SUMMARY. . . Peter has always been good at noticing things. Unfortunately, that now includes your habits, your routines, your secrets, and far too much of your life. The more he learns about you, the harder it becomes to convince himself he's still one of the good guys.
pairing: peter parker/spiderman x reader
content warnings: obsessive idiot peter parker, morally gray peter parker, stalking, surveillance, hacking, digital privacy invasion, peter parker knows way too much, unhealthy attachment, questionable coping mechanisms, trust issues, relationship tension, codependency if we're being honest, emotional angst, psychological thriller undertones, loneliness, pining, secret identity drama, poor life choices, love as a horror genre but not rlly, relationship paranoia, possessiveness, post brand new day, guys bear with me it's going somewhere good i promise </3. not betaread. lmk if i missed anything!!
comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡
— amazing support banners used are from @moonstoneandmoonlight !
w/c: 8.8k
a/n: peter parker support group starts here!! unfortunately, I'm not offering support.
I made him worse :p
Peter first noticed you because you dropped a pen.
Not in any interesting way. Not in slow motion, not with a dramatic little gasp, not the kind of thing anyone wrote poems about unless they were trying too hard. It slipped out from between your fingers halfway through Professor Menken’s lecture on genetic ethics, hit the edge of your desk, bounced once against the leg of the chair in front of you, and rolled beneath Peter’s sneaker.
He looked down at it because he heard it before anyone else did.
That was the thing about the new edges of him. The mutation hadn't settled cleanly after everything. It had sharpened in odd places, overcorrected in others. Sound arrived layered now: the scrape of chalk, someone’s gum clicking against a molar three rows back, the pulse in the throat of the guy beside him who had definitely not done the reading. The city beyond the lecture hall kept pressing itself into his skull in a dozen distant frequencies, sirens and pipes and pigeons beating frantic wings beneath the eaves.
And then there was your pen.
Cheap black ballpoint. Cap chewed, not recently. A faint crescent of teeth marks near the clip.
Peter picked it up before he thought better of it.
You turned in your seat, a little embarrassed but not enough to make a performance of it, your brows rising when you realized someone had retrieved it. “Oh. Thank you.”
Your voice did not do anything impossible. It didn't rearrange him. It just sat warmly in the air between you, lower than he expected, slightly hoarse like you had been up too late or had laughed too much the night before.
Peter gave you the pen. “No problem.”
You smiled, quick and polite, and turned back around.
That should have been the end of it.
Peter knew that. He knew it with the same blunt clarity he knew not to crawl across ceilings in public or listen through apartment walls just because he could. Some lines were simple because crossing them made everything else complicated. You were a person in one of his classes. He had handed you a pen. That was all.
For nearly four minutes, he managed to leave it there.
Then you tapped the pen twice against your notebook, paused, and wrote something in the margin instead of on the lecture line where everyone else had written CRISPR and informed consent and somatic inheritance. Peter saw the movement from the corner of his eye. His vision caught too much when he let it. A tilt, a shadow, a word half-formed before your hand covered it.
He should not have looked.
He still looked.
You had written: who decides what counts as damage?
Peter stared at the back of your head for one second too long.
The question stayed with him after class, needling under his skin while students packed laptops and shoved water bottles into canvas bags. You stood slowly, stretching your fingers once before sliding your notebook away. Someone called your name from the aisle. You glanced over your shoulder and gave a tired little laugh when a girl with chipped blue nail polish asked if you were coming to the library later.
“Maybe,” you said after you gave a few experimental blinks. “I have work first.”
Peter bent over his backpack, pretending he had not heard.
He had heard too much.
Your keys clinked inside the front pocket of your bag. Your phone buzzed twice. You smelled faintly of vanilla shampoo and rain-damp wool, though it had not rained since morning. Your heartbeat was steady, quicker when your friend mentioned a party, slower when you said, “I’ll see how dead I am after closing.”
Normal details. Human details. None of them belonged to him.
He walked out ten paces behind you anyway.
Only because the door was in that direction, he told himself. Only because everyone was leaving through the same narrow hall, shoulder to shoulder, voices bouncing off institutional beige walls. ESU’s biology building had bad ventilation and worse fluorescent lighting. It made everyone look slightly ill. You squinted against it, one eye narrowing more than the other.
Peter noticed that too.
He hated that he noticed that.
Outside, late autumn had made the campus restless. Leaves skittered over the pavement in dry little bursts, trapped briefly against bike racks before the wind worried them loose. The sky hung low and silver behind the brick buildings. You tucked your chin into your scarf and walked toward the Square with your friend still talking beside you, one hand moving as she described something, the other hooked around the strap of your bag.
Peter stopped at the stairs.
He could have gone the other way.
He had laundry. He had a chemistry problem set. He had a rent reminder folded under a magnet on his fridge and a suit stuffed behind a loose panel in his closet that still smelled faintly of smoke from a warehouse fire in Queens.
You crossed the quad and his senses followed before his body did.
Your laugh carried back once, loose and surprised, and Peter felt something in him lean toward it. Not physically. Worse than physically. Some quiet, starved part of him that had been living on memory and obligation and the bruised discipline of not needing anything.
He watched until the crowd took you.
Then he went home and searched your name.
He didn't call it that at first.
Peter called it checking. Curiosity. Normal curiosity. The kind people had when they met someone in class and wanted to know whether they had mutual friends or if they posted notes online or if maybe they were in a study group. He sat at his small desk with the radiator clanking beside him, his laptop open beneath the yellow cone of his lamp, and typed in the name he had heard your friend say.
The first result was an ESU page with your department listing: Undeclared concentration, biology track. A campus volunteer archive from last spring. A photo from a charity 5K where you stood at the edge of a group shot, squinting into the sun and holding a paper cup too tightly. Your social media accounts were not private enough.
Peter exhaled through his nose and sat back.
“No,” he spoke aloud to his empty apartment and the only response to his words was the radiator hissing.
He closed the browser.
For about eighteen seconds.
Then he opened it again.
By midnight, Peter knew you worked three evenings a week at a bookstore café two neighborhoods over. He knew you liked old horror films but hated jump scares. He knew you reposted stray cat videos when you were stressed. He knew you had once written, in a post from two years ago that made his stomach pull tight with secondhand tenderness, that you hated how easy it was to become background noise in other people’s lives.
Peter shut the laptop so hard the sound cracked through the room.
He stood, paced three steps, turned, paced back. His hands flexed at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling with leftover strength he had nowhere to put. The window showed him his own reflection layered over the city: too thin, too tired, hair still damp from a shower he barely remembered taking.
“You’re not doing this,” he told himself with restriction, and even his reflection looked unconvincing.
You did not think about Peter Parker after class.
Not really.
You remembered the pen only because you found it later at work and noticed the cap had a little dent from where you always chewed it during exams. You remembered his face in the vague way you remembered classmates you saw twice a week: brown hair that looked like he had dragged a hand through it one too many times, gentle eyes, shoulders folded slightly inward like he was trying not to take up space.
Cute, maybe.
But cute in the background way. The kind of cute you acknowledged and then forgot because a customer had spilled oat milk on the pickup counter and your manager was muttering about inventory under her breath.
By eight-thirty, your feet hurt. The bookstore smelled of damp coats, burnt espresso, dust, and cinnamon syrup. Someone had abandoned a paperback facedown on the windowsill. Outside, people hurried past with collars lifted against the wind, their reflections smeared across the dark glass.
You were restocking the staff picks table when the bell above the door chimed.
You glanced up because it was habit and Peter stood just inside, shaking cold from his hair.
For a second, he looked as surprised to see you as you were to see him. Then his face softened into recognition, bashful and easy enough that you almost smiled before you realized you were already doing it.
“Hey,” he greeted and his voice hit your ears with a peaceful calm. “You’re in Menken’s class, right?”
You straightened, a book still in your hand. “Yeah. Peter, right?”
His smile widened a little, and it did something irritatingly pleasant to his whole face. “Yeah. And you’re…?”
You gave him your name and he repeated it, not too quickly, not too slowly. Like he cared about getting it right.
That was your first mistake, though you wouldn't know that for weeks. You noticed the care and mistook it for kindness. Maybe it was kindness, in part. That was the inconvenient thing about Peter. He wasn't lying every time he was gentle.
He bought a coffee he barely drank and a used copy of a short story collection you had placed on the staff picks table that morning. When you rang him up, he looked at the handwritten card tucked beneath the stack.
“Your pick?” he asked with his eyes moving over the loop of the script.
A small puff of air left you as your mouth twitched. “Yeah. It’s weird.”
“I like weird.”
“You say that now.”
He glanced up through his lashes, and there was an awkwardness to it that made him seem younger, more human than he had been in your mind. “Is that a warning or a recommendation?”
You huffed a laugh more visibly this time. “Both.”
Peter nodded as if that settled something important. “Then I’ll take it seriously.”
You liked that he didn't try too hard to stretch the conversation. He thanked you, dropped his change into the tip jar, and moved to a table near the window with the book and untouched coffee. He read for almost an hour.
At least, you thought he read.
Peter had read the same paragraph six times.
The book sat open beneath his hands, but you kept shifting around the café in the warm spill of overhead lights, and his attention kept betraying him. You wiped down the counter with economical movements, pushed loose hair back from your face with your wrist, nodded when customers spoke but went distant the second they turned away. You had a habit of pressing your tongue to the inside of your cheek when you were trying not to react to something. You disliked the register drawer because it stuck and made you use more force than you wanted. You hummed under your breath when the espresso grinder drowned out the room.
None of this was information anyone needed.
Peter collected it anyway.
He had promised himself he would only look. In person, that sounded even worse. He knew how it sounded. He could hear a familiar voice in his head, dry and unimpressed, though any real familiarity was gone from his life in all the ways that mattered now. He could hear May too, not in words, just in the old shape of disappointment.
But it had been a bad week.
That wasn’t an excuse, he hated that his mind reached for one so quickly.
It had been a bad year, or rather, years.
Worse.
The world had forgotten him in pieces so cleanly it felt surgical. He still had photographs where people stood beside him with no memory of the moment. Peter still knew birthdays no one invited him to, inside jokes that died the second he tried to speak them aloud. He still woke up some mornings with his hand reaching across the bed toward nothing because loneliness had become muscle memory.
And then there was you, chewing on a pen in class and writing questions that made the room seem less airless.
Peter watched you laugh with your coworker behind the counter, your head tilting back for half a second before you caught yourself. Not loud or careless, but real.
Something in him ached with it.
Peter should have left.
Instead, when you came by with a rag and asked, “Everything okay over here?” he looked up too fast.
“Yeah. Sorry. I’m probably overstaying.”
You waved him off without much thought. “No, you’re fine. We don’t close for another hour.”
“I can go if you need the table.”
You glanced around the mostly empty café with a ghost of a smile on your lips. “Peter, there are seven tables.”
He laughed, a little embarrassed, but not nearly as much as he should've felt. “Right. Good point.”
You smiled at him fully now. This time it lingered. His pulse kicked hard enough that he felt ashamed of it.
The second time he came in, you were not surprised.
The third time, you teased him about the coffee.
“You know you don’t have to keep ordering it if you hate it.”
Peter looked down at the cup like it had betrayed him. “I don’t hate it.”
You looked up at him through the table unsure. “You’ve taken two sips in forty minutes.”
“I’m pacing myself.”
“You ordered an iced coffee in November.”
“I can contain multitudes.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself, and he looked so pleased by it that you looked away first.
It was not instant. That mattered, later. You didn't fall into it without thought. You were busy, and careful in the way people became careful when they had learned affection could come with hidden invoices. You had classes, work, rent, a roommate who left wet towels on the bathroom floor, and a mother who texted at odd hours asking if you were eating enough.
Peter became familiar gradually.
A chair near the window. A brown jacket with a frayed cuff. Fingers stained faintly with ink because he wrote equations on his hand when he ran out of paper. A voice that went soft when he asked questions and quicker when he forgot to be nervous. He seemed to know when not to interrupt you. He remembered that you disliked caramel syrup but liked cinnamon. He started bringing you the extra banana from the convenience store near campus because you once said your blood sugar crashed during evening shifts and you always forgot to pack food.
“That’s weirdly thoughtful,” you made a face and said the first time.
Peter shrugged with his eyes lowering when he spoke. “It was two for one.”
You knew that was not the whole truth, but it was close enough to something charming that you let it pass.
From Peter’s side, every small success made him feel worse.
He really hadn't meant to learn your schedule exactly. Not at first. But once he knew the bookstore shifts, his brain filled in the blanks with humiliating efficiency: Menken’s class Monday and Wednesday. Lab on Thursday. Café Tuesday, Friday, Sunday. Library most Wednesdays after six, second floor if you were alone, basement if your friend came with you because she liked the vending machine down there.
Peter didn't need to know that.
He especially did not need to know that you always took the longer route home when the weather was mild because you liked passing the laundromat with the orange cat in the window.
The first time Peter followed you all the way back to your building, he almost turned around six times.
Almost was becoming a dangerous word.
He stayed across the street, hood up, hands in his pockets, moving with the practiced absence Spider-Man had perfected. He told himself it was only because the neighborhood had been rough lately. Two muggings near the park. A stolen car three blocks away. He had reasons. Responsible reasons. Hero reasons.
Then you stopped beneath the awning of your building and turned suddenly, looking back down the sidewalk.
Peter froze behind the corner of a closed bodega.
For one wild second, he thought you had felt him there. Not heard, not seen. Felt. The way people sometimes sensed weather changing in their bones.
But you only searched your bag, found your keys, and went inside.
Peter waited until the lobby light swallowed you.
His hands were shaking when he got home.
He stripped off the mask he had not needed and sat on the floor beside his bed, suit half-unzipped, chest rising too fast. The room smelled of dust, old laundry, cold takeout. Somewhere upstairs, a couple argued about dishes and somewhere outside, a siren split the night and faded.
Peter pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, the pressure doing little to relieve him.
“You’re scaring yourself,” he whispered and that should have helped.
It did not.
Because the next morning you came into class with tired eyes and a bandage wrapped around one finger, and Peter noticed before you even sat down.
Paper cut, he guessed.
No. Too clean. Knife slip. Cooking? No, the angle was wrong. Box cutter at work.
He started hating the part of him that solved you like a problem.
During lecture, Professor Menken asked a question no one wanted to answer. You lifted your hand after three seconds of silence.
Peter watched you speak with intent.
You were not perfectly confident. Your voice caught often and you glanced at your notes too often. But you had a way of thinking aloud that made uncertainty seem active instead of weak, like you were willing to stand inside the unfinished part of an idea and invite everyone else to look at it with you.
Peter stared at his notebook and wrote nothing. After class, he found you outside the building, wrestling with the zipper of your bag.
“Hey,” he said when you came into view casually enough for him to do the same.
You looked up with no real hurry. “Hey, coffee multitudes.”
Peter laughed, surprised by the nickname. “That’s going to stick, huh?”
“It might.”
“Then I should probably earn it.”
You raised an eyebrow and looked him over. “By drinking coffee?”
“By asking if you want to get some. Somewhere I actually finish it.”
There it was. The moment Peter had arranged too carefully to pretend it was spontaneous. He had known your next class had been canceled because he had seen the department email reflected faintly on your laptop screen the day before. He had chosen this window. He had planned the route. He had checked the café he suggested to make sure it had the tea you liked, the kind you mentioned once in a post from eight months ago and again at work when you complained your roommate stole the last bag.
He was disgusting.
Peter smiled anyway, small and nervous because he was also still himself.
You hesitated, it wasn't long enough to be cruel, but it was long enough to be honest.
“Now?” you asked and your hand twitched to a still around your bag
“Only if you’re free.”
“I am.” You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. A small twitch of your brows came and went when the familiar phantom of a smile touched your face. “Actually, yeah. That sounds nice.”
Nice.
The word landed in him with such undeserved warmth he nearly forgot to breathe.
The café was crowded, too narrow and overbright near the counter, with little tables pressed close enough that everyone became part of everyone else’s conversation. You ordered tea. Peter ordered coffee and drank half of it out of sheer determination.
You talked about class first because that was safe. Menken’s refusal to upload slides. The guy in the front row who treated lectures like a personal podcast interview. Your mutual dread of the upcoming exam.
Then, the conversation loosened.
You told him about the bookstore café and the regular who came in every Sunday to rearrange the mystery section “by vibes.” Peter told you about taking photos for the Bugle, then stumbled when you asked if he liked it.
“Sometimes,” he settled for after fumbling for his words.
“Only sometimes?”
He turned the paper sleeve around his cup. “It’s hard to like something that mostly pays you to be hated.”
You frowned and it was so genuine it made Peter feel disgusting all over again. “That sounds miserable.”
“It builds character. Probably. Or joint pain.”
You laughed, but softer this time and he looked up for it.
You were watching him with a kind of attention he hadn't expected. Not the polite attention people gave when waiting for their turn to speak. You were actually looking, as if you had noticed some seam in him and were deciding whether to touch it.
Peter felt the old panic start. The instinct to deflect. To become funny, harmless, and too quick to pin down.
Instead, he took a breath and decided for, “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
You didn’t ask what else he was used to.
He liked you more for that.
Your first date was not officially a date until halfway through, when your knees bumped beneath the table and neither of you moved immediately.
