also abbot faking the measurements so his patient could get an abortion was like a very endearing introduction to his character but also imagining the actual appointment makes me laugh because i feel like his bedside manner would be very cut and dry?? like it's not BAD, people can relax around him, it's just that he's dr. abbot u know... just very 😐 he's always got his damn 😐 face on. he can't do a customer service voice. so he has a teenage girl who's terrified her life is going to be over, the girl's aunt who's stressing over trying to protect her, both of them are trying to read abbot's face and tone of voice and he's giving them nothing, he's like "you'll be fine" in the flattest tone ever and the girl is like oh my god it's so over meanwhile abbot's coming up with the fake numbers he's going to plug into the chart in his head like fuck it we ball
𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: A prank war between you and Steve backfires when a thunderstorm washes away your paint, leaving behind an accidental love confession scribbled across his car.
𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩: fluff, with a side of making out. a little bit of cussing. Steve and reader are college age. 3.8k words
“Son of a bitch.” Dustin mutters beside you.
“Language,” you remind him, but the reprimand falls flat. You’re too busy staring at rainbow grenade parked in your driveway.
Your entire car is filled with balloons. Rubber blues, oranges, greens, and pinks packed so tightly they press into the windows, completely blocking the interior.
And you know exactly who to blame.
Your watch beeps, sending a thread of panic through you. “God! I’ve got to get to my test!” You hitch your backpack higher and start toward the car. “Why does it have to be today? Of all the days!”
The morning sun throws your reflections across the grey-blue paint, warping you to look shorter than you are. As you approach, you eye the driver’s side door handle suspiciously, as if it might succumb to all that internal pressure and pop off before you can reach it.
“Well it is April Fools today,” Dustin offers unhelpfully. “So…at least he’s punctual.”
“Not helping,” you grit out, finally wrenching open the door.
A shriek catches in your throat as an avalanche of balloons spills out, bouncing across the ground in every direction.
“How did he even do this?” Dustin says in awe, kicking at a pink balloon drifting past. “It’s kind of impressive. It must’ve taken him forever.”
“God, I hope he’s stumbling all over campus right now, dizzy from lack of oxygen. Oh my God—look! They’re all over the street. Dustin, go catch them.”
“Hey, I’ve got to get to school, too!” he says, gesturing towards his backpack. “Better drive fast.”
You check the time on your watch, batting a ballon from your face. “Ah, shit, there’s no time. Okay, listen, go call Nancy. She’s student-teaching the freshmen at your high school now, right? If you ask her right now, she’ll probably have enough time to swing by and pick you up.”
“No,” Dustin groans. “I don’t want to call Nancy! Her car smells like a perfume bomb went off, and she’ll just lecture me the whole way about turning in my homework on time.”
You ignore his complaints, attempting to forge your way into the driver’s seat. Balloons slide over your head as you push through, the static promptly ruining your fresh blowout.
“And to think all I was going to do to him this year was tape over his mixtapes,” you mutter, glancing back to meet your brother’s eyes. “Dustin…this means war.”
“Oh, shit!” He grins, readjusting his hat like he’s gearing up for the battle ahead. “What are you gonna do to him?”
“I don’t know,” you say, shoving your backpack into the passenger seat with all your might. “But I swear, if I miss this test, Steve Harrington is going to pay.”
“Do you know how long it takes to get rid of a hundred balloons?” You complain to Robin later that afternoon.
The cart squeaks along the carpet as you push the next pile of videos over for re-shelving. Robin waits at the end of the row for you, wearing a green Family Video vest that matches yours.
“You can’t just…take them out,” you continue. “Oh, no. Because then they all fly away in the wind, absolutely littering the road. And it takes so long to chase them down—don’t ask me how I know. And then only, like, six of them fit inside a trash bag. Six! Which means you have to pop them all first, and then stuff them in a bag, I mean seriously, Robin. I think my ears are still ringing.”
She grimaces, picking up Alien 2 and sliding it into its place.
“I had to drive to the college with all my windows blocked by the damn things. Huge safety hazard, by the way. And of course, my professor wouldn’t even let me in the testing room by the time I got there.”
Robin’s eyes widen with every word until she’s simply staring at you. “Wow, that is…wait. Where is Steve today, anyway?”
“I swapped shifts with him because sometimes he has an afternoon class that runs late on Mondays.”
She looks at you for another moment. “That was…nice of you.”
You shrug. “It wasn’t a big deal. But now, I’m done playing nice.”
A smile twists her lips as she moves down a row. “…Okay.”
“I’m serious, Robin!” You say, flipping your hair over your shoulder in exasperation. “This year, I’m going to do it. I’m gonna cross the uncrossable line.”
She freezes, then slowly turns to face you. “Oh my God. You wouldn’t.”
“Mark my words, Buckley. This is the year I go for the Beamer.” You point Footloose at her. “And I’m going to need your help.”
The plan sounded pretty badass in theory.
You were going to be a ninja in the night, leaving a message for your enemy. No—a promise.
You could almost picture yourself tossing back your hood under the full moon and licking the knife of victory, letting revenge bloom sweet on your tongue as you put an end to the prank wars.
But in reality…it looks like you crouching in the bushes with bugs crawling down your shirt, and cringing every time a car’s headlights sweep past.
Even though the sun went down hours ago, it’s still not dark enough for your taste. Gone are your visions of being an alluring silhouette against the stars, because the Harrington house sits in a neighborhood that believes in the HOA, twenty-four-hour police watch, and lots and lots of streetlights.
Which is why you brought your lookout.
“You’re positive this stuff will wash off?” You ask Robin for the thousandth time, smuggling the paint can out of your jean jacket and holding it close to read the label again.
“I mean, you heard the guy at the store—shit—” she ducks, spitting out a twig, “—he said it comes off with water. It’s like…liquid kid’s chalk or something.”
Steve’s Beamer sits in front of you, maroon and silver glinting in the light. Look at it. Oblivious. Unassuming.
The streetlights buzz above your head, blending with the croaks of nearby frogs. They’re probably breeding in Steve’s pool. There’s always, like, a gigillion of them every time you come over to swim in the summer.
It’s a warm night for early April, but a cool breeze stirs your hair, carrying that earthy, bitter smell of water in the air.
“Wait—is it supposed to rain?” you whisper.
“Shit, I don’t know,” Robin replies. “I wasn’t really tracking the weather, I was more focused on us not getting arrested. Or killed by Steve if he finds us. What are you going to write, anyway?”
With one last look around the empty street, you shake the bottle and pop the lid. “I thought I’d just let the spirit guide me.”
“The spirit of what?” she asks, but you’re already creeping toward the car.
This product isn’t like normal spray paint. The bottle hisses the same, and sort of sputters if you go too fast, but it writes smoothly—almost like a gel pen but in paint form.
The whole thing has your pulse pounding in your throat, your body wired, ready to run. It’s kind of…really fun.
You write two words. Attention ladies. That’s good.
You pause, shake the bottle, glance around, then go again.
By the end of the first sentence, you’re adding little flourishes to the ends of your letters.This paint is amazing. Your knees ache from bending over this long, and you’re a little lightheaded from the fumes. But when you’re finally running out of space, you stand back to admire your work.
From the trunk, all the way to the hood, in bright white letters, it reads:
ATTENTION LADIES: STEVE IS A TERRIBLE LOVER. YOU DON’T WANT TO KISS HIM.
“Wow,” Robin says, appearing at your side.
You jump. “God! Don’t—sneak like that.”
“That is…” She trails off, shaking her head, gaze pinned to the car.
“What?” you ask. “Petty?”
She shrugs, her white T-shirt glowing under the streetlight. “Well, yeah…”
You tuck the can into your jean jacket. “Childish?”
“Absolutely.” After a moment she adds, “How do you know he’s a terrible lover?”
You freeze.“W-what?”
She’s still staring at your words, lips pursed, head cocked to the side, waiting for your reply.
“I don’t! I just—it’s a prank, Robin!”
She holds her hands out in defense. “Okay! Okay, I was just curious. You know. If you’ve had, like, firsthand experience or something.”
“God! What? No! I just—you know how big his ego is,” you whisper, unsure of exactly why you’re still explaining yourself. “I’m just trying to…knock it down a little.”
Truth is, you don’t really know why you wrote that. All that went through your mind was him rolling up to a red light, doing a stupid double take at the girl next to him in her shiny red convertible. Putting on his sunglasses—the ones he thinks make him look cool—and rolling down his window. She’d take one look at that hair, that smile, and start fluttering her lashes. Maybe reapply her lipstick in the mirror, purposely parting her mouth in a pretty O, just to get his thoughts to run rampant and dirty.
And then…
Something on his car would catch her eye. Words. She’d read them…and then she’d drive off before the light turned green.
It’s brilliant. Or, you thought it was. And anyway, it’s not like it’s going to last forever. Steve Harrington can go a few days without another date.
“Okay, sorry, and what’s the kissing part supposed to mean?” Robin asks, drawing you from your thoughts.
You sigh, exasperated. “What do you mean, what does it mean? I think it’s pretty self-explanatory—car!”
You both dive into the bushes just as headlights sweep over the driveway. The car passes, the engine rattling off into the distance. You press a hand over your racing heart.
“So you’ve kissed him then?” Robin says once you’ve both caught your breath.
“What? No!” You practically shriek. It echoes down the silent street and you smack your forehead, wincing at the sound.
Robin stifles a laugh with her knuckles to her lips. “Okay, so if you haven’t slept with him, and you haven’t kissed him, then this—” she gestures through the bushes at your work, “—looks like it came from some petty-ex girlfriend.”
“Oh my God,” you turn back to the car. “You’re right. Wait here.”
You ignore Robin’s hiss to be careful as you creep forwards again. When you’re close enough, you sign your name on the right-hand sign with a little heart, like you always do.
There. Now he’ll know.
But as you step back to admire your work a second time, your stomach sinks.
What are you doing? You just wrote…that… on his car. And signed it.
There your name sits right under the words lover, and kiss, and Steve…
A light flicks on in the neighboring house. It might as well be the heavens cracking open with the way you take off.
Thankfully, Robin takes the hint, and scampers across the yard after you.
“Why did I do that?” you whisper as you near the car. The grass swishes under your sneakers, mixing with Robin’s raspy chuckle. “You made me do it!”
“You know he’s going to be pissed right?” Robin says, slamming the door behind her and throwing her car into gear. “Like—completely off his rocker, pissed.”
“Great,” You deadpan, checking over your shoulder one more time. “Maybe he’ll get so mad, he’ll declare me the official winner and we can stop this war altogether.”
Robin scoffs. “You’re telling me this time next year, you’re just gonna be like ‘wow, I really don’t miss that extremely flirtatious prank war we used to have going’? Because I don’t believe that for a second.
You don’t answer right away, your brain still short-circuiting over the word flirtatious.
She glances over and catches your expression. “Oh, don’t—seriously? I’m stuck in that video store with the two of you. I know exactly how you look at each other.”
“We don’t look at each other any certain way! We don’t look at each other…at all, actually! Our eyes just…never…connect—God, Robin.” You huff, turning to watch the streetlights blur past. “Are you just choosing to ignore all the times he comes in with some girl-of-the-week draped on his arm? Or all the times he rushes closing because he’s late for some hot new date?”
Robin looks over at you for a long moment. Her blinker clicking fills the silence.
“You’re jealous,” she says abruptly.
“Am not.
“Are too.”
You give up, pressing your forehead to the cool glass and letting out a miserable groan. You are.
You have been for a very, very long time.
“Hey, look at it this way,” she says, jutting a thumb back the way you came. “If that stuff actually is as water-soluble as the guy said, there’s like a solid chance this whole thing is gone by morning.”
Your face rolls into your palms. “This was such a terrible idea.”
“Eh, I don’t know,” Robin says, a smile in her voice. “Sometimes, those are the best kind.”
It’s late afternoon the next day, and you’re almost done with your shift when a familiar voice echoes through the quiet Family Video store.
“Is this your idea of a prank, Henderson? ‘Cause it’s not fucking funny!”
Shit.
The knot of anxiety in your stomach had been easing with the gentle click of video cases as you checked the returns—and because you talked to your professor again this morning. Thankfully, after a mortifying amount of pleading, he’s letting you retake the test in his office this afternoon.
But now, hearing Steve angrily stomp into work….it’s back.
You barely slept last night. Lightning crashed outside, rain pelted your roof, and louder than all of it was the worry about what Steve would do when he saw his car this morning.
You sort of let yourself believe Robin for a moment. That there might not be anything left for him to see.
But, of course. things can’t be that easy.
The second you step out of the backroom, Steve’s eyes lock onto you. He’s standing just inside, breathing hard under a yellow crewneck, hair raked through.
You risk a glance over at Robin. She’s leaned back on the counter, a smirk tugging on her mouth. What’s she so happy about?
“We’ve done a lot of shit to each other over the years,” Steve says, drawing your eyes back to him. “and I get that. But this? This is too far.”
Guilt spears through your gut. You did this to him.
“I know, I know it’s your car,” you mumble, eyes dropping to your shoes. “But I missed my test and I was angry and—” a sudden thought occurs to you. “Oh, God, please tell me the paint washes off!”
Steve squints down at you, hands on his hips. “Yes, it washes off,” he says, “You think that’s not the first thing I checked?” His eyes soften a little as he finally processes your words. “Wait—you missed your test?”
Oh. Well, then, it must be the message itself that has him so worked up. That, you can deal with.
“Then why are you so mad?” You ask, crossing your arms. “So you can’t go on a date for one day. Big deal. Can’t go to the drive-in movie with a car looking like that? Prank accomplished.”
“What?” His lips curl in confusion.
You frown and look to Robin. When your eyes meet she gives a small shrug, and with how much she looks like she’s enjoying this, you half expect her to pull out popcorn.
“Outside,” Steve barks. “Now.”
The glass door slams behind you as you step out into the parking lot. The afternoon sun has heated the still-wet asphalt, making ripples across the ground.
Steve crosses his arms beside you, gesturing for you to look. His Beamer is parked in the closest space, giving you a clear view of…what the—
Looks like Robin was right about the rain. It’s smeared your message into streaks, leaving only white fragments and a few choppy words behind.
ATTENTION, it reads. The next word, ‘ladies’, is gone. STEVE is clear as day, and the rain has taken the word ‘terrible’, leaving just the I. Followed by a pristine LOVE YOU. And conveniently, the words, WANT TO KISS, made the cut as well.
Your jaw drops.
Pulse racing, you scramble for something to say. Anything. “T-that’s…H-how do you know I evenwrote that?”
“That’s still your name, isn’t it?” Steve says, pointing above the wheel rim. There it is, your name, perfectly preserved down to the little heart next to it.
Wow.
Mother Nature is a bitch.
You stand there, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. A shadow falls over you, cooling your skin. Suddenly, your vision fills with warm chocolate eyes, and sunlight splicing through messy hair.
“You don’t mean it. Right?” Steve asks, voice achingly soft. “Because…that’s— I need to hear you say it. Or…”
Your breath hitches. “Or what?”
His hand finds your waist, the warmth bleeding through the fabric of your vest. That one touch nearly sets you aflame.
“God—just say April fools right now before I do something that’s gonna make me look like one,” he murmurs, gaze dropping to your lips.
You should say it. Or tell him the truth. But as he stands there holding you in his arms, sun-warmed, smelling like mints and hairspray, you just…can’t.
When his nose bumps yours, your heart nearly beats out of your chest. Your chin tilts to meet him, but he stops just shy.
“Are you sure?” he whispers. “Because if this is just some prank—”
You don’t let him finish. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, you drag him down the last inch and meet his mouth with yours.
A low groan spills from his chest as he pulls you into him, hands slipping under your vest like he can’t get close enough. His lips are soft and warm, and you sink into this kiss, threading his soft hair between your fingers.
Your lips meet and part in a pattern so familiar, yet so new. Your head spins at the heat of his hands, the minty sweet taste of his tongue, and most of all, the fact that this Steve—your Steve.
Dustin’s going to kill you. Both of you.
You don’t even register you’re moving until your back hits the car. Steve’s lips don’t leave yours, the kiss growing eager and desperate.
A bell chimes above the door. Footsteps echo somewhere in the parking lot.
You don’t open your eyes. You can’t.
Steve is a fantastic kisser. You expected that, given his platinum playboy status, but experiencing his skill is another thing entirely. His hand slides up to cup your jaw, tilting your face as he kisses you deeper, slower. The scorching glide of his tongue against yours makes your knees go weak. As his thumb brushes down your throat, a soft sound slips out, like he drew it out himself. Like he just played your body like an instrument.
Damn.
Steve pulls back and rests his forehead against yours, a quiet laugh stuck in his chest.
“I love you, too,” he whispers. “Have for a long time, I just thought…well, I thought you didn’t want me like that, and—”
Your heart soars at his confession, but words won’t come to you right now. They’re plastered across his car instead. He’s breathing hard under your palms, and you can’t do anything but close the gap between your lips again, needing him to know you feel the same.
The bell chimes again, and someone clears their throat loudly.
You break apart and spin to see Robin leaning out the door. The AC spills past her, cooling your flushed cheeks. She’s holding your navy backpack out to you.
“Oh shit!” You smack your forehead. “I’ve got to get to my test!”
“I’ll drive you!” Steve offers instantly.
“No, but you have to work!”
“Guys,” Robin interrupts, “I’ve got it. It’s dead in here today. Go.”
“I owe you, Buckley,” Steve says, pointing his car keys at her as he jogs over to the driver’s side door.
You swipe the backpack from her and turn to leave, but she pinches your vest, a silent reminder you still have it on.
“No, seriously, you’re an angel,” you add, shrugging off your vest and placing it in her outstretched palm.
“Yeah, well, someone’s got to attend to the customers. Am I right?” She winks before disappearing back in the store.
Steve looks so good sitting next to you in the driver’s seat, hair falling over his brow as he turns the ignition. He has to actually remind you to put on your seatbelt when he catches you staring.
He pulls off onto the main road, one hand flung over the wheel.
How are you actually expected to focus on anything right now? Let alone taking a test in twenty minutes?
Because one look at those eyes falling down to your lips, his knuckles brushing across his mouth like he can’t get the taste of you out of his head. The way your hands find each other over the console, leaning towards each other like some unseen manger is pulling you together.
Steve clears his throat, a smile tugging at his mouth. “You got plans after this?”
“Actually, yeah I do.”
His face falls but he recovers quickly. “Okay, yeah! Sorry. Last minute—“
“It’s just that I’ve got to wash this guy’s car…”
He grins, and your heart flutters at the sight. “Damn right you do. And what about after that?”
“Depends,” you bite your lip. “What are you suggesting?”
He shrugs one shoulder, the very picture of confidence, even if you see the way his fingers drum the steering wheel. “What was it you were saying about drive-in movies earlier?”
You smile. “Just that… I love ‘em.”
“And that’s curtain, ladies and gents.” Robin mutters to herself, closing the glass door as she watches the two of you speed off. The dust motes floating through the sunbeams are her only audience as she takes a bow.
“Roses? For me? You shouldn’t have.” She flicks her hand, waving off imaginary applause as she tucks her bucket of soapy water and sponge into the backroom.
Robin doesn’t do early mornings. But today, she made an exception.
There she was at sunrise, crouched beside the Beamer, scrubbing off very specific words the rain barely touched the night before.
Because this whole bit—where the two of you pretend not to be in love—was just going on a bit too long for her taste.
ᥫ᭡
a/n: robin is a real one. idk man, holidays just inspire me lol so here you go.
description: Michael is always running from something. How far can one run when held accountable.
content: angst, fluff, mention of blood, fighting, Mike and El never dated.
warning: I changed the pov a lot, from 2nd to 3rd. Uh, aged up characters I guess. Pre-final battle. Broken arm.
request:
an: Mike is such a pretty boy
Mike Wheeler had always believed he understood people.
He understood how Johnathan needed logic before courage. How Steve used humor like armor. How Lucas believed logic over coincidences. How Eleven carried silence the way other girls carried purses.
He understood adults least of all, but even they fit into neat categories in his head; Jim Hopper the gruff protector, Joyce Byers the frantic mom, Murray Bauman the sarcastic outsider who smelled faintly of coffee and cigarettes and acted like every conversation was an interrogation.
And then there was Y/n.
Y/n didn’t fit anywhere.
She arrived in Hawkins with her father near the end of the winter of 1984, hauled in like extra luggage behind Murray’s oversized personality. According to her, he had uprooted her life because he wanted to be where the action was. Mike thought that was insane. The action in Hawkins had nearly gotten them all killed. Normal people moved away from danger, they didn’t chase it like a hobby.
But normal was not exactly Murray Bauman’s brand.
He was a bit of an asshole, too blunt, too nosy, too convinced he was always the smartest man in any room. Mike decided within a week that he didn’t like him much at all.
Unfortunately, he liked Murray’s daughter almost immediately.
The first day she really became part of Mike’s world was the day she stormed into Hopper’s cabin uninvited, months after living in Hawkins.
She burst through the front door while Mike was sitting at the kitchen table with El and Will, the windows rattling with early-summer heat, the air thick with the smell of Hopper’s cooking experiment gone wrong. Y/n came in furious, ponytail swinging, cheeks flushed as she launched into a full-volume rant about how El needed to get out more, how she deserved to shop at Starcourt and paint her nails and talk about boys and wear embarrassing neon dresses like every other teenage girl in America.
Hopper stared at her like she was a mosquito that had learned to speak.
“You’re a bad influence,” he said flatly.
“I am a fantastic influence,” she fired back, jabbing a finger at him. “I am eighty percent sugar and anxiety.”
Mike had to choke back a laugh.
From that moment on, she was impossible to ignore. She appointed herself Eleven’s personal guide to the mysteries of 80s girlhood. She dragged Max into it too. Forced the girls to wear the colors red, yellow, and green like they were a traffic light. She made gift boxes for the neighbors, argued high as a kite with Steve Harrington and Robin Buckley about whether Russian spies preferred Doritos or Pringles when the three got trapped in the Russian lair the summer of 1985, and treated Mike and the boys, Max and El like they’d been her friends for years instead of terrified losers she’d just met.
The older dads being friends only made things weirder.
Hopper didn’t like her at all. Which was fine, because Y/n didn’t like being told what to do, and El adored her precisely because of that. She wasn’t a bad person, just loud, restless, and endlessly alive.
And stunning.
God, she was stunning.
Mike learned that detail the hard way.
He’d seen pretty girls before. Hawkins was full of them. But Y/n had a kind of beauty that felt unfair, like she’d been drawn by someone who used better colors than the rest of the town. Even standing next to her father, who looked like a cop who had given up on himself, she glowed. She got her looks from her mother, she’d told them once, rolling her eyes at Murray and saying, “thank God.”
Mike silently agreed with that.
Yes, thank God.
They became friends because she decided they were.
Y/n collected people. Mike just happened to be one of them.
She’d show up at his house after school, flopped onto his bed and stole his Walkman, talking while he did homework, filling the room with the scent of raspberry lip gloss and the distant hum of the television downstairs. She teased him. He smiled back. She never treated him like the leader of the group, just like Mike, and somehow that stripped him of every confident script he’d ever owned.
He didn’t understand why he struggled to talk to her when he’d always been the one to take charge.
Until he realized the truth.
The winter the small family moved to Hawkins, Mike gained something he’d never had before, a crush so intense it rewired him.
It was very clear to anyone with a pair of working eyeballs that Michael Wheeler was crushing hard on Y/n.
The problem was that anyone did not include Mike Wheeler himself for the longest time. He seemed to be the last person in Hawkins to understand what was happening inside his own chest.
He handled it the way he handled most overwhelming things, by pretending it didn’t exist.
But pretending became a lot harder whenever she was around.
Y/n moved through the world like a live wire, laughter always spilling out of her, words flying faster than thought. She was a one girl parade of bad jokes and bright eyes, usually with a can of Dr. Pepper in her hand and a mischievous grin that made teachers and neighbors nervous.
Being the daughter of Murray Bauman gave her a kind of sarcastic confidence most teenagers didn’t have. She’d grown up around conspiracy theories and late night takeout containers, learning early that the world was ridiculous and the only proper response was to make fun of it.
Her last name marked her as odd. Her personality made her unforgettable.
People loved her for it. Or they hated her for it.
Mike loved her for it in a different, much more terrifying way.
He would stand by his locker with Dustin and Lucas, half listening, eyes drifting down the hallway until he spotted her. The moment he did, his stomach tightened and his brain went fuzzy, like he’d walked too close to a magnet. She’d wave at him, or bump his shoulder, or toss out some wildly inappropriate comment about the school lunches tasting like government experiment meat, and Mike would just… stare.
Silent.
Hopeless.
She thought it was adorable. A lot of people thought it was adorable. Y/n especially enjoyed trying to get a reaction out of him, treating it like a personal mission. She’d lean against the lockers next to him and say things deliberately outrageous—asking if he believed in aliens, or if he wanted to run away and join a cult, or whether his basement was big enough to hide from the apocalypse...or hide a body.
The more anxious he got, the more energized she became.
Liking her made him anxious. Being near her made him ridiculous. Becoming her friend made him aware in a terrifying new way of how much he wanted her to like him back.
And that was the part Mike Wheeler didn’t know how to be in charge of at all.
So he settled for silent stares and quiet anxiety, while she bounced through his life like a brilliant, unstoppable comet.
Opposites attract, she liked to tell him.
He hated when she said that, because it made it sound real.
He wasn’t just crushing hard on Y/n Bauman.
He was totally, completely, disastrously in love with her. Mike realized that maybe the strangest thing in Hawkins wasn’t the monsters or the Upside Down or Nancys terrible hairdo.
Maybe it was just how perfectly wrong they were for each other—and how right it felt anyway.
Y/n had always thought she was immune to nervous boys.
She’d grown up surrounded by them, awkward interns her father dragged home, anxious college kids who nodded too much and laughed too loud whenever her dad started lecturing about corruption or Russians or “the inevitable collapse of polite society.” Nervousness was practically the background music of her childhood.
So she recognized it instantly in Mike Wheeler.
And she recognized what sat right beside it.
A crush.
She noticed him long before he ever realized she did. He stood in the hallways like he was trying to blend into the paint, shoulders tight, backpack strap clutched in one hand, eyes always flicking toward her when he thought she wasn’t looking. The first few months after moving to Hawkins she assumed that was just how he was quiet, serious, intense in a way that made him seem older than the rest of the boys.
Then she started paying attention.
Really paying attention.
And what she saw made her smile to herself.
Because Mike Wheeler wasn’t quiet, and he was adorable.
Handsome, too. Painfully so, though she would never say that out loud knowing his ego would get bigger than it was. He had that soft, clean cut look most of the Hawkins boys lacked, like he actually owned a hairbrush and knew how to use it thank god he cut his hair.
His face looked like it belonged in a museum right next to Michelangelo's statue. And his eyes, God, his eyes. Big and brown and ridiculously pretty, framed by lashes Max insisted were “wasted on a guy.” But what Y/n loved most was the way they widened whenever he looked at her.
The prettiest puppy eyes she had ever seen.
Pre-apocalypse, pre-disaster, pre–whatever mess her father had decided to orbit next, she’d had a basement motto: observe first, act later.
So she observed.
She was observant by nature. You had to be, living with Murray. He was always spiraling about the next catastrophe, pacing around kitchens and cabins like the walls had offended him personally. Y/n learned to track disasters the way other daughters tracked homework assignments.
And lately she had the odd feeling she was watching one of her own.
Maybe she was seeing a disaster of her own.
But she didn’t think it was bad at all.
She wasn’t an idiot. She knew exactly what it looked like when someone liked someone else. She saw it with Vickie and Robin, with Joyce and annoying Hopper, with El and Dustin, with every couple in Hawkins who thought they were subtle and absolutely were not.
And she saw it most clearly in Mike.
It became obvious in early 1985 a few months after her arrival to the strange town; the day she barged into Hopper’s cabin and declared war on his social-life policies. Mike had laughed at her jokes, really laughed, not the polite fake kind, and from then on she decided she liked him. The more she got to know him over the months the way he took charge in danger, the way he cared about his friends like they were glass, the way he argued with his friends but never abandoned them the more that liking grew into something warmer and softer.
By sophomore year it had grown into something she couldn’t brush off anymore.
A crush of her own.
The problem was she had no intention of telling him right away.
She was waiting for the right moment.
Unfortunately, her friends had very different plans.
Y/n and Mike were now seventeen. Everything else around them had changed, but the Party had not.
Eleven and Max kept pushing her to just tell him already, cornering her at the radio station or in the Byers’ living room or outside the school, insisting Mike deserved to know she liked him a lot.
They were driving her insane.
“Both of you need to shut up,” Y/n told them one afternoon, slamming her locker. “You are biased sources.”
They blinked at her.
“El, you’re dating Dustin,” she went on. “Max, you’re with Lucas. You four have been nasty little fucking couples since you were basically thirteen.”
She softened just a little when she said it. Because it was true. Mike and Y/n were not part of those pairs. They were something else entirely.
Different.
New.
She didn’t want clique bullshit or matchmaking interference. She wanted this to unfold naturally, at its own ridiculous, stumbling pace. Mike Wheeler clearly had a crush on her, and she has fallen for the odd ball fast. And she was just waiting for the right moment to let him find the courage he suddenly seemed to have lost.
Y/n liked to joke that he was a project.
But secretly she knew better.
He wasn’t a project at all.
He was just Mike nervous, brave, handsome Mike, looking at her with puppy eyes while she pretended not to notice.
And when she finally made her move, she planned on noticing him right back.
So now here she was, eyes sparkling as she and the only boy on her mind stood in the same room, locking eyes.
The Wheeler basement buzzed with familiar chaos, Dustin’s voice rising over Lucas’s, Max leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, Eleven standing close by like she always did before something dangerous. The air was warm, heavy with popcorn and nerves and the kind of electricity that always came before another terrible idea.
Y/n barely noticed any of it.
Because Mike Wheeler was standing across the room from her, frozen in place like he’d been caught mid-thought.
He was trying so hard to look normal. Trying to look like the boy who led them through monsters and gates and impossible odds. But she could see it in the way his shoulders were tight, the way his fingers flexed uselessly at his sides. His cheeks were already pink, and she hadn’t even said anything yet.
She smiled anyway.
They weren’t dating. They’d never kissed. They’d never even said the words out loud. But the way he looked at her like she was something precious and terrifying all at once made it feel like a technicality.
Mike struggled to talk to her because she made him flustered. She knew that. She didn’t do it on purpose… most of the time. She was blunt. Confident. Borderline flirty in a way that came naturally, the way breathing did. And every time she leaned too close or teased him too casually, his face betrayed him completely.
She loved that about him.
Mike stepped closer, lowering his voice so the others couldn’t hear.
“I need you to be safe tonight.”
It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t a lecture. It was a plea, quiet and earnest, the kind he only ever gave when he was scared. Y/n’s smile softened instantly.
She tilted her head, trying to lighten the moment. “Wheeler,” she said gently, “danger is kind of my our thing around here.”
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t even pretend to.
That scared her more than anything else.
She closed the distance between them without thinking, lifting her hands to his face. Her palms fit there easily, thumbs brushing his cheeks, grounding him the way she’d learned to ground herself growing up around constant disaster. His breath stuttered at the touch, eyes widening as he focused fully on her.
“I promise,” she said quietly, voice steady, “I’ll try to be safe.”
Mike frowned instantly.
Of course he did. He hated that word. Try. It wasn’t enough for him. It never was. He wanted certainty. He wanted her standing in front of him after this was over, alive and smiling and teasing him like nothing ever scared her.
But he didn’t argue.
Instead, his hand came up and wrapped around her wrist, gripping her there like letting go might undo her promise entirely. His eyes those ridiculous, soft, puppy-brown eyes searched her face like he was memorizing it. Like this moment mattered more than either of them were ready to admit.
They didn’t say it.
But they both knew.
After this.
Then Eleven’s voice cut through the room.
“Y/n! We’re leaving.”
Y/n let her hands fall slowly, giving Mike one last reassuring smile. He released her just as reluctantly, his fingers lingering a second longer than necessary. She squeezed his hand before stepping away, feeling his gaze stay locked on her back.
She paused at the stairs and glanced over her shoulder.
Mike Wheeler was still standing there, cheeks flushed, eyes full of worry and something softer beneath it, hope, maybe. Fear. Care. All tangled together.
She winked at him, just to make it easier.
Then she turned and followed Eleven out into the night, carrying her confidence with her like armor—while behind her, the boy she cared about more than she was ready to admit waited, silent and anxious, for her to come back.
And when she did, she knew they wouldn’t be able to avoid the conversation any longer.
You don’t have powers.
That fact is loud in your head as the demogorgon roars in front of you, seven feet of muscle and teeth and wet, snapping sound. You’ve learned to fight because you had to. Because your father never believed danger announced itself politely. Because Murray Bauman taught you how to throw a punch, how to hold a blade, how to move like survival was a language you could become fluent in if you practiced enough.
Right now, it’s the only thing keeping you alive.
Blood coats your arms thick, dark, not yours. Not yet. It slicks the handle of the machete in your hand, makes your grip burn as you swing again, the blade biting into flesh with a wet, awful sound. You don’t flinch. You can’t. You don’t let yourself think about what it smells like or how heavy the air feels.
You hear Eleven behind you, screaming as she slams one demogorgon into the concrete wall with her powers, her nose bleeding, her hands shaking with effort. The sound cracks through your chest but you don’t look back.
Because the other one is yours.
Will is beside you breathing hard, eyes wide but focused, swinging a metal pipe like his life depends on it.
Because it does.
The demogorgon lunges. You duck. Your hip screams as pain flares where you were clipped earlier, but you stay upright, teeth gritted, machete coming up in a brutal arc. Will strikes from the side, buying you seconds you desperately need.
Seconds you’re running out of.
Your arms feel like lead. Your lungs burn. Sweat stings your eyes, mixing with blood and grime until the world blurs at the edges. You force yourself forward anyway.
Then…
The walkie on your hip crackles to life.
Static. Loud. Wrong.
You almost ignore it.
Almost.
“Y/N CODE RED..CODE RED—”
Lucas’s voice punches through the noise, panicked, sharp enough to cut through the adrenaline. The demogorgon roars again and you barely block in time, the impact rattling up your arms.
“…Y/N, COME IN—”
You slam your elbow into the creature’s chest, shove it back half a step, and grab the walkie with your free hand, holding the button down as you swing again with the other.
“I’m” you pant, breath ragged, muscles screaming, “kinda in the middle of something right now, Sinclair.”
The machete connects. Bone cracks. The demogorgon shrieks, stumbling.
Lucas swears on the other end. Loud. Frantic.
“IT’S MIKE—”
Everything stops.
Not the fight. Not the noise.
Just you.
“MIKE’S HURT”
You don’t hear the rest.
You don’t wait. You turn and run.
You don’t even look back to see if Will or El call your name. You don’t slow down. You don’t stop to shut the gate, don’t stop to breathe, don’t stop to check the blood on your hands.
