…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
hunger games au: You were thirteen when your name was called. He was fourteen when he took your place, becoming the youngest Victor the Capitol had ever seen before disappearing into its glittering grip. Now, your name is drawn again for the 70th Hunger Games, and Regulus is willing to do anything to make sure you make it out alive. But the Capitol is watching, and in the arena, nothing is as it appears.
A/N: this series is inspired by The Hunger Games, though it follows its own original storyline. it’s going to be a long journey — the full story will be over 100k words. i try to update every week, but please bear with me if there are occasional delays. your support, engagement, and feedback truly mean the world to me and help keep me motivated. thank you so much for reading! <3
you’re back at the BAU after five years away. spencer reid was your best friend, and the first man you ever considered falling in love with. now he’s the father of someone else’s child, and more or less a stranger. but you owe him a favor, and he has a young daughter in need of babysitting.
warnings: fem!reader. mentions of death of a pregnant woman (baby survives). reader is an ex smoker. crude discussions of sex, arguing. 18+.
a/n: this series has been like 2 years in the making can’t believe i am actually posting it… also i have NO idea what the posting schedule will be, bear with me!!! Love u so much!!
Six years ago
Something is off with Spencer as soon as he comes into the bullpen. He’s got this nervous energy. Sort of shell-shocked. He’s crackling with it. You’re leaning against the kitchenette counter, blowing on your coffee and trying to gauge if you’ll be able to figure it out just by observing him, or if you’ll have to ask. The two of you are good friends, but you don’t know if you want to tap on his shoulder lest you be electrocuted.
He doesn’t speak to anyone for several minutes—only sits at his desk, back straight as a rod (and considering his usually atrocious posture, this is concerning) not even bothering to take off his messenger bag or power on his computer. After a while of this you frown, and set down your mug (the heat-sensitive one where civil liberties from the Bill of Rights slowly disappear from the ceramic as you drink your coffee. Hotch doesn’t like it, but he’s never said you can’t use it.) You’re prepared to go over there ask him if everything is okay after all—but then Derek appears out of the blue, bent over, and it’s his hand on Spencer’s shoulder, his eyes concerned and voice low like he knows more than you. If only you could read lips.
They converse for another moment, and Derek nods toward Hotch’s office door, jaw and brows set so serious you’re beginning to worry. Spencer nods robotically and finally stands. You accidentally catch Derek’s piercing eyes and quickly look away, pretending to be overly concerned with studying your mug. It’s probably not an Oscar-worthy performance. When you hear Hotch’s door open and promptly close again, you look back up. Spencer is obscured from view, but you can see Hotch at his desk through the window, strong profile as steely and hawkish as ever. His lips move. He frowns—it’s his concerned frown. He seems to ask a question, and your stomach lurches as you watch his expression change more robustly than is typical for him. Eyes narrowed, lips slowly parted—what is that? Disbelief, maybe? Anger? And then it softens completely.
Your boss stands and before you have time to look away he’s closing the blinds.
You’ve only been here a couple of years, but—how often does that happen?
“Derek,” you half-whisper, scurrying toward his desk. All you get in return is a reluctant glance—a barely there acknowledgement of your existence.
“Do not drag me into this.”
You lean over his desk, setting your cup down and surely leaving a ring though you don’t particularly care as you frown, glancing back up to Hotch’s office. Still no sign of life.
“Drag you into what? What’s going on with Spencer?”
Maybe one day you’ll take those profiling classes. They’d sure come in handy today as you’re continuously perplexed by the indecipherable facial expressions of your co-workers. Derek tenses, and then relaxes, and then tenses again. Starts a sentence. Stops it. Knits his brow.
“You two haven’t talked yet?”
Faces, you struggle with. Inflections, you understand. That’s… pity.
Your own face slackens as you realize the gravity of the situation might be greater than you grasped with your poor perceptive skills.
“No… did someone die? What is it?”
Derek only leans back in his seat, giving you a sad once-over and shaking his head like this is the last time he’ll ever see you in one piece.
“This is a conversation for the two of you to have. I’m not getting involved.”
“Just tell me if someone died, Derek!”
He sighs, giving you another hefty dose of I-feel-sorry-for-you. “Nobody’s dying.”
Maybe you’re not the master of intonation like you thought you were, because there’s a secret, or a truth, sewn into the pocket of his words, and you can’t make heads or tails of it. Just as you’re about to further your inquisition, and you’re considering drastic measures, Hotch’s door is opening, and your head is snapping up fast enough your chiropractor will feel it at your next appointment. He eyes you for only a second before turning his attention to Morgan and the rest of the team members, who have actually been working at their desks.
“We’ve got a case. Round table room.”
Efficient and starkly business as usual. Nothing about his demeanor reveals any secret, though Spencer emerges from behind him stiffly, rubbing his eyes and staring straight ahead. His hair is messy. His tie is perfectly straight, which you actually find disconcerting. You jog up the stairs, favorite mug abandoned on Morgan’s desk, to intercept Spencer as he somnambulates down the catwalk.
“Spencer,” you whisper, setting your hand on his arm as you catch up. He looks down at the contact like he’s forgotten he’s a physical being. His hair is stringy. His eyes are bleary. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”
He blinks. Swallows. Glances over at Derek. “Morgan didn’t tell you?”
“No! He said it was a conversation for you to have with me. Are you alright?”
“I’m…” he nods, slowly. His nose twitches.“I’m fine. We should, uh… Hotch is waiting for us.”
It’s true—the team is gathering. You two are the last stragglers.
“Spencer.” You’re not taking no for an answer this time—your hand wraps around Spencer’s forearm and you give him an in imploring look. “You’re making me nervous.”
Good friends shouldn’t keep secrets. Then again—you and Spencer aren’t in the best place right now. But you’re supposed to be on the mend. Some secrets are best maintained and locked away to preserve the integrity of the friendship. This isn’t one of those secrets. If Morgan knows, and Hotch knows, you should know.
“Now, please,” Hotch orders. “Conversations can wait.”
Either you’re imagining it, or he’s being firmer than usual. Not that you blame him. He’s been through a lot in the time you’ve known him.
Spencer looks between the two of you helplessly. You watch as his arm slips from your grip. “Later.”
The briefing is tedious because all you can think about is what you don’t know, and when Hotch says wheels up in 30 (which, as per usual, doesn’t include you) you stand by the door, waiting for everyone except Spencer to filter out. He stays seated, now having left his fugue state and slumped, picking at his nails with an intense focus. Both Morgan and Hotch give you strange looks as they pass. You try to ignore the sinking feeling and shut the door behind them before pulling out a chair and taking a seat knee-to-knee with Spencer.
“Spencer.”
He doesn’t look up at you as he speaks. “You’re not going to believe me.”
You frown.
“What?”
“I mean, I still don’t really believe it… but she has nothing to gain from lying to me. It’s not like I’m rich.”
She?
Gently you pull his hands apart and hold them in your own. He’s got very pretty hands—only now the cuticles are rimmed with half moons of dry blood. You squeeze his fingers, hoping it will satisfy some sensory input he’s clearly seeking without being so injurious.
“Please just tell me. I know… I’m sorry if things have been weird between us, but I really don’t want to let that ruin—”
“I, uh, got someone pregnant,” he laughs.
You blink, apology smothered in the wake of this reveal as all the oxygen is sucked out of the room.
For a moment, you enter a perfect and serene state of thoughtlessness. Your brain is blissfully empty. Like a sparkling porcelain basin. Utterly drained. Bone dry.
Then the ringing starts. An irritating, high pitched whine. That basin becomes a sound bowl.
“What?”
Spencer only nods, glancing up at you and quickly back down. He pulls his hands away. You let him.
“That’s not funny.”
“It’s not a joke.”
The ringing gets worse.
“I… I’m sorry, I don’t understand. You’ve never even had a real girlfriend.”
It sounds terrible to you, too. It’s not really what you meant to say, and it implies something you didn’t mean to imply, and you’re hoping he’ll miss that as he sometimes does—but you aren’t so lucky. The hurt is palpable in his eyes when he frowns at you.
“I’m not a leper. I met someone a few months ago.”
Your eyes squeeze shut, but your own thoughts are a racing, dizzying carousel and not a particularly soft landing as you try to give yourself a reprieve from the way he’s looking at you. A few months ago, you’d been under the impression he was pining after you.
“So you… went out and found some random person to hookup with? And got her pregnant?”
“She’s not random. She’s my girlfriend.”
“What? You don’t have a girlfriend!”
He sits up straighter. Anger clears the fog from his eyes, sharpening him for the first time today, and you don’t know if it’s better or worse. “Why are you so hung up on that? Is it that unbelievable to you?”
“No, it’s just—you told me not even three months ago that you only kissed two other people before me!”
Spencer’s throat bobs. He’s speaking faster now. “And then I moved on, was I not supposed to?”
“Of course you can move on, but it’s—I mean, Jesus, Spencer! It’s surprising! This is crazy!”
He swallows and his jaw clenches.
“Sorry that the idea that someone could actually be interested in me is so shocking to you.”
You scoff.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“So explain how you meant it.”
You flounder at the sharp lash of his words.
How did you mean it?
Are you surprised he didn’t tell you about this alleged girl?
Well—yes. When has he kept something like this from you before? Never, you suppose. He’s never had anything like this to keep from you. There haven’t been any girls.
Not any girls, the whole time you’ve known him—except for you.
You sort of thought… even after you both decided to remain platonic… that it would stay that way. That he’d always be there. Waiting.
He seems to take this silence as an admission of guilt.
“Great. Thanks a lot, for being so supportive.”
It’s startling when he stands, grabbing his satchel off the table with enough force you jump, and you’re forced to look up at him. The conversation can’t end like this—not when he’s about to leave for a week. You hate being on bad terms with him, or at least you suspect you would—it’s never really happened before. Not like this, anyway.
Desperate to stop him from leaving, but too afraid to just admit it, you open your mouth without a plan.
“Why would I support this? It was idiotic. I mean—you’re twenty seven, Spencer. You’re a fucking FBI agent with three doctorates, and you managed to get yourself baby trapped—because—because what? I rejected you? And in the midst of your rebound you couldn’t figure out how to make a condom work? I knew you were naive, but I truly don’t understand how you could be so stupid.”
There’s nothing to comfort you in Spencer’s face. No smiling landmark, no buoy of awkward levity to cling to, bobbing just above surface and breaking the tension up. Just a clenched jaw, which could mean anything. If it’s rage, or hurt, he’s masking it well. This is almost more terrifying than if he’d just yell at you, because at least then you’d know.
Your heart pounds as you try not to gag on the words you’d just spoken. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, you want to say, but it’s like you don’t know how. The only language you speak comes out in venom and bile and curses. Every argument is as good as an execution.
He stays, though.
You’ve always had this way of getting what you want by the worst means possible. Always. It’s like the universe is punishing you for daring to be unsatisfied. If you’re stupid enough to want, to even think too hard about the things you secretly desire—you’ll get them. They will be twisted and perverted and thrown back in your face. Cruel and literal. The more you want a thing, the worse it is when it finally echoes back to you.
That’s how it goes with Spencer. You wanted him to stay, so he stays.
His lips part and it’s like tectonic plates shifting. The plastic edge of your chair bites deep into your palms.
There’s no yelling. Just a slight waver.
“I can’t imagine being as arrogant and deluded and self-obsessed as you are. Don’t talk to me about stupid when you are incapable of understanding that my entire life does not revolve around you. I started a correspondence with her six months ago. By the time you kissed me, I hadn’t thought about you for months. Maybe that’s just too difficult for you to comprehend.”
Words have never felt so visceral.
You want to take it all back. Your words. His. All of it.
I’m sorry. Please don’t leave.
“Fuck you. Get out.”
One more moment, he spares—one moment for you to watch the disdain turning to stone in his eyes. Cold in a way he’s never looked at you before.
And then he’s gone. The door doesn’t slam because it can’t but you almost wish it would—you hate that slow-close mechanism because you need some sort of absolute finality here. You need the windows to shake or you need to scream or something other than his retreating back down the catwalk. Your vision pulses with rage and your eyes water but you’re so shocked that tears don’t dare fall.
This can’t be real. No way he really got a woman pregnant. Obviously he must’ve slept with a psychologically disturbed erotomanic individual who’s desperate to entrap him and has been plotting this out for—well—for at least six months. But Spencer’s not the type to believe anything blindly. He must have proof.
Who is this girl?
A month ago you kissed and apparently he turned right around and knocked someone up.
Is that even possible? Conceiving and finding out you’re pregnant in such a short window of time?
What the fuck.
It crosses your mind that the blinds are open, and you look up to see that nearly the whole BAU had witnessed your altercation from Emily’s desk. When you catch them they all look away. Spencer is nowhere to be seen—and maybe that’s for the best.
You sniff and stand, straightening your jacket and turning to covertly dab at your cheek. It takes you a long time to tuck all the chairs back into the table. Spencer’s ended up several feet from yours, probably propelled backward by the violent speed with which he’d stood. You stare at the two empty chairs for what is certainly too great a length of time, and then you’re tucking them away just like the rest. By the time you turn back around, the BAU is gone.
Or at least, you thought they were, which is why you left—and then you’re almost running into Morgan on the stairs.
“Hey, woah,” he says, grabbing you carefully by the arms in a bid to stabilize you and halt your barreling forward motion. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” you snap. “Why would I not be fine?”
It’s a question you regret asking as soon as it leaves your lips.
“Because—” Morgan glances around. “Because I know this can’t feel good for you.”
Your face gets hot.
“For me? I don’t see you jumping for joy either. Spencer is a fucking idiot. He can’t raise a child. He can barely take care of himself, you know that.”
“Alright, first of all—keep your voice down. We don’t know that he’s going to be raising a child. We don’t know what the girl wants yet. Second, he is your friend. I think he was hoping for a little support from you of all people.”
“I don’t know why you keep insinuating that me and Spencer have some special connection. You’re clearly closer with him than I am. How long have you known, anyway?”
“Since last night,” he defends.
“Who else knows?”
Morgan hesitates. “Hotch.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“Okay, Garcia too. That was my fault. By the time we get back, it’ll probably be everybody.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to subdue a building pressure there.
“He is so fucking stupid,” you mutter.
“He’s lonely, and he’s hurting. People make bad choices under those circumstances all the time.”
“Yeah. He made a human, though. So.”
“Why are you so mad about this?” Morgan asks.
“I’m—”
Words catch in your throat. You glance over his shoulder as JJ approaches, her own pale brows drawn in concern.
“You’re being flagged. I’ll see you later.”
Derek doesn’t say a thing as you shoulder past him, through the bullpen and the glass doors and past the rest of the team (sans Spencer) by the elevators. You don’t really know what course you’re charting until you end up in front of the door to Garcia’s lair. There’s a sign on the door you’ve never noticed.
The Doctor Is In
Beneath that, a heart-shaped sticky note:
Psychiatric help: 5 cents. Results not guaranteed!
You open the door and close it behind you and stand there. Penelope turns around in her spinny chair, brows raised jubilantly like she’s expecting a social call.
You’re breathing a hair too quickly for someone who was only walking. Your fists clench and unclench. Rhythmic. Like a pulsing heart.
Garcia says your name like a question.
Your lips twist, and you feel the first hot tear roll down your cheek the way you would feel the earth shifting beneath you. It’s setting a bone that doesn’t heal quite right. It’s a 0 where there should be a 1 in a sea of binary code. Everything, everything, is almost exactly the same, and suddenly so wrong.
“Me and Spencer got in a fight,” you whisper.
It’s part of, but not the full truth of the matter. It’s not quite why you feel so off-kilter.
Another tear falls, and it unsticks Garcia. She’s standing, coming to you, arms open.
“Oh, honey,” she whispers, wrapping you in a hug. You feel stupid, standing there, soaking the knit of her purple cardigan—truly crying now—but you can’t stop.
This close, this raw, and with someone who has only ever been kind to you, the truth of your upset bubbles up. It’s impossibly quiet and brittle. Too delicate for this world. It makes you feel sick.
“He’s having a baby.”
Present day - October 2nd
You’re doing overtime in the kitchenette. That is to say, your window of opportunity is coming to a close, and JJ is still talking—holding you hostage with a silver spoon that clinks as it bumps into the sides of her mug. A plastic clock tick-tick-ticks on the wall. 1:25 PM. Spencer will be coming in for his first afternoon coffee any second now, and it won’t be the end of the world—but you’ve been carefully memorizing his routines so as to move swiftly around him whenever possible. Why create an awkward moment, standing alone in the kitchen, when it’s not necessary? The two of you have enough awkward moments as it is: stilted hellos murmured on the elevator in the mornings. Strange, bubbling heat which fills the stretch of air between you when he’s the first one to show up in the round-table room for a briefing. Each sorry he murmurs when he ghosts your shoulder, passing like phantom ships in the night in and out of Emily’s office, when you can feel the weight of those nice suits he wears now, and something in your chest freezes like solid ice. When you can smell tea tree and amber and woodsmoke, and something lighter—something innocent, and sweet, and simple. Strawberry toothpaste. Orange and vanilla shampoo.
Charlotte. His daughter, who you’ve yet to meet. Who haunts every desk with crayon drawings made for each member of the BAU. You know her handwriting. You know the way she draws her father, a stick-figure head and shoulders above everyone else and with a wide, flat smile, underscoring two placid dots for eyes, and a scribbled mess atop his head. You surmise she must have long brown hair, from the way she draws herself, and you know Spencer buys her orange and vanilla scented shampoo, and you’ve never met her. She’s a ghost to you. Maybe a shared hallucination everyone else can see. An unacknowledged and inherent truth—like air, or the sun. Yes, it is there. We all know. We’re all perfectly familiar, and we have accepted her as part of our reality.
Whenever she’s mentioned, you clam up. Charlotte is not someone you have the right to talk about. She is the president of a secret club that everyone else is part of except for you, and that’s the price you pay for leaving five years ago without a word, and you’ll just have to accept that.
1:26. Spencer breezes in, and you know, just from the tide of air against your back, that he’s still a little unsettled by your presence. You don’t know how you know. But it must always be obvious, after half a decade of your absence, and only a month since your return. If you’re not used to being back, surely he isn’t used to it, either.
“’Scuse me,” he murmurs to JJ, and she steps aside to let him at the cabinet before resuming her story.
“So—anyway, Will’s gonna hand off the baton to me as soon as I get home, catch a flight to New Orleans, and then he’s gonna try and get the whole situation with his mom handled as quickly as possible—but obviously, I’ve resigned myself to not coming in tomorrow.”
“Ugh, I’m sorry. That sounds so stressful,” you lament—only peripherally processing the click of ceramic as Spencer retrieves his own mug, the sift of sugar piling at the bottom of his cup over the pouring sound of your own coffee. The sound of fabric brushing fabric as he reaches for things, a sniff as he retrieves a stirring stick. He still does that nose scrunch thing.
JJ sips sweetened peppermint tea. “You’d think after having done this job for so long a little bit of vomit wouldn’t bother me so much. But, you know—I’ve had worse Wednesday nights.”
You’re about to agree, but Spencer beats you there. The shock of his voice is like a cold wave to the back of the head.
“You said you’d watch Charlotte tonight. I reminded you last night.”
This is not your confrontation, but you feel yourself tensing up regardless. Stir, stir, stir. Sugar crystals melt like stars into your coffee galaxy during the subsequent pause.
“Oh, shit, Spence. I’m sorry.”
“So you can’t?”
“My kids are throwing up. Will’s mom’s house just flooded, so he can’t watch them.”
Another tense gap in conversation, like a fissure opening up and threatening to swallow everyone in the kitchenette.
“I’m sorry,” JJ repeats. “I… you could drop her off? I could… I could quarantine her in the office?”
Not likely.
“No, that’s—it’s fine. It’s not your fault. I’ll figure something out.”
“Maybe Penelope?”
“She’s leading that federal cyber security seminar tonight.”
“Shit,” JJ says again. “Can you reschedule, with… you know?”
“We’ve rescheduled three times. She’s not going to give me another chance if I cancel last minute again.”
This bit seems particularly distressing to JJ, who huffs and sighs and flounders. A dash of half-and-half turns your coffee galaxy into a creamer Milky Way.
“I don’t know, Spence. Maybe Kate could watch her?”
“I don’t know Kate well enough. It’s fine—thanks—thank you for trying to help. I’ll figure something out.”
He doesn’t quite storm away. Blusters, perhaps. Rolls swiftly out like a high wind in search of some structure to level.
A layer of awkward quiet covers everything as you take your first sip of coffee. You fix your eyes on the percolator as it drips concentric circles into a puddle of black.
“He’s going on a date, or something?”
JJ’s brows flash up as she sets her eyes on you.
“Uh—there’s just… someone he needs to see. They’ve been trying to get together for, what—two months, I think? God, I feel awful.”
Interesting.
“It’s not your fault. I’m sure he’ll find someone.”
JJ doesn’t look convinced. Her gaze trails after him, as concerned for his well-being as she’s always been, like she’s worried he might walk right off the edge of a cliff.
“Yeah… I hope so.”
-
The scene sticks with you, long after you’ve sequestered yourself back in your office and finished your coffee. It’s exactly the kind of thing you’ve been so neurotic about avoiding. Overly intimate. Forces you to confront truths you’d rather ignore: Charlotte, for example. Spencer’s living, breathing daughter. The consequence of the action. The tribulations of single-parenthood. All those years in New York, you told yourself he had the whole team to support him. He wouldn’t need you. He’d hardly even notice your absence. Perhaps that was how you’d kept your guilt manageable.
It’s that very guilt that gnaws at you all afternoon, while you’re lining up your mug with the matching rings of coffee burned into the varnish on your desk. Same mug you’d always used—the one printed with the vanishing Bill of Rights. Chipped, now. Same desk. Stained. Peeling at the corners. Covered in framed photos from your time in the city—pictures of you and people you haven’t spoken with in the month since you came home.
In a way, it’s like no time has passed at all. But some things are showing their age, and their wear. Quantico didn’t freeze the second you left. People went on without you, because they had to. Because the world does not revolve around you.
For the rest of the day, you remain in your office. Some small animal inside of you feels like hiding. It’s the same animal who runs away when it’s scared and bites when it’s cornered. But you are not that animal anymore. You are a grown, adult woman. Discipline must be implemented. The dog must be kept at heel.
Or at least—the burning, gnawing ember of guilt deep in the pit of your stomach seems to think so. Fire beats instinct. At 5:26, you close the office door behind you with a soft click, bag shouldered, shoulders squared. No buckling. I don’t do that under pressure anymore.
Spencer is the last straggler in the bullpen. When you make your way down the stairs, he’s tucking files into his satchel, brows furrowed as his lips form silent, quick words. Like he’s arguing with someone in his head.
You clear your throat and stop a few healthy feet away. “Hey.”
Spencer looks up, eyes clear with surprise as you shatter whatever spell he’d been under. It’s not like there’s a precedent for casual conversation between the two of you. You haven’t initiated any unnecessary interaction since your return, and you sense he’s been taking queues from you. This isn’t a curveball so much as a Louisville Slugger to the walls you put up and staunchly maintain. He straightens. Lips part.
“Hey.” Characteristically tentative and devastatingly careful.
“Did you, uh—find a sitter, for tonight?”
A blink.
“No. No, I didn’t. There’s—everyone is busy. It’s alright. We’ll… we’ll figure something out.”
The way he eyes drop back to his desk, the way his words melt into half-sigh—he is defeated like he’s used to it. Your stomach twists. When you go to speak, you stumble over a false start. Swallow involuntarily.
“I c—I could watch her. I mean—if you really need someone. I’d… be happy to do it.”
There is so much barbed wire between the two of you now, so many layers of defense, it’s difficult to interpret his expression. Guarded. Doubtful, as this sinks in over the course of a silent moment. The dread you feel, despite having volunteered yourself, is so potent you think it must be mutual.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know. I just wanted to offer. It seems like you were really counting on JJ, and—not that I was eavesdropping, I just, I was right there. I didn’t mean to listen in. It’s none of my business, whatever it is, but if you need someone to watch Charlotte, I can do it. I watched JJ’s kids sometimes, when they were younger.”
“I remember,” he says, quickly, before he has time to censor the past in the way you’ve been doing. Smearing it in whiteout ink and working around it without acknowledgment. It’s jarring for both of you, but Spencer clears his throat and tries to roll with it. “You were good with them.”
In answer you press your lips together. A conciliatory smile. The corners of his own mouth pull—not in a smile, but in that way which means he’s troubled. Doesn’t particularly like his options.
“Could… could you be in Alexandria by 6:30? I’d be home before ten.”
Alexandria? Does he have a benefactor? Or a sugar daddy?
“Yeah. That’s not too far from me.”
Spencer takes a deep breath and glances back down at his files, slid halfway into the bag.
“Okay. I’ll text you the address, then. And thank you. I wasn’t expecting… I thought I’d have to cancel again.”
“It’s nothing. I should get going though, if I want to get changed and stuff beforehand.”
“Yeah, of course. I’ll see you later.”
You offer another tentative smile and a little wave as you walk away, and you’re pretty sure you leave your stomach on the floor by his desk.
You don’t have to do that, he’d said.
But you do. There is so much you owe him. So much you will never be able to make up for.
Maybe this, at the very least, will help you sleep a little sounder at night.
-
The street is quiet and narrow, lined with gorgeous brownstones and neat trees with leaves like crests of amber fire floating down onto meticulously maintained sidewalks. The cars parked to either side of yours are sturdy, square things in dark neutrals—unassuming, but new and clearly expensive to the trained eye. Pumpkins and welcome mats dot stoops. Strings of orange lights and autumnal holiday garlands twist around the wrought-iron handrails.
You triple check the address he’d texted you.
He told you he moved, and it makes sense. Raising a child in a one bedroom apartment would be far from ideal. Still, a townhouse in old town Alexandria is so beyond your means you can hardly comprehend it. Because of Charlotte, he’s got that adjunct position at Georgetown—teaches an accelerated month-long course for every hundred days he spends at the BAU. Maybe it pays really well. Like—hundreds of thousand of dollars well. Or, more plausibly, he’s laundering money.
What makes total sense to you is Spencer’s stoop being the most thoroughly decked-out for Halloween on the whole street. You’re squeezed between a handmade scarecrow wearing an old sweater vest that you actually recognize and a skeleton smoking a fake cigarette. It seems Spencer does not believe in such a thing as too many pumpkins, but if the limit did exist, he’d be rapidly approaching it.
The door is opening before you get the chance to lift the antique knocker, spilling warm light out onto the chilly sidewalk, and there’s Spencer in a peacoat. Breathless like he’d just run down the stairs. Hair falling in his face like he’d been pushing it back.
For a brief, aching second, he is someone you know well. Your heart catches on a rib.
“Hello,” he breathes, taking a moment to stand awkwardly before he remembers to invite you in, like he can’t believe a girl from his past has been superimposed at this current front door. Like you’re a total anachronism. You can’t blame him. “Sorry. Come in.”
Spencer pulls the door open wide for you and steps back so you can enter. It smells like cedar and old books and feu de bois and amber. The entryway is deep and warm, a dark staircase going straight upstairs to your left and a wide arch leading into the living area on your right. You peer in.
The home is like his old apartment on steroids. The walls are the color of old parchment, but you’d hardly noticed, covered as they are in an eclectic gallery of surrealist paintings, and the hundreds (now possibly numbering on thousands) of books in his collection, housed in dark walnut built-ins with ornate detailed corners. The couch is a deep-set, wine colored sectional, and strewn with knit blankets and throw pillows, stationed in front of a grand brick fire place over a rich tapestry rug. Several stained glass Tiffany-style lamps cast various pools of warm glow through the room, reflecting off the plethora of trinkets and photos on the mantle. You look away, to the console table aside the stairs, topped with an antique looking mirror and several houseplants that must be fake, because he’d never been able to keep one alive back then. At the end of the hallway is a closed door, probably leading to a bathroom.
“Wow. Nice digs.”
“Thanks, yeah.” He closes the door behind you and clears his throat. “Still getting used to it. We just moved in last spring.”
We.
“I—”
The sound of rapid pattering interrupts you. Little footsteps coming from upstairs. You turn your head just in time to see a tiny thing, though much bigger than you remembered, racing down the creaky steps—a streak of blue followed by two dark braids.
“Woah! What did we say about running in the house?” Spencer scolds as Charlotte barrels into his leg—but his fondness for her is evident in the way he sets his hand atop her hair, pushing deep brown wisps out of her big eyes.
“I got afraid. It was dark,” she justifies breathlessly. He frowns. For the moment, you’re forgotten, and it’s just as well, because you’d be shocked into silence by the sight anyway. She’s not the baby you’d last seen her as, and logically you knew she wouldn’t be, but it never quite sunk in. She’s, like… a real human person. Just miniature.
For a month you’ve been around Spencer, for years you’ve been thinking about the two of them, and you’ve heard her mentioned since you got back, sure—but seeing it—seeing her and him together—is entirely different. Maybe you didn’t really believe she would be so grown up now. You’d only seen her a handful of times before you left, and that screaming infant could’ve been anyone’s.
“Dark where?”
“Your office. I made a fort under your desk.” She beams up at him, hanging onto his leg and standing on his foot, swinging from him like he’s a jungle gym. The smile on her face says she’s not supposed to do that.
“Okay,” he says dryly—clearly he’s learned to choose his battles—and looks back up at you. For a moment, after he introduces you to Charlotte, you’re not sure how to respond. You’re still in something of a state of shock. Awe, maybe.
This child is unmistakably, undeniably, his.
But even more than that, she looks like her mother—a face that had begun to blur in your dreams over the years since you’d seen her last. You only met her a handful of times during her pregnancy, and now it’s like she’s staring right at you through her daughter’s eyes.
“Wow, hi, Charlotte!” you manage, hoarsely. “It’s nice to meet you. I like your pajamas.”
“They’re space,” she says simply, slowly curling behind her dad’s leg to hide, even as she’s gracing you with a smile.
“That’s so cool. Do you like space?”
She looks at you, and then back up at her dad for approval, still clinging to him, with eyes that may as well have been copy-pasted from his face onto hers. They’re wide, warm brown, framed by long, dark lashes. Spencer scratches her scalp affectionately, and nothing could prepare you for the unfiltered adoration he’s regarding her with.
He’s not just a clueless, bereaved 28 year old holding a wailing baby anymore. He’s actually a father.
“She likes her butterfly pajamas more, but space is good too. Charlie, you should show her the present Derek brought you later.” Then, to you, “She knows all the planets in the solar system.”
And he’s so proud of her when he says it, his eyes are so sparkly and smiley and so clouded with love your breath catches.
“Okay,” she agrees hesitantly.
You smile absently. A silence you don’t have the strength to lift falls and Spencer is quick to fill it.
“Okay. So, uh, no peanuts, but her epi-pen is on the kitchen counter just in case. I left my card, too, the PIN is 3449. Get whatever you want for dinner. And don’t worry about putting her to bed. I’ll be home before ten. She’s kind of a night-owl anyway… despite my greatest efforts.”
“Like her dad,” you marvel, still smiling at her. She’s still hiding, eyeing you with a cautious sort of interest. Spencer exhales a nervous laugh.
“Yes. Like her dad.”
A moment passes, and you sense the reluctance in him of a parent hesitant to leave their child. It’s strange and at the same time not at all out of place on him. But then he’s crouching down to be at Charlotte’s level.
“Okay. I’m gonna head out now, but I’ll be home to tuck you in, alright?”
“Okay.”
He smooths her braids and you realize he must’ve done them himself. How old was she when he learned how to do that?
“Are you gonna be good?”
“Yes.”
“Are you gonna run up the stairs?”
“No!”
“Okay, okay! I just had to check. Give me a hug.”
Charlotte gives him two dramatic kisses on each cheek and hugs him tightly.
“I love you,” he says, smushed against her head, and you can tell it’s not an after thought. He means it with every fiber of his being. Have you ever heard him tell anyone that he loves them in so many words? Has he ever been so unafraid in expressing it?
“I love you too. I have to go take Rosie for a ride before it starts raining, ’cause she’s afraid of thunder,” Charlotte says matter-of-factly as she pulls away.
“I think that’s a great idea.”
So she bounds into the living room and beyond toward what you presume is the kitchen—which is apparently where they keep the stables.
Spencer stands. Clears his throat like he’s suddenly insecure. “Rosie’s not a real horse.”
You’re terribly charmed by the entire exchange. Breathlessly so.
He’s so happy with her.
“Ah. Thanks for clearing that up.”
Spencer takes a deep breath and pats his pockets like he’s making sure he’s got everything. It’s a familiar gesture—the eidetic memory never stopped him from being forgetful.
“Alright… all good?”
“Yes,” you nod once. Decisively.
“Okay then. I’ll be back around nine or ten.”
“Got it.”
“Don’t be afraid to call.”
“Understood.”
He remains rooted to the spot.
The internal struggle is palpable—the push-pull between whatever it is he’s so desperate to attend to and the fear of leaving his daughter with someone untested.
More than that, you realize that he’s fighting with something on the tip of his tongue. Like it’s hurting him to consider saying.
In the end, it wins. He looks genuinely pained as he sighs and then speaks.
“If she—if she starts… it’s been a while, but she has tantrums sometimes—and they’re, they’re pretty bad. So if that happens, just… call me right away.”
You blink.
“Okay.”
“She probably won’t. I’m sure she won’t.”
Some odd undercurrent laps at the foot of the conversation. Some tone you don’t understand. Some mine under the floorboards you hadn’t noticed a moment ago.
He’s staring into you like you might know what’s going unsaid.
But there’s little time to ponder and no room for further discussion before he’s taking another deep breath.
“Okay. I will… see you later. Lock up behind me?”
Your smile is a delayed flicker and it probably doesn’t reach your eyes.
“Yeah. See you later.”
You follow him to the door and stand with one hand on the knob as he makes his way down to the sidewalk. He pauses. Turns to face you once more. A sweet, dark autumn breeze ruffles his hair.
“Thank you for doing this. Really. You have no idea how much I appreciate it.”
“Of course. I’m happy to,” you say softly. You wonder if he thinks you’re lying. You wonder if you are lying. Most of all, you wish he’d stop thanking you.
Either way, he doesn’t push. Just bids you a quiet goodbye with a final awkward smile, and you wave. Then you’re closing the door, locking up just as requested.
The wood digs into your back as you lean against it, deeper when you fill your lungs completely.
One breath.
And then you’re launching deeper into labyrinth, chasing after a little ghost with dark braids.
-
There are no explosive temper tantrums. Not even a hint of a bad mood. On the contrary; Charlotte is exuberant.
You shouldn’t be surprised, but Spencer Reid has raised a delightfully entertaining and precociously conversational child. At first she’s shy, but once you present her with butter chicken, she thinks you’re God’s gift to earth.
She shows you the present Derek got her: a little box which projects a spinning solar system in a sea of pretty jewel-toned lights onto the wall when you turn off the myriad lamps, and she names each and every planet, just like Spencer said she would. You get to meet Rosie, who is a plushie horse head on a long stick, and indulge her love for invisible sugar cubes. She shows you her dance from The Nutcracker, and you agree to play ballet class with her—which ends up being her favorite game of the night. Every time you intentionally flub a step, she breaks out into hysterical laughter. Her energy is contagious, and you fall into the swing of babysitting quite easily. Even if she weren’t so charming, you’d be captivated. You see her father in the set of her eyes and the warmth of her hair and the slope of her nose. She’s real. She’s him. Genetically. It’s hard to look away—to stop searching for proof in every familiar feature.
After several hours, she finally tires herself out. You’ve long since been directing her games from the decadent comfort of the couch.
“Can we watch TV?”
“Do you even have a TV?”
Charlotte nods, her long brown braids now hopelessly tangled. They weren’t like that before you showed her how to do somersaults on the sofa—something Spencer may or may not appreciate.
“It’s in daddy’s room,” she says, rocking back and forth on her little feet, gripping the edge of the couch for support. “Sometimes when I’m sad we watch movies and TV in there and he lets me sleep in his bed. Even though it’s bad sleep hygiene. Because of blue light.”
“I see,” you nod, pulling your knees to your chest against the slight chill and eyeing the fireplace desirously. “Are you sad right now?”
You almost can’t imagine it. Despite being born of borderline Shakespearean tragedy—despite Spencer’s ominous warning about temper tantrums—she seems like a perfectly happy, outgoing little girl.
She shakes her head emphatically, and climbs onto the couch, shuffling toward you on her knees. “No. I just wanted to show you Scooby Doo.”
“Hm. Well, I don’t think I should go into your dad’s room. Maybe you guys can watch it later. I think he’s getting back soon.”
Charlotte tugs down her pajama shirt so the little shooting stars and planets on it stretch into oblong blobs and kneels next to you. Her little milk teeth are perfect pearly white as she smiles shyly, and she definitely has her dad’s eyes—huge, rich brown, you-can’t-say-no-to-me eyes.
“Why are you hugging yourself?”
She still has her chirpy little sing-song baby voice. It’s absurdly cute.
“Because I’m cold.”
“Don’t move,” she orders, and just like that she’s back up, running across cushions to the other side of the couch (you probably shouldn’t let her do that) and kneeling again, fussily choosing from the stacked pile of blankets at the corner of the sectional. “Fluffy or yarn?”
“Definitely fluffy.”
“Definitely,” she agrees happily in her sweet musical way, like she loves the sound of the word. “Definitely, definitely.”
A moment later she’s successfully unfolded all the blankets in order to grab the on at the very bottom of the pile—a big cream-colored one—and drags it back over to you, making a show of tossing and pulling and patting and smoothing till you’re completely tucked in up to your shoulders.
“There. You can sleep here tonight.”
“Oh, you know—I don’t think we’re having a sleepover, Charlotte.”
She looks crestfallen, but hides it well, squishing a babyish cheek against the couch cushion next to you and picking at its seam.
“Well… why not?”
“Because your dad is coming home soon, remember? Isn’t that exciting?”
She makes a face.
“No. I see him all the time. I want to keep playing with you.”
Your heart swells. She’s got the same earnest sweetness as her father, and is well on her way to having just as much attitude. Carefully you untuck your hand from the blanket and brush her braid over her shoulder.
“That’s sweet, Charlotte. I’m having fun too. Maybe we can hang out again sometime.”
She takes the little act of affection as an invitation to plop down next to you and lean into your shoulder. For a split second you freeze—but you snap out of it and offer her a corner of the blanket. She takes it until you’re both warm and cozy and tucked in.
“Why do you know my dad?” She asks, words lilted with that same childish prosody.
“We work together.”
“I know everyone he works with. ‘Nelope, JJ, Kate, Dave, Derek, and Emily. Plus, he used to work with Hotch and Alex. He never told me about you.”
Makes sense. There’d be no reason to talk about you.
“Well, that’s because I went away for a while. You won’t remember this, but we actually met when you were just a tiny baby.”
Her wide eyes go wider as she looks up at you in awe.
“Really?”
“Yep. I remember the day your dad brought you into the office for the first time. You were so small he could hold you with one arm, isn’t that crazy?”
You don’t mention that the office had never been more somber than it was that day—not even when Haley died. That when you look back on the memories, they’re devoid of color or sound, aside from Charlotte’s screaming. It was too soon to bring her in, but where else could he go? Where else could he possibly take her?
“Did you know my mom?”
Your blood flash-freezes for a moment as you’re pulled out of the memory with a bucket of ice water to the face. You’re not quite sure how to answer without opening Pandora’s box.
You’re not quite sure there’s an answer to that question that you could give to anyone.
Thankfully, and possibly due to divine intervention, you hear keys jingling in the door, and for all Charlotte claims to find her dad boring, you swear her ears perk up. She’s craning her head over the back of the couch and her little face erupts in the biggest smile when the door opens.
“Daddy!”
You turn slightly, sitting up a little straighter and dropping the blanket, suddenly hyper-conscious of how you might look too comfortable on his couch, or too familiar with his daughter.
The smile that blossoms on your own face is completely unconscious as you watch them—the way she scrambles off the couch and runs as fast as her tiny feet will carry her around it, immediately glomming onto his leg just like she’d done before he left.
“Oh, my girl,” he half-grunts, half laughs at the impact, sliding a still-dripping umbrella into the holder by the door before dropping to her level and pulling his daughter into a hug. Immediately you note the exhaustion whittling cracks in his voice and carving itself under his eyes. Like whatever he’d been out doing hadn’t gone so well. “Missed you. Were you good while I was gone?”
“Definitely,” she says. His brows dart up.
“Definitely? You sound pretty confident.”
Spencer’s eyes slide to you, full of wry humor despite his lack of energy like he’s waiting for your corroboration. Charlotte doesn’t give you the chance to speak, and his eyes immediately flash back to her. It’s for the best—he hasn’t looked at you with that much ease in years. You wouldn’t have known what to say.
She leans farther into her father’s hold and looks over to you. “Guess what? She said we could have a sleepover tonight.”
“Wh—okay, that’s—that’s not quite what I said,” you hurry, suddenly regaining your voice, floundering in a plush blanket and face warming as you try to find the balance between correcting her mistake before Spencer can misconstrue it and not getting too defensive over a comment from a five year old.
He straightens her shirt fondly.
“Sometimes Charlie Mae remembers things how she wants to remember them and not necessarily how they actually happened, huh?”
“I told her the TV is in your room and we could sleep in there! You would let us, right?”
Spencer, more used to redirecting the overactive juvenile mind than you are, artfully changes the subject, all the while fussing with her braids.
“You must be tired, lovebug. Did you brush your teeth?”
“Yes. She counted to two minutes for me. I’m not tired. And I’m not a bug.”
“Okay, Homo sapien-sapien bipedal girl. Why don’t you go get cozy in bed and pick out a book for us?”
Charlotte’s eyes light up. “Bruce Springsteen?” She asks, boisterous and over-excited. Spencer laughs dryly, watching as she jets for the stairs like she jets everywhere she goes.
“Shel Silverstein. Careful on the stairs, Char.”
“I’m bipedal!”
Both of you watch her through the fluted railing until she disappears, and you feel only a little slighted that she didn’t say goodbye.
“Bruce Springsteen,” Spencer mutters incredulously, still crouching.
You smile.
“David Rossi’s influence?”
Spencer rises again, unslinging his bag and hanging it up by the door. “Oh, undoubtedly. How was she really?”
“She was great,” you admit, reluctantly relinquishing the warmth of the heavy blanket and standing up yourself, stretching your arms above your head and resisting the urge to yawn.
He faces you.
“Good.”
After a beat you realize he has nothing more to say. That he’s standing, hands pocketed, studying you from the other side of the couch. With Charlotte gone, the room feels darker. The air feels thicker. Thrumming.
It’s almost like he’s waiting to see what else you do.
Unabashedly, he’s watching.
Quickly you realize that you are a specimen under glass, to be examined intently.
Your face warms.
You clear your throat.
“How was your, uh, thing?” you ask awkwardly, sliding your hands into your back pockets. An innocent, if not a little invasive, question. Born of necessity—something toward which you can direct the charge in the air.
For a moment, you’re afraid it’s not going to work, as his expression remains unchanged.
Then he’s back to being shy-adjacent. Like an unpaused movie. That eerie air of examination, and something sticky, dissipates.
“Uh—it was... Yeah, it was good.”
It doesn’t sound true, but that’s none of your business. You hum, wrapping your arms around yourself. Spencer’s eyes dart down to note the action. You wonder if he’s only just now noticing the casual attire—a thin sweater too light for the season. Too casual for work. You tug it down over your waistband.
“Well, I had a good time, too. Charlotte is awesome.”
Spencer finally moves again, shrugging off his coat and hanging it up as he speaks. “She’s pretty great, huh?”
“I can’t believe she’s so grown up. She’s five, right? And her IQ is probably what, like—200?”
“No idea.”
You laugh in disbelief.
“You haven’t had her tested?”
Spencer leans against the arch and crosses his arms. The way his eyes flit to something just above your head, and he squints—it’s familiar. He’s deciding how much of a private truth he wants to reveal.
“I’ve… been avoiding it. She homeschools anyway, so we adjust the curriculum based on what she’s ready for.”
“Wow. Homeschool. How do you have time for that?”
“I do not,” he chuckles. “Her grandparents do it.”
“Her—oh. That’s—that’s good. Probably comes in handy to have family nearby with all the traveling you do.”
“It does. They adore her.”
“Yeah. Not hard to understand why.”
You act like you don’t suddenly have a million questions about the nature of his relationship with Charlotte’s grandparents.
Now that you’re thinking of it—hadn’t you heard murmurings of them in the weeks following Charlotte’s birth? Of course, you can’t remember for sure. You were already pretty checked out by that point.
Rain lashes the window hard and draws you both from some mutual dreamland. Spencer is regarding you with the beginnings of that same contemplative look on his face.
“Okay, well… I should get going,” you decide, reaching down to grab your keys from the table.
Spencer gives a dramatic berth as you pass him into the entryway to put your jacket on, watching as you pull on your boots. The smell of dark rain and something smokier follows as he reaches around you. Beneath it is the same detergent and shampoo he’d always smelled like. It’s distracting as you mindlessly accept whatever he’s now holding out to you. Smooth. Tortoise shell. The handle of his umbrella.
“You should take this.”
This hallway is much narrower than it’d seemed earlier. You clear your throat.
“Oh, thanks! I’ll—I can bring it to work tomorrow. To give back.”
He gives you that smile—perfect teeth barely flashing as he nods once. Somehow self-effacing as though it were his dumb addendum and not your own. “Appreciated.”
Right.
“Okay. Cool.”
Why can’t you move? Why are you glued to the spot, watching him watch you?
“You were a lifesaver tonight, truly. You absolutely didn’t have to do this, but I really appreciate that you did.”
You balk and attempt to shake it off. Lifesaver.
Not very likely.
“No worries. Really. I had fun.”
The air in the room is warm and dark. It smells, tastes, feels of some previously forgotten contentment.
For a fraction of a second, so quick it’s disorienting—you feel more home than you have in years. Like the two timelines you’ve been straddling have briefly synced up. His eyes are exactly the same as they’ve always been, and there is a flash of intimacy that does not belong to you.
Then, years in the future, a little voice from upstairs is hollering, “Daddy!”
The air goes from amber back to oxygen. You go from fossil and memory to living, breathing people. Both of you loose awkward little laughs.
“You’re being summoned, I think.”
“Oh, yes. Charlotte has a thing about timeliness.”
“She is quite the character.”
“That she is. I’m glad you got to meet her, again.”
You swallow a thorn and try not to think about how his voice softens.
About what you did to them.
“Me too.”
Spencer opens the door for you, inviting in a shocking snap of wind. The rain is so heavy it splashes against the sidewalks and makes brilliant glowing sprays as cars zoom through puddles in the dark.
“You gonna be okay out there?” Spencer asks.
You brandish your umbrella. “I’ll be great.”
“Are you sure? You can wait in here for a little while. It’s a rainband, it won’t last.”
“No, no, it’s okay. You have someone waiting to be read to.”
He nods again, taking another distrusting look at the conditions of the road behind you. “Drive safe, okay?”
“I will. Have a good night.”
Is that a weird thing to say? Do people say that? Is that appropriate? Too casual? Too formal?
But that little smile stays pasted on his face.
“Yeah. You too.”
Then you’re on the porch, popping open the umbrella and scurrying off into the downpour, hastily looking both ways before running across the street to where you’ve parked.
