doing your best to be productive, but there was anticipation humming in your veins beneath everything, a current of energy that kept pulling your attention toward the evening ahead.
Going out isn’t something you do often, at least not out in public. Mel’s apartment? Sure. But a bar?
You took your time choosing what to wear, something that made you feel good in your body, nice enough that you wouldn’t feel out of place in public. You’d changed twice before settling on something that felt like you.
By the time you returned to Mel and Becca’s apartment, the already cramped space felt fuller.
Charlie and Sabrina had claimed the couch, sprawled out comfortably. A half-finished mug of coffee sat forgotten on the side table. Music played on a low volume. Becca sat cross-legged on the floor with a puzzle spread out before her, focused and content, while Mel moved through the kitchen in socked feet.
You eased into the rhythm without trouble, drifting between the kitchen and the living room, accepting a mug of tea, leaning against the counter while Mel absentmindedly nudged your foot with hers when she passed. It almost felt like it wasn’t a performance.
Eventually, as the afternoon fell closer to the late evening, change began slowly.
Makeup bags appeared on the coffee table and outfit options were considered. Sabrina disappeared to claim the bathroom and emerged ten minutes later smelling like perfume and hairspray. Music volume clicked up; phones were charged.
Energy built gradually, just a group of women getting ready for a night out together.
You were looking forward to it.
And that’s where you find yourself now: tucked into the warmth of the bar, the cold of the night already a distant memory that clings to the hems of the coat you’ve draped over the back of your chair.
You’ve chosen this bar meticulously. Light pools in halos from hanging lamps above the tables and the air smells a bit like spilled beer and fried foods that drift from the kitchen. Sound gathers rather than overwhelms, laughter layered over quiet music that has a thud of a bass line that you feel more than you can really hear.
“- I swear I’m not exaggerating,” Sabrina insists, one hand lifted like she’s testifying under oath. “She stood up on the coffee table like she was addressing Congress.”
Charlie is already laughing, her shoulders shaking with each breath. “No, no, you’re leaving out the best part! Tell her what she was wearing.”
Mel groans beside you, sliding lower in her chair. “If this is the toga story, I’m leaving.”
“It was a bedsheet,” Sabrina corrects. “A navy bedsheet. She looked like a stateswoman.”
Becca laughs into her soda, her eyes averted as she listens to a story she’s heard at least twice before.
“I was making a point,” Mel mutters.
“You declared,” Charlie says, lifting her finger in imitation, “’From this day forward, this kitchen is a democracy.’”
Sabrina nearly chokes on her drink, laughing at the memory. “And then she tried to pass legislation banning tequila.”
“It was a good policy,” Mel says defensively, even as the corners of her mouth twitch into a smile she tries to hide.
“You had consumed half a bottle of cheap margarita mix and like two sips of tequila,” Charlie says.
“Listen,” Mel says, pointing at her across the table, “that stuff is disgusting.”
You laugh with the rest of them, the sound escaping bright and easy. Mel’s hand tightens around yours on the tabletop - contact that had started as performative but was now starting to feel natural.
You lean toward Mel. “Did the kitchen remain a democracy?”
Mel sighs. “It did until Charlie tried to impeach me for burning grilled cheese.”
“I still stand by that impeachment,” Charlie says. “You were really drunk.”
Sabrina lifts her glass. “To the shortest-lived government in history.”
Everyone raises their drinks and the soft clink between them rings out as you all take a sip.
The laughter lingers for a few moments longer and Mel’s thumb traces an absentminded circle against the back of your hand. You take the last sip of your drink to give yourself something else to focus on, the ice clinking against the glass before the empty settles in your palm.
“Okay,” you say lightly, glancing around the table. “Who’s in for another?”
Charlie lifts her glass immediately. “Absolutely.”
Sabrina tips hers toward you in silent agreement.
Mel hesitates only a second. “Just water for me,” she says. “I’m pacing myself.”
Becca nudges her soda with two fingers. “I’m good.”
You nod, gathering glasses one by one - yours first, then Charlie’s, then Sabrina’s - the table colder where your hand leaves it. Mel’s fingers slip from yours and it almost feels like it happens reluctantly.
“I’ve got it,” you add, flashing a quick smile at Mel when she moves like she might stand too. “Stay. I’ll be right back.”
She looks at you for a long moment before settling back in her chair.
The bar is only ten feet away or so, and you set the empties down on the worn wood counter, catching the bartenders eye and nodding toward the table behind you.
“One more round,” you say. “Same as before. And a water.”
The bartender gives a short nod and turns around to start pouring.
You sigh, your shoulders loosening, letting yourself relax in the small pause between hosting and performing. It’s nice to just exist without feeling like eyes are on you, being able to focus on the conversation around you, the bass thrumming through the floor. You let yourself space out, nodding along with the music.
You don’t notice him step up beside you until he actually speaks.
He leans one arm against the bar beside you casually, like he’s been standing there longer than he actually has.
“Busy night,” he says. It’s not loud enough to intrude, just enough to be heard over the low hum of conversation.
You glance over, polite reflexes kicking in. He’s maybe mid-thirties, clean cut in a very relaxed way, with flannel sleeves pushed up and an easy smile that suggests he’s comfortable.
“Seems like it,” you reply, returning the small courtesy smile he gives you before shifting your attention back toward the bartending lining up glasses.
His gaze flicks to the cluster of empty cups in front of you. “You ordering for the whole place?”
You laugh quietly. “Just my table.”
“Good,” he says lightly. “Was about to feel left out.”
The bartender sets down the first fresh drink, and you slide it aside to make space for the others.
“I can grab that,” he offers, reaching for his wallet. “At least let me get you this round.”
You shake your head immediately, trying to keep your tone friendly. “That’s kind of you, but I’ve got it.”
He pauses, then lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug. “All right, next one, then.”
You tilt your head in noncommittal acknowledgement rather than actual agreement. “We’ll see.”
Another glass lands on the bar, ice clinking inside it. You line it up with the others.
His eyes linger on the drinks, assessing them - and you - without being overt. “So, what are you drinking?”
“Vodka cran.”
“Solid choice,” he says with an approving nod. “Let me upgrade you to something nicer than the well.”
“I’m good, I promise.” You keep your tone light but firm, trying to not invite further negotiation.
He smiles at you again, but there’s an edge of disbelief to his expression now, like your refusal was unexpected.
“What about your friends?” he tries. “I could send something over, be the hero of your table.”
You shake your head. “We’re taken care of.”
He studies you for another moment, then glances past your shoulder toward the room. “No boyfriends hovering nearby,” he says with a laugh, like he’s making an observation rather than the challenge you know is coming.
You lift one of the glasses, checking the level of the drink inside before setting it back down. “That would be because I don’t have one.”
His brows rise in interest.
You meet his eyes for a moment, then add, “I’ve got a girlfriend.”
His smile falters. Not fully gone, but altered.
“C’mon,” he says, the scoff he lets out in disbelief accompanying his words. “You don’t gotta lie about being a dyke just to get me to fuck off.”
You don’t match his scoff or his tone. You make a conscious effort to stay steady, more so out of self-preservation rather than actually caring what he thinks.
“I’m not lying,” you say evenly. “And I’m not interested.”
Another drink appears, then Mel’s water. You gather them closer, creating a careful lineup for carrying.
He lets out a heavy exhale, irritation beginning to show through the seams of his composure. “Your loss,” he mutters, even though he doesn’t step away. But when you reach for the first glass, his hand closes around your arm.
Across the bar, Sabrina’s voice cuts through the laughter of a nearby group. “Hey…uh, Mel, I think your girlfriend needs help.” She nods subtly in your direction, wide-eyed.
Mel turns sharply, following the gesture, and her stomach drops. She sees the man, leaning a little too close, his hand gripping your forearm. It’s casual, it doesn’t look overtly aggressive, maybe even friendly-looking to anyone else. Not you. She knows you. She knows that hand doesn’t belong there; the casualness in your stance is performative, and that’s enough to make her heart hammer.
The protective surge inside her is immediate. Her chair scrapes against the floor as she rises, all pretense of calm gone. “I’ll help you with those,” she calls out as she approaches you, forcing a casual lilt that doesn’t mask her panic. She moves fast through the crowd of people to get to you.
She reaches the bar just as the man’s grip tightens on your arm. You turn toward her instinctively, your lips parting to explain, but there’s no time. She doesn’t hesitate - her hand is on your waist in a protective hold, pulling you close to her.
“Let go of her.”
You pivot back to the man and take a steadying breath. “Oh look,” you say, “there’s the girlfriend I told you about.”
The words hang in the air between you, both a declaration and a warning. The man blinks, caught off guard as you pull your arm from his grip.
Your hand moves of its own accord, reaching up and your fingers pressing lightly against Mel’s jaw, tilting her face towards yours. Before you can overthink it, you lean in, pressing your lips to hers.
Mel freezes, startled, but doesn’t pull away from you. Her lips part slightly and you can taste her drink on her breath, the sweetness pairing with the faint saltiness of her skin.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, a tiny but distinct oh no cuts through - something you don’t voice. You’ve crossed the line you’d been toeing so carefully, but the sensation of her lips, the softness, the way she begins to respond and move against you in return, makes it impossible to pull away. You linger there, holding her mouth against yours, memorizing the way she tastes and the feeling of her hair against your cheek.
Finally, you ease back enough to breath. Your thumb grazes her lips, committing them to memory. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes wide and luminous, and there’s softness mixed with confusion as she studies your face.
And for the briefest instant, your gaze flicks from her face across the room, catching a shadowed profile near the dart boards - dark hair half-up, the rest falling over one shoulder, a stance that’s familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist. Recognition hits you, but before you can dwell on it, someone moves in between you and the sight, and the moment shatters into background noise. You shove the thought aside, telling yourself it was nothing.
The man’s presence has faded to background noise, but the bartender’s voice cuts through, clear and final as she addresses him: “you gonna order or move along?”
He mutters something under his breath and steps back, retreating, but the air between you and Mel is charged with electricity. Your hand slides from her jaw, lingering for a second on her shoulder, and you step back to gather the drinks. But the nerves in your body still thrum from the feeling of her lips on yours and the realization that kiss wasn’t performative, at least not for you.
It feels dangerous.
Surprisingly, it’s Mel who recovers first.
The world rushes back in around her and she becomes acutely aware that you’re still standing very close to her and your expression mirrors her own stunned silence.
She clears her throat softly. “I -” Her voice comes out thin and a bit strangled, so she tries again. “I’ll help you carry those.”
You nod, grateful for something practical to do, and turn toward the bar as the bartender slides the last glass forward. Neither of you mention what just happened. And neither of you look directly at each other.
Your fingers brush as you divide the drinks and you both pretend not to notice.
The walk back to the table is both quiet and quick. Mel can still feel the shape of your hand on her face, your mouth on hers. Her lips tingle as if the imprint remains.
She focuses on not dropping the glasses.
Sabrina looks up first from conversation as you approach, a grin already forming on her face. Charlie’s gaze flicks between the two of you, eyebrows raised with amusement.
