welcome aboard!! i’m lissy cam and i am a multi fandom writer! below is my masterlist and how to request a fic!
•••🩷🩵💜•••🩷🩵💜•••🩷🩵💜•••🩷🩵💜•••
Masterlist
How To Request
YOU ARE THE REASON
ojovivo
Jules of Nature

titsay

★
RMH
occasionally subtle
Three Goblin Art
Cosmic Funnies
AnasAbdin

Product Placement
will byers stan first human second

@theartofmadeline

shark vs the universe
Show & Tell

izzy's playlists!
Monterey Bay Aquarium

blake kathryn

JBB: An Artblog!

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

seen from Brazil

seen from Türkiye

seen from Canada

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from Belgium

seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Indonesia

seen from Japan

seen from Brazil

seen from United States
seen from Malaysia

seen from Türkiye
seen from France

seen from Argentina
@lissycameron
welcome aboard!! i’m lissy cam and i am a multi fandom writer! below is my masterlist and how to request a fic!
•••🩷🩵💜•••🩷🩵💜•••🩷🩵💜•••🩷🩵💜•••
Masterlist
How To Request
Treacherous (previously Sparks Fly)
❤️🖤🩶 ❤️🖤🩶 ❤️🖤🩶 ❤️🖤🩶 ❤️🖤🩶 ❤️🖤🩶 ❤️🖤🩶
Note: this is from my old account (celiaaamae99) but that account is inactive now. I also put it in second person pov.
Summary: falling in love with your best friend wasn’t ever really part of the plan, but plans are meant to be broken right?
Warnings: sexual tension, best friends to lovers, found family, swearing, nervousness/anxiety
❤️🖤🩶 ❤️🖤🩶 ❤️🖤🩶 ❤️🖤🩶 ❤️🖤🩶 ❤️🖤🩶 ❤️🖤🩶
Falling in love with your best friend was never part of the plan.
You were just a girl from the South Side trying to keep your head above water, trying to finish a two-year degree, trying not to think too hard about the fact that your parents weren’t coming back. Life was already complicated enough without adding feelings for the one person who had somehow become your constant.
Bet You’re Thinking She’s So Cool — Chapter 1 — RC
💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛
Warnings: unrequited love, social and class dynamics, maybe swearing idk, reader insert, Rafe has similar dynamics to season 3 and 4, literary references to The Great Gatsby
Word count: 4.7k
💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛
The lecture hall hums with noise that never quite settles. Chairs scrape, people talk over each other, someone’s laughing too loud in the back.
You’re not really paying attention.
You’re watching James.
He’s a row down, a little to the right, exactly where he always sits like routine is part of his personality. He’s mid-story, hands moving as he talks, people leaning in like whatever he’s saying actually matters.
It kind of does.
At least to you.
Your pen hovers over your notebook, unmoving, your chin resting lightly against your hand as you pretend to listen.
“—and then she got mad at me,” James says, laughing under his breath.
You lean forward slightly without thinking. “Well, yeah, obviously,” you cut in, tone light. “You deserved that.”
A couple people laugh. James glances back at you, grin widening like he’s been waiting for you to jump in.
“You don’t even know what I did.”
“I don’t need to,” you shrug, smiling now. “You’re you.”
He shakes his head, pointing at you like he’s about to argue, but he doesn’t. He just looks at you for a second longer than necessary.
And it’s stupid how much that does for you.
Your stomach flips. Just a little.
This is how it always goes. Small moments. Almost something.
Enough to keep you right where he wants you.
“James.”
The shift is immediate.
The girl slides into the empty seat next to him like she belongs there, like she’s done it before. Confident. Easy. Too familiar.
You recognize her instantly.
Of course you do.
Your smile lingers for half a second too long before it fades.
“Oh—hey,” James says, softer now, attention snapping to her like it’s nothing.
“Did you send me that thing from last night?” she asks, leaning in just enough to make it obvious she can.
Your fingers tighten slightly around your pen before you force them to relax.
“Yeah, hold on,” he says, already pulling out his phone.
And just like that—you’re not part of the conversation anymore.
You lean back in your seat, eyes dropping to your notebook, blinking a little too fast. It shouldn’t feel like anything. It’s not new.
You know what this is.
You just… keep hoping it’ll be something else.
Across the room, Rafe Cameron is watching you.
He doesn’t miss the way you lean in when James talks. Doesn’t miss the way your whole face shifts when he looks at you.
And he definitely doesn’t miss the way it falls when he doesn’t.
It’s quick. Subtle.
But it’s there.
James isn’t even trying. That’s the part that gets under his skin. He knows exactly what he’s doing—keeping you close, giving you just enough to stay, never enough to mean anything.
And you—
You let him. Whether you realize it or not. You let him keep you there.
Rafe exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening just slightly before he pushes himself up from his seat.
By the time he gets there, James is still turned toward the girl, half-laughing at something on his phone.
Rafe stops at the end of the row.
“I need to talk to you.”
James looks up first, brows lifting. “Cameron,” he says, casual but not. “What’s up?”
Rafe doesn’t look at him.
“I need to talk to her.”
It’s not loud. Not aggressive.
Just… not optional.
You blink, caught off guard, glancing between them. “Uh—okay?”
You stand, brushing your hands down your jeans like you need something to do, and step out into the aisle, following Rafe a few feet away.
There’s a beat of silence.
Up close, he’s worse. More intense. Like he’s thinking something he’s not saying.
“What’s up?” you ask, a little unsure.
He glances back once, quick and sharp, like he’s checking something, then looks at you again.
“You’re in Hayes’ lit class.”
“Yeah…?”
“I’m failing it.”
Blunt. Flat. Honest.
You huff a small breath. “Okay…?”
“I need help.”
You stare at him for a second, trying to figure out if this is serious or if you’re missing something.
“You want me to tutor you?”
“Yeah.”
Another beat.
And maybe it’s the timing. Maybe it’s the fact that your chest still feels a little tight from five seconds ago. Or maybe it’s just the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only person in the room worth talking to.
But you nod.
“Okay,” you say. “Yeah, I can do that.”
Rafe holds your gaze for a second longer, then nods once like that settles it.
“Give me your phone.”
You hesitate for half a second before handing it over. His fingers brush yours when he takes it—quick, but not nothing.
He types something in, then hands it back.
“Text me,” he says. “I’ll send you when I’m free.”
You glance down at the new contact, then back up. “Okay.”
“And your snap.”
You blink. “You want my snap too?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile.
“Yeah.”
You let out a small breath, shaking your head a little as you give it to him anyway.
“Text me later,” he says, already stepping back.
Then he turns and walks off like the conversation’s over. Like he didn’t just insert himself into your day out of nowhere.
You stand there for a second, phone still in your hand, before glancing back toward your seat.
James is looking at you. Not the same way as before.
Different.
More focused. More curious.
Like he just noticed something he doesn’t like.
You hold his gaze for a second—then look away first.
💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛
Your phone buzzes against your thigh, lighting up the screen.
Snapchat.
You don’t even pretend to hesitate this time.
You open it immediately.
rafe cameron
hey
You roll onto your stomach, kicking your feet slightly behind you before you even realize you’re doing it.
you
hey
The typing bubble shows up instantly. Disappears. Comes back.
rafe cameron
you’re in hayes tomorrow right
you
yeah
rafe cameron
good
you can explain whatever the hell he was talking about today
You huff out a small laugh.
you
you mean the entire lecture?
rafe cameron
yeah that
you
wow okay
glad you paid attention
There’s a pause.
rafe cameron
i was paying attention
You raise an eyebrow at your phone.
you
to what
Three dots.
Gone.
Back.
rafe cameron
not the lecture
Your stomach does a small, annoying flip.
you
rafe…
rafe cameron
what
you
you’re supposed to be my student remember
rafe cameron
haven’t even started yet
don’t get ahead of yourself
You bite back a smile, shaking your head.
you
so when do you want to start
rafe cameron
tomorrow
3
you
okay
where
rafe cameron
not the library
you
why
rafe cameron
too many people
don’t feel like dealing with that
Of course he doesn’t.
you
okay… so where then
rafe cameron
i’ve got a place
You stare at that for a second.
you
a place?
rafe cameron
yeah
you’ll survive
you
that’s reassuring
rafe cameron
i’ll send the address
A second later, it pops up.
Kildare. Of course it is.
You exhale softly, chewing on your bottom lip.
you
okay
There’s a pause.
rafe cameron
don’t bail
You blink.
you
i wasn’t planning on it?
rafe cameron
just saying
you
you say that to all your tutors?
rafe cameron
you’re the first one
you
lucky me
rafe cameron
yeah
you are
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. You hate that you’re smiling.
you
what time again
rafe cameron
3
don’t be late
you
yes sir 🫡
The typing bubble pops up immediately—
rafe cameron
careful with that
You pause.
you
with what
rafe cameron
calling me that
Heat creeps up the back of your neck.
you
oh my god relax
rafe cameron
i am relaxed
you
sure you are
There’s a beat.
Then—
rafe cameron
wear something comfortable
You blink at your screen.
you
i’m tutoring you not going on a hike
rafe cameron
still
you
?? why
rafe cameron
you’ll see
You stare at that for a second, suspicion creeping in.
you
what does that mean
No response.
The typing bubble doesn’t come back.
He just leaves you there.
You drop your phone onto your bed with a soft groan, dragging your hands down your face.
“Why do you look like that?”
You glance up to see Sarah leaning in your doorway, arms crossed, already suspicious.
“Like what?” you ask, too fast.
She narrows her eyes, walking in and sitting on the edge of your bed. “Like you just got played by James again.”
You scoff. “I did not get played.”
“Uh huh.” She reaches for your phone before you can stop her. “Who is it?”
“Sarah—”
Too late.
Her eyes scan the screen.
Then she freezes.
Slowly, she looks up at you.
“…Rafe?”
You sit up, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to your chest like that’s going to help.
“He needs help with lit,” you say, trying to sound casual. “I’m tutoring him.”
Her expression does not change.
“At his place,” she says flatly.
You hesitate. Just for a second.
“…Yeah.”
She lets out a short laugh, shaking her head like she doesn’t know whether to yell or laugh more.
“You’re excited.”
“I am not.”
“You are,” she points at you. “You’re literally glowing right now. It’s weird.”
You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”
She tosses your phone back onto the bed.
Then her face softens. Just a little.
“Hey.”
You look at her.
“Just… be careful with him.”
The room goes quieter.
You shift slightly, hugging the pillow tighter.
“Sarah,” you say gently, “I know.”
She watches you for a second, something heavier settling behind her eyes.
“You didn’t see him like I did,” she says. “Not all of it.”
Your gaze drops for a second.
“I saw enough,” you say softly. “I lived that, remember?”
That lands.
She exhales slowly, nodding.
“I know,” she says. “I know.”
A beat passes.
“I just… I know he’s trying. I know he’s different. Just—”
“Be careful,” you finish.
She gives you a small, tired smile.
“Yeah.”
Another quiet second.
Then—
“You’re still going, aren’t you?”
You don’t even hesitate.
“Yeah.”
She shakes her head, standing up.
“Of course you are.”
You fall back onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling, your phone still warm in your hand.
Your stomach flips again.
This is a bad idea.
You’re still going.
💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛
You’re halfway through explaining East Egg and West Egg when you realize Rafe hasn’t written a single thing down.
Not even the title.
Your pen slows, then stills completely as you look up. He’s not looking at the book. He’s not even pretending to.
He’s looking at you.
You shift slightly in your chair, tucking your leg tighter underneath you, grounding yourself in something that feels normal. “Okay,” you say, a little pointed, “you have to at least pretend to care.”
“I do care.”
“You haven’t written anything down.”
“I don’t need to.”
You stare at him. “Rafe.”
“What?”
“You’re failing.”
He exhales through his nose, leaning back in his chair like the word doesn’t belong to him. “Yeah. I got that part.”
“Okay, then act like it.”
A beat passes. Something flickers across his face before he reaches for a pen, spinning it lazily between his fingers instead of actually using it.
You narrow your eyes but let it go, flipping your book open and turning it toward him. “Fine. Chapter one. Start simple. East Egg versus West Egg.”
He glances down briefly, then back up at you.
“…money.”
You blink. “Groundbreaking.”
“I’m serious,” he says, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees. “One has it. One doesn’t.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It kind of is.”
You shake your head, scooting your notebook closer to him. “No. East Egg is old money. West Egg is new money. It’s not just about having it, it’s about where it comes from and how people see you because of it.”
He watches you more closely now, actually listening.
“So Gatsby’s West Egg,” he says slowly. “Which means he’s… what. Not good enough?”
The way he says it is too flat to be casual.
Your chest tightens just slightly.
“It’s more like he’s trying to fit into a world that doesn’t really accept him,” you say. “He has the money, but not the background. People can tell the difference, even if they don’t say it out loud.”
Rafe huffs quietly. “That’s stupid.”
“Yeah,” you shrug. “It is.”
You flip the page, tapping your pen lightly against the margin. “Okay, so Nick. He’s the narrator. He’s kind of… in the middle of everything.”
“Meaning?”
“He’s not old money like East Egg, but he’s not Gatsby either. He’s just… there. Watching. Trying to figure people out.”
Rafe leans back, dragging a hand over his jaw. “So why do we care what he thinks?”
You pause, then tilt your head slightly. “Because he’s the only one who’s actually paying attention.”
That lands.
You see it.
“But he’s also biased,” you add. “Like, he says he doesn’t judge people, but he totally does. He just… hides it better.”
Rafe lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “Sounds like bullshit.”
You smile a little. “It kind of is.”
There’s a small pause before you shift your weight, glancing at him. “Okay, think about it like this.”
His eyes flick back to you.
“You and Sarah,” you say carefully. “You’re East Egg. Old money, reputation, expectations, all of that.”
His jaw tightens just slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“And John B?” you continue. “He’s not part of that world. He doesn’t care about it the same way. He’s on the outside.”
Rafe’s gaze sharpens.
“And Sarah’s kind of… in between,” you add. “She knows both sides. She grew up one way, but she sees the other. She understands things most people in her world don’t.”
Silence stretches.
He looks away first, staring at something over your shoulder.
“So Nick’s John B,” he says after a second.
“Yeah.”
“And Sarah’s… what. Both?”
“Kind of,” you nod. “She moves between them. Which is why she sees things differently.”
Rafe huffs quietly, something unreadable in it. “Yeah. She always thinks she sees everything.”
There’s something under that you don’t touch.
You don’t need to.
“Nick’s like that too,” you say instead. “He thinks he understands people because he’s watching them. But he’s still part of it whether he wants to be or not.”
Rafe’s gaze flicks back to you, slower this time.
“And Gatsby?”
Your fingers tighten slightly around your pen.
You glance down at the page, then back up.
“Gatsby’s the one trying to become something,” you say carefully. “He builds this whole version of himself to fit into a world that doesn’t really want him.”
Rafe goes still.
Completely still.
“And Nick gets pulled into it,” you continue, softer now. “Even though he knows it’s not entirely real.”
A beat passes.
Then another.
Rafe leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his thighs, closer than he was before.
“Why?” he asks quietly.
Your breath catches just slightly.
Because it doesn’t feel like a question about the book anymore.
You swallow, steadying yourself. “Because Gatsby makes it feel real,” you say. “Because he believes in it enough that other people start to as well.”
Rafe doesn’t respond right away.
He just looks at you.
Focused. Quiet. Thinking in a way that feels heavier than it should.
Then, finally—
“Yeah,” he says under his breath. “I get that.”
You nod, looking back down at your notebook, but your handwriting doesn’t come out right. Your pen presses a little too hard into the page.
Something shifted.
It’s still tutoring.
It’s still just chapter one.
But it doesn’t feel like it anymore.
💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛
You don’t realize how quiet the room is until the only sound left is the scratch of your pen.
Rafe’s across from you, hunched slightly over his notebook for once, actually writing. Not doodling, not zoning out.
Typing.
You glance up once. Then again.
It’s… unsettling.
“You good?” you ask, a little suspicious.
He doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”
“That’s a lot of words for someone who ‘doesn’t need to write things down.’”
That gets a small huff out of him. “Don’t make it weird.”
You smile a little, going back to your own computer, finishing off the last sentence before saving it.
“Okay,” you say, stretching your fingers slightly. “I’m done.”
Rafe doesn’t answer right away. He finishes typing his sentence, taps his fingers against the laptop once, then looks up.
“Yeah. Same.”
A beat.
You tilt your head. “Do you want to… read them?”
His eyes narrow just slightly. “Why?”
“Because that’s kind of the point,” you shrug. “Different interpretations, discussion, all that.”
He studies you for a second, like he’s deciding if this is a trap.
“Fine,” he says finally, sliding his notebook across the desk. “You go first.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That’s not how this works.”
“Then read mine.”
You hesitate for half a second before reaching forward, fingers brushing the edge of his notebook as you pull it toward you.
It feels… weirdly personal.
You glance up once. He’s already watching you.
You look back down.
Your eyes skim the first line—Then slow.
Then stop.
Your expression shifts before you can help it.
Rafe leans back slightly, arms crossing. “What?”
You don’t answer right away.
You keep reading.
Tom represents entitlement and systemic power…
Your stomach flips.
…a trust fund kid who knows he can get away with anything. The phrase “law for thee, not for me” fits him perfectly…
You swallow slightly.
…Daisy is privileged in the fact that she doesn’t have to confront her own issues. She can hide behind status, comfort, and the illusion of happiness…
You look up.
He’s watching you carefully now. Not cocky. Not teasing.
Waiting.
“That’s…” you start, then stop, trying to find the right word. “That’s actually really good.”
His brows pull together slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you nod, pushing the notebook back toward him. “It’s… really honest.”
“Honest how?”
You hesitate, then shrug lightly. “You didn’t romanticize any of it. You just… called it what it is.”
Rafe’s gaze lingers on you for a second longer than necessary before he reaches for your notebook.
“Alright,” he mutters. “Let’s see what you did.”
Your stomach tightens as he pulls it closer.
You suddenly feel very aware of how close you are. Of how quiet the room is again.
He starts reading and the he stills.
Not completely. Just enough that you notice.
Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of your shirt.
“What?” you ask, quieter now.
He doesn’t answer right away.
His eyes move slower across the page this time.
Gatsby represents the modern pressure of becoming something…
His jaw shifts slightly.
…like an up-and-coming entrepreneur or tech founder, constantly trying to prove he belongs in spaces that don’t fully accept him…
You watch his expression carefully, trying to read it and not quite being able to.
Daisy represents the polished version of femininity. The “girly girl” society accepts, using softness and charm to mask deeper emotional struggles…
Rafe exhales slowly through his nose, like something just clicked into place whether he wanted it to or not.
He looks up.
Your breath catches slightly.
“That’s…” he starts, then pauses, like he doesn’t say this kind of thing often. “That’s not what I thought you were gonna say.”
You blink. “Is that bad?”
“No,” he says quickly. Then, quieter, “No.”
A beat passes.
“It’s just…” he glances back down at the page, then back up at you. “You make it sound like they don’t have a choice.”
Your brows pull together slightly. “They don’t always.”
“Yeah, they do.”
There’s no bite in it. Just… certainty.
You tilt your head, studying him. “You think Daisy has a choice?”
“I think she doesn’t want to deal with it,” he says. “Which isn’t the same thing.”
The words land heavier than they should.
You sit back slightly, considering that.
“And Gatsby?” you ask.
Rafe’s gaze holds yours.
“He knows what he’s doing,” he says quietly. “He just doesn’t care if it’s real or not.”
Something about that—about the way he says it—makes your chest feel tight.
You look down at your notebook, tracing the edge of the page with your finger.
“Maybe,” you say softly. “Or maybe he just wants it to be real badly enough.”
Silence settles between you again.
Not awkward.
Just… full.
Rafe leans back in his chair, still looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out.
“Yeah,” he says after a second. “Maybe.”
Your eyes flick back up to his.
And for a second—it doesn’t feel like you’re talking about a book at all.
💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛•••💛🌊💛
End.
The One With CrAzy
🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤
Warnings: miscarriage, grief, sibling conflict, verbal/emotional confrontation, mental health struggles, body image issues, implied sexual content
Word count: 5.4k
🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤
The Brew buzzed with its usual noise—steam hissing, cups clinking, the low murmur of conversations that never quite stayed private. Spencer sat near the window, posture stiff, fingers wrapped around her coffee like it was anchoring her to the table. Across from her, CeCe Drake lounged with effortless confidence, legs crossed, sunglasses pushed into her hair despite being indoors. She spoke easily, too easily, as if nothing she said could ever land wrong.
She talked about Alison like she was telling stories from a summer that hadn’t really ended, dropping names and half-truths with a casual smile that made Spencer’s skin crawl. Every word felt intentional. Every pause felt calculated.
Lily stepped into the Brew moments later, scanning the room until she spotted Spencer. Relief flickered across her face, brief and fragile. She moved toward the table, only to feel it vanish the instant CeCe’s eyes landed on her. The look wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t curious. It was sharp, measuring, edged with something darker.
“Well,” CeCe said, lips curling into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You must be Lily Grey.”
Lily stopped short. Her shoulders tightened.
“Alison talked about you,” CeCe continued lightly. “More than you’d think.”
The words settled heavy in the air. Lily felt that familiar chill creep down her spine, the name Alison still too tangled with memories she preferred not to examine. She forced a polite smile, already searching for an exit, when movement behind CeCe caught her eye.
Jason had come up quietly, his presence sudden but steady.
“That’s enough, CeCe,” he said, voice calm but firm.
CeCe turned, clearly surprised, her expression flickering before smoothing back into something amused. “What? I was just making conversation.”
Jason didn’t rise to it. He stepped closer to Lily instead, subtle but unmistakable, placing himself just enough in front of her to draw a clear line.
“You don’t get to talk about her like that,” he said. “Not to her.”
Spencer’s breath caught. She watched her brother carefully, something unfamiliar and grounding settling into her chest.
CeCe tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly as she looked between them. The smile she wore sharpened, jealousy flashing just beneath the surface. “Wow,” she said. “Didn’t realize I’d stepped on something so… personal.”
Jason didn’t flinch. “You did.”
For a beat, no one spoke. Lily’s heart pounded, but beneath the adrenaline was something steadier—relief, maybe. Or safety. She met Jason’s eyes briefly, gratitude flickering there before she nodded once and took a step back.
“I need to go,” Lily said quietly.
She didn’t wait for permission. She turned and walked out of the Brew, the bell over the door chiming too brightly behind her.
Outside, the air felt cooler, grounding. Lily drew in a slow breath, trying to steady herself, when Jason followed her onto the sidewalk.
“Lily,” he said gently. “Hey.”
She turned back, still a little shaken.
Jason held out an envelope, his grip tight like it mattered. “I’ve been… working through things,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “I’m taking responsibility. For everything.”
