The Incident
Read chapter one here first. Warnings: Yandere Themes, Batfamily x reader, Superfamily x reader, Death, Dark fic → read at your own discretion. Chapter Two.
The hallway felt wrong.
Too bright. Too loud. Every sound bounced around your skull like a ricochet. Lockers slamming, distant chatter, shoes squeaking against polished tiles. Your pulse drowned most of it out anyway, roaring violently in your ears as you stumbled after Mr Cameron into the corridor.
The classroom door shut behind you with a soft click. A mercy.
“Easy,” the teacher said carefully, voice lower now, gentler than before. “Just breathe for a second, alright?”
Breathe.
Right.
Your lungs seized painfully as if they had forgotten how. You made it three more shaky steps before your knees finally gave out beside the bag racks lining the wall. The impact jarred through your body, but you barely felt it. Your hands clutched at your chest instead, fingers digging into fabric as if you could physically hold your heart together.
This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. You stared at the floor, breaths coming sharp and uneven.
Six years. Six whole fucking years.
You had died. You remembered it.
You remembered the loud bang. The bullets impact. The impossible pain splitting through your heart. The suffocating weight in your chest as everything faded into darkness.
You remembered dying.
So why were you here? Why did your body feel eighteen again? Why did your hands look smaller? Why did the air smell like cheap school disinfectant instead of rain and blood?
A trembling sound escaped your throat before you could stop it.
Mr Cameron crouched down a few feet away, keeping enough distance not to crowd you. You noticed that immediately. Instinctively. Like he was trying not to scare you.
“We don’t have to go back inside yet,” he said quietly. You looked up too fast and regretted it instantly. Because he looked young. Not young compared to how you remembered him, but young compared to reality.
Mr Cameron had been nearing retirement when you last- No.
Your stomach twisted violently.
He should’ve had grey hair. Wrinkles. That tired expression he always wore after years of grading papers.
Instead, he looked barely forty. Clean-cut. Sharp-eyed. Concern written plainly across his face as he watched you try not to fall apart on the hallway floor.
“You’re really him,” you whispered hoarsely.
His brows furrowed slightly. “I’m sorry?”
“You’re actually him,” you repeated, more to yourself than him. “Holy shit…” Your vision blurred.
“Okay,” he said slowly, carefully, like every word needed to be handled with caution. “I’m gonna take you down to the nurse, alright? You look like you’re about two seconds from passing out.” The concern in his voice almost made your chest hurt worse.
You couldn’t stop staring at him. At the lines that weren’t on his face. At the dark hair with only a little sprout of grey starting behind his ear. At the fact his wedding ring was missing because he hadn’t even met his wife yet.
Your stomach churned violently.
“Hey.” His tone softened further when you didn’t answer. “Can you stand?”
You blinked hard, forcing yourself back into the present. “…Yeah,” you managed weakly. You couldn’t tell if it was true. Still, you let him help you up.
His hand hovered near your arm rather than grabbing it outright, like he was afraid sudden contact would spook you. The tiny consideration dug under your ribs unexpectedly deep.
You followed beside him in a haze.
Students moved around you in blurs of uniforms and backpacks, conversations echoing down the corridor in warped fragments. Every now and then someone glanced your way before quickly looking elsewhere. You wondered vaguely what you looked like right now.
Probably insane.
Your legs carried you on autopilot while your mind spiralled somewhere far away, trapped between memories of dying and the impossible reality of polished school floors beneath your worn down shoes.
Mr Cameron said something to you halfway there.
You nodded without processing the words.
The nurse’s office door opened with a soft creak. Warm lighting spilled across the room, gentler than the harsh fluorescents outside. A small fan hummed quietly from the corner beside neatly stacked folders and medical supplies.
“You can sit there for me, sweetheart,” the nurse said immediately, concern flashing across her face the second she saw you.
You obeyed automatically.
Mr Cameron lingered near the doorway.
“They nearly collapsed outside class,” he explained quietly. “Caused quite a ruckus, had to leave the TA in charge.”
The nurse nodded once, already moving around the office gathering things. “Probably a panic attack,” she murmured. “I’ll handle it from here.”
Panic attack.
If only it were that simple. Your eyes drifted absently around the room while they spoke.
Posters about exam stress, a faded CPR chart, a school banner pinned crookedly near the filing cabinet, a half-heartedly made anti-bullying poster.
You wondered if this was hell.
Not fire-and-brimstone hell. Not demons with pitchforks and eternal screaming. Something worse. Something tailored specifically for you.
A punishment built out of teenage angst and overdue assignments. Out of uncomfortable plastic chairs and group projects with people who never did their share of the work. A cruel, cosmic joke where some higher being looked at your deepest fears and decided high school deserved a second round.
Maybe that was the point. Maybe dying hadn’t been enough. Maybe this was some sick afterlife where you were forced to relive adolescence forever. Endless exams you hadn’t studied for, teachers disappointed in you, the suffocating pressure of trying to figure out a future you already knew would never happen.
Or maybe this was your brain breaking apart in its final moments.
That felt possible too.
Maybe your body was still lying somewhere cold and ruined while your mind desperately stitched together familiar places to soften the terror of dying. One last comforting hallucination before everything finally shut off for good.
Except there was nothing comforting about this.
Your chest still hurt. Your memories still felt sharp enough to cut through you. You remembered blood. You remembered fear.
You remembered your grandma.
The thought slammed into you so suddenly your stomach twisted.
No.
No, you didnt want to think about her. Not yet.
You couldn’t imagine her all alone in that house. Couldn’t imagine the police knocking on her door, interrupting her while she was singing along to some old country song while she cleaned or making burnt sugar cookies for the end of the week when you were supposed to come over.
Your fingers curled tightly against your knees instead. Willing the thoughts of her all by herself out of your head.
Maybe you were in a coma.
Maybe six years hadn’t passed at all, maybe your brain had invented them entirely. Maybe none of it happened.
Maybe you’d never grown older. Never watched everything spiral so violently out of control.
Maybe your mind had simply created an entire lifetime out of a few dying seconds.
The idea should’ve comforted you. Instead, it made you feel sick. Because it had felt real. Too real.
You remembered the weight of hands grabbing your wrists. The sound of voices desperately calling out your name like something precious. The look in the vigilantes eyes right before-
Your breath caught violently. Stop!