You flip the walkie off mid-stride and sprint down the corridor, boots slipping on concrete slick with gore, machete still clenched tight like you might need it any second.
Mike.
The only boy on your mind.
Your heart slams against your ribs, terror sharp and sudden, louder than any demogorgon scream. All you can think is please, a prayer you didn’t know you believed in.
You promised you’d try to be safe.
But none of that matters now.
Because Mike Wheeler is hurt.
And you are already running toward him.
You don’t slow down until you see the hospital.
The fluorescent lights feel wrong after the dark. Too clean. Too quiet. You skid to a stop by a tree near the entrance, breath tearing out of you, and without thinking twice you shove the machete deep into the hollow of the trunk where a branch split years ago. It disappears easily, like it belongs there.
You don’t look back.
You bolt inside.
The smell hits you first antiseptic, old coffee, something metallic underneath it all. A nurse at the front desk looks up and immediately stiffens when she sees you barreling toward her, covered head to toe in blood.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” she asks, already stepping out from behind the desk.
You don’t even break stride. “Don’t worry,” you say breathlessly. “It’s not mine.”
That stops her cold.
Her eyes flick down at your arms, your clothes, your face. Worry turns into confusion, then something bordering on fear.
“I-okay what…who are you here to see?”
“Michael Wheeler,” you blurt. “Where is he?”
She blinks. “And what is your relation to the patient?”
You open your mouth.
Close it.
Decide you absolutely do not have time for this.
“Fuck it,” you mutter, already moving past her.
“Hey miss MISS!” the nurse calls after you.
You’re already running.
Down the hall, sneakers squeaking against the floor, heart hammering so hard it makes your vision blur. You yank doors open without thinking.
“Sorry!”
“Wrong room sorry!”
“Oh my Fuck I’m so sorry.”
A man yells. Someone gasps. You keep going, cursing under your breath, apologizing on instinct, fear guiding you like a compass.
Then you see Lucas.
He’s leaning against a wall outside one of the rooms, eyes red, shoulders slumped. When he looks up and sees you, relief floods his face so fast it nearly knocks him backward.
“You made it,” he breathes.
You don’t stop. “Move.”
He does. You burst into the room like a bat out of hell.
Mike Wheeler is sitting on the bed.
Alive.
Annoyed.
His hair is messier than usual, curls falling into his eyes, his arm wrapped in a thick white cast that looks wildly out of place on him. He’s scowling at something probably the IV, or the hospital gown, or the universe until his eyes flick up and land on you.
Shock wipes the annoyance right off his face.
“You..” he starts.
Lucas takes one look at the two of you, immediately turns around, and bolts.
“I’ll uh, give you a moment,” he says, already halfway down the hall.
The door swings shut.
Mike stares at you like he’s not entirely sure you’re real.
You’re covered in blood. Your clothes are torn. Your chest is heaving. Your eyes are wild.
And the first thing you do is point at his cast.
“Oh this is rich,” you say. “You tell me to be safe, and I leave you alone for a few hours and suddenly you’re the one collecting hospital accessories?”
His mouth opens. Closes. His cheeks flush instantly.
“I It wasn’t” he says, then frowns. “Why are you covered in blood?”
You shrug. “Long story. No time for that. Short version I almost won.”
His eyes soften despite himself, relief leaking through the shock. Then worry rushes in right behind it as he looks you over more carefully.
“You’re okay?” he asks quietly.
You nod. “Yeah.” You thought that you should be asking him that.
You step closer without realizing it, stopping just short of the bed. The tension hums between you, loud and unspoken. His eyes keep flicking between your face and your hands like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you.
“What happened?” you ask, voice dropping just a little.
“A demogorgon showed up on the road,” he admits. “Out of nowhere. Hopper, Steve, Robin everyone tried to get it away from civilians. It threw me. Like I weighed nothing.”
Your jaw tightens.
“But I'm okay,” he adds quickly. “Hopper killed it.”
You stare at him for a second longer than necessary.
Then you scoff. “So let me get this straight,” you say. “I’m fighting two seven-foot nightmares with a machete, and you get taken out by one on a road?”
He almost smiles.
Almost.
You step even closer now, close enough that he has to tilt his head up to look at you. Your eyes soften despite yourself, the edge melting away as relief finally settles into your bones.
“You scared me,” you admit quietly, heart pounding rapidly.
His breath hitches.
“I-” he starts, then stops. Swallows. “I was scared for you too.”
Your gaze locks onto his, steady and intense. The room feels smaller. Quieter. Like the rest of the hospital has faded away entirely.
You lift a hand hesitate then gently tap the cast with your fingers.
“Next time,” you say softly, “we’re both being hypocrites together.”
His puppy eyes shine as he looks up at you, full of something heavy and warm and unspoken.
You stay there, close enough to feel his warmth, close enough that neither of you can pretend this is nothing.
Mike Wheeler sat stiffly on the hospital bed, his broken arm resting uselessly in its cast, while Y/n L/c paced the small room like she was still running on pure adrenaline.
“And then Will just whacks it with the pipe—like, full feral, zero hesitation,” she was saying, hands moving animatedly as she reenacted the moment. “And El? Oh my god. She slammed the other one into the wall so hard I swear the building shook. I thought I was gonna pass out but in, like, a cool way.”
She laughed at her own joke, breathless, alive.
Mike watched her like he always did when she got like this like the rest of the world had dimmed and she was the only thing left in focus. Her clothes were still stained with blood, hair messy, eyes bright with that wild spark he’d come to associate with danger and courage and her.
She looked unstoppable.
He felt… breakable.
“It’d be such a cool story to tell my future kids,” she continued, flopping down into the chair beside his bed. “Like, ‘yeah, your mom fought demogorgons with a machete when she was seventeen.’ Absolute legend behavior.”
Mike swallowed.
Kids.
The word settled somewhere deep in his chest and stayed there.
He hadn’t meant to say anything. It slipped out before he could stop it, quiet and shy and barely audible.
“How many… kids do you want?”
Y/n froze.
Then she grinned.
“Oh, like, a Twelve,” she said immediately. “I’m thinking an army. Just a whole pack of tiny chaos demons. We’d take over Hawkins.”
Mike snorted before he could help himself, laughter bursting out of him, quick and surprised. The sound felt foreign, like he hadn’t laughed properly in days.
“That’s” he shook his head, smiling despite himself. “That’s way too many.”
She beamed at him like she’d won something. “Really? You have no vision.”
She launched into another tangent almost immediately something about how some baby names are ridiculous and how she’d never name a kid anything boring but Mike barely heard it.
Because his thoughts were drifting somewhere dangerous.
He watched the way she talked, the way her hands moved, the way her eyes lit up when she got excited. He thought about her bursting into the hospital like she’d tear the place down brick by brick if she had to. Thought about her soft hands cupping his face earlier, promising she’d try to be safe.
The words started forming before he could stop them.
I like you.
I care about you.
I’m scared of losing you.
I've never felt this way about anyone before.
They climbed up his throat, heavy and real and terrifying.
And then his brain betrayed him.
What if he ruined it? What if she laughed? What if she saw him as someone fragile someone she had to protect instead of someone who could stand beside her?
He looked down at his stupid cast. His useless arm. The proof that he couldn’t even fight a demogorgon without getting thrown aside.
The words lodged in place.
Died there.
He went quiet without realizing it.
Y/n noticed immediately.
She always did.
Her voice trailed off mid-rant as she shifted closer, close enough that her knee brushed the side of the bed. Mike didn’t even register how near she was until he felt something warm against his arm her fingers lightly tracing the edge of his cast, absentminded and gentle.
“Hey,” she said softly. “You okay?”
He blinked, pulled back into the moment. Her eyes were on him now, searching, knowing.
“Yeah,” he said too quickly. “I’m fine.”
It was a lie. A small one. A familiar one.
She didn’t call him out on it.
But she didn’t believe him either.
Her fingers kept moving, playing with the rough surface of the cast, grounding him without realizing it. Her gaze lingered on his face, soft but sharp, like she could see the shape of the words he hadn’t said.
Mike met her eyes, heart pounding, afraid she could hear it.
Something passed between them then—unspoken, unresolved.
This wasn’t over.
He knew it.
And judging by the look in her eyes, so did she.
By the second week, you’re pissed.
Not quietly annoyed. Not confused. Not sitting around wondering if you did something wrong like you’re thirteen again and still learning how people work.
You’re angry.
Because Mike Wheeler isn’t just distant he’s avoiding you.
It’s in the way conversations die the second you’re alone together. In the way his laughter stays easy with everyone else but tightens into something restrained around you. In how he looks away when you catch his eye, like holding your gaze might burn him. It’s deliberate. Careful. And it feels like bullshit.
You know the difference between someone being busy and someone being scared.
You were raised by Murray Bauman. Fear has a very specific smell.
So you stop wondering.
And you start waiting.
The moment comes on a Thursday afternoon, right after the final bell, when you spot him through the open garage doors of the bike shop. The place smells like oil and rubber and heat. Mike stands behind the counter in his work shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair pushed back like he’s trying to look more put together than he feels.
He’s focused. Tight. Like he’s bracing for something.
You watch him for a second — the way his jaw clenches when he works, the way his shoulders stay hunched like he never fully relaxed after the hospital. It makes something in your chest twist.
Then you walk in.
The bell above the door rings.
He looks up.
For half a second, his face gives him away surprise, relief, something softer and then it shuts down like a door slamming closed.
“Hey,” you say casually, leaning against a display rack. “You busy?”
He swallows.
“Uh yeah. Kinda. I mean,” he gestures uselessly around the shop. “Always busy.”
You don’t answer right away.
You just look at him.
It’s a simple look. Calm. Steady. The kind that doesn’t rush to fill silence. The kind that waits for the truth.
He caves almost instantly.
“I’ve just had a lot going on,” he blurts. “Work, school, stuff—things have been hectic, you know?”
Your eyebrow lifts.
“No,” you say evenly. “I don’t.”
He freezes.
“I mean…I’m not avoiding you,” he adds quickly, panic creeping into his voice. “I swear. It’s just—, timing’s been weird.”
“Timing’s been weird for two weeks?” you ask.
Neutral tone. Sharp edge.
He opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Then the excuses tumble free schedules, responsibilities, being tired, being busy words stacked on top of words, none of them landing. He never says your name. Never once looks directly at you while he talks.
You let him finish.
Then you straighten.
“Okay,” you say simply.
He blinks. “Okay?”
You nod once.
And you walk out.
The bell rings again as the door shuts behind you, too loud in the quiet shop. You don’t look back. You don’t pause. You don’t give him another chance to explain himself into a deeper hole.
Outside, your jaw is set, steps steady, anger sharp and clean in your chest.
If he wants distance, fine.
You’re going to ask him one more time, and if that fails, then fine you are not chasing someone who won’t even meet your eyes.
The basement feels wrong the second you walk in a few days later.
Everyone’s there; Dustin already halfway through setting up the board, Lucas leaning back in his chair, Max perched on the arm of the couch, Will flipping through his notes, Eleven sitting quietly beside him. Normal. Familiar.
Except it isn’t.
Because Mike Wheeler won’t look at you.
He sits at the table like he always does, dice in his hands, jaw tight, eyes glued to the board like it holds the secrets of the universe. Not once does he glance up when you enter. Not once does he acknowledge you.
Something in your chest snaps.
“Are you serious right now?” you say.
The room goes silent. Dustin blinks. “Uh..what?”
You don’t look at him. Your eyes are locked on Mike.
“Mike,” you say sharply. “Look at me.”
He doesn’t.
He swallows, rolls the dice like it matters, like anything else in the room exists. You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “Wow. Okay. So we’re doing this?”
Still nothing.
“Did I miss something?” you ask, voice rising. “Because last I checked, we didn’t have a fight. You didn’t say you needed space. You didn’t say anything. You just decided I wasn’t worth talking to anymore.”
Max shifts uncomfortably. Lucas’s eyes flick between you and Mike like he’s watching a live grenade.
Mike finally speaks, but it’s quiet. “Can we not do this right now?”
That does it.
“Oh, no,” you say, stepping closer. “We’re doing this right now.”
You stand across from him, hands planted on the table. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks. Weeks. You won’t talk to me alone, you won’t look at me, and when I ask what’s wrong you give me the same recycled excuses like I’m stupid.”
“I’m just busy,” he mutters.
You laugh again. Louder this time.
“Busy?” you repeat. “That’s your excuse? Because you’re not busy when you’re with them.” You gesture vaguely at the room. “You’re only busy when it’s me.”
Dustin opens his mouth. Thinks better of it. Closes it. Will hasn’t moved at all. Eleven’s eyes are wide. Max head is swinging between the both of you trying to keep up.
“So what changed?” you demand. “Because I didn’t. I didn’t suddenly become unbearable. I didn’t hurt you. I didn’t do anything.”
Mike’s fingers curl around the dice until his knuckles go white.
“You’re not listening,” he says weakly.
“No,” you snap. “You aren’t talking.” You straighten, crossing your arms. “You’re a coward.”
The word lands hard. Mike flinches.
“You run headfirst into monsters,” you continue, voice shaking now, not with fear but with fury. “You put yourself in front of everyone when things go wrong. But when it comes to me? You shut down. You hide. You pretend I don’t exist.”
Silence. No one breathes.
“I don’t understand what changed,” you say, quieter but sharper. “And I’m done trying to figure it out by myself.”
Mike finally looks up at you. His eyes are full of panic. Guilt. Something else he won’t name.
You hold his gaze, jaw tight. “Whatever this is,” you say clearly, “you don’t want it. So I’m done doing the chasing.”
The words echo in the basement.
Mike’s mouth opens.
You don’t wait to hear what he might finally say. You turn and storm up the stairs, the door slamming behind you hard enough to rattle the walls.
Downstairs, no one speaks.
Mike stays seated, dice still clenched in his hand, staring at the empty space where you stood knowing with sick certainty that he may have just watched the best thing in his life walk away.
Mike Wheeler doesn’t move.
He sits there, shoulders stiff, dice still clenched in his hand like they’ve fused to his fingers. His eyes drop not to the table, not to his friends but to the faint ache in his arm, the phantom memory of the cast that had only come off days ago.
Then his gaze drifts to the staircase. The one she just stormed up. The echo of the door slamming still rattles somewhere in his chest, loud and final and entirely his fault.
For a long moment, the basement is silent.
“What the hell was that?” Max’s voice cuts through the air like a blade.
Mike flinches.
“You just let her walk out,” Dustin says, incredulous. “Like what was that? I thought you loved her!”
“I-” Mike starts, then stops. His throat feels tight. He rubs at his arm reflexively, like the cast is still there. “I do.”
Max scoffs loudly. “Oh my god, you are such a dipshit.”
“Max,” Lucas starts.
“No,” she snaps, spinning on him. “Don’t ‘Max’ me. That was painful to watch.”
Will finally speaks, quiet but deadly serious. “You’re losing her.”
The words land heavier than anything else.
Mike’s jaw tightens. “I’m not…”
“Yes, you are,” Lucas says flatly. “You’re actively doing it.”
Eleven looks at him, eyes steady, voice calm in that way that somehow makes it worse. “You need to fix it.”
Mike shakes his head, frustration boiling over. “You don’t get it.”
Dustin throws his hands up. “Then explain it! Because from where we’re standing, you just nuked your own relationship and we don’t even know why!”
Mike finally looks up.
“They don’t fit,” he blurts out like that answered everything.
Everyone freezes.
“They?” Max repeats slowly.
“Me and her,” he says, the words tumbling out now that he’s started. “We don’t fit. She’s she’s bold, and loud, and fearless. She fights demogorgons with a machete.” His voice cracks just a little. “I couldn’t even protect myself.”
He stares down at his hands again.
“She’s way out of my league.”
Silence.
Then Max laughs. Not amused. Not kind.
“Bullshit.”
Mike looks up again, startled.
“That is the dumbest thing you’ve ever said,” she continues. “And you’ve said some really dumb things.”
Lucas nods. “Yeah, man. Everyone can see it.”
“See what?” Mike asks weakly.
“That you’re perfect for each other,” Will says quietly. “She challenges you. You ground her. That’s not wrong that’s balance.”
Dustin points at him. “You make her laugh without even trying. She looks at you like you hung the moon. And you’re sitting here telling us you ‘don’t fit’?”
“You’re scared,” Max says bluntly. “And you’re using that as an excuse to hurt her.”
Mike’s chest tightens. “I don’t want to hurt her.”
“Well, congratulations,” she snaps. “You already did.”
That one hits hardest.
Max stands abruptly, grabbing Lucas by the wrist. “I’m on her side,” she declares. “And you better figure this out before she’s done for real.”
Lucas winces but lets himself be dragged toward the stairs. “She’s not wrong,” he mutters over his shoulder.
Will hesitates, looking at Mike with something like disappointment and concern tangled together. “You don’t get many people like her in your life,” he says softly. “Don’t let fear make the decision for you.”
Eleven steps closer last.
She tilts her head, studying him. “She cares about you,” she says simply. “That is no mistake.”
Then she turns and follows the others upstairs.
The basement empties.
Mike is left alone.
He stares at the table. At the dice. At the empty space where she stood not ten minutes ago, fire in her eyes and hurt in her voice.
Too wrong for each other.
He swallows.
For the first time, he wonders if that thought like so many others might be completely, catastrophically wrong.
The house smells like onions and regret.
Y/n sits at the small kitchen table, chemistry homework spread out in front of her, pencil tapping absently against the page while her father moves around the stove in a robe like he’s performing a one-man tragedy. The risotto simmers loudly, rice swelling in a way she’s learned to fear.
She hates risotto.
Hates it.
But she will eat it. She always does. Because Murray Bauman makes it with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb, and criticizing it feels like poking a bear that already thinks the government is watching.
She’d much rather he ordered takeout. Greasy cartons. Predictable flavors. Safety.
Instead, she keeps her head down, pretending to focus on molar ratios while her brain replays the image of Mike Wheeler sitting frozen at the D&D table, eyes wide, mouth open, saying nothing while she walked out.
The wooden spoon scrapes the pot.
Murray sighs.
Not a normal sigh. Not a tired sigh.
A dramatic, world ending, the curse of humanity sigh.
She doesn’t look up.
Another sigh.
Longer.
Louder.
“Oh, for Fucks sake,” Murray says finally, slumping dramatically against the counter. “You’re radiating misery like a Cold War era broadcast. What happened?”
She tightens her grip on the pencil.
“Nothing,” she mutters.
He snorts. “You’ve been raised by me. Don’t insult my intelligence.”
That does it.
She drops the pencil.
Turns in her chair.
And explodes.
“He’s being a coward,” she snaps. “A complete, emotionally constipated coward.”
Murray’s eyebrows shoot up. “Ah. The boy.”
“Yes, the boy,” she says, throwing her hands up. “He’s been avoiding me for weeks, Dad. Weeks. Won’t talk to me, won’t look at me, won’t even exist in the same space without acting like I’m radioactive.”
Murray hums thoughtfully, stirring the risotto. “Classic avoidance behavior. Fight-or-flight response. Usually flight.”
“I cornered him at work,” she continues, pacing now. “He gave me the worst excuses I’ve ever heard. ‘Busy,’ ‘tired,’ ‘timing.’ Timing for what? Avoiding feelings?”
Murray nods. “Timing is the coward’s favorite shield.”
“And then today,” she says, voice rising again, “I finally snapped. In front of everyone. Called him out. Told him I was done chasing.”
She exhales sharply. “And he just sat there. Silent. Like a brick wall.”
Murray tastes the risotto. Grimaces. Adds more salt.
“So,” he says casually, “you’re furious because you like him and he’s terrified.”
She stops pacing and glares at him.
“Do not reduce this.”
“Oh, I’m not reducing,” he says, turning to face her with a grin already forming. “I’m summarizing.”
She crosses her arms. “He thinks we don’t fit. That he’s not good enough. That we’re ‘too wrong’ for each other.” Yes she had been ease dropping and she doesn't regret it.
There’s a beat.
Then Murray laughs.
Not a chuckle.
A full, unrestrained, shaking laugh that echoes off the kitchen walls.
She stares at him like she might throw a chair.
“Why,” she says flatly, “are you laughing.”
“Oh my god,” he wheezes, wiping at his eyes. “This is incredible.”
“Dad.”
“He thinks he’s not good enough?” Murray repeats. “That’s adorable. Tragic. And deeply stupid.”
Her glare sharpens. “I swear to God.”
“He’s a seventeen year old boy,” Murray says, pointing the spoon at her. “Of course he thinks that. Boys are raised to believe worth equals strength. You scare him.”
She scoffs. “I don’t scare him.”
“You fight monsters with blades,” Murray says calmly. “And you walked into a hospital covered in blood demanding to know where he was. You absolutely scare him.”
She opens her mouth.
Closes it.
“…Okay, maybe a little.”
Murray grins. “There it is.”
She slumps back into her chair, anger giving way to exhaustion. “So what? I’m just supposed to wait around while he figures it out?”
“No,” Murray says immediately. “Absolutely not.”
She looks up.
“You already did the right thing,” he continues. “You told him you wouldn’t chase someone who refuses to meet you halfway. That’s self-respect.”
She exhales. “Then why does this still feel awful?”
Murray plates the risotto and sets a bowl in front of her. She grimaces but takes it anyway.
“Because,” he says gently, “you care. And caring is inconvenient.”
She pokes at the rice, sighing.
Across from her, Murray watches with an amused, knowing smile.
“Give it time,” he adds. “If the boy has any sense at all, he’ll panic.”
She snorts despite herself. “And if he doesn’t?”
Murray shrugs. “Then he doesn’t deserve you.”
She takes a bite of risotto, makes a face, but swallows.
“Dad,” she says quietly, “I really like him.”
Murray’s smile softens just a little.
“I know,” he says. “That’s why this is funny.”
She glares at him again.
He laughs.
And for the first time all night, the weight in her chest eases—just enough to breathe.
Mike Wheeler can’t sleep.
He lies on his back staring at the ceiling, counting the faint cracks in the plaster, listening to the house settle around him. Every sound feels too loud—the hum of the fridge downstairs, the distant creak of pipes, the muffled laughter of his friends’ voices replaying in his head like a cruel echo.
But none of it is as loud as her.
Whatever this is, you don’t want it.
Her voice keeps looping, sharp and disappointed and final in a way that makes his chest ache. He’s heard yelling before. He’s been scared before. He’s broken bones and bled and stared down things that should’ve killed him.
None of that hurt like this.
Disappointment hurts worse than breaking an arm. Worse than being thrown across a road like he weighed nothing. Worse than every monster Hawkins ever threw at him.
Because he deserved it.
He turns onto his side, presses his face into the pillow like that might muffle the sound of her voice in his head. It doesn’t work. All he sees instead is the way she looked at him when she finally snapped—not angry at first, just tired. Like she’d waited long enough.
His friends’ voices pile on next.
Max calling him a dipshit. Lucas saying he’s losing the love of his life. Will’s quiet disappointment. Eleven telling him to fix it, like it was obvious.
Mike has always seemed like the one who had it together. The leader. The kid with plans and strategies and answers. But the truth—the thing he never says out loud—is that he could never survive on his own.
He needs his friends. Their loyalty. Their belief in him.
And he needs her.
Her loudness. Her warmth. The way she fills space like she belongs there. The way she makes even the worst days feel survivable just by existing nearby.
And he hurt her.
He’s not an idiot. He knows exactly what he did.
Mike rolls over and reaches for the crumpled piece of paper on his nightstand. He smooths it out instinctively, even though he already knows what’s written there—half-finished sentences, crossed-out confessions, words that never made it past I feel and I’m scared.
He tried to write to her.
Tried to be brave in ink when he couldn’t be brave in person.
It wasn’t enough.
He crushes the paper in his fist, jaw tight, and tosses it aside.
There are only two things left to do.
Get Y/n back—whatever that means, even if it’s messy, even if it’s terrifying, even if it means admitting he wants more than friendship. He wants all of it. The laughter, the danger, the future she joked about like it was inevitable.
And talk to Nancy.
Because if there’s anyone who understands loving someone so deeply it makes you stupid with fear, it’s his sister.
Mike swings his legs off the bed, heart pounding with a nervous energy that feels different than before—not panic, not avoidance.
Resolve.
He pads down the hallway, stopping outside Nancy’s room. The light under her door is still on. He hesitates only a second before knocking.
This time, he doesn’t turn away.
This time, he’s done running.
Nancy is sitting cross-legged on her bed when Mike knocks.
She looks up from her notebook, eyebrow already raised like she knew it was coming. Jonathan’s jacket is draped over the back of her chair, a quiet reminder that people can be different and still choose each other.
“Hey,” she says. “You look like hell.”
Mike huffs out a weak laugh and steps inside, shutting the door behind him. He paces for a second, hands shoved into his hoodie sleeves, then stops like he’s hit an invisible wall.
“I messed up,” he says eyes locked on the ground like a scolded child.
Nancy closes her notebook slowly. “Okay.”
“I think I really messed up.”
She waits. Nancy has always been better at that than he is—letting silence do the work.
“There’s this girl,” Mike says unnecessarily.
She snorts. “Yeah. I know.”
That catches him off guard. “You do?”
“Mike,” she says gently, “you’ve been orbiting her like a moon for years. Everyone knows.”
His ears burn. “She thinks I don’t want her.”
Nancy’s expression softens, but her voice stays firm. “Do you?”
“No,” he says immediately. Too fast. Too honest. “I want—” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “I want everything with her.”
Nancy studies him. “Then what’s the problem?”
He laughs, sharp and humorless. “Me.”
He sinks down onto the edge of her bed, staring at the floor. “She’s… incredible. She’s brave and loud and doesn’t second-guess herself the way I do. She fights monsters like it’s nothing, she stands up for her friends even if it puts her in a bad space. She punched Jason in the face when he tried to flirt with her. Shes so...shes everything. And I couldn’t even—” His throat tightens. “I couldn’t even protect myself.”
Nancy sits beside him.
“You think she wants you because you’re invincible?” she asks.
“I think she deserves someone who is.” Someone like her.
Nancy sighs. “God, Mike.”
“She scares me,” he admits. “Not in a bad way. In a way where if I mess this up, I lose something that matters.”
Nancy leans back against the headboard. “You know Jonathan and I are different, right?”
Mike nods. “Yeah.”
“Painfully,” she adds. “We don’t think the same way. We don’t react the same way. Half the time we drive each other crazy.”
Mike looks up at her.
“But,” Nancy continues, “different doesn’t mean wrong. It just means you have to choose each other on purpose.”
He swallows. “What if I’m not enough?”
Nancy turns to him fully now.
“You don’t get to decide that for her,” she says. “That’s not protection. That’s control.”
The word lands hard.
“You think you’re sparing her by pulling away,” she goes on. “But all you’re doing is hurting her and calling it selflessness.”
Mike’s chest tightens. “I don’t know how to stop.”
Nancy exhales, frustration flashing across her face. Then she says it, “You just got to stop being so goddamn scared all the time.”
The words hit him like a slap. Not cruel. Not mean.
True.
Something inside him snaps into place. He stands abruptly, heart pounding, breath coming fast. “I—” He shakes his head. “I can’t think if I stay here.”
Nancy’s eyes widen as realization dawns. “Mike—”
“I know,” he says, already backing toward the door. “I know.”
He doesn’t wait for her to stop him.
He bolts. Down the hallway. Down the stairs. Out the front door.
The cool night air slams into him, sharp and clean and real. His feet hit the pavement and he runs—past the streetlight, past the neighbor’s house, past the fear that’s been choking him for weeks.
He doesn’t stop.
Because for the first time, running isn’t about escaping.
It’s about choosing her.
Your room smells like nail polish and old vinyl.
A 70s song crackles softly from your record player, something mellow and familiar, the kind your dad insists is real music. You’re sprawled on your bed, stomach warm against the comforter, one leg bent lazily while you paint your nails a careful shade of pink. You’re relaxed in a way that feels earned mind deliberately empty, thoughts kept far away from him, who shall not be named.
The house is quiet.
Too quiet.
You know your dad is passed out on the couch by now third glass of red wine always does him in. You heard him mutter something about government surveillance and then nothing at all.
Good. Peaceful. Safe.
You lift your hand to admire your work and the window slams open.
Cold air rushes in. Your curtains billow violently.
Then a body hits them.
Hard.
Fabric tangles. Something yelps. There’s a loud thud as a very real, very solid person tumbles straight into your room and collapses onto the floor in a mess of limbs and breathless cursing.
You scream. The nail polish bottle tips. Pink streaks across your thumb.
“Shit..fuck ow—”
You scramble backward on the bed, heart in your throat, eyes wide as the figure rolls over, hair wild, chest heaving.
“Oh my god..oh my god okay, okay—”
It’s Mike Wheeler.
He’s on your floor.
In your room.
Breathing like he just outran death itself.
“What the hell..” you choke out.
“I-” he pants, pushing himself up on his hands, then immediately dropping back down. “I didn’t mean to your window was open and I thought…God, I’m so stupid.”
He drags a hand through his curls, knocking over your laundry basket in the process, “I’m so sorry…I didn’t mean to break in…I didn’t even think I just—”
You stare at him. Covered in confusion. Nail polish. Shock. Your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears.
“Michael,” you say faintly.
He freezes. Looks up at you like he just realized where he is. Your room. Your bed. Your very pink curtains tangled around his shoulder.
“Oh my god,” he whispers. “Holy Shit, I’m in your room.”
“Yes,” you say flatly. “You are.”
He scrambles upright, backing away like the floor might bite him. “I can leave. I should leave. I’m leaving.”
He bumps into your desk, “Fuck.”
You blink at him, still not fully processing.
“I was painting my nails,” you say stupidly. Because what else can you say, when the boy you are trying to be mad out falls into your room like some rom-com movie.
“I see that,” he blurts, gesturing wildly. “They look great…shit…not the point—”
The record keeps playing. Your ruined nail drips pink onto the comforter.
You look at him wide-eyed, stunned, trying to catch up while he stands in the middle of your room, chest rising and falling, eyes frantic, panic written all over his face.
No explanations.
Just chaos.
And Mike Wheeler very clearly having the worst and bravest, idea of his life.
You stare at him like he might disappear if you blink.
“What are you doing here?” you ask finally, voice steadier than you feel.
Mike opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.
The record keeps playing. The pink polish continues to drip slowly off your thumb. The silence stretches, thick and awkward and charged, until it presses on your ribs.
You exhale through your nose. “You shouldn’t be here,” you say, already shifting on the bed to stand. “This was a bad idea. Just just go, Mike.”
That’s when he completely panics.
“No wait don’t…” he blurts, hands flying up like you’ve pointed a weapon at him. “Please, I-i just..”
He cuts himself off.
Actually stops.
You watch him physically force himself to slow down, shoulders rising as he drags in one deep breath. Then another. He presses his lips together, nods once to himself like he’s following instructions only he can hear.
Good. God. He’s such a geek.
Your lips twitch before you can stop them, a smile threatening at the corner of your mouth. You bite it back, hard, but the tension in your chest eases just a fraction.
Mike stays rooted exactly where he is, like any sudden movement might shatter the moment. His eyes don’t leave yours.
“I’m… I’m putting my pride aside,” he says quietly.
That does it.
Your eyes soften instantly, whether you want them to or not. Something warm and aching loosens in your chest as your gaze locks with his. He looks different like this—still nervous, still intense, but grounded. Determined.
And God help you, you can see it.
The love.
It’s in the way he looks at you like the world narrows when you’re in front of him. In the way his voice steadies when he says your name. In the way he showed up here at all, climbing through your damn window instead of hiding behind silence again.
He sees it too the way your shoulders drop, the way your expression softens despite yourself.
He swallows.
“I was wrong,” he says. Not rushed. Not defensive. “About… a lot of things.”
You don’t interrupt. But he's usually wrong.
“I thought pulling away was saving you from me,” he continues. “I told myself that if I didn’t say anything, if I didn’t want too much, then I couldn’t screw it up.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “But all I did was hurt you.”
Your throat tightens. You weren't used to men admiring their wrongs. So this felt like a monumental moment. Girls are winning right now.
Focus Y/n.
“I let fear make decisions for me,” he goes on. “And I keep doing that. I always have. I convince myself that if I don’t try, then I can’t fail.”
He looks down for a second, then back up at you, “And that’s not fair to you.”
The room feels smaller. Quieter.
“I don’t think we’re wrong for each other, I never really did,” he says softly. “I think I was just scared because you matter. Because you’re… you.”
His fingers curl at his sides like he’s holding himself in place.
“I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t feel this,” he says. “And I don’t want to keep making you feel like you’re alone in it.”
He stops there. Doesn’t rush ahead. Doesn’t push. Just stands in the middle of your room, breathing, eyes locked on yours, having finally taken the initiative to say something real.
The record hums softly in the background.
Your ruined nail polish dries unnoticed on your thumb. And for the first time in weeks, the silence between you doesn’t feel like a wall.
It feels like a doorway.
You don’t move right away.
You stay exactly where you are on the bed, nail polish forgotten, music still humming softly in the background, watching Mike Wheeler stand in the middle of your room like he’s holding his breath for permission to exist.
He’s said the important things. The real things. And for a moment, that’s enough because you know he's not a grand spokesmen. He's not going to give some large speech, he's going to be straight to the point and show how he feels through his actions.
Then you speak.
“I hear you,” you say quietly.
His shoulders sag just a fraction, like relief loosening something he’s been carrying too long.
“But,” you add because there is a but, “you hurt me.”
He nods immediately. “I know.”
“You don’t get to disappear on me when things get hard,” you continue. Your voice isn’t sharp. It’s steady. Clear. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle, or what I deserve, without asking me.”
“I won’t,” he says quickly. Then slower, more deliberate. “I won’t do that again.”
You hold his gaze, searching. He doesn’t look away this time. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hide.
“I don’t want to chase someone who keeps running,” you say. “I won’t.”
“I know,” he says. “And I don’t want to be that person.”
Silence settles again, not heavy, not tense. Just full.
You stand then, sliding off the bed and crossing the small distance between you. You don’t touch him yet. You just look up at him, taking him in properly for the first time since he fell through your window like a lunatic.
“You scared me,” you admit softly. “Not tonight. Before. When you shut me out.”
His face tightens. “I was scared too.”
“I know,” you say. “That doesn’t make it okay.”
“I know,” he repeats. “But I’m trying to be better than that.”
You study him for another long second.
Then you step closer.
Mike doesn’t hesitate. He wraps his arms around you like he’s been waiting for permission, pulling you against him in one smooth, careful motion.
And oh.
He’s tall. Taller than you realize until you’re pressed against him like this, his chin just above your head, his chest solid and warm. It’s like being wrapped in a blanket—safe, grounding, steady in a way that makes your chest ache.
You tuck your chin against him instinctively, breathing him in. Soap. Night air. Mike.
His arms tighten slightly, protective without being suffocating, like he’s anchoring himself just as much as he’s holding you.
“I don’t do well without you,” he murmurs quietly, the words vibrating against your hair. “I never have.”
Your throat tightens.