For a moment you fumble with your keys, but after a few embarrassing seconds (you know Spencer is waiting to close the door until you’re safely in your car) you manage to climb in, closing the umbrella and shaking it out before tossing it in the passenger’s seat and shutting your door against the deluge.
The wheel goes slick under your clammy, white-knuckle grip as your eyes close and you take several deep breaths, trying to fight the roiling of your stomach.
When you open your eyes again, Spencer is gone. The front door is closed, but the windows are still the warmest on the block.
You put the car in reverse.
-
By the time you get back to your apartment, any semblance of joy or redemption from your time with Charlotte has shed like an old skin—curdling in the stale air as you lean hard against the door to close it behind you. It squeaks against the floor and you wrestle with the lock in the dark. That sickly malaise of having woken up in your early twenties is worse than usual tonight, as you turn to face the big empty living room. Maybe that’s what you get for choosing to live in the same building you’d moved out of five years prior.
When you were twenty-two you chose it for its charm. You had a comfortable income. The excitement of being an adult hadn’t worn off yet. Making coffee in the morning still felt like playing house. When you’d toured the unit, you thought the parquet flooring and the lofted ceilings were so elegant, and the big paneled windows with their sliding sashes were romantic. Only after you moved in did you realize they were painted shut—so you took a razor and some acetone and fought for several hours to get them open. It was the first thing you did when you moved back in.
Now, your kick off your boots and don’t bother turning the light on before making your way to sit in front of one of them, cracking it a few inches open to let the cold breeze keep you company.
This was also routine, all those years ago. Sometimes when you sit on the floor like this, next to your big potted palm, shamelessly watching the people in their own little yellow squares of light across the way dancing or fighting or watching TV, you feel like you’re with your younger self.
If she was really here, she’d be out on the fire escape with a cigarette. But it’s too cold now, and you don’t like the way the metal grate leaves a grid on your skin. Now, you’d be an idiot to climb out onto a rusty death trap hanging from the side of your building by a couple of screws. Smoking’s not as glamorous as it used to be, either. There comes a point where you either need to grow out of it or admit that you’re addicted.
Besides, last time you moved out your landlord withheld the damage deposit because apparently the apartment smelled like tobacco. You didn’t believe her, but you’re not going to risk it again.
And maybe it feels good to have control over something. An old habit you can stop yourself from slipping back into.
For a moment, you think maybe you want a cigarette. You haven’t wanted one since you got back.
Indulge one craving to keep the others at bay, some slithery, sibilant voice whispers in your head. You like making deals, don’t you?
You can keep promises—can’t you?
Your stomach turns. A familiar breeze hits your cheek. It smells like the city—gas and rain and asphalt and fried food and a hint of green, of life, that you’d realized long ago wasn’t ever really out there.
If only you’d realized how poisonous your guilt would be, how much it would grow into this throbbing, undulating thing, taking up space in the pit of your stomach, before you agreed to come back.
If only you’d realized an ex-smoker can’t have just one cigarette. An addict can never be casual about their vices. Can never stop wanting.
If only you’d realized keeping promises made to a dead woman is a lot harder than keeping promises made to a living one.
Because Maeve Donovan isn’t ever letting you out of your end of the deal.
pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader.
chapter warnings: pregnancy hormones; smut
You hadn't been in Lily's office in months.
You sat stiffly on the chair across from her desk, the same one you’d been scolded in a dozen times before, except this time your stomach nearly squashed against it and there was no hiding it.
The second you walked through her office door, her gaze dropped to your stomach. You’d seen it, the widening of her eyes before she controlled it under that professional stare. You’d spotted that small intake of breath, the movement in her eyes, the holy shit forming behind them.
Rafe was beside you, tapping his knee hard enough to shake the floor while Lily’s incredulous gaze flicked between you both, waiting.
“Well?” she finally said, “Somebody want to tell me what's going on? Because last time I checked, you two were broken up, and this dumbass—” she jabbed a manicured finger in Rafe’s direction, “—was dating Sofia.”
Rafe flinched but didn’t argue. You opened your mouth, then shut it again. What could you possibly say that didn’t sound like a fucking disaster?
Her eyes narrowed, voice flattening. “And now Ruthie Rutherford’s running her mouth to the Islander about you being pregnant?”
Rafe’s hand twitched; you thought he might reach for yours, but he stopped short, curling his fingers into his jeans instead. You hadn’t thought this far ahead, past the Pogues’ living room, where they’d traded mango slices for banana bread and laughter. Not past Sarah’s steady hand at your back.
Friends—done. Family—barely existing, but done. You hadn’t even let yourself think about it. Outside that small circle, you’d assumed there’d be nothing to say, right?
For months, you drove yourself insane with the certainty that the baby wouldn’t make it anyway, that your body would give out first.
You’d braced for it so hard that you hadn’t let yourself imagine a world where you’d need to explain any of this to anyone else. But the baby didn’t die yet. It was still here, heartbeat strong, tiny limbs stretching, reminding you that you hadn’t prepared for this part.
Now Lily was staring you down like you were already guilty. And Rafe was next to you—Rafe, who’d known for a month now, who hadn’t bolted, who kept showing up with heating pads and dumb snacks and a steadiness you didn’t want to admit you’d missed. He wasn’t the boy who’d ruined you at parties. Sometimes—god help you—he was starting to look like the boy you’d fallen for when you were sixteen.
It was a mess.
The last time you’d sat in this office with Rafe by your side, you'd both been nineteen, cheeks burning while Lily held up a grainy tabloid printout. You and Rafe, all teeth and hands and not enough clothes on the back steps of somebody’s yacht.
She’d called it “a public suicide,” you’d called it “being young,” and Rafe had gloated the whole time, squeezing your thigh. You’d left that office sweaty, ashamed, and still holding on to his hand, pretending the world couldn’t touch you if you had him.
It was starkly different now.
“I…” You faltered, throat dry.
Lily raised her brows. “Spit it out.”
"Watch your tone."
Your attention darted sideways to Rafe as he spoke. You closed your eyes for a second, wanting to strangle him for saying it out loud, while another half of you wanted to…thank him...in ways you should not be thinking about right now.
At all.
A year ago, you would've told Lily to fuck off with the patronizing tone. You’d done it before, you two being close enough that she’d taken it in stride. But you weren’t that version of yourself. You felt fragile, so all you could do was swallow the retort scorching your tongue.
Lily’s eyes flicked up to Rafe's, unimpressed. “Excuse me?”
“She doesn’t need you snapping at her.” His knee had stilled now, shoulders squared. "Don’t talk to her like she’s an intern."
Lily looked between the two of you again, less incredulous, more calculating.
“You're right” She apologized, bottom lip jutting out. “I'm sorry sweetheart, it's a lot to process here."
She never apologized unless she meant to.
You nodded once, unsure what to do with the sudden quiet. Your pulse was still pounding, your stomach rolling from nerves, from hormones, from the absurdity of sitting here like this—with him, with her.
You pressed your palms against your thighs, “Yeah. I’m pregnant.”
Lily’s mouth tightened; she already knew, but wanted to hear you say it out loud. “And is it his?”
Her gaze snapped to Rafe again, who sat up straighter, blue eyes hardening.
“Yeah,” he said before you could answer. His voice was low, steady. “It’s mine.”
She sighed and folded her hands. “Okay, I'm not asking how we got here, none of my business, I get it. Now, let’s get practical. Do you want to confirm? Deny? Ignore? Because it’s out there now."
The outside world. The whispers and headlines. You’d thought about keeping food down, not fainting in the shower, and iron infusions that left your arms mottled in bruises.
You didn't want strangers knowing. All the months of not letting yourself imagine this moment—it was here now, and you had nothing prepared. No script. No clever way out.
Your eyes flew to Rafe in need of help. For once, he wasn’t bouncing his knee or ready to bulldoze his way through the silence.
"It's your call. I'll do whatever you want."
You’d expected him to take over, decide, and handle it like he always did when things got overly messy.
Lily arched a brow, studying the exchange. “You’re leaving this up to her?”
“Yeah,” he said simply. “It's her body, her rules."
You despised how much you wanted to crawl inside that safety, even though you knew it didn’t erase the outcome of your decision.
"Keep it clean, short, professional. No drama. We can work with that.”
Professional.
There was nothing professional about this—nights in the ER, a boy who used to make you cry now folding ultrasound photos into his pockets like they were holy. But you nodded anyway, because it was the only answer you could give.
“I…” Your voice wavered, thin and papery. “I want it to be mine, not a gossip headline. Just—mine.”
Lily didn’t seem to have a quip ready. She studied you, pen hovering over her notepad, squinting, starting to connect dots.
“You’re being awfully quiet for someone who usually argues with me over everything.” Her tone had turned more probing. “Is there more to this?”
Your head snapped up. “What?”
You’d sparred with her enough times to know she’d respect you for it, but you weren’t in fighting shape.
She tilted her chin. “You’re pale. You look like you can barely stay upright in that chair. And the way he—” she jerked her pen toward Rafe, “—jumped down my throat? What aren’t you telling me?”
You glanced at Rafe, who was already watching you, he’d been waiting for this to happen.
“I’ve… been doing treatment. Severe anemia. It’s… complicated. Risky.” You forced the words out, even though they tasted like iron themselves. “The baby and I—we’re both… at risk.”
The pen clattered to her desk. Lil’s mouth parted, a genuine flash of horror softening the steel in her face. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“I didn’t want—”
“Sweetheart, I would never make you sit here and talk statements and PR if I knew your health was on the line!” She rubbed her temples, “Are you okay?! Right now. Don’t give me a rehearsed answer.”
You hadn’t expected this much concern—not from someone you hardly talked to nowadays. More of a scolding.
“I’m… managing,” you admitted quietly. “It’s getting better. Slowly.”
Beside you, Rafe moved his hand brushing against the back of your chair, not quite touching you but close enough to feel it.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do. Nothing.” She raised a hand before you could argue. “We don’t put out a statement, we don’t confirm or deny. Not until you are ready, not until I know you’re stable. Ruthie Rutherford and her gossip can rot.”
You wet your lips. “How did Ruthie even find out?”
“Isn’t she dating Topper? Wouldn’t she hear it from him?”
“No. Not anymore.”
Lily’s brows shot up. “Really? When did that happen?”
You shifted uncomfortably. “A while ago. He’s… he’s seeing someone else now.”
“Who?”
You hesitated, then said it anyway. “Sofia."
Lily’s gaze flicked from you to Rafe and back again. Her lips parted slowly, a disbelieving laugh slipping out.
“Oh. Wow.” She set her pen down, needing both hands free to process. “So we’ve got Ruthie running her mouth because Topper left her. Topper with Sofia, you two sitting here with a baby on the way—wow."
You dragged your hands down your face, “I know Topper would never tell her. He knows I’d never forgive him if he did.”
“So you’re saying—”
“He didn’t.” Your voice was firmer this time. "He's sprinting in the opposite direction of that psycho."
Rafe snorted, a short laugh breaking through. “Topper’s not trying to get shanked in his sleep.”
“Exactly.” You jabbed a finger toward Rafe without looking at him, heart thumping. “So if Ruthie knows, she's got another source.”
Lily tilted her head, lips pursed, already sketching a flow chart of betrayal in her head. “Which means either someone overheard something, or someone saw something they shouldn’t have.”
You felt weirdly exposed, like even the walls weren’t safe. Rafe, though—he’d gone still beside you.
You glanced at him, uneasy. “What?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, piecing together something he didn’t want to say out loud. Then, finally, he did.
“Isn’t her aunt the new hospital director?”
Your breath caught. “What?”
You’d been so cut off from the elite world, deliberately forming a safe distance, keeping your secrets safe, that you hadn’t heard the whispers, or if you had, they slid past you, noise you’d trained yourself to ignore.
If Ruthie Rutherford knew, then you hadn’t been as careful as you thought.
Lily's lips pressed into a thin line. “Oh, no. No, no, no.”
“What does that mean?”
You’d been so focused on keeping your circle small, on ducking cameras and pretending the world outside the Pogues’ house didn’t exist, that you hadn’t thought about this.
Hospitals. Directors. Nepotism.
Rafe leaned forward.
“You’ve been in and out of that place for months. Records, appointments, the infusion clinic. You think gossip doesn’t leak when someone wants it to?”
Lily's brows shot up, “If medical information about a high-profile patient is getting out, hat’s not gossip. That’s a lawsuit.”
Your skin went cold. All those hours in the hospital—bruised arms, thin blankets, machines beeping—and now the idea that someone had been watching, whispering, carrying pieces of you out into the world? You were going to be sick.
If Rafe was right—if someone at the hospital had let something slip...Small towns made everything messy. One whisper in the wrong break room, one family dinner with a glass of wine, and suddenly it wasn't private anymore.
Rafe’s head turned sharply toward you. He must’ve seen it, how you froze, fingers white-knuckled. His hand hovered, then landed on the arm of your chair.
“Hey,” he said softly, a grit under the gentleness. “It’s okay. We’re gonna take care of it, yeah?”
“Rafe—” you managed, but it cracked halfway through.
His blue eyes were locked on yours, "Don't worry about it."
Lily let out a sound between a scoff and a chuckle, shaking her head. “Okay, hold up. Time out.” She pointed her pen between the two of you. “I know I said I was gonna mind my business, but when exactly did you two get back together?”
“We’re not!"
Her brows shot up at the sound of both your voices, eyes bright with disbelief, gleeful.
“Please. I’m not blind. This is not ex behavior.”
Rafe’s jaw ticked for the millionth time, but he didn’t say anything.
Your voice came out as a squeak. “We’re not together. That’s not what this is.”
“Mmhm.” Lily leaned back too, unconvinced, a smirk tugging at her glossed mouth. “Sure. Whatever you say.”
You opened your mouth, ready to argue. What exactly was this? Rafe’s hand had only just left your chair, but your skin still fucking ached where his fingers had touched.
Before you could sort yourself out, Lily spoke again and you really wished she hadn't.
“You know what? I wouldn’t blame you. My sister’s hormones were crazyyyy when she was pregnant. My poor brother-in-law couldn’t get out of bed for a month straight.”
Heat flooded your face, mortification hitting like a bullet train.
Lily didn’t know that lately, your dreams had been filled with Rafe. Not sweet, innocent dreams either, but the kind that made you wake up breathless, which you blamed on hormones you couldn’t control.
You force out a weak laugh. “That’s different.”
Rafe’s head tilted toward you, he’d picked up on something you hadn’t meant to give away. You shoved your pen into your notebook, scribbling nonsense to have somewhere to look that wasn’t his eyes.
Your brain betrayed you, dragged you straight back to the dream. Rafe’s stubble along your throat. It had been so real you’d woken up sweaty, sheets around your legs, heart pounding like you’d actually done it.
You pressed harder with the pen, ink blotting the paper. Stop. Don’t think about that. Don’t even look at him.
“—anyway, you do what you gotta do,” Lily was saying, completely oblivious to the war happening in your head. She flicked her pen like a conductor’s baton, lips curved in a knowing smirk. “Rest, eat, scream into a pillow, whatever. I don’t judge. And when you’re finally ready to talk to the press, let me know. Until then…” her eyes darted between you and Rafe, “…do whatever it is you two do.”
Your pulse jumped. We don’t do anything. We’re not doing anything.
Fuck, get a grip. It’s hormones, that’s all it is. Months and months without being fucked, no wonder you’re sensitive. No wonder you can’t sit through a meeting without your brain shutting down the second he laughs, or looks at you, or—
You swallowed hard, dragging your eyes back to Lily, desperate for a distraction. You’ve been starving, and now every dream is Rafe—every look, every moving muscle under that perfect fucking shirt, every stupid smirk. No wonder you’re losing it.
You should’ve been furious about Ruthie, about her aunt running her mouth, about your medical life being sold around like cheap gossip. Instead, the anger was muffled; all you could think about was how good Rafe looked today.
Your pen scratched fast across the page, trying to bury the thought before it burned through your skull.
Across from you, Lily clapped her notebook shut, satisfied.
“Alright. That’s my plan. And yours is simple—rest. Do whatever you want.” She winked, then stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I’ll be in touch. I got a meeting across town, make yourselves comfortable!"
The door clicked behind her.
You didn’t dare look at him.
“You gonna tell me what that was about?”
“What was what?”
"You almost burned a hole through that paper.”
If you didn’t know better, if you were still that insane teenager sneaking around his truck bed, you’d let him bend you over this office desk right now and figure out excuses later.
You moved in your seat, pulse tripping over itself. “It’s nothing.”
“Bullshit.” His chair creaked as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on you. “Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”
You forced a shaky laugh, hoping it would cover the truth.
“That I'm gonna ruin Ruthie's life."
“Right."
You made the mistake of glancing up. His eyes were locked on you, probably seeing right through the mess of denial and hormones and heat in your brain.
What were you supposed to say? That Lily’s joke about hormones made you picture him pinning you against the door? That every nerve in your body was begging for something reckless, something that would ruin you both all over again?
“Drop it. I wanna go home."
“Home,” he repeated, “Funny. Thought you meant our home, the way you’ve been looking at me all day.”
Your head snapped toward him. “Rafe—”
“I'm joking."
"You're not funny."
He stretched his arms out along the chair, baiting you on purpose.
Your eyes betrayed you. They dipped, slow as molasses, down the hard curve of his biceps; the fabric straining against him when he flexed.
“Also not blind.” His eyes flicked down briefly, shameless, before returning to yours.
Don’t rise to it.
Don’t give him the satisfaction. One brow quirked, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You done?”
You snapped your gaze back to his face, “Shut the fuck up.”
“Didn’t say anything.” His voice sounded amused, raspy enough to curl straight into your panties.
“Your face said plenty.”
The million-dollar shit eating smirk broke free then, full-blown, and shit, you'd missed seeing it.
“Didn’t know you still looked at me like that.”
“I don’t."
Rafe pushed himself up first, while you shoved your notebook into your bag, avoiding his eyes because the smug tilt of his mouth was already burned into your brain.
He waited by the door, hand on the handle, giving you enough space to pass first. Gentleman or menace—you couldn’t decide.
You meant to breeze past him without so much as a glance, but then his palm landed at the small of your back, guiding you through the doorway.
Son of a bitch.
Images slammed into you, his hand sliding lower, gripping, shoving you up against the door instead of holding it.
Fuck.
You almost tripped over the threshold, knees wobbling like you’d forgotten how to walk. All because his fingers had brushed your spine. You forced your eyes straight ahead, not at the veins flexing in his forearm.
You needed him to move his fucking hand. Your thighs clenched tight as you strode faster. You weren’t breathing right with his hand burning into your skin like that.
It was a casual touch, meant nothing. Yet, you picked up the pace, storming down the hall, praying the speed was going to keep him out of your head. It didn’t.
“Slow down,” He scolded.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” His voice had an edge to it; it sounded like a warning even though it was worry. His hand pressed firmer against your spine, easing you down the hall like you were made of glass.“You don’t need to be rushing around.”
You rolled your eyes, “I can walk, Rafe.”
You weren’t a fragile doll by any means, or a patient that needed constant babysitting. But shit—part of you wanted to bask in it anyway. He angled himself in front of you, and it enamored you, how natural it seemed for him.
“Rafe—”
“Don’t argue with me about this. You were texting me about your swollen feet this morning."
Why did he have to remember every stupid thing you’d texted him?
My feet look like water balloons.
Is it normal if I want lemon popsicles at 3 a.m.?
Do heating pads explode if you fall asleep on them? Hypothetically.
You wanted to bury yourself six feet under.
No wonder he was looking at you like he knew every inch of your life, you kept giving him the play-by-play. You should’ve stopped weeks ago, but every time something happened, new cravings, doctor’s update, every ridiculous symptom—you found yourself typing his name before you even thought about it. Your body remembered who it was supposed to tell before your brain could call you out.
Rafe never ignored you, no matter what time it was. He always texted back, sometimes in full sentences, with just “k, I’m on my way” before showing up at your door like it was his job. You weren’t together by any means, and still, you were treating him like he was yours.
“I was updating you,” You grumbled.
“Updating me?” He gave you a look, "If you want a foot massage, all you gotta do is ask."
“A foot massage?” You scoffed, because what the fuck else were you supposed to do except laugh it off. He didn’t laugh, head tilted, eyes dipping down your body, seeing straight through the layers of cotton and denim.
“Yeah. Or whatever else you need.”
Your heart slammed so hard it rattled your ribs.
“Rafe.”
“What?” He murmured. “I’m serious. You think I don’t notice the way you look at me? In there, just now—you couldn’t keep your pen on the page without shaking.”
God. He’d seen that?
“Get over yourself. You’re imagining things,” You tried to throw it under a bus, desperate.
He chuckled under his breath, the sound curling down your being.
“No, baby. I’m not.”
You stumbled again, catching yourself against the wall, and his hand came up instantly, steadying your hip. Big, warm.
You stared at him in awe, chest rising. His eyes flicked down to your mouth, yours flicked to his. Every bone in your body screamed at you to let it happen, but your brain snatched you back.
“Don’t—” Your chest heaved once. “Don’t call me that.”
Rafe's brows furrowed. “What?”
He didn't realize he said it.
“‘Baby.’” The word burned your tongue. “Keep the nicknames to yourself.”
“I’ve called you that since we were sixteen."
“We’re not sixteen anymore.” You gritted the words out, even though your body was still buzzing from his hand on your hip.
His tongue darted over his teeth, biting down on all the things he wanted to say. “Sorry," Rafe stepped back, gave you space like he thought you needed it, "Didn't mean to upset you."
You’d drawn a line, and he’d listened. But the look on his face, you wished you hadn’t looked.
His mouth pressed tight, his hand flexed once at his side, hating being empty. His eyes… they didn’t glare or burn like they usually did when you pushed him off when you were younger. They just fell.
Rafe Cameron, undone by a word.
He deserved it. He was the one who’d left you to figure this whole mess out, who got to swoop in when it suited him, acting like you still belonged to him. He didn’t get to keep the soft parts, too.
Rafe didn’t bolt down the hall the way you expected. He stayed right there, a half step behind you, his shadow matching yours as you walked. Close enough that if you stumbled he’d catch you.
It was comforting, an instinct for him. Even gutted, rejected, his first thought was still to protect you.
The drive was soundless in that brittle sense that comes after someone drops a bomb.
Rafe’s truck—old engine, new tires—windows down enough for the air to wedge itself between two bodies that wanted to say a thousand things and none at the same time.
You stared out at the passing houses, pretending the trees mattered. Rafe kept stealing glances, checking you for cuts. Every time he opened his mouth, you braced for impact. Why exactly, you weren’t sure.
For a second you almost believed the comfort of it, then he did that thing he always did, tried to wedge normalcy into messy scenes.
“How about I cook for you tonight?” he asked, casual as a man asking for the aux cable.
You laughed out loud.
“Since when do you cook?” You let the sarcasm lace the words. “You think I can’t do it myself?”
“What? No—” his head whipped toward you, then back at the road, panic rising his voice. “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t sayin’ you couldn’t do it. I know you can take care of yourself.”
You crossed your arms, watching the headlights in the oncoming lane. “Sure."
“No, no, I—I thought maybe you’d want a break. You’ve been running yourself into the ground, and I figured…” His voice trailed.
“Figured what?” You pushed.
He dragged a hand down his face, groaning. “Figured I could do one fuckin’ thing right, that’s all. Y’know? Be useful.”
You shifted, chewing your lip, not ready to soften yet, "I don't think we should spend this much time together."
You’d rehearsed that sentence a hundred times and finally found the tone you needed.
“You don’t mean that, do you?”
You should be ruthless. The version that remembers the nights he wasn’t there, the weekends you sat in waiting rooms, and no one holding your hand. The other part—fatter, softer, stupid—thinks about how he remembers the precise time you text him about lemon popsicles and shows up with them at midnight.
That part still loves him.
Fuck, it still loves him.
“It’s dinner. Let me do this for you. I don’t expect shit, okay? I just wanna cook for you.”
If he was cruel, it was easier to hate him, but when he was like this, your Rafe, it tore straight through the defenses you had. He spit it out like it wasn't the most domestic thing he could’ve said after weeks of you two pretending things weren't fucking weird.
You cleared your throat, trying again.
“That’s not… You don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” He laughed under his breath, a failed attempted at not trying to sound nervous. “I cook, you eat. Simple.”
The car slowed as he turned onto your street. You felt weird.
“You want me to walk you in?”
Your fingers were already on the door handle. “No. It’s late.”
You could sense his eyes trying to pin you down, read what you were not saying. You nearly caved, almost told him to come inside, and admitted you didn't want to be alone.
You pride won.
“Goodnight, Rafe.”
You shut the door before he could say it back, forcing yourself not to look back as you walked up to the gate. Your fingers shook as you nearly botched the code; the beep sounded too loud tonight.
You knew that Rafe could probably see it from the car, which made every movement feel clumsy. Finally, the lock clicked open, you slipped inside, the gate shut behind you.
You didn't turn around.
Hours later, you were still awake like a fucking idiot, curled under a blanket, a gift from Rafe, phone in your hand, hovering over his contact.
He looked so hopeful when he asked.
I just wanna cook for you.
You yearned for him in your kitchen, barefoot, making something decent only to watch you eat. You wanted his hands on you, his laugh filling up the empty room.
Instead, you were restless once again, in sheets that felt cold, your body betraying you with every shiver. The fucking stupid TV wouldn't shut up about love. Every channel was a couple kissing in the rain, or slow dancing in kitchens, or falling into bed.
It was probably the hormones; they had been wrecking you lately.
You rolled onto your back, your belly protested, and your hand drops to it instinctively, stroking as if to soothe both of you.
The blanket slipped down, pooling at your hips. It made you feel exposed, betraying you with cravings that had nothing to do with food. Your phone was still clutched in your other hand, Rafe’s name daring you to press call. He’d pick up—he always did when it was you.
Then what? You asked him to come over like a fucking idiot? Let him see you like this—desperate, shaking from need that’s got nothing to do with the dumb movie on screen?
Your brain kept pulling up old snapshots: the night in his car, windows fogged, his fingers inside you while you tried to muffle your moans in his shoulder. Or that time you snuck him into your house after MidSummer and he swore we’d “keep it quiet” but ended up fucking you into the shower's wall so good you couldn’t walk straight the next day at brunch.
You flip the phone face down on the blanket, praying that it would kill the temptation. It didn't.
Your body was unsatisfied; every position wrong, every thought worse. Your pulse wouldn't slow down, your thighs wouldn't stay still. Your whole body was demanding, and the worst part was that your weak heart, traitorous, was reaching for him.
You stared at the ceiling until shadows morphed into patterns that looked like his face. Your brain had decided to torment you with reruns, one of those flashbacks, like Raven Baxter rolling her eyes back before falling headfirst into some memory.
You were back there.
The dock was quiet, only the creak of ropes and the sound of your heels as you made your way up, his boat glowing faintly with the light he always left on for you. You could feel the brush of humid air against your bare arms, the cling of that midnight-blue dress to your skin.
Custom-fitted, Rafe had said, smirking when you twirled for him earlier that night. He hadn't bothered to care about dinner. He handed you a glass of champagne, kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then your throat until you were giggling and swatting him away, reminding him you hadn’t even sat down yet.
Rafe had dragged you down the short steps into the cabin, laughing against your lips when you tripped in your heels.
“Easy,” he’d teased.
He had you against the cabin wall in minutes, lips crushing yours, hands squeezing down your sides until they reached the hem of your dress.
He'd groaned, dragging it up your thighs inch by inch. The sound you made when his palm slid between your legs would've been embarassing if you didn't love him with your entire being, but you did. He was cupping you through your pretty white lace that was already damp.
The zipper was torture, his knuckles grazing every inch of your spine as he tugged it down. The dress slipped off your shoulders, it couldn’t wait to pool at your feet.
Rafe's mouth followed, lips and teeth and tongue tracing what the fabric left bare. He worshipped you—collarbone, breast, sucking a bruise just above your bra. You whined when his teeth grazed your nipple through the thin lace, arching into his mouth.
By the time he reached his knees, you were already shaking.
He’d pushed your panties aside with one thick finger, sliding it over your slickness, groaning at the mess he found, eyes flicking up to meet yours as his tongue replaced his finger.
You could still feel it. The way he mouthed into you like he had all the time in the world, dragging his tongue until your hands clutched the rail above your head for balance. The boat rocked, the water slapped against the hull, you swore it all moved with him.
Your thighs had clamped around his head, the sinful sound of his name torn from your lips when he pushed two fingers inside, you’d come hard easily, stars exploding behind your eyelids.
And then—because Rafe was never satisfied with just that—he was crawling over you, pressing you down into the mattress below deck, dragging the condom from his wallet with shaking hands.
You remembered the strain of his biceps as he braced himself, the way he muttered “fuck, I need you”
When Rafe sank into you, the world stopped. His forehead fell against yours, his breath ragged, his lips shaping your name over and over.
“You’re mine,” he’d reminded you, thrusts unhurried and deep, carving his shape into you. “Always mine.”
You’d believed him. Every word.
He drove into you like he had nowhere else to be, hips snapping until you were clawing at his back, crying out his name.
The flashback didn’t stop there.
You could feel how hot his skin had been against yours, the slide of sweat at his temple as he drove into you, sometimes slow and deep, rolling his hips until you sobbed into his shoulder, then fast and relentless, pounding into you so hard the mattress groaned beneath.
Each thrust knocked the breath from your lungs, and the grind of his pelvis against your clit made your vision turn white. He whispered filth into your ear, broken in ways you were used to:
“Look at you. Taking me so good.”
“Gonna cum for me again, huh? Can feel it—fuck—so tight.”
You’d answered, again and again. Pleading, clawing, crying out his name, confessing it to the ocean itself.
The memory pulled you deeper: the scrape of his teeth down your throat, the sting of his fingers digging into your thighs to hold you open and still for him. The way he’d tilted your hips just so.
When you came the second time, it tore through you so violently you thought you might never breathe again. And still Rafe didn’t stop, driving into you with his own ragged groans.
Your eyes flew open.
The ceiling was your bedroom’s, not the boat’s. The sheets weren’t tangled with his limbs, only twisted around your legs from hours of tossing. Your hand slipped down against the swell of your stomach.
You weren’t that girl anymore, the one in blue silk, giving herself to him relentlessly.
You were stretched, every curve reshaped by the baby under your palm. Would he still worship you like that? Would his hands still bruise your hips or would his eyes catch on your belly, linger on the stretch marks, and remember who you used to be instead?
The doubt festered. Your thighs pressed together, restless for friction that never came. You rolled to your side, but your belly pressed into your ribs. Rolled to your back, but the weight made it hard to breathe. Every position was wrong.
You reached for your phone again without thinking, screen lighting your face in the dark.
What would you say? That you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he fucked you that night, how your body was on fire remembering it? That you needed him, right now, to prove he still wanted you, still saw you the way he used to?
You dropped the phone onto the pillow beside you and covered your face with your hand, forcing yourself to breathe. It didn’t help. His ghost was everywhere—in your head, in your sheets, in the ache between your thighs that wouldn’t go away.
You hated him. You missed him. You wanted him.
Worst of all—you weren’t sure which of those was stronger.
summary: oscar's home race is a big deal. however, what's even bigger is the realization that he has been in love with the childhood friend waiting for him at the finish line since the day he met her. it only took him 15 years, a thousand missed opportunities and a so-called mistake to realize it.
F1 MASTERLIST | OP81 MASTERLIST
pairing: oscar piastri x childhood bff!f!reader
wc: 11.3k
cw: aus gp 2025, unaccurate aus gp 2024 for plot purpose, use of y/n, slightly inaccurate timeline, kinda bittersweet/angsty at some point, otherwise fluff + hea
note: need to cradle that man in my arms and kiss him on the forehead, special mention to @cntappen who wanted yearning oscar, hope ur satisfied 🙏 i lowkey hate this but we carry on
soundtrack: ♫ something, somehow, someday - role model
OSCAR ALMOST DROPS his mug when Hattie tells him the news. “She’s coming to the race?”
His sister nodded, shifting from one foot to the other like she didn’t quite know where to put herself ─ which was uncharacteristic of her ─ and the first things going through Oscar’s mind were Did she know? How would she know? Did she tell her? “I texted her about it ‘cause she always comes to Melbourne. I was just curious. She said she’d be coming if she was welcome with us.”
His head was spinning. Gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, Oscar chose his next words with calculated precision. “And you said…?”
“I mean, Mom said yes, obviously,” Hattie shrugged. “She loves Y/N. And she said it’s been a while since you two saw each other, might do you some good with stress and all that.”
Of course, his mom would say that. You had always been a second daughter for her, welcoming you in her home as if your place had always been next to Oscar on the living room couch. Hattie had been as enthusiastic as her, if a little confused at first, about who had developed such an attachment to her quiet, nonchalant brother. Ever since you and Oscar were children, as soon as he told his mother about the new girl next door who cut short his remote-controlled truck training on the playground, you had been included in every Piastri family dinner.
Because you were Oscar's whole world, his personal sun, the second you stepped into view ─ it would have taken someone mute, blind, and deaf not to notice it. He was just a planet, a satellite, orbiting around you in search of meaning.
Had been. Until almost a year ago.
And nobody knew except for him.
So Oscar swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Okay, sure, that's cool,” he let out a breath. “I missed her.” The words pained him, as veracious as they were. He didn’t simply miss you like you’d miss someone you hadn’t seen in a while ─ Oscar missed you like an amputee would miss a ghost limb. The kind of pull that tears someone from the inside out, and he only had himself to blame for the ache.
If Hattie suspected something was off, she didn't say it. She chose to scrutinize him instead, eyebrows scrunched in a silent question he answered with a vague smile, as always. She spoke about how you hadn’t come to visit in quite some time, how he rarely updated them on how you were anymore, how you blossomed in your life, but the words went in one ear and out through the other.
Because you were going to the Melbourne Grand Prix, the start of the 2025 season. He didn’t know if he could handle seeing you again, not after the fiasco of the same Grand Prix, a year ago.
Guess he didn’t have much choice.
Oscar Piastri is eight when he meets you for the first time.
He was given his first remote-controlled truck for Christmas and ever since then, rare were the times he spent his full days at home. The playground, with a lot more ground than playthings for children, was a five-minute walk from his house ─ perfect for practicing, he thought. His newfound gadget made him develop a fervency he hadn’t known before, an obsession for speed. He knew Australia had championships for remote-controlled racing, his dad told him so. He wanted a part in it like he never wanted anything in the world before. Except maybe the truck.
But before he could hope of entering, he needed to get to a certain level and that meant practice. So to the playground (or park, park was a cooler word) he went.
Today wasn’t an exception. Vacations had started not so long ago, the sun was high in the sky and Oscar’s knees were raw from being dug in the gravel for so long. His thumbs were branded by the print of the remote in his hand, sweat beaded on his forehead, hair sticking to it, and maybe his vision was blurring a little. But Oscar was nothing if not determined, so he kept going as his truck narrowly avoided obstacles he put in place.
Until a water bottle replaced the self-made circuit in his visual field.
Oscar's eyes slowly trailed up in exasperation, expecting one of his younger sisters or his mother dotting on him, telling him to come back home. Instead, his breath caught a little.
You stood there, the afternoon sun casting a golden glow around you, turning the loose strands of your hair into something almost otherworldly. Oscar had never believed in angels ─ never really thought about them at all, actually ─ but at that moment he wondered if maybe, just maybe they existed. Your sundress, once pristine, was rusted with dirt, the hem brushing against your scraped knees, blood dried in uneven patches. But you didn’t seem to mind. Instead, you smiled ─ as if scuffed knees and torn dresses were just a natural part of being you.
His wide, brown eyes glided from the lukewarm bottle to you, in wonder and shock alike. Your palm was smudged in playground dust, but Oscar barely noticed ─ his gaze caught instead on the way light tangled in your hair, your eyes sparkling with something bright, untamed, unstoppable. You spoke up. “You look like you’re gonna faint. Take it. Drivers need water, right?”
Your voice, soft, shook him out of his trance: he hesitantly took the bottle from your hand, and your fingers brushed against his. Red colored the tip of his ears. He swallowed, hard, bringing the bottle to his chest. You offered him another smile in return, and Oscar felt his heart flutter.
“My name is Y/N.” Before he could even think about protesting ─ about telling you that, actually, he hadn’t asked ─ you plopped down beside him, legs folding underneath you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your shoulder bumped against his, a casual, thoughtless kind of closeness that sent a foreign heat to the back of his neck.
Then just as he was processing that, you turned to face him- too close. Way too close.
Noses. Your noses nearly touched.
Oscar went rigid. Did you know nothing about personal space?!
You pointed behind him, at the house right next to his, visible from the park. “I live right here!”
“...No, you can’t.” Oscar finally said, frowning. He was trying to be as polite as he could muster to be in those conditions. His mom would kill him if he wasn't.
“Why?”
“Nobody lives here.”
The aggressive neutrality of his voice, a timbre unique to him, didn’t deter you in the slightest. On the contrary, it seemed like his reticence to your presence made you beam brighter at him. “That’s because we just moved here, duh. See that car? It’s my mom’s.”
The indifference in Oscar slowly turned to confusion, or as close as it could get to curiosity. There was indeed a baby blue car parked in the driveway he never saw before. For as long as he could remember, which was not a lot, it was always vacant. Until today, apparently. “Oh. We’re neighbors, then.”
Your smile widened, eyes practically shining in excitement. “That’s so cool! I was scared I was gonna be the only kid here.”
Oscar barely heard you, too busy staring at where your arm pressed against his. Was it normal? Were other kids just… this close of each other? Because he wasn’t used to it, not at all. “... How old are you?”
“Eight!” You practically bounced as you said it.
“Me too.”
Your face lit up. Oh no.
“That’s even better! We can be friends! Best friends, even!”
Wait, what.
Oscar blinked, his mind screeching to a halt. That escalated fast. Weren’t there supposed to be multiple steps before deciding to be lifelong friends? Had he missed something? “Uh─”
“What’s your name?” You asked with renewed enthusiasm if it was even possible to add to that.
“... Oscar. Oscar Piastri.”
“Nice to meet you Oscar Piastri from next door!” You held out your hand and, much to his surprise, Oscar took it. Hesitantly, awkwardly, yes, but he still did. The strange, unfamiliar feeling tugging at his stomach wouldn’t let him do otherwise. “I like your truck,” you continued, fingers still wrapped around his like you didn’t even notice. “Can I try it?”
Oscar was way too focused on your palm still sitting in his to process your words. Was he supposed to pull away first? “I… I don’t─”
“Or I could watch you! I don’t mind. I was watching you in the tree back there anyways.”
Oscar blinked. It explained the stains and the scratches, he thought. He still couldn’t believe that there was a whole girl like her in a tree, spying on him, and he had been so caught up by his remote-controlled truck to even notice it. Just as if you could read his thoughts, a sheepish look made its way to your face, lips pursuing as you finally ─ finally ─ let go of his hand. “Mom doesn’t like when I do that,” you admitted as if it were a secret. “But it’s fine. I can wash the dress.”
He stared. There was… something about you, Something about the way you sparkled even when you sat still, the way your presence felt bigger than your little body. He swallowed, nudging the controller toward you before he could regret his decision. “Try.” His voice came out weird. “It’s boring to watch.”
The twinkling in your eyes was worth every crash that came after this. You were struggling, and hitting every obstacle he skillfully steered away from. Each and every hit was accompanied by a giggle or an exaggerated groan but even though you were terrible, as Oscar tactfully noticed, it still looked like you were having the most fun you had in years.
When he had to go home, you walked him to the door with a spring in your step, occupying the conversational space with random facts about the world. Something about how octopuses had three hearts, how clouds weren’t actually as soft as they looked, and how the color yellow made people happy. Oscar didn’t say much, he never really did, but he contentedly listened.
And then, just as the door swung open, before he could even process the way he wanted to stay a little bit longer, you turned to his mom with all the confidence of someone who had already decided the outcome. “Can Oscar come back tomorrow?” His mom barely had time to blink, but Oscar already knew─ it was over.
Because the moment she said yes, the second the fierce little girl beside him claimed more time with him like it was hers to take, it was sealed. After that, it came as naturally as breathing. Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. Never one without the other. You led, he followed. And, somewhere along the way, the rest of the world stopped mattering.
You were a constant in Oscar’s life, a lifeline he clung to without realizing he had reached for it in the first place. He got into karting at ten and nothing─ not his dad's last-minute pep talks, not the hours of practice ─ could calm the way his hands trembled on the steering wheel before his first race. His fingers curled on it, hands trembling and grip tight, knuckles aching from the pressure. What if he wasn’t actually good? What if he messed it all up? What if─?
And then, there you were. Signature grin, messy ponytail, a tiny hand sign scribbled in clashy, colorful letters: GO, OSCAR GO!! The words were surrounded by questionable doodles ─ stick-figure cars with lopsided wheels, a few stray hearts in the margins like an afterthought. “I came to watch you win,” you said, like there was no other possibility. After that, the race was just a race.
The moment you dropped a chaste kiss on his helmet, all nerves settled. When he passed by you, you brandished your sign high in the air, a beacon, the only thing he really needed to see. He won that race with his head held high and in the middle of celebration ─ his mom hugging him tight, cheers echoing all around ─ he silently dedicated his victory to you.
Because when he scanned the crowd, your eyes were the easiest to find. Because nothing ever felt better than the feeling of you running in his arms right after.
And just like that─ childhood blurred into early adolescence in a flurry of incandescent polaroids: late afternoon on track, whooping as Oscar made his laps, stolen moments on the swings at the playground between school and training, a thousand shared snacks, juice boxes, whispers, a million inside jokes and secrets. Summers spent side by side, laughter tangled in the air like something meant to last forever.
Years of Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. No space between. No questions about what you were to each other. Not yet.
But Oscar Piastri is fifteen when he leaves you behind.
He had been offered a seat in Formula 4. The words came in a rush, tumbling from an ecstatic Chris Piastri and an equally thrilled Nicole Piastri, their voices nearly overlapping in excitement. Oscar heard them, he knew what they were saying and yet his mind refused to catch up. He sat there, cereal spoon dangling in the air, milk dripping back in his bowl.
The world around him blurred─ static in his ears, something like disbelief flooding his veins. He had wanted this. Trained for this. But now that it was real, it was as if his body had forgotten how to move. So you did it first.
Your arms wrapped around his neck without a second thought, squeezing tight. A hug that made it impossible to do anything but exist in the moment. He unfroze: the weight of your warmth, how you clung to him without any reservation, it yanked him back. His hands had found your back, gripping instinctively. It hit him all at once: Formula 4. His dream was real. And you were here, like always.
Until you wouldn’t be anymore.
Everything slipped past Oscar in a blur: he applied to a boarding school and got accepted in the same week, his parents were already looking for a house nearby, and his mom searching for job opportunities ─ in Brighton, England, closer to where he would be practicing. A thousand kilometers away from Australia, a thousand memories away from you.
One thing you learned in your years of friendship with Oscar was that he wasn’t much of a talker. He wasn’t big on the expression of feelings either ─ he showed affection softly, when he thought people wouldn’t notice. But you did, and you never planned on doing anything about it because that was just how Oscar was: reserved, hesitant in his tenderness. So the conversation about his departure never came ─ it was just a weight, hanging in the air of your every interaction, untouched. He didn’t want to venture there, to face how he wouldn’t wake up next to you anymore after another sleepover, how he would have to learn how to exist without you at arm’s reach. The lack of you was already digging a hole in his chest, and it was one of the main reasons he said no to your proposition of a send-off party.
But Oscar knew you too, too well, so he was only half-surprised when he turned on the light of his house after training and discovered the crowd of your shared friends amidst colorful balloons and cakes. You stood out in all of them when you offered him the smile that was uniquely his, and Oscar’s chest almost collapsed.
The party was fun. He got goodbye gifts ─ trinkets, plushies and books he knew he’ll lose sleep over. He didn’t dance to the music, but enjoyed watching people lose themselves in the soft light of his kitchen from the sidelines. Some friends cried and some friends didn’t ─ he side-hugged them all, never letting them too close except for a select few, and he accepted the heartfelt speeches with reassurances that he will come back during the summer, without a doubt.
The night slowed, party leftovers forgotten on the counters, and the house was quieter now that most of the guests had filtered out. Only a few stragglers remained inside, their voices dimmed to an unobtrusive murmur. But Oscar, the supposed star of the show, was hesitating in the threshold of his front door ─ because you were outside. And wherever you went, he followed.
You were sitting on the front door steps, arms wrapped around your knees, bathed in the dim glow of the porch light. The soft hum of cicadas filled the space as Oscar sat beside you. He knew he should say something, anything. Thank you for the party, even though he swore he didn’t want one. You were right, because of course, you were. Or finally address what was begging to be talked about ─ he just didn’t know how. Because sitting right here, with you just a few inches away, he realizes this is it.
This is the last night before everything changes, and he can’t do anything about it. So he stays silent.
“You’re freaking out,” you say. Not a question. Your observant eyes flickered to his face, gaze soft in the way that makes his breath catch.
Oscar exhales sharply, tipping his head back against the wooden railing. “Am not.”
You give him a look. The look that always calls his bullshit. “Alright, I am.” He swallows, voice quieter. “A little.”
A pause. And then─ a nudge. Your knee bumping into his. A small, familiar thing, but somehow it unravels him. His eyes are burning, and he can’t pinpoint why. “You’ll be fine, Osc’’,” you affirmed, as certain as the sun rising tomorrow. “As long as you don’t forget about me.” A quiet laugh escaped you.
And Oscar could feel it, the thick air between you, pressing against his throat and sitting on his tongue. How could he ever forget about you? You were sitting so close, staring at him as if tucking him in some secret place inside of you. Oscar hated it, so much that it finally slipped─ “I don’t want to go.”
It came out quieter than he expected. Your lips parted slightly, brows furrowed, and Oscar felt like he said too much and not enough at the same time. Because he did want to go, but what he meant was, I don’t want to go if it means leaving you, I don’t know how to exist without you in my orbit. What he really meant, he couldn’t understand what it was no matter how hard he tried.
He forced out a chuckle, shaking his head. “I mean─” Oscar cleared his throat. “I do. Obviously. It’s just─ It’s gonna be weird.”
“Yeah, it is,” you murmured, flushing against his shoulder. “But we’ll make it work.”
Oscar looked at you, really did. The way the light caught the edges of your face, the night breeze playing with your hair, how you existed so beautifully and effortlessly, as you belonged in all the places he had ever loved. The words almost slipped out: You could come with me.
It was right there, clawing its way up his throat.
Yet, something stopped him. Because it wasn’t fair. Because he didn’t know what it meant. Because he didn’t know if he was asking like a best friend or something else, and he didn’t know what to do with the way you were constricting his chest, how you pressed against his ribcage, demanding more. You looked at Oscar and he looked at you ─ he swallowed it down, staring at the playground far in front of you.
And the moment passed.
Oscar left the day after, and the empty house was now the one next to yours.
Your hotel room was eerily quiet.
You were never known for silence ─ all your life, people had repeatedly told you about the overwhelming space you occupied, how loud your laugh echoed, how you never quite knew how to fold and pocket yourself to be less. Growing up, adults meant it in an endearing way. Now, you realized just how much the words stung, even if you never took them as insults. But here, in the uncomfortable coldness of the room you rented for the week-end, everything was quiet: no music, no you talking to yourself. Nothing.
It felt unnatural ─ like something was missing. The one thing that always reassured you about the room you took up.