You squeezed your eyes shut hard enough to hurt. The room hummed softly around you. The fan. Papers shuffling. Distant footsteps beyond the office walls.
Real.
It all felt horribly, unbearably real.
Your gaze drifted again, unfocused, until it snagged on the navy-and-gold banner pinned near the filing cabinet.
METROPOLIS HIGH.
Your brows furrowed immediately.
Metropolis? Not Gotham.
A sharp pulse throbbed behind your eyes. “… Wait,” you muttered faintly.
The nurse glanced over while scribbling something onto a clipboard. “Hm?”
You stared at the sign. “Why does it say Metropolis High?”
She blinked once like the question made no sense at all. “…Because that’s the school you attend, honey.”
“No, I-”
Your words caught against each other. Because that wasn’t right. Was it?
You stared harder at the banner like the letters would rearrange themselves if you looked long enough.
The nurse gave you a sympathetic look instead, already moving toward a cabinet near the back wall.
“You’re overwhelmed right now,” she said gently. “Just sit tight for me, alright? I need to grab some paperwork.”
Paperwork. Of course, even hell had paperwork.
The office door clicked shut behind her, leaving you alone in the softly humming room.
Silence rushed in immediately. Your breathing sounded too loud.
Slowly, uncertainly, you lifted one trembling hand in front of your face. You squeezed your fingers together. The sensation grounded and terrifying all at once.
Warm skin, pressure, movement. Real.
Your pulse jumped harder.
You pressed your thumb harshly into the web of skin between your thumb and pointer until pain bloomed under the skin.
Still real. Still here.
A shaky breath left you. “What the fuck…”
Time lost meaning somewhere around the fifty-minute mark.
The nurse came and went in intervals, checking your pulse, making you drink water, asking questions you barely processed long enough to answer. You nodded when expected to nod. Spoke when silence stretched too long. The rest of the time you sat there staring at the crooked Metropolis High banner pinned beside the filing cabinet like the words might rearrange themselves if you looked long enough.
They never did.
The clock above the door ticked forward relentlessly.
Eventually, the nurse stepped back into the office with a gentler expression than before.
“Well,” she said, setting her clipboard down, “your friend’s here to pick you up.”
Your brows furrowed immediately. “My… what?”
Before she could answer, the office door opened. And your stomach dropped straight through the floor.
Tim Drake stepped inside.
You knew that face.
Everyone knew that face.
One of Bruce Wayne’s sons. You’d seen him on magazine covers before, standing beside billion-dollar donations and carefully rehearsed interviews. Always neat in that rich-kid way.
Except this version of him looked younger. Eighteen. Maybe nineteen.
And the second his eyes landed on you, his entire expression shifted. Relief.
Sharp, immediate, real.
“There you are,” he breathed, like he’d been genuinely worried.
Your pulse spiked violently.
Tim crossed the room without hesitation, stopping beside your chair. Expensive cologne lingered faintly beneath the smell of antiseptic and printer paper. His tie hung loose around his collar like he’d rushed over here faster than he should’ve.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he said quietly. Not formal. Not distant.
Familiar.
His hand lifted instinctively toward your face before stopping halfway. You noticed the hesitation immediately. The restraint. Like he wanted to touch you and was actively stopping himself from doing it in front of the nurse.
“You almost collapsed?” His eyes searched your face rapidly. “What happened?”
You stared at him blankly.
Because Tim Drake was not your friend.
A Wayne should not have been standing in your school nurse’s office looking at you like this.
The nurse gave a sympathetic hum from behind her desk. “I think they just overwhelmed themselves. Panic attack, most likely.”
Tim’s expression tightened instantly. His attention snapped back to you so fast it almost felt physical. “You’re still not sleeping properly, are you?” he said softly.
The question landed with terrifying familiarity. Not the kind people asked out of politeness. The kind asked by someone who already knew the answer.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Something about that seemed to concern him even more.
Your skin prickled. Everything about this felt wrong.
Not because he was acting friendly. Because he was acting close. Years-of-history close.
The kind of closeness built from late-night phone calls and inside jokes and habitual concern. Like this wasn’t unusual for him. Like worrying about you had become second nature a long time ago.
And somehow the worst part was that nobody else seemed to find it strange.
Tim studied you for another second before exhaling quietly through his nose. A flicker of something you couldn’t place crossed his face then. Easy amusement slipping through the concern. It transformed him strangely. Made him look less like a carefully polished Wayne and more like an actual teenager.
Then his eyes landed back on you. The amusement softened immediately.
“C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s get out of here.”
Let’s.
Not I’ll take you home.
Not your ride is here.
Let’s.
Like wherever you went next was automatic. Shared.
The nurse handed over a folded slip of paper. “A slip to leave early. Try to get some rest, we don’t want this happening again.”
Tim accepted it for you with a quick nod.
Then, before you could fully process what was happening, he reached down and grabbed your bag from beside the chair. Effortless. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.
You stared at him again. He noticed.
“Don’t start,” he said immediately, already heading for the door. “Last time you carried this thing I had to sit through you whining about sore shoulders. I don’t have all night.”
Last time.
You followed him out hesitantly.
The hallway outside had mostly emptied by now. Afternoon sunlight spilled through the tall windows lining the corridor, painting long golden streaks across polished floors.
Students still lingering around glanced over as you passed. Not at you. At Tim.
Whispers started almost instantly.
Of course they did. He was.. well, him.
You caught fragments as you walked.
“..is that Tim Drake?” “Thought he graduated…”
Tim either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He walked beside you with easy confidence, your bag slung over one shoulder while occasionally glancing your way like he was checking you were still there.
It should’ve felt comforting. Instead it made your skin feel too tight.
Outside, the warm Metropolis air hit your face immediately. The parking lot shimmered faintly beneath the afternoon sun, rows of expensive cars scattered between students gathering near the gates.
Tim headed toward a sleek black car parked near the curb. Of course he drove something expensive.
He clicked the unlock button casually before opening the passenger door for you without a second thought.
The motion was so smooth. So instinctive. Like habit.
You stopped beside the car instead of getting in.
Tim looked at you over the roof, brows lifting slightly. “…You good?”
You stared at him carefully. At the loosened tie. At the concern still lingering behind his eyes. At the way he stood close enough to block half the parking lot from view without seeming to realise he was doing it.
Then quietly, cautiously, you asked: “Why are you acting like we know each other?”