He explained about therapy. About the steps. About owning his mistakes instead of burying them.
“You weren’t a mistake,” he said, voice quiet but unwavering. “What I did. What I let happen—that’s on me.”
Lily listened, fingers curling around the envelope when he handed it to her. The anger she might have expected never surfaced. What she felt instead was tired acceptance—and something like closure.
“I forgave you a while ago,” she said. “I’m glad you’re getting help. You deserve it.”
Jason swallowed hard and nodded, emotion flickering across his face.
The moment barely had time to settle before the Brew’s door flew open behind them.
Justin stormed out like a force of nature, eyes wild, jaw tight, panic written all over him. He spotted Lily instantly and crossed the distance in seconds.
“We need to talk,” he said, voice sharp, urgent. “Now.”
Lily hesitated, the weight of the day pressing in from all sides, then nodded. Whatever was coming, she could already feel it coiling in her chest.
And just like that, the ground shifted beneath them all.
🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤
The alley behind the Brew swallowed sound in a way that made everything feel louder. Lily barely got three steps past the door before Justin spun on her, his face already twisted with something too raw to be just anger.
“How long were you planning on lying to me?” he snapped.
Lily stopped short. “I’m not doing this out here.”
“You already did,” Justin shot back. “You did it the second you decided I didn’t deserve the truth.”
Her stomach clenched. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Justin laughed, sharp and brittle, the sound scraping against brick. “Don’t insult me like that. A told me.”
That name hit like a gunshot.
Lily felt the blood drain from her face. “A told you what?”
“All of it,” he said, stepping closer, voice shaking with barely contained rage. “The messages. The threats. Mom. Radley. Me.” His jaw clenched hard. “The miscarriage.”
The word hung between them, ugly and exposed.
Spencer appeared at the mouth of the alley, eyes wide. “Justin—”
“Stay out of it,” he barked, never taking his eyes off Lily.
Lily’s hands curled into fists. “You had no right to say that.”
“I had every right,” Justin snapped. “You don’t get to carry something like that alone and call it noble.”
“I wasn’t being noble,” Lily shot back. “I was being careful.”
“Careful?” He scoffed. “You were playing hero again. You always do this. You decide you’re the only one who can handle the damage.”
Her voice cracked. “Because every time I let someone in, everything gets worse.”
Justin’s face darkened. “So you just shut us out instead?
“I shut you out,” Lily yelled. “Because A was threatening to ruin you. Because they said if I opened my mouth, you’d be exposed all over again. Your past. Your addiction. Your failures.” She swallowed hard. “I couldn’t let that happen.”
Justin’s eyes burned. “You think I wouldn’t choose you over all of that?”
“You don’t get to say that now,” Lily snapped. “You were barely standing this summer, Justin. You think I didn’t see it? You think I didn’t hear Mom whispering to Dad at night?”
“That doesn’t mean you decide for me!” he shouted, his voice echoing off the walls. “I’m not some fragile thing you have to protect!”
“You were fragile,” Lily screamed back. “You were breaking and I was breaking and there was no room for both of us to fall apart!”
Spencer stepped closer, tears already forming. “Please—both of you—”
“No,” Lily said, turning sharply. “Let him finish.”
Justin’s chest heaved. “You always do this,” he said, voice lowering, dangerous now. “You push people away and then act like the victim when you’re alone.”
Lily flinched. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s exactly fair,” he snapped. “You disappear. You lie. You shut doors and expect everyone to just wait around for you to come back.”
“I lost a baby,” Lily yelled, the words ripping out of her. “I lost control of my body. I lost my sense of safety. And every single day after that, A reminded me that if I said anything, you’d lose everything you worked for. So forgive me if I didn’t feel like asking for help!”
Justin’s face went red, fury bleeding into something reckless. “So what, I’m supposed to thank you for deciding I couldn’t handle you?”
“I didn’t think you could survive it!” Lily sobbed.
The alley went still.
Justin stared at her, breathing hard, something wild and wounded in his eyes. “You don’t trust me,” he said flatly.
“That’s not—”
“You don’t,” he cut in. “You think I’m always one bad day away from screwing everything up.”
Silence stretched tight.
Then he said it.
“No one can help you,” Justin said harshly. “Because you won’t let them. You’d rather bleed alone than admit you need anyone.”
The words landed like a physical blow.
Lily’s face crumpled. She wrapped her arms around herself like she was holding something together by force alone. “I didn’t want to be alone,” she whispered. “I just didn’t want to destroy you.”
“That’s not your call,” he snapped. “And I’m sick of you acting like it is.”
“Enough.”
Noel’s voice cut through the alley, sharp and final.
He and Asher were already moving. Noel crossed the space in seconds, pulling Lily into his arms without hesitation. She broke completely then, sobs wracking her body as she clutched his shirt like it was the only solid thing left.
Asher stepped in front of Justin, one hand pressing firmly against his chest. “Stop,” he said, calm but unyielding. “You’re done.”
Justin’s hands shook, adrenaline still flooding his system. He tried to speak, then failed, jaw clenching as the weight of what he’d said finally crashed in.
Spencer wiped at her cheeks, voice shaking. “Justin… you didn’t mean that.”
But Lily didn’t look back.
Noel held her close, murmuring something low and steady into her hair as he guided her away. He shot Justin one last look — not angry, not cruel — just deeply disappointed.
Asher didn’t move until Lily was gone.
Then, quietly, he said, “You crossed a line.”
Justin dragged a hand down his face, breath uneven. “I know.”
And the alley stayed heavy long after they left, the echoes of words that could never be fully taken back clinging to the brick.
🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤
The door shut behind them with a soft click, and Lily didn’t make it any farther.
She moved on instinct, shoes kicked off somewhere she wouldn’t remember later, body folding sideways onto the couch like gravity finally won. Olive was there immediately, all brown blur and weight, front paws scrambling up as she pressed her whole body against Lily’s ribs. Pepper followed a heartbeat later, leaping straight onto Lily’s chest like she had been waiting for permission, black fur a sharp contrast against Lily’s sweatshirt.
Lily curled inward, arms coming up around both of them, face buried into Olive’s neck. The first sob tore out of her without warning, deep and wrecked, like it had been waiting all day for a safe place to land.
Olive whined low, insistent, tail thumping against the side of the couch as she adjusted herself until Lily was pinned in place. Pepper kneaded Lily’s collarbone with sharp little paws, purring so loud it rattled in Lily’s chest. Neither of them moved. Neither of them let her go.
Noel stood there for a moment, watching, knowing better than to interrupt.
He turned quietly, moving through the house like muscle memory. He filled a glass with water and set it on the coffee table within Lily’s reach. He rinsed out another bottle and filled it, cold from the sink, twisting the cap on and leaving it beside the first. He topped off Olive’s bowl, then Pepper’s, making sure everything was where it belonged, where it would be when Lily eventually noticed again.
Behind him, Lily cried.
Not pretty. Not quiet. The kind of crying that shook her whole body, breath hitching hard as she clung to Olive like she was the only thing keeping her anchored to the room. Pepper pressed her forehead against Lily’s jaw and purred harder, offended on her behalf, tail flicking sharply.
“I tried,” Lily said into Olive’s fur, the words muffled and broken. “I really tried.”
Olive licked at her cheek, once, twice, and stayed exactly where she was. Pepper headbutted Lily’s chin like she was demanding eye contact, then settled back down, heavy and warm.
Noel came back only when everything else was handled.
He sat on the floor beside the couch, close enough that Lily could feel him there without being crowded. He rested one hand on Olive’s back, steady, grounding, and waited.
Lily cried until it burned. Until her chest hurt. Until the tears slowed into uneven breaths and shaky hiccups. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t have to.
“He didn’t mean it,” she whispered eventually, voice hoarse. “I know he didn’t.”
“I know,” Noel said softly.
Pepper shifted, curling tighter against Lily’s throat, purring like it was her job to keep Lily breathing.
“I just didn’t want to ruin him,” Lily said. “I didn’t want to be the reason.”
Noel leaned his shoulder against the couch, close now but still careful. “You aren’t,” he said. No argument. No explanation. Just the truth.
Lily’s fingers loosened in Olive’s fur. Her body sagged deeper into the cushions, exhaustion finally winning. She stayed curled there, face hidden, animals bracketing her like sentries.
Noel stayed on the floor.
He didn’t rush her.
Didn’t ask her to move.
Didn’t ask her to talk.
He just stayed, keeping the house running, keeping her world intact while she let herself fall apart in the safest place she knew.
And for the first time all day, Lily didn’t feel like she had to hold herself together alone.
🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤
The house had gone still, the kind of quiet that settled after everything had already fallen apart.
Olive lay heavy across Lily’s legs, chin resting on her knee, eyes half-open like she was on watch duty. Pepper remained curled against Lily’s collarbone, purring like she was powering the room.
Noel sat beside her, shoulder brushing hers, not crowding, just there.
Lily turned toward him first.
Her eyes were swollen, lashes clumped, but there was something determined under the exhaustion. She leaned in and kissed him — soft, but not hesitant. Like she’d made a decision.
Noel kissed back, because of course he did. His hand slid to her waist, familiar, grounding.
But when her fingers tangled into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, urgency creeping in, he slowed.
“Hey,” he murmured, brushing his nose against her temple. “Look at me.”
She didn’t want to. She kept kissing him, like if she didn’t stop, she wouldn’t have to talk.
He pulled back anyway — not far, just enough to see her face.
Her expression cracked immediately.
“I don’t want you to see me like this,” she said quietly.
“I see you,” he answered.
She shook her head. “No, you see what I was. I’m not that girl anymore.”
His hands stilled on her waist.
Lily pushed through before he could answer. “Everything changed. I don’t feel like me. I don’t look like me. And I just—” her voice wobbled, “—I just want to feel normal again. I want us to be normal again.”
There it was.
Not desire.
Repair.
Noel’s expression softened in a way that hurt to look at.
“Lily,” he said gently, “we don’t fix things like this.”
Her eyes filled instantly. “I know, but I don’t know what else to do.”
He slid his hand up, cupping her cheek, thumb brushing under her eye.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he said. “You don’t have to earn me. You don’t have to prove anything.”
Her lips trembled. “What if this is the only thing I have left to give?”
That broke him a little.
“No,” he said, firmer now. “You don’t ever think that. Not about yourself. Not with me.”
She looked away, ashamed, and that’s when he pulled her into him fully — not to escalate, not to take, but to hold.
“I love all of you,” he said into her hair. “Every inch. Even the parts you’re fighting. Especially those.”
She let herself melt into him then, the tension bleeding out slowly.
After a while, she kissed him again — softer this time, less desperate. A question, not a bargain.
He kissed her back.
His hands moved, careful, giving her room to breathe, room to stop, room to just exist. She stayed close. Stayed present. No rushing now.
“You sure?” he asked quietly.
She nodded, breath steady for the first time all night. “I don’t want to forget. I just don’t want to feel like I’m disappearing.”
He understood the difference.
What followed wasn’t frantic or heavy with expectation. It unfolded slowly, gently — touch by touch, breath by breath — two people reconnecting without trying to outrun anything.
The room stayed quiet except for Olive’s slow sigh and Pepper’s steady purr.
And later, when Lily fell asleep with her cheek against his chest, Noel stayed awake a little longer, one hand resting over her ribs, like he was keeping watch.
🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤
Morning light spilled across Lily’s room in soft gold lines. Noel was still half asleep, one arm heavy around her waist, Olive sprawled across his legs like a weighted blanket. Pepper blinked lazily from the pillow.
Lily reached for her phone.
She hesitated for half a second.
Then chaos queen made a decision.
Group chat: chaotic fambam
There were exactly four seconds of silence after Lily sent her message.
lilybean: breakfast triple date?
hannabanana:
why are you awake
why are you suggesting plans before 9 am
who are you and what have you done with my best friend
Lily bit her lip, trying not to laugh.
Noel stirred. “What’d you do?”
“I started something.”
Her phone buzzed again.
justyyy:
why are we doing breakfast
Hanna did not let that breathe.
hannabanana:
OH MY GOD
YOU’RE AWAKE TOO
hannabanana:
WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT
Lily rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow.
lilybean:
nothing happened
relax
hannabanana:
that is the most suspicious text you’ve ever sent
justyyy:
can we not do this
hannabanana:
YOU SOUND CALM
YOU NEVER SOUND CALM
WHY DO YOU SOUND WELL RESTED
Lily glanced at Noel, who was very clearly pretending to still be asleep.
“Apparently we sound rested.”
He cracked one eye open. “We are.”
Her stomach flipped.
lilybean:
maybe we just slept
hannabanana:
both of you?????
sUsPiCiOuS!!
grey irish twin energy is UNMATCHED
justyyy:
please stop saying that
hannabanana:
NO
DETAILS
I NEED DETAILS
ALL THE DETAILS
AND VIBES
Lily smirked, fully enjoying this.
lilybean:
vibes are good
10:30?
Hanna paused for exactly two seconds.
Then—
hannabanana:
if you bail i’m coming to the grey house
justyyy:
you’re terrifying
hannabanana:
correct
Lily laughed out loud.
Noel’s arm tightened around her waist automatically.
“What’s so funny?”
“She’s threatening us.”
“Fair.”
Her phone buzzed again.
Private text: hannabanana
hannabanana:
real talk
are you okay
Lily’s smile softened.
lilybean:
yeah
i think i am
Hanna replied almost immediately.
hannabanana:
good
bring him
i need to inspect the energy
Lily set her phone down and turned back toward Noel.
“Inspection at 10:30,” she said.
He brushed a kiss to her shoulder. “Guess we better look happy.”
She was already smiling.
🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤
Lily didn’t want to go see Madam Verna, but Emily asked, and Lily didn’t say no to Emily.
She said it three times before they even got in the car. She said it again when they pulled up to the narrow storefront with faded curtains and a flickering OPEN sign. She said it quietly under her breath as Emily squeezed her hand and promised it would just be “for fun.”
Lily knew better.
The air inside the shop felt wrong the second they stepped in. Too warm. Too heavy. Incense burning somewhere too sweet to be comforting. The walls were crowded with draped fabric and glass beads and framed photographs of strangers.
Madame Verna stood waiting like she’d known they were coming.
Spencer rolled her eyes immediately. Aria leaned in with polite curiosity. Hanna looked amused but wary. Emily looked hopeful. That was the only reason Lily stayed.
They sat in a semicircle around the small table. A crystal ball sat between them like a prop that knew it was dramatic.
Madame Verna studied each of them slowly, eyes lingering too long.
“You have been surrounded by death,” she said calmly.
Hanna shifted. Spencer stiffened.
Lily’s stomach tightened.
“The girl who haunts you is not at rest,” Verna continued. “Her spirit is unsettled.”
Alison. The name wasn’t spoken, but it didn’t have to be. Verna’s gaze snapped to Lily without warning.
“You,” she said quietly. Lily froze. “You have already lost something you cannot get back.” The room tilted. Hanna reached for Lily’s hand under the table. Verna didn’t blink. “The mother carries the storm,” she added. “And the brother walks a dangerous path.”
Lily’s breathing went shallow. Spencer started to object — something about cold reading and psychology — but Verna lifted her hand sharply. “The one who comforts you most,” Verna said slowly, eyes locked on Lily’s, “may not be the one who survives.”
The words didn’t land gently. They detonated. Lily’s chair scraped loudly against the floor as she stood up too fast.
“No,” she said immediately. “No, that’s not—”
Emily looked startled. Hanna squeezed her hand harder. Spencer stood too. “This is manipulative.”
Verna’s voice softened, almost pitying. “You fear losing him,” she said. “You feel it in your bones.”
Lily’s chest felt like it was collapsing inward. “No,” she repeated, shaking her head, heart racing so hard she could hear it. “That’s not real. You don’t know him.”
Verna leaned closer. “The midst is clearing. The blonde one is not at peace,” she said instead, pivoting like it was nothing. “She was betrayed. By someone you trust.”
Alison. Silence fell over the room. Spencer’s jaw tightened. Aria’s eyes flickered. Emily looked shaken.
But Lily wasn’t there anymore. All she could hear was: the one who comforts you may not be the one who survives.
Noel. Her hands were shaking.
Hanna stood immediately. “We’re done,” she said sharply.
Spencer and Emily didn’t argue. They left in a blur of beads and incense and too-warm air.
🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤
The second the door shut behind them, Lily’s phone was in her hand.
Her fingers moved before she could stop them. And thankfully, Noel was responsive.
Private text: boyfrandd🩷
lily:
where are you
noel:
school
why??
where else would i be lol
Her heart didn’t slow.
lily:
are you alone
noel:
…yes?
well, no. i am in class with caleb.
lil what’s wrong
She swallowed hard, pacing the sidewalk.
lily:
just answer me
you’re safe right now
There was a pause.
Longer than it should’ve been.
noel:
yeah
i’m safe
i am with caleb
what happened
Her chest tightened again.
Hanna stepped closer. “Lily.”
“I’m fine,” Lily lied, already typing again.
lily:
i need you to not do anything stupid today
promise me
noel:
i wasn’t planning on it??
lily talk to me
you’re freaking me out
Her vision blurred.
She typed fast.
lily:
i can’t
just promise
Another pause.
Then—
noel:
i promise
i’m not going anywhere
That didn’t help. Because now she could hear the psychic’s voice again.
The one who comforts you most may not be the one who survives.
Her breathing hitched.
Hanna wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “It’s not real,” she said firmly. “She throws out bait and watches who flinches.”
But Lily was already spiraling. Her phone buzzed again. Unknown number. She froze.
Then opened it.
A:
Some futures can’t be changed. Hopefully Noel’s is secure.
Tick tock Bitch.
Lily’s stomach dropped straight to her shoes.
And suddenly the air felt just as heavy as it had inside that shop.
🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤
Lily saw Noel before he saw her.
He was leaning against the lockers near the science wing, talking to Caleb, one sleeve pushed up, looking completely normal. Completely solid. Like nothing in the universe was threatening him.
Her chest tightened so hard it almost hurt.
She crossed the hallway without thinking and threw her arms around him.
Noel barely had time to brace before she collided with him, her fingers gripping the back of his shirt like she was afraid he’d slip through them. He steadied them both automatically, hands sliding to her waist.
“Hey,” he said softly, startled. “What happened?”
She shook her head against his chest. If she tried to speak, she would cry. She could feel it building.
His arms tightened.
Over her shoulder, he looked at Hanna and Emily, eyebrows pulling together in confusion.
Hanna mouthed, psychic.
Emily gave him the smallest shake of her head. Not here.
The hallway noise pressed in around them — lockers slamming, voices bouncing, the bell warning buzzing overhead.
Lily finally pulled back just enough to look at him. Her eyes were glassy but determined.
“You’re fine,” she said, like she was checking a pulse. “Right?”
He blinked. “Yeah.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah,” he said again, softer this time. “I’m fine.”
The bell rang.
She stepped back quickly, wiping under her eyes with the heel of her hand like she hadn’t almost unraveled in the middle of the hall.
“I have class,” she muttered.
Hanna slid in immediately, looping her arm through Lily’s and steering her down the hallway like she was escorting fragile cargo.
Noel watched her go, unsettled.
Emily lingered.
“What did that woman say?” he asked quietly once the hallway started thinning out.
Emily exhaled slowly. “A lot of dramatic things.”
“That wasn’t just dramatic.”
She hesitated, then shrugged lightly. “She said something about loss. About comfort. Lily just… took it personally.”
Noel’s jaw tightened. “What exactly did she say?”
Emily looked down at the floor for a second before answering. “She said the one who comforts her may not be the one who survives.”
Silence dropped between them.
“That’s stupid,” he said flatly.
“I know,” Emily said quickly. “It’s vague. That’s how psychics work. They throw something out and wait for someone to flinch.”
He nodded once, but the words still lodged somewhere uncomfortable.
Emily shifted her backpack higher on her shoulder. “Nate texted me during it.”
His eyes flicked to her. “During?”
“Yeah. He knew we were going.” She shrugged again. “I told him.”
Something about that made his stomach turn, though he couldn’t fully explain why.
“What’d he say?”
“Just checking on me. He said he doesn’t trust that stuff.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “He’s just protective.”
Noel leaned back against the lockers.
“He shows up a lot,” she added. “But I think he just doesn’t want to be alone.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t get space,” Noel said carefully.
Emily glanced at him. “You think he’s weird?”
He paused.
“Intense,” he said instead.
She nodded like that made sense. “He’s grieving.”
“I know.”
The second bell rang, louder this time.
Emily adjusted her strap again. “We should go.”
They started walking, but Noel’s thoughts were already turning.
Nate texting during the session.
Knowing exactly where she was.
Framing himself as the only one who understood.
Emily didn’t see it.
Not yet.
Across the building, Lily sat in class beside Hanna, notebook open but blank.
Her phone rested face-down on her desk.
She flipped it over every thirty seconds just to make sure there wasn’t a new message.
Just to make sure he was still fine.
Still breathing. Still there. And somewhere deep in her chest, the psychic’s voice kept echoing whether she wanted it to or not.
🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤
By the time last period rolled around, Lily was running on fumes.
She was halfway through swapping books at her locker when Aria slid in beside her, eyes soft but assessing.
“You okay?” Aria asked quietly.
Lily shrugged. “Define okay.”
Before Aria could answer, Caleb’s shadow fell across the locker door.
“Have either of you seen Hanna?” he asked.
Aria’s posture shifted immediately — not defensive, but alert.
“She had something to take care of,” Lily said evenly.
“That’s what she told me,” Caleb replied. “It’s becoming a pattern.”
Lily shut her locker gently. “She’s fine.”
“That’s not the same thing as telling me where she is.”
Aria stepped in smoothly before Lily’s tone could sharpen. “Caleb.”
He looked at her instead.
“She’s dealing with something personal,” Aria continued. “You know how Hanna is when she doesn’t want to feel weak.”
Caleb’s jaw tightened. “That’s exactly why I’m asking.”
Lily crossed her arms, bracing. “She asked me not to say.”
“So you do know,” he pressed.
“Yes,” Lily said.
There it was. No dodge.
Caleb exhaled sharply through his nose. “Every time Mona’s name comes up, you’re right there. Every time Hanna disappears, you cover for her. You don’t think that’s suspicious?”
Aria’s brows lifted slightly. “Suspicious?”
“I’m not accusing you,” Caleb said quickly, though it felt like he was. “I just don’t like being the last one to know.”
“You’re not the last one to know,” Lily said quietly. “You’re just not the only one she trusts.”
That landed.
Caleb studied her face like he was trying to see past it.
“You two are…” he trailed off.
“Close?” Aria supplied gently. “Yes.”
“That’s an understatement.”
Aria smiled faintly. “They’re basically platonic soulmates.”
Lily shot her a look.
“It’s true,” Aria continued. “They’re twin flames without the flames.”
Caleb blinked. “That’s not reassuring.”
Aria laughed softly. “It’s not romantic. It’s not secretive. It’s just… them.”
Caleb’s eyes flicked back to Lily. “Does Noel know?”
Lily didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
“Actually know?”