“I act like I’ve got it together,” he continues. “Like I know what I’m doing. But the truth is… I don’t. I need my friends. I need you.”
You tilt your head back just enough to look up at him.
He looks down at you, eyes soft, open in a way that makes your chest ache all over again. One of his hands lifts, gentle as anything, brushing your hair away from your face. His fingers linger at your temple like he’s afraid to rush.
“I love you,” he says.
The words land quietly. Steadily. Like he’s been holding them for years.
You smile.
Wide. Warm. Unmistakable.
“It’s about damn time,” you say.
He groans, tipping his head back just slightly. “Oh my god. Not you too.”
You laugh softly, heart light and full and finally unburdened.
“Come here,” you murmur.
You rise onto your toes, hands lifting to cradle his face. His skin is warm under your palms, familiar already, like it’s always been meant to fit there. He freezes for half a second just long enough to make you smile again.
Then you kiss him.
It’s not rushed. It’s not perfect. It’s slow and careful and full of everything you didn’t say when words got in the way. His hands come up to hold you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t. The world narrows to the space between you, the hum of the record, the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.
When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, breath uneven, smile soft and stunned and completely real.
You’re not chasing anymore.
And he’s finally stopped running.
You barely have time to pull back from the kiss before reality crashes back in.
“I KNEW IT.”
The voice booms from the living room like a curse being activated.
Your blood runs cold.
Mike stiffens. “Is that?”
“Yes,” you say calmly. “That’s my father.”
There’s the sound of something clattering, followed by hurried footsteps and an unmistakable scrape of furniture being shoved aside.
“Oh no,” Mike whispers. “Oh no no no—”
The bedroom door flies open.
Murray Bauman stands there in pajama pants, one sock on, wielding a spatula in one hand and a slipper in the other, eyes wild with vindication, and you can tell he's trying not to cackle.
“BOYS,” he bellows, “ARE A DISEASE.”
Mike yelps, dropping his arms and trying to back away.
You cackle.
“Dad!” you laugh, backing up as Murray charges forward. “Jesus, calm down!”
“I WILL NOT CALM DOWN,” Murray shouts, lunging for Mike. “THIS IS HOW IT STARTS. FIRST IT’S KISSING, THEN IT’S EMOTIONAL ATTACHMENT, THEN BOOM…CORRUPTION OF TEENAGE GIRLS.”
Mike ducks as the slipper whizzes past his head, and okay maybe he wont stop running. But this time its not from you.
“I’M SORRY, SIR” he yells, scrambling away. “I REALLY AM..”
“You THINK APOLOGIES STOP THE SYSTEM?” Murray roars, chasing him around the couch. “I’VE SEEN THIS MOVIE, KID!”
You’re doubled over laughing now, tears in your eyes as Mike skids on the rug, narrowly avoiding a spatula strike.
“That’s how they get you!” Murray snaps. “WITH PUPPY EYES!”
Mike vaults over a chair. “I LOVE YOUR DAUGHTER!”
Murray freezes.
Slowly turns.
“What.”
Mike realizes what he’s said about half a second too late.
“I…” he pants, hands up defensively. “I mean…I respect her…very much..”
Murray squints at him.
Then smirks.
“Oh, I know,” he says. “I’ve been listening.”
Your laughter turns into a gasp. “You…what?!”
“You think I don’t eavesdrop in my own home?” Murray scoffs. “Amateur hour.”
You grab Mike’s wrist. “Front door. Now. It’s safer.”
You drag him toward the entrance, heart pounding, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. You almost make it.
Your father bolts after the two of you, lunging in front of the door. Murray stands there, blocking it, arms crossed, spatula tapping ominously against his palm.
Mike skids to a stop.
Murray leans in close, eyes intense. “If you hurt her…”
“I WON’T,” Mike blurts. “I SWEAR.”
Murray straightens and points the slipper at him. “You take care of my princess.”
Mike nods furiously. “With my life.”
Murray steps aside.
Mike bolts.
He sprints out the door like his soul depends on it, voice echoing back down the street—
“I LOVE YOU!”
You’re still giggling as you slam the door shut, pressing your forehead against it, heart racing, face sore from smiling.
Behind you, Murray hums approvingly.
“Huh,” he says. “Good lungs on that one.”
You groan. “You are insane.”
“Yes,” he agrees proudly. “But I’m right.”
You can’t even argue.
Not when your chest feels this full.
Not when Mike Wheeler is running down the street yelling his love like it’s the most important thing in the world.
wc: 10,872
summary: you've had a crush on mike wheeler your whole life, but he only starts to see you when you talk music
warnings: swearing, kissing, mentions of self-destructive habits but minor, reader is the little sister of a party member but i believe i've kept it general so could be any - pls lmk if i havent! mathematical innacuracies w ages bc i can't count and also don't understand american school terms
me: i love this fic! was meant to be 4k at most and yet here we are... hope u guys enjoy <3 also all songs and albums mentioned are ones i love so would highly rec giving them a listen!!
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For as long as you could remember, you’d had a crush on Mike Wheeler. You weren’t sure exactly why, or when it started, it was just a steady constant in your life. It made perfect sense, of course, Mike was somehow the ringleader of your brother’s friend group, and so cute. Even as a little girl, you knew he was handsome in his own way, especially when he smiled. The whole room bent to his joy, shifting and reshaping to keep it.
Unfortunately, for much of your life, you were labelled little more than the annoying younger sister, trying to tag along to places you weren’t welcome. In your eyes, this was monumentally unfair. You were hardly fifteen months younger than your brother, basically Irish twins! If you fudged the numbers. And yet, the boys all looked at you with annoyance and distaste if you so much as tried to intrude on their boy time, even for a minute. So you were banished to entertain Holly and Erica at the big family gatherings, or occasionally Nancy if she was feeling kind.
That wasn’t to say the boys weren’t kind, necessarily. If you were ever alone or around other family members, they were all quite lovely. It was just the pack mentality that screwed you over. You didn’t care, though, always trying to be included, to be let in. If they only saw you as a person and not as a girl, you were sure they’d let you hang out with them.
The first time Mike saw you as more than just his friend’s little sister wasn’t until he was twelve years old — you’d just turned ten. All four of the party’s families were at the Wheeler’s for a mid-summer gathering, and the house was alive with chaos and movement. Your mother had sent you to the kitchen to help Mrs Wheeler, and she’d put you on drinks duty, filling up a few jugs with cold water and soda to bring back out to the trestle tables she’d set up.
Then, like you’d tuned yourself to his personal radio station, you looked up just as Mike flew from the basement up the stairs, no doubt retrieving an integral part to whatever one-shot the boys had been playing downstairs.
Mrs Wheeler exchanged a quick look with you that you didn’t quite understand, and stopped Mike as he tried to skip the entire staircase on the way back down.
“Michael, aren’t you going to say hi to our guest?” She gave him a pointed look that suggested she’d probably talked to him about excluding you. Mike sighed, trying to telepathically make his mom let him make his escape back down to the basement. Sensing she was being serious, he took a few steps into the kitchen.
“Hi,” He said, resigning himself to smile at you.
“Hi, Mike,” You grinned, shoving your hands in the pockets of your overall dress, “Was that The Beatles?” Mike’s face screwed up the way it always did when he was confused, and you rushed to explain yourself, “Before. When you were going up the stairs, you were singing Across The Universe, right?”
Mrs Wheeler plucked the jug of soda from your hands, bustling back out into the garden where the rest of the gathering waited, leaving you two alone.
“Um, yeah. You know The Beatles?” The way he said it, you would’ve thought they were a shitty garage group who only played indie dives and not the biggest band on earth. Still, you were enamoured enough with him to simply nod.
“We have a lot of tapes at home, and I got a player for Christmas. I’ve been doing a lot of listening.” Mike’s eyes widened comically, his brows shooting up beneath his bowl cut. It was as if he’d just woken from a spell, realising you had your own internal life. If you weren’t ten years old and in love with him, you would have thought it was ridiculous.
Without warning, Mike sprang into action, becoming the boy you’d seen him be with his friends. Words spilled from his lips, bright and stumbling as you talked about the albums you’d listened to so far, and which songs were your favourite. This was why you loved him, though it could be hard to remember when he and the boys shunned you. Mike was full of heart and passion, and it was nice to be the centre of his attention for once.
If Mrs Wheeler had any idea that you and Mike were actually in the push and pull of interesting conversation, you were sure she could — and would — have found any excuse to stay out in the garden a few minutes longer. Instead, she was worried her son had abandoned you, and you’d be moping in her beautiful kitchen on a lovely summer’s day.
“Oh!” She said, trying to turn around before Mike could spot her. The damage had been done, though, and Mike was transformed back into the girl-hating preteen he usually was.
“Um, bye,” He said awkwardly, disappearing down into the basement before his mother could even open her mouth to call him back.
“Sorry, honey,” She said, squeezing your shoulder, “One day he’ll wake up and see what’s in front of him.”
You didn’t really know what that meant. At ten, having a crush didn’t mean much. You certainly didn’t want to kiss a boy; that was gross. A boyfriend was nowhere in your cards, and wouldn’t be for a long time, so Mrs Wheeler didn’t really make sense to you. You just smiled at her, carrying out a plate of snacks and trying to ignore the giddiness you felt at being seen by Mike.
Not much changed for a very long time. You still weren’t really allowed to hang out with the boys, but at least Mike had started smiling at you when you passed each other in your house or at school. He’d be in high school next year, though, and you wouldn’t see him nearly as much, so you enjoyed what you could get.
A few times, when he wasn’t around his friends and your brother, Mike even stopped to talk to you.
“Hey,” He said, walking into your house unannounced and unaccompanied. It was standard procedure by now with any of the boys, but Mike was rarely alone. Still, you startled easily, slamming your water bottle down next to a comic you’d stolen from your brother’s room while he was out. Mike eyed it with interest.
“Hi, Mike!” You fixed your hair unconsciously, hoping it wasn’t a total mess from last period gym. “Um, what are you listening to?”
Mike looked down at his Walkman, clicking pause and sliding the headphones off his ears.
“It’s Foreigner, Agent Provocateur. Came out last year. Have you listened to it?” You shook your head, embarrassed and feeling as young as he probably viewed you as.
“But I listened to the last one. I love Juke Box Hero.” Mike nodded like you’d passed a test, and relief flooded your body. It was almost insulting that he had this much power over you.
“Girls usually like Waiting for a Girl like You,” He said with an air of disgust, like he couldn’t believe a love song would be the most popular of the album. You tried not to react and reveal it was one of your favourites, shrugging casually.
“Yeah, well.”
After a beat of silence, Mike clicked open his player, carefully removing the tape. You watched in mild interest as he fished the cover out of his backpack, closing it up. He tossed it onto your mattress, both of you watching it bounce softly. You noticed painfully that he didn’t hand it to you, not risking any physical contact. You wondered if girls still had cooties for fourteen-year-old boys. Then, like an afterthought, he said,
“Borrow it. I’ve already listened to it, like, six times. I think you’ll like it.” You smiled widely, beaming up at your brother’s best friend.
“Thanks, Mike! That’s really nice.” Mike shrugged like it was no big deal, and you supposed for him it wasn’t. While you saw it as a magical offering, an olive branch between him and you, he probably saw it as trying to make a teenage girl less lame in his eyes.
“I think they’re coming to Indiana in a few months. Sixteen plus, though, which sucks.”
Conversation came surprisingly easy between you, Mike gradually moving past your doorframe and toward where you were sitting cross-legged on top of your covers. It was mostly about music, but had started drifting to other topics, school, friends, your brother.
Just when it was getting good and you were talking like you were true peers, the front door opened, and the rest of the boys barrelled in. Mike jumped back at once, making a sad excuse to leave and disappearing down to your brother’s bedroom.
You slumped into the headboard, letting out a mournful sigh. You loved your family, you really did, but there were times when you wished you were untangled from the party’s web. If you hadn’t been at inter-family gatherings since you were in diapers, would Mike think of you differently? Would he think you were pretty? If you were from a different, random Hawkins family, maybe you and Mike could go on dates, browsing record shops as you held hands, bickering over the best albums of the year.
Late that night, once the boys had all left and the house was still, you slipped your headphones on. Lying in your bed with your eyes closed, you soaked in the album like it was gospel. The first time you listened to I Want to Know What Love Is, it felt like he’d written it just for you, every word hitting you straight in the heart. It was exactly what you wanted from Mike. You needed him to show you how to be loved.
A dramatic thought, but consistent with the general experience of being thirteen, when everything felt like the most important thing in the world. You probably listened to the album three times in full that night.
A few months later, May, after Mike had turned fifteen, he approached you at school for the very first time. Maybe it was the promise of moving into high school and leaving behind Hawkins Middle, Mike drew nearer across the hallway with purpose, so unlike how he usually interacted with you. None of his friends were with him, which might have contributed, and he even wore a small smile as he stood in front of you.
You tried to slam your locker when you noticed him, but your best friend Sally — well aware of your crush — caught it and saved you the embarrassment.
“Hey, Mike,” You said softly, shifting your weight between your feet as your friends all watched on. Your books were clutched tight against your chest.
“Heard you had a big weekend.” His smile was subtle but definitely there, almost impressed. You brightened at the unspoken praise, tossing a piece of hair over your shoulder.
“Yeah, it was fun.” You were playing coy and all your friends knew it, trying to bat your lashes without him noticing. You hoped you were coming off as sexy, but at thirteen, it was probably closer to awkward. At least you’d gotten your braces off in February and so had your smile back.
“How’d you do it?” Mike sounded genuinely interested in what you had to say, not even embarrassed to be speaking to four thirteen-year-olds.
“It was easy.” It wasn’t, you were shit-scared the entire time. “I took the bus up to Indianapolis, used my allowance on a motel room and told the guy at the stadium I was sixteen. Put on some eyeliner, pushed up my tits and he let me through no problem. Wanna see?” You turned back to your locker, fishing out the Polaroids you and Sally had taken.
Mike examined it, a light blush dusting his cheekbones. Nobody mentioned it. To be fair, you looked hot. The venue for the Foreigner concert was 16+ in the city, but you’d fallen head over heels for the album Mike had lent you and had to see them live, no matter what.
So, you and Sally had lied about staying over at each other’s houses, got the Saturday morning bus up to Indianapolis, rented a tiny motel where you slept in the same bed, and made yourselves look as grown-up as possible to get into the concert. It really was easy; you didn’t even bring an ID. All you needed to do was look up at the bouncer like you wanted to fuck him, arms pressed to your side to push your boobs up to your chin in a flimsy black boob tube, and he let you right through. Disgusting? Yes, but it got you what you wanted, so you weren’t complaining.
“That’s really cool.” Mike sounded genuinely impressed, handing the polaroids back to you. You couldn’t stop grinning. Validation from your older, cooler crush, who actually wasn’t very cool at all, filled you with a joy matched only by seeing Foreigner live in a big city.
“Thanks, Mike. I mean, it’s really all because of you, right?” You watched Mike stall, stumbling through a forced-casual shrug.
“Maybe. I wasn’t faking my way into adult venues, though. Anyway, I, um, heard about that story and thought you might want another tape to listen to.” He brandished it from his pocket, looking around like someone was going to catch him doing a drug deal. Mick Jagger’s She’s The Boss sat in your hands. You’d never even heard of it.
“It was released a few months ago — this guy’s first album. I like something a bit heavier, but I thought you might like it. Plus, after your adventure, it seems fitting.” The boss. You grinned, wishing you could hug Mike like you wanted to, but that would completely scare him off, and any groundwork you’d been laying your entire life would be utterly wasted. Instead, you schooled your features to be calm and collected, slipping the tape into the front pocket of your backpack.
“Thanks, Mike. I’ll give it a listen.”
A strange silence fell between you two, not awkward, but unsure. Your friends had long since wandered off, trying to give you the best chance with the man of your dreams, but you didn’t know what the protocol with him was. Despite years of pining, you and Mike really hadn’t actually spoken very much.
Luckily, the bell gave you both an exit, pulling you to your next classes.
“I’ll see you,” You smiled softly, hopefully flirtatiously, but you really hadn’t had enough time to figure yourself out yet. It seemed to fluster Mike all the same, all awkward limbs and stiff nodding as he mumbled out something that sounded like a goodbye before he was taking off down the hallway.
In Mr Clarke’s science class, he couldn’t explain to any of his friends why he was so jittery.
That summer, Mike got a girlfriend, El. She came out of absolutely nowhere and Mike was obsessed with her. He was never over at your house anymore, apparently spending every spare minute with her, making out as the boys all liked to tease him. You always stayed quiet. Inside you burned white hot jealousy.
How could some girl come in and scoop him up out of nowhere? You’d liked him for so long, your entire life, and you were beaten out by a quiet girl who didn’t even seem to like the same music as him! The worst part of it all, though, was that you liked her. El was really nice, and pretty, and always included you without thought, unlike the boys.
Nevertheless, the tapes were forgotten about, and Mike hardly spoke to you at all for months.
Unfortunately, you didn’t get any space from the Wheelers. All of your families were still friends, and all of the same gatherings continued to happen. How were you ever supposed to get over him when he was at your house every other week? And he wasn’t cruel; in fact, El seemed to make him more social. They’d stop as a couple in your doorway and ask how your summer readings were going, and later your homework when school went back and they were still bloody dating. Plus, he was in high school and you were still in eighth, just turned fourteen, so you didn’t even get to catch glimpses of him on campus anymore.
Your life was absolute torture.
Mike and El finally broke up a whole year later. You wouldn’t say you were pleased, necessarily, you were actually very fond of her, and you always wanted Mike to be happy, but you couldn’t deny the flicker of hope that sparked in your heart when you heard.
You didn’t reach out first, you couldn’t. You wouldn’t be the desperate younger sister running to your brother’s friend the moment he was single. So you quashed your feelings, friendly and welcoming whenever Mike came over or you saw him in the halls of Hawkins High now that you were a freshman, returning to a constant background presence in his life as you’d grown well accustomed to throughout your fifteen years.
Nothing happened for a long time. For a year after Mike and El broke up, you felt completely invisible. The boys let you hang around more often now since Lucas was dating Max and El remained part of the friend group, but you weren’t a party member. Your brother made sure you knew that.
It was one of those times when they let you hang around that something started again. The whole party, plus you, were hanging out in the Wheeler’s basement, sprawled across the room as you entertained yourselves through a boring day of winter break where it was too cold to even venture outside. Nobody reached for their homework.
Max and El were playing chess, or Max was trying to teach her how, Will was drawing, and Mike, Dustin, and Lucas were rotating through a two-player video game at the TV, creating most of the noise in the room. You were lying on the floor next to the stereo, paging through a comic you’d found stuffed among some old toys, assuming it was Mike’s once upon a time.
Music was playing out the stereo, but you didn’t recognise it and the tape cover was nowhere to be seen.
“What is this? I really like it,” You asked when Mike was booted to spectator in the game, drawing his attention from the TV. He didn’t reply for just a second too long, looking at you in amusement, like he’d forgotten he’d ever spoken to you about music. It irritated you that he could just toss you aside for any girl that caught his eye, but simultaneously felt shy under his gaze, like it was important.
“The album is Paranoid. Black Sabbath,” He started before being cut off by the boys.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know Black Sabbath!” Lucas called as Dustin egged him on, even Will looking at you like you were seriously uneducated.
“Hey,” Mike said, harsher than you imagined he meant, “It’s not her fault. Rat Salad is an instrumental feature; it’s not like they’re playing it on the radio.” You tried not to fluster as he defended you, choosing to flip your brother off instead.
“Also, didn’t this come out in, like, the sixties? Sorry I wasn’t born yet.”
“Seventy,” Mike corrected you quietly, under his breath so your brother wouldn’t make fun of you for that too.
By the time you were all done bickering, the final song on the album had finished so Mike stood to change it, placing the tape carefully back into its cover.
“Here,” He said, holding it out to where you sat on his floor, “Borrow it. It’s good music.”
“Thanks, Mike.” Your arm lifted to take it, your fingers brushing as you made the exchange. Your eyes snapped up to his to find him already looking, alarm clear on his face. You wondered briefly if he felt the same electric sparks when you touched.
Mike didn’t give much indication, coughing pointedly as he jumped back on the couch behind Dustin’s spot on the floor, far away from you. You held the tape in wonder, turning it over in your hands. When you got up to put it in your bag, you locked eyes with Max, and you knew at once she was staring into your soul. You prayed she wouldn’t tell.
After that day in Mike’s basement, you’d come to a sort of silent agreement. Usually on a Friday, if he passed you in the halls or you were at each other’s house, he’d lend you a tape, just tucking it in your hands or your schoolbag, or one magical time, into the back pocket of your jeans. You’d been flustered the whole rest of the day.
Your duty was to listen to the tape over the weekend, always in its entirety with your headphones on for the most pure experience. You took it as seriously as a paid job, dedicating anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour to fully appreciate whatever music Mike had bestowed upon you.
Then, on Monday morning or as soon as possible after, you’d return the tape to him some way or another, with the addition of a cut-up Post-it note featuring your star rating.
The best part, though, didn’t happen weekly. Maybe once a month, depending on how busy Mike was, he’d get to your house early when he was supposed to be hanging out with your brother and you’d discuss the albums he’d shared with you. It was the highlight of your month. Mike, usually serious and temperamental, was almost always joyful and passionate when you got into the albums, gushing and gesticulating like he used to when he was little.
You listened with rapt attention, and you were sure your gaze was the same as when you were ten. Mike was seventeen and cool and felt like it. He talked down to you not in the way that he thought you were stupid, but in the way that he loved having an audience to educate. He’d capture your attention as long as you’d pay it, channelling his DM skills to monologue about some of the best albums on earth. Plus, Mike listened to you. Really listened. He’d evolved to sitting on the edge of your bed, nodding along as you shared your volume of thoughts like he really valued your opinions.
The more you did it, the more comfortable you became with each other. What had started as a serious discussion of the merits of different albums devolved into both of you pouring out every feeling you had about them, singing lines you liked or didn’t, freer to criticise as you got to know each other better.
You even thought Mike was beginning to like you. Not as a girlfriend or anything, obviously not, but as an actual friend and not an extension of your brother. He asked about school and your friends when you’d exhausted the albums, complaining about the junior workload.
After a while, you could feel him be more himself around you. You didn’t know how funny Mike Wheeler was until you were fifteen years old, and honestly, you were glad it was a new discovery, because it would have ruined your whole childhood if you’d had to add that to his list of crush-worthy qualities.
He’d started lingering, too. The first few times he’d been to your bedroom, he was anxious, usually pacing or right on the very edge of your mattress, not making himself comfortable in case the rest of the party arrived to catch him. He’d be out of your room the second the front door opened, usually without a goodbye.
Later, though, Mike would sit comfortably on top of your blanket, lounging like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. And when he knew his friends would be arriving, he stood but made no move to leave the room, continuing to chat.
When the rest of the party stopped by your room, staring in bewilderment at the sight of the two of you together, Mike didn’t make a big deal of it.
“Oh, hey guys, we were just talking. Did you know she has Mayberry for bio?”
You and your brother were too busy making aggressive eye contact with each other to respond, true familial competitiveness coming out over Mike Wheeler. When you were done your silent battle, Mike was already looking at you.
“Later,” He said, waving awkwardly. What enamoured you most was his small smile, secret and just for you. Like you were in on a joke together that no one else knew about.
It was a year before you were brave enough to suggest a tape back. It happened just before Mike started his senior year; you were going into tenth. You actually didn’t know why you were at home alone together, you supposed the rest of the party must have had plans and you were the backup.
Nevertheless, there you were, lying side by side on your floor, bodies sinking into the carpet. In the background played Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon album, something both you and Mike considered perfect.
When the tape came to an end, neither of you shied away from the silence, summer crickets underscoring your peace.
“Have you ever listened to the Bat Out Of Hell album?” You asked, voice sounding surprisingly loud after minutes of nothing. Mike looked over at you, eyebrows conveying all of his feelings: disbelief, interest, admiration? You liked it. He finally shook his head no.
“Oh my God, Mike, it’s awesome. It was supposed to be for this, like, rock musical about Peter Pan, but it never happened so he just released it as a normal album, and it’s ridiculous but also kinda good? I don’t know,” You trailed off, suddenly embarrassed.
“Put it on,” Mike said lightly, and you hurried before he could back out, popping in the tape.
You laid back down next to him, the distance between you almost imperceptibly less.
“Why is it really good and kinda terrible?” He laughed, his body shaking from the floor. You joined him, only stopping to sing along to your favourite guitar solo in the titular song. When it ended, you looked over at Mike, aware of what you’d just done, but he was looking at you like it was the coolest thing he’d ever seen.
You didn’t test it, looking back up at the ceiling to enjoy the rest of the album. Your grin didn’t leave your face for the whole album.
When the final song had finished and the tape stalled, you hesitated in getting up, wanting to live in this perfect moment forever.
“Fuck, I should get home. My mom’s been freaking out because senior year is starting,” Mike groaned, reluctantly pushing himself up to a sitting position. You took the hint, hopping up to put the tape back in its case. “Hey, where’d you learn all that stuff about the album?”
You looked back, and time stopped for Mike. In a serendipitous moment, a slowly setting sun filtered through your open window, bathing you in golden light. You were smiling at him, blinding from his spot on the carpet as everything seemed to move in slow motion. The moment snapped back into real life and he struggled to catch up with what you were saying.
“— the guy at the record store told me! Went on a whole tangent about it. Sold me the first two tapes, but apparently there’s a third he couldn’t get his hands on. I’ll lend it to you!”
Any romance movie slow-mo was long gone and Mike was consumed with fear. He was on his feet and out of your room before you knew what was happening, the distinct feeling that you’d done something wrong creeping through your limbs.
You hurried to follow him out, grabbing the tape on the way.
“Mike!” You yelled, skipping the last three steps to follow him out the door. He didn’t look at you as he tried to pick up his bike despite his obvious distraction.
“Sorry,” He didn’t look at you, “I just remembered my mom wanted me to go get some things for dinner, and now she’ll be mad and I was really trying to be nicer to her, and —”
“Mike,” You laughed softly, watching him swing his leg over the bike seat, “I was just gonna lend you a tape.” You slipped it into the breast pocket of his button-up summer shirt, not mentioning the way his whole face went red, waving happily as he pedalled off into the dusk.
Mike’s legs burned with the force of his pedalling. He had no end goal in mind, everything he told you a total lie. He didn’t need to go to the store for his mom, he just needed to get as far away from you as possible. Mike Wheeler could not be seeing his best friend’s little sister in glowing lights and romantic slow motion, that was the most off-limits thing in the world. He’d be actually murdered.
He rode for hours, lost in conflicted thought as he tried to shake any non-platonic images of you from his mind. It was so inappropriate, he could be booted from the party! He had to keep things completely friendly with you.
The only issue was that you’d started lending him tapes back. So once a week, Mike got another little insight into your brain, into your life. The problem with this, was that he thought you were really fucking cool. After a life spent listening to other people’s tapes that you could get your hands on, you’d started to be able to afford to explore your own taste. Mike thought it was unbelievably cool.
When he visited for his monthly-ish album discussion parties, he watched your collection grow, stacking up nearly an entire wall. Not to mention the albums from the rest of your family that you’d stored across the house. A special glow illuminated his chest when he spotted tapes he’d lent you over the years, meaning you liked them so much you’d gone out to buy them after returning them.
And so the agreement continued all through the year, swapping tapes and finding secret times to meet up to discuss your favourite albums.
It was a sacred ritual. Every weekend, just as you did when you were thirteen that very first time, you set aside thirty to sixty minutes to lay above your covers, eyes closed and headphones on as you absorbed the music Mike gave you. Most weeks, it was the best hour of the whole seven days.
Unbeknownst to you, Mike was beginning to feel the same way about it. At first, the tapes were nothing to him. He was just lending them out and you always returned them quickly and in good condition, why should he think anything about it?
Then you started talking about them, and Mike started to see you in a brand new light — even aside from that one terrifying moment over the summer. No longer were you just a younger sister of the party, annoying and desperate to be included, but you were a real person with interesting thoughts and opinions on the same music he loved.
It was ridiculous, really, that he’d developed a crush on his best friend’s younger sister because of her music taste. But that wasn’t really the truth, anyway, was it? The truth was, Mike liked that you were passionate and opinionated, and were still the same girl that snuck out to the city to go see concerts, though now you could get in 16+ venues without any tricks (the bouncer’s face was priceless when you showed him your real ID for the first time).
He liked that you weren’t afraid to disagree with him, pushing back at his album analysis so that he really had to think about it. He liked that you didn’t mind when he was moody, content to sit in silence, a new or old album playing between you.
It was terrifying. Totally off limits, a little bit taboo, nothing about it made sense. Mike hated it, but also couldn’t bring himself to stop your secret ritual.
Mike had to go to college. You’d been dreading it since he got his acceptance letter. He wasn’t going far, not across the country or anything, but far enough that he wouldn’t be coming home to visit.
It wasn’t like you could do anything about it. You just held on to the albums and the passing conversations while you still could.
“Are we still gonna talk about music when you’re gone?” You asked, fiddling with your next tape, pointedly not looking at him. “Or are you gonna forget all about me when you meet college girls who know cooler albums.” You finally loaded the cassette into the player, Starship’s Love Among the Cannibals. You didn’t think Mike was going to love it, but it had been released two weeks ago and you’d been saving it to listen to together.
Mike laughed behind you, and the smile grew back on your face.
“C’mon, you think I’m gonna find someone else who wants to give up hours of their time to listen to albums front to back with me?” You bit your lip to hold back the wide grin which threatened to break out, settling in on your carpet next to him.
The album was just under an hour long, and you two sat in mostly silence for the entire duration, with the exception of the occasional “Nice!” or “Love that riff.” The summer was sweltering around you, but on the floor it didn’t feel as unbearable.
In the middle of the titular song, you’d thrown your hands up to emphasise your point and how much you loved a note the singer hit. When your point was finished you let your arms drop, going rigid when your fingers brushed Mike’s on the floor. You didn’t dare look at him for fear of his reaction, but you didn’t want to move and draw attention to it.
To your surprise, Mike didn’t pull away. When the song changed and a new beat started, his fingers twitched, interlocking with yours as if you wouldn’t notice. Of course you did, you’d been tuned into Mike Wheeler’s personal radio station since the day you gained consciousness, logging his movements to feed your crush. Holding hands with him was something you had only dreamed about, seeming so far away until it was actually happening.
Neither of you moved for the last half of the album, like if you did the illusion would shatter. You were honestly scared it would. The final song of the record, I’ll Be There, started playing, slow and gentle. It was different from much of the album, more of a heartfelt ballad, despite the continued use of synth and electric guitar.
As Mickey Thomas gave it his all on “I’ll be there for you,” Mike turned to look at you. You felt it, gaze heavy on you as your mind ran through every possibility. You couldn’t find any eventuality bad enough to stop you from tilting your head right to look at him.
Softly, slowly, Mike said your name. Your heart skipped three beats in a row.
“Mike?”
By the end of the first chorus, Mike was kissing you, propped up on one elbow so he was hovering above half your body. You didn’t hesitate to return it, back arching off the plush carpet to help him out.
Mike’s lips were softer than you expected, slotting against yours like they were made for each other. He tasted of slurpee and kissed like he was trying to devour you, huge hand cupping your cheek. It was messy and intense and everything you’d dreamt of since you were old enough to find kissing appealing. In a fit of bravery, you pulled him all the way on top of you, knotting your fingers in his hair and tangling your legs with his.
For the remaining four minutes of the five-minute ballad you kissed him, giving everything you had like some bid to convince him you were good enough. If you were judging by the hardness pressing against your thigh, you’d say you were doing a pretty good job.
When the tape clicked characteristically and the room fell silent, Mike pulled away. In the span of a single second, a thousand emotions ran over his face. Dazed pleasure morphed into realisation into horror, and Mike jumped off you, landing three feet away on his ass.
“Mike?” You pushed yourself up onto your forearms, admittedly dazed and confused.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” He muttered, standing and pacing before you could process it. “Fuck, they’re gonna be so mad at me.” Them being the party, of course. Your brow furrowed.
“Mike,” You said again, clearer this time. Mike paid you little attention, lost in his own spiral.
“I can’t believe I just did that, that’s completely against the rules.”
“Mike!”
“They’re gonna kick me out of the party, not to mention your brother will never talk to me again, and —”
“Mike!” You yelled, standing to face him. Mike’s mouth fell shut, looking at you like he’d almost forgotten you were even in the room with him. “Don’t I get any say in this? Or does it not matter what I feel?”
Mike didn’t say anything. You rolled your eyes, taking a step toward him.
“Mike, you kissed me. Big deal. I liked it, isn’t that a little more important?”
“But I shouldn’t have! You’re a sibling of a party member, you’re sixteen—”
“And you’re only just eighteen! It’s not like you’re a pedophile.” Mike winced.
“Look, it was all a mistake. You’re too young, you’re my best friend’s little sister, I’m about to go off to college! It shouldn’t have happened.” He wouldn’t look at you, and that hurt more than anything he could have said.
“You really mean that?” You asked after a long pause, long enough to blink back the tears that burned hot at your lashes. Mike nodded once. “Fine. I think you should go, Mike.”
Mike deflated, like he could hardly believe what had just happened, but picked up his bag to leave anyway. You followed him to the door only to be a good host, because your mother had raised you right. He took a few steps out onto the path then looked back, and for one blissful moment you could pretend he was going to take it all back, that everything could go back to that dream come true.
“I hate to ask it… Can you please not tell your brother?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Mike gave you a pained smile, as if anything he could do right now could come off as remotely polite, and took off down the street on his bike.
You slammed the door as hard as you could, unbothered if Mike heard it, and slid down it, tears falling freely once you were completely alone. Your childhood crush, the love of your life thus far, had ripped out your heart and stomped it into the ground over some petty childhood rules. Why did he kiss you, then, if he wouldn’t even savour the bliss for a minute? Why play with your feelings? Everything you’d ever known about Mike Wheeler was called into question.
When your brother got home he found you on your bed, eyes still wet and rimmed with red as you clutched the tape player close to your chest, Songs of Leonard Cohen playing from start to end, the most melancholy album you had on hand.
“You good?” He asked, “What happened?”
“Nothing,” You croaked, eyes trained on the ceiling so he wouldn’t see the truth, “Absolutely nothing.”
Mike felt so stupid. He was stupid. He just couldn’t tell which was more stupid, kissing you in the first place or letting you go. If he were a braver man, Mike would have followed his heart. He would have kissed you to Starship then held you close, telling you exactly how glad he was that you’d chosen him to pay attention to all those years ago, that your albums were the highlight of his year. If he were braver, Mike would have told your brother, begging him for a chance to do things right by you.
But Mike wasn’t brave, wasn’t a man of action. So he ran, and worse, begged you to keep his secret like a little boy who’d eaten candy past his bedtime. He knew he’d fucked up, but he couldn’t go back on it now. Besides, if your brother ever learned what he’d done, Mike would never be allowed near you again.