“Well,” she says, accepting her drink, “that was quite the little show.”
Sabrina snorts into her own glass. “Seriously, ten out of ten performance, very convincing.”
Becca doesn’t comment. She just watches Mel carefully, perceptive eyes studying her face as she takes another sip of her soda.
Mel sits. Her pulse is still too fast.
Conversation resumes with surprising ease. Sabrina launches into another story, Charlie chimes in, you slide back into your seat and responding when spoken to. It all lends itself to the rhythm of the night knitting itself back together as though nothing unusual has happened.
Not for Mel.
She hears the conversation without absorbing it. Words drift past her like radio static. Her fingers curl around her water glass, condensation dampening her skin.
She can still feel you.
She risks a glance at you.
You’re laughing at something Sabrina said, your shoulders are relaxed but your smile doesn’t seem to quite reach your eyes. You almost look shaken. Maybe thoughtful? As if you’re trying to act normal and hoping nobody notices that you’re making a conscious effort to do so.
Mel’s stomach flips.
Her friends continue chatting, comfortable and obvious, the moment already filed away as proof of a cute couple.
But Mel can’t file it away.
Charlie is halfway through dissecting some disastrous Hinge date when you lean back into your chair, finally relaxing back into the conversation.
“Did he actually show up?” you ask, grinning. “Or -”
Sabrina cuts in animatedly. Charlie protests. The conversation overlaps in the messy, affectionate way it almost always does when people feel safe.
You turn a little, instinctively, to include Mel, who’s been strangely silent this whole time.
“What do you think?” you ask her, nudging her knee under the table lightly. “That’s totally a red flag, right? Am I being dramatic here?”
She doesn’t answer, and you turn fully to look at her. To make sure she’s okay.
There’s something noticeably undone about her. The composure she usually wears is missing, her expression filled with rawness, her lips even turned into a slight frown, and you can immediately tell she wasn’t listening. It’s identical to the expression she wore at work a while back when she was worried about her deposition and couldn’t focus on anything else.
“Mel?” you prompt softly.
You’re really close to her. Your shoulders are almost touching, she could bump you if she wanted. The golden bar light catches the curve of your lip, the same place where your thumb had brushed hers earlier, and her brain helpfully replays the exact feeling of your hand on her jaw.
You tilt your head when she doesn’t respond. “Are you okay?”
She swallows hard.
This is a mistake. This is toeing that line again.
This is -
She leans in.
Her hand comes up, fingers sliding around the back of your neck and tangling in your hair as she brings your lips to hers again. Her mouth presses against yours with a softness that’s almost unreal compared to the firmness of her grip on you. Like she’s asking a question she’s afraid to hear the answer to.
The table noise fades. Sabrina is still talking, Charlie is talking over her, and you have absolutely no idea what’s going on with Becca in this moment - but it all feels so far away.
Mel’s lips are warm as they move against yours, and you place a hand on her thigh to steady the way you’re leaned into her. Your lips part against hers and she tilts her head, deepening it. There’s a quiet sound from your throat, barely there, but she can feel it.
And God, she doesn’t want to stop.
But she does.
She pulls back slowly, her lips brushing yours one more in a lingering, almost unconscious follow-through before she forces herself to create space. She keeps her eyes closed for a second too long, trying to understand why she would do that.
When she opens them, you’re staring at her with the most unreadable expression on your face.
Nobody at the table says a word. To them, it’s ordinary, you’re just any other couple.
From her other side, Mel catches Becca watching her. Her soda straw is paused halfway to her mouth, her eyes moving between her sister’s face and yours. There’s no confusion in her expression, no surprise. Only a quiet, satisfied knowing, like she’s just seen a puzzle piece settle exactly where it belongs.
The night goes on without much disruption after that. Someone orders fries for the table, you laugh at something Becca says so hard that you have to wipe tears from your eyes, glasses clink over and over. Life continues.
And yet, nothing feels the same.
You sit beside Mel with intentional space between your thighs where there hadn’t been any earlier. Your knee no longer touches hers under the table and when your fingers brush reaching for a fry, both of you pull back too quickly. You fold your hands in your lap to stop yourself from reaching for her again.
Because now you know.
You know the shape of her mouth, the warmth of her breath, the way she leaned into you instead of away from you.
This performance has edges now, sharp ones. And they hurt.
So you keep your hands to yourself.
But still, the distance never fully holds. Her shoulder finds yours when she laughs. Your elbow grazes her arm when you reach for your glass. When she leans closer to hear Sabrina over the music, her hair brushes your cheek and you tense up so suddenly it steals the air from your lungs.
Across the table, Becca watches the two of you with contentment, sipping her soda and swaying faintly to the music that only she seems to be paying attention to. Both Charlie and Sabrina remain blissfully unaware, long since settling into the comfortable assumption that this is how the two of you behave together.
By the time the tab is paid and chairs scrape back from the table, the night has changed and the air is filled with a strange electricity that you don’t fully know what to do with.
Back at the apartment, the ritual of bedtime unfolds in tired smiles, far too late to avoid the hangover that’s sure to haunt you at work tomorrow. Charlie and Sabrina reclaim the couch with gratitude and soft blankets. Becca disappears into the her own bedroom long enough to change before reemerging to hug you goodnight with affection.
And then it’s just the two of you again.
Mel changes in the bathroom while you sit on the edge of her bed, staring at your hands like they might confess what you’re too afraid to say. When she returns, the room feels smaller. Quieter.
You slide beneath the blankets on your usual side and she turns off the lamp.
Her breathing evens out beside you, slow and steady, the rhythm of someone who has surrendered fully to sleep. Or is pretending to.
You lie on your back, staring into the dark, the nerves in your body aware of the mere inches between you.
Tomorrow, her friends will leave. Tomorrow, her spare key will be returned to her. Tomorrow, there will be no reason to stay the night, or hold her hand, or call her babe in any capacity. No reason to kiss her.
Your chest tightens.
You don’t know how to go back.
You don’t know how to fold your heart back into the safe little shape it fit into before this weekend.
Beside you, Mel shifts in her sleep - or something like it - and her fingers brush the back of your hand where it rests on the mattress between you.
You freeze. She stills.
Neither of you pull away.
You stare into the dark above you, heart pounding, and try to memorize this: the warmth, this unbearable tenderness of wanting something you’ve already begun to lose.
the thing we grow into - rewrite series masterlist
steve harrington x fem!reader
status: ONGOING
last update: 11 March '26
summary: you have been jonathan byers’ closest friend since childhood, making the byers family feel like your own. when will disappears, you are pulled into the growing mystery surrounding hawkins, determined to help find him no matter the cost. The last person you expect to rely on is steve harrington — the same boy you've spent years resenting for how he treated jonathan. but as the dangers facing hawkins grow and loyalties begin to shift, hatred slowly gives way to understanding, and something far more complicated begins to form between them.
warnings: slow slow slow burn, 'strangers' to enemies to lovers, potential smut much further down the track, cursing, average stranger things violence, angst (will add more warnings when necessary)
note: I have been reading @snoopyracing and @angelicblondie 's series that follow along with the entire stranger things plot lines and have become OBSESSED with their work, to the point where I would like to give it a go myself. so I am rewriting a reader insert into the entirety of stranger things plot! big shout out to both of them and everyone who has done this. I hope I do it justice and you all enjoy <3 and message me if you’d like to be added to the taglist
summary: after discovering that dart has escaped and grown far more dangerous, steve, dustin, and you attempt to lure the creature away from hawkins with a risky plan. but when they set a trap at the old junkyard, the situation quickly spirals out of control—forcing them to fight for their lives and leaving them with more questions than answers.
warnings: violence, cursing, gore
note: this is a longgg one but worth it! a lot happens, hope you enjoy :)
series masterlist - << prev chapter - next chapter >>
--------------
The Henderson house came into view a few minutes later, the familiar shape of it sitting quiet at the end of the street. The porch light glowed dimly against the siding, casting a soft circle of yellow onto the driveway.
You slowed the car as you turned in, gravel crunching beneath the tires before the engine finally went still.
For a moment none of you moved.
The quiet inside the car felt heavier now that you had actually arrived.
Then Dustin leaned forward suddenly between the seats.
“Okay,” he said quickly. “We’re here.”
You glanced at him in the rearview mirror. His face looked pale in the dim light, nerves clearly starting to get the better of him.
Beside you, Steve exhaled slowly and pushed the passenger door open.
“Alright,” he muttered as he climbed out. “Let’s see this thing.”
You grabbed your keys and stepped out as well, shutting the door behind you. The night air was cooler than before, brushing softly against your arms as you glanced around the quiet yard.
The neighborhood felt still.
Too still.
Dustin was already moving toward the backyard.
“Back here,” he called.
You and Steve followed him around the side of the house, grass shifting softly under your shoes as you stepped into the darker stretch of the yard.
The small metal storm shelter sat half buried in the ground near the fence.
Dustin stopped beside it.
Steve looked down at the door, then back at Dustin.
“This is it?”
“Yeah,” Dustin said.
Steve crouched slightly and knocked on the metal door with his knuckles.
CLANG.
Nothing.
He knocked harder.
Still nothing.
Steve frowned faintly.
“…I don’t hear shit.”
“He’s in there,” Dustin insisted.
Steve looked unconvinced.
“I swear to God, if this is some Halloween prank you’re dead.”
“It’s not a prank,” Dustin muttered quickly.
Steve nodded toward the lock.
“You got a key for this thing?”
Dustin dug into his pocket and pulled out a small key. For a moment he just held it there nervously.
“Just… make it quick,” he said.
Steve held out his hand.
“Key.”
Dustin passed it over.
Steve crouched and slid the key into the lock. There was a small metallic click as it turned, and the heavy door shifted slightly as he pulled it open.
Darkness yawned beneath it.
Steve stared down into the shelter for a second.
Then he glanced back at you.
“…You got anything?”
You reached automatically into the inside pocket of your jacket.
Your fingers closed around familiar metal.
When you pulled the hunting knife free, the faint moonlight glinted off the blade.
Steve’s eyes flicked down to it immediately.
Recognition crossed his face.
The same knife you’d carried the night everything went wrong last year.
The same one you’d used while the Demogorgon tore through the Byers house.
You flipped it once in your hand and held it out to him.
“Try not to lose it.”
Steve took it carefully.
“…No promises.”
He tested the weight of it in his hand before turning back toward the shelter.
Dustin leaned forward slightly, peering into the darkness.
“He must be further down there.”
Steve sighed under his breath.
“Of course he is.”
He stepped onto the first stair.
You moved automatically to follow him.
Steve turned halfway down the steps when he noticed.
“Hey.”
You paused.
He nodded upward toward Dustin.
“I’m good.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Pretty sure that’s what people say right before they get eaten.”
Steve huffed faintly.
“Stay up there with Dustin.”
You studied him for a second before shrugging.
“Your funeral.”
Steve shook his head slightly and continued down into the darkness.
You leaned lightly against the edge of the open shelter while Dustin hovered nervously beside you.
For a moment there was only silence.
Then—
CLICK.
