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[hoist-the-colors]

HOW TO COURT ELOISE BRIDGERTON (3)

Eloise Bridgerton x reader

You had just lost an alarming number of chips.

Damn Benedict and his entirely fraudulent innocent expression.

The moment the doors burst open, the game ceased to matter.

Eloise stormed into the room, clutching a sheet of paper you recognized instantly—your handwriting, your words, your foolishly honest heart. She crossed the space between you with determined speed and stopped directly in front of you.

You barely had time to rise before she spoke, her voice sharp and breathless, as though the rest of the room had ceased to exist.

“I do not need a book,” she declared, slamming the paper against your chest, “when I wish for love.”

Your heart forgot how to function.

“I simply need you.”

You stood frozen as she continued, words spilling forth with unstoppable force.

“You have always cared about me. About my interests. You took my grievances to the Queen herself—even when they were entirely impractical.”

She stepped closer.

“You read every book I recommended, even when you hated them.”

Closer still.

“You followed me into chaos without question. You ran from dances with me. You broke the rules of the Ton—for me. Always for me.”

By now, her voice had softened, but the intensity had only sharpened.

“So tell me,” she said, her breath brushing your cheek, achingly familiar, “why would I choose another story? Another future where the person beside me is not you?”

Her gloveless hands rose to your face, warm and sure, cupping your cheeks as her brilliant eyes searched yours.

“It is you I want.”

Then she pulled you forward—not gently, not hesitantly—and kissed you.

The world ceased.

You memorized everything: the warmth of her lips, the way your chest tightened, the faint tremor in your arms, the unmistakable sensation that your legs might surrender entirely. Your carefully constructed universe collapsed—magnificently.

Everything you had ever wanted, from the very first moment Francesca had introduced you and you’d seen Eloise lost in a book, was suddenly, impossibly yours.

You had her.

And you wanted nothing more.

Somewhere in the background—distant, irrelevant—you heard Colin murmur to Benedict, nudging him with his elbow.

“Well,” he said lightly, “Bridgertons do know how to make an entrance, don’t we?”

And for once, you could not have agreed more.

[hoist-the-colors]

HOW TO COURT ELOISE BRIDGERTON (2)

Eloise Bridgerton x reader

You spent hours considering the proper way to begin a courtship.

This was complicated by the inconvenient fact that you were not, in fact, a gentleman—and therefore possessed no clear script to follow. You debated whether tradition applied at all, or whether it ought to be politely ignored.

You considered what pleased you.

What pleased Eloise.

What might be discreet.

What might be just daring enough.

Your thoughts, quite traitorously, returned to the kiss she had pressed to your hand that morning.

So you planned.

You began by writing a list of book recommendations:

for when one is angry with the world,

for quiet afternoons,

for long journeys,

and several others.

You were pondering which volume to place beneath the heading 'when one wishes love' when the door opened.

You reacted on instinct.

The paper—ink still wet—was thrust into a drawer, which you slammed shut with far more force than strictly necessary.

The sound earned you a startled look from Eloise.

“What grievous offense,” she asked lightly as she approached, “did that poor drawer commit?”

“What’s your favorite flower?” you blurted, eyes squeezed shut.

Your mouth, it seemed, had entirely abandoned your brain.

Eloise paused. The abrupt change of subject clearly caught her off guard, but she folded her arms and replied with a smile she appeared to be actively restraining.

“Lavender,” she said.

“Why?” she added, stepping closer.

Your hands began to sweat.

“Oh—nothing,” you said quickly. “I was merely wondering.”

You attempted to stand, carefully avoiding contact, which proved difficult given that Eloise made no effort whatsoever to move aside.

You considered tugging your chair back when she spoke again.

“And yours?”

She looked genuinely curious now, faintly puzzled, as though working through a problem that refused to be solved.

You scratched the back of your neck.

“Uh. Lavender, I suppose.”

This did not help matters.

Her confusion deepened—and then transformed into a smile.

“Is that so?” she asked, stepping closer still and effectively cornering you.

“Well,” you said weakly, “if it is your favorite, it must possess some admirable qualities.”

She snorted—something very close to a laugh.

“Indeed,” she said, clearly enjoying your discomfort, before turning away and moving toward the bed.

You followed, sitting as far from her as the mattress allowed.

“At least you did not offer to sleep on the floor tonight,” she remarked, settling nearer the center.

“If you continue nearly falling out of bed,” she added, glancing at you, “I may be forced to pull you closer.”

You shifted slightly, fixing her with a look that asked, Satisfied?

She smiled, entirely unapologetic, and prepared for sleep.

You lay staring at the ceiling for several minutes, absorbing the magnitude of the choices now before you.

You would court Eloise Bridgerton.

With the approval of Lady Bridgerton—

—and, quite possibly, the Queen herself.

And suddenly, despite everything, the thought felt exactly right.

---

The next morning, you woke as early as propriety—and courage—would allow.

Sadly, you were not holding Eloise’s hand as you had the day before. Still, her face was close enough that you could feel the steady warmth of her breath against your cheek, a fact that made remaining in bed entirely impossible.

You slipped away as quietly as you could and made your way to the garden, intent on gathering lavender.

You asked three different servants whether such a thing might be considered improper. All three assured you—independently and with suspicious enthusiasm—that Lady Bridgerton would hardly object to a gesture of affection.

Encouraged, you insisted upon breakfast being carried to Eloise’s room, accompanied by the flowers arranged neatly in a small vase.

And then, quite predictably, you lost your nerve.

You placed the tray beside her bed and withdrew at once, certain she would wake within minutes.

From the outside, it was a peculiar approach to courtship: delivering breakfast and flowers and then fleeing for the better part of the morning.

But you had never done this before. You had never imagined that you could.

One might accuse you of avoiding the initial reaction—and one would not be entirely wrong—but in truth, you were simply planning for what came next.

You went to the library.

---

Your aunt’s reply arrived before luncheon. It was brief and unmistakably hers.

Delightful. Keep me informed about this Eloise girl. Remember: girls like flowers, food, and adventure.

Then, as though added at the last possible moment:

And books, I suppose.

You considered this.

Food and flowers—already accomplished. Perhaps using both at once had been overly ambitious. Had you wasted an opportunity?

No.

You could create a thousand moments for Eloise. It did not matter that two had arrived together.

---

Though it may have appeared—to you alone—that you spent the morning actively avoiding Eloise, you were, in fact, exceedingly productive.

You confirmed every title on your book list, ensuring she did not already own them. You spent three solid hours reading about the plants in the garden, committing facts to memory with admirable determination.

By the time luncheon concluded, you had a plan.

You would invite her for a walk about the grounds.

You would speak—at length—about plants.

You would attempt not to trip over your own words.

And of course, there would be other moments as well.

After all, you were courting Eloise Bridgerton now.

And you intended to do it properly.

---

When you joined the Bridgertons at the luncheon table—Francesca at your side—you made a determined effort to avoid Eloise’s gaze as discreetly as possible.

This proved to be an impossible task, considering that seeing her crystal-blue eyes was precisely what you wanted most.

You attempted to occupy yourself by engaging Hyacinth and Gregory in conversation, volunteered—against your better judgment—to serve as judge for their next fencing match, and occasionally kicked Francesca’s foot beneath the table for no reason other than principle.

Still, none of it distracted you from the unmistakable sensation of being watched.

You resisted the urge for nearly the entirety of the meal. Then, finally, you surrendered.

You turned your head—just slightly, very quickly—

And found Eloise already looking at you from across the table, seated diagonally. The moment your eyes met, she smiled and looked away at once, returning to her conversation with Penelope, her cheeks faintly flushed.

Beside you, Francesca stifled a laugh, disguising it with an exaggerated gulp of water.

You shot her a withering look.

She ignored it beautifully.

---

As soon as the dishes were cleared and people began to rise, you moved toward Eloise’s end of the room. Hyacinth rewarded you with a conspiratorial pat on the back. Francesca, naturally, stuck out her tongue.

Though Eloise was not the center of attention, the uncomfortable truth that everyone knew your intentions made your face warm.

Not shame—never that.

Only shyness, and the peculiar discomfort of being observed.

You stopped a respectable distance away, cleared your throat, and said,

“Eloise. Penelope.”

Penelope offered you an encouraging smile. Eloise’s expression was unreadable.

You turned—approximately one percent—toward Eloise.

“I was wondering if you might care to join me for a promenade in the garden?”

Eloise rose at once.

“Of course! Let’s go.”

She reached instinctively for Penelope’s arm.

Before you could suffer the humiliation of explaining yourself, Penelope spoke quickly.

“Oh! I believe Daphne is calling me.”

And with that, she vanished.

Leaving you—keenly aware this was something very much like a date—and Eloise, who appeared entirely oblivious to the fact that you had already begun courting her.

---

You stepped onto the garden path and walked in silence for several long moments, accompanied only by birdsong and your own wildly unhelpful thoughts.

Then you spotted a familiar plant.

Without warning, you launched into an enthusiastic explanation of its properties.

The poor plant had done nothing to deserve this.

Eloise looked at you, curious.

Which—while not an enthusiastic success—was decidedly not a failure.

Encouraged, you continued. Medicinal uses. Edibility. Native regions. Symbolism.

You might have gone on indefinitely, had you not added, quite casually,

“And in large quantities, it is extremely poisonous.”

You paused.

“And leaves no trace.”

Eloise blinked.

“How do you know all this?”

Caught off guard—and lacking a convincing lie—you told the truth.

“I’ve been reading about it all morning.”

She regarded you closely.

“Is that so?”

You clasped your hands behind your back.

“Well, I did not wish our outing to be entirely uninteresting.”

She slipped her arm through yours as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“And does this have anything to do with my coffee and flowers this morning?”

You blushed fiercely, though mercifully she was looking ahead.

“Oh—no. I only wished to be kind. Was that… bad?”

She turned to you at once.

“Oh, no! I loved it. Thank you.”

Her tone left you uncertain whether she had perceived your romantic intent at all. Perhaps you should have stayed when she awoke.

Panicking slightly, you returned to safer ground.

Poison.

“Did you know,” you said, “that a few years ago I published several mystery stories in a periodical?”

Eloise stopped short, staring at you.

“No fucking way.”

“I described—at great length—a completely fictional murder involving someone from the Ton whom I disliked intensely.”

Her grin was radiant.

“You absolute devil!”

“My column was discontinued after three stories,” you admitted. “The paper received… complaints.”

She laughed.

“What a shame. Nigel Berbrooke would make an excellent subject.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you said. “He is one of my unpublished ones.”

She froze mid-step.

“No. You have more?”

She grabbed your arm, bouncing slightly.

“May I read them?”

You stroked your chin thoughtfully.

Then bowed deeply.

“Of course, my lady.”

And for the first time, you were certain:

This courtship was already underway.

---

When you had completed a full circuit of the property, you parted ways—she drifting back toward Penelope, and you setting off in search of a Bridgerton lady.

Initially, your intention had been simple: speak with Kate, and Kate alone. Unfortunately, Anthony was present as well, lingering beside his wife with the devotion of a man who had only recently discovered that marriage was, in fact, delightful.

Given the subject at hand, he was not the most comfortable audience—but he was, undeniably, an important one.

Kate noticed your approach first and smiled warmly, gesturing for you to join them at the small garden table.

“Oh! Hello there,” she said. “What brings you out here?”

Anthony followed her gaze, offering you a polite nod as you sat. His attention returned almost immediately to Kate, though not without a curious glance in your direction.

“I was hoping to ask a question,” you began, then hesitated, your eyes flicking briefly toward Anthony. Kate’s calm, encouraging expression emboldened you. “Why didn’t any of you question my affection for Eloise?”

Kate’s smile softened at once. Anthony, however, straightened slightly, his relaxed charm momentarily replaced by something more thoughtful.

“Not that I mind,” you added quickly, waving your hands as if to physically dispel any misunderstanding. “I simply… didn’t expect it to be so easy. Considering we’re—well—two girls.”

To your astonishment, it was Anthony who answered first.

“It was not easy,” he said evenly. “Not at first. But that was long ago. Time has a way of making people realize what was always simple—and what was always normal.”

You stared at him. The viscount, famed for his stress and sternness, sounded remarkably serene.

Kate laughed and gave his arm a playful slap. “And,” she added pointedly, “a rational voice.”

Anthony shot her an indulgent look before returning his attention to you. “Besides,” he continued, “you are clearly a respectable prospect. I’m rather pleased it’s with a Bridgerton. Even if it may never be… official.”

Kate leaned closer, her voice gentle. “You were family long before any of this. And we do not turn against our own.”

Your chest felt oddly light.

“Well,” you said, clearing your throat, “since I already have you both—Anthony, may I ask for your help with something?”

They exchanged a curious glance.

---

From there, you immediately sought out Francesca.

You dragged her away from the fortepiano—much to her displeasure—and ushered her into the carriage, destination set firmly in your mind.

Books.

The books from your list. And a few others besides.

You had decided that Eloise would not merely enjoy any books, but precisely the sort that society frowned upon—texts deemed far too stimulating, far too improper, far too *unsuitable* for women. Books that felt like rebellion bound in leather.

“Why, exactly, must I accompany you?” Francesca asked as you neared your destination, her tone hovering somewhere between irritation and resignation.

“Because you’re my friend,” you replied, stepping down from the carriage and turning to her with a perfectly sincere smile. “And this is what friends do.”

She sighed dramatically as she followed you. “Do remind me why I agreed to be your friend in the first place.”

You ignored her.

Inside the bookshop, you requested the titles without hesitation. The proprietor predictably balked, launching into a lecture about fragile female sensibilities and moral responsibility.

You responded by handing him a letter.

A letter bearing the viscount’s signature.

The effect was immediate.

Suddenly, political philosophy, scientific treatises, and scandalously sharp essays were no longer inappropriate—they were merely errands.

You were in and out before Francesca could voice more than a handful of discreet complaints.

Now, all that remained was the most important part.

You had to write to Eloise.

---

This time, you decided it would be wiser to avoid your own room.

You were nearly certain that Penelope and Eloise had been ensconced there for hours, gossiping with the efficiency and enthusiasm of two women who had uncovered something interesting.

Instead, you occupied the adjoining chamber, in the company of the two youngest Bridgertons.

Gregory lay sprawled across the bed, his arm neatly bandaged, while Hyacinth sat beside him, laughing far more than his injury warranted. You were fairly certain that immediately after challenging her to a duel, he had managed to injure himself with his own sword.

They were absorbed in some card game—one with rules you did not attempt to understand—while you worked diligently at the desk.

You wrote careful comments and earnest opinions in small letters, slipping them between the pages of the books you had purchased for Eloise. Each note felt deliberate, intimate. Thoughtful.

And then there was the final letter.

A single love letter, folded with care, which you were still uncertain you would ever have the courage to deliver.

Just as you finished the final sentence—and the very last drop of ink dried—Hyacinth and Gregory spoke at the same time, their voices overlapping.

“How much do you love our sister?”

“Do you believe in true love?”

You blinked, momentarily startled, but found that your answers came easily.

“I love your sister more than anything in this world,” you said without hesitation. “And yes, Gregory, I do believe in true love.”

Gregory shifted, turning onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “Why?”

You paused only briefly.

“It would be rather hypocritical not to believe in true love,” you replied softly, “when Eloise’s smile makes the world seem to slow.”

You continued, your voice steady. “And when her sharpest remarks force me to reconsider beliefs I thought immovable. I believe in true love because I have met her.”

Gregory turned his head toward Hyacinth. “Do you think I’ll find love too?” he asked dramatically, flinging himself farther back on the bed.

Hyacinth did not hesitate. “Being annoying like that? No.”

Gregory leapt up at once, indignant, and within seconds the two were wrestling again, their earlier solemnity entirely forgotten.

What you did not know was that, at that very moment, Penelope and Eloise had just stepped out into the corridor.

They stood directly outside the door as your declaration echoed through the room.

Eloise froze, her cheeks blooming crimson as she covered her mouth in stunned disbelief.

And Penelope—perfectly, triumphantly timed—smiled to herself, entirely pleased with fate.

---

When the three of you finally left the room—long after the nosy duo had left—you felt rather pleased with the productivity of your day.

You had left the letter and the books exactly where you had before, deeming it the safest possible location. Eloise would have no reason to enter her sisters’ room. And even if she did, it seemed highly unlikely she would discover the letter—much less borrow a book that did not belong to her without asking.

Satisfied with your logic, you departed calmly, seeking what you fondly referred to as the beginning of the alphabet: Benedict and Colin.

You were in desperate need of a card game, and you were quite certain they would oblige.

Your certainties, however, were quietly and thoroughly destroyed no more than five minutes after Colin dealt the cards.

For Eloise, emboldened by a restless heart and an abundance of curiosity, had enlisted Penelope to stand watch at the door—despite Penelope’s mild protests and insistence that this bordered on impropriety.

“I truly do not think this is wise,” Penelope whispered, even as she took her post.

Eloise did not answer.

She was already searching.

And then—

“I found it.”

Penelope turned, alarmed, just as Eloise held up the letter—unsealed, mercifully—and stared at it as though it might vanish if she blinked.

From that moment on, Featherington curiosity triumphed entirely over moral restraint.

Eloise opened the letter and read.

And read again.

Tears slipped down her cheeks without warning, silent and unrestrained.

“How,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “could someone feel something so genuinely beautiful about me?”

She read it again. And again. And again—until the words felt less like ink and more like truth.

Penelope, sensing the sacredness of the moment, quietly returned to her vigil at the door.

When Eloise noticed the mention of the books, she gathered them at once, discovering the recommendation list tucked carefully among them. She did not open the individual reviews—those could wait.

The list itself was enough.

She wiped the remaining tears from her eyes, straightened her shoulders, and left the room.

She went in search of you.

Her expression was resolute.

Terrifyingly so.

---

Part 3

[hoist-the-colors]

HOW TO COURT ELOISE BRIDGERTON

Eloise Bridgerton x reader

“Auntie Lottie,” you remember saying when you were eight years old, in the careful, tentative way children use when they fear the world may tilt beneath their feet, “I think there’s something strange about me.”

Your aunt—Queen of England, Empress of Composure, and, at that precise moment, your sole audience—turned to you with an expression that balanced concern and curiosity in perfect measure.

“Yes, dear,” she said gently. “What is it?”

You shuffled closer and placed your small hands upon her skirts, urging her to bend down. When she did, you leaned in and whispered, as though the walls themselves might be listening.

“I think I like girls,” you confessed. “Just like Reynolds and Brimsley likes eachother.”

You drew back at once, eyes fixed firmly on the floor, your breath coming far too quickly for such a small declaration.

“Is that… all right?”

Queen Charlotte did not hesitate. She bent fully, lifted you onto her lap, and wrapped her arms around you with regal certainty.