You didn’t talk to Mike before he went off for college. You only went to his going-away party because it was a joint one for all of his friends, but you shrugged off his attempt at small talk. If Mike didn’t want you in the way he’d pursued, he wasn’t getting you at all.
You only stepped into his space when Karen begged for a photo of you both, you could never say no to her. She must have sensed the tension because she’d faltered, but ultimately bossed you into an adequate pose. Mike was pressed right up against you, hand firmly around your waist.
Your body was in complete confusion. After so many years of pining, you were practically programmed to crave physical affection from Mike, and feeling his body against yours was so comforting it made you want to cry. The other part of you was fighting tears for the opposite reason, being so close to him brought every negative feeling of the last week to the forefront of your mind.
Click.
“Michael, honey, you’re supposed to look at the camera,” Mrs Wheeler teased. Mike was looking at you. Why was Mike looking at you? What reason could he possibly have for looking at you? He’d made his feelings abundantly clear. You both settled, smiling pleasantly — if completely fake — at the camera.
Click.
You moved to leave, untangling yourself from his arms when Karen stopped you.
“Please, just one more! Honey, can you kiss her cheek?” Both yours and Mike’s heads snapped back toward Mrs Wheeler and the camera, panic clear on your faces.
“Mom!” Mike snapped, putting distance between you two. Your heart dropped into your toes, feeling him smash it into the ground all over again.
“Michael,” She scolded, tone stern, “Nobody is looking at you. You’ve known her your whole life, you guys used to swim naked in the pool together when you were babies!” You were sure you looked as distraught as Mike did, and he muttered something that sounded like ‘fine’, if only to get his mom to stop talking.
Carefully, hesitantly, you fell back into each other. Mike’s hand wrapped around your body, resting on your hip where your jeans hugged the skin, his body warm against your own. Painfully slow, he leant down to oblige his mother. Because he was so tall, the kiss landed closer to your cheekbone than the actual cheek, but the sensation still took your breath away. His lips were still soft like the day he kissed you, a painful reminder of what you’d lost. In the last second, you remembered to plaster on a smile for Mrs Wheeler, dropping it after the click.
Mrs Wheeler beamed, wiggling the camera before running off to capture more memories. You tried to follow her lead, wriggling out of Mike’s hold, but he captured your wrist before you could make a break for it.
“Listen,” He said, “I’m really sorry about how everything went down. I was a dick. Can I… Can I still send you albums, when I’m at college?” You thought for a moment. What the fuck were you supposed to say to that?
“No one’s stopping you,” You said, the bitterness definitely seeping through, “Enjoy college, Mike.” You didn’t stay to get his response, walking off through the crowd.
Later, when you and your family were finally leaving the party, Mrs Wheeler approached you.
“I’m sorry about Michael,” She said, soft enough that none of your relatives could eavesdrop, “I don’t know what happened between you two, but I know it’ll work out and you’ll find your way back to each other. One day he’ll wake up and realise what was always right in front of him.”
“Thanks, Mrs Wheeler,” You replied, reciprocating her tight squeeze, “I hope so.”
You didn’t speak to Mike Wheeler for an entire year. He mailed a few tapes in the first months, never with notes, and you never replied. You wished you could say you didn’t listen to them, threw them straight in the trash, but of course you didn’t. Just like when you were thirteen years old, you’d pop them into your player, slide your headphones on, and listen to the whole thing in one sitting with your eyes closed.
They were different from the tapes he’d recommended throughout your adolescence. Clearly, he’d made new friends in college, expanded his horizons. Instead of the rock or pop-rock records from his high school days, Mike sent grungier, indie records that reflected the start of the nineties.
First it was Heaven or Las Vegas by the Cocteau Twins. You admittedly felt really cool to have already owned it. Then The La’s self-titled album. After that, Hold Me Up by the Goo Goo Dolls. The final album to be sent was The Screaming Trees’ Change Has Come.
You listened to every one, though you would never tell him. You didn’t write back, which probably explained why they stopped coming. What would you say? You couldn’t just ignore everything that happened and go back to naively reviewing records, so you didn’t. It made you angry, fuming that Mike could just go on like everything was fine, like he didn’t shatter your heart into a thousand pieces in the span of a single minute.
Mike didn’t come home for his winter break, citing too much work before finals. That was fine, you thought. Better, even, because you could still be angry without feeling silly about it. If Mike had come home totally blasé about your history whilst you were still grieving, it would have been completely humiliating.
When he didn’t come home for spring break either, you were well and truly over him. Mike Wheeler didn’t occupy any room in your head. You filled your schedule with school commitments, parties, and boys who were nothing like Mike. You snuck out on the weekends, killing brain cells in warehouses or fields or anywhere else there was abundant alcohol and sweaty bodies, waking up next to people who weren’t afraid to kiss you more than once. None of them stayed till the end of an album.
You missed him again in the summer. You had an older cousin up in New York who gave you an internship the summer before your senior year, and you spent three months away from your tape collection and the memories they held. It helped. While Mike was back in Hawkins, you were running around the greatest city in the world, forgetting he ever held space in your heart.
When you got home, you were actually over him. In the real way, not in the fake-it-till-you-make-it kind of way. Men much older than him, who took you to clubs you shouldn’t have been allowed into and loved you in penthouses more expensive than the Hawkins mall, imparted wisdom on you, that Mike was an immature boy. His rejection wasn’t mean-spirited; it was just a representation of him being torn between child and adulthood, between friends and romances. Something like that, anyway. Enough for you to forgive Mike Wheeler for breaking your heart when you were sixteen.
By the time you were eighteen, halfway through your senior year, you felt like an entirely new person. You still loved your albums, but less obsessively. They weren’t a coping mechanism anymore, it was just something you loved. If Mike Wheeler walked through your door, you were sure you wouldn’t feel anything.
Your theory was tested in January, a few days after the new year. The party had gone on a trip together, but were spending the very final days of winter break with their respective families.
You were in your bedroom, getting ready to go out with some friends. You’d adapted well to the nineties in a slinky slip dress with sheer stockings for the cold, perfecting a dark smokey eye in your vanity mirror. Alanis Morissette’s debut album played at a low volume.
“Hi,” A voice said behind you. You stood on instinct, face morphing into surprise when you realised it was none other than Mike Wheeler himself.
For a long moment, it seemed like you were both frozen in time. Mike had no idea how you were going to react to seeing him after all this time, and he was scared of all of it.
And then you smiled. Not pained, not forced, not fake. You really smiled at him. You were coming closer. Oh God, why were you coming closer? When you wrapped your arms around his neck, Mike simply could not believe it, waiting just a second too long before wrapping his own tentatively around your middle.
The hug wasn’t long by any shot, just friendly. Like two people who had known each other for almost two decades and hadn’t seen each other in a long time. Mike couldn’t help but catalogue every sensation. The silk beneath his fingers, the warmth of your skin, the sweet smell of your perfume. Different than he remembered.
When you pulled away you were still smiling, and Mike felt like he was in a parallel universe where nothing had ever gone wrong between you. Your hands lingered, trailing softly down his shoulders to his chest, there were still only inches between you.
“It’s so nice to see you,” You said, and Mike really believed you meant it. “Do you have a few? Come in, tell me all about college!”
He settled on the edge of your mattress, nervous like the first few times you’d talked about music.
“It’s cool, I guess…” He told you about his roommate, his classes, the DND campaign he’d joined on campus. It was light, easy, almost like nothing had ever happened between you. You remained in the plush seat at your vanity, blending out the excessive amount of black eyeshadow you’d packed onto your lids, occasionally making eye contact through the mirror. He faltered every time, the feeling strangely domestic. Fuck.
Mike wanted to apologise, but he had no idea where to start or what he could say. It was so long ago, but being back here made it feel like only a matter of days or weeks. His eyes caught on your pile of tapes, Heaven or Las Vegas sitting on the top.
“You kept them?” You knew at once what he was talking about and let out a small sigh. You’d been hoping it would go unspoken, at least today. Give you and Mike some time to reconnect innocently at first. You stayed in your seat, hoping he didn’t notice the way your shoulders tensed.
“Of course I did, Mike.”
“You never said anything. Never wrote back.”
“What was I supposed to say?” You stood, taking a few steps toward him so you wouldn’t raise your voice. Nothing good would come if your brother walked in now. “I was angry, Mike. Heartbroken. I’ve had a crush on you my entire life, and then you finally kiss me and call it a mistake not even thirty seconds later. I was crushed. I couldn’t just pretend that I was okay while you were off in college sending me albums you got from older, prettier girls.”
Though you were only inches apart, you could have mistaken the distance for miles. Hurt flashed across Mike’s face, but you didn’t feel particularly bad. Everything you said was true.
When Mike looked at you, you felt truly seen. He’d always had a talent for that, ever since that day when he learned you listened to The Beatles. That skill had evidently never left, and you shied away from his gaze in case he could truly read every thought and feeling racing through your body. Gently, he took your bicep in his hand, thumb rubbing the exposed skin there.
“I was so immature — stupid. I was so worried about what everyone else would think, what your brother would think, that I wasn’t thinking about how I was treating you and making you feel. I’m so, so sorry I ever hurt you, and I wish I could take it back.”
Hearing it out loud from Mike healed something in you that you didn’t know was broken. You had truly forgiven him, but hearing how sorry he actually sounded, it restored some of the fondness you’d always had for him.
“What would you take back?” You asked, barely above a murmur. Mike cocked his head, confused. “What would you take back? Kissing me or breaking my heart?” You needed him to say it.
Mike’s smile was tight, pained, but not like his feelings were hurt. More bittersweet, like he was indulging in nostalgia. You couldn’t read it, but Mike was running through a lifetime of memories. Of you pushing back against his opinions, challenging him as an equal. Of you tagging along when his friends would let you, teasing the party members with a sharp tongue despite being younger. Of you kissing him back without hesitation, tasting like ice pops and lip gloss. His answer was clear.
“Breaking your heart,” He whispered, “Always.” The hand on your bicep trailed down to interlock your fingers loosely, giving you the opportunity to pull away. You didn’t, taking a tiny step toward him. The album had stopped by now, and you were bathed in silence.
“Mike…” His neck was already bent, breath fanning your face. It smelled of mint, no doubt from the bowl kept on your kitchen counter. Mike echoed your own name, barely audible as he looked down at your lips through lidded eyes, the glossy red wine colour on your lips glinting invitingly.
You were just pushing yourself up on your tiptoes to kiss him when a horn blasted outside your window, both of you jumping apart as if getting caught doing something bad. Sally was picking you up for the party. Looking at Mike, you dreaded finding what you did when you were sixteen; regret, panic, despair. Instead, he just laughed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. The relief was incomparable. Together, you dissolved into embarrassed giggles, but the air in your room was light.
“I have to go,” You said finally, picking up your small beaded purse and throwing in a few touch-up makeup products. Mike nodded, stumbling out something about your brother being home soon, anyway.
As you parted ways in the corridor with a stiff hug and embarrassed goodbyes, you looked back at where Mike was entering your brother’s bedroom.
“Hey,” You said and Mike turned without hesitation. “Maybe you can lend me more tapes, while you’re at college?”
He nodded, face breaking into a wide grin, something you’d always loved about him. When it was genuine, his smile took up most of his face like a beacon of joy.
The first tape came three days after Mike returned to college, meaning he probably sent it as soon as he got back. The thought made you smile. It was Smashing Pumpkins’ Gish. You really liked it, and not only because Mike sent it to you.
For the first time since he’d been to college, you wrote Mike back. A long letter filled with thoughts about the album and your favourite parts. When you ran out of that, you started talking about your own life, about senior year and how much you were looking forward to graduating, and about how you were considering applying to his school. Not because Mike went there, because it had the best course for you. Anything else was just a bonus. At the bottom of the envelope, you included Teenage Fanclub’s Bandwagonesque.
The correspondence only increased over the semester, letters coming every few days. Your mother certainly noticed but never said anything, the unopened envelopes always somehow ending up in your bedroom when you came home from school.
Each time, the letters became a little less album-focused and a little more personal. Secrets were spilled and confessions shared in the pages of letters you’d trade every week, a tape added to each one. You were really, really fucked.
Mike couldn’t make it home for your graduation. You’d been brave and specifically invited him in a letter, hoping you hadn’t misread any of his signs or what you thought was flirting via the written word. He’d written back extremely apologetic, but he had an exam the same day and couldn’t miss it. Of course you understood, but a part of you still ached that he wouldn’t be there for such an important day.
The morning of the event, you were busy getting ready at your vanity, Mike’s latest tape — Radiohead’s debut Drill, playing. Obviously it was a third listen, the first being in your ritualistic method.
You called for whoever was knocking at your door to come in, smiling at your mom. Wordlessly, she held up a plain envelope, the handwriting on which you’d memorised over the last four months. It was frankly embarrassing, how fast you were up and out of your seat. grabbing the letter with both hands. Your mom didn’t say anything, just shooting you a far-too-knowing smile as she left you to read it in peace.
You tipped the contents out on your vanity amongst the makeup you’d just been using. Usually, you’d read the letter first, but the tape caught your eye. It didn’t look like the usual album Mike sent.
On one side, it just read your name in familiar scrawl, accompanied by a single heart. Shaky, unsure. On the other, a track list was stuck to it. Mike had never made you a mixtape before, you’d never had one made for you.
Flipping it over to see the tracks on the tape, you had to blink back tears to save the mascara you’d just applied.
Across the Universe - The Beatles
I Want To Know What Love Is - Foreigner
She’s The Boss - Mick Jagger
I’d Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That) - Meatloaf
I’ll Be There - Starship
Crush - The Smashing Pumpkins
It was short, only the length of an EP, but the message was clear. Mike liked you. Mike Wheeler liked you! As if your day couldn’t get any better. You couldn’t stop smiling, not even when you had to sit through hours of your peers walking across a shitty stage at the town hall in the sweltering early summer heat.
You couldn’t believe he remembered it all. That all those tiny moments you thought you were exaggerating or reading too much into meant the same to Mike, too. All those years you thought had been wasted… they were all worth it.
You didn’t bother writing back that evening when you returned from the senior party, a little bit tipsy and emotional. Nothing you could say would be good enough.
Four days later, Mike was due to arrive home with the rest of the party. You couldn’t wait, the pounding in your chest had only gotten louder as the hours counted down. All of the families had gathered at the Wheelers' to greet the boys, a summer feast awaiting in the backyard.
You couldn’t wait with everyone else, pretending you were completely fine when every one of your limbs was shaking in anticipation. So you moved to the front yard, sitting atop the hood of the Wheelers’ family car.
The boys all pulled up in the same car, so they must have done an overly convoluted route that was typical for the friend group. You were beaming the second they came around the corner, waiting impatiently for the brown Ford to come to a complete stop.
All four doors opened at once, but you only had one interest. Skipping past your brother’s open arms, you launched yourself into Mike’s embrace, ready and waiting as he kissed you hard.
Years, lifetimes, of built-up longing and tension were expressed in the one kiss, your lips moving against each other like it was their only purpose. Mike tasted of soda and candy, poorly masked by mint gum. His arms wrapped completely around you, pulling you flush to him. You had both hands on his jaw, foot popping of its own accord.
Finally, after multiple awkward throat clears from the party, you pulled away, beaming brighter than the sun.
“Congrats on graduating,” Mike said, voice breathy and dazed as he held you.
“Thanks for the mixtape,” You replied, running your fingers through his hair gently. “Hi, guys.” You turned to greet the others, hugging your brother even when his arms didn’t work, too shocked to function.
Mike found his way to your side as soon as you finished saying hello, intertwining his fingers with yours.
You turned to head out to the back, eyes widening when Mrs Wheeler stood in the front doorway, leaning against the frame. She just smiled, greeting the boys like nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
Later, when the Wheeler’s garden was alive with chaos and moving parts, countless family members bustling about, Mrs Wheeler approached you.
Refilling your lemonade, she squeezed your shoulder maternally.
“I knew he’d wake up one of these days and realise what was right in front of him.” She just winked and walked away, no doubt to tell your mom about what she’d seen.
An hour later, once the excitement of the arrival had died down, Mike approached you again, arms settling over your collarbones as he stood behind you. You looked away from your conversation with Erica and up at him, unable to keep your smile from forming.
“Do you wanna go listen to an album?” He asked, pressing a kiss to your hair. You nodded without thought, letting him lead you into the house.
“Is that a code for something?” Erica yelled, disgusted and unimpressed as always.
“Nope!” You grinned, skipping along behind Mike.
Safe behind closed doors and a declaration of love between you, you and Mike lay on his floor, holding hands as you sank deep into his carpet. After eighteen years of yearning and pining, Mike Wheeler was all yours. Your mutual choice of album was, of course, The Beatles’ Let It Be.
there is no way jason and tim haven't gotten bored during patrol and decided to switch places for a bit. like the amount they must banter and joke about how tim stole robin so he's coming for red hood next, and that jason's gonna steal red robin as revenge for taking robin from him; there has to be an occasion where during a slow night they're both bored and in funny moods so they just switch costumes behind an air conditioning unit without telling anyone for a laugh.
jason shows up to red robin's rendezvous with nightwing, batman and robin clearly about to tear through tim's suit. dick and damian stare at him in the utmost bafflement until bruce opens his mouth to ask what the fuck and dick cuts him off with a 'hoooold on b, i kinda wanna see what happens when he tries to use those bo-staffs.'
they end up just quietly accepting it and jason spends the next three hours doing the MOST dramatic tim impressions he can, including answering literally everything with 'uhm, actually ☝️🤓' vibes and every five minutes going in a very high pitched voice 'man, jason todd sure was my hero back when he was robin. i wish i had been good enough to fill his shoes but alas, i am just a pathetic little rich boy with no skills other than being a potential peeping-tom'. damian laughs. every time. there also comes a point where they all get into a fight with some criminals and jason has to bust out the bo-staffs except he was never trained with them so he doesn't know the techniques, and it ends up with dick sat on top of a billboard calling out point scores as jason runs around holding one of the staffs like fuckin steve harrington with his nail-bat just whacking guys over the head with it as if he's playing fuckin' goon-golf.
meanwhile tim is over in crime alley surrounded by jason's subordinates who ABSOLUTELY fuckin' know this is red robin wearing their bosses suit because it is DROWNING him and they've seen the two hang out enough to catch onto tim's speech style, except they are absolutely NOT going to be interfering or asking why because red robin is wearing a bomb-helmet and is clearly ENTIERLY too happy to be in a situation where it is socially acceptable for him to be using guns and threatening to kill people and jason's goons do NOT want to get involved. the rest of the bats finally end up in crime alley and they find 'red hood' sat on a chair in the middle of a street he's blocked off via death threats overseeing a human version of chess that he's playing against black mask (who does not seem to realise this isn't jason) complete with a chalk chess board drawn on the road and all of jason's subordinates resignedly standing in separate squares with pieces of paper stuck to their heads declaring what kind of piece they're supposed to be. jason and dick walk onto the street just in time to watch tim declare 'knight to E5!' and the guy with 'knight' pinned to his forehead clocks his real boss entering the scene dressed as red robin, sighs bitterly at him, drags his feet over to where black mask's 'queen' goon is staring at the floor forlornly, says 'sorry matthew,' and then proceeds to sock him in the face so hard the guy goes down in one hit.
Pairings: Sirius Black x Fem!Reader, Remus Lupin x Fem!Reader
Summary ✿ After finding out Remus Lupin has found himself a girlfriend, a devastated Y/n L/n asks Sirius Black to help her get over him. Except Sirius has feelings for her.
Warnings ✿ Language, unrequited love, angst, kissing, jealousy, reader wearing lipgloss and a dress, mentions of anxiety. If there's more let me know!
Word Count ✿ 20.3k
A/N 💌 This was my first ever series, but I've decided to repost it as a oneshot!
Your affection for Remus had begun almost from the moment you met him. For nearly five years, you found yourself quietly drawn to him. How could you not be? His tranquil and caring nature had eased your anxieties countless times. His unwavering loyalty to both his friends and his studies never ceased to amaze you. The bravery he exhibited each month, whether he acknowledged it or not, left you in awe. With Remus, you always felt secure, as if nothing could disturb your sense of safety.
Monday nights marked your routine study sessions with Remus, a tradition since the start of sixth year. Arriving promptly at his dorm, you were met with unsettling moans seeping from beneath the door, causing your stomach to plummet. Frozen in shock, you raced through possible explanations, with Sirius seeming the most plausible culprit. Surely, Remus wouldn't forget your study night, and the thought of another girl seemed inconceivable. As you turned around, anxiety coursing through your veins, you collided with Sirius, tears welling up in your eyes.
"Please tell me it’s James in there." You pleaded, the desperation clear in both your tone and your expression, causing Sirius' heart to sink. Knowing James was at practice, he couldn't bring himself to shatter your hope. Instead, he grasped your hand firmly and practically pulled you towards your dormitory. Despite the chaos of emotions, Sirius made sure to shield you with his own body, warding off any prying eyes curious about the tears streaming down your cheeks.
"Are any of your roommates here?" Sirius inquired as he halted in front of your dormitory door.
"No, Lily is staying the night at your dorm with James, and I think Marlene is staying with Dorcas." You responded, your voice tinged with sadness as you used your sleeve to dab at the tears staining your cheeks. Leading the way inside, you guided Sirius into your room, where he realized it was his first time seeing your personal space. Until now, you and Remus had been inseparable, leaving no room for Sirius to spend time alone with you.
He found himself a tad nervous, the proximity to you unnerving him in the best possible way. As he stood in your dormitory, the faint scent of your favorite perfume lingering in the air, Sirius couldn't help but feel a flutter in his stomach. It was an unfamiliar sensation, being so close to you without the familiar presence of Remus nearby.
"It wasn’t James and Lily in there, was it?" Sirius turned to you, his expression filled with concern as he observed you sitting on your bed, visibly holding back tears, awaiting his response.
"No, angel." He replied softly, his voice tinged with empathy as he moved to sit beside you. A sigh escaped his lips as he settled onto your bed. Sirius knew James's schedule all too well, and he was certain that James was still down at the Quidditch pitch, far from the dorm.
Everything about your side of the room was perfectly you. Your desk was adorned with stacks of books, polaroids capturing cherished memories with friends pinned to the wall, and one of Remus’ sweaters casually draped over the back of your chair. Yet, amidst the familiar sights, a small glass vase seized his attention. Within it, a single red tulip, a gift he had given you a few weeks earlier.
As he strolled around Black Lake with the boys, he stumbled upon the patch of flowers, and instantly, he knew it was meant for you. Knowing how much you adored flowers, often doodling them in the margins of your Potions notes while seated beside him, he couldn't resist picking it. James, catching sight of the flower, declared that Lily deserved an entire bouquet.
You weren’t taken aback when James Potter interrupted your study session with Lily by presenting her with a stunning bouquet of flowers. However, what did catch you off guard was Sirius' gesture: placing a single red flower delicately on top of your open book and sending you a playful wink.
"M’lady." He had murmured, and at that moment, your cheeks ignited with a warmth you had never felt before.
Lily filled the remainder of your study session with talk of how a red tulip symbolized a declaration of love while you simply laughed in response.
Sirius glanced over at you, noticing the tear-filled gaze fixed upon your hands as you sat on the bed. He hesitated, the weight of his words hanging in the air. "I didn’t know you had feelings for him." he finally admitted, his tone tinged with surprise.
You offered a soft laugh tinged with a hint of sadness. "I guess that means I’m good at hiding it then. It’s been a good couple of years now. Probably started the very first day I met him, honestly," you confessed, a bittersweet smile gracing your lips.
"I’m sorry, angel." Sirius expressed, his voice laced with genuine remorse.
A gentle shake of your head followed. "You don’t have to be sorry," you reassured him, your voice carrying a tone of acceptance intertwined with a hint of resignation.
"I could’ve given you a heads up," Sirius grimaced as your head whipped up to look over at him, the gravity of his words sinking in. "He’s been seeing this girl for weeks. He’s going to ask her out soon."
"Sirius-" you began, your voice carrying a mixture of surprise and concern.
"I’m telling you this not to be mean, but so you’re not blindsided when it happens." Sirius continued his tone earnest yet tinged with regret.
This time, you remained silent, your gaze drifting over to the polaroid displayed prominently on your bedside table. In the photo, you and Remus sat beneath a tree, his arm wrapped around you in a protective embrace while your head rested gently on his shoulder. The memory of that day flooded back — discussing a book, laughter filling the air, and Lily insisting on capturing the moment in a photograph.
At the end of the day, with a knowing smile, she handed you the polaroid. The setting sun cast a beautiful glow upon the photo when you held it in your hand.
"C’mere," Sirius demanded softly, his voice a gentle command meant to pull you away from the intensity of the picture. He positioned himself against the headboard, arms open wide for you to find solace in. Without hesitation, you crawled into his embrace, nestling against his side. His arms enveloped you, offering comfort and warmth as he planted a tender kiss atop your head.
"What can I do?" Sirius inquired quietly, his gaze fixed on the tears tracing down your cheeks and staining his shirt.
"Help me get over him. Please." You pleaded, the vulnerability in your voice bared as you sought comfort and support from him.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
"Where the hell have you been? You nearly missed breakfast!" James exclaimed, his eyes scanning over your disheveled appearance—your hair in disarray and your clothes creased. It was a rare sight to see you, typically impeccably put together and five minutes ahead of everyone else, arriving late and looking rumpled. He chose not to mention the dark circles under your eyes or the absence of your usual cheery smile. He knew better than to bring that up.
Upon sensing Remus's scrutinizing gaze, you cleared your throat nervously and averted your eyes, unwilling to let him figure out that he was the cause of your disheveled appearance.
“Rough night.” That was simply put. In fact, last night had been incredibly rough, leaving you worse for wear this dreary morning. Cuddling with Sirius comforted you for so long before you were back to crying your heart out. He was kind enough to hold you the entire time, and eventually, you had both fallen asleep. There had been no discussion on what you meant last night about having him help you get over Remus. You didn’t know what you had meant by it either.
You grimaced as the memory flooded back, choosing to sit beside Sirius instead. He wouldn’t admit it in front of the boys, but he was well prepared to knock one of them over if they tried to sit next to him. After the trying night you'd endured, he made it a point to ensure you felt at ease and understood that he was there for you should you need anything. Normally, you occupied the seat next to Remus, with Sirius seated beside James and Peter. However, given the circumstances, he understood that you wouldn't feel comfortable sitting next to Remus that morning.
James' gaze darted between the two of you, noting the departure from your usual seating arrangement. He stole a quick glance at Remus, who seemed intent on studying you. "Hmm. Why is it that Sirius has been quiet all breakfast, and now you are too?" he quipped, breaking the silence.
"Sod off, mate." Sirius grumbled, pushing a steaming cup of tea toward you. Despite the gruff remark, he offered you a sweet smile before returning his attention to his meal. Even though the gesture was minimal, it made you want to burst into tears. The fact that he remembered your favorite tea and how you liked it meant more to you than words could express. Remus, however, frowned at the cup of tea sitting in front of you, his expression troubled.
“What? I can’t make conversation this beautiful morning?” James’s tone was still incredibly upbeat, unlike those around him. Peter hummed in agreement, his mouth full of cereal and unable to respond properly.
"It's storming." Remus mumbled, his gaze still fixed on you, sensing that something was amiss as you avoided meeting his eyes. Usually, you sat next to him, cheerily chatting about another book you had read together.
"Are you implying a storm isn't beautiful? Because I happen to think-"
"James, let's just have a quiet breakfast this Tuesday morning." Sirius interjected, surprising James with the interruption. James opened his mouth to protest, but the seriousness in Sirius's expression halted him mid-sentence. Sirius's deliberate interruption was aimed at signaling to Remus that he had missed your study night. It served its purpose, prompting Remus to acknowledge the missed study date.
"Oh, fuck. Y/n, I’m so sorry! Last night, our study night, I totally forgot," Remus blurted out, his words rushed and filled with regret as he watched your reaction. You simply shrugged and sipped your tea, avoiding direct eye contact with him. You kept your gaze fixed on your plate, knowing that meeting Remus's eyes would likely trigger another wave of tears.
"No big deal." You replied casually.
"Uh," Remus furrowed his eyebrows, his expression a mixture of concern and confusion as he searched your face for any sign of distress. However, your demeanor remained inscrutable, your face a mask of blankness. "Are you sure? I know you really wanted to study this week with your exam coming up-"
You finally met Remus's gaze, sitting up a bit straighter, "I was able to study, Remus, it's fine."
"You were? But uh-" Remus scrambled for words, uncertain how to navigate this tense exchange. He couldn't recall a time when you sounded so curt with him before.
"Sirius helped me." You interjected, your voice steady but tinged with an underlying tension.
James sputtered out a laugh, his gaze darting between you and Sirius. "He helped you study? Willingly?"
In reality, studying hadn't been the main agenda of the night. Before drifting off to sleep, you had hastily handed Sirius your flashcards from the nightstand, however, your pounding headache from crying rendered you unable to focus properly during his quizzing. So, technically, he did help you study, albeit minimally.
Peter raised his eyebrows, his tone laced with curiosity, "Is that where you were all last night? Studying?"
You squirmed uneasily at Peter's implication. Sirius shot James and Peter a sharp glance, silently urging them to stop talking.
Remus's lips parted in surprise as he shifted his gaze from Sirius to you. "He stayed the night with you?" His tone carried a hint of displeasure that didn't escape Sirius's notice. Despite himself, a slight sense of satisfaction flickered within Sirius at Remus's reaction.
Before anyone could respond, a pretty Ravenclaw leaned over Remus, enveloping him in a hug as she rested her head against his shoulder. "Rem, I thought you were going to try and sit with me this morning." She murmured.
Your body tensed at the sight of her; she was the girl from last night. A surge of jealousy, unlike anything you had ever experienced before, washed over you, catching you off guard. Your appetite vanished.
"Uh, sorry. I had to work on some things this morning and got a bit distracted." Remus's response came with a hint of discomfort, his apology tinged with unease. As you observed the exchange, you couldn't quite determine if his discomfort arose from her presence or the attention their interaction garnered. Quietly, you wished it leaned more towards the former.
Her lips formed a pretty pout, “Hm.”
James unabashedly observed the pair while taking a bite of his toast. "You know, Remus, if you ever need relationship advice, I’m here," he remarked, his tone teasing. Remus scowled in response, clearly unamused, while the girl giggled and tightened her grip around him, seemingly unfazed by James's comment.
You stole a glance at Sirius, momentarily tuning out the conversation to observe his reaction to the scene unfolding before you. Sensing the unease gnawing at your stomach, you instinctively reached for Sirius’ hand, which rested on his thigh. As soon as your fingers brushed against his, he responded by intertwining them with yours, his eyes meeting yours in silent understanding.
"Do you want to go?" he whispered softly, squeezing your hand in reassurance. Unable to trust your voice, you simply nodded in response. He released your hand momentarily, a fleeting disappointment washing over you until you watched as he effortlessly grabbed your bag and slung it over his shoulder. With a tender gesture, he reached for a muffin, noticing that you had hardly eaten.
Then, extending his hand towards you, he silently offered his support. Amidst James's lively conversation with the Ravenclaw girl and Remus's contemplative gaze, Peter looked on with a puzzled expression as Sirius extended his hand to you, a silent invitation to leave the discomfort behind.
"You don’t have to hold my bag." You mumbled, rising to your feet to face him, intertwining your fingers once more. Despite the awareness of the eyes fixed upon the two of you, your focus remained solely on Sirius.
"I wanted to, angel." Sirius replied softly, meeting your gaze with warmth. The genuine smile that graced your face was the first of the morning, and Sirius felt as if he had won the lottery.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
"Y/n." His voice sliced through the air, causing you to freeze mid-sentence. But deep down, what had you truly expected? That he wouldn’t approach you while you were quietly engrossed in your book in the common room? Your plan of avoiding him for as long as possible wasn’t unfolding as smoothly as you had hoped.
"Hi, Rem.” You responded softly, offering a genuine smile. Despite the ache that lingered from witnessing him with the Ravenclaw girl at breakfast, you couldn’t deny the bond you shared. After all, he was still your best friend. You couldn’t fault him for getting a girlfriend, no matter how much it hurt.
Remus settled into the armchair opposite you, his expression earnest. "I didn’t really get to talk to you much this morning," he began, his tone gentle.
You offered a nonchalant shrug, hoping to conceal the nervousness. "Oh. I mean, I wasn’t in much of a mood for chatting," you replied, attempting to maintain a façade of composure, though inwardly, you were anything but.
"Is everything alright? Is this about missing last night? I promise that I didn’t mean to, truly," Remus continued, his sincerity evident. Leaning forward, his eyes bore into yours, practically pleading for your forgiveness. Despite your resolve, his sincerity tugged at your heartstrings, and you found yourself wavering.
"I’m not upset about you missing our study night; I understand that things come up." You reassured him as though you were anything truly fine. There was a squeeze in your heart at remembering Remus with another girl, a stark reminder that she wasn't you.
Remus visibly relaxed at your words. "We could reschedule it?" he suggested, his tone hopeful.
A heavy silence settled between you. How were you supposed to tell him that you didn't want to reschedule? That you weren't ready to spend time alone with him right now? Being around him now, knowing you had no chance, felt like a punch to the gut.
"There you guys are!" James’ voice carried throughout the common room, effectively gaining more attention than he had probably intended. Sirius stood right beside him, his gaze already fixed on you. Peter was notably absent, likely engrossed in his studies elsewhere. Nevertheless, you welcomed the distraction.
James huffed as if he had been greatly inconvenienced. "We have been looking everywhere for you guys."
You couldn't help but laugh, "You didn’t think to check the common room first?"
"Y/n, please. Don’t be ridiculous." James quipped as he dropped into the armchair beside Remus. Remus's gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he sighed and turned his attention to James. Soon enough, they were engrossed in their own conversation.
Sirius settled into the spot next to you, casually draping an arm over the back of the couch just behind your shoulders. As you leaned into his side and offered him a smile, he felt his cheeks flush with warmth. Your affectionate gestures toward him had always been present, but after last night, they seemed to intensify.
Your proximity never failed to make his heart skip a beat, and his stomach flutter. Despite his confidence in hiding his involuntary reactions to you, lately, it seemed more challenging for him to do so.
He greets you with the softest smile, his eyes reflecting warmth. "Hi, angel," he murmurs gently. Sirius had always affectionately called you angel, a term that secretly held a special place in your heart, one of your favorite things about him.
"Hi." You respond, a matching smile adorning your features, mirroring the comfort in his presence.
"I never got to thank you for last night." You admit, your tone filled with gratitude.
Shaking his head modestly, he insists, "You don’t have to thank me."
"It made me feel better having you there with me, so of course I want to thank you." You express earnestly, your appreciation evident in your words.
Sirius leans in, his breath tickling your ear as he whispers, "We still gotta talk about what you meant last night. By asking me to help you get over him."
Feeling a flush of embarrassment, you sputter out a response, "I’m not entirely sure what I meant. I figured you would know how to go about that."
"Why would I know how to go about that?" Sirius questions, genuine curiosity coloring his tone.