“Yes,” she said again, firmer this time. “He knows. He’s always known. He’s not threatened by it.”
Caleb’s expression shifted — not relieved, but recalibrating.
“He’s fine with you lying for her?” he asked.
“I’m not lying,” Lily said. “I’m respecting her.”
“That’s a thin line.”
Aria stepped forward again, grounding the conversation. “Caleb, you don’t have to compete with Lily. It’s not that kind of bond.”
His shoulders dropped just slightly.
“I’m not competing.”
“Good,” Aria replied calmly. “Because you’d lose.”
That caught him off guard enough that the tension cracked.
Lily almost smiled.
Caleb ran a hand through his hair. “I just don’t want her getting pulled back into something toxic.”
“She won’t,” Lily said quietly.
He held her gaze for a long second, measuring.
“You’d tell me if she was in danger,” he said.
Lily swallowed.
“Yes.”
That part was true.
The bell rang down the hallway.
Caleb stepped back. “Fine. But if this blows up, I’m not pretending I didn’t see the warning signs.”
He walked off, still unsettled but no longer confrontational.
Aria exhaled slowly.
“Well,” she said lightly, “that was tense.”
Lily leaned her head back against the locker. “Everyone’s tense.”
Aria studied her. “You’re allowed to not be the emotional middleman all the time.”
Lily didn’t answer.
At the end of the hallway, Noel stood near the stairwell, watching.
He hadn’t heard everything.
But he had seen enough.
And he didn’t look threatened.
He looked protective.
🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤
Aria didn’t move right away after Caleb left.
She watched him disappear down the hallway, then looked at Lily with something softer in her eyes.
“Do you ever get tired of being the strong one?” she asked.
Lily huffed a quiet laugh. “Constantly.”
They started walking toward their next class, footsteps echoing lightly against the tile.
There was a beat of silence before Aria said, “Ezra talked to Maggie again.”
Lily glanced at her. “Recently?”
“Yesterday.” Aria’s voice stayed even, but her fingers tightened slightly around her bag strap. “He says it’s just closure. That they never really finished things properly.”
“That’s… mature,” Lily offered carefully.
“It is.” Aria nodded. “It’s mature.”
She didn’t sound convinced.
Lily slowed her steps a little. “But?”
Aria exhaled slowly. “But it’s weird. Hearing her name. Knowing she exists in his life in this permanent way.” She hesitated. “It makes me feel young.”
“You are young,” Lily said gently.
Aria shot her a look. “That’s not what I mean.”
Lily softened. “I know.”
They turned the corner toward the English wing.
“He keeps saying it’s nothing,” Aria continued. “That I have nothing to worry about. But if it’s nothing, why does it feel like something?”
Lily didn’t answer right away.
Because she understood that feeling.
“When you love someone,” Lily said carefully, “anything connected to their past can feel threatening. Even if it’s not.”
Aria’s expression flickered. “You don’t think I’m being ridiculous?”
“No,” Lily said immediately. “You’re allowed to want reassurance.”
Aria smiled faintly. “He gives it. I just don’t know if I believe it yet.”
They stopped outside the classroom.
“You will,” Lily said. “Or you won’t. And either way, you’ll handle it.”
Aria studied her face. “You sound wiser than you were yesterday.”
Lily almost laughed.
“Yesterday was a mess.”
Aria’s gaze softened. “Are you okay?”
Lily hesitated. Then nodded.
“I’m trying to be.”
Aria squeezed her hand once before pushing open the classroom door.
As they walked in, Lily’s phone buzzed again in her palm.
Private text: noel kahn
noel:
are you breathing normally yet
Her lips twitched despite everything.
lily:
define normal
noel:
less existential
more oxygen
lilybean:
yeah, i am
aria is good at distracting
She glanced back at Aria, who was already sliding into her seat.
Maybe everyone was just trying to convince themselves they were fine.
Maybe that was what this period of life really was. Survival.
🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤•••🤍🩷🖤
End.
distance, timing — Niall Horan
Part 1
Warnings: angst, bad media, reader is embarrassed and hurting, Niall is supportive but misreads the situation
Word count: 1.03k
Mini summary: the media had a go at you, your career as a song writer took a hit. Niall tells you it will be okay, but you know he’s too busy with tour to handle your media crisis
Distance didn’t arrive all at once.
It crept in quietly, disguised as bad timing and long days and the unspoken understanding that both of your lives were busy in different directions. It sounded like missed calls and rushed conversations, like him calling from a bus while you were staring at your laptop, the screen glowing with another email that didn’t say yes.
The headline found you on a random afternoon, sandwiched between an unopened draft and a cold cup of coffee.
Little Miss Perfect Isn’t All That Jazz.
You stared at it longer than you should have. Long enough for the words to blur into something heavier than criticism, long enough to feel like a stranger had reached into your chest and rearranged things. It was flippant. Catchy. Cruel in that casual way that pretended not to know what it was doing.
You closed the article without reading it.
Your phone was in your hand before you fully decided to call him.
He answered on the second ring, breathless and bright. You could hear movement in the background, muffled voices, the low hum of a venue coming to life.
“Hey, love,” he said, Irish warmth wrapping around the word. “I’ve got a few minutes before we head in. What’s up?”
You hesitated. Already recalibrating.
“I don’t mean to bother you,” you said quickly. “You sound busy.”
“You’re not bothering me,” he replied immediately, gentle but distracted in that way people were when they were trying to be present and somewhere else at the same time. “Just a bit mad today, that’s all. Talk to me.”
You swallowed.
You told him about the headline, glossing over how it made your chest ache. You mentioned, carefully, that five people had passed on your most recent work. You kept your voice even, tried to sound factual instead of hurt.
There was a pause on the line. Not a bad one. Just a tired one.
“Ah, lover,” he said softly. “It’s gonna be okay. I promise. Stuff like that blows over. Everyone goes through it at some point.”
He meant reassurance. You knew that. He always did.
But something in you folded in on itself anyway.
You nodded even though he couldn’t see you, murmured something about knowing that, about just needing to vent. He told you he loved you, told you he wished he could be there, told you he had to run but you’d talk later.
You hung up feeling smaller than when you’d dialed.
At first, you still tried to talk about it.
You told him about the meetings that went nowhere, about the “we love your writing but…” that never finished with anything concrete. You mentioned the way people had stopped answering after the headlines hit, how one bad story had rewritten you into something easier to avoid. You kept your voice steady, even joked a little, because that was how you survived things like this.
He listened. He always listened. That was never the problem.
“It’ll blow over,” he said one night, tired but warm, like reassurance should be enough to smooth it out. “Everybody has a media scare at some point. It’s not that big of a deal in the long run.”
You went quiet, phone pressed to your ear, staring at the wall like it might explain how something could feel so small to someone else and so enormous to you.
He didn’t mean it unkindly. You knew that. He meant perspective. He meant comfort. He meant trust in time and momentum and the way things usually worked out for people who kept going.
What you heard was that this wasn’t something worth sitting with.
You laughed it off, told him you were probably overthinking it anyway, asked how rehearsal went. He launched into stories about the show, about the crowd, about how surreal it still felt to walk onstage every night and hear people sing his words back to him.
You were proud of him. Genuinely. You always had been.
So you didn’t interrupt.
After that, you stopped bringing it up.
You stopped mentioning the emails that never came. You stopped talking about songs that had nowhere to go. You stopped admitting how strange it felt to wake up every morning with ideas buzzing in your head and no place to put them. You told yourself you were protecting him, that he had enough on his plate, that this was temporary and you’d figure it out on your own like you always did.
It was easier to ask about his day than explain why yours felt empty.
He didn’t notice at first. Why would he? You still sounded like you. You still laughed at the same jokes, still stayed on the line until one of you had to go, still said “I love you” before hanging up. Nothing was technically wrong.
Except that you started editing yourself before you spoke.
You deleted voice notes halfway through recording them. You closed your laptop instead of opening another blank document. You stopped playing the piano in the evenings because silence hurt less than unfinished melodies. When he asked what you were working on, you said, “Oh, you know,” and changed the subject before he could ask again.
Distance settled in like a habit.
He thought you were okay because you sounded okay. You thought you were bothering him every time you needed more than reassurance. Neither of you said that out loud.
Some nights, after you hung up, you sat on the edge of your bed and tried to figure out when it had become easier to be quiet than honest. You told yourself it wasn’t a problem, that relationships had seasons, that this was just one of them. You reminded yourself that he loved you, that he wasn’t doing this on purpose, that timing had always been the hardest thing to fight.
Still, the silence stretched.
Not angry silence. Not the kind that slams doors or demands answers. Just the kind that grows when two people keep stepping around the same wound, afraid of pressing too hard.
By the time he realized you hadn’t talked about your work in weeks, it already felt normal.
And that was the most frightening part.
End.
everywhere i go leads me back to you — J.M.
January Jumble Day 19
💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡
Warnings: suggestive, kissing, grief, lots of almost, exes to lovers, Pope makes an appearance, takes place right after John B and Sarah are presumed to be unalive
Word count: 2.4k
Mini summary: JJ is always there, even when it’s awkward OR the three times you and JJ almost had a moment to get back together and the one time you actually do
💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡
The Chateau looks smaller than it used to.
Quieter. Like the life’s been sucked clean out of it and left behind in the sand.
JJ stands beside you on the porch, keys dangling uselessly from his fingers. He stares at the door like it might open on its own, like John B might come bounding out with that stupid grin and tell you it was all some sick joke.
“This fucking sucks,” he mutters.
His voice cracks on the last word.
You don’t think. You don’t weigh the fact that you’re not together anymore. You don’t remember the rules you made to survive the breakup. You just turn into him and press your face into his shoulder, arms wrapping around his middle like muscle memory never got the memo.
For a second, he goes still.
Then his arms come up, slow and careful, like he’s asking permission without saying it. One hand settles between your shoulders, solid and warm and real. The other curls into the back of your shirt like he needs the anchor as much as you do.
You breathe him in. Salt and sun and something familiar that makes your chest ache. This is what you needed. Somebody real. Somebody you care about. Somebody who cares about you enough to hold you without asking questions.
JJ rests his forehead against the top of your head.
Doesn’t say anything.
Just stands there holding you while the world keeps spinning without the two people who were supposed to be here.
When he finally lets go, it’s too soon. It always is.
But something has shifted.
Something you can’t put back where it belongs.
💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡
You’re standing at the stove, barefoot, hair pulled back, the pan hissing quietly as you stir scrambled eggs that are mostly cheese and barely eggs. It’s nothing fancy. Just something warm. Something normal.
JJ wanders into the kitchen, half-asleep and hollow-eyed, hoodie sleeves pushed over his hands. He stops short when he sees what you’re doing.
“Holy shit,” he says.
You don’t look at him. “Relax. I’m not poisoning you.”
“That’s… not what I meant.” He rubs at his face, like he’s trying to wake himself up. “You’re, uh. Cooking. Like. On purpose.”
You snort softly, dumping in another aggressive handful of shredded cheese. “I’ve always known how to cook.”
“Yeah, well.” He leans against the counter, watching you now. Not even pretending not to. “You never cooked here.”
You pretend not to notice the way his gaze lingers. The way his voice goes a little quieter. You focus on the pan instead, on the way the eggs are coming together, even though your mouth is already tipping up into a smile you can’t quite stop.
“They’re scrambled eggs, JJ,” you say. “Not a personality trait.”
He huffs out a laugh. “I don’t know. This feels pretty life-changing.”
You finally glance over your shoulder. Catch him already looking at you. The moment stretches—just long enough to feel it—before you both look away at the same time.
You scoop the eggs onto plates and hand one to him. Your fingers brush when he takes it. Just barely. Enough.
He stills like you shocked him.
“Thanks,” he says, softer than before.
“Yeah,” you reply, just as quiet.
Neither of you moves for a second longer than necessary.
The eggs start to cool.
Your smile lingers anyway.
💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡
It’s been a little over a week, which means you and JJ have figured out how to exist in the same space without actively falling apart. You talk. You joke. You don’t talk about the things you’re both very much thinking about.
He’s outside with the Twinkie again, legs stretched out, grease on his hands, muttering at the engine like it personally offended him.
You make the coffee without asking.
Strong. Too much salted caramel mocha creamer. The exact amount he pretends is “way too sweet” even though he drinks it every single time.
You step onto the porch and clear your throat like you’re announcing yourself even though he definitely knows you’re there.
“Uh—hey,” you say.
He glances up, squinting in the sun. “Hey.” Then he notices the mug. “Oh. Is that—?”
“Coffee,” you interrupt too quickly. “I just—there was extra. And you’re… here. Fixing. So.”
Smooth. Very cool.
He pushes himself up, wipes his hands on a rag, and takes the mug when you hold it out.
Your fingers brush.
It’s brief. Barely there.
You immediately step back like the porch might collapse beneath you. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, it’s fine,” he says at the same time, which somehow makes it worse.
There’s a beat. Then another.
He takes a sip. Pauses. Looks at the mug. Looks at you.
“…Is this the salted caramel one?”
You swallow. “I mean. Yeah. I didn’t know if you still liked it and I almost changed it but then I figured you’d complain either way so—”
He smiles. Not the easy one. The JJ smile. The crooked, knowing one that used to undo you.
“You got me hooked,” he says. “Kinda hard to quit.”
“Oh.” You nod, like that doesn’t land directly in your chest. “Right. Well. Good. I guess.”
Another sip. He hums quietly, pleased. “Still perfect.”
Your face is on fire. “It’s literally coffee.”
“Yeah, but,” he says, eyes flicking to you, “you always make it right.”
You shift your weight, suddenly too aware of everything—your hands, your feet, the way he’s looking at you like he’s enjoying this just a little too much.
“I should—go,” you say, even though you’re already stepping backward.
“You always do that,” he says, amused.
“Do what?”
“Retreat,” he replies. “Like you’re afraid the deck’s gonna bite you.”
“That’s not—”
Your heel catches. You stumble.
JJ moves without thinking, hand grabbing your elbow, steady and sure. You collide lightly with his chest, breath leaving you in a soft, surprised sound.
For half a second, neither of you moves.
Then you pull back, mortified. “Wow. I’m really graceful today.”
He chuckles, low and fond, still holding your arm a moment too long. “Yeah. Totally nailed it.”
He lets go. You straighten. You both pretend your hearts aren’t racing.
“Thanks,” he adds, quieter now.
“Anytime,” you say, already turning toward the door.
You don’t see the way he watches you disappear inside.
You don’t hear him mutter, “Shit,” under his breath, smiling into his coffee.
💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡
You’re already annoyed when it happens.
Not at JJ. Not really. Just… everything. The quiet. The pretending. The way the house still feels wrong no matter how much time passes.
You’re in the kitchen, moving too fast, shoving things into cabinets a little harder than necessary. JJ’s at the table, pretending not to notice, which somehow makes it worse.
“You okay?” he asks, carefully.
“Yeah,” you say. Too quick. “Just tired.”
You turn too sharply. Your foot catches on the edge of the rug.
“Shit—”
You stumble, momentum carrying you backward—
—and JJ’s there instantly.
His arms catch you around the waist. Too solid. Too close. One hand lands way too low, fingers gripping instinctively, palm warm against you in a place that is absolutely not just-friends territory.
You collide with him, pressed flush, your back to his chest. You feel everything. His breath hitching. His body going still. The very obvious fact that this is not an innocent position.
“Oh,” you breathe.
“Sorry,” he says at the same time, except he doesn’t move. Neither of you does.
His hand flexes once like he’s just realized where it is. Like he should pull away. Like he can’t.
You turn your head slightly. He’s right there. Too close. Close enough that you can feel his breath on your mouth. Close enough that the tension snaps tight between you.
For a heartbeat, the world narrows to this.
His eyes flick to your lips.
Yours do the same.
JJ leans in without thinking. You tilt back without meaning to.
Just a fraction. Just enough.
Then—
“Uh—hello?” Pope’s voice calls out from the front of the house. “Why does it sound like I walked in on something?”
JJ jerks back like he’s been electrocuted, hands flying up. You stumble forward, mortified, heart hammering.
“Nothing!” you say way too loudly.
“Just—uh—almost died,” JJ adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “Slipping hazard. Very unsafe kitchen.”
Pope appears in the doorway, eyes flicking between you, the flushed faces, the very obvious space where something almost happened.
“…Right,” he says slowly. “Cool. I’m just gonna—be outside.”
He disappears.
Silence crashes down.
You stare at the counter. JJ stares at the floor.
“Well,” he says after a beat. “That was… not ideal.”
You huff out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Definitely not.”
Neither of you mentions where his hand was.
Or how close your mouths were.
Or the fact that for half a second, you would’ve let it happen.
And that’s somehow worse than if it had.
💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡
The storm rolls in fast.
One minute it’s humid and heavy, the next the sky cracks open like it’s angry about something.
You try to ignore it. You really do.
Then the thunder hits—sharp and close—and your breath locks in your chest.
You end up curled in the living room chair without remembering how you got there, knees pulled up, hands shaking. It feels stupid. You’re an adult. You’ve lived through worse than a storm.
None of that matters.
JJ finds you like that. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t comment. Just stops short when he sees your face.
“Hey,” he says softly.
Another crack of thunder answers him.
You don’t ask. You just nod, eyes too bright, throat tight.
He steps behind the chair and sits, pulling you back against his chest like it’s instinct. Like his body knows exactly what to do even if his head is still catching up. His arms wrap around you, solid and grounding, one hand resting at your waist, the other pressing warm against your ribs.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “You’re okay.”
He talks you through it. Low voice. Steady breaths. Counting with you until yours finally start to match his. The rain pounds the roof, the thunder fades farther away.
At some point, your head tips back against his shoulder.
At some point, his chin rests on your hair.
At some point, you both fall asleep like that.
💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡
You wake slowly, wrapped in warmth and weight and the steady rise and fall of someone breathing behind you.
For one sleepy second, you think you’re still dreaming.
Then you realize you’re tangled in JJ—legs crossed, your back pressed to his chest, his arm heavy around your waist like he never let go after the storm passed.
And very unmistakably… he’s hard.
You go still.
So does he.
“Uh,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “Morning.”
You tilt your head just enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess, eyes still soft, mouth parted like he’s already thinking about kissing you. His hand flexes at your hip, not moving away. Not pretending this isn’t happening.
“Hey,” you whisper.
The air between you tightens. Familiar. Electric. Like no time passed at all.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
You nod. “Yeah. I just—”
He doesn’t let you finish. He leans in, mouth brushing yours once, testing. When you kiss him back, it’s immediate—deeper, slower, like your bodies remember before your heads can interfere.
His hand slides down, firm on your ass, pulling you closer. Yours fist in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan softly against your mouth. The kiss turns rougher, messier, mouths open, breathing heavy, but there’s something gentle under it too. Like he’s grounding himself in you. Like you’re doing the same.
You shift, pressed against him now, fully aware of the way his body responds, the quiet sound he makes when you roll your hips without thinking.
“God,” he mutters, forehead dropping to yours. “I missed you.”
“I’m right here,” you breathe.
He kisses you again—slower this time, reverent, thumbs digging into your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. You kiss like you used to. Like the world isn’t ending. Like it’s just you and him and this moment that feels too real to be a mistake.
Eventually, you pull back, foreheads touching, both of you flushed and a little wrecked.
“We should… probably move,” you say, even though neither of you does.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Probably.”
He still doesn’t let go.
And when you finally untangle yourselves, your heart’s racing for a completely different reason than the storm.
💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡
The storm leaves the house quiet in that strange, ringing way, like the walls are still listening.
You’re in the kitchen later, barefoot, wearing one of JJ’s old shirts because it was there and because neither of you said anything about it. You’re scrambling eggs again, leaning on the counter, trying very hard to act normal.
JJ comes in behind you. Stops short.
“You know,” he says, voice low, amused, wrecked, “that shirt should be illegal on you.”
You don’t turn around. “You survived me stealing your hoodies for years. You’ll live.”
“Debatable,” he mutters.
You feel him before you see him—heat at your back, the subtle shift when he steps closer. His hands land on the counter on either side of you, caging you in without touching.
“You always do this,” he says. “Say something smart when you know exactly what you’re doing to me.”
You finally glance over your shoulder, smirking. “Oh? Am I doing something?”
His jaw tightens. His eyes drop. He exhales through his nose, half a laugh, half a groan. “You’re killing me.”
You turn fully now, back pressing into him on purpose this time. You feel it immediately—the way his body reacts, solid and very much not neutral.
“Well,” you say sweetly, “that sounds like a you problem.”
He lets out a sharp laugh. “You’re evil.”
“You love me.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I love you.”
It slips out easy. Natural. Like it’s been waiting.
Your smile softens, something tender breaking through the teasing. “Good,” you say. “’Cause I love you too.”
That’s all it takes.
JJ makes a sound low in his throat and scoops you up without warning, throwing you over his shoulder like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“JJ!” you laugh, breathless.
He slaps your ass once.
Then again, slower, deliberate.
“For the record,” he says, already heading down the hall, “you started this.”
You squirm, giggling. “Wow, blaming the victim? Classic.”
Another playful slap. “Keep talking, sweetheart.”
“You gonna carry me all the way like this?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “I’m enjoying the view.”
You laugh again, cheeks warm, heart full, the house finally feeling like home as the bedroom door closes behind you.
💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡
End.
i’m terrified of rejection, but i get high off attention S.S.
January Jumble Day 18
🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶
Warnings: angst, kissing, fluffy ending, Scott is a good big brother, reader is a McCall, past Malia x Stiles, crying
Word count: 1.9k