A fluorescent light flickered somewhere below.
The faint buzzing sound drifted up through the stairwell.
Seconds passed.
Too many seconds.
Dustin leaned closer to the opening.
“…Steve?”
No response.
He glanced at you nervously.
“Steve?!”
Suddenly Steve’s head appeared again at the top of the stairs.
His expression had changed.
The skepticism from earlier was gone.
Now he just looked tense.
“Get down here,” he said.
Dustin blinked.
“…Why?”
Steve pointed downward.
“Just get down here.”
Then his eyes flicked to you. “Both of you.”
Your stomach tightened slightly.
You and Dustin exchanged a quick look before heading down the steps.
The air in the shelter was colder.
The fluorescent light buzzed weakly overhead as you reached the bottom.
Dustin stopped immediately.
“…Oh Jesus.”
You followed his gaze.
Steve stood a few feet away, holding something out carefully with the tip of the knife.
It took a moment for your brain to process what you were seeing.
A thin sheet of pale skin.
Wet.
Translucent.
Huge.
Your chest tightened instantly.
You knew what that was.
You had seen something exactly like it before, clinging to the walls of the Byers house when the Demogorgon first crawled through.
Steve lowered the knife slightly.
“Over here.”
You stepped closer.
And then you saw it.
A massive hole torn through the concrete wall.
Large enough for something the size of a dog.
Or bigger.
Dustin dropped to his knees beside it immediately.
“…No way,” he whispered. “No way.”
Your eyes followed the dark tunnel disappearing deep into the earth beyond the wall.
A cold dread settled slowly in your stomach.
Because you knew exactly what kind of creature could make a hole like that.
And you knew exactly what it would grow into.
Somewhere far away in the woods, a low monstrous roar echoed faintly through the night.
The sound sent a chill straight down your spine.
You hadn’t heard that noise since last year.
And you had really hoped you never would again.
_______________________
For a moment none of you moved.
The three of you stood there in the dim flicker of the fluorescent light, the sound lingering in the air long after it had actually stopped. The tunnel in the wall seemed darker now somehow, its twisting path disappearing into a blackness that felt far deeper than the small space you were standing in.
Dustin slowly lifted his head from where he had been crouched beside the hole, his expression drained of color.
“…That was him,” he whispered.
Steve didn’t answer right away. His eyes were fixed on the tunnel, the hunting knife still gripped tightly in his hand as if he half expected the creature to come charging back through the opening at any second. The muscles in his jaw were tense, the disbelief that had followed him all the way from the Wheeler driveway finally giving way to the same realization you had reached the moment you saw the shed skin.
This was real.
Worse than that—it was familiar.
You let out a slow breath, forcing your shoulders to loosen slightly even though your pulse was still beating far too fast.
“We should probably get out of here,” you said quietly.
Neither of them argued.
Dustin scrambled up from the floor first, brushing his hands quickly against his jeans before backing toward the stairs. Steve followed a second later, casting one last wary glance toward the tunnel before turning and heading up after him. You lingered a beat longer at the bottom of the steps, your eyes drifting once more to the ragged hole torn through the wall.
A cold weight settled low in your stomach.
You knew exactly what that thing would grow into.
Then you turned and followed them up the stairs.
The cool night air hit your face as soon as you stepped out of the shelter, the sudden openness of the backyard feeling almost strange after the claustrophobic quiet below. Steve pulled the heavy metal door closed behind you with a dull clang, the sound echoing faintly across the yard.
For a few seconds the three of you simply stood there.
The neighborhood looked exactly the same as it had before—quiet houses, faint porch lights, the soft rustle of leaves in the trees—but the world somehow felt different now that you knew what was moving somewhere out there in the dark.
Dustin dragged a shaky hand through his curls and began pacing across the grass.
“Okay,” he muttered quickly, his words tumbling over themselves as the adrenaline from the last ten minutes started catching up with him. “Okay, okay… this is bad. This is really bad.”
Steve crossed his arms loosely across his chest, watching Dustin’s frantic pacing with a tired sort of disbelief.
“That’s one way to put it,” he muttered.
Dustin stopped and pointed back toward the shelter.
“It got out.”
“Yeah,” Steve said dryly. “We noticed.”
“And it’s bigger now,” Dustin continued, his voice rising slightly as his thoughts began spiraling faster. “Like way bigger. And if it can dig tunnels like that then it could be anywhere and—”
“Dustin.”
Your voice cut gently through the panic.
He stopped mid-sentence and looked at you.
You held his gaze for a moment, letting the quiet stretch long enough for him to slow his breathing.
“Panicking isn’t going to help,” you said calmly.
He swallowed and nodded quickly, trying to rein himself back in.
“…Right.”
Steve shifted his weight slightly beside you, glancing toward the dark tree line behind the houses before looking back at Dustin.
“So what’s the plan then?” he asked.
Dustin blinked at him.
“The plan?”
“You had one earlier,” Steve said, nodding vaguely toward the shelter. “All the bologna and the hockey gear.”
Dustin hesitated for a moment before nodding.
“Well… yeah.”
You folded your arms, waiting.
Dustin pointed toward the woods behind the houses, the faint outline of trees barely visible beyond the backyard fence.
“I figured we could lure him out,” he explained. “You know… like bait.”
Steve’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“With lunch meat?”
“It worked before!” Dustin insisted defensively.
You let out a quiet sigh.
“…Into the woods,” you said.
Dustin nodded quickly.
“Exactly. If we lead him far enough away from the neighborhood he won’t hurt anyone.”
Steve considered that idea for a moment, his eyes drifting toward the distant trees again.
“And then what?” he asked.
Dustin faltered.
“Well… I mean…”
You raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Yeah,” Steve said. “That’s what I thought.”
Dustin looked between the two of you, clearly realizing the second half of his plan was still missing a few key details.
“But we can figure that out tomorrow,” he said quickly. “Right?”
Steve glanced sideways at you.
You shrugged lightly.
“At the very least,” you said, “it keeps him away from people.”
Dustin nodded eagerly.
“Exactly.”
Steve rubbed a hand across the back of his neck before letting out a slow breath.
“…Alright,” he said finally.
He looked back toward the woods once more before turning to Dustin again.
“So tomorrow morning,” he said.
“Tomorrow morning,” Dustin agreed.
“Here?”
“Here.”
You nodded.
“We’ll figure out the rest then.”
The tension in the yard seemed to ease slightly once the plan—however vague—was settled. Dustin’s shoulders lowered a little as the rush of adrenaline began wearing off, leaving him looking suddenly far younger than he had five minutes earlier.
“…Okay,” he said quietly.
He turned toward the house, heading for the back door.
Halfway there he paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
“Hey.”
You and Steve both looked up.
Dustin shifted awkwardly where he stood, his earlier panic replaced with something softer.
“…Thanks,” he said.
His eyes flicked toward you first.
“Like… really.”
Then he looked at Steve.
“…Both of you.”
Steve shrugged casually.
“Don’t mention it.”
Dustin nodded once before disappearing inside.
The door shut behind him with a soft click.
And suddenly the yard was quiet again.
The faint rustle of leaves in the trees filled the space where Dustin’s voice had been a moment before. Somewhere down the street a dog barked once before falling silent again.
You and Steve stood there for a few seconds without speaking.
The awkwardness settled in almost immediately.
Steve shifted his weight slightly, glancing toward the woods once more as if half expecting another roar to break the quiet.
You rubbed your arms absently against the cool night air before finally breaking the silence.
“…Well,” you said.
Steve looked over at you.
You nodded toward the front of the house.
“Come on.”
He frowned slightly.
“…Where?”
“I’m dropping you back at your car,” you said, already starting toward the side yard. “Unless you were planning on walking.”
Steve huffed a quiet laugh.
“Right.”
He followed after you.
The two of you walked around the side of the house and back toward the driveway where your car was parked, the gravel crunching softly under your shoes. You unlocked the door and slid into the driver’s seat while Steve climbed into the passenger side a moment later.
The engine turned over with a low hum.
Your headlights swept across the quiet street as you pulled away from the curb.
For a few minutes neither of you said anything.
But the silence felt different now than it had earlier.
________________________
The quiet streets of Hawkins stretched ahead of you as the car rolled steadily through the neighborhood, your headlights carving pale tunnels of light through the darkness. Most of the houses had already gone dark for the night, porch lights glowing faintly against trimmed lawns while the occasional streetlamp cast long amber shadows across the pavement.
Inside the car, the only sound for several moments was the low hum of the engine and the faint rush of air slipping past the windows.
Beside you, Steve shifted slightly in the passenger seat.
You noticed it almost immediately.
Not because it was loud or dramatic, but because it had been happening every thirty seconds since you pulled away from Dustin’s house. First he leaned his elbow against the door, staring out the window like the empty suburban street held the answer to something important. Then he sat forward slightly, resting his forearms against his knees before leaning back again. A moment later his hand moved up to push through his hair in a distracted sweep.
If you didn’t know better, you might have thought Steve Harrington was nervous.
You kept your eyes on the road, pretending not to notice.
The silence stretched for another minute before Steve finally cleared his throat.
“…So.”
You waited.
He hesitated.
“…That was… uh…”
His hand lifted slightly as he gestured toward the road ahead of you, clearly searching for words that refused to cooperate.
“…pretty weird.”
You let out a quiet breath through your nose.
“Chill out,” you said lightly, glancing over at him for just a second before returning your attention to the road.
Steve frowned slightly.
“What?”
“You look like you’re trying to defuse a bomb,” you said. “Relax.”
For a moment he simply stared at you.
Then a short laugh escaped him before he could stop it, the tension in his shoulders loosening just slightly.
“Yeah,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with an embarrassed sort of shrug. “Something like that.”
The small moment of humor seemed to break the strange stiffness that had been hanging in the air since they left Dustin’s house. The car rolled through another quiet intersection, the glow of a streetlamp sliding briefly across the windshield before disappearing behind you.
You hesitated for a moment before speaking again.
“…Have you heard from Nancy?”
Out of the corner of your eye you saw Steve’s posture shift again.
The question seemed to catch him off guard.
He didn’t answer immediately.
For a few seconds he simply stared out the windshield, the passing light from the streetlamps reflecting faintly across his face.
“…No,” he said finally.
The word was quiet, but the pause before it carried more weight than he probably meant it to.
You nodded slowly.
“I haven’t heard from Jonathan either.”
That seemed to surprise him.
Steve turned his head slightly, studying your expression like he was trying to figure out whether you were joking.
“…Really?”
You shook your head.
“He wasn’t at school yesterday. Or today.”
The car rolled steadily down the road while Steve processed that information, his brow knitting faintly together as he leaned back in his seat.
After a moment he shifted slightly again.
“…So,” he began carefully, glancing sideways at you.
You raised an eyebrow.
“So?”
He hesitated.
“…you and Jonathan…”
The unfinished sentence hung awkwardly in the air.
You glanced at him briefly.
“What about us?”
Steve made a vague motion with one hand, clearly trying to phrase the question in a way that didn’t sound completely ridiculous.