“I’ll make sure it is,” she said.

---

Looking back now, it almost feels as though royal blood does not truly run in your veins—

even if you are, technically speaking, a princess, the daughter of Queen Charlotte’s brother.

When you were still quite young, he made the decision to leave you in London, under the watchful care of his sister, so that you might receive the very best education a young lady could hope for.

You found the arrangement entirely agreeable, as you were mostly freed from 'princess expectations'.

Your days were filled with books read cover to cover in long afternoons, languages learned with diligence, and subjects explored that polite society insisted were unsuitable for women. Charlotte, naturally, disagreed.

She cared for you deeply, granting you the greatest freedom she believed possible—while remaining unwavering in her expectations of excellence.

And whenever she allowed it, you sought out the company of your dearest friend: Francesca Bridgerton.

At the mere mention of her name, the Queen had smiled knowingly and declared,

“A Bridgerton? How delightful.”

Society, of course, had its own opinions. Francesca was said to be too quiet, too reserved—odd, even. But you knew better. The girl with the angelic face and remarkable talent for the fortepiano observed the world with a sharpness that bordered on ruthless, though she delivered her judgments entirely in silence.

Over the years, you learned to read her expressions with precision, discovering the precise moments when a foolish remark would earn you a reluctant smile—or, on particularly fortunate days, a laugh.

And after so many years of friendship, so many visits to the Bridgerton home, it became increasingly difficult to keep secrets from the person who knew you best.

---

You had rehearsed the conversation endlessly during afternoon tea, imagining every possible response. In reality, it unfolded quite differently—though, given Francesca’s nature, perhaps it should not have surprised you.

“I like girls,” you said at last.

“Hm.”

She did not look up from her sheet music.

“I fancy your sister.”

That earned a pause. Francesca’s gaze dropped to the keys as though the answer might be written there.

“Which one?” she asked calmly. “Daphne or Eloise?”

You sank deeper into the sofa and shoved a biscuit into your mouth, mumbling an “Eloise” that emerged with all the elegance of a sighing grunt.

“Oh,” Francesca said lightly.

“How wonderful.”

And that was that.

Months of worry.

Months of fear—of scandal, of rejection, of losing the most important friendship of your life.

Dismissed in a single sentence.

---

You—foolishly, as it turned out—believed that such a simple moment in the tea room would not have any lasting repercussions on your daily life among the Bridgertons.

You were mistaken.

Francesca, it seemed, possessed an unparalleled talent for surprise.

Every time you passed Eloise in the corridor or crossed paths in the drawing room, Francesca would stifle a giggle, her shoulders shaking just enough to be noticed—and just little enough to be infuriating.

After a few weeks, you began to notice something worse.

Francesca and Penelope—Eloise’s ever-present best friend—were exchanging knowing smiles whenever the three of you shared a space. Smiles that lingered far too long. Smiles that suggested far too much.

With every passing day, your unease grew. Eloise Bridgerton was not a woman who allowed gossip to pass unchallenged. Nor was she one to abandon a mystery once she had caught its scent.

So, naturally, the fateful day arrived.

You were strolling through the park when you encountered Eloise and Penelope approaching from the opposite direction. And, as if rehearsed, Francesca and Penelope immediately began to giggle—softly at first, then with increasing enthusiasm, their amusement swelling with every step closer.

Eloise halted abruptly.

“Why,” she demanded, folding her arms, “do you two insist on laughing every time we meet? Is there something you would like to share with the rest of us?”

At that precise moment, you developed an intense and profound interest in a duck floating upon the lake. A truly fascinating creature. You focused on it with great determination, doing everything in your power to avoid the scene unfolding beside you.

“No, Eloise,” Penelope said sweetly. “It’s just that the other day Francesca told me something that amused me greatly. And every time I see her, I am reminded of it.”

Francesca nodded at once.

“Yes, sister. That is all,” she added, very clearly fighting laughter.

“Oh, really?” Eloise stepped closer—and before you could protest, she reached out and grasped your arm. “Why don’t you tell us, then? We should like to know as well, should we not?”

She turned those bright, inquisitive eyes on you.

You took an embarrassingly long moment to respond, far too distracted by her proximity and the warmth of her hand at your arm.

“Yes,” you managed at last. “Of course.”

Francesca raised an eyebrow, unmistakably challenged by your hesitation, but Penelope—bless her—leapt into action, inventing a joke on the spot. It was not a particularly good one, but it served its purpose.

Eloise, apparently satisfied, released your arm, bade you goodbye, and continued her walk with Penelope.

The moment they were out of earshot, Francesca turned to you with a grin.

“I wager you enjoyed her being quite that close.”

“Shut up, Fran.”

---

When you asked your aunt for permission to spend a week at the Bridgertons’ country house, she insisted—quite firmly—on first speaking with Lady Bridgerton. This was, she said, to ensure not only your safety, but also the continuity of your studies, a phrase that somehow managed to sound both caring and vaguely threatening.

Once every detail had been arranged—and Lady Bridgerton had even guaranteed riding lessons—you thanked your aunt profusely and packed your bags with more enthusiasm than dignity.

After the carriage ride, you arrived at the familiar country house and entered in high spirits, nearly colliding with several Bridgertons who were running past for reasons known only to themselves.

It was then that you caught sight of Francesca’s face.

She had the expression of someone who had done something.

You became instantly alert.

The truth revealed itself moments later, when Lady Bridgerton briskly announced the room arrangements.

Anthony and Kate would, of course, have their own room, as would Daphne and Simon. Lady Bridgerton would take her usual chamber.

“And,” she continued pleasantly, “as the east wing is currently under renovation, some rooms will need to be shared.”

Your stomach sank.

“Girls, you may share the two rooms on the left,” she said, turning to you, Francesca, Eloise, Hyacinth, and Penelope. “Boys, you will take the rooms on the right.” She gestured toward Benedict, Colin, and Gregory.

Hyacinth reacted immediately.

“Mother! That is entirely unfair. There are three of them and five of us. We ought to have an extra room.”

Lady Bridgerton smiled serenely.

“My dear, I cannot even begin to imagine what would become of a room forced to house the three of them together.”

You glanced at the brothers, who were already arguing over who deserved the single room most.

As the rest of the family dispersed, leaving the five of you to sort matters out, you considered—purely in theory—the most practical way to strangle Francesca.

---

Later, you sat on the edge of the lawn, watching another heated game of Pall Mall unfold. You yourself had been banned for two rounds after striking a ball with such alarming force that it had nearly taken Benedict’s head off. Group safety, apparently.

You turned to Penelope.

“How did you manage that?”

Earlier, she and Francesca had been loudly disputing the best room assignments, talking over one another in a chaos of half-sentences and misplaced logic. The argument had ended when Eloise lost her patience entirely, seized your arm, dragged you toward one of the rooms, and declared, “I’ve decided.”

Penelope stirred her tea, a mischievous smile playing at her lips.

“We knew Eloise would lose her patience,” she admitted. “We merely wagered she would pull you, not Hyacinth.”

“All right. Fair,” you said, perfectly content to pretend the conversation was finished and return your attention to Daphne threatening to strike Colin with her mallet.

Penelope, however, had other plans.

She continued to look at you expectantly. When you failed to speak, she did.

“You know… we are rather similar.”

You turned to her, puzzled.

“Well,” she continued, “we both like a Bridgerton.” She pointed to herself. “Colin.” Then, barely containing a giggle, she pointed to you. “Eloise.”

Francesca is the worst friend in existence, you decided.

“I never asked you about that, Pen,” you said quietly. “You truly don’t mind?”

“Oh, dear,” she replied gently, “it is impossible to live with the Bridgertons and not learn that love is the most beautiful force in existence—regardless of the form it takes.”

She met your gaze, her eyes kind.

“And it is equally impossible not to find Eloise’s obsession with avoiding marriage peculiar, especially given how difficult she finds it to take her eyes off you—or to tolerate jokes made at your expense.”

You exhaled slowly.

“Pen,” you said sincerely, “you truly are the greatest Featherington.”

---

“I can sleep on the floor, if you would prefer,” you offered the moment Eloise entered the room, her hair still damp from her bath.

She stopped short, stared at you for a moment, and then snorted.

“Do stop being ridiculous,” she said briskly, crossing the room and throwing herself onto the bed. She shifted decisively to one side, leaving more than enough space. “The bed is perfectly large. We shall share it.”

“Truly, it would not trouble me,” you insisted, though the idea of lying beside the very source of your sleepless nights and wandering thoughts made your heart beat entirely too fast.

Eloise propped herself up on one elbow and regarded you with a crooked smile.

“And what sort of host would I be if I allowed my guest—who also happens to be royalty—to sleep on the floor?”

You sighed, defeated.

Carefully, you lay down on the very edge of the mattress, positioning yourself as far from her as possible without risking a fall. The room fell quiet, the darkness settling gently around you.

As you stared up at the ceiling, you thought—not for the first time—of a childhood promise.

I hope you keep your word, Lottie.

---

Sometime during the night—perhaps because of the cold, perhaps because sleeping bodies are inclined toward betrayal—you and Eloise became entangled.

Not scandalously so.

Just enough to make one’s cheeks warm at the mere realization.

When you woke to find your fingers nearly intertwined with hers, you could not bring yourself to pull away.

So you did not.

You lay there, acutely aware of every sensation: the warmth of her hand, the faint brush of her fingers against yours, the steady presence of her leg close enough to be felt without truly touching. You committed each detail to memory, as though you might be required to live on the recollection alone.

Then you felt it—the subtle shift that signaled wakefulness.

Panic seized you at once. You stilled your breathing, forced your body into stillness, and pretended to sleep, willing your unruly heart to calm itself.

You waited.

You waited for Eloise to notice.

For her to pull away.

For the moment to end.

It did not.

Instead, Eloise stirred, became aware of your intertwined hands, of the closeness of your bodies—and moved closer still.

Her fingers tightened gently around yours, lacing fully this time, deliberate and unmistakable. She lifted your joined hands and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles.

The gesture was brief. Unremarkable, one might say.

It was also devastating.

After a few moments of quiet, you heard her sigh. Then the bed shifted as Eloise rose, moving about the room before slipping out and closing the door behind her.

You remained where you were, staring at the ceiling, heart racing, mind spiraling.

Four more nights, you thought.

And no idea at all how you were meant to endure them.

---

That same afternoon, you attended your riding lesson. Which, if one were being entirely honest, amounted to nothing more than a mandatory hour-long excursion on horseback. Even more so when paired with the remarkably docile animal Lady Bridgerton had selected for you—an excellent creature, but hardly inclined toward adventure.

Still, it proved a pleasant enough ride.

You encountered Kate along the path, and the two of you spoke of agreeable, inconsequential matters: the weather, the family, small observations about the Bridgertons that required no particular investment of the heart. And yet, despite the lightness of the conversation, you could not help but sense that Kate knew more than she was saying.

As you neared the stables, you came upon the youngest of the Bridgertons, who was waiting with unmistakable purpose.

You had not even dismounted before Hyacinth spoke.

“Can you take me for a ride?” she asked promptly. “Penelope and Francesca have expelled me from the room, and I have no desire whatsoever to play Pall Mall again.”

You swung down from the saddle.

“Of course,” you said easily. “Come along.”

You helped her onto the horse, taking care not to disturb her impeccably arranged dress, and set off once more. You made the ride lively—quickening the pace at unexpected moments, weaving between trees, reaching for fruit along the way—until Hyacinth’s laughter rang freely.

Then she said something that was neither laughter nor thanks.

“You know,” she remarked casually, biting into an apple, “if you wished to court Eloise, I believe everyone would be in favor.”

She glanced at you sideways.

“I certainly would.”

You did not react at once. Instead, you led the horse a few more steps, allowing yourself the luxury of thought.

“Who else knows?” you asked at last. “About my… affection for Eloise?”

Hyacinth reached out to pluck a leaf from a low-hanging branch, clearly far more interested in the scenery than the weight of her words.

“I think everyone,” she said lightly. “Except Eloise, of course. She would not recognize admiration even if it shouted directly at her.”

“Oh.” You hesitated, then asked quietly, “Any advice? On how to… encourage reciprocation?”

Hyacinth turned to look at you properly this time.

“Oh, no,” she said with utter confidence. “The feeling is mutual. She simply has not realized it yet.”

You waited—surely she would elaborate.

She did not.

“You must help her see it,” Hyacinth added at last, as though that explained everything.

And then she smiled.

---

The first part of the plan was, naturally, to inform your aunt.

Accordingly, you wrote her a letter—carefully worded, respectful, and unmistakably honest—laying out your feelings for Eloise Bridgerton and inquiring whether there might be any hope of success in pursuing what could, perhaps, be called a courtship.

You sealed it.

Then, before sending it, you made the questionable decision to visit the tea room, where Lady Bridgerton was known to be waiting.

You hurried down the stairs, letter in hand, only to lose your nerve entirely just before the door. You stopped short, suddenly reconsidering how one properly explained such matters to the mother of the sharp-tongued girl who occupied your thoughts even in your dreams.

You were still lost in this dilemma when the door opened.

Francesca emerged first, followed closely by Daphne and Kate.

Daphne blinked in surprise upon seeing you lingering there.

“Oh! Hello,” she said warmly. “Were you hoping to speak with Mama?”

Kate raised her eyebrows at Francesca in a manner that strongly suggested your name had already featured in the preceding conversation.

“Yes,” you said quickly. “I shall go in now. Thank you.”

There was no retreating now. Hyacinth would never permit it—and besides, you were already inside the room.

Lady Bridgerton looked up at once and set down her teacup.

“Hello, dear,” she said cheerfully. “We were just speaking about you.”

She gestured to the armchair opposite her, and you sat, your posture considerably less composed than usual.

“Only good things, I hope,” you ventured.

She poured you a cup of tea, and you briefly considered abandoning your purpose entirely in favor of discussing the beverage’s ideal temperature.

“Of course,” she said lightly. “Now—what is it you wished to speak with me about?”

You drew in a deep breath.

“Well,” you began, “Hyacinth spoke to me earlier today about something she believes everyone in the family knows… except one person.”

Lady Bridgerton froze mid-lift of her teacup.

“Oh!” she exclaimed brightly. “You and Eloise, I assume!” She clasped her hands together. “Really, how can she be so dense? It is so obvious!”

You stared.

How was this family taking it so calmly? It had been astonishing enough that your aunt had accepted the truth with such ease—but all the Bridgertons?

“Um—yes,” you said carefully. “I wished to ask what you would think of me… beginning to court her.”

Lady Bridgerton leaned back against the sofa, hands folded with satisfaction.

“That is wonderful! I am so very happy for you both.”

She reached for her teacup again and continued speaking, quite conversationally, as though she were alone.

“I suspected this moment would arrive—particularly after the Queen spoke with me about arranging matters.”

You looked at her in complete disbelief.

“Oh yes,” she continued pleasantly. “Sending you and your future beloved—whom she always imagined would be a Bridgerton, after the beginning of your friendship with Francesca—away to live in a house slightly removed from the rest of the family, all under the pretense of attending to affairs of the Crown.”

She smiled serenely.

“Quite brilliant, really.”

Somehow, you managed to bid her farewell and retreat to your quarters. You sent the letter at once, then sat upon your bed, absorbing the revelation that not only had your feelings been noticed—

—but they had been anticipated.

---

Part 2

[hoist-the-colors]

ON THE LAND, THE SEA AND THE SKY

Alysa Liu x reader

You don’t hear the crowd at first.

Everything is noise and light and a strange, buzzing emptiness in your chest as your feet cross the finish line. Your body keeps moving for half a second longer, like it doesn’t trust that it’s really over. Then it hits you.

Gold.

Your name flashes on the screen above the course, letters too bright, too unreal. Cameras rush in, catching the way you bend forward, hands on your knees, lungs burning, before you straighten and look straight into the lens.

Breathless. Grinning. Alive.

“That’s what I’m fucking talking about,” you say, laughing, voice raw with exhaustion.

Later, that clip will loop everywhere. People will read into it. Analyze it. Clip it again with music. But right now, it’s just instinct. A private reference said out loud.

---

They wrap your flag around your shoulders and usher you toward the interview area. Your legs still shake, adrenaline humming under your skin. Someone hands you a bottle of water you barely remember drinking from.

The interviewer smiles, bright and professional.

“You’ve just won gold in the Olympic triathlon,” she says. “People around the world are watching. What inspired you to get here?”

The answer comes before you can think.

“Alysa Liu,” you say.

Fuck

There’s a tiny pause.

You keep going, words tumbling out, carried by the high of the moment. Ignoring the speed at which you responded.

“When I was watching the Winter Olympics, the moment I saw her skate, I knew she was going to win. Not just because she’s incredible—but because she was happy. You could see it. She transmitted her love for the sport to the world. That was goddamn art.”

You shrug, suddenly shy, suddenly very aware of how big the camera is.

“She made me realize that happiness is the most important thing. No medal can surpass the joy of life. If you don’t love what you’re doing… what’s the point?”

The interviewer nods, clearly pleased. The cameras zoom in.

“And today?”

You smile again, softer this time.

“Today, I remembered that.”

---

Cut.

Arrival camera footage plays back on screens everywhere: you crossing the line, eyes blazing, that grin that looks a little too personal to be random.

Cut.

Slow-motion replay of your finish. Commentators talking over each other.

Cut.

Your interview quote, clipped and subtitled.

Cut.

Alysa Liu’s Olympic performance—her landing clean, her smile breaking through before she even stops moving.

The internet connects the dots faster than you ever could.

---

You don’t see any of it.

You’re still in the athlete’s tunnel when your phone starts vibrating nonstop in your bag. Teammates bump your shoulder, congratulate you in languages you half understand. Officials guide you toward the podium. Someone fixes your hair.

You’re floating.

You have no idea that somewhere else, a Winter Olympic gold medalist is staring at her screen, replaying your interview with her hand over her mouth—caught off guard, a little flustered, and very, very curious about the girl who just won gold and said her name like it meant something.

And it did.

It does.

---

Not far from the triathlon course, in a completely different arena, Alysa Liu is doing what almost no Olympic athlete can resist—watching the Olympics in her own country.

The USA is loud today. Everywhere she goes, there are flags, chants, people wearing merch from sports they barely understand but love anyway. She blends into the crowd more than people expect, hoodie pulled up, legs tucked under her seat, eyes glued to the floor exercise unfolding in front of her.

On the mat, Rebeca Andrade launches into an absurd jump, powerful and clean, and Alysa lets out a soft, impressed laugh.

“God, she’s insane,” she murmurs.

Next to her, though, something else is happening.

Amber is leaning too close to her phone. Too quiet. Too giggly.

Alysa notices it only when the whispering turns into poorly suppressed laughter and Amber’s shoulders start shaking. Someone snorts. Someone else bites their sleeve like they’re trying not to scream.