Shrugging, you admit, "I don’t know. I just thought you might have. You have way more experience with relationships than I do."
Sirius snorts, a wry grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "I wouldn’t call them relationships." he remarks, his mind briefly wandering through the array of flings he'd had in the past few years. None of them had left a lasting impression on him, none of them had made him feel the way you did.
You shrug, a hint of vulnerability in your expression. "It’s more experience than I have.”
Your voices remain hushed, a deliberate attempt to avoid drawing the attention of James and Remus. Yet, the intimate proximity between you and Sirius could easily spark curiosity on its own. You're practically nestled against his side, his warm breath brushing against your ear as he whispers. To any onlooker, it would seem as though you were lovers, exchanging sweet nothings in a quiet moment of intimacy.
He takes a moment to collect his thoughts, acutely aware of the gravity of his next question. He understands that the answer could severely hurt his feelings, "Are you in love with him?"
Your reaction is swift; you turn to him so abruptly that your noses nearly brush against each other. Sirius silently begs you to linger closer, but you withdraw just enough to maintain a respectable distance. He watches intently as you steal a glance at Remus, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in contemplation.
"No. But, honestly, it probably wouldn’t take much for me to fall in love with him." You confess, your words hanging in the air like a weight. Sirius needs a moment to recover, the impact of your admission hitting him harder than he had anticipated, despite mentally preparing himself for it.
You turn back to him, anguish evident in your voice, "How are you supposed to get over someone you’re nearly in love with?" Sirius hears the devastation in your tone, wishing he could convey that he genuinely comprehends that sentiment. However, delving into such explanations would only invite more questions, and that's the last thing he needs right now.
"I don’t know, angel." He responds simply, observing as you anxiously pick at your nails.
A quiet lull envelops you both before you speak up again, "I don’t think spending all my time with him helps. Maybe I should distance myself a little bit."
"You’re welcome to spend all that time with me instead." Sirius offers, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer to his side. As you relax into his embrace, you rest your head on his shoulder. For a few precious minutes, you both sit in silence, lost in your own thoughts.
Remus glances over at you, nearly doing a double-take at the display of affection. You have closed your eyes, seemingly oblivious to Remus' stare, but Sirius him. For a brief, tense moment, Remus and Sirius lock eyes, but then James regains Remus' attention.
“Sirius?” You ask, the weariness evident in your voice.
“Yeah?”
“Remember when you told James to get over Lily that he needed to get under someone else?” Sirius immediately senses the direction of the conversation, and a pang of regret twinges in his chest.
“Yes.”
“Do you think that really works?” You inquire, your tone tinged with uncertainty and a hint of desperation.
“For some people, maybe.” Sirius replies cautiously. He wants to admit that such tactics haven’t proven successful for him and probably never will.
You pull away to look at him, your eyes reflecting a mixture of hope and uncertainty, “Would you help me find someone?”
"There’s no way in hell I’m doing that." Sirius responds firmly, his tone leaving little room for negotiation. But before you can protest, he interjects, "I’ll be your distraction."
"How exactly?" Your voice tinged with uncertainty, unsure of what he means.
"However, you need me. I know I’m not the best study partner, but I’ll run through your flashcards with you whenever you need to study," Sirius offers, his voice softening as he glances from you to Remus. “I know you guys would talk about books a lot, so I’ll read whatever book you’re reading just to discuss it with you. Whatever you want me to do, Y/n, I’ll do it.”
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
“You and Y/n were cozy on that couch,” James comments casually, his gaze fixed on the ceiling from where he's sprawled out on his bed. Sirius glances over his shoulder at him, pausing his furious writing at the desk where he's been hunched over for the last twenty minutes.
“Hm. I guess so.” Sirius replies nonchalantly, but his voice’s a subtle tension.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” James' tone carries a note of genuine concern, and Sirius immediately feels the weight of his friend's apprehension settling over the room like a heavy blanket.
“Working on my homework? Yeah, it’s probably my best one yet.” Sirius responds, his tone strained as he tries to maintain composure.
“About comforting the girl you love because she’s in love with your best mate.” James continues, his words cutting through the air like a knife. Sirius freezes, the quill leaving a streak of ink across the paper as his thoughts whirl.
He refuses to turn around and face James, not wanting to see the pitying look he knows will be on his friend's face. Instead, he runs his hand through his hair in frustration, his emotions simmering beneath the surface.
“Surprised you figured it out.” Sirius grumbles, his voice laced with a mixture of defensiveness and resignation. He doesn’t want to confront the truth about your feelings for Remus. The mere thought of you falling in love with someone other than him ignites a pang of jealousy in his chest.
He wants to correct James, to insist that you aren’t in love with Remus, but it feels futile. The reality is too close for comfort, and he can't shake the feeling of impending loss.
“About your feelings? Or hers?” James questions, his head leaning back against his headboard as he studies Sirius, his expression searching.
Sirius climbs onto his bed, letting out a sigh of frustration once his head hits his pillow, the weight of the conversation heavy on his mind. “Both,” he admits, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
“I didn’t notice until today with Y/n. She looked devastated when Adeline was all over Remus. On the other hand, I’ve known you’ve had feelings for her for years. The things you do for her, you wouldn’t do for anyone else.” James observes, his tone tinged with a mix of understanding and concern.
Sirius doesn’t know what to say in response, but deep down, he knows James is right. He’s always treated you differently, gone the extra mile for you in ways he wouldn't for anyone else. He had just hoped it wasn’t so obvious.
James sighs loudly, the weight of the situation hanging heavy in the air, “You gotta be careful, mate. You’re gonna get your feelings hurt.”
“I’d rather my feelings be hurt than hers.” Sirius responds earnestly, his voice carrying a hint of determination.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
It was official. Remus Lupin and Adeline Reyes were officially dating. The news didn’t come as a surprise; Remus had been bringing her around more often lately. She seamlessly integrated herself into your group dynamic, joining you all at breakfast some mornings and effortlessly engaging in conversation as if she had been there for years. Adeline adeptly kept pace with Sirius’ quick quips and could outwit James with a witty comeback. She was quick to include Peter whenever James unintentionally overshadowed him in conversation and was always eager to discuss the next book you planned to read.
It was horrifically frustrating.
You wanted to dislike her, but deep down, you knew it was just jealousy clouding your judgment. Adeline was undeniably genuine and sweet; you could easily envision yourself becoming good friends with her. However, every time she affectionately pressed her lips to Remus’ cheeks or leaned into his side, it felt like a sharp pang reminding you of your own feelings and the heartwrenching situation you found yourself in.
It left a bitter taste in your mouth. Just a few weeks ago, that was your spot, and you were blissfully unaware of his feelings for another girl. You felt foolish, caught off guard. Was it all in your head? Had you merely romanticized every interaction with him? Built up a scenario that never truly existed?
"Y/n, this is the third time you've spaced out. Are you alright?" Lily's concerned voice broke through your thoughts as she settled beside you on the bed. Despite James's insistence on a get-together downstairs, you found your mind drifting elsewhere. It had been a couple of weeks since Remus and Adeline declared their relationship, and ever since then, your thoughts had been in turmoil.
You shrugged, "I'm okay. I just don't think I'm up for a party tonight."
"You haven't seemed in the party mood for weeks." Marlene remarked, her attention fixed on her reflection as she applied lip gloss. Sensing something amiss, she pivoted abruptly to face you.
"Is this about Remus and Adeline?" Lily's direct question made your stomach plummet.
"I, uh—no." You stammered, feeling as startled as you looked by her inquiry.
"Godric, you're a horrible liar." Marlene remarked, tossing the tube of sparkly gloss onto her bed before striding over to her trunk and flinging it open. "It's okay to miss your best friend. You two are practically glued to each other's sides. I'm sure it's odd not spending as much time with him anymore."
Lily observed the subtle shift in your demeanor as Marlene spoke, although Marlene herself was entirely engrossed in rummaging through her clothes until she emitted a satisfied hum.
Shoving a floral sundress into your hands, Marlene declared, "Here, you're not wearing your uniform tonight. Wearing something cute will make you feel better." Your fingers traced over the silky material, white with colorful flowers scattered across it. Marlene observed as you held up the dress, eyeing the spaghetti straps and milkmaid top with uncertainty.
"It's winter, Marlene." You pointed out your tone laced with practicality.
"We're inside. But if you do get cold, I’m sure Sirius would gladly warm you up." Marlene chirped, grinning at your surprised expression.
"Sirius is not going to warm me up." You grumbled as you stood up and headed to the bathroom with the dress in hand. With the door shut, you changed out of your uniform. You had to admit, the dress was pretty. Maybe Marlene was right; wearing something cute would boost your confidence and mood.
"Are you sure? You two have been awfully cozy lately!" Lily's laughter laced her tone as she called through the door. You slipped the dress on, then twisted in front of the mirror to assess how it looked. Concluding that you liked it, you also appreciated how it made you feel slightly brighter. It reminded you of a summer spent in Italy with your parents, where you practically lived in sundresses.
You turn open the door and twirl for the girls, who squeal in appreciation. Marlene snatches the lip gloss she had tossed aside, grabbing at your cheeks to dot some on your lips.
"We haven’t been cozy. We’re just acting like friends do." You mumble, your words slightly muffled from your cheeks being squished.
“Bullshit! You never snuggled Peter, never did with James before he got himself a girlfriend,” Marlene turned to wink at Lily. “Honestly, you never did with Remus either. But you and Sirius have been all over each other.”
“We have not!” You deny it, looking to Lily for support. But she only leans back on her hands and sends you a smug smile.
"The other day, I walked into the common room with James, and you were practically asleep on Sirius’ lap while he read to you.” Lily grins.
“He was reading to you? That’s the cutest thing I have ever heard. That’s your love language right there!” Marlene's gasp was filled with awe, and you didn't know how to respond. Because you had indeed fallen asleep on his lap while Sirius twirled a strand of your hair between his fingers absentmindedly as he read Pride and Prejudice to you. You hardly comprehended the story, too focused on Sirius’ voice and his gentle touch. It was the first time in weeks that you hadn’t thought of Remus.
“It was the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen Sirius do.” Lily agreed, nodding in approval. “I’m telling you, he has feelings for you. I’ve thought so ever since 5th year. He pretty much confirmed it when he gave you that red tulip.”
“A declaration of love!” Marlene practically sang, her excitement contagious.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
As you reached the bottom step with Marlene and Lily, you let out a sigh. The common room was bustling, with students scattered everywhere, making the air feel stuffy and warm. You briefly pondered what James’ definition of a get-together was, because this felt more like a full-blown party.
“James said he invited hardly anyone.” You muttered to Lily, who nodded in agreement.
“He’s a social butterfly, you never know with him.” Lily replied with a shrug, craning her neck to spot James amidst the crowd. She eventually spotted him near the fireplace, engaged in lively conversation with Sirius and a few other members of the Quidditch team. You allowed Lily to lead you through the throng of people, observing the lively atmosphere around you. Marlene had already disappeared into the crowd, no doubt on a mission to find Dorcas.
You can hear him before you see him: Sirius’ hearty laugh resonates over the music and the crowd’s chatter. It's a remarkable sound, drawing attention effortlessly. And there he is, standing tall next to James by the fireplace, a drink held casually in one hand while the other gestures animatedly as he converses with the guy beside him. Clad in a simple black T-shirt, Sirius exudes a captivating charm, and you can't help but admire how good he looks in the flickering firelight.
Though you'd never admit it aloud, Lily had been onto something. You and Sirius had been spending an increasing amount of time together. True to his word, Sirius had been a genuine distraction from your heartache. The activities you once shared with Remus were gradually being replaced by moments with Sirius.
It was no longer Remus, who you sat next to in the morning. No longer Remus, who you reviewed your flashcards with. No longer Remus, who would sit with you next to Black Lake and chat about your latest book. And no longer Remus, who would hold your hand to calm your anxiety every time you had to speak up in front of the class.
But it wasn’t like you had asked Sirius to do any of these things. It was Sirius who had started it, not in an attempt to replace what you had with Remus, but to remind you that he was there for you. That he would do anything to make you feel loved. Sirius wasn’t doing any of this because he felt obligated. He did it because he wanted you to know that you weren’t alone and that he didn’t plan on leaving any time soon.
But there were things that Sirius did that Remus had never done. Every morning, a cup of your favorite tea awaited at your spot next to him. He carried one of your scrunchies in his bag because you could never keep track of them, even offering to tie your hair up for you. Each time he walked around Black Lake, he brought you back a red tulip, which you tucked into the vase on your desk next to the others. You were building up quite the collection.
Sirius bursts into laughter, but his mirth is interrupted by James' boisterous greeting. The sudden volume jerks your attention away from Sirius, and you find yourself facing Lily, who offers a halfhearted protest as James envelops her in a bear hug. You brace yourself as James turns his attention to you, lifting you up despite your protests about your dress. After he sets you down, a moment of imbalance is quickly rectified as you feel an arm slip around your waist, steadying you against someone's chest.
"He's had a few too many." Sirius whispers into your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine. You lean into his embrace, relishing the warmth and familiarity of his touch before turning around to face him.
With your palms pressed against his chest, you offer him a warm smile. "Hi."
He still holds onto his drink, but his pointer finger slips under the strap of your dress, giving it a gentle tug. "This is cute," he murmurs, his voice now hushed compared to the near shouting from a minute ago. His eyes meet yours, and you feel a wave of warmth spread through you. No one has ever looked at you the way he's looking at you right now.
"Thank you." You reply softly, surprised at the tenderness in your own voice. But you know he hears you as he smiles before turning back to the conversation he was having with a few other guys.
Pushing down your disappointment, you adjust the straps of your dress and take a breath, scanning the room for someone else to chat with. However, Sirius surprises you by wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you gently into his side. He continues to talk, his voice much quieter this time, but the three subtle squeezes let you know he's still there if you need him.
Lily catches your eye and mouths, "I told you so."
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
You hadn't intended to eavesdrop, it was just a coincidence that you found yourself in the vicinity at that moment.
"You know, everyone thought you and Y/n were gonna get together." Peter remarks, nudging Remus in the side. Remus turns to him, likely taken aback. From your vantage point, you can't see their faces, but you recognize their silhouettes. They're seated together on one of the couches, engaged in quiet conversation amid the lively atmosphere of the party. You had briefly slipped away from Sirius to grab a drink, but now you're starting to regret your decision.
"Y/n and I?" Remus's response is laced with surprise, confirming your suspicions. You stand frozen, a few feet away from the couch, feeling your stomach plummet.
"Yeah, I think most people thought you already were. I mean, you guys spent so much time together." Peter continues, oblivious to the impact of his words. You try to avoid lingering on the past tense word.
"No, never," Remus hastily interjects. “I don’t think I could think of Y/n like that.” His words landed like a heavy blow to your chest. You feel a pang of disappointment and hurt ripple through you, sitting heavy in your stomach. With tears threatening to spill from your eyes, you pivot on your heel and stride purposefully toward your dormitory.
As you navigate through the bustling crowd, your lips utter excuse me, and I need to get through in a mechanical cadence. Each step feels heavier than the last, burdened by the weight of Remus's words and the shattered illusions they bring.
Finally, the door to your dormitory swings shut behind you with a resounding thud, the noise a stark contrast to the chaos of the party below. Alone in the silence of your room, you confront the raw emotions swirling within you, grappling with the harsh reality of unrequited feelings.
Tears blur your vision so severely that you nearly trip over your shoes in your haste to remove them. With trembling hands, you toss the covers over your body, seeking refuge in the soft embrace of your bed. You bury your face into the welcoming embrace of your pillow, heedless of the inevitable mascara stains that will be left behind. A strangled sob escapes your lips, muffled by the sanctuary of your pillow, as you grapple with the overwhelming wave of emotions crashing over you.
The noise of the party downstairs serves as a comforting cloak, allowing you to release your emotions freely and without judgment.
The abruptness with which Remus shut down any possibility of harboring feelings for you cuts deep, like a dagger to the heart. The ache in your chest feels all-consuming, a relentless reminder that you will never be with him. Despite the rational part of your mind knowing that his affection for Adeline precludes any possibility of reciprocating your feelings, the emotional turmoil still wreaks havoc on your fragile heart.
In the solitude of your room, you allow yourself to cry. With each passing moment, the ache in your chest deepens.
"Y/n? Oh, Godric." Lily exclaims, rushing to your side with concern etched across her features. She gathers your hair away from your tear-streaked face, her eyes taking in the sight before her: cheeks flushed and blotchy, mascara-tinged tears tracing down your cheeks, your hair in disarray. She had sensed something amiss when she spotted you hurrying up the stairs, but the depth of your distress caught her off guard.
"Y/n, what can I do? Do you want a glass of water? Can I, uh..." Lily's voice trembles with worry as she looks around the room, searching for anything that might bring you comfort. She's witnessed your tears before, but never like this, leaving her feeling utterly helpless.
"I don't need water. Can you..." Your voice breaks, choked with emotion, making it difficult to articulate your thoughts.
Lily watches as you clutch your pillow tighter, waiting for your next words. "Can I what?" She prompts gently.
"I just need..." You falter, another sob escaping your lips. "Sirius. I need Sirius."
Without hesitation, Lily nods, determined to find Sirius and bring him to your side. As she exits your dorm, you sink deeper into your pillow, allowing the tears to flow freely. Your mind races with questions, grappling with how to face Remus again and feign normalcy.
You're not completely taken aback by his words; the past few weeks have allowed you to gradually accept that Remus may not share your feelings. Yet, processing this realization privately was less painful than hearing his firm denial of any possibility of reciprocation. Perhaps there's a tinge of sorrow in acknowledging this truth, as it signifies a shift in your relationship with Remus—one that might never be quite the same again. Accepting this reality proves to be a bitter pill to swallow.
"Angel," Your body instinctively relaxes at the soothing sound of Sirius’s voice. The pillow is gently drawn from your grip, revealing Sirius’ concerned face as it comes into view. "What can I do? What do you need?" he asks, his tone brimming with genuine concern and care.
Kneeling by the side of your bed, his eyes brim with concern, evoking emotion that threatens to overwhelm you once more. You lie on your side, facing him, your makeup smudged and your eyes swollen from tears. Despite your disheveled appearance, he finds you the most beautiful girl in the world.
"Hold on." He murmurs softly before disappearing into your bathroom. The sound of running water fills the silence, a gentle reminder of his comforting presence. Moments later, he returns with a damp cloth in hand, his touch gentle yet firm as he kneels before you. With tender care, he cradles your jaw, his movements deliberate as he gently wipes away the remnants of makeup from your face, his actions speaking volumes of his unwavering support and affection.
"All clean," he whispers softly, discarding the cloth onto the ground with the intention of dealing with it later. "What do you need?"
"You." You sniffle, tugging gently at his hand to convey your desire for him to join you in bed. Without hesitation, Sirius kicks off his shoes and slips under the covers beside you. With a tender gesture, he reaches out, his hand gently brushing the hair away from your face as he settles in beside you. Your faces hover mere inches apart, a tantalizing proximity that he tries to distract from by focusing on the simple task of brushing your hair away, the urge to kiss you tugging at the corners of his mind.
"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pull you away from the party." You murmur apologetically, your gaze meeting his. His eyes snap to yours, a flicker of offense crossing his features.
"I would drop anything for you." He responds earnestly, his sincerity shining through in his words, leaving no room for doubt. A sharp inhale escapes your lips as you stare back at him, the weight of his commitment settling between you.
"What happened, angel?" he asks gently, his eyes reflecting a hint of guilt for prying. As your eyes well up with tears once more, Sirius feels a pang of remorse for pressing the matter. He's about to apologize and suggest forgetting about it when you offer an answer, leaving him momentarily speechless.
"I overheard Peter and Remus." You confess, your voice trembling with vulnerability. Sirius forces down the surge of jealousy that threatens to consume him at the mention of Remus.
"Peter told him that everyone thought he and I would get together." You continue, your words hanging in the air, heavy with disappointment and hurt. Sirius listens attentively, his heart aching for the pain etched in your voice.
"Remus told him that he couldn’t ever see me like that." You reveal, your voice wavering with emotion. "I know it’s stupid since he has a girlfriend, but-" You pause to draw in a shuddering breath, and Sirius gently brushes away the tears that cascade down your cheeks and over the bridge of your nose.
"It hurt," you confess, the rawness of your emotions laid bare. "That he’s never once seen me the way I have always seen him. We’ve always been just friends, and it sucks." Each word carries the weight of your longing and disappointment.
Sirius sighs, his voice tinged with empathy, "I love Remus, I do, but he can be blind sometimes. So in his head and down on himself that he misses what’s in front of him. And he truly missed out on the most perfect girl there is. But I promise you that there is a guy out there who will recognize what an angel you are, and he won’t ever let you go."
Your eyes well up with tears again, and Sirius starts to panic that he said something wrong. But then you're wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your head into the crook of his neck.
Your voice is muffled as you speak, "Please stay here with me tonight?"
"Whatever you want, angel." Sirius responds tenderly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, knowing there is no way he’d ever be able to deny you.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
James looks bewildered. "You aren’t going to sit with us?" he asks, confusion evident in his voice.
You stand behind your typical spot, observing the boys' reactions as they stare at you as though you've just delivered the worst news imaginable. For years, ever since you had met the boys, you had been sitting with them every day. This spot held a sense of familiarity and comfort, a symbol of your friendship with them. Thus, your decision to sit with the girls today comes as a major surprise.
Lily, Marlene, and Dorcas occupy seats further down the table. While they would occasionally join your circle, especially after Lily and James got together, Lily had once confided in you that she valued having space and prioritizing her friendships, too; she didn’t want to spend all her time with James. To everyone's surprise, James had been okay with this arrangement and had even agreed.
“I’m going to sit down the table with the girls. You’ll still be able to see me; we can wave at each other!” You offer James a hopeful smile, but he shakes his head, letting out a dramatic sigh.
Pointing his fork in your direction, James asserts, “It’s not the same, and you know it.”
“Sit with us, I feel like I hardly see you.” Remus protests and your stomach sinks as you make eye contact with him. Ever since you overheard Remus tell Peter he didn’t have feelings for you, you had been finding every excuse possible to avoid him.
It’s been a week since the party, and you can now admit that you've successfully avoided any alone time with Remus. By now, it's clear he senses something amiss. Every time he tries to approach you, you have an excuse ready for why you can't study together again or why you can't chat. What's worse is that it's only him you're avoiding. You still engage in normal chats with Peter in the common room and banter back and forth with James as usual. And Sirius, well, you hardly leave his side. Wherever you go, Sirius isn't far away, a constant presence by your side.
Not only that, but it seemed as if you couldn't get enough of each other—cuddled up on the common room couch, shoulder to shoulder during meals, and always side by side while walking to Black Lake. Sirius and you were growing increasingly closer with each passing day.
It was driving Remus crazy.
He looks at you pleadingly, his expression betraying the torment of seeing you drift away from him. You know his distress can't stem solely from your decision to sit with the girls. He started pulling away first, you think bitterly.
"Just wanted to spend some time with the girls, switch things up." You explain with a casual shrug, feeling a sense of awkwardness creeping over you as you shift on your feet. Remus wears a disappointed expression, while James and Peter appear to have already moved on, engaged in a bickering match over who gets the last orange.
"You've been switching things up quite a bit lately." Remus grumbles under his breath, his voice barely audible over the morning chatter in the dinning hall. Only Adeline catches his words as she pulls away to glance at his face, startled by the bitterness in his tone. Unaware of her scrutiny, Remus remains fixated on you, his expression betraying a mixture of longing and frustration.
"Okay, well, I’ll catch you guys later." You announce with a smile, and at that moment, Sirius glances up at you. He wants to tell you how much he'll miss you. Every morning, he eagerly anticipates the sight of your smile, the way you playfully bump your shoulder into his once you take your spot beside him. Your laughter and sweet smile are the highlights of his morning routine.
He'd gladly join you for breakfast with the girls if you asked.
To everyone's surprise, you sling your arms around Sirius' shoulders and tilt your head forward, looking at him from the side. Caught off guard, Sirius freezes in your embrace, trying desperately not to read too much into your unexpected touch.
"I'll wait for you so we can walk to class together. I'll miss you." You whisper, your lips pressing gently onto his cheek. A faint pink sheen of your lipgloss remains on his skin in the shape of your lips, a subtle reminder of your affection.
Before he can respond, you're already pulling away, leaving Sirius to watch you walk back to the girls. His cheeks flush, his mouth slightly parted in surprise. Remus narrows his eyes at the mark you've left behind while Adeline observes the interaction between Sirius and Remus, sensing Remus's agitation.
James lets out a low whistle. "She'll miss you, will she?" he remarks, his tone laced with amusement and curiosity.
“Oh fuck off, mate.” Sirius grumbles before taking a sip of his tea to try and hide his smile.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
You sigh, slumping down in your chair, "I don’t think I can handle another flashcard."
Sirius glances up from across the table, finding you lost in contemplation as you stare out the window. It's midday, and the sun's gentle rays illuminate the library, casting a warm glow despite the lingering chill outside. You both share the longing to step into the crisp air outdoors, yet Sirius remained steadfast in his commitment to assisting you with your studies.
"Do you wanna take a break?" Sirius asks, his gaze meeting yours as you glance up from the pile of books and notes spread out before you. Your lips press together, betraying the weight of your internal debate about whether you can afford to step away from your tasks.
"Come on, we can go for a walk." He encourages, his tone gentle yet persuasive as he begins to gather his belongings, preparing to pack his bag.
You concede, “A quick walk.”
The fresh air and the warmth of the sun against your skin felt rejuvenating after spending hours cooped up in the library. Your body ached, and your brain felt numb from the relentless studying. The only thing that kept you going was Sirius, who would slip you pieces of chocolate every time you answered a question correctly. Without him, you would have abandoned your studies hours ago.
As you walk, both of you are enveloped in a quiet tranquility, lost in your own thoughts. It's a comfortable silence, where neither of you feels compelled to fill the gaps with conversation. Instead, you simply bump into each other occasionally, exchanging shy smiles that speak volumes without a single word being uttered.
"Where are you taking me, Black?" You finally inquire, noting the direction as you pass Black Lake. You stroll leisurely, savoring the symphony of birdsong in the trees and the distant chatter of other students gradually fading into the background. Leaves shudder in response to the gentle breeze, prompting you to wrap your robes tighter around your body. Winter is approaching, and the biting chill in the air serves as a stark reminder of the season's impending arrival.
Sirius smiles in response, his expression warm and inviting, "Somewhere I think you'll like."
"Have I been there before?" You cast a glance at him, observing his wind-blown hair, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, and his bottom lip gently caught between his teeth.
"I hope not." He responds honestly, his voice carrying a hint of vulnerability. The possibility lingers, given that the boys are familiar with this field as well. The mere thought of Remus bringing you here tightens his chest. After all, you and Remus often took walks together, so it wouldn't be too surprising if he had.
Would Remus have brought you here, though? Sirius contemplates quietly. He's never heard you mention it, but he knows you would have. You've always cherished exploring the castle and eagerly shared your discoveries with the boys.
Sirius is startled when you suddenly gasp, excitement laced in your tone, "Oh my Godric. Is that a field of tulips?"
Sirius feels his heart swell at the excitement in your voice. Before he can respond, you stride ahead of him, drawn to the swath of red flowers like a magnet. He remains where he stands, content to watch you as you explore the vibrant field.
A pang of longing washes over him as he wishes he had Lily's muggle camera. This moment would undoubtedly be captured and proudly displayed above his desk among his collection of Polaroids.
"C'mere!" You call out excitedly, your hand extended towards him. Sirius grins, his heart lightening at your enthusiasm as he walks over to join you. Once he reaches you, he gladly grasps your hand, feeling a rush of warmth at the connection.
You lead him further into the field, your laughter carrying on the gentle breeze. Finally, you drop into the middle of the sea of tulips, tugging him along with you, and for a moment, the world feels suspended in the beauty of the moment.
Tilting your head towards the sun, you sigh happily. "I didn’t know this was here," you remark, your voice filled with wonder.
"Found it with the boys a couple of weeks ago." Sirius responds, his fingers idly twirling a blade of grass he plucked from the ground.
"Did you pick the tulips you gave me from here?" You inquire, your voice soft with curiosity. Sirius nods in response, a faint blush gracing his cheeks as he recalls the memory. He's relieved that your eyes are still closed, blissfully unaware of his flustered state.
For a few minutes, a comfortable silence settles between you both, allowing the tranquility of the moment to envelop you like a warm embrace.
"Can I tell you something?" You ask, tilting your head back down to look at him, your gaze soft yet curious.
"Anything," Sirius replies, his voice filled with warmth and genuine interest.
"I've never been given flowers before. Whenever you give me a tulip, it's the highlight of my day." You admit softly, shifting so you're sitting with your legs crossed, a vulnerable honesty coloring your words.
"You've never been given flowers? Ever?" Sirius questions, his surprise evident in his tone and expression. You shake your head in response, confirming his disbelief.
He can't even fathom it. How could no one ever have given you flowers before? How does the girl who constantly doodles flowers on her notes never receive them? The thought perplexes him, stirring a mix of incredulity and a newfound determination to ensure you receive the appreciation you deserve.
"Guess I'll be making up for that then." Sirius decides, his voice showing determination as he sends you a devastating smile. Your stomach flutters at the sight.
"Sirius." you say softly, drawing his attention.
"What, angel?" He responds, his tone gentle and attentive.
"Thank you. For being by my side through everything." You express with sincerity, your voice filled with gratitude.
In the past few weeks, Sirius has been a constant presence by your side. Whenever Remus kissed Adeline, Sirius would offer a comforting touch, silently understanding your feelings. He'd weave silly stories to divert your attention from Adeline's flirtations with Remus, ensuring you never felt alone for even a moment.
He grins in response, "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."
“Nowhere else, huh?” Your tone is teasing, and Sirius merely rolls his eyes at you, a playful glint dancing in his eyes. You observe him as he picks tulips one by one, gradually assembling a bundle in his hand. Watching him put together a bouquet that you know he will give you fills you with a sense of anticipation. Everything about sitting in a field of flowers with Sirius makes you feel lightheaded as if you're caught in a blissful dream.
Come to think of it, lately, every time Sirius did something for you, it left you feeling dizzy.
"You know it's true. I ditched Hogsmeade this weekend to spend time with you in the library." Sirius says, a hint of amusement in his voice as he recalls the decision.
"That's true, but I did advise you against it. I doubt a day in the library is much of a weekend highlight for you." You reply, raising an eyebrow playfully.
"If you think seeing you surrounded by a field of flowers isn't a weekend highlight, then you're sorely mistaken. Easily a monthly highlight for me." Sirius adds, his eyes sparkling with fondness as he gazes at you amidst the scenic beauty.
“You flirt.” You giggle, your laughter echoing in the tranquil atmosphere, before reclining on the grass and shutting your eyes.
Sirius' features soften at your playful remark. "Only for my favorite girl," he responds tenderly, his voice carrying warmth and affection as he watches over you.
What started as a short walk stretched into two hours spent in the flower field, immersed in conversation and selecting the loveliest blooms together. By the end, Sirius presented you with a bundle of tulips in various hues. Upon entering your dorm room with the flowers in hand, Lily's gasp was so pronounced that it startled you.
“Tell me that Sirius got you those.”
"He picked them for me." You beam, offering the bouquet to Lily for her admiration. "I mean, I helped too, but it was mostly him.”
“Who knew that he was such a romantic?” Marlene gushed, sitting next to Lily on her bed to take a peek.
“I told you he’s into you! Look at these flowers!” Lily cried out, flopping back onto her bed with the flowers pressed into her chest. Marlene laughs from beside her.
You rolled your eyes affectionately, “We're just friends.” Marlene scoffs.
"No, you're not. That little stunt at breakfast you pulled this morning. Hugging him from behind and kissing him? Definitely not platonic." Marlene remarks, her tone teasing yet observant. Embarrassment floods through you; you hadn't planned on being so affectionate with Sirius; it just happened. You're grateful Sirius didn't bring it up; you probably would have collapsed if he had.
"I just kissed his cheek!" you defend, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks.
Lily grins mischievously. "You should've seen how he looked at you when you walked away."
"Totally lovesick!" Marlene exclaims, adding her enthusiastic agreement to Lily's observation.
"Both of you are being ridiculous. He doesn’t have feelings for me, and even if he did, I need to get over Remus first." Taking the bouquet from Lily, you stride toward your desk to add them to your glass jar full of other flowers. You're almost out of the room. Soon you’ll have to pluck out the ones that are dropping, but you don’t have the heart to do it yet.
The girls were fully aware of the situation. You explained to them why you were so upset the morning after the party. There was no way you could have pretended like something wasn’t wrong. With Sirius sleeping in your bed and your swollen eyes, there was no hiding anything.
"First?" Lily's voice carries a hint of excitement, exchanging a giddy look with Marlene.
You pivot, leaning against your desk. "What?"
"You said first. Like once you get over Remus, you could see yourself being with Sirius."
"No, I didn't." You protest, embarrassment flooding your stomach.
Marlene's grin widens mischievously as she exchanges a knowing glance with Lily. "Oh, but you did. We both heard you."
A nervous laugh escapes your lips as you playfully roll your eyes, "Oh, fuck off, guys.”
Your friends continue to tease you, their laughter filling the room. Perhaps you were starting to form feelings for Sirius, but you preferred to keep them close to your heart, away from the probing eyes of Lily and Marlene, who always seemed to pick up on every subtle shift in your emotions.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
“There you are! I was worried sick!” James exclaims as Sirius opens the door to the dorm. Remus glances up from his book, while Peter remains focused on his homework, unfazed by James' dramatics. Sirius, lost in memories of his afternoon with you, barely registers James' words as he flops onto his bed, a goofy smile lingering on his lips.
It's only when James tosses his pillow at Sirius that he snaps back to reality.
“Oi! What was that for?” Sirius protests, finally acknowledging James' presence with a bemused expression.
“You’re ignoring me!” James accuses, crossing his arms.
Sirius stammers, “I wasn’t! I was just-“
James interrupts, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “Daydreaming about Y/n? What did you two get up to anyways?”
Remus stiffens, lowering his book to look at Sirius, “You were with Y/n today?”
Sirius sits back up and exchanges a tense glance with Remus, “Yeah, I was.”
He turns to James, “Helped her study a bit.” He neglects to mention the flower field, wanting to keep that memory to himself. Plus, he knows the boys will tease them every chance they get.
James stares at Sirius, incredulity flashing across his face. "That's all? Sounds boring. Should've come to Hogsmeade with us."
Sirius is about to respond when Remus interjects, his tone betraying a hint of disbelief. "I'm sorry. You turned down Hogsmeade to study? With Y/n?" His eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
"Yes." Sirius says plainly.
“I’ll ask her to study.” Remus assures, as if that would settle Sirius. nonchalant.
Sirius shrugs, his tone nonchalant. "No need, mate. I've got her."
Remus furrows his brow, considering Sirius's response. "I can still ask her, give her another option," he suggests casually, but there's an undertone of something that Sirius can't quite decipher.
