Art References in Jujutsu Kaisen s3 opening: The Kiss - Gustav Klimt // The Scream - Edvard Munch // Ophelia - John Everett Millais // Dead mother l - Egon Schiele // Two Sleeping Children - Peter Paul Rubens // Camille Monet and a Child in the Artist's Garden in Argenteuil - Claude Monet // The Three Judges - Honoré Victorin Daumier
When I was drunk one night and watching the Jellyfish livestream, I reached out to the Monterey Bay Aquarium with a dumb question about their jellyfish... And they actually emailed me back.
(yes, these are actually my own screenshots, I am in tears laughing)
DO YOUR ANIMAL EXPERTS HAVE TO UNTANGLE THE JELLYFISH
AND THE ANSWER IS FUCKING YES, THE JELLIES GET TANGLED SOMETIMES LMAO
sometimes i be saying im gonna go to bed and then i dont go to bed. frequently in fact. this is because i have the heart of an optimist and the soul of a liar
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 — whereas Tim Drake had his eyes on you from the very first week of the semester, he never expected his college best friend to start dating you— the person he’d wanted all along. So now he’s praying for your (ex) boyfriend’s downfall, because God forbid a man openly plots to have you for himself instead.
cw: yearning, strangers to lovers, one-sided love, requited love, slight manipulation, mr. steal your girl(?), Tim wants reader so badly, HAPPY ENDING, fluff, irrelevant OCs, slowburn, reader is in a relationship, NO CHEATING INVOLVED, tim respectfully plays the waiting game, he is more of a plotter than a messy person.
lwk listened to girlfriend by avril lavigne & boyfriend by justin bieber on loop. wc: 16k
The first time Tim had met you, it was not anything special.
There was no dramatic collision in the hallway, no moment where time seemed to slow and the world sharpened around your face.
You were simply there, seated a few rows ahead of him in a lecture hall that smelled faintly of dry erase markers and iridescent lights, flipping through your notebook with absentminded focus and a laptop that had an open tab of a clothing brand, another piece of shirt that would compliment you.
Tim knew you both had taken a class together in the first semester, one of those general education requirements that pulled students from every major into the same crowded room.
It had been easy not to notice you then, easy to let you blend into the background of rustling backpacks and low conversation before the professor began to speak while he completely zones out.
What registered first was familiarity.
When he walked into the classroom and spotted you again in the second semester, a quiet recognition settled in his chest, the subtle surprise of realizing someone else had survived the same academic gauntlet and ended up here too.
It was rare to see a familiar face that was not tied to his major, rarer still for it to be someone he vaguely remembered for reasons he could not immediately place.
He remembered your handwriting from group work signs in sheets, the way you always underlined titles twice, the fact that you asked questions that were thoughtful without trying to impress anyone.
Someone who arrived a few minutes early and claimed the same seat near the aisle. Someone who sighed softly when the professor went off on a tangent, who laughed under your breath at jokes that barely landed. Tim noticed these things without meaning to, the same way he noticed patterns everywhere else in his life. None of it felt important at the time.
You were just another student, another name on the roster, another presence in a room full of them.
If anyone had asked him then, he would have said meeting you meant nothing at all.
Just a coincidence.
Just shared schedules and overlapping paths.
But it kind of changed when he started to interact with you.
It was never anything important, never anything that felt like the start of something. Small comments exchanged before class, a quiet complaint about an upcoming exam, a brief conversation about how unbearable the assigned readings were. Mundane things. Things he would not have remembered on any other day.
And yet, he found himself listening.
He listened when you talked about how you always forgot to bring a charger and lived in a constant state of low battery panic. He listened when you mentioned grabbing coffee after class, not as an invitation, just as information offered into the air. He listened to the way your voice softened when you spoke about things you liked, even when the topic was painfully ordinary compared to.. well, Tim’s night life.
Somehow, you had decided to sit next to him through these lectures.
You went on about your weekend plans, part time jobs, a professor you could not stand.
Tim told himself it was nothing.
He was just being polite.
Just filling the silence like everyone else did.
But somewhere along the way, he realized he was paying attention in a way he did not with anyone else.
He remembered details he did not need to remember.
The brand of pens you preferred, the way you tapped your fingers against the desk when you were thinking and the way you slightly lift your shoulders when you laughed, like you were surprised by your own amusement.
The conversations never lingered long.
They ended when class began, when one of you packed up your things, when life naturally pulled you in separate directions.
Still, he caught himself replaying them afterward, cataloging your words as if they held weight simply because they had come from you.
It unsettled him, a little.
How something so ordinary could start to feel significant.
That was when it started, when he began to have this small, itsy bitsy, nothing serious kind of crush on you.
“It was just proximity,” he told himself, over and over, as if repeating it enough times would make it true. As if that alone explained why he started waking up earlier than he ever had before, setting alarms he did not need, just so he could take his time.
Why he stood in front of his closet longer than usual, choosing something awfully comfortable yet still deliberate, still stylish in a way that looked effortless if no one thought too hard about it.
He paid attention to things he normally did not.
Made sure his hair did not resemble a bird’s nest, fingers combing through it until it sat just right. He actually showered in the morning now, instead of the night before, letting the hot water wake him fully as he went through the motions with more care than necessary.
He chose a scent that lingered without being overwhelming, something clean, something he thought you might notice if you were close enough.
And then there was the mirror.
He’d lowkey snap outfit flicks.
Sometimes, it would be little videos or photos perfectly timed to show off how his clothes fit just right, and the fact he could fit your aesthetic, or match your outfits like what couples usually do (you guys barely interacted more than 15 minutes and he doesn’t even have your instagram, because he’s a wimp to ask, even though he had found you on Instagram easily).
Everyone likes a guy that could dress and match them, right? Right.
He’d pick a song that matched the vibe as well, something cool but casual, and post it to his Instagram story, followed by hundreds of thousands of people since he’s famously one of Bruce’s adopted sons, which comes with perks and downsides (this was one of the downsides), but without making a big deal out of it.
Then, of course, he’d save those stories to his highlights, making it easy for you to stumble across them whenever you felt like it. All so you could—whether you wanted to or not— notice just how cool and awesome his fits were.
Yeah, he was a total D1-plotter, and he wasn’t even the slightest bit ashamed of it.
Because, really— if girls could do it, why couldn’t guys?
He has a second account as well, only followed by his close friends, his annoying older brothers and Damian too, but he absolutely could not wait for you to eventually be added to his spam account.
One that had more outfit flicks saved neatly in his highlights. Another filled with his friends getting up to shenanigans he would never post publicly on the main, the kind of moments meant only for people he trusted.
Mixed in between were appearances from his brothers, candid shots and blink and you miss it videos that felt oddly domestic for someone like him, and then there were the miscellaneous things. Late night thoughts typed in tiny text, blurry city lights, half eaten food, dumb memes, moments that did not need context to matter.
And because Tim is a show-off, he’s definitely bringing his skateboard to ride around campus today, so he could catch your attention, most likely talk to you, compliment your outfit of the day, ask for your Instagram, and uh, talk about how long he’s been skateboarding and if he could do a kickflip, which he abso-flipping-lutely could do one.
Not only that, he also had a highlight of videos of skateboard tricks too on his spam account, clean landings, a few near wipes, proof that he actually knew what he was doing and was not just carrying it around for show.
And boom.
There ya’ go.
Simple as that.
A small plan with a big hope: to get a little closer, one casual skate session and maybe even one date with you.
Before he knew it, Tim was out of his apartment, cruising down the sidewalks with the breeze tugging at his jacket, the familiar hum of wheels against concrete keeping his mind sharp. Up ahead, something, or rather, someone— caught his eye. A familiar figure, moving at their own pace, completely unaware of him approaching.
“Yo, Miro!”
Tim called out, his voice cutting through the morning air with an easy confidence.
He stopped smoothly, catching his skateboard with one hand and tilting it casually within his hold, like it was no effort at all.
“Hey, man!”
Miro greeted him with a laugh, already extending his hand.
Tim understood immediately, muscle memory kicking in as they went through the usual handshake without missing a beat.
Their knuckles met first, fingers bumping, followed by their fingers interlocking for a brief second, It ended with a solid dap up before Tim tugged Miro in for a quick side hug, shoulders knocking together in an easy, comfortable way that spoke of routine and familiarity rather than anything forced.
“You freshened up today, bro, tryna impress someone?”
Miro pulls away with a raised brow, clearly noticing the way Tim’s hair sat a little too neat to be accidental, the whole look pulled together in that effortlessly intentional way. And then there was the scent— something clean, subtle, and lingering just enough to be noticed when he stepped closer.
Tim scoffed, rolling his eyes as he shifted his grip on the skateboard. “What? Nah,” he said a little too quickly, which absolutely did not help his case.
He shrugged like it was nothing, like he always looked this put together, like the extra effort not been deliberate at all.
But the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying him.
“Can’t a guy look good for himself?” He added, tone light, defensive in that way that meant Miro had hit a nerve that made Miro whistled a teasing tune, nudging his shoulder against Tim’s own.
He leaned back on his heel, pretending the conversation was amusing rather than mildly exposing, even as the smell of his cologne hung in the air, undeniable proof that, yeah— he had definitely freshened up for a reason.
“You’re such a liar, Tim. Is it that girl you’ve been tellin’ me about in your class?”
Tim’s shoulders deflated.
“Yeah,” he admitted, voice dropping just a notch, “she’s the pretty girl I’ve been telling you about.” He confirms, glancing away for half a second, jaw tightening like he was bracing himself. “I wanna ask her out, but I’m flippin’ nervous.”
Miro immediately cooed in mock sympathy, dragging it out just to be annoying. “Aww,” he teased, pressing a hand to his chest. “Look at you. Tim Drake, nervous over a girl.”
Tim shot him a look, equal parts warning and embarrassment. “Don’t,” he muttered, shifting his weight, skateboard tapping lightly against the pavement. “This is serious.”
Miro just grinned wider, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Nah, I get it,” he said, still not letting go of the teasing tone. “She’s got you down bad.”
Tim huffed, rubbing the back of his neck.
Miro was more than just some random guy he talked to in passing that happened to be going in the same direction, but he was an actual friend.
They had shared a computer science class in their first semester, ended up sitting next to each other by chance, and somehow never stopped talking after that. What started as borrowing a charger and comparing notes had turned into easy conversations, inside jokes, and a familiar presence that made long lectures more bearable.
Miro is also the kind of friend who notices things.
And if anyone was going to call him out for putting in extra effort, for being nervous in a way he rarely was, it was Miro and most likely Steph.
Which made admitting it out loud both easier and infinitely more embarrassing.
“Are we still going out for drinks with Steph, Zinnia, and Ezra?” Tim asked, a little too quickly, very obviously changing the topic before Miro could dig any deeper into his small crush.
“Mhm,” Miro hummed, an entertained smile tugging at his lips at the sudden change of topic as he nodded along. “Though Ezra said he’s bringing his girl to meet us, even though he doesn’t want to.” He shook his head, a small frown settling in. “Don’t get why Ezra’s ashamed of her. It’s cool if he brings her along, y’know?”
Tim frowned at that, brows knitting together. “Ashamed?” he repeated, tone sharper than he intended. He shifted his skateboard under his arm once more, jaw tightening.
“That’s… weird, I didn’t know he had a girl.”
“Right?” Miro pitched his voice, pulling a drink from the side of his bag. “Like, either you’re with someone or you’re not, hiding her just makes it worse and yah’ I didn’t know either.”
Tim nodded slowly, the thought sticking with him longer than he expected. The idea of being embarrassed by someone you chose to be with rubbed him the wrong way.
He exhaled, forcing his expression back to neutral.
“Ya’ think it’s like a situationship? I thought he was still hung up with ya’know who.”
Miro snorts at that.
“Nah,” Miro said immediately, waving it off. “Even though Ezra keeps talkin’ about how many people he’s getting and all that, he’s been telling me she’s a keeper and that he’s moved on from that big ol’ crush.”
Tim hummed at that, thoughtful, eyes briefly dropping to the pavement, letting Miro run his mouth to fill the silence between them as he took a swig of his bottled water. “Man, how does Ezra do it?” Miro muttered, kicking a pebble. “Dude has the charisma that could probably rival Nightwing.”
Miro scoffs, but Tim raised a brow at his own words, the comparison landing heavier than he expected.
His older brother’s vigilante name had a way of doing that, slipping into conversations uninvited and lingering longer than necessary, becoming a symbol to Gotham and his charm that had women posting forums about how they bet he looks good underneath that mask.
Dick had always been like that, though.
Effortless charm, easy smiles, and the kind of presence that pulled people in without trying.
“I would pay to see Nightwing and Ezra going toe to toe,” Tim mused, lips quirking up as the image formed in his head.
He already knew how it would end.
Ezra would lose.
Badly.
Even with a pretty face, it did not come close to Dick Grayson, which he could honestly admit— it was a fact that everyone and their mama knew.
That was just an unfair comparison.
Dick’s face is literally a public service at this point, plastered across magazines and billboards, the undisputed #1 lethal face card of the Wayne family, according to Reddit, Twitter, and an article that had statistics, polls, and the golden ratio of their face displayed on Gotham Gazette’s ranking on the Wayne family.
It was the kind of face that launched headlines, sponsorships, and unnecessary levels of public adoration.
Tim shook his head, half amused, and half resigned.
It was wild growing up next to that kind of genetic overachievement that did things to a person. Still, he could not deny it. If charisma were a competition, Nightwing would win without even realizing he was playing.
Tim was fine with that.
He was perfectly content sitting at number three on Gotham’s Gazette ranking, unofficially crowned “pretty boy” by the internet and whatever unhinged ranking system people had cooked up that week.
A pretty boy should be with a pretty girl.
And you’re a pretty girl.
“Hey, don’t bail on us again,” Miro nudges his shoulder into Tim’s.
Tim stumbled half a step, scoffing as he steadied himself. “I don’t bail,” he protested automatically, even though they both knew that was a lie.
“You and Steph bail way too much,” Miro continued, pointing at him. “You guys gotta stop studying for once and live a little.”
Tim sighed, eyes flicking away as he adjusted his grip on the skateboard. “Alright, alright,” he conceded. “We’ll live a little.” He paused, then added more quietly, “No promises, though.”
Miro grinned, clearly taking that as a win anyway.
Even if he did not know the exact reason why Tim and Stephanie were always the first to cancel, always the ones juggling too much, there was a reason for it.
One neither of them could ever say out loud.
The weight of responsibility sat heavy on their shoulders, the unspoken duty of protecting the city of Gotham shaping their choices long before plans with friends ever could.
“Hey, after classes wanna go grab lunch?” Miro offered, grinning like he already knew the answer.
And he did.
“Yeah,” he accepts, like it was the simplest decision in the world. “I’m down.”
Obvious, really.
If you thought Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne would obtain your phone number, then you were dead wrong.
He was far too much of a wimp to ask.
Instead, he stuck with the casual approach, offering a compliment on your outfit as he watched you walk in dressed cutely. You always tended to dress up a bit more on Fridays, he had noticed that over time. A little extra effort, a little more intention, like you already had plans waiting for you once the day was over.
Most likely going out with your friends, since your Instagram did not show any highlight of a significant other. No tag in your bio, no initials tucked beside your name, no subtle hints hidden in your profile picture.
Tim had noticed all of it, cataloged it without meaning to, filed it away like evidence he was not supposed to be collecting.
“Hey, Tim.” You greet, “you look nice today.”
“Hey, UH, um,” he started, the words tripping over each other as soon as you sat down beside him. He froze for half a second, watching you turn toward him, grinning with clear amusement at how flustered he suddenly was.
He cleared his throat. “Thanks, your outfit looks really nice too,” he managed, finally meeting your eyes. “Going somewhere?”
The question hung there, casual on the surface, but his heart was already racing ahead of it, waiting to see what you would say.
““Thank you— cat got your tongue?” you teased playfully, your smile only widening as you spoke. “But yeah, I’m gonna be with a few of my friends at the shopping center.”
The way your mouth curved when you smiled did something to him, a quiet rush of satisfaction settling in his chest. Tim felt his chest loosened as he nodded along, listening closely, like every word mattered. “That’s nice,” he softly replied. “Anything particular you’re getting?”
You perked up at that, launching into a small tangent about something you had been eyeing for a while, hands moving as you spoke and pulled out your phone to show an image of models wearing the products you’ve been looking for. Tim listened, really listened, mentally noting every detail even though he did not need to.
“A red scarf?” he repeated, brows lifting slightly.
He paused, eyes flicking over you for half a second longer than necessary. “That would… look good on you,” he added, softer now. “Compliments you a lot.”
Tim had a red scarf in his closet, it’s the exact same brand and color of a burgundy red from the picture you’ve shown.
He got it last year from Kon.
Perhaps, he could wear that scarf when he goes out for drinks with the others later tonight?
Yeah.
“Really, you think so?” you asked, and Tim could have sworn your eyes twinkled as you fiddled with your necklace, fingers brushing the chain in a way that felt unintentionally devastating and he could tell that you’re imagining the red scarf on you.
“Yeah,” he repeated, a little more certain this time. His voice softened, earnest without trying to be. “I do.”
He shifted slightly in his seat, forcing himself to hold your gaze even as his heart picked up speed.
“Thank you.” You were grinning brightly, flustered from the way you stopped fiddling on your necklace and decided to prop your hand against your chin, glancing away from Tim’s gaze to his skateboard that’s settled beside the space you’re in, settled on the nose and tail of the board, displaying the deck that only had stickers filled every corner of the space, leaving no room.
“You skate?”
Tim’s face lit up immediately, the nerves easing just a bit. “Yeah,” he admits, almost too quick, shifting the board with his foot so it leaned closer into view. “For a while now, actually.” He glanced at you, catching the interest in your eyes on the stickers.
“Most of these are from places I’ve been or people I’ve met,” he explained, a little sheepish. “I keep telling myself I’ll stop adding them since it’s already filled, but I never do.”
He straightened when he realized he was rambling, clearing his throat. “Uh— do you skate too? Or just appreciating the aesthetic?” There was a hint of a smile there, something softer, hopeful.
Your eyes flicked back up to his, amused, and the way you leaned in just a bit made his chest tighten.
“Kind of, but it never stuck around.” You shrugged, “it’s definitely fun, I enjoy longboards to cruise, but nothing crazy.” Tim positively hummed at that, a plan forming within his mind.
“Well, if you don’t mind, you should definitely ride along with—”
The door swung open.
The professor walked in with an announcement that cut straight through the low hum of conversation, immediately pulling everyone’s attention forward and shutting Tim’s offer down mid sentence. He froze, mouth closing just as quickly as it had opened.
You glanced at him, lips tugging into a small, pitying smile that made his chest ache a little. You leaned closer, whispering, “tell me after?”
Tim nodded, just once, trying not to smile too hard as he turned back toward the front. “Yeah,” he murmured.
“After.”
The lecture dragged on in a blur of slides and half-heard explanations, Tim’s focus slipping every time his mind circled back to you.
He replayed the moment over and over, the way you’d leaned in, the quiet promise in your voice. Tell me after. He told himself he wouldn’t forget. That he’d wait, that he’d bring it up when the second class ended.
Except class ended too fast.
People stood, bags zipped, chairs scraped against the floor. Someone asked him a question about notes and someone pointed out his skateboard asking where’d he got it from. And by the time Tim looked up again, you were already halfway out the door, glancing back once with a small wave before disappearing into the hallway.
He lifted his hand too late.
And just like that, the moment was gone.
Hours later, he was sitting at the bar with Miro and Steph at a circular booth table, nursing a drink he hadn’t touched much, wearing that red scarf you mentioned, to fight the cold outside but a reminder he served himself of his failure today.
The place was loud enough to blur the edges of the day, music humming low, glasses clinking around them.
“I literally had the perfect opening,” Tim was saying, frustration leaking into his voice despite how casually he tried to sound. “She told me to tell her after. After. And then I just— didn’t.”
Steph stared at him, unimpressed, twirling around a lock of her blonde hair. “You didn’t… what? Ask her to ride with you?”
For half a second, a wildly inappropriate image flashed through Tim’s mind.
He immediately shut it down.
“No,” he groaned, dropping his head back against the booth. “I forgot. It just completely flew over my head. By the time I realized, she was gone.”
Miro blinked at him. Once. Twice. “Tim,” he said slowly, “you’re telling me you fumbled a clean invite because you got distracted and didn’t even ask for her socials?”
“Yes,” Tim snapped, then sighed, rubbing his face. “Yes. That is exactly what I’m saying.”
Steph shook her head, already laughing. “That’s actually tragic.”
“I’m actually mad at myself,” Tim muttered, staring into his glass like it had personally betrayed him. “I had a plan…”
Miro snorted, not even trying to hide it.
“Congrats, dimwit.”
Tim shot him a look, but the bite wasn’t there. He exhaled instead, shoulders slumping as the frustration finally settled in. “Next time,” he wished quietly, more to himself than to them.
Steph raised her glass, eyebrow arching as she clinked it lightly against the table.
“You say that every time.”
Tim winced, glaring at her at the comment, but before he could utter a word in his own defense, someone finally joined them.
“Heyy!”
Zinnia slid into the booth next to Steph, grinning like she hadn’t just shown up late. “Sorry, it took me a bit of time to get here— I just saw Ezra and his girl outside talkin’ bout something. They should be coming in any moment now.”
Miro waved a hand dismissively over the thrum of the music. “Nah, you’re good!” he called back, already shifting to make room.
Tim leaned back against the booth, the tension easing just a bit as the table filled out again, though his thoughts stubbornly lingered on everything he hadn’t said earlier that day.
Yeah, he won’t mess up next time.
“Yo!”
A familiar male voice grabbed Tim’s attention, pulling his focus toward the entrance. His head turned automatically— only for his eyes to widen, just briefly, at the figure standing beside Ezra.
“Sorry we were late,” Ezra started, a hand lifting in apology. “My girl was fixing her— ow!”
You nudged his side hard, sharp enough to shut him up. Your lips dipped into a brief frown before a smile slid into place, easy and practiced, like nothing had happened at all.
“Sorry, sorry, I was joking! There was traffic.”
Tim’s brain short circuited.
You.
Here.
With Ezra.
The room felt a little louder all of a sudden, the music pressing in as he stared a second too long before catching himself.
His grip tightened around his glass, disappointment settling heavy in his chest, quiet and unwelcome, as the realization hit him all at once.
Fucking hell.
“Yeah, traffic has been bad, but I’m glad to meet Ezra’s friends!” You smiled before introducing yourself easily, shaking Miro’s hand when he offered it, your smile warm and polite. Then you slid into the circular booth, settling in beside Zinnia like you belonged there, like this was natural, adjusting your blue scarf.