Alysa glances sideways.

“…What are you all whispering about?” she asks, eyes still half on the floor routine.

Before Amber can answer, Ilia Malinin reaches over, smoothly takes the phone from her hand, and turns it toward Alysa.

“Looks like someone has a fan.”

Alysa blinks.

On the screen, you’re there—sweaty, glowing, wrapped in a flag. Gold medal around your neck. The interviewer’s voice plays softly, but clearly enough.

“Alysa Liu.”

Her name.

Alysa straightens without realizing it.

She watches your face as you talk—open, honest, still buzzing with adrenaline. She listens to the way you say her name, like it isn’t just a reference, but a thought you’ve carried with you.

“She made me realize that happiness is the most important thing.”

Alysa’s throat tightens.

The clip cuts. Another one plays automatically—grainier, louder. You crossing the finish line, looking straight into the camera, eyes bright with something wild and familiar.

“That’s what I’m fucking talking about.”

Amber loses it beside her.

“Oh my god,” Amber laughs. “That is SO about you.”

Alysa doesn’t answer.

She barely hears the rest of the gymnastics routine. The arena might as well disappear. All she can see is you—someone just a few kilometers away, someone her age, someone who just won Olympic gold and somehow found space, in that moment, to think about her.

Who would have thought?

Someone out there watched her skate and didn’t just see jumps or scores or medals.

They saw happiness.

They saw love for the sport.

They saw her art.

They saw her.

Alysa exhales slowly, phone still in her hands, replaying the video once more before she even realizes she’s doing it.

Not Alysa.

Not in a million years.

---

Few people know it—and that’s the best part—but you’re obsessed with climbing.

Not casually. Not “oh, I tried it once” obsessed. The kind where your fingers itch when you see chalk on someone else’s hands, where you analyze holds without meaning to, where a bouldering problem feels like a puzzle you have to solve.

So of course, during the Olympics, this is where you are.

The climbing arena hums with a different kind of energy. Quieter than track, sharper than swimming. Chalk dust floats faintly in the air. You lean against the barrier, talking with a couple of athletes from your own country—friends, people who knew you.

They’re competing today. You’re just spectating. Offering unsolicited opinions like you’re not an Olympic gold medalist in an entirely different sport.

“If you go left instead of dynoing,” you say, pointing at the wall, “you save energy for the top-out. The volume looks friendly, but it’ll spit you off.”

One of them snorts. “Look at her. Wins gold and suddenly she’s a climbing coach.”

Another grins, eyes full of mischief. “So,” he says casually, “what does Alysa Liu think of this course?”

You laugh instantly. Too instantly.

“I hope you fall.”

“Oof,” he says, clutching his chest in mock offense. “Harsh.”

Then he glances over your shoulder.

“I don’t think she’d find that very polite.”

Your laugh dies.

You turn—fast, desperate, absolutely wrecking your neck in the process—following his gaze toward the far left entrance of the gym.

And there they are.

The Blade Angels, unmistakable even out of costume. Hoodies, familiar posture, that quiet confidence of people who’ve spent their lives on ice and still somehow command gravity anywhere else.

And in the middle of them—

Alysa.

Your stomach drops.

You turn back slowly, eyes half-closed, staring at your friend like he just committed a personal betrayal.

“I think,” he says, not even trying to hide his grin, “I might’ve mentioned in the locker room—with some friends—that you were coming.”

“…Oops.”

You make a face so dramatic it should be illegal, then shove him toward the other athletes before he can say another word. You escape up the steps, heart pounding way harder than it ever did on the run portion of the triathlon.

You climb into your seat in the stands and sit very still.

Silently. Respectfully. Pretending—badly—to be extremely invested in the bouldering problem currently on the wall.

Your thoughts, however, are loud.

*Please don’t sit near me.*

*Please, God, tell me she didn’t see the interview.*

You don’t need divine intervention to learn the answer to the first one.

Footsteps echo behind you. Close. Too close.

You freeze.

And you don’t need confirmation for the second one either—because right next to your ear, unmistakably close, you hear muffled giggles. Soft. Familiar. Trying very hard to be polite and failing completely.

You swallow.

Slowly, you turn your head.

Alysa Liu is standing right there.

Smiling.

Oh.

She definitely saw the interview.

---

You try to focus.

You really do.

Your eyes track the climber on the wall, the way their hips shift, the micro-adjustments of fingers on textured holds. You nod at the right moments. You even clap when the crowd claps.

But behind you, the whispers don’t stop.

They’re soft at first—contained, conspiratorial—but they’re also alive. You know that cadence. You’ve heard it before, in locker rooms and buses and dorm hallways. It’s the sound of people talking about someone while pretending they aren’t.

About you.

And worse—better—it’s her.

Someone you never dreamed you’d meet like this. Not across ice or screens or interviews, but right here, close enough that you’re suddenly aware of how warm the air feels.

The tone changes.

The giggles slow, then speed up again, sharper now, more excited. You frown, distracted for half a second—

—and then a pair of feet slides down into the seat next to you.

Not just a person.

A whole Alysa Liu.

Your brain short-circuits.

You know English. You’re very proud of the fact that you also know three other languages fluently. But right now, you’re not entirely convinced you’re literate at all.

Alysa sits a little stiffly at first, hands tucked under her thighs like she’s grounding herself. She glances sideways once, then quickly back at the wall. There’s a tiny hesitation there—like she didn’t quite mean to end up this close.

Someone behind her snickers.

Definitely a shove. Definitely encouragement.

Silence settles between you. Not heavy. Not light. Just… there. Balanced precariously between comfortable and unbearably awkward.

You can almost feel the kick she gets in the back.

Alysa exhales, straightens just a bit, and finally turns toward you.

“So,” she says, voice soft but steady, lips curling with something that looks dangerously like a smile,

“I'm Alysa"

She tilts her head, eyes bright with curiosity.

"Great win yesterday, I would have given up just to test the water temperature."

You feel a smile trying to escape, even amidst all the awkwardness.

"I think that's fair, considering I don't even know how to tie ice skate laces."

Alysa laughs at that—an actual laugh, bright and unguarded—and the sound loosens something tight in your chest.

“Hey,” she says, mock-defensive, “that’s a skill. Highly technical. Very exclusive.”

She glances down at your shoes, then back up at you, eyes still smiling.

“But seriously,” Alysa adds, voice a little quieter now, “triathlon? All three of those back-to-back? I think I’d pass out somewhere between the bike and the run and just… live there.”

You hum, considering. “It is very tempting. I would probably leave a flower to honor you.”

She grins wider, shoulders relaxing as if the awkwardness has finally decided to give up and go home. For a few seconds, you both turn your attention back to the wall, watching a climber struggle through a sequence.

“That heel hook’s not going to hold,” you say suddenly, thoughtful. Without realizing you spoke.

She blinks. “You climb?”

You shrug, casual. “A little. Mostly falling. But I like watching.”

She laughs again, softer this time, then glances at you from the corner of her eye.

“I’m glad you came today,” she says, like it’s no big deal. Like it didn’t take courage, or a push from friends, or a moment of okay, just do it.

Your heart stutters anyway.

“Me too,” you admit.

There’s a beat. The crowd reacts to a fall on the wall, collective gasp rippling through the arena, but neither of you looks away from each other.

“So,” Alysa says, tapping her fingers lightly against her knee, “are you always this good at saying nice things about people on live television?”

You groan, dropping your head back against the seat.

“Please don’t remind me.”

Still leaning against the chair, you say, "I was hoping you hadn't seen it."

Alysa’s smile softens—not teasing now, not playful. Just honest.

“Oh,” she says gently, “I definitely saw it.”

You peek at her through half-lowered lashes, bracing yourself.

“But,” she adds quickly, like she doesn’t want you to retreat into yourself, “I’m really glad I did.”

She shifts in her seat, angling her body toward you a little more, elbows resting loosely on her knees.

“I don’t think people say things like that unless they mean them,” she continues. “Especially not right after winning gold. You could’ve said anything. Anyone.”

Her eyes meet yours, steady and warm.

“And you chose me.”

Your chest tightens—not with nerves, but with being seen.

“I didn’t mean for it to become… a thing,” you say quietly. “I just—when I’m tired, or stuck, or questioning why I’m doing any of this, I think about that feeling. The way you looked when you skated. Like you were exactly where you wanted to be.”

She exhales slowly, a little breath of disbelief.

“Wow,” she murmurs. “No pressure, right?”

You laugh softly. “Sorry. I’ll dial back the accidental public declarations next time.”

She grins. “Please don’t.”

The crowd cheers again as someone tops the route, but neither of you reacts right away. Alysa’s fingers tap once, twice, against her knee—nervous energy, contained.

"Any other public statements?” she asks.

You can tell her friends are very deliberately pretending not to hear, and for once, you don’t care.

You hesitate. “Well… I loved your hair during the competition.” You stop yourself, lifting your hands in a small, abortive gesture. “But it looks beautiful like this too. I love the natural color.”

She laughs, tilting her head and motioning for you to go on.

“The piercing,” you add, glancing—briefly, traitorously—at her mouth. “It really suits you.”

She laughs again, this time leaning lightly against your arm. “I’m going to stop you right there,” she says, amused. “If you keep going, I think you’re going to talk yourself into trouble.”

You take a deep breath, your arm warm where she rested it, "but I think the biggest public statement would be to say that I like you."

The words land softly—but they land.

For a heartbeat, Alysa doesn’t say anything at all.

She’s still smiling, still leaning just slightly toward you, but her fingers stop tapping. The noise of the arena seems to dip, like the world is giving her a second to catch up.

Then she laughs. Not loud. Not teasing.

Warm.

“You really don’t do things halfway, do you?” she says, eyes bright, cheeks faintly pink.

She straightens a little, but her arm doesn’t move away from yours—not completely. Just enough to look at you properly, like this moment deserves her full attention.

“I like you too,” she says. Simple. Certain. No performance to it.

Your breath leaves you in a quiet rush you didn’t realize you were holding.

“And for the record,” Alysa adds, lowering her voice, playful again but gentler now, “if that was a public statement, I think it was… very well phrased.”

From behind you, someone very obviously clears their throat.

Alysa doesn’t even look back this time.

She just leans in a little closer and murmurs, “Ignore them.”

The climber on the wall falls, crowd gasping in unison—but this time, you do hear it. You hear everything. The chalk, the cheers, the shared space between you.

Alysa nudges your knee lightly with hers.

"Are you still looking at my mouth?"

Half-hypnotized by the glint of her piercing, you reply softly.

"I guess I am"

She freezes for half a second.

Not pulling away. Not leaning in.

Just… caught.

Then Alysa smiles—slow, unmistakably amused—and lifts an eyebrow.

“Good,” she says quietly. “I was starting to think I imagined it.”

“I’m sorry,” you add, reflexively, then immediately regret it.

She shakes her head. “Don’t be.”

She leans in a little and gives you a peck, so quick and soft it can hardly be called a kiss.

Your face warms immediately. You don’t look away, though. Something about the way she’s watching you makes it feel safe to stay right where you are.

Her voice drops a little, not secretive—just honest.

“It’s… nice,” she admits. “Being looked at like that. Not like a camera. Not like judges.”

Her knee brushes yours again, deliberate this time. Still light. Still leaving you room to move if you want to.

“You know,” she adds, eyes flicking briefly to your lips now, returning the favor, “this is the part where people usually get awkward.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Oh, I’m deeply awkward. I’m just choosing to commit.”

That earns you another soft laugh from her—one she doesn’t bother muffling.

“Fair,” she says. “I respect that.”

The arena cheers again, loud enough to remind you where you are, but neither of you shifts away. Alysa tilts her head slightly, studying you like she’s memorizing something.

“So,” she says, almost teasing, almost careful,

“do I make you nervous?”

You swallow.

“Yeah,” you answer honestly. “But… in a good way.”

Her smile widens—gentle, pleased, just a little shy.

“Good,” she repeats. “Me too.”

And somewhere between the bouldering routes and the noise of the Olympics, it settles in:

Gold medals fade.

But moments like this?

They stick.

[hoist-the-colors]

ICE RINKS

Alysa Liu x reader

You should’ve gone back to the village.

That had been the plan after morning warm-ups: shower, stretch, eat something with actual nutritional value instead of another protein bar. Instead, you wander—skates slung over your shoulders, helmet clipped to your bag, the smell of ice and tape still clinging to you like a second skin.

Curiosity gets you.

The figure skating rink hums differently than the hockey arena. No shouting, no sharp cracks of pucks. Just music bleeding softly from hidden speakers and the whisper of blades carving clean lines into ice.

You lean against the railing without thinking, one elbow hooked over the cold metal.

She’s already on the ice.

Alysa Liu moves like gravity forgot about her. Every push is effortless, every turn exact, her body speaking a language you don’t understand but somehow feel. You watch her warm up—crossovers, spins, jumps dialed down just enough to stay loose.

And before you can stop yourself, before the thought even checks for permission, it slips out of your mouth.

“Damn… the gold is hers.”

The words fall into the quiet like a secret you didn’t mean to tell anyone.

You don’t notice the skater by the boards glance your way. Don’t notice the smile that tugs at her mouth, or how her eyes flick from you to Alysa and back again.

You lose time.

Minutes blur into hours. Your legs ache pleasantly from the morning session, but you don’t shift. You forget the weight of your gear, forget the schedule taped inside your locker, forget that tomorrow you’ll be battling for centimeters and seconds and space.

All that exists is the way Alysa lands a jump like she was always meant to be there.

Eventually, someone skates up beside her and murmurs something. Alysa slows, nods once, then looks up.

Straight at you.

Your breath stutters. You tell yourself it’s coincidence. That she’s scanning the rink. That athletes do that—observe, assess.

But she skates closer.

One glide, then another, until she’s near the boards where you’re leaning, close enough that you can see the fine sheen of sweat at her temple, the concentration still humming beneath her skin.

She stops, resting one gloved hand on the railing.

“Are you just going to stand there and watch?”

Her voice is lighter than you expected. Curious. Not unkind.

She tips her chin toward your skates, still looped over your shoulder. An unspoken challenge. A silent c’mon.

Then she turns, pushing off again, her back to you.

You could swear—absolutely swear—that just before she did, she winked.

Your heart thumps hard against your ribs.

You stare down at your skates, then back at the ice where she’s already circling, effortless and waiting, like she knows exactly what you’ll do next.

And for the first time all day, the game tomorrow isn’t the only thing on your mind.

---

You slip your skates on at the edge of the rink, movements slower than usual, fingers clumsier than they’ve ever been before a game. This ice isn’t yours. Not really. It doesn’t echo with whistles or shouting or the violent music of a puck hitting boards. It hums. Breathes.

You step onto it anyway.

Only then do you realize you aren’t alone.

Other athletes are scattered across the ice—pairs tracing patterns, singles running elements, a quiet constellation of focus and discipline. You blend in easily enough, hockey edges rougher, heavier, but still controlled. You push off, taking a lap close to the boards.

Then another.

You tell yourself you’re just warming down. That this is recovery. That you’re waiting for the right moment.

Or maybe you’re just waiting for courage.

She’s there, always just ahead of your line of sight. Not watching you—never that obvious—but aware. You can feel it in the way her path adjusts, how her timing changes just enough that you never quite collide, never quite drift apart.

You keep skating.

Each turn brings you closer. Not by meters. Not even by inches.

By millimeters.

You trace wide arcs at first, respectful, cautious. But the ice pulls at you, or maybe she does. Her edges are cleaner than yours, her movements quieter, but you start to mirror them without realizing—your crossovers smoothing out, your posture lifting, your breathing syncing to the rhythm of her laps.

You pass her once, close enough to hear the scrape of her blade change pitch.

She passes you next, close enough that the air shifts.

Your heart starts doing that thing it does before a faceoff, before a breakaway—anticipation sharp and electric—but there’s no whistle here. No clear start.

Just momentum.

You tell yourself you’ll skate away on the next lap.

You don’t.

Instead, you find yourself beside her, paths finally overlapping, the distance between you so small it feels deliberate. She glances over, eyes bright, amused, like this was inevitable.

Like she felt the pull too.

The ice carries you forward together, and for the first time since you walked into this rink, you realize something unsettling and thrilling all at once—

You hadn’t been circling her.

You’d been orbiting.

---

Out of curiosity—or maybe something closer to magnetism—you start copying her.

Nothing impressive. Nothing airborne. You know better than to even think about jumping. You’ve spent your life on skates, yes, but hockey skates carve with force, with intention. Hers float.

Still, you try.

You follow her footwork first, tracing the patterns she leaves behind. Your edges are heavier, louder, your turns less precise, but you adjust. You watch how she shifts her weight, how her shoulders lead her hips, how everything seems to begin before it moves.

You attempt a spin.

It’s… passable. Grounded. Definitely not pretty.

Then you get bold—or stupid—and try lowering yourself, one leg straight, mimicking the elegant spiral she makes look effortless.

Your balance disappears instantly.

You go down hard, sliding across the ice in a graceless sprawl, gloves scraping, pride skidding a good distance behind you. You lie there for half a second, staring at the ceiling, heat rushing to your face.

Great, you think. That’s it. Olympic humiliation achieved.

Then you hear it.

Laughter.

Not cruel. Not sharp.

Warm. Bright. Unrestrained.

You lift your head just in time to see her abandon her routine completely, pushing toward you without hesitation. She drops to a knee beside you, then gets up with a strength that looks more like yours than hers—quick, decisive, unapologetic.

She holds out her hand.

“I think that’s enough figure skating for you,” she says, eyes sparkling.

Then, softer, amused, almost fond:

“Shall we go?”

You don’t even pretend to hesitate.

You take her hand.

Her grip is firm, sure, grounding. She pulls you up with a sharp tug that feels familiar—hockey-familiar—completely at odds with the airy grace of the rink. You laugh under your breath, breathless and smiling despite yourself.

Together, you skate toward the exit.

Side by side, blades whispering in sync, you slide off the ice and into the quiet beyond the boards, where the cold lingers and something new settles between you—unspoken, undeniable.

And you realize that maybe you hadn’t come here to watch her at all.

Maybe you’d come here to leave with her.

---

You sit on the bench, fingers working on your laces, muscle memory taking over while your brain stays somewhere out on the ice.

You barely register the movement beside you—someone making exaggerated kissing faces, a muttered oh my God, stop—but it all fades into background noise. Your attention keeps drifting back to her. To the way she laughs easily, happiness still clinging to her like frost, to the way she glides even when she’s not skating anymore.

She gets up before you do.

Of course she does.

You follow a moment later, tugging your bag over your shoulder, eyes catching on sunlight-gold hair and the kind of smile that feels like it was meant to be seen. It hits you then—quiet, inconvenient, unavoidable—that you don’t know her name.

