series summary: you and harry had an agreement: no strings attached. purely sex. nothing serious. until he asked you to pretend to be his date and girlfriend to his parents’ golden anniversary. lines start to get blurred when you spend an entire week with him and his family.
pairing: harry castillo x fem!reader
series content warning(s): EXPLICIT CONTENT (18+ ONLY MDNI), friends with benefits, fake relationship trope, secretly in love, lots of smut y'all, slight age gap (implied but never specified), elements of angst and bad communication between reader & harry, no use of y/n. each chapter will have its own separate warnings!
a/n: i didn't think i was going to write another multi-chaptered story, but this idea has been lingering in my mind for weeks and tbh i don't think i'm ready to say goodbye to writing harry anytime soon. anyway, this will be completely different than what i've written for him so far. i'm excited to explore a different side to this character after his breakup with lucy, so stay tuned and see y'all soon <3
Chapter summary: Morning starts soft at the Henderson house, but the calm cracks at school when Mara discovers Nancy is secretly involved with Steve. What begins as routine turns into quiet heartbreak, mistrust, and the first real fracture between friends.
Chapter themes: Fragile normalcy, Loyalty vs secrecy, Growing up too fast, trust, betrayal, and social power, Omen/fate (the natural one)
Morning in the Henderson house didn't arrive all at once. It seeped in slowly—through the thin seams of the curtains, through the gaps under doors, through the soft hush of a suburban street pretending the world was simple. The light outside Mara's window was a pale, indecisive blue, the kind that couldn't decide if it wanted to be day yet, and inside her room the air still held onto night like it was stubborn.
She lay on her back for a long minute with her eyes open, listening.
The house had its own language in the morning. Pipes warming up, a distant faucet turning on. The faint thud of a cupboard closing downstairs. A pan set on a stove. The low, familiar music of someone moving with purpose, not fear. It should have been comforting. It was, in a way—proof that the world kept going, proof that there was breakfast and routine and a mother who would call up the stairs if she didn't come down soon.
Still, Mara's body stayed half-braced like it had forgotten how to believe in calm.
Her gaze drifted toward the floor where her D20 sat beside her bed, exactly where it had landed the night before—small, ridiculous, unassuming. A harmless thing.
A one.
Natural.
Even in the flat morning light, it looked like a warning.
Mara swallowed, pushed the thought away the way she pushed a lot of things away, and rolled onto her side. The pillow smelled faintly like her shampoo and clean laundry. Safe smells. Safe room. Safe house.
She swung her legs out of bed anyway, because safe didn't mean the day waited.
Downstairs, the kitchen was bright in that warm, lived-in way. The overhead light was on even though the sun was trying its best, and the whole room smelled like butter and eggs and toasted bread—like normalcy you could taste. Mara's mother stood at the stove in an oversized sweatshirt, hair pulled back in a loose knot, moving a spatula through scrambled eggs with the steady patience of someone who had done this a thousand times and still meant it. Her dad leaned against the counter with a mug of coffee cradled in both hands, newspaper spread open but not really being read. He had that half-awake expression men got when the day hadn't fully asked them to be people yet.
And at the center of it all, like a small storm system forming over a warm ocean, was Dustin.
He was already dressed—hoodie, hat, backpack half-on, half-off—like he couldn't decide whether to sit still long enough to eat or sprint straight into the day. He bounced on his heels near the table, hands moving as he talked, words piling on top of each other like he was trying to outrun the clock.
"I'm just saying," Dustin declared, voice bright, "that if Will had used his spell, we wouldn't have even been in that situation. Like, I don't want to blame anyone, but I am blaming Will."
From her place at the stove, Mrs. Henderson didn't even turn. "You are not blaming anyone. You are eating."
"I am eating," Dustin argued, even though he hadn't touched his plate. He gestured toward it like the proximity counted.
Mara hovered in the doorway a beat too long, rubbing sleep from her face with the heel of her hand. The warmth of the kitchen hit her like a blanket. She stood there long enough for her mother to glance over her shoulder.
"Look who decided to join us," her mother said, and there was softness in it—gentle teasing, not accusation. "You look like you got hit by a bus."
Mara's mouth twisted, something between a yawn and a smile. "Good morning to you too."
Her dad tipped his mug slightly in greeting. His hair was still flattened on one side from sleep, and there was a smear of grease near one knuckle that never quite came out no matter how much he washed. Working hands. Hands that fixed things. Hands that had once pressed a set of keys into hers like a promise.
"Morning, kiddo," he said, voice rough.
Mara crossed into the kitchen, the cool linoleum under her bare feet making her shiver. She reached for a glass and filled it with water from the sink, drank half of it in a few gulps like she was trying to wake herself up from the inside.
Dustin swivelled toward her instantly, as if the audience had arrived and the performance could begin properly. "Okay, so, listen—next week, I'm thinking I multiclass."
Mara stared at him over the rim of her glass. "You're thinking you shut up long enough to chew."
Dustin looked personally wounded. "You can't just silence creative genius."
"I can and I will," Mara said dryly, pulling a plate from the cabinet.
Her mum slid scrambled eggs onto a platter, then reached for toast. "Sit down, Dustin."
"I can't sit down," he said, as if sitting was physically impossible. "I have to—Mara, tell them about the initiative roll. Tell them you rolled a nine."
Mara set her plate on the table and dropped into a chair, shoulders slumping with the relief of being off her feet. "It was a nine," she said, unimpressed. "The world kept spinning."
"It was tragic," Dustin insisted, sitting only long enough to take a bite of toast before popping back up again. "Like, we needed you to be fast because you're the healer, and you rolled a nine—"
"Which is average," Mara interrupted, echoing Mike's voice so perfectly that her mother's lips twitched.
Her dad made a small sound, amused, and folded his newspaper down just enough to look at Dustin properly. "What's this about a healer?"
"It's Dungeons and Dragons," Dustin said like the words should explain everything. "Mara's a cleric. Clerics are like... basically the only reason idiots like Lucas don't die."
"Lucas is not an idiot," Mrs. Henderson said automatically, though her tone suggested she wasn't convinced.
"Yes he is," Dustin said with absolute certainty. "He's just an idiot with confidence."
Mara hid a smile behind her water glass and felt something loosen in her chest, the way it always did around them—around this table, around the ordinary noise of family. There was a part of her that still couldn't quite believe it was real. That still flinched at loud voices, even when they were laughing. That still expected some invisible hand to reach in and pull the warmth out from under her like a rug.
But her mother set a plate in front of her, and her stepdad nudged the butter closer, and Dustin argued about imaginary forests like the world had never taught him fear yet—and it was hard, in that moment, not to believe.
"You drive him today?" her dad asked, glancing toward the back door where the keys hung on a hook beside a dog leash they didn't use anymore.
Mara nodded, spearing eggs with her fork. "Yeah."
Dustin's eyes widened like he'd forgotten that transportation existed. "Wait—are we putting my bike in the boot?"
"Yes," Mara said, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. "Because you told me you're riding home with the boys after school."
"I am," Dustin said proudly. "Mike said we can go to his."
"Yeah?" she said. "That's the plan?"
Dustin shrugged, mouth full. "Well, yeah. Like always."
Her mother set her own plate down and finally sat, watching them both in that quiet way she had, the way mothers watched without making it feel like interrogation. "Eat," she reminded Dustin again. "You'll run out of steam before first period."
"I never run out of steam," Dustin said, and Mara snorted.
"You do," she said. "You crash like a dying robot."
Dustin glared at her. "I do not."
"You do," Mara repeated, and this time her dad chimed in, deadpan.
"He does."
Dustin's expression collapsed into offended betrayal. "You're all against me."
"No," her mum said, reaching out to straighten Dustin's collar with two fingers, gentle, absentminded. "We're for you. That's different."
Dustin's cheeks went faintly pink, embarrassed by affection, and he swatted her hand away with fake annoyance. "Okay, okay. I'm eating. See?" He took a dramatic bite of egg like it was proof in court.
Mara watched him, and the pit in her stomach from this morning eased just slightly. This was what she clung to. The small rituals. Breakfast. Arguments about nothing. A kid who still believed in dragons and homework in equal measure
Mara's mother pointed her fork at Dustin. "Shoes. Teeth. Backpack. And don't forget your homework."
Dustin groaned, the sound pure suffering. "Homework should be illegal."
Mara stood, collecting plates. "If homework becomes illegal, I'm moving."
Dustin hurried toward the hallway, shouting over his shoulder, "You can't move! You're a Henderson!"
The words landed strange in Mara's chest—not painful. Just heavy in a way that felt like being held. Like being anchored.
She carried plates to the sink, rinsed them quickly, and then turned toward the back door where her jacket hung. The day was waiting. School was waiting. Normal life was waiting, demanding its performance.
Outside, the air was crisp, biting at the edges of her skin. The yard looked almost pretty in the early light—grass damp with dew, trees still, driveway empty except for the Road Runner sitting there like a promise kept. Burnt orange paint catching the first weak sun, chrome dulling in places where time had touched it.
Dustin came barreling out the back door with his bike helmet in hand, nearly tripping over the threshold. Mara caught the bike by the handlebars before he could slam it into the steps.
"Careful," she said automatically.
"I am careful," Dustin protested, already wrestling the bike toward the car.
"You're the opposite of careful," Mara muttered, but she helped anyway.
They opened the boot together. Dustin shoved the front wheel in, but it caught, awkward angle refusing to cooperate. Mara sighed, crouched down, and adjusted it—hands confident, precise. She tightened the straps with a practiced tug, checking them twice without thinking about it. Control was her language. Safety was built, not assumed.
Dustin watched her like she was performing magic. "You're so good at that."
Mara glanced at him. "At putting a bike in a car?"
"At... fixing stuff," Dustin said vaguely, as if he couldn't fully articulate the admiration without feeling embarrassed. "Like Dad."
Mara's throat tightened. She shut the boot with a solid click and looked away before Dustin could see too much on her face.
"Get in," she said, voice casual. "Seatbelt."
Dustin climbed into the passenger seat, still buzzing, still talking.
"So after school, I'll ride with Mike and Lucas and we'll—"
"Yep," Mara said, sliding into the driver's seat, fingers wrapping around the wheel.
She started the Road Runner. The engine rolled over and settled into that deep, steady rumble that always made her feel like she was holding something strong. Something that wouldn't disappear if she blinked.
Dustin's voice filled the cabin as they pulled out of the driveway—fast, excited, alive.
And for a few minutes, it almost felt like the world hadn't changed at all.
Almost.
— +1 —
Mara eased the Road Runner into the drop-off lane and killed the engine. The rumble faded, leaving her with that brief ringing quiet that always came after something loud.
Dustin was unbuckled before the key even left the ignition.
"Okay—okay—so I'm riding home with Mike and Lucas," he said again, because he said everything twice when it mattered. He grabbed his backpack and helmet in one frantic motion, curls sticking out from under his hat like he'd slept in a wind tunnel.
Mara twisted in her seat and pointed at him. "Helmet on when you're on the bike."
Dustin rolled his eyes like she was ruining his entire childhood. "Yes, Mara."
"And don't let Mike convince you to do something stupid."
"He can't convince me," Dustin said, offended. "I'm the one who convinces him."
Mara's mouth twitched. "That's worse."
Dustin grinned, unbothered. "See you after school!"
He slammed the door with the force of someone who didn't understand money or hinges. Mara winced out of habit, then let it go. Dustin was not built for gentle exits.
She watched him jog toward the middle school entrance, swallowed quickly by the tide of kids and backpacks and shouting names. He turned once, waved dramatically, then disappeared through the glass doors like the day couldn't start until he was inside it.
Mara sat for a beat longer, hands resting on the steering wheel, eyes tracking the line of students.
Normal.
This was normal.
She started the car again and rolled forward, looping around the shared lot toward the high school side. The distance was nothing—just a few rows of parked cars, a strip of sidewalk, the thin dividing line between kids who still believed adulthood was a far-off myth and teenagers who had already started pretending they didn't care about anything.
She found a spot near the edge where the Road Runner wouldn't get squeezed between someone's too-new sedan and someone else's too-reckless truck. When she stepped out, the cold air nipped at her cheeks, and she tugged her jacket tighter around her shoulders.
Eyes flicked toward her car. Toward her.
Not everyone's. Not like a spotlight.
But enough.
Hawkins High remembered people. It remembered mistakes. It remembered the shape of you before you'd learned how to hold yourself differently.
Mara shut the door, squared her shoulders, and headed inside.
The hallways were already alive—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, perfume and body spray mixing into one overwhelming cloud. Posters for pep rallies and clubs and dances fluttered slightly when kids brushed past, bright colors pretending they meant something.
Mara's locker was near Nancy's, tucked into the stretch of hallway where the familiar always gathered. She hadn't even reached it before she saw them—Nancy Wheeler and Barb Holland standing side by side.
Nancy looked perfect in the way she always did, even this early. Hair brushed. Sweater neat. A future wrapped around her like she'd been born knowing how to wear it. But there was a tension in her fingers, too—how they kept touching the strap of her bag as if checking it was still there, how her eyes darted like she was waiting for someone.
Barb stood beside her with her books clutched to her chest, practical and soft-edged, her plaid skirt and sensible shoes making her look like she belonged to a different kind of story. Barb's eyes were sharp, though. Always watching.
"There she is," Barb said, relief flickering through her voice when she spotted Mara. "I thought you'd abandoned us for the sixth graders."
Mara snorted. "I would never. They're feral."
Barb's mouth twitched. "Your brother's feral."
"Yeah," Mara said, sliding her fingers under the lock of her locker. "But he's my feral."
Nancy smiled quickly. "How was last night?"
"Loud," Mara said, tugging her books free. "The boys are incapable of silence."
"That's because silence is for people who want to be sad," Barb said, entirely serious.
Mara glanced at her. "Is that your official diagnosis?"
Barb shrugged. "Yes."
Nancy laughed—a small sound that almost felt real—and for a second, the tension on her face loosened.
Then Barb leaned in, eyebrows lifting, voice dropping into the conspiratorial tone she used when she had gossip she'd been holding like a firecracker. "So," she said, eyes gleaming, "Nancy."
Nancy stilled. Barely. But Mara noticed.
Barb's smile sharpened. "Who's the boy?"
Mara's head snapped up. "What boy?
Nancy blinked too quickly. "What?"
Barb lifted one shoulder. "Don't do that. You've been weird all morning."
"I have not," Nancy said immediately—too fast, too rehearsed.
Mara leaned her shoulder against her locker. "Nancy," she said lightly, but her eyes didn't soften. "What boy?"
Nancy opened her locker with a clatter that was louder than it needed to be. Books shifted. Paper fluttered. Her hands moved too quickly, like she could rearrange the inside and rearrange the conversation at the same time.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Nancy muttered.
Barb hummed. "Sure."
Mara watched Nancy's fingers shuffle notebooks, watched the slight tremor she tried to hide. Nancy pulled out a textbook—
—and a folded piece of paper slipped free, fluttering down between them like it had been waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.
Nancy froze.
So did Mara.
Barb bent first, quick as instinct, scooping it up before Nancy could snatch it away. Her eyes skimmed the handwriting and her expression changed—from smug amusement to confusion to something like oh.
"Barb," Nancy hissed, reaching. "Give it—"
Mara's voice came out flat. "What does it say?"
Barb, because she was Barb, read it anyway.
"Meet me in the bathrooms," she said aloud, then lifted her eyes. "—S."
Nancy ripped it from her hand so fast the paper crumpled. "It's nothing," she said, voice tight.
Mara stared at the single letter at the bottom of the note like it was a stain.
-S.
It could have been anyone.
It could have been—
But Mara's stomach dropped with the kind of certainty that didn't care about logic.
She looked at Nancy. "Who is S?"
Nancy's eyes darted away. Pink rose in her cheeks, not excitement—fear. Guilt.
"You don't know him," Nancy said quickly, and the lie was too clumsy to be convincing.
Mara's mouth went dry. "Nancy."
Barb's brows knit. "Nancy, what is happening?"
Nancy clutched the note like it could protect her. "Nothing," she insisted, but her voice cracked on the last word.
Mara's heart beat once, heavy. She kept her tone careful. "If it's Steve Harrington—"
Nancy flinched like the name hit skin.
Barb's eyes widened. "Steve?"
Nancy's face shut down. "It's not—" she started, then stopped, gaze dropping because she couldn't hold theirs and keep lying at the same time.
Mara felt something in her chest go tight, sharp as a pulled thread.
Nancy—her person, her safe place in a building full of mouths—was hiding something. On purpose.
Mara watched Nancy's body angle toward the hallway, toward the girls' bathrooms further down. Like she wanted to run toward it before she could talk herself out of it.
"Where are you going?" Mara asked softly, because she already knew.
Nancy swallowed. "I—I have to go," she said, and it was the weakest excuse Mara had ever heard come out of her mouth.
Mara didn't grab her. She didn't stop her. Not here. Not in the open.
But she watched Nancy tuck the note into her pocket and walk away too fast, head down, shoulders tight—running toward a choice she wouldn't admit out loud.
Barb stood frozen, clutching her books. "Okay," she said faintly. "Okay, so that's... that's a thing."
Mara didn't answer. Her eyes stayed on the hallway where Nancy disappeared, as if staring hard enough could pull her back.
Barb edged closer. "Do you think it's actually him?"
Mara's jaw tightened. She forced air into her lungs. "I don't know," she lied.
Barb's eyes narrowed. "You do know."
Mara shut her locker with a dull clang that echoed too loudly in her ears.
"I have class," she said, and it wasn't an answer. It was an escape.
Barb exhaled slowly. "This is going to be so bad," she murmured.
Mara started walking, books held too tight against her chest.
Yeah, she thought.
It already is.
— +1 —
Meet me in the bathrooms.
—S.
Mara's sneakers squeaked once against the tile, the sound sharp in her own ears. She adjusted her grip on her books and kept walking.
The girls' bathrooms were halfway down the next corridor, tucked between the science wing and the gym entrance. Mara wasn't headed there. She had no reason to be. She told herself that twice.
And still, when the hallway bent and the bathroom doors came into view, her feet didn't speed up so much as... drift closer. Like a compass needle pulled toward a magnet it resented.
Laughter floated out first.
Soft, girlish, contained—giggles that didn't belong in fluorescent hallways on a Monday morning unless someone was doing something they weren't supposed to. Mara's stomach turned over. It wasn't jealousy. It wasn't even anger, not yet.
It was recognition.
She slowed just enough to make it look accidental. Just enough to make it look like she'd only been passing by.
The bathroom door swung open.
Nancy Wheeler stepped out like she'd been pushed by the moment. Her cheeks were flushed, a wild softness to her mouth that Mara had never seen there in the daylight. Nancy's hand went to her hair immediately, smoothing it down too many times, like the movement could put her back into place.
Her eyes lifted—caught Mara's—
—and the color drained from her face so fast it was almost terrifying.
Mara stopped.
Not dramatically. Not like a scene.
Just... stopped, mid-step, like her body had hit an invisible wall.
Behind Nancy, the bathroom door shifted again.
Steve Harrington stepped out.
Close behind her. Too close to be a coincidence. Too comfortable to be anything but familiar.
He filled the doorway like he always did, tall and broad-shouldered and effortless in the way Hawkins loved. His hair was perfect in the way it had become perfect—styled not because it mattered, but because it proved he could be the kind of boy people noticed. His varsity jacket sat on him like a claim, like he belonged to every hallway he walked through.
His gaze snapped to Mara.
And something in his expression faltered. Just a flicker. A brief crack that didn't belong on Steve Harrington's face.
Worry.
Or guilt.
Or maybe just the instinctive fear of being caught.
Nancy stood between them like a fragile bridge, eyes wide, breath shallow. Her mouth opened—closed. She looked at Mara like she was bracing for impact.
Mara stared at them.
At Nancy's flushed cheeks. At Steve's proximity. At the way Steve's hand hovered near Nancy's wrist like he was used to touching her and had to remind himself not to.
The hallway went loud around them—lockers slamming, distant laughter, the squeak of sneakers—but the space between the three of them tightened into something sharp and private.
Mara didn't ask for an explanation.
She didn't demand anything.
Because what was there to demand?
It was already done.
Nancy's voice came out first, small and rushing. "Mara, I—"
Mara's eyes didn't leave Steve's.
"You always do this," she said softly, and the quietness of it made it worse. Not a shout. Not a scene. Just a truth offered like a blade.
Steve's jaw tensed. "Mara—"
"Don't," Mara cut in immediately.
The word landed hard.
Steve stopped like she'd physically pushed him.
Nancy flinched. "Mara, please—"
Mara's gaze finally shifted to Nancy, and the hurt there was careful, controlled, almost polite. Like she didn't want to bleed on Nancy's shoes. Like she was still trying to be the kind of friend who didn't make things messy.
"You can date whoever you want," Mara said, voice steady. "I'm not your mother."
Nancy swallowed hard, eyes shining. "It's not— it's not like—"
Mara's attention slid back to Steve, and her mouth tightened.
Her anger wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It lived in the way her shoulders squared, in the way her eyes sharpened.
In the way she refused to look away.
"Just don't let it change you," Mara said to Nancy—gentle, almost. Then, without raising her voice, she added, "Don't let the popularity get to you. Like it did with him."
Steve's face flashed—something quick and stung. "That's not—"
Mara's smile was thin, humorless. "Isn't it?"
For a second, Steve looked like he might say something real. Something honest. Something that could crack the moment open and spill the truth onto the tiles where everyone could see it.
But Steve Harrington didn't do honesty when it cost him something.
Not yet.
Mara didn't wait.
She stepped around them, brushing past Nancy without touching her, walking toward the gym corridor with her books held tight against her chest like she was holding herself together with paper and spine and sheer will.
Behind her, Nancy moved instinctively, taking a step as if she could chase her down and grab her arm and fix it with words.
"Mara—"
Steve's hand closed around Nancy's wrist—not rough, not controlling, just... firm. A stop sign.
Nancy turned sharply. "Let go."
Steve shook his head once, slow. His voice came out low, meant only for her.
"Not when she's like that," he said.
Nancy's eyes flicked back down the hall, watching Mara's retreating figure. Her throat bobbed when she swallowed.
"She's my best friend," Nancy whispered.
Steve's grip loosened, but his expression stayed tight, complicated. "I know."
And Mara kept walking.
She didn't let her pace change. She didn't let anyone see the tremor in her hands. She didn't let the hallway know it had won.
Pairing: Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley x F!reader
Rating: 18+, smut warning
Summary: Marc, Steven, and Jake take turns with the reader in a single, intense encounter where their distinct personas switch control mid-sex, leaving the reader completely wrecked.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, MDNI 18+, multiple personalities/DID (Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley), possessive language, rough sex, spanking, oral sex (receiving), domination/submission dynamics, praise and degradation, switching consciousness during intimacy, pinning/restraint, biting, implied choking (hair pulling/throat focus), internal ejaculation, overstimulation, first person POV reader-insert.
—————————————
The air in the apartment was still and cool, but it was about to be set ablaze. You were curled on the large, low sofa, a book forgotten in your lap, when you felt the shift. It wasn’t a sound, but a change in pressure, a focusing of energy. You looked up to see Marc Specter leaning in the doorway to the bedroom, his arms crossed over his broad chest. The usual storm in his dark eyes was a calm, intent heat.
“You coming?” he asked, his voice a low rumble. It wasn’t really a question.
Your pulse kicked up a notch. This—this thing with them—was still new, terrifying, and utterly intoxicating. You nodded, setting the book aside, your movements slightly shaky.
As you stood, you saw the subtle flicker in his posture. The aggressive set of his shoulders softened, and a hand came up to run through his hair in a gesture that was distinctly… not Marc.
“Oh, I’m sorry, was that a bit forward?” Steven Grant’s softer, British tones emerged from Marc’s mouth. He looked genuinely concerned, stepping into the room. “I just… we’ve been thinking about you all day. Well, I have. The others… they have their own ways of thinking.” He gave you a shy, crooked smile and offered a hand. “Shall we?”
You took his hand, and he led you to the bedroom. It was Steven who kissed you first, deep and exploring, his hands cradling your face with a tenderness that made your knees weak. He guided you back onto the bed, his lips tracing the line of your jaw, down your throat. “I want to savor you,” he whispered against your skin, his fingers deftly working the buttons of your shirt. “Every inch. Every sigh.
He had your shirt open, your bra unfastened with a surprising delicacy, when his rhythm faltered. His kisses, which had been slow and worshipful, grew suddenly hungry, more insistent. The hands on your skin tightened.
“Enough foreplay, English,” Marc’s gruff voice cut through the quiet, though the face was still Steven’s. “She’s not made of china.” In one fluid, powerful motion, he rolled you beneath him, pinning your wrists above your head with one large hand. The look in his eyes was pure Specter: possessive, dark, and hungry. He claimed your mouth in a searing kiss that was all conquering force, his free hand pushing your clothes the rest of the way off with impatient tugs.
“Marc—” you gasped when he broke the kiss to trail his lips down your sternum.
“Quiet,” he ordered, but there was a rough affection in it. He took a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue flicking over the peak until you arched off the bed with a sharp cry. He moved to the other, giving it the same relentless attention. “You’re ours. You know that, right? All of us.” He wasn’t asking.
He released your wrists only to yank your pants and underwear down your legs, tossing them aside. His gaze raked over your naked form, a hunter assessing his prize. “Look at you. All laid out for us.” He leaned down, his breath hot against your inner thigh. “Gonna taste you. See what all the fuss is about.”
His mouth on you was an electric shock. There was no gentle build-up; Marc licked into you with a direct, demanding stroke that made you cry out, your fingers tangling in his hair. He worked you with a soldier’s efficiency and focus, his tongue broad and flat, then pointed and precise, finding your clit and circling it with a pressure that bordered on painful. You were already writhing, begging in broken syllables, when he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them upward.
“So tight,” he groaned against you, the vibration setting your nerves on fire. “Soaked for us already.” He pumped his fingers, scissoring them, stretching you, his thumb pressing down on your clit. The dual assault was brutal, effective. Your thighs began to tremble around his head.
Then, a pause. The fingers inside you stilled. The mouth lifted from your core.
When he looked up, the expression had shifted again. The fierce dominance was still there, but it was overlaid with a layer of gritty, street-smart amusement.
“He gets so serious, *mi corazón*,” Jake Lockley purred, licking his lips—your taste still on them. He crawled up your body, his movements a prowl. He didn’t kiss you. He pinned you with his dark, laughing eyes. “All strategy and orders. Me? I just wanna have fun.”
Before you could react, he flipped you over onto your hands and knees. His hand landed on your ass with a sharp, stinging crack that echoed in the quiet room. You yelped, the sensation burning through you, mixing pain with a shocking bolt of pleasure.
“Jake!” you gasped.
“That’s me, sweetheart,” he chuckled, rubbing the spot he’d smacked. “Marc’s the general. Steven’s the poet.” He leaned close, his chest pressing against your back, his lips at your ear. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m the one who gets the job done and enjoys the hell out of it.” His cock, hard and thick, nudged against your entrance, already slick from Marc’s attention. He didn’t push in. He just teased, the head catching and slipping. “You want it? Gotta ask nice.”
“Please,” you whimpered, pushing back against him.
“Please…?” he prompted, dragging the tip of him through your folds, making you shudder.
“Please, Jake.”
“Good girl.” With that, he sheathed himself in one long, smooth, devastating stroke, filling you so completely your vision blurred. A ragged moan tore from your throat. He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, letting you feel every inch of him, his own breath hitching. “*Dios mio*, you feel perfect.
He started to move, and his rhythm was nothing like Marc’s direct drilling or the deep rolls you imagined Steven would favor. It was a chaotic, delicious sin. He’d pull almost all the way out, then slam back in, hitting a spot that made you see stars. Then he’d grind deep, making slow, filthy circles with his hips. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, sliding around to pinch and roll your nipples, one hand snaking between your legs to rub tight, frantic circles on your clit.
“That’s it,” he grunted, his pace becoming more frantic. “Take it. Fuck, you’re gonna come all over my cock, aren’t you? Gonna milk me dry.”
You were babbling, a stream of yes and please and his name, hurtling toward the edge. Just as the coil in your belly was about to snap, he stilled. Deep inside you, you felt it—not a physical change, but a seismic shift in the consciousness holding you.
The grip on your hips gentled. The frantic energy dissipated, replaced by a deep, throbbing stillness.
“Oh, my love,” Steven’s voice washed over you, filled with awe and a hint of reproach. “Jake, you’re so… *vigorous*.” He remained embedded within you, but now his hands smoothed over your back, soothing the places Jake had gripped. He leaned over you, his chest to your back, and pressed a soft, apologetic kiss to your shoulder blade. “Are you alright? Was he too rough?”
The sudden care, the stark contrast from Jake’s raw filth to Steven’s tender concern, was its own kind of erotic torture. You were strung out, teetering on the precipice of an orgasm that had been brutally denied.
“Steven… I need…” you sobbed, pushing back against him weakly.
“Shhh, I know, darling, I know,” he soothed, beginning to move again. But his movements were different. They were deep, languid rolls of his hips, a slow, inexitable claiming designed not to shatter, but to drown. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you up so your back was against his chest, his other hand coming around to cup your breast, his thumb stroking your nipple with maddening gentleness. “Let me love you. Properly. Let me feel all of you.”
He nuzzled your neck, whispering sweet nothings—poetry, fragments of love songs, praises in French and Arabic. Every word was a feather-light stroke against your overloaded senses. He built the pleasure back up with agonizing patience, each slow, deep thrust a promise. You could feel his own control fraying; his breath grew ragged in your ear, his whispers more fractured.
“You’re so beautiful like this… so open for me… for us… I could die right here…”
The coil was tightening again, slower, deeper, more profound than the sharp need Jake had ignited. You were floating in a haze of sensation, held aloft by Steven’s adoration.
The shift, when it came, was a jolt.
Steven’s gentle roll stuttered, became a sharp, powerful snap of the hips. The arm around your waist became a vice.
“Enough,” Marc’s voice, guttural and strained, cut through Steven’s whispers. “My turn.”
He kept you upright against him, but his pace transformed. It was pure, unadulterated Marc. Hard, deep, piston-like thrusts that stole the air from your lungs. There was no finesse, only a driving, primal need for completion. One hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat to his biting kisses. The other hand clamped back on your hip, holding you immobile for his use.
“Gonna come inside you,” he growled, each word a thrust. “Gonna fill you up. Mark you. So you remember who you belong to.”
The combination was too much. The sensory hurricane—Jake’s chaotic fire, Steven’s drowning depth, and now Marc’s absolute, punishing claim—shattered the last of your restraint. The orgasm exploded through you, a silent, white-hot supernova that clenched every muscle. You convulsed around him, a raw, broken sound escaping your lips as the world dissolved into pure, shuddering sensation.
Marc swore, a harsh, beautiful curse, and with three final, brutal drives, he followed you over, his own release pulsing deep inside you with a heat that seemed to brand your very soul. He held you through it, his body rigid, his forehead pressed against your sweat-slicked shoulder as he shuddered.
For long minutes, the only sound was the ragged symphony of your breathing. Gradually, the iron tension left his body. He lowered you both back to the mattress, collapsing beside you but keeping you pulled tightly into the curve of his body.
A soft sigh, then Steven’s voice, muffled against your hair. “My goodness.”
From the other side of the bed, a low, satisfied chuckle. Jake. “Told you she’d be speechless.
You were. Wrecked. Boneless. Your mind was a blank, humming slate of pleasure. Every nerve ending felt exposed, every inch of skin sensitized and marked. You were aware of the three of them, a quiet, satisfied presence in the shared mind of the man whose arm was draped heavily over you. The possessiveness of Marc, the adoration of Steven, the wicked thrill of Jake—they were all there, swirling in the afterglow, etched into your very bones.
Marc’s thumb stroked a slow, absent circle on your arm. Steven pressed a soft kiss to your temple. Jake just sighed contentedly.
You were theirs. Utterly, completely, and in every way imaginable, destroyed. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Pairing: Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley x F!reader
Rating: 18+, smut warning
Summary: Marc, Steven, and Jake take turns with the reader in a single, intense encounter where their distinct personas switch control mid-sex, leaving the reader completely wrecked.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, MDNI 18+, multiple personalities/DID (Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley), possessive language, rough sex, spanking, oral sex (receiving), domination/submission dynamics, praise and degradation, switching consciousness during intimacy, pinning/restraint, biting, implied choking (hair pulling/throat focus), internal ejaculation, overstimulation, first person POV reader-insert.
—————————————
The air in the apartment was still and cool, but it was about to be set ablaze. You were curled on the large, low sofa, a book forgotten in your lap, when you felt the shift. It wasn’t a sound, but a change in pressure, a focusing of energy. You looked up to see Marc Specter leaning in the doorway to the bedroom, his arms crossed over his broad chest. The usual storm in his dark eyes was a calm, intent heat.
“You coming?” he asked, his voice a low rumble. It wasn’t really a question.
Your pulse kicked up a notch. This—this thing with them—was still new, terrifying, and utterly intoxicating. You nodded, setting the book aside, your movements slightly shaky.
As you stood, you saw the subtle flicker in his posture. The aggressive set of his shoulders softened, and a hand came up to run through his hair in a gesture that was distinctly… not Marc.
“Oh, I’m sorry, was that a bit forward?” Steven Grant’s softer, British tones emerged from Marc’s mouth. He looked genuinely concerned, stepping into the room. “I just… we’ve been thinking about you all day. Well, I have. The others… they have their own ways of thinking.” He gave you a shy, crooked smile and offered a hand. “Shall we?”
You took his hand, and he led you to the bedroom. It was Steven who kissed you first, deep and exploring, his hands cradling your face with a tenderness that made your knees weak. He guided you back onto the bed, his lips tracing the line of your jaw, down your throat. “I want to savor you,” he whispered against your skin, his fingers deftly working the buttons of your shirt. “Every inch. Every sigh.
He had your shirt open, your bra unfastened with a surprising delicacy, when his rhythm faltered. His kisses, which had been slow and worshipful, grew suddenly hungry, more insistent. The hands on your skin tightened.
“Enough foreplay, English,” Marc’s gruff voice cut through the quiet, though the face was still Steven’s. “She’s not made of china.” In one fluid, powerful motion, he rolled you beneath him, pinning your wrists above your head with one large hand. The look in his eyes was pure Specter: possessive, dark, and hungry. He claimed your mouth in a searing kiss that was all conquering force, his free hand pushing your clothes the rest of the way off with impatient tugs.