Wait, blue scarf?
“I like your nails, they’re cute!” You complimented Zinnia, seeing the cute charms on them as she flashes them to you for a closer look.
“Thank you! I got them done at—”
You nodded along, laughing at something funny with Zinnia when Steph mentioned something.
And then your gaze lifted.
It locked onto Tim.
For half a second, everything stalled.
The disappointment didn’t disappear, but it shifted, tangled with something sharper— surprise, maybe, or hope he didn’t want to name. Your expression softened when you recognized him, brows lifting just slightly, a smile tugging at your lips like you were pleasantly caught off guard.
Tim swallowed, forcing himself to straighten, to look normal, to look unfazed. His mouth curved into something that resembled a smile, even as his thoughts scrambled.
Of all places.
And of all people.
You had to date fucking Ezra.
“Tim, I didn’t know you’re friends with Ezra!” You exclaimed, eyes bright with genuine surprise as you glanced between him and Ezra.
Ezra hummed thoughtfully, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he glanced between you and Tim. “You know Tim?” he asked you, watching you nod your head, explaining you have a class with him.
“Ezra and I have been friends for a while,” Tim replied to your unanswered question. “Miro was the one who introduced us.”
Miro grinned, clearly proud to have brought them together.
“Yeah, small world, isn’t it?”
Tim thinned his lips, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “A small world.”
Steph leaned in, curiosity bright in her eyes. “So how long have y’all been together? We didn’t even know Ezra was talkin’ to someone,” she said lightly, like it was just friendly banter.
Tim took a slow sip of his drink, gaze dropping to the glass. He wondered, distantly, if you’d take that to heart, if it stung even a little to realize his friends hadn’t known about you.
“Oh, we just recently made things official,” you answered easily. “Two weeks ago, maybe? We’ve been dating for like a month and a half, but we’ve known each other for a while as friends.”
“That’s cool,” Miro comments, leaning back. “Congrats on the new development.”
“Yeah,” Steph added, smiling at you. “Happy for you guys.”
Tim forced himself to follow suit, lips curving into something polite. “Yeah. That’s— nice.” His voice came out quieter than he meant, so he cleared his throat and took another sip, mostly to give himself something to do.
Ezra draped an arm along the back of the booth behind you, casual, like it was second nature.
Tim noticed the way you didn’t lean into it immediately, just a half second pause before settling.
He hated that he noticed.
Hated more that it gave him hope.
“So,” you dragged the ‘o’, turning slightly, eyes landing on Tim again. “You come here often?”
The question caught him off guard.
He blinked once, then nodded. “Uh. Yeah. With them,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the table. “It’s kind of our usual spot.”
You smiled, warm and familiar, the same one from earlier that day, like nothing had changed.
Tim’s chest tightened.
He told himself to get it together.
You were taken.
Ezra was his friend.
This was a dangerous territory.
Still, as the conversation carried on and the night settled in, Tim couldn’t shake the quiet, persistent thought that kept circling back.
A mischievous, devious glint sparked in his heart.
He was late.
But not too late.
Don’t get him wrong— Tim wasn’t about to earn the label homewrecker, and he wasn’t about to turn you into a cheater or make Ezra one either.
He wasn’t like that.
He wouldn’t let Ezra cross that line, wouldn’t let things unravel in a way that hurt people for the sake of his own feelings.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be patient.
He would keep things clean.
Honest.
If anything were to happen, it would be because feelings shifted on their own, because choices were made freely, not because he forced them into the wrong shape. He’d wait, pick apart a relationship piece by piece.
Be there in the spaces where Ezra wasn’t paying attention.
If the door ever opened, even just a crack, Tim would step through only when it was right.
Until then, he’d play the long game.
“Hey,” he called, saying your name just loudly enough to catch your attention.
You turned toward him, brows lifting in question.
“You don’t mind tutoring me, do you?” he asked, tone easy, almost sheepish as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I know the current subject— you’re better at it than I am. Would you be okay with that?”
It was harmless on the surface. Academics, it was reasonable. He wasn’t asking for anything that crossed a line, wasn’t pushing for something personal.
He only requested help.
Even though his grade was perfectly fine and he understood the subject well.
You nodded.
“Sure! I don’t mind. We can probably do it over the weekend, does tomorrow work?”
Tim hummed in response, already running through his schedule in his head. Tomorrow he had things to take care of— leads Dick had asked him to follow up on, work that mattered, work that usually came first.
Normally, he wouldn’t hesitate.
This time, he did.
“Yeah,” he said after a beat, decision made. “The weekend works.”
Dick would understand, he always did.
“You’re not getting turnt?” Miro asked you, tilting his head with a grin, clearly assuming your plans lined up with the rest of the group.
Tim stayed quiet, lifting his glass, listening a little too closely to your answer. It was honestly a good thing he’d never mentioned your name around Steph or Miro— not yet, anyway. He knew it was only a matter of time before they caught on.
You can’t really hide anything from the bats’.
“I’ll still drink!” You laughed, shaking your head with a smile. “Not too much, though, since I do know—” you nudged your head gently against Ezra’s side, “this guy’s going to get blackout drunk, and someone has to drive us home.”
Ezra laughed, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “Yeah, yeah, don’t remind me. Someone’s gotta keep me in check.”
Tim watched the exchange quietly, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.
Zinnia frowned playfully. “Girl, don’t even worry— I rarely drink, so if you need a ride, I’ve got you. Same with Tim.” She points at him. “He’s not lightweight, so he can handle his shit.”
Tim glanced at her, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he nodded slightly.
It wasn’t just about handling his drink; he’d be there to make sure you got home safe, no matter what.
“Yeah, I know Ezra can be a handful,” Tim smirks, voice steady but quiet. “So I don’t mind taking you home— if he doesn’t mind, of course.”
Tim looked over at Ezra, eyes steady as he waited for his response.
Ezra just shrugged, flashing that easygoing grin.
“Whatever works. As long as you don’t make me miss out on all the fun.” Ezra begins to lift himself out of the booth, ready to hit the bar.
Tim smirked slightly, already knowing this was his way of giving a reluctant okay.
You caught Tim’s glance and smiled softly, a subtle acknowledgment passing between you both.
Steph nudged him sharply on the elbow, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Come on, Tim, pool’s waiting,” she teased, tugging him toward the center of the bar.
Tim sighed, rolling his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips said otherwise— he wasn’t really complaining.
The night blurred after that.
Tim didn’t remember much.
Actually, that was a lie.
He remembered a lot.
Every laugh, every glance, and every quiet moment tucked between the noise.
He watched you from the edge of the group, eyes quietly tracking as you went head-to-head against Ezra, Miro, Steph, and Zinnia at the pool table. You had the confidence, cockiness, and a tongue that had sharpness when you landed another ball within the hole effortlessly.
Your fingers absentmindedly fiddled with the little stick of your too many cocktails, a subtle sign of nerves or excitement— Tim couldn’t tell which.
When Zinnia fired off a sharp remark at Ezra that made you laugh, you bit down on your bottom lip, and Tim caught the small, almost shy gesture.
Then, after a few more drinks, it was clear you’d taken Zinnia’s offer to heart, leaning a little too heavily on the idea that either she or Tim would be willing to give you a ride home.
You got along with everyone easily.
“She’s cute— hic— isn’t she?” Ezra slurred slightly, clearly well into his drinks, following Tim’s gaze toward you with Zinnia. He watches you nudge Zinnia’s arm playfully, teasing you with a wide, mischievous grin.
“Yeah, she’s getting pretty close to Zinnia easily, and everyone else.” Tim plainly comments, still looking at them without a glance to Ezra, his voice calm and steady. There wasn’t an ounce of jealousy in his tone— just quiet admiration, watching you from the circular booth, fully aware that Ezra was the one lucky enough to be in a relationship with you.
A sharp thud echoed against the table, but Tim barely flinched. It was most likely just Ezra slapping another drink down with a bit too much enthusiasm.
“Make sure you treat her—“ Tim started, his words trailing off into a loud snore that cut through the noise.
He furrowed his brow and finally looked over, only to see Ezra face-planting straight onto the table, completely out cold.
“You’re kidding,” Tim muttered under his breath.
It was to be expected.
And that usually meant it was time to wrap things up.
The night finally caught up to everyone all at once.
Zinnia was the first to react, leaning forward to check on Ezra, pressing two fingers to his neck like she was taking a pulse.
“He’s alive,” she announced. “Barely.”
Steph laughed, grabbing her purse. “Alright, that’s our cue. Someone grab his keys before he wakes up and tries to prove he’s invincible.”
Miro slid Ezra’s drink out of reach to make sure it doesn’t spill and shook his head.
“Told him to pace himself, which he never listens to.”
Tim stood, slipping his jacket on as his eyes searched for you without thinking. You were still by the pool table, gathering all of the numbered balls and organizing things back to its place.
He approached calmly, not making it a big deal. “Hey,” he said gently, catching your attention. “Looks like your boyfriend’s officially done for the night.”
You blinked, glancing past him to where Ezra was being carefully propped upright by Miro and Steph, his head tilted down. “Oh… wow,” you laughed softly, a little dazed.
“Yeah, that tracks.”
Tim smiled, easy and reassuring. “Zinnia said she could give you a ride, or—” he paused, just enough to make it sound casual, “—I can, if you want. Whatever you’re more comfortable with.”
No pressure.
“Hm, it just depends which way you guys are going,” Tim nodded, offering a simple explanation without overthinking it. “Well, if it helps— I’m heading toward the school. My apartment’s pretty close to it, so I’m willing to give you a ride over there.”
You straightened a bit, visibly perking up. “Sweet, my apartment is around the school too!”
Tim internally screams.
“Oh—nice,” he replies. “That works out then.”
Zinnia shot him a look, one that spoke of an understanding, before turning her attention back to Ezra, who was already half-asleep again. “Alright, that settles it,” she declared. “You’re with Tim.”
Steph hummed approvingly.
“Responsibility buddy system. Love to see it.”
Tim shrugged like it was nothing, beginning to walk towards the exit with you.
“I’ll make sure she gets back safe.”
“Alright, bye Tim! And it was nice meeting you—” Zinnia called out, already half-turned as she wrangled Ezra on her shoulder with Miro that also offered their farewells.
“Yes, I hope to see you guys soon!” You chuckled.
“Text us when you’re home!” Steph added, waving.
Tim lifted a hand in a brief wave, an easy smile in place.
“Night.”
It was just the two of you now.
“You good?” he asked gently. “Not too dizzy?”
Outside, the cool air hit sharper, the night quieter than the bar had been. You walked side by side toward the lot, steps a little unsteady but determined. Tim matched your pace without comment, subtly positioning himself closer to the curb, like it was instinct.
“Yeah, I’m good,” you said with a small laugh. “I didn’t drink too much, but definitely don’t put me behind the wheel.”
Tim huffed softly, amused. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.”
He unlocked his car and held the door open for you without making a big show of it, waiting until you were settled before closing it gently. Once he slid into the driver’s seat, he adjusted the mirrors out of habit, movements easy and familiar.
“Seatbelt,” he reminded lightly, already pulling out of the lot once you were ready. “I would hate taking my midterms just to get taken out by bad decisions.”
You chuckled, shaking your head before buckling in and taking his phone when he offered it to you, the screen still warm in your hands as you typed in your address. Tim glanced over just long enough to confirm the route, nodding once before his attention returned to the road.
“Alright,” he said easily. “Got it.”
The car filled with a comfortable quiet, the city lights slipping past the windows. Tim kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console, occasionally tapping along to the low music playing through the speakers.
Every so often, he’d glance over, just to make sure you were alright, that you hadn’t drifted off.
“I couldn’t help but notice you’re wearing a blue scarf instead of red,” Tim remarked, eyes flicking to the fabric with a curious tilt.
You blinked, a small ‘oh’ slipping out as your expression shifted. “Yeah, they were sold out of red,” you admitted with a slight frown. “There were only a few colors left, so I went with blue— it’s a safe, neutral choice.”
Tim glanced over at you, then at the scarf, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
“Blue works,” he said easily. “Looks good on you. Kinda brings everything together.”
He paused, eyes flicking back to the road before adding, a little quieter, “But honestly? Red would definitely look better.”
He lifted a hand briefly, tugging at the edge of his own scarf. “So if you want,” he offered, tone casual like it wasn’t a big deal at all, “I’m willing to trade with you.”
You glanced at him, a small, surprised smile tugging at your lips. “Trade scarves?” you asked, amusement shining in your eyes.
“It’s the same brand and everything?”
“Yep,” Tim popped the ‘p’ with a playful grin, clearly enjoying the way you practically lit up in your seat.
“Well, if it’s the same brand, I guess that makes it official,” you grinned, reaching out to tug lightly at the end of your blue scarf.
Tim chuckled, the sound easy and warm.
“Guess it does.”
Then, you unfold the blue scarf, leaving it on your lap while Tim lends you the red scarf, his gaze still forward.
“I just realized— I don’t have your number, or your socials. And since we’re supposed to study together…”
You smiled, holding out your phone expectantly.
Tim’s eyes flicked up, a small spark of surprise and something else, shining through.
He quickly pulled out his own phone, unlocking it as he met your gaze before focusing it back on the road, conveniently the light turning red.
“Guess I’m going to have to fix that.”
You grinned, tapping your screen as you handed Tim your phone.
Tim took it, fingers moving swiftly but deliberately, the soft glow of the screen illuminating his focused expression.
Once he was done, he handed it back with a small smile.
“There. Now you’ve got me on speed dial.”
You laughed softly, slipping your phone back into your pocket.
“If you already follow Ezra on Instagram, you’ll find me pretty easily,” Tim added with a sly grin, his voice casual but carrying a hint of something more.
You raised an eyebrow, amused.
“Is that your way of making sure I can’t avoid you?”
He shrugged, still smiling.
“Maybe, or I’m making it easier for us to actually hang out.”
You chuckled, shaking your head but clearly entertained.
“Clever move, I’ll hold you to that.”
When Tim finally reached your apartment, (10 minutes away from his own) he waited until you were safely within before pulling away, but the night lingered in the air— a promise of what could come next.
Especially when he’s finally lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling with a dazed look, his fingers tracing the soft fabric of the blue scarf you’d exchanged.
His phone buzzes suddenly, breaking the quiet.
He glances down to see a new notification—
You have a new follower!
Tim’s lips twitched into a small, knowing smile as he unlocked his phone, the familiar username lighting up the screen.
Months.
It took months to get to where Tim was now.
Tim had grown bolder— maybe even too bold.
What had started as small gestures and subtle attentions had slowly shifted into something more confident, more intentional.
His friends began to notice.
The way he lingered a little longer in conversations with you, how his smiles held a different kind of warmth, how his presence seemed to quietly claim space beside you.
Ezra, distracted and careless, unwittingly gave too many openings, moments where his attention drifted, words left unfinished, or promises forgotten, leaving cracks wide enough for Tim to slip through with ease.
He started painting himself in a better light— not because he wanted to manipulate, but because he genuinely believed you deserved someone better.
Tim wasn’t one for games or deception; he was honest, sometimes brutally so.
He just couldn’t stand the idea of you falling for Ezra’s careless promises and half-truths.
“Strange, you say he’s doing homework? We were playing a game for a couple of hours with Miro,” Tim remarked one afternoon, a hint of frustration slipping into his voice.
When you were in the library together, you often found yourself venting to him— about Ezra being late, canceling plans, or how you had to keep asking to meet his other friends, always feeling a little on the outside quite disappointed after being friends for a long time.
Tim listened quietly, letting you speak without interruption, his expression softening.
“You’re really patient, I don’t know how you put up with that,” Tim commented, leaning casually against his chair.
Inside, he was quietly cheering for every one of Ezra’s slip-ups, each missed call, every forgotten promise, because it made this whole thing disgustingly easy.
An unspoken opening formed, clearing the path for a clean break.
Tim’s voice softened, almost careful.
“You deserve better than that, you know.”
Him.
Give him a chance.
You are on his spam account, a secret corner of Instagram where he quietly follows you and posts things meant just for you to notice. He shares Instagram stories that catch your eye, knowing you’ll like them. Each post is carefully chosen, like a subtle message only you can understand.
He often checks your Instagram Notes, the little snippets where you share song lyrics. When he sees a song from a particular artist you like, he posts a track from the same artist onto his notes as well. It’s his way of connecting without saying a word, hoping you’ll see it and send that tiny heart reaction that means everything to him.
When he uploads videos of himself skating, you don’t hesitate to comment or message him, teasing him to do a kick-flip. After a few tries, he finally nails it and sends you a video just to show off. It feels like a private celebration, something between the two of you.
Every time you spend time together, no matter how casual the hangout, he posts a photo or a story of the both of you, or how you always show up in his spam posts.
Steph caught on pretty quickly to how much time Tim had been spending with you.
Her brow raised the moment she noticed his hand brushing against yours and how you didn’t pull away.
Later, during patrol, she didn’t hold back.
“Hey, Tim,” her voice crackled through the comms, sharp and teasing. “You’ve been awfully cozy with someone lately. What’s going on?”
Tim hesitated for a moment, then grinned.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, though the tone didn’t quite convince.
Steph’s laughter came through, warm and knowing.
“You’re lying, isn’t she still with Ezra?”
Tim shrugged, a small smirk tugging at his lips.
“It’s not like she’s married, Spoiler.”
Spoiler gasps.
“Red Robin, you dirty dog! You better not cause any drama in the friend group, or become a homewrecker!”
“Oh trust, I won’t.”
There’s a pause, just long enough to make it sting, before Tim snickers softly into the comm. “But she wouldn’t say no to seeing her favorite band, would she?”
Another sharp, scandalized gasp crackles through the line.
“Tim!”
He can practically hear the glare through the static. He grins anyway, fingers tapping idly against the console as if he hasn’t already crossed several invisible lines.
“What,” he says, faux-innocent. “It’s just a concert, friends do nice things for each other.”
If Tim were your boyfriend, he would never let you go— always keeping you close, his arm draped around yours like you belonged there.
He’d notice when you’re cold, slipping his jacket over your shoulders without a word, making sure you stayed warm.
He’d never leave you alone in a crowd, always by your side, a quiet but constant presence.
And sometimes, he’d act like he already was, like the time he absentmindedly picked lint off your sweater, his fingers brushing your skin with a tenderness that felt surprisingly intimate and the look you gave him absolutely melted him.
The way you looked at him, the softness in your eyes, it was enough to make him forget everything he told himself about waiting.
He nearly wanted to break his own morals, screw the friendship he had with Ezra, to kiss you right then and there.
But he held back, swallowing the urge, knowing some lines shouldn’t be crossed— at least not yet.
After a few months, Miro finally caught on.
They were sitting across from each other in a quiet café, just the two of them, talking about life and whatever else came up. The conversation drifted, as it often did, until Miro brought up something he’d been meaning to ask.
“So,” Miro said, smirking as he nudged Tim’s shoulder lightly, “you’re not trying to steal Ezra’s girl, are you?”
Tim’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes flicking away quickly, avoiding Miro’s gaze.
He didn’t answer right away.
The silence between them spoke volumes.
“You’re kidding.”
And eventually, it leads to Tim explaining himself. Not all at once, not cleanly, but enough for Miro to understand what’s really been going on.
Miro goes quiet as it sinks in.
Too quiet and blocking everything out.
He pushes his chair back, standing abruptly, muttering that he needs to go before he says something he can’t take back.
Tim barely has time to react before Miro is already heading for the door. The last thing Tim catches is a sharp glare thrown over his shoulder, disbelief written plainly across his face.
It wasn’t until two days later, they were on call together.
“You’re respecting her boundaries though, right? She doesn’t know you like her?” Miro asked through FaceTime, sprawled across his bed, reading glasses perched low on his nose as he watched Tim demolish his food after the debrief once he’s fully explained the entirety with Miro opening his ears once again.
Tim didn’t look up right away.
He chewed, swallowed, then shrugged like it was obvious.
“Of course I am.”
He finally glanced at the screen, expression calm in a way that felt rehearsed. “She doesn’t know. I’m not… crossing anything.”
A beat. Then, quieter, more certain, “I’m just being there.”
He took another bite, unfazed, like he hadn’t just admitted to hovering in the margins of your life, waiting for the moment you’d realize he fit better than the person you were already with.
“Yo, that’s genuinely the most insane thing you’ve ever done, Timothy Jackson Drake.”
Miro snorts, laughter bubbling out of him as Tim rolls his eyes, completely unbothered.
“It’s not insane,” Tim says, tone flat, defensive in the way only he can be. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”
Miro lifts a brow behind his glasses. “You are actively emotionally investing in your best friend’s girlfriend, if that doesn’t say anything wrong then I don’t know what does and you’re lucky you explained yourself before I would’ve had Ezra blasted you.”
Tim scoffs, reaching for his drink. “I’m being supportive.”
Another laugh from Miro, sharper this time. “You’re being strategic.”
Tim doesn’t correct him.
“Fuck’s sake, bro, how long have you been plottin’ on her?” Miro exclaims, shifting to sit straighter on the bed.
Tim huffs, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m not plotting.”
Miro just stares at him through the screen, unimpressed.
“…Okay,” Tim concedes after a second, quieter. “I don’t know. Longer than I should have.”
He picks at the edge of his bowl, jaw tightening. “Long enough to know she deserves better. Long enough to know I could be that, if I was given the chance.” Tim huffs, stabbing his fork through his food. “Ezra has the most unbelievable girlfriend in the world and he doesn’t even know it.”
“That’s not an answer, Tim.”
Tim looks away.
“Since the bar.”
A beat.
“THE FUCKIN’ BAR?”
Miro yells, nearly dropping his phone as he jolts upright.
Tim winces.
“Lower your voice.”
“You met her at a bar,” Miro hisses, eyes wide, “and instead of doing the normal thing, like moving on or being a decent human being, you decided to emotionally annex your best friend’s girlfriend?”
Tim’s jaw tightens. “I didn’t know she’d end up with him.”
“That makes it worse!”
Tim finally looks back at the screen, expression serious, almost stubborn.
“To be fair, I knew her before the bar,” Tim says, pointing at the screen with his fork. “She was the girl I told you about, from my class. The one I wanted to ask out.” He picks his food and eats it.
Miro just stares, disbelief spilling out in half-formed sounds. “I— I genuinely— what— how could you— is that why you stopped talking about ‘pretty girl’?” His eyes widened, everything clicking to him.
“That was her!?”
Tim doesn’t answer right away.
He drops his gaze to his plate, letting go of his fork into his bowl.