Sirius tenses, meeting Remus's gaze head-on. He's unsure if Remus is hinting at something deeper or if he's simply offering another study option. Nevertheless, Sirius feels a pang of reluctance at the thought of giving up his time with you, even for studying.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
Peter huffed, practically slamming himself on the couch next to you, his frustration evident in the way he dropped onto the couch. “Remus and Adeline are getting on my last nerve.”
James glanced up from where he was sitting across from you, his attention momentarily diverted from the game of cards. His eyebrows raised in curiosity as he observed Peter's demeanor. "They makin’ out in the dorm again?" he questioned, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his lips.
You turn your head to hide your reaction, your stomach churning with familiar discomfort. After nearly two months of their relationship, you still felt uneasy hearing about them together, effectively reminding you of your lingering feelings for Remus.
It would be a lie to say that your feelings for Remus hadn’t changed. In fact, you were beginning to notice a subtle shift in your perspective, a gradual easing of the discomfort that once swarmed your chest at the sight of him and Adeline together. That twinge of jealousy you used to feel when looking at them was easing up, instead being replaced by a dull ache in your chest.
You found yourself increasingly preoccupied with thoughts of Sirius, his smile and the memories of your time together occupying your mind more frequently than before. You caught yourself smiling at the little moments you shared, replaying conversations and gestures, finding comfort in the warmth of his presence even when he wasn't around.
Peter shook his head against the cushion, his expression irritated. "No, they’re bickering. They've been at it for nearly twenty minutes. Couldn’t get a damn thing done on this essay.”
James wore a look of surprise as he arched his eyebrow, “They’re fighting?”
Peter looked away from the fire to glance over at James blankly, “No, bickering. There’s a difference.” His tone is matter-of-fact and laced with frustration.
“We’ll be quiet, Peter. Work on your essay.” You promise, sending the blond boy a soft smile.
James’ lips curve in a mischievous grin, eyes lit up with amusement, “Guess all relationships have to come out of the honeymoon phase.” He quips, tone playful with satisfaction. Peter sighs, tipping his head back onto the headrest of the couch like he can’t take anymore.
“James, it’s your turn.” You call, the gentle tap of your pointer finger against the cards catches his attention. His eyes flicker down to the cards sprawled between you both before glancing back up at you.
“Did you at least appreciate my pun?” He asks, a hopeful upturn of his lips present.
“It was wonderful.” You affirm, voice soft as if you’re telling a young child that their artwork is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.
James’s face lights up with a satisfied smile, and his voice is full of teasing gratitude, “Thank you, Y/n. I knew you would have my back.”
“What does she have your back about?” Sirius’ voice cuts through the air, his sudden appearance causing you and James to glance over at him. Peter opens one eye as Sirius sits on the couch next to him.
James stares at the cards while debating his next move, “She appreciates me for who I am. Maybe you should take some notes from her.”
Sirius hardly hears James. Instead, his eyes flicker over to you. He finds himself entranced by the subtle movements of your features, the way your eyebrows furrow in playful impatience as you await James to decide. The glow from the fire is dancing over your face, and he has the urge to reach out and touch your cheek, tracing over where the heat has touched. You look gorgeous like this, drenched in the soft light of the fire and so at ease. The words are at the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them down.
As your eyes meet his, a gentle smile graces your lips, and Sirius feels his stomach flip and heart stutter. You’re looking at him with so much warmth that you could rival the fire next to you, and he knows he never wants to forget the way you’re looking at him.
Amidst the crackle of the fire and the soft murmurs of the surrounding conversations, it’s then that Sirius is struck by the sudden realization that sends shockwaves throughout his entire body. He is hit with the truth that he’s been avoiding for ages; he is entirely and desperately in love with you.
Sirius grapples with a fact that feels almost suffocating in its intensity. His gaze falls to his lap, the reality of his situation weighing heavily upon him. He’s in love with a girl who holds feelings for someone else. Not just someone else, but Remus. His best mate, who, as of lately, has shown increasing concern about the nature of your relationship with Sirius. The way he pinches his brows together when you laugh at a joke Sirius makes, the subtle shifts in his demeanor whenever you show Sirius affection- it’s all Sirius can focus on. Remus sees you in a different light, and it’s making Sirius uneasy.
And so, he sits in silence, grappling with the truth that he’s fallen for a girl that will never be his.
“Sirius,” You say softly, your hand gently resting atop his, hoping to bring him back from his thoughts. His eyes dart up to meet yours, and you smile softly. “You okay? You’re quiet.”
No, he isn’t.
But instead, he offers a reassuring smile and squeezes your hand, “I’m okay, angel. Just tired.”
“Not too tired to lose to me in cards, are you?” James interjects, sporting a cocky grin and cracking his knuckles in intimidation. “I’m tired of playing with Y/n. She wins every time.”
Sirius laughs, hauling himself off the couch to sit beside you both before shuffling the cards.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
“Y/n.” You startle at Remus’ voice, nearly spilling your cup of tea down your front. He sends you a soft smile, sitting beside you on the couch. You set your tea on the table next to you. Sitting up and shifting your legs to the side and underneath you, you make room for him. The way you were stretched out before hardly allowed him any room.
“Rem.” You greet him, sending him a gentle smile. The corners of his mouth lift at the nickname; he hasn’t heard it for a while.
He leans back against the couch, gaze firm on you, “How was your day?” His voice is gentle and soothing. His voice was always one of your favorite things about him, always a source of comfort to you.
“It’s been alright, not too much to say about it,” Your left shoulder lifts up into a shrug, and you rest your right arm against the couch to prop your head up. Bodies both facing each other. “How was yours?”
“James nearly singed off my eyebrows in potions,” He says amusedly. He’s got bags under his, and his body seems tired. You cringe when you remember the full moon was just a few days ago.
“Not entirely surprising,” You remark with a laugh, mind trailing to all the times James had proved himself not the best partner. As much as you loved James, his tendency to get distracted had cost you during classes plenty of times before.
“How’s Adeline?” You ask politely, the words coming out with practiced ease despite the uncomfortable feeling in your stomach. Remus’s smile falters, and he lets out a sigh, gaze drifting away from you.
“I don’t know.” He admits, hand coming up to run through his hair. He won’t meet your eye.
“You don’t know?” Your brow is quirks in curiosity, and genuine concern is etched onto your features. Memories of Peter complaining about the two bickering flickers back from a week ago.
“She’s not happy,” Remus confesses, his tone is heavy with resignation. “Disappearing for a couple days doesn’t exactly make me boyfriend of the year.”
You nod sympathetically. You understand, if you were in the dark about your boyfriend’s whereabouts for a couple days, you would be upset as well.
“Are you going to tell her?” You asked gently. It felt weird to talk to Remus again after going nearly two months without much interaction. All your time used to be spent with Remus, but Sirius seems to have taken that spot nowadays.
His gaze meets yours as he nervously bites at his bottom lip, he seems apprehensive, “I don’t know if she could handle it.”
“Rem,” You begin, voice soft and resolute, a reflection of the support you have always offered him. Despite the change in your relationship, your commitment to being there for him remains. “She deserves to know, especially if the two of you want to be together.”
His brows are pinched tightly together as he wrings his hands together, “What if she doesn’t take it well? What if she tells-”
You interject gently, “You’ve been dating two months, you should have a feel for how she would react.”
He meets your eye with an uncertainty, “Y/n.”
“Yeah?” You respond, voice quiet.
“I don’t know if I can tell her. I don’t think it will be as easy as telling you was.”
“You shouldn’t compare her to me.”
“But I do.” Remus whispers, the gravity of his admission catching you off guard. His shoulders are hunched over as he rests his elbows on his knees, hands still nervously wringing together as he looks over at you.
Your breath is caught in your throat. You break eye contact to clear your throat, shifting uneasily on the couch.
“Adeline is your girlfriend, and I’m just your friend. You really shouldn’t compare us, Rem. If you want to be with Adeline, you should really think about telling her.” You murmur, truth stinging as it leaves your mouth.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
Marlene sighs, her voice laced with playful incredulity, "Sometimes I wonder how James Potter managed to get you." Sirius barks out a laugh from his spot across from you, his amusement echoing around the room. Lily's mischievous grin widens as she shoots a playful wink at Marlene, enjoying the banter.
"I'm a damn catch, McKinnon!" James retorts dramatically, pulling Lily even closer into his side, the affection between them palpable. Lily leans up to press a kiss on James’ jaw, a tender moment amidst the playful teasing.
"That lapdance you just gave your girlfriend? Horrific." Marlene shakes her head with exaggerated disdain, her expression a mix of amusement and mock disgust.
"If you didn't wanna see it, then you wouldn't have dared me to do it," James fires back with a smirk, the competitive edge still in his tone.
You're all gathered in a circle, indulging in a juvenile game of truth or dare. The boys took charge, rearranging the furniture into a circle so everyone could sit comfortably.
Marlene had insisted upon it, likely hoping to be roped into a dare that would bring her closer to Dorcas.
You're seated on one of the couches beside Lily, with James on her other side and Peter beside him. Adeline occupies the space to Peter’s left, seated next to Remus on one of the smaller couches. Sirius has claimed an armchair for himself. Marlene and Dorcas are cozied up in another armchair, much to Marlene's delight over the seating arrangement.
While Remus had yet to tell Adeline about his lycanthropy, he was attempting to make amends with her. You sent him a sweet smile and thumbs up when you saw them walking in together. It was clearly tense between the two, but that was to be expected.
Amidst the laughter and playful exchanges, you had failed to notice the tension simmering between Sirius and Remus, evident in the disgruntled glances they exchanged at being seated next to each other.
James turns to you with a devious grin, “My sweet Y/n, you will be picking dare.”
“Excuse me? You can’t pick for me!” You retort, sending James an incredulous look.
“But I have the best dare for you!” James insists, leaning closer with a mischievous glint in his eye.
“No.” You refuse, shaking your head slightly.
“Y/n, please.” He pleads, attempting to send you puppy dog eyes. Marlene snorts from beside you.
Lily sighs, “Y/n, do the dare. He will beg you all night.” You roll your eyes, letting out a sigh that immediately lets James know you have given in.
“Kiss the person you are most attracted to in this room.” Your stomach sinks like a stone, regretting your lack of resistance to James. The group around you comes alive with oohs, except for Remus and Sirius, who sit uneasily, their expressions displaying discomfort.
“Absolutely not. I can’t!” Sirius feels sick. You’re refusing because you can’t kiss Remus- that has to be it.
“Sorry, can’t back out now! Make your way over to the lucky person.” James sounds far too cheery to be sorry.
The tension in the air becomes palpable as everyone awaits your decision. You draw in a deep breath, summoning your courage before rising to your feet and crossing the room toward him. The anticipation is almost tangible as your friends murmur excitedly, their eyes fixed on you.
You come to a sudden halt, feeling your knees bump against his as he instinctively sits straighter in his chair. Sensing your approach, he spreads his thighs slightly, silently inviting you to take the space between them. His demeanor shifts, a mix of anticipation and apprehension evident in his expression.
"Might make it easier if you sit in his lap." Marlene suggests with a mischievous grin, earning a pointed glare from you over your shoulder.
"You can, angel," he murmurs sweetly, reaching out to gently grasp your hand, his touch reassuring and electric.
You let out a shaky sigh, feeling a rush of nerves as you ease yourself into his lap, your knees sinking into the cushion and your thighs naturally bracketing his. Ignoring the whistles and playful comments that ring out from your friends, you focus on the warmth of his body beneath you, the steady rhythm of his breath, and the way his hands hover uncertainly before settling lightly on your hips.
"We're waiting!" James calls out, amusement laced in his tone, his eyes sparkling with mischief. Feeling a rush of determination, you gently bring your hand to his cheek, the warmth of his skin sending a shiver down your spine and lowering your head towards his. He's quick to meet you, his breath mingling with yours, noses bumping softly in a moment of sweet anticipation.
He's patient, his breath mixing with yours as he waits for you to make the first move. With a tender touch, you tilt your face closer, feeling the gentle brush of your lips against his in the softest kiss. For a fleeting moment, you both linger there, foreheads pressed together, lost in the moment’s intimacy.
“Tell me this isn’t because you couldn’t kiss him.” His voice is raspy, filled with longing, sending your mind spiraling. His voice is quiet, ensuring that no one will hear him but you.
“You’re the only one I thought of.” You admit softly, hoping you don’t sound nearly as wrecked as you feel.
Sirius surges forward, his lips meeting yours with a passion that catches you off guard, causing a surprised moan to settle in your throat, lost in the whirlwind of sensations and emotions. Your friends' whistles and hollers fade into the background, overshadowed by the intensity of your focus on Sirius.
Your fingers weave through his hair, a silent plea to draw him closer, to merge the space between you. His hand glides from your hip, settling tenderly against your cheek, his thumb tracing gentle circles across your skin. When you roll your hips involuntarily, Sirius lets out a tortured groan and your blood simmers.
"Okay, okay! We've seen enough!" James hollers, his voice breaking you both out of the moment. As James's voice echoes through the air, you part from Sirius, the gravity of what you have both just done settles in. Your chests heave in unison, lips swollen from kisses and cheeks flushed.
Frozen, you and Sirius sit there, stunned, oblivious to the teasing of your friends. The air crackles with tension as you both lock gazes, the desire to lean in and kiss him again overwhelming you.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
Your mind remains frazzled in the aftermath of kissing Sirius. No matter how much you attempt to push it away, it's as though your body stubbornly clings to the memory of his lips upon yours, as if you're still nestled in his lap, feeling the gentle pressure of his hands on your hips. Both of you exchanged shy smiles as you gently slid off his lap, yet inside, your stomach churned with disappointment at the prospect of returning to your previous seat. Truthfully, you wanted to linger longer, to settle beneath his arm, and remain close to him.
In all honesty, Remus didn't even flicker into your thoughts when James issued his dare. The realization of this truth sends a shiver down your spine. When had Sirius managed to steal the place in your thoughts that Remus had held for so long?
Perhaps it was in the way he had cared for you like no one else ever had.
The sight of a steaming cup of tea, reliably waiting for you in your designated spot at the table. Even when he could have been enjoying himself in Hogsmeade, he chose to stay behind and help you study, just because you mentioned not having Remus to study with. And the simple yet heartfelt gesture of presenting you with fresh tulips just because you mentioned you had never gotten flowers before.
How had you moved on from Remus without even noticing? Perhaps that subtle ache in your chest whenever you glanced at Remus and Adeline stemmed from the change in friendship between you both. Maybe those tear-filled initial weeks spent with Sirius comforting you were a form of grieving the relationship that could never be with Remus.
While Sirius helped you to get over Remus, he had been gently guiding you toward developing feelings for him instead without even realizing it.
After watching your kiss with Sirius, Remus withdrew from the game entirely. The memory of your intimate moment with Sirius replayed incessantly in his mind, each repetition adding to the sting in his chest. In a fleeting moment of vulnerability, he had allowed himself to entertain the hope that it might have been him you chose to kiss. However, the presence of Adeline at his side swiftly extinguished that flicker of optimism, leaving him feeling profoundly disappointed and conflicted with himself.
The sight of Sirius enveloping you in his arms, and the undeniable chemistry between the two of you, stirred a thick feeling of dread in his stomach.
Each soft kiss, each exchanged glance, seemed to intensify the bitter pang of jealousy gnawing at his insides. It was as though a veil had been lifted, revealing a reality he had been trying to deny—the depth of his feelings for you. And the realization that he might lose you for good.
"Remus! Truth or dare?" Dorcas inquired, her eyes alight with mischief.
Remus let out a resigned sigh; he wasn't particularly in the mood to deal with a dare.
"Truth," he replied, hoping for a relatively simple question.
Dorcas wasted no time in posing her question, a soft smile playing on her lips. "Who was your first big crush?"
The simplicity of the question drew an immediate protest from James. "Lame!" he squawked, his tone dripping with dissatisfaction. "Ask him something better."
Marlene swiftly came to Dorcas's defense, her voice laced with defiance. "Back off, James," she retorted sharply. "She can ask whatever the hell she wants,” She bit out before turning to Dorcas. “Great question, love." Her words sounded entirely lovesick.
"Uh, my first big crush was Y/n." Remus confessed, his gaze darting toward you, eager to gauge your reaction amidst the tension. However, he failed to notice the subtle tensing of Adeline beside him, her expression morphing into one of disbelief as his words hung in the air.
Your brows furrowed, a mixture of confusion and frustration etched across your features as you processed Remus's unexpected admission. The weight of his words lingered, casting a palpable awkwardness over the group as you responded with an unimpressed look.
Sirius felt a surge of nausea rising within him, his gaze narrowing at Remus before anxiously darting over to you, waiting with bated breath to see how you would react to Remus's unexpected confession. Each second felt like an eternity as he searched for any sign of your thoughts or emotions, his heart pounding in his chest with a mixture of dread and anticipation.
As he watched your expression carefully, Sirius couldn't help but wonder what you were thinking. Were you filled with hope at his confession? Did you still want him?
“That’s not funny, Rem.” You retort, sending him an entirely unimpressed look.
“I’m not joking.” He insists, his voice has a hint of vulnerability in it. Adeline sends him an incredulous look, but his eyes are solely trained on you.
“That’s bullshit.” You countered, your voice laced with frustration as you pushed back. The tension between you and Remus was palpable, your friends watching both of you carefully. Unsure if they should intervene or not.
“It’s not. Started fourth year, I liked you for years.” Remus confesses, hand tugging through his hair in frustration.
“You said you would never have feelings for me.” Your brows are pinched in disbelief, your voice filled with hurt and frustration.
Remus looks entirely confused, “What are you talking about?”
“With Peter! At the party like a month ago.” You exclaim, memory fresh in your mind. While your feelings for Remus may have faded, the pain from his words hadn’t.
Remus shakes his head slowly, eyes searching yours for understanding, “I never said that, love.”
“You did. You told Peter, ‘I don’t think I could ever think about Y/n like that.’” You reiterated, your voice tinged with disappointment as Remus’s expression faltered, his own words echoing back to him.
“You didn’t hear the rest then.” He says, his voice filled with regret and desperation for you to understand.
Your frustration has bubbled to the surface, “Oh, great. So glad I didn’t stay to hear you continue about how awful it is that everyone thought we would end up together.” Your words are a mixture of sarcasm and hurt
"Y/n, I-" Remus began, his voice trailing off as you cut him off with a sharp interruption.
"Do you know what that feels like? To hear your best friend talk about you with so much disgust?" you demanded, the hurt evident in your voice as you confronted him head-on.
"I wasn’t disgusted!" Remus protested, his own frustration rising to meet yours. "You didn’t hear the rest!" he insisted, his tone tinged with desperation as he struggled to convey his side of the story.
"What else did you say?" It was Adeline who broke the tense silence, her voice cutting through the air like a knife. Remus's gaze shifted to her, startled by her sudden interjection. Her expression was one of disbelief, her brows furrowed and her arms crossed tightly over her chest, a silent testament to her own confusion and dismay at the unfolding situation.
"I said I didn’t think I could think about you like that because of-" Remus's voice faltered, his words hanging in the charged air. You leaned forward, your frustration palpable as you awaited his explanation, your gaze unwavering as you demanded clarity.
"Because of what, Remus?" You pressed, the tension thickening with each passing moment. Remus's eyes darted briefly to Sirius, a flicker of hesitation betraying his inner turmoil, but you caught the movement.
Sensing the rising tension, you glanced over at Sirius, who watches Remus with a tense look. His expression carried a silent message. Urging Remus to choose his words carefully.
“Don’t you fucking dare.” Sirius grits out, his voice laced with a raw edge of warning. Remus's uncertainty is evident as he grapples with what he’s just implied.
“Do you still have feelings for her?” Adeline's voice trembles with devastation as she poses the question, her heart laid bare in the vulnerability of the moment. Sirius's reaction is immediate; he stands up abruptly, his movements tense with unspoken frustration as he strides towards the stairs, refusing to linger for Remus's response.
“Sirius.” You call out desperately, rising to your feet swiftly to intercept him. He starts heading for his dorm, but you gently grab his wrist and guide him toward yours instead. Without a word, he follows your lead until you reach your door, both of you stepping inside quietly.
Sirius doesn’t utter a word, his silence filling the space between you as he leans back against your door. His head tilts upward, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as if searching for answers in its expanse.
You step closer, closing the distance between you, your footsteps echoing softly in the quiet room. With a gentle touch, you place your hand on his cheek, a tender gesture designed to draw his attention back to you. You find yourself more preoccupied with Sirius than the recent events downstairs. Dealing with the situation involving Remus can wait; at this moment, your main concern is resolving things with Sirius.
He lets out a sigh, the weight of his emotions palpable as he drops his gaze from the ceiling to meet yours. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, his voice laced with a mixture of remorse and vulnerability.
You can't help but laugh incredulously at his apology, the sound carrying a blend of surprise and amusement. "What are you sorry for?" You inquire, your tone gentle yet tinged with curiosity, as you search his eyes for the answer.
He sighs, “That you found out this way.”
“About what?” You both know that you already know the answer but that you just want him to say it.
“About Remus’s feelings for you, about my feelings for you.” Sirius admits, his voice soft as he swallows harshly.
You take a deliberate step closer to him, closing the gap between you with a sense of purpose. "And what are your feelings for me?" you repeat, your tone carrying a playful lilt, a silent challenge lingering in your words, daring him to bare his heart to you.
"Y/n," he pleads softly, his hands instinctively finding their place on your hips, drawing you closer to him just an inch. “Remus pretty much spelled it out, didn’t he?”
"I don’t want to hear it from Remus, I want to hear it from you.” You assert, your voice tinged with determination as you press closer to him. His eyes flit down to the diminishing space between your bodies.
He sighs, a soft exhalation laden with unspoken emotions, “You drive me crazy.” He confesses, shaking his head in gentle disbelief. A grin spreads across your face, your heart lightening at the familiar banter between you.
"Yeah? Is that all?" you tease, a playful glint in your eyes as your arms rise to encircle his neck, drawing him closer.
His gaze softens, a hint of vulnerability shining through as he meets your eyes. "I’m crazy about you, have been since the moment I met you." He confesses, his voice filled with sincerity and warmth.
His words ignite a flutter of excitement in the pit of your stomach, a giddiness that bubbles up from within. Unable to contain the surge of emotions, you rise onto your toes, closing the gap between you as your lips meet his in a gentle kiss. He lets out a surprised hum, circling his arms around your waist and hauling you into him.
He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead on yours, his expression tinged with uncertainty, "Y/n,” He murmurs, his voice laced with apprehension, “I can’t do this if you still want Remus.”
You pull back slightly, creating a small space between you yet maintaining the intimacy of your connection as you gaze into his eyes. "Do you think I would have followed you if I still wanted Remus?" You inquire softly, your voice imbued with sincerity.
"I meant every word when I told you that you were the only one I thought of for James’ dare." You continue, your words carrying a gentle reassurance, seeking to dispel any lingering doubts or insecurities that may linger between you.
"I want you, Sirius." You whisper earnestly, your voice soft yet resolute, laying bare your desires and intentions as you seek clarity and connection with him.
The smile he gives you is radiant, brimming with unabridged happiness, illuminating his features with an undeniable warmth that reflects the depth of his emotions.
"I've been dreaming of you saying that for ages." You squeal with uncontainable delight as he dips down and scoops you up, your legs instinctively circling his waist. Together, you embark on a journey towards your bed, his steps sure and purposeful, each movement imbued with a sense of anticipation and excitement.
He settles onto the bed, seating you gently in his lap, and you can't help but giggle uncontrollably, the sound filling the room with infectious joy as you revel in the sheer exhilaration of the moment shared between you.
As you lean down and press your lips onto his, he exhales softly, as if shedding all his worries, finding true peace in the gentle brush of your lips against his. He's never encountered a feeling of rightness as profound as this throughout his life. He is completely done for.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
Lily and Marlene didn't return to the dorm last night. After the awkward end to your game of truth or dare, you assumed they were giving you some space. And frankly, you were grateful for it.
You weren't eager to delve into the topic of Remus confessing his past feelings for you. Although he didn't explicitly reveal whether or not those feelings still lingered, the reactions from both Adeline and Sirius served as a telling response.
You knew that a conversation with Remus was inevitable. Yet nervousness gnawed at you. What if there was no salvaging what remained of your friendship? Despite the awkwardness of the past few months, the desire to keep him in your life persisted, making the conversation all the more important.
The night unfolded with you and Sirius intertwined, lost in stolen kisses and hushed conversations within the dimly lit dorm. You had never felt so content in your whole life. Being with Sirius felt like a breath of fresh air. There were no lingering doubts about his feelings; his actions spoke volumes, leaving no room for uncertainty. Reflecting on the past, you couldn't help but wonder how you had ever been so blind to his affections.
“You almost ready m’love?” Sirius called, casting a glance your way as he deftly tied his tie in front of your mirror.
His endearment sent a flutter through your heart. It felt as though the kiss with Sirius last night had unleashed a torrent of emotions, flooding your senses with newfound intensity. It sent a thrill through your body, yet you felt somewhat disheartened as well. How had you managed to overlook Sirius for so long? He had been there all along, yet you found yourself pining over Remus, who had seemed indifferent to your feelings.
"Yeah, whenever you’re ready." You offered a soft smile as you slipped on your final shoe, steadying yourself with a gentle grip on the bedpost.
You stood up, making your way over to Sirius who met you halfway, placing his hands on your hips. You wrapped around your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer to him. He smiled down as you, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before putting his hand back to your hip.
You rose to your full height, crossing the distance to Sirius, who advanced to meet you halfway, his hands finding their place on your hips. You encircled your arms around his neck, drawing yourself nearer to him. He smiled warmly down at you, delicately tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before returning his hand to your hip.
"How do you want to go about this?" Sirius asked his brow furrowing with a hint of unease, his gaze searching yours for guidance.
Your brow pinched in confusion, "Go about what? Us?" For a brief moment, the idea crossed your mind – did Sirius want to go back to the way things were before? However, that thought evaporated as quickly as it appeared when you recalled the firmness of his embrace, the intensity in his gaze fixed upon you.
He nodded, his expression softening with concern. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I understand things might be tense with Remus, and I don’t want to make it harder for you."
"You know what I want?" Sirius tightened his embrace, prompting you to elaborate. "I want you to treat me like I’m yours, show everyone that we’re together. I couldn't care less about what anyone thinks." Both of you understood that anyone referred to Remus. Sirius remained silent, his gaze fixed on you, his expression indecipherable.
Your expression shifted to one of uncertainty, your brows furrowing slightly as you sought clarification. "We're together, right?" You asked, your voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability, searching his eyes for confirmation.
Sirius's smile radiated such genuine warmth that a flutter of attraction danced in your stomach, “Yeah, baby. We’re together.” He couldn't fathom that he held you, his dream girl, in his arms, asking him if the two of you were together. It took him a moment to fully grasp the reality of the moment.
He continued, “Don’t think that I’m not going to properly ask you to be mine, though, because I will. I promise.”
Unable to resist, you leaned in, capturing his lips with your own. Instantly, he responded, returning the kiss with equal fervor and intention.
With a reluctant sigh, you pulled away, your fingers lingering against his cheek as you whispered, "We need to get to breakfast."
"I think I can starve." Sirius shrugged nonchalantly, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes as he leaned down to capture your lips once more.
You couldn't help but giggle, gently pushing him away, "Stop it, we gotta go. We’re going to be late." You insisted, a hint of laughter dancing in your voice as you playfully nudged him towards the door, the lingering taste of his kiss still tingling on your lips.
As you entered the common room, a wave of surprise washed over you at the sight of all your friends gathered, comfortably sprawled across the couches and armchairs. You slowed to a stop, catching Sirius off guard as he turned to follow your gaze, his eyes widening in surprise as they landed on the familiar faces of your friends.
"We wanted to make sure you two were okay after last night," Lily paused, her gaze piercing as she shot a pointed glare at Remus, who visibly shrank into the couch cushions. He appeared exhausted as if he hadn't slept all night, and you couldn't help but notice Adeline's absence beside him.
"But it looks like everything is good?" Lily continued, her voice hopeful as her eyes dropped down to where your hand intertwined with Sirius'.
"Everything's fine," you affirm, offering a soft smile as Sirius squeezes your hand reassuringly. "But I need to talk to you, Rem. Alone.” You add, your tone gentle yet firm, conveying the importance of the coming conversation.
Sirius is the first to break the tense silence, shifting slightly while the others remain rooted in place, their eyes flitting between Remus and you. The atmosphere feels charged with unease, and you can sense the weight of Lily's unspoken words lingering in the air, knowing full well she gave Remus a piece of her mind the moment you left last night.
Before he can move away, you pull him back, your hand gently tugging him closer as you press your lips to his. A surprised sound escapes him before his hands come up to hold your cheeks. Remus clenches his jaw, unable to watch as you both melt into each other.
James lets out a low, appreciative whistle, and Lily suppresses a smile behind her hand. Peter and Dorcas avert their gaze shyly while Marlene beams at the sight of Sirius melting into you. It's evident that they're all on Team Sirius.
As you both draw back, your gazes locked in mutual adoration, Sirius places another swift kiss on your lips. "I'll have your tea waiting for you," he promises softly.
A bright smile spreads across your face. "Thank you," you reply, your voice filled with warmth and gratitude.
As Sirius finally draws back, the others follow suit. James is already by his best friend's side, chatting animatedly. Lily and Marlene exchange knowing grins with you, silently promising a conversation later. Meanwhile, Peter and Dorcas trail behind, engaging in casual conversation as they meander along.
You sigh, bracing yourself for what promises to be an awkward conversation, and then take a seat beside Remus on the couch. The tension in the air is palpable, amplified by the near emptiness of the common room. Remus sits up straight, stealing a glance in your direction, his demeanor reflecting the unease of the moment.
“Are you okay?” Remus looks mildly surprised, that wasn’t the first thing he expected you to ask.
He clears his throat nervously, “Uh, I’ve been better, honestly. Are you?”
He observes as you gracefully draw your legs onto the couch, tucking them underneath you. Finally, you meet his gaze, and he's momentarily taken aback by your beauty. A pang of regret hits him like a wave – he wishes he had confronted his feelings for you earlier. Perhaps then, it would have been him sharing kisses with you instead of watching you with his best mate.
"I'm good." Remus watches as you absentmindedly bring your fingers up to brush against your lips, a lovesick expression softening your features. You appear momentarily lost in thought, a dazed quality to your gaze.
Clearing your throat, you shake off your thoughts, "But I'm disappointed about last night. What on hell was that?"
"Y/n," Remus's voice quivered with sincerity as he addressed you, his eyes reflecting the remorse weighing heavily upon him. "I'm so sorry. I never meant to upset you." He whispered, the words thick with sincerity..
You sighed, the weight of your frustration and disappointment lacing your tone, "And Adeline?" Remus looked startled. In the wake of you rushing to follow Sirius, Adeline had bravely broached the subject of his feelings towards you. Caught off guard, Remus found himself grappling for words, acutely aware of his friends' scrutinizing gazes, which bore a mixture of astonishment and disapproval. His hesitation was a silent confession to Adeline, who gathered her belongings swiftly, her departure punctuating the air with an unspoken disappointment. In the ensuing silence, Remus remained rooted, torn between pursuing you and granting you the space he sensed you needed. Regrettably, the thought of going after Adeline hadn't even crossed his mind amidst the dread sitting heavy in his stomach. Remus understood he had messed up, and the weight of his mistake hung heavy upon him.
“She left. I don’t blame her, I hurt her. Who gets a girlfriend when they have feelings for someone else?” A laugh escaped Remus, laden with incredulity.
His words prompted you to avert your gaze, a subtle gesture betraying the unease settling in the pit of your stomach. The acknowledgment that his feelings for you still lingered left you with an odd feeling in the pit of your stomach.
Silence settles between you both, and it's excruciatingly awkward.
“I’m falling in love with Sirius,” You blurt out, nervously stealing a glance at him, eager to gauge his reaction. “I just, I need you to know that there’s no way anything could’ve happened between us. A couple months ago it would’ve been entirely different. But I was devastated, Rem. Do you know how hard it was for me to watch you be with Adeline? How much that hurt? And then you just admit you have feelings in front of everyone no less, like it wasn’t a big deal. In front of your girlfriend, who clearly cares so much about you. I don’t understand.”
"Dorcas asked—" He began, his voice sounded shaky.
"But you could've passed, or chosen to say another old crush's name!" Your interjection cut through the air, sharp and pointed.
"But there wasn't anyone else." He countered, his words tinged with a hint of desperation.
"Remus." His name hung in the air, heavy with frustration. You sent him with a glare heavy with irritation, and the intensity of your gaze churned a nauseating knot in his stomach.
"I was jealous, okay? To see Sirius hold you and kiss you like I have always wanted was awful. I couldn’t get you out of my head, and then Dorcas asked, and I just said your name."
"Godric, Rem!" You huffed, frustration coloring your tone. "If you had just told me months ago, we could’ve avoided this entire mess." Remus opened his mouth to speak, but you interjected, your words tumbling out with raw emotion. "But at the same time? I’m so grateful that you didn’t tell me, and that Sirius was there, because then I would’ve missed out on a guy who was never afraid to show me that I was his first choice.”
Remus remained silent, his gaze fixed intently on his intertwined fingers. You sat tense on the couch beside him, the air heavy with unresolved tension.
Remus’ eyes are filled with tears when he turns to you, “I know there’s no chance for us anymore, but Y/n, I don’t want to lose you as my best friend. Not having you around the last couple months have been hard. I miss you, and I understand if you’re not ready for that or don’t even want to be my friend. But Y/n, I will do anything to make this up to you.”
You felt a lump form in your throat, a wave of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. With a harsh sigh, you turned to Remus, your gaze a mixture of hurt and determination.
"Our friendship won't be fixed right away," you admitted, the words weighted with the frustration that had been simmering beneath the surface. "I'm still frustrated with you." You confessed, your voice tinged with the raw honesty of your emotions.
“Y/n, I’ll do everything to make it up to you. I know everything won’t go back to the way it was, but I just want to be your friend.” His words carry genuine remorse, and you crack.
“Remus, come here.” You extended your arms toward him and Remus engulfs you in his embrace, his fervor nearly knocking you off balance.
You're both holding onto each other tightly, finding comfort in having each other back. A few tears escape your eyes, tracing silent paths down your cheeks as you find solace in the warmth of his embrace.
"I missed you too." You mumble softly into his chest, your words muffled by the fabric of his shirt.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
The familiar ease you once shared with Remus doesn't return immediately, but both of you are committed to rebuilding your friendship, to rediscovering that ease and comfort your relationship used to provide. But the effort that is being made means the world to you.
And so it begins with catching up on reading together. You sit beside Remus on the plush couch, matching copies of a book cradled in your hands as you both immerse yourselves in its pages. Nearby, Marlene and Lily are nestled by the crackling fire, engaged in animated conversation about Marlene's impending decision to finally ask Dorcas out. Peter lounges lazily in an armchair, a contented smile playing on his lips as he indulges in chocolates, his attention drifting between the gossip and the flickering flames.