“Marc—” you gasped when he broke the kiss to trail his lips down your sternum.
“Quiet,” he ordered, but there was a rough affection in it. He took a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue flicking over the peak until you arched off the bed with a sharp cry. He moved to the other, giving it the same relentless attention. “You’re ours. You know that, right? All of us.” He wasn’t asking.
He released your wrists only to yank your pants and underwear down your legs, tossing them aside. His gaze raked over your naked form, a hunter assessing his prize. “Look at you. All laid out for us.” He leaned down, his breath hot against your inner thigh. “Gonna taste you. See what all the fuss is about.”
His mouth on you was an electric shock. There was no gentle build-up; Marc licked into you with a direct, demanding stroke that made you cry out, your fingers tangling in his hair. He worked you with a soldier’s efficiency and focus, his tongue broad and flat, then pointed and precise, finding your clit and circling it with a pressure that bordered on painful. You were already writhing, begging in broken syllables, when he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them upward.
“So tight,” he groaned against you, the vibration setting your nerves on fire. “Soaked for us already.” He pumped his fingers, scissoring them, stretching you, his thumb pressing down on your clit. The dual assault was brutal, effective. Your thighs began to tremble around his head.
Then, a pause. The fingers inside you stilled. The mouth lifted from your core.
When he looked up, the expression had shifted again. The fierce dominance was still there, but it was overlaid with a layer of gritty, street-smart amusement.
“He gets so serious, *mi corazón*,” Jake Lockley purred, licking his lips—your taste still on them. He crawled up your body, his movements a prowl. He didn’t kiss you. He pinned you with his dark, laughing eyes. “All strategy and orders. Me? I just wanna have fun.”
Before you could react, he flipped you over onto your hands and knees. His hand landed on your ass with a sharp, stinging crack that echoed in the quiet room. You yelped, the sensation burning through you, mixing pain with a shocking bolt of pleasure.
“Jake!” you gasped.
“That’s me, sweetheart,” he chuckled, rubbing the spot he’d smacked. “Marc’s the general. Steven’s the poet.” He leaned close, his chest pressing against your back, his lips at your ear. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m the one who gets the job done and enjoys the hell out of it.” His cock, hard and thick, nudged against your entrance, already slick from Marc’s attention. He didn’t push in. He just teased, the head catching and slipping. “You want it? Gotta ask nice.”
“Please,” you whimpered, pushing back against him.
“Please…?” he prompted, dragging the tip of him through your folds, making you shudder.
“Please, Jake.”
“Good girl.” With that, he sheathed himself in one long, smooth, devastating stroke, filling you so completely your vision blurred. A ragged moan tore from your throat. He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, letting you feel every inch of him, his own breath hitching. “*Dios mio*, you feel perfect.
He started to move, and his rhythm was nothing like Marc’s direct drilling or the deep rolls you imagined Steven would favor. It was a chaotic, delicious sin. He’d pull almost all the way out, then slam back in, hitting a spot that made you see stars. Then he’d grind deep, making slow, filthy circles with his hips. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, sliding around to pinch and roll your nipples, one hand snaking between your legs to rub tight, frantic circles on your clit.
“That’s it,” he grunted, his pace becoming more frantic. “Take it. Fuck, you’re gonna come all over my cock, aren’t you? Gonna milk me dry.”
You were babbling, a stream of yes and please and his name, hurtling toward the edge. Just as the coil in your belly was about to snap, he stilled. Deep inside you, you felt it—not a physical change, but a seismic shift in the consciousness holding you.
The grip on your hips gentled. The frantic energy dissipated, replaced by a deep, throbbing stillness.
“Oh, my love,” Steven’s voice washed over you, filled with awe and a hint of reproach. “Jake, you’re so… *vigorous*.” He remained embedded within you, but now his hands smoothed over your back, soothing the places Jake had gripped. He leaned over you, his chest to your back, and pressed a soft, apologetic kiss to your shoulder blade. “Are you alright? Was he too rough?”
The sudden care, the stark contrast from Jake’s raw filth to Steven’s tender concern, was its own kind of erotic torture. You were strung out, teetering on the precipice of an orgasm that had been brutally denied.
“Steven… I need…” you sobbed, pushing back against him weakly.
“Shhh, I know, darling, I know,” he soothed, beginning to move again. But his movements were different. They were deep, languid rolls of his hips, a slow, inexitable claiming designed not to shatter, but to drown. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you up so your back was against his chest, his other hand coming around to cup your breast, his thumb stroking your nipple with maddening gentleness. “Let me love you. Properly. Let me feel all of you.”
He nuzzled your neck, whispering sweet nothings—poetry, fragments of love songs, praises in French and Arabic. Every word was a feather-light stroke against your overloaded senses. He built the pleasure back up with agonizing patience, each slow, deep thrust a promise. You could feel his own control fraying; his breath grew ragged in your ear, his whispers more fractured.
“You’re so beautiful like this… so open for me… for us… I could die right here…”
The coil was tightening again, slower, deeper, more profound than the sharp need Jake had ignited. You were floating in a haze of sensation, held aloft by Steven’s adoration.
The shift, when it came, was a jolt.
Steven’s gentle roll stuttered, became a sharp, powerful snap of the hips. The arm around your waist became a vice.
“Enough,” Marc’s voice, guttural and strained, cut through Steven’s whispers. “My turn.”
He kept you upright against him, but his pace transformed. It was pure, unadulterated Marc. Hard, deep, piston-like thrusts that stole the air from your lungs. There was no finesse, only a driving, primal need for completion. One hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat to his biting kisses. The other hand clamped back on your hip, holding you immobile for his use.
“Gonna come inside you,” he growled, each word a thrust. “Gonna fill you up. Mark you. So you remember who you belong to.”
The combination was too much. The sensory hurricane—Jake’s chaotic fire, Steven’s drowning depth, and now Marc’s absolute, punishing claim—shattered the last of your restraint. The orgasm exploded through you, a silent, white-hot supernova that clenched every muscle. You convulsed around him, a raw, broken sound escaping your lips as the world dissolved into pure, shuddering sensation.
Marc swore, a harsh, beautiful curse, and with three final, brutal drives, he followed you over, his own release pulsing deep inside you with a heat that seemed to brand your very soul. He held you through it, his body rigid, his forehead pressed against your sweat-slicked shoulder as he shuddered.
For long minutes, the only sound was the ragged symphony of your breathing. Gradually, the iron tension left his body. He lowered you both back to the mattress, collapsing beside you but keeping you pulled tightly into the curve of his body.
A soft sigh, then Steven’s voice, muffled against your hair. “My goodness.”
From the other side of the bed, a low, satisfied chuckle. Jake. “Told you she’d be speechless.
You were. Wrecked. Boneless. Your mind was a blank, humming slate of pleasure. Every nerve ending felt exposed, every inch of skin sensitized and marked. You were aware of the three of them, a quiet, satisfied presence in the shared mind of the man whose arm was draped heavily over you. The possessiveness of Marc, the adoration of Steven, the wicked thrill of Jake—they were all there, swirling in the afterglow, etched into your very bones.
Marc’s thumb stroked a slow, absent circle on your arm. Steven pressed a soft kiss to your temple. Jake just sighed contentedly.
You were theirs. Utterly, completely, and in every way imaginable, destroyed. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.
That was its oldest talent — the way it could hold a straight face while rot threaded quietly beneath the floorboards. The way it could pour coffee in sunlit kitchens and mow lawns on Saturdays and wave from porches, as if the world hadn't already started coming apart at the seams. As if darkness required an announcement. As if it didn't arrive the way it always did: softly, patiently, without permission.
In Hawkins, the night never felt empty. Not truly. It was filled with the hum of streetlights and the insect-song rising from the ditches, with the low, distant hush of highways like a breath you couldn't place. It was filled with little signs no one wanted to name — the porch light that flickered once too many times, the dog that wouldn't go near the tree line, the sudden cold draft in a room with closed windows. It was filled, mostly, with the kind of quiet that suggested listening.
For some people, quiet was comfort.
For Mara Henderson, quiet was a warning.
It was the kind of silence you learned to read when you were too young to have words for what was happening. The kind you carried into new houses, new beds, new years — the kind that lived in the back of your throat like a held breath. It made you careful. It made you neat. It made you good at disappearing even when you were standing right in front of someone.
And it made you notice things.
She noticed how childhood sounded when it was still intact — the slap of sneakers on pavement, the squeal of bike brakes, the bright argument over something unimportant. She noticed the particular way basement laughter climbed the stairs and softened into the upstairs air, turning into something harmless, something that could be ignored. She noticed the way her little brother's voice filled a room like a light you couldn't turn off, and how that light dimmed when he thought no one was watching.
She noticed, too, what happened when a town decided a girl was something.
It didn't take much. A look. A rumor. A smile from the wrong person at the wrong moment. Something that should have been nothing — a flick of the eyes, a silence held too long — became a story that spread in whispers and laughter and sideways glances. Hawkins had a way of doing that. Of taking a person and folding them into a shape that fit everyone else's comfort. Of turning girls into lessons.
Mara learned early how quickly your name could stop meaning you.
How quickly you could become the thing people said you were.
There were other kinds of monsters too, of course. The ones with claws and teeth were always easier to imagine — easier, in some way, to fight. The human ones wore familiar faces. They lived in brightly lit hallways. They leaned against lockers and pretended they weren't cruel. They stood too close to the line where innocence ended and watched it with a grin, as if the fall was entertainment.
Sometimes, they didn't even mean to be monsters.
Sometimes they were just boys who wanted to stay liked.
Sometimes they were just boys who didn't think silence counted.
It was strange, the way grief could live inside you for someone who was still alive.
The absence of a friend wasn't always the friend leaving. Sometimes it was the version of them you'd loved disappearing, replaced by something sharper, something hungry. Mara understood that kind of loss intimately: the feeling of reaching for a person and touching only air.
In this town, she would lose people in other ways too.
Not all at once. Not dramatically, not with a scream that tore through the night. Hawkins wasn't generous like that. Hawkins took gently. One missing boy. One locked door. One light that flickered like a heartbeat losing rhythm. One friend who didn't come home when she said she would.
And then the night opened its mouth.
Mara didn't know yet what the world looked like when it split.
She didn't know what lived in the spaces between things — between the trees and the road, between the hum of electricity and the sudden drop into silence, between the familiar and the wrong. She didn't know there were places you could step into and never really step back out. She didn't know that some darkness wasn't metaphor at all.
But her body knew something was coming.
It knew in the way her shoulders tightened when the house was too quiet. In the way her fingers worried the edges of paper until it softened. In the way she double-checked locks without thinking, like her hands remembered what her mind tried to forget. In the way she listened for footsteps — always, always — even when she told herself she didn't have to anymore.
And somewhere, beyond the neat streets and the sleepy cul-de-sacs, beyond the warm squares of living-room light, something stirred that had been waiting for a long time.
Not for the town.
For a crack.
For a mistake.
For a door left slightly open.
In the amber glow of basement lamps, dice would clatter across a table, harmless and bright and insignificant. Plastic tumbling. Numbers landing. Boys cheering. Someone rolling initiative as if the only danger in the world was imaginary.
As if a bad roll couldn't follow you upstairs.
As if a natural one didn't mean anything at all.
But the truth — the thing Hawkins would teach them, slowly and cruelly — was this:
Mara Henderson closes a door on one life and steps into another—into the warmth of a basement where monsters still have rules and dice can make fear fair. She gets Dustin and the boys home safe, pretends Monday will be normal, and rolls a natural one into the dark. Hawkins listens.
chapter themes: found family, 80s small-town quiet, d&d night, older sister energy, safety rituals, subtle dread, the calm before the storm
chapter warnings: mild language, references to past trauma (non-graphic), nighttime unease
░░ static ░░
Mara Henderson left Nancy Wheeler's bedroom the way she did everything lately-quietly, like she didn't want the house to notice her moving through it. The door closed behind her with a careful, practiced touch, the kind that came from years of learning what small sounds could provoke in the wrong home, at the wrong hour. Nancy had hugged her at the threshold, warm and familiar, smelling faintly of drugstore shampoo and whatever vanilla lotion the girls passed back and forth like secrets. Nancy had said, call me when you get home, and Mara had nodded, because it was easier than promising.
Downstairs, the noise had teeth.
Not the frightening kind. Not the kind that made your stomach clench.
The boy kind-raw and bright and ridiculous. Voices ricocheting off walls with the absolute certainty that nothing truly bad could happen to them in a suburban basement lit by a single lamp and the stale comfort of carpet.
Mara followed it.
The Wheeler staircase was narrow, carpeted, and always smelled faintly of dust and detergent. Halfway down, the air changed. Cooler. Older. Basement air. The kind of air that held onto summer humidity and kept it, pressed into the wood paneling like a memory. The light down there wasn't the clean overhead brightness of kitchens and hallways-it was amber and slanted, thrown by a standing lamp beside the couch, turning the whole basement into a stage where boys could become warriors and kings and monsters without anyone laughing at them for it.
She stepped into the room and paused, as if the scene might have rules and she might break them by interrupting.
Mike Wheeler sat at the head of the folding table like he had been born there, shoulders squared, chin tilted slightly down, eyes sharp with concentration. A stack of papers and a binder were spread in front of him like sacred text. His hair was a mess-always a mess-and his hands moved when he spoke, painting the air with invisible maps. Mike didn't just play Dungeon Master. Mike became it. The authority in his voice wasn't borrowed. It was his.
"You hear it before you see it," he was saying, lowering his tone deliberately, making it darker, older. "Something moving in the brush. Not an animal. Too... steady."
Lucas Sinclair leaned back in his chair with the posture of someone already preparing to argue. He had that look on his face-half skeptical, half annoyed-as if Mike's imagination was something he had to tolerate in order to get to the part where he could win.
"That's not specific," Lucas said. "How close is it? You're being vague on purpose."
Mike didn't look up. "It's a mystery. You're in a forest."
Lucas made a sound in his throat that was one step away from a groan. "You always do that. 'You're in a forest.' Like that means anything."
Across from Lucas, Will Byers sat curled inward, elbows on the table, hands tucked close to his character sheet as though it was something fragile. Will's eyes were wide in that quiet way-alert but not loud. He followed Mike's words like they mattered. Like they were real. There was something about Will, Mara had always thought, that belonged naturally to darkness and stories. He didn't fight the fear in them. He listened to it.
And beside Mara's empty chair, Dustin Henderson buzzed like a live wire. His curly hair stuck out from under his hat. His knees bounced. His hands were everywhere-touching dice, tapping the table, adjusting his sheet, reaching for a pencil, losing the pencil, finding it again. Dustin was joy in motion. Dustin was noise with a heartbeat.
The second he saw Mara in the doorway, he lit up.
"You're here!" Dustin blurted, and the relief in his voice was comically dramatic. "Finally. We almost died."
"We did not almost die," Mike said, but his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.
"We almost died spiritually," Dustin insisted. "He was doing this creepy thing with the trees."
Mike lifted his gaze at last, and Mara felt it like a camera finding her. "You ready?"
Mara shrugged off her jacket, draped it over the back of a chair, and slid into place beside Dustin. The chair scraped faintly against the concrete. Her presence changed something in the air-not much, but enough. The boys glanced at her, their world widening by one. Mara didn't belong down here in the same way Nancy didn't. She was older than them. Not by a lot, but enough to make her feel like a bridge between their fearless make-believe and the real world waiting upstairs.
"I was saying goodbye," Mara said simply.
Dustin huffed like she'd committed a personal offense. "You took so long."
Mara bumped his shoulder with hers. "And yet, you survived."
Lucas eyed her. "Barely."
Mara raised an eyebrow. "That's because you're dramatic."
"I'm not dramatic," Lucas said immediately, as if the accusation was obscene.
Mike tapped his pencil against the table like a gavel. "Okay. Mara's character enters the clearing."
Mara reached into her pouch and pulled out her dice. They were worn smooth with use. Her favorite D20 had tiny scratches on the numbers where it had been rolled too many times too hard. There was comfort in the weight of them, in the small ritual of setting them down in front of her, lining them up as if order could be summoned by arrangement.
"You're a cleric," Mike reminded her, flipping to his notes. "Level four. You're with them."
Dustin said proudly, "She's basically our healer. Like, she's the only reason we're alive."
Mara gave him a look. "I could change that."
Will's mouth twitched, soft amusement flickering across his face like light off water.
Mike nodded toward her dice. "Roll initiative."
The basement quieted in the way it always did when something mattered. That was the thing about the game—no matter how much they mocked it, no matter how much Lucas complained, there were moments where all of them leaned in, breath held, as if the universe itself might answer them through plastic.
Mara closed her hand around the D20. For a second, she listened to the weight of it. The way it clicked softly against her ring. The way it felt like a small, ridiculous promise.
She rolled.
It bounced once, hit the edge of the table, spun, and settled between Will's pencil and Dustin's character sheet.
Mike leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
"Eight."
Mara tilted her head. "Plus one."
Mike wrote it down. "Nine."
Lucas groaned, as if this was a personal betrayal. "Nine? You're a cleric and you roll a nine? That's—"
"That's average," Mike cut in.
"That's disappointing," Lucas finished anyway.
Dustin slapped the table. "She's not here to stab stuff. She's here to keep us alive."
Mara's smile was small, but it was there. Something warm in the middle of her chest that didn't get to exist much anymore. Down here, among the boys, she didn't have to be hard. She didn't have to watch her back. She could just... sit. Roll dice. Pretend her hands weren't always half-clenched.
The scene unfolded with Mike's careful narration—the forest, the threat in the trees, the sound of something other moving too close. Lucas tried to take control and got irritated when he couldn't. Will spoke softly, choosing caution over glory. Dustin insisted on bravery that was mostly just chaos disguised as confidence.
At one point, Dustin leaned into Mara and whispered urgently, "If I die, you have to resurrect me."
Mara didn't look away from the table. "If you die, it's because you did something stupid."
Dustin's grin widened. "That's called heroism."
"That's called not listening."
Will murmured, barely audible, "Please don't die."
Lucas snorted. "He will. Watch."
Mike, because he couldn't help himself, slipped right back into the role. "Okay. The creature steps into the clearing."
And for a few minutes, the basement became a world where monsters could be defeated, where fear had rules and turns and dice to make it fair. Where you could win if you played it right.
Mara found herself leaning in, her elbows on the table, her eyes tracking the movement of their pieces. She felt, briefly, like she belonged to something uncomplicated. Like she was not a girl with a past that tried to catch her when she wasn't looking. Like she wasn't someone who had learned, through experience, that small moments could turn on you.
A voice floated down from upstairs.
"Boys," Mrs. Wheeler called, the tone sweet but unmoving. "It's nine-thirty."
The basement erupted immediately.
"What? No!"
"We're in the middle of combat!"
"Just five more minutes!"
"We're literally about to win!"
Mrs. Wheeler appeared at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other holding a dish towel like she'd been pulled away from a perfectly normal life to manage this ongoing basement phenomenon. She smiled, but it was the smile of a woman who knew she would win.
"School night," she said.
Mike slumped theatrically, collecting his papers with exaggerated suffering. "We were this close."
Lucas stood with a loud scrape of his chair. "I told you we should've started earlier."
"No one asked," Dustin shot back.
Will folded his character sheet carefully, smoothing the creases as though the paper was alive and he didn't want to hurt it.
Mara stood, slipping into her jacket. She watched the boys grumble and shuffle, their reluctance so sincere it was almost funny. Their world ended when an adult said so. They weren't old enough yet to understand that someday the world would end whether anyone called time or not.
"Same time next week?" Mike asked, looking at her.
Mara nodded. "Same time."
— +1 —
Outside, the night hit Mara like a clean slap of cold air. Hawkins was quiet the way small towns got quiet—heavy and absolute, as if every house had taken a breath and held it. Porch lights glowed in soft squares. Streetlights buzzed faintly, throwing long shadows across the pavement.
The boys wheeled their bikes down the driveway still arguing, their voices carrying in the dark.
"You can't just decide there's no cover after I already moved," Lucas insisted, indignant.
Mike pushed his bike alongside him, chin lifted with the stubborn confidence of a Dungeon Master who knew he was right. "I didn't decide it. You assumed it."
"That's the same thing."
"It's not."
"It is literally the same thing."
Dustin made a disgusted noise. "Both of you are wrong. The real issue is that Will didn't use his spell."
Will's shoulders drew in. "I didn't have enough—"
"You always do that," Dustin said, not cruelly, just loudly. "You save everything like we're gonna fight a dragon every five minutes!"
Her car waited at the curb like it belonged to a different kind of girl—burnt orange under the streetlight, all coppered muscle and stubborn chrome, as if Hawkins had tried to dull it down and failed. A '69 Road Runner didn't do quiet; it sat low and sure, heavy-bodied, the paint the color of late-summer heat baked into asphalt, the hood catching a thin sheen of light like a blade.
It had been her stepdad's once.
Not in the casual way people said my car—like it was just another thing they owned—but in the way some men loved machines because they were honest. Because if something was broken, you could fix it, and it wouldn't lie to you about why it hurt. When Mara came into the Henderson house—small and watchful and already too good at being silent—she hadn't expected anything from them. Certainly not warmth. Certainly not permanence. But the Hendersons had done the unthinkable and made room for her anyway, not as a guest, not as charity, but as if she'd always belonged there. As if "step" was just a word on paper and not a distance.
Her stepdad had noticed her the way people like him noticed engines: by listening. By watching what she touched, what she understood without being taught. He'd caught her one afternoon in the driveway with the hood up, hands black with grease, studying the Road Runner like it was a puzzle that could be solved if she just stared long enough. Instead of snapping at her, he'd handed her a wrench and said, almost casually, You know what you're looking at? And when she'd answered—quiet, precise—something in his expression had shifted. Pride, maybe. Recognition. The steady kind of affection that didn't ask for anything flashy in return.
On her sixteenth birthday, he'd pressed the keys into her palm like he was giving her a piece of the family itself.
You're a Henderson, he'd said, as if he needed her to hear it from him. As if saying it made it permanent. And you've got a mechanical mind. That's a gift. Don't waste it.
Mara unlocked the door now and it opened with that old, solid clunk—metal answering metal—followed by the familiar breath of the interior: warm vinyl, sun, a ghost of gasoline that clung to everything worth keeping. When she turned the key, the engine rolled over and settled into a throaty idle that vibrated up through the steering wheel into her hands, grounding her in something real and controllable.
Mara didn't drive it to be seen.
She drove it because it had been given to her like a promise—because the world heard it coming, and because for once in her life, she belonged to something that stayed.
She turned back to the boys, who were clustered in the driveway like a little pack, bikes angled, backpacks hanging off shoulders, faces lit by porch light and the last of their basement adrenaline.
"I can take you," Mara said, raising her voice just slightly. "Will. Lucas. I'll drop you home."
Lucas didn't even pause. "No. We're fine."
"We live close," Will added quickly, like he needed to justify it.
Mara glanced at the dark street. At the way the road seemed to dissolve into shadow past the next block. At the way the trees at the edge of the Wheeler property looked like they were watching.
"It's dark," she said.
Lucas made an impatient sound. "It's always dark at night."
Mara held his gaze. "Yeah. That's how night works."
Dustin was already climbing into the passenger seat, as if the question had never been about him. "They've biked it a million times," he said through the open window. "Mara worries too much."
Mara ignored him.
"I'd feel better," she said, softer now, looking at Will. "Just... let me."
There was something in her voice that wasn't about the boys' safety alone. It was the quiet, lingering echo of old fear. The kind you carried even when you were safe. The kind that didn't care what street you lived on or how close the houses were.
Will hesitated. For a moment, his eyes flicked down the road like he could see something Mara couldn't. Then he forced a small smile.
"It's okay," he said. "Really."
Lucas nodded firmly, already mounting his bike. "We'll be fine. We have lights."
Mara's fingers tightened around her keys. She wanted to insist. She wanted to argue. She wanted to be the person who could say, No, I'm driving you. End of discussion. But she also knew that pushing too hard would make them push back harder. That was how boys worked. That was how people worked.
"Okay," she said finally, voice controlled. "Be careful."
Mike lifted a hand in a lazy wave. "See you tomorrow!"
They took off—tires whispering on asphalt, bike lights bobbing like fireflies. Mara watched them until they were swallowed by darkness, until their voices faded and the street returned to silence.
Then she got in.
The ute rumbled to life beneath her hands. The engine vibration traveled up through the steering wheel into her palms, grounding her, reminding her she was in something real.
Dustin immediately launched back into the game as if the campaign continued in the car.
"Okay, so next time," he said, turning toward her, eyes bright in the dashboard glow, "I think I should—"
"Seatbelt," Mara said automatically.
He fumbled it on, still talking. "—multiclass, because if I take ranger, I could still do ranged attacks but I could also—like—be stealthy, which is important because Lucas keeps—"
"He keeps what?" Mara asked, half listening, pulling away from the curb.
"He keeps acting like he's the only one allowed to be right," Dustin said with absolute seriousness. "And he's not."
Mara's mouth twitched.
They drove through Hawkins with the windows up, the night pressing against the glass. Houses slid by in warm squares of light. Shadows pooled between them. Dustin's voice filled the cabin—fast, excited, relentless—like a radio you couldn't turn off. Mara let it wash over her. It was, in its own way, comforting.
Because when Dustin talked like that, it meant the world was still normal.
It meant monsters were still only in basements.
— +1 —
Their house was dark except for the living room lamp.
It spilled soft light across the couch where her mother was curled beneath a blanket, the television muttering low like company. The air smelled faintly of dish soap and something floral—laundry detergent. Normal smells. Safe smells.
Mara shut the door gently behind them, the click sounding too loud in the quiet.
Her mother lifted her head, hair mussed, eyes tired but warm. "Hey," she murmured.
Dustin tossed his backpack down by the stairs like he'd been holding it for an entire war. "Night, Mum."
"Brush your teeth," her mother called automatically.
Dustin paused in the hallway, offended. "I always brush my teeth."
"Sure," Mara said, and Dustin shot her a glare but kept walking.
Mara moved into the kitchen, set the keys down, and then drifted back into the living room, where her mother patted the couch beside her. Mara sat, tucking one leg up, pulling the edge of the blanket over her knees even though she wasn't cold.
Her mother studied her face the way mothers did, not intrusive, just... noticing.
"How was Nancy's?" she asked.
"Fine," Mara said. Then, because she knew her mother deserved more than one word, she added, "The boys played D&D. Dustin was... Dustin."
Her mother's smile was small. "That's good."
They talked softly for a while—about school, about grocery lists, about whether Mara had enough clean clothes for Monday. Her mother asked questions like she was trying to anchor Mara to the world through ordinary things. Mara answered, nodded, listened. She didn't say anything heavy. She didn't bring home the weight of her thoughts and set them on the table. That wasn't what this room was for.
Eventually her mother yawned, eyes squeezing shut for a second. Mara stood.
"I'm going to bed."
Her mother reached out, caught Mara's hand for a brief squeeze. "Love you."
Mara's throat tightened in that familiar way—emotion like a bruise, tender if you pressed too hard. "Love you too."
Upstairs, her room waited exactly how she'd left it—books stacked against the wall, a half-finished assignment on her desk, a small mess of cassette tapes and notebooks. She changed into an oversized shirt, brushed her teeth, and sat on the edge of her bed.
The house settled around her. Pipes ticking. The distant hum of traffic. A muffled sound from Dustin's room—him shifting, maybe, or muttering in his sleep.
Mara reached for her dice pouch.
It was stupid. It was just plastic. It wasn't a ritual the way some things were rituals. It wasn't prayer.
But it was something.
She pulled out her D20 and rolled it onto the carpet beside her bed.
It hit the floor with a soft thud, bounced once, spun in a tight little circle, and stopped.
Mara leaned forward.
A one.
Natural.
She stared at it longer than she needed to. Not because she believed in omens. Not exactly. But because sometimes the universe had a way of speaking through tiny, meaningless things. Sometimes your body recognized a warning before your mind could name it.
Mara exhaled slowly.
She turned off her lamp.
She tucked her chin into the pillow and let the dark take her, soft and complete.
A beat passed.
Then the lamp buzzed—brief, electric—and the shade gave the smallest flicker of light, a heartbeat that shouldn't have happened.
Mara didn't open her eyes.
But the house did.
It went suddenly too quiet—like it was holding its breath..
Mara Henderson has learned how to survive Hawkins by staying quiet-by staying small.
Once, Steve Harrington was her safest place. Her best friend. The boy who knew her before the hair, the parties, the cruelty that comes with being liked. Then one night, at the wrong party, Steve made a choice that shattered her reputation with a single smile-and Mara never spoke to him again.
Now the town is breaking in ways no one can explain. A boy goes missing. The lights start to flicker. The woods feel... wrong. And Mara is pulled into the panic with her little brother and his friends, forced back into orbit with the one person she swore she'd never forgive.
Steve thinks he loves Nancy Wheeler-because she looks like the future he's supposed to want. Mara knows better than to trust him with anything that matters. But monsters are coming, and Hawkins doesn't care who's heartbroken.
In a town that listens in the dark, some failures don't stay on the table.
Mara Henderson closes a door on one life and steps into another—into the warmth of a basement where monsters still have rules and dice can make fear fair. She gets Dustin and the boys home safe, pretends Monday will be normal, and rolls a natural one into the dark. Hawkins listens.
chapter themes: found family, 80s small-town quiet, d&d night, older sister energy, safety rituals, subtle dread, the calm before the storm
chapter warnings: mild language, references to past trauma (non-graphic), nighttime unease
░░ static ░░
Mara Henderson left Nancy Wheeler's bedroom the way she did everything lately-quietly, like she didn't want the house to notice her moving through it. The door closed behind her with a careful, practiced touch, the kind that came from years of learning what small sounds could provoke in the wrong home, at the wrong hour. Nancy had hugged her at the threshold, warm and familiar, smelling faintly of drugstore shampoo and whatever vanilla lotion the girls passed back and forth like secrets. Nancy had said, call me when you get home, and Mara had nodded, because it was easier than promising.
Downstairs, the noise had teeth.
Not the frightening kind. Not the kind that made your stomach clench.
The boy kind-raw and bright and ridiculous. Voices ricocheting off walls with the absolute certainty that nothing truly bad could happen to them in a suburban basement lit by a single lamp and the stale comfort of carpet.
Mara followed it.
The Wheeler staircase was narrow, carpeted, and always smelled faintly of dust and detergent. Halfway down, the air changed. Cooler. Older. Basement air. The kind of air that held onto summer humidity and kept it, pressed into the wood paneling like a memory. The light down there wasn't the clean overhead brightness of kitchens and hallways-it was amber and slanted, thrown by a standing lamp beside the couch, turning the whole basement into a stage where boys could become warriors and kings and monsters without anyone laughing at them for it.
She stepped into the room and paused, as if the scene might have rules and she might break them by interrupting.
Mike Wheeler sat at the head of the folding table like he had been born there, shoulders squared, chin tilted slightly down, eyes sharp with concentration. A stack of papers and a binder were spread in front of him like sacred text. His hair was a mess-always a mess-and his hands moved when he spoke, painting the air with invisible maps. Mike didn't just play Dungeon Master. Mike became it. The authority in his voice wasn't borrowed. It was his.
"You hear it before you see it," he was saying, lowering his tone deliberately, making it darker, older. "Something moving in the brush. Not an animal. Too... steady."
Lucas Sinclair leaned back in his chair with the posture of someone already preparing to argue. He had that look on his face-half skeptical, half annoyed-as if Mike's imagination was something he had to tolerate in order to get to the part where he could win.
"That's not specific," Lucas said. "How close is it? You're being vague on purpose."
Mike didn't look up. "It's a mystery. You're in a forest."
Lucas made a sound in his throat that was one step away from a groan. "You always do that. 'You're in a forest.' Like that means anything."
Across from Lucas, Will Byers sat curled inward, elbows on the table, hands tucked close to his character sheet as though it was something fragile. Will's eyes were wide in that quiet way-alert but not loud. He followed Mike's words like they mattered. Like they were real. There was something about Will, Mara had always thought, that belonged naturally to darkness and stories. He didn't fight the fear in them. He listened to it.
And beside Mara's empty chair, Dustin Henderson buzzed like a live wire. His curly hair stuck out from under his hat. His knees bounced. His hands were everywhere-touching dice, tapping the table, adjusting his sheet, reaching for a pencil, losing the pencil, finding it again. Dustin was joy in motion. Dustin was noise with a heartbeat.
The second he saw Mara in the doorway, he lit up.
"You're here!" Dustin blurted, and the relief in his voice was comically dramatic. "Finally. We almost died."
"We did not almost die," Mike said, but his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.
"We almost died spiritually," Dustin insisted. "He was doing this creepy thing with the trees."
Mike lifted his gaze at last, and Mara felt it like a camera finding her. "You ready?"
Mara shrugged off her jacket, draped it over the back of a chair, and slid into place beside Dustin. The chair scraped faintly against the concrete. Her presence changed something in the air-not much, but enough. The boys glanced at her, their world widening by one. Mara didn't belong down here in the same way Nancy didn't. She was older than them. Not by a lot, but enough to make her feel like a bridge between their fearless make-believe and the real world waiting upstairs.
"I was saying goodbye," Mara said simply.
Dustin huffed like she'd committed a personal offense. "You took so long."
Mara bumped his shoulder with hers. "And yet, you survived."
Lucas eyed her. "Barely."
Mara raised an eyebrow. "That's because you're dramatic."
"I'm not dramatic," Lucas said immediately, as if the accusation was obscene.
Mike tapped his pencil against the table like a gavel. "Okay. Mara's character enters the clearing."
Mara reached into her pouch and pulled out her dice. They were worn smooth with use. Her favorite D20 had tiny scratches on the numbers where it had been rolled too many times too hard. There was comfort in the weight of them, in the small ritual of setting them down in front of her, lining them up as if order could be summoned by arrangement.
"You're a cleric," Mike reminded her, flipping to his notes. "Level four. You're with them."
Dustin said proudly, "She's basically our healer. Like, she's the only reason we're alive."
Mara gave him a look. "I could change that."
Will's mouth twitched, soft amusement flickering across his face like light off water.
Mike nodded toward her dice. "Roll initiative."
The basement quieted in the way it always did when something mattered. That was the thing about the game—no matter how much they mocked it, no matter how much Lucas complained, there were moments where all of them leaned in, breath held, as if the universe itself might answer them through plastic.