“…Are you guys, like…”
He gestured weakly between the two of you.
“…together?”
For a second you simply blinked at him.
Then the answer came out immediately.
“No.”
The response was so quick and certain that Steve paused slightly.
You let out a small breath, shaking your head as you kept your focus on the road ahead.
“We’ve known each other since we were kids,” you explained. “Our parents used to live a few houses apart when we were younger. We spent half our childhood running between each other’s backyards.”
Steve listened quietly.
“Jonathan’s just…” you shrugged slightly. “My best friend.”
Steve studied your face for another moment before leaning back against the seat again, letting out a small laugh.
“Okay, okay.”
You glanced sideways at him.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly, lifting both hands in surrender. “Just asking.”
You rolled your eyes faintly, though there was no real irritation behind it.
A few more minutes passed before the familiar houses of the Wheeler neighborhood appeared ahead. You slowed slightly as you turned onto the quiet street, your headlights sweeping across the row of driveways until they settled on the familiar shape of Steve’s BMW parked along the curb beneath a streetlamp.
You pulled up beside it and shifted the car into park, the engine settling into a quiet idle.
Steve reached for the door handle.
Then paused.
“…Hey.”
You looked over at him.
“Yeah?”
He hesitated for a second, like he wasn’t entirely sure how to phrase what he wanted to say.
“…What’s your address?”
You blinked.
“…Why?”
Steve gestured vaguely toward the street behind you.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” he said. “Take you to Dustin’s.”
It took you a second to realize what he meant.
Then the memory clicked back into place.
The plan.
Meeting at Dustin’s house in the morning.
Right.
You exhaled softly, slightly surprised you had forgotten that part already.
“Oh.”
Steve waited patiently.
You gave him your address.
He repeated it quietly under his breath, committing it to memory before nodding once in satisfaction.
“Got it.”
He opened the car door and stepped out, the cool night air rushing briefly into the car before the door shut again behind him.
You watched him as he walked around the front of your car toward his BMW, the streetlamp above casting a warm glow across the pavement.
Halfway there he paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
“…Night,” he called.
“Goodnight,” you replied.
Steve gave a small nod before climbing into his car.
You shifted the gear back into drive and pulled away from the curb, the quiet street slowly slipping behind you as you headed toward home.
Your hands rested loosely on the steering wheel as the dark road stretched ahead, but your mind was still turning over the conversation you had just had.
Steve Harrington.
Of all people.
Talking.
After everything that had happened last year… after the tension, the arguments, the chaos of the Demogorgon and the long quiet aftermath that followed…
You let out a quiet breath.
The whole interaction felt strange.
Unexpected.
And if you were being honest—
A little odd.
Because if someone had told you a few months ago that you would be casually driving Steve Harrington home in the middle of the night, chatting about life and making plans for the morning like it was the most normal thing in the world…
You probably would have laughed.
Yet somehow, against all logic, that was exactly where the night had ended.
_______________________
Morning arrived far too quickly.
The shrill buzz of your alarm clock dragged you out of sleep with none of the mercy you would have preferred after the night you’d had. For a moment you simply lay there, staring groggily at the ceiling while your brain slowly caught up with the fact that it was morning.
Then your eyes shifted to the clock.
Your stomach dropped.
“Oh—shit.”
You bolted upright.
Blankets tangled around your legs as you scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over them in the process while your mind raced through the realization that you were late. Very late.
Steve was supposed to pick you up.
You ran a hand through your hair, already moving across the room while grabbing clothes off the chair you’d thrown them over the night before.
The house was quiet except for the faint clatter of dishes coming from downstairs. Your mom must have taken the day off or had a later shift, because the smell of coffee and toast drifted up the staircase as you hurried down the hall toward the bathroom.
Ten minutes later you were flying down the stairs with your shoes half tied, one arm shoved into your jacket while you attempted to pull your hair back into something that resembled a ponytail.
Your mother glanced up from the kitchen counter as you skidded into the room.
“Well good morning to you too,” she said dryly.
You barely slowed down.
“Morning,” you said quickly, grabbing a piece of toast off the plate on the counter.
She raised an eyebrow as you took a hurried bite.
“You’re in a rush.”
You nodded, chewing quickly as you reached for your bag.
“Meeting Dustin,” you managed between bites.
Your mom hummed lightly, clearly unconvinced but not pressing further.
Just as you reached the front door, the faint rumble of a car engine sounded outside.
Perfect timing.
You shoved the rest of the toast into your mouth, grabbed your keys out of habit before remembering you weren’t driving today, then quickly dropped them back onto the small table by the door.
“Bye!” you called around the last bite.
Your mom chuckled softly behind you.
“Drive safe.”
You pushed the front door open and hurried outside just as Steve’s BMW rolled to a stop along the curb.
The passenger door opened as you jogged down the front steps and climbed inside, slightly out of breath from the mad dash through the house.
Steve looked over the moment you slammed the door shut.
For a second he just stared.
Then he laughed.
“Good morning.”
You glanced down at yourself—hair slightly crooked, jacket half zipped, one shoelace still threatening to come undone.
“Don’t start,” you muttered, reaching down to fix the lace.
Steve shook his head, still smiling faintly as he shifted the car into gear.
“Rough morning?”
“Very.”
The BMW pulled smoothly away from the curb, the quiet neighborhood slipping past the windows as you leaned back into the seat and finally caught your breath.
For a few minutes the car remained mostly quiet.
Not awkward silence this time.
Just the kind that settled naturally when both of you were thinking about the same thing.
Every now and then one of you would say something small—Steve pointing out a nearly empty street or you asking if he’d slept at all—but the conversation never stretched far beyond that.
Because the truth was, both of you knew what today was about.
Dart.
The forest.
By the time Dustin’s house came into view, the tension had settled quietly between you again.
Steve slowed the car as you pulled into the Henderson driveway.
Dustin was already waiting.
The moment the car rolled to a stop he came running down the front steps, backpack bouncing against his shoulders while he carried three plastic buckets and what looked like several plastic bags full of something red and unpleasant.
You wrinkled your nose immediately as he yanked open the back door and climbed into the seat.
“Morning,” Dustin said breathlessly.
You twisted around in your seat.
“Why do you have three buckets and… is that meat?”
Dustin proudly held up one of the bags.
“Defrosted.”
Your face twisted in mild horror.
“…Why.”
He shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Bait.”
Steve let out a long sigh as he pulled the car back out of the driveway.
“Of course it’s bait.”
Dustin leaned forward between the seats, setting the buckets carefully on the floor of the backseat.
His walkie talkie crackled faintly as it hung from his backpack strap.
“We just need to lead him out far enough,” Dustin said quickly. “Once he’s in the forest he won’t come back to the house.”
You turned slightly in your seat, glancing back at him.
“And you’re sure about that?”
Dustin hesitated.
“…Pretty sure.”
Steve groaned softly under his breath.
The car rolled down the quiet Hawkins street before turning toward the road that led out of town.
The houses slowly thinned.
Trees began to crowd closer to the roadside.
And before long, the forest stretched out ahead of you like a dark wall of branches waiting just beyond the edge of town.
__________________________
The trees grew thicker the farther the road carried you from Hawkins.
Soon the houses had disappeared entirely, replaced by long stretches of forest that pressed in close to the road on either side. Steve slowed the car as the pavement gave way to packed dirt, easing the BMW toward a small clearing near the edge of the woods before finally bringing it to a stop.
The engine ticked quietly as it cooled.
For a moment the three of you sat there, listening to the wind rustle faintly through the trees.
Then Dustin’s walkie suddenly crackled to life.
“Dustin, this is Lucas! Do you copy?! Dustin?!”
Dustin perked up immediately in the back seat, grabbing the headset and slipping it over his ears as he shoved the car door open.
“Well, well,” he said into the microphone, climbing out onto the dirt with a small grin. “Look who it is.”
You pushed your door open as well, stepping out into the cool air while Steve circled around to the trunk. Pine needles crunched beneath your shoes as you stretched slightly after the drive.
Steve popped the trunk open with a solid thunk.
Dustin was already standing beside the car adjusting the headset while Lucas continued talking through the radio.
“Sorry, my stupid sister hit it off—”
Dustin rolled his eyes and cut him off.
“Okay, well while you were having sister problems, Dart grew again, escaped, and he’s a baby Demogorgon.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the walkie.
“…Wait—what?”
Behind Dustin, Steve began hauling supplies out of the trunk.
The first thing he lifted out was a plastic bucket.
Then another.
Then a third.
Each one was filled with sealed bags of raw meat that sloshed unpleasantly as they were set down on the ground.
You wrinkled your nose instantly.
“Oh my god.”
“Defrosted,” Dustin said proudly.
“That is not the reassuring detail you think it is,” you replied, grimacing as the smell hit the open air.
Steve muttered something under his breath as he grabbed one of the backpacks from the trunk and slung it over his shoulder. The handle of the spiked bat stuck out from the top, the metal nails catching briefly in the sunlight.
You leaned into the trunk next, grabbing the second backpack and swinging it onto your shoulder before pulling your hunting knife from the side pocket. You checked the blade automatically before sliding it back into its sheath.
Lucas’s voice came through the walkie again, louder this time.
“Wait—what did you just say?”
Dustin slipped a pair of dish gloves over his hands while he talked.
“I’ll explain later,” he said quickly. “Just meet me, Steve, and Y/N at the old junkyard.”
There was another pause.
Then Lucas’s voice came back, even more stunned than before.
“Wait—Steve and Y/N?”
You glanced over at Dustin.
“Really? You had to say it like that?”
He shrugged.
“Accuracy matters.”
Steve let out a long sigh as he grabbed one of the meat buckets and shoved the trunk shut with his hip.
“Come on,” he said, already starting toward the trees. “Let’s go.”
Dustin adjusted the walkie one last time.
“Just be there. Stat,” he said quickly.
A beat.
“Over and out.”
He yanked the headset off and clipped it back to his backpack.
You bent down and grabbed one of the buckets while Steve picked up the other two, distributing the weight between himself and Dustin.
The forest loomed ahead of you now, dense and quiet.
You shifted the bucket in your hands and glanced toward the trees.
“…This still feels like a terrible idea,” you muttered.
Dustin grinned slightly.
“Probably.”
Steve shook his head and started forward anyway.
With a quiet sigh, you followed them into the woods.
_____________________
The forest had grown quieter the deeper the three of you walked.
Tall trees crowded close on either side of the old railroad tracks, their branches forming a thin canopy overhead that filtered the sunlight into shifting patches along the ground. Pine needles crunched beneath your boots as you followed the tracks forward, the air heavy with the smell of damp earth and raw meat.
You walked a few steps behind Dustin and Steve, one of the plastic buckets hooked loosely in your gloved hand.
Every few paces one of you would reach in and toss another bloody chunk of meat onto the tracks.
SPLAT.
A piece landed against the rusted rail in front of Steve’s shoes.
He reached back into the bucket with his dish-gloved hand and scooped out another handful before flicking it forward with a practiced motion.