It left you restless, and your hands trembled a little as you finished applying the last layer of mascara on your lashes. Maybe it was just nerves ─ after all, it’s been a while since you’ve been on a race and hung out with Hattie, Edie, Mae, Nicole, and Chris. Ever since you moved out for university, the city of Melbourne and all of the memories it held always managed to make you a bit anxious.
However, deep down, you knew. It’s the fact that for the first time in over a year, you were going to see Oscar.
Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror as you dropped your makeup next to the sink. You couldn’t decipher your own expression.
Hattie texted you out of nowhere, and even though it wasn’t unusual for you two to talk from time to time, it surprised you a bit when she asked you if you were going to the Grand Prix. It shouldn’t have, she didn’t know ─ or maybe she suspected something, but you still said you’d be coming. So Nicole was on her way to pick you up and take you to the same spot you’ve been occupying since 2023, and you’ll have to sit and act as if everything was alright, as if her son was the best friend you grew up with and didn’t become an acquaintance overnight that you occasionally exchanged “good morning”, “good night”, “happy birthday” and “how are you doing?” texts with.
Because ever since that fateful night after the Melbourne Grand Prix of 2024, something shifted between you and Oscar. Something that had been weighing on you both for years, waiting, waiting, waiting- until it finally cracked, only to narrowly miss you. And now? You didn’t know his weekly schedule, and you couldn’t remember the last time you complained about your teachers to him. You and Oscar weren’t quite strangers, but you weren’t you anymore either.
Because whatever had been waiting that night never had a chance to be resolved. And maybe it never would.
You shut your eyes, your breathing quickening dangerously. No. You weren’t going to think about that right now. It’s fine ─ you’re just here to watch a race like you always did. Just another race. It didn't have to mean anything more than that, did it? You’ll cheer, you’ll congratulate him, and you’ll leave. Even if it was his home race. Even if it was in the same city you laughed in his backyard, held hands running in the streets, stayed awake at ungodly hours of the night tangled together, the city you had both known and lost each other.
Frankly, you weren’t sure what you were expecting─ what you even wanted this weekend to be. All you knew was that you desperately wanted to grasp at the last semblance of normalcy that used to be between Oscar and you, and if that meant showing up at the Melbourne race and praying for his car to see the checkered flag in pole position like the deepest parts of your heart weren’t screaming for him, so be it.
When Nicole called you to tell you she parked her car, you took a deep breath and walked to the elevator, carefully ignoring the sickening feeling of your stomach reminding you that, in Melbourne, there was no simply ignoring the past anymore.
Oscar Piastri is twenty when he tells you the news.
Five years have passed ever since he moved out of Australia, but no matter how the years stretched between then and now, racetracks and podium dreams, Oscar always made sure of one thing: that he’d come back. Back to his neighborhood, these streets, the quiet buzz of familiarity.
And back to you.
Time had tried its best to pull you apart with different schedules, different time zones, and places, but you two were still an unstoppable force. Y/N and Oscar. Oscar and Y/N. No matter how late the flights, how long the race weekends, how exhausting the training, he always called ─ even if it was past midnight, or he had to wake up in three hours, or he could barely keep his eyes open. Because your voice, distant and barely audible through the crackling of a bad signal, was home. And you always picked up.
Oscar missed it. He made friends in boarding school, a group of laid-back guys who filled the late hours with video games and terrible jokes, making his new world a little less foreign. He enjoyed their company, sure, but none of them were you. None of them could look at him and already know what he was thinking, like the syllables were etched in your bones, and they didn’t tilt their head up at the sky on a rusty swing set, taking him with them, and spun the world into something bigger. God, he missed that. He missed you.
Even though, sometimes, he wondered if you missed him just as much.
Obviously, since Oscar left, you had to build something for yourself in the space he left behind, and it only became more concrete when you enrolled in a university away from Melbourne. He tried to be happy for you when you did. But then you would tell him about a friend group he didn’t know the faces of, threading into the places he used to be and the places he’d never been, the ones he couldn’t visit with you like the café near your 10 a.m. lecture on Fridays.
Sometimes, only sometimes, when he allowed himself to feel a bit more than he should, the scraps of emotions he usually denied himself ─ he was scared he didn’t belong in the new sphere you’ve constructed for yourself. That he was a dusty polaroid in a wooden box, waiting for the day you’d tuck him away.
But that had to be wrong. It had to be. Because the second your eyes found his as he stepped out of the airport, it was like nothing had changed. Like the months apart, the missed calls, the milestones he couldn’t be there for ─ none of it mattered.
The way you looked at him, like he was still your Oscar, the boy you always had known and always will, it made up for everything.
You had been there when Oscar graduated from Formula 4 to Formula 3. You had been right by his side when Formula 3 turned to Formula 2 the following year. Whether it be by phone or in person when the good news coincided with both of your trips to your childhood neighborhood. Your excited screech, your lips on his cheek twisting his stomach and painting his cheeks red, he figured it was just common sense for you to learn he’s been promoted a third time in person. He wanted to see your reaction.
Whenever you and Oscar came back, your mom would welcome you with open arms in your old home. There were only two bedrooms, one that was your mom’s, which used to be awkward for him before it became a common occurrence for you two to share a bed. Both your parents had forbidden it, but quickly gave up when you used to find a way to sneak into Oscar’s bedroom and keep him awake. Their resolve vanished entirely when they noticed quiet, untroubled Oscar started getting on it as well.
So there you were, twenty years old in your childhood bedroom, sharing a bed too small for your height. The window was half-opened, the air thick and unmoving, letting in the last shreds of sunset that danced across your skin in soft, golden streaks. You were facing each other, which allowed him to see your eyes flutter, heavy with exhaustion, your breathing slow and even as if the mere act of being near him was enough to let you rest.
Oscar flushed at that thought. You had spent hours driving just to come and get him, to fall in bed beside him, limbs tangled, words fading into the quiet comfort of home. Just to be here, with him.
He wanted to wait. Until your eyes were wide open and you were awake enough to react like you always did: in screams and hugs and plans of the future. But the warmth curling in his chest wasn’t allowing him to keep it from you any longer.
“I got a seat in Formula One,” Oscar announced in the silence of the room.
“What?” Your voice was hoarse from tiredness, but it didn’t stop your sharp gaze from snapping to his. Your lips parted, just barely, an inhale caught in your throat, and Oscar gets distracted.
He shouldn’t, not now, but─ he can’t help it.
How many times had he seen you like this? Sleep-heavy, warm with exhaustion, curled up beside him. Too many to count. Not once had it felt like this, like something heavier rested on his shoulders.
He repeats with a little difficulty, forcing himself back to the moment. “I got a seat in Formula One.” He swallows before precising, “Not Alpine. McLaren.”
You blinked. Once, twice, your brain catching up with the weight of his words. Then, before Oscar could brace himself, you were moving.
You crashed into him, as much as you could in the position you were, tucking yourself against his chest in the semblance of a hug. The pressure was nothing, still, the air was knocked out of his lungs. “You did it!” You whispered-yelled against his shoulder, voice trembling with emotion. “Oh my god, Osc’. You did it. I fucking knew you would.”
Of course, you knew. You always knew before Oscar did, before he even started believing in it himself. A scoff, wet with feelings, escaped him as his shaky fingers hovered over your ribs, processing the situation. You pulled back, just enough to look at him, pupils blown wide. The palm that wasn’t resting on his chest slipped up, featherlight, to cup his cheek. Oscar almost flinched. “I wanted to tell you earlier, but─”
“Don’t even start,” you interrupted him. “You’re going to be in Formula One! In McLaren! That’s huge, and─”
Realization hits you like a truck. “Oh my god, Daniel Ricciardo.”
Out of all the things that could have ruined the moment, Oscar wouldn’t have expected it to be Daniel Ricciardo. “Yeah,” he deadpanned. “Everyone loves Daniel. We get it. My mom said the same thing.”
A disbelieving laugh escaped you, and you shoved him a little. “Come on, it’s a shock for me!”
“It’s also pressure, but thank you so much for your consideration.”
“I congratulated you two seconds ago!”
“I’m sure Daniel would love your condolences even more.”
By that point, you were a giggling mess beneath Oscar’s hands, so much that the sound successfully got a few huffs out of him as well. The pressure of the news evaporated at each new chuckle out of your mouth, and the room was finally big enough to breathe.
Laughter died down, reduced to heavy intakes of air between half-sentences, and that’s when Oscar realized.
Your fingers, gently brushing over his cheekbones, nails grazing his skin. His palms capturing your sides as your thigh rested between his legs. He wasn’t pulling you in, clinging to you like he always did ─ instead, he froze. His heart was stuttering too fast, too loud, in a way that had nothing to do with the news he’d just shared and you simply stared at him, eyes sparkling, as if he handed you the World Driver’s Championship trophy right here and there. Waiting for something.
The heat of your body, your usual proximity, the soft cotton of the sheets did nothing to help the blood boiling in Oscar’s veins and thoughts spiraled in a blink, of what it would be like if he just let his hand roam a little lower, if your breath swept over his lips.
Words lodged themselves in his throat, just like they did when he was fifteen, sitting on his porch. But this time, he knew. No pretense, no excuse. He was twenty years old, not a child anymore. He knew what these words were and what they wanted to be.
You could come with me. You could come to my races. You could stay. Stay with me.
His chest squeezed. His fingers twisted. His mouth stayed shut.
Because you had a life here. A life that, lately, felt like it had more and more spaces he didn’t fit into. What was he supposed to say? Drop everything? Follow me? Give up everything you built and choose me?
Oscar Piastri wasn’t a wishful thinker, he didn’t ask for things he wasn’t sure he could have ─ and he wasn’t sure he could have you. Not because he didn’t want to, he desperately wanted to, but because he still didn’t understand it. He didn’t get why you put that ache in his chest, the weight in his ribs. Why it was more painful to be away from you, to see you live without him, than his old friend group ─ he put the fault on nostalgia, but it wasn’t it. He had spent years trying to figure it out and still ─ still ─ didn’t have the answer.
So he did what he’d usually do when meaning escaped him.
He buried it. He’ll take a look at it. He’ll figure it out later.
“Being in F1,” he cleared his throat. “It’s going to be harder, with the schedule and all that. But I promise─”
“You don’t need to,” you cut him off and Oscar noticed the light slightly dim in your eyes, then coming back like nothing happened. “We’ll make it work, we always do.”
You pulled back again, taking your hand with you and letting the cold air replace your touch. Somehow, Oscar knew he did something, but once more he didn’t know what. Instead, he let himself believe the moment was nothing more than what it had always been. Nothing more than you, his best friend, happy for him.
But as you fell asleep, the distance put by you larger than it ever was before, even by just a few millimeters, something inside of him whispered─ liar.
Oscar got in his car, and yet his mind was as far away from it as it could be. Walking out the garage, he had seen his entire family cheering for him, his mom dropping a good-luck kiss on his cheek, and he should be grounded in the moment. He should be basking in the cheers of his home crowd and the familiarity of Australian air opening his season, but he couldn't. Because there was no sign of you.
He had thrown a glance at Hattie, a silent question, and she simply shrugged. Oscar didn't know what that meant: if you excused yourself for a moment or didn't come at all. Which one he was hoping for, that was the question.
And so the formation lap started. The car was feeling good, great even ─ Oscar had done well during the testing rounds and free practices, even landing second place in qualifications right behind Lando. His chest had swelled with hope that maybe, just maybe, he could take on his home race. He brushed the podium last year, how far could he be from taking it with both hands this time?
He could hear his race engineer checking last minute details, the impatient buzzing of the crowd, the motor of his car warming up and flaring to life. It was a sound, a rhythm he could recognize eyes closed.
As the lap concluded, cars finally ready to live through 58 rounds, a streak of hair caught his eye.
If he could decipher the metre of a Grand Prix with his eyes closed, Oscar knew he could recognize the pattern of you before you even came into view. It was brief─ almost a blur, but it was more than enough.
Through the haze of rain-slicked asphalt and the relentless roar of the engine, he caught you. Standing with his family against the edge of the garage like you belonged there, which you did, hands clasped tight against your chest like you were the one in the car, navigating the turns for him. Your hair, wild from the wind, dampened by the drizzle, framing your face. God.
You came.
After everything, you were really there.
For him.
Oscar pulled his car in P2, but the flickering red lights above him did nothing to calm his racing mind. You always watched his races like this: lived through them like they were your own. Somehow, that made it easier. The loneliness of battling against your own, the relentless push forward. You made it lighter, less suffocating. You always have been. And you were ready to watch him race again, after everything. His chest twisted, his grip on the steering wheel tightened.
And even in the current circumstances, Oscar wasn’t thinking about the race. Not at all.
For what he wished could have been the first time, but wasn’t, the car was filled with the thought of you.
Because it hits him. Like a crash, full speed, sparks flying. Why missing you hurt so much. Why, after a year of unnatural distance of swallowing down whatever had possessed him that night in Melbourne a year ago, he still felt like something lacked.
Oh.
And before he could process it all, it was lights out.
Oscar Piastri is twenty-two when he fucks it up.
The Melbourne Grand Prix didn’t go so badly, but it didn’t go well either. Oscar had been so close to getting a podium on his home race, and watching his colleague, his friend, receiving the applause of his home crowd left a bitter feeling in the back of his throat. He cheered and congratulated, because he was a good sport and genuinely happy for Lando, but the uneasiness didn’t leave him when the cameras turned off.
It was a sticky heaviness in his ribcage, glued to it like molten plastic, tightening with every half-smile and “good jobs” aimed at him. He should’ve been happy, ecstatic. But he just wasn’t.
So he forced himself to go out to celebrate anyway, even half-heartedly. He didn’t want to look like the asshole he really felt like, so he nodded at conversations he wasn’t listening to, let the bass drum against his skin in a club he didn’t even want to be into.
Oscar lasted maybe an hour.
The flashing lights felt too bright, the press of bodies too wrong for his current state of mind. The scent of alcohol curled in his nose, sharp and sour, and something in him was teetering to break the last agreeable bone in his body. As he got out of the club, he thought about how he wanted to be anywhere else but here, suffocating in his own unjustified frustration.
The only place he wanted to be was with you.
He barely had time to see you before he got whisked away by his team and interviewers. He wanted to tell you about the race, about what he thought, because you were the only one he enjoyed being listened to by, the only one it didn’t feel awkward. No matter how much he tried to shove things down, to ignore whatever it was that had been thrumming under his skin- you were still the first person he reached for. So before he could really think about it, he’d already dialed your number. “Hey, I’m sorry, I know─ Can you hear me? Yeah? Alright. I know it’s late but… can you pick me up?”
And of course you did. Because you were Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. Because no matter where or when─ when Oscar called, you always came.
Your car was in front of the building not even ten minutes later, and he got in. His favorite music on the aux, he smiled at the attention, easy conversation started flowing between the two of you as you drove to the driveway of your house. You didn’t ask why he left. You knew he’d talk about it when he wanted to, if you pressed on the issue he would only close up more ─ get sarcastic, avoidant.
So you both sat on your front porch, the night silent around you, still warm from the heat of the day. “... don’t think he'll be able to walk home tomorrow,” Oscar commented.
“He got third and he's still getting shitfaced like that?” You asked with a disbelieving laugh. “Wonder what will happen for his first pole position.”
“I don't even want to think about it,” he sighed. “His PR team is gonna have a field day.”
“Wonder what will happen during yours, to be honest.” You bumped your shoulder with his, something so casual that still sent the familiar shivers down his spine. “What kind of celebration are you going to pull in Australia, huh?”
The simple sentence was cold rain on Oscar’s newfound relaxation. He knew you didn’t mean it like that, you never would, but his shoulders tensed up and his gaze drifted away from yours. “Yeah, well, at the rhythm it’s going, maybe we’ll have a party when I retire.”
You threw him a glance, the kind that knew what was lying behind all of his barriers, behind the sudden phone call. Oscar let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the material of his jeans.
“Is that why you asked me to pick you up?” You ended up asking, voice soft. You weren’t trying to pry too much, and he silently thanked you for it. For everything, really.
“I didn’t want to be there,” he answered.
There was nothing more to say: Oscar was bitter and that was the end of it ─ or maybe not, but he didn’t want to get into it tonight when the feelings were still raw, painfully open to see. Yet, your hand found his, stilling the restless motion of his hand against his thigh. Slowly, deliberately, you wove them together. Your palms, warm and steady, rested above his knee. “Then why’d you go? We could have done something. Just the both of us, y’know.”
This time, Oscar looked at you.
And it was all too much. Worry laced in the edges of your expression, the subtle scrunch of your eyebrows he would have missed if he didn’t know you as well as he did, your hand in his ─ steady, grounding. It belonged there, he thought, it always did. You cared about him, that’s what scared him at first ─ because you were sunlight, not the kind that burned but the kind that warmed. The constant, unwavering glow of a beacon that guided him, never pulled him under.
And yet, there he was. Drowning in the mess he tried to push away for so long and was coming back full force, with a simple touch of the hand.
Oscar had two drinks earlier, and it made everything too sharp, his emotions too messy. His tongue a little too loose.
“I thought if I pretended hard enough, it would go away.” He didn’t know if he was talking about the race anymore.
You scooted closer, as if sharing a secret, but the closeness was too intimate for the situation. “What would?” You asked in a whisper.
Oscar’s breath hitched at the way the streetlamps caught in your hair, how your eyes searched his. There was a shift in the air, in the barely-there space between the two of you, in the way your fingers refused to let go of the grip it had on the other.
He should let go.
But your lips parted, ever so slightly, and Oscar allowed his gaze to dip to them. He kissed girls before, he even had a few short-lived relationships, but none of them ever felt right, like they belonged in a lasting manner in his life. They always felt like placeholders for something else, something more, less of a daunting feeling in his guts. He never really told you about it ─ it had always been an unspoken rule in your friendship, without knowing why. Now, he had a sneaky, unnerving suspicion.
Oscar kissed girls before, but he never kissed you.
He didn’t know if it was a mistake. He didn’t know if he should cross that line, but God he wanted to ─ he only knew that he wasn’t sure of what was waiting for him on the other side of it. His heart hammered in his chest, so hard he was afraid you’d hear it. You leaned in, imperceptibly, and your warm breath brushed against his lips. If he let himself, just for a second─ one tiny, irreversible second─ he would kiss you.
He was close. Too close. Feelings were too many. He needed to tell you before something could happen.
“Come with me,” Oscar blurted out, in a murmur along the shape of your lips, a plea in the leftover space.
And just like that, he felt the moment slip away from him. Your eyes, now sharp, snapped to him in a swift movement. And that’s when he knew. That wasn’t the right thing to say or do.
“What?” Your voice was quiet, laced with disbelief. Confusion swirled in your pupils, wondering if you misheard or if he misspoke.
Maybe he had. Maybe this wasn’t how it was supposed to come out- not here, not now, not like this.
“I- Uh…,” Oscar stammered. “Come with me. Stay. For the next races.” Please.
You pulled away, and the lack of you in his space caused his head to spin, his heart still beating violently against his chest, this time in panic. What did he do?
“What are you asking me exactly, Osc’?”
The question of the day. Because what was he asking, really? To be there for the few days in between flights and training and traveling and pretending his world wasn’t moving too fast for him to catch his breath? Sit in the stands, waiting for him to make up his mind about something he had been wondering about for the past fourteen years? Because what did he mean, and why couldn’t he understand?
It wasn’t fair. Not to you.
He swallowed, throat tight with something he couldn’t name and suddenly the night was too cold to stay outside anymore. Oscar forced out a weak chuckle, like it was just some stupid joke as if the word hadn’t crawled out of his chest on their own. “I meant─” He ran a quick hand through his hair. “Ha. Never mind. Forget it.”
And this time, when the light dimmed in your eyes, it didn’t come back. You won’t forget it. Because you saw right through him. Still, you didn’t push ─ every time you did, disappointment crawled over you like insects. After a beat of silence, one that felt like a lifetime, you exhaled, something fragile flashing across your features before you masked it with a tight-lipped smile. He hated it.
You nodded. “Sure.” Just that. Oscar didn’t know what he was expecting. No questions, accusations.
But that was almost worse, you let him get away with it, with the almost, with all of it.
When you both went to sleep that night, it was the first time in forever you didn’t sleep in the same bed. You pretended to have a headache, said you’d join him once it settled down. Oscar fell into slumber alone.
For some reason, it felt like losing.
Saying to have known love at eight years old would have to be a lie, but Oscar knew you jump-started his heart the minute your laugh echoed in his ear at that playground, fifteen years ago.
He had been pathetically doomed from the start.
From the first glance, to the first laugh, to when your fingers grazed his when you took the controller to his truck ─ a touch so small that had burned itself into his memory like a brand. He was too young to understand what it meant at fifteen when he sat beside you on his porch. Too blind to recognize it at twenty, lying in your childhood bedroom and hands fisting the sheets to stop them from reaching for you. Too scared to act on it last year, close enough to touch and closer than you had been in years and he still let the moment pass him.
The truth was simply this: no matter what, Oscar had always known. Maybe not at eight, maybe not at fifteen. But deep inside, he had always, always known. And he had spent every year since then trying to ignore it.
Not anymore. He couldn’t ─ not when he messed it up last time. Not when he was on the verge of losing you for good.
Oscar Piastri loves you, like a madman, and he needed to tell you like someone drowning needed air.
But to do that, he’d have to get out of the patch of grass he got himself into first.
The track was slippery due to the rain, and a simple mistake could lead to tragic circumstances: this was one of them. Oscar was stuck in the grass of the circuit after a turn he took too narrowly. He lost his P2, the one of his home race he had been searching for since last year. The scream of frustration he let out had earned a pained groan from his race engineer, and to make it worse, he was apparently already written as Out.
But that wouldn’t happen. Because Oscar didn’t go after things he knew he couldn’t have ─but he knew he could have this race. He could finish it. He wouldn’t DNF.
And after he’d be done with it, he’d go after you.
So he dragged himself out under the cheers of his home crowd, an ecstatic buzz in his ears. The last of the laps passed in an angry blur: Oscar was driven by sheer determination, rage even, he could barely remember overtaking Hamilton, fighting his way to P9, and grabbing as many points as he could have in his situation. He could do it.
The race ended in a flurry of applause, some of them surprisingly directed at him. Oscar tried to get out of his car as fast as he could but under the special circumstances of his race, he knew getting past the journalists and commentators was going to be almost impossible. And it was, because as soon as he put a foot on paddock ground, he was swarmed by microphones, cameras, and flashing lights, waiting for every tear to turn into a headline that people would twist and shape.
A few hours passed by the time he was finally able to reach his family. After the regular hugs and reassurances, one of the first things his mom said was: “That’s too bad you just missed Y/N, she had to go back. I wish she could have stayed, she always knows what to say to you,” with motherly little taps on the cheek.
Oscar felt a hole opening in his chest. “She left?” He asked, trying to muster as much nonchalance as he could.
It wasn’t very efficient, as Nicole gave him the kind of look you’d give to a kicked puppy. “Yeah, she did.” Quickly, she added, “She didn’t go back to her hotel, though. I asked to drop her off and she refused, saying she had somewhere to be.”
It was as vague as it could possibly get, maybe because you didn’t want Oscar to seek you out. But he needed to, he had to get it off his chest before your relationship could worsen ─ and he couldn’t do that by text or calls, for the little you exchanged over the past year. He had to know if the little gap you almost crossed on that front porch meant something and could have been something if he hadn’t fucked it up. If it was too late for it to become something now. And knowing you, you’d be gone by tomorrow morning.
Oscar dashed.
He got into his car, drove too fast under the intensifying rain. There was no time to waste for him. What he was thinking about was a long shot, an extremely long one for a non-wishful thinker, but if today put you in the same state as him ─ there was a chance, a small one, that you’d be there.
When he pulled into your childhood neighborhood, his drenched windshield made the road and its surroundings almost indiscernible. But right before the little street leading to both of your houses, he passed by that old, worn-down playground that somehow stood against the test of time, with its rusted swing set and old dirt roads. But his breath didn’t catch on that, no.
It caught on you, sitting on the lower branches of the tree you spied him on at eight.
Oscar had never parked so hastily. He never ran so fast, soaking the McLaren hoodie he put on in a rush before going out. His hair stuck to his forehead and when he reached the dry soil underneath the tree you were hiding on. Arms around yourself, staring in the empty, like you were holding yourself together.
He hesitated momentarily, and all the fears plaguing his mind the past years came rushing back. What if it was too late? What if all he’d get was a final goodbye?
Then you turned, and your gaze found his in the settling dark. All doubts vanished at the same moment ─ he’d rather regret saying too much and grasp at the chance of something than live the rest of his life in silence, drowning in the regrets of saying nothing at all.
“Y/N,” he called, a little strangled, arms dangling at his side.
“Oscar?” You frowned, jumping the small distance separating you from the ground. “What-? How’d you know─?”
“I… guessed.”
“Oh.”
Silence. The incessant rhythm of the rain filled the space as you both stared each other down. Waiting. What was he supposed to say now? “So… uh. How are you?”
Your eyes widened, and a scoff escaped you. “How am─?” You crossed your arms on your chest, staring at Oscar like he had grown a second head ─ and maybe he had, because he couldn’t even try to think straight. “I’m good, Oscar. Great. How was the race?”
“It was─” He stopped, swallowed. It felt plastic, strange ─ the distance, the iciness. Both of you knew you weren’t really inquiring about the race, you knew him better than anyone and probably guessed how it felt already, and he wasn’t really inquiring about you.
It was the first time you saw each other after last year, and everything felt more real. Heavy.
“Did you forget how to talk, Osc’?”
Osc’. You haven't called him that in a long time.
A nervous chuckle escaped him. You were so far and so close at the same time, hair frizzy from the dampness, knees scratched from your recent climb ─ he missed you, you were right there and he still missed you, because you were slowly slipping through his fingers. The last bit of his resolve crumbled.
“Y/N, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
Oscar never showed too much emotion. But here he was, drenched by the rainfall, eyes open and raw. And you didn't know what to do with that. You shifted on your feet. “For what?”
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair, frustration bleeding into the gesture. “You know what for.”
“That’s not enough. Not anymore.” Your voice was laced with barely contained emotions, strangling you.
He knew. Oscar stepped forward tentatively, just once. Enough to make you look up at him, and he held your gaze even as it twisted with the kind of hurt he never wanted to be responsible for, but had to be faced with. Because he had. And he had to own up to it ─ so everything spilled out.
“I fucked up, last year. Big time.” His voice cracked. He couldn’t care less. “And I know- shit, I know I’m probably too late. I should’ve said something back then, but I didn’t know how or what or why.”
“I was scared. Not just of ruining things, even though it was a part of it, but of─ of what it meant. I didn’t understand, Y/N. I didn’t get why you were the first person I looked for in a room, why I felt so goddamn lost when I moved out and you weren’t there anymore, why seeing you living your own life without me was─ I don’t know, I guess I’m selfish or something.” His throat burned. “And that night─ here, last year─ I should’ve known. Fuck, I think I knew long before then but I was just so blind. When I asked you to come with me, and we─ I should’ve known why. I did. I just─ I didn’t want to mess it up. I didn’t want to lose you.”
Oscar let out a short, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “But I did anyway. I messed it all up because I couldn’t make up my mind, and I don’t blame you if you don’t─ if you can’t─”
He couldn’t finish the sentence.
The rain pattered against the dirt and the surrounding pavement, unrelenting, like both of your heartbeats. Oscar’s fingers twitched, aching to reach for you ─ but he wouldn’t do it. Not unless you let him.
Finally, you spoke. “You’re the biggest idiot I met in my entire life, Osc’. You’re so stupid.”
Your voice was teary, but you didn’t cry. You weren’t angry. You weren’t turning away. You simply stared at him, lips parted ─ barely smiling, but it was there.
Oscar blinked rapidly, taken aback. “I know,” he admitted, his voice a whisper, “but I love you.”
There it was. After fifteen years, there it was: the plain truth, out in the open for you to see. What he spent his time running from, what he should have told you so long ago.
You didn’t react. Your eyes widened, a sharp inhale went through your mouth and you stared, frozen in place. Oscar panicked. “I understand if you don’t─ I mean, after everything, I get it if─ Or, or maybe I misread, but─”
“Say it again.”
Your voice was authoritative. Hopeful. And this time, a tear slid down your cheek. His heart skipped a bit. “I love you.”
And Oscar Piastri is twenty-three when he kisses you for the first time.
Your hands grabbed the hood of his sweatshirt, pulling him to you. The crash of your lips against his was sudden, but it didn’t take Oscar long to find a rhythm ─ not when it made so much sense, not when it felt so right. Finally.
A shudder rippled through him, something snapping back into place. It was messy, desperate ─ years of missed chances spilling out at once. You exhaled against his mouth and Oscar felt it everywhere, in the way his fingers trembled when he cupped your cheeks, how his knees almost buckled when you got closer, in the way his world narrowed down to just you. His mouth against yours. Fuck.
You pulled away, just for a second. “Osc─”
“Not yet,” he rasped. And he captured your lips a second time, choking out any other words.
How had he gone so long without this? Without knowing what it was like to have you like this?
He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips. Desire, want, love, all of it blurred in the way his fingers wove into your hair, when he slowly brought them down to your waist, pulling you against him, hungry, greedy.
If he wanted you to come with him so badly the past few years wasn’t because he needed you at his side ─ he still did, but that wasn’t the gist of it. Now that you were falling apart against his lips, hands making a mess of his rain-drenched hair, he knew he had wanted you next to him because he wasn’t allowing himself to have you. He had wanted you in his chest, curled beneath his ribs, a part of him so irrevocably that no miles, no years, no silence could ever pull you away.
And now, he had you. Shit, if that wasn’t like ascending to heaven felt like, he didn’t know what would.
You put a hand on his chest, slowly, and when you separated Oscar found himself longing for more, for every instance he passed on. Yet, the wide smile on your face stopped him ─ because you looked perfect like this, bright and open, taking up space. That’s why he fell in love with you.
“I love you too. So much,” you said, and the words softly blossomed in Oscar’s chest like spring. He dropped his forehead against yours.
“Me too. I love you. You don’t even know,” he breathed out, his lips slowly dropping a kiss on your forehead. “It feels so good to say it. To know.”
You grabbed the string of his hoodies, toying with them as you’d usually do, but every single one of your actions sent another wave of heat in Oscar’s neck when he remembered what you tasted like. “You could’ve felt good about it earlier, y’know.”
He arched a teasing eyebrow at you and you giggled. “I’m sorry, but the realizing-i’m-in-love-with-my-childhood-best-friend didn’t really come with an instruction material. The confession either.”
“You were pretty dramatic, true, with the rain and the running,” you laughed. “It was gonna be pretty easy for me last year, honestly. Until you bailed.”
Oscar groaned, and his head dropped on your shoulder. “I’m never gonna hear the end of this, am I?”
“Oh yeah, you’re in for a long ride, Piastri.” A long ride. That sounded amazing.
Realization hit him at full force, harder than a crash. “Wait, what do you mean last year?”
Your hand went up, wiping a raindrop dripping down his cheek, and the look you gave him was overflowing with fondness. “I mean that before you tried to kiss me, that night, I would’ve told you I’ve been in love with you ever since I started spying on you at the playground.”
“You…?” Oscar’s mouth dropped open. Had he really been that blind? How many signs had he missed, exactly? “How─”
You kissed him. A quick, hard peck on the lips, but that was enough to shut him up and get him to melt against you once more. “Let’s not talk about it here. I’m cold, and I think it’s the type of discussion that’s too long to have outside,” you said, slipping your hand in his. “My mom would love to make us coffee, if you want.”
Oscar sighed at the familiar feeling, fingers tangling with yours in a well-known pattern. He missed the both of you, and now he got to have it in a better way. “You’re sure? I’d love to, but is your mom─”
“Don’t even worry. She’s been calling me Mrs. Piastri for years now, I think the news will move her to tears.”
So you runned back to the porch of your house where you’d sat years ago, drenched in the deluge but happier than you’ve ever been. Oscar loved you, he knew now. And you loved him back, it was worth the rain, the missed opportunities, the hesitation and the heart wrenching confessions that will follow as you sit down.
You were worth the vulnerability, Oscar thought when you crossed the threshold. You were worth everything.
A year later, Oscar is standing in pole position for the Australian Grand Prix of 2026.
Qualifications went great, keeping the fastest lap position for all rounds. He was confident in his capacity ─ last year had tested his patience and goodwill, but he only came out stronger, more resilient.
The home race curse was a popular saying in Formula One, and sadly he fell victim to it ever since he put his feet in a McLaren in 2023. He had hoped to win the Melbourne race, to bring back the trophy under the cheers of his home crowd and the screams of his family ─ but this year wasn’t for hoping: if there was one thing you taught him, it is that hoping never achieved anything. Actions did. And he was going to win the Australian Grand Prix.
You were standing in your usual spot, orange headphones on, all in smiles and shouts. Hattie next to you playfully shoved an elbow in your ribs to get you to quiet down, which only made you louder. Oscar was persuaded he could hear you above the sound of his race engineer. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe the thought of you swirled around every mechanism of his car like it always did.
Today marked one year since you and Oscar got together. Since the kiss, the realization, the heartfelt confessions above a steaming cup of gingerbread coffee in the middle of summer because your mom affirmed it was a big occasion before leaving the two of you alone. And the fifteen years it took for you to finally get to that point were a painful obstacle of unsaid and what ifs, taking a few months to finally get out of the way, and plenty of awkward conversations ─ but how beautiful was the other side of it.
Devotion and love, gentle and kind. The impulsive dates, the good morning kisses when Oscar had enough time to come and visit, his hand resting comfortably on your lower back, “Oscar Piastri’s partner” on the screen when the camera was pointing at you during races, the weekend getaways.
Oscar noticed the large, varsity top hung on you, a bright orange with the large number 81 written in white. Just underneath, the words Mrs. Piastri were written in a similar font. You had it custom-made a few months into the relationship, simply because the comment about your mother the day he kissed you became a regular inside joke between the two of you.
It made Oscar’s heart flutter every time you wore it.
He observed the red lights above him, flickering out one by one. He thought about it: how the fifteen years of being apart made every day spent with you seem like too little, how he couldn’t get enough of you and how he didn’t want to.
Suddenly, Oscar couldn’t wait for the race to end. Because he was going to keep his P1 with his skills and the speed of his car, and brandish the trophy high on the podium for the country who raised him. Because after, he will rush out in your arms and kiss you until the air in his body runs out. Because he had a girl to get, and plans to make.
Because even though it was only a year spent together, Oscar Piastri is twenty-four when he decides he wants to marry you, and he was not about to wait fifteen more years to make it happen.
summary: after years of being in love with your best friend you look back at the moments together that left their mark on you, and wonder if it's time to let him go.
content: she fell first but he felt harder; slow burn; fluff; angst
notes: Hufflepuff reader, no use of y/n, why do I feel like I could make this a "choose your own path" fic, the way I put all my favorite boys in it
wc: 17k (I'm sorry)
You can still remember the day you had met Oliver Wood. It had been early in your first year when the cold air of spring was still crisp, leaving you with no choice but to wear a scarf tightly around your neck. Or maybe you hadn’t, you weren’t sure. But Oliver had, that you can remember. It had been resting lazily over his sholders, loopsided after running down the hallway only to speak to you.
“Quingly!”
You hadn’t been thrilled about it, not at all. He had been part of a pletora of students that had approached you to tell you how much they liked your father. Most of them were obviously trying to get something out of telling you this, you thought, seeing their eyes gleam when they mentioned how they had tried to get an autograph from a professional player for years. Your polite smile had been stretching so thin at that point that you thought it might snap. That had been the last time for a long time that you would be anything but elated at the sight of Oliver before you.
“Quingly, right? Oliver Wood”
He had stretched out his hand to you, and despite finding the formality odd, you had reciprocated it nonetheless. It was cold to the touch and slightly rough. His hair was a tad bit too short you though, his features soft and eyes big and warm with a gleam behind them that you could only describe as presumptously confident.
“Gryffindor team?” you had asked, eyes on his scarlet and gold scarf that was on its way to the floor.
“Not yet, I’m preparing for the upcoming try-outs”
He hadn’t mentioned your father once during the conversation that had turned so long, he had to sit down in one of the stone benches with you following suit. The only time he had brought him up was when he had asked if your father was hard on you about the sport, which you had reasured him wasn’t the case. Then someone had called for him and he ran down the corridor to his next class, waving at you with a "see you later!" After that you had started looking for him during meals and in the hallways, but even when you did find him, you hadn’t dared to actually go and greet him, or even wave your hand. One time he had locked eyes with your at lunch before you had looked away, going completely red in the face and accidentally dropping your goblet of pumpkin juice.
You did however go to the Gryffindor Quidditch try-outs and sat on the section of the bleachers closest to the rings. When Oliver stood in front of them, a serious look on his face, you couldn’t help but think that he looked beyond cool, even if you had always found the Keeper head gear to look funny. He didn’t look at you, matter of fact, there didn’t seem to be anything that demanded his attention more than the quafle on the aspiring Chaser’s hands. You could still remember how many shots he stopped and how many he missed -seven and one- and that had only been because his broom had lagged slightly. You recognized the model, a Comet 260 that while well regarded had a tendency to lose it’s touch with time, and it looked like Oliver had been using his for a lifetime. When the trainning had been over you had walked down the stairs of the bleachers and towards the exit, where you heard someone call your name followed by:
“Came to watch?”
Oliver stood in front of you, his hair sticking to his forehead and still catching his breath. He was beaming.
“Yeah! You did really well”
“I don’t know, I failed the last shot”
“That was only one!”
“Every point counts on the pitch”
You had wanted to laugh at his seriousness, but he would have probably not taken it well. And you wanted him to like you.
“I’m sure you will get the position” you finally said, and it felt like the words were leaving your mouth in slow motion “They’d be mad to pass on you”
Oliver laughed and lightly tapped your shoulder. The adrenaline was still running through him, and something told you he wouldn’t have a wink of sleep before they announced the results in a few days.
You remember how heavy your eyelids had been feeling by the time Madame Pomfrey carefully shoke your shoulder.
“You ought to go, child. It’s late now”
You had stired on the chair you had been sitting on for a few hours, Oliver still unconscious in bed. The strange goo that Madame Pomfrey had put on his temple to treat the gash on it was still there, and yet you thought that he looked peaceful. The bludger had hit him barely twenty minutes into the game, and you had been running down the bleachers faster than they had picked him up.
“Go, don’t make me call a prefect”
Madame Pomfrey practically lifted you up from the chair and walked you to the doors of the Hospital Wing before closing them in your face. For days you would visit him in the morning before class, and bring your homework and reading to the Hospital Wing in the afternoon until dinner. The more days that passed, the more you couldn’t shake the worry that built up in your chest. Madame Pomfrey had started leaving the chair next to his bed, no longer bothering on putting it back on its place. Then on Saturday you had walked in to visit him and found that he wasn’t there anymore. You never told him you had been keeping him company, and if he had heard he hadn’t commented on it.
Of course the word “love” was far away from your vocabulary at the time, and you would only become aware of its meaning when it had started to eat you from the inside out. Oliver’s indifference while not on pourpose had started on your second year after you had made the Hufflepuff team. While the year before - and during the summer - you had spent almost every free second talking Quidditch, loyalty to his team was something he took very seriously. As such, mending with someone from the opposing team meant Quidditch talk was way more scarce, and Oliver did not have many other conversation topics. Despite that, your friendship remained, your footsteps following him with animated chatter and casual study session on subjects both of you were awful at. After all, Quiddicth was the only particular thing you excelled at, aside from Charms and Transfiguration, which was the cause of many long evenings helping him out of his barely passable grades.
But there was no other memory as pivotal to your feelings for Oliver, so bright that would find you on your darkest times, than your first Quidditch game. You had played Gryffindor, and despite putting up a decent fight your team had been defeated by fifty points by the time the snitch had been caught, Charlie Weasley waving it in the air victoriously. Shoulders slopped and surrounded by the deafening cheers of the Gryffindor side of the bleachers you hadn’t heard Oliver call your name. You remember trying to take off your gloves, pushing the thick taste of defeat down your throat when his hands had grabbed your face with a bit of force, making you look at him. Sweat shinning on his forehead like dew on an early morning under the bright sun, a halo forming around his head.
“That was brilliant!”
You could remember the hot and damp touch of his fingers, the scent of leather as he held you in place. How you had notcied in that moment he seemed to have grown a few inches taller as his big glistening eyes, only narrowed by the weight fo his smile, looked down upon you with something close to admiration. His breath smelled strangely sweet, hitting your face as he panted in front of you.
“You won, though” you managed to mutter, feeling your legs start to quiver.
“No” he had said “Not to you”
And that right there had been the moment, the first time your child mind and young heart had felt the sharp sting of love. It had been things like these that had been seeding inside of you, blooming with every passing spring, not even the cold of winter able to make your feelings wither. It pained you however how casually his hands had found and held you close like that, as if it was nothing, as if you could just do that back without setting your heart aflame. Oliver Wood was for all intents and purposes, a dense idiot; and you had just fallen in love with him.
It had been your third year that had set the tone for the inevitable situation you would find youself in eventually; Oliver and you passing each other by like strangers, stolen glances all you had left. Fred and George Weasley while annoyingly good at Quidditch were not particularly good with subtlety, and they would never know how influential they had been at accelering the process of your eventual heartbreak. You had to admit you refused to like them because as they played opposite to you, you found yourself envying their technique and how in sinc they were during plays, shooting yours down every time. That’s why it was easy to get mad at them instead of Oliver, or even yourself, when Fred had asked:
“Won’t you introduce us to your girlfriend?”
You had approached the Gryffindors as all the teams waited on the pitch for one of Madame Hooch’s official meetings that took place once a month. There was a History of Magic exam comming up, and while you knew you wouldn’t pass, pretending to study for it would be better with Oliver keeping you company.
“Not my girlfriend”
Maybe if the twins hadn’t been such a constant headache, as he had expressed uncountable times to you, his tone would had been less harsh.
“But--”
Despite Fred’s teasing tune he had actually meant it, completely under the impression that Oliver was just acting tough whenever you talked to him in front of them. Especially ever since their first game against Hufflepuff.
“Merlin, her arms will break” George had joked to Fred once they were in the air, having stood in front of you as the teams greeted each other.
However there hadn’t been much laughter on their way back to the locker room after the game, Oliver in an espacially foul mood.
“Weren’t you listening yesterday during practice?”
Fred and George had been, in fact, not listening. As a result, despite Gryffindor winning the game, they saw themselves floored and unprepared for both Cedric’s agility and the reckless yet effective way you’d directed your bladgers at the Gryffindor players to keep them out of his way.
“Thought she’d be nicer” said George when they had walked into the cluttered dark room.
“Why?” Fred made a face “She doesn’t even look nice”
“You could learn a thing or two” the twins winced at Oliver’s stern voice behind them. While happy that they had won, he was beyond satisfied “She’s an Under19 contender you know? I told you to watch out for her, flew Alicia out her bloody broom twice”
Alicia Spinnet had been busy trying to apply a reparation charm she was reading from a book on her shattered broom.
“Under19?” George looked betrayed “Why didn’t you say?”
“I did! Don’t you read Monthly Snitches anyway?”
“Do they look like they read?” had asked Angelina, looking at the twins. Fred found that particularly funny.
“You should have seen how bummed out he was when she was sorted in Hufflepuff” Charlie, who was carefully taking off his gear, chimed in “You could tell he had planned the program for the next six years in his head the moment he heard her last name”
Oliver had too much respect for Charlie to talk back to him, so he just scoffed and took off his head gear with a bit too much force.
“Whatever, would you really like us to play like that?” asked Fred, making a face “Because I think she ought to be re-sorted into Slytherin. She was all over the place!”
“You get to be reckless when you are that good” he muttered, not bothering to look up.
“Seems like someone has a crush” Katie hummed from beind Oliver, her eyes locking with Angelina who giggled behind the twins.
“Shut up” was all Oliver had said, and so Fred had been under the impression that there was obviously something between the both of you.
But it was only after George had elbowed him, signaling towards you, that he saw that he had made a mistake. Your smile was frozen in place in an almost unnatural way and your body had turned stiff. He could swear you had stopped breathing as well.
“You planning for next year?” Oliver had asked you, completely ignorant to what had just transpired “That captain spot is looking really easy”
“Oh” something heavy was finding it’s way to the pit of your stomach, dense and suffocating “Yeah”
“You need to start planning ahead, much to do with your lot”
“Yeah, right. See you later”
Fred and George watched as you walked back to your team, Fred earning another elbow to the side that he didn’t bother to complain about. Oliver also found himself staring at you as Cedric Diggory leaned over to whisper what seemed to be a joke in your ear. A very funny one it seemed, as you playfully slapped his arm. He had made a fuss about Diggory the moment he had seen him at the Hufflepuff try-outs, almost earning you a scolding from Ms. Pince a few weeks later.
“There’s only one reason why he’d want to be seeker” he had whispered indignantly, gripping his quill so hard it almost broke the parchment “He wants to stand out”
Sitting opposite of him on the table you had abandoned your Potions book, no longer interested in pretending that your attention wasn’t somewhere else. Oliver’s hands holding the quill in a peculiar way between his surprisingly slender fingers, the apple of his neck bobbing up and down occasionally, and in this case the way his accent thickened when he got upset.
“What are you talking about?” you had asked, almost absent minded, bitting the end of your own quill like an idiot.
Oliver looked up from his paper and stared hard at you, his eyes momentarily looking down before shooting right up again, then away from you.
“Seekers have to be light, and fast. He just wants to be the center of attention by going against that”
“He is fast, though”
“Pretty boy, that’s what he is” he muttered as he went back to his paper.
You hummed in response, his stubborness making you swing your feet under the table at how endearing you found it.
“What” Oliver had risen his head in a swift motion, staring at you as if you had just said something awful “Don’t tell me you agree”
His tone had rose significantly, a few heads turning towards in your direction. Dunking your head out of abashment you shot him a confused look.
“What?”
“Diggory. You think he’s cute” he said the last word with almost repungance.
“I mean...” you had not expected that, the brief pause seeming to agitate him even further, his head shaking as if to hurry the answer out of you “He’s also very nice, and people like him a lot”
Oliver shook his head, ink splattering everywhere when he sunk his quill on the bottle. A few droplets fell on your book, darkenning the word “hence” and swallowing it whole, making it disappear.
“It’s all Angelina and Alicia bloody talk about. Diggory this, Diggory that”
Oh how much you had wished you could have told him that he was all you could think about too, your borderline pathetic adoration way beyond anything Angelina and Alicia could ever feel. You fantasized sometimes about telling him that sort of stuff, imagined his cheeks flushing pink and his eyes going wide, a stutter falling from his parted plush lips.
“I still prefer you”
You bit your tongue, knuckles white as you grabbed the edge of your skirt underneath the table. Oliver simply scoffed, eyes never leaving his paper.
“Thank you very much” he said drily, a hint of sarcasm laced in his words.
Despite what one might think, that didn’t bring you down. After all, it had been a while since you had come to terms with the fact that Oliver either wasn’t aware of your feelings or pretended not to be. You found yourself missing the days where he’d beam at your compliments, but ever since becoming captain no praise was good enough for him. Similarly, praise didn’t come your way anymore if it wasn’t wrapped in some kind of critique about your technique. Oliver jotted down the last line he had written with a groan and leaned back on his chair, eyes closed and his hands behind his head. He had written the same sentence twice. You tried not to pry at how the uniform shirt stretched around his biceps, or how his loose tie rested over his chest that rose and fell with a tired sigh. You stood up from the chair, attempting to make as little noise as possible, not wanting to exacerbate the students looking your way any further. You had stood next to him, his tired brown eyes fell from the ceilling to you.