Mara closed her hand around the D20. For a second, she listened to the weight of it. The way it clicked softly against her ring. The way it felt like a small, ridiculous promise.
She rolled.
It bounced once, hit the edge of the table, spun, and settled between Will's pencil and Dustin's character sheet.
Mike leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
"Eight."
Mara tilted her head. "Plus one."
Mike wrote it down. "Nine."
Lucas groaned, as if this was a personal betrayal. "Nine? You're a cleric and you roll a nine? That's—"
"That's average," Mike cut in.
"That's disappointing," Lucas finished anyway.
Dustin slapped the table. "She's not here to stab stuff. She's here to keep us alive."
Mara's smile was small, but it was there. Something warm in the middle of her chest that didn't get to exist much anymore. Down here, among the boys, she didn't have to be hard. She didn't have to watch her back. She could just... sit. Roll dice. Pretend her hands weren't always half-clenched.
The scene unfolded with Mike's careful narration—the forest, the threat in the trees, the sound of something other moving too close. Lucas tried to take control and got irritated when he couldn't. Will spoke softly, choosing caution over glory. Dustin insisted on bravery that was mostly just chaos disguised as confidence.
At one point, Dustin leaned into Mara and whispered urgently, "If I die, you have to resurrect me."
Mara didn't look away from the table. "If you die, it's because you did something stupid."
Dustin's grin widened. "That's called heroism."
"That's called not listening."
Will murmured, barely audible, "Please don't die."
Lucas snorted. "He will. Watch."
Mike, because he couldn't help himself, slipped right back into the role. "Okay. The creature steps into the clearing."
And for a few minutes, the basement became a world where monsters could be defeated, where fear had rules and turns and dice to make it fair. Where you could win if you played it right.
Mara found herself leaning in, her elbows on the table, her eyes tracking the movement of their pieces. She felt, briefly, like she belonged to something uncomplicated. Like she was not a girl with a past that tried to catch her when she wasn't looking. Like she wasn't someone who had learned, through experience, that small moments could turn on you.
A voice floated down from upstairs.
"Boys," Mrs. Wheeler called, the tone sweet but unmoving. "It's nine-thirty."
The basement erupted immediately.
"What? No!"
"We're in the middle of combat!"
"Just five more minutes!"
"We're literally about to win!"
Mrs. Wheeler appeared at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other holding a dish towel like she'd been pulled away from a perfectly normal life to manage this ongoing basement phenomenon. She smiled, but it was the smile of a woman who knew she would win.
"School night," she said.
Mike slumped theatrically, collecting his papers with exaggerated suffering. "We were this close."
Lucas stood with a loud scrape of his chair. "I told you we should've started earlier."
"No one asked," Dustin shot back.
Will folded his character sheet carefully, smoothing the creases as though the paper was alive and he didn't want to hurt it.
Mara stood, slipping into her jacket. She watched the boys grumble and shuffle, their reluctance so sincere it was almost funny. Their world ended when an adult said so. They weren't old enough yet to understand that someday the world would end whether anyone called time or not.
"Same time next week?" Mike asked, looking at her.
Mara nodded. "Same time."
— +1 —
Outside, the night hit Mara like a clean slap of cold air. Hawkins was quiet the way small towns got quiet—heavy and absolute, as if every house had taken a breath and held it. Porch lights glowed in soft squares. Streetlights buzzed faintly, throwing long shadows across the pavement.
The boys wheeled their bikes down the driveway still arguing, their voices carrying in the dark.
"You can't just decide there's no cover after I already moved," Lucas insisted, indignant.
Mike pushed his bike alongside him, chin lifted with the stubborn confidence of a Dungeon Master who knew he was right. "I didn't decide it. You assumed it."
"That's the same thing."
"It's not."
"It is literally the same thing."
Dustin made a disgusted noise. "Both of you are wrong. The real issue is that Will didn't use his spell."
Will's shoulders drew in. "I didn't have enough—"
"You always do that," Dustin said, not cruelly, just loudly. "You save everything like we're gonna fight a dragon every five minutes!"
Her car waited at the curb like it belonged to a different kind of girl—burnt orange under the streetlight, all coppered muscle and stubborn chrome, as if Hawkins had tried to dull it down and failed. A '69 Road Runner didn't do quiet; it sat low and sure, heavy-bodied, the paint the color of late-summer heat baked into asphalt, the hood catching a thin sheen of light like a blade.
It had been her stepdad's once.
Not in the casual way people said my car—like it was just another thing they owned—but in the way some men loved machines because they were honest. Because if something was broken, you could fix it, and it wouldn't lie to you about why it hurt. When Mara came into the Henderson house—small and watchful and already too good at being silent—she hadn't expected anything from them. Certainly not warmth. Certainly not permanence. But the Hendersons had done the unthinkable and made room for her anyway, not as a guest, not as charity, but as if she'd always belonged there. As if "step" was just a word on paper and not a distance.
Her stepdad had noticed her the way people like him noticed engines: by listening. By watching what she touched, what she understood without being taught. He'd caught her one afternoon in the driveway with the hood up, hands black with grease, studying the Road Runner like it was a puzzle that could be solved if she just stared long enough. Instead of snapping at her, he'd handed her a wrench and said, almost casually, You know what you're looking at? And when she'd answered—quiet, precise—something in his expression had shifted. Pride, maybe. Recognition. The steady kind of affection that didn't ask for anything flashy in return.
On her sixteenth birthday, he'd pressed the keys into her palm like he was giving her a piece of the family itself.
You're a Henderson, he'd said, as if he needed her to hear it from him. As if saying it made it permanent. And you've got a mechanical mind. That's a gift. Don't waste it.
Mara unlocked the door now and it opened with that old, solid clunk—metal answering metal—followed by the familiar breath of the interior: warm vinyl, sun, a ghost of gasoline that clung to everything worth keeping. When she turned the key, the engine rolled over and settled into a throaty idle that vibrated up through the steering wheel into her hands, grounding her in something real and controllable.
Mara didn't drive it to be seen.
She drove it because it had been given to her like a promise—because the world heard it coming, and because for once in her life, she belonged to something that stayed.
She turned back to the boys, who were clustered in the driveway like a little pack, bikes angled, backpacks hanging off shoulders, faces lit by porch light and the last of their basement adrenaline.
"I can take you," Mara said, raising her voice just slightly. "Will. Lucas. I'll drop you home."
Lucas didn't even pause. "No. We're fine."
"We live close," Will added quickly, like he needed to justify it.
Mara glanced at the dark street. At the way the road seemed to dissolve into shadow past the next block. At the way the trees at the edge of the Wheeler property looked like they were watching.
"It's dark," she said.
Lucas made an impatient sound. "It's always dark at night."
Mara held his gaze. "Yeah. That's how night works."
Dustin was already climbing into the passenger seat, as if the question had never been about him. "They've biked it a million times," he said through the open window. "Mara worries too much."
Mara ignored him.
"I'd feel better," she said, softer now, looking at Will. "Just... let me."
There was something in her voice that wasn't about the boys' safety alone. It was the quiet, lingering echo of old fear. The kind you carried even when you were safe. The kind that didn't care what street you lived on or how close the houses were.
Will hesitated. For a moment, his eyes flicked down the road like he could see something Mara couldn't. Then he forced a small smile.
"It's okay," he said. "Really."
Lucas nodded firmly, already mounting his bike. "We'll be fine. We have lights."
Mara's fingers tightened around her keys. She wanted to insist. She wanted to argue. She wanted to be the person who could say, No, I'm driving you. End of discussion. But she also knew that pushing too hard would make them push back harder. That was how boys worked. That was how people worked.
"Okay," she said finally, voice controlled. "Be careful."
Mike lifted a hand in a lazy wave. "See you tomorrow!"
They took off—tires whispering on asphalt, bike lights bobbing like fireflies. Mara watched them until they were swallowed by darkness, until their voices faded and the street returned to silence.
Then she got in.
The ute rumbled to life beneath her hands. The engine vibration traveled up through the steering wheel into her palms, grounding her, reminding her she was in something real.
Dustin immediately launched back into the game as if the campaign continued in the car.
"Okay, so next time," he said, turning toward her, eyes bright in the dashboard glow, "I think I should—"
"Seatbelt," Mara said automatically.
He fumbled it on, still talking. "—multiclass, because if I take ranger, I could still do ranged attacks but I could also—like—be stealthy, which is important because Lucas keeps—"
"He keeps what?" Mara asked, half listening, pulling away from the curb.
"He keeps acting like he's the only one allowed to be right," Dustin said with absolute seriousness. "And he's not."
Mara's mouth twitched.
They drove through Hawkins with the windows up, the night pressing against the glass. Houses slid by in warm squares of light. Shadows pooled between them. Dustin's voice filled the cabin—fast, excited, relentless—like a radio you couldn't turn off. Mara let it wash over her. It was, in its own way, comforting.
Because when Dustin talked like that, it meant the world was still normal.
It meant monsters were still only in basements.
— +1 —
Their house was dark except for the living room lamp.
It spilled soft light across the couch where her mother was curled beneath a blanket, the television muttering low like company. The air smelled faintly of dish soap and something floral—laundry detergent. Normal smells. Safe smells.
Mara shut the door gently behind them, the click sounding too loud in the quiet.
Her mother lifted her head, hair mussed, eyes tired but warm. "Hey," she murmured.
Dustin tossed his backpack down by the stairs like he'd been holding it for an entire war. "Night, Mum."
"Brush your teeth," her mother called automatically.
Dustin paused in the hallway, offended. "I always brush my teeth."
"Sure," Mara said, and Dustin shot her a glare but kept walking.
Mara moved into the kitchen, set the keys down, and then drifted back into the living room, where her mother patted the couch beside her. Mara sat, tucking one leg up, pulling the edge of the blanket over her knees even though she wasn't cold.
Her mother studied her face the way mothers did, not intrusive, just... noticing.
"How was Nancy's?" she asked.
"Fine," Mara said. Then, because she knew her mother deserved more than one word, she added, "The boys played D&D. Dustin was... Dustin."
Her mother's smile was small. "That's good."
They talked softly for a while—about school, about grocery lists, about whether Mara had enough clean clothes for Monday. Her mother asked questions like she was trying to anchor Mara to the world through ordinary things. Mara answered, nodded, listened. She didn't say anything heavy. She didn't bring home the weight of her thoughts and set them on the table. That wasn't what this room was for.
Eventually her mother yawned, eyes squeezing shut for a second. Mara stood.
"I'm going to bed."
Her mother reached out, caught Mara's hand for a brief squeeze. "Love you."
Mara's throat tightened in that familiar way—emotion like a bruise, tender if you pressed too hard. "Love you too."
Upstairs, her room waited exactly how she'd left it—books stacked against the wall, a half-finished assignment on her desk, a small mess of cassette tapes and notebooks. She changed into an oversized shirt, brushed her teeth, and sat on the edge of her bed.
The house settled around her. Pipes ticking. The distant hum of traffic. A muffled sound from Dustin's room—him shifting, maybe, or muttering in his sleep.
Mara reached for her dice pouch.
It was stupid. It was just plastic. It wasn't a ritual the way some things were rituals. It wasn't prayer.
But it was something.
She pulled out her D20 and rolled it onto the carpet beside her bed.
It hit the floor with a soft thud, bounced once, spun in a tight little circle, and stopped.
Mara leaned forward.
A one.
Natural.
She stared at it longer than she needed to. Not because she believed in omens. Not exactly. But because sometimes the universe had a way of speaking through tiny, meaningless things. Sometimes your body recognized a warning before your mind could name it.
Mara exhaled slowly.
She turned off her lamp.
She tucked her chin into the pillow and let the dark take her, soft and complete.
A beat passed.
Then the lamp buzzed—brief, electric—and the shade gave the smallest flicker of light, a heartbeat that shouldn't have happened.
Mara didn't open her eyes.
But the house did.
It went suddenly too quiet—like it was holding its breath..
That was its oldest talent — the way it could hold a straight face while rot threaded quietly beneath the floorboards. The way it could pour coffee in sunlit kitchens and mow lawns on Saturdays and wave from porches, as if the world hadn't already started coming apart at the seams. As if darkness required an announcement. As if it didn't arrive the way it always did: softly, patiently, without permission.
In Hawkins, the night never felt empty. Not truly. It was filled with the hum of streetlights and the insect-song rising from the ditches, with the low, distant hush of highways like a breath you couldn't place. It was filled with little signs no one wanted to name — the porch light that flickered once too many times, the dog that wouldn't go near the tree line, the sudden cold draft in a room with closed windows. It was filled, mostly, with the kind of quiet that suggested listening.
For some people, quiet was comfort.
For Mara Henderson, quiet was a warning.
It was the kind of silence you learned to read when you were too young to have words for what was happening. The kind you carried into new houses, new beds, new years — the kind that lived in the back of your throat like a held breath. It made you careful. It made you neat. It made you good at disappearing even when you were standing right in front of someone.
And it made you notice things.
She noticed how childhood sounded when it was still intact — the slap of sneakers on pavement, the squeal of bike brakes, the bright argument over something unimportant. She noticed the particular way basement laughter climbed the stairs and softened into the upstairs air, turning into something harmless, something that could be ignored. She noticed the way her little brother's voice filled a room like a light you couldn't turn off, and how that light dimmed when he thought no one was watching.
She noticed, too, what happened when a town decided a girl was something.
It didn't take much. A look. A rumor. A smile from the wrong person at the wrong moment. Something that should have been nothing — a flick of the eyes, a silence held too long — became a story that spread in whispers and laughter and sideways glances. Hawkins had a way of doing that. Of taking a person and folding them into a shape that fit everyone else's comfort. Of turning girls into lessons.
Mara learned early how quickly your name could stop meaning you.
How quickly you could become the thing people said you were.
There were other kinds of monsters too, of course. The ones with claws and teeth were always easier to imagine — easier, in some way, to fight. The human ones wore familiar faces. They lived in brightly lit hallways. They leaned against lockers and pretended they weren't cruel. They stood too close to the line where innocence ended and watched it with a grin, as if the fall was entertainment.
Sometimes, they didn't even mean to be monsters.
Sometimes they were just boys who wanted to stay liked.
Sometimes they were just boys who didn't think silence counted.
It was strange, the way grief could live inside you for someone who was still alive.
The absence of a friend wasn't always the friend leaving. Sometimes it was the version of them you'd loved disappearing, replaced by something sharper, something hungry. Mara understood that kind of loss intimately: the feeling of reaching for a person and touching only air.
In this town, she would lose people in other ways too.
Not all at once. Not dramatically, not with a scream that tore through the night. Hawkins wasn't generous like that. Hawkins took gently. One missing boy. One locked door. One light that flickered like a heartbeat losing rhythm. One friend who didn't come home when she said she would.
And then the night opened its mouth.
Mara didn't know yet what the world looked like when it split.
She didn't know what lived in the spaces between things — between the trees and the road, between the hum of electricity and the sudden drop into silence, between the familiar and the wrong. She didn't know there were places you could step into and never really step back out. She didn't know that some darkness wasn't metaphor at all.
But her body knew something was coming.
It knew in the way her shoulders tightened when the house was too quiet. In the way her fingers worried the edges of paper until it softened. In the way she double-checked locks without thinking, like her hands remembered what her mind tried to forget. In the way she listened for footsteps — always, always — even when she told herself she didn't have to anymore.
And somewhere, beyond the neat streets and the sleepy cul-de-sacs, beyond the warm squares of living-room light, something stirred that had been waiting for a long time.
Not for the town.
For a crack.
For a mistake.
For a door left slightly open.
In the amber glow of basement lamps, dice would clatter across a table, harmless and bright and insignificant. Plastic tumbling. Numbers landing. Boys cheering. Someone rolling initiative as if the only danger in the world was imaginary.
As if a bad roll couldn't follow you upstairs.
As if a natural one didn't mean anything at all.
But the truth — the thing Hawkins would teach them, slowly and cruelly — was this:
Warnings: It’s fluff, mentions of a dead step-brother, Billy, and scars. Mid 90s. Afab!reader
A/N: Listen, I really just needed Sheriff Javi and Steve Harrington in one piece. What better way than to make Steve the reader's best friend? — I started college yesterday, as well as got out of the hospital; all mistakes are my own. I have a taglist now, and if you’re interested in being on it, comment, send an ask, or message me. Shout-out to @pascalispunkczechia for the preview.
Javi found himself in Hawkins, Indiana, in the mid-90s after he applied to be the sheriff. It was pretty different from what he expected. Almost too quiet for his racing thoughts. Being Sheriff kept him on his toes, as did his Deputy, Steve Murphy. There is always something to be done, people to be served, and hoodlums to catch.
Javi met you on an unusually cool summer's evening as the sun was setting over the farmers' market. You were on a longboard, weaving through the crowd, laughing as a girl with fiery red hair chased after you. Javi shouted after the two of you, stopping you both in your tracks. He could tell that the two of you were related. Javi kindly asked you not to skate in the market or run. You and the redhead agreed you wouldn’t and apologized. You introduced yourself and your sister, Max, shaking Javi’s hand.
It was an instant attraction. Javi isn’t quite sure if it was your smile, the way it set his stomach a flutter, or the sound of your laugh that was like music to his ears. For you, it was his half-crooked smile and his deep voice that sent chills down your spine.
Javi would come to find out that you were the afternoon DJ on WSQK 94.5 FM. Murphy had put your show on to fill the quiet as they worked through a tall stack of backlogged paperwork. Murphy mentioned that you lived across the street from him and Connie, with your sister, Max, and her fiancé, Lucas. Apparently, you had an infinite supply of baking and shared it with Connie, and often you’d be found on your longboard in the late evenings.
Murphy invited Javi over for dinner at his house. Connie was making his favorite pork shoulder with a crackling top to it, mashed potatoes, gravy, mixed vegetables, and popovers. When Javi and Murphy walked through the front door, they were met by the laughter of Connie and you. Javi felt his stomach somersault. You sat in the kitchen banquette, a wine glass half full, you looked at home in Murphy and Connie's kitchen.
Your face lit up when you saw Javi. It wasn’t the first time you had seen each other since the farmers' market. You guys often ran into each other late at night at the new supermarket. Javi would just be getting off, and you would be looking for a late-night snack and often finding yourselves walking the aisle together, keeping each other company.
Dinner had been a fun affair, filled with both conversation and laughter. Javi helped Murphy do the dishes: Murphy washed, and Javi dried. Murphy urged Javi to ask you out, and he did, after he offered to walk you home across the street. You didn't put too much thought into it because you immediately agreed.
That was eleven months ago, and Javi had learned so much more about you; he’d like to think he could read you like an open book. You were born in San Diego, but your mom had married Neil and moved you and your sister, Max, to Hawkins when you were in high school. You had a stepbrother named Billy, but he was gone. You didn’t talk much about him, but you visited his grave with Max sometimes.
You bite your lip when in thought, and sometimes you would get stuck inside your head with a far-off stare in your eyes. You had a gruesome scar on your arm where it met at your shoulder. Javi, late at night, would trace it softly and kiss it, hoping you would understand it didn’t make you any less beautiful.
You were close to your sister because, for a long time, all you had was each other. You had nightmares just like he did. Instead of both of you getting stuck in your minds, you guys would either take a late-night drive or a walk around the block. Javi learned early on into your relationship your best friend was also named Steve, Steve Harrington.
At first, Javi thought he had competition for your love. But as the days rolled on, Javi learned Steve was really just your best friend. You guys hugged and shared inside jokes like normal best friends, but Steve was the brother you wished Billy had been. Steve gave Javi the ‘you hurt my best friend, I hurt you, speech. Javi didn’t expect to get along so well with Steve, but they bonded over their love for you and their shared sense of how dark the world could be. Javi sometimes found himself sharing a drink with Steve and Murphy after a rough day. Steve was a sex education teacher at the local high school and coached Little League baseball and basketball. The kids could be brutal sometimes.
Javi wiped the palms of his hands on his jeans as he liked the residue of beer from his top lip. Steve and Murphy were talking about your latest show, Steve giving Javi an ‘are you okay,’ look.
“I’m going to ask her to move in with me.” Javi blurted. Both Steve and Murphy stopped mid-drink to stare at him. Javi had been thinking about this for the past three months. You slept at his place most nights; they shared breakfast and dinner, with Steve often over. You had a toothbrush at his place, your clothes took up half his closet, and you kept slippers there as well. It felt more like a home when you were there with him.
“I put that offer in on the house down the street from you,” Javi added. Steve got a smile on his face. You had been in love with the dark green house with a white picket fence since you first saw it.
“Javi, is this a step towards forever with her?” Steve placed his beer back on the table and leaned in. Javi yet again wiped his hands on his jeans and reached into his right pocket to pull out a jewelry box.
“Oh shit,” Murphy murmured, before Javi could even open the box. Steve’s jaw dropped. Inside lay Javi’s mother’s ring. His dad had given it to him the last time he went to Laredo with you to visit him. His dad loved you instantly.
“I’ve had this for a few months. I’m not asking her this week, or next, maybe not for a few more months. My gut says she’s the one.” Javi smiled. Steve knew how much you loved Javi, how he understood the past can be difficult, but what mattered was the now, how he made you happy on your darkest of days, and he could pull out of your memories. Javi meant the world to you. Steve appreciated Javi for the love he gave his best friend.
“I know when you do ask her, she’ll say yes to both moving in with you and spending your lives together,” Steve assured Javi. Javi thanked Steve, while Murphy called the bartender for another round.
If you are interested in a Moodboard, I'm currently taking requests. Please like and/or reblog this moodboard to show appreciation. It would mean the world to me.
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You find a stray kitten during patrol and can't resist bringing him home to a grumpy Joel
a/n: didn’t plan to post this so might delete, but it’s just a little fluff that wouldn’t leave my thoughts at midnight.
contains: fluff, dad Joel, protective Joel, established relationship, not proofread
wc: 2k
“No.”
“Joel, you haven’t even said hello.”
“I don’t care, baby; it’s a no.”
“But look at his little face; how can you say no to that?”
You look down at the kitten's big eyes staring up helplessly at you. You’re standing next to Joel as he sits at his workbench, glasses on the tip of his nose as he fiddles with something he's working on. During your evening patrol shift, you found the kitten looking scared and desperate not far from the town. Despite being more than aware that Joel would not appreciate such an addition to the family, you couldn’t just leave this helpless little being out in the snow all alone. So there was only one solution: hide him in your supply bag where it was warm and safe, and bring him home with you.
“Take it to Maria or that old lady down the road; we can’t have that thing running round ‘ere. Probably carrying enough disease to wipe out the town too.”
“Don’t be crazy, we’ll have the vet check him out.”
“I’m sure he's got more pressing matters than this.”
“Well, that was not the welcome I promised you, was it, huh?” You say down to the tiny bundle of innocence in your arms. “Think you caught him on a grumpy day.” Joel rolls his eyes as he continues carving the wooden object in front of him. “We’re not sending him back out into the cold, Joel.”
“He’s an animal; he’ll survive.”
“He’s too tiny; another night out in the snow would kill him, Joel.”
“Well darlin’, I don’t know what you want me to do, but he isn’t staying under my roof. And whatever you do, don’t let Ellie see him.”
Almost perfectly timed, you hear the front door close in the distance and soon the approaching footsteps up the wooden stairs.
“Great. Here we go.” Joel mumbles, knowing exactly what’s about to happen. Turning around, you’re greeted with a rosy-cheeked Ellie, back from her night with Dina at the Tipsy Bison. Her eyes instantly go wide with affection as she takes in the sight before her.
“Oh. My. God. Are you kidding me?? Heyyy little one!” She comes forward, taking the kitten from your arms and holding it up to her face, letting the tiny being sniff at her face. “She’s so small! Where did you find her?”
“It’s a boy.” Joel grunts from behind you. You smile then; at least you know he paid attention.
“Found him by the old barn about a mile out from town. Poor thing was shivering, alone and hungry. Checked the area for Mom and any siblings, but there was not trace. Will check again next patrol to make sure.”
"Jesus christ," Joel mutters under his breath. "I hope not, we'll have a whole goddamn zoo before we know it."
"Joel," You laugh at his words.
“What are you going to call him?” Ellie asks.
“Not calling him anything El'. He ain’t staying,”
“What?! No, we have to keep him!” She protests, worry spreading across her face at the thought of giving him away, or worse, letting him loose back into the harsh mountains surrounding Jackson.
“He should stay here, he knows us now, anyone else would only frighten him.”
“Yeah, right. Kids been out there in the wilderness by himself this long; if he can survive out there, he ain’t afraid of nothing.” Joel bites.
Ellie moves around you over to Joel sitting by his workbench. Without giving him a choice, she hands the kitten to him. Instinctively, he holds the kitten close to his chest, his protective nature kicking in. She turns to you with a wink. The kitten reaches up, his little paws coming up to rest on Joel’s chin. Joel’s a big guy, and seeing this tiny little vulnerable creature in his hands, you’d expect the kitten to be frightened, but he isn’t. Instead he seems taken to Joel more than you and Ellie as it licks at his beard.
“He loves you already.” You say in a soft voice.
“How do you get him to stop doing that?” Joel shuts his eyes in disgust, wanting to pull away but not wanting to hurt the baby.
Ellie laughs. “You don’t. He’s just telling you he likes you.”
“Hmmm.” He grunts. Moving the kitty away from his face gently, Joel rests him down on the bench in front of him. The kitten bounces across the table quickly, and the look of panic on Joel’s face amuses you. He might not want to keep him, but that look certainly tells you he cares. As the three of you watch him, the kitten begins to flick his tiny paw against a small tool laid on the surface, making it roll along the top.
“Like father, like son.” You tease.
"Don’t start with that." Joel's shakes his head.
“He could be your workshop buddy!" Ellie suggests excitedly.
"No. I’d never get any of these things complete. Besides, it’s too dangerous.”
"okay, well..." Ellie looks up trying to think of ideas, anything to try persuade Joel. "You could train him up and take him on patrol, your own little protector!”
“I don’t need a protector, El'. Besides, how would a thing smaller than my hand protect me? I'd probably just end up accidently standing on him and that would be the end of it. Look, he’s not going to be anything, ok?." The kitten then begins playing with a large piece of wood, making it spin off the surface and onto the floor. “Hey, stop that.” Joel says, picking the ball of fur up in one hand and holding it close to his chest again. “Damn things a liability. Just take him somewhere else.”
“But it’s so dark and stormy now. Tomorrow?” You ask. You know Joel too well, he might not want him right this second, but just keeping the kitten in his company tonight, he’ll be attached before he knows it.
He sighs. “Fine. He can stay here tonight, but that's it. I mean it, he’s not staying.”
"Awesome!" Ellie looks at you with a cheeky smirk. When it comes to you two, Joel may put up a fight, but he almost always gives in.
“Oh, and he’s not staying in your room, Ellie." he turns looking up at you. "There’s a box in the garage; put him in that.”
“Right, sure.” You nod in agreement, but have no intention of leaving the poor thing in a dark and scary box alone in the cold garage all night.
Two hours later as the snow falls and the wind howls outside, you snuggle up under the covers and rest your head on the pillow, waiting for Joel to come out of the bathroom and join you. When he finally plods around the bed, he climbs in and pulls you close into him with a kiss on the top of your head. He smells clean and feels a little damp from his shower, but he’s warm and always makes you feel so safe in his arms. You know he’s tired, he’s been complaining most of the night, so it isn’t long before you feel him starting to drift off. As he does, there's movement underneath the covers, something soft against both of your legs. His eyes open wide.
“What is that?” He asks, though you know he knows exactly what it is.
“What?”
“Please tell me that isn’t what I think it is…”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You whisper, playing innocent.
He untangles from you, reaching over to the nightstand to turn the lamp back on, and you both watch the small lump under the covers moving up towards you.
“You’ve got to be joking,” he exhales as the kitten’s face pokes out from under the covers. “You’re not supposed to be in ‘ere,” Joel mumbles, looking down at the fur ball as though he’s expecting any kind of response. He picks the kitten up in his hand and holds him up above you both, watching him make biscuits in the air. “Didn’t I tell you to put him in the garage?”
“Somehow I don’t think he wants to be in the garage…” you whisper.
“I don’t have time for this, darlin’. Got a busy day tomorrow, I need sleep.” He leans over and puts the kitten down on the floor beside the bed. “You, stay down there; don’t even think about jumping back up here.” The kitten just looks up at him, a sparkle in his eye. “Don’t look at me like that.”
He switches out the light and turns back over to you, wrapping his arms back around you to pull you in again. But of course, within seconds, you hear the tiny persistent thud of the kittens' paws on the floor as he continuously fails to jump back up onto the bed.
“You know he’s not going to stop that, don’t you? He wants to be with us.” You smile.
“Oh, he’ll stop when he gets tired, give it five.” He mumbles into the pillow.
Your heart starts to break at the thought of the kitten not being able to reach up as you lie there listening for a while. As you're about to move to get out of bed to rescue him from the floor, you see those little familiar ears climbing up the mountain of Joel’s back, over his shoulder and jumping down off his arm to land in the very small gap between your heads, the soft fur tickling Joel’s nose.
“Urghhhh. This goddamn child.” Joel groans deeply, but he doesn’t attempt to move, accepting defeat. You watch in the darkness as the kitten curls up just underneath Joel’s chin.
“He likes you, baby, I think you’re his favourite already.” You watch the kitten settling down to go to sleep in the safety beside Joel.
“Just for tonight then. Tomorrow, you find him another home.” His eyes are closed, and the sight before you is adorable. Joel, so big, so broad, so protective with the tiniest, most vulnerable little ball of cuteness buried close against him.
When you wake the next morning, your heart melts. Joel, the same Joel who told you this kitten couldn't stay, is lying on his back with the kitten curled up on his chest, both sleeping peacefully. You watch them both for a while until the kitten turns to stretch and wakes Joel. He breathes in deeply, his long limbs moving under the covers until his leg rests up against yours again and his hand reaches out to stroke and down the bare skin of your thigh.
“Morning, you two.” You say softly, head resting on your palm.
“Morning, my love.” He says half asleep.
“Hate to ruin the moment, boys, but someone’s given me the task of finding a new home for this one.”
“Talking to me or him?” Joel jokes, and it makes you chuckle. He opens one eye to look at you. “He’s resting. Let him stay for another hour, then you can take him.”
“Whatever you say, mister.”
Two nights later when you curl up into bed again, Joel walks in, the kitten balancing on his shoulder, clearly still not taken to another home.
“Ellie said I’m a cat dad now.” Joel says with a shake of his head.
You grin. “I think she might be right.”
“Jesus Christ.” He sighs, coming over to the bed.
“Don’t pretend like you hate it.” You giggle. He rolls his eyes as he climbs under the covers, and the kitten jumps down to curl up in the small space between you both.
“We have to find him a different bed tomorrow, though; he can’t sleep in ‘ere anymore, keeps stealing my spot next to you.” He sighs. “Kid needs to respect his parent’s privacy, gonna have to teach him some boundaries...” Joel reaches down underneath the covers, letting his palms roam up and down your body.
“Sure, baby.” You smile to yourself knowing full well Joel isn’t ever going to be able to let this kitten out of his sight for too long.
Summary: Joel never wanted to play Santa, but a favor owed lands him in a red suit that desperately needs saving. When he shows up at your door for last-minute help, you’re suddenly inches from the man you’ve been quietly longing for since forever - and he has no idea. As you pin seams, smooth fabric, and try not to melt under his warm gaze, your Christmas wishlist suddenly became very specific...
A/N: just the sweetest christmas fluff with jackson!joel, he is a grinch (at first), i know, i am using the seamstress!trope once more, but it fits so nicely!, nightmare before christmas references (if you don’t like the movie… whyever you don’t?!), a whole ot of longing but a fluffy payout!
wc: 7.3k (the fluff needs build-up, okay?)
Christmas in Jackson was a strange thing.
Everyone who remembered the old world knew that whatever they were doing now wasn’t quite Christmas - not the way it used to be, not the way it was meant to feel. Decorations were cobbled together from scraps. Lights were rare treasures. The tree in the center of town looked festive enough, but it was just one of a thousand evergreens surrounding the settlement. And the children - the reason everyone kept the tradition alive - had no idea why any of it mattered. They didn’t know the stories, didn’t know the rituals, didn’t know why a big man in a red suit and a fake beard appeared in the evening with a sack full of gifts.
But the way their faces lit up?
The gasps, the excitement, the pure wonder?
That was reason enough for the people of Jackson to keep trying, year after year. And with every season that passed, it all felt a little less awkward, a little less like a reconstruction, and a little more like Christmas had once felt - warm, hopeful, familiar.
Which was why it threw the entire town into chaos when the usual Santa fell ill only days before the celebration.
Thankfully - or perhaps disastrously - Tommy already had a plan.
“Quit makin’ that face,” Tommy called out the moment Joel rode through the gates. The sun was dipping behind the hills, casting long shadows across the snowy dirt, and Joel had barely swung out of the saddle before his brother was on him. “You’re scarin’ off the horses.”
Joel shot him a flat look and went right back to checking the strap on his saddle. “Ain’t makin’ a face.”
“You are,” Tommy insisted, arms crossed, grin growing wider - the kind of grin Joel always dreaded. “Which tells me you already know why I’m here.”
“I know trouble when it walks right up to me,” Joel muttered.
Tommy didn’t bother easing into it. Subtlety had never been his strong suit.
“We need somebody to play Santa this year.”
Joel froze. Just for a second. Then he exhaled through his nose and went back to fussing with the tack as if he could pretend this conversation wasn’t happening.
“No,” he said simply.
“Joel -”
“No, Tommy.”
“You owe me,” Tommy cut in, tone turning smug. “Unless your memory’s really gettin’ that bad.”
Joel narrowed his eyes. “For what?”
“Oh, I dunno,” Tommy said loudly, hand lifting theatrically. “Maybe for that time I took your patrol shift when Ellie was sick and you hadn’t slept in damn near two days? Let you get some rest? Remember that?”
Joel’s jaw flexed. “That ain’t the same.”
“It absolutely is. A debt is a debt.”
“What kinda man keeps tally over helpin’ his own family?” Joel grumbled.
“The kind who needs a Santa.” Tommy clapped him on the shoulder. “C’mon, brother. Kids’ll lose their minds if nobody shows up in the red suit.”
Joel huffed, shoulders sagging.