“Well,” he mutters, almost to himself, folding his arm to lean closer to his propped up phone. “She’s going to be mine eventually...”
Miro goes dead silent.
“…Tim,” he says carefully, “you sound clinically insane.”
Miro exhales slowly, scrubbing a hand down his face like he’s trying to reset reality, carefully not breaking his glasses. “You cannot say shit like that and then act normal,” he mutters. “That’s not confidence, that’s a manifesto.”
Tim shrugs, too casual for someone who just admitted to mentally claiming his best friend’s girlfriend. “I’m not acting on it, not directly.”
“Timothy.”
“I’m waiting,” Tim corrects, voice steady. “There’s a difference.”
Miro lets out a sharp laugh once more. “You’re waiting for what? Him to screw up?”
Ideally, yes. It would make things quicker, but no.
It was more of you making comparisons, how you should be treated versus asking how you should be treated.
“For her to realize,” Tim says finally. “I’m not forcing anything.”
Miro watches him for a long second, expression shifting from disbelief to something more serious. “And if she doesn’t.”
Tim looks back at the screen, eyes calm, unsettlingly sure.
“She will.”
Then Miro’s eyes flick to the top of his screen, his brow knitting together as confusion twists into disbelief, watching him immediately shoot up from his bed and readjusting his glasses.
“…No FUCKING way,” he murmurs.
Tim frowns.
“What.”
Miro doesn’t answer right away.
He just stares, scrolling once, then twice, like he’s hoping the information will change if he looks again.
“Zinnia just texted me that Ezra broke up with—”
“YES! FUCK YES!”
The shout explodes out of Tim before Miro can even finish the sentence. Tim’s chair screeches back as he shoots to his feet, fist clenched, grin sharp and unguarded in a way Miro has never seen before.
Tim drags a hand through his hair, pacing now, adrenaline buzzing under his skin. “I mean—” He stops himself, forces a breath, tries to reel it back in.
“I mean, that sucks, for him. Send my condolences.”
Miro blinks at the screen. “I’ve never seen you happier than that time when Taco Bell put the Quesarito back on the menu.”
Tim scoffs, trying and failing to wipe the grin off his face.
“That was a big deal.”
“This is bigger,” Miro says flatly.
Tim exhales, finally sinking back into his chair, fingers drumming against the table like he’s trying to ground himself. “I shouldn’t be happy,” he admits, quieter now. “I know that.”
Miro tilts his head.
“But you are.”
Tim doesn’t deny it.
“I am.” He grins, sharp and a little reckless, like he’s daring the universe to stop him now.
“Wait, you gotta ask Zinnia why they broke up,” Tim points out, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Or, like, why Ezra broke up with her instead of the other way around?”
He ran a hand through his hair, frowning slightly. Tim had always assumed his plan would play out the other way that eventually you’d be the one to walk away.
So hearing that Ezra was the one to end it caught him off guard more than he expected.
Miro shook his head, amusement flickering across his face. “You make it sound like you’re some kind of relationship expert or something.”
Tim smirked, leaning back in his chair.
“Well, I’ve been watching this mess long enough to know where it’s headed.” He glanced at his phone, eyes sharp. “But still— gotta know if he knew, or if he just gave up.”
Miro sighed, shaking his head again.
“Man, you’re way too invested.”
Tim’s grin didn’t falter. “Maybe. But when you know what you want, you don’t just wait around forever.”
Tim could see Miro’s face up close, the way his fingers jabbed at his phone with a mix of urgency and hesitation. He was most likely texting Zinnia right now, trying to get the details Tim needed.
“Said ‘they were better off as friends,’ ended it mutually, but I think that reason is bullshit.”
Tim glanced up as his phone buzzed, a familiar caller ID.
“Steph’s calling— I’m gonna add her to the call.”
Miro didn’t look away from his screen.
“Fine by me,” he muttered, fingers still flying over his phone’s keyboard.
Within seconds, Steph’s face popped up on the screen, her eyes sharp and curious.
“Alright, spill. Zinnia is texting me that Ezra broke up with his… ex girlfriend now! Congratulations to Tim, condolences to Ezra. What’s happening?”
Miro filled Steph in, catching her up on the last bit of the conversation.
“Zinnia’s saying Ezra broke up with her to stay ‘friends.’ Do you buy that?”
Steph made a disgusted face, pressing her phone against the mirror as she swiped through her makeup wipes.
“That’s absolute bullshit.”
Miro paused.
“Do you know the actual reason, Steph?”
Tim watched as Steph hesitated, her brow furrowing in thought.
“No, I’m not really sure,” Steph replied thoughtfully. “Usually when people say that, it means one of three things:
1. They’ve lost feelings but don’t want to hurt the other person,
2. They’re scared of commitment, or
3. They’re interested in someone else.” She raises each of her fingers, going through the reasons.
“Are you asking Zinnia right now?” Tim asked, eyes fixed on Miro’s screen.
Miro nodded, then his screen froze for a moment, the lag dragging out the tension.
“When I pressed her, she said it’s ‘nunya’ business,” he explained after the lag had passed, “but honestly, she admitted she doesn’t really know.”
Tim let out a slow breath, his eyes never leaving the screen.
“Hm’ okay.”
The next time Tim sees you, he’d ask about what happened between the both of you.
Which was a few days later, when he finally found a quiet moment to ask. You were in his apartment, sprawled at opposite ends of the couch, a new season of a rom-com playing on the screen. You had mentioned wanting to watch it weeks ago but never had the time until now.
How did that happen?
Well.
Tim: Hey, is it alright if we study at my place?
Tim: the library’s is too noisy
Girlfriend (soon): ???
Girlfriend (soon): it’s a library?? How can it be noisy??
Girlfriend (soon): aren’t we on spring break right now??
Tim: cmon
Tim: don’t make me say it
Tim: fuck, could you pretty please come over to my apartment?
Tim: and hangout?
Tim: I miss our weekly study sessions
Tim: I’ll even beg on my knees?
Girlfriend (soon): alright alright
Girlfriend (soon): I’ll come over, no need to beg on your knees
You were already five episodes in, curled into the corner of his couch, while Tim sat at the other end with his laptop balanced on his knees. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, a case file pulled up and neatly organized, which he excused as getting ahead on work for his criminal justice class.
He looked focused, intent, the soft glow of the laptop lighting his face.
Too focused, maybe.
Every now and then his fingers paused over the keyboard, attention drifting back to the sound of your laughter or the way you shifted closer without realizing it.
The episode’s credits rolled and automatically skipped to the next one.
You stretched, shifting on the couch, eyes still on the screen.
“I’m kind of surprised,” you spoke casually, breaking the comfortable quiet. “You haven’t asked me why we broke up.”
Tim’s fingers stilled on the keyboard.
For a split second, his gaze stayed on the laptop, jaw tightening just enough to give him away.
Then he looked over at you, expression carefully neutral.
“I didn’t want to pry,” he slowly dragged, making it sound reasonable, which it honestly did— he didn’t want to pry it out of you.
But his laptop screen had long stopped updating, the case file forgotten as his full attention settled on you now, waiting to hear what you’d say next.
“Do you want to know?” You asked, raising a brow towards him.
Tim shrugged.
“Only if you’re okay with sharing it.”
Please do.
“He broke up with me because he couldn’t give me what I deserved.”
Oh.
“He realized he was unintentionally hurting me,” you explained, voice drifting as you stared up at the ceiling. “Missing things, forgetting dates, always prioritizing other parts of his life. He’s overwhelmed right now, so he decided to break it off and just be friends. Instead of trying to work through it.”
You let out a dramatic sigh, sinking further into the couch, the weight of it settling in now that you’d said it out loud.
“Really…?” Tim murmurs, brow furrowing.
He doesn’t quite connect the dots yet, doesn’t realize just how hectic Ezra’s life must be right now.
Geez.
“And,” you add, almost as an afterthought, “he also lost feelings for me. Apparently he’s been falling for one of my guy volleyball friends.”
What.
“Excuse me—” Tim chokes, coughing as he straightens up on the couch, suddenly very alert.
You laugh, gazing at Tim with a glint in your eyes.
“Yeah,” you said with a small shrug. “I actually set them up on a date two weeks from now. We’re happily just friends since the dating scene with each other wasn’t working. We only tried dating because he had this big, obvious crush on my friend, and I guess it turns out he never really got over it.”
You glanced back at the screen like it was no big deal, but Tim stayed frozen beside you, thoughts spiraling too fast to catch. The breakup had not been about distance or effort or timing.
It had been about someone else.
He did not need to calculate, wait, or maneuver at all.
Are you fucking serious.
You kept talking, unaware, filling the space with idle rambling about schedules and volleyball practice and how awkward it all felt in hindsight.
Tim barely heard you.
He shifted the laptop onto the coffee table before he could stop himself, and the couch dipped under his weight as he moved closer.
Too close.
You cut off mid-sentence when his presence suddenly crowded yours. Your eyes widened as Tim leaned in, bracing his hands on either side of your head, caging you in without quite touching. You pressed back instinctively against the cushions, heat rushing to your face, heart kicking hard against your ribs.
Tim froze too, just as startled by the proximity as you were, breath shallow, eyes locked on yours.
You were frozen there, Tim hovering above you, caught between your legs, his arms braced on either side of your head as if he’d accidentally cornered himself. The air felt thick, charged with the kind of tension neither of you dared to acknowledge out loud.
Then you broke it.
You grinned up at him, slow and mischievous.
“Did you get a haircut?” You hummed, lifting a shy hand to gently brush a lock of his hair back behind his ear, but it didn’t last long because of his position.
“Your face-framing pieces are shorter than the last time I saw you.” Your fingers lingered for just a second too long.
Tim forgot how to breathe.
His hands stayed planted on the couch, but every muscle in his body went rigid, pulse thundering loud enough he was sure you could hear it. Of all the things he had planned for, all the conversations he’d rehearsed, this was not one of them.
He swallowed hard, gaze dropping to your mouth before snapping back to your eyes, completely undone by how easily you’d closed the distance.
Tim was a wimp though, and slowly pulled away from you, sliding back to sit upright.
He ran a hand through his hair, cheeks flushing hotter by the second.
“Yeah, I got a haircut… yesterday,” he mumbled, avoiding your gaze. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”
He could practically feel the heat pooling at the back of his neck, spreading in a way that made him painfully aware of every second that had just passed.
You grinned, swinging yourself upright and sliding your knees to sit right in front of him with a playful bounce on the cushion, you gave his shoulder a gentle shove.
“Aww, are you flustered?” you teased, voice light and full of mischief.
Tim’s eyes flickered up to meet yours, a mix of surprise and something softer lurking beneath the surface. He rubbed his shoulder where you’d nudged him, trying to play it cool but clearly caught off guard.
“Maybe a little,” he admitted, voice low and a bit shaky.
You leaned in just enough to close the space between you, your smile widening.
“I knew it.”
Tim swallows, his breath hitching in a way he definitely does not mean for you to notice. His gaze drops for half a second, then lifts again, steadier this time, like he’s forcing himself to stay present.
“You’re enjoying this,” he says, not accusing, just stating it softly.
You hum in response, eyes flicking between his, unbothered by how close you are now. The rom-com keeps playing in the background, the laugh track distant and ironic, like it belongs to another room entirely.
“Maybe,” you reply, just as quietly. “Though, I just like looking at your shirt ‘Big Dick Back in Town’? Really?” Tim grins, shrugging with a slight raise of a brow.
”What’s wrong with that?”
You could only shake your head.
His shoulders relax a fraction, his hands easing against the couch instead of gripping it so tightly.
“You aren’t sad about the breakup?” he asks, studying your face.
“Nope.” You pop the p, grinning wide.
“We’re grown adults. We had a whole four-hour conversation about everything. About what it meant, what issues were there, about our friendship. So we’re fine and it was three and a half months anyway,” you shrug, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
Three and a half months was way too long by Tim’s definition.
“Well, three and a half months is a pretty long time.” Tim commented, watching you nod, understanding where Tim is coming from. “That’s true, but I don’t regret being with Ezra. There were good moments in that short-lived relationship, and honestly, half the time it just felt like we were friends more than anything romantic. So it doesn’t really feel like a waste, you know?” Tim hummed, quietly understanding with a so-so motion with his hand.
“Then, it must’ve been… not a serious relationship?”
You snapped your fingers, then a grim expression took over your face. “Yeah! Or… well, I think so. It definitely hurt when he didn’t show up for a lot of things a boyfriend should’ve— but honestly, he wasn’t as invested in it as I was.”
You sighed softly, shaking your head a little as if trying to shake off the lingering disappointment.
Tim hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek, debating whether he should say what was on his mind.
Fuck it.
“Does that mean… you’re officially available?”
You raised an eyebrow at the question, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, making Tim suddenly self-conscious.
“You’re making me sound like I’m some kind of product you can pre-order.” You snort, waving your hand. “Go ahead— someone can preorder me, I’m the only item on the shelf, limited availability, guaranteed to arrive before Valentine’s Day.” You shake your head in disbelief.
Tim chuckles, a little breathless.
And he doesn’t know what came over for him to say this—
“Well, lucky me, then. I guess I’d better place my order before someone else beats me to it.”
He winks, trying to sound casual but failing spectacularly as his smile widens.
You grin, nudging him lightly.
“Oh, sure, you’re joking… right?”
Tim raises an eyebrow.
“You wanna kiss me and find out?”
He watches as the room falls into a heavy silence.
He can almost feel the air holding its breath between them besides the Netflix series.
Time seems to stretch endlessly as he waits, watching your mouth open slightly but no words come out.
Your face completely blue-screens, and Tim can’t help but smile at how utterly caught you are.
Tim burst into laughter, clearly amused by the shock on your face.
He noticed the telltale signs of your flustered reaction: how you suddenly went quiet, how both your hands flew up to hide half of your face, even if he could see it in your eyes of your uncontrollable smile that you’re trying to get it under control, and the clear way that you’ve scoot back.
He reached over to nudge your shoulder too but you slap it away playfully, hearing him laugh harder.
“Don’t get any closer to me!”
“Relax, I’m just messing with you.”
But the way you couldn’t quite meet his eyes told him you weren’t entirely sure if he was joking or not and that made the moment even better.
He watched you struggle to keep your composure, the way you would try to hide your facial reaction from him every time he nudged you or threw out a cheeky comment.
The quick, sharp shove to his shoulder made him laugh quietly, but he could see the way your eyes sparkled with a mix of irritation and something softer— something that told him you secretly enjoyed the attention just as much as he did.
In fact, there’s an entire day where the two of you just “hung out.” And though it started off as just the two of you, you eventually ended up meeting the rest of the group later that night, a couple of weeks after the breakup, like it was the most natural progression in the world.
Though, obviously, Tim had already labeled it as a date in his head.
I mean, you two had unintentionally matched outfits, he picked you up from your apartment, and even stopped by that one café to grab your favorite drink along with the menu item you always order without fail.
The rest of the day melted into wandering downtown, poking around trinket shops you always insisted on visiting before any hangout. You had mentioned it back at his place while you were on Episode 10, and he had gone along without hesitation.
At some point, you kept bumping into him, drifting a little too close to the curb every time you laughed or got distracted by a shop window.
Tim caught it after the third time, lips twitching as he reached out to steady you.
“Do you always walk like this,” he teased, lightly tugging you back toward the sidewalk, “or is this a special performance just for me?”
You scoffed, swatting at his arm. “I walk perfectly fine. You’re just standing in my way.”
“Uh-huh,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced.
The next time you veered off course, he didn’t even bother commenting. He simply draped his arm around your shoulders, easy and natural, guiding you away from the curb like it was instinct.
His hand rested warm and secure against your upper arm, like it had always belonged there.
You glanced up at him, putting on your most innocent look. “Wow, so now you’re supervising how I walk?”
“Someone has to,” Tim said easily, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth. “You keep drifting like you’re aiming for traffic, starting to think you planned this just to get my arm around you.”
That wiped the smug look right off your face.
You went quiet, lips parting like you had a comeback ready, only for nothing to come out at all.
Tim noticed, of course, and his grin widened just a touch as he kept you tucked safely at his side.
You were still very much in control of where you wanted to go, which was not surprising at all. Somehow, that freedom led you straight into another store and Tim barely had time to read the sign before realizing where you were.
PopMart.
He slowed to a stop, glancing around at the walls lined with blind boxes and glossy displays. “Of course,” he muttered under his breath. “I should’ve known.” You were very much who you’re expected to be, one to feed capitalism and spend money on these lil’ guys.
You, meanwhile, had already zeroed in on a display, eyes lighting up as you leaned closer as if you’ve been waiting for this day.
Tiny figurines were lined up behind the glass, all sharp details and dramatic poses.
The Gotham City Series.
“Oh my god,” you breathed, pointing. “Look at them.”
Tim stepped closer, folding his arms as he followed your gaze. Vigilantes in miniature, capes frozen mid-swoop, masks carved with ridiculous precision, in a display box with all twelve figures.
Then he saw it.
Red Robin.
You stared a second longer, squinting thoughtfully.
“This one’s kinda cute.”
Tim coughed.
“Kinda?”
You glanced back at him, grin turning mischievous.
“What? You seem defensive.”
“I’m not,” he said too quickly, shifting his weight. “Just saying. If you’re ranking them, that one’s objectively… fine.”
You hummed, clearly unconvinced, eyes drifting back to the figure.
“Wait, Red Hood might be cuter.”
Oh hell no.
“Absolutely not.”
You blinked at him, amused.
“What do you mean absolutely not?”
“He’s wearing a helmet,” Tim shot back, gesturing vaguely at the tiny figure. “You can’t even see his face. That’s not cute, that’s… just anonymous and ugly.” You laughed, clearly enjoying this.
“Mysterious can be cute and you don’t even know he’s ugly!”
Tim scoffed.
“Well, he for sure doesn’t look like Prince Charming, that’s a traffic cone with trauma.”
You burst out laughing, and Tim tried very hard not to look too pleased with himself as he watched you reach for a blind box, silently hoping you’d pick the right one.
Not even a minute later, you were already drifting toward another section of the store.
This one was… different.
Rows of small figurines stared back at you, each one wearing the same expression of pure misery. Angry little side-eyes and sad, hollow looks.
Not a single smile among them.
Tim slowed beside you, taking them in. “…Why do all of these look like they’re judging me?” You crouched slightly to get a better look, eyes lighting up.
“Oh my god, Tim! They’re all so cute!”
He glanced at you, then back at the figures.
“They all look the same.”
You read a little note they have on the figures, glued to the glass and the artist of them. “They’re called Hironos, they’re supposed to look like that. And look at that one!”
Tim leaned in despite himself, following where you pointed. In the back of the display box sat one figure giving a particularly nasty side-eye, a tiny castle perched on its black hair. It was crouched low, bound in rope, dressed in a black-and-white uniform that was unmistakably prison-striped and bandages on its knee.
“Really?” Tim asked flatly.
You nodded without hesitation.
“He looks like you.”
Tim stared at it.
Then at you.
“He’s literally wearing a prison outfit.”
“Yeah,” you said easily. “Exactly, you belong in prison with the way you’ve been treating me.”
Tim snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. Then, without missing a beat, he swung his arm back around your shoulders, pulling you close until your noses were almost touching. The warmth of his breath brushed against your skin as he leaned in just slightly, voice low and amused.
“Unbelievable,” he murmured. “I took you out this morning, with your favorite drink in hand and your food too, and now I’m already getting sentenced?”
You smirked, feeling the subtle heat of the moment settle between you, both of you caught somewhere between playful and something much more electric.
Without hesitation, you slipped under his arm, catching him off guard as you picked up a box, turned toward the register with the two boxes in hand.
Tim blinked in surprise, a slow, impressed grin spreading across his face as he watched your smooth escape.
“Will that be all for today?” the cashier asked, glancing between you and Tim, pulling up the total and placing them in a bag.
Tim mouthed ‘don’t let her pay,’ making the cashier smile knowingly.
“Yes, that’ll be all,” you replied with a smile, already reaching for your card— only to see Tim’s phone beat you to the card reader, the screen glowing as he swiftly completed the payment and your head snapped back towards him, eyes wide with shock.
He just grinned, completely unfazed.
“Tim, what the—!”
He, of course, wasn’t about to let you pay.
The cashier chuckled, handing over the bag, while you were too busy scolding Tim to reach for it yourself. Tim just laughed and grabbed the bag, dodging your playful slap on his shoulder.
“You guys are cute, have a nice day!” The cashier called after you, still smiling.
You completely ignored the cashier’s playful comment, but Tim caught it and that knowing smile didn’t escape him.
It was clear someone had already picked up on the way you two fit together, especially with the subtle, unplanned ways you matched, whether it was your similar jacket colors or the way you moved in sync like a practiced duo.
“You absolutely didn’t need to do that!” You exclaimed, narrowing your eyes and pointing at him with mock exasperation.
Your brow furrowed as you crossed your arms, the frustration genuine but softened by the teasing edge in your voice.
“I have my own money, you know. I don’t need you to pay for me every time.”
Tim just shrugged, that familiar, cocky grin tugging at his lips, clearly enjoying the moment and you.
“I know, I know. Just return the favor later tonight, or when we grab something to eat,” he mentions with a teasing glint in his eyes.
He handed you the branded bag, watching as you rolled your eyes in exasperation at his good deed.
“So,” he added, voice playful, “are you going to open up those blind boxes, or are you just going to stare at the bag all day?” You huffed, nodding reluctantly. “I’ll open them, but maybe we should find somewhere to eat first. It’s way more fun to do it with food.”
Tim grinned, clearly pleased with the suggestion, and didn’t hesitate to drag you toward a nearby restaurant he’d heard good things about. As you walked, you could already feel the excitement building, blind boxes, a good meal, and friends later on— the perfect combo for a day like this.
After about twenty minutes of scanning the menu and deciding on your orders, you caught the waiter’s attention and placed them with a few quick questions about the specials. Drinks arrived shortly after, glasses clinking softly as you both settled into the cozy booth, the warm buzz of the restaurant wrapping around you like a comfortable blanket.
The conversation flowed easily— small laughs, shared stories, and that quiet, familiar rhythm you both fell into when no words were wasted.
Finally, when the plates were still moments away, you reached into the bag and pulled out the first box: the Gotham City Series. The crisp packaging caught the low light, hinting at the tiny surprise waiting inside. Tim’s eyes flicked up to yours, curiosity and anticipation mirrored in his expression.
With a quick breath, you tore open the box and reached inside, your fingers brushing over the tiny figure waiting to be revealed. You pulled it out slowly, turning it over to admire the fine details: the sharp mask, the cape, the laptop, and carefully sculpted utility belt.