…
For a second, Tim just stared at you.
Still.
The sounds of the parking lot seemed to dull around you. Distant conversations, car doors slamming, someone laughing near the front gates. All of it faded beneath the sudden tightness pulling across his expression.
“…What?” he said finally.
Your pulse hammered harder. “You keep talking to me like we’re friends,” you said carefully, watching him closely. “Like we’ve known each other forever.”
The words felt surreal coming out of your mouth. Because this was the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Someone you’d only ever seen through screens and newspaper headlines.
Tim blinked once.
Then twice.
And something about his face changed. Just enough for unease to settle deep.
The concern softened into something sharper. More focused. Like his brain had immediately locked onto a problem and started dissecting it from every angle.
“You hit your head?” he asked quietly.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened slightly. Not angry, thinking.
You suddenly got the horrible impression that Tim Drake thought very fast.
His eyes searched your face with frightening intensity, tracking every tiny reaction you made like he was trying to solve you.
Then, unexpectedly, he huffed out a short breath through his nose.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “That’s… not funny.”
You frowned immediately. “I’m not joking.”
“I know your sense of humour is terrible, but fake-amnesia terrible feels excessive even for you.” The ease of the response sent ice down your spine.
He sounded so certain.
Certain enough that he wasn’t even considering another explanation.
You stared at him. Tim stared back.
Then the amusement faded from his face completely.
“…Wait,” he said. For the first time since he’d arrived, genuine uncertainty slipped through his expression.
“You’re serious.” It wasn’t a question.
Your silence answered for you.
Something tense settled into the space between you. Tim looked at you for another long second before glancing away sharply, gaze flicking toward the school entrance like he was reorganising his thoughts in real time.
When he looked back, his expression had smoothed out again. Controlled too quickly.
“You know who I am though,” he said carefully.
“…Tim Drake.”
“And?”
You swallowed. “One of Bruce Wayne’s sons.”
A strange look crossed his face. Not surprise. Something quieter. More dangerous.
Like hearing you describe him that way physically bothered him.
“And that’s it?” he asked.
You nodded slowly. The parking lot suddenly felt very warm.
Tim went silent. Completely silent. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the strap of your school bag.
Then he smiled. Small, Careful. Wrong.
“Well,” he said lightly, “that’s mildly concerning.”
The understatement hit so strangely you almost laughed.
Instead you watched him step closer. Not enough to alarm anyone watching. But enough to make your heartbeat spike anyway.
“Okay,” Tim said calmly, like he was talking someone down from a ledge. “We’re gonna try this again.”
His eyes locked onto yours. “We’ve been best friends since fifth grade,” he said. “You practically lived at my place last year because your apartment had mold issues. You hate mushrooms, Kon’s music, and that one physics teacher with the cheese breath.”
Your stomach twisted violently. Because none of that sounded familiar.
But he said it with the effortless confidence of someone reciting facts. Not lies.
“You throw your textbooks at me when I talk too loud when you’re trying to study,” he continued. “You cried for hours when your grandma’s dog died. You steal fries off my plate every time we go out to eat anywhere.”
Each sentence landed heavier than the last. History. Details. Memories you didn’t have.
Tim watched your face carefully the entire time.
And when nothing clicked, when recognition never came, something unreadable darkened behind his eyes for just a fraction of a second. Gone so fast you almost imagined it.
Then he smiled again. Gentle. Controlled.
“Still nothing?” he asked softly.
You swallowed hard. “…No.” The word came out quieter than you intended.
Tim’s smile didn’t fall. But something about it changed, subtly. Like he was forcing it to stay there.
For a few long seconds neither of you spoke. Wind stirred through the parking lot, warm against your skin, carrying distant traffic and scattered conversation from students near the gates.
Tim looked at you like he was trying to fit puzzle pieces together in real time.
Then he sighed softly through his nose and opened the passenger door wider.
“Okay,” he said lightly. Too lightly. “You’re either having a psychotic break or you finally snapped after calc homework.”
You blinked at him.
He tilted his head slightly. “Personally, I’m blaming calculus. It’s evil.” The joke landed strangely after everything else. Like he was trying very hard to keep things normal.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly at the effort.
Tim gave the car door a small tap with his knuckles. “Get in before someone from school takes a picture of us standing out here.”
Your feet didn’t move.
Tim seemed to notice your hesitation easing by half an inch because he stepped back from the door immediately, giving you more space. Another tiny act of restraint.
“You can sit there and stare at me suspiciously the whole drive if it helps,” he offered dryly. “You already do that normally anyway.”
That word again.
Like there was an entire relationship happening around you that only he could remember.
Slowly, you got into the car. The interior smelled faintly like coffee and expensive leather. Clean, organised, lived-in in a way that somehow made this feel worse instead of better.
Tim shut the door gently behind you before circling around to the driver’s side.
The second he got in, his attention flicked toward you automatically. Checking. Assessing.
His fingers tightened briefly against the steering wheel. Then relaxed.
“You hungry?” he asked casually as he started the car. The normalcy of the question almost made your head hurt.
“What?”
“You haven’t eaten since breakfast.” He pulled out of the parking spot smoothly. “Probably contributing to the almost-passing-out thing.”
You stared at him. “How do you know when I ate?”
Tim glanced at you briefly. Then, somehow, he looked confused by the question.
“Because I was there.” The response came instantly, like it was obvious.
Your pulse stumbled.
“I dropped you off this morning,” he continued, eyes back on the road. “You complained about being tired and stole half my coffee.”
Silence filled the car. Tim tapped his thumb once against the steering wheel before speaking again, quieter this time.
“..You really don’t remember me?” There was something careful hidden underneath the question.
You looked out the window instead of answering.
Metropolis blurred past outside the glass in streaks of sunlight and towering buildings. Everything looked too clean compared to Gotham. Too bright. Too alive.
Wrong. Everything felt so wrong.
The buildings outside stretched high into the sky in gleaming sheets of glass and steel, sunlight reflecting off them hard enough to hurt your eyes. People crowded sidewalks carrying shopping bags and coffee cups, laughing too loudly, moving too casually.
No one looked afraid. No one looked over their shoulder. There were no flickering police lights reflecting off wet pavement. No grime clinging to alleyways. No looming sense that something terrible was waiting around the next corner.
Metropolis felt clean in the same way hospitals felt clean. Artificial.