After that, things gathered speed without feeling rushed.
A walk through campus after class. His jacket over your shoulders when the wind turned sharp, even though you protested you were fine. A late-night diner where he stole fries from your plate only after asking and still looked guilty each time. A movie at your apartment with your roommate passing through twice and giving you looks so obvious you threatened to throw a pillow at her.
Peter was almost unbearable in his thoughtfulness.
Not grand, that would have made you suspicious sooner. He didn't flood you with flowers or declarations. He learned the small things and acted on them with quiet precision. He sent you a picture of the familiar street cat when you were stuck at work. He remembered which movie sequel you thought ruined the original. He ordered your food without onions after you mentioned once that you hated the texture, then looked genuinely confused when you stared at him.
“What?” Peter asked when you stared at him so openly in surprise.
“You remembered.”
His fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Was I not supposed to?”
“No. It’s just…” You looked down, smiling despite yourself. The words came out quieter than, like they weren't for him. “Most people don’t.”
Peter smiled too, but something flickered beneath it. Not guilt, exactly. Not anything you knew how to name.
You reached for your drink and let the moment pass.
From his side, the flicker had been a wound reopening.
Most people don’t.
He should have been most people.
He should have learned you at the pace you gave yourself. Through conversations, through mistakes, through the natural awkwardness of two lives coming carefully closer. He should not have known about the onion thing because you had complained in a forgotten comment thread under a photo of takeout from last winter. He should not have known your favorite seat in the library because he had followed your location once after convincing himself it was only to make sure you got home. Peter should not have known your ex’s name, your rent split, the brand of melatonin in your bathroom cabinet because your roommate posted a mirror selfie with the bottle blurred but readable.
He was not always hacking.
That was another excuse, and he hated it because it was technically true. Most of the time, people gave themselves away without needing to be broken into. Public accounts, careless apps, tagged photos, reused usernames, browser autofill flashing in reflections, notifications blooming on lock screens. The city was full of open windows, and Peter had become very good at looking through them.
But sometimes, he did more.
The first time he accessed one of your accounts, he threw up afterward.
It was not dramatic. There was no thunder outside, no cinematic collapse. Just Peter hunched over the tiny sink in his bathroom, one hand braced against cracked porcelain, breathing through nausea while the laptop sat open in the other room.
He told himself he had only wanted to know why you had gone quiet.
That was how Peter framed it at first. You had canceled plans with a too-bright apology and then stopped answering texts for five hours. Five hours was nothing. People had lives. You had work. You had friends. You had the right to be unreachable.
His body did not understand that.
His senses had made emergencies out of smaller things. A skipped heartbeat, a distant scream, glass breaking four blocks away. Absence became data. Silence became threat. He tried cleaning. He tried going on patrol. He stopped a bike theft, webbed up a drunk man trying to punch a parking meter, helped a kid find her mother outside a pharmacy, and still your unread text sat in his head like a lit match.
So, he checked.
Not with tools he would ever have explained to you. Not in steps he let himself think about for long. A shortcut here, an old breach there, one soft digital door after another until the screen opened on enough of your life to make him feel both relieved and monstrous.
You were not ignoring him because of him.
You were in a group chat with your friend, talking about a fight with your mother. Nothing catastrophic. Nothing he needed to know. Your last message had been: I just don’t want to be a person today.
Peter read it three times.
Then he closed the laptop and hated himself with a clarity that should have changed him.
The next morning, he brought you soup from a place you liked but rarely ordered from because it was overpriced. He stood outside your building in a gray hoodie, hair damp from the rain, holding the paper bag awkwardly when you came downstairs.
“You said you didn’t feel great,” he greeted with that comfortable thread of familiar concern and composure.
You hadn't said that to him.
Not exactly.
But you were tired, and the soup was warm against your hands, and Peter looked so quietly worried that the difference dissolved before your could examine any holes in his story accurately.
“You’re kind of insane,” you scoffed, but gently when your eyes softened at him.
Peter cleared at his throat. “Bad insane?”
You looked at him for a moment. Rain gathered in the ends of his hair. A drop slipped down his temple, and he did not seem to notice.
“No,” you said after a moment, and his mind latched into that with great energy. “Good insane.”
His smile hurt to look at.
Peter stayed in your life.
That was how it felt from your side. Not that he entered suddenly, but that he remained. Peter was there in the margins of your days until the margins felt less empty. You started expecting his texts. You started saving little stories for him because you liked the way his face changed when he listened. He had a habit of going very still when you spoke, like he was afraid to miss a word.
You had dated people who made you feel edited. Too loud here, too sensitive there, too difficult when you asked for basic decency. Peter made you feel observed, and at first you mistook that for being understood.
Maybe part of it was understanding.
He didn’t push when you were quiet. He made jokes when you needed room to laugh and went serious when the joke would have landed wrong. He was late sometimes, often with flimsy excuses and a bruise hidden badly beneath his collar, but he apologized like he meant it. He washed dishes at your apartment without making a performance of helping. He made friends with your roommate by fixing the kitchen cabinet hinge and pretending it had been easy.
Still, there were moments.
A book you never remembered mentioning appearing in his backpack.
A song you had listened to alone showing up in a playlist he sent you “randomly.”
His face changing before you told him bad news, as if he had sensed it through the phone.
Once, while walking back from dinner, you stopped outside a bodega because the smell of oranges by the door reminded you of your grandmother’s house. You hadn’t said that to him yet. You had barely said it to anyone.
Peter bought two oranges without asking and handed one to you.
“You looked like you wanted one,” he had told you.
You held it in your palm, thumb brushing the textured peel. “You notice too much.”
He went quiet.
Only for a breath, but you felt it.
Then he smiled, crooked and a little sad. “Occupational hazard.”
You laughed because you thought he meant photography.
Peter loved that about you and hated himself for loving it. The way you filled in the blanks with something better than the truth.
By December, the city had gone hard with cold.
Snow came early in thin, dirty gusts that melted along curbs and froze again overnight. ESU students moved in bundled clusters across campus, hunched over coffee cups and exam notes. The bookstore café hung paper snowflakes in the window that curled at the edges from the heater. Your apartment radiator screamed every morning at six.
Peter spent more nights at your place, never officially staying over at first. He would fall asleep on the couch after a movie, wake at two, apologize, and kiss your forehead before leaving. You began telling him he could stay. He began pretending to refuse before giving in.
The first time he slept in your bed, you woke to him sitting upright in the dark.
You blinked at the shape of him, bare shoulders tense, head turned toward the window.
“Peter?”
He didn't answer immediately.
Outside, a truck rolled over a pothole and hit Peter's ear drum loudly. Somewhere down the block, glass clinked in a recycling bag. Your room was cold beyond the blanket, the air smelling faintly of your body wash and the laundry detergent your roommate bought in bulk.
“Sorry,” he rasped out finally. His voice was rough. “I heard something.”
You pushed yourself up on one elbow, still half asleep. You gave a few hard blinks to try and even out your blurry vision, your fingers moved without instruction to thee side of his bare arm. “In here?”
Peter's voice was still rough with sleep, and something else you couldn't grasp. “No. Outside.”
You listened in a pause, your fingers stilling on his forearm.
Nothing.
Peter looked embarrassed, almost boyish in the dim light. “I’m a light sleeper.”
You believed him because there was no reason not to.
You tugged gently at his wrist, your skin meeting his. An exhale escaped you as the disruption did little to drain you off your drowsiness. “Come back.”
For a second, he didn't move. Then, he let you pull him down beside you. His skin was cool where the air had touched it. You pressed your face against his shoulder and felt him go very still before he carefully settled his arm around you.
“You’re safe,” you murmured after a moments still, barely awake, because you decided it was needed.
His hand tightened once at your back and you pressed into his side deeper at the action.
The words should have comforted him.
Instead, they ruined him.
Because he knew exactly what kind of safety he had made. A curated one. A watched one. A version of closeness built from stolen context and real affection tangled so tightly he no longer knew where one ended and the other began. Peter knew the quickest route from your apartment to the hospital. He knew which neighbor left his door unlocked. He knew your roommate’s schedule, the building’s fire escape pattern, the loose latch on the roof door, and even the dead zone in the security camera by the mailboxes.
He knew too much.
You fell asleep against him after a few more breaths and smooths of his hand at your back and Peter stared into the dark until dawn diluted the room.
Later that week, you fought.
It was small at first, which immediately made it worse. He canceled on you again, this time fifteen minutes before you were supposed to meet. Something about work. Something about a last-minute assignment. The lie was poorly built because Peter was tired and bleeding under his shirt from a fight with a guy in a mechanized suit who had tried to rob an armored truck in Midtown.
You heard the strain in his voice and assumed the wrong thing.
“Do you actually want to see me tonight?” you asked into your phone and frowned so visibly you saw it in the mirror that reflected you all ready for your now cancelled evening.
Silence.
Then, “Of course I do.”
Your voice felt smaller than it was. “Because it’s fine if you don’t.”
“It’s not that—”
“You keep saying that.”
Peter closed his eyes on the rooftop where he crouched behind a water tower, one hand pressed against his ribs. His spider-sense still fizzed faintly from leftover adrenaline. Snow blew sideways across the tar paper and some of it landed cooly on his shoulders
“I’m sorry,” he only apologized after a tired noise escaped him.
You hated how sincere he sounded. It made anger harder to hold cleanly. “I’m not asking you to be available all the time. I just need you to stop disappearing and then acting like I’m supposed to understand without you telling me anything.”
Peter breathed in sharply, and for a moment you thought he might finally say something real. Instead, he said, “You’re right.”
The answer was too neat. Too controlled.
You laughed once, humorless. “That’s not a conversation, Peter.”
“I know.”
Your voice came more pointed now. “Then have one.”
He looked out over the city. A siren wailed far below. Three blocks away, someone screamed, but it was laughter. Six blocks away, not laughter. His body turned toward it before his mind caught up.
“I can’t right now,” he immediately winced at how it sounded coming out
Your voice went immediately quiet. “Okay.”
That one word did more damage than shouting would have.
Peter heard you hang up.
He should have let you be angry. He should have shown up the next day with honesty or at least enough humility to deserve your attention.
Instead, fear did what fear had been doing to him for months. It found a door and opened it.
He checked your messages again.
You were texting your friend. Not cruelly or even dramatically, but so visibly tired.
I like him, you had written. I really do. But sometimes it feels like he’s already decided what I need before I say it. I don't know how to feel about that.
Peter sat on the edge of a rooftop while snow collected in his hair and read the sentence until the screen dimmed.
It was the closest you had come to seeing him.
Not the suit. Not the powers. Him. The shape of the thing he was doing.
He wanted, suddenly and violently, to confess. To climb through your window, kneel on your worn rug, and hand you every ugly piece. To say he had been lonely in a way that made him dangerous. To say he had turned care into surveillance and called it love when he was too ashamed to name it properly. To say you could hate him if you needed to, but please, please do it with your own voice.
Then, another message appeared.
He’s also really good to me though. Like scary good. He knows me better than anyone has in a long time.
Peter’s breath caught.
The city kept moving beneath him. Traffic lights changed. Steam rose from a manhole cover. A woman tugged a child across the street by one mittened hand. Somewhere, somebody needed him.
Peter put the phone away amd he went to help.
He came to your apartment the next night with a split lip and flowers from a deli bucket, the cheap kind wrapped in crinkly plastic with one stem already bent.
You opened the door and stared at him with the expectation of clear cut annoyance but it stuttered when you saw him.
He looked awful. Pale beneath the bruising, hair flattened by weather, and eyes rimmed red from no sleep. The flowers trembled slightly in his hand.
“I’m sorry,” Peter only said what you needed to hear.
You crossed your arms, the indentation of where you bit at the inside of your cheek had his eyes fluttering across your face. “For which part?”
He flinched, and you hated that it softened you.
“For making you feel like you were asking for too much.” He swallowed then went on. “You weren’t—you aren’t. I’m bad at explaining where I go. That’s on me. Not you.”
It was not enough, everything in you knew it was not enough.
But he didn't make excuses. He did not tell you that you were overreacting. He didn't punish you for being upset. He stood there in the hallway looking like someone who expected the door to close and thought he deserved it.
You sighed, and it sounded tired all the way through. “Come in before my neighbor starts listening.”
“She already is,” Peter said before he could stop himself.
Your eyes narrowed and he blinked at his abruptness. “I mean—the door across the hall. It opened earlier.”
You glanced past him. Mrs. Alvarez’s door was indeed cracked half an inch. Despite yourself, you laughed.
Peter smiled faintly, relieved and ashamed.
The flowers went into a chipped vase on your desk. You ordered takeout and ate sitting on the floor because your small table was buried under textbooks. The apology became a conversation, halting but real enough around the edges. He told you he had trouble letting people worry about him. You told him that was not noble, just annoying. He laughed into his noodles, then winced because of his lip.
You touched his chin lightly, your face softened by several degrees and you made sure to be careful with your pressure. “Who did that?”
The reply came instantaneous. “Work thing.”
“Peter.”
He looked at you and your frown made is way back to your face, doing that horrible thing to his heart.
For one second, the room thinned around the truth. Then he exhaled, “I promise I’ll tell you someday.”
You should have pushed.
Instead, you let your thumb skim once beneath the bruise, gentler than either of you deserved.
“Someday better not be a scam,” you said and the frustration in your words were poorly hidden.
“It isn’t.” Peter meant it, which was almost worse.
By Christmas break, you were not officially in love with him.
You avoided the word because it felt too large and too easy to misuse. But you missed him when he left. You saved the corner of your blanket for him without thinking. You caught yourself looking at his hands when he talked, the long nervous fingers, the faint scars, the way he touched things carefully despite being strong enough to break them.
Peter was strange. Sweet. Frighteningly perceptive. Too private. Too self-sacrificing in ways that made you want to shake him. He apologized too much and withheld too much and kissed you like he was grateful and guilty in the same breath.
On New Year’s Eve, you took him to a party he clearly did not want to attend.
It was in someone’s too-small apartment near campus, crowded with students wearing glitter and cheap cologne, the kitchen floor sticky with spilled drinks. Music pulsed through the walls. Someone had taped tinsel around a bookshelf. Someone else had brought a dog wearing a bow tie, and the dog looked more composed than anyone else there.
Peter stood close to you without crowding, his hand resting at your lower back only when you leaned into it first. He watched the room the way he watched everything: lightly, and constantly. You saw his eyes track exits, open windows, and even drunk strangers moving too quickly.
“You okay?” you asked with a small tilt of your head.
He looked down at you, refocusing. “Yeah.”
You weren't easily convinced. “You look like you’re planning seventeen escape routes.”
“Only twelve.”
You smiled. “Progress.”
Peter leaned closer so you could hear him over the music. His voice didn't reach you louder, it came as soft as it always tried to land. “I’m not great at parties.”
“I noticed.”
“But you wanted to come.”
“I wanted you to come with me.”
That landed somewhere visible in his face. A small astonishment, gone quickly but not before you caught it.
“Well,” he paused, cleared his throat, and his voice softened, “then I’m good.”
You believed him.
At midnight, everyone shouted too early, then corrected themselves, then shouted again. The countdown dissolved into laughter. A stranger bumped your shoulder. Confetti popped weakly from a tube and scattered over the floor.
Peter kissed you at twelve.
Not like a movie. Someone’s elbow knocked his arm and you laughed into his mouth because the dog started barking. His nose was cold from where you had stood near the window. The kiss started awkward and turned warm, one of his hands lifting to your cheek, and his thumb careful near your jaw.
When he pulled back, you exhaled, “You know me so well it’s kind of unfair.”
You meant it lightly.
A little intoxicated by the room, by the year turning over, by his mouth and his attention and the fact that he had come even though crowds made him tense.
Peter went still.
Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you to feel the pause beneath your palm where your hand rested against his chest.
Then he smiled, but it took work. “Is that a complaint?”
You shook your head. “No.”
“Good.” He kissed you again before you could see his face too clearly.
Later, walking you home through streets rinsed blue-black with cold, Peter listened to your steps beside his and tried not to come apart.
You know me so well.
The words looped, soft and damning.
Snow had begun to fall again, thin flakes catching in your eyelashes. You tucked your hands into your sleeves and complained about your toes going numb. Peter offered you his gloves. You refused. He only offered again. You took one glove and made him wear the other, which was impractical and ridiculous and somehow made his chest hurt more than anything else.
At your building, you lingered beneath the awning.
You looked tired, happy, and a little wind-burned. Real in a way his stolen images of you had never been. The glow from the lobby light turned one side of your face gold.
“Do you want to come up?” you asked and you smiled up at him with an expression that did little to help his constantly spiking pulse.
He did.
God, he wanted to badly.
But Peter also knew what waited inside him if he did. The lie beneath every comfortable silence. The stolen knowledge under every thoughtful gesture. The way wanting had taught itself to wear the face of care.
“I should head home,” he forced the words out and they felt beyind wrong exiting him. Your expression shifted, just a little.
Peter felt it like a physical blow.
“Okay,” you whispered in the night air, and even you seemed surprised at how small it seemed.
He needed the clarification to stick desperately. “I had a good time.”
“Me too.”
Peter touched your hand, his own reddening fingertips grabbing your own cold ones. “Text me when you’re inside?”