“Tommy…”
“Yup,” Tommy said, knowing exactly what that tone meant. “S’too late to back out. Already told folks you’d do it.” Tommy already walked backward toward town with far too much confidence.
“I didn’t agree to shit.”
“You did now,” Tommy smirked. “Unless you want me thinkin’ up extra chores for ya. I got ideas, you know. Real annoyin’ ones.”
Joel cursed under his breath, low and resigned. The kind of sound that meant he knew he’d lost before the argument even started.
“I’m tellin’ you right now - I ain’t built for this.”
Tommy beamed. “Nobody is, brother. That’s the magic.”
And just like that, Joel Miller - grumpiest man in Jackson - was the new Santa Claus.
“Well,” Joel announced, stepping out of the spare bedroom, the red suit hanging off him like a deflated tent, “looks like you’re gonna have to find yourself a different Santa. Maybe two, by the look of things.”
He tugged at the loose fabric around his middle, scowling. The coat sagged, the pants pooled around his boots, and the belt - meant for someone with a far more generous stomach - wrapped so far around him that the buckle nearly touched the back. If he moved too quickly, the whole thing threatened to slide right off.
Tommy wheezed a laugh, but Maria cut him a sharp look.
“Absolutely not,” she said firmly. She had Benji balanced on one hip, the child fast asleep, cheek pressed against her shoulder. “We’re not starting from scratch just because Bud Thompson had a belly like a damn barrel.”
Joel spread his arms, letting the oversized sleeves flop. “Maria, this thing could fit a whole other man inside it.”
“Then we’ll take some fabric out,” she shot back. “Simple.”
“And the beard?” Joel held up an empty hand, eyebrows raised. “You told me there’d be a beard.”
Maria exhaled heavily, the kind of sigh that meant she’d already fought three battles today and had no patience left for a fourth. “Got lost somewhere between last year’s clean-up and people not listenin’ when I said label the damn boxes.” She nudged Tommy pointedly, and he suddenly found the floor real interesting.
Joel crossed his arms, settling into his familiar, stubborn stance. “So I can’t wear the suit, and there’s no beard. Seems like a sign, if you ask me.”
Maria shook her head so sharply her curls bounced. “Not a chance, Joel. I’ve already got a solution.” She shifted the sleeping child, then dug one hand into the pocket of her sweater. “Here.”
Joel stared as she pressed a small scrap of paper into his palm. An address. A name.
He blinked slowly. “This is really happenin’, huh?”
Maria met his look with unstoppable determination. “She lives just across the street. You’ve seen her around. She can sew.” Then, with a pointed nod: “And you will go there. Today.”
Joel sighed - long, deep, defeated.
He didn’t say no.
The knock on your door was so loud and abrupt that you nearly poked yourself with the small tool in your hand. You’d been working on a bundle of pine-scented sachets - something the kids loved to tuck into their coat pockets during winter, something that made the cold feel friendlier and the world a little softer. They weren’t glamorous, but they kept the cabins smelling nice, and the children liked choosing their favorite shapes. Little stars, trees, even wonky snowmen.
You set the half-finished sachet aside and wiped your palms on your thighs before answering the door.
Your heart stuttered.
And then it dropped somewhere into your stomach.
Joel Miller stood on your doorstep.
Snow clung to the shoulders of his jacket, already melting into dark patches. His hair was damp from the flurries, a few errant curls flattening against his forehead. His broad frame filled the entire doorway, and his expression… well. You’d seen him look tired, stern, focused, irritated, all the usual Joel variations - but this one was new: a mix of annoyance and resignation, like he’d been personally dragged across town by Maria herself.
Which, knowing Maria, was very possible.
She had asked you a day ago if you could help Jackson with “a small Christmas task.” You hadn’t hesitated. You always helped, especially around the holidays. It made things feel… normal. Safe. You’d agreed enthusiastically.
You had not expected this to land on your doormat.
“Maria sent me,” he said without preamble, voice rough from the cold. He lifted his chin slightly, as if that were explanation enough. “Said you could sew.”
You opened your mouth but no sound came out. Your tongue felt glued to the roof of it. After a moment, you managed a tiny, croaked, “Yeah… yes. I can.” You cleared your throat and stepped aside, gesturing him in. “Um. Come in.”
He did, boots leaving faint trails of snow across your freshly swept floor. You told yourself not to care, not to be ridiculous, but your brain was already scrambling to tidy in your imagination. Meanwhile, Joel moved with the weary confidence of a man who had been in a hundred homes and didn’t quite know how to take up less space.
He gravitated toward the living room, gaze adjusting to your modest decorations - strands of fabric garland, a few paper cutouts you’d helped the children make, and a little wooden nativity you had carved the year before. Your sewing machine sat ready on the table beside baskets of thread, fabric scraps, and pins.
“Can I get you something?” you offered, eager to fill the silence. “I, uh - made a fresh batch of coffee.”
Joel looked at you over his shoulder. No smile, but his sternness softened enough to count as agreement. “Coffee’s fine.”
You escaped into the kitchen like it was a lifeboat. Your pulse thundered as you poured two mugs. His cup trembled slightly in your hand - not enough to spill, but enough that you cursed your nerves. When you returned, you handed him his drink and sank into your own chair with your half-finished mug.
“So…” you ventured, watching the way his broad shoulders angled as he took in the room. He wasn’t being rude. He was just… observant. But every time his eyes landed on something you’d put up - a garland, a candle, a decoration - it felt like he was silently assessing the kind of person who lived here.
You swallowed. “Maria said the costume needs a little… fixing?”
That was when you noticed the bag in his grip. A lumpy, distressed-looking thing that sagged like it shared Joel’s opinion about this whole ordeal.
He gave it a little shake. “Fits the whole damn Russian circus, far as I can tell.”
A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it. You covered it with a cough. “May I… see?”
He held the bag out toward you, assuming you’d want to examine the fabric.
But that wasn’t what you meant.
“Oh - no. I meant… on you.” Your face heated instantly. “So I can see where it needs adjusting.”
Joel stared at you for a second - brows drawn, jaw ticking slightly - but he didn’t argue. Didn’t tease. Didn’t even sigh.
He just set down his coffee calmly, opened the bag, and pulled out the oversized red suit.
Then, as if he were performing a routine chore, he stepped into the absurdly large pants. They ballooned around his legs, the waistband climbing nearly to his ribs. The coat swallowed his frame entirely, shoulders drooping, sleeves hanging past his fingertips.
He looked like a child playing dress-up in his father’s clothes.
“Well?” he asked, deadpan, as if bracing for judgment.
You bit your lip, desperately trying not to laugh.
“Yes,” you said carefully, pressing your fingers to your mouth. “This… definitely needs fixing."
Joel stood in the middle of your living room like a man waiting for judgment. Broad shoulders squared, hands loose at his sides, chin tucked slightly down as if he thought making himself smaller might help. It didn’t. He took up too much space to ever disappear.
You moved around him with slow, practiced steps, the hem of the Santa coat gathered in your hands as you searched for the next seam that needed tightening. The fabric was thick and stubborn beneath your fingers, and every time you leaned in to pin a fold, you caught the quiet rise of his breath. He wasn’t talking. He rarely did. Which meant your living room was filled with the soft rustle of fabric and the far-too-loud echo of your own heartbeat.
It wasn’t awkward silence - Joel didn’t really do awkward. It was more like he occupied quiet the way other men occupied chairs. Naturally. Solidly. Without question.
But it left you with entirely too much time to be aware of him.
The problem - no, the danger - was that Joel had never looked at you like this before. Not really. He’d nodded at you in the street, offered those short, polite exchanges that Jackson residents traded like currency. But acknowledging you? Allowing you this close? Standing here in your house while you adjusted his clothes?
This was new.
You, however… you'd been aware of him long before today.
You’d tried to ignore it at first. He was just another handsome man in town - well, no, he was the handsome man in town, but that was beside the point. His perpetual scowl hadn’t helped your interest either. If anything, it should’ve killed it.
But then you’d watched him from the sidelines - the way he carried heavy crates without being asked, the way he fixed fences or repaired roofs simply because someone needed it. The softness he tried to hide but never quite managed. And Ellie… well, seeing him with her had undone you completely. That quiet protectiveness, the gentleness beneath the armor, the love he showed in ways that didn’t need words.
It had lodged itself somewhere in you, and unfortunately, it had never left.
And now he was standing in your living room, all warmth and size and the faint scent of winter woods clinging to him. Close enough you could feel the heat radiating off him as you circled, pinning and tugging, trying not to stare at the shape of him under the suit - broad chest, thick arms, the subtle dip of his waist beneath the ridiculous red fabric.
You needed distraction. Fast.
“You a Christmas person, Joel?” you asked, breaking the silence before it swallowed you completely.
He made a low sound. A grunt. It could’ve meant yes. It could’ve meant no. It could’ve meant please stop talking and finish this so I can go.
“Well, I am,” you continued, keeping your voice bright even though he made it feel like work. “Shocking, I know.”
From the corner of your eye, you saw one of his eyebrows lift. “Really? Couldn’t tell.”
Your head snapped up at the joke - an actual joke - and your surprise made him huff a breath that might’ve been a quiet laugh.
“Oh, don’t start,” you said, grinning. “Next year maybe we should dress you up as the Grinch instead.”
He made a noise like he was trying not to smile.
“Or Oogie Boogie,” you added, stepping around to his side. “At least we wouldn’t have to do much sewing for that.”
That pulled his gaze down to you, curious and faintly offended in the most endearing way.
You plucked a pin from between your lips, missing entirely the way his eyes flicked there for a fraction of a second. “You know. The Nightmare Before Christmas?”
“Never seen it,” he said, matter-of-fact.
You stopped mid-step and stared at him. “What? Joel. It’s a classic.”
He shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Hard to get your hands on DVDs or VHS these days.”
“Well,” you said, stepping back to check the line of the coat on his shoulders, “good thing we’ve still got time here. I’ll catch you up.”
He looked down at you, eyes warm in a way that sank too easily under your skin. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said lightly, pretending the flutter in your chest wasn’t real. “Consider it Christmas homework.”
For the next twenty minutes, you found yourself doing something you hadn’t expected when you woke up that morning: giving Joel Miller a full plot-summary of The Nightmare Before Christmas.
It started innocently enough - just a little explanation of why Oogie Boogie would’ve been a better costume choice - but once you started, it was impossible not to keep going. Joel listened in that very Joel-like way: still as stone, eyes flicking to you occasionally, like he was making sure he caught the parts that mattered. Or maybe he was just being polite. Hard to tell with him.
You paced lightly while you spoke, hands moving as you described Halloween Town and Christmas Town, Jack’s crisis of identity, the stitched-together girl who quietly held him together while he unraveled. You drew a casual comparison between Sally sewing Jack’s Santa suit and you fixing Joel’s - though you very carefully avoided mentioning the part where Sally was hopelessly in love with Jack. No need to invite that kind of mortification into your evening.
You managed to keep your voice steady even when glancing over at Joel standing there, warm and huge and patient in a way that felt unexpectedly intimate.
As you talked, you finished the last adjustments you could make with the suit on his body - pinning down an uneven seam at his shoulder, straightening the length, reworking a stubborn fold that insisted on sitting wrong. Each time your fingers brushed fabric near him, you had to fight the ridiculous urge to apologize for breathing the same air.
Finally, when you wrapped up the story - Joel now fully versed in stop-motion existential crises - you stepped back and let out a soft breath.
“That’s the gist of it,” you said, brushing invisible lint from your palms. “I’ll take care of the rest without you in it. Shouldn’t take more than a day or two.”
You offered him a smile - a genuine one, warm and a little sheepish.
And you got one back.
A Joel smile. The fleeting kind, almost shy, the one that tugged gently at the corners of his mouth before retreating behind that greyish beard. You felt it land somewhere low in your stomach.
Speaking of which…
“I didn’t see a beard in that satchel,” you said, nodding toward the costume bag resting by the door as he stepped out onto your porch.
“Tommy lost it,” Joel said with an easy shrug, grinning as if the entire thing was one big joke he didn’t mind being the punchline of. “Maria makes sure to remind him of it.”
You grimaced in dramatic offense - because no beard on Santa was simply unacceptable. Somewhere in your brain, a plan began knitting itself together.
“Well,” you said, lifting your hands as if already preparing ribbon and thread, “maybe I’ll figure something out. No promises, though.”
His eyes softened on you, just a little. “You’re doin’ enough already, dar-” He caught himself sharply, clearing his throat. “Miss.”
Heat bloomed across your chest before you could stop it.
“Thanks for your help,” he added, the sincerity unmistakable in that low rumble of his. “’Preciate it.”
“Couldn’t let Christmas be stolen, now, could I?” you said lightly, leaning into the doorframe in what was supposed to be an effortless motion - except your foot slipped a fraction on the rug. You caught yourself quickly, praying he hadn’t noticed.
His soft, amused chuckle made it very clear he had.
You groaned internally.
“See you ’round,” he said, backing away down the porch steps. He nodded once - that quiet, almost old-fashioned farewell of his - before turning and heading down the walkway, boots crunching lightly against the frost.
“Yeah.” You gave a small, lazy wave. “See you, Joel.”
You stood there for a moment longer, watching the broad silhouette of him fade into the dim winter light, breath fogging in the cold air.
Then you closed the door behind you and stepped back into your cozy Christmas cocoon.
Except now it felt… different.
Bigger. Quieter. A little too still without the weight and warmth of your personal Santa standing in the middle of it.
Two evenings later, you kept your promise. The satchel in your arms felt unusually heavy, but you didn’t mind; the weight made you proud. Inside was Joel’s Santa costume, freshly adjusted, and your pièce de résistance: a homemade beard. You’d collected wool from the community’s sheep, washed it, dried it, and fluffed it painstakingly into shape until it actually looked like a Santa beard, complete with a carefully fashioned mouthhole.
Your pulse raced as you knocked on the door, expecting the familiar broad frame of Joel to fill the doorway. Instead, you were met with a much smaller figure.
“Yeah?” Ellie’s voice carried that signature edge, the one that never revealed whether she was amused, annoyed, or bored. Her expression was equally unreadable, that teen veneer that always made you feel just slightly out of your depth.
“Hey, Ellie. Is Joel home? Got something for him,” you said, patting the satchel against your side.
Ellie glanced over her shoulder without missing a beat, hollering into the house. “Joel? A girl’s here for you!” Then she spun back to you, mouth splitting into a mischievous grin. “Got a date or somethin’?”
Joel appeared on the stairs like a specter summoned. “No need to wake the whole town. I’m right here.” He gave you a small, apologetic nod. “Sorry about her.”
“All good,” you said, smiling.
“I am right here, y’know?” Ellie’s eyes darted between you and Joel, the grin never fading. “Whatcha got for him?”
Joel’s hand went to cover the bag as if the mere thought of Ellie seeing the insides made him physically pained. “Oh, nothin’, just a -”
But Ellie was faster. With a swift grab, she snatched the satchel from you and bounded toward the kitchen, giggling. Joel groaned, running a hand over his face, clearly mortified. You followed silently, closing the door behind you, and took your place as an unspoken observer of this adoptive dad-versus-teen dynamic.
“NO. WAY!” Ellie shrieked, dragging the costume from the bag. She spun around in place, eyes wide. “Don’t tell me… it’s gonna be you this year?!”
“It’s not…” Joel began, his voice low and wary, but Ellie wasn’t letting him finish.
“Oh my god! All those kids bouncing around, telling you their biggest wishes?” Ellie laughed so hard tears pricked at her eyes. You bit your lip to hide your own smile, enjoying every second of Joel’s discomfort.
Ellie had wrapped the jacket around her smaller shoulders, watching the costume drape comically on her frame. She laughed again, examining the sleeves that were far too long and the coat that nearly reached her knees.
“Let Tommy ask me next time, I -”
“Ellie,” Joel’s voice cut sharply, commanding now. “That’s enough. A whole lotta work went into this. Be careful.”
His acknowledgment - a warning delivered with weight, but tinged with care - sent a warm flutter through your chest. You hadn’t expected Joel to notice the effort you’d put in, much less care about it.
“Hopefully it fits now,” you said, finally finding your voice again, offering a sincere, gentle smile. You had no idea the subtle effect it would have.
Ellie’s grin only widened. “Oh yeah, you better try it on now, Joel. C’mon!”
Joel’s gaze flicked between you and her, a silent plea for patience. His eyes lingered on yours for a fraction longer than necessary, as if asking for backup, but it was already too late.
“I… fucking… LOVE IT!” Ellie’s shriek echoed through the house, ricocheting off the walls and making the floorboards vibrate beneath your feet.
Joel appeared in the kitchen, now fully suited in the Santa costume, the classic red hat perched jauntily atop his head. Only one piece was missing - the beard you’d spent hours shaping, wool fluffed just right, held carefully in your hands.
“Swearwords, Ellie!” Joel barked, voice sharp, though the oversized coat and hat lent a slightly comical edge to his admonition.
Ellie spun around on her heel, grinning like she’d just won the lottery. “Sorry! Don’t want to end up on the naughty list this year,” she teased. “This is gonna be amazing.”
Satisfied with Joel in full Santa glory, Ellie abandoned the grown-ups entirely, leaving the kitchen in a flurry of small feet and laughter. She waved at you lazily. “See you, Miss!” And just like that, she was gone. Leaving you alone with Joel. Your heart thudded a little faster than it should have.
“You did good here,” he said, voice quieter now, more grounded, framing himself in the suit, still adjusting to the absurdity of the red fabric against his broad shoulders.
“Thank you,” you murmured. Without thinking, you reached forward to straighten the collar that had crept crooked under his chin, bringing you closer than intended. Your eyes flicked up briefly, catching his gaze for a heartbeat too long.
“You… want to try on the beard?” you asked, suddenly aware of how intimate the moment felt.
He offered a lazy, almost teasing smile. “Will not make my way ‘round it, will I?”
You straightened, pride creeping into your voice. “I promised I’d make this a proper Christmas.” Arms lifting, you carefully positioned the beard against his face. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. If anything, his quiet stillness made the closeness feel welcoming, almost warm.
You focused on adjusting it, hands deftly arranging the wool, but your eyes betrayed you, flicking up at him again. The warmth in his gaze made your chest tighten.
“Fits you perfectly,” you whispered, voice almost too soft for comfort.
He grunted, low and rough, but it carried an unexpected softness. “Not a little over the top?”
“On the contrary,” you said, feeling a surge of boldness. “Most perfect Santa I’ve seen in a while.”
His brow shot up, surprised, a corner of his mouth twitching. “That’s a compliment… coming from the Christmas expert herself.”
You smoothed an imaginary corner of the beard, eyes momentarily drifting to the hint of lips behind the wool. “Yeah,” you said, voice teasing but careful, “hopefully that earns me a safe spot on the nice list this year.”
The boldness evaporated as quickly as it came, and you stepped back a fraction, giving him just enough space to turn to the mirror on the wall. He studied himself for the first time in the full outfit, and a deep, amused laugh rumbled from his chest.
“Good thing the age of photography’s over,” he muttered, shaking his head. Then he turned back to you, tone more serious but warm. “Thanks for your work. That’s gonna be a real feast for the kids.”
You brushed it off lightly, crossing your arms as though shielding yourself from his praise. “Never mind that. Just… make sure you stick around long enough to get a taste of the eggnog afterwards.”
“Promise,” he nodded, a small, knowing tilt of his head. His eyes flicked toward your lips for a brief instant. Again, you did not notice.
Your ears were still ringing from the high-pitched shrieks and excited laughter ricocheting around the hall. Ballroom was what Maria insisted on calling it every year, but everyone in Jackson knew the truth: it was a repurposed barn, long ago cleared of hay and tools, its beams sanded smooth and its drafty gaps sealed as best as possible. You had spent the last week stringing up lights across those wooden rafters, weaving garlands and scrap-fabric ribbons along the walls. Now the whole place glowed - a wash of warm gold from the fairy lights, shadows dancing with every movement, DIY decorations swaying gently whenever someone brushed past them. It actually felt… festive. Almost normal.
And right in the center of it all sat Santa Claus.
Or rather: Joel Miller in a Santa suit, playing the role with an unexpected, honestly mind-melting level of commitment.
He’d been reluctant, sure. Practically kicking dirt at Tommy when he was first told. But right now? With the kids climbing over him like he was the last piece of playground equipment on earth, he was… good. Really good. Letting each child settle on his knee, leaning in to hear their rambling wishes, chuckling when they told him stories that made no sense, nodding solemnly when they declared their love for “Santa.”
You stood off to the side with a couple of friends, a cup of homemade eggnog warming your hands. Someone had apparently produced enough for half the settlement, and judging by the pleasant buzz radiating through your limbs, you were on pace to sample at least your fair share. You nodded along to whatever conversation the group was having, but your attention kept drifting - again and again - to the man in red.
God. How you’d prayed this crush would fade. How many times you’d told yourself it was just loneliness, or boredom, or the simple fact that there weren’t many options in a walled-off town. But this? The way your stomach flipped every time he laughed, the way your skin prickled with goosebumps every time his voice rumbled low across the room?
You weren’t sick. You weren’t imagining it. You were deep in it.
And the universe wasn’t helping. Not tonight.
Like earlier - when he’d finally taken a break and wandered toward the buffet. You’d been reaching for the gravy boat when he appeared at your elbow, close enough for the scent of pine and leather to brush past you. You’d nearly jumped out of your own skin when he said, “Mind passin’ that gravy?” Then, after taking it from your hand:
“Beard’s holdin’ up real good. Y’can barely smell the sheep anymore.”
He’d grinned, and you’d needed a full five seconds to relearn how to breathe.
And worse were the stolen glances. The ones he kept giving you across the room. They stretched a little too long. Warmer than required. Enough to plant a painful, throbbing what if that echoed through your ribs.
Now, three eggnogs deep, you were almost certain - no, you were doomed. Because you, without a single doubt left in your foggy, fluttering brain, had a full-blown thing for Joel Miller.
And you had absolutely no idea what the hell you were supposed to do about it.
The evening slowly softened into night. The last rounds of shrieking children had finally burned themselves out, scattering like tiny fireworks down the hallway as their parents herded them toward bed. Excitement still crackled in the air, but the barn-turned-ballroom was emptying one family at a time: teens sneaking away to do whatever teens did, parents promising they’d return for the “grown-up hour” and promptly passing out next to their kids, and the remaining handful of adults lingering in clusters of warm laughter.
It was quiet enough now that you were painfully aware Joel was still here.
He sat at the far table with Maria, Santa beard pulled down to rest against his collarbone, the coat rumpled, eggnog glass sweating in front of him. And there he was - Joel Miller - laughing. Actually laughing. Not the small polite chuckle, not the breathy huff he sometimes gave when amused. No. This was full-on, shoulders-shaking laughter, warm enough to curl around your ribs like a hug.
Maybe you should go. Crawl back home, sleep off the eggnog, convince yourself that this little crush was nothing but holiday mush and alcohol. Wake up tomorrow and remember that this was Joel, who nodded politely at you on the street, who thanked you for stitching up a suit, who smiled exactly twice in your presence and left you ruined both times.
Yes. Leaving would be smart. Wise. Adult.
“If that isn’t Santa’s little helper.”
Tommy’s hand landed on your shoulder before you could even step away. His grin was blinding. “You worked some real Christmas magic tonight.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” you said far too quickly, heat crawling up your neck. “Joel’s a great fit -”
You choked.
“I mean, the seams! The suit! Didn’t need much adjustment.”
Tommy’s grin widened, like a wolf who’d scented blood in the snow. Mischief radiated from him like heat off a stovetop.
“How ’bout you join us for a celebratory toast? Proper thank-you for savin’ Christmas.”
Before you could protest, he tugged you into motion. One desperate swipe and you grabbed your mug off the table, mouthing an apology to your friends as Tommy delivered you straight into the empty chair beside Joel.
Too close. Way too close.
Joel didn’t look ridiculous, though he absolutely should have. Santa coat open at the chest, plaid shirt visible underneath, beard dangling around his neck like a lost accessory. Legs stretched long, ankles crossed, one arm hooked casually behind the back of your chair as though he’d claimed the space hours ago. He looked… comfortable. Warm. Settled.
“Look who’s here,” Joel drawled, lips curving. “Sally herself. Swoopin’ in to save Christmas once again.”
You laughed at his Nightmare Before Christmas reference - until he lifted his Santa hat off his own head and gently dropped it onto yours. The wool was still warm from him, smelling faintly of him. It slid down your forehead, itchy, thick, entirely too intimate.
Maria’s voice cut across the table. “Tommy? I need you with that thing.”
There was no “thing.” Obviously. But Tommy stood anyway, grumbling theatrically as Maria tugged him toward the kitchen. Joel watched them go, then looked back at you with a slight, knowing tilt of his head.
You swallowed.
“Pretty convincing Santa back there,” you said, nudging bravado into your voice. “Almost like you lied about not knowing what you were doing.”
“That so?” His smirk deepened. He didn't shift his arm from the back of your chair. Didn’t move at all. Just stayed close.
You nodded, lifting your mug to your lips. The sweetness clung to your mouth, making your pulse jump.
“Can’t fool me,” you continued. “You - Joel Miller - are absolutely not the Grinch you claim to be.”
“Hmm.” He nudged his glass with a finger. “If Christmas comes with eggnog and nice words like that? Could probably learn to like it.”
You grinned, emboldened by sugar and alcohol and the way he was looking at you now - head tilted slightly, eyes warm, like he’d carved out this small corner of the night just for the two of you.
“Want another?” you asked, pointing at his half-empty cup. “My treat.”
He chuckled. “Wouldn’t say no.”
You stood - tried to. But the eggnog had caught up with you, humming warm and dizzy through your limbs. The room tilted, your foot caught the edge of the chair, and in one humiliating, slow-motion arc -
- you fell straight into Joel’s lap.
Joel’s breath left him in a soft huff. Your hands flew up around his neck instinctively, fingertips brushing warm skin beneath his beard. You both burst into startled laughter - half embarrassment, half shock, half something new.
“Maybe no more eggnog for me,” you muttered, face on fire, trying to push yourself up -
- but his hands settled around your waist.
Not pushing. Not grabbing.
Just resting. Holding you steady.
“Hey,” he murmured, quiet enough for only you to hear. “Come back here a sec.” Your breath stalled. “Still figurin’ out,” he continued, voice lower now, warmer, “whether you made the good list too?”
The smile he gave you wasn’t his usual small one. It was darker, softer, curling at the edges like heat. A smile that said he knew exactly what he was doing.
You swallowed hard, pulse fluttering like it wanted out of your skin.
“Well,” you whispered, shifting just slightly - enough to tease, enough to play the part. “I guess that depends.”
His grip on your waist tightened a fraction. Barely there. But enough.
“Depends on what?” he asked, voice roughened.
You tilted your head, lips curling.
“On what a girl has to do,” you breathed, “to get on your good list.”
Your eyes searched his, trying to read the shadows flickering in the warm barn light, your hands settling more securely at the back of his neck. The movement brought you a fraction closer - barely anything, really - but you felt it like a shift in gravity. His exhale brushed your lips. Your pulse thundered.
The remaining noises in the barn - quiet laughter from the far corner, the clink of glasses from someone cleaning up - muffled into a soft hum. Everything else dulled beneath the rush of blood in your ears. You weren’t spinning from the eggnog anymore.
Joel looked at you like you'd stepped directly into his hands, as if he'd been waiting for that tiny lean-in. His fingers tightened at your waist, not rough, but unmistakably claiming - inviting you closer with that subtle, barely-there tug. His beard was still pushed down to his collar, leaving the strong lines of his jaw exposed, dusted with gray. His hair was mussed from the Santa hat, his cheeks touched pink from the heat and maybe the drinking and maybe… maybe you.
His gaze lowered to your mouth.
And before your brain could catch up to what your body already knew was coming, he pulled you in.
His lips brushed yours - soft at first, testing, warm with the faint sweetness of eggnog and whatever spice Maria had thrown into the batch. The wooly rim of the Santa beard, crushed between you and him, tickled your chin; his real beard scratched lightly at your upper lip. You melted into the uneven textures of it, the warmth of him, the sense that he could very easily turn this innocent kiss into something devastating if the room were even a little more empty.
But there were still people around. So the kiss stayed slow, and restrained… until his mouth tilted against yours and his tongue teased against your lower lip, just once.
You answered in kind without thinking.
That earned you a very low, very quiet chuckle from Joel - felt more than heard, vibrating right through your hands where they curled behind his neck.
He broke the kiss first, resting his forehead lightly to yours, breath uneven.
“Pretty sure that,” he murmured, voice roughened to something sinful, “puts you on the naughty list.”
A shocked laugh escaped you, breathless and unsteady. “Pretty sure kissing Santa in public makes us tomorrow’s town gossip. Christmas scandal of the century.”
“Mm.” He stole another short kiss, deeper this time. “Just makin’ sure everybody gets what they asked for.”
His hand slipped lower on your waist as he shifted beneath you, the pressure unmistakable, sending a pulse of boldness straight up your spine. You leaned toward his ear, confidence sparked by heat and proximity and the realization he wanted this just as much.
“Kissing’s not what girls on the naughty list wish for though,” you whispered.
Joel’s gaze snapped back to yours - darker now, hungry in a way that made your stomach flip.
“Well then,” he said slowly, voice a warm rumble, “Santa better walk his elf home. Make sure all her presents are waitin’ under her tree.”
“He better,” you whispered back, “or he’ll crush her Christmas spirit. And we can’t have that.”
In one fluid motion - so smooth it startled a small gasp from you - Joel rose from his seat, lifting you easily off his lap. You slid down against the length of him, breath catching at the difference in height, the way he leaned down to press another lingering kiss to your already reddened lips.
“Lemme help Tommy and Maria clean the rest,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek. “Can I drop by after?”
That was it. You had definitely fallen into an eggnog-induced fever dream. Joel Miller. Asking if he could come over. For… whatever came next.
You nodded quickly - too quickly - then tugged at the fake beard hanging around his neck. “Don’t let a girl wait too long for her gifts.”
The bravery in your voice shocked even you.
And with that, before you could combust right there in front of him, you turned on your heel, grabbed your coat, and forced yourself to walk - walk, not run - out into the cold Jackson night, heart hammering like bells ringing midnight.
Joel wasn’t entirely sure what the hell had gotten into him. The easy answer was the eggnog - or the music, the lights, that strange holiday softness that wrapped itself around Jackson once a year and made people act just a little foolish.
But he knew better than to lie to himself.
It wasn’t the alcohol, and it wasn’t the season.
It was you.
Maria had been right earlier that week - more right than he’d let on. He had noticed you before tonight. Not the way he’d noticed danger or trouble, sharp and immediate. No. You were the kind of person he’d caught bits of in the corner of his eye - working with the kids, helping fix things that broke, checking in on neighbors who needed something. Never loud, never demanding attention, but there. Warm in a way this world didn’t have much of anymore.
He’d heard your laugh a few times too - light, bright, always managing to slip under his armor before he knew it was happening.
And standing in your living room days ago, surrounded by soft lights and neatly stacked fabric and the smell of something sweet on the stove, it hit him like a damn punch to the ribs:
You made life feel normal.
Safe.
Like something worth coming back to.
Which was exactly why he’d tried, real hard, to keep some distance. He wasn’t built for delicate things. And the life he led wasn’t something he ever wanted to drag someone gentle into.
But you had a way of stepping right back into his orbit anyway - quietly, as if you belonged there and he was a fool not to see it.
And tonight?
Tonight had shoved whatever line he’d drawn clean off the table.
That kiss.
Your laugh against his mouth.
Your weight on his lap, your hands in his hair, the little whisper at his ear that damn near melted him where he sat.
He hadn’t planned any of it.
But if he was honest - which he tried to be, at least inside his own head - he wanted more. Wanted to see where the pull led instead of fighting it.
Why else would he be out here now? Trudging through ankle-deep snow, boots crunching through the white, breath fogging in front of him, headed straight for your house - the only one still lit on your quiet street. Yellow glow in the window, warm as a beacon.
Inviting. Comforting. Yours.
After helping Maria and Tommy clean up - and after both of them practically shoved him out the door with knowing smirks - Joel had peeled out of the Santa getup, stuffing it into a bag to return later. Now he was in jeans, flannel, thick jacket, hands buried deep in his pockets to keep them from shaking. Whether from cold or nerves, he didn’t examine too closely.
He climbed your porch steps with slow, heavy strides, breath steadying. He raised a fist to knock -
But the door cracked open before he touched it.
You grinned up at him, haloed by the warm light inside. “Ho-ho-hello,” you teased softly.
Something in Joel’s chest loosened at the sight of you - hair still a little mussed from earlier, cheeks pink from alcohol or excitement or both, wrapped in a cozy sweater that looked far too inviting.
“Thought Santa might’ve forgotten me,” you added.
Joel opened his mouth, ready to give some clumsy Christmas jab back - but nothing came out. The sight of you, the heat spilling from behind you, the soft wintry smell of your home - it knocked every line clean out of his head.
“Promised, didn’t I?” he finally managed.
“You did.” You stepped closer, reaching up to brush the snow from his hair - gentle strokes that made him forget the cold entirely. Halfway through the motion, he caught your wrist, guiding your hand down. He lifted your fingers to his mouth and pressed slow, warm kisses to each one, lingering longer than he meant to.
“If you want,” he murmured, voice low and careful, “you can still tell me no. I can come by another night.”
You let out a soft breath, eyes bright. “Yeah, you could do that.” A beat. Then you tipped your head, lips curving. “Or you could just come inside now - before all the heat escapes and I end up freezing. Which means you’d have to warm me up all night.”
Joel huffed a quiet laugh, stepping forward, closing the last inches between you. “Ain’t got a problem with that,” he said, voice a touch rough.
You tugged him in by the front of his jacket, pulling him through the doorway. And the moment his boots crossed the threshold, he kissed you - slow at first, then deeper, as if he’d been thinking about it ever since you left the barn. Your back hit the door as you swung it shut behind him, breath catching, hands sliding up his chest.
“Merry Christmas to me, I guess,” you whispered against his lips, warm and a little breathless.
Joel smiled into the kiss, his hands finding your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world, before returning a low and satisfied:
“Merry Christmas.”
And merry christmas to all of you 🎄✨️ i had such fun to write this piece of fluff (and really need a nightmare before christmas rewatch now :D) and it really got me into the spirit! I hope, you can enjoy your holidays if you celebrate ❤️🎅🤍
FMC: June (this is not a reader-insert, can be read as one though limited use of the FMC name)
“Love doesn’t start with fireworks.