“...So let me get this straight,” Steve said, glancing back toward Dustin as another piece hit the tracks with a wet thud. “You kept something you knew was probably dangerous… to impress a girl you just met?”
Dustin threw his own piece of meat down beside Steve’s.
You stopped briefly to toss a chunk of meat further down the line before catching up with them again, eyeing Dustin skeptically.
“You kept a baby Demogorgon in your house,” you said flatly.
Dustin pointed a gloved finger at you.
“It wasn’t a Demogorgon at first.”
Steve shook his head slowly.
“Why would a girl like some nasty slug anyway?”
Dustin turned toward him, immediately defensive.
“An interdimensional slug,” he corrected. “Because it’s awesome.”
You made a face.
“Dustin, it ate your cat.”
He grimaced.
“…That part was less awesome.”
Steve sighed heavily like a tired older brother.
“Even if she thought it was cool—which she didn’t—I feel like you’re trying way too hard here.”
Dustin tossed another piece of meat forward with a frustrated flick.
“Okay, well not all of us have your perfect hair, okay?”
You snorted quietly under your breath but kept walking.
Steve barely missed a beat.
“It’s not about the hair, man.”
He reached into the bucket again.
“The key with girls is acting like you don’t care.”
You scoffed loudly from behind them.
Both boys glanced back at you.
“Oh, that’s terrible advice,” you muttered, tossing another piece of meat down onto the rail.
Steve frowned slightly.
“It works.”
You gave him a look.
“Sure it does.”
Dustin pointed between the two of you.
“See? This is what I’m talking about. Mixed signals.”
Steve ignored you and continued like he hadn’t been interrupted.
“Even when you do care,” he said to Dustin, “you act like you don’t.”
Dustin nodded slowly.
“Even when you do?”
“Exactly,” Steve said. “It drives them nuts.”
You shook your head slightly but didn’t bother arguing further. The two of them were already too deep into whatever ridiculous conversation this had turned into.
“But… then what?” Dustin asked.
Steve tossed another piece of meat ahead of them and considered his answer.
“You wait.”
Dustin frowned.
“…For what?”
Steve gestured vaguely ahead with the bucket.
“You just… wait until you feel it.”
“Feel what?”
Steve slowed slightly as he searched for the right words.
“It’s like… before it storms.”
He pointed upward at the sky through the trees.
“You can’t see it, but you feel that electricity in the air.”
Dustin leaned forward slightly, fascinated.
“Okay…”
Steve nodded seriously.
“Like a… sexual electricity.”
You nearly tripped over the rail.
“Oh my God,” you muttered under your breath.
Dustin, meanwhile, looked completely mesmerized.
“And then what?”
Steve shrugged.
“Then you make your move.”
“And that’s when you kiss her?”
Steve chuckled.
“Slow down, Romeo.”
He tossed another chunk of meat down the tracks.
“Some girls want you to move in strong—like a lion.”
Dustin’s eyes widened.
“But others… you gotta move slow. Stealthy. Like a ninja.”
You rubbed your temple.
“This conversation is going to kill me.”
Dustin thought about this very seriously.
“What type is Nancy?”
The name seemed to change something in Steve’s expression.
He slowed slightly, looking ahead down the tracks as he thought.
“Nancy’s different,” he said quietly. “Different than the other girls.”
Dustin nodded thoughtfully.
“She’s pretty special, I guess.”
Steve gave a small nod.
“…Yeah. She is.”
You watched him for a moment from behind them, hearing the way his voice softened when he spoke about her.
Dustin kicked a rock off the track.
“I think this girl’s special too.”
Steve immediately looked over at him.
“Hey,” he said sharply. “You’re not falling in love with this chick, are you?”
“What? No.”
“Good.”
Steve pointed at him with his gloved hand.
“Don’t. You’ll just get your heart broken.”
He tossed another chunk of meat forward.
“And you’re way too young for that.”
Dustin nodded seriously and resumed tossing pieces onto the tracks.
A moment passed.
Then Dustin glanced sideways.
“What kind of girl do you think Y/N is?”
You blinked.
Steve blinked.
Steve immediately shrugged.
“How would I know?”
But his eyes flicked toward you briefly.
Just long enough for you to catch the glance.
He quickly looked away again.
You raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Dustin looked mildly disappointed that the question hadn’t sparked a full analysis.
Steve cleared his throat and abruptly changed the subject.
“…Fabergé.”
Dustin looked up.
“What?”
Steve reached into the bucket again.
“Fabergé Organics.”
Dustin stared.
“…What?”
“Use the shampoo and conditioner,” Steve said seriously. “Then when your hair’s damp—not too wet—four puffs of Farrah Fawcett spray.”
Dustin’s mouth fell open.
“Farrah Fawcett?”
Behind them, you failed to hold back a small laugh.
Steve immediately whipped around.
“You too.”
You raised both hands innocently.
“Hey—I didn’t say anything.”
He pointed a dish-gloved finger at you.
“You tell anyone about that and you’re dead. You understand me?”
You bit back another laugh.
“Your secret’s safe, Harrington.”
Dustin nodded enthusiastically.
“Yeah, totally.”
The three of you continued down the tracks, tossing pieces of meat as you walked deeper into the woods.
None of you noticed the yellow flag tied to a rotting tree trunk just beside the tracks.
It fluttered quietly in the wind as you passed.
_____________________________
The junkyard appeared slowly through the trees.
At first it was just scattered pieces of rusted metal half-buried in weeds, but the deeper the four of you walked, the more the landscape opened up into something that looked like the skeleton of a graveyard for old machines. Twisted frames of abandoned cars leaned against each other, piles of scrap metal towered unevenly across the dirt, and an old yellow school bus sat tilted slightly on its worn tires near the center of the yard.
Steve and Dustin dumped the last of the meat buckets near the edge of the clearing.
The bags split open with a wet slop as raw meat spilled across the dirt and rusted metal.
Before anyone could say anything—
“I said medium well!!”
The voice echoed across the junkyard.
You turned instinctively.
Lucas was approaching from the far side of the yard, pushing his bike along the gravel path. And beside him—
Max.
The red-haired girl stepped cautiously through the rusted debris, skateboard tucked under her arm.
For a moment the two groups simply looked at each other.
Dustin’s entire body stiffened beside you.
His eyes locked immediately on Max.
You watched the girl for a moment before offering her a small, reassuring smile. It wasn’t a big one—just something gentle meant to say you’re not in trouble here.
But worry sat quietly behind it.
Max shouldn’t have been here.
You had seen enough of the way Billy treated her to know she’d already dealt with more than enough trouble without getting dragged into something like this.
Steve leaned slightly toward Dustin.
“Who’s that?” he asked quietly.
He didn’t have to wait long for the answer.
Dustin’s heartbreak quickly hardened into something closer to betrayal.
“You told her??”
—
A few minutes later Dustin and Lucas had disappeared behind a stack of rusted car frames, their voices rising and falling in a heated whisper as they argued.
You could hear pieces of it.
“…you wanted to tell her too—”
“…we all agreed not to tell her—”
“…before he turned into a Demogorgon!”
You let out a small breath and shook your head.
Teenage boys.
Meanwhile Steve had already started moving through the junkyard, dragging pieces of scrap metal toward the bus.
“Come on,” he said, nodding toward it.
You followed him without hesitation.
If Dart—or whatever Dart had turned into—showed up here, you needed somewhere defensible.
The old school bus was the best option.
You shoved a bent car door aside and climbed into the bus first, the metal stairs groaning beneath your boots. Inside smelled like rust and dust and old upholstery.
Perfect.
You grabbed one of the loose seats and shoved it toward the doorway to reinforce the entrance while Steve dragged a heavy piece of scrap against the side of the bus outside.
Max lingered nearby for a moment, watching the two of you.
“You can help if you want,” you said gently.
She nodded and stepped forward, picking up a piece of scrap metal and carrying it toward the bus.
“Stack it there,” you told her, pointing near the entrance.
The three of you worked quickly.
Metal scraped loudly against the dirt as you pushed and pulled pieces into place, building a rough barricade around the bus. You climbed down again and shoved a broken axle toward the pile while Steve hauled a chunk of sheet metal into position.
A few times you noticed Steve glancing at you.
Not long looks.
Just brief moments where his eyes lingered like he wanted to say something, probably because of all his earlier comments.
You ignored it.
There would be time for conversation later—if all of you survived whatever was coming.
Right now your focus stayed on the job.
You dragged another piece of scrap into place and stepped back to assess the setup.
The bus would work.
Not perfect.
But good enough.
Across the yard, Lucas and Dustin were still arguing behind the rusted machinery.
Steve finally had enough.
He clapped his hands loudly.
WHAP. WHAP.
The sound echoed through the junkyard.
Both boys spun around.
Steve started striding toward them.
“HEY DICKHEADS!” he shouted. “How come the only person helping me is Y/N and this random girl?”
He gestured sharply back toward the bus where you and Max stood among the piles of scrap.
“We lose light in forty!”
WHAP.
Steve clapped his hands again.
“Let’s go!”
The boys exchanged one last glance before scrambling out from behind the machinery and hurrying back across the yard.
You wiped your hands on your jeans and glanced toward the darkening tree line beyond the junkyard.
Somewhere out there, Dart was following the trail.
And sooner or later—
He was going to find you.
_______________________________
The junkyard buzzed with hurried movement as the group finished preparing their makeshift defenses.
Rust scraped loudly across metal as Max passed another piece of scrap up through the open window of the old bus.
Lucas grabbed it and immediately began hammering it into place over the glass, the metal clanging sharply with every strike.
Outside the bus, you and Steve were still moving quickly through the yard.
You shoved a loose tire aside to clear space near the bus entrance while Steve crouched near the center of the clearing, tipping a gas can slowly as gasoline poured onto the dirt.
The sharp smell of fuel spread through the air.
“You almost done over there?” you called toward him, dragging another piece of metal toward the barricade.
Steve glanced up briefly.
“Almost.”
He continued pouring, carefully forming a wide circle of gasoline around the pile of raw meat Dustin had dumped earlier.
Once the ring was complete, he extended a thin trail of fuel that stretched across the dirt back toward the bus.
Inside, Dustin leaned comfortably in one of the bus seats, watching Lucas finish hammering the last sheet of metal into place.
He gave Lucas a confident thumbs up.
Lucas shook his head in disbelief but stepped back from the window.
Outside again, Max dragged a rusted ladder across the dirt toward the side of the bus.
You stepped forward to help her lift it.
“Careful,” you said quietly.
Together you pushed the ladder upward until it hooked onto the roof hatch with a metallic clang.
“Nice,” Steve said from across the clearing.
You stepped back, scanning the setup one last time.
The windows were barricaded.
The ladder was secured.
The gasoline trail ran straight to the bus.
Max climbed up first, disappearing through the roof hatch. Lucas followed behind her, pulling himself up onto the roof.
You climbed inside through the bus door next, Steve stepping in right behind you.
Dustin glanced out the front windshield one last time toward the dark tree line.
Then he reached forward and shut the bus door firmly.
The lock clicked into place.
Inside the bus, the five of you waited.