You gave him a look that made him feel stupid and wanted all at once. “I’m literally going upstairs.”
“Humor me?”
“You’re ridiculous.”
The chuckle that escaped him camd freely at just how accurate you were. “Historically, yes.”
You smiled, leaned up, and kissed him once. You lingered there for a moment, suddenly turning to nervous to face him, then repeated the action once more and pulled away. “Goodnight, Peter.”
“Goodnight.”
He waited on the sidewalk until your apartment light came on.
Then he waited another minute.
Then, another.
His phone buzzed.
inside. still alive. tragically glove-deficient.
Peter laughed under his breath, alone in the snow. He typed: I’ll survive with one cold hand.
Your reply came quickly.
brave little toaster.
He stared at it until his fingers hurt from the cold. Then, the little typing bubble disappeared.
He should have gone home.
He didn't, that had become an unsavory pattern for him.
Peter climbed.
Not to your window, not this time. He told himself that mattered somehow. He went up the side of the building with practiced silence, fingers finding brick, and his shoes sticking lightly where they touched. The city dropped away beneath him in a wash of headlights and wet pavement. He reached the roof and crouched near the ledge, close enough for his senses to map your apartment in fragments.
Water running..Your shower. A cabinet opening. Your roommate not home. A towel drawer sticking. You humming the chorus of a song from the party, off-key and sleepy.
Peter closed his eyes and exhaled a cloud of air into the cold night.
The right thing was to leave.
He stayed until the shower shut off.
He stayed while you moved through your room, while fabric whispered over skin, while your phone clicked against your nightstand. He didn't look through the window, he kept his eyes on the roof gravel beneath his hands. That restraint felt obscene because he wanted credit for not doing the worst thing while doing something terrible.
His breath fogged faintly in the cold.
“I’m done,” Peter whispered out loud and the city did not answer.
“I mean it.”
He didn't really know who he was promising. You. Himself. The ghost of every person who had loved him before the world forgot how.
Below, you laughed softly at something on your phone and Peter’s head lifted before he could stop it.
That sound.
It moved through him with humiliating force. Warm, private, and entirely unguarded. He thought of you in the café, in class, in his jacket, on your floor eating noodles, under party lights with confetti caught in your hair. He thought of all the ways he had already ruined the clean thing he wanted.
Peter stood abruptly.
He crossed the roof, dropped into the alley, and landed soundlessly beside a stack of abandoned boxes dusted with snow. His ribs ached. His hand throbbed from where he had split the knuckles earlier that week. He pulled his hood up and walked away without looking back.
For almost three blocks, Peter believed he could really stop.
Upstairs, you finished drying your hair with an old towel that had gone rough from too many washes.
Your apartment was quiet except for the radiator knocking beneath the window and the muffled bass of someone’s music two floors down. The party had left glitter along your collarbone, one stubborn fleck near your wrist, and a faint headache tucked behind your eyes. Your skin still held the clean heat of the shower. You wore an oversized shirt and sleep shorts, your damp hair brushed the back of your neck as you climbed onto your bed and tucked one leg beneath you.
You checked Peter’s text again.
I’ll survive with one cold hand.
You smiled to yourself, biting lazily at the edge of your thumbnail.
Sweet, impossible Peter.
He was always saying things like that. Small things. Harmless things. Little jokes that sounded clumsy enough to be real. You liked that about him, the way he made awkwardness feel almost deliberate, the way he carried tenderness like something he had stolen and still wasn’t sure he was allowed to keep.
You set your phone down, and then after a few paused moments, you picked it back up.
For a moment, you sat still, listening.
Not to anything specific. The building settling. Pipes clicking in the walls. A car passing below, tires hissing through dirty snow. The soft ordinary life of the city stacking itself around you. You could still feel the ghost of his glove on your hand, the warmth he had given up without making it a whole noble thing.
You opened your phone again.
The screen lit your face in the dark. Peter’s last message sat at the top of your conversation, sweet and plain, but you swiped away from it and opened the app folder buried between weather, notes, and a language app you hadn't used since September.
His location refreshed after half a second.
A small blue dot moved underground, following the subway line away from your neighborhood.
You watched it for longer than you needed to.
There you go, you thought, something soft and fond turning over in your chest. Going home like he'd promised.
Your thumb hovered near the map. The little dot stuttered once, then continued. Queens-bound. Alone. Probably standing instead of sitting because he always did that, always gave up seats without looking around to see if anyone noticed.
You smiled again.
Then you opened the second page.
Recent searches loaded beneath a synced browser tab.
Your name. Your bookstore café. Your old campus volunteer archive.
Your social media username with two letters transposed from the first time he had guessed wrong.
A search about whether ESU library study rooms had exterior cameras.
Another about the laundromat near your apartment.
Another about the orange cat in the window, which made you press your lips together to keep from laughing because that one was so painfully, pathetically cute you almost wanted to forgive him on the spot.
Almost.
You scrolled slowly, thumbnail caught between your teeth.
Peter had tried to be careful. That was the adorable part. He deleted things late, never immediately. He cleared histories in batches. He used different browsers for different kinds of guilt. But he was tired too often, distracted too easily by whatever terrible, secret life kept putting bruises beneath his clothes, and sometimes he left little openings behind him.
You'd only needed one.
After a minute, you reached for your laptop in your bedside table.
The screen woke too bright in the dim room. You lowered the brightness, entered your password, and opened a folder hidden two layers beneath a boring label from last semester’s statistics course.
No full name sat at the top.
That had been one of the first strange things you had found out.
There should have been more. A student record with a clean history. Tagged photos. Old classmates. Family posts. Some trail of a boy becoming himself in public, even if it was messy, even if it was private, even if most of it had been half-abandoned and badly archived.
Instead, there were gaps.
Not empty, exactly. Emptiness had a shape. This was far stranger, a life with the identifying edges rubbed raw. Campus systems recognized him enough to place him in classrooms, but old references thinned out when you pulled too hard. Public databases returned fragments. Security logs showed a face without a stable story attached. Search results curved away from certainty.
So you had named the folder yourself.
coffee boy.
You clicked it with familiarity and the profile unfolded across the screen with neat, patient organization: screenshots, timestamps, saved browser activity, transit pings, campus camera stills, bookstore security clips, location trails, and blurry street footage collected from public-facing feeds he probably assumed no one would bother checking. There were no tidy records calling him anything with a true name. No clean archive of a life before you. No easy explanation for why the boy in your biology class seemed to appear out of nowhere with old grief in his eyes and no one behind him looking for him.
But, there were patterns.
A brown jacket crossing ESU’s north quad at 8:12 a.m.
The same jacket outside your café at 6:47 p.m., eight minutes after your shift started.
A hooded figure lingering across the street from your apartment on the night you had closed alone.
A campus camera catching him turning his head before anyone else reacted to a car backfiring near the curb.
A security feed from three weeks ago, grainy with snow and bad lighting, showing someone dropping from a brick wall into an alley with impossible ease before pulling on that same brown jacket and walking into the street with his head down.
You dragged the timeline forward a few seconds.
There.
His face turned toward the camera.
Half-shadowed. Bruised. Undeniably him.
Your room reflected faintly in the laptop screen. You didn't look frightened in the reflection.
You looked tired. Curious, almost fond.
Because really, what were you supposed to do with him?
Poor Peter, watching you from corners and rooftops and café tables, thinking his wanting made him monstrous because he had not yet understood that wanting was only ugly when it lacked imagination. He had searched your name like a confession. He had tracked your schedule like a prayer. He had learned your tea order, your walk home, even the little pauses in your texts.
He knew you so well.
It was sweet.
Not good, not harmless.
But sweet, in that sad, crooked way he was sweet when he brought soup and pretended it had been a normal thing to do.
Your phone buzzed.
Peter: Sleep well.
You glanced at it, and your smile came slowly, private enough that no one else would have known what to call it.
For a few seconds, you only sat there in the blue-white wash of the screen, hair damp against your shirt, thumbnail resting between your teeth.
Then, you looked back at the laptop.
His location dot kept moving. His searches waited beneath your cursor. And the paused footage held his face in the alley, caught between who he pretended to be and whatever he became when no one was meant to see remained awaiting you.
simon riley accidentally stealing you from your boyfriend.
cw: hints at cheating (mostly emotional)
you and your boyfriend had a great relationship. you've been together for years, and it was secure. he loved you, albeit more than you loved him. it was like a safety net, something you knew you could fall back on if you needed emotional stability.
but you weren't 100% compatible. don't get it wrong, you loved him—for the most part—but there was a little something to be desired in the bedroom. you couldn't understand why.
maybe it was because he was too careful, too nice, when he fucked you. it was slow and worship, and while you enjoyed vanilla sex, you wanted more. you craved more, but he had offhandedly mentioned before that anything crazier wasn't in his wheelhouse. therefore you were never fully satisfied.
you felt guilty, especially since having sex began to feel like a chore rather than a connection you craved, and you had a high drive that even he couldn't sate. you just needed more.
for the last couple of weeks, you've been dropping hints to your boyfriend about the possibility of a threesome—to add some spice to your life—with one of his friends. any of them would do, even if you had pictured a specific friends of his. saying stuff like along the lines of, "I wish I had two of you," or "imagine how fun it'd be with another you."
your boyfriend wasn't dumb. he knew what you were hinting at, and yeah, it was out there. he also knew how you looked at his friend whenever you two went to the pub for a drink with his friends. how you got flushed whenever his brooding friend looked your way, or when you grazed each other.
he thought if he invited simon into your shared bed, you'd scratch the itch that's been gnawing at you. a single night to get what you wanted, and everything would go back to normal.
but he underestimated just how well simon could satisfy you.
simon was the opposite of your boyfriend. all rough touch and calloused skin, with dirty words and hard thrusts that punched the breath from your lungs and tore tears out of your eyes.
his cock stretched around your drooling pussy, filling you in ways you'd never felt and hitting spots that had you mewling. his balls slapped your clit with the relentlessness of his hips, thighs slapping against him and turning red. his hands were wrapped around the entirety of your neck, using it as leverage to pull you back against him. it left you breathless and keening for more.
and your boyfriend watched helplessly. reduced to a naked cuck, he sat back on his knees in front of you, still hard and unsatisfied, while he watched his precious girlfriend get defiled in a way he's never even considered. he didn't think you'd be into hardcore sex—because this was hardcore to him.
hands around your neck, one leaving to slap your ass occasionally before finding its home on your throat again. strangled noises he's never heard you make before, moaning louder after every dirty word whispered to you. the rotation of positions, not stopping after one, two, three orgasms as he put you into a mating press, doggystyle, missionary, cowgirl, you name it.
simon didn't purposefully leave out your boyfriend. he fully expected him to be just as engaged in the threesome as he was. after all, your boyfriend suggested it to him, but it didn't go farther than sinking his half hard cock into your pussy while you choked on simon's dick.
this was a bad idea because it brought him to the realization that this is something that can't be fucked out. he liked safe and vanilla sex, and you wanted wild, energetic, and borderline toxic fucking.
because the weeks that followed—yes, your boyfriend didn't take it as a sign to break up—was a significant sign that the relationship had changed, and not for the better. after that night, you got simon's number and kept in touch, often spending most of your time exchanging messages or talking about if you could convince your boyfriend for another threesome
simon didn't mean to steal you from your boyfriend. he just enjoyed his time with the two of you—even if the man didn't do anything but watch you get fucked by his friend—and wanted to do it again, especially since you enjoyed it. but when you showed up at simon's place with tears down your face, you wouldn't end up leaving.
summary: you’ve been able to see ghosts since you were a child, but years of bad experiences have taught you one thing: keep it secret. people don’t take kindly to the things they can’t explain. then you meet jack—a highly observant doctor with a ghost of his own, and what begins as an unlikely friendship slowly becomes something more. but trusting him means risking the one thing you’ve spent your entire life protecting: yourself.
tags: hurt/comfort, angst, romance, fluff, flirting, explorations of grief, supernatural elements, mentions of an ex, reader doesn't take good care of herself
word count: 18.3k
a/n: my baby is finally finished! i've been working on this for months now and tbh i could probably keep doing it. there's just something so interesting about this theme and how two people are affected differently by death. this fic was inspired by the show ghost whisperer and i see reader's abilities as somewhat similar to melinda's. as always, feedback is greatly appreciated! i really hope you guys like it! <333
The Pitt | Masterlist
Main | Masterlist
You hate hospitals with a deep passion.
They're too loud, too bright, and too crowded. Waiting rooms that make you feel like tinned fish, packed together beneath harsh fluorescent lights and the constant hum of voices. It's not even a busy night, and you're still counting down the minutes until you can leave.
There's a man with a clenched look on his face that suggests why he's choosing to stand despite the unusually empty seats. A woman nearby desperately hums to her wailing child, rocking her back and forth against her chest with a feverish gleam on her face. A man coughs wetly into his mask while a group of drunk girls giggle away in the corner.
It's a relatively empty waiting room considering it's the E.R—if you don't take the other people into account. There's a woman in a white gown wandering through the room before disappearing into a wall. A man with a gash on his head sits in one of the chairs, patiently waiting for his turn that will never come. Only the occasional flicker of his form reveals his true state.
It's only been half an hour, but from where you're sitting, you've already spotted five ghosts. And the longer you wait, the more they'll feel the pull of you—previous experience unfortunately lets you know that. So, if you can help it, you stay away.
But midnight ideas involving a ladder, a light bulb, and an unexpected vision hadn't proven to be a good combination. You'd been on the third rung, reaching overhead, when the familiar sensation hit. Your body had locked, your vision hazing as your mind left your apartment, and by the time the vision released you, your foot had slipped, and you'd fallen hard onto the ground. You'd blinked back to a shattered bulb beneath your palm and a sharp flare of pain where your head had clipped the coffee table. This was, unfortunately, an injury too severe for you to fix yourself.
Now it's three a.m., and you're holding a soaked dish towel to your bleeding hand as you try to avoid eye contact with the spectres drifting past. It takes another twenty minutes of staring insistently at the ground before your name is called and you're led into a room.
You sit on the crinkly paper, tapping your fingers against your pants as the door shuts again. Another five minutes pass before the door opens again, but you don't mind. At least, it's quiet in here—no ghosts following you.
"Hi. Sorry for the wait." A man in black scrubs steps inside, smiling at you kindly. "I'm Dr. Henderson." He's got one foot on the rolling chair, about to sit down when the door opens again.
"Crus." An older man interrupts, one hand on the door as he holds it open. He nods out towards the hallway, greying curls falling slightly forward at the motion. "Head to Trauma 1. You can assist with a lumbar puncture." He turns to you with a charming smile. "I'll take over here."
Heat rushes to your cheeks when his intense gaze lands on you, and you quickly avert your eyes. Instead, you watch as Dr. Henderson's face lights up. He sends you an apologetic smile, clapping the other man's shoulder on his way out.
"Sorry about that." The door shuts behind him as he finally steps fully inside and draws the curtain. "I'm Dr. Abbot." He picks up the tablet left behind and scans your chart quickly. Snapping on a pair of gloves, he drops down onto the chair.
"So," he says, eyeing the towel around your hand and the dried blood on your temple. "How bad did the other guy look?"
You blink. "What?"
Dr. Abbot gently tips your head toward the light to inspect the cut. His gloved fingers are surprisingly warm against your skin. "Whoever hit you got a decent shot in. Still, it's nothing we can't patch up."
"I didn't fight anyone."
"No?" A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he turns his attention to your hand, carefully peeling the towel away. His gaze flicks down to your heart-patterned pyjama pants. "I don't know. You look like you could be hiding a professional boxing career."
Heat creeps into your cheeks as you realise he's teasing you. "Oh. Ha."
His grin widens, and you find yourself watching the way his eyes crinkle. "So, what happened?"
"...I fell off a ladder."
His eyes flick up to yours. "Strange hour to be climbing ladders." He shifts your hand back and forth, testing your grip.
You shrug. "Couldn't sleep."
"Ah," he says. "That, I get." He rolls the chair back to gather supplies once he determines it isn't a severe cut. "There's a bit of glass stuck inside, so I'm gonna give you a shot for the pain, pick out the pieces, stitch you up and then send you on your merry way. Sound good?"
You nod, glancing down at your hand, expecting your stomach to roll, but feeling strangely detached from it. You guess you've seen worse in visions before. A surprising positive, you suppose.
He pulls off his gloves, throwing them into the trash behind him. As he leans forward to grab a new sterile pair, the chair suddenly rolls forward beneath him. The wheels squeak as it turns to face you, and Dr. Abbot's hands shoot out instinctively, landing briefly against the plush of your thighs to steady himself.
You both freeze. His eyes flick down to your thighs, then back up.
"Sorry," he says, pulling away immediately.
"No, that's—" You swallow. "That's okay."
Dr. Abbot rubs the back of his neck before turning back to the task at hand. The room suddenly feels too warm. Something metallic flashes beneath the fluorescent lights, drawing your attention to his wedding ring. He's married. Of course. A man like that doesn't go through life without attracting someone. You look away before you can wonder why that thought bothers you.
You focus on the ceiling tile above him instead. A faint crackling sound brushes against your ears before disappearing. Your attention snaps to the corner, but no one is there. The sound comes back, like an old radio searching for a station. Your skin prickles, and the hairs at the back of your neck rise in warning.