Sometimes it starts with whiskey, exhaustion, and a stranger who pretends to be yours.”
Vibes: whiskey neat · dim airport bar · tired eyes · strangers with chemistry · soft danger · heartbreak you swallow
Warnings: soft angst, breakup mentions, cheating (ex only), unwanted advances
6k words
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Heartbreak,
she decided, looked less like a movie montage and more like an airport terminal at midnight.
The lighting was too bright and somehow still too dim, casting everyone in the bar near Gate 47 in a kind of stale fluorescence. Screens flickered with updated departure times. A baby cried somewhere in the distance. A man at the end of the counter laughed too loudly at something on his phone. The ice in her glass clicked softly each time her hand trembled.
She sat hunched on a cracked leather barstool, her carry-on tucked between her ankles like a small animal she had to protect. The bartender had taken one look at her face, at her windburned cheeks and puffy eyes, and poured whiskey without asking what she wanted. She hadn’t corrected him. Whiskey seemed right. Something blunt and inelegant that burned on the way down.
The drink was golden in the low light, condensation sliding down the sides of the glass. She wrapped both hands around it, letting the chill bite into her fingers before the warmth seeped up into her palms. Her body felt bruised from the inside out, tender in places no one could see.
Iceland had been her idea. A romantic reconnection trip, she’d called it when she pitched it over takeout one night. Five years together, same apartment, same routines, same coffee orders and grocery lists and Sunday morning habits. The kind of life you built when you believed in “long-term” and “serious” and “the right person.” She’d thought the trip would be a celebration of that. Aurora borealis, glacier lagoons, hot springs. The kind of thing you post on Instagram with captions like lucky to do life with you.
She tilted the glass, watching the whiskey catch the light. The memories of the last forty-eight hours pressed against the back of her eyes like a migraine.
She hadn’t been snooping. That was the worst part. She’d been looking for the time.
His phone had been on the nightstand, screen face-up, buzzing with a message. She’d picked it up to check how late they were running for the tour and the preview had been right there. A name she didn’t recognize. A heart. A sentence that started with I wish you were here instead of her.
She’d opened the thread because there was no universe in which she wouldn’t. Scrolled. Seen dates, and pet names, and explicit photos that made her stomach flip for reasons that had nothing to do with desire.
By the time he’d stepped out of the shower, towel around his waist, steam curling into the hotel bedroom, her suitcase was already zipped. Her heart had been beating a strange, steady rhythm—too slow for panic, too fast for calm.
“What are you doing?” he’d asked, confused.
“We’re done,” she’d said. Her own voice had surprised her. It hadn’t cracked or wavered. Just… stated the fact.
The rest blurred. His excuses, his stammering, his it didn’t mean anything, his it was a mistake, the way his face had gone slack when he realized she wasn’t going to argue. She hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t demanded explanations. Hadn’t asked him if he loved her, because she suddenly didn’t want to know the answer.
She’d changed her flight at the airport, traded their shared itinerary for the first seat back to New York she could get. She’d cried in a bathroom stall until her eyes burned and her throat ached and all that was left now was a numb, echoing hollow in her chest.
“Another?” the bartender asked, nodding at her glass.
She blinked. There was barely a sip left, just melted ice and a faint amber sheen.
“Yeah,” she said. “Sure.”
He poured. The smell hit her before the taste, sharp and medicinal. She thought about saying something witty, something self-deprecating, something that would make her seem like a woman having an edgy, cinematic meltdown and not someone whose sense of self had quietly cracked in a foreign hotel room. She didn’t have it in her.
Her phone lay face-up on the counter beside the napkin, the black screen reflecting her distorted face. There were two unread emails from her editor—subject lines containing words like deadline and love column angle?—and a few missed calls from her best friend. She should answer. She couldn’t bring herself to.
It was almost funny. She made a living writing about relationships. Columns about modern dating and long-term commitment and communication and choosing yourself. She’d written about red flags like she was a person who would never ignore them. She’d offered calm, thoughtful advice to strangers about self-worth and mutual respect and not staying where you weren’t valued.
Apparently she was better at giving advice than taking it.
A quiet shuffle of noise came from two seats down as someone lowered themselves onto a stool. She felt rather than saw the movement—a shift in the air, a new presence settling into the edge of her awareness. She didn’t look straight away. The bar was half full. People came and went. No one here was hers to notice.
But then the newcomer spoke, and the sound of his voice snagged at something in her.
“Whiskey neat,” he said.
Deep, low, rough at the edges—like someone who’d been speaking too little for too long and had forgotten how to smooth the corners of his words.
Curiosity tugged. She glanced sideways.
He was older than her by at least a decade, maybe more. Forties, if she had to guess. Dark brown curls, overgrown just enough to fall across his forehead in soft waves, with threads of silver glinting near his temples. A strong nose, a mouth set in a line that looked like it had been a smile, once, before something had worn it down. His beard was short, uneven in a way that suggested neglect rather than fashion, salt just beginning to dust through the dark.
He was beautiful, in that specific, adult way that wasn’t about perfection but presence. The kind of face you noticed in a crowd because it had lived things, not because it hadn’t. The kind of man you’d cast in a movie when you wanted the audience to trust him and doubt him at the same time.
His blazer was navy, molded to broad shoulders and a solid chest. His shirt beneath it was a bit rumpled, top buttons undone, the hollow of his throat on display. He looked more like he’d been poured into the clothes than he’d chosen them meticulously today.
The bartender set his drink down. He wrapped long fingers around the glass, knuckles nicked and veined. His wrist peeked from his cuff—watch expensive but understated, leather strap worn in like he actually used it instead of wearing it as a prop.
He didn’t look at her. His gaze went past the bottles to the mirror behind the bar, then past that, to the row of departure screens reflecting overhead. For a second, she saw his reflection, and the expression he wore—a mix of tired and resigned—felt familiar. Not the circumstances, but the weight.
Someone whose life had shifted recently, and not in a way that left room for celebration.
She turned back to her drink before he caught her staring.
The bar’s noise settled into a low, constant hum—the gentle clink of ice, the scratch of chair legs, murmured conversations, the crackle of a loudspeaker somewhere too far to understand the words but close enough to feel the disruption. The world kept moving at its indifferent pace while hers circled the same small loop: Five years. Messages. Suitcase. Airport. Alone.
A stool scraped against the floor on her other side. Before she could brace, a wave of cologne hit her—too strong, chemically sweet, the scent of someone who didn’t know when to stop.
“Hey there,” a voice said, right at her shoulder.
She stiffened.
She turned her head slightly. The man who’d taken the seat on her right was early thirties, maybe, with a close-trimmed beard and hair gelled into deliberate disarray. His shirt was unbuttoned a little too far, chest on show like a menu item. He smiled like he’d never had to try very hard to get people to smile back.
“You look like you’ve had a long day,” he said.
“I’m fine,” she answered, automatic.
He leaned his elbow onto the bar, invading her space by inches. “No one in an airport bar is fine. Can I get you another?”
“I already have one.” She tapped her glass lightly.
“I’ll get the next,” he pushed. “What are you drinking?”
“No, thank you.”
He laughed, a little too loud, a sound that made nearby heads turn. “Come on. Don’t say it like that. One drink. I promise I’m good company.”
“I’m sure you are,” she said, keeping her voice even. “But I’m not interested.”
He tilted his head, smile unchanged but eyes cooling. “You don’t even know me yet.”
“I don’t need to,” she said. “Please. I just want to sit alone.”
He chuckled again, like it was a game. “You can’t seriously want to drink alone in an airport.”
“Yes,” she replied. “I can.”
He drummed his fingers on the counter, closer to her wrist than she liked. “Rough trip?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Bet I could make it better,” he said.
She stared straight ahead, counting the bottles lined up behind the bar, trying to breathe around the tightness in her chest. It wasn’t that she was afraid of him, she told herself. Or maybe she was, but not in the immediate danger sense. It was the fear of being seen crying. Of getting angry enough that her voice would wobble. Of becoming the hysterical woman people pretended not to look at.
“Really,” she said, quieter. “Please stop.”
“Relax. I’m just talking to you,” he said, and then his hand brushed her forearm in a light, possessive touch.
Her whole body flinched.
“Don’t,” she snapped, the word sharper than she intended.
He blinked, his smile faltering into something harder. “Jesus. I’m being nice.”
She moved slightly away on her stool, putting a sliver more distance between them. The bar suddenly felt too small, the air too thin.
On her left, the man in the navy blazer was still there. She could see him in the corner of her vision, still and quiet, his gaze no longer on the screens but fractionally angled toward them. Watching. Not intervening. Not yet.
She swallowed, fingers digging into the damp curve of her glass.
“Seriously,” she tried once more. “Leave me alone.”
“Come on, sweetheart,” the man said, and that word, from his mouth, made her stomach twist. “Don’t be like that. Just talk to me for a bit. You’ll thank me.”
She thought, wildly, that she could throw her drink in his face. She thought she could call the bartender over and make a scene. She thought about the way her ex had looked at her when she’d calmly told him it was over, like she’d taken away his script.
She did not want another man to look at her like she was the problem.
“Hey.”
The new voice slipped into the space like a hand sliding into hers—steady, low, and warm.
She turned.
The man from the other stool had moved. She hadn’t heard him stand, hadn’t registered his approach until he was right there beside her, close enough that she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight roughness of his skin. The scent of him was different from the cloying cologne on her right—clean, a hint of something woody and warm under airplane air and tiredness.
He rested his free hand on the back of her chair. He didn’t touch her, didn’t grip, just placed his palm there, casual but unmistakable, creating a line between her and the man at her side.
“There you are,” he said to her, the words flavored with the kind of relief people used when they finally spotted someone in a crowd.
Her heart jumped. The bar, the noise, the creep on her right—all of it blurred briefly.
“I thought I lost you,” he added, and there was a little smile now, something dry and familiar curling his mouth. “They keep moving the gates.”
It took a single heartbeat for her to understand.
He was pretending.
Her pulse hammered. Her first instinct was disbelief, the second gratitude, the third—insane as it was—was that he was even more dangerously attractive up close. The planes and the fluorescent lights and the hollow ache in her chest made it feel like a strange, detached dream.
He held her gaze. There was a question in his eyes, not assumption. He needed her to step into the lie.
“Sorry,” she heard herself say. Her voice sounded steadier than she felt. “I got… distracted.”
The man on her right frowned. “Who are you?”
Navy blazer man didn’t look at him. His attention stayed on her, soft and grounding.
“You okay?” he asked her quietly, the words meant for her, not for the performance.
She nodded. “I am now.”
Only then did he turn his head to acknowledge the other man, the shift in his posture subtle but unmistakable. He didn’t square his shoulders, didn’t puff up, didn’t turn this into some kind of alpha showdown. He just… existed. Calmly. Fully.
“I’m her boyfriend,” he said, voice smooth and matter-of-fact, as if this wasn’t a lie he’d come up with thirty seconds ago.
The word slid through her with an unexpected jolt. Not the content, but the way he said it—nothing in it for himself, no bragging, no staking a claim. Just simple, functional, effective.
The guy snorted. “She didn’t say she had a boyfriend.”
Navy blazer man lifted one eyebrow, expression flattening into something almost amused. “She said she wasn’t interested.”
“So?”
“So that should’ve been enough,” he replied, tone still pleasant. “You don’t need a reason to listen to no.”
The other man bristled. “I was just being nice.”
He shrugged. “Be nice somewhere else.”
There was a moment where everything held still. She felt like she was watching a scene play out underwater—the distant hum of the bar, the lights stinging at her eyes, the two men on either side of her coiled in vastly different energies.
Then the younger man scoffed, clearly weighing his options and finding no way to win without looking ridiculous.
“Whatever,” he muttered. “Have fun with your little drama.”
He grabbed his bag, shoulder bumping the stool as he stormed away. She exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding until now, her fingers loosening around the glass.
For a beat, the man beside her kept his hand where it was, on the back of her chair, in case the creep turned back. When it was clear he was gone, he eased back a step, letting his palm fall, reclaiming his own stool one seat over.
He didn’t look triumphant. Just… relieved.
“Thank you,” she said, turning toward him. The words didn’t feel big enough but they were all she had. “I really—thank you. I owe you one.”
He shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I do,” she insisted, something fierce slipping into her voice now that the adrenaline had somewhere to go. “I didn’t know how to make him stop without… breaking apart. So. Yeah. I owe you.”
He studied her for a moment, then inclined his head, accepting that not because he agreed, but because he understood she needed to give something back.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Then let’s say you bought me five minutes of conversation.”
A small, startled laugh escaped her. It felt rusty, like it hadn’t been used in days. “Five minutes?”
“Five,” he confirmed. “After that, we can go back to pretending we’re strangers in the same bar.”
She considered him. The lines framing his mouth, the exhaustion in his eyes, the gentle steadiness in his voice. Five minutes seemed a small price for what he’d just done for her.
“Deal,” she said. “But you’re going to need to talk, not just stare into your drink like it personally offended you.”
That drew a real smile out of him, quick and bright, sharpening every angle of his face in a way that made her embarrassingly aware of how handsome he really was. It softened almost immediately, like smiles weren’t something he trusted to stay.
“I’ll try to rein in my bad habits,” he said.
He took the stool beside hers this time, leaving a respectful space between them but clearly, intentionally choosing her company. His carry-on sat by his feet, scuffed leather and a worn baggage tag. Up close, she could see how tired he was—not just the shallow tired of travel, but the deeper one that hollowed out a person from their center.
“You all right?” he asked again. It wasn’t a filler question. He really wanted to know.
She could lie. Say yes and leave it at that. But honesty felt strangely easier with someone whose life she’d never have to live with later.
“No,” she said. “But I will be. Eventually.”
He nodded once. “That’s more than most people can say at an airport bar.”
She huffed out a breath. “What about you? You looked like you were ready to start a staring contest with your own reflection before you jumped in.”
A faint, crooked line tugged at his mouth. “Rough week,” he admitted.
“Same,” she said.
He glanced at her glass. “Iceland?”
She blinked. “How did you know that?”
He nodded toward the boarding passes sticking out of her open tote bag, half-covered by her scarf. “KEF to JFK. Reykjavik to New York.”
She looked down, then back at him. “So you’re observant.”
“Occupational hazard,” he said.
“Of what?”
He hesitated. “Finance.”
She made a face. “That’s vague.”
“Private equity,” he clarified, like that might somehow sound better.
“Oh,” she said dryly. “So you buy things and ruin them.”
He laughed—really laughed this time, head tilting back for a second, eyes creasing. It did something unpleasantly pleasant to her insides.
“That’s one way to put it,” he said. “You don’t like finance?”
“I don’t like people who talk about finance at parties,” she said. “But you haven’t tried to explain the market to me yet, so maybe there’s hope.”
“Give me time,” he murmured. “We’ve only just met.”
There was something in the way he said it that made it feel… heavier. Like he wasn’t just commenting on this moment, but on a larger truth neither of them knew yet.
She cleared her throat, suddenly aware of the way her heart had picked up.
“You were in Iceland too?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He traced the rim of his glass with one slow thumb, his eyes lowered. “Long enough to remember what silence feels like.”
“Vacation?” she pressed gently.
He paused, weighing the truth. She recognized the look—the quiet debate of what a stranger should know.
“Not exactly,” he said. “I went there after a breakup.”
She softened. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head immediately. “It wasn’t that kind of breakup. Lucy and I… we weren’t together long. A few months. It looked like it should’ve worked, so we kept showing up and hoping it would eventually feel like something.”
She watched him carefully, taking in the subtle tension in his jaw.
“Did it?” she asked.
“No,” he said simply. “It didn’t. We were both smart enough to admit it.”
“What happened?”
He lifted one shoulder in a small, quiet shrug. “She realized she still loved her ex. Loved him the way people write songs about. The way people make stupid decisions for. And she wanted to try again with him.”
“Did that hurt?” she asked softly.
He thought about it for only a second. “No. Because I never wanted her like that. I liked her. She liked me. But it was… polite. Functional. Nothing you fight for.”
“And you still went to Iceland?” she asked.
“Already booked,” he said. “And honestly? I needed the time alone. A week with no meetings, no expectations, no one asking why I didn’t feel more than I felt. Iceland seemed like the kind of place where no one cares if you’re quiet.”
There was no bitterness in his voice.
But there was something else.
A strange, soft honesty she hadn’t expected from a man who looked so solid.
She exhaled slowly. “Sometimes I wonder which is worse—finding out there’s too much feeling, or finding out there’s none.”
He studied her profile. “Which did you get?”
“Too much,” she said. “Just not pointed at me.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “He cheated.”
She nodded, throat thick. “For months, apparently.”
“I am sorry,” he said again, and she believed him.
She swirled the whiskey in her glass, watching the melt of ice dilute the amber. “Do you believe in love?” she asked suddenly. “The big kind. The terrifying, world-shifting, everyone-writes-poems-about-it kind.”
He didn’t answer immediately. His jaw flexed, a muscle ticking once, twice.
“No,” he said at last. “I don’t.”
The simple honesty of it startled her.
“Never?” she asked.
He shrugged, shoulders rolling under the blazer. “I’ve had relationships. Good ones, by most measures. Comfort. Loyalty. Affection. I’ve cared about people. I’ve wanted them safe, wanted them happy. But I’ve never felt that… thing people describe. The all-consuming wave that rearranges your insides.”
“You think it doesn’t exist?” she asked.
“I think it’s rare,” he said. “Rare enough that most people call whatever they have ‘love’ because admitting they’ve never felt it is too lonely.” He paused. “And I think I’m not built for it.”
Something about that—his quiet certainty, his resignation—hurt more than her own story.
“That sounds…” She searched for the word. “Sad.”
He gave a small, crooked smile. “Sad would suggest I’ve lost something. You have to have something first for it to be gone.”
She looked away, back at the rows of bottles, glass reflecting glass. “I used to believe in it,” she said quietly. “Love. The ridiculous, messy, inconvenient kind. I built a career on it. On helping other people believe in it too.”
“You’re a writer,” he said, not a question.
She blinked, surprised. “How do you know that?”
He gestured with his chin toward her tote. “Laptop, printed pages, a planner with color-coded tabs, and a copy of a book about attachment styles. You either write about relationships or you’re a very dedicated overthinker.”
“Both,” she admitted.
“That tracks,” he said, a hint of warmth in his tone.
“I write a column,” she added. “About love and modern dating and all the ways people try and fail to make it work.”
“And yet,” he said softly, “no one taught him not to screw it up.”
Her throat burned. “I don’t know if he ever believed in the same version I did.”
“What version was that?” he asked.
She thought about it. Thought about all the lines she’d given strangers on the internet, all the words she’d used to convince people to leave bad relationships and trust they’d find better.
“More than convenience,” she said slowly. “More than habit. More than someone liking the way it feels to be loved. I always thought real love meant… choosing each other. On purpose. Over and over. Even when it’s not easy.”
“And he didn’t choose you,” Harry said.
The way he said it—gently, without drama—made the truth land cleaner than any of the stories she’d spun in her head.
“No,” she said. “He chose someone else.”
For a moment the silence between them felt fragile, thin as glass. Then he shifted, just enough that his shoulder almost brushed hers, warmth radiating in the inch of air between them.
“That’s not on you,” he said. “That’s on him.”
It shouldn’t have meant as much as it did, hearing it from a stranger. But her body seemed to unclench a fraction. The words hooked onto something raw inside her, anchoring it.
“I believed in something that wasn’t real,” she managed.
“You believed in your own capacity,” he countered. “He’s the one who stood in front of it and said, ‘That’s all I have to offer.’ That has nothing to do with the size of what you had to give.”
She stared at him, throat thick. “You’re weirdly good at this for someone who claims he doesn’t believe in love.”
“I don’t believe in it for me,” he said. “I believe other people feel it. They look like they do. But I stand in front of it and feel… nothing. Like pressing my palm against the glass of someone else’s life.”
A gate announcement cut through the bar, calling a boarding group for a completely different flight. He checked the screen automatically, then his watch. Not yet.
She watched the way he moved, the faint stiffness in his shoulders, the air of a man who’d spent the last few years holding other people’s expectations up until his arms gave out. He had the worn-in charisma of someone who probably handled rooms and investors and tense negotiations without breaking a sweat. It made his quiet now feel heavier, more intimate.
“You said you had a favor,” she reminded him, when the silence had stretched into something thoughtful rather than awkward.
He let out a breath, his gaze dropping briefly to the water he still hadn’t finished. “Right.”
“If it’s something insane,” she said, “you should know I’m fresh off the worst trip of my life. My bar for sanity is very low.”
“That’s encouraging,” he said dryly. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s only mildly insane.”
“Go on,” she said.
He traced the rim of his glass again, the motion small, grounding. When he looked up at her this time, there was something almost vulnerable in his expression. Not in a performative way, not in a wounded bird way. Just… bare.
“My ex,” he said. “Lucy. She’s getting married next month.”
Her brows lifted. “That was fast.”
“It was inevitable,” he said. “She’d been halfway in love with him for a while. We both pretended not to see it. It made ending things easier in some ways.”
“Still,” she said. “That sounds… a lot.”
“It is,” he admitted. “Our friends are all going. Her family. Some of my colleagues. It’s going to be an event.”
“And you’re invited,” she guessed.
“I promised I’d be there.” He shrugged, the movement small, heavy. “It matters to her. Closure, symbolism, whatever you want to call it. I keep my promises, even when they’re uncomfortable.”
She sat back a little, turning her glass between her palms. “You don’t have to go alone,” she said, then caught herself. “Sorry. Obviously that’s the problem.”
He gave a half-smile. “Exactly. Everyone assumes I will show up solo. And that’s… fine. Functionally. But I know how it’ll look. The man who didn’t believe in love at his ex’s wedding, applauding politely from the corner, alone.”
“And that bothers you,” she said.
“It bothers me that I’ll spend the entire night being looked at like a cautionary tale,” he said. “Or worse, like a sympathetic one.”
She could picture it—people glancing at him over champagne flutes, whispering into each other’s ears. Poor Harry. Couldn’t love her enough. Hope he’s okay. Did you hear he went to Iceland with her after they broke up? She’d been on both sides of those conversations.
“So what’s the favor?” she asked again, gently.
He met her eyes, and there it was—that flicker of something reckless.
“You come with me,” he said. “As my date.”
The words hung between them, absurd and weirdly logical all at once.
She stared at him. “I—what?”
He didn’t rush to fill the space, didn’t backtrack. He just held her gaze, as if giving her time to reject the idea outright.
“You said you owe me,” he reminded her softly. “One favor. One drink. Five minutes of conversation. I’m… amending the terms.”
She laughed, a startled sound with no real amusement in it. “That’s not an amendment, that’s a hostile takeover.”
His mouth curved. “I work in private equity. We don’t really do gentle negotiations.”
“That’s not funny,” she said, fighting the urge to smile anyway.
“It’s a little funny,” he argued.
She shook her head, trying to clear it. “You want to take a complete stranger to your ex’s wedding.”
“Believe me, I am fully aware of how insane it sounds,” he said. “But think about it. You and I… we’re in similar places. You don’t believe in the thing you built your life around. I never believed in it and just had that fact rubbed in my face in high definition. Neither of us is exactly thriving. One night of pretending we are? Could be… useful.”
“Useful,” she echoed flatly.
“You’d get a good story out of it,” he pointed out. “You’re a columnist. Tell me your editor wouldn’t salivate over ‘I Went to a Wedding as a Stranger’s Fake Girlfriend and It Broke My Brain.’”
She hated that he was not wrong.
“You’d have an open bar, decent food, music, somewhere to wear something that isn’t rated for sub-zero temperatures,” he continued. “I’d have someone beside me so people stop looking at me like a failed experiment.”
“You could bring a friend,” she said.
He tilted his head. “Do you want to go to your ex’s wedding with someone who knows every version of you? Or with someone who owes you absolutely nothing and will never see any of those people again?”
She hesitated. Imagined her best friend gripping her hand in a bathroom while she ugly cried. Imagined being the sobbing mess in a room full of people who knew exactly how long she’d been with her ex, exactly how much she’d invested, exactly what she’d lost.
“Fair point,” she admitted.
“I’m not asking you to save me,” he said. “Just to stand next to me for a few hours, dance once or twice, laugh at my bad jokes if you can bear it, and make some rich people who barely know me assume I’ve moved on spectacularly.”
She found herself tracing the rim of her glass the way he had been, the condensation damp against her fingertip.
“And what do I get?” she asked. “Besides a story and free champagne.”
“One night,” he said. “Where you’re not the woman who got cheated on in Iceland. Where nobody knows his name or what he did. Where you’re just… someone’s plus one who looks too good in a dress and is slightly out of his league.”
Her chest squeezed. “Flattery is cheap.”
“It’s not flattery,” he said. “I’d be punching well above my weight, and we both know it.”
Heat crept up her neck, inconvenient and annoying.
“This is insane,” she said, more to herself than to him.
“I agree,” he said easily. “But it’s the kind of insane that might feel better than whatever we were both going to be doing that night instead.”
She imagined it without meaning to. A venue somewhere out of the city, lights strung over a lawn. A woman she didn’t know in a dress she’d never wear, walking down an aisle toward the man she’d chosen. Harry standing somewhere at the back, hands in his pockets, watching with that quiet, resigned expression.
And then she imagined him not alone. Imagined herself beside him, her hand looped through his arm, the two of them an odd, temporary partnership built on scars and performance.
“You don’t know me,” she said.
“Exactly,” he replied. “There’s something freeing about that, isn’t there?”
She thought about the last five years. How predictable she’d become. How known. How every fight had felt like a rerun of a show she was tired of watching. There was a sharp, inconvenient appeal in the idea of being unknown. Of playing a part that didn’t require her to be the most wounded person in the room.
Her flight number blinked on the screen above the bar, still delayed, buying her more time to make a choice she probably shouldn’t be making.
“This would be a one-time thing,” she said carefully.
“Yes.”
“No… follow-up.” Her cheeks heated at the implication, and she rolled her eyes at herself. “No expectation of… anything.”
He held up one hand as if taking an oath. “No expectation of anything except that you don’t leave me alone at the table for more than ten consecutive minutes.”
“You’re very nonchalant about asking a strange woman to be your human shield,” she said.
“I’m not nonchalant,” he said. “I’m hoping you’ll say yes and prepared for you to say no. Both things can be true.”
She searched his face then—really searched it. The tired lines. The sincerity. The reckless edge. The lack of calculation in his eyes. If he were trying to manipulate her, he’d be smoother. If he were trying to pick her up, he’d be sleazier. He didn’t feel like either.
He felt like a man standing at the edge of something, not sure whether he wanted to step back or jump.
“That’s a big favor,” she said finally.
“You can think about it,” he offered. “I’ll give you my number. You can block me as soon as we leave this bar if you decide I’m a terrible idea. But if you say no right now, you’re going to sit on that plane and wonder why you didn’t at least consider it.”
He was right. She hated that.
She stared down at her hands, the small half-moon indents her nails had left in her palm. The version of herself who had booked Iceland would have said no. The version who just survived Iceland wasn’t entirely sure what she was capable of now.
“Fine,” she said, the word feeling a little like jumping. “Okay. I’ll… consider it. Tentatively.”
His mouth curved into a real smile this time, bright enough that she understood instinctively that not many people got to see it.
“I’ll take tentatively,” he said. He pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocked it, and slid it over to her. “Number?”
She hesitated just long enough to feel like she was making a choice and not just being carried by momentum. Then she typed it in, added her name, and, after a split second of wicked impulse, tagged on a last name in the contact field: Airport Mistake.
He glanced at the screen, huffed out a laugh. “That’s harsh.”
“Accurate,” she said.
He saved it and handed the phone back, then gestured for hers. She passed it over, heart hammering far more than it had any right to. His fingers were quick on the screen. A second later, he returned it.
A new contact blinked up at her: Harry – Bad Idea.
“Fair’s fair,” he said.
She looked from the name to him. Harry. It fit, weirdly. Strong, simple, unfussy.
She realized, with a small jolt, that in all of this, they hadn’t actually exchanged names properly.
“You just asked me to be your date to your ex’s wedding,” she said slowly. “I don’t even know your last name.”
He lifted one shoulder. “Castillo.”
“Harry Castillo,” she repeated, letting the syllables roll in her mouth. Somehow, it made him feel more real. “You know that’s not helping the movie logic of this situation, right?”
He smiled, lines fanning out at the corners of his eyes. “If it helps, I also file quarterly taxes and have lower back pain. That’s about as unromantic as it gets.”
She snorted, then bit back another smile. “Debatable.”
Overhead, the loudspeaker crackled to life again, announcing pre-boarding for their flight. Passengers began to gather their things, scraping chairs, tugging suitcases upright.
He glanced at the gate, then back at her.
“I’ll text you the details tomorrow,” he said. “You don’t have to say yes. You don’t have to respond at all. But… if you think you might want one night where you get to be someone else, even just a little, I’ll be there.”
She swallowed. “This is insane,” she said again, quietly.
“Probably,” he agreed. His gaze softened. “But insane hasn’t worked out that badly for me so far. Rational decisions are the ones that got me on a breakup trip to Iceland with my ex.”
He stood, lifting his carry-on handle. For a moment he just watched her, something unreadable in his eyes.
“Get some sleep,” he said. “And eat something that isn’t bar nuts.”
“Yes, Dad,” she said, then winced. “Sorry. That was—”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Tragic. You can do better.”
She found herself smiling despite everything. “I usually can.”
He took a step backward, movements unhurried even as the lane at the gate began to fill, boarding groups clustering in their small, impatient huddles.
“Goodnight… columnist,” he said.
She hesitated. “Goodnight… emotionally incompetent finance guy.”
He gave her one last look, something like a promise in it that neither of them was qualified to make, then turned and joined the slow-moving queue at the gate.
She watched him until the line swallowed him, until he handed over his boarding pass, until the navy blazer disappeared down the jet bridge.
Only when she couldn’t see him anymore did she look down at her phone.
One new message blinked up on the screen.
Unknown: Don’t panic yet. It’s just a wedding.
A second later:
Harry – Bad Idea: (But if you’re going to panic, do it in a dress you love.)
She stared at the texts, thumb hovering over the keyboard. A laugh bubbled up in her chest, startling in its softness.
She typed back before she could think better of it.
Airport Mistake: We’ll see.
She set the phone face-down on the bar, took a steadying breath, and glanced up at the departure board.
Her flight number glowed on the screen, boarding group creeping closer.
It was supposed to be just one night, she told herself.
One night pretending to be someone else. One night standing next to a man who didn’t believe in love when she wasn’t sure she did anymore either.
Just one night.
She had no idea how dangerous that could be.
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a/n: I wasn’t planning to write this, but Harry Castillo in a navy blazer lives rent-free in my brain, so here we are. Slow burn + emotional damage incoming.
FMC: June (this is not a reader-insert, can be read as one though limited use of the FMC name)
“Love doesn’t start with fireworks.
Sometimes it starts with whiskey, exhaustion, and a stranger who pretends to be yours.”
Vibes: whiskey neat · dim airport bar · tired eyes · strangers with chemistry · soft danger · heartbreak you swallow
Warnings: soft angst, breakup mentions, cheating (ex only), unwanted advances
6k words
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Heartbreak,
she decided, looked less like a movie montage and more like an airport terminal at midnight.
The lighting was too bright and somehow still too dim, casting everyone in the bar near Gate 47 in a kind of stale fluorescence. Screens flickered with updated departure times. A baby cried somewhere in the distance. A man at the end of the counter laughed too loudly at something on his phone. The ice in her glass clicked softly each time her hand trembled.
She sat hunched on a cracked leather barstool, her carry-on tucked between her ankles like a small animal she had to protect. The bartender had taken one look at her face, at her windburned cheeks and puffy eyes, and poured whiskey without asking what she wanted. She hadn’t corrected him. Whiskey seemed right. Something blunt and inelegant that burned on the way down.
The drink was golden in the low light, condensation sliding down the sides of the glass. She wrapped both hands around it, letting the chill bite into her fingers before the warmth seeped up into her palms. Her body felt bruised from the inside out, tender in places no one could see.
Iceland had been her idea. A romantic reconnection trip, she’d called it when she pitched it over takeout one night. Five years together, same apartment, same routines, same coffee orders and grocery lists and Sunday morning habits. The kind of life you built when you believed in “long-term” and “serious” and “the right person.” She’d thought the trip would be a celebration of that. Aurora borealis, glacier lagoons, hot springs. The kind of thing you post on Instagram with captions like lucky to do life with you.
She tilted the glass, watching the whiskey catch the light. The memories of the last forty-eight hours pressed against the back of her eyes like a migraine.
She hadn’t been snooping. That was the worst part. She’d been looking for the time.
His phone had been on the nightstand, screen face-up, buzzing with a message. She’d picked it up to check how late they were running for the tour and the preview had been right there. A name she didn’t recognize. A heart. A sentence that started with I wish you were here instead of her.
She’d opened the thread because there was no universe in which she wouldn’t. Scrolled. Seen dates, and pet names, and explicit photos that made her stomach flip for reasons that had nothing to do with desire.
By the time he’d stepped out of the shower, towel around his waist, steam curling into the hotel bedroom, her suitcase was already zipped. Her heart had been beating a strange, steady rhythm—too slow for panic, too fast for calm.
“What are you doing?” he’d asked, confused.
“We’re done,” she’d said. Her own voice had surprised her. It hadn’t cracked or wavered. Just… stated the fact.
The rest blurred. His excuses, his stammering, his it didn’t mean anything, his it was a mistake, the way his face had gone slack when he realized she wasn’t going to argue. She hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t demanded explanations. Hadn’t asked him if he loved her, because she suddenly didn’t want to know the answer.
She’d changed her flight at the airport, traded their shared itinerary for the first seat back to New York she could get. She’d cried in a bathroom stall until her eyes burned and her throat ached and all that was left now was a numb, echoing hollow in her chest.
“Another?” the bartender asked, nodding at her glass.
She blinked. There was barely a sip left, just melted ice and a faint amber sheen.
“Yeah,” she said. “Sure.”
He poured. The smell hit her before the taste, sharp and medicinal. She thought about saying something witty, something self-deprecating, something that would make her seem like a woman having an edgy, cinematic meltdown and not someone whose sense of self had quietly cracked in a foreign hotel room. She didn’t have it in her.