“I’m going for dinner” you whispered.
“I have to finish this”
You had nodded, smiling at him as a silent goodbye. You hadn’t started to walk away when he said:
"Wait, I’m coming with you”
If there was something you couldn’t remember was how many times you had fantasized about your first Hogsmade visit. The image of Oliver and you walking side by side, arms and hands brushing against each other in search of warmth and the smell of sweets in the ir. Reality hadn’t started far away from that image. A blush had crept up from your chest up to your cheeks when Oliver had found you among the aglomeration of students waiting at the entrance of the castle. He had made his way to you, hands in the pockets of his courdoroy jacket, his thin black turtleneck underneath hugging his athletic figure in a way that made you dizzy. You had asked him to hang out with you, something that had felt more nerve-wrecking than it should have been for just a friend. The carriage had seemed spacious to you, but only once Oliver had sat down did the difference in size register properly in your head. His legs seemed to take most of the space on the seat, his knees bumped and rested against your thinly covered ones, the rough fabric of his jeans causing you to squirm and shift on your seat. It always had killed you knowing that he was always oblivious to the effect he had on you, how he could touch you so carelessly and with ease; how he wouldn’t have cared if you had moved your leg away. The seats in front of you were taken by two Gryffindor girls that had stolen a few glances at you both before bursting into poorly covered giggles.
“Hey” they had said.
“Hey” Oliver said back, it was obvious they knew each other.
You noticed how Oliver’s knees would slightly touch those of the girl in front of him whenver there was a small bump on the road, and wondered if he ever noticed things like that. If anyone’s touch could make him feel the way he did to you. The thought made you want to vomit.
“You are going to love Spintwitches” Oliver had said, excited.
“What’s that?”
“Quiddicth store” you rolled your eyes “What?”
“You said you’d give me a full tour... You better not just drag me there for the whole trip”
“I won’t!”
The girls suppressed dainty laughs behind their scarfs.
“You could try Madam Puddifoot” said one of them, her voice sweet and teasing.
“No way” had said Oliver immediately, as if the mere mention of that place had burnt him “Is not like that anyway”
“Oh” said the girl, and they didn’t say anything else during the rest of the trip.
You hadn’t understood what that exchange had meant until you’d been in front of the building yourself. You had wanted to come in before you had read the name, understandind what Oliver had meant, that bitter taste you were so familiar with bubbling up your throat. The whole walk through High Street had been a blur, your mind playing the image of that Gryffindor girl holding onto Oliver’s shoulder to get down from the carriage over and over again, how she had turned to thank him as she pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The facade was of a powder pink, the paint slightly chipped from the passage of time, colorful sweets catching your attention through the wide windows displays. Dozens of couples smiled at each other inside, hands being held and smiles reciprocated, the feeling so foreign to you it made the world feel a bit colder. It really wasn’t like that, you already knew that.
“Dreadful” Oliver found his place next to you.
Your hands closed onto fists and you bit your lip.
“I think it’s cute”
“It’s a trap. I’ve seen friends get dragged in by girls, never to be seen again” he joked and you couldn’t stop your brows from furrowing, eyes fixed on the way some guy you recognized from Potions class played with his girlfriend’s fingers.
“Well, I am a girl, and all the boys in there look very happy to me” your turned around, glaring at him out of the corner of your eye “Not like you would get it”
“What?” he followed after you “I’m not clueless you know” he sounded quite offended “I just don’t get it”
“Lucky you” you mumbled, not sure if he had heard you.
Oliver stopped walking and you turned around to face him with a huff. He lifted his hands in the air, a mix of annoyance and confusion in his face. The same face he made when Gryffindor would get penalized during a game
“Like, you want to go in? We can go in if you bloody want!”
It was as if your face had burst into flames. What was he saying?
“Why are you mad at me?” you asked, voice rising comically as you looked anywhere but him. People were definitely starng now.
“You are the one getting mad!”
“I am not!”
“Yes you are!”
“Where is that bloody Quidditch store!”
Oliver huffed and closed the distance between you both, took a deep breath as he scanned your features, an obvious mix of embarrassment and evident anger in them as you looked away.
“Come on” is all he had said, giving a short tug at your scarf and walking ahead of you down the street.
You walked there with a strange feeling looming over your heads that immediately disipated the moment you entered the place. Oliver’s face changed to that of a child at a candy store, immediately walking along the corridors decorated with Quidditch equipement. Is not like you hadn’t wanted to go there, after all, Christmas was approaching. Last year you had gifted Oliver a small chest, which he hald held and turned around in confusion.
“It’s for all the letters I send you, I know they are a lot” you had scratched the back of your head, and in a sad attempt to sound casual you added “I mean, if you still have them”
“Of course I have them”
There had been reassurance and mild offense in the look he had given you. Then his eyes had widened as if he had just remembered something. Something awful.
“Yeah, wait here. I’ll bring yours”
He stormed off from the Great Hall and didn't come back until the teachers were hurrying all of you to leave for the train, running down the stairs and stopping in front of you, panting.
“For you”
He held something in his hands, black and shapeless. When you took it from him, you realized it was a scarf: his scarf. The one you’d seen him wear multiple times. The one you had been wearing at that exact moment, especially selected for your first trip to Hogsmade with him. He didn’t comment on it.
You had looked around the store, a few items catching you attention. He was standig by the shelves, heavy book open in his hands. Your feet stopped in front of his, some strands of your hair failling onto the pages as you lowered your head to read it too. He put them aside like a curtain, holding them onto place as his eyes went over the same parragraph a few times.
“You know” he started, his lips pressed together as if winning time “If you want to go there, I’ll go with you”
He propably heard the breath catching in your throat, close as you both were. The weird tension had dissipated and had been replaced by something else, something that felt terribly bittersweet.
“Where?” you feigned.
Oliver drew in a sharp breath, eyes never leaving the book.
“Bloody pink house of horrors”
It was strange, how unhappy that sentence had made you. Your heart, far from accelerating fell all the way through to your stomach. You forced a smile and a playful tone out of you.
“Are you mad? What would people think” You weren’t preocupied with how shaky the laugh that had crept out of your throat had been, but about how pathetic it was that deep down you had wanted him to retort that, to insist in going with you. “Also I’d like to go with someone who wants to take me there”
Too occupied looking elsewhere but him, you missed the way his jaw tensed before he swallowed.
“Yeah, right” he closed the book, a thin smile not reaching is eyes “You’ll have to find yourself a nice boyfriend then”
You reciprocated a similar fake smile.
“Guess so”
You couldn’t remember what you had given him that Christmas, nor what he had given you, that day at Hogsmade overshadowing most of your memories of that year. As such, most of what you remember happened in your fourth.
It had been the first meeting of the season and the sky seemed to protest at all of you being forced out of bed at 7am on a Saturday. The gray opaque clouds kept any sight of the sun hidden behind them, and as if they were sympathetic to you they protested with a low thunder. Hufflepuff had been walking alongside the Ravenclaw team who greeted you lazily at the Great Hall. Gryffindor as expected had been at the Pitch ahead of time, and you assumed Slythering couldn’t be too far behind you. As usual your eyes scanned the Gryffindor team in search of Oliver, however it had been for a complete different reason this time. You found him talking to George, and you immediatelly blended between your teammates to stop him from looking your way. You hadn’t told him yet what you were sure Ms. Hooch would announe briefly. And so she did after a particularly long chat.
“Finally, I want to congratulate Cedric Diggory on becoming the youngest captain of the last fifthy years”
Your teammates celebrated the announcement, playfully pushing Cedric around, his cheeks slightly rosy. Some Ravenclaw and Gryffindor players had joined with scattered cheers, even a few Slytherins clapped once or twice. Then a question cut through the air.
“What?”
While Oliver’s voice hadn’t been that loud, it had been enough to make the cheering cease almost immediately. Everybody had turned to look at him, but his eyes were focused on you, burning a hole through Preece’s wide frame that you were still hidden behind of.
“Is there a problem, Wood?” Ms. Hooch’s voice broke the silence with authority and mild confusion, but Oliver said nothing. “Right, meeting is over. Off you go”
One by one you could hear footsteps starting to walk away from where you stood, bottom lip between your teeth holding your breath as if expecting for a kick to the stomach. It really felt that way, if you were being honest. It had been bad enough having to break the news to Oliver that despite his expectations, when the time had come for you to be offered the captain badge you had decided to turn it down. It had downed on you through the summer that it wasn’t the role of captain you had been lookiing forward to, but the look on Oliver’s face when you told him about it. Maybe the scarce praise he had been giving you through the last few years would come more often, and the look in his eyes as he greeted you as equals on the pitch similar to the one he had given you after your first game. The look he had been giving you as everybody was walking away wasn’t anywhere close to that.
“You alright?”
Despite the question being quiet, you found yourself startling at Cedric’s voice. He had looked down at you, eyes briefly looking to the side as if being able to see Oliver walking towards you out of the back of his head.
“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll catch up with you guys”
Cedric hesitated but just nodded, lips pressed together. He had started walking away just in time you thought, as Oliver was getting close enough to see the lines on his forehead where his brows met.
“Oi” Oliver had called after Cedric, who simply kept walking away without giving him a spare glance “Oi! I’m talking to you!”
“Oliver!” you pleaded, standing in front of him with your hands up in the air.
“That prick? Captain?” he spat, incredulous “Has Hufflepuff lost their minds?”
You couldn’t really blame him, after all this had been your fault. If only you had told him from the get go, faced the way you feared he would have looked at you, the way he was looking at you now, this wouldn’t have happened. “I’ll tell him tomorrow” you had told yourself every day, finding any excuse good enough not to do so, and so all the days had slipped away.
“Oliver...”
“It’s a sport not a popularity contest!” he made sure to emphasize these last words loud enough for Cedric to hear, his figure barely visible behind the thin curtain of rain that had started to fall.
“Oliver!” the sharp edge to your voice had managed to catch his attention, angry eyes setting on you and making you shudder “I got the spot offered to me. I turned it down”
You blurted it out quickly, scared that you would stop yourself in cowardice once again. There was a brief pause, gears turning on Oliver’s head.
“What do you mean?”
You swallowed.
“I... I didn’t want it”
“What are you talking about?” his voice cracked in disbelief “We’ve been talking about you becoming Captain for years”
It was somewhat true, you thought. Oliver had got it in his head that you should become captain the moment you joined the team, being the only one who in his eyes deserved to lead it. You had never corrected him on it, too drunk on the way he seemed to beam at the idea of you becoming captain.
“Cedric will do well”
Bitterness casted itself like a shadow over Oliver’s features, always finding it unpleasant when Cedric’s name came from your lips.
“You’d do better! He barely has a brain to use!”
“You don’t know that Oliver...” you retorted, eyes fixed on the grass. When had it started to rain? “You don’t know him either”
“Well, I know you!”
“Do you?” the question hung in the air louder than you had spoken it. Oliver’s shoulders came up and then down one more time, lips parted but saying nothing. When it had become too much to bear and before he had time to ask what you had meant ,you added “I wasn’t ready, that’s all. Okay?”
Something had flashed behind Oliver’s eyes, soft and vulnerable, then immediately hardening into the stubborness you knew all too well.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
You pursed your lips together, feeling the overwhelming weight of a cry creep up your throat. All you could o was shrug.
“Because you really wanted me to be captain? I don't know. I didn’t want to...” disappoint you, is what you wanted to say “Bum you out”
“I just wanted--”
“Well I don’t”
Oliver’s body stiffened at the crack in your voice, louder and more upset than he had ever heard it. Only then did he feel the damp coldness of the rain, clothes sticking to his body and falling down on your face as you nonchalantly lifted your arm to rub your eyes against your sleeve. It occured to him that you had refused to look at him through the entire conversation, and realized he didn’t like it. It was strange and unnatural for him to not be able to stare back at you, your eyes always wide and glistening with something only your eyes seemed to hold. He bit his bottom lip, hand aching to--
“Are you crying?” he had asked, blunt in his surprise.
The question had felt mocking in your ears, making the sour feeling in your chest more painful than it already was.
“No” you lied, and he knew it “It’s just rainning”
You had braced youself for more harsh and stubborn remarks, sporadic fights no matter how rare always ending with Oliver having the last word. Instead however, you felt the light, almost ghostly touch of his fingers brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face. You felt your body stiffen as it tended to do whenever Oliver touched you no matter how briefly, eyes fluttering for a moment as he abruptly retracted his hand.
“We should get back” he had said, clearing his throat.
You nodded, a strange smile on your lips as you walked in front of him with quick steps. That had been the first time since Oliver could remember that you didn’t wait for him to catch up to you.
It must have been the second or third match of the season, you could’t remember which exactly, that brought what would go down in history as one of the most dignified defeats your house would ever suffer. It had also been one of the worst days in Oliver’s life.
“Hufflepuff needs to counter if they want to catch up!” Lee Jordan’s voice had barely registered on any of the player’s ears at that point, but it resonated loudly through the pitch.
“They need a bloody miracle that’s what they need” had said Oliver through gritted teeth.
Oliver eyes followed your figure as it flew through the pitch, they always did as he was of the opinion you were the only player worh keeping an eye on. These days however that was more difficult than he liked to admit, given your new strategy of orbiting around Cedric the moment he caught sight of the snitch, getting rid of any bludgers that flew his way. Oliver hadn’t agreed with you completely out of pride when you had pesented the idea, but he hadn’t spoken against it either. He’d die before admiting Diggory was any good, and would quit Quidditch before agreeing to the idea of you rubbing elbows with him.
“Can’t that pretty boy accelerate? Oi! Get a new broom!”
“That’s way harsh!” protested Angelina, that sat next to him.
She had to force him to sit down again, Oliver having stood up from his seat, hand cupping around his mouth as if that’d make Cedric able to hear him any better. It was no use however, as both seekers shot up on their brooms towards the cloudy sky, disappearing behind them with you following suit. Cedric’s broom was indeed just a tad bit slower than the snitch, nothing could be done about that, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a way to make it faster. You saw the yellow and green clocks dive down, and tipping the front of your own broom you took in a sharp breath before putting your plan in motion. Cedric hadn’t noticed when you had shown up next to him, his extended arm barely an inch away from the snitch, the Slytherin seeker not any closer. Cedric barely registered the nod you had given him, agreeing to whatever you had asked him to trust you for with a brief glance. You swerved and positioned your broom parallel to Cedric, and in one swift motion you recklessly grabed onto him, frocing you both to spiral on your way down. All the audience saw was a blurry mist of yellow plumenting on its way to the ground, everyone letting out a gasp before Cedric and you separated, crashing at different points of the pitch.
“Cedric Diggory has caught the snitch! The game is over with Slytherin ahead by a hundred points! Slytherin wins” he had said the last part in a lazy manner, which didn’t stop Slytherin from cheering loudly.
However their victory was drowned by the roaring applause coming from every other house, that last play overshadowing the Slytherin win in the eyes of the school. Even Marcus Flinch would compliment you on it a few days later, the interaction the first and last you’d ever have with him. Cedric had managed to stand up, not without tripping over his own feet, his hand aching from the strength he was holding onto the snitch with. He was swallowed in gold and black, his hair getting rubbed violently in a way that could have made him think you guys had won. It also made him slightly nauseous, his world still spinning as wildly as yours.
Oliver’s knuckles had turned white gripping the rails, eyes open wide as if he was trying to burn that memory in his brain, as if blinking would make the details of the play go away. He had risen to his feet the moment he had seen you dive down, heart racing in a mix of excitement and worry. His eyes were still fixed on you, having witnessed the way you had unceremoniously crashed on the sand, a sigh of relief escaping his lips as he saw you stand up and walk to your team. Then he saw Cedric scoop you up, lifting you off the ground with little effort like he had done it a thousand times before. Your arms loosely wrapped around his neck, matted wind blown hair catching the light and a wide smile on your face. He didn’t miss the way the female voices in the crowd had cheered a little louder when he had lifted you in his arms.
“What a play!” had said Angelina, shaking Oliver by the shoulders as she cheered alongside the rest of the Gryffindor house to the honorary winners of the game.
The noise from his own house spiked again but Oliver could barely hear it. He was annoyed at the way Diggory seemed to love showing off. Is not like that play had been his idea, he thought, it had obviously been yours. You were probably embarrassed, upset about him taking the credit. You probably hated it. Didn’t you?
“Prick”
Valentine's Day that year had been the first one you had been brave enough to not send Oliver an anonymous gift like you had done for the past four years. You were aware that anyone would have guessed it was you by now, Oliver's friends and anyone who knew him had relaized the first time. Maybe he did know, and that’s why he always reacted so unenthusiastically to them, his subtle way of rejecting you without having to go through the uncomfortable act of doing so. You had approached the Gryffindor table with your mind set on bringing up the secret admirer you knew hadn’t sent anything this time, pathetically hoping he’d sulk even just a bit. He sat there, eyes fixed over pages of strategies that seemed to work only in his head. The sleeves of his sweater had been rised to his elbows, the usual brushes from practice spread across his arms in kisses of red an purple. His hair was a mess from all the times you could guess he had ran his hand through it already. He looked devilish handsome and a total mess, and it was only breakfast.
“Want me to bring you anything from Hogsmade?”
Oliver had been skipping the last visits to Hogsmade, insisting he had to use his free time on planning for the next game against Slytherin. The last few months had also been strange. There was an eerie sense of normalcy whenever you’d talk, something unspoken hanging in the air by a very thin thread that you both pretended not to notice. His head had quickly perked up at the sound of your voice, looking at you for a moment before forcing himself to go back to his notes.
“I’m going, actually”
“Oh, really?” you tried to sound casual “Fancy hanging out a bit later then?”
“I can’t” he replied rather quickly in a strangely proud tone. However as he looked at you out of the corner of his eye he hesitated “I’m going with a girl from class, she sent me a Valentine’s gift asking me to go with her. Veronica Mulnich, you met her”
You had needed a second to process that whole sentence, not only because of what he had said, but because of how quickly he had said it.
“Did I?”
“Hogsmade, last year. Rode the carriage with us”
Oh. So this had been what they called woman’s intuition. An unpleasant feeling like a cold sweat in the back of your neck.
“Which one?”
You had begged for him to not say “the pretty one”, repeating it like a mantra what seemed an impossible amount of times in the very few seconds it took him to answer.
“Curly hair”
“Oh, yeah”
“I guess after years of anonymous stuff she just decided to ask me out”
There was a thin sharp noise as if cracking glass, and you wondered if anyone had heard it coming from your ribcage. Oliver rearanged his notes in no partiuclar order.
“Oh!” your voice was cheerful, almost as painful to hear as it had been for you say “So, is a date then?” Oliver lightly tapped the papers on the table to align them properly “You are going on a date”
He tried to give you a casual look only to look away immediately, as if annoyed. His lips pressed into a thin smile and he nodded.
“Actually I should go, I’m a bit late”
“Right, okay” you had stood up from your seat before he did, nausea bubbling up in your stomach and making the walls of the Great Hall spin. With what little courage you had left you patted Oliver in the shoulder, your touch seeming to burn him, but you didn’t notice “Good luck. See you later”
Your friends had had to drag you to Hogsmade that day, somewheat oblivious to the long shadows cast on your face, the sickened color of your skin and glassy twinkle in your eyes. It hadn’t taken long for your heavy steps to drag you to the back of the group and eventually away from them, too far behind to bother catching up. There was a jolt that ran through you, making you stop and look; call it woman’s intuition. Across the windows of the pink building you still hadn’t had the chance to step into, there sat Oliver with Veronica Mulnich, his body slightly turned away from you. She was talking to him, hand underneath her chin and head titled to the side, a genuine sweet smile on her face. He had said something you obviously couldn’t hear and she laughed wholeheartedly the same way you always did, but it seemed different when she did it. The strain on your jaw as you tried to stop yourself from crying started to hurt too much to keep it up. In a fit of something you couldn’t quite understand you tugged at the scarf on your neck, Oliver’s scarf, and yanked it with so much strength you hurt yourself. Franctic as you had been to run away you bumped head first onto someone, a surprised gasp coming from them.
“Wow, are we in a hurry?”
It was a Weasley twin, you didn’t need to look up to know that, height and voice telling you enough. Even if you had tried to find out if it was Fred or George it would have been futile, the world engulfed in a damp mirage as warm tears fell from your eyes. You had muttered a shaky “sorry” and moved past him, or them, with as much grace and dignity as you had left, throwing Oliver’s scarf in the nearest bin without a second glance.
By the time Oliver and Veronica had left Madam Puddifoot he had ran out of things to say, but thankfully to him she seemed fine carrying the conversation by herself. She had tangled their arms together, slightly leaning onto him for warmth as they had started their walk through Hogsmade, the closeness making their walking a bit awkward, but she didn’t seem to care. Oliver’s eyes were eyeing every store and every group of people, seemingly absent from his own conversation.
“I’m sure town must be gorgeous during Christmas. Do you know if you’ll leave for the holidays?”
She had looked up and was met with his profile, jawline defined and muscles underneath tense. She gave his arm a squeeze.
“What?” he turned to her “Oh, I don’t know yet”
But he had known, he would go home and regret not being able to practice outside, probably write to you. Something made him stop in the middle of the street, Veronica looking up at him in cofusion. From in between the aglomeration of people there were two flashes of bright orange hair, impossible to miss. The Weasley twins were casually standing by one of the narrow streets, which usually would mean nothing good was about to go down. However that hadn’t been what had made him stop. One of the twins had been leaning over to speak to someone, faces too close for comfort, or maybe he just thought that because it had been you George was talking to. Whether Victoria was still holding onto him as he walked in between a group of people who gave him a strage look he wasn’t sure, and he couldn’t be arsed about it.
“Why are you laughing?” had asked George, hands on his knees so his face would be at your level, turning your sobs into a chuckle “Isn’t this better for you?”
“We adapt to short people's needs. Tell your friends"
The Weasley twins weren’t very tactful, but if there was something they had learned from their older brothers was that you should never make a woman cry, and if you ever saw one doing so, you had to fix it. They had dragged you into the more quiet street by softly placing their hands on your shoulders, the surprised cry making them apologize profusely. While not the most careful, Fred and George were nothing short of sharp, a simple look inside Madame Puddifoot enough for them to share a knowing look before they had turned around looking for you.
“Are you trying to catch a cold?” George had taken out his scarf and had placed it around your neck “There are better ways to get to skip class you know?”
“Yeah, we can hook you up” Fred said from where he was standing next to you “Is still a prototype so you might burp bubbles or something, though”
That had made you laugh, distracting you enough to not notice Fred moving beside you.
“Nothing to see here”
You had looked up to see him hands ups in the air, only partially seeing Oliver’s face behind him as he shifted enough to block his path.
“What’s going on?” Oliver asked, almost demanding.
“Street is closed due to damages”
Oliver tried to edge past Fred, his eyes never leaving George’s hands nuzzling the scarf around your neck, his hands surely grazing the skin of your neck. That wasn’t your scarf, he thought. That wasn’t the scarf he had given you, the one you had worn for the last two years. He called your name once, maybe twice as Fred kept walking in front of him, until you finally dared to look up. Your eyes were red and slightly puffy, tears catching the sunlight in a way that made them sparkle like glass under the winter sun. For a second he had the selfish thought that they looked beautiful. Then the glance was gone.
“Gotta go back to your date, mate?” asked Fred, looking over Oliver’s shoulder at Victoria, who was standing there waiting for him. Something in the way Fred had said it made Oliver flinch, earning him a hard look from him, but Fred didn't budge.
The twins swept you away swiftly with a barricade of jokes , leaving him behind in the middle of the street watching you walk away without as much as a glance as he felt an arm wrap around his again.
Dinner that night had barely saciated Oliver, busy as he had been dunking the fork repeatedly into his plate without ever really bringing the food to his mouth. His eyes were set on where you sat at the Hufflepuff table, your friends sitting closer to you than usual, almost as if they were shielding you from something. His knee was shaking underneath the table, nervously waitng for you to look up towards him. You always did, after all. He could always find you in a crowd, already looking at him and a smile ready at our lips for when he finally found you. You hadn’t looked his way once since he had sat down, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was on purpose. When he saw you get up his knee hit the table so hard it made a few people jump on their seats. He immediately stood up under the annoyed looks of the people arround him and matched your step towards the entrance of the Great Hall, where he managed to catch you before you walked towards the door that lead to the kitchen.
“Oi! What happened there?”
“Oh, hey, sorry” you retracted your hand slowly from where he had held it to stop you “It’s nothing, I just fought with my friend. We made up so it’s alright.
He knew you were lying, but there wasn’t anything he could have said to prove it.
“...okay”
“How was your date?”
That took him by surprise, the sudden question making him take an unconscious step back, hands burying in his pockets.
“It was... alright. I’m not sure there’ll be another one”
“You spoke too much about Quidditch?”
He knew he could never tell you about what had transpired after he had seen you disappear between the crowd, the image of George Weasley’s hand around your shoulders buried in his memory. There’s no way he could tell you how Victoria had insisted on entering a small shop on the corner of the street, gushing about the cluttered charming decor of the store.
“Smell this!” She had held the bottle below his nose, the strange smell reaching Oliver and making him wince “What does it smell like?”
“You tell me!” he said, a bit annoyed “It smells awful”
“Does it?” she asked, quite shocked “It smells like leather and incense to me”
“What? No it doesn’t” Oliver made a face and leaned forward to smell the contents again. This time it didn’t seem that strong, the distinct scents breaking apart from one another more distinctively “Grass... sweat” Veronica’s face panicked, and she discretely turned his head to sniff over her shoulder “Something else, perfume? What even is this?”
“Amortentia” she had said.
“Oh”
It made sense that Veronica had smelt the distinc leathery scent that always seemed to trail after Oliver, even during Divination: the incense infused class they’ve sat together at for three years. For Oliver however, it seemed to make sense it had been Quidditch. Veronica had laughed drily at that, like he had said it as a joke.
“Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t smell a sport”
Oliver wasn’t stupid, no matter how hard he seemed to try to seem like it at times. He was aware of how familiar the smell was, yet couldn’t really pinpoint it. It was driving him crazy.
“How do you know?” he asked, coming back to you.
“You don’t have many conversation topics”
“I do! We talk about things other than quidditch”
“Do we, though?” you smiled at him, but there was a bitternes behind your words.
“Yeah, well..." You missed the way Oliver stepped forward again, getting a bit closer than he had before, taking a deep breath as he got close to you. You also missed the way he frowned as he realized there was no such scent. He would spend the rest of the school year thinking about it. "She wasn’t the one who sent me the Valentine’s the previous years, by the way”
“Oh” you prayed he hadn’t seen the way you swallowed, your mouth and lips feeling dry “The mystery continues then”
“Yeah I guess” something flickered in his eyes as he stared at you with something that you didn’t quite get “Maybe she moved on from me” he joked, but he didn’t laugh.
Your hands balled into fists, your nails digging into your palm and you managed a small shrug. If only he knew how much you wished you had the ability to do so.
“Maybe”
The walk to the locker room had been slow that afternoon, the sound of brooms dragging against the stone steps the only thing interrumpting the silence that had fallen upon your team the moment the game had ended. That, and the cheers that could still be heard from the Gryffindor house back at the pitch. Your uniform was spottless after you took it off, not a wrinkle had had the time to appear since it had been ironed that same morning. Cedric cleared his throat as he stood in the middle of the room, hands on his waist and uniform still on. You all turned to him, your eyes falling to the floor just like his was. He didn’t say a single word until one of your teammates patted him in the back.
“It’s alright Ced”
He gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before walking out of the room in silence, your teammates following suit with similar comforting remarks. And then it was just the two of you. There was a prolongued silence after the door closed with a loud screech and footsteps disappeared in the distance. Cedric ripped the goggles from his head and threw them against the ground with a crash that echoed on the walls. It made you wince, but you had been expecting it.
“Is not your fault” you murmured.
“And whose is it then?”
You couldn’t deny you were angry, frustrated tears picking at the corners of you eyes the moment you had heard the whistle barely five minutes into the game. How Harry Potter had caught the snitch so quickly was beyond you, but more importantly at the moment was that Cedric was beyond himself.
“I still have my grades” he chuckled bitterly “That’s something, isn’t it”
“I’m sure your parents won’t say anything Ced”
Frustration and embarrassment showed on his face in the form of flushed cheeks. He kneeled down to pick up his goggles and when his eyes caught the light through one of the craks on the door, you realized he was about to cry too.
“You are right, they won’t. It’s all in the eyes, you know”
You had been about to say something when the voices of the Gryffindor players caught your attention, and you found yourself reaching for the door as they tried to open it. Katie was only able to open the door a few inches before you stopped it with your hands.
“We are not done” you said, your small frame attampting to shield Cedric from the team.
“...okay?”
The Gryffindor players stopped behind Katie, Fred and George Weasley rubbing Harry Potter’s head. None of them had broken a sweat either, you noticed. Oliver came in last, asking what was holding everyone up, broom held behind his back like the world belonged to him. When he saw you, the slightly cocky smile he had had on faltered a bit.
“It’s alright” said Cedric, opening the door completely behind you.
“Oh?” said Fred “Hope we didn’t interrupt anything”
Oliver’s eyes darted from you, to Cedric, then back to you and then to the side.
“No, sorry. We were just leaving” you said
Cedric and you got out of the locker room and started to walk away when someone spoke behind your back between forced coughs:
“Nice game”
There was some snickering behind you, catching a glimpse of Oliver reprimanding his team albeit with a smile on his face that quickly fell when his eyes met yours.
That had marked the last Hufflepuff game of your fourth year, and as such there wouldn’t be much opportunity to see Oliver, not that you had been particularlly thrilled to do so. For the first time in your life you had made the effort to not find him between classes nor meals, not because you didn’t want to see him, but because you knew nothing good would happen if you did. That’s why you were shocked when despite what you had thought, Oliver keep spawning around every corner. On Wednesday he had stood in front of the Hufflepuff common room for so long that even your friends started to take pitty on him, but you didn’t budge, only going in after he had left for dinner. It was making you miserable, the lengths you had to go simlply to delay the inevitable fight that would break between you two. That’s why when you ran onto him after Herbology that Friday you had decided to give up and try to be civil.
He was leaning again the stone wall, hands in his pockets and wrinkled sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It was time for him to get a haircut too, his unruly hair spiking out at different angles. You couldn’t count how many times a day you longued to just reach your hand and just--
“Didn’t take you for a sore loser” he said, voice getting lost among the animated chatter of your classmates.
You inhaled sharply, the grip on your books tightening.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Oliver tilted his head to the side. taking a moment to take you in before looking away with a shrug. The sunlight that had been comming from the window behind him gave him a natural halo, and if you hadn’t been so upset the sight would have been enough to remind you why you were in love with him.
“Are you going to keep avoiding me?” he asked, his tone dry yet poignant.
“I am not avoiding you”
“Oh” he sneered “So you are going to start lying to me too? Cool”
“Have you been following me?”
His smile disappeared in an instant, tonge pocking at the side of his cheek.
“I was just trying to talk to you”
“About what”
You would be lying if you said you hadn’t meant to sound so cold, but you had. Oliver turned to you again, but the way he looked at you was harsh. He observed the way you were standing defiantly in front of him, an expression on your face that he had never seen on you, or at least never directed towards him. And all because of that guy.
“Forget about it” he scoffed.
Oliver peeld himself from the wall, not getting too far before you had grabbed his hand and started to pull with, you were surprised to find out, not much resistance. Not a single words was exchanged until you had taken him behind the greenhouse and saw two of your classmates snogging between the vines that crawled up the windows.
“Piss off!” you had said, both running away completely red on the face.
Oliver had to press his lips on a thin line to stop himself from laughing at the scene, his stubborness never allowing him to back down now. You turned back to look at him, a few strands of hair falling in front of your already flushed face, ready for it.
“What” you nudged “Come on, say it”
“Say what”
“Whatever it is you got to say about Hufflepuff, or Cedric for that matter. I’m assuming that’s what you’ve been meaning to tell me about”
Oliver really didn’t like to admit that you were wrong, being read like an open book was not a favorite of his. When it came to you however he knew he couldn’t escape it, denying it would have been futile. He knew that you knew. Knew what he would say, every word of every sentence, in what order and what tone. And yet you refused to see eye to eye with him.
“I just wanted to see if you were okay”
“Of course I’m not!”
“Then why can’t you agree?”
“On what!”
Oliver finally looked at you with vivid eyes, arms crossed in front of him and brows furrowed so close together they seemed to reach his long eyelashes.
“That you should be the captain!”
“Oh my-- not again Oliver” you had said in exasperation “I told you, I didn’t want it!”
“Bullshit”
It caught you off guard, the way he had said it, perfectly calm and almost calculated.
“I don’t want to lead, I just want to play”
“You just want to lose, you mean?” his smile crooked with spite “Well, does it feel good?”
“No, it doesn’t. But do you know what would feel good?” you had taken a step forward, breath catching in his throat and chest expanding as if preparing for whatever you were about to throw at him “The Head of my house bending the rules in favour of our team so we can have some damn bloody first year prodigy play with us”
To that he had nothing to say, and he hated it. He had kept Harry’s excellence a secret before the season started from everyone but his own team, and also you. Oliver Wood who prided himself in having Quidditch as a first priority had slipped and told you about it, too excited not to. He had expected you to share his excitement, and while you had tried to he had noticed there was a sour twist to the way you had smiled at him at the time.
“Even with Harry you could take us. If only you--”
“If only I did what! What about me? Why do you keep putting all this weight on me like I could fix the team by myself?”
Oliver ran a hand over his face with a groan, arms breaking free and gesturing wildly at you.
“Because you could! Don’t you see how you are the only one in the team who is worth a damn? You have the smarts and you have the technique--”
“I am not you, Oliver! I can’t lead, I’m not a captain!”
“And Diggory is?”
“Yeah, actually! Cedric’s a good leader!”
Oliver flinched at the way his name left your lips, you could see his body stiffen and the muscles tensing underneath his jaw. For a moment he just stared, brows drawing tight in disbelief. When had he found his way into your life the way he had? What had he missed?
“You can’t be seriously defending him right now”
“He’s got charisma and he’s got leadership, he’s got--”
“Beaten in five minutes by an eleven year old? Yeah, that was pretty class”
That shut you up, and for a very brief second he savoured the way you ran out of things to say. Then something shifted in the air and he got scared. But he would never admit it.
“That’s my friend, you know?”
Oliver looked away with a bitter and humorless chuckle, shaking his head before he asked:
“That’s what they are calling it nowdays?”
There was a small pause, you didn’t notice the way he held his breath.
“And what do you care”
“I don’t”
“I know” he didn’t move or say anything right away, fists flexing at his sides and eyes searching yours for something that wasn’t there anymore “Are we done?”
“Yeah”
That summer Oliver had found himself laying in bed, window open trying to escape the suffocating heat between dozens of Quidditch books and magazines. There was a particular volume that had been thrown into a corner of the room the moment he returned home that year, and still lied there when the orange hue of the late July evening casted its light over it. Hidden in one of the pages there had been an article about your Under19 debut that he had memorized by now, having thought about framing it and gift it to you for Christmas at some point. He had stared at it as he lied in bed, short sleeve t-shirt sticking to his back, the room feeling way too hot out of nowhere. It had been like this whenever he was alone with the thought of you, or more like you in the company of Diggory during summer break.
After that fight neither of you had made a single effort to go back to normalcy, and so you hadn’t talked ever since. It had been weird, losing the cup to Ravenclaw, mind already racing about all the things he wanted to go over with you before realizing he couldn’t do that anymore. You had started sitting with your back facing the Gryffindor table too, something you had never done. Because of this hostile situation he had found himself hidding behind a statue in one of the hallways as he saw you approaching with your friends, the topic of conversation almost making him rip the pages out of the book he was holding. The Diggorys had invited you to spend the summer with them, convinced that your little stunt with Cedric during the Slytherin game deserved proper trainning.
“We need to be more in sync” you had said and his stomach had turned, especially at the way your friends had giggled at that, even if you had told them to “shut up!” embarrassedly right after.
No matter how many books he read the image of you kept popping in his head, hair blowing in the summer breeze with Cedric next to you, sweat clinging to your clothes as you laughed at something he had said. Having breakfast together in the early morning and passing the brick of milk to each other with lazy, sleepy morning grins. Him with an arm around your shoulders as you had a stroll with his parents through London.
Oliver stood from his bed, shaking his head so violently his room started spinning. A few books he had on his bed had fallen with loud tuds, and he left a small groan before bending down to pick them up. He retracted one of them form underneath the bed, his hand gracing something that made him still. He dragged the small silver box from under the bed and stared at it for a few seconds, realizing he hadn’t seen it in almost a year. Had it been any other summer he would have seen it every week, but he couldn’t remember the last time he had used it. The lid opened with the soft click he was so familiar with, and the moment he had fully opened it time seemed to stand still. His body reacted half a heartbeat before he understood, the hairs in his arm standing up with a subtle chill that crawled down his back. There were dozens of pieces of parchment, letters you had sent, pilled inside as carefully as he had been able to keep them. He had lifted one of the letters with a trembling hand and brought it close to his nose, scared to confirm what he deep down already knew.
Grass, from the way it always crunched softly under your feet whenever you had agreed to practice with him during his second year, no one on the team having wanted to use their free time helping him.
Sweat, from the first time he had seen you cry after Hufflepuff lost the chance to the Cup after you joined the team. He had hugged you awkwardly, not really sure on what to do or how to hold you, his nose burying itself lightly on your damp hair that smelled like effort and regret.
And flowers, the scent that had been imprinted in every single letter you had sent him for the last five years, each one making the scent a tad bit stronger, seeping into his life almost impercetibly.
The trip to Hogwarts had been peaceful for the most part, your friends and you deciding to sit towards the end of the train to avoid the loud first years that tended to sit at the front. It was around the thrid hour of the trip that you had admitted to yourself that despite having just had breakfast you were still hungry, leaving the compartment filled with animated chatter to go find the Honeydukes cart. You found it after a few minutes, not really mentally prepared for the sight in front of you. Oliver was standing by the cart, more inconvenienced by not being able to pass by than interested in buying anything. He rarely enjoyed candy, the few times you had seen him buy any was to give it to you back on your second year when he had been able to go to Hogsmade while you had to stay at the castle. He noticed you before you had time to pretend you hadn’t.
“Hey” you had said when you finally joined everyone else at the cart, a sad attempt to be matture about it.
“Hey”
His voice was flat and casual, the kind of casual that takes actual effort.
“How was your summer?”
“Good”
Oliver’s eyes didn’t spare you a single glance, instead darting around the cart as if he had actually planned to buy something.
“Cedric and I got a lot of plays in mind for this year” you said, immaturity and his indifference getting the better of you “We planned them over the summer”
That got him, eyes narrowing ever so sligtly.
“Really?” he said, not even attempting to hide his annoyance at the statement. What would have been the point, though.
“Yeah, I stayed with his family for a few weeks in July. They got lots of space, we practiced a lot”
Oliver inhaled through his nose, slow, like he was trying to keep his heartbeat steady.
“Oh, I bet you did” he grumbled.
There had been the fantiest twitch at the corner of his mouth, more of a half scowl than a smile.
“Are you kids going to buy anything?” asked the old lady, small beady eyes looking at you both impatiently.
You took in a deep breath, his eyes stared at you in anticipation.
“I’m going to beat you this year” you said defiantly, and for a second before you turned around you could have sworn you saw the ghost of a smile on his lips.
But whether your startegies would have been Quidditch Cup worthy or not you wouldn’t have the chance to find out. The incidents surroundind the re-opening of the Chamber of Secrets had gotten Quidditch cancelled and the whole school in a constant state of nervousism.
Everybody was trying to find a way to take their mind off things, and you hadn’t even wanted to think about how Oliver was handling the No Quidditch policy. You had, against what you have told yourself, tried to check on him. Your eyes had met awkwardly across the Great Hall during meals, looking away right away like you were eleven again and still figuring out why you couldn’t stop looking for him in every room. He didn’t look away from you however, not like you’d ever find out, eyes glued to your food that wasn’t appetizing at all. Hogsmade trips had stayed in place, and that had been when you had ran into Oliver, way too drunk to have had just butterbeer, laughing and walking with some difficulty with his equally inhebriated friends. They were singing happy birthday way too loudly, Oliver not really joining but marching slightly behind, an amused smile on his face that had disappeared the moment he saw you. You weren’t sure of what you had expected, but it definitely wasn’t him simply walking throught the inches of snow towards you and away from his friends.
“You are not off age yet” you said as he stood next to you “You turned seventeen barely three months ago”
“And you didn’t wish me a happy birthday” he replied in a childishly manner.
“I was under the impression that you didn’t want to talk to me?”
“I don’t” he said way to quickly. It was very obvious how drunk he was, the thickness of the alcohol stretching and making the words stick to one another. There was also a sulkiness to his demeanor, softening his usual stubbornness “You spend all your words talking to Diggory anyway”
“Why do you dislike him so much?” you sighed “Why do you have to bring him up every time you talk to me?”
“Because he’s a prick” he muttered matter of factly, a slight pout on his lips as he swerved in place “Is he in love with you?”
“What?”
“Is he?”
“He’s just my friend! You used to be too!” you straightened in place, measuring your words “Or I thought you were”
Oliver blinked at you, slowly, waiting or all these words to register properly. The concious part of him focused on the pinkish hue your lips turned when you were cold.
“What youmean?”
You kicked a bit of snow, wondering if you should even bring it up.
“Was I ever your friend?”
He frowned, as if he was trying hard to concentrate.
“I don’t understand”
“Do you remember why we became friends?”
Oliver took his time, thinking really hard about what you were asking. After a while he could only come up to one conclusion, announcing it with a shrug.
“Dunno. You’ve always been 'round me”
You scoffed and looked away, your stomach feeling strangely hollow.
“Yeah. Sorry about that, I guess”
“What’re youon about?
“Why’d you never ask me to get lost if I bothered you so much?”
“Wh--”
“You talked to me because of who my father is, and if I had told you I don’t play Quidditch you wouldn’t have talked to me again at all”
“I guess?” Oliver shook his head “But you did, so what does that matter? You were my firend and you took care of me when I got hurt and I thought you were cool--”
“Wait, what do you mean took care of you?”
Oliver paused, looking at you like you were the drunk one.
“When I got hit in the head. Whole week”
It had been the first time since your fist year that he had ever mentioned having any knowledge about that incident.
“How’d you know about that?”
“Madame Pomfrey said, when I woke up”
“Why did you never say anything?”
Oliver shrugged as he swerved from side to side, the pink in his cheeks more noticeable now.
“...shy” he finally said “Why didn’t you say anything about it”
Your feet dragged through the snow as you stepped back.
“Forget about it”
You had meant to turn and walk away immediately, a thousand thoughts going through your mind. So he had known, confirmation of what you had suspected all these years hitting you like a Weasley driven bludger. So he had known all along, deciding not to tell you out of something. Pity? Embarrassment?
“Oi!” Oliver walked in front of you “Is he in love with you, yes or no?”
“He-!” you bit your lip and looked away. There had been something you hadn't even dared to mention to your friends. Something you had promised to not tell alyone. But you didn't want to lie to Oliver, not even when things were like this “He did confess to me, back in the summer” you looked up to him for a second before adding "He kissed me"
Oliver’s face softened and his voice shook when he spoke again, low and crestfallen.
“Took your first kiss, he did?” he asked, but it sounded like he was trying to explain it to his own drunk self.
"I turned him down, I don’t see him in that way”
Oliver tilted his head to the side.
“You don’t like pretty boys?”
You finally took a proper look at him, not having to look away and not having to pretend you didn’t want to. His hair was shorter now but still messy, strands of hair framing his flushed cheeks that matched his pinkish nose. His lips were a bit swollen from drinking and they parted slightly whenever he spoke.
“I do”
You saw the way the words seemed to ripple through him, brows furrowing ever so slightly and for a moment it seemed like he had sobered up. The space between you felt so fragile that you both stayed still, as if a simple shaky breath could break the spell. There was a something in the way you had looked at him in that moment, it had been the closest to how you had used to look at him for so long, and it made his fingertips ache with longing and the aching need to touch you. You had tried so hard not to look at him like that anymore, to not give it away so easily. And yet you were the same lovesick idiot you used to be.
“Right” you said, more to yourself than him to “See you later”
Before he could stop you again, before you fell onto the trap that were his pleading brown eyes you turned and walked away. You didn’t look back, not even when you heard his voice behind you.
“What’s that smell in your letters?”
You had been asleep for who knows how long when the hand shook you awake.
“Class is over” your friend said to you, the faint rustling of your classmates picking up their belongings bringing you back to reality.
You stretched softly, a sharp pain on your neck from the way you had been leaning against the wall for the last hour. Ms. Sinistra was giving you a nasty look that you pretended not to see, picking up your things and walking out with your classmates, hoping she would lose you among the small crowd and forget to scold you.
Your group's steps were followed by soft murmurs, an usually futil attempt to not wake up any of the paintings that adorned the walls on your way back to your Common Rooms. It was commonplace to study Astronomy late at night, when the sky was proper dark and stars shone brighter in contrast to the inky sky, but doing so at one in the morning was torture. The Gryffindor students that shared the class with you stopped in front of the portrait of The Fat Lady, quiet goodbyes being exchanged as Hufflepuff continued on their descent through the castle. As you approached the next flight of stairs, having fallen behind, you noticed how your classmates made way for someone coming up in the opposite direction: Oliver.
A few students turned arond and eyed him curiously as he stopped halfway through, stopping as he had the moment he had seen you. You hadn't spoken in maybe just three days, but it seemed that an eternity had passed and ran its course through him. Deep, dark circles adorned his brown eyes, his usually unkempt uniform adding to his restless image before you. Once your classmates had turned the corner it was just the two of you, the orange hue of the lit candles and a silence that stretched thin between you. That was until you took one step down, stopping in front of him.
“Where are you going this late?” you asked in a whisper.
“Detention” his voice was hoarse and it cracked a bit “Astronomy?”
“Yeah... what did you do to get detention for?”
“I was at the pitch after crufew. Didn't realize how late it was”
“That’s weird, but I wouldn’t put it pass you to write Quidditch plans even in the dark”
“I wasn’t writting just... thinking”
“Quidditch” you said matter of factly, almost teasing.
Oliver simply stared, letting his gaze linger for a heartbeat too long. His eyes dragged from your eyes, down to your lips, the way the orange light of the candelit hallway reflected on your features, then back to your lips.
“Among other things”
“You look like a mess” maybe you had spoken out of fear that he might have heard your loud heartbeat in the empty silence. He chuckled, looking down and passing a hand through his hair, messing it up even more “Don’t do that...”
You reached for his hair, threading your fingers through the stubborn strands before you had time to think about what you were doing. The moment your fingertips had ran through the base of his scalp he stilled, a shiver running down his back. Then ever so slightly he leaned forward, allowing you better acces to his hair, face falling dangerously close to yours.
“Better?” he asked, the question almost a shaky breath.
You had been close to look down, his plush lips that always were a bit chapped too close not to--.
“Ms. Quingly!” you heard Ms. Sinistra whisper sharply from the end of the stairs.