It’s only once you’re walking toward the Olympic Village, side by side, that the realization fully lands.

She must sense it. Or maybe she sees the way your gaze lingers, curious, searching.

“I’m Alysa,” she says suddenly, bumping her shoulder against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What’s your name, 31?”

For half a second, you’re too busy replaying her name in your head. Alysa. It sounds even better out loud—soft, bright, hers. You’re tempted to hear it again, just to see how it feels when she says it.

Then your brain catches up.

“…31?”

She rolls her eyes, playful, and nudges the sleeve of your blouse. “Your jersey. You’ve been wearing it like a name tag.”

“Oh—right!” You say your name, finally, a little rushed, a little flustered.

She grins, sharp and teasing. “Nice name, 31. Too bad you’re Canadian. Our hockey team is going to destroy you. You know that, right?”

Normally, that would’ve been all it took. Your competitive streak would’ve jumped in immediately, gloves metaphorically dropped.

But it doesn’t.

Instead, something softer answers for you.

“I can’t say the same about figure skating,” you say, almost without thinking. “Pretty sure the gold’s yours.”

She scoffs, cheeks warming just enough to give her away. “Shut up, you dork,” she says, shoving you lightly off balance.

You laugh, still reeling, still very much dazed.

She recovers instantly.

“So,” she adds, like your heart hasn’t just done something stupid and irreversible, “wanna grab a coffee?”

You don’t even hesitate.

“Yes,” you say, already reaching for your wallet.

---

You leave the game satisfied.

2–1. Two perfect passes. Clean, beautiful goals. You took a brutal hit in the second period, the kind that rattles your teeth and lights up your nerves, but the doctor waved it off with a shrug. Just a bruise. You’ll wear worse by tomorrow.

You celebrate quickly—gloves tapping helmets, a few laughs, a couple of tired grins—but the moment you’re able, you peel away. Straight to the locker room. No lingering. No chatting with opponents. No extra laps around the rink soaking it all in like you usually do.

People notice.

They always do.

A few teammates give you odd looks as you strip off your gear and change with record speed, hair still damp from a three-minute shower, jersey swapped for a clean one. You don’t explain. You don’t have to.

Tomorrow is the short program.

Which means tonight is warm-ups.

And you’d be insane to miss it.

Not after spending over two hours talking and laughing with her. Not after learning the exact sound of her laugh when she’s genuinely amused, or the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s listening instead of speaking.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and head for the exit.

And then—you see her.

No. She sees you.

She steps directly into your path, stopping you short by planting an open hand against your chest. The contact is light, deliberate. You’re already changed, jersey clean, heart very much not prepared.

You look down at her hand. Then at her face.

There’s that mischievous smile again.

“Where do you think you’re going in such a hurry?” she asks.

You don’t even pause to think.

“Sorry, can’t talk right now,” you say, flashing a fake-polite smile as you attempt—without much effort—to step around her. “I’m going to watch the best figure skater in the world warm up.”

She scoffs and immediately shifts back into your way, blocking you with ease.

“Seriously?” she says. “I heard she came to watch a boring hockey game.”

You freeze.

Slowly, you look at her.

Then you smile.

“Oh,” you say lightly, “that explains why she looks so tired.”

She gasps, offended in the most theatrical way possible. “Wow. I supported you emotionally.”

“You heckled my sport.”

“I showed up,” she counters. “That’s love.”

Your laugh slips out before you can stop it, something warm loosening in your chest. She watches you like that’s exactly what she was aiming for.

Up close, she smells like ice and coffee and something uniquely her. The noise of the stadium fades again, the world narrowing to the space between you.

She tilts her head. “So,” she says casually, like your heart isn’t racing, “are you actually going to watch my warm-up?”

You don’t hesitate this time.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

---

On the day of the short program, you arrive embarrassingly early.

Not thirty minutes.

Not an hour.

Three and a half hours.

The arena is hollow and echoing when you slip inside, the ice untouched, the seats empty enough to make your footsteps sound illegal. No cameras. No commentators. No buzzing crowd. Just you and the preparation crew moving around like this is any other quiet morning.

You make a very deliberate choice to get the best seat.

Actually—you test several.

You sit. Stand. Move two rows down. Lean forward. Tilt your head. Try the angle again. You repeat the process until you’re absolutely sure: this is the spot. The place where you’ll be able to see her best.

You definitely have time for that.

You take a picture.

You and the empty arena.

Ice pristine. Seats waiting.

You send it to her.

Eight minutes later, your phone buzzes.

>Get out of there, psycho. It’s starting to look like you’re into me.

You smile so hard it almost hurts.

You don’t leave.

If anything, you settle in deeper, anxiety buzzing under your skin—not about her performance. Never that. You’ve seen her skate enough to know better.

You’re anxious because you get to watch her do what she loves.

When the arena starts filling, sound slowly bleeding back into the space, your heart starts racing. Music tests. Announcements. Flags. The ceremony unfolds, and you cling to every glimpse of her—during introductions, during her warm-up lap, during the moments when she disappears backstage and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

When she finally skates, the world narrows.

Sources will later claim you were the loudest person in that stadium.

When her score flashes on the screen, you don’t even think before yelling, “LET’S FUCKING GO!” at a volume that absolutely does not match your size. Somewhere, a camera probably catches it. Somewhere, a producer sighs.

When she finishes in the top three, you feel feral. Like a kid who’s had too much sugar and no supervision. You want to run. Jump. Shake something.

So when she’s finally released—and you find her—you don’t hesitate.

You grab her by the waist and lift her clean off the ground, spinning her like you’ve seen a thousand times in movies… and maybe once or twice in pairs skating. She laughs, startled, hands instinctively gripping your shoulders.

“Wow,” she says breathlessly, still smiling when you set her down. “If you’re like this after the short program, imagine what it’ll be like after the free one.”

You grin at her, joy spilling out of your eyes, impossible to hide.

“They’re going to have to hold me back,” you say, nodding toward the rink, “so I don’t invade the ice.”

---

The day of the hockey final is everything the predictions warned you it would be.

And still—

Fuck.

2–1.

USA

The horn sounds and it’s deafening, final and cruel in a way only a championship buzzer can be. Your chest feels hollow as you line up, helmet tucked under your arm, silver medal already heavy before it’s even placed around your neck.

You’re marked up like a map of mistakes.

A thin cut along your cheek where a stick caught you wrong.

A blooming bruise across your stomach from a puck you didn’t control fast enough.

Your foot throbbing from being stepped on by a blade, pain sharp and persistent.

Your ribs protesting every deep breath.

But a silver medal is still a medal.

You repeat that to yourself like a mantra while cameras flash and congratulations blur together. Pride and disappointment twist tight in your chest, inseparable.

The worst part isn’t the loss.

It’s that you don’t see her.

By the time you’re released—4:20 PM, the number burned into your brain—you’re exhausted. You shower slowly, letting the hot water sting every ache, then stop by the infirmary.

No stitches for your cheek. Two weeks, with care.

Your foot isn’t broken—miraculously—but it needs rest.

Same for your ribs.

By the time you’re cleared, dressed, and finally breathing normally again, it’s after 5.

Too late.

The skaters are already preparing.

So you don’t see her between your loss and her performance.

Instead, you make your way to her rink.

You find your seat—the one you tested so carefully last time—and sink into it, fingers curling around the edge as nerves creep in. You endure the wait, the performances before hers, the way time stretches unbearably thin.

You remember how she refused to send you a picture of her outfit, no matter how much you begged.

You’ll see, she’d said.

It doesn’t matter.

Because then you hear it.

“Alysa Liu!”

Her name echoes through the arena, and suddenly it feels like she’s the only person in the world.

She steps onto the ice, golden and luminous, gliding like she belongs somewhere higher than this—like the ice is a cloud she simply chooses to touch. You forget the pain. Forget the medal around your neck. Forget everything except the way she moves.

You don’t know her—really know her.

But watching her skate feels like floating.

You feel impossibly lucky. Lucky you wandered into that rink on that quiet day. Lucky you stayed. Lucky you saw her before the world claimed her.

You don’t notice the score when it comes up. Don’t hear the crowd’s reaction. You just know.

There’s never been any doubt.

When she looks up and finds you, even from far away, she grins and flashes a hand gesture.

Three.

One.

You laugh, sudden and real, and the world snaps back into motion.

Your gallery is now filled with photos—leader’s chair, kiss-and-cry, podium, medal shining under the lights.

Funny enough, you didn’t take a single picture during her final performance.

You only watched. It would’ve felt like a waste not to fully appreciate.

You wait for her afterward, half-hanging over the rail where the audience meets the exit ramp, heart pounding harder than it did during any moment today.

She spots you.

She lifts the gold medal and gestures for you to come down.

You don’t walk.

You launch yourself off the steps and into her, arms wrapping tight as you crush her into a hug. She laughs, breathless, as you bury your face into the crook of her neck, inhaling the familiar scent of ice and warmth and her.

“See?” you murmur against her skin. “I told you. The gold was yours from the beginning.”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, hands still firm on your sides, eyes bright, cheeks flushed—but you keep going, unable to stop.

“Even more so with a golden outfit, golden hair… the medal had to be y—”

She kisses you.

Right there. No hesitation. No doubt.

The world disappears again, but this time it’s deliberate.

When she pulls back, breathless and smiling, she presses her forehead to yours.

“I can’t believe,” she says, laughing softly, “you were going to let the Olympics end without giving me that damn kiss.”

And for the first time all day—

for the first time since the loss—

You don’t feel second place at all.

[hoist-the-colors]

BETWEEN TAKES

Sadie Sink x reader

Being Ross Duffer’s daughter meant spending a lot of time on film sets.

Not just any set. The set.

Stranger Things.

Being the same age as the protagonists, it felt like a dream—seeing what went on behind the scenes, helping whenever you could, even if most of the time it meant carrying things around only to put them back exactly where they were.

You made friends with the actors. You read the scripts. You gave opinions. Sometimes, you even recognized parts of yourself showing up in the characters.

It was fun. Really fun.

Even on days like this one—when your dad and uncle told you to go for a walk because skateboarding on set “wasn’t working out.”

Your dad handed you some money for ice cream and said a few actors would be arriving in about an hour.

So you left.

You skated until your legs were sore, then bought yourself a milkshake and sat down. That’s when you saw her.

A girl skateboarding.

Well—trying to.

You watched as she lost her balance and fell straight onto her butt.

Ouch.

With your milkshake still in hand, you pushed off and glided toward her.

“Need a hand?” you asked, taking a sip.

“Yes, please. I told some people I knew how to but.. yeah,” she replied, brushing dust off her palms.

And just like that, you spent the next hour teaching her the basics of skateboarding—laughing, falling, trying again.

When someone called her name and it was time to go, you said goodbye with a smile you didn’t quite feel.

You regretted not asking her name.

Not buying her ice cream.

Not asking for her number.

So despite the wonderful afternoon, despite the easy company that left a lasting impression, you returned to the set feeling strangely empty.

Your friends noticed immediately. And once you told them everything—

That was it.

For the next week, she had a name on set.

The skateboard girl.

They teased you relentlessly, especially when, every day at the same time, you returned to the same square, hoping to see fiery red hair again.

Today was no different.

Right before you left, Millie appeared, skipping toward you and calling your name.

"Guess who I have here?” she said brightly. “Meet Sadie Sink! She’s going to play Max!”

She dragged a girl along with her—red hair, bright blue eyes, a shy smile.

You froze.

It was her.

Millie took a few seconds to connect the dots. Then her face lit up with the most mischievous grin imaginable.

“Oh,” she said slowly. “So you’re the skateboard girl.”

Sadie’s eyes widened in recognition.

“Oh! Yeah,” she said, smiling. “I didn’t think she’d remember me—we ran into each other the other day at the square.” She extended her hand toward you.

You reached out to shake it, but Millie opened her mouth—

“Oh, but she remembers very well. She just kept talk—”

“I just remembered,” you cut in quickly, turning to Millie. “Noah was calling you. Over there. Urgent.”

You pointed vaguely to a random corner of the set.

Millie narrowed her eyes, then smirked.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll check. But give her a tour! I was going to, but…” She pointed in the direction you’d indicated. “Urgent.”

And just like that, she disappeared—

Leaving you alone with the girl who had occupied your thoughts for an entire week.

You’d never been so aware of how red your face could get.

---

At first, it’s… awkward.

Not bad awkward. Just two people who really want to impress each other but don’t know how awkward.

You clear your throat.

“Uh—yeah. So. This is… the set.”

Brilliant. Incredible tour guide. Five stars.

Sadie smiles anyway, soft and patient, hands tucked into the sleeves of her hoodie.

“It’s really cool,” she says. “I’ve never been on a set like this before.”

That helps. A little.

You start walking, pointing things out as you go—at first, very safely.

“That’s video village,” you explain. “They watch the takes from there. And—uh—craft services is over there. That’s where the food lives.”

Her eyes light up immediately.

“Good to know.”

You relax a bit. She laughs easily. You like that.

As you walk, people start glancing over. A grip nods at you. Someone from wardrobe waves. It’s normal for you—but you can feel Sadie noticing it.

“Do you, like… work here?” she asks carefully.

You shrug. “Kind of? My dad’s Ross. And my uncle’s Matt.”

Her mouth opens just a little.

“Oh. That Ross.”

You cringe. “Yeah. Sorry. I swear I’m not, like… important.”

She laughs. Really laughs this time.

“I don’t think important people carry boxes and teach strangers how to skateboard.”

You grin before you can stop yourself.

You pass by the bikes—the actual bikes. Mike’s, Lucas’s, Dustin’s.

Sadie slows down.

“Those are real?” she asks.

“Yep. They yell if someone touches them wrong,” you say. “Especially Gaten.”

Right on cue, Gaten appears from behind a trailer.

“HEY—” he starts, then sees you. “Oh. Hi.”

His eyes flick to Sadie. Then back to you. Then back to Sadie.

Something clicks.

“Ohhh,” he says, dragging the word out. “This is her.”

You feel your soul leave your body.

“Go away,” you mutter.

Sadie tilts her head. “Her?”

Gaten grins. “The skateboard girl.”

You groan. Sadie laughs—bright, surprised, genuinely amused.

“Wow,” she says. “I have a title already?”

“Very exclusive,” Gaten says. “Anyway—nice to meet you! I’m Gaten. Don’t fall in love with her, she’s allergic to flirting.”

“I am NOT—” you start, but Gaten is already walking away.

You stand there, mortified.

“I promise they’re not usually like this,” you say.

Sadie smiles at you in that gentle way again.

“I don’t mind.”

The tour continues, easier now.

You show her the lockers, the fake houses. She asks questions. You answer. Sometimes your hands brush when you walk side by side and neither of you mentions it.

Eventually, you stop near the edge of the set, where things are quieter.

“This is usually where I come when it gets overwhelming,” you admit.

Sadie nods. “Yeah. I think I’ll like it here.”

There’s a pause.

Then she looks at you, suddenly shy again.

“Hey… um. I never thanked you. For the other day. For not laughing at me.”

You shrug. “You were brave enough to try. That counts.”

She smiles—soft, warm, unmistakably fond.

“I’m glad it was you I ran into.”

Your heart does something stupid in your chest.

And somewhere across the set, Millie is absolutely watching this unfold like it’s her favorite show.

---

“Dad, that’s not how the Mind Flayer would look,” you say, sprawled across your uncle’s director’s chair after reading a—completely incoherent—description of the season’s villain.

You secretly called yourself the D&D consultant.

Yes, you thought you were something special just because you, like the characters in the show, had been playing since you were what—nine? Ten?

Still, you definitely weren’t going to let your dad and uncle mess up the Mind Flayer.

“What should he look like, then?” your uncle asks, glancing over at you.

“It’s more humanoid,” you say, sitting up, suddenly animated. “With, like, an octopus head. Not a giant shadow spider.”

Your dad sighs, but he’s smiling. “It’s a metaphor. He acts like the Mind Flayer, but he’s not necessarily him. It’s more of a nickname.”

You scan the rest of the script.

…Okay. Fine.

Matt walks past you, ruffles your hair, and leaves before you can argue further.

On the couch at the other end of the room, Finn is reading—lying completely upside down.

“Psst. Hey, Finn,” you whisper.

He lowers the script just enough to look at you, eyebrows raised—well, lowered. Waiting.

“Do you think Mike likes Will?” you ask.

He lifts the script back up. “I’m acting as if he does,” he says. “So he better.”

Then, as if remembering something important, he lowers it again.

“And you?” he adds. “Do you think Sadie likes you?”

You nearly fall out of the chair.

“How could that possibly have anything to do with our conversation?”

He just laughs and goes back to reading, as if that alone were answer enough.

You leave the room and head toward the food and drinks. Halfway there, you consider turning back—but it’s too late.

Noah has already seen you.

He nudges Sadie, who looks at you just long enough for him to quietly disappear.

His laughter echoes down the hall, mixing with Millie’s.

After a few seconds of comfortable silence, Sadie asks, “Why did everyone already know me?”

You don’t react at first.

“Skateboard girl?” she adds.

You scratch the back of your neck. “I kind of…” You trail off, avoiding her eyes as you feel the heat creep up your neck. “I’ve talked about you all week,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

Sadie laughs, her eyes shining. “You were talking about me?”

She tilts her head. “Why?”

You grip your coffee cup with both hands, words tumbling over each other. “Well, you know, it’s because—you—well, it’s just… I—uhm.”

You stop. Take a breath.

“Yeah.”

You down the rest of the coffee in one go.

Luckily for you, Shawn Levy calls the actors for the next scene, launching into a quick recap and saving you from further embarrassment.

---

Caleb’s voice is uncertain when he speaks up in the meeting.

“I don’t know… this idea of the kiss feels kind of last-minute,” he says, eyes flicking briefly toward you before returning to the directors.

They explain the reasoning — story, pacing, payoff — and soon enough the meeting dissolves. As people stand and drift away, you catch Caleb by the arm and pull him aside.

“You don’t have to do this,” you say quietly.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “It just feels wrong, you know? I know you like her. How am I supposed to kiss her? Even if it’s just for the show.”

You place your hands on his shoulders, grounding him.

“It’s your job,” you say gently. “Literally. And it’s hers, too.”

You offer a small smile. “The best thing you can do for me is nail it on the first take.”

Caleb studies your face, still unsure.

“Are you really okay with this? I don’t want to hurt you. You’re my friend.”

You pull him into a quick hug. “I know.”

Then you turn and head toward video village, taking a seat among the monitors, folding into silence.

They don’t film the scene right away. First comes Dustin — Gaten, in his tux — nervously searching for a date before ending up dancing with Nancy. It’s funny, sweet, almost distracting enough to keep your thoughts at bay.

Almost.