Mini summary: you love Stiles and have always been afraid of rejection, you just never thought that rejection could come from Stiles. Good thing Scott knows how to get Stiles’ head on straight.
🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶
You have spent years perfecting the art of blending in.
You never wanted to be loud the way your emotions are. Never wanted to take up too much space or draw attention to the chaos living just under your skin. You learned early how to soften your edges, how to be agreeable, how to keep the mess tucked neatly behind your ribs.
With Stiles, though, you let yourself be a little louder.
Not outwardly. Not dramatically. Just enough. You let yourself lean into him when you laughed. You let yourself show up when he texted come over at ungodly hours. You let yourself believe that the way he looked at you meant something more than convenience.
That was your mistake.
You head to your meeting spot like muscle memory guides you there. The place where you always end up when things feel too heavy everywhere else. You already know he’ll be there. He always is.
You round the corner and stop short.
Stiles stands a few feet away, his hands wrapped around Malia’s wrists, steady and grounding. She’s breathing hard, eyes unfocused, like the world is slipping sideways. He murmurs something low, calm, familiar. His voice is soft in a way that feels intimate, practiced.
“You’re here,” he tells her. “You’re safe. Just breathe with me, okay?”
She nods, eyes locked on his face. He doesn’t notice you right away. He’s too focused on her, on anchoring her back into herself. It’s gentle. Careful. Familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten painfully.
Something in you snaps.
Not anger. Not jealousy.
Resignation.
You realize, all at once, that you’ve been standing on borrowed ground.
You take a step back before either of them can notice you. Then another. Your heart is racing now, loud in your ears. You turn and leave, your footsteps quick and quiet like you’re afraid the moment you make a sound, everything will come apart.
Behind you, Stiles glances up.
He catches the smallest glimpse of you disappearing down the hall. His brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face.
“Hey—” he starts, but then Malia’s grip tightens, her breathing stutters, and his attention snaps back to her.
He doesn’t come after you.
That hurts more than the moment itself.
You make it home before the tears hit, barely. The door clicks shut behind you and your composure shatters instantly. You slide down the wall, hands pressed over your mouth as sobs tear out of you without permission.
You cry like it’s been waiting to happen. Like your body has finally decided it’s done holding everything in.
Your chest aches. Your throat burns. You feel stupid and small and so, so tired.
“Hey,” Scott’s voice cuts in, alarmed. He’s suddenly there, crouching in front of you. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
You try to answer. You really do. But the words won’t come out, just more broken sobs. Scott doesn’t push. He pulls you into his arms instead, holding you while you fall apart against his shoulder.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”
It takes a while. Longer than you want to admit. When you finally pull back, wiping at your face, your voice comes out wrecked.
“I think… I think Stiles is still in love with Malia.”
Scott goes still.
You laugh weakly, shaking your head. “God, I feel so stupid. I really thought—” Your voice breaks. “I let my walls down for him. I knew better, and I still did it.”
Scott cups your face gently, forcing you to look at him. “Hey. No. You are not stupid.”
You sniff, shaking your head. “I should’ve known. He never said anything. I just… assumed.”
“You assumed because he gave you reasons to,” Scott says firmly. “That doesn’t make you stupid. That makes you human.”
You swallow hard. “I’ve always loved him,” you admit, barely above a whisper. “How was I not supposed to fall for him when he made me feel like that?”
Scott pulls you back into his chest, his arms solid and grounding around you. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says. “You hear me? Nothing.”
You breathe with him until the shaking eases. Until the ache dulls into something survivable. Eventually, you pull away, exhausted but calmer.
“I’m fine,” you say, even though you’re not. “Really.”
Scott watches you for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then he nods. “Okay.”
He helps you up, makes sure you’re settled, then heads for the door. You don’t question it. You’re too drained to notice anything but the hollow space inside your chest.
You don’t see the way his jaw tightens as he leaves.
You don’t know where he’s going.
Across town, Stiles can’t shake the image of you walking away.
🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶
Scott finds Stiles in the loft.
He doesn’t announce himself. He just shows up, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes sharp in that way that means he’s already decided how this conversation is going to go.
Stiles looks up from the table, confused. “Hey—what’s wrong with you?”
Scott doesn’t sit.
“Did you see her tonight?”
Stiles blinks. “What?”
“My sister,” Scott says flatly. “Did you see her walk away?”
Stiles hesitates. Just a beat too long. “I—I thought I saw someone. I wasn’t sure it was her.”
Scott exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. “It was.”
Stiles rubs the back of his neck, already defensive. “Scott, Malia needed me. She was spiraling. I couldn’t just—”
“Did you ever think,” Scott cuts in, voice sharper now, “that she needed you too?”
Stiles freezes.
“What?”
“My sister,” Scott repeats. “Did you ever think that maybe she needed you just as much as Malia did?”
“That’s not fair,” Stiles says immediately. “You know what Malia’s been through.”
“I do,” Scott says. “And I’m not saying you shouldn’t be there for her. I’m saying you don’t get to keep breaking my sister’s heart in the process.”
Stiles straightens. “Breaking her heart? Scott, I didn’t—”
“She’s been crying for hours,” Scott snaps. “Hours, Stiles.”
That lands.
Stiles’ mouth opens, then closes. “She didn’t say anything to me.”
“Of course she didn’t,” Scott says. “She’s terrified of rejection. You know that. She shuts down instead of asking for what she wants.”
Stiles swallows. “Scott—”
“She thinks you’re still in love with Malia,” Scott continues, voice steady but wrecked underneath. “She thinks she was stupid for ever believing you and her were… something.”
Stiles’ face drains of color.
“What?” he whispers. “No. That’s not—”
“You give her attention like it means something,” Scott says, stepping closer now. “You look at her like she’s home. You let her believe she matters to you in that way. And then you turn around and do things like tonight.”
Stiles’ hands shake. “I was helping Malia.”
“I know,” Scott says. “But you saw her walk away.”
Stiles doesn’t deny it.
“I thought… I figured she’d understand,” he says weakly. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
Scott laughs once, humorless. “It was a big deal to her.”
Silence stretches between them, heavy and uncomfortable.
“She’s always been in love with you,” Scott says quietly.
Stiles looks like he’s been punched.
“What?”
“She has loved you for years,” Scott continues. “She let her walls down for you because you made her feel safe. Because you made her feel chosen.”
Stiles’ voice cracks. “Scott, I would never hurt her on purpose.”
“I know,” Scott says. “That’s what makes it worse.”
Stiles drags a hand down his face. “I didn’t realize—”
“That’s the problem,” Scott snaps. “You didn’t realize because you never stopped to think about what you were doing to her.”
Stiles looks wrecked now. “What do you want me to do?”
Scott doesn’t hesitate.
“Get it together,” he says. “Either finally go for it or let her go.”
Stiles’ head snaps up. “Let her go?”
“You don’t get to keep picking up the pieces of her heart whenever it’s convenient for you,” Scott says firmly. “Yes, you’re my best friend. But she’s my baby sister. And right now, she’s hurting because of you.”
Stiles nods slowly, like the weight of it is finally crushing down on him. “I didn’t know,” he says again, softer this time.
“You do now,” Scott replies. He turns to leave, pausing at the door. “If you care about her the way I think you do,” Scott adds, “don’t wait.”
The door shuts behind him.
Stiles stands there alone, heart pounding, replaying every moment he should have seen sooner.
And suddenly, not knowing where you are feels unbearable.
🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶
The McCall kitchen is quiet in that early-morning way that feels borrowed.
The coffee maker gurgles softly as it works, the sound grounding, repetitive. You stand at the counter in socks, wrapped up in Stiles’ oversized lacrosse sweatshirt and baggy sweats that have been washed so many times they barely feel like fabric anymore. The sleeves swallow your hands. The smell of him clings to you whether you want it to or not.
You’re staring into the mug like it might have answers.
The door opens behind you.
You don’t turn around right away. You assume it’s Scott. You assume he’ll say something gentle and careful and ask if you slept at all.
Instead, you feel it before you hear it. The shift in the air. The way the room suddenly feels too small.
“Hey—” you start, turning.
You barely get his name out.
Stiles crosses the kitchen in three long strides and lifts you onto the counter like it’s instinct, like he’s done it a hundred times in some other life. Your back hits the cabinet with a soft thud, coffee forgotten entirely as his hands frame your face and his mouth crashes into yours.
The kiss is hard. Urgent. All teeth and breath and weeks of unsaid things pouring out at once.
You gasp, startled, fingers curling into his sweatshirt automatically. For half a second your brain stalls, tries to catch up.
Then you kiss him back.
Everything in you melts.
When he pulls away, foreheads pressed together, your lips are swollen and your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.
“Stiles?” you breathe, confused, wrecked.
“I’m not letting you go,” he says immediately, voice rough, hands still cradling your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip. “I’m not letting you think you don’t matter. Not ever.”
Your breath catches.
“I love you,” he says. “I always have.”
Before the words can fully land, he kisses you again—slower this time, deeper. You turn into absolute putty, hands sliding up to grip his wrists, his forearms, anywhere you can anchor yourself to him. His hands slide into your hair, fingers tangling there like they belong.
When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his. Your voice shakes, but you don’t look away.
“I love you too.”
Stiles freezes for half a second.
Then he does that stupid little smirk. The one that’s all crooked confidence and soft disbelief, like he just won something he never thought he was allowed to want.
You actually go weak.
“Good thing I’ve got you sitting,” he murmurs, amused and wrecked all at once.
You huff out a breathless laugh, tugging him back toward you by the front of his hoodie. “Shut up.”
He doesn’t.
He kisses you again instead, and this one is warm and sure and real. No panic. No confusion. Just him choosing you, finally, fully.
Your fingers slide into his hair this time. He hums softly against your mouth, hands still steady at your waist, like he’s grounding you now.
And for the first time in a long time, the fear quiets.
You don’t feel like you’re borrowing space anymore.
You feel chosen.
🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶
End.
castles crumbling — R.C.
January Jumble Day 17
💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡
Warnings: angst, family drama, fighting, Sofia is a mean girl again, Ruthie, topper, Rafe, and kelce are all good, kelce is gay
Word count: 2.7k
Mini summary: you’re done with school, your mom wants you to have plans like topper, but you were never one to follow the rules. Good thing Rafe gets it.
💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡
The house is too full.
Too loud. Too warm. Too many congratulations stacked on top of each other like no one knows when to stop.
It’s an engagement dinner for Ruthie and Topper, which it is. Champagne on ice, flowers everywhere, Ruthie’s ring catching the light every time she moves her hand. It’s also your graduation party, apparently, though no one asked you how you wanted to celebrate that. Someone hung a banner that just says Congratulations! without specifying who it’s for.
That tracks.
You sit at the long dining table with your napkin folded neatly in your lap, posture polite, plate full and untouched. Across from you, Ruthie looks impossibly happy. Topper can’t stop smiling at her like he still can’t believe she chose him.
You love them. Truly. That part doesn’t hurt.
What hurts is the anticipation.
Your mom clears her throat.
“So,” she says, turning toward you with that careful brightness that always means she’s about to dig. “What’s the plan now?”
You smile. Soft. Pleasant. Non-committal.
“I’ve got one.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Oh?”
You don’t rush. You take a sip of water, calm as hell, because for once you can be.
“I’m working for Rafe.”
The table stills just enough.
Your mom blinks. “Working… how?”
Rafe, seated beside you, shifts closer like this is his cue. He rests his forearm on the table, casual confidence dialed all the way in.
“She starts next week,” he says easily. “Consulting side. Writing, behavioral analysis, strategy support.”
Your mom’s mouth opens. Closes.
Rafe continues, unbothered. “She’s smart. Knows how people work. I offered her the position last week. She said yes.”
You glance at him, biting back a smile.
Your mom recalibrates fast. “Well,” she says, a little stiff now, “your company is… very reputable.”
Rafe hums. “We do alright.”
There’s nothing she can argue with. No gaps to poke. No concern to dress up as advice. She nods, tight but polite, and moves on.
Inside, you feel smug. Just a little. As a treat.
Under the table, Rafe’s hand finds yours. His thumb brushes once over your knuckles, grounding and warm.
You let your shoulders drop.
Dinner continues. Ruthie and Topper field engagement questions. Laughter bubbles up and spills over. Someone refills your glass. Your mom stays suspiciously quiet when it comes to you.
Rafe leans closer, voice low. “Told you she wouldn’t fight it.”
You murmur back, “I enjoyed that more than I should’ve.”
He smirks. “Good.”
Later, when plates are cleared and people drift toward the living room, he nudges you lightly with his knee.
“You good?” he asks.
You shrug. “Better.”
“Yeah?” His eyes flick over your face, softening. “You look better.”
Ruthie claps her hands from across the room. “Photos! Everyone. Phones out.”
You groan quietly but stand anyway. Ruthie grabs your wrist and pulls you forward.
“Nope. You’re standing here,” she says, positioning you right next to Rafe. “Both of you.”
Rafe laughs under his breath. “What, we’re a set now?”
“Yes,” Ruthie says, completely unbothered. “Also, congrats on the promotion.”
There’s another wave of congratulations. Rafe nods, rubbing the back of his neck like he always does when attention lands too hard. Someone asks about the company again, about growth, about plans.
He answers smoothly. Mentions expansion. Mentions consulting. Mentions the team.
Mentions you.
Ruthie lifts her phone. “Smile!”
You do. It’s easier this time. Rafe’s arm rests warm and steady at your back, like it belongs there.
The camera clicks.
As people disperse again, he leans in, voice just for you.
“Congrats,” he says. “Graduated. Employed. Still hot.”
You roll your eyes, but your mouth curves anyway. “You’re ridiculous.”
He grins. “And you’re working for me now. Get used to it.”
For the first time all night, your chest feels light.
💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡
The party is meant to be easy.
That’s what Ruthie said when she texted you the invite. Just friends. Just drinks. No pressure.
You should’ve known better.
It’s been a few weeks since the engagement dinner. A few weeks of early mornings and late afternoons at Rafe’s office, of learning the rhythm of his business and the way his mind works. A few weeks of him checking in without hovering, of flirty comments slipped in like afterthoughts, of something warm and unspoken settling between you.
You tell yourself you’re fine.
You’re not.
The night hums around you—music low, laughter drifting, the air thick with salt and summer. Ruthie hands you a drink, then another. Kelce keeps you laughing, keeps your glass full, keeps the sharp parts of your brain dulled just enough.
You let yourself relax.
Then you see her.
Sofia stands near the bar, polished and effortless, like she never left. She laughs at something Rafe says, tilts her head just slightly, fingers brushing his arm in a way that feels practiced.
He doesn’t lean in. He doesn’t touch her back. He isn’t flirting.
He also doesn’t move away.
Your chest tightens, sudden and unwelcome.
You look down at your drink and finish it in one swallow.
Kelce notices immediately. “Okay,” he says quietly. “We’re not spiraling tonight.”
“I’m not spiraling,” you say, too quickly.
Ruthie follows your gaze, sighs. “She won’t last the night,” she murmurs. “She never does.”
That doesn’t help.
You take another drink. The edge softens, then blurs. The music feels louder. Your thoughts get heavier, slower, harder to hold in place.
When Topper checks on you—gentle, familiar—it lands wrong.
“You good?” he asks.
Something inside you snaps.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” you say, forcing a laugh that sounds off even to your own ears.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” you cut in. “You never do.”
The words hang there, heavier than you intended. Ruthie steps closer, concern written all over her face.
“Hey,” she says softly. “You’re drunk.”
You nod. “Yeah. I am.”
You grab your bag, suddenly desperate for air, for distance, for somewhere that isn’t full of expectations and memories and people watching you pretend you’re fine.
“I want to go home.”
Topper hesitates. “You don’t have to leave like this.”
“I do,” you say. “If I stay, I’m going to say something I can’t take back.”
Ruthie squeezes your hand. “Okay. We’ll get you home.”
She looks past you, already searching.
“Rafe.”
He’s there instantly.
One look at you and his expression shifts—concern first, then something quieter and deeper. Understanding.
“I’ve got her,” he says.
You shake your head, stubborn even now. “No. I’m not going with him.”
Rafe steps closer anyway, voice low and steady. “You’re not walking. Let’s go.”
“I said no.”
“I heard you,” he replies calmly. “I’m still taking you home.”
You turn to argue and suddenly you’re airborne.
Rafe lifts you with ease, one arm under your knees, the other around your back. The world tilts, laughter erupts somewhere behind you, and you let out an indignant gasp.
“Rafe,” you hiss, mortified. “Put me down.”
“Nope.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Mm,” he hums. “I’ve been told.”
You grumble the entire way to the truck, burying your face against his shoulder, words spilling out half-muffled and unfiltered.
“You and Topper are the same,” you mutter. “Always deciding things. Always thinking you know best.”
He sets you down gently in the passenger seat, buckles you in despite your weak protest.
“Stay,” he says, firm but kind.
You cross your arms. “You’re annoying.”
He leans in, close enough that you can see the concern in his eyes beneath the teasing. “You’re drunk.”
“And sad,” you add quietly, staring out the window.
That makes him pause.
He shuts the door softly and gets behind the wheel. The party fades behind you as he pulls away, the road stretching dark and quiet ahead.
You mumble complaints under your breath—about Sofia, about Topper, about how tired you are of always being the one who adjusts.
Rafe listens.
He doesn’t interrupt.
He doesn’t dismiss it.
He just grips the steering wheel a little tighter and drives you home.
💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡
You’re still wound tight when Rafe parks.
Not dramatic. Not screaming. Just coiled — like every nerve in your body has been pulled too far and left there.
When he comes around to your side, you shake your head before he can even speak.
“I can walk.”
He studies you for a beat, then nods. “Okay.”
He doesn’t touch you right away — but the second your heel catches on the step, his hand slides to the small of your back, steady and warm. His other arm carries your bag and both phones like it’s automatic. He moves with you, not ahead of you, not behind you.
Inside, the house is quiet in a way that feels almost unfamiliar after the noise of the party. Dim lamps, calm air, no ghosts of the Cameron house hanging over it.
You make it to his bedroom on sheer stubbornness.
Then you stop.
Your fingers shake as you fumble for the zipper at the back of your dress. Once. Twice. Nothing. Your chest tightens, breath going shallow.
“I can’t get it,” you snap, sharper than you mean to.
Rafe steps closer instantly.
“Turn around.”
You do — but your shoulders are tense, eyes already glassy.
His fingers find the zipper and ease it down slowly, carefully. His knuckles brush your spine, gentle enough that it almost makes you crack.
Then your hands drop.
And that’s when it hits.
Angry tears spill before you can stop them — not pretty, not soft, just frustrated and raw. You swipe at your face, mortified and exhausted all at once.
“I hate this,” you whisper, voice wobbling. “I hate tonight. I hate feeling like I’m always the problem.”
Rafe doesn’t rush you. He just stays close, quiet, solid.
“Lift your hair,” he murmurs.
You do, and he unhooks your bra with the same calm care, like this is simply something you need help with — no tension, no hesitation.
He hands you one of his long-sleeve shirts and a pair of his boxers. You change quickly, feeling small in his clothes but strangely safe.
You sit on the edge of the bed, hands in your lap, tears still quietly slipping.
Your phone buzzes in your hand.
You text Topper.
You don’t show Rafe — but he sees your shoulders soften after you hit send. He knows enough.
“I told him I’m at your place,” you murmur. “And that I’m sorry I was a bitch.”
Rafe exhales slowly, something easing in his face.
When you crawl toward the middle of the bed, he shakes his head.
“You take it.”
You tuck yourself to the side instead. “No. It’s yours.”
“You’re drunk.”
“You’re annoying.”
A tired, quiet back-and-forth follows until he sighs.
“What if we share?”
You hesitate, then nod. “Okay.”
You turn onto your side, back to him, staring into the dark while your chest aches with guilt.
“I was a dick to Topper,” you whisper.
Rafe doesn’t say anything.
He just moves closer, arm sliding around your waist, pulling you back into him until your spine fits against his chest. You curl into him without thinking, forehead pressing to his shoulder as your breath stutters.
He holds you — steady, warm, unshakeable — until you fall asleep.
💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡
Morning comes slow.
Soft gold light stripes the room. The air feels lazy and warm.
You wake tangled.
Rafe’s arm is around your waist, his chest pressed to your back, legs threaded together like your bodies already know how to fit. His face is tucked near your hair.
You shift slightly — and before you can even move fully, his arm tightens and he pulls you back into him.
Not hard. Not possessive. Just instinctive.
“Stay,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.
You smile without turning. “Good morning to you too.”
He hums, burying his face briefly against your hair like he’s anchoring himself to the moment.
You lie there like that for a while, wrapped together in quiet sunlight, neither of you rushing to break it.
Eventually you both stretch and untangle, sitting side by side on the edge of the bed while the day wakes up.
Rafe disappears and comes back with coffee without you asking. You curl your hands around the mug, grateful.
“I’m starving,” you admit.
He opens the fridge, squints, closes it again.
You laugh. “You can’t cook.”
“I can survive,” he mutters.
Five minutes later, he’s ordering food.
When he rattles off your drinks, you freeze.
“One large iced chai,” he says. “And a caramel mocha with maple.”
Your head snaps toward him. “How did you know that?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I pay attention.”
Your chest melts a little.
Food arrives — breakfast sandwiches, warm muffins, too much for two people — and you sit at his island together, feet hooked around the stools.
You lean over without thinking and kiss the corner of his mouth.
He grins, cheeky. “Careful.”
You roll your eyes, cheeks warm, and turn back to your sandwich so you don’t have to look at him for a second too long. For a few minutes the kitchen feels easy again — sunlight, quiet, the clink of plates, the smell of coffee.
Then you feel him watching you.
Not teasing. Not playful. Steady.
He sets his sandwich down.
“You got quiet.”
You pick at your muffin. “Just thinking.”
“About last night?”
Your shoulders lift, then drop. “Not really.”
He doesn’t move back. He moves closer — forearms braced on the counter, voice low, eyes locked on you.
“You said things in the truck,” he says, gentler now. “About Sofia.”
Your stomach tightens. You take a long sip of chai instead of answering.
He waits.
You feel it — that patient, quiet pressure of him not letting this slide the way everyone else always has.
Finally, you exhale.
“She wasn’t loud about it,” you admit quietly. “Not the kind of mean you can call out without looking crazy.”