Outside, the junkyard fell quiet again.
___________________
Inside the abandoned bus the air felt thick and stale, the metal shell trapping the cold evening air and every nervous breath inside it.
The entire structure groaned softly whenever someone shifted their weight.
Dustin paced restlessly up and down the narrow aisle, his sneakers squeaking faintly against the worn bus floor while he muttered under his breath and occasionally glanced toward the windows as if expecting something to burst through them at any moment.
It really did feel like being sealed inside a submarine.
Dark.
Cold.
Claustrophobic.
Across the aisle Steve leaned casually against one of the bus seats, though the tightness in his shoulders betrayed that he wasn’t nearly as relaxed as he looked.
FWOOM.
The small flame of his lighter flicked to life.
Then disappeared.
FWOOM.
On.
Off.
On.
Off.
You were sitting nearby on the edge of one of the seats, elbows resting loosely on your knees while you kept your eyes trained on the dark windows. Every shadow outside seemed to shift with the wind, and your mind kept replaying memories you really didn’t want to revisit.
The lighter flicked again.
Max watched Steve for a moment before finally breaking the silence.
“You really fought one of these things before?”
Steve gave a small nod.
Max’s eyes shifted to you.
“And you?” she asked. “You fought one too?”
You glanced over at her, the question clearly pulling you somewhere you didn’t want to go. Your jaw tightened slightly before you gave a small nod.
“Yeah,” you said quietly.
Your expression darkened just a little.
“Once was enough.”
Max studied your face for a second, clearly noticing that whatever memory had flashed across it wasn’t a good one.
Dustin, however, had no patience left.
“Don’t be an idiot,” he snapped suddenly. “It wasn’t a bear. I don’t even know why you're here if you don’t believe us.”
Max blinked at him.
“Yeesh,” she said dryly. “Someone’s cranky. Past your bedtime?”
She turned and climbed the ladder toward the roof without waiting for a response.
The metal creaked as she disappeared through the hatch.
You slowly shifted your gaze toward Steve.
Your expression said everything.
Really?
That’s the advice you’re giving him?
Steve caught the look instantly.
He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.
Instead he flicked the lighter again.
FWOOM.
You exhaled slowly.
“Steve.”
FWOOM.
“Steve.”
He glanced over.
“Stop flicking that thing,” you said, voice flat. “It’s annoying.”
Steve gave you another exaggerated eye roll but snapped the lighter shut and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.
“Happy?”
You gave a small shrug and looked back toward the dark windows.
For a few seconds the bus fell quiet again except for Dustin’s pacing.
Steve leaned slightly toward him.
“That's good,” he said quietly. “Show her you don’t care.”
Dustin crossed his arms.
“I don’t.”
Steve smirked and gave him a quick wink.
You roll your eyes, again.
Outside, the wind shifted through the junkyard, rusted metal clinking faintly in the distance.
Inside the bus, everyone seemed to hold their breath.
Then—
A monstrous howl ripped through the night.
The sound echoed across the junkyard like something ancient and furious.
Your head snapped toward the windows instantly.
Every muscle in your body went rigid.
Because you knew that sound.
____________________
Inside the bus the tension snapped tight the moment the howl echoed through the junkyard.
Dustin and Steve both heard it instantly. Their heads turned toward each other before they rushed to the small gap between the metal barricades covering the window.
You were right behind them.
Dustin squinted through the opening, practically pressing his face to the metal.
“Do you see him?!” he asked urgently.
Steve scanned the foggy junkyard. “No.”
You leaned closer beside them, eyes narrowing as you searched the darkness.
You called upward, raising your voice toward the roof. “Lucas! What’s going on up there?”
Outside, Lucas’s voice came back frantic.
“Hold on!”
A moment later—
“I’ve got eyes! Ten o’clock—ten o’clock behind the fence!”
You shifted your gaze in that direction, finally spotting the silhouette standing motionless in the mist.
Dart.
But something about the stillness made the hairs on the back of your neck rise.
“What’s he doing?” Dustin whispered.
Steve frowned. “I have no idea…”
Outside above the bus Max looked through the binoculars.
“You sure that’s not a dog?”
Lucas gave her a look that said seriously?
Inside the bus Steve continued staring through the opening.
“He’s not taking the bait,” he muttered. “Why’s he not taking the bait…?”
Dustin frowned.
“Maybe he’s not hungry?”
Steve shook his head slowly. “Or maybe he’s sick of cow.”
Something shifted in his expression then.
You saw it instantly.
Before Dustin could react Steve grabbed the bat leaning beside the seat.
“Steve—” Dustin started. But Steve was already moving toward the door.
“What are you doing?” Dustin demanded.
Steve tossed his lighter to him. “Just get ready.”
The rusty bus door creaked open. Steve stepped out into the fog.
You followed immediately.
Behind you the kids shouted in confusion.
Steve turned sharply when he realized you were right behind him.
“Hey—no. No way,” he said quietly. “You stay with the kids.”
You met his gaze evenly.
The look in your eyes made it very clear you weren’t going anywhere.
“Are you forgetting,” you said coolly, already stepping past him, “that I also fought these things before, Harrington?”
Steve hesitated a second.
Then sighed under his breath.
“…Right.”
Together you moved slowly through the junkyard toward the pile of meat.
On the roof of the bus Lucas and Max stared down in disbelief. Inside the bus Dustin muttered nervously. Back outside Steve reached the meat pile and lifted the nail bat.
He waved it slightly.
“Hey buddy,” he called out loudly into the fog. “Human’s better than cat, I promise.”
Inside the bus Max watched through the gap in the barricade.
“They’re insane.”
Dustin grinned nervously beside her.
“They’re awesome.”
In the fog ahead of you the creature finally moved. Dart stepped forward from behind the fence. You immediately felt your stomach drop.
He was huge now. The size of a Great Dane.
His slick gray skin glistened in the dim light and his mouth twitched as thick strands of slime dripped from the edges.
“Jesus…” Steve muttered beside you.
You tightened your grip on the hunting knife in your hand.
“Yeah,” you said quietly.
Dart crept forward slowly.
One paw at a time.
Then—
Lucas shouted from above.
“STEVE! Y/N! —WATCH OUT!”
You barely had time to turn before a second creature emerged from the fog.
Then another.
And another.
Your pulse slammed.
“…That’s not good,” you muttered.
Steve turned and saw them too.
“Okay—yeah that’s definitely not good.”
From the bus Dustin suddenly leaned out the door.
“STEVE—ABORT! ABORT!”
Too late.
Dart’s face peeled open. The shriek that followed tore through the junkyard. Then the entire pack charged.
“RUN!” you shouted.
The creatures exploded forward.
Steve reacted instantly.
He vaulted onto a fallen refrigerator and launched himself over the first charging demogorgon.
You slashed your knife across another as it lunged toward you, forcing it back just long enough to sprint after Steve.
“MOVE!” Steve yelled.
You both ran full speed through the junkyard.
One of the monsters snapped at your heels.
You kicked off the side of a rusted car and vaulted over the hood beside Steve.
Behind you the pack shrieked and scrambled over the metal wreckage.
They were gaining.
Steve glanced back.
“Fall back!” he shouted to you.
The bus was just ahead now.
You sprinted harder.
Steve reached it first and launched himself through the door.
You dove in a split second after him—
WHAM.
Dustin slammed the door shut behind you both.
A demogorgon crashed into the barricade instantly.
The entire bus shook violently.
Inside, everyone froze as the creature snarled against the metal.
________________________
Inside the bus, chaos exploded all at once.
The moment the first Demogorgon slammed into the barricade, everyone started shouting over each other.
The entire bus rocked violently as the creatures hurled themselves against the metal walls.
“Holy shit—holy shit—holy shit—!” Dustin shouted, backing away from the door.
Max grabbed onto one of the seats to keep from falling.
“Are they rabid or something?!” she yelled.
Another massive thud shook the bus.
You moved immediately, grabbing Dustin by the back of his jacket and pulling him away from the door.
“Back!” you snapped. “Everyone get back from the windows!”
Steve was already there, throwing another sheet of scrap metal against the door as the barricade bent inward.
Lucas tried to hold a panel in place.
“They can’t get in!” he insisted desperately. “They can’t—!”
The bus lurched again, metal screeching.
Outside, the creatures snarled and shrieked, claws scraping against steel.
WHOOM.
A long claw suddenly punched through the barricade.
Max screamed.
Steve reacted instantly, swinging the nail bat down hard.
CRACK.
The claw recoiled with a screech.
Behind him Dustin had grabbed his walkie and was yelling into it frantically.
“If anyone is out there—Mike, Will, Hopper, Erica—God, anybody—!”
SCREEEEEEEEE.
The sound of tearing metal split through the bus.
Dustin’s voice cracked. “We’re in the old junkyard! Do you copy?! We’re in the old junkyard and we are going to die—!”
Then something shifted above you.
Dust rained down from the ceiling.
Your head snapped upward.
“Wait—”
Max followed your gaze.
Her face went white.
“Uh—guys?”
The roof hatch exploded open.
A Demogorgon lunged down into view, its horrifying flower-like face peeling open as it roared.
For the first time Max saw it clearly.
And realized—
That was definitely not a dog.
“GET DOWN!” you shouted.
You lunged forward, grabbing Dustin and Lucas and pulling them sharply behind you as the creature snapped down through the hatch.
Steve jumped forward at the same time. “Outta the way!”
He planted himself between the creature and the kids, raising the nail bat over his shoulder.
You stepped beside him, knife raised. “Come on then,” you muttered under your breath.
Steve bared his teeth at the monster. “Come get this! COME GET THIS!”
The Demogorgon roared again—
But then something strange happened.
It hesitated.
Its head suddenly jerked upward, listening to something none of you could hear.
Then it released a low guttural cry.
A strange call.
Outside, the other Demogorgons answered.
The sounds echoed across the junkyard.
Then—
Just like that—
The creature withdrew.
The attacks stopped.
The scratching.
The pounding.
The snarling.
All of it.
Gone.
Inside the bus the silence felt almost louder than the chaos had been.
You slowly lowered your knife.
Everyone stood frozen.
Dustin blinked rapidly.
“…What just happened?”
Steve kept his bat raised, staring at the roof hatch. “No idea.”
Max looked down and suddenly realized she was still gripping Lucas’s hand.
She immediately let go.
Lucas awkwardly pretended not to notice.
After a few long seconds Steve carefully lowered his bat.
“…Okay,” he muttered.
“Now I’m confused.”
You glanced toward the bus door.
“Let’s not assume they’re gone.”
Steve nodded.
The bus door creaked open slowly.
EEEEEEEEE.
Steve stepped outside first.
You followed close behind him, scanning the dark junkyard.
Fog drifted across the wrecked cars and scrap piles.
But the Demogorgons were gone.
The distant howls were already fading into the forest.
Behind you the kids cautiously stepped out of the bus.
Lucas looked around nervously.
“…What happened?”
Dustin rubbed his face, still breathing hard.
“Steve and Y/N scared them off.”
Steve shook his head immediately.