“…I lived in Gotham,” you said suddenly.
Tim’s hands stilled for half a second against the wheel. Small. Almost invisible.
“You do live in Gotham,” he corrected lightly. “Technically.”
You turned toward him sharply. “What does that mean?”
“It means your apartment’s in Gotham.” His tone stayed easy, conversational. “You go to school in Metropolis because your grandma transferred here after she moved.”
Your stomach dropped. “Grammy moved?”
“About two years ago.”
Two years. The number hit like whiplash. Because that meant this version of your life had an entire history you knew nothing about.
Tim glanced at you briefly before looking back at the road.
“You begged her not to,” he added. “Said Gotham had better takeout.”
You stared at him. The casual certainty in his voice made it hard to breathe sometimes. Like these memories genuinely belonged to him.
Your fingers curled tighter in your lap. “My grandma…” Your throat tightened around the words. “She’s alive?” The question came out smaller than intended.
Tim’s expression changed instantly. Concern threading beneath the surface again.
“Yeah,” he said carefully. “Of course she is.”
Relief hit so hard it almost hurt.
You turned away immediately, pressing your fist lightly against your mouth as your eyes burned unexpectedly.
She was alive.
You didn’t realise how hard you were breathing until Tim quietly reached over and lowered the music volume that you hadn’t even noticed was playing.
Giving you silence instead.
That silence stretched on for a good twenty minutes.
Tim drove one-handed now, the other resting loosely near the gearshift, fingers tapping occasionally against the console like his brain was running faster than the rest of him.
Every now and then you caught him glancing over. Like he still hadn’t decided how seriously to take this.
“…So,” he said eventually, voice deliberately lighter, “if you’re committing to the amnesia bit, can you at least forget the pic of me on your phone?”
You blinked at him, brows furrowing in confusion. “What?”
“The one you threaten to show Damian every time I annoy you.”
There was the faintest hint of amusement in his voice now. Careful amusement. Testing.
Watching to see if anything landed. When you just stared at him blankly again, the corner of his mouth twitched downward.
“…Right,” he murmured.
For the first time since this started, Tim looked unsettled too. Not outwardly. Most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But you were starting to.
The slight pauses before he spoke now. The way his fingers kept tightening briefly against the steering wheel.
The way his eyes flicked toward you every few seconds like he was making sure you were still there. Like he was afraid to look away too long.
You swallowed hard. “Why are you being so calm?” you asked quietly.
Tim glanced over at you, brows pulling together slightly. “What do you mean?”
“You’re acting like this is normal.”
“I’m not-”
“You are.” Your voice came out tighter than intended. “I just told you I don’t remember you and you’re making jokes.”
Silence settled briefly between you.
Tim looked back at the road.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “If I start freaking out too, you’ll freak out harder.” The honesty of the answer caught you off guard.
He exhaled softly through his nose, gaze fixed ahead. “And honestly?” A faint humourless smile crossed his face.
“You’re already kind of terrifying me right now.”
The further you got from Metropolis, the stranger the world outside became.
You weren’t used to this much open space.
In Gotham, everything felt crowded together. Buildings stacked over buildings. Alleys cutting through cramped streets. Siren's bleeding into traffic noise at all hours of the night.
Out here, the silence felt almost unnerving.
Fields stretched endlessly beyond fences and telephone poles. Farmhouses sat scattered in the distance with wide porches and rusted mailboxes. The sky itself looked bigger somehow. Too open, and far roo bright.
Tim slowed the car as the road narrowed further, tires crunching softly over loose gravel.
Your eyes drifted toward the passing scenery automatically. Cornfields, trees, a weathered wooden fence leaning slightly sideways.
Then finally a small country house came into view. It wasn’t large, just cozy.
White paint slightly faded with age, warm porch lights glowing softly against the coming dusk. Flowerpots crowded the front steps in messy little clusters, and wind chimes stirred gently near the porch roof.
The sight of it hit something deep in your chest unexpectedly hard.
Tim pulled into the gravel driveway slowly before putting the car in park.
For a moment neither of you moved. The engine ticked softly as it cooled.
You stared at the house. Something about it felt familiar in the same way that dreams felt like déjà vu.
Your eyes caught on to small details.
A knitted blanket hanging over the porch swing, crooked little garden beds overflowing with herbs, and a faded ceramic bird sitting near the front steps with one chipped wing.
It was homey.
Tim watched you quietly from the driver’s seat. He tired not to push. Just observing carefully again.
Then, after a second, he glanced toward the neighbouring property.
You followed the movement instinctively.
Another farmhouse stood not too far away across the fields. Larger than your grandma’s place, surrounded by fences and acres of farmland stretching toward the horizon. A red barn sat farther back near a windmill turning lazily in the evening breeze.
The Kent farm.
Something strange twisted low in your stomach. Recognition, almost. Like seeing a place from a dream you couldn’t fully remember.
Tim noticed you staring. “The neighbours are probably all home by now,” he said casually. “So if Jon suddenly appears out of nowhere, don’t be alarmed.”
Your brows furrowed slightly at the name. Was that the one he mentioned earlier?
Tim unbuckled his seatbelt with a soft click before looking back at you.
“You ready?” he asked gently.
The question felt heavier than it should’ve. Because somehow, stepping out of the car felt bigger than just getting out of a vehicle. Like crossing some invisible line you couldn’t uncross afterward.
Still, after a long pause, you nodded.
Tim’s expression softened with relief, stepping out first.
Gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he rounded the front of the car, evening sunlight catching briefly against the lenses of his glasses. The country air felt cooler once you opened the door, carrying the scent of cut grass, soil, and something faintly sweet drifting from the garden beds near the porch.
You stood slowly.
Wind stirred softly through the fields surrounding the property, rustling the cornstalks in long waves. Somewhere farther off, you could hear crickets starting up in the grass.
Tim grabbed your bag from the backseat before shutting the door behind you.
Your eyes drifted back toward the house.
Warm light glowed through the kitchen windows now. You could just barely make out movement inside.
Your chest tightened painfully.
Tim adjusted the strap of your bag over his shoulder before starting toward the porch, slowing after a couple steps when he realised you weren’t beside him yet.
He waited. Not calling for you. Not rushing you. Just waiting quietly at the edge of the driveway.
The restraint felt strangely deliberate now that you were noticing it.
Like he wanted to reach for your hand. Like he wanted to guide you inside himself, but he wasn’t.