His jaw tightens immediately.
“Little comments,” you continue. “Eye rolls. Laughing like I was a joke when I talked. Like I was always… in the way. Like I didn’t belong anywhere she was.”
Silence. Heavy, still, charged.
Rafe pushes off the counter just enough to face you fully.
“And you didn’t tell me,” he says — calm, but sharp underneath.
You shake your head. “You were happy. I wasn’t going to ruin that.”
His hand comes down flat on the counter — not hard, but deliberate.
“All this time?” he asks quietly. “All this time, and you didn’t tell me?”
Your throat tightens. “What was I supposed to do?”
His eyes search yours, something fierce and unsettled moving behind them. “Did Topper know?”
You swallow. “No.”
A beat.
“Ruthie did,” you add softly. “She saw it. She always had my back.”
Something shifts in his face — not anger at Ruthie, but anger at the situation, at himself, at how alone you were.
“You should’ve told me,” he says, voice low but urgent now. “If someone makes you feel like shit, you tell me. I need to know.”
You blink at him, breath shallow. “And what would’ve been different, Rafe? If you knew?”
His jaw ticks.
“I would’ve handled it.”
“How?” you press gently. “Yelled at her? Made a scene?”
His eyes darken just a little. “Or told her off. Or punched someone, depending on the situation.”
You let out a shaky, almost disbelieving laugh. “So you’d get in trouble?”
His brows knit together. “I don’t care.”
You shake your head immediately. “That’s not okay either.”
Silence stretches between you again — thicker now, sharper.
Rafe looks at you like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“Neither is you thinking you deserved to be treated like that,” he says, quieter but unwavering. “Neither is you swallowing it and hurting alone.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
His voice softens, dropping lower, closer.
“You’re perfect,” he says. “You always have been.”
The words hit you like a crack in ice.
Your breath stutters. Your eyes burn.
Before you can overthink it, you lean in — slow, certain — and kiss him.
Rafe freezes for half a second, clearly not expecting it this time.
Then his hands come to your waist.
One smooth motion, and he pulls you off the stool and onto his lap, your legs settling on either side of him at the counter. His grip is firm, grounding, not rushed — just certain, like this is exactly where he wants you.
You don’t pull away.
His mouth moves against yours, softer than you expected, steadier than you imagined — but real, deliberate, unmistakable.
When you finally break apart, your foreheads rest together, both of you breathing unevenly, hands still holding on like neither of you is ready to let go.
His thumb brushes your waist once, slow, like he’s anchoring himself to the moment.
No grand confession. No fireworks.
Just the quiet truth of something finally landing where it always belonged.
💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡•••💛🤍🧡
End.
Probably gonna make a part 2.
Up On The Roof With A School Girl Crush — R.C.
January Jumble Day 16
🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛
Warnings: little angst, fluff, first kiss, kissing, Sofia is a bitch lol, Rafe and Ruthie and Topper are good
Word count: ~850
Mini summary: you’ve never been missed before, but Rafe doesn’t mind showing you how it’s done. Good thing you both like each other.
🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛
You don’t slam the door when you get to Rafe’s room.
You close it quietly, carefully, like if you’re gentle enough the words won’t echo in here. Like maybe they’ll stay out in the hallway where Sofia left them—smiling, sweet, sharp enough to cut.
They don’t.
You pace. Back and forth. Bare feet brushing against the floor, arms wrapped tight around yourself like you’ve been doing since you were a kid. Since you were twelve and watching Rafe Cameron lean against lockers with a crooked grin, too tall, too confident, too everything. Since you learned early how to admire quietly. From a distance. Without ever letting it show.
A schoolgirl crush you never quite outgrew.
The door opens behind you.
“I heard what she said.”
Your shoulders stiffen.
“Forget it, Rafe.”
You don’t turn around. You stare at his desk instead, at the mess of papers and keys and things that make this room feel lived in. Safe.
“It’s not a big deal.” He says immediately. No pause. No softness. “But why didn’t you tell us?”
You let out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh.
“Tell you what?” You turn then, finally. “That I’ve never kissed anyone? That nobody’s ever wanted to? Yeah, okay. That sounds humiliating.”
His jaw tightens.
“But Ruthie knows.”
“Ruthie’s my best friend,” you say quietly. “Of course she knows.”
Rafe drags a hand through his hair, pacing once like he needs to bleed off the anger before it spills the wrong way.
“Sofia shouldn’t have said that to you.”
You shrug, even though it hurts. “It’s fine. I’m used to it. Being the little sister. The one nobody expects anything from.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
You start pacing again, needing the movement, the space. “It’s whatever.”
“Kiss me.”
You stop short.
“What?”
Rafe is standing now. Right in front of you. Close enough that you can see the seriousness in his eyes, the way this isn’t a joke or a dare or some careless Rafe thing.
“Kiss me,” he says again, quieter this time.
Your chest tightens. “Rafe, I—”
“I’m not messing with you,” he says. “And I’m not asking you to prove anything. I just—” He hesitates, then reaches for you gently when you try to step past him. “Come here.”
You shake your head, nerves spiking. “I don’t know how.”
“That’s okay,” he says. “I do.”
You take half a step back anyway. Old instincts. Old fears. You turn toward the door before you can think better of it.
Rafe moves fast—but not rough.
He steps in front of you, hands light but firm at your arms, stopping you. Then he leans down and kisses you.
It’s slow. Careful. His lips barely brush yours at first, like he’s asking permission even now. Like he’s willing to stop the second you pull away.
Your breath stutters.
The kiss deepens just a little, his hand sliding to your jaw, thumb warm against your cheek. You don’t think—you just feel. The way his mouth moves. The way he waits for you to follow.
You do.
Then panic hits.
You pull back, heart racing, embarrassed heat flooding your face.
“She’s your—” You stumble over the word. “She’s your…”
Rafe exhales softly, not annoyed, not amused. He steps back, sits down on the edge of the bed, and before you can retreat again, he reaches for you and pulls you gently onto his lap.
You end up straddling him awkwardly, knees on either side of his thighs, hands hovering like you don’t know where they belong.
It’s not sexy.
It’s intimate. Terrifying. Safe all at once.
“She’s my ex,” he says calmly. “That’s it.”
You look at him, nervous, searching his face.
“And I don’t want her,” he adds. “I don’t want anyone who makes you feel small.”
Your throat tightens.
“She shouldn’t have said that to you,” he continues, voice firm now. “And for what it’s worth—I already told her the fuck off. The second I heard.”
You blink. “You did?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Nobody gets to talk to you like that. Not in my house. Not ever.”
Your hands settle against his shoulders without you realizing it. Familiar. Like they’ve always known where they belong.
“I’ve always liked you,” you admit softly. The truth slips out before you can stop it. “Like… forever.”
Rafe’s expression softens in a way that makes your chest ache.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
“You do?”
He nods. “You’ve always looked at me like I’m something steady. Something safe. I never wanted to mess that up. But I like you too. I always have.”
Your eyes burn.
“Kissing you makes me nervous,” you whisper.
His mouth curves into a small, genuine smile. “Good,” he murmurs. “Means it matters.”
You lean forward, resting your forehead against his. His arms come around you naturally, holding you there like that’s exactly where you’re supposed to be.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “I am now.”
He presses a gentle kiss to your temple. No rush. No pressure.
Just Rafe. Being Rafe.
And when he kisses you again, slow and careful, you don’t pull away this time.
🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛
End.
Please Don’t Be In Love With Someone Else — S.S.
January Jumble Day 16
🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤
Warnings: angst, fluff, Damon and Matt acting like feral older brothers, kissing
Word count: 1.8k
Mini summary: Stefan’s an idiot, but he still knows how to make you blush
🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤
You’ve been living at the Caroline house for three weeks.
Not officially. She doesn’t say it out loud. You just… never really leave.
Your bag sits by the staircase, half-unpacked. Your boots are kicked off near the door like you might grab them at any moment and go back to your life. Except you don’t. You stay curled into corners instead—on the couch, on the edge of the counter, on the floor of Caroline’s room with your knees pulled to your chest.
You are excellent at disappearing when you want to be.
Liz doesn’t comment on it. She just hands you coffee in the mornings like it’s a truce and pretends not to notice when you flinch at the sound of a familiar laugh drifting in through an open window.
Matt watches more closely. Always has.
Bonnie knows without asking.
Everyone else might as well be ghosts.
You haven’t seen Stefan since the night everything cracked sideways. You haven’t texted him. Haven’t answered the one voicemail he left that you hid halfway through because you couldn’t stand the sound of his voice trying to sound normal.
You’re not mad anymore.
That’s the worst part.
You’re just… tired. Tired of wondering what you are to him. Tired of being the almost. The constant. The girl who’s there when everything else falls apart but never the one he chooses first.
You tell yourself you’re fine hiding here. Safe. Quiet.
Then Caroline corners you in the living where you sit and Damon leaning in the doorway and Matt perched far too casually on the arm of the couch.
“No,” you say immediately.
“We didn’t even say anything yet,” Bonnie replies.
“You’re about to,” you shoot back. “And the answer is still no.”
Damon smirks. “I love when you’re like this. Very feral. Very emotionally unavailable.”
“Damon.”
“What?” He lifts his hands. “I’m being supportive.”
Bonnie ignores him. “You’re going to the ball.”
You laugh once. Sharp. Disbelieving. “Absolutely not.”
Matt tilts his head, gentle but firm. “You can’t hide forever.”
“I can try,” you say flatly. “And I’d prefer it if you all let me.”
Bonnie sighs and sits beside you, bumping her shoulder lightly into yours. “Okay. Say it.”
You hesitate.
Then it spills out, quieter than you expect. “He basically said I was an idiot.”
The room stills.
“He said I was reading into it too much,” you continue, staring at the rug. “Like I made it up in my head. Like whatever I thought was happening between us was… nothing.”
Bonnie’s face softens. “Honey.”
Damon scoffs. “Classic Sfefan behavior.”
Bonnie shoots him a look. “Stefan’s an adult.”
“Barely,” Damon mutters.
You finally look up. “That’s not an excuse. He’s had years to grow out of it.”
Bonnie nods. “Agreed. That was a dick move. I’m not defending that.” She pauses. “But—he is allowed to kiss whoever he wants unless you tell him you want to be official.”
You swallow.
“He said,” you say slowly, choosing the words that have been haunting you, “that when he’s with me, it’s hard. And complicated.”
Matt’s jaw tightens just a fraction.
Damon exhales through his nose. “That means he’s an asshole in love.”
You glare at him. “That’s not helpful.”
“It’s accurate,” Damon counters. “Still not excusable. But accurate.”
Bonnie squeezes your hand. “He does like you. He’s just… terrified of wanting something he might lose.”
You pull your hand back gently. “That doesn’t make it hurt less.”
“No,” she admits. “It doesn’t.”
Matt straightens. “You’re still going to the ball.”
You groan and drop your head back against the couch. “Damn it.”
Bonnie smiles softly. “You don’t have to talk to him.”
Damon smirks. “But if you look hot, that’s just a bonus.”
“Damon.”
“What? I’m manifesting chaos.”
You close your eyes, already exhausted at the thought of leaving this place. Of being seen. Of possibly running into the one person you’ve been trying not to think about every second of every day.
“I hate this,” you mutter.
Matt’s voice is gentle. “I know.”
And somehow, that makes it worse.
🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤
The ball is a lot.
Too bright. Too loud. Too many eyes. You hover near the edge of the room, smoothing your hands over the skirt of your dress like it might convince your nerves to settle. You feel ridiculous. Overdressed. Exposed.
And then you look up.
Stefan stops.
Like someone hit pause on him mid-step.
He just stares, eyes wide in a way that makes your stomach flip traitorously. You feel heat crawl up your neck, blooming across your cheeks before you can stop it.
Great.
He approaches like he’s walking toward something fragile.
“Hey,” he says, then immediately clears his throat. “I don’t have the words right now.”
You swallow and respond as normal as possible. “Hi.”
His eyes flicker over you again, quick but reverent, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks too long. “You look… really beautiful.”
Your fingers curl into the fabric at your sides. You hate that your pulse jumps. You hate that you feel warm all over. You force yourself to blink, to keep your voice even.
“Thanks,” you say, softer than you meant to.
He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks pinking. “Not just tonight. I mean—always. You always have.”
Your breath stutters.
You can feel yourself tipping. Falling into him like you always do.
You open your mouth to say something—anything—before your heart gives you away—
“Oh absolutely not.”
Damon appears like a bad habit, arm slipping around your shoulders and tugging you back just enough to break the spell.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Damon.”
He peers down at you, eyebrows lifting. “Wow. You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are,” he says, delighted. “Adorable. Traumatizing.”
He steers you toward the drinks, and you let him, mostly because you need a second to breathe.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you mutter.
“Yes, I did,” he replies easily. “You were about two seconds away from melting into a puddle of unresolved feelings.”
You grab a glass and take a sip, immediately making a face. “This tastes like cough syrup.”
“Ah,” Damon nods. “The official beverage of bad decisions.”
You glance back toward the room. Stefan is still standing there, hands shoved into his pockets, watching you like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to move yet.
Your chest tightens.
Damon follows your gaze. “See that look?” he says quietly. “That’s panic. Regret. And a man realizing he fumbled something important.”
You scoff, but it comes out weak. “You’re reading into it too much.”
He smirks. “Careful. That’s his line.”
Heat creeps back into your cheeks.
Across the room, Tyler elbows Matt hard. Matt winces, then looks up—right at you.
Your heart does that stupid flutter again.
He hesitates. Takes a breath.
And then he starts walking toward you.
You don’t move.
🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤
Matt reaches you before Stefan does.
He comes in with that infuriating, fond little half-smile that means he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.
“You look like you’re about to run,” he says quietly.
You glance past him instinctively — straight to Stefan — and your heart betrays you all over again.
“I am considering it,” you mutter.
Matt follows your gaze, then looks back at you with absolute zero sympathy.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Before you can react, his hands settle on your shoulders and he nudges you forward — just enough to break your balance.
You stumble.
Straight into someone warm and solid.
Stefan’s hands are there instantly, steadying you at your waist like it’s instinct, like he’s been waiting for the moment you fell toward him.
Your breath leaves you in a soft, startled sound.
“Matt,” you hiss over your shoulder.
Your brother just grins. “Dance with him.”
Then he vanishes into the crowd like he hasn’t just launched your entire heart into orbit.
You freeze for half a second, mortified, palms pressed flat against Stefan’s chest.
“I’m sorry,” you rush out. “He shouldn’t have— I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay,” Stefan says gently, thumbs resting lightly at your waist. “You don’t have to apologize.”
You tilt your face up and your cheeks immediately catch fire again.
He hesitates, then asks quietly, “Would you… dance with me?”
Your stomach flips.
“I don’t know,” you admit, voice small. “I wasn’t really planning on… doing anything tonight.”
His smile is soft, not teasing. “That’s okay. We don’t have to. I just wanted to ask.”
That makes it harder.
You swallow, glance once more toward Damon — who is watching with far too much amusement — then back to Stefan.
“One song,” you finally say, trying to sound firm and absolutely failing.
Relief flickers across his face, subtle but real.
He guides you onto the dance floor slowly, careful, like he knows your nerves are already stretched thin. His hands settle properly at your waist, steady and warm.
Your arms lift almost without your permission, looping around his neck. Your fingers curl into his collar, feeling the steady beat of his pulse there.
You are very, very aware of how close you are.
Stefan leans in until your foreheads touch, just resting there, breathing with you.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You nod, breathless. “Just… embarrassed.”
A small smile curves his lips. “You don’t need to be.”
His mouth brushes your temple — soft, barely there — and your breath stutters.
Then another kiss, lower, along your jaw, and one just beneath your ear that makes your fingers tighten in his jacket.
“S-Stefan,” you manage, flustered and weak.
“I know,” he whispers, not pulling away. “Tell me if I should stop.”
You shake your head immediately. “No.”
His forehead returns to yours. “I panicked that night. Not because of you — because of how much I wanted you.”
Your chest tightens.
Your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to. “Why didn’t you ever… pick me?”
His hands flex at your waist. “Because I didn’t think I was allowed to want you the way I did.”
A breath trembles out of you.
“I’ve always known,” you whisper. “I just thought you’d catch up.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes impossibly soft. “I’m here now.”
And then he kisses you.
Not fast. Not flashy. Just deep enough that your knees actually give way and you stumble backward a half step — only for him to catch you immediately, arms secure around your waist.
You laugh breathlessly against his mouth, mortified and thrilled all at once, hands sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck without thinking.
When he finally pulls back, your foreheads fall together again, both of you a little winded.
“Hi,” he murmurs, smiling like he still can’t quite believe this is real.
You are a mess — flushed, shaky, weak-kneed — and grinning anyway.
“Hi,” you whisper back.
Around you, the music keeps playing, the crowd keeps moving, and for the first time all night, you don’t feel like hiding.
You just sway there with him, wrapped close, exactly where you’ve always wanted to be.
🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤•••🩶❤️🖤
End.
my heart is fragile can’t you see — B.B.
January Jumble Day 14
❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙
Warnings: angst, Bucky got shot, blood, emotional fighting, reader is mad at Bucky, fluff, kissing
Word count: 1.9k
Mini summary: Bucky takes a bullet for you — and in the aftermath your heart can’t handle that
❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙
The safe house is too clean.
That’s the first thing you notice. No dust on the shelves. No clutter. No signs that anyone actually lives here. Tony Stark money always looks like this—cold, efficient, built for survival, not comfort.
You drop your bag by the door and don’t look at Bucky.
You haven’t really looked at him since it happened.
The call with the Avengers is short. Efficient. Tony’s voice crackles through the speaker, already halfway into mentally giving you a lecture before you can assure him you’re fine.
“You alive?”
“Yes,” you answer flatly.
A pause. Steve’s voice cuts in, softer. Careful. “Barnes?”
“I’m here,” Bucky says.
You keep your eyes on the counter. Your hands are clenched so tight your nails bite into your palms.
“Good,” Steve says. “Sit tight. We’ll regroup in the morning.”
The line goes dead.
Silence rushes in to fill the space.
Bucky shifts behind you. You hear it—the faint hitch in his breath, the way he always moves like he’s bracing for impact even when nothing’s happening.
“You don’t have to—” he starts.
You grab the med kit from the cabinet hard enough that it rattles.
“Sit,” you say.
One word. No room for negotiation.
He does.
You kneel in front of him and unzip the kit, methodical. Gloves. Gauze. Antiseptic. Your hands are steady, which is impressive, considering you watched a bullet tear through his jacket less than an hour ago.
You don’t say anything when you peel the fabric back. sarah.
The wound isn’t bad. Clean entry. Minimal bleeding. He got lucky.
That doesn’t help.
“You’re mad,” he says quietly.
You don’t answer.
You clean the wound with clinical precision. Too precise. Like if you focus hard enough, you won’t see it again—the way he moved without thinking, the way your name left his mouth right before he stepped in front of you.
“You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs. “I can handle it.”
Your jaw tightens.
“I know,” you say. “But you won’t.”
That finally gets his attention. He looks at you then, really looks at you, like he’s trying to read something in your face and coming up short.
You tape the gauze down, a little rougher than necessary.
He doesn’t flinch.
Of course he doesn’t.
When you’re done, you sit back on your heels and pull the gloves off, tossing them into the trash. You stand and turn away immediately, busying yourself with putting the kit back like it’s the most important task in the world.
Behind you, his voice is softer. Almost careful.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
That does it.
Not enough to make you turn around. Not yet. But your shoulders go rigid, and for the first time since you walked in, your breathing stutters.
You don’t say anything.
You just stand there, back to him, hands braced on the counter, holding yourself together by sheer force of will.
Because if you open your mouth now—
You’re not sure you’ll stop.
❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙
You don’t speak to him.
Not when you toss the used gauze into the trash.
Not when you close the med kit with a little too much force.
Not when you wash your hands at the sink like they’re stained with more than antiseptic.
Bucky watches you anyway.
You can feel it. The weight of his stare following every movement like he’s afraid if he looks away you’ll disappear.
You move around the safe house like you’re alone.
You straighten a blanket on the couch.
You pour yourself a glass of water and do not offer him one.
You check your phone, scroll mindlessly, even though nothing is there.
Silence hums between you — thick, charged, deliberate.
Bucky clears his throat.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
You don’t look up.
He shifts on the bed, the springs creaking under his weight. “You’re not gonna say anything?”
You set the glass down.
Nothing.
A beat.
Then another.
He exhales, running his hand through his hair — that restless, impatient little tell he has when he feels exposed.
“Alright,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Fine.”
You walk toward the window, back to him, arms crossed.
That’s when he says it.
Soft. Too casual. Like he’s trying to make it small.
“I’d do it again, you know.”
The room goes still.
You don’t move at first. Not a muscle. Your shoulders lock in place, spine straight as a blade.
Bucky frowns, misreading the silence.
“I mean it. I’d jump in front of that bullet every time.”
That’s it.
That’s the crack.
You spin around so fast it almost makes him flinch.
“Don’t,” you snap.
Your voice is sharper than you intended — brittle, tight, edged with something you’ve been swallowing for an hour.
He tilts his head. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t say that like it’s romantic,” you fire back. “Don’t say it like it’s noble. Don’t say it like it’s something I’m supposed to feel grateful for.”
He opens his mouth. You don’t let him.
“You scared me.” The words tumble out before you can stop them. “You didn’t just scare me — you wrecked me. I watched you go down. I saw blood. I heard the shot. I thought —” Your breath catches hard. “I thought you were dead.”
Bucky goes very still.
“I didn’t ask you to do that,” you continue, voice rising now, heat in every word. “I didn’t ask you to sacrifice yourself for me. I didn’t ask to stand there and feel my heart stop in my chest.”
His jaw tightens. “You were in danger.”
“And so were you!” you snap. “You are always in danger. That doesn’t mean you get to decide you’re expendable.”
Your hands tremble now, but you don’t lower them.