Sirius's laughter rings out, drawing your gaze toward him like a magnet. You shift your focus to the common room entrance, where Sirius and James have just arrived, their hair still damp from their post-practice showers.
You sit up straighter, a subtle movement, that draws Remus's attention to you. Following your gaze, Remus's eyes shift in the direction of Sirius, who is in the midst of a hearty laugh spurred on by James's joke. However, as Sirius turns and locks eyes with you, his laughter fades into a tender smile, his expression melting into one of affection and adoration. James catches sight of Lily across the room and wastes no time in making his way over to her, his trademark mischievous grin already in place.
"James!" Lily cries out, her voice a mixture of exasperation and amusement, as she dodges away from the curly-headed boy who is shaking his dripping wet hair over her. Marlene's laughter fills the air, and Dorcas grins from beside her. Despite Lily's attempts to escape, James encircles his arms around her waist, drawing her back against his chest, his satifsfied grin matching her infectious laughter.
“I can’t stand you, James Potter.” Lily sighs, leaning back against James and shaking her head disapprovingly.
Sirius laughs, watching Lily pretend to be annoyed with James, before settling into the seat beside you, a comfortable familiarity enveloping the space between you. When he leans in to press a gentle kiss against your lips, you instinctively lean into his touch, savoring the warmth of his affection. Remus's gaze momentarily drifts away, a subtle pang of jealousy tugging at his chest as he watches the way you lean into his best mate.
In truth, Remus found himself uncertain of his standing with Sirius. Him and Remus were limited in their interactions lately, both boys feeling tense around the other. Unbeknownst to you, Remus flinched involuntarily every time Sirius drew near to you, displaying his lingering feelings for you. Sirius, though not proud of it, found himself grappling with a twinge of possessiveness whenever Remus was close to you.
Sirius pulled back slightly, a warm smile gracing his features as he met your gaze, "Hi, m'love." He murmured softly, his voice laced with affection and tenderness.
You couldn't help but return his grin, feeling a rush of warmth at his endearing greeting, "Hi." You replied, your voice filled with warmth and fondness, mirroring the affection reflected in his eyes.
"What are you doing tomorrow?" Sirius's voice broke the silence, his arm casually draping around your shoulder, drawing you into his side. Your book lay forgotten as his presence captivated your attention.
"Just some studying." You replied, the thought of books and lectures suddenly fading into insignificance.
Sirius leaned in closer, his lips grazing against your ear as he whispered, "I wanna take you somewhere tomorrow." The words stirred memories of a few months ago when you were seated on this very couch with him, grappling with the heartache of trying to move on from Remus.
"Will this be a date?" You asked, unable to contain the excitement bubbling in your voice.
"Yes, angel." Sirius replied, his words soft and tender as he pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. A radiant grin spread across your face as you reached for your book once more, the anticipation of the upcoming date dancing in your thoughts.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
Almost a week slips by before you and Sirius manage to carve out time for a long-awaited date. As Sirius leads you on a walk, your heart swells with emotion when you realize he's taking you to the tulip field. Despite the lingering chill in the air, the sight of the vibrant flowers and the sun's gentle rays reflecting off Black Lake fills you with warmth.
"You're such a romantic." You giggle, leaning into Sirius even more. He responds with a bashful smile, his cheeks tinged pink. You're not sure if it's from the cold or your teasing.
"I didn't know if it would be a good place for a date or not." He admits, his cheeks coloring with embarrassment. He had spent the last week agonizing over where to take you. When he ranted to Peter about it, Peter simply shrugged and suggested Hogsmeade. Sirius had scoffed, his tone teasing yet earnest, telling him he better step it up if he wanted to impress a girl.
"Sirius, this is the cutest spot for a date. Plus, it has meaning to us." You tell him sincerely, and Sirius feels his heart flutter at the term us. He wonders if he'll ever get over the fact that he has his dream girl in his arms, looking at him the same way he looks at you.
As you draw closer, the perfumed air carries the unmistakable scent of spring, and the gentle buzzing of bumblebees near the flowers fills your ears. The sounds evoke a sense of nostalgia, transporting you back to your childhood days spent playing in the garden.
"Merlin, I was so stressed about it. I've never planned a date before. I mean, I've gone on dates, but I've never felt this determined to impress someone as much as I have with you," he sighs as if releasing all of his pent-up stress. "I even asked Peter where I should take you."
"Did you? Well, I think this is perfect." You grin, withdrawing your hand from his to lay out the blanket. The thought of crushing tulips under the blanket makes you cringe, so you search for a barren patch to place it over. With care, you shake out the blanket, letting it flutter gracefully before plopping onto it.
Leaning back on your palms, you watch Sirius, who remains standing where you left him, your copy of Pride and Prejudice in his hands. A soft smile graces his lips as he gazes at you as if you're everything he's ever dreamed of.
"Are you going to join me or just stare?" You question, patting the spot next to you invitingly.
"I quite like staring at you." He grins, sending you his famous smile.
He sits down next to you before laying back and allowing the sun to settle on his skin. The warmth of the rays feels comforting, especially after the last couple of days filled with rain. The melodic songs of birds in the surrounding trees and the sound of your gentle movements create a soothing ambiance, putting him at ease.
You shift, settling onto your back, your eyes tracing the patterns of the soft clouds as they leisurely drift across the vast expanse of the sky. The birds' playful chirps and flutters among the trees add to the serene atmosphere. Sirius follows suit, adjusting his position to face you. As he watches you, he's captivated by the delicate play of sunlight on your features, accentuated by the colorful tulips that bloom around you, adding a vibrant backdrop to the tranquil scene.
He can hardly believe that he's lying next to the girl of his dreams, the one he's thought of for years, yearning for even a moment of her attention. Memories flood back countless times when he watched you with Remus from afar, consumed by jealousy for the time Remus got to spend with you. He would have given anything for just a few minutes alone with you to share a moment that belonged solely to the two of you.
"I talked to Remus earlier today." You remark, his nose crinkling slightly with an involuntary pang of jealousy at the mention of his friend's name. It's become almost instinctual by now.
"He apologized to Adeline," You start, your expression thoughtful. "He mentioned it started off rough, but in the end, she forgave him, and they wished each other the best."
He hums, “That’s good.”
You giggle, “That’s all?”
Sirius hums softly, propping himself up on his elbow as he gazes down at you. "I'm glad they've found that closure," he murmurs, his tone laced with a hint of distraction.
Feeling his unwavering focus, you gently divert your attention from the sky to meet his gaze. His eyes are locked onto yours with such intensity that it causes a flutter in your chest, leaving your breath caught in your throat.
He lifts his hands, delicately brushing his thumb against your bottom lip. A small, involuntary sound escapes you, and Sirius responds with a devastating smile, a hint of playfulness dancing in his eyes.
"I don't want to talk about anyone else but us." He whispers, his voice filled with sincerity. His gaze softens as his fingers trace gently across your cheeks, his hand coming to rest on your face, his thumb tenderly brushing against your jawline.
"What about us in particular?" You inquire, the words escaping in a breathless whisper. Your heart quickens its pace, a rhythmic drumming echoing the intensity of the moment, a sensation that always accompanies Sirius's proximity. The air feels charged with anticipation, every nerve tingling with the electricity of his presence.
"I can't get enough of you," he confesses, leaning in to press a soft kiss against your cheek. "How you never leave my mind," he adds, tenderly planting a kiss on your other cheek.
"How you make my heart flip every time I look at you." His lips brush against your forehead before he leans down to rest his against yours. Your eyes flutter closed at his proximity, your body nearly buzzing from the giddiness and anticipation coursing through your veins.
"How my heart is entirely yours." His voice trembles slightly, revealing the depth of his emotions as he utters those heartfelt words, “And that I am hopelessly in love with you.”
Your eyes widen, catching his apprehensive gaze, his nerves evident as he awaits your reaction to his confession Without hesitation, you thread your fingers through his hair and gently pull him down to you, closing the distance between your lips and his in a sweet, affirming kiss.
Sirius lets out a moan, his thumb continuing to brush over your cheek as he deepens the kiss. The warmth of his lips against yours is accompanied by a gentle exploration, each movement conveying a depth of emotion and desire that leaves you breathless. The air is charged with an electric intensity, and in that moment, it feels like time stands still, allowing you to savor the overwhelming connection and longing between you.
You pull away just slightly, your voice trembling with emotion as you gaze into his eyes. In the hushed intimacy of the moment, surrounded by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds, you utter those three profound words, "I am so in love with you. "
Sirius lets out a disbelieving laugh, his smile widening as euphoria bubbles within him. Without hesitation, he leans in, his lips meeting yours in a fervent and intense kiss that elicits a desperate moan from your lips. You've never experienced a kiss like this before, filled with such raw passion that it feels like every nerve in your body is set ablaze as if you could melt into him right there and then.
"Please be mine." Sirius pleads, his voice laced with longing and vulnerability against your lips.
A tender smile graces your lips as you respond, your voice soft and filled with affection, "I'm already yours."
While nestled in the field of tulips, Sirius confesses to you that the very first tulip he gifted you was, in fact, a declaration of his love.
fuck it, i never ever do those “reblog for X, this one really works!” posts, but this one doesn’t have any of that BS, this is just straight up wishing us good things; and then the comment doesn’t even say any of that either. Zero claims on this post, all positive vibes
May you end this week feeling ever more certain of a future you’ll love
⌢ ꒰੭ fluff ✿ ／ down bad boyfriend, clark being an awkward pie, yapper clark allegations
──⠀──⠀⸝⸝ ◜◡◝ well im back and i didnt get to watch fantastic 4 cause of the fucking rain
"NO NO NO NOOOOooo—please still be in the kitchen. please let her be in the kitchen"
The words tumbled from his mouth in a breathless whisper, somewhere between a prayer and a plea. He pushed the crumpled sheets off his body with frantic hands, his limbs heavy with ache and regret. The air bit at his skin the moment he sat up—cold, sharp, and unkind. His pajama bottoms hung loosely on his hips, and the chill crept down his spine as he staggered to his feet.
Every step echoed too loudly in the apartment, each thud like a knock on a door that no longer had someone waiting behind it. The apartment was still. Still in that way that felt empty. Still in that way that told him, without even needing to look, that she was already gone.
The scent of her perfume still lingered faintly in the hallway—a soft, familiar trace of vanilla and something warmer, like sunlight caught in their silk bed sheets she picked. It clung to the air like a ghost of her presence, making the space feel both close and unbearably distant. The pot of coffee sat untouched on the countertop, still warm, still waiting. She had made it for him.
Of course she had.
The dishes were already washed, stacked neatly by the sink. Every gesture, every quiet act of care, had already been done. She had moved through the morning like clockwork—quiet, thoughtful, loving. And he had slept through all of it.
He hates saturdays. Period.
He rubbed at his face with both hands, dragging his palms over his eyes, as if it would scrub away the guilt sitting like a weight in his chest. "i didn't get to kiss her goodbye"
His mind repeated it like a punishment. He gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles pale.
I didn’t even say good morning. Didn’t open my eyes. Didn’t see her smile. Didn’t—
His breath hitched. God, he hadn’t even heard her leave.
His footsteps slowed as he neared the table, the silence of the apartment wrapping around him like a reminder. There, in the center, was the plate she had left for him—carefully covered, still warm enough to suggest she hadn’t been gone long. But it was the note that caught him, small and yellow, resting gently on top like a kiss.
He reached for it, almost reverently, fingers trembling a little as he peeled it off the plate. Her handwriting was unmistakable—softly curved, slightly rushed at the edges like she always wrote while standing, halfway between brushing her teeth and zipping her bag.
"Didn’t want to wake you up. You stayed late last night after that attack. You looked so peaceful, but I made breakfast—make sure to reheat it first before you eat. I love you, Clark. See you later. <3
P.S. don’t miss me too much.”
God. He was so down bad. It has been what 7 months together?
He was smiling before he even knew it. One of those dumb, helpless, crooked smiles that stretched his cheeks and made his eyes crinkle like paper. His thumb brushed over the curve of her heart doodle, and then lingered at the place where she’d signed his name, as if he could trace the movement of her fingers from memory.
She had written this just for him. Thought of him in the quiet, in the in-between, while he slept like a stone through the echo of last night’s chaos. And still—still—she loved him with this softness.
Made him eggs.
Poured his coffee.
Left a note like they weren’t living in a world that asked too much of people like them.
His smile faltered then, just a little, as the weight of it caught up with him. He should have been the one up first. I should’ve kissed her. Told her he loved her with his eyes open, not just in dreams. He had slept through all of it—through her morning, her footsteps, her quiet grace.
And now she was gone for the day, and all he had was a sticky note and a breakfast gone lukewarm.
He returned to the bedroom they never quite admitted was shared—his, technically, though she had left more than just a toothbrush behind. It smelled like her now. Like safety. Like home waiting to be spoken aloud.
He crouched low beside the bed, where two boxes rested beneath the frame. One was marked and locked—the suit, a part of him too heavy for this hour. But the other… the other was hers. Or his. Or theirs.
It was a box of quiet things—sentimental and sacred in the way only love makes objects holy. Every piece inside was a fragment of a moment he refused to forget: snack wrappers from their first late-night grocery run, laminated and dated; letters she had scribbled on bad days and worse coffee; an old newspaper, creased and yellowing, with her title in bold on the front page—“Strong U.S. Job Growth Shows Economy Is Defying Challenges”—he had nearly cried when it printed.
He nearly tripped when he found out.
But above all—were the post-it notes.
They lived in layers, paper-thin memories tucked between soft corners of the box. She wrote on them daily, sometimes teasing, sometimes reminding, always loving. And now, this new one joined them.
He turned it over and wrote the date on the back, slow and precise, as if it were a record of something ancient and delicate. Then, with a soft exhale, he brought the note to his lips, pressing a kiss to the edge of her handwriting. A kiss she wouldn’t feel, but one he needed to give.
He slipped the note inside, nestled it among the others, and closed the box with a care usually reserved for relics. Then, gently, he pushed it back beneath the bed—out of sight, but never out of reach.
He did exactly what she told him.
Like a good boy he is, isn't he.
Reheated his breakfast like she asked — eggs a little rubbery now, toast slightly too crisp, but he ate it all, every bite a kind of obedience laced with affection. He drank the coffee she brewed, even though it had gone bitter sitting out too long — still, he smiled between sips. He cleaned the bedroom, tucked in the sheets she always kicked loose, straightened the photo frames on the shelf, folded her sweatshirt that had been hanging over his chair for two weeks.
Then the rest of the apartment. Floors swept, dishes washed again just for good measure, couch fluffed, even the throw blanket she always pulled over them during late-night documentaries was folded into a perfect square. She wasn’t coming over tonight—not yet—but he cleaned anyway.
He wanted her to walk in and feel peace. He wanted her to know she was thought of, even when she wasn’t there to see it. By the time the clock struck 10:30, the silence was unbearable.
No calls. No emergencies. No distant cries from alleyways or sirens that pulled him out of himself. No one needed saving today.
And for that, truly, he was grateful. But God — he was so bored.
His body didn’t know what to do with stillness. His fingers kept twitching like they missed the feeling of a cape slipping through them. His eyes flicked to the window every few minutes, waiting for… anything. A spark. A scream. A car crash. A mugging. A kitten stuck in a tree. Something.
Nothing came, only the chatter of people in cafes, or his neighbours snoring, screaming on the phonecall.
The usual boring time.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even painful. It was just… constant. Like background noise he couldn’t turn off. The way his apartment felt too big when she wasn’t in it, too cold even when the sun was out.
He could bath himself in sunlight, he live for the sun.
But, damn he is so bored.
After hours, of saving, losing sleep for writing articles, cleaning, having dates. It's his break right, he should be thankful. He got to rest.
I am so restless.
He lay back on the couch, arms spread wide, staring at the ceiling like it owed him answers.
“I know I said I wanted a break,” he muttered, voice flat. “But this? Really?”
The ceiling didn’t reply. Neither did the universe.
So he sat up, rubbed a hand through his hair, and stared at the kitchen like it might blink back to life. He stared at the ceiling like it might give him answers, sprawled across the couch with time ticking dully around him. But his thoughts, once quiet, began to stir.
She will probably skip lunch again.
She always did when she was deep into something — when the words demanded all of her, when the world turned too loud to remember something as basic as eating. He could see it now: her hunched over her desk, fingers tapping rhythmically against the keys, the dim desk lamp casting a warm glow over her shoulders. Maybe her stomach hurt. Maybe she pushed through it. She always did.
What if her head aches? he thought, his brows drawing together.
What if she wanted to make another cup of coffee, but didn’t want to stand up because she was afraid she’d lose her train of thought? What if she was cold, too focused to realize it? What if she just needed something — anything — other than ink and paper and the echo of her own determination?
And what if no one was there to notice?
Of course, I will notice but I'm not there.
Oh man, I'm not there.
His chest tightened, that low ache blooming into urgency.
She wouldn’t ask. That was the thing — she never would. But that didn’t mean she didn’t need.
He sat up fast on the couch. Then stood even faster.
“Alright,” he said aloud, voice firm now. Completely speaking to himself. “Lunch. And her favorite flowers.”
He moved with purpose, already heading toward the kitchen. His feet found rhythm on the tile, each step filled with a new kind of urgency — the quiet now replaced by the thud of cabinet doors opening and the rustle of tinfoil and instinct.
He started with a two loaf of bread, then paused, eyes narrowing.
No. That wouldn’t do. Not today. A sandwhich, really clark?
Probably at mid-day snack, never lunch.
This wasn’t a sandwich day. This was a Reader is too in her head and forgetting to eat again day. And he knew what she loved on days like that — something warm, something homemade, something that tasted like comfort and reminded her that someone loved her enough to know these things.
He reached for the pink bento box, a little worn now, but still cute — she liked cute things when no one was looking. He filled the base with kimchi fried rice, the way she made it once and he never stopped thinking about it since. Not too spicy, extra garlic. Just the way she liked it.
Then the egg — not hard-boiled, not soft-boiled, but somewhere in that sweet, perfect middle. The yolk just barely melted, golden and trembling when he set it in place like a jewel.
He added some strawberries, her favorite. Peeled the edges of the orange because she hated the pith. Slipped in a piece of dark chocolate, hidden between the chopsticks and the fruit. She’d find it last, he knew, and roll her eyes, but she’d eat it anyway.
He didn’t pack a love letter. He didn’t need to. Wait, Should I? I'll just leave a post it note.
He sealed everything with care, wiping the edge of the thermos, straightening the chopsticks, folding a napkin into a neat triangle. He pressed the post it note inside, a secret small message. He smiled like a school boy in headlights.
He grabbed his keys, the bento box carefully secured in his other hand, thermos tucked under his arm. He was already halfway to the balcony, ready to take off into the sky like it was second nature — because, well, it was.
But he stopped.
Feet planted. Brows drawn. A single breath of hesitation.
Wait a minute.
The city was alive today — he could hear it even from here. The hum of traffic, car horns, the distant sound of street musicians, children shouting over melting popsicles. It was midday, and the streets were bustling, no doubt.
He glanced over his shoulder toward the alley beside the Daily Planet — his usual landing spot when he didn’t want to draw attention. But he could already feel the crowd there, smell the pretzels from the food cart that always parked at the end, hear the footsteps of too many people on their lunch breaks. Risky. Way too risky.
Then his eyes flicked to the rooftop — cleaner entry, sure, but the security cameras were always a little finicky. Perry had just installed the new tech last week and—
He paused again.
Am i shirtless?
He looked down.
Bare chest, pajama bottoms slung low on his hips, thermos pressing into his ribs, pink bento box clutched in hand like some fever dream version of a rom-com delivery boy.
Yup he is.
“Jesus Christ, Clark,” he muttered, turning back into the apartment with a resigned groan.
He set the box gently on the counter, then made his way back to the bedroom to throw on a clean shirt — something casual, something that said totally normal boyfriend bringing lunch, definitely not a man who can hear satellites. A navy henley, and some dark trousers. That would do, she bought this for him — FOR HIM. He isn't going to work today, he will just call Carla-the-clerk to ask for reader then, sneak a kiss and a see you later. Life is a bliss.
He bought the flowers downtown, just off the corner where the park met the bookstore with the creaky sign. It was the usual stall — tucked beneath a faded green awning, surrounded by mismatched buckets of color and perfume. The old woman who ran it had hands weathered like soft leather and a smile that reminded him of home.
“For her?” she asked, the moment she saw him.
She always asked that. Same gentle tone. Same mixed outfits she wore. Same twinkle in her eye, like she already knew the answer before he even opened his mouth.
Clark rubbed the back of his neck, ducked his head a little, and smiled like he couldn’t help it.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low, full of something tender. “For her.”
She nodded knowingly, her fingers already busy picking the stems she knew he’d want — a bit of blush pink, soft whites, a sprig of eucalyptus just for scent. She always built the bouquet like it was a secret she was helping him keep.
Sometimes he wondered if she was just that kind. Other times, he swore she was a psychic. Maybe not in the traditional sense, but in that way only old women and mothers could be, like his mom — the kind that looked at your face and knew the weight sitting behind your smile.
Guy Gardner would love her, he thought absently, the corner of his mouth twitching. Or be terrified of her. Probably both.
She handed him the flowers wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine like always. He offered her a few bills — she always waved off the full amount with a dismissive flap of her hand.
"Hope she liked it," She handed with a smile graced on her chapped lips, tucking the change into her blue apron.
"She always those" He said with a grin, Clark held the bouquet close as he left with a small wave towards the lady, the paper crinkling against his chest, the scent of freesia and freshly cut stems rising with each step.
He was speed-walking through the park, half-focused on the path ahead, half on the bento box in his hands. Each step was calculated, careful — not too quick to jostle the egg, not too tight a grip on the bouquet to crush the stems. His fingers curled just right around the paper wrapping, and the thermos rested in the crook of his elbow like a fragile promise.
The sun was climbing, casting everything in that golden hour softness that made the city look almost gentle. He glanced at his watch — 11:29. Almost lunch. Almost there.
He nearly collided with the jogger who always ran this route at noon. The guy shouted a half-hearted “yo! man!” as he swerved, and Clark barely had time to mutter, “Sorry—sorry!” before steadying the bento again like it was a newborn, sighing as he checked the inside with his vision, still warm, still fine.
Then it happened.
He felt it before he heard it — the distinct presence of someone stepping into his path, just enough to disrupt his rhythm. He halted abruptly, feet catching on the edge of the path. The bento box wobbled. The flowers trembled in his grip. His heart jumped into his throat.
He nearly dropped both. Maybe, his dignity also.
“Whoa—!” he gasped, gripping the bouquet like it might save him from further embarrassment. He righted himself, standing a little too straight, his expression caught somewhere between startled and please let me disappear now.
“Sorry!” he blurted out again, eyes wide, voice soft. “I wasn’t looking—”
The girl standing in front of him smiled like she’d just caught him in a love confession. She had a dress the color of sunshine and a microphone discreetly tucked at her collar — he noticed it immediately. Not the usual type. Lapel mic. Wireless. Influencer. Interviewer.
His stomach dropped. He doesn't know what to do, he is always the interviewer, not the one IN IT.
“Can I judge you, sir?” she asked, sweet but playful, like it was a game she already knew the outcome of.
Clark blinked, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Judge me?” he echoed at her.
He looked down at himself — slightly sweat-damp from walking too fast, bento box in one hand, flowers in the other, hair windblown, heart still beating fast from the near collision.
He smiled — awkward, crooked, helpless.
“Uh… sure,” he said, voice barely above a chuckle. “I guess.”
“Can you confess what you’re most guilty of at the moment?” She said it with a tilt of her head and a playful squint, already side-eyeing her cameraman like she could sense something soft brewing.
Clark didn’t hesitate. The words stumbled out of him faster than he could filter them.
“Not saying good morning to my girlfriend.”
He blinked, caught off guard by his own honesty. A flush crept up his neck, brushing his cheeks pink. He hadn’t even said that out loud before — not to anyone, just himself, over and over again all morning like a quiet mantra of regret.
The girl raised her brows, lips curling as she side-eyed the camera like “oh we are in it for the ride.”
But Clark was already spiraling. “Today’s Saturday, right?” he asked, as if needing confirmation. She nodded dramatically. “Yuh. Yuh.”
“I’m off today,” he continued, the words tumbling out like he couldn’t stop them. “But she’s working. She works weekends sometimes and I— I slept in.”
“Oh no,” she said to quickly, in synch, leaning in, hand to chest. He nodded, a hand lifting as if pleading for forgiveness. “And I didn’t even get to say good morning. Or take care. Or cook for her — she cooked for me, for both of us actually, but I know she was thinking of me too, and—” He stopped, sighed, laughed once under his breath.
“I was so mad. Not at her — never at her. But at myself. I promised to cook for her when I could. And now that I actually could, I just… didn’t wake up. She left breakfast. And a note.” He paused. His voice softened.
“God, I love her.”
The interviewer didn’t say a word. Just slowly backed up, pacing with her hands on her hips like she needed to process. Her cameraman muffled a laugh behind the lens.
“And she didn’t even wake me up!” he added, as if that made it more criminal. “So now I’m heading to her work,” he said, lifting the lunch box slightly. “I packed her lunch, ‘cause she always forgets to eat. And flowers. Just because.”
The girl stopped. Froze.
Then she sprinted back into frame, practically leaping beside him like she’d just won the emotional lottery.
“MMMH, YEAH SIR!” she shouted, causing a few people nearby to turn.
Clark blinked, confused at her actions.
The millennial pause.
Before he could speak again, she whipped out a tiny gavel — God knows from where — and held it high.
“Sir,” she declared. “You are guilty.”
He tilted his head, confused. “Guilty?”
She pointed the gavel at him with gleeful finality. “Guilty of being madly, stupidly, unapologetically in love with your woman.”
Clark pressed his lips together, fighting a grin. He bit the inside of his cheek and gave a tiny, sheepish nod. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I am. But I’m not ashamed.”
The girl let out a high-pitched laugh, practically hitting her thigh as she spun back to the camera. “YOU ARE FREE TO GO, SIR. GO GET THAT WOMAN!” The lady shouted with glee.
He gave a little wave, awkward but sincere, and with a final soft “Bye,” he turned — the bento secure in his hands, the flowers still intact — and picked up his pace again, that quiet dopey smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth.
He ran for his dear life.
Well—ran, in the way a man in love runs while still protecting a bento box like it's fragile cargo and carrying a bouquet like it's sacred. His strides were long, almost buoyant, but his arms were steady, careful, clutching the lunch and flowers like they were made of spun glass.
He smiled at the guard as he passed through the doors of the Daily Planet, a soft, breathless “hey, man” as he waved. The guard gave him a knowing look — the kind reserved for familiar faces who don’t usually show up on their day off holding pink chopsticks and peonies.
Inside, the cool air of the lobby greeted him. The usual clatter of keys and the murmur of reporters filled the room like a song he hadn’t realized he missed.
Arla, the receptionist — sharp bangs, sharper tongue — glanced up from her desk, catching sight of him instantly. Her brow arched, unimpressed but faintly amused.
“What are you doing here, Kent?” she asked, voice flat but her smirk betraying her curiosity.
He gave her a sheepish grin, adjusting the lunchbox in his hands. “Hey, Carla… can you call Reader in for me?”
Arla didn’t miss a beat. She rolled her eyes, already reaching for the intercom.
“Sure, lover boy,” she muttered, half fond and half exasperated. Pressing the button with red nails, matching her wittyful? Is that a word, but that matches her personality. As he tapped his foot at the polished tiles, hearing carla specifically said “Reader? You’ve got a delivery down at reception. Says it’s urgent.” Her voice had that exaggerated tone — as if Reader would somehow miss the innuendo laced in every syllable.
Clark stood there, trying not to look too giddy. He failed miserably. His smile was practically carved into his face, soft and full of anticipation — the kind of expression that made people stop and think, God, I hope someone looks at me like that someday.
Minutes stretched and twisted, hearing the same stomps of shoes and heels clicking at the polished tiles. Time slowed the way it does when hearts beat louder than clocks — when anticipation curls in the chest like a held breath.
He could hear her. From floors away.
The faint rhythm of her heels moving through the bullpen, then the soft ding of the elevator as it arrived. He straightened, his pulse skipping, stepping closer just as the doors slid open.
And there she was.
Polished. Composed. Effortlessly radiant.
That was definitely a new button-down — navy blue with tiny white polka dots, tucked neatly beneath a cream vest that shouldn’t look that good in a newsroom, and yet on her, it did. Her hair pulled back just enough to show her earrings — the ones he got her from a street vendor in Metropolis last winter.
God, he thought. She’s beautiful. I'm here. She’s mine.
She saw him — and her face lit up like sunrise spilling through glass.
Clark’s own grin bloomed before he could stop it, wide and boyish, almost relieved. He didn’t wait. His feet moved on instinct, closing the space between them, and in one sweeping motion, he scooped her into his arms.
“Clark—!” she laughed, startled but delighted, as he spun her once — just once — right there in the middle of the lobby, bouquet still half-clutched in one hand, the lunchbox dangling from his fingers.
She laughed into his shoulder, head tipping back, her voice the only music he ever needed. And when he set her down, she was still smiling, cheeks flushed and eyes full of something warm and speechless.
She lightly slapped his chest as soon as she was down on the polished floor, just above his heart — not out of annoyance, but because she didn’t know what else to do with the way he made her feel. The laughter was already bubbling in her throat, eyes narrowing as she tilted her head at him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, a half-laugh caught in her voice, her brows arched but her eyes already softening. Laced with affection that he always knew.
Clark’s grin widened, dimples and all.
“I brought you lunch,” he said simply, lifting the pink bento box with pride. “Don’t worry, It’s not pancakes.” He quickly added.
She laughed, short and melodic — the sound tugging something loose in his chest. Her hand lingered against his shirt, and then, before he could speak again, she leaned forward. Her voice laced with teasing “You’re never gonna let me live that pancake disaster down, huh?”
He leaned forward, nose brushing hers. “Not a chance.”
She kissed his nose — quick, playful, the kind of kiss that said you’re ridiculous and I missed you all at once. Then it was slower, she kissed his lips. More like a peck, but he quickly closed his eyes. Before he could lean in more, she pulled away and his brows rose.
“Clark,” she whispered, resting her forehead lightly against his. As he hummed, as he heard the breathy "Thank you, love." His grin, wider like the break of dawn as he pulled the flowers dangling on his hands. The way his name left her lips — soft, barely there — made his breath catch. He hummed in response, the sound low and warm in his chest, as her words followed like a promise made in passing winds: “Thank you, love.”
He smiled — wide, boyish, a little crooked — the kind of smile that looked like morning sunlight spilling through curtains. Without a word, he brought the flowers forward, the stems slightly wilted from the way he cradled them through his frantic journey, but still perfect in her eyes.
She gasped — a quiet, delighted sound — as she reached for them.
“You shouldn’t have,” she murmured, even as her fingers curled around the bouquet like it was spun gold. He only shrugged with that same goofy charm.
“Have a nice day as always, m’lady,” he said, bowing slightly as if he were still in Kansas and she was royalty. What they do, when alone in exact 12 midnight. “Don’t miss me too much.”
She giggled — that rare, real laugh that pulled at his chest — before brushing the bouquet gently against his cheek in a playful slap. Then, with a final lingering glance, she slipped from his arms and stepped toward the elevator just as it dinged open.
Clark stood there, heart full, but then blinked down — the bento box still in his hand.
"Shoot. Wait—!"
He rushed forward, nearly tripping over his own feet, sliding one palm across the elevator doors just before they shut. She turned, halfway in, surprised.
He pressed the bento into her hands, careful not to jostle the coffee tucked at her side, and before she could say anything, he stole a quick, soft kiss from her lips — brief but charged — and winked.
“Don’t forget to eat, okay?”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her.
As the elevator doors finally closed, his last glimpse of her was that same smile — fond and exasperated — and a little wave goodbye. He exhaled, standing alone infront of the closed elevator door, heart loud in his chest, cheeks flushed pink.
God, he love her so much.
"You are, such a sap. Kent" He was pulled away, as Carla rolled her eyes while filling her nails. He just sheepishly smiled as he waved at her goodbye.
"Thanks Carla, Bye" As he slipped out of the lobby with a grin. And a man who has done his task for the day.
#Productivity
★ ﾟ๑ credit scene ୧ ⊹ ࣪
@ judgyseries | Down bad (posture) #judgy #downbad #dating
Summary: You were expecting the perfect summer afternoon with the Daggers, but when a game of dogfight football takes a turn for the worse, you’re left with a bleeding head and an aching heart. And it’s up to Bradley to show you his bedside manner.
Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader
Length: 8K
Warnings: A little angst, a little pining, and two idiots in love.
It’s a perfect summer afternoon. Well, almost.
The sun is high in the sky and the steady salt kissed ocean breeze keeps it from being too uncomfortably hot. The coolers are filled with beers and sodas and a few pink cans of rosé that Coyote had brought. And the beach blankets were littered with open half-eaten family sized bags of chips and cubes of bright pink watermelon and containers of various dips and ziplocs with sun warmed and mostly melted chocolate chip cookies.
“You guys, really, I’m fine,” you state as adamantly as you can given the circumstances.
Sure, you have Jake’s t-shirt pressed against your throbbing, bleeding head. Sure, you are a little afraid to put your full weight on your left ankle and already dreading the long walk back to your car.
But it’s fine, you’re fine. Everything is…peachy. Or it will be as soon as they all stop looking at you like you’re about to crumple to the ground like some 1920’s silent film starlet from on the silver screen.
Nat has that deep pinch between her sharp brown eyes. Jake’s lips are pressed together in a firm white line. The rest of the team stands hovering around you in a misshapen semicircle, all sandy and sweaty, and wearing the concern painted across their faces.
All except for Rooster, who can’t seem to look at you at all.
“Clearly, you’re not,” Phoenix says flatly, clearly unamused by your attempts to minimize the situation. And you wish that just this once she could have let this go and follow your lead. But then she wouldn’t be Natasha Trace.
Your best friend since middle school had always been the most capable and sharpest person in the room and you loved that about her.
Normally.
But not so much when her keen assessment of you keeps you from being able to slink away quietly without fuss.
“No, seriously. It’s just a little scratch. It’s not a big deal.” It sounds feeble even to your own ears. Trying to hold back a wince when the way you shake your head makes starbursts bloom behind your eyes.
You could have dealt with the pounding in your head if it weren’t for the relentless burning of your ankle that was only making things worse. One or the other would have been easier to manage, but both vying for your attention as the pain pulses with every heartbeat was miserable.
The sun was too hot, the kids frolicking the ocean were too loud, the sunscreen on your skin felt too greasy. All you wanted was a shower and your bed and to forget this whole day even happened.
You look around the group trying to gauge how successful your efforts are, but it’s clear that no one seems to be buying your brand of poorly performed bullshit. You wanted to crawl into yourself like a hermit crab, protected by your own shell, as six pairs of eyes all looked on at you sympathetically, while the pretty brown ones you wanted to see the most were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses and trained down at the ground.