You feel a light nudge against your shoulder.

When you turn, Sadie is there — already dressed as Max, red hair curled just right, confidence wrapped in nerves.

You lean closer, whispering so you don’t interrupt the scene.

“Wow. You look really good.”

She smiles. “Thanks. Come here.”

Before you can question it, she takes your hand and leads you away, weaving through equipment until you reach a dim corner of the studio, flooded with light spill that keeps you hidden from the cameras.

She stops in front of you — close enough that you can feel her breath.

“Hey,” she whispers.

You don’t answer.

She hesitates — just for a second — then leans in, pressing her lips gently against yours.

“After,” she murmurs.

And before you can say anything at all, she’s gone.

By the time you make it back to the monitors, your heart is still racing.

You barely register the scene when it finally happens — Lucas and Max, the kiss clean and quick, so perfect it only takes one take.

Later, you’re standing beside Sadie again, watching Finn and Millie spin across the Snow Ball floor. Caleb catches your eye from across the set and gives you a thumbs-up.

Sadie’s fingers slip into yours.

She leans in, voice barely audible.

“I wanted my first kiss to be with you.”

You try hard to hold back your smile, but it escapes anyway.

[hoist-the-colors]

DON'T TOUCH MEWS (2)

Max Mayfield x reader

The following days passed like a single, long good moment.

Everything blurred together—you couldn’t tell what happened when anymore. But nothing was tense. Nothing was urgent. Just normal. Calm, finally.

You went to the arcade with your brother, his friends, and Max.

You couldn’t pinpoint the exact days, but she was there every single one of them.

Ice cream. Skateboards. Bikes.

Some days, Will convinced you to play D&D.

Other days, you just watched them play—games, snacks, bad jokes—content to sit on the floor and exist with them.

You hung out with Dustin and Steve a few times, no plan, no purpose.

Some afternoons in Mike’s basement, you drifted away and talked with Nancy—about school, books, things that felt suddenly important again. Other days, you spent hours with Holly, letting her show you the same drawing five times.

And then the day arrived.

The Snow Ball.

The party hadn’t stopped talking about it.

---

“Dusty! Your ride is here!”

Your mom's voice carried through the house as the doorbell rang.

Dustin had been fixing his hair for hours. Now Steve—the Hair Harrington—was here to finish the job.

You stand up from the couch. “Time to get ready.”

Ten minutes later, you’re out of your room, already dressed.

You peek through your brother’s half-open door and witness the epic battle: Steve vs. Dustin’s hair.

Steve wins.

“Sweetie,” your mom says, glancing at you, “are you going to stay there much longer? Wasn’t helping organize the dance enough?”

“Yep, Mr. Clarke needs me to help with sound or lighting. Something always break,” you say, sitting beside her and jerking your thumb toward Dustin’s room. “and his favorites nerds are going to be partying.”

She hums, satisfied.

You wait a little longer, watching her soap opera, until Steve emerges proudly with Dustin—now fully transformed.

You get up to leave, knowing full well Dusty-bun is about to be pampered.

---

You get out of the car before Dustin. He and Steve are clearly having some kind of bonding moment.

Inside the gym, you greet Nancy, who’s serving punch, and ask Mr. Clarke if he needs help.

He releases you temporarily.

So you stand off to the side, watching the party, remembering your own from last year.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you see a group waving.

Your brother’s friends.

Dustin’s already with them.

Since you’re free, you head over.

You greet everyone, look at Will and give him a thumbs-up.

“Looking good, Byers.”

Then you notice the person standing next to Lucas.

Max.

And—

wow.

You don’t even realize you whisper it until it’s out.

She turns toward you, cheeks already pink, freckles standing out against the flush.

“What?” she teases. “Speechless, dork?”

“I don’t know—maybe—no—kinda—yeah. Shit.”

She laughs, really laughs.

“You don’t look bad yourself.”

You keep staring, dumbfounded.

You don’t even notice the slow song starting.

Will has already gone to dance. Lucas too.

Mike sits at the table, waiting for Eleven. She won't come. You think.

Max noticed the song.

She looks around, then grabs your hand and pulls you toward a quieter hallway.

She turns to you, smiling, and kisses your cheek.

You freeze.

Then, this time, you don’t.

You bow dramatically.

“Milady, may I have this dance?”

She takes your hand without a word. Smile in face.

Her arms slide around your neck. Yours settle at her waist.

You sway.

Minutes—or seconds—it’s impossible to tell.

The song ends far too soon.

You’re still lost in her eyes when she leans in. The kiss is soft. Calm.

Too fast.

She pulls back, smiling when she sees you already smiling too.

“Is that okay?” she asks.

You answer the only way that makes sense.

You kiss her again.

Because how could you not love someone who feels like the human form of love itself?

Her red hair is the same shade as the fire that burns in your chest every time you look at her.

The storm inside your head flashes with the same flickering blue as her eyes when they light up—sharp, electric—every time she speaks.

How could you not love her, when every time you look at the stars, the only constellation you can see is the scatter of her freckles?

How could you?

You couldn’t.

And you won’t

[hoist-the-colors]

DON'T TOUCH MEWS

Max Mayfield x reader

Who would have thought that having a younger sibling would bring so much chaos?

Just kidding. Anyone who has a sibling knows that if there’s silence, something is wrong.

You don’t know exactly when you became important to the main plot. But if you had to guess where your part began, you’d say around here.

You were sprawled on the couch while your brother—Dustin—rummaged through the cushions, looking for loose change for the arcade.

As he leaves the room, you turn to your mother, who’s petting Mews, and say aloud—hoping Dustin hears,

“Kids these days, right, Mom?”

Without hesitation, Dustin sticks his head back into the room and exclaims,

“Eighteen months. You’re not even two years older!”

You scoff. “Things weren’t like that in my day.”

He rolls his eyes and leaves, already late to meet his friends.

Looking back, this wasn’t really the beginning of your story.

It was the first time your brother heard about her.

This was the moment she entered his life—and yours.

At first, you only knew her name.

Max Mayfield.

Mad Max, if you preferred.

She would become important soon. But for now—

---

You arrived home early from class and immediately realized something was missing.

Your walkman.

Muttering curses under your breath, you headed straight for Dustin’s room. There was no doubt in your mind—he’d taken it again.

As soon as you opened the door, you saw it.

Not your walkman. No.

A slimy, faceless creature, about the size of a small dog, crawling across the floor.

What set every alarm off in your head wasn’t exactly how it looked.

It was where it was going.

“Mews,” you whispered.

Your cat was asleep, completely unaware as the thing crept closer.

Without thinking, you threw yourself onto the creature, hands grasping for what you hoped was its neck.

The moment you touched it, the thing opened its face—like a flower, or a carnivorous plant—and let out a deafening roar.

Mews bolted awake and sprinted into the living room, where your mom was setting out food. She rushed to him immediately.

You struggled to keep your grip, but the creature was slick, slippery. It wrenched itself free.

Instinct took over.

You kicked it as hard as you could.

The creature hitted hard into Dustin’s bedroom wall.

You ran, slammed the door shut, and stood there breathing hard, staring at the dark goo smeared across your hands and clothes.

Dazed, you made your way to the garage, grabbed a hammer, then collapsed onto the living room armchair—eyes locked on Dustin’s door.

Fifteen minutes later, the front door opened.

Dustin walked in, buzzing with excitement, heading straight for his room.

You stepped into his path.

He finally noticed you—covered in grime, gripping a hammer, eyes wild.

“What…? What happened?”

You didn’t blink.

“Dustin. What were you keeping in your room?”

He shifted, uneasy. You were usually calm, but you looked feral right now.

“Dustin,” you repeated, voice sharp. “What is in your aquarium?”

“That’s not an aquarium,” he said quickly. “It’s a terrarium.”

You stood, meeting his eyes.

“Dustin. I just watched a carnivorous plant-dog try to eat my cat. What is in your room?”

He glanced around, not seeing his mother, eyes wide, then sighed.

“It’s a long story. Come on.”

---

“Dang it, D-boy. Zombie swear?”

Exasperated, he turned to you.

“Yes, I zombie swear. Why is no one picking this up? Mike, do you copy?”

You tried to process it all.

The Upside Down. A parallel dimension. Demogorgons—basically demons.

The zombie swear was something you and Dustin had agreed on years ago, after too many horror movies. If a zombie invasion—or anything equally insane—ever happened, you’d believe each other. No questions asked.

And you took that pact very seriously.

You stopped walking.

“Hold on. Will went to hell and came back with a mini-demon. You knew that and still kept that thing? It almost ate my cat!”

“It’s not a demon!” Dustin protested. “His name is Dart—D’Artagnan. Lucas, do you copy?”

“Dustin,” you snapped, heading for his door. “That thing is still in your room. I don’t care what its name is. I’m killing it.”

He grabbed your wrist before you could reach the knob.

“Not yet,” he said. “We need to be ready.”

---

The plan was to lure it outside and trap it in the basement.

You eyed Dustin’s ridiculous hockey gear.

“You look absolutely stupid.”

He stuck his tongue out.

“At least it won’t bite me.”

You laid out the ham trail. Dustin cracked the bedroom door open, and the two of you sprinted for the shed.

When Dart finally took the bait and Dustin smacked him, you ran forward and slammed the basement door shut, locking it with the hockey stick.

The door banged violently behind you.

You turned to Dustin.

“Now what?”

He was already screaming into his walkie-talkie again.

---

After watching him make about a thousand unanswered calls, you stood up, grabbed your bike, and called out to him.

“Come on. Mike’s the closest, right?”

You biked to the Wheelers’ house—only to find Mike's parents

When you turned to ask what the next plan was, you heard Dustin shout, “STEVE!”

Steve Harrington looked completely caught off guard by Dustin’s sudden appearance, but somehow still agreed to take you both wherever Dustin had decided you needed to go.

---

“He means it, Steve. I saw it too,” you say, jumping out of the back seat.

“Okay,” Steve replies, forcing confidence. “So we smash it. I can do that.”

“Yeah,” Dustin says quickly, backing away. “You can go in. I’ll stay out here. In case it escapes.”

You snort under your breath as you follow Steve, hammer clenched tight in your hand.

“Pussy,” you mutter.

The basement is worse than you remembered.

Steve freezes when he sees the creature’s shed skin plastered to the floor. You call him over, pointing silently to the hole torn through the wall.

“Fuck,” Steve breathes. Then, louder, “Dustin! Get down here!”

Dustin peers inside, eyes widening.

“New plan.”

And then he’s gone—running—leaving you and Steve scrambling after him.

---

You dump the bucket of meat in front of the bus and immediately turn toward the junkyard.

“Where are you going?” Dustin calls.

You point at Steve’s bat, then raise your hammer.

“I want something like that.”

You come back holding a piece of rebar, feeling oddly proud—until you see them.

Lucas.

And a girl.

And—oh.

She’s leaning against the bus, red hair caught by the wind, arms crossed inside a green jacket that looks far too thin for the cold. There’s something about the way she stands—closed off but unafraid.

Your steps slow without you meaning them to.

Oh no.

She looks like every dream you never let yourself finish thinking.

Steve stops beside you, nudging your arm.

“Dustin likes her, I guess,” he says casually.

You barely hear him.

He glances over again. “And I think Lucas too.”

You meet her eyes—bright, sharp blue—and something in your chest tilts.

Me too, you think, instantly, helplessly.

And just as quickly—shit.

Lucas and Dustin duck behind a car, whispering furiously, while you stay behind with Steve and the girl—Max—to haul metal plates toward the bus.

You keep a careful distance, heart beating far too loud for how quiet she is.

“Do you really believe that?” she asks suddenly. “Wasn’t it just a bear?”

Her voice catches you completely off guard.

You turn too fast. Big mistake.

She’s closer now. Freckles. Soft mouth. Eyes that look like they see everything.

It’s deeply unfair that someone can look like that and sound like that at the same time.

“Hello?” she says, eyebrow lifting. “You deaf or something?”

You blink, shaking your head, forcing your brain to cooperate.

“No—sorry. No. It wasn’t a bear,” you say quickly. “Definitely not.”

You hesitate, then risk another glance before immediately looking away.

Bad idea. Very bad idea.

“It was slimy,” you continue. “And the face—” you gesture vaguely, struggling for words. “It opened. Like a flower or something. I don’t know.”

You swallow.

Max studies you for a moment, something unreadable in her expression.

And you’re already in trouble.

---

Inside the bus, you ask for Steve’s car keys and rummage through the car until you find it—hairspray.

Farrah Fawcett.

You run back, grab your lighter, and brace yourself.

“Is that my—” Steve starts, just as you toss the keys back to him.

“Don’t worry,” you say. “I’ll get you a new one.”

You glance around, suddenly alert.

Max and Lucas are gone.

Before you can ask, Dustin points upward.

“Up there.”

You climb, popping your head through the roof hatch—and immediately regret it.

You’d clearly interrupted something. Lucas and Max were mid-conversation, close enough that their voices had dropped. Personal. You hesitate, about to apologize—

Then you hear a screeching sound.

Lucas lifts his binoculars.

You climb fully up this time, your arm brushing Max’s as you look past her—

And you see it first.

“There,” you say sharply, pointing. “Get back in.”

They don’t move fast enough.

“Now.”

Your hand closes around Max’s wrist without thinking, steering both of them back down. You go last, making sure they were as safe as you could right now.

Your heart’s racing faster than it should be.

You glance at the roof, thinking about how useless it is without a door—then freeze when you notice the creature still standing there.

Dustin voices the same thought.

“Why isn’t it moving?”

Steve, already heading for the door, shrugs.

“Maybe he’s tired of cow.”

You stare at him, incredulous.

What kind of stupid ass plan is that—

You move to follow him, then stop. Change course. You climb back up onto the roof instead.

“Hey,” you call down still in the stair. “Lucas—do you still have your slingshot?”

He grimaces. “Not right now.”

“Shit,” you mutter, ducking back inside, mind racing.

Steve’s plan is a bad one. You know it the second Dustin starts screaming.

There’s more than one

Your stomach drops.

Steve’s stupid plan is going to get him killed.

You scramble back inside just as chaos erupts.

You rush to the bus door with the others, rebar clenched tight, eyes fixed on the opening like you can will Steve back faster.

Steve barrels in. The door slams shut.

Creatures crash against the metal.

You impale one. Steve swings at another.

Max screams.

Without thinking, you move.

The roof opening.

The creature is already dropping—

You plant yourself in front of her, instinctive, automatic, as Steve struggles to hold the main door shut on the other side.

“Get down,” you snap.

The monster is too far. You can’t stab it.

Your hand finds the hairspray.

The lighter sparks.

Fire blooms.

But it doesn't touch it.

They ran.

Silence falls hard.

“Did we scare them?” Lucas asks, breathless.

“No,” Steve says, grim. “They’re going somewhere.”

You’re still standing in front of Max.

Too close.

Too long. You didn't move. Woried something would get you. Get her. Her.

You realize it when she speaks.

“You do that a lot,” she says quietly.

You blink. “Do what?”

“That,” she replies, nodding at your stance—how you’re still positioned between her and the hatch, prepared to fight. “Like you’re expecting something to come flying out of nowhere.”

You exhale a short laugh. “Given the day we’re having?”

She looks at you for a second longer than necessary.

She almost smiles.

---

“Why are they following the sound?” Max asked, exasperated, as she trailed after Steve, Lucas, and Dustin, who had gone off in search of the source of a horrible roar.

“It’s like they don’t even use their brains,” you mutter, taking her hand and pulling her after them, deeper into the woods.

She holds the flashlight, lighting the path ahead, while you walk beside her with the hammer clenched in your grip. The junkyard feels far behind now—along with the demodog remains scattered there.

You start to notice things you really shouldn’t be focusing on right now.

The warmth of her hand.

How soft it is against yours.

Your palm grows damp with nervous sweat.

You try to let go—but she doesn’t let you.

Her fingers tighten slightly, and the realization startles you enough that you glance over at her. She’s looking away, focused on the dark forest ahead, her features impossible to read in the low light.

She doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

When you finally emerge from the trees, just behind the boys, you spot two figures near the entrance of Hawkins Laboratory.

Jonathan and Nancy.

Your stomach twists.

You try to remember exactly how this place connects to everything that’s been happening, but only fragments come to mind. Experiments. Secrets. Pain.

It isn’t a good place.

They tortured kids here. Or something close enough.

The building looms ahead, dark and lifeless, the power clearly out.

You briefly consider jumping the gate—but Max still hasn’t let go of your hand. You don’t try to pull away again.

Truth is, you don’t want to.

You’re already used to it.

Before you can linger on the thought, the lights suddenly flicker back on, bathing the building in a harsh glow.

Jonathan and Nancy drive through the gate. The rest of you stay behind, waiting in tense silence.

Minutes later, two cars return.

Jonathan’s.

And a police car.

Hopper’s.

Steve ushers everyone inside, and you end up crammed into the police car with the others as it pulls away, heading toward the Byers’ house.

You have the strange, unsettling feeling that the parts of the story you don’t quite remember—

the ones you brushed off—

are about to become very, very important.

---

While they talked, all you could do was stare at Will Byers.

How could someone so small have gone through so much already?

It wasn’t fair.

You couldn’t bring yourself to listen anymore. Too much loss, stacked on top of itself. Too much pain for one kid — for any kid. How did a group survive that much? How were any of you still standing?

You didn’t have the answer.

But you knew one thing.

You weren’t leaving him alone again.

You remembered Will from when he was younger. Despite the small age gap, he had always been the smallest of Dustin’s friends — quieter, softer somehow. When he disappeared, it felt like the world had tilted wrong. And now this?

When the discussion finally died down, you pushed yourself up from your corner. You crossed the room, gently tapped Will on the head as you passed — not hard, just enough to remind him he was still here — then moved to help set up the makeshift interrogation room.

You slipped into the hallway, exhaled deeply, and glanced at your watch.

00:00.

You huffed a quiet, humorless laugh.

“That was a hell of a birthday.”

“Birthday?”

You nearly jumped out of your skin.

You spun around. “Jesus— Max, you scared the shit out of me.”

She lingered beside you, already picking up cardboard to help wrap the chairs. “Was today your birthday?”

You lifted a stack of cardboard and turned toward the kitchen. “Yep. I mean, yesterday.”

“Oof,” she said softly, falling into step behind you. “That’s shitty. I’m sorry.”

You dropped the cardboard near the lockers Mike was still rummaging, earning a glare you ignored.

“Nah,” you said, shrugging. “At least I met you.”

The words hit you a second too late.

You froze.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

You liked the same person as your brother.

And his best friend.

And she was a girl.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit

You escaped the kitchen before your face could betray you.

---

The cabin was ready.