“You act like it’s nothing. Like your life is some bargaining chip you can throw on the table whenever you want. Like I’m supposed to just be okay with that.”
Bucky stares at you — not defensive, not angry, just stunned, like the full weight of this is finally landing.
“I didn’t mean—” he starts.
“You never mean to!” you cut in. “That’s not the point. Intention doesn’t make it hurt less. It doesn’t make me less terrified.”
Your voice breaks, just a little, but you push through it.
“What happens to me if you die, huh? Have you ever thought about that? Do you think I’d just move on? Smile and keep fighting like nothing happened?”
He swallows.
You step closer without realizing it, close enough that the space between you feels too tight, too electric.
“Because I couldn’t,” you whisper. “I wouldn’t know how to live in a world where you’re gone.”
Silence falls again — but this time it’s different. Heavy. Honest.
Bucky looks at you like something inside him just shifted.
And that’s when the corner of his mouth lifts.
Just barely.
Not mocking. Not teasing.
Soft. Almost relieved.
Your brow furrows instantly. “Why are you smiling?”
His eyes don’t leave yours.
He doesn’t answer right away.
But you can feel the moment changing — stretching toward something you’re not ready for yet.
❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙
The room is quiet in that stretched, humming way that feels like it could snap.
Your chest is still rising fast, hands trembling at your sides, eyes bright with rage you haven’t burned off yet. You’re breathing like you just ran a mile, every word you just threw at him still hanging between you.
Bucky doesn’t move.
He just looks at you.
Really looks — not guarded, not closed off, not soldier-straight. His gaze is dark, focused, almost struck, like something finally clicked into place.
Then the corner of his mouth lifts.
You narrow your eyes immediately. “Don’t you dare.”
He takes one slow step closer.
“You’re hot,” he says quietly.
Your brows snap together. “Excuse me?”
Another step. Close enough now that you can feel the warmth of him, the gravity he always carries into a room.
“When you go off on me,” he adds, voice low, rough at the edges.
Your mouth opens — shock, fury, disbelief all colliding at once. “That is the worst possible thing you could say to me.”
He doesn’t argue.
His metal hand comes up first — cool, steady — settling at your waist like he’s grounding himself as much as you. His other hand cups your jaw, firm but careful, fingers curling beneath your chin so you have to look at him.
Then he moves.
Your back hits the wall with a soft thud — not hard, just enough to stop you, to trap you in the moment with him. His body crowds your space, one forearm braced beside your head, the other still holding your face like you’re something fragile he refuses to drop.
Your breath stutters.
“Bucky—”
That’s all you get out.
His mouth is on yours.
Not hesitant. Not frantic. Just deliberate — like he’s finally stopped pretending he could keep this to himself. You kiss him back before you can stop yourself, fingers curling into the front of his shirt and tugging him closer.
His hand tightens at your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his metal arm brackets your other side so the world narrows to just the two of you. Your head tilts instinctively, chasing him, and he follows without hesitation.
His lips leave yours briefly, drifting along your jaw in a slow, unhurried trail that makes your breath hitch before he finds your mouth again — deeper this time, steadier, like he’s pouring everything he can’t say into the way he kisses you.
You make a quiet sound, and it seems to knock the air out of him.
His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, guiding you back to him as his mouth takes yours again, firmer now, more certain. You answer just as hard, your body shifting against the wall without thinking.
He adjusts with you — one knee sliding between yours, not sexual, just steadying, keeping you upright, keeping you close — while his other hand travels slowly up your side, warm and grounding.
Your nails graze the nape of his neck, and he inhales sharply against your lips.
For a moment, everything else disappears.
He breaks the kiss first, resting his forehead to yours, breath uneven.
“You’re still mad,” he murmurs, voice wrecked but soft.
You don’t deny it.
Instead, you grab his shirt again and pull him back to you.
He lets you.
The kiss changes — slower now, less storm and more wildfire, his thumb tracing your jaw while the other hand stays anchored at your waist like he doesn’t trust the world to keep you in place without him.
Time gets hazy.
You’re the one who finally pulls back, chest heaving, lips warm and tingling, eyes searching his face like you’re trying to memorize it.
Your foreheads rest together.
Your hands are still fisted in his shirt. His are still holding you like he isn’t ready to let go.
You swallow, breathless but steady.
“I’m still mad at you.”
His mouth twitches — no tease this time, just something softer, deeper, almost tender. His thumb brushes gently along your cheek, like an apology he doesn’t know how to say out loud.
“I know,” he says quietly. “That’s okay.”
You don’t move.
He doesn’t either.
Your anger is still there — sharp, real, justified — but it’s braided now with something hotter, heavier, harder to untangle.
The space between you isn’t quiet anymore.
It’s alive.
And neither of you is ready to step out of it yet.
❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙
End.
At Every Table, I’ll Save You A Seat — S.S.
January Jumble Day 13
🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶
Warnings: fluff, a kiss, literary references, reader is Scott’s little sister
Word count: ~700
Mini summary: at every table, you guys always save each other a seat
🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶
By the window. Sun in the afternoon, rain in the evenings, a view of Main Street that makes Beacon Hills feel almost normal. Stiles always picks it. You pretend you don’t notice.
You do.
You always do.
🩶🤍🖤•••🩶🤍🖤•••🩶🤍🖤•••🩶🤍🖤•••🩶🤍🖤•••🩶🤍🖤
The first time Stiles saves you a seat, he does it quietly.
You show up after school, tote bag heavy with essays about symbolism that somehow all missed the point. He’s already there, laptop open, badge clipped to his belt like a reminder that you’re all adults now, actually. The third chair is pulled out just slightly. His bag sits in it like a placeholder.
“You’re early,” you say.
“Am I?” he replies, not looking up.
You don’t comment. You sit.
Under the table, his foot taps against yours once, then stills. You sip your iced chai and feel something settle. Familiar. Intentional.
It feels like the beginning of something that’s already been written once before.
🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶
The second time, he’s less subtle.
You’re late. Parent emails. A kid who cried during The Outsiders because “why does everyone in books die,” which honestly feels personal. When you finally walk in, Stiles looks up immediately, relief softening his face before he can hide it.
“I was starting to think you bailed,” he says.
You gesture to the chair across from him. Empty. Waiting.
“You saved me a seat.”
He shrugs, but there’s a softness there. “At every table,” he says. “I save you a seat.”
It’s said lightly. It doesn’t feel like a joke.
Your knees bump under the table and stay there. Neither of you moves.
🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶
The third time, it’s routine.
You’re already there when he arrives, red pen in hand, hair pulled up, pen tucked behind your ear. He pauses like he’s just found something exactly where he left it.
“You didn’t wait for me,” he says.
“You’re late,” you reply. “Again.”
He drops into the chair anyway, nudging your foot with his like muscle memory. Pushes his coffee toward you to taste, even though you both know you’ll hate it.
“You’re judging,” he says.
“You drink like a Victorian orphan,” you answer.
He laughs. Kira watches from behind the counter with the look of someone witnessing something inevitable.
This is a thing now. No labels. No pressure. Just showing up.
🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶
The one time he doesn’t save you a seat, it’s an accident.
The café is packed. A storm threatens outside. Beacon Hills hums like it’s holding its breath.
You walk in and scan the room.
Stiles is there. Same table. Same window.
Two chairs.
Both taken.
Scott. Of course it’s your idiot brother.
Stiles looks up and immediately starts spiraling.
“Oh my god, I thought you texted—I mean Scott just sat down and then it got busy and I didn’t want to make it weird and I was gonna move but—”
“It’s fine,” you say, already laughing.
Before he can finish apologizing, you step forward and sit.
Right on his lap.
The café goes quiet for half a second.
Stiles freezes. Hands hovering at your sides like he’s afraid to do the wrong thing. His mouth keeps going anyway.
“I can move, I mean you can have the chair, this is probably against some rule and I am so sorry—”
You grab his jacket.
Pull him in.
And kiss him.
Just enough. Just firm enough to shut him up.
His words cut off instantly. A soft, surprised sound escapes him before his hands finally settle at your waist, like they’ve been waiting for permission all along.
When you pull back, his eyes are wide. Stunned. Warm.
“…oh,” he says.
You smile. “You can stop spiraling now.”
Scott makes a gagging noise. Kira claps once before remembering she’s at work.
Stiles exhales a laugh, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I did save you a seat,” he murmurs. “Just… forgot where.”
You lean back against his chest, perfectly content. Your legs tangle with his like they’ve always belonged there.
“At every table,” you say quietly, “I find you anyway.”
He kisses your hair without thinking. Soft. Certain. So very him.
🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶
End.
I Slam My Door To Your Car Every Time You Break My Heart — D.W.
January Jumble Day 12
🩶💚🤍•••🩶💚🤍•••🩶💚🤍•••🩶💚🤍•••🩶💚🤍•••🩶💚🤍
Warnings: fight, Dean is hurt and reckless (but ok), crying, slamming Baby’s door, hugging, Dean trying not to be a butt but doesn’t know how
Word count: ~700
Mini summary: you’re tired of Dean being reckless, it breaks your heart… so you slam Baby’s door as a way to not scream at him
🩶💚🤍•••🩶💚🤍•••🩶💚🤍•••🩶💚🤍•••🩶💚🤍•••🩶💚🤍
The drive back to the bunker is silent in the way that presses on your chest.
Sam already handled the worst of it—glue, bandages, a muttered lecture Dean didn’t argue with. Blood cleaned up. Damage assessed. No hospital. No stitches. Just the kind of injuries that look manageable and feel anything but once the adrenaline wears off.
Dean sits in the passenger seat, arm wrapped, jaw tight, staring straight ahead like the road owes him something.
You don’t say a word.
Baby rolls to a stop outside the bunker, engine ticking as it cools. The quiet stretches. Sam clears his throat.
“I’m gonna—uh—put the stuff away,” he says, already opening his door. He gives you a look over the roof of the car. A silent be gentle. Or maybe don’t.
He disappears inside.
Dean reaches for the door handle.
You beat him to it.
The car door slams hard enough to rattle the mirrors.
Dean flinches.
You’re already out of Baby, breath coming too fast, hands clenched at your sides like you might come apart if you stop moving.
“What the hell was that?” he asks quietly.
You spin on him. “That was me not screaming.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, voice sharp, brittle. “You didn’t have to rush in like that. You knew we were coming.”
Dean shrugs, that infuriating half-motion. “I had it handled.”
Something in you snaps.
“No. You didn’t,” you fire back. “You had blood down your arm and a blade aimed at your ribs and you still didn’t stop. You never stop.”
“It wasn’t that bad—”
“Don’t,” you cut in. “Don’t minimize it.”
Your chest tightens, breath shallow now, words tumbling faster than you can rein them in. “I saw you go down. I saw it. And all I could think was this is it. This is the night he doesn’t get back up.”
Dean’s face shifts. Guilt flashes there, raw and unguarded.
“You don’t get to do that to me,” you say, voice cracking. “You don’t get to make choices like you’re the only one in this fight.”
He takes a step toward you. “I was protecting—”
“What happens to me?” you interrupt, the words tearing out of you before you can stop them. Your hands shake. Your throat burns. “Huh? If you die—then what? What happens?”
Dean freezes.
“I can’t live in this world without you, Dean,” you say, voice breaking completely now. “I can’t. So you better figure it out. Because I can’t do it.”
The tears spill before you can stop them.
You turn away immediately, scrubbing at your face, embarrassed by how hard you’re crying, furious that he gets to see this part of you. You draw in a shaky breath, trying to pull yourself together.
A hand catches your wrist.
Gentle. Firm. Dean.
He tugs you back around before you can pull free.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
His other hand comes up, thumb brushing under your eye, wiping away tears like they hurt him. He does it carefully, awkwardly, like he’s not sure where to touch but knows he has to do something.
“Don’t hide,” he says quietly.
You let out a broken sound that might be a laugh, might be a sob. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“I see you like this all the time,” he says softly. “You just don’t notice.”
That does it.
Your shoulders sag. The fight drains out of you all at once, leaving behind fear and relief and love so tangled it hurts.
Dean pulls you in then, arms wrapping around you, solid and warm and real. You cling to his jacket, fists knotted in the fabric, pressing your face into his chest like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go.
“I don’t say sorry right,” he murmurs into your hair. “But I hear you. I swear I do.”
Your voice is muffled against him. “I’m still mad.”
“I know,” he says without hesitation. “You can be.”
He holds you anyway. Stays. Lets you cry it out, his hand steady at your back, thumb brushing slow circles like he’s grounding you.
After a while, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in like an anchor.
“I don’t want to be the reason you’re afraid,” he says softly.
“Then don’t be,” you whisper.
He nods once. “I’ll try harder.”
It’s not a promise. It’s a Dean Winchester truth.
And for tonight—because he’s here, because he came back, because he’s holding you like he knows he scared you—it’s enough.
🩶💚🤍•••🩶💚🤍•••🩶💚🤍•••🩶💚🤍•••🩶💚🤍•••🩶💚🤍
brought up the girls you could have instead — R.C.
January Jumble Day 11
🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛 •••🧡🤍💛 •••🧡🤍💛
Warnings: insecure reader, Rafe is dumb, familial connection (reader and John B), no actual fight but reader is hurt, apologizing, angst
Word count: 900
Mini summary: Rafe is stupid, thank God John B knows his little sister and how to fix stupidity.
🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛 •••🧡🤍💛 •••🧡🤍💛
Rafe says it without thinking. That’s what hurts the most.
You’re at the counter, red pen in hand, grading essays while the ceiling fan ticks lazily overhead. Outside, the sound of gulls and distant boat motors drifts in through the open windows. Rafe’s pacing behind you, talking about work, about deadlines, about Sofia dropping off paperwork late.
“She’s good,” he says. “I mean—she’s hot, obviously, but whatever—”
You stop writing.
The fan keeps spinning. The house keeps breathing. Something in your chest goes still.
You don’t look at him. You just set the pen down, slow and careful, like if you move too fast everything might shatter.
“Okay,” you say.
Rafe pauses. “Okay… what?”
“I’m gonna head out.”
He frowns. “Why?”
You grab your bag, sliding the papers inside without smoothing them. You don’t trust your voice to do anything but stay level.
“I don’t want to fight,” you say. “I just don’t want to be here right now.”
“Babe, I didn’t mean it like—”
“I know,” you cut in, finally meeting his eyes. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t land.”
You’re out the door before he can reach for you, bare feet hitting the porch, salt air filling your lungs like a sharp inhale after holding your breath too long.
🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛 •••🧡🤍💛 •••🧡🤍💛
You don’t think about where you’re going.
You just go.
The Chateau has always been that place. Not because it’s calm or quiet—because it’s where he is.
The screen door slams behind you. Music hums low from inside. The porch boards creak the way they always have.
John B’s sitting on the steps, beer in hand, sunburned and barefoot, looking like he belongs exactly where he is. He looks up and immediately clocks it.
He doesn’t joke right away. That’s how you know he’s serious.
“What happened?” he asks.
Your chest tightens, the edge of everything finally catching up to you. You sit beside him, knees pulled up, leaning just enough that your shoulder brushes his.
“He said something stupid,” you say.
John B exhales slowly, like he’s already shifting into big brother mode.
“Rafe stupid,” he says, “or man stupid?”
“Both.”
You tell him. All of it. The comment. The tone. The way it followed you out the door. The way your mind filled in gaps you didn’t ask for—other versions of his life, other girls who wouldn’t need patience or explanations or emotional translation.
Girls who might’ve been easier.
Girls who wouldn’t need this much care.
John B doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, solid and quiet beside you, like he’s been doing your whole life—like he used to when you were younger, when things felt too big and he made them smaller just by staying.
“I don’t want to have to teach him how to talk,” you say softly. “I already do that all day. I stand in front of kids and explain how words land, how intent doesn’t erase impact. I can’t do that at home too, JB. I just can’t.”
John B nods, jaw tight.
“That’s fair,” he says. “You’re his partner. Not his teacher.”
You swallow. “I know he didn’t mean it. I just—don’t want to wonder if I’m the choice he made instead of the one he wanted.”
John B bumps his shoulder into yours, grounding, familiar.
“Hey,” he says. “You’ve always been the one he wants. He just doesn’t always know how to speak without setting himself on fire.”
There’s a beat.
Then, softer, “You came here to breathe. That’s okay.”
You nod, blinking hard.
“Oh,” he adds, already standing. “And I texted him.”
You groan. “John B—”
“I told him to come fix it,” he says. “Not fight. Fix. You don’t have to carry this alone.”
A truck crunches up the gravel driveway.
You don’t need to look to know who it is.
“I’m gonna grab another beer,” John B says, squeezing your shoulder once before heading inside. “You yell if you need me.”
🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛 •••🧡🤍💛 •••🧡🤍💛
Rafe stands a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight like he’s bracing for impact.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. No deflection. No ego. Just truth. “I didn’t think before I spoke, and that’s on me.”
You cross your arms, steady but open.
“I don’t care that she works for you,” you say. “I care that you said it like I was… replaceable.”
His face falls.
“You’re not,” he says, fast and sure. “You’re it. You’re the only person I want to come home to. I don’t think about other versions of my life or other people I could be with.”
He drags a hand through his hair, voice rough.
“I love you. More than anybody. More than this job, more than this island, more than anything I’ve ever screwed up. You’re the only place that’s ever felt steady. And I hate that I made you feel like you were something I could swap out.”
You watch him for a long moment.
Then you say, softly, “I don’t want to teach you how to be careful with me.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m learning. I promise.”
You reach for his hand.
“Okay,” you say. “Let’s go home.”
He blinks. “That’s… it?”
“You apologized,” you say. “I believe you. We’ll talk more later. Right now, I just want us.”
John B reappears instantly, beer in hand.
“Told you,” he says smugly. “Already fixed it. But good speech, man. Solid effort.”
Rafe groans. “You sent me, like, a novel.”
“You’re welcome.” He grinned cheekily. “It’s a brother thing.”
You climb into Rafe’s truck, fingers threading together over the console like it’s instinct, like it’s home.
As you pull away, the windows are down. Salt sticks to your skin. The ocean hums nearby.
This time, the quiet feels steady.
🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛•••🧡🤍💛 •••🧡🤍💛 •••🧡🤍💛
End.
I Wake In The Night, I Pace Like A Ghost D.W.
January Jumble Day 10
🖤💚🩶•••🖤💚🩶•••🖤💚🩶•••🖤💚🩶•••🖤💚🩶•••🖤💚🩶
Warnings: character death (Ellen and Jo) reader is Ellen’s daughter and Jo’s sister, angst, nightmares, crying, screaming, bathing together (not sexual), ptsd, spooning, reader is a Harvell
Word count: ~700
Mini summary: you just miss your mom and sister, but thankfully Dean’s always there to save you
🖤💚🩶•••🖤💚🩶•••🖤💚🩶•••🖤💚🩶•••🖤💚🩶•••🖤💚🩶
You don’t mean to fall asleep.
You really don’t.
You’re sitting upright in bed, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the far wall of the room you and Dean share at Bobby’s. Your eyes burn, your head throbs, your body heavy with days of not sleeping and nights of trying not to remember. Exhaustion finally wins anyway—dragging you under without asking.
Dean isn’t in bed.
He’s across the room at the desk, sleeves rolled up, papers spread everywhere. Research. Always research. He glances over at you every few minutes like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t keep checking.
You don’t remember the dream starting.
You just hear your mom’s voice.
Clear. Close. Wrong.
Then the explosion.
The fire.
The screams of Jo.
You wake up screaming.
It rips out of you—raw and panicked, the sound of someone who has lost too much and isn’t done losing yet.
Dean is moving before your eyes even open.
The chair scrapes back hard. Papers scatter. He’s at your side in seconds, hands on your shoulders, pulling you upright before you can fold in on yourself.
“Hey—hey,” he says, urgent but not loud. “It’s okay. You’re here. You’re with me.”
You can’t breathe.
Your chest burns.
Your hands claw into his shirt like you’re drowning and he’s the only solid thing left in the world.
“She was calling me,” you sob, words breaking apart. “I just—I want my mom. I just want my mom—I want Jo.”
Dean wraps you up completely, arms locking around you like he can hold you together by force if he has to. One hand cradles the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair. The other rubs firm, steady circles on your lower back.
“I know,” he says, voice rough, cracking with you. “I know.”
But it isn’t enough.
Your body won’t stop shaking. Every time you close your eyes, it’s fire and screaming and the sound of her telling you to run.
Dean swears under his breath.
“Okay,” he murmurs, softer now, like he’s talking to something fragile. “Okay. We’re gonna try something else.”
He doesn’t ask.
He lifts you up like you weigh nothing and carries you down the hall to the bathroom. Bobby’s old clawfoot tub waits—quiet, chipped, familiar. Dean runs the water warm, tests it carefully, then eases you in.
You’re both stripped down just enough that there’s nothing between you but skin and heat. When he settles in behind you, your back presses directly to his chest.
The contact hits harder than you expect.
You gasp, breath hitching, and your shoulders finally sag.
Dean’s bare arms come around you immediately, strong and sure where they cross your stomach. His skin is warm. Solid. His heartbeat is right there against your spine, steady and real.
“Okay,” he murmurs into your hair. “I got you.”
You cling to him without shame, fingers curling into his arms like you’re afraid he’ll disappear too. The shaking eases in small, uneven waves. Your breathing slowly starts to match his without you even trying.
Dean rests his chin against your shoulder. His mouth brushes your temple, your hairline, the curve of your neck—soft, familiar touches meant to ground, not ask.
“Just stay with me,” he whispers. “That’s it. Just stay.”
The water laps quietly against the porcelain. The world shrinks to warmth and skin and the steady rise and fall of his chest behind you.
Eventually, the worst of it passes.
Dean helps you out of the tub gently, wraps you in towels, dries you off like you’re made of glass. He dresses you without comment, without rush, and leads you back to bed.
He climbs in behind you and pulls you back against him, fitting around you like it’s always been this way. Your back presses into his chest, his arm settling heavy and sure around your middle.
You curl into him without thinking, clinging like you’re afraid the night might pry you loose again.
“You make me feel safe,” you murmur, voice small and wrecked. “In a world that’s not.”
Dean tightens his hold just a fraction, like it costs him something and gives him something all at once. He presses his mouth into your hair.
“I’ll never not protect you,” he says quietly. “And I’ll never leave you.”
His breathing stays slow and steady behind you, anchoring you there until your own finally follows.
Sleep takes you gently this time.
Dean stays awake long after.
Just in case.
🖤💚🩶•••🖤💚🩶•••🖤💚🩶•••🖤💚🩶•••🖤💚🩶•••🖤💚🩶
End.
you fix the things you hated and you still feel so insecure — S.S.
January Jumble Day 9
🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶
Warnings: fight, angst, crying, insecurity, emotional shutdown, jealousy
Word count: 2.0k
Mini summary: you have big feelings but the biggest is that you just want Stiles to want to defend you sometimes
🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶
The pack house had been too bright.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The smell of antiseptic and wet leaves clung to everyone like proof of what almost happened.
Derek didn’t pace. He never did. He stood still, arms crossed, eyes locked on you like he was trying to decide how bad it could’ve been if things had gone just a little more wrong.
“You don’t make impulsive calls,” he said. Not angry. Worse—confused. “That’s not you.”
Your shoulders tensed.
Malia shifted beside you, restless but unbothered, like the scrape on her knuckles was just another scrape. Another night.
“It wasn’t reckless,” she said. “We handled it.”
Derek’s gaze flicked to her, then back to you. “You followed.”
The word landed heavy. Like an accusation you didn’t have a defense for.
Stiles stepped in immediately.
“She knew what she was doing,” he said, quick and certain. “Malia doesn’t jump without thinking it through.”
He was already halfway into explanation mode, voice steady, hands moving as if this were a problem he could logic his way out of.
“She’s been training for this,” he added. “She assessed the risk. She made the call.”
Derek’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t talking about her.”
Stiles didn’t look at you.
“She’s been solid lately,” he kept going, a little sharper now. “More controlled. She’s not the issue.”
The word issue echoed anyway.
You felt it then—that hollow drop in your chest. The way something slipped loose and didn’t make a sound when it fell.
Scott shifted next to you. He knew. He always knew too much.
“She hasn’t been solid,” Scott said carefully. “Not like this. That’s why this matters.”
Derek nodded once. “You were out of character.”
There it was.
Uncharacteristic.
Impulsive.
Wrong.
Your throat tightened. You didn’t interrupt. You didn’t explain that you’d been trying to keep up. That you’d been watching Stiles orbit someone else lately—watching him step in faster, stay longer, speak louder for Malia than he had for you in weeks.
You didn’t say that when the ground felt unsteady, you stopped trusting yourself to stand still.
Stiles finally glanced at you then, brow furrowed like he’d just realized you hadn’t spoken.
“You’re okay,” he said automatically. “You didn’t get hurt.”
Not are you okay.
Not why did you do it.
Just a statement. A conclusion.
You nodded.
It was easier than explaining the ache behind your ribs. Easier than admitting you hadn’t been trying to be brave—you’d been trying to be seen.
Derek exhaled through his nose. “You don’t take risks like that unless something’s wrong.”
Silence stretched.
Stiles frowned, uneasy now. “She’s fine,” he said again, softer this time. “She would’ve said something.”
Would you have?
Scott looked at you then. Really looked. Your arms were folded tight. Your eyes were somewhere else. Already retreating.
He opened his mouth—
You stepped back before he could speak.
One step. Then another.
This time, Stiles noticed.
“Hey,” he said, too late. “Where are you going?”
You didn’t answer.
The door clicked shut behind you, gentle enough that it almost sounded accidental.
Stiles froze.
The room felt different without you. Quieter. Wrong.
“Oh,” he muttered, the realization hitting him all at once. “Fuck.”
Derek’s voice was low when he said it. “She didn’t do that for the thrill.”
Stiles swallowed.
Scott didn’t say I told you so. He didn’t need to.
Because Stiles was already replaying it — every word he’d said, every word he hadn’t, the way he’d stepped forward for someone else and assumed you’d be fine standing alone.
And for the first time, it occurred to him that maybe you hadn’t been.
🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶
You didn’t make a scene when you pulled away.
That would’ve required energy. Explanations. Emotions you didn’t trust yourself to articulate without sounding small.
So you did it carefully.
You stopped going to pack meetings.
You stopped answering group texts.
You stopped lingering in rooms you used to fill.
Scott got a pass. He always did. He showed up with food and questions you didn’t answer and a look that said I see you anyway. Liam got a pass too. Liam knew everything and said nothing, which somehow meant more. He sat on the floor outside your room sometimes, scrolling on his phone, his presence loud in its quiet loyalty.
Everyone else got iced out.
Including Stiles.
Especially Stiles.
It wasn’t dramatic. It was the little things.
You left the room before he finished a thought.
You answered with “mhm” instead of sentences.
You stopped asking how his day was.
You stopped waiting up.
When he sat on the couch, you chose the chair.
When he reached for the remote, you stood to refill your water.
When he knocked on your bedroom door, you said you were tired and meant something else entirely.
You read more.
You’d always read—he knew that—but now it was constant. A book in your hands at breakfast. Another balanced on your knee at night. Words stacked on words, filling the space where your thoughts got too loud.
Stories were safer. They didn’t miss things. They didn’t forget you existed.
Stiles noticed.
Not all at once. He kept telling himself you were stressed, that summer was weird, that you’d talk when you were ready.
But the apartment started to feel like it was divided by invisible tape.
Liam noticed first. He always did. He watched the way Stiles’ eyes followed you when you left a room. The way his shoulders slumped when you didn’t come back.
He didn’t say anything.
He wouldn’t betray you like that.
The night it finally broke, you were sure Stiles was working late.
You were curled up on your bed, knees drawn in, book open but unread for the last ten minutes because your mind kept replaying moments you hadn’t meant to catalog—his voice, his silence, the way he’d stood in front of someone else without even thinking to check behind him.
The door clicked.
Your heart jumped into your throat.
Footsteps. Familiar. Too close.
You didn’t have time to pretend you were asleep.
Stiles filled the doorway, breath caught like he’d been holding it the entire walk home. His hair was messier than usual, eyes tired in a way that had nothing to do with work.
You looked up, startled despite yourself.
“Oh,” you said. “I thought—”
“I know,” he said too quickly, like he already knew what you were going to say and couldn’t bear to hear it. “We need to talk. Now.”
Your instinct was to deflect. To shrug. To make a joke. To say later or it’s fine or I’m just tired and mean I don’t trust myself not to break.
You shifted, closing the book halfway. “Stiles, it’s late. We can—”
He looked at you then.
Really looked.
And whatever he saw on your face finally matched the feeling that had been sitting in his chest for days.
“No,” he said quietly. Not angry. Not pleading. Just certain. “We can’t.”
Something in you gave.
It wasn’t dramatic. It was more like a slow collapse—the kind that happened when you’d been bracing for impact for too long.
You nodded once.
“…Okay.”
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the pack house. Since the moment you’d walked away and hadn’t looked back.
He stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him.
Neither of you said anything else.
Not yet.
🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶
Stiles didn’t ease into it.
Not that he ever would.
He closed the door and turned back to you like he was done trying to be patient.
“You don’t get to keep freezing me out,” he said. “Not like this.”
Your laugh was immediate and sharp, the kind that came from somewhere ugly. “I don’t get to?”
“No,” he snapped. “Because something is wrong and you’re pretending it’s not, and I’m done letting you do that thing where you disappear and expect everyone to just—”
“I didn’t expect you to notice,” you cut in. “That’s kind of the point.”
He stopped short.
“What does that mean?”
It was like something inside you finally detonated.
“It means maybe I changed,” you said, your voice shaking. “Maybe I wasn’t the girl you thought I was anymore.”
“That’s bullshit,” he fired back immediately. “I know you.”
You shook your head hard. “You don’t.”
“I do,” he insisted, stepping closer. “I know everything about you.”
“No,” you said, louder now. “You know who I was. Who I used to be.”
“I know you scrunch your nose when you’re annoyed or confused,” he snapped, words tumbling out like he was afraid if he stopped you’d vanish again. “I know you bite the tip of your pen when you’re thinking too hard. I know when you’re on your period you want a burger and fries, and when you’re sad you want Chinese, and when you’re spiraling about me being an idiot you only talk to Liam.”
Your breath stuttered.
“That’s what’s been happening,” he pressed. “Because I know you. So don’t stand there and tell me I don’t. Because I do. I know you better than anybody.”
Tears spilled over before you could stop them.
“Then why didn’t you see me?” you cried. “Why didn’t you see that I was standing right there?”
His face fell. “What are you talking about?”
“Malia,” you choked out, the word cracking in half. “It’s always Malia.”
He stiffened.
“She was the first person you loved,” you said, your voice breaking completely. “Of course I was insecure. Of course I got into my head when you jumped in front of her without thinking and didn’t even look at me.”
“That’s not—”
“You defended her,” you sobbed. “You always defended her. And I stood there like an idiot waiting for you to say something—anything—and you didn’t. Not once.”
You wiped at your face angrily. “And I hated myself for caring. I told myself I was being dramatic. I told myself to shut up and be normal. But it hurt, Stiles. It really fucking hurt.”
He reached for you instinctively.
You shoved him back, hard enough that he stumbled a step.
“Don’t,” you snapped through tears. “Don’t touch me.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice rough. “I didn’t realize I was doing that.”
“I didn’t need you to defend me because I was weak,” you cried. “I needed you to because I was yours.”
That one wrecked him.
He swallowed hard, eyes shining. “I didn’t think you needed me to.”
“I didn’t want to have to ask,” you whispered.
Silence crashed down between you, thick and suffocating.
Then he stepped forward again.
You pushed at his chest, weaker this time. “Stiles, I said—”
“I know,” he said softly, arms wrapping around you anyway. “I know.”
You sagged into him despite yourself, the fight draining out of you all at once. Your face pressed into his chest and the sob you’d been holding back finally tore free.
He held you tighter.
“I know your favorite book is The Lightning Thief,” he murmured into your hair. “I know your comfort movie is The Blind Side. I know you hate Twilight with a weird amount of passion. I know you refuse to throw away leftovers even when they’ve gone bad—you make me or Liam do it.”
A broken laugh slipped out of you through tears.
“I know you read yourself to sleep when you’re worried,” he continued, his voice shaking now too. “Which is why I kept finding you with a book every night for the past week and a half.”
You clutched his shirt like you might fall without it.
“And I still loved you,” he said. “Even when you shut me out. Even when you didn’t say what you needed. But you have to stop doing this alone. Let me help.”
You nodded against him, exhausted. “I didn’t know how. I always did this.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his forehead pressed to yours.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said. “Together. But don’t disappear on me again. I can’t lose you like that.”
You breathed him in. Grounded. Shaky. Safe.
He kissed you then—not soft, not frantic.
Messy.
Chaotic.
Just like you.
Just like him.
It felt like an apology you could feel settle in your bones.
When you pulled away, your voice was small but honest.
“Don’t miss me next time.”
His thumb brushed your cheek, gentle and reverent.
“I won’t.”
🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶•••🖤🤍🩶
End.
long story short (not short) i survived — S.R.
January Jumble Day 8
❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙
Warnings: grief, ptsd, angst, survivor’s guilt, Thanos, the snap, crying, ass is mentioned once, death of a friend (Natasha), fight (with Clint), yelling, emotional shutdown, emotional breakdown, found family, mentions of Red Room, PROCEED WITH CAUTION. THIS IS A LOT. Takes place during Endgame with the snap.
Word count: 3.5k
Mini summary: you survived Vormir, Natasha didn’t. It wasn’t your choice, not that she ever would’ve given you one. You have to settle with the grief and survivor’s guilt at some point.
Notes: this is longer than my normal January jumble pieces but I felt the need to do this and give reader, Clint, and Nat justice through this piece. This is one of the most emotional pieces I’ve ever written so pls be kind.
❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙
The compound doesn’t shake when you and Clint come back.
There’s no warning, no sound big enough to justify what’s missing. One second there are three. The next, only two.
Clint drops to his knees.
You stay upright, swaying just slightly, like your body hasn’t caught up to the truth yet.
Steve moves first. He always does. He’s already crossing the room when Bruce looks up, hope flickering and dying in the same breath. Steve says your name. Soft. Careful. Like he’s approaching something fragile and volatile all at once.
You don’t look at him.
Your eyes are fixed on the empty space where Natasha should be.
Someone asks where she is.
You turn away before the question finishes.
❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙
Thor finds you before anyone else can.
Not in your room. Not hiding. In one of the auxiliary labs, sitting on the edge of a table with your boots still on, elbows braced against your knees, staring at nothing.
He doesn’t ask if you’re okay.
He never does.
“You tell me what happened, on that planet of vile,” he says, voice low, steady, like he’s asking for coordinates. Steve is behind him, silent.
Watching.
Gauging.
You swallow hard.
Too hard.
“The mountain was… wrong,” you say after a moment. Your voice sounds scraped raw. “Like it was watching us.”
Thor nods, encouraging.
“And the price was what? There is a price always. We must know it to have any chance at victory against Thanos.”
Your fingers curl into your palms.
“A soul,” you say. Then, quieter, “For a soul.”
Thor exhales slowly through his nose. Grief, old and familiar, settles behind his eyes. “And you learned of this when?”
“When we got there,” you say. “When it was too late to turn around.”
He doesn’t interrupt. He never rushes you.
“She pushed me,” you say suddenly. The words come sharp, sudden, like they’ve been clawing at her throat. “Nat did. I thought—” Your voice breaks. You clear it with effort. You would not cry. You had done enough crying. You push through pain. “I thought she’d let me fight her for it. Clint and I both did.”
Thor tilts his head. “And he knew?”
Your jaw tightens. Just once. “Yes. I think so. He knew when I knew. We found out together. None of us knew then that it was a soul for a soul when we left.”
The silence that follows is heavy but not accusatory. Thor lets it sit.
“You are injured,” he says instead. Steve clocked your injury, he did before but didn’t want to fight you on it, as it wasn’t dire.
You shake your head automatically. “It’s nothing.”
Thor’s gaze drops to your side. There’s blood soaking through the fabric of your suit, dark and sticky.
“It is not nothing,” he says gently. “But it is not fatal.”
You hesitate. Then you nod once. “It’s a gash. I didn’t feel it until after.”
“Will you permit the green … person-hulk to tend it?” he asks.
You look away. “No.”
Thor studies your face, the tension in your shoulders, the way your breathing has gone shallow. He softens his voice.
“You may choose who stands with you,” he says. “But you should not stand alone.”
You swallow hard. Too hard. Again.
“…Steve can,” you say finally, not looking at either of them. “If he doesn’t talk about the… failed mission.”
❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙
Bruce moves slowly, deliberately, like he’s approaching a skittish animal.
Steve is already there when you’re helped onto the table. He doesn’t say a word. Just takes your hand when you offer it, his grip steady and warm.
You hate needles.
The Red Room taught you that pain was something you endured silently. It didn’t teach you how to let someone help. That wasn’t taught until Steve.
Your fingers tighten around Steve’s the moment the needle comes into view. Your breathing spikes, shallow and uneven.
“I’ve got you,” Steve murmurs without thinking. Not loud. Not commanding. Just present.
You squeeze harder.
Thor watches from the corner, arms crossed over his chest, expression grave but approving. This, he thinks, is survival. Not strength. Connection. Survival.
When it’s over, when the wound is cleaned and bandaged and Bruce steps back, you don’t let go of Steve’s hand.
You don’t look at him either.
But you don’t pull away.
And for now, that’s enough.
❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙
You don’t leave.
That’s what confuses everyone.
You sit through briefings. You nod when plans are laid out. You contribute when asked. Your voice is steady, your posture disciplined, your hands folded like you’re containing something volatile beneath your skin.
Steve sits beside you every time.
You don’t lean into him anymore, but you don’t move away either. When the room gets too loud, when voices overlap and the air starts to feel tight, your hand finds his without looking. Muscle memory. Instinct.
He covers your fingers with his own, grounding you.
You let him.
That’s the thing — you let him do everything. You just don’t give anything back, not really. Not the way you want to.
At night, you still sleep in the same bed.
You curl into his side when nightmares rip you out of sleep, fingers clutching his shirt like a lifeline, breath stuttering until he murmurs your name and pulls you closer. You press your face into his chest and breathe him in until the shaking stops.
Then you go still again.
Steve lies awake afterward, staring at the ceiling, one arm wrapped around you, wondering how someone can be right here and still impossibly far away.
❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙
You don’t talk to Tony.
You don’t talk to Bruce.
You don’t talk to Steve — not really.
You talk to Thor.
He asks questions the way soldiers do. Not to pry. To understand.
You answer him because it feels like reporting facts, not feelings. Because he doesn’t flinch when you mention Vormir. Because he doesn’t tell you it was brave or noble or meant to be.
Because he doesn’t ask you to forgive yourself.
You do not look at Clint.
Not even by accident.
He becomes something you move around. A shadow you refuse to acknowledge. You don’t hate him. Hate would require engagement.
This is worse.
The confrontation happens in the training room because of course it does.
You’re mid-drill, sweat slicking down your spine, lungs burning, when Clint steps into your path. You stop short, irritation flaring sharp and fast.
“You done pretending I don’t exist?” he asks.
You don’t answer.
You move to go around him.
He blocks you.
“Say something,” he presses. “Anything.”
You lift your eyes slowly. Meet his gaze for the first time since Vormir. It feels like ripping open a wound that never scabbed.
“I don’t owe you conversation,” you say evenly.
His mouth twists. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Something ugly crawls up your throat.
“You don’t get to punish me like this,” he says. “You don’t get to decide I’m dead too.”
“You made your choice,” you reply, and the words come out colder than you intend.
Clint flinches like you struck him.
“So did she,” he snaps. “Nat knew exactly what she was doing.”
Your breath stutters.
“She shoved me,” you say. Quiet. Dangerous. “She didn’t even let me try.”
“She wasn’t going to let you die,” Clint fires back. “She never was. You were just too naive to see it.”
The room tilts.
“You knew,” you shout, all the anger and grief you had been harboring, finally boiled over. “You knew she was going to fight us for it and you didn’t tell me!”
“I couldn’t stop her! There wasn’t time!” he yells. “What was I supposed to do — let you die instead? Let you both die?”
You shove him.
It’s instinctive. Not violent. Just space-breaking. Clint grabs your wrist reflexively, not to hurt you, just to steady himself — and suddenly Thor is there, wrenching you apart with frightening ease.
“Enough,” he commands, voice thunderous.
Steve is at your side instantly, hands hovering, unsure where to touch.
The adrenaline drains out of you all at once.
Your knees buckle.
Steve catches you, arms locking around you as you collapse into his chest. You try to push him away, panic clawing up your throat.
“No — don’t — I can’t — Steve —”
“I’ve got you,” he says softly, holding you upright, grounding you. “I’ve got you.”
The dam breaks.
You sob into his shoulder, fingers fisting in his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you vertical. Your body shakes violently, breath coming in jagged gasps that hurt your ribs.
“She didn’t let me choose,” you choke. “She just—she just pushed me—”
Steve tightens his hold, one hand firm at your back, the other cradling your head, letting you fall apart without trying to stop it.
“I lived,” you sob. “I lived and she didn’t and I don’t know how to carry that.”
Clint looks wrecked. Hollowed out. He doesn’t approach.
Thor stands close, silent, solid.
Steve presses his forehead to your temple.
“You don’t have to know yet,” he murmurs. “You’re allowed to just hurt.”
You cling to him, crying like your body has been holding this in since Vormir and can’t anymore.
For the first time since you came back, you are not alone with it.
And it hurts so much worse than the silence ever did.
❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙
Steve doesn’t let go of you.
Not when your crying turns hoarse and uneven.
Not when your legs stop working and he has to keep an arm locked around your waist to hold you upright.
Not when the world narrows down to the sound of your own breathing breaking apart in your chest.
He murmurs your name over and over, soft and steady, like an anchor you can grab onto even when everything else feels like it’s slipping.
Thor doesn’t leave. Neither does Clint.
They trail behind as Steve guides you toward the med bay, your weight leaning fully into him now, exhaustion crashing down hard and fast. You barely register the room when you’re laid back on the bed. White lights. Cold air. Too many memories.
Steve stays close. Too close for anyone else’s comfort. Exactly close enough for yours.
You refuse to look at anyone but him.
Your fingers curl weakly into his sleeve, knuckles white, and he immediately responds—brushing damp hair away from your face, wiping tears from your cheeks even though they keep coming, like trying to empty the ocean with bare hands.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, even though it isn’t. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
The IV stand rolls closer. Bruce moves toward you with that careful-but-determined look he gets when he’s trying to save someone from themselves.
“She’s dehydrated,” Bruce says. “We need to get fluids in her. And I should check the wound.”
You flinch.
Steve feels it instantly.
Thor steps forward before Bruce can get any closer.
“She needs the calm before she needs the mending,” Thor says firmly. “You see that.”
Bruce frowns. “Thor—”
“No,” Clint cuts in, voice rough, unsteady in a way that makes something twist in your chest. “It’s not the cut that’s bleeding.”
The room goes quiet.
Clint doesn’t look at you when he speaks. He keeps his eyes on the floor, jaw clenched like he’s holding himself together by sheer force.
“It’s everything else,” he says. “And poking at her isn’t gonna fix that.”
Something in his voice cracks. Just barely. Like he didn’t mean for anyone to hear it.
And suddenly it hits you.
Not just Natasha.
Not just Vormir.
Clint lost everything.
His family. His partner. His anchor. And now you—shutting him out like he was another ghost.
Your breath catches again, sharp and painful, grief flaring back up like a fresh wound.
“Oh god,” you sob, the sound tearing out of you. “Clint—”
Your hand reaches out blindly.
He’s there immediately.
He steps in close, careful, like he’s afraid he’ll break you if he moves too fast. Your fingers curl into his jacket, the same way they’ve done a hundred times before, the way they did when SHIELD first trained you, when he taught you how to breathe through panic, how to aim steady even when your hands were shaking.
You cling to him now, forehead pressing into his chest as the tears start all over again.
“I didn’t mean to—” you choke. “I didn’t mean to leave you alone too.”
Clint exhales shakily and wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you just as steady as Steve does. Just as familiar. Just as safe.
“You didn’t,” he murmurs. “You didn’t leave. You were hurting.”
Steve stays right there, one hand still on you, thumb brushing slow, soothing circles at your temple. Thor stands close too, silent and solid, like a pillar holding the room upright.
You’re surrounded.
Not crowded.
Not smothered.
Held.
And for the first time since Vormir, you let yourself believe that surviving doesn’t mean doing it by yourself.
You cry until there’s nothing left in you. Until your body finally starts to settle, exhaustion pulling you under in heavy waves. Steve keeps brushing your hair back, keeps wiping your tears even after they stop falling, like he’s afraid to miss one.