You're not alone, but no one appears. No one speaks. It's just that crackling sound, continuing for another minute before it disappears again.
Dr. Abbot reaches for your hand again, oblivious to it. He administers the shot as you try to look around the room without him noticing.
"So, what were you doing on the ladder?" he says, breaking the awkward silence. He moves to clean your forehead as he waits for the lidocaine to set in.
You huff a laugh. "Putting in a new light bulb. I've been putting it off for weeks. Maybe this was a sign that I shouldn't have waited that long." Your chin lifts, a sense of pride filling you when his lips twitch. You get the feeling that he isn't that easy to get a reaction out of.
"Not handy, I gather?" he says as he finishes placing the butterfly stitch on your forehead.
You glance down at your hand. "What gave it away?"
He huffs a laugh.
The saline feels odd, but not unpleasant, and you barely notice as he plucks out the glass pieces. The silence that settles over the room is comfortable, and for a moment you believe the ghost has left you alone. Maybe it has finally decided you're not worth bothering. But as Dr. Abbot dresses your wound and turns to write follow-up instructions on a notepad, the crackling starts again. Then, his pen flies off the desk.
"Oops," he says, not sounding particularly surprised. He ignores it and turns back to you. "The stitches are self-dissolving, but come back if there's any swelling or irritation." He hands you the note, his mouth curving into another teasing smile. "And no more fights, at least until you're healed."
"No promises." You grin. "Thank you."
He gives you a small nod. "You're welcome."
You slip off the bed, clutching the note in your good hand. At the door, you glance back without really meaning to. He's still looking at you. For a second, neither of you says anything, then you leave. There's a slight pull, almost as if something is trying to keep you in the room, but you push forward without placing much thought on it. Whatever ghost is trying to communicate can find you tomorrow.
The bookstore Cordelia's is located next to the park and has been yours for almost three years. It's small, but you've managed to make the most of the space. Tall shelves line almost every wall, some of them old enough that you constantly worry they'll fall apart at the slightest touch. There's a little reading nook tucked beneath the front window, two mismatched armchairs beside a low table, and a counter near the register that has been scratched and dented by years of use. The bell above the door has a slightly different ring depending on how hard someone pushes it, and the floorboards creak in places you've long learned to avoid.
It's comfortable. Warm. The kind of place where people come in intending to browse for ten minutes and somehow end up staying an hour.
Ethan is similar in that way. He never dreamed of working in a bookstore, and somehow, he's gone from a part-time worker to being here more than you are. He's always liked books—even has a minor in English literature—but he'd always imagined himself doing something more. Maybe teaching or being a famous author—something that involved people knowing his name. Definitely not standing behind a counter for eight hours a day arguing with customers about whether a particular first edition was worth what the internet claimed it was. And yet, he loves it.
He hadn't at first, but that was before his roommate started haunting him.
Ethan had been drawn to the store, and you'd found him overwhelmed in the back row, head in his hands. Somehow, without even meaning to, he had divulged it all to you, and you hadn't been even a little bit unnerved by the strange things he'd told you. You hadn't laughed. You hadn't suggested he was imagining things. Instead, you'd asked him what his roommate's name was, and then you'd revealed your abilities.
You were able to see and speak to ghosts.
Ethan had laughed at first—right up until his bathroom mirror had smashed in his face and the pieces spelt out his name on the ground. After that, he was a true believer. And with his roommate crossed over, Ethan put his plans on hold to follow you. He'd offered to work in your store, which was closed more often than not with you out dealing with your ghostly companions. He'd expected it to be temporary. It wasn't.
The bookstore came with its own companions. Lydia and Delia, the couple who had owned the store before you, who had apparently decided that death was no reason to leave. It had taken Ethan a while to get used to them. It had taken them even longer to get used to him. Now he can't imagine the place without them. Even if he does wish they'd stop throwing the books they dislike at him.
Still, it's nice to have some company, even if he can't see them. Especially since he never knows exactly when you'll be in or for how long. He knows it's one of those days where you disappear for hours when you enter the shop with two coffee cups and an already apologetic smile.
His attention immediately catches on the stitches on your forehead and the white dressing covering your hand. "What happened to you?"
You shrug casually. "Ladder. Light bulb. Ghost. It was an accident."
Ethan's brows pinch together. He reaches out, fingers catching lightly beneath your jaw in an attempt to get a better look at the cut, but you duck away before he can inspect it properly and push one of the coffees into his hand instead.
"I think I figured out who it is. Is it okay if I—?" You tilt your head towards the door.
Ethan worries his lower lip for a second. It's not the first time he's seen you hurt by a ghost, but he still doesn't like it. He knows better than most how casually you treat your injuries. If it weren't for him reminding you, you'd forget to eat during cases. "Be careful. This ghost doesn't seem too happy with you."
"This was just bad timing." You brush it off.
He stares at you. You stare back. Eventually, you sigh. "...Fine. I'll be careful."
"Good." He nods. "Call me if there's anything."
You hum, already halfway across the store again. "Sure. Thanks!" The door slams shut behind you.
Ethan sighs and takes a sip of his coffee. He knows you can take care of yourself. It's just that the two of you have very different ideas of what that means.
He steps behind the counter again and slumps down onto the chair. A few boxes are waiting to be unpacked and placed on shelves, but they can wait until he's finished with this cup. He's got at least another hour until the first customers filter in, so he leans back and grabs his notepad. His novel won't write itself. He stares at the blank page, then writes two words. Deletes them. Takes a sip. Writes another sentence. Deletes that too. He sighs. Maybe he should've stuck with teaching.
The bell rings again, barely a minute later.
"Forget something?" he calls out, still staring at his paper while chewing on the end of his pen.
"I don't think so."
The male voice makes him look up.
Ethan shoots to his feet, notepad clattering to the ground. "I'm so sorry. I thought you were someone else." He bends to pick it up, cheeks burning with embarrassment, before his flustered gaze meets the eyes of an older man.
Scrubs. Tired-looking. Handsome.
The man looks around the store, almost confused, as though he's not entirely sure why he's here. Seeing that, Ethan's customer-service persona finally clicks into place. "Looking for anything special?"
The man hesitates, frowns, then shakes his head.
"Okay. Well, we've got a bit of everything." Ethan gestures to the aisles. "Give me a shout if you need anything." He logs onto the computer to give the man some space to explore, but keeps an eye on him out of the corner of his eye.
The man wanders slowly between the shelves, fingertips occasionally brushing over the spines. He doesn't seem to be looking for anything in particular. Eventually, he stops at one of the displays and picks up a book. "How long have you had this store? Don't think I've seen it before."
"Oh, I'm not the owner; she's out at the moment—" The light flickers above him, and he looks at it with a frown. It's not like Lydia or Delia to interrupt when there's a customer. "It's been here for about three years now."
The man nods, puts the book down, then takes a step toward one of the aisles. A book flies off the shelf next to him.
Ethan freezes. The man doesn't. His shoulders rise, tensing, but not in a way that suggests surprise. It's more like resignation. Another book flies from the shelf on the opposite side. Then another. It lands directly in front of him.
Ethan's certain now. There's a ghost attached to this man. But it's the man's reaction that unsettles him most. He barely reacts. No startled jump. No nervous laugh. No frantic glance around the room. He simply looks down at the books, bends down, picks them up and puts them back.
Ethan watches him carefully. He's seen people react to ghosts before. He knows the usual responses. Fear. Confusion. Denial. This man looks like someone who's seen this before. Before Ethan can say anything, the stranger nods at him and hurries out of the store.
Ethan stares after him, waiting for something else to happen, but the store is quiet again. "If you're still here, I can't see you, but my friend can," he calls softly. He looks toward the aisle. "She'll be back later."
He waits for an answer, but nothing happens. No books fly out. No lights flicker. His shoulders drop a fraction. Even after years of seeing you interact with ghosts, he can't help his instinctual fear when he's alone. At least when you're around, he has an idea of what the ghost wants. On his own, he's completely clueless about their intentions.
He looks toward the door again. Who was that guy?
Ethan wanders over, fishing out the books that had been pushed half-hazardously back between the others. His fingers brush the spines, reading the titles, then he crouches to retrieve the last one. The theme is clear, but the one that landed closest to the man says it best.
The Art of Dating.
Ethan stares at it. "Well," he mutters, putting it back on the shelf. "That's subtle."
It's close to midday when you enter the store again, but instead of this morning's excitement, there's a dull headache throbbing behind your eyes. It sits stubbornly at your temples, refusing to ease no matter how much you rub them. You're not sure if it's the lack of sleep that's finally catching up with you, the hit your head took last night, or the disappointment of your visit, but either way, you feel drained.
"Hey, how'd it go?" Ethan calls from somewhere between the shelves. He emerges a moment later, a book tucked beneath one arm, and takes one look at your face. "Bad, huh?"
You don't bother pretending otherwise. "Yeah..." You sink onto the plush chair behind the counter, letting your head fall back against it with a sigh. "I'm gonna try again tonight. Maybe I'll get a read of something."
Ethan hums, leaning his elbows against the counter. He studies you for a moment, his expression telling you he's considering arguing before apparently deciding against it. "I'll come with you."
You close your eyes and shake your head. "You don't have to."
He shrugs, completely unconcerned with your refusal. "It's good research for my book."
Your eyes open again. "Oh! How's that going? When can I read something?"
"I'm nowhere close to that," he groans, his head dropping dramatically. "I've been stuck on the same paragraph for hours now."
You blow a raspberry at him. The sound earns you a look, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitch. "Lunch then?" you suggest, sitting up slightly. "We could try that new place down the street?"
He pushes himself off the counter, already reaching for his jacket. "Yes, I'll go get it. Some fresh air might get rid of my writer's block."
You lean back again, closing your eyes once more as he heads toward the door. You hear him rummaging around for his wallet, then the soft jingle of the bell as he pulls the door open. "Oh," he calls out, the door halfway open. "Some man came in earlier with a ghost attached to him. I told it you'd be back later."
"Did you get a name?"
"No, he ran out before I could ask. He was in scrubs, though, so maybe a doctor or nurse?" He shrugs, then shuts the door behind him, leaving the store quiet again.
Scrubs?
You frown. For a second, your mind supplies the image of Dr. Abbot before you can stop it. The kind man from last night. His warm fingers against your skin as he'd examined your forehead. The crooked smile when he'd teased you about fighting someone. The flash of his wedding ring beneath the fluorescent lights.
You shake the thought away. The hospital is across the park, and you've never seen him here before. The chance of him coming into the bookstore afterwards is low. It was probably just an odd coincidence.
You let your head fall back against the chair again.
"He was real handsome, too," a warm voice croons from your right.
You don't even open your eyes. "You say that every time a man walks in here."
"I do not," Lydia protests. You crack an eye open, finding her beside one of the shelves, arms folded across her chest, looking deeply offended by the accusation. She turns her head to Delia. "Do I?"
"...You do," Delia says, wincing when Lydia turns to glare at her. "But"—she points a finger at you—"this time she is right."
You roll your eyes before closing them again. "Mm," you hum. "I'm not looking for anything." You settle deeper into the chair. "You know that."
There's a pause before Delia clears her throat gently. "Honey, maybe it's time to—"
"No," you cut her off, opening your eyes just enough to look at her. "But thanks."
You close your eyes again before she can start arguing, effectively ending the conversation. The two ghosts sigh in unison. You can hear the soft rustle of fabric as Lydia moves, followed by Delia's faint scent of roses. Then a rush of cool air brushes across your skin, signifying that they're gone.
You let out a slow breath as the bookstore settles around you again. You know they're trying to help. You know they have the best intentions. But Lydia and Delia have been together for decades, including the years after death. They've managed to find the kind of love that survived everything—life, death, and apparently even the refusal to cross over.
You're happy for them. You really are. But sometimes, when they talk about love like it's something inevitable, something that simply arrives and stays, you can't help wondering if you're the exception.
Because you've already been given this gift. Maybe that's it for you. Maybe you're simply meant to spend your life helping other people find their way to the other side while you stay back. The thought shouldn't still bother you. You've told yourself that often enough that it shouldn't, and yet, when you do think about it a little too seriously, it aches and pulsates somewhere deep down.
So, you try not to. And with the embers of your last relationship still burning after its fiery end, it's becoming easier to believe. Your ex, John, had made it clear how he thought you were crazy for believing in things nobody else could see. You'd loved him. That had been the worst part. You'd finally trusted him enough to open up, and that was his response. For a long time afterwards, you'd wondered whether he had been right about everything. Maybe you were too strange. Too difficult. Too much.
You stare at the ceiling through half-lowered lashes. You don't doubt it anymore. It's easier that way. Easier to believe you're not meant for love than to risk it all again.
You don't think you can handle it.
Considering that you've been involved in ghost activities since you were a little girl, you should know by now that nothing is ever a coincidence when ghosts are involved. You'd seen it, following your mother around, fingers clutching her skirt as she got roped into ghostly schemes, openly parading her abilities—right up until your father had her committed when her visions took over.
You learned then and there that what she had considered a gift was best left hidden. That it wasn't everybody who understood. That, at times, it was more a burden than a gift.
Despite having all that experience, you don't think much of it the first time you see Dr. Abbot again. You see him in the supermarket, his hand reaching for a bunch of bananas as you turn into the fruit aisle. Your eyes meet across a display of apples, and for half a second, both of you stare at each other, until recognition flickers across his face. You send him a brief, polite smile before ducking into the nearest aisle and pretending to become intensely interested in a selection of tinned tomatoes. You stay there until you're reasonably certain he's gone.
The second time could be coincidence. The third is harder to explain. By the time you see him in the park, you've stopped counting.
It's late evening, the last rays of the sunset shining across the park and through the store windows. You'd sent Ethan home earlier, telling him you'd deal with the odd technological error that had somehow deleted all your online orders and the ones you'd placed for new books. Once that is sorted, you close the shop, a little later than usual, and head home.
But rather than taking the fast way, you turn right at the park entrance, choosing the scenic—and considerably longer—route. An unexplainable feeling guides you, but you're too tired to examine it.
You walk past friends sprawling across picnic blankets with half-finished drinks between them, couples walking hand in hand along the paths, and children chasing one another through the grass while their parents call after them. Then you hear laughter. Your attention drifts toward a group of scrub-clad people gathered beneath one of the trees, several cans of beer scattered between them. You take another step, let your gaze fall forward, and then the sight of a familiar face registers.
Your eyes snap back.
Dr. Abbot's already looking at you. His lips twitch when he sees your surprised expression, and he lifts his beer in greeting. Your mouth lifts in an unwitting smile before you can stop it, and you give him a small nod in return. A few of the people around him follow his gaze, curious eyes turning toward you. You immediately look away and hurry down the path before any of them can catch your gaze properly. You try to ignore the heat that's flaming under your skin.
It's a coincidence, you repeat to yourself. Just a coincidence.
That assumption promptly gets thrown out when he shows up at the store. Now you're certain that something is going on.
It's just you this time, with Ethan having been given the day off after you'd closed your last case. The death had been accidental—a slip and fall down a flight of stairs—but things had remained dramatic until the very end. Things had been thrown before your ghost was ready to listen, and the family was ready to talk. You'd been caught in the crossfire, leaving bruises scattered across your arms and a particularly ugly one blooming near your elbow.
Still, books needed to be placed on shelves and with Ethan out, you were forced to make your aching arms comply. You bend to pick up another box, already mentally calculating how many more trips you'll need to make before you can finally sit down. Maybe you should order a take-out for lunch to celebrate?
"Do you need help?" A gruff, familiar voice says from behind you.
You huff, half amused, half annoyed. You're used to ghosts appearing without warning and asking for help at the worst possible moments, so you don't bother turning around immediately. "And how would you do that?"
Warm fingers brush against yours as he takes the box from you. "I may be older than you, but I'm not decrepit."
You gasp, your eyes snapping up to meet Dr. Abbot's warm, teasing hazel gaze. For a second, you're too surprised to say anything. "I'm so sorry, I thought you—" You shake your head and gesture toward the cart. "Never mind. You can just put that there. Thank you."
Your gaze follows the box as he sets it down, lingering despite yourself on the way his arms barely strain beneath the weight of the heavy books you'd struggled to lift just moments earlier. Without a word, he picks up the remaining boxes and sets them down beside the first.
You stare at him. He glances at you. "What?"
You smile awkwardly. "Nothing."
When he turns back, his eyes fall down the length of your arms. They narrow slightly.
You snatch the cardigan you'd abandoned on the counter when you'd gotten hot earlier and tug it on, trying to make the gesture look casual. "So, what can I help you with?"
He frowns, but decides to leave it alone as his gaze turns to the aisles. "One of our med students just landed a residency, and I offered to get the gift for her."
"And you have no idea what to get her?" you ask.
"Yeah." He grins sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.
You step out from behind the counter, your arm brushing against his. The contact is brief, barely anything; still, heat sparks through the fabric. You ignore it. "Do you know what she likes?"
"Uh... She's big on social media and very into astrology."
"Ah." You nod, moving with certainty to the cart. You grab a box cutter, slice through the tape, and fish out a book from the box. "Get her this. It's been sold out for months, and I just got it back in stock."
You hold out a book with astrological signs circling the cover. He takes it, turning it over once in his hands. "You're lucky you came in now. I was gonna update our socials after I'd finished shelving the books. They'd probably be gone in a few hours."