Will tapped out Morse code, fighting whatever horrible thing had wrapped itself around his mind. Mind Flayer. Shadow Monster. So many goddamn names for the same nightmare.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the phone rang.

The location was compromised.

Everyone huddled together in the center of the room, eyes darting nervously — even toward the walls. You instinctively shifted, positioning yourself in front of as many people as you could reach.

Dustin.

Max.

Mike.

It didn’t help.

The demodog came through the window.

Dead.

And then — somehow — things got even stranger.

A girl stepped inside. Dark clothes. Serious eyes. She felt… heavy. Like gravity bent toward her.

And then it clicked.

Eleven.

The girl who had been dead. The girl who wasn’t.

Everyone rushed her at once, emotional, breathless. She hugged them back — all of them — except Max.

You noticed. You weren’t sure what it meant. Neither was Max.

Eleven examined Dustin’s teeth, producing that awful noise, and Dustin — mercifully — spared you the awkwardness of introductions.

“Oh — El, this is my sister. You haven’t met. She’s cool.”

Eleven glanced at you. Nodded.

“Hi.”

Then she turned to Joyce. “Will.”

---

After that, hell broke loose.

The group split into three.

The exorcism group.

The gate-closing group.

And… the bench.

“We are not the bench,” Steve protested, hands on his hips.

Everyone stared at him.

“…Okay,” he sighed. “We’re the bench.”

Babysitting duty.

Mike. Lucas. Dustin. Max. You, sorta.

“And being the bench,” Steve added, pointing sternly, “doesn't mean I’m letting any of you run off and light tunnels on fire. Absolutely not.”

Silence.

He looked at you for backup. “You agree with me. Right?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Sorry, Steve. I’ve always wanted to commit arson.”

You barely finished speaking when the sound of a car engine cut through the night.

Max bolted to the window, pale.

“Shit. That’s my brother. He can’t know I’m here.”

She turned to look at all of you.

“He will kill me.

He will kill us.”

---

Steve tries to block Billy at the door.

But it doesn’t work.

One second it's arguing, the next you’re staring at chaos — Billy’s hands wrapped around Lucas’s throat, Max shouting, furniture crashing to the floor. Steve goes down hard.

Your body moves before your brain catches up.

You scan the room, desperate. Something. Anything.

Your hand closes around a frying pan.

You lift it, already stepping forward, heart pounding—

And then Max moves.

She’s faster than you.

She grabs the syringe — Will’s anesthetic — and drives it into Billy’s neck with shaking hands and pure fury.

“Let him go!” she screams.

Billy staggers. Fist in the air. His anger dissolves into confusion, then nothing at all as he collapses to the floor.

The room goes silent.

You watch Max, chest heaving, eyes burning — and for the first time since you met her, you feel something settle inside her.

Relief. Control. Peace — even if it won’t last.

She did it. She fought back.

She snatches the car keys off the table. “We’re leaving. Now.”

No one argues.

Getting everyone to agree to take beaten up Steve takes effort — especially Mike — but you and Dustin don’t budge.

There’s no way you’re leaving him behind like this.

Eventually, you all pile into the car, cramped and tense. And then you realize—

Max is heading for the driver’s seat.

You hold the door as she opens it. “Hey,” you say gently. “Don’t you think it might be better if I drove? I’ve had a few lessons and—”

You stop when you see it.

A little box on the floor. The one she will use to reach the pedals.

“I’m tall enough,” you add softly.

She turns to you. Those electric blue eyes hit you straight in the chest.

“I know,” she says. Then she hesitates, breath catching. “I just… I need this.”

You understand, even if you can’t fully explain why.

She needs to prove something — to herself, to Mike, to the world. To take control of the same car that terrified her for so long.

So you step back.

“Okay,” you say.

You take the passenger seat, glance at everyone crammed in the back, and murmur, “Hold on tight.”

Max floors it.

Steve groans awake just as the tunnels come into view, blinking, disoriented.

“No, no, no,” he mutters. “This is a bad idea. This is a really bad idea.”

You don’t answer.

You reach into his jacket, pull out his lighter and drop it into his hand.

“Let’s blow this fucking hole up, Harrington.”

Then you turn away before he can argue, already helping Mike with the rope.

Behind you, Steve curses — loudly — but he’s moving.

Grabbing supplies. Shouting at Dustin.

Arson it is.

---

You’re the first one to go down into the tunnels.

You feel a little responsible — mostly because you don’t trust your brother, and by extension, you don’t trust any of his friends. Not to mention Steve’s still in a very fucked-up state.

You genuinely have no idea how they didn’t die last year.

You help them down one by one, steadying hands as boots touch the uneven ground, vines slick and warm beneath your palms. When everyone’s down, Mike pulls out the map and points the way forward.

Steve insists on taking the lead, just in case something happens. Following that same logic, you stay in the rear. You have absolutely zero confidence that nothing will jump out from behind you.

This definitely isn’t what you imagined hell to be like.

Or a parallel dimension— whatever. You never thought something like this could exist.

You mutter to no one in particular, “Is this shit… alive?” while poking it.

Mike, Lucas, and Dustin answer immediately, in the same exhausted tone.

“Yes.”

Great.

So now, on top of watching the front and the back, you also have to worry about the floor, the ceiling, and the walls.

Absolutely great.

Max, standing just ahead of you, murmurs, “And to think I have a Spanish assignment due tomorrow.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “If it makes you feel better, I have a physics test at nine.”

Silence settles again — not uncomfortable, just thick with tension.

After a moment, you speak up. “So… how did you even get dragged into this mess?”

She glances back at you, eyebrow raised.

You clarify, “I mean — I’m Dustin’s sister. He kind of dragged me into it. But what about you?”

“Stalkers,” she says flatly.

Now it’s your turn to look confused.

“They followed me all day,” she adds, watching her step, “just because I beat their Dig Dug record.”

You let out a short breath of a laugh. “So you decided to become friends with them. Questionable decision.”

She shrugs. “I don’t regret it that much.”

Then she bumps her shoulder lightly into yours.

And just like that—

“We’re here!” one of the boys announces from the front.

You tighten your grip on your weapon.

Time to light it up.

---

“**

”RUN!” Steve yells.

You all turn and sprint the second his lighter hits the ground, fire racing through the vine-covered tunnels behind you.

Before you’re even halfway, you hear it.

Grunts. Too close.

You push harder.

The vines fight back — clawing, wrapping, pulling at your legs. Mike stumbles. Steve hacks at the vines, freeing—

And then—

One appears.

No.

Not one.

Him.

The thing that tried to eat your cat.

Your stomach drops.

And then the unimaginable happens.

Dustin stops.

“What the hell—”

He talks to it.

Actually talks.

And somehow — impossibly — it listens.

One by one, everyone slips past them while your brother offers the monster chocolate like this is the most normal thing in the world.

You’re the last to pass, muttering under your breath, “What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck.”

You run.

The growls multiply. Louder. Closer.

The rope comes into view.

You and Steve shove people up.

Max.

The sound comes from both sides now.

Lucas.

The ground begins to shake.

Mike.

You smell them — rot and death and something wrong.

Dustin.

Shadows flood the walls.

You and Steve fall into place, shoulder to shoulder.

Ready.

“It’s over,” Steve mutters. “At least we got them four out.”

You nod, bracing for impact.

And then—

They pass you.

The entire herd rushes by without so much as a glance.

Ignored.

As soon as the last one disappears, you and Steve scramble up the rope.

The second your feet hit solid ground, Dustin shoves you hard.

“Are you trying to die, you dumbass?”

You see it in his eyes — fear, raw and shaking — even if his voice stays sharp.

You start laughing before you can stop.

Then someone crashes into you. Max.

“Oof,” you grunt, arms instinctively wrapping back. “You’re stronger than you look.”

Your chest is buzzing — adrenaline, relief, something warmer — and yeah, your ego takes the win.

At least she cares.

You barely catch her muffled words against your shoulder.

“Stop putting everyone else first.”

A sniffle.

When she pulls back, she doesn’t move far.

She stays close.

You glance up just in time to see Mike and Lucas staring past you, pointing.

“It’s El,” one of them whispers.

Headlights blaze through the dark.

Silence hangs heavy for a few moments.

Then Steve breaks the silence, heading for the car.

“Alright. Let’s go home.”

He stops with one foot inside, glances back at Max, and adds,

“I’ll drive this time.”

---

Right after confirming via walkie-talkie that everyone was okay, Dustin passes out in the front seat, drooling slightly.

Steve’s fingers are white at the knuckles, gripping the steering wheel like it might disappear if he lets go.

Lucas keeps glancing at Max every twenty seconds, like he’s rehearsing something in his head and losing the nerve every time.

Max sits quietly, her head resting against the window, eyes unfocused.

Mike has already told Steve—five times—to drop him at Will’s.

You don’t think about much of anything. And for once, that’s a relief.

They go down one by one.

First Mike, at the Byers’ house, exactly where he insisted. He barely waits for the car to stop before he’s out the door.

Then the Sinclairs’.

Lucas hesitates when he gets out, half-turned back toward the car, clearly on the verge of saying something. Max reaches out and takes your hand—casual, unthinking, completely unaware of the storm it causes.

He notices. Swallows. Forces a small smile.

Then he’s gone.

Max is next. She gives a weak wave before closing the door behind her, the porch light flicking on as she disappears inside.

Steve exhales.

“I’ll leave the car at school tomorrow,” he says. “Billy can pick it up.”

No one argues.

“Last stop, Henderson’s,” Steve adds, nudging Dustin, who wakes with a start.

You both stumble out, mumble your thanks, and watch the taillights disappear down the street.

Inside the house, you don’t even pretend.

You go straight to your room, dragging Dustin’s mattress behind you.

Nobody’s sleeping alone tonight.

Mews jumps onto the bed about twenty minutes later, curling up between you like she’s always belonged there.

Eventually, Dustin whispers, half-asleep,

“Hey?”

You grumble in response.

“…We didn’t die.”

You snort softly.

“Low bar, Henderson.”

---

The next day, you and your brother have a slow, quiet breakfast.

No alarms. No yelling. Just the strange calm that follows surviving something you still don’t fully understand.

Eventually, Dustin disappears into his room and starts checking in on everyone via walkie-talkie—for what must be the thousandth time.

You tell them you’re going out biking before he can ask.

You stop for donuts on the way.

You try to retrace your steps to the Mayfield house—or the Hargrove house. You’re honestly not sure which one it’s supposed to be.

When you ring the doorbell, Billy opens the door.

He looks at you like he hates you on principle, then calls Max’s name without another word.

Apparently, she really did manage to scare him.

Max appears in the doorway, and you lift the bag of donuts in offering.

She snorts. “You’re weird.”

“Yeah,” you say. “But I brought sugar.”

That seems to settle it.

You end up sitting on the grass out front, backs against the house, staring at absolutely nothing. The world feels oddly normal for once.

She picks up a donut and, after a moment, asks,

“Are you going?”

You glance at her. “Going where?”

“The Snow Ball,” she says.

You lick the sugar off your fingers. “No. Mine was last year.”

You pause, then add, “But we’re strongly encouraged to help organize it.”

She hums at that.

You nudge her shoulder. “Why? Want to see me all dressed up?”

She turns almost the same shade as her hair.

“No,” she mutters. “Dork.”

You laugh, grab the second-to-last donut, and hand her the final one.

“If it helps you sleep better.”

She shoves you lightly. “Shut up.”

Then, without comment, she rests her head against your shoulder.

You don’t move.

---

Part 2

[hoist-the-colors]

THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE

Maysilee Donner x reader

Your family isn’t from Panem — the whole district knows that much. They call it the “best-kept secret in District 12,” which is hilarious because everyone knows it. The only reason it still counts as a secret is because the Capitol can’t find out.

President Snow could never discover the truth about the family that arrived illegally by boat.

A boat filled with books, languages, and proof that the rest of the world wasn’t dead after all.

Because outside Panem? People believed the opposite. They thought Panem had been destroyed, wiped off the map. And for Snow, that was perfect. He never wanted the outside world to know what he was doing.

So when that boat washed up on the edge of District 12 years ago, the locals sheltered the travelers. They hid them. And in exchange, condemned them to a life inside the broken remains of this so-called nation.

Then came the tragedy everyone pretends wasn’t suspicious: the entire family dying of “food poisoning” in one night. All except the two-year-old who refused to eat, you.

Who would have guessed being a picky eater meant surviving a massacre?

The boat they arrived in still sits deep in the woods, hidden under moss and branches. Waiting.

And it’s in that half-rotted boat — stuffed with books in half a dozen languages, with old blankets and sun-bleached maps — that you live now. A crooked little boathouse in the middle of the forest, a ghost of a home.

You doesn’t know exactly where your family came from. But anyone outside Panem would recognize that accent instantly.

French.

Soft consonants, round vowels, a melody in every sentence.

And it’s that accent that drives Maysilee Donner up the wall.

Not because she dislikes it — God, she wishes she did.

It annoys her because she loves it.

It annoys her because of the way you says her name.

Maysilee.

May-si-LEE.

Not May-si-yuh, like you insist on saying.

Always with that tiny pout, like you're carefully tasting every syllable before letting it go.

Like her name is a treat worth savoring.

So why is it that every time that accent curls around her name — usually while handing her a single flower at lunch — Maysilee Donner’s heart stops dead?

Why do her ears burn red, why does she choke on her attempt at an insult about your clothes?

And why do you just smile, tucking your hands into your pockets, unbothered, walking back to your table with that small, secret grin…

…as if you knows exactly what you're doing to the most stuck up girl in town, Maysilee Donner?

---

Everyone in District 12 knows the girl in the forest is strange, but they say it kindly — the way they talk about someone who quietly makes they life easier. Roof leak? She’ll fix it before you finish complaining. Window jammed shut? She’ll be up the frame in two seconds with a tool she fashioned out of god-knows-what. She’s always got her hands on something: wood, rope, metal, someone’s sleeve to steer them out of danger. Gentle, steady hands.

As if she were always silently thanking the district for keeping her secret safe.

Maysilee Donner pretends this doesn’t get to her.

It absolutely gets to her.

The first time you touched her wrist to brush away a splinter, Maysilee nearly dropped the tray of pastel candies she was stocking. She blamed the heat. Asterid didn’t believe her for a second.

But you, the girl— with the French accent and the forest for a home — never pushes. Never demands. You just… wait. Patiently. As if you have all the time in the world for Maysilee to figure herself out.

And Maysilee, for all her confidence in lace collars and pretty manners, is terrible at feelings.

Especially when the you keep doing things like showing up at the Donner family candy shop with a little carved flower she made from scrap wood.

“It reminded me of you,” you say, accent warm and soft, offering it with both hands.

Maysilee feels her stomach flip.

Her twin, Marilee, watches from behind the counter with the flat, knowing stare of someone who has been witnessing this slow-motion catastrophe for years.

“Merci, Maysilee,” you add, pronouncing it May-si-yuh again — perfect, impossible, infuriating.

And Maysilee swears she can feel her pulse behind her eyes.

You just smile. Patient. Gentle. Like you know Maysilee’s about to sputter something defensive.

Which, of course, she does.

“Y-your shirt doesn’t match your jacket.”

It’s not even true. The jacket matches perfectly. Asterid bursts out laughing from the other side of the shop.

But you? You just tilt your head, amused. “I’ll wear something worse tomorrow, then,” you say, as if you're doing Maysilee a personal favor.

And you leave with your hands tucked in your pockets, humming softly.

Maysilee watches you go even though she pretends not to.

This goes on for years, in tiny moments:

You fixing the hinge on the Donner family’s back door, sleeves rolled up, humming, completely unaware of how Maysilee is staring at your forearms.

Then Maysilee walking to school and pretending she isn’t looking for you.

You always knowing exactly when Maysilee is overwhelmed and giving her space — but not too much.

A flower each lunchtime. Always one. Always “for you, Maysilee.”

She would always reply, in a lower voice than a whisper, “That’s not how you pronounce it.”

Maysilee accidentally calling her “mon chéri” once after picking up the French from her books. Then denying it for a week.

Everyone sees it.

Everyone.

Except Maysilee, who keeps insisting she’s “being normal.”

Her friends nearly combust every time.

The thing is — you've known you love Maysilee from the beginning. From the moment Maysilee said her name with that nervous tug at her necklace. From the way her blue eyes flicked away fast enough to hide something sweet.

You don’t rush her. You never did. Love, to you, is something you build like a house — slowly, with care, piece by piece, until it stands solid.

So you give Maysilee space to grow into what she clearly feels.

Because you are certain. Absolutely certain.

And Maysilee?

Every time you brush a curl behind her ear to “see her better,” or fixes something for her without asking, or says her name in that accent…

…she gets a little closer to realizing it too.

---

It starts small.

Maysilee doesn’t even notice she’s doing it at first. One day she just… reaches for your sleeve on the way home from school.

“Walk me home,” she says, tone sharper than she means it to be.

You follow, of course. You always did. Patient, steady.

Maysilee pretends the warmth blooming in her chest is irritation.

But then it keeps happening.

If Asterid talks to you for too long, Maysilee appears out of nowhere and drags you away.

If someone at school asks the girl for help fixing something, Maysilee suddenly “needs” you for something else.

“I just— you walk faster than Marilee.”

“We’re going the same direction anyway.”

“You said you’d help me with… something.”

The excuses are terrible.

The need behind them isn’t.

And you see it all — the way Maysilee’s fingers hover before grabbing your wrist, the way she looks relieved just having you close. But you don’t push. You never push.

Then comes the first kiss.

It happens behind the candy shop, when Maysilee is supposed to be taking inventory. She’d been antsy all morning, tugging at her necklace, messing up orders she never messes up. When you stop by to drop off a little wooden hairpin you carved, something in Maysilee cracks.

She grabs the collar of your coat — too fast, too desperate — and pulls her behind the shop, into the narrow shadowed space between crates.

“What are you—?” yoy start.

And Maysilee kisses you.

It’s quick, almost panicked, like she’s making a mistake and committing to it anyway.

She jumps back immediately, wide-eyed.

“I don’t know why I— screw it.”

And she does it again.

This time slower. Softer.

Her hands tremble when she cups your jaw.

She pulls away with pink cheeks and refuses to look her in the eye.

“Don’t tell anyone,” she whispers, voice breaking.

She keeps kissing you after that — secretly, impulsively, always when she thinks she might burst if she doesn’t.

Behind the school greenhouse every class break.

In the forest near the hidden boat every time she accompanies you home.

In the storeroom of the candy shop while Marilee counts boxes outside.

Once inside your crooked boathouse, rain tapping the roof, Maysilee hiding in her scarf with flushed cheeks.

Every kiss is initiated by Maysilee.

Every single one.

She always looks startled after, like she can’t believe she did it — like she’s terrified and relieved at the same time.

You stays steady through all of it.

Never rushing her.