Her phone lay face-up on the counter beside the napkin, the black screen reflecting her distorted face. There were two unread emails from her editor—subject lines containing words like deadline and love column angle?—and a few missed calls from her best friend. She should answer. She couldn’t bring herself to.
It was almost funny. She made a living writing about relationships. Columns about modern dating and long-term commitment and communication and choosing yourself. She’d written about red flags like she was a person who would never ignore them. She’d offered calm, thoughtful advice to strangers about self-worth and mutual respect and not staying where you weren’t valued.
Apparently she was better at giving advice than taking it.
A quiet shuffle of noise came from two seats down as someone lowered themselves onto a stool. She felt rather than saw the movement—a shift in the air, a new presence settling into the edge of her awareness. She didn’t look straight away. The bar was half full. People came and went. No one here was hers to notice.
But then the newcomer spoke, and the sound of his voice snagged at something in her.
“Whiskey neat,” he said.
Deep, low, rough at the edges—like someone who’d been speaking too little for too long and had forgotten how to smooth the corners of his words.
Curiosity tugged. She glanced sideways.
He was older than her by at least a decade, maybe more. Forties, if she had to guess. Dark brown curls, overgrown just enough to fall across his forehead in soft waves, with threads of silver glinting near his temples. A strong nose, a mouth set in a line that looked like it had been a smile, once, before something had worn it down. His beard was short, uneven in a way that suggested neglect rather than fashion, salt just beginning to dust through the dark.
He was beautiful, in that specific, adult way that wasn’t about perfection but presence. The kind of face you noticed in a crowd because it had lived things, not because it hadn’t. The kind of man you’d cast in a movie when you wanted the audience to trust him and doubt him at the same time.
His blazer was navy, molded to broad shoulders and a solid chest. His shirt beneath it was a bit rumpled, top buttons undone, the hollow of his throat on display. He looked more like he’d been poured into the clothes than he’d chosen them meticulously today.
The bartender set his drink down. He wrapped long fingers around the glass, knuckles nicked and veined. His wrist peeked from his cuff—watch expensive but understated, leather strap worn in like he actually used it instead of wearing it as a prop.
He didn’t look at her. His gaze went past the bottles to the mirror behind the bar, then past that, to the row of departure screens reflecting overhead. For a second, she saw his reflection, and the expression he wore—a mix of tired and resigned—felt familiar. Not the circumstances, but the weight.
Someone whose life had shifted recently, and not in a way that left room for celebration.
She turned back to her drink before he caught her staring.
The bar’s noise settled into a low, constant hum—the gentle clink of ice, the scratch of chair legs, murmured conversations, the crackle of a loudspeaker somewhere too far to understand the words but close enough to feel the disruption. The world kept moving at its indifferent pace while hers circled the same small loop: Five years. Messages. Suitcase. Airport. Alone.
A stool scraped against the floor on her other side. Before she could brace, a wave of cologne hit her—too strong, chemically sweet, the scent of someone who didn’t know when to stop.
“Hey there,” a voice said, right at her shoulder.
She stiffened.
She turned her head slightly. The man who’d taken the seat on her right was early thirties, maybe, with a close-trimmed beard and hair gelled into deliberate disarray. His shirt was unbuttoned a little too far, chest on show like a menu item. He smiled like he’d never had to try very hard to get people to smile back.
“You look like you’ve had a long day,” he said.
“I’m fine,” she answered, automatic.
He leaned his elbow onto the bar, invading her space by inches. “No one in an airport bar is fine. Can I get you another?”
“I already have one.” She tapped her glass lightly.
“I’ll get the next,” he pushed. “What are you drinking?”
“No, thank you.”
He laughed, a little too loud, a sound that made nearby heads turn. “Come on. Don’t say it like that. One drink. I promise I’m good company.”
“I’m sure you are,” she said, keeping her voice even. “But I’m not interested.”
He tilted his head, smile unchanged but eyes cooling. “You don’t even know me yet.”
“I don’t need to,” she said. “Please. I just want to sit alone.”
He chuckled again, like it was a game. “You can’t seriously want to drink alone in an airport.”
“Yes,” she replied. “I can.”
He drummed his fingers on the counter, closer to her wrist than she liked. “Rough trip?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Bet I could make it better,” he said.
She stared straight ahead, counting the bottles lined up behind the bar, trying to breathe around the tightness in her chest. It wasn’t that she was afraid of him, she told herself. Or maybe she was, but not in the immediate danger sense. It was the fear of being seen crying. Of getting angry enough that her voice would wobble. Of becoming the hysterical woman people pretended not to look at.
“Really,” she said, quieter. “Please stop.”
“Relax. I’m just talking to you,” he said, and then his hand brushed her forearm in a light, possessive touch.
Her whole body flinched.
“Don’t,” she snapped, the word sharper than she intended.
He blinked, his smile faltering into something harder. “Jesus. I’m being nice.”
She moved slightly away on her stool, putting a sliver more distance between them. The bar suddenly felt too small, the air too thin.
On her left, the man in the navy blazer was still there. She could see him in the corner of her vision, still and quiet, his gaze no longer on the screens but fractionally angled toward them. Watching. Not intervening. Not yet.
She swallowed, fingers digging into the damp curve of her glass.
“Seriously,” she tried once more. “Leave me alone.”
“Come on, sweetheart,” the man said, and that word, from his mouth, made her stomach twist. “Don’t be like that. Just talk to me for a bit. You’ll thank me.”
She thought, wildly, that she could throw her drink in his face. She thought she could call the bartender over and make a scene. She thought about the way her ex had looked at her when she’d calmly told him it was over, like she’d taken away his script.
She did not want another man to look at her like she was the problem.
“Hey.”
The new voice slipped into the space like a hand sliding into hers—steady, low, and warm.
She turned.
The man from the other stool had moved. She hadn’t heard him stand, hadn’t registered his approach until he was right there beside her, close enough that she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight roughness of his skin. The scent of him was different from the cloying cologne on her right—clean, a hint of something woody and warm under airplane air and tiredness.
He rested his free hand on the back of her chair. He didn’t touch her, didn’t grip, just placed his palm there, casual but unmistakable, creating a line between her and the man at her side.
“There you are,” he said to her, the words flavored with the kind of relief people used when they finally spotted someone in a crowd.
Her heart jumped. The bar, the noise, the creep on her right—all of it blurred briefly.
“I thought I lost you,” he added, and there was a little smile now, something dry and familiar curling his mouth. “They keep moving the gates.”
It took a single heartbeat for her to understand.
He was pretending.
Her pulse hammered. Her first instinct was disbelief, the second gratitude, the third—insane as it was—was that he was even more dangerously attractive up close. The planes and the fluorescent lights and the hollow ache in her chest made it feel like a strange, detached dream.
He held her gaze. There was a question in his eyes, not assumption. He needed her to step into the lie.
“Sorry,” she heard herself say. Her voice sounded steadier than she felt. “I got… distracted.”
The man on her right frowned. “Who are you?”
Navy blazer man didn’t look at him. His attention stayed on her, soft and grounding.
“You okay?” he asked her quietly, the words meant for her, not for the performance.
She nodded. “I am now.”
Only then did he turn his head to acknowledge the other man, the shift in his posture subtle but unmistakable. He didn’t square his shoulders, didn’t puff up, didn’t turn this into some kind of alpha showdown. He just… existed. Calmly. Fully.
“I’m her boyfriend,” he said, voice smooth and matter-of-fact, as if this wasn’t a lie he’d come up with thirty seconds ago.
The word slid through her with an unexpected jolt. Not the content, but the way he said it—nothing in it for himself, no bragging, no staking a claim. Just simple, functional, effective.
The guy snorted. “She didn’t say she had a boyfriend.”
Navy blazer man lifted one eyebrow, expression flattening into something almost amused. “She said she wasn’t interested.”
“So?”
“So that should’ve been enough,” he replied, tone still pleasant. “You don’t need a reason to listen to no.”
The other man bristled. “I was just being nice.”
He shrugged. “Be nice somewhere else.”
There was a moment where everything held still. She felt like she was watching a scene play out underwater—the distant hum of the bar, the lights stinging at her eyes, the two men on either side of her coiled in vastly different energies.
Then the younger man scoffed, clearly weighing his options and finding no way to win without looking ridiculous.
“Whatever,” he muttered. “Have fun with your little drama.”
He grabbed his bag, shoulder bumping the stool as he stormed away. She exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding until now, her fingers loosening around the glass.
For a beat, the man beside her kept his hand where it was, on the back of her chair, in case the creep turned back. When it was clear he was gone, he eased back a step, letting his palm fall, reclaiming his own stool one seat over.
He didn’t look triumphant. Just… relieved.
“Thank you,” she said, turning toward him. The words didn’t feel big enough but they were all she had. “I really—thank you. I owe you one.”
He shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I do,” she insisted, something fierce slipping into her voice now that the adrenaline had somewhere to go. “I didn’t know how to make him stop without… breaking apart. So. Yeah. I owe you.”
He studied her for a moment, then inclined his head, accepting that not because he agreed, but because he understood she needed to give something back.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Then let’s say you bought me five minutes of conversation.”
A small, startled laugh escaped her. It felt rusty, like it hadn’t been used in days. “Five minutes?”
“Five,” he confirmed. “After that, we can go back to pretending we’re strangers in the same bar.”
She considered him. The lines framing his mouth, the exhaustion in his eyes, the gentle steadiness in his voice. Five minutes seemed a small price for what he’d just done for her.
“Deal,” she said. “But you’re going to need to talk, not just stare into your drink like it personally offended you.”
That drew a real smile out of him, quick and bright, sharpening every angle of his face in a way that made her embarrassingly aware of how handsome he really was. It softened almost immediately, like smiles weren’t something he trusted to stay.
“I’ll try to rein in my bad habits,” he said.
He took the stool beside hers this time, leaving a respectful space between them but clearly, intentionally choosing her company. His carry-on sat by his feet, scuffed leather and a worn baggage tag. Up close, she could see how tired he was—not just the shallow tired of travel, but the deeper one that hollowed out a person from their center.
“You all right?” he asked again. It wasn’t a filler question. He really wanted to know.
She could lie. Say yes and leave it at that. But honesty felt strangely easier with someone whose life she’d never have to live with later.
“No,” she said. “But I will be. Eventually.”
He nodded once. “That’s more than most people can say at an airport bar.”
She huffed out a breath. “What about you? You looked like you were ready to start a staring contest with your own reflection before you jumped in.”
A faint, crooked line tugged at his mouth. “Rough week,” he admitted.
“Same,” she said.
He glanced at her glass. “Iceland?”
She blinked. “How did you know that?”
He nodded toward the boarding passes sticking out of her open tote bag, half-covered by her scarf. “KEF to JFK. Reykjavik to New York.”
She looked down, then back at him. “So you’re observant.”
“Occupational hazard,” he said.
“Of what?”
He hesitated. “Finance.”
She made a face. “That’s vague.”
“Private equity,” he clarified, like that might somehow sound better.
“Oh,” she said dryly. “So you buy things and ruin them.”
He laughed—really laughed this time, head tilting back for a second, eyes creasing. It did something unpleasantly pleasant to her insides.
“That’s one way to put it,” he said. “You don’t like finance?”
“I don’t like people who talk about finance at parties,” she said. “But you haven’t tried to explain the market to me yet, so maybe there’s hope.”
“Give me time,” he murmured. “We’ve only just met.”
There was something in the way he said it that made it feel… heavier. Like he wasn’t just commenting on this moment, but on a larger truth neither of them knew yet.
She cleared her throat, suddenly aware of the way her heart had picked up.
“You were in Iceland too?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He traced the rim of his glass with one slow thumb, his eyes lowered. “Long enough to remember what silence feels like.”
“Vacation?” she pressed gently.
He paused, weighing the truth. She recognized the look—the quiet debate of what a stranger should know.
“Not exactly,” he said. “I went there after a breakup.”
She softened. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head immediately. “It wasn’t that kind of breakup. Lucy and I… we weren’t together long. A few months. It looked like it should’ve worked, so we kept showing up and hoping it would eventually feel like something.”
She watched him carefully, taking in the subtle tension in his jaw.
“Did it?” she asked.
“No,” he said simply. “It didn’t. We were both smart enough to admit it.”
“What happened?”
He lifted one shoulder in a small, quiet shrug. “She realized she still loved her ex. Loved him the way people write songs about. The way people make stupid decisions for. And she wanted to try again with him.”
“Did that hurt?” she asked softly.
He thought about it for only a second. “No. Because I never wanted her like that. I liked her. She liked me. But it was… polite. Functional. Nothing you fight for.”
“And you still went to Iceland?” she asked.
“Already booked,” he said. “And honestly? I needed the time alone. A week with no meetings, no expectations, no one asking why I didn’t feel more than I felt. Iceland seemed like the kind of place where no one cares if you’re quiet.”
There was no bitterness in his voice.
But there was something else.
A strange, soft honesty she hadn’t expected from a man who looked so solid.
She exhaled slowly. “Sometimes I wonder which is worse—finding out there’s too much feeling, or finding out there’s none.”
He studied her profile. “Which did you get?”
“Too much,” she said. “Just not pointed at me.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “He cheated.”
She nodded, throat thick. “For months, apparently.”
“I am sorry,” he said again, and she believed him.
She swirled the whiskey in her glass, watching the melt of ice dilute the amber. “Do you believe in love?” she asked suddenly. “The big kind. The terrifying, world-shifting, everyone-writes-poems-about-it kind.”
He didn’t answer immediately. His jaw flexed, a muscle ticking once, twice.
“No,” he said at last. “I don’t.”
The simple honesty of it startled her.
“Never?” she asked.
He shrugged, shoulders rolling under the blazer. “I’ve had relationships. Good ones, by most measures. Comfort. Loyalty. Affection. I’ve cared about people. I’ve wanted them safe, wanted them happy. But I’ve never felt that… thing people describe. The all-consuming wave that rearranges your insides.”
“You think it doesn’t exist?” she asked.
“I think it’s rare,” he said. “Rare enough that most people call whatever they have ‘love’ because admitting they’ve never felt it is too lonely.” He paused. “And I think I’m not built for it.”
Something about that—his quiet certainty, his resignation—hurt more than her own story.
“That sounds…” She searched for the word. “Sad.”
He gave a small, crooked smile. “Sad would suggest I’ve lost something. You have to have something first for it to be gone.”
She looked away, back at the rows of bottles, glass reflecting glass. “I used to believe in it,” she said quietly. “Love. The ridiculous, messy, inconvenient kind. I built a career on it. On helping other people believe in it too.”
“You’re a writer,” he said, not a question.
She blinked, surprised. “How do you know that?”
He gestured with his chin toward her tote. “Laptop, printed pages, a planner with color-coded tabs, and a copy of a book about attachment styles. You either write about relationships or you’re a very dedicated overthinker.”
“Both,” she admitted.
“That tracks,” he said, a hint of warmth in his tone.
“I write a column,” she added. “About love and modern dating and all the ways people try and fail to make it work.”
“And yet,” he said softly, “no one taught him not to screw it up.”
Her throat burned. “I don’t know if he ever believed in the same version I did.”
“What version was that?” he asked.
She thought about it. Thought about all the lines she’d given strangers on the internet, all the words she’d used to convince people to leave bad relationships and trust they’d find better.
“More than convenience,” she said slowly. “More than habit. More than someone liking the way it feels to be loved. I always thought real love meant… choosing each other. On purpose. Over and over. Even when it’s not easy.”
“And he didn’t choose you,” Harry said.
The way he said it—gently, without drama—made the truth land cleaner than any of the stories she’d spun in her head.
“No,” she said. “He chose someone else.”
For a moment the silence between them felt fragile, thin as glass. Then he shifted, just enough that his shoulder almost brushed hers, warmth radiating in the inch of air between them.
“That’s not on you,” he said. “That’s on him.”
It shouldn’t have meant as much as it did, hearing it from a stranger. But her body seemed to unclench a fraction. The words hooked onto something raw inside her, anchoring it.
“I believed in something that wasn’t real,” she managed.
“You believed in your own capacity,” he countered. “He’s the one who stood in front of it and said, ‘That’s all I have to offer.’ That has nothing to do with the size of what you had to give.”
She stared at him, throat thick. “You’re weirdly good at this for someone who claims he doesn’t believe in love.”
“I don’t believe in it for me,” he said. “I believe other people feel it. They look like they do. But I stand in front of it and feel… nothing. Like pressing my palm against the glass of someone else’s life.”
A gate announcement cut through the bar, calling a boarding group for a completely different flight. He checked the screen automatically, then his watch. Not yet.
She watched the way he moved, the faint stiffness in his shoulders, the air of a man who’d spent the last few years holding other people’s expectations up until his arms gave out. He had the worn-in charisma of someone who probably handled rooms and investors and tense negotiations without breaking a sweat. It made his quiet now feel heavier, more intimate.
“You said you had a favor,” she reminded him, when the silence had stretched into something thoughtful rather than awkward.
He let out a breath, his gaze dropping briefly to the water he still hadn’t finished. “Right.”
“If it’s something insane,” she said, “you should know I’m fresh off the worst trip of my life. My bar for sanity is very low.”
“That’s encouraging,” he said dryly. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s only mildly insane.”
“Go on,” she said.
He traced the rim of his glass again, the motion small, grounding. When he looked up at her this time, there was something almost vulnerable in his expression. Not in a performative way, not in a wounded bird way. Just… bare.
“My ex,” he said. “Lucy. She’s getting married next month.”
Her brows lifted. “That was fast.”
“It was inevitable,” he said. “She’d been halfway in love with him for a while. We both pretended not to see it. It made ending things easier in some ways.”
“Still,” she said. “That sounds… a lot.”
“It is,” he admitted. “Our friends are all going. Her family. Some of my colleagues. It’s going to be an event.”
“And you’re invited,” she guessed.
“I promised I’d be there.” He shrugged, the movement small, heavy. “It matters to her. Closure, symbolism, whatever you want to call it. I keep my promises, even when they’re uncomfortable.”
She sat back a little, turning her glass between her palms. “You don’t have to go alone,” she said, then caught herself. “Sorry. Obviously that’s the problem.”
He gave a half-smile. “Exactly. Everyone assumes I will show up solo. And that’s… fine. Functionally. But I know how it’ll look. The man who didn’t believe in love at his ex’s wedding, applauding politely from the corner, alone.”
“And that bothers you,” she said.
“It bothers me that I’ll spend the entire night being looked at like a cautionary tale,” he said. “Or worse, like a sympathetic one.”
She could picture it—people glancing at him over champagne flutes, whispering into each other’s ears. Poor Harry. Couldn’t love her enough. Hope he’s okay. Did you hear he went to Iceland with her after they broke up? She’d been on both sides of those conversations.
“So what’s the favor?” she asked again, gently.
He met her eyes, and there it was—that flicker of something reckless.
“You come with me,” he said. “As my date.”
The words hung between them, absurd and weirdly logical all at once.
She stared at him. “I—what?”
He didn’t rush to fill the space, didn’t backtrack. He just held her gaze, as if giving her time to reject the idea outright.
“You said you owe me,” he reminded her softly. “One favor. One drink. Five minutes of conversation. I’m… amending the terms.”
She laughed, a startled sound with no real amusement in it. “That’s not an amendment, that’s a hostile takeover.”
His mouth curved. “I work in private equity. We don’t really do gentle negotiations.”
“That’s not funny,” she said, fighting the urge to smile anyway.
“It’s a little funny,” he argued.
She shook her head, trying to clear it. “You want to take a complete stranger to your ex’s wedding.”
“Believe me, I am fully aware of how insane it sounds,” he said. “But think about it. You and I… we’re in similar places. You don’t believe in the thing you built your life around. I never believed in it and just had that fact rubbed in my face in high definition. Neither of us is exactly thriving. One night of pretending we are? Could be… useful.”
“Useful,” she echoed flatly.
“You’d get a good story out of it,” he pointed out. “You’re a columnist. Tell me your editor wouldn’t salivate over ‘I Went to a Wedding as a Stranger’s Fake Girlfriend and It Broke My Brain.’”
She hated that he was not wrong.
“You’d have an open bar, decent food, music, somewhere to wear something that isn’t rated for sub-zero temperatures,” he continued. “I’d have someone beside me so people stop looking at me like a failed experiment.”
“You could bring a friend,” she said.
He tilted his head. “Do you want to go to your ex’s wedding with someone who knows every version of you? Or with someone who owes you absolutely nothing and will never see any of those people again?”
She hesitated. Imagined her best friend gripping her hand in a bathroom while she ugly cried. Imagined being the sobbing mess in a room full of people who knew exactly how long she’d been with her ex, exactly how much she’d invested, exactly what she’d lost.
“Fair point,” she admitted.
“I’m not asking you to save me,” he said. “Just to stand next to me for a few hours, dance once or twice, laugh at my bad jokes if you can bear it, and make some rich people who barely know me assume I’ve moved on spectacularly.”
She found herself tracing the rim of her glass the way he had been, the condensation damp against her fingertip.
“And what do I get?” she asked. “Besides a story and free champagne.”
“One night,” he said. “Where you’re not the woman who got cheated on in Iceland. Where nobody knows his name or what he did. Where you’re just… someone’s plus one who looks too good in a dress and is slightly out of his league.”
Her chest squeezed. “Flattery is cheap.”
“It’s not flattery,” he said. “I’d be punching well above my weight, and we both know it.”
Heat crept up her neck, inconvenient and annoying.
“This is insane,” she said, more to herself than to him.
“I agree,” he said easily. “But it’s the kind of insane that might feel better than whatever we were both going to be doing that night instead.”
She imagined it without meaning to. A venue somewhere out of the city, lights strung over a lawn. A woman she didn’t know in a dress she’d never wear, walking down an aisle toward the man she’d chosen. Harry standing somewhere at the back, hands in his pockets, watching with that quiet, resigned expression.
And then she imagined him not alone. Imagined herself beside him, her hand looped through his arm, the two of them an odd, temporary partnership built on scars and performance.
“You don’t know me,” she said.
“Exactly,” he replied. “There’s something freeing about that, isn’t there?”
She thought about the last five years. How predictable she’d become. How known. How every fight had felt like a rerun of a show she was tired of watching. There was a sharp, inconvenient appeal in the idea of being unknown. Of playing a part that didn’t require her to be the most wounded person in the room.
Her flight number blinked on the screen above the bar, still delayed, buying her more time to make a choice she probably shouldn’t be making.
“This would be a one-time thing,” she said carefully.
“Yes.”
“No… follow-up.” Her cheeks heated at the implication, and she rolled her eyes at herself. “No expectation of… anything.”
He held up one hand as if taking an oath. “No expectation of anything except that you don’t leave me alone at the table for more than ten consecutive minutes.”
“You’re very nonchalant about asking a strange woman to be your human shield,” she said.
“I’m not nonchalant,” he said. “I’m hoping you’ll say yes and prepared for you to say no. Both things can be true.”
She searched his face then—really searched it. The tired lines. The sincerity. The reckless edge. The lack of calculation in his eyes. If he were trying to manipulate her, he’d be smoother. If he were trying to pick her up, he’d be sleazier. He didn’t feel like either.
He felt like a man standing at the edge of something, not sure whether he wanted to step back or jump.
“That’s a big favor,” she said finally.
“You can think about it,” he offered. “I’ll give you my number. You can block me as soon as we leave this bar if you decide I’m a terrible idea. But if you say no right now, you’re going to sit on that plane and wonder why you didn’t at least consider it.”
He was right. She hated that.
She stared down at her hands, the small half-moon indents her nails had left in her palm. The version of herself who had booked Iceland would have said no. The version who just survived Iceland wasn’t entirely sure what she was capable of now.
“Fine,” she said, the word feeling a little like jumping. “Okay. I’ll… consider it. Tentatively.”
His mouth curved into a real smile this time, bright enough that she understood instinctively that not many people got to see it.
“I’ll take tentatively,” he said. He pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocked it, and slid it over to her. “Number?”
She hesitated just long enough to feel like she was making a choice and not just being carried by momentum. Then she typed it in, added her name, and, after a split second of wicked impulse, tagged on a last name in the contact field: Airport Mistake.
He glanced at the screen, huffed out a laugh. “That’s harsh.”
“Accurate,” she said.
He saved it and handed the phone back, then gestured for hers. She passed it over, heart hammering far more than it had any right to. His fingers were quick on the screen. A second later, he returned it.
A new contact blinked up at her: Harry – Bad Idea.
“Fair’s fair,” he said.
She looked from the name to him. Harry. It fit, weirdly. Strong, simple, unfussy.
She realized, with a small jolt, that in all of this, they hadn’t actually exchanged names properly.
“You just asked me to be your date to your ex’s wedding,” she said slowly. “I don’t even know your last name.”
He lifted one shoulder. “Castillo.”
“Harry Castillo,” she repeated, letting the syllables roll in her mouth. Somehow, it made him feel more real. “You know that’s not helping the movie logic of this situation, right?”
He smiled, lines fanning out at the corners of his eyes. “If it helps, I also file quarterly taxes and have lower back pain. That’s about as unromantic as it gets.”
She snorted, then bit back another smile. “Debatable.”
Overhead, the loudspeaker crackled to life again, announcing pre-boarding for their flight. Passengers began to gather their things, scraping chairs, tugging suitcases upright.
He glanced at the gate, then back at her.
“I’ll text you the details tomorrow,” he said. “You don’t have to say yes. You don’t have to respond at all. But… if you think you might want one night where you get to be someone else, even just a little, I’ll be there.”
She swallowed. “This is insane,” she said again, quietly.
“Probably,” he agreed. His gaze softened. “But insane hasn’t worked out that badly for me so far. Rational decisions are the ones that got me on a breakup trip to Iceland with my ex.”
He stood, lifting his carry-on handle. For a moment he just watched her, something unreadable in his eyes.
“Get some sleep,” he said. “And eat something that isn’t bar nuts.”
“Yes, Dad,” she said, then winced. “Sorry. That was—”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Tragic. You can do better.”
She found herself smiling despite everything. “I usually can.”
He took a step backward, movements unhurried even as the lane at the gate began to fill, boarding groups clustering in their small, impatient huddles.
“Goodnight… columnist,” he said.
She hesitated. “Goodnight… emotionally incompetent finance guy.”
He gave her one last look, something like a promise in it that neither of them was qualified to make, then turned and joined the slow-moving queue at the gate.
She watched him until the line swallowed him, until he handed over his boarding pass, until the navy blazer disappeared down the jet bridge.
Only when she couldn’t see him anymore did she look down at her phone.
One new message blinked up on the screen.
Unknown: Don’t panic yet. It’s just a wedding.
A second later:
Harry – Bad Idea: (But if you’re going to panic, do it in a dress you love.)
She stared at the texts, thumb hovering over the keyboard. A laugh bubbled up in her chest, startling in its softness.
She typed back before she could think better of it.
Airport Mistake: We’ll see.
She set the phone face-down on the bar, took a steadying breath, and glanced up at the departure board.
Her flight number glowed on the screen, boarding group creeping closer.
It was supposed to be just one night, she told herself.
One night pretending to be someone else. One night standing next to a man who didn’t believe in love when she wasn’t sure she did anymore either.
Just one night.
She had no idea how dangerous that could be.
──────── ✧ ────────
a/n: I wasn’t planning to write this, but Harry Castillo in a navy blazer lives rent-free in my brain, so here we are. Slow burn + emotional damage incoming.
summary: you don’t believe in love, you just write about it convincingly enough to get paid for it. You agreed to go on these blind dates instead of your heartbroken friend and for the column content and free dinners, never expecting anyone to see through it. But then Harry does, and instead of walking away, he makes you another deal.
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wc: 15.1k
chapter warnings: angst, feelings, mentions of allergies, mentions of passing out, mentions of grief, fluff, kind of a halloween date in there, weird workplace drama, reader drinks coffee, and eats beef, reader gets mean then she gets sad, mentions of alcohol, mentions of age-gap between Harry and reader but not really a defined age-gap at all, some mentions of childhood trauma.
Harry and you kept talking from time to time —he became the one you went to when your friends' plans tanked at the busy scene of a dating-centered October. It was nice having a “single and not thinking about dating in the meantime” type of friend.
And it was also simple to rekindle with him; he was nice company after all, and a good listener that complimented your talkative self too well to let the opportunity go by.
And he also happened to live less than ten walking-minutes away from your “new” place, which was good-enough reason for why spending your Halloween at his place wasn’t so bad of an idea, not when most of your friends had halloween dates already planned, bars would be noise-polluted and the streets would be filled with thousands of people.
You didn’t even have to knock, he had insisted on giving you extra keys after the first few times you came by. “They might come in handy,” he had joked before. You wanted to complain, say that friends don’t do that. But you did have spare keys for Luna’s apartment and Sonia’s, and Mia’s and even Amy's and Hugo’s back when both of them weren’t married. So it couldn’t be that weird.
Yeah, it was definitely and exclusively casual.
Another perk to Harry’s newfound “friendship” was that at least, half of the things you baked or more likely, tried not to burn, wouldn’t go to waste to some fancy douchey neighbor’s trashcan because you hadn’t used fifty dollar flour, and instead picked up a cinnamon roll tube from the trader joes a few streets away from your office.
You had tried to keep the tray somewhat warm, because the plan was after all, watching a scary movie, maybe two or three if you were lucky, and having dinner.
You insisted on take-out but Harry had insisted that everyone would order take-out and suddenly a pizza from the place a few streets away would take three hours to arrive.
He'd make dinner for both of you that night.
You entered his building with ease, the woman at the reception already knew you from visiting so often, despite your insistence to everyone around you of how it was just sporadic.
You walked quickly with your bag hanging from your shoulder and an aluminum covered tray in your hands, sneakers and washed jeans, and the shirt he had given you, because unfortunately it was comfortable enough that you could understand why it was worth two-hundred dollars.
You sent him a message on the way up, telling him you were about to arrive, he didn’t reply, but he sent a thumbs up, which he continued to send despite your insistence it was such an “old-people thing” to do, you hadn’t even thought about the age difference between the both of you until that moment, not that you cared much or that it mattered, but it did make you laugh.
You had finally arrived at his floor, after excruciating minutes of people coming in and out, and despite having the most breath-taking view of the city’s skyline, it did take a long time to arrive at the top-floor of the building on a busy day.
You grabbed the keys from the pocket of your jacket and opened the door, entering already as if you had known the space your whole life.
You placed the keys on the small table at the entrance, and your bag at the rack with the jacket you were wearing, you walked towards the kitchen where you suspected he was, and your speculations were correct, when you found him, long-sleeves rolled upwards making the outline of his arms even more notorious through the thin fabric.
“Hey” you said, and he turned around to meet you, his eyes glinted for the quickest of moments and you felt yourself smile and your cheeks warming.
“‘s that my shirt?” he asked mid-laugh, cleaning his hands with a small grey towel.
“Yeah… kind of ran out of clean clothes” you said, despite having plenty, not sure if you could admit the real reason behind why you were wearing his instead. Maybe it was because it’s Halloween, and you could pretend to be whoever you wanted to be —or instead, stop pretending for a minute and take off the mask you wore every other day.
“But I can give it back” you clarified, mortified almost, because maybe you had overstepped and maybe he didn’t feel that way in the slightest.
“No, it’s fine…” his eyes ran from the bottom of your shoes until arriving at your eyes and then back into your mouth and then up your eyes. “Fits you well,” he said, his right hand running through his hair as his eyes continued to admire you.
“What are you making?” You asked, tray still in hand, walking past the white polished counter and seeing the messy pans and knives, the bottle of wine and the ceramic casseroles that cost more than a month of your rent.
“Filet mignon.” he replied, nodding towards the cuts of red-meat shining over the counter.
“Oh, fancy” you said with a small laugh, noticing the chaos and care he had mixed into the evening.
“And salad and mac and cheese as well” he added, nodding towards a bag of market’s produce vegetables, “No mustard in the vinaigrette” he added, jokingly.
“You’re having more people over?” you asked, stepping towards the bread crumbs, cheese blocks and ground smoked paprika.
“No,” he replied, sheepishly awkward with a boyish grin that didn’t seem so childish when it was drawn on his lips. “But I don’t usually get to cook much,” he clarified.
“So you wanted to show-off” you said with a playful eye-roll that landed back on his shoulders as you saw him whisk the butter with wine and broth with expertise.
He paused just for a second to turn and look at you, a cocky grin turned into a smirk that showed even in the glare of his eyes, “Maybe,”
“Well, I made cinnamon rolls” you said, taking off the aluminum foil from the top of the tray you had brought. “Nothing fancy, they’re trader joes”
“You’re lying,” he said, staring at the pastries arranged in front of him. Harry tried to take care of himself to a degree that some might call obsessive —he had a nutritionist, a private gym instructor and an endocrinologist, all of which gave him routines, diets and vitamins he followed to the margin, until you arrived to his department the first time with freshly-baked blueberry muffins, and suddenly Harry had the sweetest tooth known to mankind.
If the doctor were to ask him the reason behind his newfound addiction to the sugar rush, he’d say he didn’t know, that he wasn’t sure if the newfound sweetness in his life came from the baked goods or from your presence. But he actually did know, it was you.
“I’m not” you insisted, trying to prove that your small gift was small, belittling it. Because what are five dollar cinnamon rolls compared to a full meal with two side dishes.
There was no such thing as ‘it’s the intention what counts’ when your whole life had been measured onto the comments the neighbors made when you arrived at their house’s empty-handed to ask for a cup of flour after your parents had fought the whole day so hard that they forgot to make dinner.
“They look amazing,” Harry insisted, almost salivating at the sight of them.
“Yeah, I used to survive on these back in college, so I kind of learned some tricks around them”
“Like?”
“Like using heavy cream and pouring it over the buns and then you whisk butter, cinnamon and brown sugar and add it on top as well, and you make your own frosting, nothing fancy… just you know, cream cheese, sugar and cream”
He paused just for a second, turned to look at the tray then back to look at you. “Can I eat one already?”
“Yeah, I brought them for that,” you said in a breathy laugh, “be careful, the bottom might be a bit hot”
He picked it up with ease, eyes still staring at you while yours were deep on him, trying to see what his reaction would be. The frosting dripped from his lips and fingers, and he practically moaned at the taste of the cinnamon.