He hums as he follows you back to the counter, scanning his card without glancing at the price. "Guess my intuition proved me right."
Your fingers pause against the wrapping paper, glancing up at him. "Intuition?"
"Yeah." He rubs the back of his neck again. "I don't really believe in it, but I was here a few weeks ago, and I just had this feeling that I would find what I was looking for here."
Your fingers still for the briefest second before finishing the bow. When you look up at him, he's watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
"I see." You put the book into a bag and hand it over to him, forcing a smile onto your face. "Guess you were right."
He nods. For a moment, neither of you moves. He hesitates, swallowing down whatever he was about to say before settling on a soft, "See you around?"
You nod, smiling. "I'll be here."
He smiles back, lifting a hand in an awkward little wave before turning toward the door. The bell gives its familiar little chime as the door swings shut behind him. The grin on your face falls the second you can no longer see him through the windows.
He's the scrub-clad man Ethan told you about, and after all these encounters, you're forced to admit that his ghost has proved more persistent than you thought. You're just not sure what it wants.
"Handsome, right?" Lydia grins as she appears beside you.
You roll your eyes and move to roll the cart toward the shelves.
"Oh, ignore me all you want, sweetheart. You have a tell."
"I do not." You turn to glare at her.
Her smile widens as she shrugs. "If you say so." She disappears before you can argue.
A second later, Delia appears in her place, softer around the edges. She winks at you before following Lydia's path through the shelves.
Ghosts.
It's early morning when you settle onto your usual bench in the park, thermocup warming your hands as the last rays of the sunrise fade over the horizon. The air still carries the faint chill of the night, drops of dew clinging to the blades of grass.
You take a slow sip and lean back against the bench. It's been a nice couple of days—ghost-free and able to fully focus on the store without somebody dead demanding your attention.
A blur materialises out of the corner of your eye. It was too good to be true, you suppose.
You sigh lightly, then turn to face it. "Hi."
A woman blinks at you. Water drips steadily from her clothes, darkening the fabric around her shoulders. Her hair hangs in wet strands around her face, and she looks incredibly confused. "Where am I?"
"What's your name?" you ask her instead.
"I—I'm—" She spins around, sending droplets of water in every direction. You cover yourself instinctively, even though none of it can actually touch you. "What's going on?"
"Hey, it's okay. I can help you."
She frowns. Her mouth pulls into a tight line, but just as her shoulders begin to loosen, a figure steps straight through her. She disappears immediately.
You bite back a groan. You were just about to reach her.
"Sorry..." A low voice pulls your attention away. "I didn't mean to interrupt, but... are you okay?"
You glance up to find Dr. Abbot standing a few feet away, one hand half-raised like he wasn't sure whether he should approach. Of course.
You look toward the empty space where the woman had been. "Sorry. Just a second." You hold up a finger to him and turn your head slightly, pretending to listen to something only you can hear. "I gotta go. Yeah... Bye."
You turn back to him and pull out your headphones, feigning confusion. "Sorry, what were you saying?"
He studies you for a second longer than feels comfortable. His eyes move briefly to your hand, then back to your face. "Nothing. Sorry."
You smile awkwardly at him, thanking your past self for the foresight.
Dr. Abbot leans slightly to his left, an expression of pain flickering across his face, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you gesture to the space beside you. "Do you wanna sit?"
He hesitates, glancing toward the empty stretch of bench before lowering himself onto it, leaving a polite gap between you. Silence falls for a second before he speaks. "My resident loved the book."
Your face brightens. "Really?"
"Oh yeah," he says, his mouth curling slightly. "I'm apparently her favourite attending now." He nods in your direction. "All thanks to you."
"You're welcome!" You grin. "Next time you need a recommendation, you know where to find me." You take another sip of your coffee. "Is she the reason our page is popping off?"
He hums. "She did say something about posting it on her TikTok..."
You smile at the unsure grimace on his face. Clearly, he's not an avid user of the platform. "Give her my thanks, then. The store's been buzzing the last few days. The coffee corner's been packed since."
"Oh, you have coffee now?"
"Yeah! New addition. Ethan thought it would be good."
"Coffee's any good?"
You shrug. "Depends who's asking."
His mouth curls. "I am."
"Then I'll say yes."
He huffs a laugh.
Silence falls between you again, but this time it's more comfortable. You find yourself noticing that with him, silence doesn't seem to demand anything. You don't have to fill it, and neither does he. He just sits beside you, looking out across the park.
You lift the crinkly paper bag beside you and take out a croissant. You break it in two and hold out one half to him. He looks from the pastry to your face, as though checking whether you're serious.
You nod. "Take it."
The corner of his mouth lifts before he accepts it. His wedding ring catches the morning light as he does. The reminder sends a quiet swoop through your stomach, though you're unsure why.
You take a sip. "Feel free to bring your wife with you," you add. "We get lots of couples coming in."
"Oh..." His expression changes almost imperceptibly as his eyes drop to his hand. His thumb brushes over the edge of his wedding ring. "She passed away a few years ago."
The words are simple. There isn't a dramatic pause afterwards, no visible struggle to say them. Just a quiet fact placed between you. It explains the weird feeling you've gotten each time you've seen his ring—you must've picked up on it subconsciously.
"I'm sorry."
He shakes his head. "Don't be."
You glance at him.
He looks down at the croissant in his hand, turning it slightly between his fingers. "I was lucky to have her."
You smile softly. It's clear from his voice just how much he loved her. "She must've been special."
His own smile appears, small but genuine. It's still wider than any you've seen from him so far. "She was."
You've seen enough death to know there's no right thing to say afterwards. Sometimes people want sympathy. Sometimes they want to talk. Sometimes they just want someone to acknowledge that it happened and then let them breathe. So you don't try to fix it. You just sit beside him.
After a moment, Dr. Abbot takes another bite of his croissant and changes the subject. "So, was it always in your plans to own a bookstore?"
You breathe out. "No, I actually stumbled on it a few years ago."
You don't tell him about Lydia and Delia making life hell for the new owners, or how their refusal to move on had eventually led to the place being sold to you for barely a dime. Instead, you tell him, "I've always loved books. So, it just felt right to share that love with others."
He hums, smiling slightly. "That makes sense."
"What about you? Did you always want to be a doctor?"
"Couldn't afford college, so I joined the army. Lost my leg." He pats his right leg, but doesn't make more of it. So you don't either. "Then after that, I entered emergency medicine. And that was that."
You glance at him. "That was that?"
He shrugs. "Seemed like a reasonable way to spend the rest of my life."
You snort. "Most people would say they wanted to help people."
"Well, I try to keep the inspirational speeches to a minimum."
You laugh. The conversation drifts again. It's strangely easy. You talk some more about the bookstore. He tells you about some of the residents who have passed through the ER, right until a yawn interrupts his words.
You fight back a smile. "I'd better get going," you say, standing and brushing pastry flakes from your jeans. "The store's not going to open itself." Well... it might. But the last time Lydia and Delia tried, it hadn't ended particularly well.
Dr. Abbot's eyes flick briefly to the fading bruises on your forearms before meeting yours again. He opens his mouth, hesitates, then simply says, "Take care of yourself."
You smile. "I usually do."
"Thanks again for the book recommendation."
"Anytime," you say, smiling at him. You give him a small wave before turning towards the path.
The tension in Jack's shoulders eases the second he steps into Cordelia's and is met by the familiar smell of paper, ink and coffee. The bell chimes softly above him as he swipes his wet feet at the mat.
"Oh no, poor you." You emerge from the back, taking in how the rain clings to his hair.
He waves his hand. "It's not that bad. Just a light—" A loud boom of thunder interrupts him, followed by rain pelting hard against the windows, "—drizzle. Huh." He leans slightly to his left, trying to place more weight on his good leg, but even that one is hurting today.
He can feel your gaze on him, so he turns back to you with a charming little smile in place, trying his best to avoid letting you know how bad it is.
"Go sit." You nod towards the armchair, an air of resolution over you as you head for the coffee machine. Somehow, you see right through him every time.
Jack doesn't have the energy to argue. He settles into the armchair, propping his leg on the ottoman that appeared after his second long visit. He's not sure when it became tradition for him to show up after shift. It just did.
You're not even open yet, so most mornings you sit with him. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don't. It's nice. You've become an unlikely friend, someone who he looks forward to seeing after shift. It certainly beats going home to an empty apartment. Somewhere along the way, Cordelia's had become part of his routine.
"Here." You reach over, bringing him his cup. He lets his hands warm against the porcelain before taking a long sip.
"You've done it again," he breathes out. "You really are magic."
You shake your head. "I thought we agreed not to call me that."
"You agreed. I didn't." He shrugs. "You always find the best books and, somehow, make this coffee taste good. Magic."
"Uh-huh." You roll your eyes, heading back towards the counter with your own mug. Jack rests his head against the chair, letting the quiet rustle of the bookstore and the sound of rain wash away the beeps and shouting voices still ringing in his ears.
His eyes follow you as you lift a box up onto the counter. "What'd you got there?"
You grin widely. "One of our customers left us a few boxes of vintage books." You slice cleanly through the tape. "I mean, look at this." You pull out a gorgeous green-covered book, holding it carefully in both hands, your entire face lighting up.
Jack can't help the little smile that tugs at his lips. You're cute when you're excited. He looks away before you can catch him staring, spinning his ring around. He's not sure where that thought came from.
"It's beautiful," you say, running your thumb carefully along the spine. "Look at the binding."
The bell rings again as Ethan drags himself in through the door, shaking his umbrella and leaving it at the entrance. He waves to Jack before immediately slumping down behind the counter with a yawn.
"You look like a wet rat," you tell him.
"Oh, thank you." Jack hears the offended tone in Ethan's voice as he stands up, shaking his wet sleeve at you.
"Hey!"
Jack chuckles quietly to himself as the two of you begin bickering.
"What's all this?" Ethan asks, finally noticing the box. A low whistle escapes him. "This might be worth a pretty penny."
Jack watches the two of you fall into your familiar rhythm. You inspect every book before Ethan checks the condition. You argue over whether certain editions should be sold or kept. Ethan reads out the occasional title with a laugh. You keep nudging books toward him for him to look at.
Jack mostly stays quiet. He doesn't mind. That's one of the things he likes about the store. He doesn't have to perform here. He can sit with his coffee and listen to the two of you bicker about books while the morning slowly settles around him.
His gaze drifts back toward you. Your hands are scratched. Again. He notices immediately. Fresh little cuts cross your fingers and knuckles, some still pink around the edges.
At first, he worried someone was hurting you. Ethan had been the obvious possibility, if only because he was the person Jack saw you with most often. But a little careful observation—and a few questions asked in the casual way only a doctor can manage—put that suspicion to rest.
You trust Ethan. Completely. There is nothing between you that suggests otherwise.
So now he's left with another question. What's happening to you? He doesn't like the thought. You've always been a little accident-prone. He knows that much. There was the initial fall from the ladder. The bruises. The scrapes. And now this. He could ask. He should probably ask. But he doesn't. Not yet. You aren't his patient. You aren't even—
He doesn't finish the thought.
Instead, he takes another drink of coffee and watches you laugh at something Ethan says. You're both leaning over the same box, shoulders nearly touching. For some reason, he finds himself smiling again.
Then you pick up another book. It's blue, covered in tiny butterflies. "Oh, this is so pre—"
You stop. Completely. The change is so sudden that Jack sits up. Your fingers remain frozen against the open page. Your eyes stare somewhere beyond the book.
"Magic?" He says it lightly at first, his eyes roaming over your frozen figure. You don't respond.
Ethan notices at exactly the same moment, but unlike Jack, he doesn't move toward you. Ethan moves toward him, stepping directly into his line of sight, and blocking you from view. "You want another cup?"
Jack frowns. "I—" He leans sideways.
Ethan shifts with him. He tries the other way. Ethan follows.
"What are you doing?"
Ethan's face is neutral, but the tightening around his eyes reveals his true position. He doesn't want Jack to see you for some reason. "Offering you coffee."
Jack looks down at his still half-full cup, his frown deepening. He shifts forward, planting his good foot firmly on the floor. Ethan still doesn't move. Jack pushes himself upright, his prosthetic taking an extra second to cooperate. By the time he's standing, Ethan has finally stepped aside.
And it's like nothing happened. You're fine. You're flicking through another book with the same casualness as before. Jack stares. "Hey, you okay?"
A smile immediately settles over your face. "Yeah." It arrives too quickly, too smoothly.
He doesn't believe you. You know he doesn't. For a second, something passes between you. A silent acknowledgement that whatever just happened, you both know it did.
Ethan clears his throat. "So, coffee?"
Jack looks at him, then back at you. "I—no. I should head home."
You frown. "So soon?"
He pauses.
Your expression changes the second you realise what you've said. "Sorry, go on. You're tired," you add quickly. "You should sleep."
He smiles faintly. "Yeah." He looks at you for another second. "See you tomorrow, Magic."
You roll your eyes, waving him off.
The bell jingles softly behind him. Outside, out of sight from the store windows, he pauses on the pavement. He barely takes notice of the rain, his mind busy running through everything he's seen. Bruises. Scratches. Lethargy. Disassociation. The way you froze just now. His thoughts begin sorting possibilities automatically.
Anemia. Thrombocytopenia. Something autoimmune.
He discards some almost immediately. Others linger. His stomach twists. He knows better than to diagnose someone from a handful of observations. He knows better than to let his mind run ahead of the evidence. But his brain doesn't care. It keeps circling back.
Cancer.
He closes his eyes for a moment. Not again.
You've only seen Jack once this week, a significant enough break in your routine that you find yourself thinking about him all the time. You catch yourself wondering whether he heads straight to bed instead of coming to the store, whether he's been working more shifts, whether he's okay.
You'd made Ethan leave him a note after you'd missed two mornings in a row. Somehow, the two of you have never exchanged numbers, so you don't even know he's seen it. Maybe he hasn't even come by, and you've been worrying for nothing. He's a busy man, after all.
You hope he doesn't think you're avoiding him. The last time he came by, you could see the questions swimming in his eyes. Questions you had elegantly sidestepped, but the doubt was still in his posture when he left.
You're just not sure what to tell him. Oh, that? That was just a vision. I get those sometimes—ghosts like to talk to me through them. What? Yeah, I talk to ghosts. It's no big deal.
He'd think you were crazy.
And you're genuinely busy. The vision from the blue book has led you through one dead end after another, the child ghost attached to it proving considerably harder to cross over than usual. Every time you think you're getting close, something changes. A new location. A new clue. Another fragment of a memory that sends you in the wrong direction.
So the bookstore has been running mostly without you. Ethan has taken care of most of the day-to-day things, with you dropping in whenever you can. Long enough to check the register. Long enough to unpack a few boxes. Long enough to make sure Lydia and Delia haven't started another argument over which section needs reorganising. Then you're gone again.
You push through the bookstore door late in the afternoon, the bell giving its familiar little chime above your head.
Ethan looks up from behind the counter, his eyes trailing over you. "You look awful."
You drop your bag onto the counter. "Gee, thanks."
"You know what I mean." He closes the book in front of him and crosses his arms. "You look exhausted. Have you been sleeping?"
You shrug, already heading toward the boxes stacked in the back. "I'll sleep after."
"After what?"
You crouch beside one of the boxes and start digging through it. "After."
"There's no after with you." His brows pinch together. "You can't help anyone if you're not taking care of yourself."
You ignore him, pushing aside a stack of paperbacks. "You sound like my dad."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't."
"Still taking it."
You finally find what you're looking for. The blue book. You pull it free and hold it against your chest. You stand again and turn toward the door. "I'll see you later, okay? Close the store early if you want."
"You sure?"
"Yeah." Your hand closes around the door handle. "I'm sorry for leaving it all to you. I'll make it up to you."
He waves you off. "You know, I don't mind... Jack's been asking for you."
So he has been by. Not directly after shift, because Ethan doesn't open that early. He's taken time out of his day to actually come by, disturbing the little sleep he gets. You stop, the bell above you giving a tiny jingle as the door shifts beneath your hand. "What did you say?"
"That you were busy." He leans back on the counter. "He's worried about you."
You swallow. "Well, tell him I'm fine."
Ethan's eyebrows lift. "That's it?"
"What else am I supposed to say?"
"Maybe ask why he's been asking about you."
You give him a flat look. A faint thump comes from somewhere behind the shelves. Ethan's eyes flick toward the sound, but you keep yours straight ahead.
"Tell him I'm fine."
"You could tell him yourself, you know."
You pause. For one brief, stupid second, you're tempted. The temptation is sharper than it should be. You could stop by the store one morning, let this ghost wait a little longer, but the wide-eyed, fearful gaze of your ghost reminds you that this is a little more important.
Jack can wait. Besides, it's not like the two of you really are anything to each other. He knows what you like to eat at breakfast, the books you prefer to read, and how your mother died when you were young. You know how he likes his coffee, the way he walks when he's trying to hide how his leg is hurting, and the passing of his wife. He'd even told you how his mother passed just a few years later and how he hadn't coped well with it.
Normal things. Things friends know about each other. Nothing that meant anything.
You push it down. "I'll see you later, okay?"
Ethan watches the door swing shut and sighs. Delia and Lydia join him from their hiding spot behind the shelves.