Never demanding more than Maysilee can give.

Just holding her hands after each kiss, letting her breathe.

But not every secret stay secret in District 12.

Asterid catches it first — she opens the storeroom door while Maysilee’s hands are still tangled in your shirt, your hands resting on her waist. She freezes. Asterid stares. Then just says, “Finally,” and walks away.

Marilee figures it out two days later when she catches Maysilee humming and doodling yours initials like she’s in a romance novel.

And then the rest of the district knows.

They don’t say much, but people smile when you pass by. You leave a bouquet of mismatched flowers on the Donners’ porch with no note — everyone in town knows exactly who it’s for.

Maysilee pretends she hates your attention.

She absolutely does not.

She walks a little closer to you now, fingers brushing yours without pretending it’s an accident.

She still doesn’t understand everything she’s feeling.

But she knows one thing for certain:

She never wants to be far from you again.

---

It happens on an ordinary evening — the kind of evening so normal it almost disguises how big the moment will be.

You are fixing a loose shutter on the Donner house, perched on a little stool she insisted she didn’t need. Maysilee sits nearby on the front steps, chin in her hands, pretending she’s just supervising.

She’s not supervising.

She just can’t look away.

“You don’t have to do that,” Maysilee says for the third time.

“You say that every time,” you answer, tightening the last screw. “And you still call me the next morning when something else is broken.”

Maysilee mutters something about her house “testing her patience,” but her eyes are soft as she watches you pack your tools.

When you finally sit beside her on the steps, your knees bump. Maysilee lets the contact stay. She even leans a little.

The forest hums quietly around them. The air smells like sun-warmed wood and sugar from the candy shop.

Maysilee’s fingers twitch on her necklace — a nervous tell you know by heart.

“Hey,” you say gently.

Maysilee looks up.

You hesitate, fiddling with a strap on your satchel. “I… I wanted to ask you something.”

Maysilee does not breathe.

“Do you want to—” You swallow, cheeks warming. “Um… go out with me? Like… properly? As my girlfriend?”

There’s a long pause.

Maysilee blinks once. Twice. Her mouth falls open slightly.

Then she frowns in that tiny, adorable way she always does when she’s embarrassed, ears bright red.

“But…” She gestures between them with both hands, flustered. “You— you already are.”

You freeze.

“I-I mean—” Maysilee’s face goes pink instantly, and she grabs her braids in frustration. “You kiss me! I kiss you. You fix my house. I bring you things from the shop. You… you say my name like it’s something special. And we—” She waves her hands again, hopelessly. “We’re together!”

Your smile is slow, warm, patient.

“Maysilee,” you murmur, brushing a blonde curl from her cheek. “I didn’t want to assume unless you said so.”

Maysilee looks at you like that’s the single dumbest thing she’s ever heard.

She grabs the front of your shirt — not roughly, just desperately — and pulls you in for a kiss that leaves you breathless.

When she finally pulls away, she whispers:

“You’ve been my girlfriend since the day you fixed my door and called me ‘May-si-yuh’. I just… didn’t say it.”

You laugh softly, cupping her jaw.

“Well, I’m definitely telling everyone you’re my girlfriend.”

Maysilee plants both hands on your chest and pushes you away, laughing at her nonsense, cheeks still pink

---

In those moments, you forgot that in that place - Panem - that abomination existed.

The Hunger Games

So of course you felt guilty, for being the only person who wasn't part of the reaping.

You felt awful knowing that countless families were covering up your existence. They were sparing you from the monstrosity of the Capitol.

So on that day, when Maysilee's name was called, you were powerless, forced to watch your beloved being taken from you and thrown into their horror show.

You couldn't protest, you couldn't move.

You don't exist. And soon your Maysilee Donner won't exist either.

In entirely different ways.

The district doesn't judge you, they don't hate you. Everyone has lost someone. And you lost everything. Family, country, freedom.

And her.

[hoist-the-colors]

THE LIST

Sophia x reader

It was a fact: no one got close to them, romantically speaking, unless Sophia Laforteza approved.

And she had never approved of anyone. Not once. Look how that turned out.

None of the ex-boyfriends or ex-girlfriends of her best friends had been properly vetted, and the result was always the same: broken hearts scattered like confetti.

Say what you want about Sophia, but the girl had a terrifyingly accurate eye for people. Her friends, on the other hand, had terrible taste in men.

She might seem rigid from the outside - and she was - but she hadn’t always been that way.

Contrary to the sharp-eyed fortress she is today, the first time you met Laforteza, she was a chubby-cheeked sixth grader who got excited about the smallest things. Bright braids. A smile that looked like she truly believed she’d hugged unicorns before breakfast.

But this school destroys dreams. Like any other school. Worse, because it was a boarding school.

Looking back now, you remember the first time you saw her clearly: a boy tugging her perfect braids, laughing. You walked right past him and bumped your shoulder into his hard enough to send him stumbling over the curb.

You were never a person of many words. If something was wrong, you fixed it. If it wasn’t, you didn’t look twice.

And the new girl, surrounded by kids eager to try out movie-style bullying? You saw “wrong” often.

Girls knocked her tray to the floor? Easy. Mashed potatoes to their faces.

Someone locked her in the bathroom? You flushed them out.

They hid her purse? You scattered their bags across the courtyard like trash.

You always managed to resolve violence with… well, more violence. Not the best method, but instinctive. And very effective.

Which brings you to today, five years later, feeling extremely conflicted about a certain student.

And by “conflicted,” you meant 'can’t stop thinking about her smile'.

Unfortunately, she was deep in the danger zone. Sophia’s zone. The inaccessible friend group. Anyone who looked their way earned a sharp warning stare.

What you didn’t know—what no one knew—was that you were on Sophia’s extremely confidential list of “approved individuals.”

No one would’ve guessed it. Not after your history. You’d been in your share of fights.

Irrelevant detail: you never started any. You just finished them.

The most recent involved some older guy furious that his ex-girlfriend had kissed you. They had broken up—because he’d cheated—but apparently their break up and her bisexuality was your fault. He swung a baseball bat at you in a rage.

Thank God it only hit your arm. It hurt like hell, but you ended the fight with one clean right hook to the jaw.

Two-week suspension. Massive bruise. Even worse reputation.

Knowing all that, you were painfully aware that your chances with anyone from Sophia’s friend group were slim.

---

The problem was: Sophia noticed things.

Or maybe that’s the only reason she’s survived this school so long. Hard to tell.

Emily had been acting strange all morning.

Strange in the specific way people act when they’re trying very hard not to look at someone. Someone being… you.

Every time you walked by, Emily's shoulders tensed, then relaxed, then tensed again, like she was manually rebooting her ability to function as a human.

And Sophia watched it all.

By lunch, the tension at the table was so obvious even freshmen nearby were whispering.

Emily stirred her soup.

And stirred.

And stirred.

Sophia watched her with that unreadable expression she’d perfected over the years—the one that made grown men rethink their entire lives.

Finally, she placed her fork down. Quiet. Precise. Dangerous.

“Emily.”

Emily jumped like she’d been caught stealing.

“Y-yeah?”

“You’re acting weird.”

“I—I’m not acting weird.”

Sophia raised one eyebrow. Just one. A school legend.

Emily cracked instantly.

“Okay, maybe a little weird.”

“Mhm.” Sophia leaned forward. “Why?”

Emily swallowed. Her eyes flicked—just once—toward you in the lunch line. Sophia followed the glance, slow, like a predator tracking movement.

She inhaled through her nose.

“Oh.”

Emily froze. “Wh—what do you mean ‘oh’?”

“I mean,” Sophia said calmly, “that I know that look.” She tapped the table. “And I know you’ve been blushing every time she walks by for three days.”

Emily covered her face. “Oh my God—”

“So it *is* that,” Sophia decided, smug, but not exactly happy. “You like her.”

Emily let out a pathetic whine. “It’s not—I mean—I don’t—It’s just—”

“Emily.” Sophia’s voice softened. “You like her.”

The smallest nod in human history.

Sophia leaned back, arms crossed, eyes drifting toward you again as you laughed with friends, completely unaware of the meltdown occurring across the cafeteria.

“Well,” she said slowly, “that’s… unexpected.”

Emily panicked. “Unexpected bad or unexpected okay?”

Sophia didn’t answer at first. She calculated—something she did far too well.

Finally:

“Unexpected okay,” she said. “Actually… more than okay.”

Emily blinked. “What?”

“She’s on the list,” Sophia said simply.

Emily’s jaw dropped. “THE list? The secret list? The one we’re not sure is real?”

“It’s real. It’s just in my folder.”

“Sophia!”

“What? She’s been on it since sixth grade.”

Emily stared like Sophia had revealed immortality.

“…d-do you think she likes me back?”

Sophia scoffed. “Emily. She looked at you like you hung the moon when you walked into chemistry this morning.”

“Don’t say that,” Emily squeaked, hiding behind her hands.

“It’s true,” Sophia shrugged. “I’ve never seen her look at anyone like that.”

Emily peeked between her fingers. “So…?”

“So stop panicking. And talk to her.”

Emily nodded, terrified and hopeful at once.

And at that exact moment, you walked past behind them with your tray, oblivious as ever.

You stopped and leaned over.

“Pia, Yoonchae got the art room for movie night.”

Next to you, Yoonchae nodded proudly.

“We watching one or two?”

“The first one, obviously,” Sophia replied instantly. Then, after a beat: “Emily’s coming with me this time.”

Emily’s eyes nearly popped out of her skull.

“You like Mamma Mia?” you asked her.

“Of course she likes Mamma Mia, you dingus,” Sophia deadpanned, noticing Emily was frozen.

“Shoo, shoo, go punch someone I don't know,” Manon waved you off playfully.

“Oh hello to you too, Manon.” You stuck your tongue out and walked away with Yoonchae toward the courtyard.

Back at the table, Emily smacked Sophia’s arm. “Why would you do that?? How am I supposed to survive this?”

Lara, mid-chew, said, “Yeah, Soph, you threw her right into the lion’s cage.”

“Shut up, she’s not a lion,” Sophia muttered, then turned to Emily. “Everything will be fine. Just talk to her.”

Emily melted into her palms.

On the opposite side of the table, Megan and Daniela whispered.

“I thought Sophia liked her,” Megan said, poking Daniela’s arm with a knife.

“Yes! That list? Probably just her name surrounded by hearts.”

“Think she hasn’t noticed it yet?”

They both looked at Sophia: smiling lightly, eyebrows furrowed, clearly confused by her own brain.

Meanwhile, in the courtyard, Yoonchae asked a question she had asked you a thousand times over the years:

“Why don’t you just tell Sophia?”

---

The art room was barely recognizable as the place where people usually ruined canvases or cried over deadlines.

Tonight, it looked… cozy.

Which made sense. Movie night was supposed to be your and Sophia’s thing. No one else. No exceptions.

Except tonight, Emily was here.

And Yoonchae.

Which made everything feel slightly… crooked.

You walked in last, carrying popcorn, and took the seat beside Sophia like you always did. Emily sat on your other side, knees pulled to her chest, looking like a squirrel on its fifth espresso.

Sophia hit play.

---

Halfway through the movie Emily kept getting… closer.

Not dramatically, but enough that every few minutes her knee brushed yours.

And each time, you reflexively, gently shifted just an inch away.

Not rude.

Just natural, comfortable distance.

If anything, it only seemed to make Emily more nervous.

At one point, when your hand dipped into the popcorn bowl right as hers did, she jolted like she'd been electrocuted.

Yoonchae watched the whole thing with the deadpan expression of someone witnessing a slow-motion car crash.

Sophia noticed too — but the wrong thing.

She kept glancing between you and Emily with a very specific, confused little furrow between her brows. The one she used when she was trying to solve a puzzle that should be easy.

But this?

This wasn’t a puzzle.

Sophia just couldn't see

You just didn’t like Emily like that.

---

Eventually, Emily couldn’t take the tension anymore.

Halfway through “Dancing Queen,” she stood up abruptly.

“I—um—I’m gonna… get water,” she blurted out.

And left.

The door clicked shut.

Sophia groaned softly, dragging a hand down her face.

Yoonchae muttered under her breath, “Girl is struggling.”

You said nothing, because you truly had no idea what was going on.

---

Emily wasn’t getting water.

She was pacing like she was preparing for a court trial when you stepped out to check on her.

She froze. “Oh. Hi.”

“You okay?”

“Not really,” she admitted, wringing her hands. “I… need to tell you something.”

Her eyes were huge.

Her breath shaky.

Her entire body trembling like a chihuahua in a snowstorm.

And suddenly—finally—you understood.

Oh.

Oh, no.

“…Emily,” you said softly.

She inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself.

“I like you,” she blurted out. “Like… like you.”

You froze.

“Oh,” you said again, but this time out loud. “Emily, I—I’m really sorry. I don’t feel the same way.”

You placed a hand on her shoulder, gentle but firm. “I’m really, really sorry.”

Emily blinked fast, nodding too many times.

“No, it’s okay, it’s totally okay, I swear, I just— I thought maybe— it’s fine— sorry—”

She rushed past you, cheeks burning.

You sighed, leaned back against the wall, and let the moment settle like dust.

When you returned to the room, Yoonchae took one look at you and just whispered, “Shit.”

Sophia paused the movie.

“What happened?” she asked.

You simply shook your head.

“Nothing.”

But Sophia didn’t believe in “nothing.”

Not when it came to you.

---

Three days later, you were grabbing your books from your locker when Sophia appeared like a storm cloud with purpose.

“Walk with me.”

She didn’t wait for your answer.

You followed her to the empty courtyard. The shadows of the trees cut across her face as she turned to you, arms crossed.

“Emily likes you.”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “She told me.”

“And you don’t like her.”

“No.”

Sophia nodded, but something in her was buzzing.

Restless.

Unsettled.

“I know something was up,” she muttered. “The way you looked at her.”

You blinked. “…what way?”

“You know.”

She waved her hand vaguely.

“The look you always give when you really like someone. The one from chemistry. You looked at her like she hung the moon.”

You stared at her.

Then you laughed.

Loud.

Sudden.

Real.

Sophia froze.

“…why are you laughing?” she asked carefully.

You stepped forward, poked her squarely in the middle of her chest.

It startled her enough that she actually took a step back.

“That was you, doofus.”

“What?”

“That look.”

Poke.

“It was for you.”

Poke.

“I like you. Not Emily.”

Sophia’s mouth fell open slightly.

“You— me?” she said weakly. “You like me?”

You rolled your eyes in the fondest way imaginable.

“Apparently.”

Sophia’s brain visibly short-circuited.

Then she stepped in — close — too close — and grabbed the front of your jacket in both hands.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

“I like you.”

“Again.”

“I like you, Sophia Laforteza.”

Her breath hitched.

And then she kissed you.

Not hesitantly.

Not shyly.

But with certainty — the kind she used in arguments, in victories, in anything she truly meant.

Her hands slid up to your collar.

Yours pulled her closer by the waist.

Her lips were warm, determined, a little desperate.

Like she’d been holding this in for years.

When she finally pulled back, foreheads touching, she whispered:

“You’re such an idiot.”

You smirked. “Takes one to like one.”

Sophia stepped back just enough to reach into her bag, and grab her folder. She pulled out a sheet — seemingly blank.

But when she held it up, you saw:

Your name.

Written at the top.

In perfect handwriting.

Surrounded by tiny hearts.

A list of one.

Your laugh burst out again, uncontrollable, delighted.

You grabbed her by the waist and kissed her again.

[hoist-the-colors]

Not my circus nor my monkeys, but can i buy a ticket?

[hoist-the-colors]

SUDDENLY I SEE

Megan x reader

“Stop staring, you weirdo,” Lara muttered, poking your back with her very pointy pencil.

You waved her off without turning, whispering, “I’m not staring. Just… looking.”

Your eyes, however, never left the girl three seats ahead.

Megan Skiendiel. Laughing so hard she nearly fell out of her chair. Sophia, beside her, was gesturing wildly to prove some point, and Megan was doubling over in response.

Lara leaned in again. “Yeah, no. That’s staring. Do you even know what subject we’re in right now?”

You blinked at her, honestly confused. “...School?”

“Exactly what I thought.” Lara rolled her eyes and went back to doodling in her notebook.

When the teacher turned back to the board, Lara whispered, “I don’t get why you’re so awkward about her. She’s literally super cool.”

“I know she’s cool,” you hissed, cheeks heating. “We talk. Like normal people.”

Lara smirked. “Sure. Totally normal.”

---

The bell finally rang, and as your history teacher dismissed the class (yes, you actually had been paying attention), Megan was waiting for you at the door.

Lara shot her eyebrows up in a knowing way and waved you off dramatically.

“Hey, Tajín!” Megan grinned, holding up a sandwich wrapped in foil. “I brought your favorite. Made it myself!”

You froze for a beat. Maybe the story should start earlier.

Because ever since that all-nighter in the school library—where you, at the teacher’s request, had helped Megan untangle the nightmare that was physics—Megan had been a constant in your life.

Lunch every day. Just the two of you, while her friends giggled at a separate table. Walks home, since “it’s the same path anyway.” Random pictures of cats, clouds, or funny signs lighting up your phone. Always there.

So yeah, Lara wasn’t wrong. You shouldn’t feel awkward around her. Megan was easygoing, funny, and a little embarrassing in the best way. How could you not like her?

Her friends, especially Manon, seemed to have caught on to your crush, and they loved to tease you when Megan wasn’t looking.

Right now, though, as Megan babbled about how she perfected the exact amount of spice in her sandwich, you could only think about how lucky you’d been that night in the library—numbers clicking into place, hot dogs at midnight, spilling Tajín on your shirt and getting the nickname that stuck. The night she held your hand as she walked you to your porch. The night you started liking her for more than just her prettiness.

---

So it wasn’t a surprise when she walked you home again that day.

But it was a surprise when, hours later, a soft noise tapped against your window.

Grabbing a baseball bat (just in case), you peeked outside—only to see Megan in your backyard, drowning in oversized sweats, grinning up at you.

“You gonna let me in, or what?”

You rushed downstairs, cracked the door open, and were greeted with, “Nice pants.” She pointed at your SpongeBob pajamas.

Your face went nuclear. “Shut up, Skiendiel.”

“What? They’re cute.” She smirked all the way upstairs, until you cornered her in your room.

“What are you even doing here?” you asked, exasperated.

Hands up in mock surrender, she said, “Wow, can’t I miss my girlfriend anymore?” Then she flopped onto your bed like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Your entire brain short-circuited. Girlfriend?

“What?” you breathed, so soft she almost didn’t hear.

She tossed a pillow at your head. “I missed you. Is that a crime?”

“No, not that—you said girlfriend. Are we… dating?”

Megan sat up, giving you the most bewildered look. “Uh, yeah? Are you okay?”