“He’s so cute!”
Tim’s grin widened as he watched you, feeling a sense of warmth and a tad-but of jealousy from that compliment, clearly impressed. “Nice one,” he compliments, voice low. “Red Robin suits you.”
You shot him a playful glance, pretending to mull it over seriously before setting the figure down on the table. “Please, you wish you were Red Robin.”
He is Red Robin.
“Better than Red Hood,” Tim shot back with a smirk.
You laughed, shaking your head, then reached into the bag for the next box— the Mime Hirono series.
“Which one do you want?”
You hummed, pointing at a few figures you found adorable, “but I would be fine with any of them.” You smiled, peeling the tab.
The anticipation between you only grew as you peeled back the packaging and the plastic, ready to see what surprise awaited inside.
You gasped softly as you pulled out the next figure, a tiny Hirono with a delicate feather perched on his head, wearing a makeshift newspaper kite strapped like a backpack. A thin rope was tied to his leg, the other end secured to a small bolt embedded in the ground beneath him.
The little guy looked calm and relaxed.
“I changed my mind, this one looks like you.”
Tim watched as you flipped the tiny figure toward him, slowly turning it a full 360 degrees to show off every detail.
“Is it because I have black hair and pale skin?” Tim teased, raising an eyebrow.
You shrugged casually, a sly smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, and blue eyes too,” you added, pointing to the Hirono’s faintly dark blue eyes, contrasting with Tim’s lighter shade.
“Wait, he has a lil’ card and it says Patience!” You cooed, taking a picture of your new ‘baby’, talking about your collection of them on your shelves, making this one your 17th Hirono.
Or your 17th ‘child.’
Tim will never admit this, but he honestly found your love for blind boxes, specifically Hironos’ or the trinkets, veryenduring.
Later that evening, once the sun had dipped below the horizon and the city lights began to flicker on, you found yourselves back at the bar with the usual group.
The familiar buzz of conversation and clinking glasses filled the air, but surprisingly, there was no awkwardness between you and Tim.
There was no awkwardness with Ezra either— in fact, when you saw him, you greeted him with a warm, genuine hug that felt natural and unforced.
Still, Ezra wasn’t blind to what was unfolding around him.
His eyes caught the subtle details, the way Tim’s arm casually settled around your shoulders, the slight protective tilt as if claiming his space beside you. He noticed how you leaned in without hesitation, your body relaxing against Tim as though it had always belonged there.
Ezra caught the quick, knowing looks shared between you two: the brief smiles exchanged over inside jokes, the gentle teasing that seemed to flow effortlessly, and how you would slap Tim’s shoulder playfully.
Even Zinnia noticed, her raised eyebrow and subtle side glance betraying her surprise at this sudden shift.
Then, when it was just Ezra and Tim left at the table, the tension thickened— both of them knowing what was coming next. Ezra let out a low, bitter sigh, raising his glass to take a shot. This time, it was noticeably less than last time, his movements sharper, more controlled.
“It doesn’t matter to me anymore,” he begins, voice rough but steady, “since we’re no longer together. But don’t lie to me.”
His eyes locked onto Tim’s, piercing and unyielding, searching for any trace of dishonesty beneath the surface.
Tim felt the weight of that gaze like a physical pressure, the room shrinking around them. The air buzzed with unspoken accusations and simmering resentment, the calm before the storm.
“You’re going to have to be honest, Tim,” Ezra continued, voice low but edged with anger. “Because if you think I’m just going to let this slide, you’re wrong.”
Tim’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowing as he met Ezra’s intense gaze without flinching. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, but he wasn’t about to back down or give in to the silent demands.
“Honest?” Tim’s voice was steady, edged with a controlled fire. “I’m not here to stir things up or hurt anyone, but yeah, I like her. I have for a while.”
Ezra’s eyes darkened, hurt and anger flashing through them like lightning. “You decided to not tell me anything about it whatsoever? What the fuck, Tim? Don’t tell me—“
His gaze was sharp, filled with a mix of hurt and a desperate need for honesty. It wasn’t just about the breakup anymore.
This was about trust, respect, and everything tangled in between.
Tim swallowed, feeling the weight of Ezra’s stare like a physical force. “I will tell you,” he replies, voice quieter than usual but unwavering. “I like her, I have for a while before you two got together. But this wasn’t some calculated move to take advantage of what was between you two.”
“So you’re saying you didn’t break us apart?”
Tim shook his head firmly, his words deliberate and honest. “No. Absolutely not. You did that yourself,” he gestures toward Ezra with a pointed look. “I cared about both of you too much to ever create some stupid cheating situation. That’s not who I am, and I never wanted to be the reason you two ended.”
Ezra’s voice tightened, the anger barely held in check. “So you were just… there for her? The fuck, waiting for your chance?”
Tim met the accusation head-on, his jaw clenched but his eyes sincere. “Yes and no, I didn’t plan for this to happen. I hated watching her hurt, hated seeing you both drift apart. I tried to stay out of it because I respected you, but eventually, it became clear things weren’t going to work due to your own personal reasons, but yeah.”
Ezra’s jaw tightened as he studied Tim, the tension thickening the air between them. After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice quieter but still edged with frustration. “I messed up our relationship. I got overwhelmed and missed things I shouldn’t have not only in a relationship, but as friends. I had leftover feelings for… and new feelings.” He hesitated, letting the words hang, making Tim furrow his brow. “But this… waiting in the shadows— it doesn’t make it any easier to accept, even if it wasn’t a serious type of relationship.”
Tim nodded slowly, his expression softening just a bit. “I get that, which you’re valid to feel that way. I’m not trying to make this easier or pretend I’m some hero, but I was there because I care about her and about both of you. I never wanted to be the cause of your breakup.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of everything settling between them.
“Just to clarify, we never did things romantically while you were both together. We hung out a lot, yes, I will admit. There’s some things I’ve done that could be interpreted as a move, but I knew to be patient and respect your relationship.”
Ezra finally let out a slow breath and shook his head, a reluctant acceptance in his eyes.
“Well, I’m just glad you explained yourself,” Ezra speaks, his voice rough but sincere, “and that you’re giving her what I couldn’t. I wasn’t the person she needed, and maybe I never really was.” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes searching Tim’s. “And yeah, we were truly better off as friends.”
Tim softened, nodding slowly.
“I’m glad. You two already talked about it, right?” Tim asked, though he already knew the answer— it was more about hearing it from Ezra.
Ezra gave a slow, firm nod.
Ezra smirked, a teasing glint in his eyes as he raised his glass. “Yeah, treat her better than I did, you two already look good together.” He downed the shot in one smooth motion. “You’re matching with her, but not dating her yet? You gotta get on that, Timothy.”
Tim rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at his lips. “I will,” he promised, taking the shot Ezra poured for him without hesitation.
“I already thought you had plotted for this moment.”
Tim snorts, “man, I didn’t plot shit.” Yeah, he absolutely did.
As the night wore on, the crowd inside the bar began to thin.
Zinnia and Steph were the ones supporting Ezra this time.
The guy really knew how to relax once the drinks kicked in, but he was definitely a lightweight. He leaned heavily on them, laughing more loudly than usual, his steps unsteady as they guided him through the cool night air.
Tim and Miro watched them, snorting before they see each other off.
“Well, it was nice seeing the both of you,” Miro warmly told, glancing between you and Tim with a relaxed smile.
You agreed, nodding your head with excitement on your grin.
Tim also nodded, but instead he extended his hand.
Miro laughed, understanding immediately. His muscle memory kicked in as they went through the usual handshake without missing a beat while you watched.
Their knuckles met first, fingers bumping, followed by their fingers interlocking for a brief second, It ended with a solid dap up before Tim tugged Miro in for a quick side hug, shoulders knocking together in an easy, comfortable way that spoke of routine and familiarity rather than anything forced.
“Alright, see ya’ man, drive safe.”
“Will do,” Miro replied with a wave as he turned and walked away.
You both started walking toward Tim’s car, the night air cool around you.
“That was cool,” you commented, glancing over at him. “I never realized you only do that handshake with Miro, not the others.” Tim smiled, eyes on the path ahead. “Yeah, it’s kind of our thing. Something that just stuck between us.”
You hummed in affirmation.
“Why? You want us to have our own handshake?”
You immediately shook your head. “No, no, I’m okay. I was just thinking it was cool, that’s all.” Tim glanced over with a playful smirk. “Come on, don’t act like you don’t want one. We can have our own handshake— something small, nothing crazy.”
You hesitated, pretending to consider it but clearly curious.
“Just a little one,” Tim added with a grin. “Nothing complicated. What do you say?”
After a moment, you finally smiled and nodded.
“Alright, fine. But just a small one.”
Tim’s grin widened.
“Deal.”
You both paused right in front of his car, determined to get this handshake just right. Even though it was a small, simple one, the timing and coordination still mattered.
You stumbled a bit, struggling to remember the steps, and Tim couldn’t help but laugh softly at your concentration.
“It’s okay,” he said, patient. “We’ll get it down eventually.”
Tim noticed the way your hand slightly shook when he reached out to hold your hand during one of the handshake steps. Your hand felt soft and smooth in his grasp— delicate in a way that made him instinctively careful.
His own hands were rougher, marked with calluses from everything he’d been through, but he wrapped his fingers around yours gently, mindful of the contrast.
His thumb brushed lightly over your skin, and when his eyes met yours, there was a quiet spark between you— an unspoken connection that caught him by surprise.
Even as you stumbled over the handshake, fumbling to remember the steps, Tim realized it wasn’t about the routine anymore. It was about the moment, the warmth of your hand in his and the closeness you shared.
He knew the handshake would take practice, but he didn’t mind at all.
After about fifteen minutes, you finally got it down.
The first couple of tries came with one or two small mistakes, but you were confident enough to try again.
“Okay, okay, one more time and then we go home,” you laughed, a determined smile lighting up your face.
“Alright, one more,” Tim agreed easily, but there was a flicker of mischief in his eyes you didn’t notice.
You focused intently on the handshake, your fingers carefully following his as you moved through the steps again.
The rhythm was growing familiar, the motions less awkward.
Just as you reached the moment where your hands were supposed to part, Tim’s grip shifted without warning.
Both of his hands slid from your fingers down to your waist, wrapping around you with a steady, firm hold.
Before you could react, he pulled you closer in one smooth, deliberate motion.
You stumbled slightly, your breath catching as your body pressed against his.
The sudden closeness sent a warm rush flooding through you, your heart quickening in surprise.
You could feel the solid strength of his arms holding you, his fingertips gently pressing against your back, grounding you. Your skin tingled where he touched you, and the soft scent of his cologne filled your senses.
Tim’s eyes locked onto yours, the usual teasing glint replaced by something softer but still filled with that playful spark.
His grin widened into that little shit smirk he wore when he knew exactly the effect he was having— when he knew he had you a little off balance in more ways than one.
For a moment, the handshake was forgotten.
The world around you blurred as you both stood there, caught in the electric tension and unexpected intimacy. You felt the steady beat of his heart against yours, the subtle rise and fall of his chest so close to yours.
Tim watched you freeze, your eyes wide as you stared up at him— disbelief, surprise, and a flicker of irritation crossing your face as you tried to process how he had completely messed up the handshake by pulling you in so suddenly.
You stumbled against him, caught off guard, and he couldn’t help but notice the way you struggled to hold back a mix of shock and mild frustration.
But then his mischievous grin grew wider, that confident smirk that he knew always managed to catch you off guard in the best way. You found your gaze flickering from confusion to something softer, as if despite yourself, you were charmed by him.
He held you close for just a moment longer, feeling the warmth of your body pressed against his, the electric charge in the air thickening.
Tim knew exactly what he was doing, pushing your buttons, teasing you, and drawing you in closer, and he loved every second of watching you fall, even if just a little bit, under his spell.
His voice dropped to a low murmur, almost too quiet to hear but impossible to ignore.
“I like the way you’re looking at me right now.”
You lean in slightly, your voice soft but teasing, though your eyes betray you completely.
“Oh yeah? And how exactly am I looking at you?”
Tim’s grin deepens, amused by how effortlessly you fell into his trap and the way he falls for your doe eyes, hypnotizing him.
“Like you’re waiting to find out what it’s like to kiss me.”
You freeze for a moment, the weight of his words settling between you like a spark ready to ignite.
Your breath catches, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks. You try to steady yourself, but your heart is pounding loud enough that you’re sure he can hear it.
With a half-smile, half-challenge, you meet his gaze again and whisper—
“Maybe I am… but you’re the one who has to make the first move.”
Tim’s eyes gleam with that mischievous light, and without breaking eye contact, he inches just a little closer, the space between you shrinking.
The playful tension hangs thick as the moment stretches, charged and electric.
“I guess… I will have to make the first move.”
Without a word, he closes the space between you.
His lips meet yours with a softness that takes your breath away, like the gentlest brush of a feather. The kiss deepens, warming and steady, spreading a quiet fire through your chest.
His hand left from your waist to lift to cup your jaw while you wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers light but sure, tilting your face just enough to hold you still in this suspended moment. You feel the subtle press of his body, the heat from him seeping into your skin, blending with the rapid beat of your heart.
Time seems to slow, the world narrowing to just the two of you. That kiss speaks volumes— unspoken feelings, careful restraint, and raw, tender promise all wrapped in the softness and intensity of this perfect, unforgettable moment.
He does not pull away.
If anything, he leans in closer, like the space between you is unbearable now that he knows what it feels like to close it.
The kiss deepens with a quiet urgency, not rushed but full of need and patience. His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers curling there as if he is afraid you might disappear if he lets go. There is a faint hitch in his breath against your lips, something almost desperate slipping through the careful control he usually keeps wrapped tight around himself.
He kisses you again, slower but heavier, like he is trying to tell you everything he has been holding back for months. Every near moment and every time he stopped himself. You can feel it in the way he lingers, the way his thumb presses softly at your skin, grounding himself while still wanting more.
For a second, his forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling, his eyes closed like he is steadying himself. Then he goes back in, softer now but no less intense, like he is savoring this instead of rushing it. Like he knows this is something precious and he refuses to waste it.
There is yearning in every movement, his pupils that are enlarged, a heat that consumes his own being, a quiet desperation that says he has waited, that he has earned this, and that now that he finally has you here, he is not letting the moment go.
“I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmurs quietly, like admitting a secret he has been carrying far too long. “For longer than I should’ve.”
His thumb brushes along your jaw again, pausing for just a beat, like he is silently checking that you are still here with him. When you do not pull away, his voice drops, softer and more intimate than before.
“Tim’s girlfriend,” he murmurs, the words careful, almost reverent. “It kind of has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
You hum thoughtfully, lips curving as if you are genuinely considering it, a teasing lightness in your voice even though your eyes give you away.
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.” His voice is steady, sincere, even as he leans closer again, like the distance between you is already too much. “You should give me a chance, you’re all I need.” His breath brushes your lips as he adds, quieter, more certain, “I’d never let you go from me.”
Your lips graze his as you speak, the words barely a whisper.
“Are you begging me?”
Tim’s eyes lock onto yours instantly, something intense and unguarded flashing through them. Your hand comes up to his cheek, warm and sure, pulling him back in before he can answer.
If anything, he leans into your touch, like your hand on his cheek is permission he has been waiting for. His breath stutters, warm against your lips, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low, honest, completely stripped of teasing.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “I am.”
His forehead rests against yours, eyes still locked on you, searching your face like he is afraid this moment might slip through his fingers. His hand comes up to cover yours where it cups his cheek, holding it there, grounding himself.
“I don’t care how it sounds,” he admits, voice rough with feeling. “I want you, I’ve wanted you, and I’m asking now.”
He leans in just enough that your noses brush, his words spilling softly against your lips.
“Let me be completely yours, please.”
Your breath catches, heart pounding as you meet his intense gaze.
Then, you answered him without words, pulling him closer and capturing his lips once more.
Your fingers tangled in the strands at the nape of his neck, gently tugging him forward as he melted into the pull, falling deeper into the irresistible pull of your own magnetic kiss.
Beneath the shadowed skyline of Gotham, a shooting star streaked across the night, briefly igniting the darkness with its fleeting, brilliant light.
And Timothy Jackson Drake is completely yours.
a/n: HEHEHEHEEHE. now how we like thattttt, I lwk wished…. I had the balls to make Tim messier in this fic, but my boy is just a D-1 plotter and just nudging like “oh, how could you be so patient with him…” “you deserve better…” “that was all on you, not me.” (To Ezra) type of thing, which he wasn’t lying!! It was literally the matter of time before they cut that relationship off!! AND I made him such a lil’ shit truly. I hope you guys caught that Hirono moment!!! I decided to use ‘Patience’ because it truly fitted Tim, a man that yearns is a man that EARNS.
THIS TOOK FOREEVERRRR to finish, please interact with this fic since that would mean a lot to me!! Happy holidays everyone!!
cw; ghostface au, heavy obsessive themes, strong physical violence and blood, multiple side character deaths, general disregard for consent & autonomy, nsfw themes, noncon, mdni 18+
notes; commissioned piece by @kottiya ♡ tysm for how patient you were w me throughout this whole process (!!!) the 1996 scream was revolutionary to me when i first watched it so i've had sm fun writing this & putting my own spin on it <3 enjoy x
“seven of you go up there together, and only two of you come back.” the man draws on his cigar with a sardonic grimace. “with your guts still inside of you, that is.”
“i’m not a liar, detective.”
his eyes flash. “never said you were, kid. i just got this feeling…” the ghost of a smile on his lips, as he pivots without warning. “but nevermind that. how about you tell me what your relationship is with that man out there?”
he pulls down on the blinds in his office, so that on the other side of the glass, over his fingers; you can catch a glimpse of dean.
you stare at him for a moment in silence, eyes flittering over his skinned knuckles, broken nose, and how despite it all; or maybe because of it—that the sight still leaves you feeling sort of dizzy. sick. like you’ve had too much of something sweet. your answer is simple, and it comes far too quick.
“he saved me.”
his head’s resting against the wall behind him, and his eyes are closed. sitting so still in that chair, you’d think he was asleep if his foot wasn’t tapping against the linoleum of the police station floor so rhythmically. you wonder which song’s stuck in his head right now.
think you might already know the answer.
the detective says something, then. another question, you think, but it doesn’t find its way to you. everything around you fades into a realm of complete obscurity as dean’s eyes flutter open; dark, sly, flicking straight to meet your own through the parted blinds.
he smiles then, slow and sweet. it’s lazy, really, the way his lip curls at the corner.
and even though between you two there stands a wall, and twenty police officers and detectives and investigators with their pistols and rifles, you can almost hear him speak. can almost feel the words, like a low whisper murmured right against the nape of your neck.
skin here’s some of the most sensitive on the body, sugar. so thin. so easy to slice through.
wet fingers skimming their way down your shoulders and wrapping themselves around you. warm laughter, so completely and enviously sure of itself.
i don’t have to worry about you acting out, do i, sweetness?
the blinds snap shut.
you turn to the detective, staring down at you through the smoke wafting from the cherry red end of the cigar held loosely between his fingers. “look, kid. i got five dead bodies to figure out. that means no time to waste, yeah? those are five of your friends, and their families are knocking down my door for answers. it’s very important to me that you understand that.”
you frown, searching the weary lines on his face for an answer. there’s an accusatory tone to his words that makes your skin crawl, and it makes you wish you were anywhere but here. “what do you want from me?”
“how about,” he exhales slowly, savouring the taste of his vice. “you tell me the whole truth. and i mean all of it.”
it’s getting harder to breathe in here, with each puff of swirling smoke that stinks up the room. you give him ten good years, give or take, before the cancer catches up. but the more you think about it, the more you start to think that you might have to slash that number in half, actually. dean might just get to him first.
“okay,” you hear yourself say, trying to take small, shallow breaths. in, and out. in, and out. “where do you want me to start?”
in,
and out.
the detective brings the cigar to his lips and takes a deep breath. “from the beginning.”
-
it starts with a bad dream.
“baby,” he drawls.
there’s dirt under his nails and broken rays of sunlights catches in the strands of his dark, dark hair as he steps quietly over fresh soil, never sinking like you hope—only drawing nearer and closer to the trunk which carries you. the branch like a noose, curled around your neck.
he’s close enough, now, to see the way its jagged edges pierce into your skin, and even though his stygian eyes don’t look away from you for even a second, he says absolutely nothing. all he does is look at you, like he’s already picked you a very long time ago.
all that exists in the silence is the sound of your trembling breath. the promise, also, of an almost-violence that lingers in the air like the note of an old song. one of his hands skims along the side of your arm, gently brushing against your skin.
you used to be so soft to the touch, just like bruised fruit. but you’ve hardened now, haven’t you? he knocks against your chest, where your heart should be, and it sounds so very hollow.
ripe.
“didn’t think you’d be ready yet,” he murmurs, amused. “but here you are, sugar.”
his fingers curl around your neck as he takes his precious time to carefully detangle you from the branch that holds you up. he plucks you from the branch, and you drop into the palm of his hand.
the sun’s disappeared now, and everything’s gone dark. under the shadow of night, you try to move, but it’s a futile attempt at resistance. everything else is slow and heavy and silent and you recognise that, here, all you know is him.
the moment he has you where he wants you, the tree that you once used to hang up on begins to rot. the world you once used to inhabit dilapidates beneath the force of his loving hands, as the bark begins to split, peeling back until it snaps. the branches curl into themselves, and soil turns into ash.
but his smile doesn’t falter.
“don’t worry, sugar.” he whispers, tilting your chin up with one finger. his hands are rough and calloused, gliding over the base of your neck where the noose once was. his voice dips dangerously low, and he smiles. “you still taste plenty sweet.”
and then his teeth are tearing into you.
-
“wake up.”
tap.
tap.
someone flicks your forehead. hard.
“you’re having a nightmare, baby blue.”
you startle, heart racing in your chest as you’re snapped back into reality. your hands immediately fly to your neck, relief overcoming you when they come away dry. no noose. no blood. just, well—it takes you a few moments to register where you are.
the low murmur of a local radio station. the seatbelt uncomfortably digging into your skin. right, you surmise. the car. the road trip.
except, you realise, twisting in your seat, there’s nobody in the back row. the driver’s seat is empty, and two cups of gas station coffee sit cold in front of the console.
“why’ve we stopped?” you murmur lazily, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.
red shrugs. “tire popped, i guess. lucky us.”
squinting, you make out the time at the top of his screen. you’ve only been asleep for an hour or so and yet the scenery outside is wholly unfamiliar. uncharted territory that would be a shame, if wasted. with one last yawn, you haphazardly do up the laces on your shoes and turn to him over your shoulder. “right. get out, i’m going to stretch while we’ve stopped.”
red groans. “go out through the other side, for fucks’ sake.”