You hated yourself, because that sound went straight to the place between your thighs, but you were quick to force it away. Keeping a neutral expression while you tried to wait for his comments.
“It’s really good” he said, voice slightly hoarse from the sugar rush in his throat, he gave a quick grunt to try and fix it.
“It’s only a hobby though. I don’t usually do things from scratch.” you said, following the bad-habit of downplaying your every move.
“Even so, you made this, and it’s delicious” he insisted, and somehow you allowed that small compliment to get onto your skin.
“Thank you”
He moved sideways, giving the roll another bite before asking: “So, how’s that article going?”
You sighed, “It completely sucks”
“Why?” he asked, giving another bite to the roll in his hand.
“I’m not sure, I mean it’s my writing and everything, but it sounds off… I try to make it sellable but it sounds too raw.”
“What was it about again?”
“The ‘moving stage’ in a relationship, you know after the honeymoon phase which is just hormones and neurotransmitters.” you chuckled, awkwardly, “It just… it sounds like my old writing”
He stared at you, he hadn't confessed it just yet, but he might've skimmed through your old writing, after all it was through that where he met you. “And?”
“And the editor usually doesn’t like that because Holly doesn’t like that” you explained.
“Didn’t you say you’re planning to collect signs and throw her away?”
“Yes and no," you clarified, leaning on the kitchen island. "We are collecting proof and then we’re planning to take that to the superiors and if we’re lucky get HR involved”
“Huh… you know I could just try to find a way to invest and ask for her to be removed” he said, as always, everything for him had a solution.
You laughed it off. “Are magazines that profitable?”
“I could get an ETF and throw her out.” Once again, everything was simple.
“Or you could wait until we finally have evidence and follow our plan” you said, matter-of-factly.
He changed the subject. “And are you planning to apply… if Holly does end up leaving?”
“I’d apply but I don’t have any type of amazing articles right now… I don’t want to get my hopes up and then nothing” you confessed, staring at your reflection from the window next to the cabinet.
“And what about that one?” he said, his attention focused once again into the types of lettuces in the salad.
“Which one?” you asked, still not looking away.
“That one” he answered, and your attention finally shifted towards him.
Oh, that one. You hadn’t meant to tell him about the article you had been meaning to write for your whole career, it almost slipped while you talked with him a few nights ago. “The lies about Love” was the provisional title you had given it back when you were writing on it just for a few seconds before switching back to the tab you were actually meant to be working on.
It wasn’t rare for you to write personal essays, you often-times did back when you were engaging in the fake dates by pretending to be Mia… and to be honest, the titles made thousands of views because of the personal prose and the gossip-like reading that you often described as “like trying to talk to a friend you haven’t seen in time”. But that essay felt too personal to be even typed into a computer, it could barely be acknowledged by the depths of your mind.
“No” you said, staring at him, not even meaning to sound that scared. “That one’s unfinished and messy,” you confessed.
He nodded, pretending to actually understand when he didn’t. Not because he was stupid, but because he didn’t understand the self-deprecating nature of your way of talking about your writing habits —so he was quick to change the topic before you spiraled.
“Charlotte and Peter finally agreed on a date” Harry confessed.
“Finally” you murmured, almost protesting. Force of habit after they had changed and rescheduled for the last five times and after you told Harry that if they didn’t agree on a single day, you couldn’t imagine what their schedules would look like.
“But they changed the locations”
“Oh what a pity, I was desperate to get a lobster tail more expensive than my rent… really a bummer”
He turned to look at you with a soft laugh, delighted in the way you never tried to hide your humor and sarcasm around him, there was no intention to enchant him and therefore, no illusion of perfection willing to be maintained.
“Where are we going then?” you ventured to ask.
“The Modern”
You gave a dry-chuckle, “Oh, they’re insane”
This one it was Harry’s time to turn around and look at you with a quiet laugh full of sarcasm, as if trying to say “Really? I hadn’t noticed”
“And when’s this date happening?” you murmured, looking down at your shoes against his million-dollar waxed floors.
“November 7th”
You nodded, engraving the date on your mind, Harry moved towards the tray of pastries, grabbing another roll while he opened up the oven to take out the tray of aluminum-foiled mac and cheese.
“How do you like your steak?”
“Medium-well”
Most of the guys you faked-dated pretending to be Mia would've cursed you out as if you were committing murder, explaining why eating anything else rather than a rare steak was practically, not eating steak at all.
Harry chuckled, “Medium-rare?”
“Don’t even try lecturing me, my answer won’t change.”
“I would never,” he said instantly, and you believed him.
Because Harry might have teased you for breathing loudly if he thought he could make you smile, but he never ridiculed things that actually mattered to you. Not your work, not your decisions, not the times you complained about feeling not enough in your line of work or even small, strange, trivial things like how you liked your steak made.
He flipped your steak gently, careful and exact, thermometer in hand simmering over the oil and meat, “That’s fine. I’ll make it however you like it.”
When dinner was finished, plated beautifully over a white ceramic plate with the detail Harry always put in the things he cared for. He gestured for you to sit at the dining table, he sat across from you, and despite the table gathering space for more than 2 people, it felt as if it had never been any fitter or more intimate.
He poured you both red wine, and just because he remembered, he grabbed two glasses of sparkling water and placed them beside each of your glasses. You smiled at him and deliberately poured wine over the transparent liquid, both yours and his.
“Okay,” he said, the moment he handed you the spoon so you could try the mac and cheese. “Moment of truth.” he murmured.
You brought it to your mouth, looked at him and tried to hide the fact that it was delicious.
“So, how is it?”
“It could use some more salt maybe… or pepper” you tried to keep your face serious, until you noticed his mortified expression. You grabbed his wrist before he could grab the spoon and taste it for himself. “Harry, I’m joking. It’s amazing”
Harry rolled his eyes at your prank, barely, quietly, the way he always did when he wanted to look annoyed but was really just relieved.
“Don’t do that,” he murmured, picking up a piece of lettuce with his fork. “I almost believed you.”
“You almost cried.” you said, faking uninterest while your eyes kept fixed on his, trying to make sure he was alright.
“I don’t cry,” he said, tone flat.
You raised a brow. He huffed out a breath that counted as a laugh.
Both of you started to eat, you continued talking to him about work and articles and fancy anthropology concepts that you had reduced to buzzwords, he talked to you about stocks and market, some inversion he made, how his last deal had gone after he negotiated with the man for three hours straight.
Until both of your plates were clean, and you began to pile together the cutlery just before he refused your help with that same matter-of-fact authority he used when making deals with stubborn men.
“Sit,” he said, nodding at the couch. “I’ll clean.”
You sighed, faking discouragement. “You still think I’ll chip your fancy plates,”
He turned with a bureaucratic smile, “You’re my guest, I won’t let you wash my dishes”
You chuckled, but ended up agreeing and laying on the soft couch of his living room, not before walking past his wall-to-wall bookshelves.
He finished up quickly —much quicker than you would’ve done it. Before he joined you he walked towards one of his cabinets and pulled out a chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc. You didn’t recognize the name on the label which probably meant it was far more expensive than what you could afford.
You watched him retrieve two clean glasses after placing the bottle of wine, you didn’t doubt him, despite the many outings where he picked tequila on the rocks —which was in your opinion, something that didn’t match his serious business-like persona— Harry liked wine, and not any kind, fancy, five-figure wine.
But then, he brought the cinnamon rolls, arranged already in a plate bigger than the ones you had used for dinner.
“White wine?” you asked suspiciously. “With cinnamon rolls? Are you unwell?”
He uncorked it with practiced ease, completely ignoring your tone yet with his lips quivering into a smirkish smile “It works,” he said simply, pouring already a glass for you, “Acidity cuts the sweetness.”
You squinted at him. “Now you’re playing sommelier?”
“I don’t need to, we both know I’m right”
“You always think you’re right.”
He paused long enough to give you a glance—sideways, dry, amused. “That’s because I usually am.”
“Of course,” you muttered, taking the glass he handed you. “Fine. Educate me,”
“It’s not education,” he said, handing you the cinnamon roll tray like it was some fancy dish from one of the restaurants he was more used to attending, “It’s pairing.”
You bit into a roll just as he lifted his glass to his mouth. You waited, tasting everything and the memories through the dough, then you grabbed the glass of wine, circling twice trying to air it, pretending to be some high-end connoisseur, when to be fair, sometimes the only thing you cared that concerned wine was that it got you drunk and less hungover than liquor.
He nodded once towards you, as if trying to wait for your verdict.
“See?” he said simply.
You didn’t want to tell him it was good, you didn’t want your words going to his head, but you didn’t want to joke about the things he tried to do being bad, because you had begun to feel bad as well since the joke about the mac and cheese.
“Okay, fine,” you said quietly. “It works.”
“Told you.”
“You’re annoying.” you pointed out, mid-laugh.
“You’re welcome.”
He sat next to you on the couch, not too close, not too far. Just at the distance people sit when they’re not dating but also definitely not not dating.
You picked up the remote and hit play on Scream.
“Only the first three,” you warned. Although you had told him already that the first three movies were the only enjoyable ones, after it just became more and more predictable who the killer was, Harry confessed he hadn’t watched them in a long time, you joked telling him how that was possible, considering he was already of-age when the movies came out.
“I know, I remember.”
And then: Twenty minutes in, your commentary started about how Sydner’s hair looked way too good, he just laughed. Thirty minutes in, your knee touched his just for a second, you drifted back and then unconsciously lingered once again next to him. Forty minutes in, the sauvignon blanc made you warm and loose and leaning slightly —barely— toward him.
He pretended he didn’t notice how your body drifted even closer to his, and you pretended you weren’t doing it. The wine softened your edges, enough that at some point your head drifted sideways without your permission and rested against the edge of his shoulder, you were too tired to adjust yourself, so you didn't complain and he didn’t move.
He didn’t even adjust.
Just exhaled quietly through his nose, a barely-there smile tugging one corner of his mouth —so faint you missed it completely staring at the bloodshed on the screen.
The second movie ended somewhere past midnight, he joked about why you should probably stop since Halloween was over, you said it didn’t matter as you stretched your legs out with a groan that you tried to disguise as a sigh. Harry glanced down, amused.
“You good?” he murmured, still letting the credits roll
“Yeah,” you said, forcing your spine straight. “I’m awake.”
You were not awake. As a matter of fact food and wine were making you fall asleep, so much that you blinked slow enough that it was a matter of time before your eyelids never opened up until the next morning.
Harry reached for the remote with the same patience he used when you argued about things you didn’t actually believe. He started Scream 3 before you could protest.
“See?” you said, triumphant for no reason as the movie began loading. “Halloween isn’t over”
He hummed, tilting his head and grabbing a throw pillow to put in between his shoulder and your head, “Sure.” he murmured.
“You don’t believe me,” you accused softly, narrowing your eyes.
“I believe you,” he said, voice warm, unconcerned. “I just also happen to know you.”
You opened your mouth to snap back, but the opening credits washed the room in blue light and your eyelids floated downward for a second too long.
You forced them open again, determined. “Harry.”
“Hmm?”
“I’m not tired.” you insisted, despite him not asking anything at all beforehand.
“Okay.” he murmured.
“I mean it—”
“You always mean it,” he murmured, not looking away from the screen.
You glared at him, though your face felt too relaxed to do it properly. “Stop…” your voice drifted as the dialogues overlapped. Stop figuring me out!
He let out a small laugh through his nose, barely audible. “What?”
You didn't answer, instead, you grabbed a blanket from the opposite edge of the sofa and covered yourself with it, fingers brushing his arm accidentally —except it wasn’t completely accidental. You leaned a little closer without even realizing it, chasing warmth and comfort and something else your brain was too wine-soft to name.
Fifteen minutes in, and you weren’t doing any type of comments about the movie, twenty minutes in, your head began drifting again onto his shoulder, twenty-two minutes in, you were gone.
Full-on, dead-weight asleep, breath soft and even against his shoulder, fingers curled loosely in the fabric of his shirt like you’d been holding on mid-sentence. Harry glanced down to see you, for the first time still, for the first time resting.
Finally quiet—not the kind of quiet that meant you were upset, because he had begun to read your silence, but you were still with the kind of quiet you fought tooth and nail because you never allowed yourself rest unless life physically knocked you out.
Your lips parted slightly, eyebrows relaxed, hair slipping across your cheek in a messy line, his chest tightened in a small, barely-there way he’d gotten very good at ignoring since the very first night he saw you… when his first thought was to invite you as his fake-date to deny the fact he thought you were the most beautiful, charming, intelligent woman he had ever met.
Of course, he thought, looking at you when another kill was happening, Of course you’d insist you weren't tired and then pass out exactly twenty minutes into the third movie.
He let out a slow breath through his nose, trying with every muscle fiber in his body to not move, to not breathe too harshly, to not move sideways and let you rest comfortable for more time.
But then he kept thinking, you were contorted and probably wake up with neck-pain if you continued to sleep like that, then you’d complain about it in the morning, then you’d deny about it claim you weren’t complaining, but if he moved too quickly in the moment you’d wake up, then claim you weren’t tired until you obnoxiously lose the debate and admit you’re tired, then you’d go home, but once you walk inside the department you wouldn’t sleep at all, because you confessed to him you couldn’t sleep at your aunt’s bed, he had brought you melatonin gummies that time, you insisted you had work to do, he tried to invite you over to his place more often. If you went home, you’d sleep on your couch or worse, not even sleep at all and you should sleep somewhere comfortable, and warm.
He looked at you again.
He thought for a second in accommodating the guest room; but the sheets were cold and so was the air, and despite you saying how much you love winter and autumn and cold weather, he knew that you hated being cold, you had never said it explicitly, but you always complained about shivering, and about getting sick.
He turned off the TV remote so quiet it didn’t even click.
Harry thanked the universe when you didn’t stir when he shifted carefully, then he brought one arm behind your back and the other under your knees. You made a tiny sound, a sigh that sounded so familiar to his name he stopped dead in his tracks, but you weren’t awake.
Your head fell naturally against his shoulder as he lifted you. Your body, that was almost on autopilot, curled into him instinctively, face tucked against the warm side of his neck.
Harry stopped breathing for half a second, cursing himself for feeling almost boyish at the sight of you, his knees faltering and he would deny it, but the butterflies in his stomach were flapping its wings. He adjusted his grip, steady and sure, carrying you through the hallway, the city lights painting the edges of his apartment in a soft neon haze.
Your weight against him wasn’t a burden, he tried to walk steadily, even when his knees failed him for some seconds when he lost his balance, not because of you, but in spite of himself —he’d carry twenty times as much without blinking if that meant having you near him.
He lowered you gently onto his bed, onto the left side, because it was always warmer being the farthest from the door, he pulled the blanket over you, smoothing it once along your shoulder, a gesture so familiar he didn’t question where he learned it.
Your face softened into the pillow, into the faint scent of him, of his shampoo and hairwash, of his perfume. You sighed, barely, and his throat tightened again.
Harry would never admit how the day of the hotel made him feel, because the truth was, he felt pathetic in the morning, hearing you talk about how the night had meant nothing but a deal when he had never felt any more happy in his life.
He felt stupid and he didn’t care, even when the ache continued to distress as an open wound… but then you admitted why you thought it had meant nothing, and Harry had to shelter himself when you began calling him from time to time, and suddenly, strangers became friends, and if that was what you wanted to call it, if that was the only way he could keep listening to you, talking to you and having you in his life. He didn’t care about feeling stupid.
Because the true stupid thing would have been losing you the first time because of the scared words that faltered from your mouth, stupidity would’ve been not trying to approach you from the fear of being rejected, stupidity might have been not trying to care for you just because you claimed love was nonexistent, or when he claimed it was stupid.
Because Harry had learned something as well in the last weeks he had spent with you, you might have never believed in love in the same way a butterfly is never able to see the beauty of its own wings, you didn’t believe in love because you were full of it, you were scared of love because you knew the weight it carried beyond a four-letter word that had begun to lose its meaning.
And maybe you were correct, and love didn’t exist in this new age, and relationships were transactionary and difficult and the simplicity of choosing someone was always summarized into which hormones affected the dopamine production… maybe love wasn’t real, but you were real, and despite the paradox —for him you were love itself.
He stepped back and turned off the light, spun once on his heel, indecisive quiet and tired, his knees were killing him for the whole day from the harsh weather, the metal inside had become a recurring pain during the winter days, and no matter how many prescriptions he tried to get, it was never better, but the only person he could talk about his surgery was the same brother who had turned into a husband.
He felt out of control, out of himself and alone. Harry had never hated being alone, he enjoyed the solitude and the quiet just as much he enjoyed the talking and the social events, he claimed he was an ambivert who once out in the world, turned into an extrovert to try and use all the words he had saved in the quietness of his own place.
The kitchen looked like a scene he could control, so he cleaned it, washing dishes and storing leftovers inside glass containers he stored inside the fridge, he poured out the remnant wine in the glasses that he wasn’t going to drink.
He needed to do something with his hands so he wouldn’t replay the moment your fingers brushed his collarbone, or turned his shirt into crumpled fabric.
When everything was spotless, he grabbed a blanket from the linen closet and dropped onto the couch, with no hesitation and no question.
Sleeping beside you would blur every line you had established, sleeping beside you would bring back the memories of the hotel that should’ve never happened in the first place. He wouldn’t let that happen, because if he did that meant he might lose you again, and he didn’t want to lose you.
He laid down, blanket slung half over him, arm behind his head, eyes tracing the ceiling until they landed back on the coffee table, your cellphone laying there, he thought of you once again before sleep found him.
And even in sleep, he dreamed of you.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
You woke up in the early morning, not bothering to open up your eyes. The sun hadn’t risen yet and the streets were empty after everyone had spent their nights busy, entertained in some other Halloween activity that didn’t concern you.
You moved your arm to grab your phone, but there was no phone next to you, matter of fact, on that side of the bed, there was no nightstand, and the bedsheets felt too silky. You were forced to open up your eyes after you felt estranged from your surroundings… you didn’t have a lamp, and your nightstand wasn’t that far away from your bed, you always kept it to arm-reach.
You turned to face the ceilings, those weren’t yours.
The bedsheets, not yours either.
The door, the mat, the pillows, the bedframe, the books… none of them were yours, that wasn’t the bedroom you had been sleeping in, that wasn’t your aunt’s old apartment.
It was Harry 's.
You covered your mouth trying to stop a gasp from knocking your chest, you turned and touched the other side of the bed, ice-cold and untouched. He hadn’t slept there.
You woke up, unsure if the dizziness came from the wine, the lack of sleep, the overcaffeination or from the fact you had woken up in his bed. Not even in the guest room. In. His. Bed.
You walked barefoot to the living room, everything was neat and you saw him, covered with the same blankets you had used before, hiding his face in a pillow as he was asleep on the couch with parted lips and disheveled hair, the sight of him reminded you of how he had fallen asleep back in your place while you were getting ready.
You walked towards him with careful steps, trying to sound as stealthy as a thieve, you couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t placed you in the guest room and kept the bed, or used the guest room himself if he was so chivalrous to give you the main suite of his hotel-like house.
Your hand worked before your mind could process, before your nerves were awake and the central nervous system could take full embodiment of its labour, you grabbed the blanket and moved it higher, covering his arm so the air didn’t hit him as much.
He opened up his eyes and you tried to look away.
“Hi,” he attempted to say, voice groggy at the morning drowsiness, his eyelids blinking in rapid motions adjusting to the light of day.
“I’m sorry, I’ll go so you sleep”
“You didn’t wake me up” he said, as if trying to not scare you away. “I’m a light-sleeper”
You didn’t believe it, because back in the hotel you had moved on multiple occasions and he had remained stoic as a rock, unless… Unless?
“Do you have somewhere to go?” he asked, grabbing your hand.
“I have a deadline in twelve hours” you clarified, trying to straighten your jeans.
“Well, it’ll only take me one to make you breakfast” he said with a smile.
“I’ll grab breakfast later” you tried to say.
“Where?”
“I don’t know, bluestone or something”
He hadn’t told you he was the one behind the paid coffee orders, and you hadn’t asked him because you already knew it had to be him.
“Coffee isn’t breakfast”
“And what is? according to you”
“Some scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, maybe some hashbrowns… pancakes if you want some, or waffles. A bagel. Some fresh fruit, maybe some yogurt, I also have oats, orange juice, mocha pot coffee which is way better than whatever espresso they’re selling you in there”
You laughed at his description of what you could only imagine as some fancy rendition of breakfast at Tiffany's or something like that. “You make all of that for breakfast?”
He chuckled, “People don’t say I make mean breakfast for no reason”
You rolled your eyes. “And are we sure they actually think the breakfast was good or something else?”
“Something like what?”
The man who made it. “You know, the night before the breakfast.” you teased, almost regretting how the euphemistic it sounded.
His eyes opened accompanied by a dry chuckle. “Then I’m guessing you’ll enjoy it, last night was amazing”
“I fell asleep!” you complained, “Like some old lady”
“And thank god you did, I was barely awake at the second”
“God, we sound like old people. Well, no, that’s unfair… you’re actually old”
Harry rolled his eyes but allowed you to keep your puns about his life, because otherwise, if your jokes dried out then you’d probably be walking away already, not even daring to say a longer goodbye that nevertheless, would feel equally short as an arm's distance handshake.
Either way, for Harry that didn’t matter, he stood up and walked towards the kitchen, checking his disheveled hair over the microwave’s reflection and adjusting it, your eyes followed to the shape of his body against the windows, just for a second his eyes flickered on your direction, and for a moment, you had forgotten how scared you were from someone looking at you and actually seeing you.
But somehow, when his eyes intertwined with yours, it felt as if they had been engraved in your mind as well, and were part of you already.
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
Saturday had been packing away the orders you had gotten, going to Brooklyn to pick up more money and clothes before heading back to Tribeca and finishing up the article for next week’s online featurette.
Sunday had been brunch at Mia’s place, blueberry pancakes and gossiping until 3pm just before taking a stroll around central park with a puffer jacket and a hot chocolate in hand, joking about how it was time for the winter market to begin already.
Then Monday arrived, and while you usually complained about weeks feeling too excruciatingly fast, Monday felt eternal, there had been an organization session in the morning, and then came another thing that tolled not only your nerves but the whole team’s.
Holly had fired a writer, the reason? He wrote an article about engaging in relationships with AI. You had met the guy, talked with him once or twice during lunch breaks, he was nice, maybe a bit intense on the whole “humans are built to love and feel emotion” argument, but genuine after all.
To the rest of you she only told the usual, views were dropping, love has to become a wider trend to be consumed, that the articles need more “social media catalyst quotes”, buzzwords and trends. She brought a mercadologist who gave you an hour-long talk about why you should write shorter sentences with social media jargon, that to be fair, seemed that she didn’t want to give either.
Once you were free, you walked to the guy’s desk, Dave, you remembered now, you approached him with a smile, and just stealthy enough so it didn’t feel intruding you asked.
“Is she really firing you for that article?” you asked him.
“Apparently, but if you asked me, I think she felt triggered”
“Triggered? About an opinion article about AI relationships?” you said with a fake laugh, almost not believing how insane it sounded.
He nodded, still packing his things inside a cardboard box until he paused. “Do you know Tania?”
“HR Tania? Yeah, we studied together”
“Well, she’s going out with Bree from Finance and she told her that apparently the money that goes to the EROS section marketing team has been having anomalies”
“Anomalies?” your voice lowered, as if some spy-secrecy was exchanged.
“Yeah, apparently it was the section chief itself who has been managing those anomalies. 200 dollars disappear every 5th of the month”
You opened your mouth and tried to memorize the details, you tried telling yourself it wasn't gossip, it was information retrieval, and you were a journalist after all, this was a journalistic matter according to your terms.
Once the man had left through the elevator, you went back to your desk, forgetting about the typing and about the white screen staring at you, you turned to see Gabi.
“You won’t believe what I just learned”
Her eyes opened, and suddenly Monday stopped being boring after all.
On Tuesday, Gabi and you had arranged to talk to Trevor, after she had shown you a message he had sent to Dave weeks ago, since he clumsily left his cellphone connected to his computer screen, in which Dave confessed how all the money went to some guy named "Leo"
You were in the cafeteria, tray in hand, although the only thing both of you got were caesar salads because the pizza slices looked like unappetizing high-school food.
“Hey Trev” Gabi began, bubbly as always. “Do you mind if we sit?”
“Not at all,” the guy answered, moving his feet from the chair in front of him. Gabi and you sat down.
“You were close with Dave weren’t you? How are you holding up now?” she began.
Trevor sighed, “I mean… he’s smart, already landed a job in a philosophy magazine, he’ll do good. But he was so passionate about writing in here it makes me mad”
Not sad, most people would’ve said sad, or pity or any other emotion that highlights how bad they feel for the other, but Trevor didn’t pick any of those words, instead he picked mad.
“Mad?” you asked, nudging Gabi’s knee just for a second. “Because he’s gone?”
“It was so unfair, he wrote an opinion article, and it was amazingly good, I edited the layout and couldn’t stop reading it… have any of you read it? It was brilliant, it makes no sense he was fired for it”
“But what was the reason behind his dismissal? The controversy of the article?”
“Apparently Holly said it was disrespectful and that he should open his mind to actually understand it, and that he was antiquated”
“For saying an AI relationship isn’t a relationship at all? We write about human emotion, love and sex, how could we not say that AI relationships are harmful?”
“Right, well, Holly said she didn’t think so, and instead she said those type of relationships were going to be normalized in the near future, that he should write an article about navigating love with an AI partner instead”
“She’s losing it,” Gabi murmured.
You quickly sent him Hugo’s number, “Tell Dave to get in contact with him, he’s a friend of mine and a really good lawyer, she couldn’t have fired him under those things”
“Thank you, will do” he murmured, already picking on his salad once again. “But, I don’t get, why are you interested on this”
“I’m glad you asked,” Gabi said, flashing a smile, just before telling him everything you had been noticing on Holly’s attitude in the last month.
After the conversation ended, there was a group chat formed already, and by Wednesday morning, almost everyone in the Eros section was inside.
And by night you had also arranged everything in a document, screenshots, conversations, the things all the department had noticed and complained about, and while you were adding the email she had sent weeks ago, something seemed to click in you.
An article you had read months ago, maybe a year, about a woman who had engaged in a relationship with AI services, and had started paying an upgrade of the service to use it even more.
You typed the domain on your screen to search for the site, the panel log in or sign up appeared in front of you, you clicked the latter, although you had a feeling it didn’t matter.
You typed her domain with expertise, and then the red letters appeared.
This email is already linked to an account, log in instead.
You called Gabi, because sending a message might have been an under-reaction, you told her everything, and just before you hung up she decided to drop the biggest bomb of information. “Check the plan pricing”
The most advanced one: 200 dollars.
On Thursday you realized you had barely picked up on messages from your friends with the whole Holly situation, which you quickly arranged by typing a response to every update on their lives, but you also noticed you hadn’t answered Harry’s messages.
Harry: Hey, how are you doing? Are you free tomorrow? I thought it might be a good time so we can go and search for the date outfit.
You: Yes, I’m free after 4 today.
You typed quickly, before walking in line to order your usual coffee, on thursday’s like this, when your lunch break was long enough, you tried to spend the time outside, walking around the park or window-shopping just to not be seating all day long, but somehow, the world had other plans while you were reading a Bell Hook’s essay on your phone and listening to music, a notification popped on your screen of an incoming call from Gabi.
“Where are you, someone just snitched on everything to Holly and she just asked for all of us to have a meeting right now”
“Who snitched?” you asked, even when you knew it didn't matter.
After it, you ran as quick as you could afford to, sipping on your coffee as if it was the only rational anchor you could have and which soon enough would become the only food you’d have in your system for the next hours.
Once in the office, the tension in the air could be cut clean with a knife, everyone was staring at everyone as if trying to figure out who would have spoken about the mass crusade.
“Do you have any idea on who?” you were quick to ask Gabi, who was furiously typing on her screen some article on relationship advice.
“I have no fucking idea, everyone and their fucking mom wants her gone” she whispered, turning to you. “Do you think she might’ve put something in our computers?”
“I’ve no fucking clue” you muttered back.
And before you knew it, all of the team was gathered in the meetings room, and considering there were canapés and coffee you were sure it was about to be a long fucking session.
Just like you had thought it’d be, it was already 2:30pm and Holly couldn’t stop shutting up, explaining how all the money that wasn’t directed to the magazine was to pay some weird taxes and some other excuses that no one believed.
Finally Gabi stood up, “And are we sure the money’s going to the AI boyfriend you’re paying for?”
The room was beginning to simmer like boiling water in an already steaming pan… it was a matter of seconds before everything exploded. Holly confessed she had seen Trevor’s computer as well, and that she overheard bathroom conversations.
Good thing, none of you were snitches, but the bad news was that Holly needed someone to blame and everyone, in order to save their skins, turned to look at Gabi.
You wanted to take the blame as well, because after all it had been more your plan than it had been Gabi’s.
But before you could say something into the conversation, your friend continued to speak, explaining not only how unprofessional it was but how disrespectful it was to everyone working there.
Holly insisted her relationship was normal, and although every single mind was judging her for falling in love with some weird robot, her relationship couldn’t matter less, the only thing all of you wanted was to be treated with some respect and have the money directed to the team so the articles promotion and design could be better. But the thing with hefty bosses was, they never saw beyond their noses.
And suddenly 3pm morphed into 3:30 pm, some intern had tried going to the bathroom and Holly screamed at them how if they walked a step further they’d be fired.
And the only thought in your mind was that the conversation wouldn’t end at 4pm, but you needed a way out, soon.
It was 3:38 pm when Holly launched into her fifteenth rant about “team unity” and “future-forward affection models” and “AI partnerships redefining erotic love.”
You had been done, and to be fair, you had stopped paying attention hours ago, you turned your face to see Trevor eating one of the canapés, and then turned your face to the rest of them laying on the tray untouched, little crostinis topped with a too-yellow smear of something suspiciously familiar.
Mustard aioli.
Your aunt had often warned you about never taking decisions with an empty stomach or a sleep-deprived brain, but you couldn’t deny the fact that your brain sparked when you had finally found a way to get rid of the reunion, even though your stomach practically clenched at the very thought.
And the idea, the terrible, brilliant, desperate idea clicked into place.
You leaned ever so slightly toward Gabi, who was equally unfazed by Holly’s neverending rants.
“Do you think,” you whispered, “that’s mustard?”
She glanced at Trevor’s plate, then squinted. “That’s definitely mustard.”
Your pulse kicked, the plan becoming even more tangible by the second.
“I’m allergic,” you murmured.
Gabi’s eyes widened, she knew that, but she also knew that sometimes you didn’t even care. “You’re not that allergic—”
“No,” you admitted. “But Holly doesn’t know that.”
You glanced at her —at the woman pacing like a malfunctioning radio, ready to scream again when someone disapproved of her terrible conduct.
“No one does.” you reassured her,
Gabi stared at you slowly, her lips parted when she finally understood where your mind had drifted to.
“You’re thinking of faking—”
“I’m thinking of escaping,” you corrected. “And if someone calls an ambulance, everyone will be too busy panicking to notice I’m gone.”
Her expression softened into awe. “There’s something really fucked up with you.”
“Yeah, that I want to leave.”
You stood and walked toward the canapés, picking up the mustard crostini between two fingers like if it was some holy sacrament that you were ready to partake in, you sat back into your place and without hesitation, you popped it into your mouth.
You waited exactly three seconds. On the first one you felt your throat tingling at the taste, and your stomach knotting from what you had just thrown into it, then you tried to remember movies and tv shows and tried to hold your breath for a second before letting your face go slack.
Then, you allowed your breath to stutter, your hands shivering and your body spasming.
Trevor frowned. “Are you okay? You look—”
You clutched your throat.
“C— can’t— bre— breathe—”
The room practically erupted in thousands of sentences and screams, “Is she dying?” “What did she eat?” “Someone call an ambulance” “Oh my god, she’s turning blue!” “Holly do something!” “Holly can’t do anything!” “Oh. My. God”
You staggered sideways as if you were seconds away from meeting your creator, maybe you should’ve, you had plenty of complaints for him. Either way, your hand pressed dramatically to your chest, breath hitching, eyes watery.
Gabi gasped, leaping up, ready to play her part as well. “She’s allergic to mustard”
Perfect delivery worthy of every academy award there was to give.
“Where’s her epipen?” someone screamed.
“I— She— She never carries one, she insists on being careful” Gabi shouted, intentionally panicking.
And you saw in front of you with teary eyes and a sore throat the pure, beautiful chaos unfolding.
“I’m calling nine one one!” Trevor yelled, already dialing.
You sank to your knees for dramatic flair, gripping the edge of the conference table.
Holly went sheet-white.
“Oh my god, is she having aphaly— anypha— alyphan— The allergy reaction thing” she couldn’t even say it correctly, and you tried to keep up your performance because you wanted to completely laugh at her butchered pronunciation.
People stampeded toward you, a chair flipped and the table of canapes and coffee became the scenery for catastrophe, as everything suddenly became technicolor chaos as the entire EROS department became a screaming chorus of “Move!” and “Back up!” and “Give her some space!”
Someone grabbed your arm, at the same time Trevor continued to scream the direction at the phone through the chaos.
And thankfully the meeting was over, not without Gabi and Trevor carrying you towards the lobby so you could catch some air. Gabi, aware of your tactics, had been quick to grab your purse and cellphone before entering through the elevator.
You let your body sag against Trevor’s shoulder, breathing shallowly, milking every gasping inhale, the elevator finally dinged and the doors opened, and although your plan had been amazing and perfect in theory, it shattered the moment you heard
“What the hell happened?” Harry’s voice, standing in the lobby holding two coffees, looking up at the chaotic swarm barreling toward him.
His eyes landed on you when yours landed on him at the same time, and his entire expression broke open, panic —raw and unfiltered— detonated across his face.
He dropped the coffees, both of the cups hitting the ground and turning the marble white floor into broken ice, and spilled oatmilk. He didn’t care.
“Move,” he barked, stepping toward you with a force you’d never seen from him.
Trevor stammered, “She— she ate mustard— she’s— she can’t— she’s having a—”
Harry didn’t wait, he wanted to scream, to shout for a paramedic, to scold you for being careless, for insisting on not carrying an EpiPen… but instead, he reached you in two steps, his hands already catching your shoulders before anyone else could.
“Hey—” his voice shook in a way that made your heart lurch painfully. “Look at me.”