You both straighten up immediately, faces almost bumping into one another. Your face felt hot, and despite the very little light in the hallway you could see Oliver's face must have felt the same, red as it was.
“I should go”
“Yeah”
You walked down a few steps, not wanting to look at the disapproving look Ms. Sinistra was throwing Oliver and you. You mentally shook your head, deciding to turn around.
“Oliver” you called for him, louder than you had wanted. A painting close by hushed you “It wasn’t fair, what I said to you. You were my friend”
Oliver's grip on the banister tightened.
“I can still be, if you’d like that” there was hope in the way he had said it, bare and soft.
You wanted to tell him, just as much as you had ever wanted to. Wanted him to know how hard that was for you.
"I.. I don't know..."
“Ms. Quingly!” Ms. Sinistra got sushed by a few other paintings, upsetting her even further “I’ll have you in detention!”
Ms. Sinistra's footsteps climbed up the stairs in your direction, then Oliver’s words cut through the air.
“I missed you”
A painting grumbled at him to shut up, but Oliver ignored it, eyes never leaving you. His words had been firm and determined, as if a last plea. His way of saying sorry to all the things that had gone wrong, too many to name. Ms. Sinistra's bony hand wrapped arround your forearm.
“Ms. Quingly, let’s go!”
She started dragging you down the stairs, forcing you to look away from Oliver who remained still waiting for an answer that he knew now might never come. There was no easy way to explain how difficult it'd be to remain by his side like nothing happened. How difficult it had been been to pretend you didn’t want to see him. How hard it had been to not look for him in every room you walked in. How hard it was to not run towards him when you finally found him. All the letters you wrote to him and never sent, buried at the bottom of your suitcase. How hard it was to have him so close and not be able to tell him--
“I’m in in love with you!”
Your words hung in the air, bouncing off the stone walls with such force you were sure even the Slytherins down in the dungeons must have heard you too. You felt Ms. Sinistra’s hold on your arm loosen in shock, startled by your sudden outburst, giving you the chance to look back at Oliver. He was there, still and silent as the paintings that had become too, a faint giggle coming from one of them the only thing breaking the sudden silence
“Well, that’s enough!” Ms. Sinistra protested, evidentlly flustered as she successfully made you go down the steps "That'll be fifty points from Hufflepuff"
Oliver didn't sleep at all that night, having spend all of it lying face up in his bed trying to replay your voice as accurately as possible over and over again. As soon as students were allowed to get up he ran out of the Common Room and down the stairs, ignoring the portraits taunting him with “good mornign Mr. Wood” among giggles and whispers. He ran to the Great Hall and to the Hufflepuff table where he spotted Diggory and a few of your friends, asking out of breath where he could find you. Your female friends seemed aprehensive and just shrugged, a few of them turning around without as much of a shake of their heads. It had been Cedric who after inspecting Oliver briefly and hesitating for a moment told him that you might be running at the pitch, like every Saturday.
“Thank you” Oliver said to Cedric who gave him a nod, and it feelt like a years long fight had been settled just like that.
He ran towards the exit as you completed your tenth lap acorss the pitch, hoping the accelerated pulsing at your temple and aching on your legs would make you forget about the previous night. You shook your head and screamed at the memory of Oliver’s face staring at you in the dead silence of the night, unreadable. The faint sound of footsteps made you look up, unaware as you had been of Oliver approaching you until he had grabbed your face, lips crashing against yours without a second for any of you to think twice about it. His nose bumped into yours, faces flushed together to the point it made your lips hurt, your hands grabbing onto his wrists with a loud sigh. He parted from you, forehead resting over yours and panting breath fanning over your face with each word.
“Did you mean it?”
Your fingers curled around his hands that still held your face. You licked your lips, chest raising up and down, the way you could still taste him making you dizzy. All you could do is nod, nose brushing his as you did. Oliver pressed his lips against yours again, shorter, and let go with a loud sound.
“Say it again?”
It was hard to see his face when he was this close, vision blurring a bit until his pleading eyes came into focus. You bit your lip, suddenly shy and you were convinced he could feel the heat creeping up your cheeks beneath his fingertips where he was still holding you in place. You looked down with a nervous scoff and he followed your gaze, his head lowering so he could still look at you.
“Please” he said “Just once more?”
“And you?”
You lifted your head ever so slightly, your breaths catching onto each others, the proximity making the grip on your face shake and he brought one of his hands to your waist.
“I’m not good with words”
“I know” you nudged at his nose playfull, the grip on your waist tightened “Try?”
“I can’t go on like this” he confessed, voice a bit more casual “Don’t want to. It’s bloody awful. It’s drivng me mad” His words got a giggle from you, getting on your tip toes to kiss him again when he leaned back just enough to say something else “And for the record, I’ve always wanted to take you to that awful tea place”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah”
Your hands met at the back of his neck, lips pressed against each other in a softer but deeper kiss. It drew a long, heavy sigh of relief from Oliver, who simply held you tight against him, nails digging at your side. You couldn’t help but to leave short, wet kisses over his already swollen lips, hand scratching his scalp and your hands tangling between his hair. Oliver shuddered and a moan died on your lips, arms behind your lower back and neck trying to hold you impossibly close. Your faces were fully flushed against each other and they started to ache.
”You love me” you said, ragged breath against the side of his face.
Oliver nodded, drawing his nose around your cheek as he left small kisses.
“Yes”
“More than Quidditch?” you teased and he chuckled against your skin.
“Oi!”
“No?”
You pretended to push him away and he pulled you into him again, face crashing against his chest in a sea of laughter.
“Don’t make me say it out loud” he begged, burying his face in you hair, leaving a chaste kiss at the top of it “I have a reputation to mantain”
summary: returning to hogwarts for your final year, you’re surprised when your best friend remus suddenly seems impossibly attractive, leading to a heated encounter on the hogwarts express.
cw: best friends to lovers, this is their 8th year so all characters are adults, sexual tension, exhibition kink, train sex, explicit sexual content, cum play, blow jobs, oral, intimate passionate sex, kissing, wall fucking, bite mark kink, talks of worship, confessions, public/partial public sex, dirty talk. art is not mine!! credit goes to likafuneral, inspired by sabrina’s song when did you get hot?
Your fingers fumbled with the clasp of your bag as you hurried across the platform, weaving through the cloud of smoke that always seemed to shroud the Hogwarts Express on departure day.
The sound of chattering families, hooting owls, and trunks clattering against the cobblestones filled the air, yet beneath the chaos there was a warm, steady current of relief. It felt good to be back. Hogwarts was not only your school but your home, the only place that had ever truly felt like it belonged to you.
And after a long, empty summer, the thought of being reunited with your friends again made your chest ache with a sort of giddy anticipation.
“There you are!”
Your name cut through the noise like a whistle, and you spun around, heart leaping. James Potter stood a few feet away, already in half a mess with his trunk. His glasses were slightly crooked, hair more unruly than ever, and the grin splitting his face was wide enough to eclipse the morning sun.
“James!” You rushed forward without hesitation, crashing into him with enough force to make him stumble back a step. He laughed, his arms wrapping firmly around you in that careless way that only James Potter ever could.
“Merlin’s beard, I missed you,” he said into your hair.
Your laugh came out muffled against his shoulder, but before you could answer, the impact of the hug made your bag slip from your shoulder and crash to the ground. You bent instinctively to retrieve it—only to find another hand reaching for it at the same time.
Your fingers brushed against theirs.
Your head snapped up.
And your breath lodged itself squarely in your throat.
Remus Lupin.
Remus fucking Lupin.
He crouched opposite you, his long fingers brushing yours lightly as he lifted the bag. And when he looked up at you, offering the faintest curve of a smile, you felt your stomach lurch like you had stepped onto a broom far too high in the air.
“Got it,” he said quietly, handing it over. “You always were clumsy with this thing.”
Your lips parted, but no words came. Remus Lupin… he looked impossibly, devastatingly different. Painfully, shockingly so.
He had always been tall—taller than everyone else—but now, over the summer, he seemed to have stretched further, shoulders broader, chest lean yet impossibly strong. His hair fell longer now, soft and careless over his forehead, begging to be touched. His skin—warm and alive—seemed to radiate desire, as if the sun itself had left a mark on him.
Since when had he been this… this unbearably, sinfully attractive? You wanted to tell him, but the words were gone, stolen by the heat of him, by the ache and wetness building between your legs.
“Merlin, I missed you,” he murmured, his eyes warm as they swept over you with quiet fondness.
You swallowed hard and stood, clutching your bag a little too tightly. He pulled you into an embrace before you could think to stop him. His arms folded around you, strong and sure, and you pressed your cheek against the fabric of his shirt, suddenly all too aware of the solid muscle beneath it.
“I… I missed you too,” you managed, though the words trembled with more meaning than you would ever dare admit.
“Hey there, wankers! Make room, make room!” Sirius Black’s voice rang out, seconds before he crashed into both of you, dragging you into his usual bear-like hug. You squealed, half crushed between the two of them, as James joined the chaos, laughing at the way you practically disappeared in the middle of it.
“Bloody hell, Pads, you’ll suffocate her,” James scolded, but Sirius only grinned, planting an exaggerated kiss to the top of your head.
“I missed our girl,” Sirius announced.
You laughed despite yourself, but your eyes betrayed you, flickering back toward Remus the moment Sirius loosened his grip. He was standing slightly apart now, his hand curled around the strap of his trunk, and as he bent to lift it you couldn’t help noticing the way the fabric of his shirt pulled against his arms, the ripple of lean muscle beneath.
When the hell had Remus Lupin gotten hot?
You caught yourself staring and forced your gaze elsewhere, but the thought stayed, looping endlessly in your head. As the four of you began pushing through the crowd toward the train, the boys already falling back into their familiar banter, you found your focus dissolving.
Sirius cracked jokes. James complained about his mum nearly sending him off with a lecture longer than his trunk. And Remus spoke occasionally, his voice low and rough in a way that curled in your stomach. Every time he laughed, deep and unguarded, you felt heat crawl up the back of your neck.
As you all boarded the train, Remus, ever the gentleman, insisted on taking your bag despite your protests.
“I’ve got it,” he said firmly, his hand brushing yours as he pulled the strap free. The muscles in his forearm shifted under the fabric of his shirt, and you quickly decided you did not mind the chivalry one bit.
“Show-off,” Sirius muttered, smirking as he shoved his own trunk down the corridor, narrowly missing a terrified-looking second-year.
The four of you managed to squeeze into a compartment at the end of the train, sliding the door shut as the whistle blew and the train lurched into motion.
Conversation flowed easily—James animatedly recounting Quidditch drills he had been running all summer, Sirius interrupting with increasingly absurd jokes, you chiming in here and there with updates of your own. Remus, as always, was quieter, listening more than speaking, but every now and then his gaze flickered toward you, lingering just long enough for your stomach to flip.
At one point, you caught him staring. He smiled softly and leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Your brow furrowed. “Hmm? Nothing’s wrong. Why would you think that?”
His lips quirked as though he had caught you out in a lie. “I don’t know. You just seem… different. A little shy, maybe.”
You gave a small laugh, shaking your head. “Shy? Hardly. I spent years putting up with you lot, didn’t I?”
“Exactly,” he teased lightly, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “So what happened? Did you forget all about us during that long summer away?”
You scoffed, though your chest tightened at the warmth in his tone. “Of course not. Nothing’s different. I’m fine, Remus. Promise.”
James groaned, tossing his head back dramatically. “Merlin, I’m starving. How long until the trolley comes around?”
“Not soon enough,” Sirius muttered, half sprawled across the seat. Then his eyes flicked toward James, a glint of mischief lighting them. “Actually… Lily’s in the next carriage, right? We should make sure Prongs gets a word in before she wanders off. Don’t want him missing his chance.”
James’s grin widened, a mix of relief and excitement. “Brilliant. If we don’t make it back, tell Evans I love her,” he added with mock solemnity.
“You say that every day,” you pointed out, a small laugh escaping you.
“Well, just in case it actually sticks this time,” James said, standing and adjusting his tie. Sirius gave him a sly nudge, and together they headed for the door, James’s energy practically radiating in his eagerness to see Lily.
The compartment door clicked shut behind them, leaving you and Remus in the sudden quiet. The hum of the train and the rhythmic clatter of wheels against the tracks became suddenly more intimate, your closeness to him filling the space in a way the others never had.
You exhaled slowly, sinking back into your seat. For a moment, the only sound was the steady clatter of the train rushing over the tracks.
“So,” he said softly, tilting his head. “Still want to tell me nothing’s different?”
Your throat went dry. “I… I don’t know what you mean,” you murmured, trying to sound casual but failing.
You can’t meet his eyes. Not now. Not when he looks like that—every line of his body, every flicker of movement, pulling at something raw inside you. Your gaze drops instinctively, fixed somewhere on your lap, on the floor, anywhere but him.
Remus notices immediately. He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, and cups your face gently, tilting it so you’re forced to meet his eyes. “What’s wrong?” he murmurs, voice low, almost concerned. “Why won’t you look at me?”
Your eyes flicker down, almost by accident, to his lips. And then—he notices. A slow, teasing smile spreads across his face. “So… that’s what it’s about,” he says, voice a little husky, playful but hungry.
Your face twists in horror, heart hammering. Friendships, boundaries… this is crossing lines, isn’t it?
But before panic can take over, his hand shifts, sliding down to your lips. His thumb brushes across them softly, almost reverently, and then gently pulls them downward.
His gaze locks on your mouth, dreamy, unfocused, and he sighs, soft and full of awe. “You’re so… pretty, y’know that?”
Then, without warning, his thumb slides into your mouth. Your lips part instinctively, curling around him as you suck softly, tasting him, feeling the tremor of need and disbelief running through you.
“Fuck, dove…” Remus murmured, and the huskiness in his voice made your stomach tighten. His fingers pulled back, and the sudden absence left you aching, desperate, and you couldn’t help the soft whimper that escaped.
He leaned closer, eyes dark and searching, tilting his head just enough to catch your gaze. “Can I… kiss you?” he asked, voice low, almost a growl.
“Please…” you breathed, barely able to form the word.
Before you could finish, his lips crashed into yours, urgent and insistent. His body pressed into yours, driving you gently but insistently against the compartment wall.
The train rattled beneath you, but the only movement that mattered was his—the way he claimed you, the heat radiating from him, the fire in his kiss.
Through the hurried, consuming press of lips, he suddenly moved, gripping your waist and spinning you so he was pressed against the wall and you were directly in front of him.
He settled onto the seat with a soft thud, pulling you against him, your bodies flush, hearts hammering, breaths mingling.
His hands, hot and purposeful, trailed upward, cupping your jaw as he leaned in again. His fingers followed the line of your throat, thumb resting over your pulse point, dipping just under the neckline of your top. He broke the kiss for a heartbeat, letting his mouth drift up your cheek, nipping softly at your earlobe.
He knows he’s hit a sweet spot right there under your ear, because you feel his mouth spread in a grin.
“That’s my girl,” he says softly.
He’s feeling for the top fastening at the back of your neck, and you drop your arms, pressing your palms into the warm, sunbaked brick as he frees the buttons of your shirt.
Your gaze flicked instinctively toward the compartment door, nerves prickling as the muffled chatter and footsteps from the corridor seeped through the glass. For a fleeting moment you worried someone might catch you like this, lips already swollen from the press of his, your back warm against the plush seat of the train.
Remus, reading the flicker of hesitation in your eyes, let his mouth linger at the corner of yours before drawing his wand in a deft, practiced motion.
With a quiet murmur, the tip glowed faintly and the sounds beyond the compartment dulled, swallowed into silence. His lips curved into a sly smile as his breath ghosted over your ear. “Can’t have anyone hear us, yeah?”
He lets his hands dance over the thin fabric. His touches tease, cupping you in his hands and finding your nipples with his pinching thumbs. You gasp, hands scrambling against the wall to keep yourself up.
When Remus looks up at you again, the grin is still dancing over his face as your chest arches instinctively towards him in response.
“I’ve wanted this,” Remus says. He sounds purring, satisfied and smug, like he’s just gotten what he wants after throwing a temper tantrum and proud of his victory. “I’ve been waiting to touch you for so long.”
You moan, feeling the roughness of his fingers over the satin covering of the undergarment. His hands push, rolling to your ribcage and back up from under your chest to smear over you, and every last bit of fear is pushed away with his persistent touch.
You’re left only with the desire that’s been deep inside you since you first saw him looking this attractive, the desire you tried to deny and tame with logic and self-imposed rules, and finally accepting.
“And… if I say… I’ve wanted you too?”
You’re rocking against the compartment wall as your back arches into him.
“Oh, you wicked tease,” Remus says. There’s a crackle of glee in his voice, and he leans up, planting another quick kiss on your lips before slowly dropping down to his knees, tugging the rest of your clothing down with him.
"Take off your panties for me," Remus mumbles between your busied lips. His words draw a happy smirk, you follow his command, grounding yourself onto the floor, dizzied for just a quick moment, shoving your panties down your legs before jumping back in his lap.
Head thrown back, a needy moan vibrates in your tight throat as you move your hips against him.
"You're so wet, do you like how it feels?" Remus taps his cock over your clit, a needy whine leaving your lips as you nod. "Yeah, I love it."
Remus tilted your chin with a gentle touch, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips before he closed the distance. In an instant, the velvety press of his mouth met yours, sending warmth rushing through you as your body molded against his.
A soft hum escaped you into the kiss, your fingers sliding up the sides of his neck until they tangled in the sleek strands of his carefully combed hair.
What began as tender soon unraveled into something far more urgent—ardent, insatiable, almost feral in its intensity. Hunger coursed through you, searing in your veins, igniting every nerve with relentless desire.
When Remus finally drew back, a delicate thread of saliva glistened between your parted lips. His eyes lingered on your features, brimming with quiet adoration, before he murmured, “So cute.”
You brushed another fleeting kiss against his mouth, only to jolt when his hand descended to your ass. The startled sound that left you was swiftly chased by his low, amused laugh, threaded with pleasure.
"Get on your knees."
Single-handedly, Remus won your soul, heart, mind, body. He gained complete, fruitious love and desire from you.
Every feature from this divinely perfectly human you adored; from his kindness and consideration, every corner of his mind and heart, him as a whole.
Perfect, in every sense of the word.
With a fluttering heart, you sink down to your knees.
Once seated comfortably with your forelegs on the floor, you awaited further instructions with pleading eyes that fell down to his aching cock. "Are you comfortable Y/N?" You nod in reassurance, a small smile creeping your lips.
"Have I ever told you how absolutely stunning you are?" Remus looked, equally as starstruck as you were; eyes locked in a thick trance over your form, lingering in your desire riddled eyes. “You look marvelous on your knees for me, darling.”
And in his honeysuckle brown eyes, lust resided just the same.
"If only you knew how I look at you." You exhaled. It came out in a dreamy sigh, though you wanted to conjure a much stronger, confident voice.
"Oh? And what might that be?" His interest piqued, Remus's eyes pierce through yours.
"A God, a divinely perfect being." Remus chuckles, cheeks reddened, "I am far from a perfect being, my love." He offers a hand, and you take it, allowing him to brush his thumb over your knuckles, leaning down in his chair to kiss them.
"Can I touch you?" You ask, eager to learn his body, to please the man before you. Remus smiles, “Oh love, I am all yours to touch." Remus sits back up, leaning against the back of his chair.
Creeping your hands up his thighs,
Locking your gaze into his, you lean into his lap, taking the tip gently in your mouth. His eyebrows knit, adjusting to the sudden change in stimulation. The intensity of his eyes never faltered, not once, even as you tease his sensitive cock.
The leather squealed beneath the tightening grip Remus's hand has around the arm rest of the train seats, a low groan ensuing the contact from your sinful mouth. Hallowing your cheeks, you gently sucked on the tip, refusing to take in his full length.
He certainly wasn't complaining.
You were hoping he'd demand you to take it all in sooner, instead, you were reveling in Remus's low, soft whimpers.
"Be a good girl, stop teasing," He growled through grit teeth, his hand taking in a firm grip of your hair. You resisted the urge to smile, and complied.
Your head jerked forward, beginning to bob on his length, feeling his cock hit the back of your throat. Trying your hardest not to gag, tears welled in your eyes, still never leaving Remus's face.
You could tell he appreciated the eye contact.
Your jaw was beginning to ache, but you certainly didn't mind, especially when it was to please Remus.
Oh, how you would bend yourself to his will, as though every breath in your lungs had been spun for the sole purpose of pleasing him. You would not mind eternity at his feet, the cold stone of devotion pressing against your knees until time itself grew weary. For there was no God you had ever prayed to, no altar you had ever known, that could rival the sanctity of Remus Lupin.
In your eyes, there was nothing monstrous in him at all. Remus was no beast, but something sanctified—stitched together from scars and quiet tenderness, a soul carved of both ache and grace. He alone was worthy of devotion, the only altar you would ever kneel before.
Drool seeped from your mouth, dribbling down your chin. Instead of scratching the urge to reach up and wipe it away, your hand comes up to cup his balls, flesh soft and dainty in your palm.
Remus gently tugs your head from his dick, bouncing lightly as it was released from your mouth.
A thin trail of saliva attaches your lips to his cock as he draws back. You wipe the back of your mouth, looking up at him and panting slightly.
“We’re not done,” Remus says softly, and he grabs the sides of your face in his hands and draws you towards him again. This kiss is frantic, ravenous, deeply hungry as his mouth is over yours once more.
His taste—warm, heady, almost dizzying—mingles with your own as you clutch at his wrists, desperate to keep him pressed against you. The narrow compartment walls rattle faintly with the rhythm of the train, but all you feel is his body caging yours, his weight anchoring you in place.
Your back digs into the worn seats, hips straining forward to meet him, while Remus mutters broken curse words into your mouth, low and ragged, as though the very act of kissing you unravels him.
You let go of his wrists with a squeeze and move your arms out, running your hands along the expanse of his chest. His skin is warm and rises and falls rapidly with his heavy breaths. You moan, the sound slipping louder from your chest as you let go of him and let your hands fall back.
“Be a good girl, and don’t scream, okay?”
You nod, trying to keep yourself under control as much as possible, but it’s so difficult, damningly difficult. The worn velvet of the seat presses roughly into your back, turning almost pleasurable as he moves against you.
The aching need is building, roaring, longing to feel him inside you. Your cunt throbs, hot and wet, feeling his cock right under you.
You want Remus, you need him.
“My good girl,” Remus says, his voice raspy with lust. His eyes lock on yours, dark and love-struck, and he leans closer, lips barely brushing yours. “My fucking perfect girl… always wanted you, always loved you.”
You groan, adjusting your feet and standing a little further apart, and it’s just what he needs to angle his next rocking motion forward right into you, lubricated by your own slick arousal.
“Oh!”
It’s hard to keep your promise to be quiet, your knees immediately going weak at the feeling of his first thrust into you. This is even better, and Remus’s next thrust into you is smooth and deeper as you slump into the wall. You try to buck your hips back to meet him, but his pace is too hard and fast even as you try to move with him.
Remus moves with full force, hands holding your shoulders before shifting to brace himself over your head as he grunts with his thrusts. His muscles strain on either side of your head and his face, and your hands ball into fists against the brick.
He fills you up with every thrust with how hard he’s fucking you. His cock almost feels like you’re splitting apart. You feel your slick wetness against your inner eyes, pooling out of you with every stroke out and pump back in, and the moans ride out of you louder and louder.
“Shhh,” Remus hisses as your voice rises, and moves one of his hands from the wall over your head to cover your mouth, thumb into your cheek and side of his hand pushing between your lips. It cuts off your sound, and you lightly bite that space between his thumb and forefinger as your voice gurgles into a whimper.
Remus thrusts his hips up into you harsher and faster, the heat burning at the base of your stomach beginning to spread through your body as his thrusts fall into a frantic rhythm.
Your thighs begin to shake at the effort of keeping your body at this angle, and it turns into a full-body quiver. It races against the build of your orgasm, and you whine into his hand again as his cock rubs into you with each stroke. “Please, please please—you feel so good!”
“Hold onto me, hold tight,” Remus whispers roughly, and lets go of your mouth. His pace falters a little as you do what he says. You wrap your arms around his neck under his hair, and both of his hands come to scoop your ass — digging right into the back of your thighs as he hoists you up against the wall of the train compartment.
You gasp, half in pain at the sudden change of positions, and mostly in a shooting, delicious pleasure as he lifts you effortlessly over his cock. It makes his thrusts even deeper as he fucks you against the compartment wall— he leans his body into yours.
The pressure is electric, and you squeeze your thighs around him, crossing your ankles and bringing Remus closer to you.
“You…feel so good, so tight—so fucking perfect.” Remus says, his voice low but clear against you.
Your arms clutch over his back, digging your nails into the firm skin, arching your neck as you buck and moan under the warmth of his body, muffling yourself in his shoulder as you try to keep quiet.
Remus’s lips are moving again against your throat, suckling and kissing with an urgency as his mouth opens against you to leave love bites. “Gonna mark you up, love. Make sure everyone knows you’re mine now.” He whimpers out in desperation.
Your body trembles even harder as you struggle to take a clear breath, pinned between him and the wall — your entire body a live wire. His breath is just as wild, something hungry over your body that makes your skin prickle as his grunts and groans vibrate over you.
“Fuck, oh fuck,” you whisper into his shoulder. His cock stretches you, plunging deeper, deliciously pulling you apart as he comes in, rocks out, and slams back in again.
“How long…have you been waiting to get fucked like this?”
You scrape your nails up across his back, coming up to his shoulders again for balance. Your inner thigh muscles strain against the expanse of his body, and you try to clench your muscles to keep yourself against his hips.
“Since… since I saw you,” you admit jaggedly, briefly closing your eyes and hunching your shoulders into Remus, his breath hot on your neck. “I wanted you.. You looked so good, so hot.”
He makes a sound like a sharp laugh, like it’s all he can force out. “Tease,” he says, almost triumphantly. His fingers dig into your flesh and suddenly his thrusts move frantically. He’s fucking you harder, your composure fully coming apart.
Changing where his hands were positioned, one creeps to thumb your clit in rhythmic circles. A sheen of sweat lie on both of your bodies, uncomfortable against the fabric of your pants, still bunched at your hips.
The sound of flesh-on-flesh filled the compartment, almost as loud as the cries and wails that followed them.
You wouldn't last long at this rate; the speed, and roughness of his snapping hips, the sounds of his pants, his cries of pleasure, the way his brows were knitted on his face, mouth hanging open to catch his breaths as they left, the emotion burrowed in his eyes as they pierce yours.
You wish you could live in this moment forever; feel this vicious, wicked, brewing pleasure sparking in your core, the numbing—the tingling of your limbs, the heat that coursed like magma in your veins.
He leaned further down into you, taking your nipple in his mouth. You arch into his touch, feeling his tongue flick along your sensitive bud, teeth gently dragging along its flesh
“Remus!”
You force your head back, leaning against the wall as your body rides up and down with the force of his movements. Your body is racing towards the long-desired orgasm hard and fast with every thrust of his cock.
He catches your lips, and you whimper into his mouth as the kiss moves. Your fingers dig into skin just as his does— his moans caught in your throat as they come out. The tight, hot heat at the base of your stomach is so close to bursting. You’re ready, you’re so close.
“Remus.. I’m…I’m going to come, I‘m going to come,” you say, gasping, forcing the words as you try to stifle the cries with his kiss. But Remus leans back, immediately parting from your lips.
“I want to hear you. I want to hear you come for me,” he says, eyes flashing and teeth gritting in a devious smile.
You whimper, feeling your inner thighs quiver, unable to sustain any of it anymore. “Remus—”
“I want to hear you come, I don’t care if the whole fucking train hears,” he says, insistent. His voice, deep and raw, is enough alone to push you over the edge.
You whine again, but it’s weaker, your body so overstimulated.
“Let go,” Remus says, and you feel your whole body shudder as it breaks. And you scream. You feel your inner muscles tighten and spasm over Remus’s cock as the heat wave roars through you. It reaches up behind your stomach as you come apart over him.
Remus comes too with his own symphony of groans, grinding his hips deep into your tight core and pushing you directly against the wall—almost into the compartments as his frantic thrusts break rhythm.
You gasp, feeling him hot inside you as your nails dig into his shoulders, the waves of pain and pleasure crashing into each other.
He kisses you again as his cock throbs inside you, holding you close as the kisses come tender this time, fingers flexing and bending into you as both of you come down. Remus pulls out of you as he helps you back down on your feet.
Remus kisses you once more, tenderly as he pulls his pants back up, bending down to gather the bundles of fabric. He smooths out your pants and buttons up your shirt back again.
Remus’s hand rises, brushing a trembling fingertip against your cheek to wipe away the faint tears of pleasure that had escaped you.
“Are you okay, love? Was I too rough?” His voice is gentle now, threaded with concern, and you can’t help but smile up at him, suddenly feeling impossibly shy after the fire and recklessness of moments before.
You shake your head, words soft: “No… you were perfect.”
He laughs, low and amused, as if he notices the change in you, and leans closer. Your breath catches, heart stuttering, as his lips hover just above yours.
Then he pauses, teasing, and whispers, “Why so shy, baby? Thought you wanted me… because I’m so hot, huh?”
You’re dumbfounded, cheeks warming, because fuck—he really does look that good. The way the scarred lines on his face catch the light, the subtle smirk playing at his lips—he knows exactly the effect he has on you. Your thoughts scatter, caught between disbelief and desire, until finally, he closes the distance.
When his lips meet yours, it’s a kiss so impossibly soft it makes your knees weak. Gentle and passionate all at once, it lingers in a way that feels infinite.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes catch yours, dark and alive, and he straightens in the seat. “Don’t want you to think this was a one-time thing,” he says casually, though his voice holds a weight that makes your stomach twist.
“What do you mean?” you ask, confusion and curiosity tangled in your tone.
He laughs, that familiar, knowing sound, and slides back into the seat, gesturing for you to come closer.
You step forward, heart racing, and he catches your waist in his hands, looking up at you with those piercing eyes. “Do you think I’d fuck you like that if it was a one-time thing?” he asks, voice low, teasing, but laced with undeniable certainty.
“I mean it,” he murmurs, tilting his head so close your foreheads almost touch. “When I said I’ve always wanted you… I never saw you as a friend.”
Before Remus can even finish the confession that had your heart beating out of your chest, the compartment door snaps open. And there they are—Sirius and James—both grinning like they’ve just won some cosmic jackpot.
Your stomach drops. You’re nearly on Remus’s lap, hair a glorious mess, sweat glinting on your skin, and the love bites on your neck practically screaming your sins for all of Hogwarts to hear. James’s eyes widen as if he’s taking in the full tableau, every detail recorded for posterity.
Sirius throws back his head and laughs, a deep, roaring sound that makes you want to melt into the floor.
“Oh, Moony,” he says between chuckles, voice dripping with mischief. “Did you really think casting a silencing spell would get you not caught? You had the entire fucking train shaking, you horny dogs!”
Remus freezes, lips parted, cheeks blazing, while you cover your face with your hands, groaning.
James doesn’t even try to hide his grin, leaning casually against the doorframe like he’s judging a particularly scandalous performance.
Sirius leans in toward Remus, mock conspiratorial, whispering, “Next time, Moony… maybe try a compartment with walls that actually work.”
This is chapter 3 of book 2 to this Hiccup series -> M.list here -> 1 & 2
Previous Chapter : Next Chapter
Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader
Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn
Word count: 7k
Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression.
A/N: Reader descriptions are not described besides the clothing, true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time. ♡
BOOK 2 - RIDERS OF BERK : CHAPTER 3
The trek back to Berk felt lonely somehow. You were in a debate amongst your mind, wondering if you should have arrived with Siftwing after all, given that you'd been spotted anyway.
Still, a nagging intuition urged you to hold back and go alone and now you carried on walking as the rickety suspension bridge swayed gently under your feet, a strong thread of woven lime bast ropes, and sturdy planks made of pine, linking the bustling heart of Berk to the shadowed embrace of the forest behind the Great Hall and the mountain it was carved in.
The winter winds blew right through you from the trees behind, strong as ever, carrying the distant whistling of it's roar crashing against the cliffs below the bridge. Your paced slowed midway across, fingers curling loosely around the coarse ropes that splintered against your fingertips, your gaze lost adn staring at your boots as your thoughts raced.
How could you possibly explain it? The frantic dragon chase between you two and the dragons—that it had been you astride your hidden companion, cloaked in secrecy, but the villagers . . .they couldn't know that. But it was Hiccup that chased you—not them, and he knew you well.
Your heart pounded with the weight of your secret—as you reminded yourself you hated lying in the first place. What words could bridge the gap between your concealed world and theirs without unraveling everything in a mess of unwanted arguments? Why did you keep making things difficult for yourself. . . .
A sudden slap of footsteps shattered your reverie, jolting you from the depths of contemplation. Before you could turn, two figures barreled into view—Snotlout and Tuffnut, their frames colliding with yours in a chaotic tangle of limbs and startled grunts.
The bridge lurched violently, ropes and planks groaning under the strain as the world tilted precariously. Your stomach plummeted, a cold rush of fear gripping your chest like icy talons. Instinctively, you seized the ropes, knuckles whitening against the splintered fibers, the salty tang of sea spray mingling with the sharp scent of Snotlouts' peculiar homemade secret soap that smelled awfully close to Terrible Terror piss. The abyss yawned below, a dizzying drop to an abyss of rocks and foaming surf that promised no mercy.
Snotlout and Tuffnut mirrored your desperation, their hands clamping onto the swaying cords with wide-eyed panic. For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy, broken only by the creak of wood and the ragged cadence of your collective breaths. You glared at them, annoyance flickering like embers in your eyes, tempered by a swirl of confusion. What in Thor's name had possessed them to charge at you like wild boars?
"You will not believe what you've missed!" Tuffnut burst out first, his voice a manic crescendo, eyes alight with that signature blend of his madness within.
Snotlout, ever the competitor, shoved a meaty hand straight into Tuffnut's face, fingers splaying across his helmeted brow in a bid to silence him. "Um? It was I who wanted to tell her?" he protested, his tone laced with indignant swagger, as if the right to spill secrets was a trophy to be wrested.
Tuffnut swatted the hand away, undeterred, his locks whipping like serpents in the wind. "Yeah? Well, I was the one who spotted her first. You just followed me like a lost sheep, so I get to tell her about it!"
"Who died and made you chief of storytelling?!" Snotlout shot back, his face reddening beneath the smudges of soot and sweat from whatever escapade they'd just escaped.
The argument escalated in an instant, their bodies twisting into a ridiculous wrestle—elbows jabbing, boots scuffing against the planks—as if the perilous height meant nothing. The bridge bucked wildly under their scuffle, ropes straining with ominous snaps that echoed with groans.
Your stomach twisted again, a nauseating flip that sent bile rising in your throat; visions of plummeting into the void flashed before you, the wind howling a dirge for the foolhardy—and knowing Siftwing couldn't catch you.
"You guys!" you shouted, your voice cutting through the fray with a sharp command.
They froze mid-grapple, Tuffnut's fingers locked around Snotlout's bulbous nose in a vise grip, while Snotlout clutched a fistful of Tuffnut's tangled locks, yanking them taut. Their eyes bulged in comical surprise, the absurdity of their pose hanging in the air like a suspended axe.
Then, reality crashed back. Their gazes darted downward to the chasm, then to you—clinging to the ropes with a desperation that mirrored the pounding of your heart. Wide-eyed realization dawned on their faces, the color draining from their cheeks as the bridge's sway gentled to a tremble.
Snotlout released his hold first, muttering a sheepish curse under his breath about 'how a manly man could hold on to the ropes if he wanted to', while Tuffnut let go with a reluctant snort, flexing his fingers as if testing for damage—or rather from being sore by gripping too hard.
"Sorry 'bout that," Tuffnut grumbled, rubbing his nose with exaggerated flair. "But seriously, you gotta hear this. It's epic—like, dragon-chase-through-a-storm kinda epic."
Snotlout nodded vigorously, eyes wide as his bravado returned in a rush. "Yeah, and it wasn't just any dragon. Hiccup was out there tangling with some mystery beast. We saw the whole thing from the cliffs!"
Your pulse quickened, a veil of unease settling over you like fog rolling in from Helheim's Gate. They didn't know after all. They couldn't. But as their words tumbled forth, laced with excitement and half-formed theories, you felt the threads of your secret tightening, pulling you deeper into the maelstrom of the lie you created. It made you smirk inwardly to yourself.
You swallowed hard, the lingering thrill of their chaotic energy bubbling up unexpectedly, forcing you to bite your lip to stifle a reluctant smile. It was absurd, really—these two bumbling Vikings nearly sending you all tumbling into oblivion, yet here they stood, frozen in their ridiculous tableau, eyes wide with belated awareness.
A sigh escaped you then, soft and resigned, as you pushed off from the ropes and closed the distance between you. With a deliberate casualness, you draped an arm over each of their shoulders, the rough leather of their vests scratching against your skin, grounding you in the moment's odd camaraderie.
"Well, lads," you said, your voice laced with a teasing lilt as you gently nudged them forward, guiding the tree of you back toward the village's worn paths. The bridge creaked faintly under your synchronized steps, but the sway had steadied, mirroring the shift in your own unease.
"You must both tell me all about it—every detail since I've been gone, hm? Don't leave out a single thing; I want the full story."
Tuffnut's smirk spread like a slow crack in stone, his eyes glinting with that perpetual spark of anarchy, as if your touch had ignited some inner fuse. Snotlout, on the other hand, stared at you with an almost reverent awe, his gaze flickering from your face to the arm resting so casually on his shoulder—like you'd bestowed upon him a rare artifact from the gods themselves.
Girls rarely ventured this close to him without a scoff or a shove, and in that instant, his mind spun wild tales of conquest, prompting him to puff out his chest and adopt a feigned nonchalance, playing hard to get with all the subtlety of a Monstrous Nightmare in heat. They launched into their tale without missing a beat, voices overlapping in a frenzied duet that had you straining to keep pace.
"So, right after you vanished into the woods like some sneaky shadow," Tuffnut started, his tone dripping with dramatic flair, "we figured, hey, why not test out that new exploding sheep idea? You know, the one where we stuff 'em with Zippleback gas and—"
"—and nothing exploded because genius here forgot the flint," Snotlout interjected, rolling his eyes with exaggerated disdain, though his voice carried a smug edge as he leaned ever so slightly into your arm. "But then Fishlegs starts droning on about dragon migration patterns, like anyone's listening, and we're all just waiting for the real action."
Their words tumbled over each other like eager pups, weaving through the mundane antics—the failed pranks in the arena and something over Mildews cabbages, a heated debate over whose Gronckle could belch the farthest—before veering into the heart of it.
"Finally, we saddle up and hit the skies," Tuffnut continued, gesturing wildly. "Dragons roaring, wings cutting through the clouds, and bam—there's Hiccup zipping off after this wild mystery dragon and its rider. Looked like a gods tale come to life!"
"Yeah, but I spotted the tail flash first," Snotlout boasted, his chest swelling. "Hookfang nearly singed my boots diving in close. It was chaos—bolts of lightning everywhere, dragons dodging fire like pros." He lied.
You listened intently, your focus sharpening amid the verbal barrage, piecing together fragments that sent a subtle chill through your veins. Yet, amid the absurdity of their embellishments—Tuffnut's outlandish claim that the chase had summoned a flock of Terrible Terrors as backup—a genuine laugh escaped you.
When Tuffnut mimicked Hiccup's frantic commands with a hilariously high-pitched squeak—supposedly how he heard Hiccup. It felt . . . refreshing, this sliver of levity piercing the heavier veil of your secrets, drawing you into their world with a warmth that surprised even you.
By then, you'd crossed into the village's core, the Great Hall's imposing shadow slipping behind you as the paths widened into the central square, alive with the low hum of daily rhythms of Vikings building, some doing laundry, or the occasional snort of a grazing yak. It was there, amongst the scattered clusters of villagers and their dragons, that you passed Hiccup, Astrid, Ruffnut, and Stoick, deep in murmured conversation near a stack of supply crates.
Hiccup spotted you first, his expression brightening as he raised a hand in a tentative wave, a small smile tugging at his lips. But your attention was ensnared by Tuffnut's latest quip—a deadpan jest about Snotlout's "heroic" near-miss with a low-hanging branch—and your laughter rang out again, oblivious to the gesture.
Hiccup's arm faltered mid-air, his brow furrowing into a subtle frown, a pang of something unfamiliar twisting in his chest—jealousy, though he dismissed it as mere curiosity, wondering what could possibly amuse you so thoroughly with those two.
It was Stoick's voice that shattered the bubble, booming like a thunderclap across the square, laced with a father's stern concern. "Lass! There ye are—we've been waiting for your return!"
The sound jolted you upright, your arms slipping from Tuffnut and Snotlout's shoulders in an instant as you straightened, composure snapping back like a taut bowstring. Their warmth lingered faintly on your skin, but you pushed it aside, turning to face Stoick's furrowed gaze, his massive frame radiating a mix of relief and worry.
With measured steps, you approached the group—Stoick at the forefront, Hiccup hovering nearby with that lingering crease in his forehead, Astrid crossing her arms in quiet assessment, and Ruffnut grinning like she'd just witnessed the punchline to a grand joke.
As you stood before them, the group's expectant eyes bore into you almost like looks of accusations—at least in your head. You drew a steadying breath and broke the silence first, your voice carrying a feigned nonchalance that masked the knot tightening in your throat.
"Heard there's some mystery dragonrider stirring up trouble. Is it true?" you directed at Stoick, tilting your head slightly as if the rumor were nothing more than idle village gossip.
He nodded curtly, his massive frame shifting with a low rumble of confirmation. "Aye, it's all true, lass. And a spy, no doubt—skulkin' about like a shadow with ill intent."
His words came out gruff and edged with fury, his meaty arms crossing over his broad chest like a barrier against unseen threats, the lines of his face deepening into a scowl that spoke volumes of his pure vigilance.
Your frown deepened instinctively, a genuine flicker of dismay crossing your features before you schooled it away—the accusation landing like a stone in your belly, heavy and almost unwelcome. You hadn't thought or anticipated from this angle, this leap to suspicion that twisted your secret into something sinister.
Feigning curiosity to cover the drop in your spirits, you pressed on. "Why's that? What exactly happened to make you think so?"
Astrid stepped forward then, her posture straight, arms still folded as she fixed you with a sharp, appraising look. "For starters, whoever it was went out of their way to stay hidden—like they had something to hide from the get-go.
Draped in this oversized, billowing cloak that swallowed 'em whole, and topped off with some eerie white mask. What'd you call it again, Hiccup? A skull of sorts? He swore it had these jutting antlers, like some beast dragged straight from a nightmare."
Hiccup shifted uncomfortably beside her, his gaze dropping to the dirt as he muttered under his breath, the words tumbling out in a hesitant rush. "I . . . I said I couldn't be sure what I saw out there. That dragon—it matched Toothless stride for stride, maybe even edged him out. And it slipped away clean, like it knew every trick we had."
"A dragon faster than Toothless?" you echoed, your tone laced with genuine intrigue, eyes locking onto Hiccup's as you searched for the truth in his expression—wondering if he truly believed it, if your Siftwing had left that indelible mark on him.
"Yeah," he replied, his voice gaining strength as he finally met your gaze squarely, a spark of reluctant admiration lighting his features. "You should've been there to witness it firsthand—it was a sight, bigger than Toothless by a notch, scales gleaming gold with these charred edges, like it'd been burnt by fire itself. I've never laid eyes on anything quite like it, but . . . there's this uncanny resemblance to Toothless. Almost kin, in a way that sends chills."
"You think he's another Night Fury, then?" This question slipped out by accident, probing for more, born from your own swirling uncertainties about Siftwing's origins and species, the puzzle pieces you'd been quietly assembling in the quiet corners of your mind.
Hiccup shook his head slowly, pondering it with a thoughtful crease between his brows. "Nah, not exactly—but maybe cut from the same cloth, some branch of the family tree we haven't mapped yet? I didn't get the clearest view in all that frenzy, but the differences . . . they stand out stark. Or at least, that's my gut telling me. . . ."
You nodded, absorbing his words with a quiet hum, unaware that this simple exchange—your first real conversation with him in three long weeks—was easing a subtle burden from his shoulders, like a knot loosening in a taut rope. The air between you felt fractionally lighter, a tentative bridge reforming amid the group's heavier concerns. It made him realize he could breathe again.
Stoick cleared his throat then, his stern voice cutting through, drawing all eyes back to him as he stared intently at the ground, lost in grave contemplation. "Aye, but ye're missin' the heart of it, all of yea. We pegged Hiccup as the pioneer, the first to tame the skies on dragonback. Now? We're realizin' we've been blind in this rapidly growing world. There are others out there—dragonriders, mark my words. How many lurk in the shadows? And what in Odin's name they're after." His tone brooked no argument, laced with the weight of a chief's resolve.
The urge to confess surged within you then, words teetering on the tip of your tongue, ready to spill the truth and shatter the peace you had—but Snotlout's abrupt interruption shattered the moment instead, his boastful voice barging in like an uninvited guest, yanking you back from the brink with a jolt that left you silently relieved—and regretting the lost chance all at once.
Before you could react, a firm grip seized the hem of your shirt collar from behind, yanking you around with surprising force. Suddenly, you were face-to-face with Gobber's thunderous glare, his bushy eyebrow twitching like a live wire—a sure sign you'd crossed into perilous territory of his, the kind that promised weeks of lectures and labors aplenty.
At that unmistakable cue, the group scattered like leaves in a gust—whistles piercing the air as Hiccup averted his eyes with a sympathetic wince, Astrid smirking faintly before turning away, Ruffnut chuckling under her breath, and Stoick offering a gruff nod before lumbering off. None dared linger; Gobber's wrath was a spectacle best observed from afar, and today, no one volunteered as your shield.
"Four days," Gobber growled, his voice dipping into a low, menacing timbre that sent a shiver of unease racing down your spine, his hook-hand gesturing emphatically as he loomed over you. "Four! Blasted! Days without so much as a peep from ye. Do ye have any inklin' . . . just how twisted up in knots ye had me worryin'?!"
"Not to mention some mad berserker tearin' through the skies on a beast straight out of HEL—some feral, unknown dragon breed that had the whole lot of us on edge! With its mighty volcanic fire and wings!"
You wanted to laugh at the false accusations—but he was too furious at you. He released you then, setting you down with a thud that rattled your thudding pulse, a deep grumble vibrating from his chest as his eyes narrowed into slits of pure disapproval, the lines around them etching deeper with each passing second.
"I'm sorry! I—I just," you stammered, scrambling for words that might deflect the anger, your mind racing through half-formed excuses.
"Ohh, no ye don't, lass! Not this time—no slippin' out with yer clever dodges," Gobber bellowed, his shout drawing curious glances from nearby villagers, who paused in their tasks to watch the unfolding drama with poorly concealed amusement. "Ye're grounded, and that's final!"
"What?! You can't just ground me—I'm turning six-and-ten soon, Gobber! And I wasn't even that late; it was barely an extra day!" you protested, hot on his heels as he limped away with furious determination toward the forge, his brow furrowed so deeply it could hide secrets of its own, ignoring your pleas with the stubbornness of a rooted oak.
"I was out hunting for herbs, that's all! Think about it—what would the village do without those little baked treats to keep spirits up? Hm? They'd be lost without 'em!" you reasoned desperately, the worry gnawing at you now, visions of Siftwing waiting in for you in isolation twisting your insides—you couldn't bear the thought of being barred from his side for who knew how long.