“No,” he said quietly.
“No way.”
You crossed your arms, still scanning the tree line.
“They weren’t running from us.”
Steve nodded grimly. “They were going somewhere.”
The fog rolled slowly across the junkyard.
And none of you had any idea where the monsters had gone.
Series Summary: You just had to be in Eddie’s trailer the night Chrissy died. All you had wanted was to hang out with your best friend Eddie and smoke, and now you’re both wanted for murder and on the run. Dustin and his friends keep calling you Bonnie and Clyde, only you’re innocent…and you’re definitely just friends.
Pairing: Eddie Munson x F!Reader (though this chapter uses no pronouns)
Word Count: 4.3k
Warnings: cursing, talk of drug use, panic attacks, Chrissy's death
A/N: LETS FUCKIN GOOOOO I hope yall like it and are excited for this series!
FEEDBACK GIVES ME LIFE
“We still on to smoke tonight?”
You shrugged your jacket over your shoulders as you eyed your best friend. There was Eddie Munson, positively beaming after the successful end of his campaign as he cleared off the rest of his D&D set from the table. It had gone way better than any of you had anticipated, and you knew Eddie would be riding this high for a while.
After celebrating Vecna's defeat for almost a solid hour, everyone eventually cleared out, leaving just the two of you. As per usual.
“What?” He didn’t look at you as he swiped the little Vecna statue off the table, eyeing it carefully with a little grin on his face.
You stepped into his line of sight, amused. “I said are you still down to smoke tonight?” You didn’t know why you bothered asking, really; You and Eddie always smoked at his trailer after Hellfire Club. It had become something of a tradition the last couple of years, and after a win like tonight, you figured that was how Eddie would want to celebrate.
He looked up at you then, his smile fading. “Oh, uh, yeah. But I forgot to tell you, we have another…guest joining us.”
Your brow furrowed. “What?”
“Yeahhhh.”
Nobody had ever joined yours and Eddie’s smoke sessions before this. You gestured for him to go on. “Well, who? Dustin?”
Eddie walked around the table towards you before leaning against it, his arms crossing as he scoffed. “No. I told him he’s not allowed to smoke weed till he’s 20.”
“Then who? Spit it out already.”
“Chrissy Cunningham.”
You blinked.
And blinked again.
“Sorry, did you just say Chrissy Cunningham?” Your brain was processing a million miles an hour suddenly as you fought an ugly rise of anxiety sprout in your stomach and make its way up your chest. What in gods name would the Queen of Hawkins High want with your Eddie?
Okay, pause. So he wasn’t *your* Eddie, but also…yes, he was. The two of you had been best friends for the last 4 years, since almost the moment you walked into Hawkins High as a freshman. You’d never fit in with the cheerleaders, nor the traditional school-type nerds. You were more something in between, someone who didn’t seem to fit into any other social group in Hawkins. You had become lost, friendless, lonely in a sea of students trying to find their way in high school.
And then Hellfire Club walked into your life. Eddie walked into your life. And you’d been inseparable since.
He was strictly your friend, of course. There had been plenty of moments over the years where the line between friends and something more had blurred, but Eddie never made a real move. Always pretended the next day that nothing had happened. And despite having fallen completely and hopelessly in love with him, you were friends. That was all. And you’d come to accept it, being grateful for having him in your life at all. And in the years that had passed alongside him, you had to admit that you’d become fiercely protective over him. He’d been bullied badly by over half the town simply because of rumors, because they didn’t truly know him, and eventually you got tired of it. By now you’d stuck up for him in front of half the school so many times that virtually nobody bothered him anymore when you were around.
Except Jason Carver and his goons.
Which is why this whole “Chrissy Cunningham” situation reeked. You didn’t like it one bit. And a part of you…a tiny, totally small, virtually not even there part of you…also felt just a tinge of jealousy.
“Yeah, I know.” Eddie laughed, shaking his head. “She gave me a note as she passed me in the hallway this morning and asked me to meet her in the woods out back at lunch.”
You wrung your fingers together. “For what?”
“Drugs.”
If you had had a drink in your mouth, you were certain you would’ve spit it out at this point. “Chrissy Cunningham and ‘drugs’ do not belong in the same sentence.”
“Trust me, I know,” Eddie agreed, and the expression on his face became more thoughtful. “She seemed weird, though. Like, super spooked. She asked me if I ever felt like I was losing my mind.”
You chuckled at the thought, joining him in leaning against the table. “Did you tell her you feel like that every day?”
Eddie grinned, nudging your shoulder with his. “Word for word.”
Your smile faded a moment later, the anxiety lingering in your stomach. “So if she bought from you today, why is she coming over tonight?”
His smile fell then, too. “She didn’t buy. She said she wanted something stronger, and I don’t keep that shit with me at school, obviously, so…”
“This is so weird,” you said, shaking your head. “I don’t like it.” You didn’t know Chrissy personally whatsoever, but given her reputation, she would never dabble in drugs and she especially wouldn’t risk anyone finding her and the ‘town freak’ together. Something wasn’t right.
He chuckled, standing up and grabbing his leather jacket and car keys. “You wouldn’t be you if you did like it, sweetheart,” he said. “Look, it’ll be fine. She was nicer than I thought she’d be, honestly. She actually seemed kinda cool.”
You swallowed, turning away and walking towards the classroom door as you frowned. “Whatever you say.”
Eddie threw his backpack over one shoulder and jogged after you with a grin on his face. “What, you jealous?”
Your cheeks burned crimson. “Yeah, you wish.”
You and Eddie walked through the empty, dark hallways of Hawkins High, your steps in time. Eddie didn’t take his eyes off of you, that cocky, seemingly ever-present smirk remaining on his face. “Come onnnn, you know you’re the only girl in my life.”
Your stomach somersaulted as you pushed open the doors of the exit, the cool night air a welcome sensation against the blush now creeping up the back of your neck.
“I know, it’s quite sad,” you quipped.
“Ha, ha.” Eddie playfully hit your arm as you both reached the van, opening the passenger side door for you as always. “We gotta pick her up in the back parking lot.”
You sighed and shook your head, clicking your seatbelt into place as Eddie climbed into the driver’s seat.
He turned and looked at you, observing your sullen mood. “What?”
“I dunno, it’s just kind of annoying. You’re going out of your way to do this for her for some unknown reason and she’s making you pick her up in the equivalent of a dark alley so she won’t be seen with you. It just seems kinda shitty is all.”
The loud roar of the engine of Eddie’s beat up Chevrolet blasted in your ears as he whipped out of his parking spot and down the street, circling Hawkins High.
“Aw, babe,” he remarked, glancing at you with a smirk. “I love when you get all protective over me.”
You rubbed your hands over your face. He was so impossible. “I’m just tired of everyone treating you like the town freak, okay? You’re my friend; you deserve better than back-alley drug deals with some cheerleader who can’t bear to be seen in public with you.” You could feel his stare then, his eyes boring a hole into the side of your face. He said your name quietly, but you couldn’t bear to look at him. You stared out of the windshield in front of you, and there was a tiny blonde figure in the distance. “There she is.”
Eddie finally turned from you to look straight ahead, and there she was, indeed: Chrissy Cunningham, standing in her cheer uniform under a lone streetlamp at the back of Hawkins High. An eery feeling came over you as you watched her. She looked terrified, her head constantly turning in every direction as if she could sense someone watching her.
And then you flew forward, Eddie’s van screeching to an abrupt stop. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly before getting out.
You stared at your cuticles, picking at a hangnail as you mentally prepared yourself for the night ahead.
It’s no big deal, you thought. Maybe she really is nice and this isn’t a plot with Jason to get one over on Eddie. But if it wasn’t, why on earth would she be buying drugs? Jason has to be behind this, there’s no way—
The van door slid open behind you. Chrissy stood there looking shocked as she spotted you.
“Sorry, princess, front seat’s taken,” Eddie said from behind Chrissy.
Chrissy blinked, looking unsure. “Uh, you didn’t…you didn’t say anyone else would be here.”
You turned around in your seat to finally look at her. “Is there a problem?”
“No!” She swallowed, shaking her head and picking at the sleeves of her sweater. “No, no, it’s just…can you please not tell anyone about this?”
You and Eddie shared a look. Eddie’s eyes pleaded with you to be nice, just this one time. You, however, were unimpressed.
You sighed, turning back around to face the front. “No, Chrissy, I won’t tell anyone that you’re hanging out with the two town freaks.”
Chrissy climbed into the van and sat down in the backseat, her hands shaking as she buckled her seatbelt. “That’s not what I meant—I’m…I’m sorry, I’m just a little freaked out. I just meant, like, don’t tell anyone I’m trying drugs..”
Eddie slid the van door shut before climbing back into the driver’s seat and putting the gear in drive, his foot hitting the gas.
You turned fully around in your seat to look at her again, really look at her. She looked pale, like she’d just seen a ghost. Her trembling hands continued to pick at the sleeves of her sweater as if she just couldn’t settle down, like she was about to crawl out of her skin any second. “Why are you doing this, exactly?”
She swallowed, looking down at her lap. “It’s uh. A long story.”
“I mean, the Special K right out the gate is kinda crazy,” you pointed out. “I don’t even do it, neither does Eddie, so we’re essentially trip-sitting you tonight. Have you even smoked weed before?”
Chrissy’s head shot up, her eyes wide as she looked at the back of Eddie’s head. “You told her?”
Eddie glanced at her in the rearview mirror, his hands briefly lifting off the steering wheel in surrender. “Sorry, we’re kind of a package deal.”
“You don’t have to worry about me telling anyone,” you said to Chrissy. “In fact, it’s me who’s worried about you.”
Chrissy’s brows shot to the top of her head. “Me? Why?”
You gestured to her. “I mean, hello? Miss Goody Two-Shoes cheerleader with the perfect, straight-laced boyfriend suddenly wants to do drug deals with Eddie Munson?”
Chrissy closed her mouth and said nothing.
You leaned in then, pointing a finger at her. “If I find out this is some plot Jason made to hurt Eddie, I swear to god—“
“I would never!” Chrissy interrupted, hands in the air as if she were waving a white flag. “I promise, seriously. I know how Jason can be, I do, but he doesn’t even know I’m here right now. I swear.”
You pursed your lips, looking between her and Eddie. Eddie simply shrugged.
Under any other circumstance, you wouldn’t trust her as far as you could throw her. You weren’t a trusting person in general—you’d learned the hard way one too many times. But truly, she seemed incredibly earnest. And terrified, for some ungodly reason. So against your better judgement, you slumped back in your seat, kicking your feet up on the dash. “Alright, I’m trusting you.”
Chrissy gave the back of your head a halfhearted smile. “Thanks.”
A few minutes of driving passed in silence, save for Eddie’s Metallica blasting on the radio. You lit up a cigarette before Eddie stole it from you, his laughter warming your chest as you playfully hit his arm. “Thief!”
“Sharing is caring,” he grinned, the cigarette bouncing between his lips.
“So are you guys, like…dating?” Chrissy spoke up from the back.