Because he knew it would scare you.
Slowly, you followed him.
The wooden porch creaked softly beneath your shoes as you stepped up beside him. Up close, the house looked even more lived-in. Gardening gloves abandoned near the steps. A half-watered tray of plants sitting near the railing. Tiny scratches near the doorframe like a large dog used to jump there repeatedly.
Tim reached for the door, then hesitated. His hand stilled briefly against the handle before he glanced sideways at you. And for the first time since this entire nightmare started, he looked uncertain.
Not about you forgetting him, not about what was happening, about this.
About whatever waited on the other side of the door.
“She doesn’t know about what happened at school yet,” he said quietly.
Your brows pulled together faintly.
“I didn’t wanna freak her out over the phone.”
Before either of you could say anything else, the front door opened. Knob slipping from Tim’s palm.
Your grandmother stood there with a cigarette between two fingers and an expression already bordering on irritation.
“Well?” she said. “You two gonna stand around starin’ at my porch all night or what?” The roughness of her voice hit painfully in your chest.
Tim snorted softly beside you. “Nice to see you too.”
“Don’t get smart with me, city boy.” She pointed the cigarette vaguely toward him before looking at you properly. Her eyes narrowed slightly behind slipping reading glasses. Concern colouring her features. “You look pale.”
“Long day,” Tim answered smoothly before you could.
“Hm.” She sounded more annoyed on your behalf than anything else. “School’s a scam. Get inside.”
She turned and shuffled back into the house without waiting to see if you followed.
Tim opened the screen door for you. Again. Like habit.
You stepped inside slowly.
Warm air wrapped around you immediately. The house smelled like coffee, cigarette smoke, old paperbacks, and something cooking in the kitchen. A small television muttered quietly somewhere deeper inside the house while an ancient ceiling fan clicked overhead in lazy rotations.
The floor creaked beneath your shoes.
Your grandmother disappeared into the kitchen muttering something chiding under her breath.
Tim smiled faintly like he’d heard that speech before.
Of course he had.
He slipped your bag off his shoulder and set it beside the staircase without asking where it belonged.
Another practiced movement. Another stupid thing that he did too naturally.
You noticed his eyes flick briefly across the room afterward.
Checking windows.
Doors.
Exits.
The movement was subtle enough most people probably wouldn’t think twice about it.
You did.
Then a loud knock rattled suddenly against the front screen door.
Your grandmother yelled from the kitchen instantly.
“If that’s one of the Kent boys, tell ‘em I still want my casserole dish back!”
Tim sighed.
And for the first time since meeting him today, genuine exasperation crossed his face.
“…Too late,” he muttered.
Before you could process that response, the screen door swung open.
A dark-haired boy stepped inside with the kind of ease that suggested he’d done it a hundred times before.
He looked to be around fourteen or fifteen.
And the second his eyes landed on you, he lit up. Relief crashed across his face so openly it startled you.
“There you are!” he said immediately.
Then, without hesitation, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around you.
The contact hit too suddenly for your brain to catch up. He was warm. Solid.
Clingy in the way only kids and younger teenagers could get away with.
Your entire body locked up instantly. The boy either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“You disappeared before lunch,” he complained into your shoulder like this was a completely normal thing to do. “I texted you like eight times.”
Your pulse stumbled violently.
Because this, whatever this is, was worse somehow.
Tim had been careful. Restrained.
This boy wasn’t restrained at all.
He held onto you with easy familiarity, like touching you came naturally to him. Like he’d done it hundreds of times before and never once considered you might not want him to.
Your gaze darted towards Tim in question.
He was watching the two of you with an unreadable expression.
Not surprised. Something tighter, like he was barely tolerating this.
The boy finally pulled back enough to look at your face properly.
And immediately frowned.
“…Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
You stared at him blankly.
Up close, he looked even younger. Bright blue eyes. Dark hair falling messily across his forehead. Farmboy built despite the baby face he hadn’t fully grown out of yet.
There was something overwhelmingly earnest about him.
Dangerously easy to trust.
“I think they had some kind of panic attack at school,” Tim said before you could answer.
The boy’s entire expression changed instantly.
Concern flooded in so fast it nearly bowled over everything else.
“What?” His attention snapped back to you immediately. “Why didn’t anyone call me?”
The possessiveness in the question caught you off guard. Like he genuinely believed he should’ve been informed immediately.
Tim leaned back lightly against the wall near the staircase, arms crossing loosely over his chest.
“You were in class,” he said flatly.
“I still could’ve left.”
Tim stared at him for a long second, eyes narrowed.
The boy ignored him completely.
His focus stayed entirely on you now, concern written openly across his face in a way Tim never allowed himself.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
The question should’ve felt simple.
He sounded sincere. Not polite or performative. Like he cared too much. You’ve never had anyone fret over you like this.
Before you could answer, your grandmother’s voice echoed from the kitchen. “Jonathan Kent, if you came over here empty-handed again, I’m tellin’ your mother.”
The boy, Jonathan apparently, groaned immediately.
“I brought the dish back last week!”
“You brought back the wrong lid!”
“That sounds fake!”
“It ain’t!”
For some reason, the argument continuing in the background made this all feel even more surreal.
Like you’d stepped into somebody else’s life halfway through. And everybody else already knew the script except you.
It’s only after a long moment of calm that Jon finally looked back at you.
“…You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, quieter this time.
You opened your mouth automatically. “I’m fin-”
“Bullshit,” Tim said flatly from across the room.
You blinked at him.
Jonathan nodded immediately like that was the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah, you look awful.”
“Thanks,” you muttered reflexively.
“..There it is.” Tim pointed at you lazily. “That’s the first normal thing you’ve said all day.”
The familiarity of the teasing landed strangely in your chest again. You felt.. Comfortable.
Like this was a rhythm you slipped into often.
Jonathan moved closer before you fully noticed, hovering just inside your space with restless concern written all over him.
“You didn’t answer any of my texts,” he said. “I thought maybe you were mad at me again.”
Again.
Tim let out an irritated sigh. “You whine about that every time they don’t answer for twenty minutes.”
“Because last time they ignored me for like six hours!”
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
The response came so dramatically sincere that your grandmother snorted from the kitchen, you could just hear it over the music you were sure she’d been singing to before you arrived.
Then Tim’s eyes landed back on you.