“jan’s sleeping.”
red rolls his eyes but ultimately obliges, inching out of the car whilst muttering one thing or another under his breath. you sidle past him with a knowing smile, nudged along by his elbow. you don’t even bother to act surprised when he inevitably slams the car door shut in your face, instead choosing to focus on the feeling of the road beneath your feet. it’s nice to finally stand on something solid after so many hours; something still.
you hear him before you see him, stepping around the back of the car. the sound of an absent, low song that he hums under his breath gives him away. you think you might’ve heard it before but… you can’t quite manage to place it.
he’s crouching by the car, working at the tire which is, in fact, evidently popped. you lean against the boot and take him in; sleeves rolled right up to his elbows, flexing prominent muscles beneath a smattering of hair.
“finally up, sleeping beauty?” dark brown eyes flicker to meet yours, which are focused, instead, on tracing the veins of his arms.
“yeah.” you cross your arms. “red woke me up.”
“sweet dreams?”
you study him for a moment, and even though the thought of it is insane—you wonder if, somehow, he knows.
“…something like that, you could say.”
“hm. you wanna help out?” he offers, mouth curling into a grin. “i could use it. always wanted an assistant,” he says. “an accomplice.”
“i’m not your assistant, dean,” you roll your eyes, still too groggy to get to work just yet. “and definitely not for free. keep dreaming.”
the man laughs, turning back to the sealant in his hands. “fair,” he concedes. he crouches down low, a knee pressed against the asphalt as he lines up the nozzle to the puncture, strong hands smoothing down the tire. “you can stay right there and just watch me then, sugar.”
“like i have nothing better to do?” you retort, despite not moving an inch from where you stand. “god, you’re so full of yourself.”
“yeah,” he murmurs absently. “you love it, though.”
“yeah, and delusional too."
“nah, baby,” dean doesn’t look up. your eyes keenly follow his every move and that’s why, you suppose, you just manage to catch the way his smile widens a fraction of an inch. “i’m jus’ observational, is all.”
shit, you curse silently. he finishes spraying the last of the sealant into the puncture and leans back on his heels with a satisfied grunt. you watch on, still rooted to where you stand—but not really all there, anymore. was red right?
he wipes his hands over his jeans, leaving black smears all over the denim. “fuckin’ hell,” he groans lowly. “pass me that rag in the back, would you, sweetness?”
you reach back into the trunk and toss him the cloth, which he uses to clean the grime on his hands. slinging it over his shoulder, he moves to stretch out his back. you hear the pop and the crack of dormant bones, almost like breaking. the snap of his wrist, as he rotates it in its socket, reaches out.
“not your assistant,” you remind him.
“i know, i know. you’re just a sweetheart, aren’t you?”
-
the car bumps over the last stretch of the sketchy gravel road, the tires (now patched up) crunching over loose stone that hits the windshield, through which you watch the tree line ahead parting like an open curtain. dappled sunlight flickers through the canopy, hitting the side of the cabin’s wood at just the right angle, making it glow during sunset.
“wow,” january marvels, finally awake from her seven hour nap. she brushes her curly red hair out of her eyes, face practically pressed against the window. “that’s stunning.”
covered in moss, old and untouched; it looks like a relic of the past. it sits on top of a small, sloping hill, at the bottom of which a darling little pier juts out over a picturesque lake. beneath the sun, the water glitters as it catches the light and reflects the shades of the cerise sunset in the sky.
“no fucking way this is where we’re staying.”
“map says so, mate.”
“pass me the damn map, krish. you probably can’t even read that shit.”
“nico, i’ve been driving for seven fucking hours. don’t piss me off right now.”
from the row behind you, a finger insistently pokes into your side.
you flinch, twisting half around. “dean—”
“what do you think?” he grins, cheek pressed lazily against the headrest of the backseat.
“it’s beautiful. i already know the next few days are gonna pass by so quickly,” you sigh.
even the sound of your friends arguing behind you, as irritating as it is now, you recognise that these are the moments that you will miss the most when you are no longer safely tucked away inside of them.
he hums. “s’pose we better make the most of them then, yeah?”
“yeah.” you shift in your seat, restless, already feeling that strange sense of preemptive loss settle somewhere within you. “you’re right.”
the car lurches slightly as krish throws it into park, and the ensuing silence (sans the sound of krish and nico arguing) settles deeply in the absence of the engine. instead, you choose to turn your attention to the constant hush of the lake lapping gently at the shore. perched somewhere high above, the chirping of woodland birds and their song.
you pop the door open and climb over (and pointedly ignore) an extremely agitated red, stepping out into the cool air, once again relieved to be standing on something solid and still. outside, it smells like pine needles and wet earth. you hear the rest of the group noisily spill out of the car, the gravel road crunching beneath the weight of their steps.
the trunk slams, and you turn over your shoulder to see that dean’s already there, tossing your overpacked and very, very heavy duffel bag over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. “i got it, sugar.” he says, stepping past you.
you blink, reaching to take the straps off of him. “thank you, dean, but you really don’t have to—”
“sugar,” he repeats slowly, gently prying your hand off. “i got it.”
your eyes fall to his hand, circling your entire wrist just between his thumb and index finger. his skin is so rough against your own. though you remain acutely aware of the fact that a considerable effort is being made on his end to handle you with care. that if he were so inclined, he could probably break those bones he’s holding onto right now with a flick of his wrist.
the moment stretches on for longer than it should, but in the end, you begrudgingly concede. it’d be stupid to kick up a fuss about him wanting to help you, even if…
even if i do feel differently to him.
“...okay? thank you.” you remove your hand from his grasp and take a step back, not missing the way his eyes follow where your hand falls to your side, fingers instinctively flexing. “can you do me a favour and…”
his boots thud softly on the worn wooden steps that lead up to the porch. you watch the way the light catches the broad line of his shoulders as he twists the doorknob, and the front door creaks open, slow and croaking; probably needs its hinges oiled.
“can you put my stuff down in the same room as red, please?”
dean pauses at the threshold and glances back down at you, his free hand braced against the doorframe. he laughs, then, like you’ve said something funny, amusement settling deep into his smile lines. “sorry. sorry, what was that, sugar?”
“i think you heard me,” you cross your arms decisively. “i’m not rooming with anyone else.”
“you can have one of the rooms downstairs,” he insists. “the listing said they had single beds.”
“no.”
“come on, baby.” he tilts his head in thought, staring down at you from the top of the steps. his smile is sharp. you’re reminded of the way in which his teeth sunk into you only a few hours ago, and even though it was just a nightmare; a phantom sort of ache spreads across your chest. “why would you possibly need to be in a room with him so bad?”
“dean.” you grit out, “put my stuff with red’s, or i’m sleeping in the car.”
at that, the man finally bites. “alright.” despite his eyes being the darkest shade of brown, under the glow of the dying day’s sunlight, they look like they’ve been set ablaze. “whatever you want, sweetness.”
you don’t even remember watching him disappear into the house before you find yourself down by the lake.
the sun is low now, just barely brushing the tops of the trees towering over you with a deep, amber glow that spills like thick honey over everything it touches. even the water you absently dip your fingers into looks like liquid gold. and you might've been inclined to think it was just that if you hadn’t felt how cold it was; the sort of icy chill that cuts straight through to the bone.
it’s in the way he walks; that familiar, lazy shuffle, the soft thud of sneakers on packed dirt. like he’s dragging his feet in protest of each step. you don’t look back, but then again, you’ve never really needed to.
you already know it’s red. you would recognise him anywhere.
“damn.” he lets out a low whistle, stopping just short of the water. “this isn’t too bad, huh?”
“can’t believe we’re finally here.” crouched by the shoreline, you let your fingers continue to skim the surface of the lake. the cold feels like something akin to clarity. “i thought that semester was going to be the death of me.”
“nah, don’t even remind me about that shit.” red drops down beside you with a groan. “let’s just, i don’t know, skip rocks or something. literally anything else.”
“have you ever skipped a rock in your life?” you ask, glancing sideways. the suggestion takes you by surprise, especially considering red’s favourite pastime is to stay inside and play games on his pc. you’re not even sure, sans today, that he’s ever been to a lake before.
he shrugs, the epitome of indifference as he sifts through the bank for a loose stone—
“first time for everything, no?”
—and immediately starts throwing pebbles into the water. he’s not skipping them, so much as he’s just aimlessly chucking them into the lake. you watch him dunk a dozen, before he turns to you with a scowl. “shut up. don’t even think about saying anything.”
“yeah, i wasn’t going to. just don’t quit your day job, red.”
“it’s harder than it looks,” he retorts, flicking another straight into the water. it hits with a loud plunk and sinks without ceremony. “easy to talk shit off your ass, isn’t it?”
you roll your eyes and pick a smoother one, flat and just the right size, before weighing it in your palm. when you throw, it arcs just right—three skips off the top of the quiet lake before it’s silently swallowed whole.
red scoffs. “fucking show off.”
you offer a lopsided smile and toss him a decent rock, not the boulders or the pebbles he’d been trying to skip. “try again. crouch down low and handle it more like a frisbee, not a ball.”
he rolls his shoulders and lines up carefully. stays low to the shore. you watch the way his arm curves in the air, the rock hitting the water, skipping once before it sinks into the water. he gives you a shit-eating grin, nevertheless.
“it’s progress,” you concede begrudgingly.
“just watch on, baby blue. by the end of the week, i’ll be better than you.”
“i’m gonna hold you to that. do you wanna have a rematch before we go home?”
“that’ll give me, what, five days to practice?” he calculates. “yeah, you’re getting your ass beat. loser pays for the winner’s coffee on the drive home?”
you extend a hand out to him. he takes it, with a firm shake.
“you’re on.”
at that, he falls back onto his elbows, the glow of the sunset painting streaks of gold across his jaw. sun’s almost gone down completely, with the way you can’t even see it peeking out over the tops of the forest’s trees anymore, so much as its last, dying rays filter through the leaves, instead.
“you know, i didn’t think you’d come straight down here. you didn't even see the inside of the cabin, yet.”
“i just needed a minute.” you tuck your knees into your chest, wrapping your arms around them. “i think you were right about...”
he’s quiet for a beat. “the dean thing?”
“the dean thing.” you confirm.
“yeah. i mean, wow. that took you long enough.” he teases, before leaning in conspiratorially. “what’s changed?”
“he’s been coming off really strong, recently. even today, it was just weird. he’s a good friend and everything, but it’s strange because i just don’t see him in that way but…” you frown. “i think he’s convinced i do. i’m scared he thinks that the feeling’s mutual when,” you wince, “it really isn’t.”
“weird, how?” red presses, “because if he’s making you feel uncomfortable—”
“i mean, it’s not serious? like today, he was weirdly insistent on carrying my bags, and sort of pushy with who i was sharing a room with—”
“like he has a say,” red scoffs.
“exactly. i mean, i get it now, what you meant about him liking me like that. but if he’s going to keep acting like this, i don’t know if we can keep being close, you know?”
“listen, i know dean, but i know you better.” he flicks a glance toward the cabin. “so do you just need me to listen, or do you want my advice?”
“just say what you’re dying to say,” you settle on.
“fuck. am i that obvious?”
you smile knowingly.
he throws another rock—better this time. two skips.
“see?” he smirks. “i’m already learning.”
you look up. the sky’s no longer ablaze with hues of vivid cerise and grand gold. the water is as cold as it always was. the only difference being that the lake now reflects the sky’s depthless shade of blue, dipping into something darker still.
red nudges your shoulder. “hey. get out of your head.”
“sorry,” you murmur, exasperated. “i know i’m already being a downer and we only just got here. i mean, fuck.”
“no,” he sighs. “you’re misunderstanding me. i know how easy it is for you to get caught up in your head, but this week? i just want you to have fun, especially after all those exams, but... you know all of that pales in comparison when it comes to whether you actually feel comfortable or safe, yeah? just try not to drive yourself insane, that’s all i’m asking. because the way i see it, you guys are good friends, i’m sure even dean isn’t eager to throw all of that away because he’s thinking with his dick.”
you run a weary hand over your face. “please, red, don’t talk about his dick.”
“sorry. now i’ve got to talk about it. matter of fact, he’s probably wanking right now, thinking about you. you said he had your bag, yeah?” red laughs, draping an arm around your shoulders, “don’t be surprised if your knickers are missing come morning.”
you shove him off you with an exasperated groan. “you’re sick. shut the fuck up.”
“yeah, yeah. you love me, though.”
“whatever.” neither of you fail to notice the way you refuse to deny his words.
the silence is thicker now, stretched by the steady chirp of crickets hiding amongst the blades of overgrown grass on the hill behind you. nevertheless, it remains comfortable. easy. the sort you can only really share with a close friend or, you imagine, a brother.
red shuffles closer to you in the darkness. “are you feeling sort of awkward about it?”
“very,” you correct. “i know he can’t help how he feels, but now that we’re going to be living in the same house for the next few days, i’m sort of… i don’t know. i just don’t like how he refuses to believe that i’m not into him like that. it puts the onus of shattering those delusions on me.”
“you don’t have to sugarcoat it. it’s weird as fuck when the friend group turns incestuous,” red grimaces, probably thinking back to when ivy and krish first started hooking up. “so even though he can’t help his feelings, you’re within your right to think he’s moving mad weird, regardless. you want me to stay by you until we’re home? maybe that’ll help him get the message.”
you don’t answer right away. you do, however, lean your head onto his shoulder.
“...thank you, red.”
“always, baby blue. i got you.”
this time, when he wraps an arm around you, you don’t protest.
“now that we’ve got that sorted, can we please go inside and help with dinner? otherwise, they’re all going to dump dish duty onto us and i really don’t want to spend our first night here stuck at the sink,” he shudders.
and finally, after what feels like hours of skipping rocks and watching them sink, one after the other, you rise slowly, sparing the water one last glance before following him back up the path that leads to the house.
the door to the veranda which overlooks the lake is closed, and the curtains are drawn in every single one of the windows, both upstairs and down. yet, you can’t help the way your attention lingers on the rocking chair. it sits there all alone, ornately carved, and a sturdy sort of dark oak. as you follow red up the hill, your attention snags on the details.
the way the rocking chair was still silently swinging back and forth. swaying gently in the darkness, though there was no breeze in the air tonight. it was, you mused, as if someone had been there just a moment ago, before quietly slipping away into the house.
it was, you decided, as if someone had been there just a moment ago, watching you.
-
dinner is served sharp at nine.
the dining room glows soft and golden, lit mostly by the stubby candles ivy insisted on earlier.
she’d found them in a box in a cabinet, alongside an assortment of halloween costumes and christmas baubles and easter ornaments. you’d all agreed, whilst taking turns in trying on the creepy clown and sexy nurse costumes, that the airbnb host had been trying to cover all their bases. it was almost endearing, in a way.
hence, tonight, it’s all uneven pillars of wax pooling at the bases across the table, causing shadows to flicker across everyone’s faces. after fishing them out of their box, she’d set them all up herself and, following the lengthy drive up, no one else really had the energy to fight her on it. so, the soft amber glow is the only lighting in the cabin’s otherwise dim dining room.
the table’s also been clumsily dressed with mismatched, floral tablemats you’d set down earlier, after finding them in one of the kitchen drawers. it’s a far cry from the small pyramid of canned drinks precariously balancing in the center of the dinner table. all sorts of beer and soju and soft drinks, condensation running down their sides, half of them already open, already finished.
unlike the food.
“it’s literally fucking raw.”
“it’s not that bad!” january frowns indignantly.
“jan.” red pointedly stabs a fork into his meatball which, as if on cue, topples off his plate from the force, landing on the wooden floor with a ceramic clink. “you know you’re supposed to defrost the meat before you cook it, right?”
“what the fuck?” nico frowns, examining his spaghetti up close, voice low and absolutely devastated. “jan, what the actual fuck? why is it rubbery?”
january sits low in her seat, arms crossed and voice petulant. her red hair is nearly as bright as the angry blush mottling her freckled skin. “maybe next time you can all help us, then?”
“us?” krish barks a laugh as he gently blows on his spoonful of his cashew curry. “nah, i had no hand in that shit whatsoever.”
as if to prove his point, ivy nods between frantic sips of cold milk, haphazardly wiping her nose after every bite. everyone politely ignores the pile of crumpled tissues by her plate. "krish’s curry's pretty good.”
“sorry,” nico gripes, indignantly pushing his own plate away, “not all of us have high spice tolerances like you and your boyfriend, ivy. some of us have human tastebuds.”
“your loss,” krish laughs lightly. “have fun cleaning up my leftovers later, mate.”
“yeah, in your fucking dreams. jan made this shit, so she can clean it up.”
“oh, shut up.” january groans dramatically, despite also having given up on the sad excuse of spaghetti sitting in her plate, seemingly untouched. “i literally already cooked.”
“you half cooked,” nico points out, holding his head in his hands in absolute dismay. “that doesn’t count when the meat’s still frozen in the middle. i’m pretty sure we’ll all be dead by the morning.”
“cheers to that, jan,” krish interjects, “about time darling nicholas bites the dust.”
“didn’t know we had comedy club at the table,” the brunette retorts.
red clears his throat decisively. “well, i already helped with dinner so i’m definitely not on dishes.”
“he’s not lying,” ivy adds, squeezing a generous amount of lemon juice into her serving of the curry, “red stirred the spaghetti for a bit. i saw.”
“he stirred it once,” nico scoffs. “don’t piss me off.”
“which is more than you bothered to do.”
“i did help,” nico insists with a frown. “i set the table!”
“you put out two forks, mate.” krish adds. “incorrectly.”
“you know what?” nico groans, wearily running a hand through his unruly curls. “you’re right. i should have shoved the fork up your ass, instead.”
“guys!” january throws her hands up in exasperation. “shut the fuck up! you want to be petty? ivy and i did the most, okay? so that means you three freeloaders can clean up.”
“you’re actually joking,” krish says. “i literally made a whole pot of curry—”
“three?” nico echoes, raising an eyebrow.
“you, krish, and red.” ivy clarifies softly, licking off the last of the curry from her spoon like she’s already finished arguing. her usually pale cheeks are flushed a warm pink from all of krish’s spices; seemingly having grown no more accustomed to her boyfriend’s cooking, despite the frequency at which she seemed to happily indulge in it.
“wait, but i thought you just said red helped—”
“yep.” jan claps her hands brightly, putting an end to the argument. “and, lucky for him, now he can help again!”
the table erupts with noise, as red launches into a dramatic tirade about 'feeling victimised' by the friend group.
seated at the very edge of the dinner table, you’re afforded a merciful out from the conversation. you sit with your chin resting on your hand, eyes tracing the rim of your plate (untouched) while trying to seem engaged, despite being lost in your own thoughts.
sitting directly across from you, the candlelight casting long shadows over his face, flickering gold in his dark eyes, dean says nothing despite all the surrounding clamour. but that’s not really what’s bothering you, no—
it’s the fact that you can feel his eyes on you.
you try not to meet his gaze, instead choosing to stare at the intricate lace edges of the patterned tablecloth resting beneath your plate. but it doesn’t matter how much of an effort you make to lose yourself within the loops and curls; your fingers drum restlessly against the table, itching for red to finish his food so that you can hole up in your room, undisturbed for the rest of the night.
“sugar,” dean leans forward just slightly, head tilted.
just my luck.
“sweetness,” he murmurs, again. “pass me that glass of water, won’t you?”
you slide the glass toward him, careful not to meet his eyes.
“thank you.”
you stare at your plate. “it’s fine.”
desperate for an out, you shift in your seat, leaning slightly toward red, who, true to his word, is sitting right besides you. he’s engaged in some loud debate with krish, defending himself from victim complex allegations. you think about leaning over or tapping his shoulder but you really don’t want to draw anyone else’s attention; both to dean’s feelings, or your avoidance of them.
instead, you decide to give him a quick, little nudge with your foot. subtle enough to get his attention, without causing a scene at the table.
feigning indifference, you absently push around the cold spaghetti on your plate as your leg swings out underneath the table and knocks against his ankle.
hard.
except he doesn’t so much as flinch. you spare him a quick glance, surprised, at first, to find that he’s still mid-rant, an insistent finger pointing at krish, who is allegedly guilty of ‘emotional manipulation.’
(“wow, mate. it’s because i’m brown, isn’t it?” — “no, but you are going to be black and blue if you don’t shut the actual fuck up.”)
in other words; he’s completely unaware.
the realisation dawns on you laughably late. and when it does, you turn around, slow and cautious. eyes flickering to face the man directly in front of you.
but dean’s already looking at you
—of course he is.
there’s something lurking in his stygian eyes as he takes you in. something akin to glee. the moment you catch a glimpse of it, you’re overcome by the feeling of having fucked up.
and then, almost as if on cue; beneath the table, dean’s leg presses back against yours.
you freeze.
the pressure is subtle, at first. just a coy nudge.
hi, sweetness.
but then he shifts; his foot, slow and deliberate, sliding up the side of your calf like he owns the space between you. there’s an entitlement in the movement which forces your eyes to snap up to his, but he only smiles wordlessly in response. so infuriatingly sweet and slow, as if he’s in on some private joke and, well—don’t you want to be a part of it, too?
you try to pull away under the table; his leg follows. you nudge again, harder. a futile effort at yanking your foot away. he only watches you, lazily running a finger along the rim of his glass.
you try to pull back under the table, subtle and cautious, but much to your dismay, even your very best efforts are all for nothing. he shifts again, just slightly, and the full weight of his calf presses in right up against yours. you feel an involuntary shudder roll down your spine at the way his limbs so effortlessly trap yours; effectively rendering you immobile.
keeping you in your place.
and the worst part of it all is that he’s not even trying to be subtle now. there’s something so enviously lazy in the way he cages your leg with his, as if this is just how things are.
you nudge again, harder this time—a dull sense of panic settling in; the sort you imagine overcomes a small woodland animal once it realises its somehow wandered into the jaws of a bear trap—but he only breathes a soft, airy laugh. low, and pleased.
he always has been stronger than you.
easy, sugar, you can almost feel his fingers gently trailing down your side; swear you can hear his heart beating in your head; steady. slow. you’re not going anywhere.