It's yet another early morning when Jack heads toward Cordelia's. He's stopped telling himself he's only going for the coffee by now. At first, it had been an easy excuse. He liked the place, the coffee, the books, and the quiet.
And, admittedly, he liked seeing you. He liked the way you made the silence feel comfortable. He liked that you noticed when his leg hurt even when he tried to hide it. He liked that you never made a big deal out of it.
That last part had been easier to ignore when you were actually there.
Now it's been over a week since he last saw you. Still, every morning after a shift, he finds himself turning down the same street, parking in the same spot, and walking toward the same little bookstore with the faint hope that this will finally be the morning he catches you. His hope grows when he sees the lights are on, which normally doesn't happen this early unless you're in.
Ethan looks up when the bell rings. His smile is polite, almost apologetic. "Morning."
Jack steps farther inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. He tries not to let the disappointment show on his face. Ethan is fiddling with something in the middle of the store, adjusting one of the little displays.
Jack leans against the counter, watching him for a moment. He doesn't bother pretending he's here for a book. He stopped doing that after the first two times. "...You talk to her?"
Ethan glances over. "Yeah, she came in yesterday."
Jack's shoulders ease slightly. "And how was she?"
"Fine." The answer comes too quickly. Ethan turns back toward the display.
Jack watches him. "Fine?"
"Yeah."
Jack nods slowly. Something about it doesn't sit right. He's seen you. Not properly, but he's caught glimpses. Once through the hospital window when you'd been crossing the street. Another time when he'd been driving past the bookstore and spotted you leaving through the side entrance.
You'd looked different. Paler. Thinner. Tired. He'd wanted to ask if you were okay, but each time he'd tried to get your attention, you'd climbed into your car and driven away before he could reach you. He'd told himself you were busy. Then he'd told himself you were avoiding him. That thought had bothered him more than it should have. Then he'd wracked his mind for a reason but ultimately landed on none.
"Is she sick?"
"What?" Ethan's head turns sharply.
"Is she sick?" Jack repeats. The words sound worse spoken aloud. "I've been seeing her around. She doesn't look well."
Ethan's expression shifts.
Jack's stomach drops. "She is sick."
"...No."
Jack catches the hesitation immediately. "Then what?"
Ethan looks away.
Jack's pulse starts beating harder. "She's been exhausted. She's lost weight."
"She's busy."
"She looks pale."
"She's been busy."
"She keeps leaving before I can talk to her."
Ethan sighs. "Jack—"
Jack watches his face. He's a doctor. He knows what people look like when they're trying not to tell you something. He knows what hesitation means. His mind starts filling in the blanks before he can stop it. Bloodwork. Imaging. Specialists. Treatment. His stomach twists. He pushes away from the counter. "Please."
Ethan finally looks at him.
"I'm a doctor. I can help."
"You can't."
"Please."
Ethan's expression softens.
Jack swallows. "If it's money, I'll take care of it." The words come out before he can think better of them.
Ethan blinks. "Jack—"
"I mean it." His voice is quieter now. "I'll pay for whatever she needs. Tests. Treatment. Whatever."
He doesn't explain why. The memory is already there in his mind. A hospital room. A diagnosis he'd wanted to believe wasn't serious. A woman he loved telling him she was fine when she wasn't. All the little things he'd missed. The things he should have noticed. The things he should have done differently. He'd promised himself he'd never make that mistake again. Not with someone he cared about.
Ethan stares at him, then shakes his head. "...She's not sick."
"Then what?"
Ethan bites his lip. For a moment, Jack thinks he's going to tell him. Instead, Ethan looks down at the display. "That's not for me to say."
Jack's jaw tightens. "Ethan."
"I'm sorry."
"Please."
"I can't."
Jack stares at him. There is something desperate in his own voice now, but he doesn't really care. "You know something."
Ethan doesn't answer.
"You know what's wrong with her."
"I know she's dealing with something."
"Then tell me."
"I can't."
Jack exhales sharply. His hand curls against the edge of the counter. "She doesn't have to know I'm asking."
"Jack."
"She doesn't even have to know I can help."
Ethan shakes his head. "It's not my secret."
Jack looks away. For a moment, the anger drains out of him, leaving only exhaustion. Right. Of course. He can't demand this. You aren't his patient. You're not his responsibility. You're—
He doesn't know what you are to him. He grabs his keys from his pocket. "Okay."
"I'm sorry."
Jack nods once. "Yeah." He turns toward the door.
"Jack?"
He pauses.
Ethan's voice is gentler now. "She's okay."
Jack looks back.
Ethan gives him a small, reassuring smile. "She'll be okay."
Jack searches his face. He wants to believe him. He wants to believe him more than anything. "Right." He steps outside, the door closing behind him.
He stands on the pavement for a moment, staring at the bookstore window. His chest feels tight. He should go home. Sleep. Forget about it until tomorrow.
He thinks about the first time you'd met. The stupid heart-covered pyjama pants. The cut on your forehead. The way you'd laughed at his terrible jokes. The coffee you'd started making exactly the way he liked it. The bench in the park. The croissant you'd split with him. The way you'd listened when he'd talked about Rachel without making him feel like he was saying too much. The fact that he'd noticed your absence almost immediately when you stopped coming around.
He'd told himself it was because he'd grown used to seeing you. That was all. Just routine. Except now he has to admit how much he misses you.
Jack exhales slowly. Because whatever you're dealing with, you're dealing with it alone. And for reasons he's not ready to examine, Jack really, really doesn't like that.
You feel like you're losing your mind.
Your ghost won't leave you alone. She's there when you wake, when you eat, when you try to work. Barely a second passes without seeing her somewhere in the corner of your eye, hovering close enough that you can hear the quiet hitch of her breathing. When you try to sleep, she cries because she's scared. When you're at the bookstore, she cries because she's scared of Lydia and Delia. When you tell her to stay away from the shelves, she cries. When you tell her you'll help her, she cries harder.
For your own sake, you need to cross her over. Soon.
But it's not proving easy. She doesn't remember anything. Not where she lived. Not how she died. Not even where her mother is. You know exactly one thing about her. Her name is Poppy. That's it.
You've tracked down the customer who left the blue book behind, hoping there might be some clue in where they'd bought it or who had owned it before them. Nothing. You've searched. You've asked questions. You've followed every lead Poppy has given you. Every single one has ended nowhere. You're completely lost.
One lead keeps bringing you back to the same place, though. An old house on the edge of town, where you've felt the presence of more spirits than you can count. Not the lost, confused ghosts you're used to. These are different. Angry. Territorial. The kind that makes the air feel heavy before you even cross the property line.
The first time you went near the house, something had whispered your name from inside before you'd even reached the door. You hadn't gone back alone since. You're not sure what Poppy's connection is to these spirits, but she always seems more frightened after you've been near the house. You haven't been able to figure out what they want from her.
So, trying to change your surroundings in the hopes that it might clear something up, you head to the park. You sit on your usual bench, which you haven't done in a long time, with a thermocup warming your hands. For once, there's no one around. No customers. No Ethan. No Lydia or Delia. No Jack. Just you.
And Poppy sitting cross-legged in the grass a few feet away.
"I miss my mommy," she whispers.
Your eyes close. "I know."
"She'll find me, right?"
You swallow. You don't know. "Try to see if you can remember something."
Poppy looks at you. "I'm trying." Her voice is louder this time.
"I know." You keep your voice gentle, trying to soothe her. "But—"
"You're just trying to get rid of me," she accuses.
"What?"
She stands. "You don't want me here."
"Poppy—"
"You don't want me!"
You lift a hand. "I want to help you."
"You want me gone. Just like they said."
The words catch somewhere in your mind. They? But Poppy is crying again before you can ask.
"You need to cross over," you say, more firmly now. "This isn't where you're supposed to be."
Her face crumples. "You don't want me," she cries louder. "I want my mommy."
"I am trying to find your mommy."
"I want her!" Her voice rises.
You wince. "Poppy—"
"I want my mommy!"
The sound tears through you. You press your fingers against your temples. "Stop."
She freezes.
You breathe hard. "Just stop. I can't take it anymore."
Poppy's lower lip trembles. "You don't want me."
The anger drains out of you immediately. You rub a hand over your face. "Wait. Poppy, I didn't mean it like that."
She's already disappearing.
"Fuck." You stare at the empty patch of grass, your chest rising quickly. You don't notice the footsteps approaching until a familiar voice speaks beside you.
"Hey."
You look up. Jack. He's standing a few feet away, concern written plainly across his face. Of course. Of course he's here now.
You wipe quickly beneath your eyes. "It isn't what it looks like."
Jack's eyebrows lift. "No?" He gestures toward the empty grass. "Then what is it?"
You stare at him. Your heart starts pounding. You can't do this. Not with him. Not after everything. You remember Ethan's words. He's not like John. You swallow. "I—"
This is much harder than when you meet the family members or friends of ghosts. You can show them proof—hand them something that assures them you aren't crazy. You can't do that with Jack. He might have a ghost attached, but his mother hasn't tried to reach out to you in weeks. You haven't seen or spoken to her. You have nothing that will convince him.
Jack doesn't interrupt. He simply sits down beside you, leaving enough space between you that you don't feel trapped.
You fiddle with your fingers. He waits patiently. Maybe Ethan was right. Maybe Jack isn't like John. "This is gonna sound crazy."
"Okay."
You glance at him. His expression doesn't change, but he reaches over, placing his hand on top of yours.
With another deep breath, you finally say, "I can see ghosts." The words sound ridiculous the second they're out. You stare at your intertwined hands and wait for him to pull away. He doesn't.
When Jack doesn't say anything, you look over at him. He's watching you. His eyes are kind and curious. Not horrified or pitying like you suspected.
"I've always been able to," you continue quietly. "I help them cross over. Go into the light. Like my mom." You swallow. "Do you believe me?"
Jack nods. "I do."
The relief that moves through you is almost painful. You let out a breath you didn't realise you'd been holding. He doesn't ask for proof. Doesn't ask you to demonstrate. Doesn't ask whether you're sure. His thumb brushes over your palm, then he looks at you again.
"Would you be willing to come to the hospital with me?"
The relief stutters in your chest. "Why?"
The warmth in his voice remains, but concern slips into it. "You're thinner than when I met you. You show up with random bruises and scratches."
Your stomach sinks.
"You're tired. You freeze up sometimes, and just now you were talking to the air."
Your other hand curls around the thermocup, holding it tightly. You stare at him, tears welling up.
He squeezes your hand. "I want you to get checked out."
It's like it all processes at once, the air in your chest rushing out of you. "You think I'm crazy."
"No." He shakes his head immediately. "I think you're sick, sweetheart."
The words hit harder than they should. For a second, you're back somewhere else. Not the park. Not Pittsburgh. Years ago. John sitting across from you. A much different expression but that same certainty. You're imagining things. You're crazy. You're just like your mom.
And now Jack—
Jack, who you'd thought was different. Jack, who had listened. Jack, who had made you feel normal. Jack, who has a ghost attached to him and has seen strange things happening around him. Who acts like it isn't unusual—
He doesn't believe you. He thinks you're sick.
You shake your head. "I'm not."
"Honey—"
"I'm not." You stand so quickly your coffee nearly spills.
Jack rises with you.
"I'm not sick."
His brow furrows. "I'm worried about you."
"No." You shake your head. "You're worried because you think there's something wrong with me."
"There could be." His voice is gentle, which somehow makes it all worse.
"I don't understand. You should know better than anyone that I'm not crazy. You've experienced things you can't explain—I know it."
Jack goes still.
Your eyes burn. "I know what I'm seeing."
He takes a small step forward. "I believe that you believe you're seeing—"
You flinch and move backwards. "Don't."
Jack's face changes. He realises too late what the words sound like. "That's not what I meant."
"I'm not sick." A tear slips down your cheek. You wipe it away angrily.
Jack's expression twists. "Magic—"
"Don't call me that." You look at him through teary lashes. "I thought you were different."
His face falls.
For a moment, neither of you speaks, then you turn away. "I need to go."
"Please." His voice is suddenly unsteady.
You shake your head. "I can't do this. Don't come to the store again."
His expression breaks, and his lips form your name, but nothing comes out. You turn around. You don't wait for him to say anything else. You walk away, and for once, you don't look back.
You hole up in your apartment after that day. Steer clear of anything that could lead to a ghost finding you. You don't go to the park anymore. Jack doesn't come to the store. Ethan checks in every day, but you keep your replies short and insist you're fine. He eventually decided to stop asking, but you feel his eyes following you in the store constantly.
Poppy also doesn't show herself again. Part of you is relieved, another part of you worries that you've made things worse. You don't have the energy to figure out which feeling is winning.
You're sprawled across the couch sometime after midnight when the crackling starts. The sound grows louder. Your hands fly to your ears. It doesn't help. The static crawls through your skull, sharp and distorted. Your vision blurs at the edges. You squeeze your eyes shut. The crackling rises. Louder. Louder. Then—
It quiets.
You slowly open your eyes. A woman is standing in front of you. She's watching you carefully. You stare back.
"Can you see me?"
You let your hands fall into your lap. "...Yes."
Her eyes widen as her face lights up. "Finally!"
That's not the usual reaction you get from ghosts.
She grins. "You have no idea how long I've been trying."
You blink as the pieces connect. "You're Jack's ghost, aren't you?"
Her smile wavers a bit. "Yes."
His mother looks younger than you expected, with kind eyes and an expression that's almost painfully patient. Frail. It's the lack of hair that surprises you most—her head is entirely bald.
"Is he okay?" The question comes out before you can stop it, even as your stomach twists.
Her smile returns, softer this time. "All things considered, yes."
You look away. "Good."
"He's worried about you."
You stand immediately, turning toward the kitchen. "I mean no disrespect—I know, he's your son—but I don't really care."
A burst of laughter follows you. You turn around slowly.
The woman is laughing so hard she's doubled over. She wipes beneath one eye. "Oh, no, I'm not his mother."
You frown. "Then who are you?"
She straightens. "I'm his wife." Rachel.
The words move through you strangely, hollow and sharp at the same time. "Oh." You make it three steps. "Wait." You look over your shoulder. "It's been you this entire time?"
Rachel appears next to you in the kitchen. "Yes."
You exhale slowly. "You've been here for a long time, then."
She hears the question behind it. "I can't leave yet." Her expression softens. "Not until he lets his guilt go."
You turn to her fully. "Guilt?"
She sighs. "He blames himself for my death."
You lean against the kitchen counter. "Why?"
"By the time we found the cancer, it was too late. Jack thought he should have seen it as a doctor, but—" She looks down at her hands.
No one could have known. Sometimes life is cruel like that. You know that better than most. Sometimes people die. Sometimes there is nothing you can do. Sometimes the world simply decides that someone isn't getting another day.
You fill the kettle. "So you want me to help him?"
"Yes..." She hesitates.
You narrow your eyes at her. "What else?"
Rachel gives you an innocent smile. "Well... We thought maybe you could help each other."
You stop filling the kettle. "We?"
"Us ghosts."
You stare at her.
"We talk."
"You talk."
"Yes."
"About me?"
"Sometimes."
Your eyes close. "Wonderful."
"I followed Jack into the park one morning and met Lydia and Delia. They told me about you. We thought you might understand each other."
You stare at her, then the realisation hits you. Your mouth falls open. "What?"
She has the decency to look embarrassed. "I—well..."
"I can't believe this. This is insane."
"We didn't mean to hurt you."
"You're his wife! Why are you involved in this?"
"His dead wife!" she counters, voice rising slightly. "He deserves more than this. He deserves to be loved. I want that for him. I want him to be with someone who understands him—and you do. You get it. You know what death does to a person. You understand what it means to carry someone with you even after they're gone. And he'll understand you if you just let him. If you give him another chance—"
Your voice is hoarse as you cut her off. "Please, get out."
Rachel looks panicked. "Please, we didn't mean—"
"Get. Out." You tell her, pointing toward the door. "I won't ask again."
She looks at you for a long moment, then she nods. "I'm sorry."
She disappears without another sound. For several seconds, you don't move, not until the kettle pings. You blink back tears, cursing out Delia and Lydia in your mind.
Maybe they'll be able to hear you. You hope so.
Weeks later, the bookstore has been quiet. Not just quiet in the ordinary sense. Quiet in the supernatural sense. No books flying from shelves. No lights flickering. No crackling static in the middle of the day. No Lydia appearing beside you with unsolicited advice. No Delia whispering things you absolutely didn't ask to hear. After your last conversation with Rachel, you'd made your feelings very clear to everyone involved. Apparently, they'd listened. For once.
Ethan is behind the counter when you emerge from the back room. He looks up, then does a double-take. "You look pretty."
You glance down at yourself. You've traded your usual jeans and cardigan for a dress, slipped into a pair of heels, and touched up your makeup. You put in one earring. "Thanks."
Ethan continues staring. "Got a hot date or something?"
"Yeah."
He straightens, the teasing tone disappearing from his voice. "What?"
You laugh. "Yeah."
"Really?"
"Is it that unbelievable?"
"No," he hurries to say. "I just thought..."
You pause. "What?"
"Nothing."
"No, tell me."
He sighs. "I thought you were in love with Jack."