Then he whirled around with a wild gleam in his eyes, a crazed intensity that halted you mid-step, nearly colliding with his sturdy frame. "Ye don't get it, do ye?! That scaly Menace of yers has been chewin' through every last one of me wooden pegs and boots, all 'cause she's mopin' like a lost pup without ye around!"
You stopped dead in your tracks, the words sinking in like a delay, your gaze lifting to meet his in utter confusion as your thoughts veered sharply to Menace—the little Terrible Terror whose antics now painted a picture that was equal parts endearing and exasperating.
Of course, the pieces clicked into place with a quiet pang—your little Menace, that feisty Terrible Terror with her sharp wit and sharper claws, had been pining for you in her own chaotic way.
The thought tugged at your heartstrings, a mix of guilt and affection swelling as you pictured her small form darting about the forge, her gray and vibrant orange scales flashing in protest.
You couldn't keep the secret from her much longer either, not this sudden, burgeoning family she'd unwittingly gained: a big brother in Siftwing—at least thirty times her size—that majestic enigma with his golden hues that could match hers stripes, just waiting patiently in the hidden groves.
And poor Gobber—how much more could he endure of her relentless antics? You'd both pieced it together long ago, her nips and thefts a petty vengeance for those grueling arena days between them, when dragons like her had been foes rather than kin.
Inside the forge's dim glow, the air thick with the metallic tang of cooled iron and lingering smoke, you settled onto a worn stool, the rough wood creaking under your weight. Gobber followed suit, drawing in a deep, steadying breath that expanded his broad chest before releasing it in a long, weary sigh. He eased himself onto the bench across from you, his hook-hand resting on the scarred tabletop, his eyes softening from their earlier amger into pools of reluctant tenderness.
"Ye just have to understand, lass," he murmured, his voice dropping to a gentle rumble that carried the weight of years unspoken, the kind of tone reserved for only you.
"Yer safety . . . it means the world to me, more than these old bones could ever say. I swore an oath to yer father—aye, and Stoick and Martha did the same—to shield ye from harm's grasp, come what may. It's not just words; it's etched in here." He thumped his chest lightly with his good hand, the gesture vulnerable, stirring memories of quieter times when his stories had been your shield against the night's thunderstorms.
The mention of your father hit like a dull ache, igniting a burn in your chest that threatened to spill over and into your throat—hot and insistent behind your ribs—bringing a sting in your eyes. You managed a small smile, though it wavered as you glanced down at your hands, fingers twisting in your lap to steady the tremor.
"I know, Gobber. I'm sorry," you started, the words catching slightly, laced with a sincerity. "But . . . I'm turning six-and-ten soon. You've got to let me spread my wings a bit, let me be the Viking I'm meant to become—just like all of you did. I can't stay tucked under a shadow forever, much as I'd like to sometimes. . . ."
His eyes widened then, a flicker of surprise crossing his weathered features as the realization dawned—he'd lost track amid the daily grind, but aye, you were on the cusp of sixteen, just as Hiccup was, both of you teetering on the edge of true independence. Gobber rubbed his callused hand over his braided mustache, the motion slow and contemplative, his gaze drifting to the flickering embers in the nearby pit, sadness etching deeper lines around his mouth.
"Aye . . . ye're right about that, lass. Time's a thief, slippin' away when ye least expect. Ye've grown into somethin' fierce, somethin' yer mother and father would've burst with pride over. But lettin' go . . . it's a battle all its own."
A spark of opportunity lit in you, and you leaned forward with a tentative grin. "That also means no more hauling water buckets for chores—"
"Don't push it," he snapped, though the bark held no real bite, his eyes crinkling at the corners with suppressed amusement.
The laughter bubbled up between you then, genuine and freeing, chasing away the heavier emotions. It started as a chuckle from him, rumbling deep, and yours joined in harmony, the place echoing with the sound—a rare melody in a place built for hammers and heat.
Rising from your seat, you closed the distance and wrapped your arms around him where he sat, your cheek pressing against the scratchy wool of his tunic. He stiffened at first, playing the gruff guardian, but you caught the subtle blink of his eyes, warding off the gleam of unshed tears, his throat working silently. You smiled to yourself, warm, discreet, letting him have his facade.
"Love you, Gobber—you big softy," you whispered against his shoulder, the words muffled but heartfelt. "I promise not to scare you too much from here on out. And I really did bring back a sack full of herbs and berries; the haul's impressive, if I say so myself."
He sniffled once, glancing around the empty forge as if spies lurked in the corners, before meeting your eyes with a familiar twinkle, the gruffness melting into something almost playful. "Ye better whip up some of those berry tarts then—by the dozen, mind ye—to make amends for the gray hairs ye've given me."
You pulled back with a laugh while turning, the sound carrying you toward the door. But as you stepped into the open air, his voice boomed after you, "YER STILL GROUNDED!"
The groan escaped you involuntarily, echoing off the nearby structures, drawing a faint chuckle from within the forge that you knew was all Gobber—satisfied, stern, and secretly relieved.
Later in the night, the hut's interior wrapped around you like a comforting blanket, the only light emanating from the cozy fire that crackled softly in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the timber walls. You lay sprawled on your stomach atop a threadbare rug, parchments of your designs and recipes scattered before you, their edges curling slightly from the warmth.
Menace had claimed her perch on your back, her incredibly small, scaly form draped possessively as if by sheer weight she could anchor you in place, ensuring you wouldn't vanish on her again. In her jaws, she gnawed contentedly on one of Gobber's pilfered wooden pegs, the rhythmic crunch a peculiar lullaby that filled the quiet space, her gray and orange scales glinting faintly in the firelight.
Your chin rested on your folded arms, a makeshift pillow that eased the ache from the day's labors, as you gazed at the rough sketch you'd attempted of Siftwing.
The lines were uneven, smudged in places where your hand had trembled with memory, but they captured his essence nonetheless—the broad sweep of his wings, the golden sheen of his scales edged in char, his gentle eyes that held worlds of unspoken understanding.
A quiet longing tugged at you already, missing the gentle giant's reassuring presence, the way his low rumbles vibrated through your bones like a second heartbeat.
It wasn't until a small, raspy cough escaped Menace—more a huff of exasperation than anything—that your reverie broke, a bubble of laughter rising as you smiled and twisted around beneath her. The motion dislodged her slightly, but you pulled her close in a warm embrace, her tiny body squirming half-heartedly against your chest, the peg still clamped in her teeth like a trophy.
"You know, Menace," you murmured, your voice soft and conspiratorial as she pointedly averted her gaze, feigning disinterest in your words. "I think you two will get along great—just like you and Toothless already do. He'll be the big brother you never knew you needed, all protective and who knows? Maybe he'll get you to calm down."
The tiny dragon fixed you with her enormous yellow orbs, those wide eyes gleaming like polished moons, holding your stare for a long, contemplative moment. Then, with deliberate slowness, she dragged her rough tongue across one eye, a quirky grooming habit that made her squint as if piecing together your meaning, her head tilting in a lean in that endearing, quizzical way.
You couldn't help but laugh as she huffed in mock offense and redoubled her efforts on the wooden peg, splintering it with renewed vigor. "Oh? Are you ignoring me now? You look absolutely adorable doing it—like a little-tiny-smol storm cloud trying to look fierce."
Her resolve cracked almost immediately, an unwilling purr rumbling from her chest—giving her away—low and vibrating against your skin, before she surrendered fully and launched into a barrage of licks, her tongue rasping over your cheek with enthusiastic abandon of what she did before.
You groaned through your laughter, the slobbery affection turning into a ticklish assault, until suddenly she overstepped, her tiny-sharp teeth nipping at the tip of your nose in playful excess. A sharp yelp escaped you as you scrambled upright, clutching the tender spot with a dramatic groan, eyes watering from the sting.
"Ow . . . Menace?" She merely stared up at you from the rug, her eyes impossibly wide and innocent, as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, as if all she did always got away with it—which she did—her tail wagging lazily in pure mischief.
"I promise," you mumbled beneath the palm of your hand. "Ruff, Tuff and you are triplets."
But when you looked down at her—The sight undid you completely, laughter spilling forth again, mingled with tears that blurred your vision as you rubbed your nose gingerly. Shaking your head in fond exasperation, you scooped her up at last, her warm weight settling comfortably in your arms as you headed toward the bed, the day's exhaustion finally catching up to you.
"Come on," you coaxed, settling her down beside you on the modest pallet that is your uncomfortable wooden bed. "I'm worn out after all that chaos today. Let's get some sleep, and I'll whip up a huge breakfast for us in the morning—stacks of everything you love. What do you say to that?"
Her response was immediate and electric—she erupted into a frenzy of jumps, bounding across the bed in ecstatic circles before launching herself into the air, her wings unfurling with a tentative flap that carried her halfway across the room. You gasped, heart leaping as you bolted upright.
"Menace?! You flew!" The words burst from you in delighted shock as you sprang to your feet, catching her mid-glide as she veered straight into your waiting arms, her momentum nearly toppling you both.
Gently, you examined her once-injured wing, the healed membrane strong and supple under your fingers, and a broad grin split your face. "Oh, my love, you can fly again!"
Overjoyed, you hugged her close, her scales pressing against your skin as she nuzzled into the crook of your neck, a contented trill escaping her. Together, you sank back onto the bed, pulling the soft heaps of fur blankets over you both, the warmth enveloping.
After a long while, though, sleep eluded you; you tossed and turned amid the lumps and creaks of the wooden frames, finally sighing into the dimness toward her curled form.
"Tomorrow, I'm starting on those plans I sketched up—building a proper, comfortable bed. No more of this . . . wood plank nonsense that's more torture than rest." She huffed in clear agreement, a small puff of breath that stirred the air, her body shifting closer in solidarity.
At last, the day's weight pulled you under, the two of you drifting into slumber—Menace tucked securely against your chest and neck, her steady breaths a gentle rhythm that lulled you into peaceful dreams—much like Siftwing did.
Two days had slipped by in a haze of quiet industry, and there you sat at your cluttered desk in the forge, the space alive with the faint hiss of cooling embers and the metallic tang of worked iron hanging in the air.
Parchments sprawled before you, inked with meticulous plans for a revolutionary bed—layers of padded hides, sprung supports of goose and chicken feathers, anything to eclipse the so-called "heavenly" slabs of plain old-day, hand-me-down wood that passed for comfort among these hardy Vikings.
Your fingers traced the designs with focused intent, envisioning nights free from the aches that plagued your rest, a small rebellion against the island's rugged norms.
With Gobber out on errands, the forge was yours alone, a rare pocket of solitude that you seized to tinker secretly on tweaks for Siftwing's saddle as well—subtle reinforcements to the straps, ergonomic adjustments to ease the strain of long flights, all sketched in hurried lines that betrayed your eagerness to reunite with the golden beast.
Immersed in your zone, you bent a slender rod of metal over the anvil's edge, the rhythmic tap of your hammer syncing with your steady breaths, each strike shaping visions of smoother rides and hidden horizons you eagerly wanted to know about.
But the tranquility shattered abruptly—a massive commotion erupted outside, shouts and murmurs swelling like a family gathering near the village's front, punctuated by the thud of boots and the low rumble of discontent.
Your brows furrowed in sharp frustration, the delicate piece in your grasp twisting irreparably from the lapse in concentration; a sigh escaped you, heavy with irritation, as you set the tool down and rose, brushing flecks of ash from your tunic before stepping out to investigate the source.
The scene unfolded under a slate-blue sunny sky, a little crowd standing near one of the storage buildings, where Vikings hauled crates of salted fish and bundled grains in preparation for the winter storms that loomed ever closer, their chill already whispering in the crisp-rare-sunny air.
You wove through the throng of workers, elbows brushing against fur-lined vests and weathered cloaks, until you reached the front, where Stoick stood like an immovable pillar, Gobber at his side with a mischievous glint, and old man Mildew gesticulating wildly in their faces.
"Those demons," Mildew spat, his voice a gravelly wheeze as he labored up the wooden steps then, his scraggly sheep tucked under one bony arm like a reluctant child, his gnarled staff clacking against the planks in the other hand. "Are not fit to live amongst civilized men!" His words dripped with the same sour grudge he'd nursed for years, his hunched frame trembling with exaggerated indignation.
Gobber smirked, leaning on his hook-hand with casual delight, ever ready to prod the hornet's nest. "Neither are ye, Mildew! Why d'ye think we built yer house so far outside o' town—keeps the rest of us sane."
The old man growled low, a guttural grumble that vibrated through his wispy stash and beard, undeterred as he pressed on. "Aye, very well then, make yer jokes all in good fun. Meanwhile, these dragons are eatin' everythin' in sight, poopin' everywhere! Every hour!—"
"At three only, actually. . ." Gobber interjected with impeccable timing, his tone deadpan, earning a smattering of chuckles from the onlookers.
Mildew barreled ahead as if the words had sailed past him unheard, his staff thrusting accusingly toward the nearby wreckage—a Gronckle-sized hole punched through a hapless hut, debris scattered like forgotten bones.
"Turnin' people's huts into piles o' rubble!" he shouted, his finger jabbing at the destruction where the rotund dragon had apparently attempted to perch on the roof, only to collapse it in a heap of splintered timber.
A pair of burly Vikings trudging by with a massive log balanced between them paused at the outburst, tools clanging as they set their burden down and nodded vigorously. "Aye, Mildew's right!" one bellowed, his voice carrying over the murmur, prompting others to drift closer and align behind the grizzled complainer, the crowd swelling like a tide since your arrival.
You caught sight of Hiccup then, weaving onto the raised platform with a thoughtful crease in his brow, and you joined him without hesitation, exchanging a quick nod as you both settled in to observe the escalating debate, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and the undercurrent of brewing tension.
"Not but a day ago," Mildew continued, his rant gaining steam as he waved his free arm wildly, "a massive Gronckle was sleepin' on me roof, disturbin' an old man's precious rest! Then, when I stepped outside, a whole herd of 'em devoured me poor cabbages—every last one! And now today, one o' them Nightmares came crashin' right through me roof, with that boy on top of it!"
His accusatory glare swung toward Snotlout, who paled instantly and shrank back into the shadows, his usual bravado evaporating like mist.
"Stoick! Do ye not see these bags under me eyes?" Mildew wailed, his scrawny limbs flailing in a chaotic display as he tugged at the dark, purpled circle beneath his left eye, stretching the sallow skin to emphasize his plight.
The crowd erupted in cheers of agreement, fists pumping in solidarity with the old curmudgeon's tirade, their voices a chorus of agreement that echoed off the surrounding structures.
Gobber leaned in closer to Stoicks ear, his face twisting into a grimace of mock horror as he eyed Mildew up and down. "He's right—he's hideous. . ."
Stoick maintained an impeccable poker face in the wake of Gobber's quip, his jaw set like forged steel, though a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed the laughter he swallowed down, his broad shoulders subtly shaking with restrained mirth amid the escalating tension.
Mildew, sensing the shift in the air, pivoted toward the swelling crowd with a gleam of satisfaction in his rheumy eyes, basking in the rare surge of validation as their murmurs of agreement rose like a chorus, feeding his ego like kindling moth to a flame.
He waved his gnarled staff in sweeping arcs, the wood whistling faintly through the crisp air as he bellowed, "These are wild—unpredictable beasts, every last one of 'em!"
"They cracked that man's skull like an egg!" he jabbed the staff toward Bucket, the hapless Viking who stood nearby with his perpetual dazed grin, his bandaged head a sign to some long-ago mishap now repurposed for Mildew's tirade.
Then, with a dramatic flourish, he swung it toward a sturdy woman leaning on a crutch, her prosthetic leg gleaming dully in the light. "Took that woman's leg—clean off, without a shred of mercy!"
With each accusation, the crowd's shouts swelled in fervent accord, fists thrusting upward and voices overlapping in a cacophony of shared grievances, the collective unrest vibrating through the ground, stirring a knot of apprehension in your chest as you watched the fervor build.
Mildew whirled back to face Stoick and Gobber, his lips curling into a guttural grumble that rumbled from deep within his scrawny chest. "Ye need to put them dragons in cages—just like the old days, before they turn us all into ruins!"
A low, anxious whine pierced the din then, drawing your gaze downward as Toothless slunk up behind Hiccup and you, his sleek black form trembling slightly, while Menace perched precariously on his broad back, her tiny wings tucked tight and eyes wide with fear.
You reached out instinctively, your fingers brushing Toothless' smooth scales in soothing strokes, while Hiccup murmured soft reassurances, his hand resting on the Night Fury's snout—the dragons' vulnerability a stark contrast to the crowd's growing ire, pulling at your heart with a tender ache.
"If ye don't," Mildew thundered, his voice reaching a fevered pitch that silenced the murmurs for a beat, "they'll starve us out and destroy this entire village—mark my words!"
The worry gnawed deeper now, the crowd's ranks having ballooned since the argument's spark, their faces a sea of nodding heads and crossed arms that pressed in like an encroaching fog. You turned to Hiccup, your hand finding his arm in a gentle but urgent grip, the warmth of his sleeve grounding you amid the commotion.
"Hiccup, you've gotta do something. . ."
He mirrored your concern, his brows drawn tight, but as his eyes met yours—wide and pleading—his expression softened, a quiet resolve flickering to life beneath the surface, like embers stirring in a dying fire.
Stepping forward with purposeful strides, he positioned himself before Stoick, his voice steady yet earnest as he addressed the people, gesturing with open palms to underscore his plea.
"They don't mean any harm—they're just . . . dragons being dragons, you know? Instincts and all that. We can work through this without jumping to extremes."
But Stoick interceded then, his massive hand landing on Hiccup's shoulder with a comforting weight, firm yet paternal, as he advanced toward Mildew, his tone brooking no further debate. "Look, Mildew. If there's a problem—then I'll deal with it, as chief and as always."
Mildew's response was a creepy smirk that slithered across his weathered face, revealing a row of blackened teeth that glinted ominously as he leaned in, his words dripping with menacing glee.
"Aye, ye'll do somethin' about it alright—ye have no choice now. There is a problem, Stoick, and I do believe I speak for everyone here." With a final, triumphant jab of his staff toward the roaring crowd, "Better do something about it." He turned and limped away, his sheep bleating plaintively under his arm, the clack of his staff fading into the distance like a lingering threat.
This is chapter 3 of book 2 to this Hiccup series -> M.list here -> 1 & 2
Previous Chapter : Next Chapter
Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr and Kristen my co-writers + beta readers ♡
a/n: here's the last part 🫶 I hope you guys truly enjoyed this roller-coaster ride!!! I love you alllllll 💕 see you guys on my next stories, and my requests are always open for your ideas!!
Masterlist
And you were there.
You didn’t cry.
You didn’t run.
You didn’t smile.
You looked at him like the past was something sour on your tongue.
You’d aged. But not in a way that dulled you—no, in a way that sharpened you. Your features were stronger, colder. Your eyes no longer wide with wonder, but worn with caution.
The braid over your shoulder was even longer than before.
You didn’t say his name.
He tried. His lips parted.
But you raised a hand—a soft, gentle, firm command.
“Don’t.”
That single motion struck him harder than any spell.
He froze, the apology dying in his throat.
Because your face is crumpled—not in softness. Not in welcome. But in barely held-together grief. Fury.
And something even worse than hatred.
Disappointment.
You stepped out just enough to shut the door behind you. Just enough to block his view of the hallway inside.
He stared at the closed door behind you like it might crack open and show him a glimpse—a small figure running through the house, messy-haired, clutching a toy Snitch.
But you stood your ground.
You said nothing.
He swallowed. “Please,” he whispered.
You shook your head, eyes wet, but your jaw clenched so tight he saw the muscle twitch.
He stepped forward, helpless.
“Just let me see him.”
Your voice—quiet, hoarse, stronger than any spell—cut through him like glass:
“You don’t get to ask that.”
The silence after was staggering.
He looked at you like a man watching the sun set on the only thing he’d ever loved. He hadn’t let himself imagine this moment going like this—not really. Not fully.
He thought pain would be the worst of it.
He hadn’t realized that you could become someone who didn’t want him to exist in your world at all.
He opened his mouth again, but you turned your face away—just enough that he saw the tears roll down.
“I’m sorry,” he croaked, but it sounded like a lie. Too little. Years too late.
“I begged them,” you whispered, each word a wound. “I begged them to let me tell you. I wrote every week. I dreamed of you coming. I…” Your voice broke. “He cried for a father who never came.”
Harry’s legs nearly gave out.
Your eyes turned back to him, full of fire now.
“But we stopped crying eventually. We stopped waiting.”
You stepped forward, and your words became knives:
“He only knows your name, and that's enough.”
Harry choked on the air. “He’s my son—”
“He’s mine.” you snapped. “He’s mine, Harry. I held him through every fever. I rocked him through every nightmare. I carried him through the snow when he was too tired to walk. I gave up everything just to keep him alive. And you—” you nearly spit it, “—you gave up on me.”
He closed his eyes, tears slipping free.
“I didn’t know—”
“I did,” you said, bitter. “I knew. And I loved you anyway.”
Your shoulders shook. You hadn’t meant to say that last part.
He looked at you like he might fall to his knees again. “Then why—please, let me explain—”
“No,” you whispered, stepping back.
The door behind you opened just slightly.
A voice—soft, small—called out:
“Mum?”
You turned, fast. Blocked the gap.
“Inside,” you said gently.
A shadow moved away.
Harry let out a broken sob at the sound.
You turned back to him, hand trembling as it clutched the doorknob.
“This is not your life anymore,” you said. “You forfeited it the moment you believed I left because I couldn’t handle you.”
You opened the door a crack. Paused.
And then, so quiet it almost wasn’t real:
“Go be a hero somewhere else.”
And the door shut.
He stood there long after the sun set, wind howling around him like the ghosts of what could’ve been.
He didn’t move.
Not even when it began to rain.
Because nothing—not war, not Voldemort, not death—had ever broken him like this.
—
The rain didn’t let up.
It poured for hours, cold and steady, until the hem of his coat was soaked through, until his glasses fogged and blurred with every shaky breath, until his legs could no longer hold him and he sank—knees to mud, hands clenched at his sides—on the path to your door.
He didn’t try to dry himself.
Didn’t conjure shelter.
Didn’t Disapparate away.
Because running had cost him everything.
He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
---
You watched him from the attic window.
You knew he wouldn’t leave.
Even now—especially now—when he had no right to stay.
And gods, that made it worse.
You hated how your heart clenched. Hated how your hands shook. Hated that you remembered what he looked like the first time he held you like you were something fragile, something cherished, not just a secret lover in the shadows of war.
You remembered the last letter you wrote that was never sent. The one where you said he deserves to know. The one that was returned unopened. Sealed. Branded with the unmistakable wax of the Ministry.
They’d made sure he never got it.
And you hated them.
But you hated him more—for not questioning it. For believing you had walked away. For forgetting how deeply you had loved him.
---
The first time he came, you didn’t let him in.
The second time, you didn’t open the door.
Third, he didn’t even knock. He just sat. On the cold stone path, hands stuffed into the pockets of a weather-worn cloak, knees drawn up, wand untouched beside him, staring out over the low hill and the field beyond it where magic-hardened wildflowers still dared to bloom.
He didn’t bring flowers. He didn’t bring gifts.
Only silence. And a kind of ache you could feel through the walls.
You watched from the window, arms crossed over your chest, a thousand reasons held tight in your bones.
He had no right.
But he came again.
And again.
Sometimes he left food by the gate. Sometimes he just sat there for hours, unmoving.
He never shouted.
Never called your name.
He didn’t try to force his way in.
But he waited.
As if the waiting itself was a prayer. A penance.
And you didn’t let him in—not for weeks. You told yourself it was for your son. That you were shielding him. That seeing Harry would bring more confusion, more pain.
But some nights, your son—your boy who had his eyes and your fire—asked questions.
“Mum… that man with the sad shoulders. He’s always there. Is he lost?”
You swallowed the lump in your throat. “A little.”
“Should we help him?”
You closed your eyes. “I think he’s hoping we will.”
---
The next day, he brought something.
A tiny wooden figure. Roughly carved. Shaped like a Seeker on a broom, leaning forward, arm outstretched toward a tiny golden speck.
He left it on the porch.
Didn’t knock. Didn’t linger.
Just set it down and walked away.
James found it before you did. His eyes lit up like you hadn’t seen in weeks.
“Look, Mum! It’s flying—he charmed it!”
The figure bobbed in the air, chasing the golden speck in a slow, careful arc.
You didn’t take it from him.
But that night, when James was asleep, you held it in your hands for a long time.
And you cried.
---
A week passed.
Then another.
You finally stepped outside again.
That night, long after your son was asleep, you stepped out.
Harry was startled. He hadn’t seen you approach. He sat up, spine rigid, breath fogging in the cold air.
He was there, sitting under the tree near the path. He didn’t startle when you approached. Didn’t speak.
You sat beside him on the bench you once built together with your son.
The silence wasn’t warm.
But it wasn’t cold either.
You spoke first. Low. Measured. Laced with pain.
“Do you remember what you told me that night? at the forest?”
He turned his head slowly. “Which night?”
“The one where you looked me in the eye and said, “I want forever with you”
He blinked.
Then nodded.
Your voice cracked. “I held on to that promise, Harry. Every single night. Through every ache, through every terror. I waited for the life we said we’d have.”
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t dare.
“I wrote. I begged. I thought—I thought you were dead, or trapped, or trying to find me.”
“I was,” he said softly.
“No,” you snapped. “You weren’t. You were convinced I’d run. That I’d abandoned you. You believed them.”
His mouth opened, but the words stuck.
You laughed bitterly. “You could face down Voldemort but not ask one more question about the woman you loved? About why she vanished overnight?”
Harry flinched. “I asked,” he said, anguished. “They told me you left. That you couldn’t bear the pressure. That the everything we had was a lie. I— I was broken too, I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think enough” you cut in. “You stopped at their version. You never looked for mine.”
He turned away, eyes glassy. “I know.”
Silence again.
Wind in the branches. The hush of grief that had no more fury left.
When you finally spoke, your voice was gentler.
“I hated you.”
Harry bowed his head.
You swiped a hand across your wet cheeks. “James was born in the middle of a thunderstorm. Just like this. I was alone. No Healer, no wand ready. I nearly died bringing him into this world.”
He opened his mouth.
“Don’t,” you warned.
“I would have been there—”
“But you weren’t!” you screamed, voice breaking. “You weren’t there. For me. For him. For anything. I wrote letters and burned them. I stood on the edge of the Burrow’s wards, wanting to scream it at the sky. I waited. I waited, Harry.”
Your voice was trembling now. “And I raised him alone.”
“I’m sorry,” he breathed.
“No. You don’t get to be sorry yet.”
He was crying now. Rain and tears are indistinguishable. “Please. Just let me see him.”
Then he whispered, broken: “I’ve never stopped loving you.”
You froze.
Your breath caught in your throat, and for the first time, he saw the tremble in your shoulders.
“I don’t know if that matters anymore,” you said, voice barely audible. “Love didn’t raise our son. Love didn’t keep him warm at night. I did. Alone.”
You turned, hand trembling on the doorknob. “His name is James. Not after your father. I didn’t name him for you. I named him because I dreamed of you saying it.”
Harry let out a noise that wasn’t human. His knees hit the ground.
“I’ll do anything,” he said. “Anything you want. I’ll beg. I’ll wait. Just let me try. Not for me. For him. For James.”
He looked up at that. Pain streaked across his face like a storm.
“But James,” you said, “he deserves more than this. More than pain. More than secrets.”
And you’ll earn his trust, Harry. Brick by brick. You won’t touch him until he asks you to. You won’t tell him who you were until he’s ready to ask. You’ll be patient. You’ll be kind. And you will never, ever leave again.”
Harry nodded slowly. “I want to know him. However you'll let me. Even if it's just as someone who visits. I won’t confuse him. I won't rush. I just... I want to be there.”
You studied him. Long. Hard.
And then said:
“This chance—it's not for you. It's for him. Because I won’t take love away from a child who could grow up stronger because of it.”
His eyes filled.
“I’ll let you try. But if you hurt him, even once, you will never see either of us again.”
Harry stood too, quietly. “I swear I won’t.”
You didn’t turn around.
But when the door clicked closed that night, you leaned your forehead against it—and for the first time in years—you let yourself hope.
---
The next morning, he came with his sleeves rolled up.
No gifts. No grand speeches.
Just a stack of gardening gloves, a basket of seed packets, and a quiet nod when you opened the door halfway.
“He’s in the back,” you said simply, stepping aside. You didn’t invite him in—but you didn’t shut him out either.
Harry’s footsteps were hesitant as he made his way through the side path. The garden had grown wild—beautiful in its chaos, all honeysuckle and broom and stubborn little strawberries that refused to be tamed.
James was there. Kneeling in the soil, a toy wand tucked behind one ear, a determined little line on his forehead as he tried to coax marigolds into blooming without charmwork.
He looked up when Harry’s shadow fell across the earth.
“Hi,” Harry said, kneeling. Not too close. Not imposing. “Need help?”
James blinked at him.
Then: “You can garden?”
“Not really,” Harry admitted. “But I’m good at making things grow the wrong way.”
That made the boy snort. “Like what?”
Harry pulled out a small, burned-looking piece of parchment. “Tried to charm a pumpkin once in third year. Accidentally grew fangs.”
James laughed. “That’s so cool.”
You watched from the kitchen window.
James handed him a pair of gloves. “If you touch the foxglove wrong, it’ll hex you. Mum made them that way.”
“Smart woman,” Harry said, sliding the gloves on.
James beamed. “The smartest.”
And something in your chest shifted.
---
It didn’t happen overnight.
Harry came by every Sunday.
He never crossed boundaries. Never stepped over your threshold without asking. But week after week, he returned.
He started helping with repairs—silently replacing the squeaky hinge on the shed, re-roofing the chicken coop after a summer storm took half the tiles. You watched him with suspicion at first, waiting for the charm to fade, for the effort to dwindle. It never did.
James adored him. Of course he did. Children know love when it’s honest, even if it comes late.
They planted trees.
Built a kite.
Spent an entire afternoon trying to build a fort that collapsed three times before James declared it the "best fort ever."
And every night after he left, Harry would stand by the gate, glance at your window, and wait.
Sometimes you meet his eyes.
Sometimes you don't.
But he always looked. Always waiting. Always left without a word.
---
Two months in, James asked.
“Mum… is he my dad?”
Your hands stilled over the dish basin.
You looked down at the soap bubbles.
Then turned.
“Yes.”
The boy didn’t speak for a long time.
Then, quietly: “Is that why I have his eyes?”
You nodded.
James sat with that. Processing.
Finally, he looked up. “He’s trying really hard.”
“I know.”
“Did he love you?”
Your chest ached.
“Yes,” you said honestly. “But sometimes, love gets lost. Especially in war.”
James looked down at his hands. “But he found us.”
You nodded again, and this time your voice cracked. “Yes. He did.”
---
The next Sunday, James opened the door before you could.
“Hi, Dad.”
Harry froze on the porch.
His breath hitched.
You saw the tears in his eyes before he blinked them away.
“Hi, James,” he said, voice trembling.
James grinned and held up a drawing. “I made this for you.”
It was messy—bright colors and a stick-figure family. Three people. A small garden. A sun with glasses.
Harry stared at it like it was the most precious thing he’d ever been handed.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I’ll keep it forever.”
You stood in the hallway, heart thudding.
Later that night, after James had gone to bed, Harry lingered by the porch again.
You stepped out into the quiet. The sky was clear.
“I didn’t expect that,” he said, eyes still shining. “I didn’t think he’d call me that.”
“I told him the truth.”
Harry turned to look at you. “Thank you. For that. For letting me… show him who I am.”
You didn’t speak for a moment. Then:
“You haven’t tried to win me back.”
Harry exhaled. “Because that wasn’t my right.”
You tilted your head. “But you wanted to.”
He looked at you now. Properly. The kind of gaze that once stopped your breath. The kind that saw too much.
“I still do,” he said quietly. “But I won’t ask for anything. Not unless you want it too.”
You stepped closer, arms folded. “What would you do if I said I didn’t trust you?”
“I’d keep earning it. Every day. For as long as it takes.”
“And if I never let you in again?”
Harry’s voice didn’t falter. “Then I’ll still be here. Because I’m not leaving my son. And I’ll love you—even from a distance.”
You studied him.
Then asked the one question you’d held in your heart like a wound.
“Why didn’t you look for me harder?”
He broke them.
Stepped back. Hands in his hair.
“I was afraid,” he said hoarsely. “Afraid they were right. That you’d left. That you didn’t love me enough to stay. I had lost so many people, I think I started believing anyone who disappeared just… chose not to come back.”
You swallowed hard.
“I’m sorry I gave up on you,” he whispered.
And in that moment, your anger cracked.
Not crumbled. Not vanished.
But it cracked.
Because you’d never heard him sound that young. That wound. That sorry.
You reached out. Just enough to place your hand on his wrist.
His eyes snapped to yours.
“I don’t forgive you,” you said softly. “Not yet.”
“I know.”
“But I’m not angry tonight.”
He nodded, breath trembling.
And before you could change your mind, you leaned forward—resting your forehead against his.
Just for a moment.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t dare.
And when you pulled back, his eyes were full of hope.
But he didn’t reach for you.
Didn’t ruin it.
He just smiled, heartbroken and awed.
“I’ll see you next Sunday?”
You nodded.
And watched him go, that rough little drawing tucked under his arm like a treasure.
---
It took another year.
Before the first time you let him stay for dinner.
Before the first time you laughed again in his presence. Before you let him touch your hand. Before James started asking when Dad would come next, not if.
Before the nightmares stopped. Before the guilt softened.
Before love crept back in.
But it did.
And when you finally kissed him again—on a quiet morning while James ran ahead through the garden path—Harry didn’t rush. Didn’t gasp. Didn’t fall apart.
He just kissed you like a man who remembered what it was to come home.
summary = You get hurt, and he loves you more than ever but the fear and guilt crush him. He pulls away, leaving a silence neither knows how to break. When you ask if it’s still real, he admits he’s lost. You can't take his words and decide it's best for you to leave.
genre = hurt and angst
He doesn’t visit the hospital.
You’re barely conscious when the team brings you in. Sirens screaming. Blood drying against your skin. The world spins, then fades. Someone holds your hand. Maybe it’s JJ. Maybe Emily. You aren’t sure.
But it’s not Spencer.
You don’t see him until three days later.
You’re sitting up in bed, drowsy from painkillers, throat dry from worry. The door opens. He steps in like a shadow. Still in his work clothes. Still refusing to meet your eyes.
You smile, weak and relieved.
“Spence…”
He stops a full foot away from the bed. Doesn’t smile back.
“I just wanted to see if you were awake.” he says.
That’s all.
No hug. No handhold. No kiss to your forehead like he always did after bad cases.
Just silence.
You nod slowly. Try to reach for him. He takes a tiny step back.
“I’m okay,” you offer gently. “The bullet missed anything major. I’ll be home in a couple days.”
He nods once. Swallows hard.
“That’s good.”
Then, without another word, he turns around and walks out.
The door closes.
And all that’s left is the soft hiss of your IV and the hum of the monitor beside you.
It’s the first time you realize he’s scared of you now.
Not because he doesn’t love you.
Because he does.
And that’s the problem.
You’re home four days later.
The pain in your side throbs with every step, but it’s manageable. What isn’t manageable is the fact that Spencer hasn’t called. Not once. Not even a text.
Morgan and JJ visit. Garcia brings soup and a blanket with cats on it. They all ask the same thing: “How are you? How’s Reid?”
You lie.
You say he’s just processing.
You say it like it doesn’t hurt.
But you know Spencer. You know how he gets when he’s afraid. When something threatens the one thing he thinks he doesn’t deserve. He doesn’t cling. He retreats.
He doesn’t say “I love you.” He says nothing.
A week later, he finally comes over.
He brings tea, the same one he always makes you when you’re sick. The lemon blend you used to share under soft blankets in winter. He puts it down on the coffee table and doesn’t sit.
You stand across from him in silence.
“I thought you’d come sooner." you say.
He doesn’t answer.
You take a step forward.
“I almost died, Spence.”
“I know.”
“Then why do I feel like I lost you instead?”
His jaw tightens. His hands stay in his pockets.
“You didn’t lose me.”
“Then what is this? You won’t talk to me. You won’t look at me. I needed you, and you left.”
“I didn’t know what to do,” he says quietly.
You take another step.
“You could’ve just held my hand. That’s all. You could’ve held it.”
He finally looks at you. His eyes are wide. His voice shakes.
“If I touched you, I wouldn’t have let go.”
You freeze.
“I can’t lose you,” he whispers. “So I left before it could happen.”
That’s when you realize what he’s doing.
He’s preparing to lose you. On purpose. So it won’t destroy him when the world takes you away.
But the worst part?
He’s already halfway gone in his head.
You see him every day.
At the bullpen. On the jet. In the elevator.
He’s always there, just like before. But it’s like someone turned the volume down on him. He doesn’t meet your eyes. He doesn’t sit beside you. He doesn’t offer you coffee or mumble facts under his breath or smile when you laugh.
He’s there, but not really.
He’s performing his job like nothing happened, but with you, he’s distant. Cautious. Like you’re a memory he’s trying to erase.
On the sixth day back, you catch him staring at you during a briefing. The second your eyes meet his, he looks away.
You snap that night.
You show up at his apartment. He opens the door like he’s surprised, like he forgot you still had a key.
“Hi,” you say.
He steps aside, silent.
The place is dark. Unwashed mug on the counter. Books unopened. Couch cushions flattened like he hasn’t been sleeping in a bed.
You turn to face him. “We work together, Spencer. You can’t just pretend I don’t exist.”
He leans back against the door. “I’m not pretending.”
“Then what is this?”
He doesn’t answer.
You take a step forward. “Do you not love me anymore?”
His eyes flutter shut. “I do.”
“Then why are you hurting me like this?”
“I can’t lose you again,” he says softly.
“You didn’t lose me.”
“I almost did.”
You go still.
“When they said it was bad, when I saw the blood on your shirt, I-" His voice breaks. “I thought I’d never get to say goodbye. I thought I’d never get to say I love you again. So now I’m stuck, because I still love you and I still almost lost you and I don’t know how to be near you without falling apart.”
You’re quiet.
Then you whisper, “We were happy, Spencer.”
He nods. “That’s the part that hurts most.”
You cross the space between you and press your forehead to his. “Then stop punishing both of us.”
He shakes under your hands.
He doesn’t answer.
He just closes his eyes and lets himself be held.
You stay the night.
Not in the way you used to. You don’t curl up with him under a blanket, legs tangled, laughter spilling into soft kisses. You sleep on the opposite side of the bed, both of you facing away, backs turned like bookends in different stories.
In the morning, you sit across from him at the table.
You watch him pour his coffee like it’s any other day. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. There’s a weight pressing down on the table. A silence that isn’t comfortable. It’s cold. Hollow. Familiar now.
You finally say it.
“Are we still together?”
He freezes.
You let the words hang there. Let them echo. Let them hurt.
Spencer doesn’t look up.
“I don’t know." he says.
You feel the crack in your chest stretch open. “You don’t know?”
“I don’t know how to be what you need right now. I don’t know how to stop being afraid of you dying. I don’t know how to be next to you without panicking. I love you, but it feels like that’s not enough.”
You stare at him, swallowing the sting behind your eyes. “So you’re not saying you don’t love me.”
“No,” he says, finally meeting your eyes. “I love you so much it makes me sick.”
“Then why does it feel like you’re already gone?”
He looks devastated. Like he doesn’t know.
You rise from the table slowly. You grab your bag. He stands too, panic starting to rise in his chest.
“Where are you going?”
“I think I need space." you say, voice gentle, not cruel.
Spencer reaches out but doesn’t touch you. His hand hovers. Then lowers. "Space?"
“Will you come back?” he asks.
You pause at the door.
“I don’t know,” you whisper.
You leave.
And for the first time in his life, Spencer Reid doesn’t have the answer.
This is chapter 1 of book 2 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here -> 1 & 2
Previous Chapter : Next Chapter
Summary: Beneath a sky heavy with the threat of meridian storms, icy winds clawed at the cliffs of Berk as the first sign of winter approached. Three weeks had passed since Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III awoke from the slumber of his coma, his victory over the Red Death was still the talk of the village. But as the air grows thick with salt and foreboding, change sweeps through Berk like wildfire. Dragons, once hunted, now soar as kin to the Vikings, their wings slicing the horizon in every direction. Every Viking, it seemed, had a bond with a dragon. All but you—or so they believed. In the craggy slopes they trained in unison and whispered about you—But beneath your stoic facade, you harbored a secret. And as Astrid and Hiccup grew closer—It wove a drift through your friendship with the young Haddock boy.
Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader
Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn
Word count: 8.4k
Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression.
A/N: Reader descriptions are not described besides the clothing, true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time. ♡
BOOK 2 - RIDERS OF BERK : CHAPTER 1
The recollection of the past three weeks were anything but sombre despite the crushing weight of loss in the brutal war against the Red Death—in the mist-shrouded fjords. Yet, amid the solemn rites of mourning, where villagers gathered under leaden skies to whisper farewells into the flames on the wind and ocean, they sparked in jubilant after. Each day now dragged forth like a reluctant chapter, heavy with novelty, banishing any dull moment with the relentless rhythm of transformation.
The dragons, once harbingers of terror, now claimed their reign over the village, and in their ascension, a tentative joy bloomed—embraced by most, though a few souls clung to the old traditions—with some leaving Berk or mumbling their distaste and dealing with it—their eyes haunted by unforgiving scars respectfully so.
The dawn raids that had once shattered the silence of predawn hours, ripping families from sleep with roars of fire, were no more. In their place came a new ritual: every afternoon at three, during the "dropping hours," the dragons descended in a thunderous cascade like rumbles of rain. Mulch, the burly farmer with dirt-etched hands and a voice like grinding gravel, would chuckle through his beard with Bucket nearby, his words a feeble laugh against the unease—"Better this than the old 'kill or be killed,' eh?"—His jest hung in the air like smoke, drawing weak-green faced smiles from some, while others averted their gaze unamused or in sickness.
The village thrummed with sensory upheaval too, the acrid tang of charred wood yielding to the briny assault of fish—raw, glistening heaps piled at every corner in makeshift feeding stations, where dragons nestled like ancient guardians claiming their hearths. The air grew thick with the metallic scent of scales mingling with the salty ocean spray, and the ground trembled under the weight of colossal forms as they settled in.
Roofs, freshly rebuilt with reinforced timbers and stone that groaned under the strain, bore the perched silhouettes of these behemoths—Nadders with their spiked crowns glinting in the sun, Gronckles rumbling like distant thunder as they dozed atop their riders' homes—some too heavy and possibly falling in . . . It was the sound of children darting through the chaos that made the mood lighter too, their peaceful laughter a sweet melody against the dragons' guttural purrs, but still . . . the elders watched from doorways, hearts alert between wonder and the lingering dread of what this uneasy alliance might yet unleash. It definitely took some getting used to.
And now, in the early-morning glow that filtered through your frost-laced window, you sat at your weathered oak table, chin resting heavily on your palm, your gaze lost in the awakening village beyond. The world outside stirred with its familiar noisy cadence—the distant clang of hammers on rooftops, the muffled roar of waves against the cliffs, the first tentative calls of seabirds wheeling overhead. And the brand new addition of dragons in every corner of Berk—but your mind wandered through the labyrinth of those three weeks, which had stretched and warped like three arduous years for you.
Everything had shifted so swiftly, a whirlwind of change that left no room to draw breath, no pause to anchor yourself amid the new gale. You sigh as the air in your modest room carried the faint chill of dawn, laced with the earthy aroma of pine resin from the beams overhead and the subtle snoring from Menace at your bed. The scent of charcoal from your sketches scattered across the table also lingered. Your fingers absently traced the rough grain of the wood, grounding you as memories surged like tides, pulling at the edges of your composure.
But in that short time, you had grown—not in the physical sense, your frame still slight against the island's harsh demands, but mentally, your thoughts sharpening like a blade honed on Gobber's whetstone. He had been the first to notice the profound shift in you, that subtle hardening of resolve, when you finally returned home two days after that fateful night on the luminescent hidden beach—a secret—magical-like—cove where bioluminescent waves had danced like living stars under a canopy of ancient pines.
The journey back had been a trial of endurance, navigating treacherous paths through unknown swathes of Berk's wild interior: fog-enshrouded forests where roots snaked like traps underfoot, sheer cliffs that dropped into abyssal voids, and streams swollen with meltwater that tugged at your boots with icy fingers.
You ate what you knew was safe to eat—having no time to hunt mid-way. Edible bark wasn't really appetizing compared to your delicious bakery goods at home. So, exhaustion may had clawed at your muscles, hunger gnawed at your belly, and the whisper of doubt echoed in your ears, but you emerged from the wilderness like a warrior and by the hour before supper thank Thor—your clothes were torn and muddied, your skin prickled by the chill wind but you cared not.
Tuffnut had been the first to spot you, his eyes widening like saucers as words tumbled from his lips in a frantic torrent, his arms flailing wildly as he bolted toward the gang to herald your return. The look of relief that washed over Hiccup's face in that moment—his features softening from taut worry to something unexplained—had pierced you like an arrow, a memory you now pushed away with a deliberate sigh, not wanting to linger on him or the tangle of emotions he evoked.
Instead, you leaned forward over the table, another sigh escaping your lips like mist on the glass, your eyes tracing the many pages of black coal sketches that fanned out before you—meticulous renderings of the dragon you had encountered on that secluded beach. A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, faint but genuine, as your fingertip followed the bold lines of his form: the elegant curve of his strong neck, the powerful sweep of wings folded like sails at rest, the intricate patterning of scales that caught the light like polished mahogany obsidian.
That dragon was the true reason it had taken you two full days to tear yourself away and return home. Originally, you had lingered there for two nights and a day, an unwilling captive to your burgeoning curiosity, the world beyond the cove fading into irrelevance as you immersed yourself in his enigmatic presence. The beach itself was a hidden sanctuary, its sands glowing softly under the moon's pale gaze, the air alive with the rhythmic hush of waves and the whisper of wind through the swaying pines—secrets untold rustling in their needle-laden branches like forgotten lore.
He had studied you as intently as you studied him, his fiery eyes—pools of molten amber flecked with ancient wisdom—never straying from your form when he was awake, lounging with a regal indolence that belied his immense power. Not violent, as the legends of his kind would have you believe, but a gentle giant who kept to himself, his massive frame curling protectively around the cove's edges, his breaths deep and measured, syncing with the ocean's eternal pulse.
You had watched him place his head in the shallow waters as the waning moon dipped low, settling into the waves like a weary sentinel, his gaze fixed on the bioluminescent plankton that swirled in ethereal blues and greens, tiny galaxies ignited by his subtle movements. Fish darted by in silver flashes, undisturbed by his presence, and the water lapped at his scales with a soft, hypnotic murmur, carrying the faint, briny tang of the sea mingled with the clean, ozone scent of night air.
In those stolen hours, a quiet bond had formed, unspoken yet profound, drawing you deeper into a world dissolved into fascination, and the weight of Berk's changes felt distant, almost dreamlike. Your torn feelings for the boy who drove you there to begin with—vanished. But now, as the village's clamor grew outside your window, you closed the sketchbook with a soft thud, the coal dust lingering on your fingers like a reminder of these secrets you kept to yourself.