-
hours later, you rise from rustling sheets and slide into your slippers, casting a cautionary glance over at red, who’s still sleeping soundly on the other side of the double bed.
you need water.
quietly, you slink out of the room, silently closing the door behind you as you pad down the hall, sticking close to the staircase’s railing as you make your way downstairs in the dark. every step creaks louder than you’d like; old, wooden steps groaning in protest beneath your weight, despite your best efforts to move quietly.
the clock in the living room reads 04:13 when you pass it on the way to the kitchen, the only source of light being from a gap in the kitchen window curtains; letting in a sliver of moonlight that falls over the checkered tiles.
the house is completely quiet, save for the soft, constant hum of the refrigerator in the background. the others had gone to bed a few hours after dinner, having played a few rounds of uno and lamenting over the decline of the grad job market.
you tiptoe across the cool tiles barefoot, cringing when the refrigerator hums louder as you pass. your mouth is dry, from too many soju shots and not enough water—and you hadn’t realized until now, staring down the overflowing sink, that no one had bothered with the dishes from dinner.
shocker.
that means that the only clean glasses, much to your dismay, are all tucked away in the overhead cabinet above the sink. you open it with a soft creak and stretch upward, tilting forward on the tips of your toes to reach for one; fingertips grazing against the base of the glass. just barely skimming against the surface.
almost—
then you feel it; a solid presence at your back. somebody bigger than you, pressed up right against you so that you’re slotted, almost folded, against the kitchen counter.
before you can react, a hand reaches past your shoulder, all tan muscle and dark hair. you feel him stretch behind you, his body lined up against yours, arm brushing past your ear as he takes the glass down with casual ease, before carefully shutting the cabinet closed.
“there you go, sugar.”
you feel him lean in, as he reaches to turn on the tap, too. you watch, completely silent, as he fills your glass up before setting it down before you on the counter with a sharp clink.
he makes no move to pull away, and so, you find yourself staying perfectly still.
“you need help drinking it too, darlin’?” his voice is low. a little hoarse, as if he’s just been dragged out of the dregs of sleep. at your continued silence, low laughter follows, scratching at your insides like gravel. “all you’ve gotta do is ask, sweet thing. all you have to do is talk t’me.”
he’s close. too close. you can feel the heat of his body, against yours; the space between you feeling far more precarious than it should.
“thank you, dean.” you don’t reach for the glass that he’s set down for you.
“you’re avoiding me,” he hums softly.
he lets the words hang in the air for a moment before leaning down to bury his face in the crook of your shoulder. your fingers dig into the counter, as you make a feeble attempt to inch away from him, only succeeding in trapping yourself further.
“are you tryin' to make me jealous?”
“no,” you grit out. “get off me. please.”
undeterred, dean takes a long, languid drag; breathing you in shamelessly, as his fingers intertwine with yours along the edge of the counter. you feel his lips against your skin, curling into a small, knowing smile. “y’know,” he drawls. “there are other ways to get my attention.”
maybe it’s the absence of his smiling eyes and those hungry teeth; so eager to be all over you. so shameless. something about the darkness… not being able to see his face, even though you know he’s right behind you. it’s maddening. emboldening.
“dean. stop. i don’t like you.”
a pause.
then, as if you’ve confessed something tender; his voice drops to a low, coaxing whisper.
“so you want me to chase you?”
and there’s something hopeful in it, like he actually means it. like he’s waiting for you to say yes. your heart stutters.
“i don’t like you, dean,” you manage, but it sounds smaller than you mean it to. “please, stop. i don’t want you to—what, chase me."
he lets out a quiet breath of a laugh. “oh, sugar,” he chides teasingly. you watch his fingers untwine from yours, ghosting up the side of your arms before he finally steps away from you— “you can’t jus’ look at me all sweet at dinner and then cry wolf, baby.”
you turn on your heels to face him, brandishing the glass between you two like a makeshift weapon. your hands are trembling; your hold on it blatantly precarious. you can almost hear the resounding crash. almost feel the shards find themselves folded into your skin.
his eyes flash, and you understand in that moment that violence is something he understands clearly.
come closer, and see what happens.
your hold on the glass tightens incredulously, exasperation settling in. “i wasn’t looking at you like that.”
“yeah?” dean’s smile is quiet now. soft, even—almost boyish. and yet, you don’t trust it any more. you can see the cracks in him; glimpse something unstable underneath, despite the way his hands slip into his pockets with an easy, indifferent charm. “that’s what you’re telling yourself?”
“that’s the truth.” you insist, through narrowed eyes. “you have to leave me alone.”
"yeah?" he hums, as if considering something. “you sure you wanna be all alone, baby?”
“yes.”
“alright, sugar.” you hear him sigh, like he had expected that. weary and hopeful in all the wrong places. “but you’re makin’ me work real hard for it, aren’t you?”
the air feels colder the second he turns to leave. and then he’s gone; just like that.
the world picks up around you only when you find yourself alone. goes right back to normal; the refrigerator’s low hum settling in to fill the heavy silence once more. that sliver of the night sky casting a deep blue sort of sadness to well up within you. you don’t dare move an inch until you hear the sound of his footsteps up the creaking stairs.
and then it strikes you, like lighting a match. the glass almost falls from your hands, almost shatters in only the way fragile things fall apart when you let them.
you’d never heard dean come down the stairs, behind you.
-
“wow,” red notes, peering at you over his sunnies. “you look like shit.”
“shut up,” you mutter irritably, thrusting the bottle of sunscreen into his hands. “i didn’t sleep well.”
it’s only a thursday afternoon, and yet the sky opens in a perfect blue stretch overhead, clouds as thin as scattered gauze. sunlight glitters across the lake like it’s been dusted in crushed glass, the water cool and inviting against the sticky, humid air that clings to your skin.
you’re ankle-deep in the lake, wading beside red, the two of you walking slowly along the shallows, toes sinking into the silty floor, just as he nudges you gently with his shoulder. “are you sure you’re just tired?”
“i told you,” your gaze flicks up toward the others. “late night.”
he doesn’t press, opting to just keep a comfortable pace besides you, still dripping wet from an earlier dive.
further out on the lake, the little wooden pier creaks under the weight of nico and january. dean’s sitting at the edge with them, feet submerged in the water. there’s a towel slung over his shoulder; bare, tanned skin catching the light.
from this angle, his brown eyes gleam a bright gold, and you wait, stupidly, for him to look over at you—some sort of recognition. a smile. a brief glance.
nothing comes.
they're in the middle of some stupid breathing contest; their laughter carrying all the way across the surface of the water, louder than the gentle hush of it against the shore.
“alright, rules are simple,” january announces, holding up a finger. she’s dressed in a silver swimsuit which catches the sun like a discoball, and the sight of it makes you warm because it's just so quintessentially her. “last one to come up wins.”
“you were under for like ten seconds last round,” nico points out. “you sure this is the game you wanna play?”
“that was practice!” she insists. “let’s go again.”
you tear your gaze away from them, shoulders stiffening, and red notices.
“what happened?” he asks lowly, not looking at you.
you hesitate. the sun is warm, the water gentle. but the memory of last night clings to you, stubborn, obstinate.
“dean... cornered me, i guess.” you murmur slowly, watching the gentle undulations of the water lap against you. “in the kitchen, last night, i went down for some water and he found me.”
red straightens subtly beside you, voice sharp despite its softness. “are you okay?”
“i think so? he was being really weird, and honestly, i don’t really want to talk about it but…” you glance back toward the pier where dean’s now diving backward into the water. the surface breaks with a splash as he hits the water. “but he did agree to leave me alone. so. small wins, i guess.”
red’s jaw tightens. “i’m sorry.”
“what? why?” you turn to him, brows furrowed. you’re trying to search his face for something—anything—but he stays turned away from you. still close. just closed. “you didn’t do anything.”
“yeah. exactly.”
“...red.” you gingerly reach for his arm. “i’m not mad at you.”
“just,” he runs a frustrated hand through his wet hair, “wake me up next time, will you?”
“okay. i’ll… i’ll keep that in mind. thank you. again.”
you both fall silent, letting the splash of diving bodies and the faint shrieks of laughter fill the quiet space between you.
closer to shore, ivy and krish are tangled up on a towel, a messy tangle of limbs and lovesick glances. krish breaks off red grapes from their stems before indulgently placing them on her tongue. despite the wide-brimmed sunhat she’s wearing, you can still make out the way she lets his fingers linger past her lips, unblinking as she admires him in the sunlight. they look like they’re on a different plane of reality entirely.
somewhere safe, and untouched.
you wish you could stay right here; suspend this all in amber—forever remain enveloped in the warmth of the sun, surrounded by the sort of joy that feels familiar and comfortable.
but the moment fractures dangerously when red suddenly stops short, squinting towards the deeper part of the lake, up ahead of the pier.
“where’s nico?”
you follow his line of sight. january’s surfaced, panting and laughing, slicking her wet hair back, the fresh red dye staining the palms of her pale hands.
dean’s broken through the surface, too. quietly wading in the water, whilst looking around.
“nico?”
his name hangs in the air.
a moment passes.
then another.
“nicholas?” january calls.
and another.
you scan the water with growing urgency. dean twists around in the lake, pushing wet hair out of his eyes, as he squints at january. “he went under just before me,” he says. “you haven’t seen him come back up yet?”
“no! nico?” she calls again, louder this time. dean dips back under the water, but you already know the lake is far too murky to make out anything beyond the shape of your own hands right in front of you.
still nothing.
your stomach curls. red’s already swimming toward the pier with long, powerful strokes, the same thought written all over his face, while january treads water anxiously nearby.
“guys!” krish shouts from the shoreline, shielding his eyes from the harsh sun overhead. you turn to him as he frantically points towards the cabin. “should i get my phone and call—”
just then, something bursts up from the water right behind january.
“boo.”
she screams, nearly going under again. red startles in the water. dean curses out loud. even ivy yelps from her towel on shore, clasping a hand over her mouth in surprise.
“motherfucker!”
nico’s grinning wildly, curls plastered to his forehead, gasping from the effort of staying under so long. “oh my god,” he rasps, “you should’ve seen your faces!” he shrieks, grabbing on to the edge of the dock and slapping it triumphantly. “worth every fucking second. i mean, christ, guys!"
“you little shit,” january growls, “i thought you were dead!”
“never say that again,” red mutters, climbing onto the dock beside them. but you don’t miss the way his expression eases, just slightly. an almost imperceivable shift of his features from scorn into something closer to concern. “i almost fucking dove after you.”
“what the fuck?” nico reaches for his towel, glancing over at red through narrowed eyes. “i think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he ventures cautiously.
red shrugs. “only took you nearly dying.”
back in the shallows, you can’t help but feel overwhelmed with a sudden wave of gratitude. the paranoia of the moment already passed. the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and the sky is blue. and here you are, tucked away in this little pocket of the world with some of the people you care about most.
jan waves you over from the pier, where nico’s somehow wrangled red back into the water, the earlier anxiety already washed away, replaced by something warmer. “chicken fight!” she squeals, clapping her hands.
“you’re gonna regret that,” you warn her.
you pointedly ignore dean as he passes you on the pier.
“yeah?” jan challenges, already climbing into nico’s shoulders. “make me.”
but you don’t need an invitation. you’re already at the deep end.
-
this far in the deep country, the stars shine with a brilliance you’ve never really seen before.
no pollution. no skyscrapers. just the stretch of the night, as far as you can see. you’ve got this brilliant, titillating feeling that if you were to reach out, you might be able to gather it all in your hands. fistfuls of everything and nothing all at the same time.
the sky is a pale black, dusted with whorls of purple and dotted with suns that shine from galaxies millions of light years away. all seven of you are lying down on the grass by the lake’s shore, limbs spread out and intertwined, a tangled heap of spindly arms and long legs exhausted from a long, lazy afternoon under the sun; so lost in the sky above, so uncaring of the dirt stains on your clothes. you take turns in pointing out constellations that don’t even exist, inventors of your own delight.
it’s only what feels like hours later that you yawn, curling into red and decisively announcing that you’re “going to go shower.” you move to break away from him, whilst he blinks up at you slowly as you draw yourself up, onto your knees. “before all the warm water’s gone.”
“alright.” red says, already turning back to the stars. “i’m right behind you.”
you gather up your towel, wrapping it around yourself as you slide into your sandals and trek back up the hill, into the cabin. the door’s unlocked, and you nudge it open with your foot, too tired to even make sure you close it behind you; red will be up in a second, anyways.
the water takes less time than you’d imagined to heat up; only fifteen minutes. you leave the shower running as you sit perched on the side of the bathtub, peeling off your wet swim shorts. in the small space of the bathroom, the salt of the lake lingers, silt and sand sticking to your skin.
“shit,” you barely manage to catch a glimpse of your hair in the mirror, already fogging up. tentatively working your fingers through the knots and tangles, you almost miss it beneath the spray of the water; the shrill ringing of the landline down the hall.
better get that.
with a roll of your eyes, you decide to keep the shower running as you wrap a fresh towel around yourself, unlocking the bathroom door and stepping out into the hallway. the cabin is almost entirely quiet, save for the ringing, and the laughter that wafts in through the open windows from all the way down by the lake.
you reach for the handset, irritation dampened by a dull sense of awe at the sight of the little teal handline. looks expensive, probably vintage. “hello?” you twirl the cord between your fingers as you speak into the transmitter. an expectant silence follows, but there’s no response.
instead, you manage to make out a strange, shuffling sound. like white noise, almost.
“is anyone there?” you venture politely. nothing. and then, just as you’re about to hang up, thinking of it as nothing more than someone ringing the wrong number—
“hi, sugar.”
an awfully staticky voice. deep and distinctively masculine, yet wholly unrecognisable over the phone.
you frown, your earlier amusement being replaced by a prickling sense of apprehension instead. your fingers hold onto the cord tighter, almost like a lifeline, and you can barely hear the sound of your own voice over the heavy, grainy breathing over the line. “dean?” you mutter, eyes darting to the front door. “is that you?”
low, distorted laughter follows. mocking and derisive in its drawl.
“no,” the man sighs, almost sadly. “but you’ll wish it was.”
“wait! who is—”
the line goes flat. a constant crackling follows, and it feels like popping candy in your head.
who was that?
the cabin feels bigger than it had almost five minutes ago. emptier, too. you set down the handheld in its cradle, already intent on heading back to the bathroom. the towel feels abrasive against your skin, and you’re eager to wash the day away, already. to be clean again, under the nice warm water.
once again, you lock the door behind you, peel your towel off. you turn to the mirror before stepping into the shower, and there, waiting for you so sweetly; an arc, stretched upwards; above it, two circles. unmistakably eyes. an unmissable smile.
a happy face stares right back at you through the fogged up mirror.
-
you don’t mention it to anyone.
the door wasn’t locked, and you know your friends’ inclinations for harmless pranks. small little, fucked up things which are designed to scare. you refuse to give them a reaction, and besides, after you’ve taken your shower and everyone else’s piled into the cabin, turn by turn, for their own—you’ve almost forgotten all about it, more important matters at hand that require your rapt attention.
“jesus,” red mutters. “i haven’t played cards against humanity in years.”
“gotta have friends to play games, mate.” krish smiles, arms wrapped around ivy as he examines the cards in her hands from over her shoulder.
red flips him off from where he’s lying upside down on the couch, head dangling off the edge of the seat, as he thumbs through his own cards.
from beside the heavy, leather couches, the fireplace crackles deliciously, flames casting warped shadows against the wooden walls. the four of you are curled up in the living room, sans january, dean and nico, a half-finished game of cards against humanity splayed out on the coffee table between you—white cards dealt with varying degrees of shame and glee.
you set a black card from the deck down on the table, reading it aloud for the rest of the group. “one can never have enough…”
red whistles lowly when ivy, the first to play, unceremoniously flips her own card over. “altar boys? nice, and aren't you christian?"
“you literally played the nazi card right before this,’” ivy returns, leaning back into krish. "and no, going to church once a week doesn't make me christian."
“hate the game,” red shrugs, tossing his own card down. “not the player.”
krish is about to say something when january stumbles into the room, red hair dripping wet onto the wooden floor, a dye-stained towel haphazardly wrapped around her.
“right, has anyone seen nico?” she asks, crossing her arms. “i think he nicked my conditioner.”
“nope,” you put down your own card, turning back to the game at hand, just as ivy frowns, pushing away from krish to sit up.
“he came in last, right?” she looks around for confirmation, but only krish nods.
“yeah, he said he’d go after me. something about no point anymore, since all the hot water was probably gone. i mean, he might still be outside if you can’t find him, jan.”
“ugh,” she runs her hands over her face, “guys, i really hate to ask but can one of you go down and check? i just showered and i don’t wanna risk a cold by going outside.”
“i’ll go,” you offer, putting your hand face down on the table. “i showered first, so it’s all good.”
“i’ll come with.” red says, stretching. you think you hear a joint or two cracking as he reaches out, like a cat. he swings off the side of the couch’s edge.
you slip into a random pair of slides, left by the front door as red pushes it open, and the two of you step out into the chill of the night.
the porch light is bright against the darkness outside. moths flicker to the light, hitting the naked bulb, but beyond that, it’s just the vast black of the lake and the pines hemming it in.
“fifty bucks says he fell asleep by the water,” you joke, breath fogging in the air.
“hundred says he’s taking the piss,” red mumbles, fiddling with his phone to turn on his flashlight. “and i’m about to fall victim to it for the second time today. christ, he’s good.”
past the dock, the water is almost completely black, reflectant of the sky above. faintly, you catch the twinkle of a flickering star in the reflection, but it never really remains; only a facsimile of the world above, obscuring the depths below.
having made it down the hill, you follow red out onto the pier instead, nico nowhere to be seen by the shore.
“i can’t believe we were both wrong,” red marvels. “he’s stupider than we thought. went for a fucking swim, did he?”
“all alone?” you ask hesitantly, looking around for any sign of him. “that’s fucking weird. i don’t think even nico would do something like that.”
“don’t give him too much credit.” red mutters under his breath, “probably fancied himself a dip in the dark.”
the wooden planks groan dangerously beneath your weight, protesting with each step further. it smells of damp wood, old water, and something faintly metallic.
you see him then, you think. or rather, the outline of him—
“there!” you point, grabbing onto red's arm, “i think you were right. i think he’s in the water.”
“nico!” red calls. “very funny. bravo. now come inside and give jan her shit back before she kills us all, please.”
no movement.
the light of the torch lands on nico, floating in the water. his limbs are slick, head tilted just above the surface, the water lapping at his chin like it might cradle him to sleep. you get the sense than that something is very wrong, instinctively turning to red, fingers digging deeper into his skin.
“red, why is he—”
“holding his breath,” he reassures you. “you literally saw him do it today, baby blue. please just help him up so we can go inside. if i get too close, he’ll probably pull me into the lake with him and it’s cold as shit right now.”
“okay.” you let go of red, crouching down and reaching an arm out to your friend. the tips of your fingers brush the wet chill of his sleeve, and your voice is hesitant as you pull at it. “nico. please get up.”
your pleas fall on deaf ears, and for a long minute, the only sound in the darkness is the lapping of the lake against the pier.
“fucking hell, nico. joke’s over. get the fuck up, already.” irritated, red thrusts his phone into your hands and steps around you, impatiently hooking an arm under nico’s shoulders and rolling him over. his body slaps the water with a crash, but he doesn’t so much as move.
even you and red remain rooted to the spot. everything comes to a halt. in the split second before you drop the phone into the lake, you manage to catch the way his eyes reflect the night sky. pale black and purple stars. glazed over and glassy.
still. wide open.
dead.
your gaze drops, then, to his chest. the hilt of a kitchen knife juts upward, buried in his open mouth, twisting the soft flesh in a horrific, silent scream. blood pours from out of his lips, pooling dark and sticky around the blade. it stains his chin in rivulets which seep into the murky water, spreading like a galaxy of its own.
you’ve found nico, it seems.
-
“and you saw that he’s—” ivy starts, voice breaking. she doesn’t even manage to finish before a sob rips through her, and krish pulls her close, steadying her trembling shoulders.
“he’s dead.” red confirms flatly, perched on the edge of the couch. he refuses to meet anyone’s eyes, and so you’ve resorted to sitting besides him instead, his hands clasped in your own, thumb rubbing circles against his ice-cold skin.
“we could be next,” krish says quietly but firmly, looking around at everyone. “we need to get the fuck out of here before whoever is out there—” he glances at the front door, now locked and deadbolted. “decides to pay us a visit in here.”
“krish is right. we need to leave. they could be outside right now,” you add. “who’s got the car keys?”
“no! are you stupid?” january cries indignantly, pacing across the room. “if some psycho killer really is waiting out there, the last thing we want to do is open that door!”
“we should call the police.” dean suggests, “that way, i’m sure we’ll all feel safer.”
“yes! great idea. and,” january snaps her fingers triumphantly, brightening up. “the landline doesn’t rely on service to make the connection!”
without another word, the redhead turns on her heels, setting off down the hall. the rest of you follow, some faster than others, but ultimately, all six of you are gathered around the landline, an expectant, heavy quiet settling over the group.
she grabs the receiver, barely stopping to catch her breath, a shaky finger pressing the keypad for emergency service’s number as she puts it up to her ear, waiting for the sound of the landline ringing; creating the connection that your lives may very well depend on.
but nothing follows, except silence.
and that’s when she gasps, pulling at the cord; watching, helplessly, as it comes away without being pulled taut. no tension. just an easy incision.
somebody’s cut the cord.
the shock hits the room like a physical blow, and ivy physically collapses, her legs giving out from under her. krish works to hold her up, holding her close as she pales, hands clasped over her mouth, and eyes wide. everyone stares at the cord, severed in two, one half of which has come apart in jan’s hand.
silence stretches thick until dean breaks it, voice sharp.
“did you two see the weapon?”
“yes!” you yell, frustration boiling over. how many times have you told them the story? how many times have you recounted every gory image in excruciating detail? how much more will it take for them to understand? “for the millionth time—it was a knife! he was stabbed in his fucking mouth!”
“was it one of ours?” dean presses, ignoring your outburst. “was it from the cabin kitchen?”
understanding dawns late and laughably slow, the pieces clicking together to form a horrible picture. red tenses besides you, his hold on your hand growing painfully tighter as everyone turns to dean.
“you’re not saying…” krish ventures cautiously, mouth gaping open and closed. open and closed. as if he can’t quite seem to pick out the words he needs to say it. to voice what everyone else has already begun to realise.
january looks at dean sharply. “you think it’s one of us?”
“it’s not a question of if. it’s a matter of who.” dean’s smile is slow, almost amused. “which one of us killed nico?”
“i don’t believe that,” january interjects, eyes welling up with tears. “the last thing we need right now is to start pointing fingers at each other. i mean, do you even hear yourself?”
“i hear him,” krish says, stepping forward. besides him, even ivy’s gone eerily still. “who’s actually used the landline so far?”
you’re the only one who puts your hand up.
everyone turns to look at you.