You forced your eyes half-focused, unfocused, trembling. It only scared him more. And you hated yourself for not stopping the ruse because there were still plenty of eyes in front of you, the only thing you wanted was to tell him none of it was real, and that you had done everything just to escape the torture it was to listen to Holly for another second.
“No, no, no—look at me,” he said louder, thumb brushing your cheek in a grounding, terrified sweep. “Keep your eyes open. That’s it. That’s—no—stay with me, sweetheart, stay—”
Sweetheart. That was knew. He didn’t even hear himself say it.
His breath was coming fast, and the beating of his heart could be seen through the vibrations of his throat. His hand steadying your back like he thought you were moments from collapsing entirely, like he was moments away from losing you when he hadn’t had you for enough time already.
“She doesn’t have an EpiPen,” Gabi said, guilty and frantic in the background, even when she knew why you never carried one. “She never carries one—”
Harry swore, loud and unfiltered. He wasn’t angry at you, he was scared and frustrated and trying not to lose his mind.
“Why are you so fucking careless?” He scooped his arm under your knees and lifted you like nothing. “I’m taking her outside. She needs air.”
Your brain stuttered. Because that part of the plan wasn’t even meant to happen, you were supposed to slip away quietly, not be swept into someone’s arms like you were one breath from dying.
Your heart pounded for entirely the wrong reasons, it started to panic because suddenly your body remembered the Halloween night he had carried you to his bed, except this time he was carrying you to the office garden, laying you comfortably on a bench so you could rest.
Then, he knelt beside you, grabbing your wrist to continue checking on your pulse.
“Breathe,” he commanded, voice tight, so afraid of losing you. “Just breathe. Slow. Slow. I’m right here.”
You blinked, dazed, because this was not the exit strategy you planned.
“Harry…” you whispered weakly, because you genuinely didn’t know what else to say.
His breath hitched.
“God,” he murmured, hand trembling as it brushed your hair away from your face. “You scared the hell out of me.”
Your throat closed, and for a second you thought you might begin having an allergic reaction, not to the mustard but to him.
You swallowed a breath and forced your voice thin. “I—I’m okay—”
“You’re not okay,” he said fiercely, eyes blazing. “You collapsed.”
“I—I’m fine, it’s… it’s passing…” you insisted, trying to fix everything.
“Passing?” he echoed, voice cracking. “You almost died.”
No you didn’t, you wouldn’t, not from the mustard at least, maybe from Holly’s screaming and from his closeness.
And perhaps everything you had orchestrated was a ruse and fake, but the look in his eyes wasn’t. It was him thinking he was seconds away from watching you give your last breath.
And it shook something in you, something deep and dangerous that coiled in the depths of your heart, the sirens were still faintly audible two blocks away when the whole lobby finally emptied.
Trevor and the interns followed the paramedics trying to fill them with every ounce of information before they could get to you, Gabi shot you one last conspiratorial look before slipping away toward the elevators. And then it was just you and Harry.
He was still kneeling beside you, one hand hovering near your arm like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if he was allowed. His chest rose and fell too fast. His jaw was tight. His brown beautiful eyes were still stuck in panic mode like some scolded puppy when he didn't know if his owner was coming back.
If you believed in love, you thought for a second, you might’ve fallen for that glare in his eyes ages ago.
He swallowed. “You’re breathing better,” he murmured. “That’s good. That’s really… good.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
You looked down at your hands. They were still trembling —but for a completely different reason now, the visceral reaction of your body came from only one detonator that was the man knelt beside you.
“I need to tell you something,” you whispered.
He blinked, snapping into focus like your voice tugged him forward, his heartbeat raced, his pupils dilated, and he had never felt more stupid from desiring to hear three words and eight letters.
“Anything.” He said in a broken whisper. “No one is here anymore.”
“I know.” you whispered back, “You’re still kneeling,” you pointed out, as if saying with a breathy laugh meant your heart would stop stammering on how excited it appeared to be.
He let out a shaky laugh. Then he sat on the bench beside you instead, close enough that your knees almost touched. “Sorry. I just didn’t want you falling over.”
You breathed in, you gathered the courage in your lunges before speaking, he was going to hate you. But it was then or never.
“Harry… it wasn’t real.”
His entire body stilled and you continued before he could misunderstand.
“I’m not anaphylactic. I rechecked last month and my allergy keeps being mild.”
He stared at you, not in anger, or quiet betrayal or shock, or the feeling of wanting to scold you in that very moment, in his face there was only quiet, raw worry melting into some strange relief.
“So you faked it,” he said softly.
“Yes,” you whispered. “I faked it.”
He closed his eyes for one long, shaking breath.
And then —instead of pulling away, instead of calling you insane or saying there was something fucked up about you, an affirmation you wouldn’t even deny— he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around you.
Not tight or crushing, just enough that your forehead fell against his shoulder before your brain could catch up and your arms covered his broad shoulders.
“I thought I was watching you die,” he murmured into your hair.
Your breath caught, you didn’t want to hurt him, you didn’t like hurting the people you cared about.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, guilt and warmth mixing in your chest. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He exhaled, a soft, disbelieving sound. His hold around you tightened just slightly —not in anger, but as if he was reassuring himself you were, in fact, breathing.
“You scared the shit out of me,” he admitted quietly. “I’ve never moved so fast in my life.”
Your throat constricted and you pulled back enough to see his face. His eyes weren’t hard. They were soft, searching, threaded with fear that was already fading into something gentler.
“Why would you fake something like that?” he asked with the same tone he used on that date when he still thought you were Mia, just trying to understand you.
You hesitated in saying the truth because you thought he’d judge, but it was Harry, he’d never judge you.
“Holly.”
His brows drew together. “What about her?”
You looked down at your hands, fingers knotting together. “She forced us into a meeting. She found out we were all talking about her spending the entire marketing budget on her fucking AI boyfriend. And she’s losing it, and the whole team is terrified, and she wouldn’t let anyone leave. Not even interns. And it was almost four, and I had to meet you, and everyone was miserable, and—”
You inhaled shakily. “I needed the meeting to end.”
Harry sat very still for a moment and then he nodded. Slow. Quietly understanding.
“That’s why you did it,” he murmured.
“Yeah,” you whispered.
He leaned back slightly, arms still resting around you, his thumb brushing absently over your sleeve, “Okay,” he said simply.
You blinked. “Okay?”
“You didn’t do it for fun,” he said. “You did it because you were trapped. And scared. And stressed. And… because you didn’t trust Holly not to ruin your job.”
Your eyes dropped. “You’re not… mad?”
He gave a soft, broken laugh.
“Mad?” he repeated, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, I’m just relieved you’re actually okay.”
The word slipped out again. Sweetheart. And it felt so soft, and unintentional and real, that you didn’t even want him to stop saying it. You didn’t call him out on it because your cheeks burned at the thought of it… but you didn’t want him, you couldn’t want him.
He reached up and gently placed a strand of hair beneath your ear, his fingers just lingering softly across your cheek for a second, you turned to look at him, really look at him.
“You don’t ever have to fake dying to get out of a meeting,” he said quietly. “Just call me. I’ll make up a reason to pull you out.”
You huffed a weak, breathy laugh. “You’d do that?”
He smiled, slow and warm, a little sad despite teeth flashing through his grin. “After today?” he murmured. “I’d pull the fire alarm for you.”
Your chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with allergies.
You swallowed. “You really were scared.”
He nodded once. “Terrified.”
You exhaled. “I’m really sorry.”
“I know you are.” he confessed, “Just don’t do it again. Or at least warn me next time so I don’t think I’m losing you before our fake date.”
You blinked with a soft smile.
“I need you alive for that,” he said softly. “Preferably would like a breathing girlfriend.”
You looked at him and for the first time since you met Harry Castillo, you realized he wasn’t just a deal or a transaction or a complication. He cared for you and he wasn’t afraid in hiding so, and you cared for him, even if it was silently.
The paramedics finally rushed through the crystal doors, two medics rushed over, equipment clattering, gloves snapping into place.
You stiffened. This part you hadn’t planned for.
“Ma’am, can you confirm your name?” one asked, kneeling in front of you.
You nodded, reciting it.
“Are you still having trouble breathing?”
Harry glanced at you sharply.
You hesitated —you had to play it safe enough that they wouldn’t force you inside the ambulance.
“Not… anymore,” you said. “It feels more like… pressure? But I’m okay. I swear, I’m not in anaphylaxis.”
The medics exchanged looks.
“Do you have insurance with allergy coverage?”
“We need your card.” the other interrupted
“Ambulance was dispatched automatically, we need signatures—”
“If you had airway involvement, we need to monitor—”
Your heartbeat spiked. You could barely think straight with ten laminated forms thrust at you, you didn’t even know what to fill them in, you might’ve not been in shock but you were still starving and unable to think straight with a starved brain.
But Harry saw the panic before you even inhaled.
He stepped forward, one hand coming to your back again, grounding you with a warm, steady pressure.
“She’s fine,” he told them. Calm but commanding. “She needs evaluation, not transport.”
“Sir, unless her insurance covers—”
“I’ll cover it.”
You froze. “What?”
He pulled out his card like it was nothing, as if it wasn't a life or death decision. Like it wasn’t hundreds of dollars, although, for a man like Harry who could have everything no matter how many thousands it costed, it was honestly, just another gesture.
“Bill it to me,” he said, handing it over. “Run whatever you need. Vitals, exam, antihistamines, whatever protocol requires. She’s not going to the hospital. She doesn’t need it.”
The medic hesitated. “Sir, that can be—”
“I said I’ll cover it.” His voice was steel, bureaucratic.
Your breath caught at the sound of it. The medic finally nodded and stepped aside, motioning for another colleague to take your vitals. Harry knelt beside you again while they clipped sensors to your finger and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around your arm.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I did,” he cut in, eyes flicking up to yours. “You’re trembling”
You bit your lip, looking down at your hands —he was right. They were trembling, slightly but visible. Not from actual breathing distress now.
From adrenaline and embarrassment and him.
“I can pay you back,” you whispered.
His jaw tightened —not angry, but emotional in a way that made your stomach twist.
“Don’t insult me,” he said quietly.
You blinked.
“It’s not—” he shook his head. “I didn’t do it for a favor or a ledger. I did it because you were scared and alone and you shouldn’t have been.”
Your chest loosened in a way that felt dangerous.
“Vitals are normal,” one medic said, glancing at the monitor. “Pulse is elevated —that’s adrenaline. The airway's clear. She should rest, drink water, and avoid allergens.”
You nodded, grateful.
They printed the paperwork. Harry signed everything.
You didn’t even see the total —he didn’t let you.
When the medics left and the ambulance pulled away, the two of you stood in the lingering quiet of an empty garden.
Harry turned to you.
“Can you stand?” he asked, grabbing your arm.
You nodded and he stepped closer anyway, hand hovering near your waist.
“Slowly,” he murmured.
You rose to your feet —a little wobbly at first— and he steadied you with one hand at the small of your back. Warm, firm, and too gentle for someone who had just watched you fake-die.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded again. “I’m sorry you had to deal with—”
“No,” he said softly. “No more apologies.”
You swallowed hard, trying to ignore every doubt. “What now?” you whispered.
He looked at you —long, searching, like he was checking you for fractures you didn’t have, and then: “We still have a shopping plan.”
Your brows lifted. “Harry—”
He shook his head.
“You’re not going back to the office. You’re not walking home. You’re not going anywhere alone.”
You stared at him. He slipped his hands into his pockets searching for his car keys, his voice gentler now.
“I promised we’d find something for tomorrow. And I’m keeping my promise.”
You swallowed. “So, we’re going back to SoHo?”
“We were,” he said. “But after what just happened, I think both of us could use some fresh air.”
You almost laughed and he smiled faintly as both of you walked past his car, he wasn’t driving, which meant whichever store you were finding your clothes in was on 5th Avenue.
“Come on,” he murmured.
Your heart stuttered. “You mean— we’re buying on this avenue”
“Yes.” he agreed in a small laugh.
“You mean like Saint Laurent–Gucci–Fendi– Fifth Avenue?”
“Yes.”
You blinked. “Harry, I—”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“You almost scared me into an early death today.” A beat. “Let me buy you a damn dress.”
You tried not to smile but you failed. “Fine,” you muttered.
He smirked, “Good,” he said. “Because I already asked the store to close down for the day so you can try everything you want with all the time in the world.”
“You— what?”
You stared at him. He shrugged with infuriating softness.
“I thought you nearly died,” he said. “I’m allowed to spoil you a little.”
You opened your mouth to protest, and then closed it.
Because the truth was: Your legs felt like jelly, your nerves were buzzing, and his concern was doing something to your breathing that had nothing to do with allergies.
“Fifth Avenue it is,” you whispered.
Not opposed to walking next to him down Fifth Avenue like a quiet promise, the city blurring past in glossy streaks of silver and crippling cold. Harry walked next to you, not behind or in front, just beside you to stay close.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked softly, his voice dipped in something warm.
You nodded. “Yeah. Just… embarrassed.”
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “I guess no next time of faking anaphylaxis, stick to the sprained ankle act”
You huffed a laugh. “Noted.”
Then Harry turned toward you fully as you finally reached your destination.
“Before we go in,” he said, “you need to tell me something.”
You blinked. “What?”
“What you actually like.” he said, as if it was the most important thing ever.
You frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”
He smiled a little although his brown eyes remained warm and yet serious.
“You’ve dressed down for every date you ruined, and you dress for work, but what would you actually enjoy wearing to a date?”
You stared at him.
He waited, eyes open, genuinely curious at what you could say.
“Okay…” you said slowly. “I… I like dresses.”
His brows lifted slightly, inviting more.
“And skirts,” you added. “Feminine silhouettes. Things that move easily. Fabrics that feel… nice on the skin.”
“Colors?” he asked.
“Black. Deep colors. Some neutrals. Nothing too flashy.”
He nodded once, filing it away. “Textures?”
“Satin,” you murmured. “Wool. Knits. Clean lines. Minimal details. Metallics but not too flashy, because I won’t wear them as much”
“Accessories?”
“Tights… sometimes, always black. A nice bag, most times big. And I really love jewelry, everything, necklaces, bracelets, earrings, rings…”
Harry remained studying you in a way that felt like he was recreating an entire blueprint of you in his mind, and somehow every sentence you said had already made sense in his head a long time ago.
“Okay,” he said, voice low. “Let’s get all of that.”
Your eyes widened. “Harry—”
“You told me what you like.” He walked even closer to the store, Saks. “Now let’s get in.”
Inside, the lighting was bright without being harsh, clothes arranged in perfect color gradients, textures in harmony.
Harry walked beside you with a calm confidence, like he was on familiar territory.
You wandered first toward the tights section —rows of black, sheer, opaque, patterned, matte.
“These?” you asked, holding up a classic opaque pair.
Harry looked once and nodded. “Get a few. You might need backups.”
You blinked, almost estranged at his words. “Backups?”
“You tore yours last week walking up the subway stairs, you complained when you came over for dinner.”
You froze. “You noticed that?”
He shrugged lightly. “I notice things, besides, it was a big line”
Your heart did something you chose to ignore.
He picked a second pair of shinier and slightly sheerer than the ones you had picked, also more expensive, not that it mattered to him.
Then came the accessories.
A bag, silver hardware and big, like the ones you enjoyed wearing.
He held it up and placed it against your face. “This looks like you.”
You swallowed. “It does.”
Then came jewelry —you picked thin silver hoops, a delicate necklace with a pattern of swarovski diamonds, a bracelet so fine it looked like a line of light against your skin, and you didn’t want to buy more things, but your eyes kept flashing towards a Zadig and Voltaire that Harry couldn’t help himself and decided to buy it for you.
He didn’t complain about the prices. Not even once. He kept pressing his black credit card over and over, and even when you knew it was technically limitless, you couldn’t help but wonder how he kept thinking you were worth every questionable financial decision he was taking.
“Now,” he said, nodding toward the elevators. “Dresses.”
That’s where you saw it.
Sleek. Black. Long sleeves and ruffles, minimal, elegant, worth more than any other dress you had bought —besides the blue one Harry bought for you, and somehow the piece in front of you was still something so you.
You reached for it with careful fingers.
Harry saw the way your expression shifted, softening and warming at the thought of the dress, and he smiled like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“Try it,” he said.
In the dressing room, you slipped it on. It hugged in all the right places and fell in all the soft ones. It made you feel like a woman who had never once pretended to be smaller than she was, you loved it.
You stepped out.
Harry’s breath caught so subtly you almost missed it.
Almost. He looked you over once —slow, reverent, not like a man appraising a body, but like someone seeing a truth you had been hiding behind every lie.
His mouth dropped quietly, “It’s perfect for you” he said, and you swallowed hard.
His voice was steady, but his eyes were not.
You looked in the mirror again. It was indeed the one, you loved it instantly.
“I’ll take it,” you whispered.
He nodded like that was the only possible outcome, and he kept carrying the bags, despite feeling like a hundred, were only six.
And for the first time the entire day, you didn’t think about price tags and embarrassment and allowed your mind to drift into the quiet knowing of deserving nice things.
On your way out, you finally regained the courage to ask him, "You had sent three messages yesterday, didn't you?"
₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚｡⋆
HR had given you a week so you could get better from your “allergies” and honestly, you were thankful, after the stunt you pulled, you might have not needed an EpiPen but you needed time to sleep and maybe, for a day, not caring about anything else beside yourself.
You made breakfast, despite it being 5pm, while watching a rerun of The Office, that episode where Dwight creates a fire, maybe next time you should try that instead of scaring a man so much he calls you sweetheart. Although, you did like hearing him call you sweetheart.
You tried to do yoga to calm yourself down, almost spraining your ankle for real because you didn’t understand how you could possibly twist your body like that.
Then you paced, and paced even more. And realized that no matter how much you claimed to get stressed from your job, you loved it too much to let go of it, and in your day off you pulled out your laptop and began writing.
But you couldn’t write either. Was it writer’s block? Was it stress? If only you fucking new.
You had thousands of messages, people asking how you were doing, others saying that the Holly situation was finally going to be evaluated, Mia asking if you had that video of Amy falling asleep, three missed calls from your mom.
You were tired and couldn’t feel like doing anything, so you decided that perhaps the best thing you could do for the day was to forget who you were supposed to be.
Leave the overcaffeinated, overworked, chronically stressed, columnist who has been disillusioned about love her whole life, and try to pretend to be some hopeless romantic who had found her soulmate in an airport months ago, be utterly and completely head over heels, but you'd soon discover that seemed to be impossible.
You took a bath and you did your makeup and hair, you got dressed, cutting off all the tags from the clothes and trying not to put importance into the numbers written on them.
Because from then until midnight, you could be worthy of a five-figure dress and bag and of wearing Louboutins without it being a special occasion.
Harry picked you up around six thirty pm, wearing black trousers, a white undershirt and a beige half zip-up under a charcoal coat.
“You look beautiful” he said, and your hands tightened around the bag.
“Well, for the price of everything I was hoping to be ravishing at least”
“More than that” he said, and it sounded so honest for a second you forgot the performance didn’t begin until his brother and sister-in-law were present.
“Thanks” you said either way, and he opened the door towards the passenger seat for you.
“They gave me a week off” you muttered, “I guess I scared them good”
He turned to look at you, “You scared me good”
You rolled your eyes, otherwise you'd end up apologizing again. “You ever been to that place?”
“Only once, back when it opened”
“Oh, so it’s like a vintage place” you said, he rolled his eyes and you chuckled even harder. “I’m kidding”
“I know” he answered, turning a right onto the next avenue. “You ate something already?”
“Only breakfast, why?”
He moved his head in a disapproving matter before looking at you during a red. “It’s a tasting menu”
You nodded your head with defeat, “Should’ve guessed, don’t worry I’ll pick something out when the date’s over”
“Or we could go now” he explained, “Peter and Charlotte never arrive early, and considering you almost fainted…”
You snorted, “For starters I didn’t faint” you pointed out matter-of-factly, “And also, where are you taking me then before I get fed expensive foam?”
“You can pick, I don’t mind”
“What I have in mind would probably make you pass out right now”
“Pff” he sighed, “After that dollar-pizza slice place nothing can be worse”
“You were the one who picked that place by the way”
“Yeah, exactly why you’re the one choosing now”
You laughed, and turned to see your reflection on the side-mirror, almost reassuring yourself that this wasn’t a dream.
“Take a left at 53rd” you said, and simple as that he complied.
He kept driving, fingers relaxed on the wheel, eyes flicking toward you every few blocks like he was checking your expression for clues, and you only told him simple instructions that rarely varied besides the typical “right then left”.
Traffic thickened when rush hour started to condense the streets, neon lights sharpened when the day faded into darkness. And the apparels and storefronts melted into midtown bodegas and self-owned restaurants that he definitely wasn’t familiar with, dry cleaners next to a fusion kitchen, a place that sold vape pens and lottery tickets just across a small baptist church.
Harry slowed the car, and you began to think maybe both of you were way overdressed for the side of the city you were currently in.
“Are we… close?” He asked, taking another right after you told him so.
“You’ll know,” you said, heartbeat picking up, the familiar facades and that old lamppost where you had painted your name with nail polish years ago on a drunk night.
And finally, there it was…
“That’s it.” you pointed out, and Harry followed your finger.
A small place, posters outside with badly edited images of nail-designs accompanied with red-background under white “SALE” letters, fluorescent lights and some customers.
Harry blinked slowly, as if everything was just some confusing joke that he couldn’t be a part of, he turned to look at you.
“I could’ve gotten you a manicure someplace in 5th” he said, already opening his car door.
“I know, it’s not what you think it is” you answered with a smile.
“It’s a nail salon!” he said once outside, dead-panned.
“It’s easier once you see it, come”
The second you pushed the door open, a bell chimed—a bright, cheerful ding! that clashed violently with Harry’s confusion-filled expression.
Inside, the air was warm with the scent of acetone, hair oil, and nail polish. The TV mounted in the corner played a Korean drama with the volume low. There was a girl around your age, sitting on a pedicure stool scrolling on her phone. An older lady was painting glitter moons on a client’s nails and a teenager was restocking cotton pads.
Your eyes drifted from one side to the other, there was no sight of the sole person you were searching for, Harry remained almost stoic next to you, like a fish outside of the water.
“Honey!” The warm voice practically chided and you turned around to search for it’s owner.
Ann appeared with the same warmth her voice had kept the entire time you had met her,
She quickly came and picked your hands, checking your nails, you knew she was judging the aspect of them, no matter how much you tried to keep them nice, there was always something that she knew that you didn’t.
“What took you so long?” She said, enunciating the last syllables of the words, “Why don’t you visit?”
You opened your mouth to defend yourself and explain, but as always, she was faster than you and her eyes quickly travelled from your face to the man behind you, whose expression remained equally confused as when he first entered.
“Ohhhhh, Honey you brought boyfriend!” she chimed, voice as excited as how you remembered it. “Is he paying? So I can use expensive products” she said, lowering her voice.
“No,” you blurted, trying to clarify everything. “He’s uhm, Harry. He’s a friend.”
“A friend?” she repeated, eyes glinting like she’d just been thrown a bucket of ice-cold water.
Behind her, Mei and Alexa appeared, almost as if they had been summoned by some strange force.
Mei squinted at Harry, and even before she acknowledged your presence, she whispered to Ann. “Mom, that is not a friend.”
Alexa joined almost instantly, walking towards you to hug you, just before she could whisper in your ear: “If you break up with him, can I have him?”
"Absolutely not!" you said in a laugh.
Harry glanced helplessly at you, throat bobbing, he didn’t know what to say and judging by the look on your phase, you didn’t know what to reply either.
You glared at the women in front of you and with a soft laugh you tried to plea for their silence.
“Stop.”
All of them ignored you, and instead Ann decided to stare at Harry with such strength you thought for a second she was goignt o cause him an aneurysm, until she finally walked towards him.
“Hmm, pretty face, pretty eyes, good-looking” he inspected him as if he was some kind of produce that you weren’t sure if you should feel embarrassed or laugh.
Harry didn’t know the difference either, instead his eyes continued to stare at you, still not understanding what you were doing in there instead of in the other hundreds of restaurants you had passed by.
“Ann” you said, finally grabbing her arm, “Is the kitchen still open?”
“Oh Honey! For you always!” she said, waving her hair and focusing once again on you after staring at Harry for a long time.
Harry leaned toward you as both of you followed Ann toward the beaded curtain.
“You didn’t warn me about any of this.” he whispered in your ear.
“You told me to pick” you threw at him with a bickering smile. “And I was craving food from here.”
He sighed, resigned, but quietly charmed at whatever place he had just stumbled in.
“Alright, Honey” he murmured, and despite you knew that the word was mere teasing, on his lips it sounded everything but. “Lead the way.”
You stepped through the curtain, and he stepped right behind you, and whatever he had expected it probably wasn’t the hidden restaurant behind the salon.
Sticky menus and warm yellow light in the ceilings, a poster on the side of the wall “The Chef” Ann in the middle of it, crying with a knife in hand.
“Is that her?” Harry asked you, but before you could answer, Mei appeared next to you, ready to take your orders.
“Mom asked if your boyfriend has any allergies?”
You turned to look at Harry, he simply moved his head sideways.
“Okay” she extended the vowel as she continuously wrote on her small notebook. “Your usual, right?”
“What’s the ‘usual’ if I can ask?” Harry asked, leaning closer to you.
“Pork buns, wonton soup and stir-fried chicken with sichuan sauce” Mei answered for you.
“We can check the menu” you added, but he quickly smiled and turned to look at you.
“No, it’s fine, I was just curious.” he insisted.
You smiled, and then turned yourself to see the poster once Mei had left, “My aunt wrote the play years ago I was maybe fifteen, we came here for my birthday, Ann did my nails, then they became friends and then when I was seventeen and came here again, she just took me to see Ann starring into her play”
“What’s the play about?” he asked, but you had already felt as if you had given too much of yourself already.
“You’ll think it’s crazy”
“I saw a play with two people sitting and talking for two hours staring at us." He confessed with a tiny laugh, "Try me”
“It’s about a woman whose daughter passes away when she gives birth, and the woman’s mourning process involves her feeding herself pieces of her daughter’s umbilical cord” you said it with the same fondness you remembered hearing about the story the first time, despite it being dark and twisted. “I know it’s crazy but…”
“So she ate her daughter because she was mourning her?”
“Yeah, it was supposed to be a metaphor of her wanting to get her back in her womb” you began explaining until you saw sideways an old couple eating while you were probably grossing him. “Sorry, we’re eating in a minute and I’m here just saying all of this”
“It’s fine.” he insisted, “I was actually thinking, I haven’t known much of you”
“We talked almost every week.” you said with a laugh.
“Yeah, but, you know, I know about your work and friends and…”
“Well, that’s part of me” you objected, turning sideways at the obvious matter of what he was trying to say.
“I know, and I like hearing you talk about it; you’re a very interesting person to talk with. It’s like conversations never end with you”
You chuckled, “Thanks” the muttered words fell from your lips.
“But, I like hearing about this kind of things as much as hearing you talk about everything else” he said it so sincerely you wanted to shout at him and give him reasons of why he was actually wrong.
“Well one of us has to keep the conversation interesting after all” you chuckled, and afterwards you hated yourself.
Why were you so mean sometimes? Take a fucking compliment for once. Take a fucking grip.
But Harry laughed, —he laughed at your stupid comment, as if he knew you weren’t saying it seriously. “Well, I would try to add more to the conversation if I knew what you were saying”
“Oh, so you think I’m so interesting but don’t understand anything I’m saying? That doesn’t make sense” you objected, already finding a loophole in everything.
“I think it’s interesting that you know so much about things I don’t even if sometimes I feel stupid for not understanding them,” he began explaining.
“I would feel stupid if you began talking about finance with me, I think I’d fall asleep,” you confessed.
“Why do you think I never talk about my work?” He replied, staring at you dead-panned.
“Now you’re making me feel like I’m the evil one" you said with a soft gasp, "Always talking about myself.”
“Where’s the evil in that?” he asked, back leaning against the chair as his brows rose for a second.
“Is this how all your negotiations go?” you asked, leaning closer to him, elbows setting against the table counter.
“Usually, but most times I know what I’m negotiating” he said, eyes closing just for a second to focus better on you.
“Oh you don’t right now?" you said, almost laughing before leaning back faking disinterest "I thought it was obvious”
“Enlighten me please” he answered, waving his hand at you to speak.
“You’re paying for the food” you replied,
“I thought that had been arranged since we walked in here” he said, brows joining together as a result of his confussion.
You rolled your eyes and kept staring at him, “You’re an annoying blue-blood, you know that, right?
He nodded, “Of course, so annoying you agreed to go on another date with me”
“Another fake date” you clarified.
“This isn’t fake as far as I’m concerned” he replied.
You chuckled, rolling your eyes in an obvious matter. “Yeah, this isn’t a date”
His expression shifted, for a second it appeared as if he was almost sad, “So what is it?” he asked.
“Two friends eating together, like all the times before we’ve eaten together before.”
“And that’s it?” he asked, not believing you at all.
“Yeah, dates are only dates…” you began, already hearing the way your own voice shifted, trying to sound as if you had the answers to the world’s best-kept secret, you didn’t, but if noone did, then whatever nonsense you rambled sounded smart enough.
“Dates are only dates when there’s a recognized framework. A shared expectation of romantic trajectory, which this doesn’t have because we’re…” you gestured vaguely between the two of you, “not operating within that paradigm.”
Harry blinked, silently laughing at your use of words. “The paradigm?”
“Yes,” you insisted, even as heat crawled up the back of your neck. “There are components. Ritualized intent, mutual performativity, symbolic gestures of courtship, all that. And,” You waved one hand as though trying to grab the words out of the air. “Anthropologically speaking, a date functions as a liminal encounter where two people renegotiate boundaries under the assumption of potential intimacy.”
Harry stared, not unkindly, he just stared at you as if you were talking in some other foreign language he had never ever heard of and yet, just because it was you, he could somehow understand whatever was hidden behind fancy words and definitions.
“So this isn’t that,” you said, crossing your arms like punctuation. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he echoed softly, though nothing in his tone agreed with you.
“And, uh, also intentionality matters. So does… romantic signaling. Which we’re not doing. Because we’re eating. As friends. Which is not a date. It’s just nourishment and social bonding and—”
“You’re wearing Louboutins,” he murmured.
You nearly choked on thin air “That is irrelevant data.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And besides,” you pushed on, mortified by your own momentum and yet unable to stop, “a date requires a certain level of emotional anticipation. A— a heightened awareness of the other person’s presence.”
Harry didn’t blink or look away, instead he tilted his head justslightly and asked quietly but impossible to ignore:
“And if I have that?”
Your breath snagged in your throat so fast you almost thought you’d stop breathing, because those weren’t the kind of questions you were usually prepared for, it wasn’t academic or theoretical or so painfully obvious that a simple rewording could fix it all, it was Harry in front of you, tearing away the theory you had tried to build for months.
“I—” you started, your voice cracking embarrassingly around the syllable, you might have had the answer to every question in the world and yet, sometimes you had to remind yourself noone knows shit about this. “Well, that’s irrelevant.”
He waited, and you hated how he was good at waiting, just staring until you finally worded the things correctly.
“Human perception is incredibly unreliable in social contexts,” you rambled, words coming too fast, too hot and also, too contradictory. “You could have anticipation or awareness or whatever because you’re in an unfamiliar place, or because your meeting up with your brother later, or because of external stimuli that have nothing to do with— with”
“With you?” he supplied gently.
Your pulse stuttered, you nodded. Both of you knew it was a lie, and yet, both of you said nothing.
“Or anything romantic,” you corrected sharply, as if saying it faster made it more true. “You’re probably just— I don’t know, hungry. Or overstimulated by neon signage.”
He smiled, small and devastating and as if he knew the answer before you did.
“Or,” he said, “I could have it because I like being with you.”
Your mouth opened, closed and opened again seconds later, heat rose up your neck like you were being lit from the inside. Your brain scrambled for data, theories, footnotes—anything that could save you from the simplicity of the moment. But no anthropological framework in the world could compete with the way he was looking at you now.
So you swallowed, pushed your shoulders back, and lied through your teeth:
“That doesn’t make this a date.”
“Didn’t say it did,” Harry murmured.
Your heart tried to claw its way out of your sternum, and god-only-knows what nonsense you would’ve spat, but thanks to whatever force of nature hid behind those walls, Mei came back with the food.
“You talk way too much, Mom said to wait so the food didn’t go cold”
“Thanks Mei” you said.
“And she also bet 50 bucks that you’re going to marry him” the girl replied, already walking away.
“I can bet other 50 that I won’t” you said with a soft laugh.
Harry’s eyes remained fixed on you, because he recognized that little jump in your voice every time that you lied to yourself.
“What? Do I have something?” you asked, once you looked back at him and his deep stare at you.
“No, no” He apologized, trying to look away but failing and instead chuckling lightly.
“Just eat your soup” you protested.
Harry obliged, his eyes spoke before he did, loving the taste and the texture and you could only stare at him when he did, satisfied that at least that petty argument you had won.
But you couldn't help but feel your stomach tightening at the things you had said to him, and despite that he remained there, which possible sane man could stay in front of you after you leashed out your worst?
Who had seen you mean and nice and crashing out and being helpful, who had sent flowers and bought coffee for you and who had also thought you'd die from faking a mustard allergy just so you could escape your horrid workplace, perhaps only Harry Castillo could.
"It's really good" he commented mid-bite, "Why hadn't we ordered from here before?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't share my secrets so often." you insisted, moving the wontons with expertise before eating them.
"Right, so I guess I'm doing good if I'm already here" he said with a smug smile, because despite your many words and sheepish truths he knew half of the time you cussed him off you were lying to yourself.
You paused, staring at him just for a second, the tiniest of smiles drawn in your face. "You know, most people don't ask the things they already know."
"I know," he agreed, "I just want to hear you say it"
Both of you laughed in silence, overdressed in the tiniest of kitchen's the city had to host. It didn't matter if the space was small, and his knees were cramped, or that the humidity in the air was seconds away from ruining your hair and the spice in the soup was minutes away from making you both cry, you continued to talk and laugh and bicker and for a moment you tried to remember your tiny promise to pretend to be some hopeless romantic for the night; you reframed it, don't pretend to be anything, just try to believe that he can enjoy spending time next to you no matter who you are.
And just from the look in his face, you could start believing it beyond tonight.
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