A sharp rap at your door shattered the fragile cocoon of your reverie, yanking you back to the unforgiving grip of reality like a hook through water. The sound echoed through the modest confines of your room, a wooden staccato that cut through the distant clamor of the village awakening beyond your window—the muffled shouts of fishermen hauling nets, the low bellows of dragons stirring in their perches, the ceaseless whisper of wind rattling the shutters.
You sank deeper into your chair, the worn leather creaking under your weight, your body curling inward as if to ward off the intrusion. Hope flickered dimly that whoever it was would tire and depart, leaving you to the solitude you had carved out like a fortress amid the island's relentless changes. But the knocks persisted, growing urgent, insistent, pounding against the door with a rhythm that built a headache, each thud vibrating through the floorboards and into your bones, stirring a low simmer of irritation in your chest.
Then, as if the intruder sought to test the limits of your patience, the knocking shifted into a playful tune—knuckles rapping in a jaunty melody, one that danced on the edge of mockery, a secret cadence known only to a single soul on all of Berk . . . It was a tune from childhood games, childish pranks and laugher during stolen moments, now weaponized to breach your defenses. Your jaw tightened, a growl building in your throat as the melody looped, insistent.
"I know you're in there!" The voice pierced the wood, muffled but unmistakable—Hiccup's, laced with that boyish persistence that had always bordered on exasperating, now tinged with a hesitation that spoke of recent fractures.
You grumbled under your breath, the sound a low rumble that escaped your lips like steam from a kettle on the boil, lifting your head to glare at the door as if your stare could bore holes through the sturdy oak, splintering it into submission and revealing the culprit beyond. The room felt smaller suddenly, the air thicker with the scent of charcoal dust from your sketches and the faint, metallic tang of the forge's smoke drifting in from outside, a reminder of the world you couldn't escape.
With a resigned huff, you pushed yourself up from the table, the chair scraping against the uneven floorboards with a protesting groan that mirrored your own reluctance. Your feet carried you to the door, each step heavy, deliberate, as you reached for the array of latches you had installed just weeks ago—crude iron mechanisms hammered in the dead of night, born from a need for boundaries in a village where privacy had become a luxury eroded by everyone in your life. They clicked open one by one, the cold metal biting into your palms, a series of sharp snaps that punctuated the tension, each unlock a surrender to the inevitable.
At last, you swung the door open with a creak of hinges that echoed like a sigh of defeat, the cool morning air rushing in to mingle with the warmth of your hearth, carrying the briny sting of the sea and the earthy musk of damp soil from the path outside. There stood Hiccup, framed in the doorway like a reluctant apparition, his lanky frame slouched under the weight of unspoken words.
His face, illuminated by the soft dawn light filtering through the clouds, bore a guilty expression that tugged at something deep within you—his toothy smile awkward and strained, green eyes squinting slowly in that familiar way, as if bracing for the maelstrom of your frustration.
The freckles across his nose seemed more pronounced in the pale glow, a map of boyhood innocence clashing with the shadows of maturity etched from recent battles. He shifted his weight from one prosthetic foot to the other, the faint metallic click barely audible over the village's awakening din, his shoulders hunching as your gaze met his, unflinching and edged with irritation.
"I—um. . . ." He began, his voice faltering, one hand rubbing sheepishly at his chin, fingers tracing the faint stubble that marked his transition from boy to young man.
The gesture was endearing in its vulnerability, a remnant of the Hiccup you had known before the dragons upended everything, but it only fueled the knot of emotions twisting in your gut—frustration, nostalgia, and something sharper, unnamed to your will.
He swallowed hard, adam's apple bobbing, before the words tumbled out in a rush, "Gobber asked me to come get you. Says it's urgent and not to return without you. . . ." His eyes darted to yours briefly, then away, as if the admission carried the weight of a confession.
You sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, the exhale heavy and laden with the exhaustion of unspoken grievances, your breath fogging slightly in the chill air that seeped through the open door. Without a word, you stepped out onto the threshold, the rough-hewn stone cool beneath your boots, pulling the door shut behind you with a firm thud that resonated like a period at the end of a sentence.
You brushed past him without a glance, your shoulder barely grazing his in the narrow space, the faint scent of leather and forge smoke clinging to his clothes—a reminder of the hours he spent tinkering in the shadows of invention. The path ahead stretched toward the forge in a short, well-trodden dirt trail scarred by dragon claws and boot prints, flanked by homes where smoke curled lazily from chimneys, carrying the aroma of baking bread and salted fish that mingled with the ever-present brine of the Berk air.
Hiccup followed in your wake, his footsteps hesitant and soft, as if treading on thin ice that might crack under the pressure of your silence. He shrank into himself, arms pinned rigidly to his sides, fingers twitching with the urge to fidget but held in check, his gaze fixed on the ground where pebbles scattered like his thoughts.
Quick glances flicked your way—stolen peeks that betrayed his unease—his lips pressed into a thin, pale line, the corners downturned in a mask of apprehension, as though he feared your fury might erupt like the Red Death out of a volcano again, scorching the fragile bridge between you. The air between you hummed with unspoken words, thick and ever so charged, the distant roar of dragon passing slightly easing the tension for him.
It took scarcely a minute to reach the forge, your house perched right beside it like a sentinel guarding like the heart of Berk's ingenuity—a proximity that had once been a convenience but now felt like an inescapable tether. You knew full well that if Gobber truly needed aid, his booming voice could summon you with a single shout, echoing across the short distance like thunder rolling through the valleys.
But his intentions ran deeper, rooted in the meddlesome affection of an old blacksmith who yearned for the return of simpler days—just like you: you and Hiccup as the tiny, gossiping kids he had watched grow, whispering secrets over half-forged trinkets, laughter a counterpoint to the clang of hammers. He missed that innocence, the easy camaraderie shattered by war and revelations, and his schemes were as transparent as the clear waters on a rare calm day.
The forge loomed before you, its open maw belching heat and sparks, the air shimmering with the intense glow of the furnace that painted the interior in flickering oranges and reds, like the belly of a slumbering dragon. You entered with arms crossed tightly over your chest, a barrier against the warmth that enveloped you like an unwelcome embrace, the acrid bite of molten metal and charred wood assaulting your senses, mingling with the sweat-slick tang of labor that hung heavy in the space.
Hiccup trailed behind, shrinking further into the shadows, his presence a quiet specter at your back. Gobber's broad form dominated the anvil, his back turned to you in deliberate ignorance, the makeshift mask of hammered leather of steel and mesh shielding his eyes from the flying embers that danced like fireflies in the haze.
He hummed a tuneless melody, gravelly and off-key as usual, as he pounded away at a massive sword—its blade glowing cherry-red under the hammer's relentless assault, each strike sending vibrations through the ground and into your soles, the metallic ring echoing off the stone walls like a battle cry.
You sucked on the inside of your cheek, the sharp taste of frustration building as seconds ticked by, knowing full well he sensed your presence—the old Viking's instincts honed by years of raids and repairs. Impatience boiled over, and you lashed out with a swift kick to the stool beneath him, the wooden leg splintering slightly under the force, sending it skittering across the soot-streaked floor with a clatter that cut through the hammer's rhythm like a blade through flesh.
Gobber jolted with a grumble of shock, the hammer pausing mid-swing as he straightened, rubbing his behind with a callused hand that bore the scars of countless burns and nicks—a map of a life forged in its own fire. He turned to face you, mask pushed up to reveal his weathered—soot covered face, one eye squinting with a nerve in mock indignation, his mustache twitching just the same like a living thing. Hiccup watched from the periphery, eyes wide as saucers, arms crossing under his armpits in a protective hunch, backing away a step or two as if the air itself might ignite from the brewing confrontation.
"Oi!" Gobber barked, his voice a booming rumble that shook the hanging tools on the walls, chains among other things rattling like distant thunder.
"Don't 'oi' me," you cut him off sharply, your words slicing through the heat like a chilled wind, arms remaining folded as you held your ground, the forge's glow casting dramatic shadows across your face that accentuated the fire in your eyes.
"Stop playing your little game. What do you want so badly that you couldn't just shout for me? It's my day off."
The anger in your voice carried the weight of accumulated weariness, each syllable laced with the raw edge of someone pushed to their limits by meddling and memories, the air between you crackling with the unspoken plea for space in a world that refused to grant it. Gobber shrunk in on himself—much like Hiccup—at seeing your fury. His mouth hung open trying to find words.
As the three of you stood in awkward silence, the forge's oppressive heat wrapped around you like a smothering cloak, the air thick with the acrid bite of molten iron and the sharp tang of sweat-soaked leather, each breath pulling in the faint, underlying char of embers that never fully died.
Gobber straightened slowly, his massive frame unfolding with the creak of joints worn from decades of wars and what not, his good hand bracing against the anvil as he turned to face you both properly. His eyes sharp beneath bushy brows that furrowed in suspicion, scanned the space as if the missing leathers might materialize from the haze.
"I seem to be missing some of the new and old leathers I took out of my storage! You two haven't seen or done anything with it, have ye?" His voice rumbled like distant thunder rolling through the wood panels, laced with a gruff accusation that hung heavy in the confined space, stirring the embers of tension already smoldering between you.
You masked the fleeting twinkle of mischief in your eye behind a veil of feigned annoyance, pinching the bridge of your nose with deliberate pressure, the skin there pinching under your fingers as you exhaled a sigh that carried the weight of exaggerated exasperation. The gesture was a shield, hiding the subtle amusement bubbling beneath your surface—amid the many secrets you held to yourself.
"Gobber, why would I need all that leather?" you retorted, your tone edged with a practiced irritation that masked deeper currents of fatigue and unresolved grief. "I don't wear it, I don't have any use for it—I don't even have a dragon. Besides Menace, who I can't fly."
The words fell like skipping-stones into a still pond, rippling outward to fuel your isolation in this new era of Berk. Everyone believed your lies with such ease since you were known to be more truthful. But you did have a dragon, you just wanted to keep him to yourself for a bit longer. Alliances with the beasts had redrawn the lines of belonging, it was the new norm, so it left you adrift on the fringes from everyone else as they whispered, and you cared not.
Gobber nodded slowly, the realization dawning across his weathered features, his mustache twitching as he mulled over your logic—buying your lie—the faint scent of pipe smoke clinging to his clothes mingling with the forge's metallic haze and he swung his leg. It made sense, after all—your life tethered to the ground, unbound by the skies that now beckoned others.
But his gaze shifted, narrowing with predatory focus as it landed on Hiccup, who stood awkwardly in the periphery, his lanky form silhouetted against the glowing furnace like a shadow puppet caught in the fire's play. Gobber squinted, his eye piercing through the boy as if dissecting secrets hidden in the folds of his tunic.
"And how about you? You don't have her excuses—you have a dragon and are constantly making something. What have you done with all that leather, then?" The question boomed, accusatory, echoing off the stone walls and vibrating through the floor.
Hiccup's eyes widened in protest, his face flushing with a mix of indignation and bewilderment, the heat of the forge amplifying the warmth creeping up his neck. "I didn't? You—Why?! Oh, come on! I didn't take the leather, okay?"
His voice cracked slightly, a blend of defensiveness and exasperation that betrayed the boy still lingering beneath the inventor's facade, his hands gesturing wildly toward the hidden nook at the forge's rear—a shadowed alcove concealed behind makeshift walls of stacked crates and draped hides, where his desk huddled like a secret lair brimming with half-formed dreams.
"I have my own pile back there," he insisted, pointing emphatically, the faint clink of his prosthetic foot shifting on the uneven ground underscoring his urgency. "I have no need for yours, Gobber."
The air between them thickened, charged with the unspoken frustrations of mentorship and misunderstanding, the furnace's roar a constant undercurrent that mirrored the turmoil churning in Hiccup's chest. Gobber grumbled, a low, guttural sound that rumbled from deep within his barrel chest, his hand scratching at his beard as if coaxing answers from the tangled hairs.
"Welp, leather can't just grow legs again and walk away now, can it?" The words dripped with sarcasm, heavy with the Viking's pragmatic worldview, his finger jabbing accusingly at the two of you like a forge hammer poised to strike.
"I want it found!" The command echoed, final and stern.
"Sure," you responded curtly, your voice steady but laced with a quiet defiance that cut through the heat like a cool breeze off the sea. "But not today."
The words hung in the air, your arms crossing over your chest again as if to fortify yourself against the inevitable pushback.
"And why is that?" Gobber questioned, his tone softening just a fraction, curiosity mingling with concern in his squinting eye, the forge's ambient glow painting his features in hues of amber and crimson, revealing the subtle worry lines that spoke of a guardian's unspoken fears.
"I never get a day off," you explained, the frustration bleeding through like ink on parchment, your gaze meeting his with a raw honesty that pierced the haze. "I'm either in the kitchens or in here—or helping pick up dragon dung . . . I just need a day to myself."
The plea carried the weight of accumulated burdens—the endless cycle of labor in a village reborn, where every hand was needed to mend what the war had torn asunder, leaving no room for the quiet mending of a fractured soul. Gobber sighed, a heavy exhale that deflated his broad shoulders, the sound mingling with the forge's ceaseless hum—he knew how much you worked to distract yourself.
"Fine," he conceded, but his gaze sharpened as it flicked to Hiccup. "But you," he jabbed a thick finger at the boy, "can't leave until my stuff is found."
A ghost of a smirk tugged at your lips then, fleeting and convenient, a small victory in the midst of the exchange that eased the knot in your chest ever so slightly—for what he did to you and for needing him to get out of the way so you could visist that beach in secret—much to Hiccup's dismay, his face falling into a mask of reluctant acceptance, his shoulders slumping under the added weight of the task while he groaned.
Before you could seize the moment to escape the forge's stifling embrace, a whirlwind of slobbery affection nearly bowled you over—Toothless bounding in with unbridled glee, his sleek black scales glistening under the firelight like polished obsidian, his massive form leaping with a grace that belied his power. The dragon's emerald eyes sparkled with pure, uncomplicated joy at the sight of you while wagging his tail, his tongue lolling in a wet, enthusiastic greeting that left warm, sticky trails across your arms.
Laughter bubbled up from your throat, genuine and light, cutting through the tension like sunlight piercing fog, as you wrapped your arms around his head in a fierce hug, burying your face in the warm, leathery hide that carried the faint, wild scent of earth, fire and open skies. The embrace was a balm, pulling at the strings of your heart with its raw, animal loyalty, the dragon's low purr vibrating through your body like a soothing rumble, grounding you amid the emotional storm you currently went through.
The moment caught Hiccup's attention, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watched from the corner shadow, a flicker of something sour crossing his features—jealousy, perhaps, or the ache of exclusion.
"Oh, so he gets a welcoming greeting but I don't?" Hiccup grumbled, his voice almost petulant, laced with a bitterness that echoed, the words slipping out before he could rein them in, hanging in the heated air like an unintended challenge.
You tickled your nose against Toothless' smooth snout, the dragon's breath warm and fish-scented against your skin, eliciting a playful chuff from him that stirred the nearby embers. Then, turning to face Hiccup, your expression hardened into one of unamused detachment, the warmth draining from your eyes like ebbing tide, leaving only the cool resolve of unspoken grievances. Without a word, you disentangled yourself from Toothless and strode out of the forge, the sound of your steps resonant a thud that echoed your finality, ignoring the pull of his gaze that followed you into the crisp morning air outside.
"She still won't talk to me . . . I don't get it. What did I do?" Hiccup's voice drifted after you in longing, muffled by the door but clear enough to pierce, laced with genuine confusion and a hint of hurt that tugged at the edges of your resolve, the village's bustling sounds swallowing his plea as you walked away.
Gobber sighed heavily, the sound directed at Hiccup this time, a paternal exasperation that carried the weight of wisdom, knowing, and pure annoyance towards the boy. With a swift motion, he thumped Hiccup behind the head with his good hand, the impact a firm but affectionate rebuke that made Hiccup wince, his fingers rubbing the spot as a dull ache bloomed.
"Perhaps if ye opened your eyes, lad." Gobber mumbled with the drop of an axe.
"What does that mean?" Hiccup asked, annoyance flaring in his tone as he rubbed the back of his head, the sting a physical echo of his emotional turmoil, his green eyes searching Gobber's face for clarity.
You had heard all of it, of course—the exchange seeping through the cracks like smoke—but chose to let it dissolve into the wind, your steps carrying you back to the sanctuary of your home. The door creaked open to reveal the familiar dimness, the air cooler and quieter, scented with the faint must of aged wood and the charcoal residue from your morning sketches.
With purposeful movements, you collected the bag you had packed earlier, slinging it over your shoulder—the sturdy canvas heavy with necessary equipment for hunting and travels: a couple of coiled ropes, a flint striker cool against your palm, dried provisions wrapped in oilcloth that crinkled softly, a whole other sack full of food and a waterskin sloshing with the promise of sustenance.
Then, you picked up the little booklet, its pages bound in worn stained leather, brimming with your written ideas and sketches of newly finished inventions—lines of coal depicting gears and mechanisms that danced in your mind like solutions to unspoken riddles.
Stepping out once more into the village's awakening sight, the sun now climbing higher to cast long shadows across the cobblestones, you were met with longing eyes from Toothless and Hiccup, who lingered near the forge's entrance like reluctant guardians. The dragon's gaze was soulful, a low whine escaping his throat as his tail swished restlessly, stirring dust into lazy eddies.
Hiccup's expression mirrored it, a quiet yearning etched in the furrow of his brow as if begging to go with you, his hands fidgeting with the edge of his tunic. Gobber, ever observant, noticed the bags slung over your shoulder and wobbled over, his uneven gait a rhythmic thud against the ground, his prosthetic leg scraping faintly with each step.
"You're going hiking again? That's the eighth time in two weeks? Haven't had enough training?" Gobber's voice carried a mix of concern and gentle probing, his eyes scanning your face for the truths hidden beneath.
"It's the only thing that keeps my mind off—the battle," you mumbled, the words barely audible, meant only for their ears, your voice cracking slightly on the memory of that cataclysmic clash, the Red Death's roars still echoing in your nightmares like thunder trapped in your skull—but it was the life taken that haunted you—and the sight of Hiccup lying there cold. . . .
Gobber looked at you sadly, his nod a silent acknowledgment of the shadows that clung to you, his massive hand hovering as if to offer comfort but respecting the distance you needed. Hiccup, eavesdropping from a few paces away, frowned to himself, the expression deepening the lines around his mouth, a pang of helplessness twisting in his gut as he wished desperately for you to bridge the chasm with words, to share the burden that weighed so heavily on your shoulders.
Gobber patted your back then, his touch firm and understanding, a gesture born from knowing full well of the nightmares that stalked your sleep—visions of violence and loss. The ghosts that jerked you awake in the dead of night, sweat-soaked and gasping, the fjords' chill wind offering no solace through your open window.
"Just be safe, lass. And come home in two days like you promised! Last time you stayed out for four, we almost took the whole island to go searching for you," Gobber said, his tone gruff but laced with genuine worry, your wince a visible flinch at the memory of that extended absence, the village's torches flickering in the fog as search parties called your name into the void—and dragons flying overhead making your heart race.
"Just two days, I know—I promise," you nodded, forcing a small smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "You'll still watch Menace for me, right?" You ask and Gobber nodded with a gruff, waving you off.
You caught Hiccup's gaze then briefly before offering him a curt nod of acknowledgment, like a fragile olive branch in the midst of the rift, then turning to leave, your boots crunching on the path that led upward into the hills, the air growing fresher with each step, carrying the scent of wild heather and distant pines.
They watched your back until you disappeared up the hills, your silhouette swallowed by the rising terrain, the mist-shrouded peaks standing sentinel like ancient watchers over Berk's fragile peace. Gobber then faced Hiccup, his expression softening into one of paternal guidance.
"You asked why . . . It's because she saw things you didn't get to see when you were out cold, Hiccup. It's still giving her nightmares." He placed a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder, the weight grounding and reassuring, the calluses rough against Hiccup's tunic as if imparting strength through touch. "She'll come around, lad. Just give her space. Let her work through her demons before she talks to you about them."
Hiccup bit his lip at that, the sharp sting a distraction from the ache blooming in his chest, his eyes still fixed on the spot where you had vanished, the wind whispering through the tall grass. Toothless wailed softly beside him, a mournful sound that tugged at the heartstrings, nudging Hiccup's side with his broad head, the dragon's warmth a silent plea for reassurance.
"I know, bud, it's alright," Hiccup murmured, his voice thick with emotion as he scratched behind Toothless' head, the scales smooth and warm under his fingers. He walked back inside the forge to finish his work, the warmth enveloping him once more. But the heat and clamor offered no escape from his thoughts. Toothless lingered a moment longer, his gaze shifting between Hiccup's retreating form and the direction you had taken, his expression almost sorrowful—eyes narrowed in quiet longing, a low rumble in his throat like that of a bond strained between you and Hiccup.
Somehow, to your profound satisfaction—a quiet, bittersweet triumph that bloomed in the hollow of your chest like a fragile wildflower amid the thorns of deception—everyone seemed to buy your lie without a flicker of doubt. Well, it wasn't entirely a fabrication, woven as it was from threads of raw truth that clung to your soul like the persistent fog rolling in from Berk's jagged fjords.
The arduous trek back to this hidden beach, with its luminescent sands and whispering trees, offered a genuine escape from the village's prying eyes and the hushed whispers that followed you like shadows at dusk. Those murmurs, laced with pity or curiosity, echoed the island's collective grief, a symphony of loss that amplified your own isolation.
And the nightmares . . . They were no mere excuse; they were a tormenting reality that stalked your every slumber, robbing you of rest even now, weeks after the cataclysmic clash with the Red Death. Sleep came in fitful snatches, haunted by spectral visions that clawed at the edges of your mind—ghosts of fallen warriors rising from the mist, their eyes accusatory and hollow.
Worst of all were the apparitions of your parents, their forms translucent and wavering like reflections on storm-tossed waves, reaching out with ethereal hands that dissolved into nothingness just as you grasped for their comfort. Their voices, faint echoes of lullabies from nothing—as you didn't even have a single memory or that they even looked like your dreams. It twisted into wails of your already abandonment, leaving you bolt upright in the dead of night, heart pounding against your ribs like a caged bird desperate for flight, the chill sweat on your skin mingling with the salty tang of tears you refused to acknowledge in the daylight.
You couldn't turn to Hiccup anymore, not in those vulnerable hours when the darkness pressed in like an unyielding vice, squeezing the breath from your lungs. It wasn't solely the frustration simmering within you—a slow-burning ember of resentment that flared at his obliviousness—but the stark, irrevocable truth that he belonged to another now.
He and Astrid were a pair, their bond forged in the fires of shared destined battles and stolen flights, a union that the village celebrated with knowing smiles and hearty toasts under the flickering torchlight of evening gatherings. The knowledge pierced you like a barbed arrow lodged deep in your heart, twisting with every beat, drawing forth a torrent of emotions that threatened to drown you: jealousy, raw and visceral, that clawed at your insides like a dragon's talons; heartbreak, a shattering ache that echoed the crack of thunder over mountains, leaving you hollow and echoing; and a profound, soul-crushing sorrow that whispered of what could have been, had fate not conspired to shatter your fragile hopes.
You had finally come to terms with the depth of your feelings for him, blooming so fiercely within you like a wild seastorm of passion unchecked. In the dim glow of his hall, while he lay unconscious and vulnerable, his chest rising and falling in shallow rhythms that mirrored your own ragged breaths, you had confessed it all—whispered words of love spilling from your lips like a sacred vow, your hand trembling as it brushed his fevered brow and his hair away from his eyes, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood and the herbal tang of healing salves.
The 'I love you' you had murmured, the admission a cathartic release that lifted the weight from your chest, only for it to crash back down with brutal force like weight in water when reality intruded, shattering that ephemeral dream into irreparable fragments. He belonged to Astrid now—because you were too late; you couldn't just seek solace in his arms, couldn't hug up against him whenever the nightmares clawed too deep, though he seemed frustratingly blind to these new boundaries, his persistent attempts to bridge the gap only deepening the wound.
Astrid, for her part, had sensed the undercurrents of your pain with a warrior's keen intuition, and you weren't mad at her—not truly. If anything, a reluctant admiration had taken root amid the thorns of your envy; she was fierce, strong, yet capable of vulnerability that humanized her in ways you hadn't expected.
Not long after your return home, she had sought you out under the guise of casual conversation, her axe slung over her shoulder like an extension of her will as she held onto it tightly, her braids catching the sunlight as she approached your doorstep with uncharacteristic hesitation. The air that day had been crisp, carrying the briny sting of the sea and the earthy musk of freshly turned soil from nearby fields, but her presence filled it with an electric tension.
She asked about you first, her blue eyes searching yours with genuine worry, fretting if she had unwittingly become the wedge driving you apart from Hiccup. The question shocked you to your core, a jolt that raced through your veins like lightning, freezing you in place as the weight of her sincerity pressed down. She was serious, her voice softening to a rare vulnerability as she confessed her uncertainty—"did you harbor feelings for him that way?"
In that moment, with your heart fracturing anew, you lied, the words tasting like ash on your tongue. "No," you had assured her, forcing a smile that felt like a mask cracking under strain, "I only see him as a friend." The relief that washed over her features was palpable, a weight—lifting from her shoulders as she exhaled, her posture relaxing like a bowstring released, and it eased something in you too, even as it carved deeper into your own sorrow—you explained it was your nightmares haunting you—putting you in foul mood.
Painfully, excruciatingly, you had endured hours of conversation about her and Hiccup, each word a dagger twisting in your gut, the details unfolding like a tapestry of intimacy you could never claim. She recounted how her feelings had ignited during that one fateful flight, the night you had waited anxiously in the cove for him—the night he stole a memory from you both—as the wind whispering through the pines like conspiratorial secrets while stars wheeled overhead in a velvet sky for you.
Astrid's eyes had sparkled with newfound wonder as she described the rush of wind against her skin, the exhilarating freedom of soaring on Toothless' back, Hiccup's steady presence at the reins awakening something profound within her—a shift from disdain to admiration, then to a budding affection that bloomed fierce and true. You hadn't told her that he had done the same with you to keep her own heart from falling.
The air between you grew thick with her nervous energy, her fingers twisting in her lap as she hugged you tightly afterward, her embrace surprisingly warm and grateful, the scent of leather and sweet wildflowers clinging to her as she thanked you profusely. She wasn't used to this—navigating the tender terrain of emotions, her voice halting and earnest, and in that raw honesty, your heart softened, a reluctant empathy thawing the ice of your resentment. Yet, beneath it all, the pain lingered, a dull throb that echoed with every beat, reminding you of the love you had lost before it could truly begin.
And then . . . there was Hiccup Horrendous Haddock . . . The third—Oblivious, earnest Hiccup, who couldn't fathom why you conversed freely with Astrid, played joyfully with Toothless, and navigated your days with a deliberate avoidance of him, your paths diverging like ships in a fog-shrouded sea.
He had tried countless times to bridge the chasm—awkward approaches in the forge's heat, tentative words during village feasts where the aroma of roasted mutton and mead filled the air—but you always had an excuse, a barrier erected from the ruins of your shattered heart. His solution, born of frustration and self-doubt, was to assume you were angry with him again, this time for reasons shrouded in mystery, his green eyes clouded with confusion as he tinkered endlessly in the shadows.
That is, until Gobber, with his gruff wisdom and paternal insight, pulled him aside one day while you were ostensibly 'hiking,' the forge's furnace casting flickering shadows that danced like specters across the walls.
Gobber had revealed it all in hushed tones, the weight of truth settling over Hiccup like a heavy cloak: how you had remained steadfast by his bedside during his unconscious recovery, never straying unless duty demanded—even then you wouldn't—your hands gentle as you tended his wounds with salves that carried the sharp bite of herbs and the soothing coolness of seawater compresses.
You had prioritized him above all, ensuring Toothless never grew restless, your voice a soothing murmur as you scratched the dragon's scales, the air filled with the low rumble of his contented purrs. Then came the revelation of your ingenuity and peril—you had rebuilt the saddle and tail fin for Toothless from the best scraps of leather and iron, your fingers blistered and blackened from the forge's unrelenting heat, testing it yourself in daring flights that nearly claimed your life, plummeting a dozen times toward the churning waves below, the wind howling in your ears like a banshee's wail, heart seizing in terror each time you clawed back to safety.
But the truth that clutched at Hiccup's heart with a burden too heavy to bear, squeezing until it ached with regret and unspoken longing, was the agony you had endured believing he had perished. While he rested in peaceful oblivion, cocooned in the haze of healing dreams, you had witnessed his broken body amid the carnage—limbs twisted unnaturally, blood staining the earth like spilled ink, the acrid stench of smoke and charred flesh choking the air as dragons and Vikings alike lay in ruin.
The pain you had borne, a visceral torment that ripped through your soul like dragonfire, seeing him lifeless among the dozens of fallen, with their eyes staring blankly at the smoke-veiled sky—it haunted him now, a ghost that whispered of cruel things. He wanted nothing more than to hold you close, to envelop you in the warmth of his arms, his voice a steady anchor murmuring assurances—"I'm here, I'm fine, let me share this burden"—wanting to trace his fingers in soothing patterns on your back as the world faded to just the two of you. But you had barred the door to your heart, erecting walls of silence and distance, and he couldn't comprehend why, the confusion gnawing at him like a relentless tide eroding the shore. . . .
The sun dipped low on the horizon now as you finally crested the last ridge, the late evening light casting long, golden shadows across the hidden beach—a secluded sanctuary where the sands glowed faintly with bioluminescent whispers, the air alive with the rhythmic hush of waves lapping at the shore and the distant cry of seabirds wheeling against a canvas of bruised purples and fiery oranges.
The journey had been grueling, your boots caked in mud from treacherous paths snaking through fog-enshrouded forests, muscles aching from the climb, but the sight of the cove washed over you like a balm, the salty breeze carrying the clean, invigorating scent of pine resin and ocean spray that cleared the cobwebs from your mind.
It was eerily quiet as you placed your bags down with a soft thud on the soft white sand, the grains shifting underfoot like a living carpet, your eyes scanning the surroundings—above to the canopy of ancient pines swaying gently, their needles rustling like secrets shared; around to the curving cliffs that embraced the beach like protective arms; and underground, where burrows might hide smaller creatures scurrying in the twilight hush.
A slight breeze stirred then, cool and insistent, sending chills racing down your spine like icy fingers tracing your vertebrae, the hairs on your arms standing at attention as you felt something stare. In the corner of your eye, a pair of glowing eyes materialized from the shadows, staring back with a menacing intensity that could freeze the blood in lesser veins—fiery orbs suspended in the dimness, unblinking and primal. Above them loomed a fin-like tail, broader than your body and etched with intricate patterns that caught the fading light, swaying side to side in a hypnotic rhythm, attempting to entrance you like a siren's call, the air humming with a subtle vibration that tugged at your senses.
You folded your arms defiantly, a laugh bubbling up from your chest—warm and genuine, cutting through like sunlight piercing clouds again—before stepping forward to poke the swaying appendage with a playful jab, the leathery surface yielding slightly under your finger, warm and textured like sun-baked hide.
"Alright, alright, you know that doesn't work on me," you chided, your voice laced with affectionate exasperation, the words carrying on the breeze like a familiar melody.
Suddenly, the fin swooped lazily into the sand with a goofy flourish, burying itself in a puff of golden grains that sparkled in the twilight, and from the bank emerged the real pair of fiery glowing eyes—mellow and wise, peeking out with a sleepy curiosity that bespoke an old soul roused from slumber. The dragon rose slowly, languidly, shaking off the sand in a cascade that poured over its wings like a gentle waterfall, dusting your head in a playful shower of fine particles that tickled your skin and clung to your hair in a blanket of mischievous stars.
"Ah!" you shouted, closing your eyes instinctively but unable to suppress the wide smile splitting your face, the grains warm and gritty against your eyelids, the scent of sun-warmed earth filling your nostrils.
"Siftwing!" you exclaimed, half-laughing, half-scolding, as the rustic golden dragon fully revealed himself—his scales a burnished tapestry of amber and ochre, glinting softly in the dying light, his massive form exuding a laidback serenity that wrapped around you like a comforting fog.
Siftwing responded with a sort of purring laughter, a deep, rumbling chortle that vibrated through the ground like distant thunder, goofy and endearing, his eyes half-lidded in sleepy contentment as if the world moved at a pace too hurried for his ancient spirit. He tilted his head with slight playfulness, one wing drooping lazily as he leaned forward, his breath warm and faintly sweet—like honeyed mead warmed by the sun—washing over you in a gentle huff.
You walked up to him without hesitation, your hand extending to run down his snout, the scales smooth yet textured under your palm—warm from the lingering heat of the sand he heated up—tracing the subtle ridges that spoke of battles long forgotten and wisdom quietly amassed.
He nudged you back happily, the movement sweet and unhurried, his massive head pressing against your shoulder with the gentleness of an old friend offering solace, leaning into your touch as if drawing comfort from the simple connection. A low, contented rumble escaped his throat, sleepy and melodic, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment in pure bliss, the goofiness shining through as his tail swished lazily behind him, kicking up small puffs of sand like a playful afterthought.
You laughed again, the sound lighter now, freer, as you scratched under his chin—his favorite spot—eliciting a goofy wiggle from his entire body, his wings flapping half-heartedly in mock protest before folding back with a sigh, the air stirring with the faint, earthy musk of his hide mingled with the sea's briny kiss.
"There you are, you lazy lump," you murmured affectionately, your fingers weaving patterns along his jaw, feeling the subtle vibrations of his purr deepen into a soothing resonance that echoed in your chest, pulling at the strings of your weary heart.
Siftwing's eyes opened lazily, glowing with that old-soul warmth, a playful glint sparking as he nudged you again—this time with a bit more insistence, nearly toppling you into the sand with his sweet, clumsy enthusiasm. You steadied yourself against him, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the comforting scent of sun-baked scales and wild freedom, the reunion a satisfying balm that mended the frayed edges of your soul.
He responded by draping a wing over you partially, like a protective canopy, his body settling back into the sand with a sleepy huff, inviting you to linger in this moment of unhurried peace, where the world's burdens faded to whispers against the waves. He seemed to sense your disturbed heart and purred in a rumbling vibration that seemed to calm you as you hug him close.
"I've missed you," you whisper into his neck smiling then pull away to stroke down his snout again to which he nudged in a way to say he did too.
This is chapter 1 of book 2 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here -> 1 & 2
Previous Chapter : Next Chapter
A/n: I typically avoid adding author's notes to chapters because they can look Horrendous . . . (pun intended). That said, there are a few things I want to share, thank you for, and highlight as we embark on this new journey with MAELSTROM BOOK 2. And a/n will not happen often unless there are new trigger warnings.
My Thank-You Note: First off, I love you all so much and am still amazed by the incredible support this story has received over the months. I originally wrote it for myself, as I couldn't find the kind of Hiccup-centric tale I was craving, but your enthusiasm has shown me just how wonderful this fandom is—and now it's a story I want to create for all of you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for every bit of encouragement, especially from those who've reached out on Tumblr (where I post all the updates for this story, by the way). When my dog was diagnosed with IVDD, life turned upside down and became incredibly challenging. Yet you all remained patient and offered even more motivation. Thank you again. I'm aiming to update at least once a week moving forward (unless something comes up ofc, so no promises), so stay tuned—I hope you enjoy Book 2! <3
FAQs: I've gotten a few recurring questions, so let's address them here. Will I be covering Riders of Berk, Defenders of Berk, and Race to the Edge? Yes—Book 2 will encompass the entire series, while Book 3 will draw from HTTYD 2 (the film).
Another common Q: Will I write a separate book for this? No, everything—including all books and one-shots—will stay within this single collection. The same applies across all my platforms, making it easier for everyone to follow in one place. <3
Updates: For the latest on this story's progress, you can find the progress here on Tumblr—it's where I share ALL the details.
Facts: I'll be sprinkling in 'fun facts' about the characters at the end of most chapters, including tidbits unknown to the reader or Hiccup about Siftwing, plus plenty more surprises along the way.
Last but not least, I'd love to showcase your art! With proper credit and permission, I'll share fan art, moodboards, and your interpretations of OCs. If you're interested, hop over to my Tumblr and send an ask—I'd be thrilled to feature your Maelstrom-inspired creations! (Please keep it PG; I'll only share what I deem appropriate for my readers.) <3
Art by @ the-crying-artist on Tumblr. And their doodle interpretation of the main character (their take on reader/their oc) with the dragon Menace. :') <3 Please give the original post here some love!
More art by @ the-crying-artist on Tumblr. And their doodle interpretation of the main character (their take on reader/their oc) with Hiccup Haddock and Toothless! <3 Please give the original post here some love!
Please do not repost their art without their permission! Thank you @the-crying-artist for sharing your amazing art with us 🥺💗
Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr and Kristen my co-writers + beta readers ♡
Lovely tag list ~ @kikikittykis | @icantcryicantstopcrying | @teeesthings | @ph4nt0m19 | @sammypotato | @cultish-corner | @ken-zah | @edynmeyer1 | @hopeladybug | @nisarelle | @planeofexistence | @sugarrush-blush | @animegamerfox | @kitty-kei | @baguettebread27
If I missed a tag please let me know, or if you'd like to join the tag list leave a comment here <3 Thank you everyone!
some people are soft only for you ⁃ robert "bob" floyd
pairings: robert "bob" floyd x bartender!reader
word count: 12.7k words
synopsis: he’s always been the quiet one. the one who stayed in the background, who never asked for more. but what happens when you realize the one person who’s always been there... is the one you’ve been waiting for?
warnings: angst, slow burn, mutual pining, emotional repression, hurt/comfort, rainy confessions, a slap (but it’s earned), crying, kissing in the rain, bob floyd being soft, robert floyd rights.
flight log: since the bob floyd fic won in the poll (because you all have incredible taste), this is for the quiet love enjoyers, the slow burn believers, and everyone who’s ever yelled at a fictional man for not speaking up sooner. this fic is full of rain, longing, and everything i think bob floyd deserves. thank you for waiting. i hope it hugs your heart a little.
disclaimer: my works are not made using ai. every word comes from me, my thoughts, my hands, my time. do not steal, copy, or feed my fics into ai for any reason. fuck ai and what it’s doing to creative spaces. support real writers.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ masterlist
Bob remembered the first time he saw you like it was branded somewhere behind his ribs.
It had been a regular Friday at the Hard Deck, the kind where the sun dipped just right over the water, warm enough to blur the windows and paint the inside gold. He was sitting at his usual table in the corner, a few chairs down from Hangman who was busy retelling a story no one had asked to hear again.
Phoenix had already rolled her eyes twice while Bob had his drink in hand, half-listening, half-wishing he had stayed home when the door opened and Penny stepped through with someone trailing behind her.
You.
She had one hand on your shoulder, ushering you in like someone showing off a prized secret, and that was when everything stopped for him. Bob didn’t know if it was the way you tilted your head when Penny said something under her breath, or the fact that you smiled like you weren’t quite used to smiling in public.
You were trying, and he could see that. How? Well, you looked like someone trying not to look nervous, someone trying to belong. He swore, just for a second, his heart forgot what it was supposed to do.
Meanwhile, everyone else had started noticing, too. Bradley leaned forward against the bar, Jake straightened up in that too-obvious way he did when he wanted to be looked at, and Coyote muttered something under his breath that made Payback laugh.
The squad was buzzing in a way they hadn’t in weeks, and Bob just sat there with his drink, watching you smile at Penny like she was your only anchor in the room.
Penny introduced you like it was nothing, just her niece, newly in town, helping out behind the bar for a while. You were taking a break from your old job as Penny said. Needed a change of scenery.
She said it like it was temporary, like you were just passing through, but Bob felt something else settle in his chest, like he already knew you were going to be here a while. Long enough to change things.
He remembered how you looked at each of them, Bradley first. You laughed at something he said and tilted your head a little, fingers brushing your necklace as if you were already a little charmed. It wasn't your fault.
Rooster could make most people smile, but Bob saw the way your eyes lingered a bit longer than they did with the others. The way your shoulders loosened near him, and the way you leaned in.
Too bad for Bob, he thought. Even then.
But he stayed quiet, like he always did. Just watched, then helped you carry a crate of soda to the backroom when Penny got busy. You smiled at him and said thanks like it actually meant something. And that, God, that was enough to get him through the rest of the week.
Over the next few months, he watched the way you folded into the rhythm of the place. You learned everyone’s drinks, picked up on who tipped and who didn’t, and started finishing Penny’s sentences before she could.
You were quick, you were sharp, but you were never cruel. Bob saw the way you looked when you thought no one was paying attention, those small, tired moments when the bar was loud but you looked somewhere far away. He wanted to ask. He never did.
Then, came the Rooster thing. It wasn’t a thing, not really, at least (and hopefully) not yet, but Bob knew what it looked like to hope. He recognized it in himself first, every time you looked up when Rooster walked in, every time your laugh came a little easier with him.
Rooster was kind to you. He flirted without meaning to. Sometimes he meant to. You flirted back. You wore that same necklace every time he was scheduled to drop in after a flight.
Bob just watched, quiet as ever.
As time went on, he kept finding reasons to linger near the bar after the rest of the squad left. Just to make sure you locked the doors safely, just to offer to walk you to your car. Sometimes, you talked. Not about much, like the weather, and how loud the jukebox was that night.
Once, you asked him if he ever got tired of being the responsible one. He didn’t know how to answer.
He had started to think he would be okay with this, just being around. Being the guy who stayed, who didn’t push, who was always polite and careful and useful. It was enough. Until it started to hurt. Until he realized that every time he saw you with Rooster, something in him flickered in a way he didn’t know how to control.
And still, he said nothing, because it wasn’t his place, and because he wasn’t the kind of man who made grand gestures. He was the kind of man who waited, who hoped quietly, and who stayed.
But lately, he had started wondering; how long could someone wait before they started to break a little?
It was a Friday night when it happened, one of those rare evenings where the entire Dagger Squad managed to show up at the same time, no drills the next morning and nothing but hours ahead to kill.
The Hard Deck was busier than usual, the kind of full that meant Penny had music playing just a little too loud and the laughter at the pool table spilled all the way to the back booths.
Bob had arrived early, the way he usually did, already nursing something mild as the others filtered in. He didn’t expect you to join them.
You normally stayed behind the bar, that was your world. You floated through it like someone who belonged to it, moving with purpose and comfort, like the chaos never touched you. So, when you slid into the booth beside him, smiling as you bumped your knee gently against his, Bob almost dropped his glass.
“Hope this seat’s not taken,” you said, already settling in.
Bob blinked, then smiled, the quiet kind that reached his eyes before it reached his mouth. “Nope, it’s yours.”
Meanwhile, Rooster dropped into the space on Bob’s other side, his laugh already halfway through some joke Phoenix had muttered earlier.
Fanboy was busy chatting up someone near the bar, Payback and Coyote deep in some debate about the rules of darts, and for a moment, Bob sat there with you to his left and Rooster to his right, wondering how he had become the center of gravity in a scene that made his chest tighten just a little.
You turned toward Rooster almost immediately, picking up where you’d left off earlier at the bar when you had been talking about music. “So, you’re telling me you still don’t know who Joni Mitchell is?” you asked, eyebrows lifted.
Rooster raised his hands in mock surrender as he leaned forward slightly, glancing past Bob to meet your eyes. “Look, I’ve heard the name. That counts for something, right?”
You scoffed as you grabbed a fry from the basket in front of you. “Barely, ‘cause that’s like saying you’ve heard of air.”
Bob watched you as you laughed, watched Rooster roll his eyes and reach for his drink, and as the two of you kept trading playful jabs, he stayed quiet, sipping slowly.
He wasn’t left out, not really, but he nodded when you said something funny, smiled when Rooster responded, but no one was talking to him directly. He didn’t mind, not really.
Then you turned toward him, nudging his arm lightly with your elbow. “Bob, please tell me you have decent taste in music. Help me out here.”
He set down his glass as he met your gaze. “I, uh, I like Joni Mitchell,” he said, voice steady but soft.
You grinned, leaning a little closer. “See? I knew there was a reason I liked you.”
Bob blinked again, heart thudding once in his chest like it had just remembered it had a job to do. He smiled as he looked down, trying not to read too far into it, trying not to catalog the way you had said it.
You turned back to Rooster almost immediately, still half-laughing as you grabbed another fry and tossed it onto his plate like a challenge.
As the conversation moved on, the rest of the squad trickled closer, Jake finally giving up on his conquest at the bar and dropping into the seat beside Phoenix.
The table filled with the usual rhythm, jokes and teasing and interrupted stories, but Bob couldn’t shake the way you kept leaning slightly toward Rooster as you talked.
He couldn’t help noticing how Rooster’s shoulder brushed his own whenever he turned to respond to you, how Bob was caught in the middle of something he wasn’t part of.
He laughed when they laughed, nodded when someone addressed him, answered questions when they came his way, but he felt it. That quiet weight of watching something unfold next to him, knowing he was only a bystander. He didn’t resent it, and he didn’t resent you.
He just wished, for one brief, selfish moment, that you would lean his way again.
Across the table, Phoenix caught Bob’s eye as Rooster launched into some story about flying low over the mountains in Nevada. She raised one eyebrow and tilted her head slightly toward you, her meaning loud and clear.
Beside her, Hangman smirked as he sipped from his beer, then shot Bob a look so exaggerated it almost tipped into performance, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, a slow shake of his head that said, Seriously, Floyd?
Bob didn’t react. He kept his gaze fixed on the half-empty fry basket and picked at the edge of his napkin like there was something fascinating about the texture.
He could feel their eyes though, the silent conversation that he knew was happening in looks and subtle nudges. He knew what they were thinking, and he refused, absolutely refused, to let it show on his face.
Because you were still sitting beside him, warm and easy and relaxed, legs crossed in his direction, and he wasn’t about to mess that up by getting caught staring or doing something stupid like hoping.
So, he kept his voice casual when he joined the conversation, offering a quiet “Sounds intense,” after Rooster finished his story, even though he’d barely heard a word of it.
Phoenix didn’t drop it. She leaned forward on her elbows as she looked at him again, this time mouthing a word Bob didn’t want to see but definitely understood.
Talk.
He took a long sip of his drink instead.
Meanwhile, you laughed at something Rooster said, and Bob felt your hand brush his arm briefly as you leaned into the table to grab a napkin. It wasn’t anything. Not really, but his breath still caught for a second before he swallowed it down.
Then Hangman leaned in, voice low but pointed. “So, Floyd,” he said with an easy smile that always meant trouble, “any updates in your love life? Anyone we should know about?”
Phoenix didn’t even try to be subtle. She turned her head and looked directly at you, then back to Bob.
Bob didn’t flinch. He took another bite of his burger as if Hangman had just asked him about the weather. “Nothing new,” he said simply.
“Tragedy,” Hangman muttered, shaking his head with a grin.
Beside him, Phoenix rolled her eyes and sat back as she sipped from her straw, but not before muttering under her breath, just loud enough for Bob to hear, “Coward.”
Bob didn’t respond. Instead, he kept his expression even as he folded his napkin in half again, smoothing the crease with his thumb. If he answered now, it would only draw more attention.
If he said anything, you might notice, and the last thing he wanted was for you to feel like you were a spectacle in someone else’s drama.