“when did you last use it?” krish asks. his voice is low but firm. “and who did you call?”
“i mean, i didn’t call anyone,” you frown, gaze flickering between everyone. there’s something about being the object of everyone’s undivided attention, for all the wrong reasons. something about the way they’re staring at you, as if… “it was a prank call, i think. it came when i was about to shower.”
“you went to shower first,” ivy recalls quietly, chewing on her lip. her voice is shaky, as her gaze wanders to the landline. “you were in the cabin all alone until red left, right?”
krish narrows his eyes. “and red left twenty minutes later.”
“it seemed inconsequential!” you argue. “i thought someone was playing a prank on me!”
“you were the last person to use the phone,” krish crosses his arms. “and now, it’s suddenly not working.
“what the fuck are you implying?” you laugh wildly. “that i killed nico? you think i'm the one who stabbed him, krishank?”
“i think,” his jaw tenses. “that we’re missing something here.”
“mm.” dean shrugs, leaning against the wall to examine you. his appraisal is shameless, dark eyes roaming all over your body, before landing on your hands, intertwined with red’s. “that’s more than enough time to cut the cord and swipe the knife from the kitchen, baby.”
“okay,” red scoffs. “cheers, dollar detectives. can someone please call the police now? you know, like the actual police? whose actual job it is to arrest murderers?”
“where’s your phone, red?”
“let me think,” he makes a show of tapping on his chin, before gasping in faux shock. “oh, yeah! i think i dropped it into the lake when i saw my friend’s. dead. body. sorry, i hope that’s okay with you guys."
“i’ll go—” january pushes past red and krish, heading upstairs. “i left mine to charge before heading down to the lake.”
you hear her hurried footsteps clamber overhead as she storms into her room; the ensuing sound of a desperate search. something shatters. something heavy is dragged across the floor.
downstairs, everyone strains to listen close, before the sound of her frantic voice fractures the silence, cutting straight through it and shattering the precarious illusion, “i can’t—” she stumbles down the stairs, wide eyes and all. “i can’t find my phone.”
“what do you mean you can’t find it?” ivy’s voice pitches higher than usual, and she’s already digging both hands into the pockets of her jumper, pulling out nothing but a crumpled receipt and a stick of gum. “no, no, no… god, please, no.”
krish pats himself down, quick, jerky movements. he scoffs. “where the hell—? i had it. i literally had it on me before we started playing cards.”
“let’s just double check.” ivy’s already down in the living room, krish right behind her, yanking the couch cushions out from their place before tossing them to the floor behind him. you eye the fireplace, flames put out, but coal still burning hot, as ivy crouches down, arms reaching out in the gaps under the sofa, the tables, “i’m sure we’ll find them and—”
“okay. fuck this. do you really buy that we’ve all suddenly lost our phones at the same time?” krish snaps, his voice loud enough to make everyone flinch. “or do you think—”
“don’t say it.” january’s breathing hard, hair falling into her face as she shakes her head violently. “it’s not true.”
“someone took them.” ivy whispers.
dean whistles lowly, folding his arms over his chest. “we should stick together, then. keep an eye on eachother. nobody leaves the cabin.”
“no chance,” krish shakes his head, grabbing ivy’s wrist and pulling her to the front door. she looks back over her shoulder helplessly as krish fishes in his jeans for the car keys, but otherwise says nothing even when he unlocks the front door, pushing it open. “fuck that, mate. me and my girl are getting out of here, but you guys are welcome to stick around.”
“i mean, he— he has a point,” you argue, looking to red. “all we have to do is drive down to the nearest police station, right? at least we’d feel safer spending the night there.”
january hesitates, but visibly shaken, it’s all she can do to just nod along with whatever everyone else is saying, trembling fingers playing with a loose curl. “okay, i— yeah. okay. let’s go. let’s just get away from this place.”
dean shrugs, but pushes himself off the wall and follows. “don’t say i never warned you.”
nobody bothers to go back up to their rooms and gather their things. when the door does open, all everyone leaves with is the clothes on their back. you make an effort not to look out towards the lake, the pier. focus, instead, on the sound of gravel crunching beneath your feet as you follow everyone else down the driveway.
it’s cold outside, and the trees above rustle with the wind, every minute snap of a branch or twig causing your hair to stand on end. even still, it’s a reprieve from the suffocating atmosphere inside the cabin.
finally, you spot the car in the clearing ahead. still parked exactly where you’d left it. you let out a breath of relief you didn’t know you were holding as krish sidles up to the front door, ivy stumbling into the passenger seat as it unlocks. he turns the keys in the ignition and you wait outside as red climbs in first.
over your shoulder, you turn to glance at the cabin one last time, the warm yellow lights still left on from the open windows; the billowing lace curtains swaying with the breeze. it’s only when your gaze drifts to the darkness of the lake beyond the cabin that you hear the crunch of the makeshift road when dean crouches down, at the exact moment krish slams the steering wheel, repeatedly punching the horn, which blares in the night to no response.
“would you look at that?” dean murmurs softly, running a hand over the rubber almost reverently. you follow his gaze and freeze, just as he turns to you with a knowing smile. “look’s like someone’s slashed our tires.”
-
outside, hours and hours later, the wind’s picked up to a storm. the gale howls against the cabin walls, rattling the windows like something wild, desperate to get inside.
the fire’s burned low, a weak orange glow that only just licks at the shadows in the living room, and you feel a shiver roll down your spine despite being curled up right besides it. with slow, heavy, blinks; it takes you a few moments to make out the comforting shape of your friends in the darkness.
red and krish are half-asleep against opposite ends of the couch, shoulders slumped, breaths shallow. ivy is curled up in an armchair, knees tucked into her chest, her damp hair sticking to her face. on the coffee table, cans of beer and cruisers and soju sit emptied out and completely crushed, the alcohol still swimming warm in your stomach as you pull your blanket closer. you’d all drank yourselves to death’s door. seemed a better way to go, earlier in the evening.
something is wrong. feels off. incomplete.
one… two… three… four—
four?
your stomach lurches in a way that has nothing to do with the booze as you push yourself to your feet, nearly tripping over dean’s outstretched legs in your rush. he’s sleeping right across from you, on the opposite end of the fireplace. arms crossed, and head leaning back on the couch, you carefully step over his limbs as you frantically search for january in the darkness.
your heart sinks when you realise she’s missing, and an involuntary urge to curl up in a corner and cry overwhelms you. tears welling up in your eyes, you stumble out of the living room and down the hall, pulling on a jacket too small for you and shoving your feet into a pair of too-big shoes. too out of it to really care, you reach to open the door, but it doesn’t budge.
you try again, to no avail, rattling the doorknob as you grow more and more frustrated with each passing second.
“it’s locked, baby.”
“fuck!” you jump back, heart thundering, coming face to face with dean, who looks wildly unimpressed, yet amused at the same time. there’s a strange glint in his eyes as he takes in the sight of you, “dressed to the nines, aren’t you, gorg? and what exactly is the special occasion, sugar?”
“i’m going to look for january,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. you sound much more sober than you feel. “i’m going to go outside and… and find her.”
“oh, sweetness.” dean laughs, and the sound is just like syrup. sickeningly sweet as he pinches your cheeks and coos at you. “if i let you leave like this, you might never come back. you can barely hold yourself up straight, sugar.”
you swat his hands away. “i don’t need your permission. i’m going.”
“no.” he bites his bottom lip in a coy smile, eyes glittering. “i’m sure you don’t. but you do need these,” he taunts, fishing the keys out of his pocket and letting them dangle from one finger. “and lucky for you, i’m feeling very kind tonight.”
“why do you have those?” you frown, reaching for them.
dean’s arm shoots up, holding the keys just out of reach. you clumsily shove him in the chest, but the force only hurts you, causing you to stumble back, your spine hitting the edge of the doorframe.
the tears fall freely, now. exasperation and fear and petulance kicking in. you wish you were somewhere far away. you wish you were anywhere but where you are, with anyone else but this man. “please just gimme the keys. please. i gotta find jan…”
“nah, don’t think so, baby.” dean warns, grin still fixed but teeth showing now. “nobody ever teach you nothing good comes for free?”
you try again, grabbing for his wrist, but he twists away and hooks his free hand around your shoulder, spinning you back so that you’re pressed up right against him. the keys jingle maddeningly close to your ear as he leans in, his breath hot on your skin. he drags his tongue in a slow, deliberate stripe up the side of your neck, purring low in his throat when your sobs break free.
“tell you what,” he says, voice soft enough to make your stomach knot. “i’ll give them to you on one condition.”
“what d’you want—” you cry, voice cracking as you try to twist away.
his hand on your shoulder tightens, forcing you still. his lips ghost the corner of your jaw. “one kiss,” he breathes. “just one. i know you want to, sugar, ‘cause i see you. and you’re just like me, aren’t you?” he presses, “so hungry.”
“i’m not,” you protest weakly.
“i know, sweetness. i know. you’re starvin', aren’t you?”
the words hang between the two of you for half a second—and then he’s on you.
and it’s not gentle.
his mouth crashes against yours, teeth knocking, lips splitting under the force. his hands clamp around your waist with a terrifying strength, hauling you up so that your toes barely scrape the ground. instinctively, you wrap yourself around him and he groans into your mouth, like he’s about to consume you whole; swallowing every sound you make.
you twist, trying to pull back, but he follows—pressing you against the front door, dragging his teeth across your bottom lip hard enough to make you gasp. thick fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of your nape, roughly yanking you back back so he can bite at the corner of your mouth, lick at the sting. when you manage to turn your face away, he chases it, catching your jaw in one hand, forcing your mouth open for him again. his kiss is all teeth and breath and heat, chest heaving against yours.
your lips are throbbing and raw and when you can barely even breathe against him, some more primal instinct flares as without warning, you take his bottom lip between your teeth before clamping down just as hard, biting back fiercely.
surprise flashes in those stygian eyes for a fraction of a second as he pulls back, and you take that opportunity to prey yourself off of him, as his fingers fly to his mouth. he touches the small wound, skin splitting to blood, crimson against honeyed skin as his mouth breaks into a smile.
“wasn’t expecting that.” he admits, voice dark and amused. “can’t quite say i didn’t enjoy it, though.”
“keys,” you demand breathlessly. “you promised me the keys.”
“sure, i did.” he looks thoughtful. so impossibly beautiful in the darkness, busted lip and all. “y’know, the next time we do this, sugar, you won’t hold out on me, will you? ‘cause i’d just fuckin’ love to run that back—”
“the keys!”
his eyes flick upwards at that, even though that dimple in his cheek lingers, “so impatient. so needy, aren’t you?”
through the haze, you barely notice his hand slip from your hip to your back pocket until the cold weight of metal presses against you.
before you can stop him from following you out, he’s already disappeared down the hall with a cheerfully dismissive, “night, baby! don’t let the bugs bite ya.”
you stare at the keys in the palm of your hands and they feel, strangely, like something of a parting gift.
but you’ve got no time to give it more thought than necessary.
if anything, the last thing on your mind is to stay inside and think about dean, the sickening feeling of his tongue and hands already falling away to give way to a deep-rooted fear that only festers as you step out into the storm, hauling the door shut behind you and slipping the keys in your pocket.
the wind threatens to knock you over with each step you take, deeper into the surrounding woodlands. the trees overhead sway dangerously, and you flitter nervously, weaving between the sparse, thin trunks whilst calling out your friend’s name in the dark.
“jan!” you yell, cupping your shaking, cold hands around your bruised lips. “january!”
the rain is light, more like a drizzle, and even then, the canopy obscures you from the worst of it. the floor underneath your shoes is wet, however, soil watered and fresh and sinking with every footstep. your limbs tremble involuntarily, every nerve raw from dean’s touch, still thrumming beneath your skin. you shrug it off, unsure whether you’re venturing deeper or just running in circles.
it’s when the thought of going back to the cabin and getting help crosses your mind that, as if on cue, you spot something collapsed onto the floor just ahead of you.
squinting, you make out the edges of a human-like silhouette, but it’s only when you glimpse that vibrant red hair fanned over the ground that you fall to your knees, crawling over to her with a tremor in your voice.
“no, no, no.”
you reach out with hands that feel suddenly foreign, slick and trembling as they come to rest on a broken, limp form.
“jan? janny?” your voice is cracked, barely a whisper, desperate and fragile, your fingers shaking as they grip her arm, trying to rouse her awake with a fervent desperation. “jan, wake up, please.”
your palms press against wet, sticky blood, warmth seeping into your skin, turning your fingers red, the scent of iron thick and suffocating. you wipe your hands on the dirt, but the blood spreads, dark and relentless.
and then, your eyes drift upward, and you’re sick.
her head, or what’s left of it, is grotesquely split open, the jagged edges of her skull peeling away like rotten bark. the sickening sight of her brain; pale, and wet, spills out of the fracture, splattered on her face.
“jan.” you gag, clawing at the earth beneath you, nails scraping the muddy ground, bile rising up your throat. “please.”
your body shakes uncontrollably, a wild, panicked creature caught in the storm’s merciless grip—fragile, terrified, and utterly undone. the world narrows to the cold, light droplets of rain that dust your bloodied skin, sits on the pinpoint of a needle, narrows to become only this lifeless body before you.
you throw up, sick spilling past your swollen lips in short, heaving bursts. in your panicked state, you hear the crunching sound of leaves breaking beneath steps far too late. terrified, you desperately slap a hand over your mouth, but the vomit escapes through the cracks of your fingers.
covered in puke, and hands bloodied with the remains of jan’s head; that’s how the rest of the group stumbles upon you.
the beam of a handheld torch lands on jan’s dead body first, and you hear a scream pierce the dark just as the light slowly shifts to fall onto you.
-
someone slaps your cheek lightly. tap. tap.
“wake up, sleeping beauty. you’re in biiig trouble today, baby.”
your eyes flutter open, and it takes you a few minutes to register where you are, to remember what happened last night—
someone shoves a jug into your face as you begin to retch, latching onto the makeshift vomit bag with all your force as it all comes rushing back. never the whole series of events. more like frames, imposing upon each other. gaps, in some places, between faint phantom touches. biting down on something soft. the coldness of the keys in your hands. the crinkling leaves on which you collapsed. january.
oh, god.
january—
red rubs circles into your back, pushing your matted hair out of your face. the sick dribbles down your chin, and he carefully dabs a tissue over your face in an attempt to clean you up somewhat. he looks guilty, when you finally turn to him. and you’re about to ask why, when the door to your bedroom suddenly swings open.
“oh. you’re finally awake. sleep well?” krish asks flatly. he seems uninterested in any answers, and so you keep your mouth shut, finding its not too difficult considering the splitting headache you can feel coming on. the bags under his eyes are prominent even against the dark brown of his skin as he stares you down from the doorframe. “what do you want for breakfast?”
“i—” you wince as your voice cracks, but he doesn’t react. “i’ll fix myself something in a moment.”
“no,” he states simply. “you’re not leaving this room.”
you stare at him from where you’re curled up on the bed, lowering the jug from your face and swatting red’s hands away. you stare back at your friend, waiting for an explanation to follow, but he offers absolutely none.
“sorry?” you rasp.
“hard of hearing, mate? i said you’re not going anywhere.”
“why the fuck are you talking to me like that?” your voice wavers. “january just—”
“january died. yes, i know. i saw the body.” he narrows his eyes. “saw you there, too.”
“you’re not— i’m— i went looking for her!” you splutter.
“yeah, you seemed really eager to go looking for nico too. fancy that,” krish says simply.
“you think i had something to do with this.” it’s not a question anymore.
you turn to red, but his eyes flick to somewhere behind you, and you’re surprised to find dean sitting by the window, perched on red’s bed, which is against the wall just parallel to yours. he gives you a mock salute, dark eyes glittering in the sunlight.
“what the fuck?" you blanche. "guys, what the fuck? there’s someone out there killing our friends and i’m on house arrest?”
“dean’s going to watch over you. until we find our phones or the airbnb host drives up or we come across someone who can help, all of us are staying right here.” he jabs a finger in your direction. “especially you.”
“oh, dean’s playing guard?” you spit, “that’s rich, considering he’s the one that gave me the keys to the door.”
"uhuh." krish crosses his arms, unamused. “and give me one good reason he’d do that.”
“he asked me to kiss him. he said— he said that if i kissed him, he’d hand them over. and he did.”
“so you kissed him? last night?”
“well, yes.” you flush beneath the weight of his gaze. “i–i needed the keys.”
“right. that’s funny. ‘cause it was ivy that woke up from the storm, actually. only one of us who didn’t drink at all was her, remember? and you know something? dean was passed the fuck out. he had no idea where you’d gone. or that you or jan had even left in the first place”
“no. that’s not right. i swear he was awake,” you argue. “he kissed me. ask red. dean’s liked me for a while! he’s been acting like— like he’s in love with me or something!”
“and,” red adds gently, instinctively tensing up the second all eyes turn to him. “that’s exactly why i think he wouldn’t hand you the keys. you said it yourself. we know how he feels about you. the last thing he’d do is put you in harms way, especially in light of…” red swallows, “recent events.”
“but what if it’s him?” you cry. “what if it’s dean who—”
“flattered, sugar. but i came inside with krish before we found nico, and last night, the boys had to shake me awake. booze knocked me flat out.” he smiles sweetly. “didn’t even realise i’d actually woken up until we’d stumbled across the sight of you, poor thing, all alone out there.”
“trust me,” red adds, attempting to pull you into a hug, but you push him off of you and he just lingers awkwardly at your side. hesitant, but steadfast. “this is for the best, baby blue. you could have been seriously fucking hurt last night.”
“could have been killed.” krish says, and there’s a strange look in his eyes that scares you. like he knows more than he's letting on. “come on, red. we need to leave soon if we want to be back before sunset.”
“where are you going?”
“we’re going to try and walk it. gotta come across a car or a hiker or something soon enough, right?” red says. “at least, in a group of three, one of us can run back to the cabin if…”
he doesn’t say it. he doesn’t need to.
“but you’ll be fine.” red insists. “dean’s going to stay here, looking for our phones and— you know. in case someone swings by the cabin whilst we're gone.”
“just go, then.” you turn away from him, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. “i thought you would care more.”
red looks crestfallen. “i—”
“am i interrupting?” krish presses, his lips pursed impatiently. “time to go, red. in case you forgot, we don’t have all day.”
sighing, red takes the dirty jug from your hands and wordlessly presses a chaste kiss to your forehead as he follows krish out the room without another word. without so much as a glance over his shoulder as the door swings shut behind him.
“don’t be so scared, sweetness.” dean mutters, eyes closed from where he rests on red’s beds, arms crossed behind him and legs propped up, tapping against the mattress. rhytmic. restless. “you’re safe and sound with me. promise i’ll be on my very best behaviour.”
“you were there,” you whisper. more to yourself than to him. “i know you were. you kissed me.”
“fuck, really? you keep saying that, but i jus’ don’t believe i’d ever forget something like that.”
“i know what i saw. i’m not a liar.”
“never said you were. it was a fucking gruesome sight, baby. anyone else would’ve lost their mind. i mean, her brain wasn’t even inside of her head. her skull was literally broken. you’re braver than you think.”
“stop talking to me like that.”
his eyes flutter open, and he regards you evenly through low lashes. “like what?”
“like—” you shake your head, “like i’m crazy.”
at that, he smiles, slow and sweet. as if you’ve just let him in on some amusing inside joke. “you said it, sugar. not me.”
“i hate you,” you mutter.
“keep telling yourself that. makes it easier, doesn’t it?”
“i fucking hate you. i know it’s you.”
dean laughs, moving to stand. you glare up at him as he passes you, dangling the keys to your bedroom from his fingers. an overwhelming sense of deja vu almost keels you over, but you swallow the sick down, already too exhausted to empty yourself again. you feel like a husk. some pitiful sort of shell, emptied out.
“the things you invent, darlin’. the things you’ll convince yourself of,” he smiles fondly. “when you want to be saved.”
“i just want to go home.”
“poor thing,” dean murmurs from the doorframe. sunlight from the hallway windows shines in from behind him, and you can’t make out his face; catching only the vague shape of something that resembles a man. “all alone now, aren’t you?”
“please,” you beg, “please don’t do this to me.”
“but you wanted this, sugar.” the shadow tilts his head to the side, voice low like sweet syrup. you’ve got this sinking feeling that it’s already too late. that you’re already stuck. “don’t you remember, sweetness? this is exactly what you asked for. and i’m going to give it to you.”
the door shuts and wordlessly, you watch the lock turn with a loud, resounding click.
-
later, when ivy shuffles into your room, you’re glad to find she looks almost shameful. it’s in the way she drags her feet behind her. how she clutches the tray in her hands with white-knuckled fingers.
“how very kind of you,” you murmur, taking the plate from her. “to fatten up a sitting duck.”
ivy winces, but perches on the opposite end of your bed; a safe distance away. “you’re not. a sitting duck, i mean.” at this, she meets your gaze, eyes big and brighter than you’ve seen in days. “we’ve got good news. there’s—” she swallows, leaning in closer. “there’s hope.”
you put your fork down. “you found help?”
“signs of it,” she nods, before explaining. “we came across another cabin. seemed just like ours; an airbnb, maybe even with the same host. but someone was staying there. we— we saw a car outside. laundry on the porch. a woman’s dress and baby overalls and a man’s boots by the door—”
“did—” you lean in, heart thundering in your chest at the news. “did you tell them?”
about nico. about january.
at that, she falters. her lips tug downwards into a small frown, as she absently nibbles on her bottom lip. “no… we couldn’t. they weren’t inside. we figured the family had gone fishing but we couldn’t check since it was getting dark.” she breathes out a shaky sigh, “but tomorrow, we’ll leave a note. or kick down their door. either way, we’re all good now. we found help and— and it’s going to be okay.”
you’re not sure whether she’s trying to convince you, or herself. so you say nothing. though it is a relief to learn about the possibility of help, you still felt incredibly alone and helpless, locked in a room all day, with no opportunity for any sort of vindication. as if reading your mind, ivy clears her throat then, eyes awkwardly darting away again.
“and i just wanted to say… sorry. i’m sorry for how krish has been. i’m sorry for how much of a mess even i’ve been— it’s been very stressful for us both.”
“really? because i was having the time of my life.” you return flatly.
she wrings her hands, turning back to you, a flush creeping up the side of her neck. “no, i know. of course, you get it. it’s just that— well— god, i’m not really sure how to say this. um, it’s because… and you’re one of the first to know but…” ivy shrinks into herself, peering up at you with a nervous smile. “i’m pregnant.”
your eyes instinctively fall to her belly, which she hesitantly cradles. your mind blanks, details of the last few days blurring, only the image of a little cradle coming into focus; and all that comes out is an eager “congratulations!” ivy’s face falls at that and you rush to amend yourself, suddenly feeling extremely unsure of what’s just happened. “oh. sorry, um, condolences?”