And just like that, the softness disappeared into something quieter. Focused.
You were starting to realise Tim watched people constantly. Especially you. Like every blink and twitch meant something.
“You should come over later,” Jon said suddenly. “Mom made pie.”
Your grandmother yelled again from the kitchen. “Don’t you bribe my grandkid with baked goods!”
“You can’t stop me!”
“You’re lucky I like your mama!”
Jon grinned toward the kitchen before looking back at you again, expression brightening hopefully.
“You’ll come, right?”
Both boys went still waiting for your answer. Each for different reasons.
After everything that had happened today, the warmth of the house and the easy arguing and the smell of food drifting from the kitchen made exhaustion settle heavily into your bones.
You’d already died once. What was the harm in trying to enjoy yourself now?
Slowly, you nodded. “…Sure,”
Jon lit up instantly, delighted. “Oh, thank god,” he blurted. “I thought you were gonna say no.”
You snorted softly before you could stop yourself. The sound surprised all three of you.
Jon’s expression somehow brightened even more.
And Tim went very still.
There was a slight pause in his breathing. His attention snapping fully onto you the second the laugh left your mouth.
Relief flickered across his face so quickly it barely existed.
“C’mon,” Jon said, already moving toward the door again. “Mom’ll be offended if the pie gets cold.”
“Pie doesn’t get cold,” Tim muttered.
“Yes it does.”
“No, it becomes breakfast.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“You eat cold pizza for breakfast.”
“That’s different.”
You watched them bicker as they moved toward the porch. And for one dangerously fragile second, It almost felt normal.
The walk toward the Kent house was quiet.
Not silent. Jonathan still talked, because apparently he never stopped talking, but the energy from earlier had dulled slightly beneath the weight settling in your chest.
“…and then Damian said the cow wasn’t technically missing because he knew where it was,” Jonathan was saying beside you, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. “Which apparently meant it didn’t count.”
You blinked slowly. “He stole a cow?”
“He was making a point.”
“That doesn’t explain anything.”
“I know.”
Tim walked a few steps behind the two of you. Not far enough to seem strange, still close enough to hear everything.
The gravel path crunched softly beneath your shoes as the farmhouse grew larger ahead, warm yellow light spilling from the windows across the darkening fields.
Jonathan kept glancing toward you while he spoke. Checking your reactions. Like he was trying to pull you back into something.
“…Damian hates everybody,” he continued. “But he only threatens people with gardening tools if he likes them.”
You frowned faintly. “That feels concerning.”
“It is concerning.”
“You let him around livestock?”
“He’s banned from the hen house now.”
The Kent farm stretched larger the closer you got. The smell of earth and cut hay lingered faintly in the air while warm light spilled from the farmhouse windows ahead.
Everything out here felt too peaceful.
Your brain still kept waiting for the catch.
Tim was already looking at you when you turned to him.
Something unreadable sat behind his expression for half a second too long before his phone buzzed sharply through the quiet.
His gaze moved towards it immediately.
You saw the exact moment irritation cut across his face. Cold. Instant.
Jonathan noticed too. His own expression tightened almost automatically.
Tim answered without stopping walking. “What?” No greeting.
Silence stretched.
His jaw flexed once. “I told Alfred I’d be busy.” Another pause. Then his eyes lifted toward you again.
There was something deeply unsettling about the way his attention kept returning to you no matter what else was happening. Like every conversation existed around you instead of separate from you.
Jon slowed slightly beside you.
Tim’s voice flattened further. “No. I’m with them now.”
Your fingers curled slightly at your sides.
A long silence followed. “…Fine.” The word sounded bitten off.
Something unreadable darkened behind his expression. “I’m on my way.”
The call ended.
Jon frowned immediately. “You’re leaving?”
“I have to go back to Gotham.”
“You just got here.”
Tim ignored that entirely. His attention settled on you instead with unnerving intensity.
“I won’t be long,” he said carefully.
You nodded slowly.
Tim hesitated. Like leaving you here physically bothered him.
Nobody spoke for a second. Wind moved softly through the fields around you.
Jon finally broke the silence first. “Bruce?”
Tim looked at him. Just looked. It wasn’t openly hostile, “does it matter?”
Jon held his stare for a second before looking away first with visible annoyance.
Tim slid his phone back into his pocket with controlled precision before looking at you.
Your brows pulled together faintly. “You really have to go now?”
“Yes.” The answer came too fast. Like the decision had already been made the second the phone rang.
Jon shifted beside you immediately. “They can stay with us until-”
“I know.”
Flat.
Jon’s mouth shut.
Something tense settled in the space between them.
You suddenly had the awful feeling this argument had happened before. Repeatedly.
Tim stepped closer then, invading your space.
“You’ll text me when you get home,” it wasn’t phrased like a question.
You blinked once. “…Okay.”
His eyes stayed on your face another second too long. Searching. Like he was trying to decide something.
Then Jon reached over absentmindedly and hooked his fingers loosely around your wrist to tug you forward again, and the shift in Tim was immediate. Tiny, but immediate.
His gaze flicked downward, going very still.
The evening air suddenly felt colder.
Jon noticed. His fingers tightened slightly before letting go entirely.
A warning shot.
Your stomach twisted.
What the hell was wrong with these people?
Tim’s attention returned to you instantly afterward, expression smoothing back into something normal enough to pass.
“If anything feels off,” he said quietly, “call me.”
Something about the way he said it made your skin prickle.
Jon scoffed softly beside you. “You say that like we’re gonna poison them.”
Tim looked at him. A long pause followed.
“..I didn’t say that.” The response was strangely heavy.
Jonathan’s expression darkened immediately. Not playful annoyance anymore. Real irritation.
For one brief second, you caught something ugly underneath his usual warmth. Sharp and adolescent and possessive in a way that reminded you of a dog baring its teeth before you could fully process it.
Then it vanished.
Tim exhaled quietly through his nose before looking back at you again.
And there it was. That restraint.
Like he wanted to say more. Wanted to do more. But was actively stopping himself.
“Get back to the apartment safe. I’ll pick you up in the morning,” he said finally. He wasn’t asking. He was deciding for you.
Then, after the smallest hesitation, “…Don’t stay up too late.” The softness of it felt weird. It sounded genuine.
Tim held your gaze one second longer, his hands lifting as if to wrap around you, only to fall short. Just giving your shoulders a squeeze. Then he stepped back toward the driveway.