Your fingers still around the clasp of your earring. For half a second, you don't say anything, then you scoff. "I was never in love with Jack."
Ethan raises an eyebrow.
"We were friends." You grab your purse from the counter. "And now we aren't." You check that you've got your phone, wallet, and keys. "End of story."
There is also some stubborn part of you that wants to prove to Rachel, Lydia and Delia, and every other ghost who'd decided they knew better, wrong. You and Jack don't fit together. Whatever they thought they'd seen between you was wrong.
"Right, sure." His tone is carefully neutral. "So, where are you going?"
"Uh… that restaurant that serves that pasta dish you like—Angelo's!"
"Damn, I'm jealous." He shakes his head. "Where you'd meet this guy?"
"Hinge."
Ethan makes a face as he fiddles with a piece of paper. "I thought you were over dating."
"Boyfriends," you correct.
"There's a difference?"
"Obviously." You check yourself in the reflection of the darkened window. "A boyfriend gets to know everything."
"Everything?"
You shrug. "About me."
Ethan watches you.
You adjust one of your earrings. "A date doesn't. We can just have fun and let it be that."
"If you say so," he replies.
"You're the one always telling me to get laid."
"I didn't mean this."
You give him a warning look.
He raises both hands. "Fine. Have fun. I'm a phone call away if anything happens."
You send him a small smile and sling your purse over your shoulder. "Got it. You have my location. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yeah, tomorrow."
Your dating attempts all go down the drain. Every single one. Even if it starts promisingly enough.
The first guy is named Daniel. He's handsome in an unassuming sort of way, with dark curls, a charming smile, and the kind of manners that make you able to imagine going home with him. He holds the restaurant door open for you. He compliments your dress without making it sound like he's expecting anything in return. He even listens when you talk.
You make it through appetisers without incident, then the wine glass beside his hand tips over. It spreads over his shirt, soaking into the fabric. You don't suspect that it was anything but clumsiness until the dessert, and his plate shoots sideways, landing straight in the lap of the woman sitting at the next table.
You don't see anyone, but you know exactly who did it.
You haven't forgotten what happened by the second date, but after forty spectacle-free minutes, you've relaxed. It's pleasant. There's no sparks flying, but you don't need that. You don't want that, actually. The pleasantness comes to an end when his salad bowl jerks sideways, launching dressing straight into his eyes. And that was that.
The third, fourth and fifth go exactly the same. One man receives a drink he didn't order and has it thrown directly into his face. Another finds his phone repeatedly dialling the same number despite the fact that he hasn't touched it. One poor bloke gets locked in the restaurant bathroom for twenty minutes while you stand outside listening to him insist that the door "just won't fucking open."
No one shows themselves, but you feel their presence, that tell-tale feeling of ghosts being near. Delia's perfume drifts past your nose one time. Lydia's laugh echoes another time. You even hear Rachel's voice in between other ones that you don't recognise. It seems like your matchmaking ghosts have made all their friends part of their schemes. You can't even blame your dates for leaving. You'd leave too.
And the worst part is that, even before the ghosts got involved, none of them had felt right. Daniel was charming. The second was funny. The third had made you laugh so hard you'd snorted wine through your nose. They were all perfectly nice. Perfectly suitable.
None of them is Jack.
You hate that your mind keeps making the comparison. Jack's dry humour. His crooked smiles. The easy silences between you. The way he's never made you feel like you had to perform or explain yourself. With everyone else, you find yourself waiting for something to click. Some spark. Some feeling that tells you this is worth pursuing. It never comes.
By the time you finally stomp into Cordelia's, you're furious. You slam your purse onto the counter. "Show yourselves." You fold your arms. "I'm not in the mood for this." You glare toward the shelves. "I know you're here."
Slowly, three figures appear across the room. Rachel at least looks apologetic. Lydia doesn't. Delia looks like she's trying very hard not to smile.
You stare at all three of them. "You need to stop."
Lydia opens her mouth. "But dear—"
"No." You hold up a hand. "Nothing else. This stops now."
She looks offended. "We're only trying to—"
"I don't care." Your voice cracks through the room. "You've ruined every date I've been on."
Delia winces as Lydia folds her arms. "They weren't right for you."
"You don't know that!"
"They were boring."
"That doesn't mean you get to throw food at them!"
"We didn't throw food at them," she argues.
You stare at her.
"We threw the plates." Lydia gives you a tiny shrug. "Technicality."
You breathe deeply, eyes flaring. "Are you serious?"
Delia loops Lydia's arm in between hers, holding her back.
"If you do this again, I'm selling this place."
All three look at you. Delia hesitates. "Dear—"
"I mean it."
Rachel takes a hesitant step forward. "We only wanted you to be happy."
"You don't get to choose for me." You look between them. "Are we clear?"
Rachel nods first. Slowly, reluctantly, the other two follow.
"Good." You grab your purse.
You're over dating. Completely. It's not worth it anymore. Unfortunately, that leaves you with a lot of extra time to think. To think about Jack's face when you told him to stay away.
So, you start seeking ghosts out deliberately. Cemeteries. Old houses. Anywhere you hear rumours of someone who hasn't crossed over. It's easier when you're busy. If you're talking to a ghost, you don't have to think about Jack. You don't have to wonder whether he's angry with you. Whether he hates you. Whether he still thinks you're sick. It also means you're spending more time around hospitals than you used to, but you've been careful around PTMC. You tell yourself that's enough distance.
Until the ghost in the park finds you. He's flickering badly, his form disappearing every few seconds before snapping back into place. He begs you to tell his family he's fine—that they don't have to worry about him. You promise you will.
You reason with yourself that there's no reason that you'd meet Jack. It's daytime. Jack works nights. Even if he's here, he's an attending in the E.R. You're not heading there. Ergo, you're not going to see him.
You really should have known better.
The elevator doors open, and as you step in, you find Jack already inside. His expression changes the second he sees you. Surprise first, then something softer, something that looks painfully close to relief.
"Hi."
Your breath catches at the sight of him. He looks tired. More tired than you remember. You manage a small nod. "Hi."
You stand beside him, folding your arms and fixing your eyes on the numbers above the door. He glances at you. You can feel it without looking. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you.
The ghost stands in the corner beside you, watching the two of you with open curiosity. "Is that Jack?"
Your head nearly snaps to the side. How does this random ghost know Jack? Does the entire ghost community gossip about you? You stare straight ahead.
The ride takes thirty seconds. Thirty seconds of Jack standing close enough that you can feel his warmth beside you. Thirty seconds of remembering what it felt like when that same closeness had once been comforting. The doors open. You step out immediately.
Jack's brows rise when he registers the floor. Oncology. His expression changes.
"Wait—"
You keep walking. You don't turn around.
That was just the first awkward meeting. The next time, you're sitting in the waiting room for bloodwork with your phone in your hand, pretending to scroll while a ghost whispers in your ear.
You're tired. You're always tired lately. You haven't slept properly in days, and your body feels like it's made of something heavier than bone. You rub at your temple, trying to ease the dull ache behind your eyes as you listen. A familiar pull makes you look up, and your eyes meet with Jack's.
He's standing across the waiting room. His eyes travel over you. Your face. Your hands. The dark circles beneath your eyes. His expression tightens, concern flashing across his face. As he takes a step toward you, you finally regain control of your limbs. You stand immediately and leave before he can get any closer.
Somehow, he's everywhere you go.
Hallways he has no business being in. Elevator rides that you were certain would be clear. Waiting rooms you thought would be empty. Once, you even catch sight of him through a glass door just as you're leaving.
And every time, his expression gets worse. More worried. More confused. He tries to talk to you more than once, but you don't want to listen.
The more you see him, the harder it becomes to keep your walls up. Every time he looks at you like that, some small part of you wants to stop running. Wants to tell him everything. Wants to let him explain. Wants to believe that maybe you were wrong. Maybe he really would understand if you gave him the chance.
And that's exactly why you start avoiding the hospital again. Because if you keep seeing Jack, eventually you're going to stop running. And you're not sure if you can survive another rejection.
It's another lonely afternoon again. You're sprawled across the couch in an old sweatshirt, a carton of takeout balanced precariously against your stomach. Some terrible rerun plays on the television, the kind you've seen often enough that you don't really have to pay attention. You take another bite. For once, you're not thinking about ghosts. Or Jack. You're just tired.
The lights flicker.
You sigh. The television crackles. You slowly lower your fork as the lights flicker again. A cold gust sweeps through the room, lifting the edge of the blanket pooled around your legs.
The air shifts, and Poppy appears in front of the television. Her eyes are wide. "Help me!"
"Poppy?" You stand, moving toward her. You haven't seen her in weeks. Her hair is tangled around her face, her little body flickering so badly that pieces of her seem to disappear before snapping back into place.
She takes a step toward you. "Please."
"What's going on?"
"They're gonna get me." Her voice breaks.
"Who's going to get you?"
Poppy looks toward the front door, seeing something you can't. Pure terror crosses her face. "Hurry. They're so angry."
"Poppy, wait."
For a second, she's gone. Then she appears beside the front door.
"Who is going to get you?"
She doesn't answer. She just looks back at you. "Please." She disappears through the door.
You stare after her. "Goddammit." You grab your jacket from the back of the chair, shove your feet into the nearest pair of shoes, and snatch your keys from the counter. You barely remember to lock the door behind you.
You hurry down the steps, shivering slightly in the cold autumn weather. Your jacket is too thin, but you don't care; you just need to find her.
You don't know what has changed, but it's enough that she was terrified enough to return to you.
Jack can't shake the feeling that something is wrong.
It starts small. A nagging sensation in his gut that he can't quite explain. He's spent weeks trying to convince himself that you're fine. Ethan said you were fine. You told him you were fine. He should leave it alone. Instead, by the time he's getting ready for work, the feeling has grown too large to ignore. So he calls Robby and asks him to cover his shift.
He doesn't even know what he's going to do when he gets to the bookstore. He just knows he needs to see you. There's something restless in the back of his mind. Not a thought exactly. More like a pressure, an insistence he can't quite place. It eases as he nears the store.
When he pulls up outside, Ethan is locking the door with frantic, fumbling motions, panic written across his face.
"Hey," Jack calls as he steps out of the car.
"I don't have time to talk right now." Ethan hurries past him to his car.
"What's going on?"
"Nothing I can explain right now."
"Ethan."
Ethan keeps moving. "I'm serious. I don't have time for this right now."
"Why? What's going on?"
Ethan slams the car door, but Jack opens the passenger door before he can pull away. "Ethan."
Ethan sighs, clearly conflicted. "Just—get in or close the door."
Jack hesitates.
Ethan turns toward him, anger flashing on his face. "Get in the car or stay here. I don't care. I need to go."
A gust of wind rushes past Jack, and he stumbles into the car, more pushed than moving under his own power. For a second, he could swear someone shoved him.
Ethan hits the accelerator so hard that Jack is thrown back against the seat. "Jesus, Ethan."
"Put your seatbelt on."
Jack buckles himself in. "You could've mentioned that before you launched me."
Ethan doesn't respond.
"What happened?"
Ethan glances at him out of the corner of his eye before returning to the road. "I don't know."
"Ethan."
His hands tighten on the wheel. "I'm not sure you want to know."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Ethan swallows. "I got a message from Lydia and Delia."
Jack frowns. "Lydia and Delia?" He's heard the name before in the store when you and Ethan have been whispering back and forth, but he's never put a face to them.
"The ghosts in the store."
Jack stares at him.
Ethan keeps his eyes on the road. "They said she's gone somewhere she shouldn't be. They're scared."
"How did they tell you?" Jack forces himself not to dismiss Ethan outright, even as his mind starts searching for a rational explanation.
"They wrote me a message." Ethan sighs. "I told you she wasn't sick."
Jack breathes out. "Ethan."
"No." Ethan cuts him off. "I told you. She told you. I thought you were different." His jaw tightens. "I was wrong, apparently."
Jack's brow furrows.
"She's not sick. I need you to trust me—or her, or whatever you have to trust—when I tell you she was telling the truth."
"I—" Jack starts carefully.
"No." Ethan's grip tightens on the wheel. "I need you to have an open mind, or you need to get out of this car. She's in trouble, and I can't help her if I have to worry about you."
"...Okay." Jack is silent for a moment. His worry for you wins. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere bad."
The sun has set by the time Ethan and Jack pull up to the house. The place looks abandoned from the outside. No lights. No cars. Nothing to suggest anyone is inside. Then a light flickers behind one of the windows.
Ethan's hand is already reaching for the door.
Jack gets out after him. "Ethan, wait—"
But Ethan is already heading for the front door. Jack follows, every instinct he'd learned in the army and SWAT kicking in as he crosses the threshold. He scans the room automatically, checking corners, doorways, anything that could be a threat. Then he sees you, and everything else disappears.
You're standing in the middle of the room with candles surrounding you. Dozens of them. They're arranged in a perfect circle, their flames flickering wildly despite the fact that there isn't a breeze. Your head hangs forward. Your arms are loose at your sides. You don't move.
He breathes your name out quietly.
Ethan takes a step toward you, calling out for you in a louder voice. You don't react.
Jack's pulse hammers against his throat. "What's wrong with her?"
Ethan doesn't answer. He looks just as horrified. Then the air changes, a sudden rush of cold tears through the room. Every candle flame bends toward you. Your body jerks harshly.
Jack takes a step forward, calling out for you again.
Another shudder runs through you. Your head snaps back. Your feet leave the floor. Jack freezes. For one impossible second, he simply stares.
You're floating.
Not stumbling. Not being lifted by anything he can see. Just—floating. Your hair shifts around your face as though you're underwater. Your eyes open, two black pools staring back at him.
Jack's heart stops. "What the fuck—"
Ethan lunges forward. Jack follows before he can think. He steps straight through the circle. The instant his foot crosses the line, something slams into him. He staggers. It feels like walking into a wall. "What—"
He pushes forward anyway. The pressure bears down against his chest, trying to force him backwards. He grits his teeth, taking another step. His entire body strains against whatever is holding him there. Finally, he reaches you. His hands close around your waist. You're cold. Far too cold. "I got you."
He pulls. For a moment, nothing happens, then the resistance changes. The pressure eases. Jack feels something tugging at you from the opposite direction, but it's no longer trying to keep you there. It's almost as though something else is helping him. "Come on."
He pulls again, and your body suddenly tears free. Jack stumbles backwards, dragging you with him. The candles go out. All at once. He doesn't stop to wonder; he keeps moving and gets you through the doorway and onto the grass.
He drops to his knees, keeping one hand beneath your head so it doesn't hit the ground. He calls your name, fingers pressing against your pulse point. It's weak.
"Call 911," he orders Ethan, without looking away from you. Ethan is already reaching for his phone, but Jack barely hears him. His entire world has narrowed down to you.
"Come on." Jack brushes your hair away from your face, his hands shaking. He checks your eyes for any reaction, but there's still nothing behind your eyelids but that unnatural darkness. He's never seen anything like it before.
"Don't do this. Come back." He bows his head over you. He thinks about the last time he'd seen you. The way you'd looked at him. The hurt in your eyes. He'd been so sure. So fucking sure. His eyes burn.
"I'm sorry." His voice cracks. "I should've believed you. I should've believed you." A tear drops onto your cheek, followed closely by another. "I knew something was wrong. I knew it." His hand cups the side of your face. "And I still—" He can't finish, his chest heaving. "I'm sorry." He repeats it again, and again. Until the words barely sound like words anymore.
Ethan kneels beside him. "Come on," he murmurs, taking your hand. "Stay with us."
Neither man notices the figures gathering around them. A woman with kind and patient eyes. Two ghosts who have spent years watching over you. A little girl who had been frightened into trusting the wrong people. Ghosts from the hospital. Ghosts you have helped, even if they didn't want to cross over.
They gather in silence. One by one, their hands link, until they form a circle around you. Together, they turn toward you. The darkness inside you pulsates, but the ghosts hold their ground. The air grows colder as the darkness recoils. It fights. The candles inside the house flare back to life one by one.
You arch violently in Jack's arms, and your mouth opens. A strangled gasp tears from your throat as black smoke pours from your mouth. Thick and unnatural, it twists through the air before disappearing into the darkness of the house.
Your body goes limp again.
Jack catches you against his chest. For one terrifying second, there is nothing. You're completely still. Then your chest rises with a shaky, shallow breath.
Jack presses his forehead against yours. "That's it. Come on, baby." His voice is barely audible.
Your eyelids flutter, opening slowly. They're normal again. Your gaze struggles to focus, then finds him. "Jack?"
He nods. "Yeah. I'm here."
Your mouth parts again, but before you can say anything else, your eyes roll back, and your body slackens again.
Jack immediately checks your pulse. He pulls you carefully against his chest when he's certain it's there. "I've got you." He holds you tighter. "I've got you," he whispers again.
Ethan can't remember much of the past day.
The ambulance ride is a blur of flashing lights and clipped voices. The E.R. is worse. People moving around him, asking questions he can't seem to process. Someone taking you away from him. Jack refusing to move until someone physically makes him. Then the ICU. Monitors. Machines. A bed that makes you look impossibly small. It all blends together into one long stretch of panic and fear.
There had been a moment in the ambulance when Ethan was certain they were too late. You'd been so still. So pale. He'd watched the paramedic work on you and thought, you're going to die.