When Bruce finally approaches again, slower this time, gentler, you don’t pull away.
You’re still breaking.
But you’re not alone.
❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙
You don’t know how long it takes before the room thins out.
At some point, Bruce leaves. Thor steps back but doesn’t go far. Steve stays close enough that you can feel him without looking, his presence a constant hum against your skin.
Clint doesn’t move.
Eventually, it’s just the two of you standing there in the aftermath of everything you didn’t say.
You feel sick with it.
The guilt comes in waves now that the crying has slowed. Heavy. Crushing. You stare at the floor because if you look at him too long, you’re afraid it’ll tear you open all over again.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper finally. The words feel inadequate the moment they leave your mouth. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have— I shouldn’t have shut you out. I shouldn’t have—”
Your voice breaks again. You press your hand to your chest like it might stop the ache from spreading.
“I made it worse,” you say. “I know I did. I punished you when you were already—” You shake your head, breath hitching. “I punished you when you were already losing everything.”
Clint swears under his breath.
He steps closer before you can spiral any further and gently but firmly tips your chin up so you’re forced to look at him.
“Hey,” he says. Not sharp. Not angry. Just real. “Stop.”
You freeze.
“That guilt spiral?” he continues. “That thing where you tear yourself apart because you think you deserve it?” He shakes his head. “That’s not an apology. That’s just you hurting yourself.”
Tears blur your vision again.
“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper. “I just—every time I looked at you, all I could see was the moment she pushed me. And I hated that I lived.”
Something in Clint’s face softens. Breaks.
“I know,” he says quietly. “And I should’ve told you. I should’ve warned you. I thought—” His jaw tightens. “I thought maybe if I didn’t say it out loud, it wouldn’t happen.”
He exhales, shaky.
“That one’s on me.”
You shake your head immediately. “No. Clint—no. I’m not mad at you. Or Nat.” The words come faster now, urgent, like you need him to hear them before you lose the nerve. “I swear. I’m not.”
He watches you carefully. Like he’s afraid to believe you.
“I’m mad at surviving,” you say. Your voice cracks, but you keep going. “I’m mad that I’m still here and I have to learn how to live with losing someone again. I’m mad that it keeps happening. That it never gets easier. That I don’t get to rest.”
Your hands curl into fists at your sides.
“She didn’t give me a choice,” you say, tears spilling again. “And I hate that I’m the one who has to carry it.”
Clint doesn’t argue. Doesn’t correct you. He steps in and pulls you into a hug that feels achingly familiar — solid, steady, like every SHIELD hallway and every late-night debrief and every unspoken promise you ever made to each other.
“You shouldn’t have to carry it alone,” he murmurs into your hair. “You never should have.”
You cling to him, forehead pressed against his shoulder, grief spilling out quieter now but no less heavy.
“I lost her,” you whisper. “And I almost lost you too.”
“You didn’t,” Clint says firmly. “I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Neither of you mention his family. You don’t have to. The loss sits between you, shared and understood.
When you finally pull back, you feel wrung out. Raw. But lighter in a way that surprises you.
“I forgive you,” you tell him. “For everything.”
Clint gives a small, crooked smile. “Good. Because I forgive you too.”
You breathe out, long and shaky.
For the first time since Vormir, the anger loosens its grip.
Not gone.
But no longer owning you.
❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙
You find Steve exactly where you hoped he’d be.
Not pacing.
Not hovering.
Just… there.
Sitting back against the headboard, legs stretched out, sweater sleeves pushed up his forearms. He looks tired in the way people do when they’ve been holding steady for everyone else. When he sees you, his shoulders loosen like he’s been waiting without wanting to admit it.
“Hey,” he says gently.
“Hey,” you echo, voice small but real.
You hover for half a second, suddenly unsure, and Steve notices. He always does.
He opens his arms without a word.
That’s all it takes.
You climb onto the bed and crawl right over him, limbs awkward and ungraceful, settling fully on top of him like gravity just decided he was the safest place to land. Your cheek presses into his chest, nose tucked into his throat, one leg slung over his like you’re afraid he might disappear if you don’t anchor yourself properly.
He laughs softly, one hand immediately coming up to cradle the back of your head.
“There’s my koala bear,” he murmurs.
You huff a weak laugh into his shirt. “I resent that.”
“You only do this when you’re overwhelmed,” he says, thumb brushing through your hair in slow, grounding strokes. “Or sad. Or tired. Or when the world feels too loud.”
“So,” you mumble, “all the time.”
“That checks out.”
You laugh again — a little breathier this time — and it surprises you. It still feels strange, laughing when your chest aches like this. Like joy snuck in through a crack you forgot to lock.
Steve feels it too. His chest lifts beneath you with a quiet exhale.
God, he’s missed that sound.
You shift slightly, resettling, body heavy with exhaustion now that you’ve stopped bracing. The sadness doesn’t leave. It just… softens. Like it’s wrapped itself in a blanket and decided to stay a while.
“I talked to Clint,” you say quietly.
Steve’s hand stills for half a second, then resumes its gentle motion. “Yeah?”
“We’re okay,” you say. “Not perfect. But… okay.”
“I’m glad, Baby,” he says, and he means it.
You lift your head just enough to look at him. “I’m still going to kick Thanos’s ass.”
He blinks, then says, despite himself, “Language.”
You snort.
It slips out of you — real and unguarded — and Steve actually laughs this time. Not careful. Not restrained. Just warm and relieved and so unmistakably happy to see you coming back.
“There you are,” he says softly.
Something inside you wobbles.
You press your face back into his chest, voice muffled. “I’m not all the way back.”
“I know,” he says easily. “You don’t have to be.”
His arm tightens around you, solid and sure. You can feel his heartbeat beneath your cheek. Steady. Patient.
“I love you,” you murmur.
“I love you,” he answers immediately. Then, quieter, more serious. “And I know you’re struggling. I know this doesn’t just… go away.”
You tense, just a little.
Steve’s hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, thumb brushing your temple in a slow, familiar rhythm.
“But I can’t do this without you,” he continues. “I need you here. You have to live. Okay?”
You lift your head again, eyes stinging but steady.
“I’m trying,” you say honestly. “I’m choosing to.”
He nods once, like that’s enough. Like it always has been.
You lean down and kiss him — not rushed, not desperate. Just slow and warm and intentional. A promise pressed into skin and breath and trust.
When you pull back, you settle down again, full weight resting on him, body fitting against his like muscle memory never forgot its way home. Your nose tucks into the hollow of his throat. His chin rests in your hair.
He holds you like he has nowhere else to be.
The sadness stays.
But so do you.
And tonight, that feels like enough.
❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙•••❤️🤍💙
End.