It was supposed to be a fun day.
You’d woken up that morning absolutely giddy about trading spreadsheets for sand and sunburns and sea salt tangled hair. Your cheery, new swimsuit already laid out and waiting for you from the night before.
There was something thrilling about hooky on a Friday with all of your favorite people that made you feel all kinds of young and free. Well, hooky for you. They’d been given the day off after a month of intensive training and testing of some new defensive software. They all deserved the break and you were more than happy to tag along.
You were always the good kid in school, never skipping, never missing a class. You’d felt like a rebellious teen as you crafted your ‘out of office’ email, a smug grin on your face like you were getting away with something. Even though you’d earned the right to use that PTO whichever way you wanted.
The anticipation of a snow day from your childhood school days had nothing on the intoxicating promise of a beach day on a golden summer Friday.
The team must have felt the same way too because the group chat the night before had been chaotically amusing. The excitement was palpable enough that you’d almost think you all lived in some landlocked state rather than San Diego, where it felt like all roads led to the beach whether you wanted them to or not.
Somewhere between the string of all capitalized sentences and exclamation points with a few well-chosen emojis scattered throughout, Natasha had managed to wrangle everyone in enough into sorting out who was responsible for bringing what. There wouldn’t be another veggie platter incident, not on her watch.
You’d felt bright and effervescent as you’d pulled into the parking lot, your eyes reflexively seeking out a blue Bronco that hadn’t arrived yet. With a beach chair over one shoulder and a beach bag over the other and a packed cooler bag in your hand, you’d made towards the multicolored sprawl of blankets and the striped peaks of the umbrellas, where you were met with the smiling faces of shiny happy people.
Some of the boys had rushed over to help you carry your things and added your offerings to the communal pile of snacks and sunscreen and bottles of water. It had been easy to fall into conversation with everyone as you set up your own little patch of paradise and shimmied out of your frayed cut-offs. Natasha had given you a wolf whistle and you’d laughed as you give her the finger.
And hour and a half later with an easy grin on his face, carrying a case of beer and two big Ziploc bags stuffed with what you learned later were homemade cookies balanced on top, was Rooster.
You’ve had plenty of beach days with them but every time you saw him in those damn denim shorts he always seemed determined to wear, regardless of how impractical they were, your mind still went a little fizzy as you took in just how well they clung to his thighs.
He’d taken the ribbing from his squad in stride as he unboxed the beers and added them to the collection already chilling in Bob’s bright yellow cooler. You were trying- and failing- to read your worn paperback book when he’d surprised you by plopping his things next to yours on your oversized towel and stole a chunk of juicy watermelon off of the plate balanced on your lap.
“Hey, book worm,” he grinned as he popped it into his mouth, “How’s my favorite girl doing?” That smile of his getting bigger when you rolled your eyes at him.
“Hi, Rooster,” you’d said looking at him from over the top of your sunglasses with an amused smirk.
And if your cheeks felt warm, it was from the sun and not the teasing tone of his raspy voice.
When he’d shrugged off his shirt to apply the sunscreen you’d brought with him in mind, the wink he’d shot you went straight to your head like champagne. The sun highlighting his impressive abs and sculpted shoulders didn’t help either as he took great efforts to cover his chest and stomach with the lotion. He had to be doing it on purpose, because he’d kept rubbing it in well past when the white hue faded. But who were you to complain? Melanoma was no joke.
“You wanna help me out?” he’d asked turning his back to you, looking over his shoulder. You’re pretty sure that he’d been flexing because he’d looked impossibly broad, every defined muscle standing out for eyes to map out and explore.
You’d been at war with yourself, because while your eager hands were desperate to touch him, you also knew that once you ran your hands along his solid frame that you’d never want to stop. That you wouldn’t be content until your fingertips had traced every inch of him.
You had been blessedly and devastatingly spared the choice.
“I got you, Rooster. My hands are already all sunscreen-y,” chimed in Bob, who had just finished rubbing his own freshly applied layer. “Wouldn’t want it to get on her book.”
You were only half relieved to be off the hook, while Bradley on the other hand was still looking at you expectantly, almost hopefully, still with the white and yellow bottle of sunscreen partly extended towards you.
“That’s so sweet of you, Bob-” you’d started.
“Yeah, so sweet-” Bradley grumbled under his breath.
“I appreciate you sparing my pages the sunscreen grease,” you’d said shooting Bob a smile, choosing to ignore Bradley’s comment completely. “Plus, your hands are bigger than mine. You’ll have him covered in no time.”
Bradley looked between you and Bob before he passed the bottle to the other man, shaking his head a little in defeat. You’d giggled to yourself as you wiggled your book at an openly brooding Bradley, and then leaned back on your elbows to observe the way the attentive WSO made sure to carefully and thoroughly cover Bradley’s entire back.
Respectfully, of course.
Behind your sunglasses you’d admired all of Bradley’s bulk compared to Bob’s lithe grace. But in your defense, they were standing right in front of you and you’d already reread your book at least five times in the past, so it wasn’t nearly as interesting as the scene in front of you had been.
“You look awfully comfortable over there,” Rooster called out with a raised eyebrow.
“Just taking in the view,” you’d teased back.
“Yeah, I bet you are,” he huffed as Bob finished up, giving him a thanks, man before tossing you back the bottle of sunscreen. He’d nudged his sunglasses down his nose and pinned you with his gaze, “Let me know if you want me to get your back. My hands are just as capable as his.” Even in the high heat of summer, the way he’d looked at you sent chills running along your arms.
You felt the way his keen eyes traveled from your face, down the deep-v of your swimsuit and along the swells of your breasts, and down your legs to your freshly painted toes. His mouth had ticked up in the corner then left you reeling and your heart pounding away in your chest as he’d strut off to go join Fanboy and Coyote by the mountain of snacks.
And that was the thing about Bradley Bradshaw. You never knew if he was just flirt-y or flirt-ing.
You hadn’t had a crush in ages, but when Nat had introduced you to her team five months ago, the man with the sunkissed curls and surprisingly attractive mustache had immediately caught your eye.
And as you’d gotten to know him, it had only gotten worse.
Not only was he very nice to look at and could make you laugh until your sides ached, but he also he had depth about him in a way that most men your age didn’t. You liked talking to him and listening to his stories. You liked learning his perspective on things. You liked being around him.
He made you feel interesting and special and funny and seen. You’ve never felt as comfortable in your own skin as you did when you were around him.
Rooster would send you flirty winks, give you less than subtle once overs, and could flash you such devastating slow grins that they’d have you trying to catch the butterflies they released in your stomach for hours after you went home.
But he’s never made a move.
If only he wouldn’t play hide and seek with his true intentions.
You felt like you were still waiting on some small clue whether he was serious or not. You didn’t know if he was just having fun with you or if he was into you and it was more than just friendly banter. It would be so much easier if he’d straight up tell you one way or another.
Needless to say, you’d let Nat be the one to help you with your sunscreen a little bit later. The idea of Bradley’s big hands on you, gliding along your sun-warmed skin and under the crisscross straps of your swimsuit, was too much for your hummingbird heart.
The sun climbed higher into the sky as the butter yellow midmorning transformed into a Midas-touched golden afternoon.
The squad had been able to reserve a fire pit and the plan had been to stay until the sunset. An endless summer day stretching out before them like a cat. They had nothing but time.
Clusters of people came together and split apart like a kaleidoscope as some went to take a dip in the ocean or raid the cooler and snack spread or go for a walk along the shore. Changing and shifting with the direction of the wind, going where the mood took them.
And for a peaceful moment, it had been you with your book and a napping Bradley sprawled out next to you on your towel with his arm flung over his eyes. Close enough that you could feel his warmth, almost but not quite touching. The sound of his soft breaths and the waves their own kind of lullaby as you contentedly read your book, turning your pages quietly to not disturb the man next to you, as the droplets of the Pacific dried on your skin.
You still don’t know how you got roped into playing a round of dogfight football with the Navy’s best and brightest. You were more of a corn hole or ladder toss kind of girl, but Coyote had all but thrown you over his shoulder and dragged you out before you’d agreed to participate, conceding your defeat.
You were on a team with Hangman, Coyote, Fanboy against Nat, Rooster, Payback, and Bob. A few plays in and you had been getting the hang of it. They’d all been making sure to take care to go easy on you even in the chaos of two teams playing offensively and defensively at the same time. You were more than a little out of breath, but you were having fun.
Before the next snap, Mickey gave the most impassioned pep talk you’d ever heard, “Fuck luck, we don’t need luck. We gotta fucking win.” You had been about to laugh, but then you’d seen the looks on Jake and Javy’s faces and decided against it. Curious about the other team, you’d glanced over only to see Rooster looking back at you.
The calls had been made, the blur of plays in motion as people whirled and dodged and sprinted.
You’d just lobbed the ball to Javy before darting around Nat when a big, solid body collided with you. Hard. You’d felt the twinge of your ankle twisting in the sand right before the force sent you flying in the opposite direction you’d been headed.
The impact had been jarring. The air knocked from your lungs.
Where you should have been met with a mouthful of gritty sand, instead your head had connected with the rough surface of a partially buried rock. The low, thick thud reverberating throughout your whole body.
You’d been so stunned that you didn’t even register you were even on the ground until you heard the chorus of oh fucks and holy shits and goddamns and jesus christs over the ringing in your ears.
The game coming to an immediate and conclusive end.
For how many empty bottles and cans were sitting collected in a trash bag off to the side of your beach set up, they had been surprisingly quick to act as you blinked blankly, trying to clear the spots from your vision.
It was a silent ballet of efficiency as they instinctively fell into their roles, much like you imagined they did the sky. Everyone stepping up and then stepping back as they did their part, like the ebb and flow of waves.
Nat had carefully poured some fresh water from a bottle on your face to remove the sand that clung to the sweat and sunscreen on your skin. Then Jake had wordlessly passed her his clean spare shirt he’d jogged of to get to help stop the bleeding after Javy checked on your pupils to make sure they were the same size. While Bob stood off to the side holding your warped sunglasses in his hands, as if he was hopeful they could still be salvaged. Mickey and Reuben had been waiting in the wings giving you space, ready to help if they were needed, but not wanting to not crowd in.
And from the corner of your eye, you’d caught Rooster standing a couple feet away with his hands in his hair looking absolutely wrecked.
“Bradley?” you’d tried, even though his name stuck to your teeth. But he’d just shook his head at you before turning away slightly, like he couldn’t look at you, which made your heart sting as well.
They only allowed you to move to sit up after they were content with the answer to their questions- What day is it? Friday. Where are you? San Diego. What else hurts? My ankle and my pride.
It wasn’t until someone hauled you up from underneath your armpits that the throbbing and stinging and aching settled over you. The pain seeping and spreading through muscle and bone like an inky oil spill.
It’s still an almost perfect summer afternoon except for the fact you hate everything about this.
You hate the way they’re gathered around you with too many pairs of assessing eyes pinned on you. You hate that you’re the reason the game of dogfight football came to a definitive and abrupt end. You hate that you’re the reason their carefree and fun afternoon off has turned into this.
There’s a pressure building behind your eyes, the hot tears of hurt and frustration and embarrassment are clamoring to be released. You have to bite your lower lip to keep it from trembling.
And it doesn’t help that you’re the type who’d rather lick your wounds in peace.
You just need to get back to your car and you can figure things out on your own from there. You just need a moment to yourself.
As you open your mouth to argue your case again, Jake puts his hand up and stops you before you’ve even had a chance to start, “I hate to break it to you, sugar, but you’re not fooling any of us.” He says it gently, but gives you a pointed look at the way you’re leaning heavily on your right leg to keep the pressure off of your left ankle.
“That head wound is not a little scratch. Just like your ankle isn’t just a little puffy, when it’s twice the size it should be. You need to go to the Emergency Room,” Nat says, final and resolute. A lifetime of friendship has taught you not to argue when she has that look in her eyes, the one that says try me, I dare you.
They all talk over you as they figure out who is the most sober of the group after your suggestion to call yourself an Uber is immediately shot down. Drinks are being counted on fingers, and memories are searched to make sure every sip and bottle and can is accounted for.
Your eyes drift over to the man who is still actively avoiding looking at you, even as he talks to everyone else on the team. You aren’t paying too close attention to what he is saying, but you can hear the short, clipped staccato of his words.
Bradley’s shoulders are tinged a little pink even though you know for a fact that you had purposely passed him the 65 SPF. His eyes are hidden behind his dark green tinted sunglasses, but you don’t need to see them when you can read his body language better than any book.
His arms are crossed firmly over his chest, the tendons in his forearms flexing and shifting, like he is squeezing and releasing his fists from where they’re tucked under his biceps. Everything in his body looks coiled tight and strained, so at odds with the easy going and loose-limbed man you know him to be.
You don’t realize just how much you’ve zoned out until Natasha has to say your name a couple time before you pull your gaze away from Bradley and back to her.
“Ok, it’s settled,” Nat informs you, “Rooster’s going to take you.” You barely nod your head in acknowledgement when she tells you, because it feels like you’ve been punched in the stomach now too.
“It’s the least he can do,” Jake drawls.
“That’s not fair-” you start, defensively.
“Fuck off, Bagman-” Rooster snaps.
The rage in his voice shocks you, you’ve never heard that much heat from him before. There’s none of the teasing tone that usually underscores their banter. Jake puts both of his hands up placatingly like my bad, folks and Javy just shakes his head and sighs.
And this time when you look at Bradley, he is finally looking back at you with a deep furrow in his brow. His jaw is clenched tight, that muscle ticking and jumping, as he takes in the way you have Jake’s t-shirt pressed against your forehead.
Not exactly the way you’d hoped he’d be looking at you when you put on your new blue and white striped swimsuit this morning.
The one you’d bought because you wanted to make him look.
Just not like this.
With everything sorted the rest of the team trickles away a smattering of take cares and get better soons and let us know if you need anythings. But not before Mickey hands Rooster his stuff and passes Nat your bag and sandals. He gives you the gentlest of squeezes on your shoulder before he leaves to join everyone else back on little part of the beach you all had claimed before things went to shit.
Your group of eight now downsized to a trio.
Bradley is quick to roughly pull on his tank and shirt, and Nat fishes out your car keys from your bag as she waits for him to slip his shoes on. When he’s ready she passes it to him and he silently slides it over his arm.
Nat bends down to help gingerly glide your feet into your sandals, “I’ll grab the rest your things and drop them off at your place and then one of the boys will drop off your car later. We’ve got it all covered, ok?”
“Thanks, Nat,” you say quietly, trying to hold back a wince as she slips the left one on, your ankle pulsing in tempo with your heartbeat.
“Best friends don’t say thank you, they just do,” she says matter-of-factly as she stands. It’s the same thing you’d told her after you’d dumped a carton of strawberry milk on Carly Radke for outing Natasha your freshman year in high school. It was only time you’d ever gotten detention, but it had been worth it.
“They just do,” you repeat with a small smile.
You’re so grateful that your friendship with her is one that has spanned years. That you’ve been able seen one another grow and change and come into their own, but that you haven’t outgrown each other. She’s the person you want by your side and having your back. There is no one quite like Natasha Trace.
She turns to Bradley and you watch him stand a little taller under her sharp eyes, your straw tote still dangling from his forearm.
“You good?” Nat asks him with a look in her eye that you can’t place. And you’re reminded that even though she’s your best friend, that he has also earned a spot as one of her closest friends. Their relationship built over years and experiences that you could never fully understand. Different, but just as deep.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got her. I’ll take care of her,” Rooster promises with a stiff nod, as he gives her his word. It might have made your heart beat a little faster if you didn’t feel like such a burden. That it’s simply a twist of fate and three less drinks than everyone else for the reason that he’s the one to look after you. That he’s the one stuck with you.
“I know you will,” she says softer now, patting his shoulder, “Keep me posted.” Nat presses a kiss to your cheek and gives you an encouraging smile then heads off to go rejoin everyone else.
You watch her go with longing. The cheerful beach set up with its colorful blankets and umbrellas looks more like a desert mirage now. The sweet coconut scented potential of what the day could have been now forever out of reach.
And then it’s just you and Bradley and the sound of the waves and cries of seagulls.
The two of you silent and motionless.
You feel one wrong move and the fragile attempt of the stiff upper lip you’ve cocooned yourself in will crack open and all the soft parts of you will seep out into the sand beneath your feet.
His expression is shuttered closed as he bends a bit like he is going to pick you up.
“Woah, buddy, what are you doing?” You’re squinting into the sun as you look at him. You’d step into his shadow to block it, since you’re now in need of a new pair of sunglasses, but that would mean moving to the left which isn’t an option with your ankle.
“Buddy,” he grunts under his breath, slipping off his sunglasses and carefully putting them on your face, being mindful of stinging scrapes and wad of soft cotton you’re holding to your head. “They’re definitely going to have to run concussion protocol on you,” he mutters more to himself than to you, “I’m taking you to the Bronco and then we’re going the ER, remember?”
“Yeah, I know, Rooster,” you grit out, even rolling your eyes hurts, “But I don’t need you to carry me.”
Everything about this was excruciating and embarrassing enough without him being the Clark Gable to your Vivian Leigh. Maybe you could lean on him and hop over to his car? Like a six-foot-one pair of crutches with good hair.
“Take a step without wincing and I’ll think about it,” he says firmly, pointedly calling your bluff. There’s an expectant look of go on then, whenever you’re ready on his face. Because he knows he’s right, and you do too.
You don’t even bother to make a move, but the way your lower lips wobbles speaks volumes.
“That’s what I thought,” he says quietly, almost like pains him to be right.
He bends a little to hook his arms around your knees and back to lift you up, and this time you let him. Your free arm automatically wrapping around the back of his neck. And he starts off towards the winking windshields of the parking lot.
You’ve thought about what it would be like to be wrapped up in Bradley’s arms, how good it would feel to be pressed closed against him. And now you are and it’s nothing like you’ve imagined, because there isn’t anything sweet or swoon-worthy about how you ended up in them. You’re his duty, you’re not his desire.
All your sandcastle hopes have been washed away by the tide.
You’re so frustrated. You’re frustrated by the day, by yourself, by him.
This time you can’t blink back the tears that well up in your eyes. They flood through your tear ducts carving hot trails down your sun-tinged cheeks.
You want the Bradley from earlier.
The one who stole your watermelon with warmth in his eyes.
The one who dozed next to you in the sun like a cat, his features soft free of the tension he now holds in his shoulders.
You want your Bradley.
The one who’d whispered cheeky comments in your ear whenever the team got into lighthearted tequila fueled arguments about things like whether a hot dog was a sandwich.
The one who’d always go up to the bar with you on busy nights at the Hard Deck and make sure you didn’t get bumped into on the way back to your friends with your freshly refilled drinks.
You’re aching, aching. Everywhere.
For a brief moment, as you swipe at your tears, you’re happy for the throbbing in your head and ankle, so that way you don’t have to think about the stinging in your heart.
“I know, I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I know you’re hurting,” Rooster says gentle and low as you sniffle, but you can hear the thickness of the words in his throat. The term of endearment is the sweetest of nothings, making your tears come faster. Where it should ease the heartache, all it does is make you angry at yourself for giving your emotions away. “We’re almost to the Bronco. It’s ok, we’re gonna get you taken care of, I promise.”
We.
You wanted that with him.
You want to press both of your hands to his cheeks to make him look you in the eyes to ask him is it going to be you and me together? You’ve been a fool for love before, but you didn’t know if could take another hit-and-run with your heart.
The salt of your tears makes your cheeks feel tight and itchy as the summer breeze dries them on your skin.
Bradley carries you like you weigh nothing, but cradles you like you’re the most precious things he’s ever held. He’s mindful of any dips in the sand and gives wide berth around the college kids playing volleyball close to the entry back to the parking lot.
When he reaches the Bronco, he sets you down gently, making sure both of your feet are planted on the asphalt before letting go of you to unlock his car. He tells you to wait a moment when you move to open the passenger side door.
“I never know when I might get called up for an emergency deployment, so I like to have some extra clothes just in case,” he explains as he digs around in the backseat, pulling out a pair of gray athletic shorts.
“Oh.” And you realize you’re still just clad in your striped swimsuit. “Thank you for sparing me from the hospital germs,” you say lightly, an attempt at a joke to break the ice. One that doesn’t land, since instead of cracking a grin he just presses his lips together in a firm line and nods.
Bradley crouches low in front of you and you put a hand on his shoulder for balance as you lean against the Bronco, still trying to keep as much pressure off your left ankle as possible as you step into them. He’s looking up at you and even through his sunglasses perched on your nose, you swear his brown eyes get a shade darker as he eases the shorts up your legs. You’re touched by the effort as he ties the strings in a lopsided bow, even if things are feeling tense between the two of you.
“Think this’ll be easier,” he mumbles shrugging off his light blue button up. You’ve always liked this one, with its soft pastel pink and minty green watercolor prints of net fishermen and hula girls and palm trees.
He holds it open for you, helping you thread your arm through it, and then takes over holding Jake’s now ruined shirt to your head so that you can get your other arm past the sleeve. It smells like him, citrus and amber. Your fingers brush against each other when you reclaim the makeshift bandage, and he adjusts his shirt so that it hangs over your shoulders just right.
It’s an awkward kind silent as Rooster helps lift you into the Bronco with his strong hands around your hips. He is all smooth efficiency as he buckles you in with a click. You pass him back his sunglasses the same moment he hands you your tote bag, and it almost feels like a hostage exchange.
He says nothing as he hauls himself into the driver’s side. The car rumbles to life when he turns the key in the ignition and a cheery song from the 80’s station on the radio comes on. Bradley quick to turn the volume down low. His thumb brushing your shoulder as he sets his hand on the back of your seat to look behind him as he carefully backs out of the spot.
It’s never felt this strained with him before.
It’s so painfully obvious that the two of you are walking on eggshells around each other. You can almost feel the wall that’s gone up around him. The white noise of the radio drowned out by the hum of the road as he drives in near silence.
Your day has been most effectively ruined by a chunk of sedimentary rock, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still recoup what’s left of it.
He could still have the perfect summer afternoon.
He could still go back to your friends and their perfect beach set up and laugh with them as Coyote keeps accidentally setting marshmallows on fire. He could still catch the bold oranges and soft pinks of the sunset with all the satisfied contentment he deserved to experience.
“You can leave me and go back, you know. I’ll be ok if you just want drop me off and then head back to the beach,” you say looking down at your fingers as you trace the stitching of his leather seats.
When he doesn’t answer right away, you glance over at him. The vein in his neck is standing out boldly against the column of his throat.
“Do I seem like the kind of guy who would leave someone at the ER alone?” he asks, his voice rougher than sandpaper.
“No. No, of course not,” you say emphatically, “That’s why I’m giving you permission.”
“Permission?” he scoffs with a shake of his head.
“Yes, permission,” you say, clipped.
You’re giving him an out, why doesn’t he get that?
He heaves a big sigh and grunts. “Is it… Would you rather have Bob- with his big hands- here instead?” Bradley asks, frustration leaking out around the edges of his words.
“Bob with his big hands?” you repeat baffled, “What does Bob have to do with anything about this?”
“That’s what you said earlier, sweetheart. I’m just citing the source. Or I can call Phoenix? Or…” he pauses glancing at the t-shirt pressed to your head, “Or even Seresin. Once we get you checked in I can call any of them an Uber or something, and they can be there with you, if you don’t want me.”
“No, Rooster, I don’t want anyone else.” You wince at the implication and hope it doesn’t read into it further than the current situation to two of you are wading through like quick sand.
“Ok, good,” he grumbles.
“Great,” you lob back.
His hand tightens on the steering wheel, the knuckles turning white, “Then where is this even coming from?” The action makes his thick forearm flex in this most delicious of ways that you’d appreciate more if you didn’t feel the anger simmering low in your stomach.
“It’s pretty damn clear that you’d rather be back there, Rooster. Or literally anywhere else right now.” You flip down the sun visor with more force than it deserves, regretting that you gave him his sunglasses back when the bright California sun in your eyes turns your headache into a full-blown migraine.
“Of course, I’d rather be anywhere else!” he says hotly, tossing his sunglasses back in your lap, “Do you think I like that you’re hurt and that we’re on our way to the hospital?” You shove them on your face with an angry huff.
A car speeds by blaring their horn as they pass by.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fuck off,” he grunts but speed of the Bronco doesn’t change, “Asshole.”
Bradley’s driving five miles under the posted limit, and you know for a fact he religiously drives at least ten miles over. And his turns have been smoother than butter, as if he is trying not to jostle you anymore than you’d already been today.
You are so tired of this hot and cold thing that he’s doing. His words and his deeds weren’t going hand in hand. He keeps giving you the cold shoulder, but is also so in tune with your every movement and need.
Gingerly, you angle yourself in your seat to look at him better, resting your tired left arm on the back of your seat and taking in his strong profile.
“Why are you being like this?” you demand, waving your free hand in a vaguely in his general direction.
“Like what? I’m not being like anything,” he retorts, making the same vague hand gesture as you did a moment earlier.
And oh, if that doesn’t fill your chest with hot indignation. That low simmering anger has turned into a full roiling boil as you shift in your seat trying to get your ankle in a position where it doesn’t hurt.
“Seriously, Rooster? I can feel tension rolling off of you in waves. You’ve been like this since everything turned to complete shit on the beach. I didn’t mean to ruin your day, I’m just trying to figure out how to make things better,” you bite out unable to keep things bottled up anymore.
He sucks in a sharp breath, “Are you kidding me right now? You think you ruined my day?” He glances from the road to you and back again, his brown eyes wide and searching.
“Yes?” Or so you’d thought until you’d seen the shock written all over his face, but now you weren’t so sure. It’s like you’ve dumped ice water on him instead of simply calling him out. “I feel like you’re taking it out on me and I don’t know why.”
“Jesus Christ,” Rooster swears under his breath, shaking his head. “I’m so damn sorry, sweetheart. I’m mad at myself, because I ruined your day. I should have been more careful, I should have been looking out for you. It’s not like you’re hard to miss in that swimsuit.” Your cheeks heat up at the comment, but you choose to ignore it.
Misery drips from his words like spilled ink off a page. You knew he was upset, but you didn’t realize he was upset about that. That he’s shouldering this fluke of fate as if it is his burden to bear. Some of the anger you’ve been feeling leaves your body like the tide washing out back out to sea. You’re still upset at him for how he has been acting up until this point, but you’re not mad at him about that.
“Bradley, no. It was an accident.”
“Yeah, an accident I’m responsible for,” he says hoarsely, rubbing roughly at his forehead. “God, I can still hear the sound it made when you hit that rock and it makes me feel sick. I would give anything to undo that moment. I need you to know that.”
He is being so hard on himself and your heart squeezes, this time in sympathy rather than hurt. He didn’t place that rock in the sand, the both of you were victims of circumstance.
“It could have happened to anyone. It could have been anyone,” you press delicately, trying to get him to hear you, shifting in your seat again still uncomfortable.
The sunshine bounces off of his slumped shoulders as he sighs raggedly.
“But it happened to you and it’s my fault. You’re bleeding, you’re in pain, and you’ve been crying. And it’s because of me.” He reaches down with his right hand and lifts up your leg so that you can rest it on his thigh, some of the ache alleviating immediately. He asks quietly, “That better?”
“Yes, thank you,” you murmur. He looks so upset, and all you want to do is curl into his lap. You want to hold him and you want to be held by him. “You know I don’t blame you, right?”
You expect him to move his hand back to the steering wheel, but he keeps it on your leg. His thumb stroking your still slightly sandy shin. Your cheery toenail polish at odds with the color blooming around your ankle.
Bradley’s throat bobs as he swallows hard, “Yeah, I do. I know that. But I still blame myself.”
The Bronco rolls to a soft stop at the light. There’s enough traffic that you know you’ll be here for a bit, and so does he since he turns in his seat to look fully at you. You take his sunglasses off, tucking them into the pocket of his shirt that rests above your heart, so nothing stands between his brown eyes and yours.
“So, you’re going to keep beating yourself up over it and icing me out? Making me feel worse? For what, Bradley? Because you’re a glutton for punishment? That’s not fair to me or to you.”
“Shit,” he mutters, his left hand running through his curls. “You’re right and I’m so sorry. I’ve been in my head feeling so damn guilty that I’ve been such an asshole. Can you forgive me?”
You’re about to answer him that when a horn startles you, making you jump in the leather seat. You see the light is green, the car that had been in front of you is gliding through the intersection passing under a blue sign pointing the way to the hospital.
“Bradley, the light.”
The car behind the two of you honks their horn again.
“They can wait. This is important, you are important. Do you forgive me?” There’s an underscore of need that punctuates his question.
“Yes, of course,” you say easily and sincerely. There’s so much remorse in his eyes, you would have forgiven him with that look alone.
“Thank you,” he breathes out in relief. And then he smiles at you for the first time since the beach and that ache in your heart is completely soothed, bandaged by that soft way he is looking at you.
Atlas no longer, he can simply be Bradley.
He takes his foot off the brake and by some miracle he’s able to make it through the light before it turns red again. You can see the tall structure of the parking lot near the hospital poking out above the line of the treetops.
The destination is closer than ever, but there are still things on your mind.
“And you aren’t an asshole, Bradley. But your bedside manner could definitely use some work,” you tease with a smile of your own.
“Baby, I’ve been trying to show you my bedside manner, but you keep holding me at arm’s length,” he groans dramatically.
The idea of experiencing Bradley Bradshaw’s bedside manner makes you feel all kinds of weak in the knees, even as you’re seated in his Bronco with your leg propped up in his lap, his big hand skating up and down along your shin comfortingly.
“How can you even say that with a straight face? You’ve never made a move!” you exclaim incredulously, “I was even the one to ask for your phone number, if you remember.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I hit on you all the time,” he argues with your favorite brand of Bradshaw banter, “I’ve been waiting for you to give me the green light, sweetheart.”
“I thought you were supposed to be pretty and smart,” you smirk.
He barks a laugh and the last tendrils of all the tension and all the pressure that had been swirling around you like a marine layer evaporates.
“You saying I’ve had the green light this whole time?” He looks over at you with a boyish smile, you like the way you feel when he looks at you like this.
“What I’m saying, Bradley, is if you’d have actually asked me out I would have said yes.” You press your toes into the muscle of his thick thigh and immediately regret it, wincing as pain ripples around your ankle.
He makes a sympathetic sound deep in his chest, “Sounds like I’ve been an idiot.”
“A very pretty one,” you allow, leaning your aching head back against the back seat.
“At least there’s that,” he concedes good-naturedly as he pulls into the parking lot, turning on his blinker for a spot opening up near the entrance to the Emergency Room by some twist of fate, one that’s in your favor this time.
Bradley pulls into the empty spot and kills the engine turning to you. He gently eases your foot back down onto the sandy floormat of the Bronco and leans into unbuckle your seatbelt.
He’s so close now looking up at you from under his eyelashes, and your breath catches in your throat. He moves closer, you can see the bits of hazel that surround his pupils. Your eyes flutter close and you tilt your head up, lips parting at the anticipation of his kiss.
There’s no holding back the noise of dissatisfaction you make when his lips press a tender kiss to your cheek. You lean into him wanting to feel, wanting him to give you more. His warm breath coasts over your skin as he chuckles. You can feel the way his lips are pulled up into a smile.
“I’m a gentleman, sweetheart,” he says as he pulls away, his eyes lingering on your lips. “My mom raised me not to go for the kiss on the first date. Or ones with head wounds and potential concussions.”
“Some first date,” you lament jokingly, looking in at the fluorescent lights awaiting you inside the hospital. You’d rather skip over this part entirely, but you’re ready to be done with holding Jake’s shirt to your head. “Nothing like insurance cards and scrubs to really set the mood.”
“Mmm. How about this, after we’re done here, I’ll take you through whatever drive-thru you want-”
“In-N-Out,” you cut in without a second thought. The novelty of it still hasn’t worn off on you, even if the fries are terrible.
“Ok,” he grins, “I’ll take you through in In-N-Out and get you your number two combo with mustard and grilled onions with a vanilla shake.” He pauses waiting for your nod of approval, looking more than pleased with himself when you acknowledge he got your order right.
“I like the sound of this so far,” you hum.
“Well that’s good. Since it’ll be our first date, I want to set that bar high,” he says giving you a wink. And there are those butterflies again, this time you don’t try to catch them with a net. They’re free to flutter around as they wish.
“If you really want to impress me, you’ll also take me through the McDonald’s drive-thru for their fries,” you muse.
“Done.”
“I was kidding,” you laugh, shaking your head at him disbelievingly and thoroughly charmed.
“Well, I wasn’t. So after we get you fed, give or take some fries, I will bring you home. I’ll get you whatever you need, I want to make sure you’re comfortable. Think you might be on crutches for a bit, sweetheart,” he says softly, playing with the ends of your hair. “And then in the morning, if you’re up for it, I’ll take you out for breakfast. Or bring you breakfast. Whatever you want. We can call that date number two.”
“And then you’ll kiss me?”
“And then I’ll kiss you,” he promises, offering you a crooked pinky finger. You beam and you wrap your own around his.
He slips out of the driver’s seat leaving you to contemplate the terms of his offer as he rounds the front of the Bronco. The nurses are going to get an eyeful of him in only those snug jean shorts and thin white tank. You make a mental note to avoid looking at him if they have to connect you to a heart rate monitor, he doesn’t need to know the effect he has on you. Not yet anyways.
“I have counteroffer,” you announce turning your body towards him as he opens your door for you.
“Let’s hear it, baby,” he says with a grin that almost makes you forget how bad your head and ankle hurt, “Shoot.”
“We still go to In-N-Out, but then in the morning you make me breakfast in bed with some of those famous Bradshaw pancakes I’ve heard about,” you say, as he steps in between your legs, “Seems like a good way to work on that bedside manner of yours.”
“I think you’re going to like my bedside manner, sweetheart,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb over your cheek.
You tilt your head at him, taking in the sunkissed strands in his hair and the affection in his eyes, “I guess we’ll have to find out.”
“Guess we will,” he rasps.
Rooster drops another sweet kiss to your cheek, whispering for you to stay put, and then he struts off towards the automatic doors of the Emergency Room. Leaving you alone with the butterflies in your stomach and the hope in your heart.
You dig your phone out of your straw tote and check the time, doing the math in your head.
There are a few messages from Nat and other people on the team already checking in, but you know you’ll have time to reply to them later as you wait with Bradley sitting by your side.
You look up and see he’s got a wheelchair now and is making his way back to you, wearing a soft smile on his face just for you.
Only seventeen more hours until you get to kiss Bradley Bradshaw and you can’t wait.
You’ve got that forever feeling about him.
Oh, oh, oh.
Thank you for reading! Rock on. Oh that joke was schist, I'll see myself out.
This was written as part of @roosterforme's Rocktober Playlist! You can check out all the other great submissions here!
The song that inspired this story was Paula Abdul's "Straight Up"