He'd thought he'd failed you. That he'd found you too late. That the last thing you'd ever hear would be him telling you to hold on. He'd never been that scared in his life.
Now he's sitting in the ICU waiting room with a cup of coffee he hasn't touched, staring at the wall. You're still unconscious, but you're alive. That's all that matters. Ethan looks toward your room. Jack is there. Of course he is. The man hasn't left your side once. Not when the doctors explained what they knew. Not when they explained what they didn't know. Not when Ethan finally went downstairs to get something to eat and came back to find Jack sitting exactly where he'd been before.
He's barely spoken. Ethan can see how he's trying to wrap his mind around it—trying to find a medical explanation for what happened. Ethan knows there isn't one. He doesn't know what happened inside that house. He doesn't know what took hold of you. He doesn't know what drove it out of you, but he knows you were dying. And he knows Jack brought you back. Or at least helped.
Ethan and Jack haven't talked about the ghosts. Not really. There hasn't been time. But Ethan isn't angry with him anymore. He'd seen Jack's face when he found you. He'd watched him walk straight into something impossible without hesitation because you were on the other side.
Whatever Jack had believed before, Ethan knows he believes you now. That's enough for him.
Ethan stands and looks into the room. Jack is sitting beside your bed, one hand resting over yours. His head is bowed. He looks exhausted, dried tear tracks still visible on his face.
Ethan knows that look. Maybe Jack doesn't. But Ethan does. Because he's watched the two of you for months. The way Jack always showed up at the bookstore. The way his face changed whenever you walked into a room. The way he'd ask Ethan how you were doing and pretend he was only making conversation. The way he'd worry. The way he'd look at you when he thought no one was watching.
Ethan glances through the glass again, watching as Jack lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss against your knuckles.
The room is quiet when you wake. Not silent; there are always noises in a hospital—the steady beep of the monitor beside you, the faint hiss of oxygen, footsteps passing somewhere beyond the door—but quiet enough that you can hear Jack breathing.
He's asleep in the chair beside your bed, his hand wrapped around yours, even in sleep. You stare at him for a moment, taking in the exhaustion etched across his face. He looks terrible. His hair is a mess, his shirt is wrinkled, and there's a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
You squeeze his fingers weakly. He doesn't wake.
Your eyes drift shut again. The lights flicker, sending different shapes across the back of your eyelids. When you open your eyes, Poppy stands at the foot of your bed.
She's crying. Not the frightened, angry crying you've grown accustomed to, but a silent, guilty outpour. Her shoulders shake as tears stream down her face. "I'm sorry."
Your heart aches. "Poppy."
She takes a hesitant step toward you. "I'm really sorry," she repeats. "I didn't mean to."
"I know."
"They said if I brought you there, they'd help me find my mom."
You swallow. "They were lying to you."
She nods, tears dripping from her chin. "I'm sorry"
"It's okay."
"Are you mad?"
You shake your head. "No."
"But I hurt you."
"You didn't mean to, sweetie." You reach a hand toward her, even though you know you can't actually touch her. "You were scared. They used that."
"I'm really sorry."
"I know."
Her crying finally quiets, and you give her a tired smile.
She takes another step closer. "I found my mommy."
Your breath catches. "You did?"
Poppy nods. "The others helped me." A smile slowly appears through her tears. "She's waiting right there." Poppy points toward the corner. "Can you see her?"
You smile back, only able to see the light warming Poppy's face. "I can't."
"Oh. Maybe you will later?" Poppy looks toward the corner of the room, then back at you. "Can I go now?"
You nod, blinking back tears.
She smiles. And for the first time since you've known her, she doesn't look frightened. She turns toward the light and steps through.
You breathe deeply, fingers tightening around Jack's. You take a moment before turning your head toward him. "You can stop pretending to be asleep now."
Jack's eyes open slowly.
"Hi," you murmur.
"Hi."
"I'm guessing you heard that?"
He nods.
You bite your lip. "Still think I'm sick?"
His face falls slightly. "I'm sorry. I should've—"
"It's okay," you interrupt. "I know it's a lot."
"It isn't," he hurries to say. "I just... I saw you getting thinner. I saw the bruises. You were exhausted all the time, and then I found you talking to someone who wasn't there."
He swallows hard. "And all I could think about was Rachel. I watched her get sick, watched her get weaker and weaker, and kept thinking I should have noticed sooner. I'm a doctor. I should have known something was wrong. So when I saw you doing the same things…" He blinks wetly. "I thought I was watching it happen again. I thought I was losing you."
"I was scared," he says. "But that's not an excuse. I hurt you. I made you feel like I was just another person who thought you were crazy." His voice breaks slightly. "I'm sorry."
You have faint memories of what happened that night. Jack coming to get you. His voice breaking as he apologised. Tears on his face. But memories aren't enough. You need to hear it from him. "Do you believe me now?"
"Yes." There's no hesitation in his voice. "Completely."
You study his face for a long moment, searching for the doubt you'd spent your whole life learning to recognise. You don't find it.
Jack shifts closer, careful not to disturb any of the wires attached to you. "I don't expect you to forgive me yet." His fingers tighten around yours. "I just want the chance to earn your trust back."
You stare at him for a long moment. "I missed you." The confession slips out before you can stop it.
Jack's face softens. "I missed you, too."
You look down at your joined hands. You aren't ready to say everything is okay. Maybe you won't be for a while. But you don't pull your hand away.
Three days later, after you've been discharged, Jack joins you in the store. You sit on the edge of the armchair opposite him, your hands wrapped tightly around a mug you haven't touched.
For several minutes, neither of you speaks.
You'd thought about this conversation constantly since waking up. You'd imagined telling him everything in a dozen different ways. Some versions were angry, some were tearful, some were calm enough to make you wonder if they were even real. None of them prepared you for actually sitting across from him.
"I don't know where to start."
He shifts in his seat. "You don't have to start anywhere in particular."
You look at him. He's not rushing you, not filling the silence, just waiting. There's a familiar shift in the air as space refits itself around two new forms. Lydia and Delia stand near the shelves, their expressions softer than you've ever seen before. There's an apology in their faces. No excuses, no teasing, no insistence that they know what's best for you.
Just sorry.
You let out a slow breath, then you nod. Delia's eyes fill with tears; Lydia gives you the smallest smile. You watch them disappear again, then turn back to Jack. Somehow, it feels a little easier to speak after that.
So you tell him everything. About your mother and the visions. About your father deciding that what she called a gift was an illness. About the hospital, and how young you were when you learned that some truths were safer kept to yourself. You tell him about the ghosts you've helped, about Lydia and Delia, about Ethan. And eventually, you tell him about John.
That part is harder.
Your voice gets quieter as you explain how you'd trusted him enough to tell him the truth and how he'd used it against you. How he'd looked at you like you were broken. How, for a while afterwards, you started wondering if he was right.
Jack doesn't interrupt. Not once.
When you finally run out of words, the store is so quiet you can hear the faint hum of the coffee machine behind you. "That's everything," you whisper.
Jack looks at you for a long moment. "Thank you for telling me."
Your throat tightens. "I was scared you wouldn't believe me."
"I know."
You swallow. "I don't want to hide it anymore."
His expression softens. "You shouldn't have had to in the first place."
Your eyes burn, and you look away before he can see.
Lastly, you tell him about Rachel. His face settles into a quiet understanding as every strange thing that has happened to him finally falls into place.
The air beside the window changes. You know the feeling before you even turn. Rachel is standing there. She smiles at you.
You glance at Jack. "She's here."
His expression changes immediately. "Rachel?"
You nod.
He sits straighter. "Can she—"
"She can hear you."
Rachel moves closer. For a moment, she simply looks at him. There's so much love in her expression.
"What does she say?"
You look at her, then back at Jack. "She says you've spent enough time blaming yourself."
His jaw tightens.
You translate as Rachel speaks. "She says none of it was your fault."
Jack looks down. "Tell her..." He stops. "I should have known."
Rachel shakes her head.
"You couldn't have known. You did everything you could."
A tear rolls down Jack's cheek.
Rachel steps closer. "You loved her." You repeat the words softly. "And that was enough."
Jack closes his eyes. His shoulders shake quietly.
You keep your voice gentle. "She doesn't want you to spend the rest of your life punishing yourself for surviving her."
You look at Rachel. She smiles sadly at him before looking at you.
"You're good for him," she says.
You sigh.
"I'm not telling you what to do. I'm telling you what I see. And life's too short for this. Be brave."
You bite your lip. "Rachel."
"Let yourself have something good."
Jack looks at you, his eyes wide. "What'd she say?"
You keep this to yourself, breathing out before repeating her next words.
"To tell you that she knows and that it's okay." You don't know exactly what Rachel means, but whatever she said reaches something in him that nothing else has. "She wants you to keep living."
His face crumbles. "Rachel."
She moves closer to him, sitting on the corner of the armchair. "It's okay, Jack." Her hand brushes against his cheek gently.
Jack's eyes close, his head tilting toward a touch he can't really feel. A long breath leaves him, and for the first time, something in his face seems to loosen. Years of grief don't disappear in an instant, but the fight against it does. "Okay."
Rachel's smile widens, then the light begins to gather around her.
Jack sees the change in your expression. "She's leaving?"
You nod. "She's ready."
He looks toward her. "I'll be okay."
You squeeze his hand. "She knows."
The light grows brighter. Rachel takes one final look at Jack, then at you. She mouths two words, thank you, and disappears.
Jack stares at the empty space for a long moment, then he turns toward you. He looks down at your joined hands. For years, he's carried the weight of losing Rachel like a punishment. Now, for the first time, he lets himself put it down.
He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a kiss against your knuckles. "Thank you."
You squeeze his hand.
After that, things are slow.
Jack starts coming back to Cordelia's. At first, he asks if you're sure he can stay. You tell him he can. Then he starts bringing coffee, and you start saving him the chair he likes. Some mornings you talk. Some mornings you don't.
You don't call it anything. You don't need to. Little by little, the distance between you disappears.
Weeks later, the bookstore is thriving. Not just surviving but thriving. The shelves are stocked, the front window is decorated for Halloween, and there's a steady stream of customers throughout the day. The little bell above the door seems to ring constantly now.
Ethan is unbearably smug about it. Not just because of the bookstore and his coffee corner idea, but mostly because Jack is once again the store's most frequent customer.
"Morning," Ethan calls from behind the counter as he spots him.
You look up from the books you're sorting through. Jack stands in the doorway, two coffees in one hand and a paper bag in the other. By now, the sight barely surprises you.
"Morning." His eyes find you immediately.
You smile. "You know, I'm gonna get spoiled enough to expect this every morning."
Jack grins. "Wouldn't hurt anyone."
Ethan makes a noise of disgust. You ignore it and grab your coat. From somewhere behind you, Lydia makes an exaggeratedly pleased noise. You shush her.
Jack pauses, then glances toward the empty space beside the shelves. "Someone disapprove?"
Delia appears between the shelves, giving you an enormously delighted smile.
You roll your eyes. "The opposite, actually."
Jack lets out a pleased hum, grinning as he opens the door for you. The morning air is cool, carrying the smell of rain from somewhere nearby. You walk beside him toward the park and finally reach the bench. Jack sits first, stretching his leg out slightly as he settles. You sit beside him, your thigh pressing against his. He hands you the bag, and you break the croissant in half and hand him a piece. Silence falls as you watch the people passing through the park. Your shoulder brushes Jack's lightly as you eat.
His hand rests on the bench between you, right next to yours. Your fingers touch. You glance down. Jack does, too. His pinky hooks around yours gently. A second later, his hand shifts, palm turning upward, and you slide yours into it. Neither of you comments on it.
You lean your head against his shoulder after a moment. His cheek rests lightly against your hair. For once, nothing is demanding your attention. No ghost asking for help. No mystery to solve. No fear. Just Jack. His thumb moves slowly over the back of your hand.
You turn your head when his cheek lifts. He's already looking at you. "What?"
He shakes his head. "Nothing." His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back to your eyes. He hesitates. "Can I kiss you?"
You smile. "You don't have to ask."
Jack huffs, his expression softening. He leans in slowly, giving you every opportunity to change your mind.
You don't.
His lips meet yours in a gentle kiss. His hand lifts to your cheek as your eyes close. When you pull back, neither of you goes very far. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek. Then, after a moment, your lips again.
For once, you don't wonder whether this is a mistake. You don't wonder what the ghosts think. You don't wonder what comes next.
soooo i kinda need to lowkey maybe get eaten out by beau maxwell sorta
+18 || a/n: oh babyyyy so do I!!!! 💕😛🫶🏽✨
“You’re so perfect. You know that?” Beau asks as he kisses your neck, chuckling against your warm skin, doing absolutely nothing but making your need for him worse.
“Beau, c’mon…”
“Goddamn, baby…” he mumbles as his big hand roams over your curves. “You want somethin’?” His palm squeezes your breast before he catches your bottom lip between his, sucking on it nice and slow. “Seem pretty desperate,” he taunts, letting his hand slip lower to cup your pussy and pulling another moan from your lips.
“Please…” you pout.
“Why are you so fuckin’ needy for me, huh?” he chuckles deeply, his rough thumb rubbing dangerously close to where you need him. “You gotta be fuckin’ wet—how messy are you right now?”
“You’re being mean,” you whisper breathlessly as he glides two thick fingers up your soaked slit.
“Don’t be like that,” he mumbles, his slick smile spreading across his lips before he steals another kiss. “I can feel how much you need me, pretty. You’re shit at hidin’ it.” His hand moves higher, teasing your clit with the rough pads of his fingers.
Beau hisses out a breath when you reach between you, wrapping your fingers around the base of his thick cock, stroking him slow.
“Now,” you mumble, feeling his hard cock twitch in your hand, catching some of the precum on his tip before bringing it to your lips.
“Yes, ma’am,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he watches your lips close around your finger. His mouth twitches, but whatever smart-ass comment he had ready dies before it makes it past his lips.
Beau plunges two fingers into your soaked core, making your head sink back into the pillow as he presses kisses across your chest and starts fucking his hand into you.
He doesn’t stay there long—his mouth trails lower and lower down your body until your heart is pounding in anticipation.
Your legs instinctively start to draw together, but Beau catches your thighs in his hands and pushes them back against his mattress, holding you open while he looks down between them.
You gasp when he spits, the wetness sliding over your pussy before he leans closer, the warmth of his breath brushing over you.
His big biceps and thick shoulders flex from the angle of his body—his hands keeping your thighs spread while his eyes stay locked on yours from between your legs as he gives you one long, teasing lick.
“Holy shit,” you moan, and Beau barely gives you time to recover before his arms wrap around your thighs and pull you closer, burying himself between your legs.
Beau kisses your clit before sucking hard, making your fingers lace into his hair and tug at the roots, guiding him closer. He moans into you at the pull, the vibration making your eyes roll back as your hips press helplessly toward his mouth.
“Ride it, baby,” he hums, his voice barely audible over your breathing as he begs you to move your hips, so you do, grinding your pussy up into his face as he groans at the taste—his hips rutting into the mattress for relief.
“Beau, fuck,” you squeal, hips bucking off the bed when he drops one arm and pushes two thick fingers back inside you without taking his mouth away.
Your heart starts to race as the pleasure builds fast—the wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy filling the room while his fingers curl inside you.
“I’m close,” you whimper, and Beau groans against you.
“Fuckin’ cum around my tongue,” he mutters, voice deep and husky before his tongue slips lower and pushes through your entrance. His greedy fingers move up to your clit instead, rubbing so quickly that your hands slap against the mattress before fisting the sheets beneath you.
Beau’s name tears from your lips as you flutter around his tongue, your vision blurring at the edges while your ears start to ring.
You tremble against his hold when it becomes too much, but Beau only pulls you closer, tongue and fingers working you through every last second of your orgasm until hot tears slip from the corners of your eyes and disappear into his sheets.
“That’s my baby,” he mumbles, pressing teasing little kisses against your clit and watching your body jump with every touch.
“Beau…” you whimper, finally managing to look down at him.
He lifts his eyes to yours and smiles, lips glistening with your slick as he presses another kiss against your inner thigh. “Yeah, pretty?”
can i get a mint matcha with a carmel drizzle (or whipped cream) and a chocolate chip cookie <33
another regular! hello ava i have your matcha down below, enjoy <3
“i don’t know what else to say besides thank you tuck,” you say in awe once you’ve stepped into you guys’ hotel room.
could it even be classified as a hotel room? you have the most stunning view of all the greenery and the clearest ocean from your patio.
tucker chuckles as he places a kiss on the side of your head, “it’s all good baby, anything is worth the price when it comes to you,” he tells you as he sets your bags down.
you smile as you think that this will be your home for a week, free from work, free from chores, free from the fear of your dad finding out about you and tucker.
Ok but imagine Garcia and McKay fighting over who can take Javadi home after a long shift🤤🤤🤤🤤 both of them so incredibly starved for her taste they eventually give up and decide to take her back to Garcias place and take turns🤤🤤🤤🤤
ok walk with me... mcvadi fic... based on cedar by gracie abrams... hm... sticky situation... "i forget you aren't mine" is the most mcvadi lyric out there... isn't it... what do we think...
gummygunk
jimmyeatworldofficial
izzy806
amandla
turnnoffyourmind