Eddie suddenly began coughing violently on the smoke from the cigarette, his hand blindly reaching out to give it back to you as he fanned the smoke away from his face. Your heart sped up nervously at the question and at Eddie’s reaction, but you laughed it off, playing it cool.
“Uh, what?” You turned around to look at her.
She smiled at you, looking surprised. “You’re not dating?”
Eddie’s fingers nervously began drumming to a nonexistent beat on the steering wheel as he avoided looking at you. “Wh—uh, why would you think that?”
She gestured between the two of you as if it were obvious. “I mean, you guys are always together and flirting, so…I dunno, it kinda reminded me of me and Jason.”
The rising tension immediately broke at the absurd comparison. You and Eddie busted out laughing.
“You hear that, Eddie? You’re like Jason,” you teased.
“Can I call you the Queen of Hawkins High now?” He retorted with a grin.
You laughed again. “Definitely not.”
Chrissy got quieter. “I just meant that you guys seem really into each other.”
Silence followed for a beat too long before Eddie cleared his throat and spoke up. “Y/n is my girl,” he began, the words sending a swarm of butterflies soaring through your stomach. “But we’re just best friends.”
And there it is, folks. The other shoe. Dropped.
“Oh. Okay then.” Chrissy didn’t press it, but you could feel her stare, could feel her dissecting you. You stared out the window for the remainder of the drive, the awkwardness palpable until you finally made it to Eddie’s trailer.
Eddie had barely put the van in park before hopping out, opening Chrissy’s door and running around the other side to open yours. “M’lady,” he said with a dramatic bow.
You laughed, relieved as the tension dissipated. “Nerd.”
“You love it.”
Walking around the back of the van and following Eddie to the front door, you noticed Chrissy remained by the van, staring somewhere in the distance. “You coming?” You asked.
Chrissy blinked like she was snapping out of something. “Oh, uh yeah. Coming!”
The moment the three of you walked into Eddie’s trailer, Eddie began picking up trash scattered about. “Sorry…the uh, maid took the week off.”
You snorted, putting your bag down and plopping onto the sofa. You’d been to the Munson trailer enough times to know it always looked like this.
Chrissy stood in the middle of the living room, taking in her surroundings. “You live here alone?”
“With my uncle,” he answered as he began opening drawers. “He works nights at the plant. Bringing home the big bucks.”
You kicked your feet up on the coffee table and took in Chrissy’s expression, your brow furrowing. She looked like she was about to cry.
“How long does it take?” She suddenly asked.
Eddie paused, turning around to face her. “Sorry?”
“The Special K. How long to kick in?”
You and Eddie shared a look before he resumed searching the drawers. “Oh, uh, well it depends if you snort it or not. If you do, then uh, yeah. It’ll kick in pretty quick.” Eddie grabbed the container he’d been looking for and opened it, finding it empty. “Ah, shit.”
“You sure you have it?” you asked.
“No no, I got it…somewhere.” Eddie stood up, looking around before walking down the hall to his room.
Chrissy looked down at her feet and ran her shaking hands over her cheer skirt.
You sat up. “Are you okay?”
She whirled around to face you. “What?”
“….I asked if you were okay. You look like you’re about to have a panic attack.”
She swallowed harshly, tears clouding her eyes. “I…I don’t know.”
You stood up then, placing your hands on her shoulders in an attempt to ground her. You’d had enough panic attacks in your lifetime to know one when you saw one, and you had to admit that you felt empathy for her. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Here, tell me 5 things you can see in this room.”
She finally looked at you then, her brow furrowing. “W-what?”
“It’s a technique my therapist taught me to ground myself when I feel like I’m about to panic. Takes your mind off of it.”
Chrissy shook her head and took a step back from you. “No, no I just…if I could just take the Special K…everything will go away.”
“Chrissy, if you take drugs on the verge of a panic attack, it’s probably going to make it worse.”
She ignored you, instead looking behind you in the direction that Eddie had gone.
You sighed, mumbling a “Whatever” as you went and sat back down on the sofa. You could hear Eddie rumbling through the mess of his room in search for it, and part of you wondered if this whole thing was gonna be a bust. He hadn’t sold Special K in months, with only a handful of his clients ever asking for it in the first place.
“You know, I think you guys really should date,” Chrissy said suddenly, turning around to look at you. She sniffled, quickly wiping a tear from her eye. You knew she was trying to get her mind off of whatever was bothering her, so just this once, you indulged.
“Why do you think that?”
“I think he really likes you,” she answered, voice shaky. “He looks at you the way Jason looks at me.”
You closed your eyes, trying to shut out the hope that tried to break free in your mind. You had been over this with yourself so many times over the years. He doesn’t want you that way.
You cleared your throat and stood up, walking away from Chrissy. “Eddie, are you absolutely sure you have it?”
“One sec, I think I got it!” he yelled back.
You sighed, turning back around.
And that’s when you saw Chrissy’s face.
“What the…”
Her eyes were now rolled back into her head, eyelids fluttering as she stood stiff as a board.
“Chrissy?” You called out, standing in front of her as you waved your arms in front of her face. “What the fuck—Eddie, get out here!”
“Found it! Peaceful bliss, just moments away,” Eddie called out, strutting back into the room with an easy smile. Eddie held up the packaging and looked at you both, and his grin fell. “What happened?”
You looked between Chrissy and Eddie, helpless. “I don’t know! I was literally just talking to her and then she went into this, like, trance. I can’t get her to snap out of it.”
Eddie became serious, walking over and clapping to get Chrissy’s attention. “Chrissy? Hello?” He began waving his arms.
“I tried that already!”
“Well shit, I don’t know!”
You placed your hands on her shoulders, shaking her. “CHRISSY. WAKE UP.”
Eddie began snapping his fingers right in her face. “Hello? Chrissy, hello?”
And then the lights began to flicker.
You jumped away from her as if she had burned you, white hot fear and adrenaline coursing through your veins. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. “What the fuck, Eddie!”
Eddie became frantic, clapping and shaking her shoulders as he began to shout, fear lacing his voice. “Time to wake up, Chrissy! Wake up, I don’t like this, Chrissy!”
Your fight or flight instinct was starting to kick in, your gut telling you flight, flight, flight, but your feet were frozen in place.
Eddie continued to shake Chrissy, yelling at her to wake up until her feet began to lift off the ground.
“EDDIE,” you shouted, fear rising up into your throat until it threatened to choke you.
Eddie stumbled back into you and gripped your arm until his knuckles were white. The two of you stood and stared as Chrissy began to rise higher and higher in the air until she reached the middle of the room, her eyes fully in the back of her head. Neither of you could speak as you watched her, fear stopping you in your tracks.
And then her body slammed into the ceiling. You screamed and backed up into the counter as Eddie stumbled backwards onto the floor.
“JESUS CHRIST!”
Your body went on autopilot. You ran over to help Eddie off the floor and that’s when you heard a crunchy snap. You sawEddie flinch as he continued to stare behind you, utter horror written all over his face.
You don’t know why, but you turned back around. And god, you wished you hadn’t.
Her arms snapped in half first. Then, her legs. Her jaw. Her eyes. You knew Eddie was screaming beside you, but you didn’t register it. You were simply…frozen.
Eddie was suddenly screaming your name, scrambling to stand and pull you up with him. “Y/n, PLEASE, we have to go! Look at me, sweetheart, look at me!” His hands were trembling as he gripped your face, begging you to focus. “We have to go now!”
You blinked as if you were coming back into reality. You let Eddie pull you out the door and down the steps, into his van. Eddie was fumbling frantically around for your seatbelt, shaky hands buckling you in before slamming your door shut and running around to the driver’s seat. His door wasn’t even fully shut before he was flying out from the gravelly driveway, tires screeching and smoking as you fled.
The sound of Chrissy’s bones snapping rang out in your ears as you drove in silence. You flinched as the scene played behind your eyes over and over again. Eddie remained quiet, one hand trembling over the steering wheel and the other rubbing a frustrated hand over his face. You knew his mind was going a million miles a minute, and so was yours. You didn’t know what to say. What could you say?
“She’s dead,” you muttered. You had no idea how long you’d been driving before you finally spoke.
Eddie immediately looked at you. He was pale as a ghost, expression just as haunted as you were sure yours was. “I know.”
You looked at each other for several moments before your bottom lip began to tremble. “She’s dead.”
Eddie’s expression fell at the tears brimming your eyes. He reached out and took your clammy hand in his shaking one. “I know.”
You swallowed harshly, tears spilling onto your cheeks. You were feeling a thousand emotions all at once, but fear seemed to be taking a hold of you more than anything else. “What the fuck was that, Eddie? That was…not natural. And now she’s dead. She’s dead and we left her there, and she’s dead, Eddie!” You broke out into a sob, panic gripping you as the realization of what you had done set in.
She was dead, and you left her there.
You were the last ones with her.
And you left her there.
You were gasping for air when Eddie pulled the van over on the side of the road and unbuckled his seatbelt, reaching for you. He took your face gently in his hands, his thumbs brushing away your tears.
“Hey, hey hey. Look at me. Look at me,” he pleaded.
You obeyed, and you saw tears swimming in his own eyes. You hated it. Eddie was always easy smiles, laughter and sarcasm. Always so sure of himself. You hated seeing him as afraid as you were.
“We had to leave her there. We had to,” he insisted, even as you shook your head. “Whatever the fuck happened to her could’ve happened to us if we had stayed.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You don’t either,” he pointed out.
You let out a shaky sigh. “What do we do now?”
Eddie let go of your face then and looked away from you. “You’re not gonna like it.”
“Why? Don’t we have to go to the cops or something?”
He let out a humorless chuckle. “Sweetheart, even the cops in this town call me a freak. There’s no way they would believe me, especially when her death looked like…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “Whatever the fuck that was.”
You went silent at that.
He continued. “But…you could get away from this. Clean.”
You whipped your head up. “What does that mean?”
Eddie swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked anywhere but you. “I mean, your reputation is nowhere near as…tarnished as mine. You could get away from this. I’m fucked, obviously, I mean, she died in my trailer. But no one else knew you were there.”
You stared at him, incredulous. “What—are you saying I should just leave you in this mess? Leave you to take the fall for this?”
He looked at you then, his eyes pleading. “You do not have to go down for this, Y/n. You will ruin your life by tying yourself to me.”
Your heart damn near broke at the way he was looking at you now. Like he was begging for you to leave and save yourself, but also desperate for you to stay.
“I am not leaving you.”
Eddie’s lower lip wobbled. “Y/n, I am telling you, you need to get as far away from me as possible.”
You sat up straight, wiping your tears away. “And I am telling you, there is no way in hell I am leaving you.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Why? Why would you damn yourself to stay with me?”
Because I’m in love with you. Because you’re my person. Because I would move heaven and earth for you.
“Because you’re my best friend,” you finally said. “I would never leave you, especially not like this.”
Eddie let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding before pulling you into a desperate hug, his body trembling as he pulled you impossibly close. “I’ll find a way out of this for us,” he mumbled against the crown of your hair before placing a kiss against your temple.