You deserved better than that, and he didn’t want to risk making you uncomfortable, even accidentally.
So he sat there, listening to the noise of the table rise around him, with your shoulder brushing his again as you turned back to ask Rooster a question about call signs.
He told himself it was enough, that this was fine, because you were beside him. You had chosen that seat. Maybe not for the reason he wanted, but you were there.
And that was more than he’d ever expected. Right?
Bob had just managed to pull himself back into the rhythm of the table, laughing politely, nodding at the right moments, forcing his attention onto Coyote’s rant about someone double-parking their Bronco again, when Jake looked at him.
Not a glance, not a passing look. A full, deliberate pause. Mischief flickered behind Hangman’s eyes like a match just waiting to be lit. His expression was easy, casual even, but Bob knew him too well by now. That look always meant something was about to go sideways.
Bob met his gaze briefly, brows furrowing. Jake tilted his head slightly and raised his glass in a mock toast. Then he shifted in his seat, leaned forward on his elbows, and with surgical precision, turned toward you.
“Hey,” Jake started, voice pitched just right to cut through the noise, “how are you settling in? Penny’s got you working double shifts lately, huh?”
You smiled as you wiped a bit of salt off your fingers. “Yeah, she’s been trusting me with more lately. Not sure if that’s a compliment or if she’s just trying to avoid the late-night crowd.”
Jake chuckled. “Well, if it’s a compliment, you’ve earned it. You handle this place better than half the guys I’ve flown with.”
You laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “That is not a high bar, Bagman.”
“True,” Jake grinned, tapping his glass lightly against the table. “But still, you’ve got something the rest of us don’t.”
Bob tried not to react. He stared down at the condensation ring forming around his glass and took a breath.
Jake continued, voice smooth, casual, laced with something just clever enough to be dangerous. “You’ve got the whole ‘people actually like talking to you’ thing, and I mean that. I’ve seen the way folks stay longer when you’re behind the bar.”
You shrugged modestly, eyes warm. “Well, I listen, so I think that helps.”
Jake smiled, then glanced, briefly but intentionally, at Bob. “Yeah, listening’s a skill, but not everyone’s good at it.”
Bob didn’t move, didn’t flinch, but his fingers curled just slightly around his glass.
Then Jake leaned back and turned toward you again. “You ever get bored of it, though? Listening to people talk about themselves all night?”
You laughed under your breath as you picked up your drink. “Sometimes. Depends on the person, but I don’t mind hearing people’s stories.”
Jake nodded slowly. “What about yours? Who listens to you?”
Bob’s eyes lifted before he could stop them.
You blinked, like you hadn’t been expecting the question to come from him, and there was a beat of silence. Then, you smiled, softer this time. “I don’t know. I guess… not many people ask.”
“Maybe they should,” Jake said, tone light, almost teasing. “Bet it’d surprise a few of us.”
You laughed again, brushing it off as you reached for another fry. “You trying to psychoanalyze me now?”
Jake shrugged. “Nah, just think good people deserve someone who listens back.”
Bob looked down again, heat crawling behind his ears.
Then, Jake turned toward him, casual as ever, and nudged his shoulder once with the back of his knuckles. “Right, Floyd?”
Bob blinked, glancing up, catching the quick glint in Jake’s eye and the faint curve of a grin playing on his lips.
“Y-yeah,” Bob said, clearing his throat. “Yeah, I think so.”
He didn’t dare look at you then. He just reached for his glass again, swallowing the thought before it could become a word.
Jake sat back, satisfied, sipping his drink like nothing had happened, but Bob could feel it. The shift, the air had changed, and even if you didn’t notice yet, even if you still leaned toward Rooster when you laughed, there was something unspoken now settling between you and Bob.
Something Jake had poked loose just enough to rattle, and Bob wasn’t sure if he wanted to thank him or strangle him for it.
A few hours later, the bar was mostly empty, and the energy had dimmed into something quieter, more settled. The jukebox had long since shut off, the chairs were stacked, and Phoenix had waved a lazy goodnight as she ducked out with Coyote and Payback trailing behind her.
Bradley had left earlier, slipping out with a promise to come by for coffee sometime this week. Jake lingered just long enough to shoot Bob another smug glance before tipping his hat and disappearing into the parking lot.
Bob stayed.
He sat at the corner of the bar, sipping the last of something watered down, watching you move through the final closing routine with practiced ease.
You didn’t notice him at first, too focused on wiping down the counter and counting the register, but when you turned to grab your keys, you paused, just slightly, like you had sensed something.
"Bob!" Your brows lifted. “You’re still here?”
Bob straightened a little as he stood, quickly clearing his throat. “Uh, yeah. I—I mean, I figured you might need, well, I remembered earlier you said your car’s still not fixed, and I didn’t want you walking home or calling a ride this late.”
You blinked at him for a moment, then smiled. “Bob.”
His name sounded different coming from you, like you actually meant it.
He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze flicking somewhere near your shoulder. “I just thought… maybe I could drive you? If that’s okay. I mean, if you’re not already set.”
There was a small pause before you nodded once, keys still in hand.
“That’s really sweet, but—” you glanced out the front window toward the beach, where the tide was low and the moon was soft, casting everything in blue and silver. “Can I walk the beach first? Just for a few minutes. I usually do that after closing, and it helps me clear my head.”
Bob blinked, surprised by the question, then nodded quickly. “Yeah, sure, of course.”
You smiled again, smaller this time, and pushed through the door with a soft jingle of keys. He followed at a quiet distance, careful not to hover too close.
The night air was cooler than earlier, carrying the sharp, familiar scent of salt and old wood. The sand crunched lightly beneath your shoes as you stepped off the boardwalk and started down the beach, slow and quiet.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
The ocean moved in the background, steady and gentle, waves lapping at the shore like they had all the time in the world. You walked with your arms loosely folded, head tilted toward the water, and Bob kept a respectful step behind, not quite beside you but not far either.
Eventually, you looked over your shoulder and nodded toward the waterline. “You can walk next to me, you know. I don’t bite.”
Bob smiled softly, catching up. “I know.”
You didn’t speak again for a bit, just let the sand and the sound of the tide fill the silence. He could see the tension easing from your shoulders as you walked, your steps slowing like you didn’t want to go home just yet, and honestly, he didn’t want to drive you there just yet either. He was content just being here.
Then, you glanced at him again, eyes curious. “You always stay this late?”
Bob shook his head. “Only tonight.”
“Because of my car?”
He hesitated for a beat, then answered truthfully. “Because of you.”
You didn’t say anything at first, and he didn’t expect you to, but he felt the shift again, small and quiet, like maybe you were seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time in a while. And for once, he didn’t look away.
After a few more minutes of walking, you drifted closer to where the water met the shore, the waves just brushing past your shoes. Bob followed carefully, keeping the rhythm, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. The silence wasn’t awkward. It felt like it belonged there, like it was allowed to stretch without needing to be filled.
Then, you glanced over at him, your voice cutting through the quiet in a thoughtful tone. “You’re really quiet around me, you know.”
Bob looked over, a little startled. “What?”
“You barely talk,” you said, not unkindly, just honest. “I mean, I’ve known you for a few months now and I think I know more about Payback’s dog than I do about you.”
He let out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Yeah, that’s fair.”
“So?” you prompted, a little amused. “What’s your deal, Floyd? You always this mysterious or is it just around me?”
Bob looked down for a second, as if considering how much to give. Then, he smiled, faint but genuine. “It’s not just you. I’ve always been like this.”
You nodded slowly. “That’s not a bad thing. Just means I’ve got to ask more questions.”
Bob chuckled under his breath, then glanced sideways. “You really want to know?”
“Sure,” you said, looking out toward the dark water. “If you don’t mind.”
He was quiet again for a beat, then offered, “I grew up in Kentucky. Small town. Lots of farms, lots of quiet. My parents still live there.”
You glanced back at him. “That tracks.”
He raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“You’ve got that whole, dependable small-town guy energy,” you said, smiling a little. “Like you know how to fix fences and drive stick.”
Bob gave a modest shrug. “I do.”
You laughed lightly, then looked ahead again. “I didn’t grow up anywhere near that quiet. My parents moved around a lot, military family and stuff. I barely unpacked before we’d be gone again. Think we lived in seven states before I turned ten.”
Bob glanced at you, his expression softening. “That sounds tough.”
“It was,” you admitted, not quite looking at him. “You get good at starting over, but not at staying. Penny was always the one stable person in my life. She’d send postcards wherever we were. Always signed them with something dumb like ‘Don’t forget who makes the best cheese cake.’”
Bob smiled at that. “She still say that?”
“She texted me that two weeks ago when I didn’t answer her call. I was sleeping!”
He chuckled again, a quiet sound in the open air. “She really loves you.”
“I know,” you said softly, then paused. “I think that’s why I came out here. Just needed something steady for once.”
Bob was quiet for a moment, walking beside you with the surf lapping softly just ahead. Then he asked, “Do you feel like you found that?”
You looked at him for a long second, then smiled—not wide, not dramatic, just enough to reach your eyes.
“I think I might,” you said.
Bob nodded once, eyes on the sand as he kept walking beside you.
By the time the two of you looped back near the edge of the boardwalk, the night had settled into something heavier, quieter. The kind of stillness that came when the world was finally tired enough to rest.
The ocean whispered nearby, all foam and pull, and the wind tugged gently at the hem of your jacket. You were walking closer now, shoulder just brushing his every few steps, not quite touching but near enough to notice when he shifted, near enough to feel the warmth coming off his sleeve.
You stopped walking first, and Bob paused beside you without question, turning toward the water as you looked out at it like it had something to say.
“I was kind of a mess when I got here,” you said, voice soft but deliberate. The words came out like something you’d carried for too long.
Bob turned slightly, watching your profile in the dim light, the way your gaze drifted to the horizon like it hurt to look back at the shore.
“I didn’t really say that to anyone, not even Penny. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, let alone out loud, but I was.” You exhaled, quiet and tired. “I was… really low. Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t feel muchand I kept thinking maybe that was just how life was supposed to be.”
Bob didn’t interrupt. He stood there with you, steady, like an anchor just close enough to hold.
“Then Penny offered me the guest room,” you said. “Told me to stop pretending I was okay. Told me to come out here, take a break, just… breathe.”
You looked over at him slowly, your eyes searching his face like you were trying to see if he could hold what you were about to say next. “I didn’t think I’d stay. I figured I’d be gone in a few days.”
Bob swallowed, watching you now, completely still.
“But something about this place felt different,” you continued, eyes soft but steady. “The people. The ocean. The quiet. It was the first time in a long time that I didn’t feel like I had to earn my spot just to exist. And I think—” your voice dipped slightly, careful now “—I think I found someone worth staying for.”
Bob’s breath caught, subtle but real. His fingers curled slightly in the pockets of his jacket. His heart made that same familiar leap, too hopeful, too fast. Then, he forced himself to slow it down, to be rational, to not assume.
He looked down briefly, then back up, eyes skimming your face. “Bradley’s… a good guy.”
You blinked. “What?”
Bob gave a small nod, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach all the way. “He’s got a good heart. People like him. He’s easy to talk to, and I know he likes you.”
There was a pause, and then you turned to face him fully, the line of your shoulders shifting toward him like something inside you had snapped tight.
“It’s not Rooster.”
Bob blinked, startled. “It’s not?”
You took a slow step closer, not too close, but enough that the space between you suddenly felt deliberate. “It’s not. I meant someone else.”
His eyes searched yours, uncertain. You weren’t smiling anymore, not the playful, teasing grin you wore behind the bar. This was something rawer, something truer, and it pulled the breath from his lungs in a quiet wave. Your expression was open in a way he hadn’t seen before, like you were letting him see behind a curtain you normally kept closed.
There was something in your eyes now, too, like something deeper than curiosity, warmer than casual affection. A look that didn’t hide how long you’d been watching him the way he’d been watching you.
“I’m talking about someone who stays behind without being asked. Someone who waits for me after closing, who always listens even when I have nothing worth saying,” you said, your voice quiet but steady. “Someone who never tries to take up all the space in the room, but somehow makes it feel safer just by being there.”
Bob looked away for a second, then back at you. He was trying not to fall headfirst into the thing you were offering. He was trying to protect himself, because he couldn’t quite believe it, not yet. “He sounds… lucky,” he said, careful not to let his voice shake.
You watched him, your brow furrowing just slightly. “Yeah,” you said. “I think he is, or he would be. If he felt the same.”
Your eyes didn’t leave his. They stayed right there, open, waiting, soft in the edges but bright with something that looked like hope, or maybe just the kind of yearning that lived in quiet places. The kind that never demanded anything, just wanted to be seen.
Bob stood there with his breath held like he might drop something if he exhaled. And still, he said nothing.
Because the part of him that loved you the most was the same part that was terrified to believe this was real.
- You -
After you bared your soul to Bob Floyd, nothing dramatic happened. The sky didn’t fall. The earth didn’t tilt. You didn’t wake up the next day wrapped in some cinematic resolution.
What came instead was quieter. He hadn’t said anything that night, and in the days that followed, his silence stretched long enough to feel like an answer you didn’t want to hear.
At first, you tried to give him space. Maybe he needed time. You told yourself that, over and over, like a mantra you didn’t quite believe. He was thoughtful, cautious by nature.
Maybe he just didn’t know what to do with a moment like that, with someone standing in front of him asking him to be sure about something he had never dared to want out loud.
You excused his distance the first few days, chalked it up to nerves or work or some internal battle he hadn’t figured out how to name yet.
Then a week passed. Then two.
Meanwhile, life kept moving around you. Penny teased you about always being lost in your head. The Dagger Squad still came in for drinks and darts and nights that ended in someone losing a bet. Rooster flirted with a girl from town. Phoenix rolled her eyes at every single one of Jake’s one-liners.
And Bob? Bob was there, technically. He came in with the group, always on time, always polite. He nodded when you greeted him, smiled when the moment called for it, but the quiet between you was different now. Measured. Careful.
He didn’t stay behind after closing anymore. He didn’t sit at the bar with his hands folded while you cleaned up. He didn’t offer to walk you out to your car or wait by the door pretending he just happened to be there.
You noticed every time he left before the music ended. You noticed when he talked more to Phoenix, when he stared harder at his drink. You noticed when he didn’t look at you unless you spoke directly to him.
Then, came the creeping thoughts, the ones that curled around your ribs at night when you tried to sleep. Had you misread it all? The glances, the soft silences, the way he always stayed just a little longer than he needed to.
You wondered if he regretted letting you say it. If he wished you hadn’t. If your honesty had ruined something that wasn’t even fully alive to begin with.
You started second-guessing your words. You replayed that night in your head so many times it felt like a memory pressed under glass.
And still, Bob said nothing.
You didn’t want to chase him. You didn’t want to make him feel cornered or forced, but the hurt settled in slowly, like the way ocean salt clings to your skin long after you’ve dried off.
You missed him.
Missed him in the kind of way that snuck up on you during the little moments, the quiet in between shifts, the way you’d glance up out of habit and expect to see him leaning against the wall, waiting.
But he was gone, not completely, but just enough to make you feel the difference. And you were starting to wonder if he had ever really been yours to begin with.
You remember having a joke before about having a thing for Rooster. He was easy to like. Loud in a charming way, confident without being cruel, handsome in that classic, all-American way that turned heads when he walked into the bar. He made people laugh. He made you laugh.
For a while, it was enough to have him flirt with you across the counter, toss you a wink after landing a bullseye at the dartboard, tease you about your drink preferences like it was some shared secret. It was simple, and safe in its own shallow way.
But somewhere along the line, somewhere between closing shifts and long glances and the sound of Bob’s voice saying your name just once in a quiet room, you realized it had never really been about Rooster.
Because while everyone else was turning up the volume, Bob was steady. He didn’t try to impress anyone, didn’t spin stories or flash that practiced grin. He was just there. Patient, observant, always listening, and always waiting.
And now, without meaning to, your thoughts kept looping back to him. You saw him in the quiet moments, where nothing loud or clever could fill the space. The ones where presence mattered more than words.
And maybe that was why it hurt more than you expected, because you hadn’t just liked Bob. You’d started seeing him.
He wasn’t loud or traditionally flashy, but he had that kind of presence you didn’t fully appreciate until it was missing. He was tall, sure, but never made himself bigger than the room. His movements were careful, efficient, like someone who knew how to blend in but never truly disappear.
There was a softness to the way he carried himself, thoughtful and precise, like everything he did had purpose. His sandy hair always looked like it needed a few more minutes in the mirror, but it somehow worked on him, just slightly ruffled, like he’d been running his hand through it all day.
And his eyes, behind those glasses, were the kind you didn’t notice until you really looked. Clear blue, a little shy, always gentle, but there were moments when they caught the light just right and made your breath catch.
You remembered that night on the beach. The way he’d looked at you when you said it, really said it, and how something in his face had almost cracked. You thought he might say something then. Anything, but he hadn’t. He’d just looked at you with those quiet, stunned eyes and let the moment pass.
Now, two weeks later, it was all still sitting with you.
And no amount of Rooster’s charm or Jake’s jokes or Phoenix’s sideways glances could fill the space Bob had left behind.
Because it wasn’t just a crush anymore. It wasn’t something light or flirty or fun. It was something that had snuck up on you when you weren’t watching. And it was wearing glasses and a quiet smile and a name that was starting to taste like longing every time you said it.
The worst part was that he hadn’t said anything.
Not that he’d rejected you outright, and certianly not that he’d laughed or pulled away or looked horrified. He just... hadn’t said anything. And that silence? It was louder than any no you’d ever heard.
As the days stretched on, you started wondering if you’d imagined the whole thing. Maybe you’d read too far into a kind gesture, misinterpreted a kind man. Maybe he had never looked at you that way.
Maybe he had been kind because that’s just who he was, and you’d gone and ruined everything by making it more than that. It would’ve been easier if he’d told you you were wrong. If he’d said he didn’t see you like that.
At least then you could’ve buried it properly, but this? This careful avoidance, this half-hearted politeness when you passed behind the bar, this space he put between you every time you were in the same room, it just felt worse.
Meanwhile, your thoughts kept looping in circles, dragging you into places you didn’t want to go. Was he ashamed of you? Had your honesty made him uncomfortable? Had he gone home that night and replayed it all with a wince, wondering why someone like you would even think he could feel the same?
You didn’t want to believe that. Not from Bob, but your brain didn’t care. It was like it made its own monsters in the dark.
Maybe he’d been disgusted, maybe he thought you were too much, too forward, and too broken. You’d been vulnerable in a way you hadn’t been in a long time. You’d said things you didn’t even mean to say until they were already out of your mouth.
What if he had seen you differently after that? What if he pitied you?
Then, there was the deeper, more painful thought; the one that caught in your throat every time it surfaced. What if he had wanted to say something, but decided not to because he didn’t want you like that? What if the reason he didn’t speak was because it was easier to walk away than to face the disappointment in your eyes?
You started pulling back, even when you didn’t mean to. You smiled less, you lingered at the bar a little longer to avoid walking past him, you laughed at Hangman’s stupid jokes just to fill the silence.
You pretended Rooster still made your heart skip, even though he never had, but not in the way Bob did, at least. You tried to pretend it didn’t matter, that you hadn’t stood in front of him, heart open and hands shaking, asking for something small and simple.
You weren’t asking him to love you. You’d only wanted to know if he could. And now? Now you didn’t even know if he’d ever really seen you at all.
Eventually, you started blaming yourself.
Not just for saying too much, but for believing in the first place that you ever had a chance. The more time passed, the more it sunk in; how foolish you must have looked, how naive you must have sounded, standing there that night like some starry-eyed fool thinking that your feelings meant something.
You played it back in your head, the way his eyes had gone wide, the way his mouth opened and closed, the way the silence stretched just long enough to hurt. And still, you told yourself he needed time. That he was shy, or overwhelmed, or maybe just stunned by the idea that anyone could want him like that.
But now, after two weeks of polite distance and half-smiles that felt like placeholders, you saw the truth for what it was. You’d read too far into everything. You’d taken his kindness and mistook it for something more. You’d turned his gentle nature into something romantic because it was easier to believe he could love you than it was to admit how lonely you were.
Meanwhile, every moment you’d clung to before started crumbling under closer inspection.
That time he stayed late to walk you to your car? He probably just didn’t want you walking alone. The way he listened when you talked about your childhood? Maybe he was just being polite. Maybe he wasn’t holding on to your words the way you were holding on to his silence. Maybe he never looked at you the way you looked at him. Maybe he never even saw you that way.
Then, came the part that stung worst of all. You had told him. You had shown him. And still, he hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t come back with an apology or a gentle letdown. He hadn’t asked if you were okay or said he needed time or even offered you a friend’s honesty. He had just... faded.
And that left you with only one conclusion. You must have imagined it all.
You must have taken every quiet moment and twisted it into a fairytale. You must have seen something in him that was never really there. And how embarrassing was that?
How delusional had you been to think someone like Bob Floyd, kind and steady and good in a way you hadn’t known people could be, could ever look at someone like you and feel the same?
The more you thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed. You weren’t subtle. You had laid everything out for him, eyes wide, voice shaking, heart damn near bleeding at his feet. And he hadn’t even had to say no.
His silence had done the job for him. It was almost worse this way, the slow drip of rejection hidden under the surface of normalcy. At least if he’d said he didn’t feel the same, you could’ve begun to heal. Now all you had were the pieces of something you had built alone. And the painful knowledge that none of it, not a single part, had ever belonged to you.
“Hey,” Bradley said gently, his voice low and a little rough around the edges. “Hey, look at me.”
The sound of your name broke through the haze, pulling you back to yourself just enough to flinch. You hadn’t realized anyone had come outside.
You hadn’t realized how long you’d been sitting there, knees tucked up slightly, arms loose at your sides, eyes fixed on some blurred spot in the distance where the sky met the sea. You jumped when you felt the hand on your shoulder, then turned quickly, heart skipping.
Bradley stood just behind you, looking more serious than you were used to seeing him. He held a bottle in one hand and worry in his eyes, the kind that didn’t need explaining.
Without saying much else, he moved around and sat beside you on the porch swing, the old chains creaking softly under the added weight. He handed you the beer without ceremony and leaned back, one arm resting along the back of the swing, close but not quite touching.
Penny had all but pushed you out here fifteen minutes ago, and she told you she didn’t care how many glasses needed washing or how many people still needed tabs, then she said you were zoning out again, and it was starting to scare her.
You hadn’t argued, so you’d come out and settled on the swing you’d talked her into buying last spring, swearing it would bring in more customers, give the place a softer edge. Now, it just felt like a place to fall apart quietly.
“I’d be stupid to ask if you’re okay,” Bradley said after a moment, cracking the cap off his own bottle and taking a small sip.
You forced a small, shaky laugh. “I’m fine.”
But he turned his head toward you, sharp and certain, before you could even blink. “Do not lie to me, sweetheart.”
The words landed heavy, not cruel, but weighted in the way that told you he wasn’t going to let it slide this time. He knew, maybe not everything, and maybe not the full mess of what you were holding, but enough, enough to call it what it was.
You didn’t speak at first. The beer sat cold in your hand, untouched, forgotten. The swing moved just slightly beneath you both, the creak of the chain giving your silence rhythm.
You felt the wind slip through your hair, and you stared straight ahead, trying to find something steady in the blur of night lights reflecting off parked cars and distant waves.
It felt like something in you had cracked open, not loudly, but slowly, and all the thoughts you’d tried to keep buried had begun to spill into everything, every glance, every breath, every reminder of what you’d said and what he hadn’t.
And now Bradley was here, waiting quietly beside you, like he’d seen the whole thing unravel without ever needing you to say a word.
You didn’t answer him right away, and Bradley didn’t push. He just let the silence settle between you again, steady as the tide. His fingers tapped once, twice, against the glass of his beer bottle before he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
The porch light buzzed faintly above, casting a soft glow over the railing, and the hum of conversation from inside the Hard Deck faded into the background.
“I won’t ask,” he said eventually, eyes fixed ahead. “But I’ll tell you something, and you don’t have to say a word back. Just... let me talk, alright?”
You nodded once, barely more than a tilt of your head. It was all the permission he needed.
“When I was a kid, my mom used to tell me this story about how she met my dad,” he began, voice easy and even, like he wasn’t trying to make it serious, just keep it honest.
“She said he used to come into this greasy little diner she worked at every Sunday, like clockwork. Sat at the same booth, ordered the same thing, barely said more than a few words to her the first month. She thought he was sweet, kind of quiet, kind of awkward.”
You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, but he wasn’t looking at you. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, somewhere far away from the parking lot and the bar and whatever weight you were both carrying.
“She swore she caught him staring sometimes, but he always looked away too fast. She used to joke that he looked like he was trying to memorize her but didn’t want her to notice. Said he always left good tips, always thanked her, but never flirted. Not once, but for weeks.”
There was a softness to Bradley’s voice now, one that only came when he talked about his mother. You’d heard it before, usually in quieter moments, and it always held a kind of reverence that made you ache.
“Then one night,” he continued, “she was working a late shift, and rain was coming down hard, place was almost empty. She was wiping down the counter when he came in soaking wet, no umbrella, no coat, just dripping all over the floor. She asked what the hell he was doing out in that weather, and he said he forgot his wallet the last time he came in. Handed it over like he’d come all that way for something that dumb.”
He paused for a beat, then smiled faintly. “But she swore he didn’t forget anything. He just needed an excuse to come back. That was the night he asked if he could walk her home.”
The wind rustled gently through the nearby trees, and for a moment it felt like you could almost see it, that little diner, the rain on the windows, the quiet rhythm of something small beginning.
“She said she knew then,” Bradley said, finally glancing over at you. “Said she knew that someone who came back just to give her a reason to see him again was someone who’d stay.”
You looked away quickly, eyes burning with something you didn’t want to explain. He didn’t mention Bob. He didn’t have to, and you could hear it in the way he told the story. Y
ou could feel the shape of it beneath every word. And still, he didn’t push. He just leaned back again, letting the swing move with the wind, like time could slow down if he just let it.
For a while, you didn’t say anything. You just sat there, eyes fixed on the space between your shoes and the wooden porch floor, your fingers tracing the rim of the bottle without really noticing, but something about Bradley’s voice, about the softness in that story, had carved out enough silence inside you that the words finally had somewhere to land.
“I really thought he felt the same,” you said quietly, barely more than a breath.
Bradley didn’t react right away. He stayed still, just listening, not pushing you to keep going, not rushing to fill the quiet. So, you kept talking, because now that it had started spilling, you didn’t know how to stop.
“I told myself not to hope. I mean... I’ve done this before. I’ve fallen for people who were never mine to begin with, but this time it felt different, slower, softer. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, it just… built. And I thought maybe he was just waiting, maybe he was scared, but it’s been two weeks and he’s barely even looked at me.”
Bradley let out a quiet breath through his nose, nodding once like he understood more than you realized. You glanced at him, and he didn’t look smug or surprised, just calm, like someone you could lean on without asking.
“I keep thinking,” you said, your voice cracking just a little, “how stupid I must’ve been to think he actually wanted me. Like I made it all up in my head, every little look, every quiet moment. Maybe I’m just… too much.”
Bradley turned to you then, his eyes steady as they met yours. He didn’t speak right away. He just reached out and gently placed his hand over yours, grounding you.
“You’re not too much,” he said, firm but quiet. “Don’t ever think that, and you weren’t stupid. Anyone who made you feel like you were? That’s on them, not you.”
Your chest tightened. The tears you’d been holding back all day finally started pushing at the edges. You didn’t even try to stop them this time. You looked away, blinking hard, and then Bradley shifted beside you, opening his arms just a little like he wasn’t sure you’d take the offer.
You didn’t even hesitate.
You leaned into him, your forehead pressing to his shoulder as his arms came around you in a firm, steady hug. Not romantic. Not complicated. Just warm and solid and safe. You let yourself breathe for the first time in days.
And then, the door creaked open behind you. You froze.
Bradley tensed slightly beneath you, then turned his head toward the door. You didn’t move right away, but your heart sank before you even heard the voice.
“Oh,” Bob said, voice clipped and uncertain. “Sorry, uh...I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
You pulled back slowly, your heart hammering against your ribs as you turned your head just enough to see him standing there in the open doorway, his hand still on the handle like he hadn’t fully stepped out. His eyes flicked from you to Bradley and back, unreadable in the low porch light.
Before you could say a word, he nodded once, quick, awkward, and stepped back inside, letting the door close behind him with a soft, final click. The silence that followed was heavier than before.
And this time, it wasn’t just yours. Was it really?
Bradley exhaled slowly, leaning back on the swing as you pulled away. His arm dropped to his side, but his eyes stayed on you, studying the way your posture had changed. You were still sitting, but something in you had shifted, gone taut like a wire pulled too tight. He saw it before you even stood.
“He saw something that wasn’t what it looked like,” he said quietly. “If it matters that much to you, go tell him.”
You looked at him then, heart already rising into your throat. “What if it’s too late?”
Bradley gave a small smile, nothing showy, just enough to feel real. “Then at least you’ll know you tried.”
You were already on your feet before he finished speaking.
Your boots hit the wooden porch hard as you turned toward the Hard Deck and pushed the door open, the warm noise of the bar spilling out into the night.
Inside, everything looked the same as it always did, Jake and Natasha nursing drinks at the high-top, Javy half-asleep on the couch by the jukebox, Mickey talking to a girl at the bar, but Bob wasn’t there.
Panic flared up as your eyes scanned the room again, faster this time. You moved toward the others, voice already raised a little louder than you meant it to be.
“Where’s Bob?”
Jake looked up from his drink, raising one brow with a smirk already forming. “Left a minute ago,” he said, drawing the words out with that usual drawl. “Looked like he had something on his mind.”
Phoenix gave him a side-glare, but Jake only grinned, tilting his beer bottle toward you. “Might wanna hurry, darlin’. Pretty sure he’s heading for the parking lot.”
Then, he winked.
You didn’t wait for the rest. You were already turning, already pushing through the door again before Phoenix could finish rolling her eyes. The night air hit you fast as you broke into a run, boots hitting pavement, heart racing, breath uneven as your eyes searched the parking lot for any sign of him.
But he was nowhere to be found. Not near the cars, not by the road, not leaning against the building like he sometimes did when he needed air.
You turned in a slow circle, breath catching, chest tightening, and for a moment you thought maybe, just maybe, you’d already lost him.
The first rumble of thunder rolled across the sky like a warning, low and distant, but enough to make you glance upward. The clouds had thickened without you noticing, dark smudges swallowing the stars you’d barely registered when you ran out here.
You kept walking anyway, your breath catching somewhere between hope and regret, your boots pounding across the vast stretch of asphalt that seemed to go on forever.
The Hard Deck’s parking lot felt impossibly big now, like it had swallowed him whole. You turned one way, then another, looking past the cars and over the fence toward the road, hoping to catch a glimpse of his figure in the dark. Nothing. No movement, no headlights, just the hum of silence.
And then, the sky split open.
The thunder cracked louder this time, and a second later the rain came down hard and fast, no preamble, no gentle drizzle. Just a sudden downpour, sharp and cold and unrelenting.
It soaked you instantly, plastering your shirt to your skin and pushing your hair down over your forehead. You stopped in the middle of the lot, blinking against the water, teeth clenched as you spun in one last desperate circle.
“Shit,” you breathed out, voice swallowed by the storm. “Shit!”
You kicked at a puddle with the side of your foot, frustration rising until it choked you. Then, slowly, without really thinking about it, you turned away from the cars and walked across the lot toward the dunes.
The sand felt cold under your boots as you stepped over the edge of the boardwalk, then softer as it gave under your feet. The tide was coming in slow and steady, the ocean dark and wild beneath the storm, but you didn’t stop. You moved closer until the wind off the water hit your skin like a slap.
The rain kept falling, heavier now, washing over your arms and shoulders and cheeks, mixing with the tears you didn’t even realize had started until your vision blurred.
You stopped walking, right where the wet sand met the dry, and you let your knees give a little, sinking down just enough to wrap your arms around yourself. The tears came harder now, not the quiet kind, but the full-body kind. The kind you only let loose when there’s no one around to see it.
Because what was wrong with you?
Why did you always love the wrong people, or love the right ones at the wrong time?
Why did your heart have to choose the person who couldn’t say anything back?
Why did you open yourself up at all, when it only ever ended like this, alone, soaked to the bone, watching the world pretend not to notice?
You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but it didn’t matter. The wind carried it away.
And then, so softly you almost didn’t feel it, something touched your shoulder.
You looked up, eyes stinging.
An umbrella had been tilted over you, its wide canopy blocking the worst of the rain. The water still dripped off the edges, pooling around you in the sand, but suddenly the sound wasn’t so loud. The sky felt a little less heavy.
Someone had come back.
- Bob -
It was the way your head rested against Bradley’s shoulder that did it. Not the hug itself. Not even the rainclouds already threatening the sky. It was the intimacy of it. The ease.
The way you leaned into him like you belonged there. Bob had seen plenty of hugs before. He’d even been on the receiving end of one or two from you. But this was different.
This looked like something he wasn’t supposed to see.
“Oh,” Bob said quietly, voice tight in his throat. “Sorry, uh...I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
You turned toward him, startled, but he didn’t wait for you to explain. He just nodded once and backed into the doorway before the swing could creak again, before you or Bradley could say anything that might make it worse. The sound of the door clicking shut behind him felt final, like the end of a page he hadn’t meant to write.
He moved quickly across the bar, making his way to where the squad was still lounging. He didn’t say much. Just a quiet “Night,” as he passed Phoenix, who raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask, and then Coyote, who was halfway through a drink.
He didn’t even glance at Jake, who was mid-laugh over something Mickey said. Bob didn’t want to hear the jokes. He didn’t want a conversation. He just wanted to leave before whatever was knotted in his chest made its way to his face.
Outside again, the air felt heavier. Humid and tense. He inhaled slowly as he walked across the lot, weaving between cars toward the overflow patch of gravel on the far end of the property where he had parked earlier.
The bar had been packed when he arrived. He hadn’t minded the extra walk then. Now, he was grateful for it. Maybe the distance would help clear his head.
He reached for his door handle, only to pause. His keys were not in his pocket.
He checked again. Patting down the front, the side. Even crouched to peek under the car in case he’d dropped them on the walk out. Nothing.
Bob closed his eyes, jaw tightening as the first flicker of lightning cracked across the clouds. A second later, thunder rolled in low and slow behind it. Of course. Of course. He exhaled sharply, eyes stinging more than he wanted to admit, and turned on his heel.
The back door was closer than the front, so he made his way around the building and slipped in through the rear entrance near the storage room. Inside, the music was muffled and the lights were dimmer, but the voices of his squad were unmistakable.
Jake looked up first, brows lifted in surprise. “What the hell, man? I thought you just left.”
Bob didn’t slow his pace. “I forgot my keys,” he muttered, stepping toward their table with zero interest in lingering.
Jake blinked at him, then grinned slowly. “And you came all the way back for that? You sure it’s not because your one true love is still in the vicinity?”
Bob rolled his eyes, hand outstretched. “Give me the keys, Seresin.”
Bradley, who had just come back inside from the porch, walked past Jake and dropped into the seat beside Mickey with a dramatic sigh. Then he looked up at Bob, eyes calm, and said, “Go get your girl.”
Bob froze, confusion flickering across his face. “What?”
Bradley just gave him a pat on the shoulder and leaned back, tossing an arm over the back of the booth like he hadn’t just dropped something massive into the middle of the room. “You’ll figure it out.”
Jake chuckled, pulling Bob’s keys from his jacket pocket and tossing them with a lazy underhand. “Godspeed, lover boy,” he said with a wink.
Bob caught them with a half-hearted glare, then turned to leave again, shoulders tight. The rain had started properly by the time he stepped back outside.
Not just a drizzle, but a full downpour, wind kicking up droplets sideways as he squinted against the water. He didn’t have a jacket, of course not, but he did spot a forgotten umbrella resting in the metal stand by the exit door, probably something Penny kept for guests who never remembered the forecast.
He grabbed it without hesitation.
As he started toward his car again, umbrella tilted forward to block the worst of the storm, he squinted toward the shoreline. The wind had shifted, making it harder to see, but something near the dunes caught his eye.
A figure, small and still with knees drawn in, head down, hunched against the rain.
His chest tightened instantly, because he knew exactly who it was.
You.
Bob’s breath caught as soon as he saw you.
You were there, just beyond the edge of the dunes, curled in on yourself, knees drawn up, the sand clinging to your boots and the hem of your jeans. Rain poured down over you like the sky itself was mourning something, but you weren’t moving. You just sat there like you had nowhere else to go.
For a second, he didn’t know what to do.
He stood frozen, umbrella in one hand, heart in his throat, soaked already from the walk and not caring in the slightest. The wind tugged at his sleeves, the cold crawling under the collar of his shirt, but his eyes didn’t leave you.
Not when the waves crashed, and certainly not when thunder growled low in the clouds.
Then, before he could lose his nerve again, he moved.
Each step down the beach felt like something deliberate, something that might rewrite everything or wreck it entirely. By the time he reached you, your shoulders were shaking. He didn’t know if it was from the cold or the crying, and the thought of either made something tighten behind his ribs.
He tilted the umbrella gently over your head, angling it to cover as much of you as he could. The rain pinged off the canopy, water spilling down the sides and pooling into the sand. He didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t have to.
You turned slowly, blinking up at him with eyes red from tears, your face half-shielded by your hand.
When you spoke, it was soft, hoarse. “Bob?”
He swallowed hard. “What are you doing out here?”
You didn’t answer right away. You just stared at him like you couldn’t believe he was real. Then, pushing up off the sand, you stood slowly. You were already soaked through, hair clinging to your cheeks, your clothes heavy with rain.
The umbrella barely covered you both, so Bob tilted it even further toward your side, letting the drops hit the back of his neck, soak his shoulders. It didn’t matter.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” you said, wiping your face roughly with the back of your hand. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I—” Bob scoffed, quiet but incredulous. “What are you doing here? It’s pouring. You’re out in the middle of the beach, alone. You—you’re crying.”
“And?”
The word hit him like a slap, not because of what you said, but how. Defensive. Deflecting. Just like you always were when something hurt and you didn’t want to admit it.
He stepped back just slightly, shifting his weight. “You shouldn’t be out here. You could get sick.”
“I can handle a little rain, Bob.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
The frustration in your voice made something snap in him. Not anger. Just the helpless ache of wanting to understand and getting nothing but walls.
“You’re out here like the world’s ending,” he said, not harsh, but loud enough to cut through the sound of the ocean. “And I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what I walked in on earlier, but whatever it is, it clearly messed you up. So why won’t you just say it?”
Your jaw tightened. Bob’s eyes searched yours, and he hated how wet your lashes were, how you kept blinking like it might stop the tears from falling again.
“You left,” you said, barely louder than the waves. “You saw me and Bradley and you just left. You didn’t ask. You didn’t say anything. You just walked away.”
“Because I thought—” Bob started, then stopped, mouth opening again before the words would come. “Because I thought maybe I’d finally misread everything. That maybe I really was just the guy who stood beside you while you reached for someone else.”
You went still.
Bob felt the rain trickling down his collar, the weight of it sinking into his clothes, but none of it mattered. Not when he could see the tremble in your chin.
Not when his hands were gripping the handle of the umbrella too tightly, like it was the only thing keeping him from breaking open completely.
“I came out here to go home,” he said, voice raw now. “I wasn’t trying to chase you. I wasn’t trying to win anything. I just… saw you and knew I couldn’t leave like that. Not when you looked like—”
“Like what?” you snapped. “Like someone who’s miserable because the person she cares about doesn’t even see her?”
Bob stared.
The umbrella slipped in his hand slightly as his grip faltered. Your chest was rising and falling fast now, tears sliding down your cheeks again even as the rain tried to wash them away.
“You don’t get to be the only one hurt here,” you whispered, and Bob’s breath hitched at the sound.
Bob’s hands were trembling now, just barely, but he didn’t care if you noticed. The umbrella had shifted again, tilted awkwardly between you as the wind pushed it sideways, the handle slipping under his palm.
You stood there in front of him, soaked, furious, breaking right in front of him, and still so beautiful it physically hurt.
He reached out with his free hand, curling his fingers around your wrist gently, almost pleading. “Can we just—can we please go somewhere dry? Please? You’re shaking. I’m shaking. This is…”
“No.”
You didn’t yell it. You didn’t need to. You said it with steel in your voice, steady and clear, enough to stop him cold. His hand dropped back to his side, and the umbrella dipped lower, forgotten.
“You don’t get to do that,” you continued, eyes shining with something deeper than just tears. “You don’t get to show up and look at me like that and then leave. For two weeks, Bob. I bared my soul to you and then you disappeared. You looked at me like I meant something, like maybe I wasn’t alone in feeling this—and then you vanished.”
The words were falling faster now, unfiltered, raw. Your chest heaved as you stood your ground, unmoving, hair plastered to your face, water running down your neck.
“I spent the last two weeks thinking I imagined everything. That I was delusional. That maybe I was just another sad story in your life you didn’t want to deal with. I thought, hell, I thought maybe you were ashamed of me. That I’d embarrassed you somehow. Because how else do you explain silence like that, Bob? After everything—”
“I never—”
“No. Let me finish,” you snapped, voice cracking slightly. “You don’t get to shut me out and then show up and pretend like I’m the one who needs fixing. I was hurting, and you walked away. And I tried to pretend it didn’t break me but it did, Bob. It really did. And you know what’s worse? I would’ve forgiven you. I still—”
He dropped the umbrella.
It fell between you with a quiet thud, folding uselessly into the sand as the wind dragged it sideways. Then, in a single, swift step, he closed the distance between you, and his hands came up to your face, framing it with a tenderness that contradicted the desperate pull in his breath.
And then, he kissed you.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t shy. It was soaked and shaking and aching from two weeks of silence, from a year of almosts, from the weight of everything left unsaid.
His lips pressed to yours like he needed to be sure this was real, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he waited one second longer. You felt the way his chest rose against yours, the way his hands curled into your damp hair like he was anchoring himself.
He kissed you like someone drowning, and you kissed him back like you’d been waiting your whole damn life.
The moment their lips parted, Bob felt it like an ache. Not just in his chest, but in every part of him that had been holding back for too long. His breath came ragged, wet hair dripping into his eyes, and he let out a soft, disbelieving laugh as he looked at you.
There was a smile on his face now, gentle and quiet, like the storm had finally stilled, like maybe, just maybe, everything had been worth it.
Then, your hand hit his cheek with a sharp crack.
Bob reeled, not backward, just enough to blink the rain from his lashes and stare at you, stunned. His hand went instinctively to his cheek, now stinging from the slap, and he stood there completely still as you looked back at him with tears pouring down your face.
“What the hell was that?” you cried out, voice wobbling with more than just anger. “Why did you kiss me?! I—I had a whole speech, Bob! I practiced! I spent days trying to figure out how to say this to you and you—you just—”
“I—”
“I wasn’t done!” you snapped, both hands now clenched at your sides, your chest rising fast. “I had this whole damn thing ready and I was gonna look you in the eye and tell you that you make me feel like I’m not broken, that I feel safe with you and myself with you and God, Bob, you kissed me in the middle of it! What kind of timing, I mean, who does that?!”
He should’ve said something, but the lump in his throat was too thick, his heart too full. So instead, he stepped closer. One hand came up, trembling slightly as he touched your chin with the softest tip of his finger, lifting your face until your eyes met his again.
You looked furious, you looked wrecked, and you looked like you had waited for someone to choose you for far too long. And he did.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words catching like gravel in his throat.
His hand slid from your chin to your jaw, fingers brushing your cheekbone gently, the same one you had just slapped. His other hand found your lower back, firm and steady as he pulled you closer, pressing you carefully against him, like he was holding something fragile.
The rain was still pouring around you, but Bob didn’t feel it anymore. Not when you were this close.
His voice cracked on the first words.
“I didn’t mean to run,” he said, voice hoarse, barely audible over the storm. “I—I didn’t know what to do. I thought you were with Rooster. I saw you with him and it—it hurt so much I thought maybe I’d made the whole thing up in my head. That I was just… the background guy. Again. And I couldn’t stand it.”
You opened your mouth, but he shook his head quickly, eyes glassy. “Please, just… let me say this?”
You nodded.
“I love you.”
The words hit like a punch, and Bob had to blink fast as tears mixed with the rain on his face.
“I don’t know when it started,” he continued, stumbling slightly as the words finally spilled out, “but I think it was that first night at the bar when Penny introduced you to us. You were laughing at something Jake said, and I thought, God, I’m in trouble, because you looked at everyone like they were familiar, but when you looked at me, it felt like, like I mattered. And I never feel like that, not really.”
You were staring at him now, lips parted, rain dripping off your chin.
“And every time you talked to me, I couldn’t think straight. I’d remember later what I should have said, but in the moment, all I could do was hope you’d say something else just so I could keep hearing your voice. And then I saw you crushing on Rooster and I thought, Of course. Why wouldn’t you fall for the guy who’s everything I’m not?”
His thumb traced a gentle line under your eye, where a tear had carved a path.
“But then you looked at me that night on the beach. And I thought, maybe, Maybe I wasn’t just imagining it. Maybe I wasn’t being delusional.”
He took a breath, shaking.
“I love the way you talk when you’re too tired to filter yourself. I love how you take care of everyone, even when you’re falling apart. I love how stubborn you are. I love your damn porch swing, and the way you light up when you talk about stupid things like sandwich order preferences. I love every single part of you.”
His voice cracked again, eyes locked to yours.
“And I swear I would’ve said it sooner, if I wasn’t so afraid of losing the only thing in my life that felt good and real.”
You didn’t say anything right away. You didn’t have to. Bob could see it, your eyes glassy, your lips parted, your chest trembling from holding back too much for too long. You were crying, full and silent, the kind that made his chest twist because it meant you were really feeling it now.
And maybe he was too, because he didn’t even bother wiping at the tears running down his own cheeks.
What was the point? The rain was doing a damn good job of hiding them, but the heat in his throat said they were there anyway.
You reached up slowly, fingers brushing along the side of his neck, uncertain at first. Bob leaned into the touch like it was gravity, like the choice had already been made for him.
Your hand slid higher, into the mess of his damp hair, curling gently like it was something sacred.
He closed his eyes at that, just for a second. He didn’t need to look to feel it. He already knew that you were choosing him.
So, he kissed you.
And this time, it wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed or chaotic or driven by panic. It was slow. It was soft.
It was the kind of kiss that unfolded instead of exploded, that whispered you’re safe here instead of screaming don’t leave me.
His hands stayed steady, one resting gently at the small of your back, the other brushing your jaw with the kind of care he always used when he handled delicate things.
Your fingers curled tighter in his hair, pulling him closer, and he went willingly, without hesitation. The rain kept falling, soaking through every layer of clothing, dripping down your joined hands, your cheeks, your chins. You were soaked, cold, and probably going to get sick after this.
And neither of you cared, because something in the world had finally shifted into place.
When you finally pulled apart, it was only by a breath. Just far enough for your foreheads to touch, noses brushing, tears still clinging to both of your faces.
“I love you too, Robert Floyd,” you whispered, voice cracking on his name like it was the only truth that ever mattered.
Bob laughed, quiet and hoarse, and leaned into you again, one hand coming up to cup the side of your face as he looked at you, really looked.
“Say it again,” he said, not because he didn’t believe it, but because he needed to hear it. Like a balm. Like a song.