Your chest tightened. “Are you serious? Please don’t mess with me. If this is some kind of joke…”

She tilted her head, puppy-like. “Wait—you didn’t know?”

She scooted closer, her voice gentler now. “Think about it. We’ve already been talking for months. Then you tutored me. We ate hot dogs at midnight. I walked you home and asked if you wanted to be more than my tutor…” She took your hand, her other hand brushing your cheek. “And then I kissed you.”

Your face went crimson. “That was my cheek! It only brushed the corner of my mouth.”

Megan leaned in, lips inches from yours, her voice dropping to a playful whisper.

“Oh, really? My mistake. Let me fix it.”

And then she kissed you.

The nervous energy melted away in an instant. You tasted cherry lip balm. Vanilla shampoo filled your senses. Her hands cupped your face, squeezing your waist just enough to make you dizzy. You craned upward on your tiptoes, unwilling to let her go.

When she finally pulled back, resting her forehead against yours, she smiled like the sun.

“Didn’t you notice Daniela making kissing noises every time we got close? Or Yoonchae calling you my girlfriend?”

“I thought they were just teasing me because I liked you,” you muttered, punching her arm lightly.

---

Later, when she slipped out into the night with a rushed excuse about homework, you sat on your bed, heart racing.

'I’m Megan’s girlfriend.'

And then the true horror dawned on you.

'Oh God. Lara is never letting me live this down.'

[hoist-the-colors]

ISLAND IN THE SUN (2)

Megan x reader

But Hawaii wasn’t the end.

It was only the beginning.

Most people thought your first crush would fade, like names scrawled in wet sand. But it didn’t.

Your love wasn’t a wildfire, quick and burning out.

It was a lighthouse.

Steady, unshakable.

A beam guiding you through storms, a glow waiting on the shoreline at night.

It survived missed birthdays. It survived empty phone cards. It survived time zones and oceans between you.

Five years passed, and still, the love you found on that beach burned bright.

But long-distance visits and holiday reunions weren’t enough anymore. You needed her close.

So you worked. You pushed. You trained harder than anyone else on the field until you weren’t just the best soccer player in your city—you were the best in the country.

Everyone thought soccer carried you to UCLA.

But the truth? Megan did.

Every sprint, every goal, every aching muscle, every late night… all of it pointed to her. She was your compass.

And finally, at seventeen, you stood in Los Angeles. Not Hawaii. Not 2018. Not twelve years old anymore.

But Megan was there.

Her training studio was only a few blocks away. Her friends already knew you by name—she had told them stories, endless stories, about you. And when they saw you together, they recognized the way your eyes softened whenever you looked at her—the exact same way hers lit up when she said your name.

You were there for her struggles. For her victories. For the small, ordinary moments in between. And you always would be, as long as she let you.

Because your heart was still safe in Megan’s hands—the same hands that held it when she was twelve, holding a popsicle on a beach in Hawaii.

Your Megan.

And you would trust her with it forever.

[hoist-the-colors]

ISLAND IN THE SUN

Megan x reader

When your dad told you to pick the destination for your first real vacation together, you didn’t even think twice.

“Hawaii,” you said.

Where else would a 12-year-old beach kid choose?

Hawaii had it all—waves, sand, palm trees, volcanoes—and it had her.

January 2018. A date you would carry forever in your heart.

A trip that would shape her.

The best week of your life.

And of course, it all began on the beach.

---

By the third day, you had already climbed a volcano and nearly touched lava because it looked like glowing slime, wandered through museums, and eaten way too much shaved ice. But today was different—today was for the ocean.

You woke up before sunrise, already in your swimsuit, tugging your dad’s arm as you dragged him toward the shore. Your small legs kicked up sand with every eager step.

If someone had looked at you then, they wouldn’t have guessed how much you loved the beach. No matter how long you stayed in the sun, your skin never tanned. Your dad liked to joke you had only two colors: “pale as printer paper” and “red as Mr. Krabs.” Nothing in between.

By 6:30 a.m., you were already chest-deep in the waves with your foam surfboard, salt stinging your eyes, taking wave after wave straight to the head like it was a blessing from the sea itself.

On your tenth good ride, the ocean tossed you forward and you belly-flopped right onto the sand—straight at someone’s feet.

You looked up.

A girl stood there, her doe-brown eyes wide, a half-melted strawberry popsicle dripping down her hand. She tilted her head, pointed at your surfboard, and said:

“Can I try next? You can have the rest.”

She extended the popsicle as if it were a fair trade.

Wiping the sand from your suit, you grinned, handed her the board, and took the sticky treat.

“We can play together. I don’t need the board anyway.”

And just like that, the two of you became inseparable.

You spent the whole day tumbling through waves, shrieking with laughter, hair plastered to your faces, skin sticky from popsicles and salt. By the time the sun dipped into the horizon, your cheeks hurt from smiling, your stomach ached from laughing, and your body was sore from wiping out on too many wrong waves.

But still—not nearly enough.

You could have floated beside her in that ocean forever, and it wouldn’t have been enough.

Her name was Megan.

When your dad and her mom finally called you both out of the water, you dragged your feet through the sand, reluctant to leave. Before parting, she leaned in and gave you a quick kiss on the cheek—sealed with a whispered promise:

“Tomorrow. Same spot. Same time.”

Your dad smiled knowingly as you walked back to the hotel, and though he didn’t say much, you could tell. That day, he had seen your heart slip quietly into Megan’s hands.

And even though Megan didn’t know it yet, she would hold it carefully—for as long as you let her.

---

The days that followed were a blur of sun and laughter. Lunch at her house, where you met her brother and talked about yours. An afternoon in her room, where you taped a photo of the two of you to her wall, claiming your tiny place in her life. Nights on the pier, bare feet dangling above the tide, whispering secrets about dreams and fears, about everything and nothing at all.

She told you about her hopes for the future, and you swore she had the brightest story on the island—even though you knew she was the brightest thing on the whole planet.

On your last night, you stood with her on that same pier, the salt breeze tangling your hair. A chaste kiss brushed your lips as your toes skimmed the water below. You were going home, but it felt like you were leaving your real home behind.

That night, you traded more than old phone numbers. You traded hearts.

Part 2

[hoist-the-colors]

BUSY STREET

Megan x reader

“C’mon Megan, it’s your turn.” Lara poked Megan in the ribs.

Katseye was filming a YouTube promo where each member had to stop a random stranger wearing headphones, ask what they were listening to, and recommend a Katseye song. Simple, right?

Well… not exactly.

Lara, Sophia, Manon, and Daniela had all finished, so now it was Megan’s turn. She scanned the street for her “victim.”

And then she saw you.

You were crossing the street in a sunken F1 cap, a Pirates of the Caribbean shirt, sweatpants with Darth Vader plastered on the leg, Percy Jackson blue vans, and a NASA jacket. The holy grail of geek chic.

Except—no headphones.

Still, Megan’s mind was made up. She stepped forward, ignoring Yoonchae’s baffled look.

“Excuse me, may I ask what song you’re listening to?” Megan tapped your shoulder.

You turned—and froze when you saw who was talking to you. How can someone be so gorgeous?

“…Song? What do you mean?”

Megan blinked, panic flooding her. Her eyes darted to your ears. No headphones. No salvation.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I thought you had headphones. This is for a video—I was gonna ask about your music and recommend one of ours. I’m rambling, sorry.”

You smirked, amused at her fluster.

“It’s fine, cutie. I can tell you what song I’m thinking of, and then you can recommend one. Deal?”

Megan’s lips curled into the brightest smile you’d ever seen.

“O-okay. That works.”

You tilted your head, eyes soft.

“When I look at you, the only song I can think of is Iris by Goo Goo Dolls. Do you know it? ‘You’re the closest to heaven that I’ll ever be, and I don’t wanna go home right now…’ Great song.”

Megan felt her cheeks burn. Of all the lyrics, you picked the romantic part.

“Yeah, I know it… it’s beautiful.” She completely forgot about the cameras.

You just kept staring at her like she was the only star in your sky. That’s when she jolted back to reality.

“Oh right! Um, listen to our debut—it’s on YouTube, Spotify, everywhere! I mean—not everywhere, but—ugh.”

You giggled at her awkwardness.

“If you made it, I’ll love it.” You extended your hand. “Nice to meet you…?”

She fumbled slightly but managed to shake.

“Megan. I’m Megan.”

“Y/N. Hope I see you again, Megan.” You winked and walked off, only waving as you disappeared into the crowd.

Megan was still frozen when Daniela appeared at her side.

“Mei… you do know she wasn’t wearing headphones, right?”

Megan beamed.

“Nope! But that was way better than I expected.” Then it hit her. “Shit—I didn’t get her number!”

“She went down that street—run!” Manon pointed.

“No, into the market.” Yoonchae corrected.

“She walked straight there.” Lara added, pointing into a sea of people.

Megan groaned.

“Oh god, please no…”

Sophia glanced straight into the camera.

“Pray for her.”

(In reality, you’d already slipped away.)

---

That night, curiosity got the better of you. You looked up Katseye’s debut on YouTube. As expected—you loved it.

You left a comment:

“Knew I would love it, cutie. You really are the dream.”

Three days later, the promo video went live. Fans didn’t take long to connect the dots. And Megan? She nearly combusted.

“OH MY GOD, IT’S HER!” Megan shrieked, waving her phone like a flag.

Daniela, sprawled on the couch, didn’t look up.

“Who?”

Yoonchae, sharing the same couch, smirked.

“Wifey. Who else?”

“I’M TEXTING HER!” Megan hopped up and down.

Daniela finally raised an eyebrow

“On… YouTube?”

Megan froze. “…Oh.”

Then Megan’s phone buzzed with notifications. She stared at the screen, jaw unhinged.

“What the hell, Yoonchip?!”

Yoonchae smirked.

“You’re welcome.”

Lara peeked in from the kitchen.

“Wait—what’s the tea?”

Megan handed over her phone. Lara’s eyes widened.

“Girl… she just gave you her number, Instagram, Steam account, and—wait—is that her IP ?”

Dani and Yoonchae high-fived while Megan sputtered.

---

Later, Sophia overheard muffled whining.

“…not texting her…” Megan’s face was buried in a pillow.

Filing her nails, Sophia didn’t even look up.

“Sort your shit out, or I’ll text her myself while you sleep."

Megan’s head shot up.

“You wouldn’t.”

Sophia’s flat tone:

“Try me.”

Five minutes later, Megan was with Manon, workshopping texts.

“Hi? No, too dry. Yo sup? Too gangster. Heyy? Yes—heyy is cute.”

Manon groaned.

“It’s been thirty minutes, and all we have is heyy.”

“Progress,”Megan mumbled.

Two and a half hours later, she had a message:

Heyy Y/N, it’s Megan—the girl from the music thing the other day. My friend gave me your number, hope that’s ok 🫶🫶. Anywayyy, wanna hang out sometime? Would love to get to know you better!

She hit send—and screamed into her pillow.

Not too far away, your phone buzzed. Smiling, you replied instantly:

Hey cutie. You free tomorrow? I’ll pick you up and we can hit the beach.

Megan read it, turned scarlet, and promptly fainted onto the couch.

She couldn't wait for tomorrow.

[hoist-the-colors]

TONIGHT I MIGHT

Megan x reader

"I'm not gonna hold this, Piper," you said for what felt like the hundredth time. Your best friend shoved the sign toward you, the big block letters reading I’VE NEVER HAD MY FIRST KISS.

"I'm not even sure why you brought this."

"She thinks Manon is gonna do the Halsey thing on her," Walker yelled from behind, half laughing, half choking on their soda.

You chuckled, shaking your head. "Okay, but why would I hold it? You’re the one who wants Manon to kiss you."

Piper groaned dramatically and forced the sign into your hands. "My arms are tired and I’m already accepting defeat. Pleeeease."

You sighed, giving in. Reluctantly, you pressed the poster against the rail in front of you. Fine. Whatever. You’d drop it and just enjoy the Katseye show—after all, it wasn’t every day you scored a front-row spot.

Halfway through the set, the opening notes of 'Tonight I Might' hit, and the stadium roared. The girls spread across the stage, walking closer to the barricades, interacting with fans.

That’s when you started feeling it—the press of bodies, the deafening screams, the buzzing lights. You liked Katseye, sure, but honestly? You’d come mostly as Piper and Walker’s ride. The noise was overwhelming. Then Lara appeared down the left side of the stage, Megan down the right, both making their way toward the audience.

Before you had time to process, Megan was right in front of you. Her eyes caught the sign in your limp hands. She smiled, slow and mischievous, then cupped your face.

When your noses nearly brushed, she asked softly, “May I?”

And then she kissed you.

The crowd might’ve been screaming, the bass might’ve been shaking the stadium, but in that moment it all dropped away. The only thing you felt was your racing heart and the softness of her lips.

Too soon, she pulled back. “Your name?” she asked quickly.

“Y/N,” you managed, breathless.

Megan winked, skipped down the barricade, and carried on like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You stood frozen, the chorus spilling back in: Tonight I might, tonight I might do stupid shit…

Next to you, Piper was hitting you with the damn sign, shrieking, “IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ME AND MANON, BITCH!” Someone’s phone hovered too close to your face, filming your stunned reaction. Walker stared at you like you’d just grown a second head.

But you? You could only taste her lip gloss.

---

By the time the show ended, TikTok was already flooded with clips from five different angles. Over Walker’s shoulder, you saw your own stunned face looped in edits with slow-motion zooms and sparkly filters.

“Damn, that was fast,” Piper muttered, scrolling on her phone.

On the way out, at least three strangers tried to kiss you—to kiss Megan“by proxy,” they claimed—before you shoved everyone toward the car.

---

Looking back, you probably should’ve expected it. Of course people were going to recognize you—your face was front and center in every viral clip. But you figured it’d die out quickly. You weren’t even on social media that much.

You forgot one small detail: Piper and Walker were chronically online, and you’d popped up in half their videos already.

Which is how you ended up at soccer practice with an audience. As you jogged laps around the field, a cluster of girls—some new, some from rival teams—sat in the bleachers with their phones aimed at you.

The stares made your skin crawl. Between drills, you pulled your sweatshirt over your sports bra, hoping it would help, but the cameras didn’t stop. It kept happening—at practice, at the dining hall, even at your 6 a.m. swim classes. Eventually, your coaches banned spectators entirely.

---

After one particularly sweaty game, Piper stuck a phone in your face. “When you stay up all night making the *perfect* poster hoping Manon kisses you, but you get tired for ONE minute so your best friend gets kissed by Megan instead… God, why?”

You shoved her playfully, laughing. “Shut up, doofus.”

The TikTok blew up overnight. Comments flooded in:

“LMAOOOO”

“As Justin Bieber once said… THAT SHOULD BE ME.”

“bro id kms”

“god has favorites”

“@Katseye HELLO???”

Walker chimed in from the comments section:

“this lame ass girl just changed her jersey from #7 to #29 bc of the date of the concert 💀”

Which, okay, was true. You’d always worn seven. But two weeks before the season started, you asked to switch. A silly superstition, you told yourself. No one was supposed to notice.

---

That night, Daniela and Manon went live on Weverse. Of course, the topic came up.

“Someone’s asking if we saw Piper’s TikTok,” Daniela read.

“YES!” Manon bounced on the bed. “Sorry, Piper, I didn’t see your poster at the show. But your friend seemed really happy that Megan did.”

Daniela smirked. “For real, you guys should ask Megan about it. She’s been yapping every five seconds.”

Just then, Manon’s phone buzzed. She squinted at the notification, then read aloud:

“‘Sophia says that girl studies right here in L.A. Girl, just drop your location and Megan will run there.’”

Daniela snorted. “Just kidding… or maybe not. You’ll have to ask Megan.”

---

Katseye’s next interview was a “truth serum” game, where the members had to answer every question with brutal honesty.

Yoonchae drew a card, her grin wicked.

“Megan, what did you think of the show on the 29th?”

Megan froze, cheeks heating instantly. She scrambled for safe answers.

“I loved the energy… the fans. Just like I love all the shows, really.”

Lara raised an eyebrow.

“The fans, huh? All of them? Or maybe someone in particular?”

Megan’s head snapped around.

“Shut. Up.”

The room erupted in laughter, but Megan buried her face in her hands.

At the very end, the host asked casually:

“So, girls, did you see there’s an open soccer game tomorrow? LACC versus UCLA.”

Sophia jumped in before anyone else could.

“UCLA? Soccer? Oh yeah—we’ll definitely try to go.”

She was grinning ear to ear, while Megan looked like she wished the floor would swallow her whole.

---

“Okay, I’ll just kill myself real quick and be right back,” you muttered, slumping onto the bench.

Walker flicked your ear.

“Dramatic much? I just said Katseye might come.”

“Yeah, thanks for clarifying. Now I just might kill myself.”

“They’re here,” Piper whispered, pointing at the grandstand. “Oh my god—they’re waving.”

You slid lower on the bench, hiding your face in your hands, just as the coach barked:

“Walker, Piper—off the field! Time to focus.”

---

The match was everything your coach wanted: a clean 3–0 victory. You scored once, and even cleared a ball millimeters before it crossed the goal line. When the whistle blew, your coach clapped your back.

“Fantastic work, Y/N. That’s how a midfielder leads.”

Still buzzing, you were heading off when Leah—Walker’s girlfriend and your trusted interviewer—caught you with her mic.

“Y/N, thoughts on the game? Anything you’d change?”

You spotted a camera pointed at you. Adrenaline mixed with mischief, and you smirked.

“The game was great. Everyone played like a real team. But…” You paused dramatically. “…I think something was missing.”

Leah tilted her head, suspicious.

“Missing? Like what?”

“Maybe… a special sign from someone in the crowd.”

You patted her shoulder and walked off, leaving Leah grinning knowingly as the cameraman zoomed in.

---

Showered and changed, you found Piper bouncing outside the locker room, practically vibrating.

“They asked if they could talk to you—I said yes,” she blurted. “Well, not they. One of them. You know who. Oh my god, I’m your manager now.”

You blinked slowly. “…what?”

Piper grabbed your shoulders.

“Megan. Megan wants to talk to you. Megan Meiyok Skiendiel. From Katseye. She’s waiting outside.”

Before you could protest, Piper shoved you through the door.

Megan stood leaning against the wall, eyes on the floor. The second the door clicked shut, she looked up. Your gazes locked.

Silence fell—comfortable, awkward, charged.

Finally, Megan spoke, her voice low but steady.

“I think we… started the wrong way. Can we try again? Maybe coffee? A movie? The beach? Anything you like.

You chuckled, stepping closer. Taking her hand, you gently pulled her toward you and brushed a kiss against her burning cheek.

“Come on, Meiyok,” you murmured with a grin. “My treat.”