Jon immediately moved closer the second space opened beside you.
You let him drag you along, not noticing how Tim stopped halfway back toward the car and looked directly at Jon. No expression at all.
Jon stared back.
And then he left.
You’d made it all the way to the entrance of the house. The headlights disappeared slowly down the gravel road beyond the fields.
Jon waited until the car was fully gone before speaking.
“…They hate leaving you here.” The words slipped out under his breath. Not meant for you.
Your brows furrowed immediately. “What?”
Jon blinked like he hadn’t realised he’d said it aloud.
Then he smiled too quickly. “Nothing.”
But his eyes drifted toward the road Tim had vanished down.
The screen door creaked loudly as the younger boy pulled it open. Warmth spilled over you immediately. Not just heat, life.
The house smelled like garlic, black pepper, fresh bread, and something sweet baking somewhere deeper in the kitchen. Pots clinked softly against the stovetop while an old radio hummed low enough to blend into the background.
For one disorienting second, the normalcy of it all made you still, letting out a deep breath.
Jon kicked his shoes off carelessly by the door. “Ma?” He called, already reaching back for you without looking. His fingers closed loosely around your wrist, guiding you over the doorway before letting go again like it was unconscious. “We’re back.”
“Wash your hands before you touch anything,” a voice called immediately from the kitchen.
Lois stood near the stove with one sleeve rolled to her elbow, wooden spoon in hand while something simmered steadily in a large pot. Reading glasses sat low on her nose as she glanced between the stove and a tablet propped beside the counter.
She glanced up briefly at the sound of your footsteps. Then froze. Though it only lasted a fraction of a second.
The spoon in her hand stilled. Her eyes flicked rapidly over your face, shoulders, posture. Assessing.
Relief followed so quickly afterward it almost looked painful.
“There you are,” The words left her mouth before she seemed to think about them.
Lois crossed the room without hesitation and pulled you into a hug before you could properly react. Warm arms. Firm enough that it startled you.
You froze.
Lois seemed to realise it a second later and loosened immediately. “Sorry,” she said softly, though she still kept one hand against your arm when she pulled back. “Long day?”
You stared at her for half a second too long before answering. “…Something like that.” Who the hell was this woman?
Jon disappeared toward the sink without another word, leaving you standing awkwardly near the doorway while Lois watched you with an intensity disguised as casual concern.
“You look exhausted,” she said. The words were gentle. Her eyes weren’t.
You suddenly understood where Jonathan got it from.
Clark leaned against the kitchen table nearby, broad shoulders slightly hunched as he read through a stack of papers spread beneath one large hand.
Something unreadable crossed his face before his expression softened almost instantly into something warmer. Safer.
And suddenly the room felt smaller.
You knew who he was immediately. Everybody knew Clark Kent’s face. Pulitzer-winning journalist. Metropolis golden boy. Too kind-looking to be real.
Except this version of him didn’t look like the carefully edited photographs from newspapers.
He looked bigger somehow. Not taller. Just… solid.
Grounded in a way that made the kitchen itself feel built around him.
And the second his eyes landed on you, his entire attention sharpened completely. That horrible, focused attentiveness you were beginning to recognise in people around you.
Jon was back at your side by then, nudging his elbow against yours.
When Lois noticed him she pointed toward the table. “Sit.”
Something about her tone made all three of you obey automatically.
Jon dropped into the chair beside yours while you sat more cautiously across from Clark.
The second you did, his attention flicked briefly toward the way your fingers hovered unconsciously near your chest before returning to your face.
Lois returned to the stove, though her attention kept drifting back toward you every few seconds.
“Well,” she said brightly, “good news is I made enough food to feed an army because apparently living with boys means groceries evaporate overnight.”
Jon snorted beside you. “That’s because Kon eats like he’s preparing for winter.”
A second later the said boy appeared in the kitchen holding a bag of chips under one arm.
Conner leaned against the doorway easily. “You guys took forever.”
Jon pointed immediately. “See? He’s already eating.”
“I’m growing.”
“You’re twenty.”
“And thriving.”
Lois sighed like this was a conversation she’d heard a hundred times before. “Hands. Sink. Now.”
Conner grinned lazily before finally pushing off the doorway.
As he passed behind your chair, his fingers dragged briefly across the top of your shoulder in an absentminded greeting. Casual.
“You’re wiped,” he said as he moved toward the sink. “What happened to you?”
“..Long day,” you answered finally.
“Hm.” Conner washed his hands quickly. “You look awful,” he said bluntly.
Jon made a noise of protest. “Kon.”
“What? They do.” Conner reached down without hesitation and squeezed the back of your neck once, casual and familiar. “You sleep at all?”
The touch settled something restless in your chest before you could question why.
You exhaled quietly, not sure how to respond. “Not really.”
“Yeah, figured.”
He moved around the table and dropped into the chair beside you heavily enough to rattle it. Close enough that your elbows brushed immediately.
Nobody in the room seemed to think anything of it.
Clark folded the papers in front of him neatly before setting them aside. “Rough day at school?”
The question sounded normal. Everything here sounded normal.
You nodded anyway. “Something like that.”
Clark nodded once like that explained more than you intended it to.
Lois finally slid a mug in front of you, steam curling softly into the kitchen light. “Tea,” she said. “You look like you need it.”
“Ma thinks tea fixes everything,” Jon muttered.
“It does,” Lois replied immediately.
Conner reached over without asking and stole a piece of cut meat from the chopping board beside the stove.
Lois smacked the back of his hand with the towel.
“Ow.”
“You have your own plate.”
“I like yours better.”
The conversation moved around you easily after that. Natural. Loud in the quiet way families were loud.
At least.. the way that the ones you’ve seen on TV were.
Jon kept leaning against your shoulder whenever he talked. Conner sprawled sideways in his chair close enough that his knee bumped yours every few minutes beneath the table. Lois drifted constantly around the kitchen while Clark stayed seated across from you, listening more than speaking.
And through all of it, you kept catching them looking at you. Not staring. Just… checking. Like they were making sure you were still there.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the mug.
Clark noticed immediately. “You alright?” he asked gently.
Four heads turned toward you at once.
The attention hit like pressure. “Yeah,” you answered too quickly.
Nobody called you out on it.
Jon’s arm slid across the back of your chair as he leaned closer. “You’re doing that weird thing again.”
You looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means your face does this thing.” He gestured vaguely toward you with his free hand.
“My face does not do a thing.”
“It does.”
Conner nodded seriously beside you. “Yeah, you get this little line right here.” He reached over like he intended to touch between your brows.
You jerked back automatically before he could. The movement froze the table for half a second.
Conner stopped immediately.
“Sorry,” he said, and for the first time since walking in, his voice lost some of its easy warmth. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
The apology came too fast. Too careful.
Like your reaction mattered far more than it should have.
Jon’s posture shifted beside you almost instantly. Subtle tension settling into his shoulders.
Clark was watching you closely now too.
They were watching you the way someone watches a door they’re waiting to lock.
The silence stretched after your reaction to Conner reaching toward you.
Too long.
Jon leaned closer beside you, arm hooked loosely over the back of your chair again. “You’ve been weird all day..”
“I haven’t.” The defense came too quickly, even though some part of you knew he was right. Whoever you’d been to them before today wouldn’t have sat this stiffly at the table. Wouldn’t have flinched away from casual touches like they were something dangerous.
“You have,” Conner said easily from beside you. “You’re quieter.”
“You guys are just intense.” The second the words left your mouth, the room went still.
Not everything. The radio still hummed softly behind Lois. Something simmered steadily on the stove. A fork clinked lightly against ceramic.
But them. They froze. Like you’d said something hurtful without intending to.
Clark’s expression softened almost immediately afterward, though something unreadable lingered underneath it now. “Intense?”
You gave a small shrug, trying to laugh it off. “I don’t know. You all keep staring at me.”
“We’re listening to you,” Lois corrected gently.
“No,” you said slowly. “It’s more like…” You hesitated. “Checking.”
Nobody answered.
Jon’s fingers tapped once against your shoulder absentmindedly. “You notice everything.”
The comment should’ve sounded teasing. Instead it sounded observational.
Conner leaned sideways in his chair, openly studying you now. “You didn’t used to.”
Your head turned toward him immediately. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Another pause. Tiny. Wrong.
Then Lois spoke smoothly over it. “It means you’ve seemed stressed lately.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly.
Clark folded his hands together on the table. Calm. Steady. “School been difficult?”
“Not really.”
Again, silence.
Like they were all choosing their words carefully around you.
Conner looked almost irritated suddenly. Not at you. At the conversation itself.
Clark glanced briefly toward him before looking back at you. “…We’re worried.”
You blinked in surprise. “About what?”
Nobody answered fast enough.
Your chair scraped softly against the floor as you shifted backward slightly. “You’re overreacting.”
“No,” Lois said gently.
The word settled heavily into the room.
Clark reached across the table then, large hand closing carefully around yours before you could think to pull away. Warm. Steady. Terrifyingly comforting.
“You matter to this family,” he said quietly.
Your stomach dropped at the wording.
Wrong. So fucking wrong. This entire thing felt wrong. You didn’t belong here. Not really.
These people were warm in a way that hurt to look at too long. Easy with each other. Familiar. Loving. The kind of family people envied quietly from a distance.
And you-
You were just someone they’d decided to pull into it.
The worst part was the awful little ache in your chest that wanted to let them.
You let out a slow breath and carefully slipped your hand from Clark’s grasp before pushing your chair back farther. “I think I should go home.”
“No.” The response came instantly.
All four of them at once.
The force of it made your pulse jump.
Lois removed her reading glasses slowly, violet eyes settling fully onto you now. “It’s late,” she said softly. “Far too late for me to let you drive all the way back to that little apartment alone.”
“It’s barely evening.” But the protest sounded weak even to your own ears.
Because part of you truthfully didn’t want to leave.
This house felt warm in a way that every place you’ve ever lived never had. Loud and alive and full in a way that made something lonely in your chest ache every time Jon laughed or Lois nudged Clark with her elbow or Conner leaned against you like being close was the most natural thing in the world.
You wanted it.
You just didn’t understand why they wanted you.
“You can stay here,” Conner said casually, though his attention sharpened immediately when you stood fully. “You stay over all the time anyway.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to tonight.” Another weak lie.
Jon stood too. Immediate. Close enough that your pulse jumped again. “You’re upset.” His face fell almost instantly, expression softening with something dangerously genuine.
“Hey.”
God. Why did he have to look at you like that?
Like your discomfort physically hurt him.
Clark stepped closer more slowly, grounding the room around him without even trying. “Nobody’s trying to scare you.”
“…Then why does this feel so weird?”
Silence.
Jon looked down briefly before meeting your eyes again. Because unlike the others, he looked tired of pretending.
“You wanna know the truth?” he asked quietly.
Something in your chest tightened. Nobody stopped him.
Lois watched carefully from the counter.
Conner leaned back against the table beside you, arms folding loosely across his chest.
Clark stayed still. Waiting.
Jon stepped closer. “You pull away,” he said softly. “Every time people get too attached to you, you try to run away.”
Your throat tightened.
“And we know we’re a lot,” Lois admitted gently behind him.
“We tried giving you space,” Conner added. “Didn’t really work out for us.”
The honesty behind his words felt miserable.
Jon’s gaze flicked briefly toward your hands, toward the way your fingers tightened around the edge of the chair.
Then back to your face. “You make this place feel…” He stopped, jaw tightening slightly before trying again. “Right.”
The room suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. Dangerously warm.
Clark’s voice came quieter than before. “And when you leave, everybody notices.”
Nobody laughed. Nobody acted embarrassed.
Conner looked completely serious. Lois too. Jon looked at you like this was the simplest truth in the world.
You were sure that if you looked at them for a moment longer your eyes would well with tears.
Because somewhere beneath the unease and the wrongness and the intensity of all of this, you understood exactly what they meant.
And it scared you.
Conner reached for your hand carefully this time. Slow enough for you to pull away.
You didn’t.
Relief crossed his face so quickly it almost looked painful.
His fingers tightened around yours. Certain.
“You don’t have to leave tonight,” he murmured again.
The house had gone quiet around you again. Waiting.
Like they already knew your answer.
And.. maybe you weren’t sure if they were wrong.
We’re all collectively going to pretend that Jon was never aged up. (For the plot)
Reblogs help more people find the story, comments help me survive writing it. → They’re the only way for me to know whether to continue writing this series or not.
Poll results are in: platonic for the win🎉