“no! no.” she shakes her head, voice thick with tears. “there’s been so much loss of life recently and—” she chokes out, swallowing. “believe me, god knows i’m grateful but, with everything going on, i just worry..."
you force yourself to sit a little straighter, pushing away the creeping unease that threatens to take root in your chest. “ivy,” you say, keeping your voice steady for her sake, “we’re getting out of here. i don’t care how long it takes, or what we have to do, but this,” you gesture vaguely at the walls, the locked door, the promise of violence which hangs in the air, “it isn’t forever. you’re going to have your baby somewhere safe.”
her eyes glass over, lashes trembling, and she presses her palms to her stomach again. “you think we’ll get home safely?”
“i know so, ivy.”
she sniffles, a watery smile breaking through. “krish… he’s been—” she pauses, chewing on the words. “he’s been awful, i know. but… he asked me to tell you he’s sorry. he hasn’t said it himself because he doesn’t—” she exhales shakily, “—he doesn’t really know how. but he’s… he’s scared. for me. for the baby. for all of us, i think. it’s easier for him to be angry than afraid.”
you picture krish, jaw tight, eyes sharp; it’s not impossible to imagine his temper as a shield, even though you don’t completely respect it, you can understand it, to some degree, with ivy sitting before you now, growing a baby, a body—a life—inside of her.
“i get it,” you nod slowly. “so… does this mean i’m allowed out now?”
and you know you’ve pushed your luck when her face crumples. “i’m sorry, it’s just— just one more night. can you hang in there? it’s not even suspicion, so much as it is about keeping everyone alive.”
“but i can help.” you protest, pointedly gesturing towards her, “you shouldn’t even be going outside! you should be here, resting—
“krish doesn't trust dean.” ivy whispers, so quietly that you’ve got to hold your breath to hear her. she glances over her shoulder to make sure the door’s closed before flittering closer, all urgent nerves. “red told him everything. that's why you’re here. they only trust themselves to go out to find help, and krish needs to keep an eye on me. you’re just…”
krish doesn't trust dean. red told him everything.
“the scapegoat.” you finish, as it all clicks into place. "the bait to keep him here."
“i’m so so so sorry,” ivy insists. “they told me not to tell you but i need you to know that—”
the rattle of the doorknob cuts her off.
the door swings open, slow and deliberate, and dean is already there, leaning one shoulder against the top part of the frame, dark eyes slide over you both, taking in the closeness, the lowered voices.
“hope i’m not interrupting,” he drawls, the lazy smile on his lips just sharp enough to nick skin.
ivy’s head snaps up, guilt flashing across her face.
“evenin’, ivy.” dean hums, “krish was looking for you jus’ now.”
ivy swallows, straightens her spine, and gives your hand one last squeeze before she wordlessly brushes past him, stiff and silent, the space between their bodies so narrow she almost shies from his touch.
dean doesn’t move from the door. his eyes stay on you, pinning you there, as ivy’s footsteps echo down the hall.
“sugar darlin’,” he greets sweetly, pushing off the doorframe with a slow roll of his shoulders, as he straightens. the change is subtle, but it makes him seem larger somehow, the room smaller. his arms fall loose to his sides, fingers flexing once like he’s working out a knot, as he steps forward, moves closer. “you two seemed close.”
“she’s one of my good friends, yes.” you smile tightly. “your point?”
with each step he takes, his heavy boots are strangely silent against the floor. he closes the distance inch by inch, and the air thickens, stretching like sweet taffy.
“you let everyone in so easy,” he muses thoughtfully, “except for me.”
he stops just a breath away, the heat from his body brushing against your skin, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that’s almost suffocating. his eyes flick down briefly to your lips, then back up.
your pulse quickens, breath hitching as you swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “that’s ridiculous.”
his mouth quirks into a knowing smile, as he leans in just enough for his breath to brush your cheek. you flinch, the closeness making your skin tingle and your heart hammer. the space between you feels razor-thin, every second stretched taut with anticipation. you get the feeling that you’ve been here before. that you’re standing on the precipice of something that might just swallow you whole.
“are you scared of me, sweetness?” dean whispers, teeth grazing your ear.
the dinner ivy had brought up for you lies cold in your lap, but your fingers curl around the fork as you will your voice to hold steady. “should i not be?”
“not scared i’ll hurt you. wouldn’t do that unless you asked me all nicely.” he hums, a sound that vibrates deep in his throat, dark and amused. “should be scared of how easy you could fall into me, though. how bad i could make you want me.”
you squeeze your eyes shut, “you’re sick in the head.”
“you make me so, darlin.’” he croons sweetly. “you do this to me.”
an involuntary shiver rolls down the length of your spine at his words, as you brace yourself, trepidation trickling in like molten lead; weighing you down. you remember the feeling of sinking your teeth into something soft and sweet, a swollen mouth, like bruised fruit—
but then, you feel him pull back.
“relax, sugar. i’m not gonna touch you.” he extricates himself from you, slow and deliberate, and this time, you can hear the sound of his every step, like something of a punishment, as he crosses the room. “not tonight.”
“you’re leaving?” your eyes flutter open, and he’s back at the door, leaning against the frame with a hand resting lazily on the doorknob.
“thought you hated me?” he tilts his head to the side curiously.
“i do,” you frown. “i just…”
“then sweet dreams, baby.” dean blows you a kiss, and laughs when you make a show of dodging it. “don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
he switches off the overhead light before he shuts the door behind him, leaving you trembling in the darkness of your room, breath ragged. for those first initial moments, you sit there, painfully aware of the realisation that he never intended to come close. that he only wanted to watch you fall apart, hoping he would.
and then, your attention snags. you stare at the door. strain your ears to look out for it; the click of the lock.
but it never follows.
-
you watch the hands on the clock tick and tick; you watch the moon in the sky, hoisted higher with each passing second. the flashing stars hung up in the darkness, which once seemed close enough for you to touch, are now suspended far beyond your reach.
it’s only when five long hours have passed do you peel the covers off and sidle up to the door. fingers wrapped around the doorknob, you’re fully ready for the possibility of it not budging before you. but when you turn it, the door yields, opening before you.
you step out into the hall.
for a moment, you’re stunned. not entirely sure what to do with our newfound freedom. the facts of the situation have remained the same. somebody is lurking and waiting to strike; a killer, on the loose. one who could be sleeping, at this very moment, in one of the rooms down the hall from your own. you decide that your best course of action is finding red, who would be sleeping in one of the single bedrooms downstairs.
i trust him. he’ll know what to do.
creeping down the hall, you make an effort to stick close to the walls and take slow steps. some of the upstairs windows are open, letting in a chill. standing at the top of the stairs, your hold on the banister tightens, and you feel frightfully cold; unsure whether that’s got to do with the breeze, or the paralysing question of—
what if someone is down there, waiting for me?
you swallow, pushing your fear aside, about to take the first step when you hear it.
the sound of rustling sheets.
you move towards the sound, not because you want to, but out of instinct. a morbid curiosity overcomes you, pulling you closer to the shuffling. it’s coming from the room farthest from your own, on the opposite end of the hall; the one with the ensuite, that ivy and krish had called dibs on the very first day.
the door is wide open, which strikes you as strange. you stay inside the shadows which stretch across the hallway as you slink closer, fingers curling around the doorframe.
the pop and the crack of dormant bones, almost like breaking. the snap of a rotating wrist.
cautiously, with bated breath, you crouch down with palms pressed against the wall, to peer inside.
the windows are shut, curtains drawn and lights off. within the darkness of the room, it takes you some time to register the sight before you. you feel something inside you splinter; threaten to fracture and come apart as your eyes land on the figure in the corner.
there is a man, dressed in all black and donning the cheap ghostface mask you’d found stuffed in the cabinet alongside the other halloween and holiday paraphernalia on your first day here. you don’t know if he sees you; you don’t know if you even really see him.
you’re too focused on the iron poker in his hands. long and curled at one end, sharpened to a point at the other. you remember your friends reaching for it, tucked besides the fireplace as you all laughed in the living room, talking about your futures.
you see it now, raised high in the air by gloved hands.
the first strike with the poker is brutal and unforgiving. it connects with a sickening crunch that sounds like the snapping of dry leaves and twigs, only this is the bone of krish’s ribs shattering under the merciless blow.
you feel like you’re back in the darkness of the woodlands, running to something, running away from something, as you watch, rooted to the place, when krish staggers back on the mattress, instinctively attempting to throw himself over ivy.
one of his hands clutches at his chest, blood instantly blossoming like dark ink across his shirt, wet and heavy and clinging. his mouth opens in a ragged gasp, eyes wide with panic and pain, but no words come out. all you hear is a painful wheeze; a gargled exhale of sputtered blood.
ivy’s terrified gaze flicks between krish’s broken body and the masked attacker. petrified, she scrambles backward, trembling hands clawing at the headboard, shaking krish by the shoulders, but there’s nowhere left to run. nobody there to save her.
you will yourself to move.
to do something—anything. but you’re stuck.
trapped in the viscous moment, thickening like candy with each passing moment.
too fucking terrified to help your friend.
condemned, instead, to watch, as ivy spots you by the door. her fear crystallises into something more desperate as she pushes herself onto her palms, crawling forwards with trembling limbs to the foot of the bed. her pale hand shoots out in a silent plea, fingers shaking as they reach out for yours; for something to hold onto—
with a guttural growl muffled by the mask, the poker raises high, catching the moonlight, cold and merciless, before it comes plunging down, piercing straight through ivy’s skull with a wet, sickening squelch, the sick squelch echoes in your ears as crimson blood sprays outward in a dark fountain, splattering the floor and walls, painting the room with nightmarish strokes.
her head lolls back, mouth opening in a silent, strangled scream. blood streams from the wound, running in rivulets as it drips down her pale face and pooling beneath her like spilled milk. her body convulses violently from the aftershock, and you watch her limbs writhe before she finally falls still, eyes staring blankly at you, glazed and empty.
the masked figure stands over the carnage quietly as if taking it all in. and then, his shoulders start to shake. you can’t tell if he’s crying or laughing. you don’t even register that you’re throwing up until the bile burns like acid in your throat and spills out in a choking, ragged gasp—
the man freezes, and then he turns around. very, very slowly.
the mask’s black eyes are devoid of anything conceivably human, and the mouth twists down into a mocking, frown. a silent scream.
you hadn’t even felt the violent chattering of your teeth until you tried to speak. they knock against each other, caked with vomit, as you gape at the mutilated bodies of your friends. or rather, the grotesque remains of people you used to know. violated.
is this the vindication you’d wanted?
“dean?” you whisper into the darkness.
the masked man drops the poker to the floor, where it lands with a weak clatter, rolling across the room until it stops by your feet.
featherlight fingers trail down your spine, lips pressing feverish kisses to the back of your head as a warm body pulls you closer, against familiar lines of corded muscle. “right behind you, sugar.”
your heart stutters, and your head feels like it's splitting open.
if it’s not dean in front of you, then…
no.
no.
please, no.
please, please, please—
“red?”
“whoops,” dean breathes, pressing a blade to your neck. “guess the jig’s over, sweetness.”
“red?” you try again, gagging as the bile threatens to spill out again. but you know there’s nothing there. you’ve eaten very less the last day or so. swallowed so little. yet, you still feel that physical instinct to retch as the man in the mask—as red—crouches down to pick up the poker again. he holds it like it’s weightless, takes a creaking step closer.
fear overwhelms you, and you make to step back, to put distance between yourself and this... this stranger, but from behind you, dean keeps you in place, refusing to budge.
“ah, ah, ah. sorry, baby,” he croons, blade pressing against your throat. “but you’re goin’ to need to play the scapegoat a little while longer.”
red tears off his mask, tossing it onto the floor. his mouth is set in a stern line and there’s tears welling up in his wide eyes as he approaches you. “baby blue, it’s not what it looks like, i promise. he’s–he’s been blackmailing me. from the first night, it was either their lives or yours. i don’t know if he’s bluffing but–but i couldn’t even risk—”
“yeah, yeah. how romantic.” dean rolls his eyes. “save it, loverboy. just put the poker down.”
“put the knife down first! you said you wouldn’t hurt—”
“relax, romeo,” dean taunts. “i take good care of my things.”
red’s eyes flash wildly in the dark, caught somewhere between panic, fury, and something unreadable, before he lunges forward; dean reacts instantly, shoving you hard behind him, his body shielding yours as the cold steel poker clangs against the wooden floor. silence splintering with the sound of knuckles beating into skin.
i need to—need to run—
adrenaline surges through your veins and you take the opportunity to break away, turning on your heels to sprint towards the staircase, every step pounding like thunder against the creaking wooden boards, dipping beneath your weight. you race down the stairs two at a time, not daring to look back—
and end up in the kitchen.
you rummage through the cutlery drawer, but krish must have hidden the knives. instead, you swipe a silver fork before tossing one of the cabinets under the kitchen counter open and carefully folding yourself into the space, closing the cabinet door behind you with a soft, dull thud that resounds in the darkness.
you clasp your hands over your mouth in an attempt to quiet your frantic breathing. you try to focus on the stillness of the moment to keep your mind from wandering—
but even the silence doesn’t last long. it snaps, before you know it, like a string pulled taut, the moment you hear the sound of something long and sharp being dragged along the cabin’s walls; that slow, sick, grating.
“sugar? where have you run off to, baby?”
despite the way you press your palms over your ears, it’s impossible not to cling to every word. you curl into yourself, pocketing the fork you’d haphazardly swiped from the kitchen, let push come to shove.
“wonder when you’ll stop running from me,” dean muses, and you hear his heavy steps echo down the hall. “i don’t bite, y’know!” he laughs at that, positively delighted at his own cleverness. “well. not unless you asked first.”
“y’know, i’ve been wanting to do this for some time now.” dean says, the words light, like they’re not an admission. as if this is some sort of casual conversation, and he isn’t actively hunting you down. “get rid of everybody around you, and keep you all to myself.”
“maybe you’ll finally let me in now, baby!” dean gushes, kicking open another door. you hear the hinges creak open, as he rummages through the room, the sound of his boots muffled by the carpet. “got no other option, do you, sweetness?”
“so, listen, i know you’re scared right now, but i forgive you, darl’. i know your friends,” he spits out the word as if it disgusts him, “were distracting you from what you really wanted and putting all sorts of ideas in your pretty little head. i wish i could crack it in half sometimes, y’know? see what they said to you, and pull it right out. i wish i could put myself in there, instead.” he sounds almost mournful.
“so after this is all over,” dean proposes, “i’m going to take you somewhere far away. we’ll live the rest of our lives together. doesn’t that sound sweet, baby? just us two, and nobody else tryna fuckin’ interfere with us.”
“‘course, all that’s left now,” dean’s steps get closer. “is to find you, sugar.”
you press yourself closer to the cabinet door, straining to look out for even the smallest indication of his whereabouts in the cabin. you may not have the keys to the front door, but you should be able to wedge yourself through an open window. all you have to do is wait for him to go back upstairs or—
where is he?
your heart thunders, a minute panic settling in as you realise—
you can’t hear him anymore.
you shy away from the cabinet door, inching back as much as the small space will allow you. your breaths come out in shallow, panicked huffs, muffled by your hands which are clasped over your mouth so tight that your fingers have turned an alarming shade of white from the pressure.
and then, something heavy is being dragged down the stairs. through the hall, into the kitchen. it falls to the floor unceremoniously, almost as if it’s been thrown onto the checkered kitchen tiles.
a tense silence descends over the kitchen. a pall of trepidation. a promise of something violent. you know he’s right there. you know he’s right there—
“come outside,” dean calls. “before i bash his head in, baby.”
when you swing the cabinet door open, it’s slow and deliberate. cautious.
dean’s crouched before red, with the bloodied poker swung over his shoulder, palms resting on his knees as he turns his attention from the mangled body on the floor to you, poor thing, crawling out of the cabinet all skitterish and so, sweet.
“there you go, sugar.” he reaches out, gently coaxing you further out of the small space with warm, loving hands. a bruise blossoms beneath his cheek, which is sprayed with wet, crimson blood, running down his jaw. it’s caked under his nails too, as he moves your hair out of your face and hoists you up, with a hand round the back of your neck, angling your face towards red. “look at him.”
you squeeze your eyes shut, making an effort to avoid the limp body by your feet. “no.”
“you’ll be the last person who sees him alive, sugar. look at him.”
the corners of his lips quirk up in a satisfied grin as your eyes crack open, heavy, vision blurred with tears, as your gaze falls on red. dean laughs, the sound rich with sick amusement.
“remember that first night? you went with him, down to the lake.” dean uses his fingers to mime two people walking alongside each other, up the side of your arm. “that was the day i decided red would be the last to go,” he drawls. “except, here we are now, and… i’m stuck.” he admits, voice low. “i keep thinking about what i should do to him, sweetness. wonderin’ what would hurt you the most.”
“you’re insane,” you stutter. “you’re— you’re sick.”
“baby,” he chides, faux disappointment lining his saccharine words. “we’ve been through this, remember? you make me insane.” his pupils are blown wide, an all enveloping black. “every second your attention isn’t on me, i feel like i should just kill myself, y’know? i need you to witness me. to see me, how i see you.”
“dean,” you plead, voice barely above a whisper. fat tears well up in your haze, making your vision cloud over. “please— please don’t do this.”
“all you need, all you’ve ever needed,” he continues, unrepentant, “is a guiding hand. this guy’s dangerous, sugar.” his voice dips an octave lower. “he’s a threat to us. to our love. that’s why i gotta kill him.”
“no. please, no. all he’s done,” you sob, tears streaming down your face, “is keep me safe.”
not red.
anyone but red.
“all he’s done,” dean amends, kissing away the tears on your cheek. his lips curl into a soft, dangerous smile against your skin, “is keep you away from me. but not anymore, no. i’ve found you now, sugar. i’ve got you in the palm of my fuckin’ hand—”
he steps away, leaving you frozen to where you stand. a crying, shaking, mess of nerves.
dean drops the poker, where it lands, clambering against the kitchen tile. he reaches, instead, for a knife hanging from the loop of his jeans. the very same one he’d been holding against your neck, earlier; the same one he’d used to turn you into leverage for red.
crouching down, he lines up the blade at the base of red’s neck, bloodsoaked face splitting into a frenzied grin.
“—and i’m never fuckin’ letting you go again.”
-
“just watch on, baby blue. by the end of the week, i’ll be better than you.”
“i’m gonna hold you to that. do you wanna have a rematch before we go home?”
“that’ll give me, what, five days to practice?” he laughed. “yeah, you’re getting your ass beat. loser pays for the winner’s coffee on the drive home?”
you extended a hand out to him, and he took it in his own, turning it over so softly.
“you’re on.”
he’d fallen back onto his elbows then, the glow of the sunset painting streaks of gold across his jaw. you remember thinking he looked so beautiful. you’d never known such a pure love. he was like an extension of you. like a family.
“you want me to stay by your side until we’re home?” he’d asked gently. and you hadn’t answered right away. you’d just leaned your head on his shoulder and… that had been enough.
“...thank you, red.”
“always, baby blue.” do you remember the way he wrapped his arm around you? “i got you.”
and, he would.
he did.
-
“can you really call them intestines if they're, y’know, not in you?” dean turns to you, knuckles smudging the blood that coats his face, in a lazy attempt to wipe it off his mouth. “what do you think, sugar?”
you don’t really know what to think. you think you’re past thinking, but you don’t really think that’s what he’s looking to hear. all you know is that red is lying in a pile of mangled limbs at dean's feet. there’s only a gaping hole where his face used to be. skin, cartilage, and shards of bone have been reduced to something unrecognizable, mashed flat into the floor.
you blink, and it’s slow and heavy. you’re trying to make sense of it, but you can’t.
because this isn’t the man you loved like a brother, anymore. it can’t be. it’s severed flesh, and the remains of something which was once alive. his torso is practically cleaved in half, guts spilling out. bone peeking through. you want to look away, but the way his eyes slide back to you makes you feel like that would be a mistake.
dean grins at you over the ruin. “art’s gotta make you feel something, right?”
you gag so hard your ribs ache, but nothing comes up; just a bitter, acid sting crawling up your throat. the sound is wet and ugly in the silence, nearly drowning out the soft squelch of dean’s boots shifting in the pool of blood beneath him. he kicks something aside, stepping closer.
“the plan was for me to be the savior,” dean admits with a casual laugh, looking down at you; the way you tremble in his hands. “i was gonna rescue you from him, but…” he trails off with a knowing smile. “guess it’s too late for that one, huh?”
the dimple in his cheek deepens at your insistent silence. “talk to me, baby. you didn't even scream.”
you stare, face angled up towards his. eyes empty, and unblinking like you’re looking straight through him. you can’t even muster the energy to cry, anymore.
“don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs softly.
“like what?” you hear yourself ask, barely recognising the sound of your voice.
“like i could do whatever i wanted to you,” he rasps, “and you’d let me.”
“do i have a choice?”
“all you have to do is let yourself fall into it.” he leans in close, licking a stripe up your neck. “you could love me,” the flat, wet muscle of his tongue against your skin makes you want to curl in on himself, but his hands crawl down your spine, keeping you in place. keeping you close. “the same way i love you.”
“i wouldn’t be cruel to you,” he continues, brushing hair behind your ear with blood-slick fingers. “i can be good.” he smiles, stygian eyes glittering in the dark. “i can be sweet and kind and whatever you want me to be.”
his voice drops to a low, coaxing whisper. “haven’t you already made me work for it, sugar? haven’t i earned—”
you stab the fork into his shoulder.
dean staggers back, collapsing against the kitchen counter. but when you try to run past him and out of the kitchen, he sweeps low, reaching out for your ankle, and you go toppling down, slipping on red’s blood; falling. sprawled across the floor like prey.
“sweet baby. darlin’ sugar.” his breathing is heavy—something downright animalistic in the way he crawls on top of you, heaving and panting, pressed against you like a dog in heat. “i forgot you could bite.”
he grabs your face with his hands and yanks it towards him, wild eyes practically rolling back in his head as he wrenches the fork from your fingers, and yanks it out; tosses it aside. “but you forget that i want you to.”
and then he’s feverishly pressing your mouth against yours. all eager tongue and too much teeth. it’s fucking sloppy, the way he drools all over you. you try bite down, but he only purrs against your lips, letting you pull the skin between your teeth, as blood-smeared hands creep higher, wrap around your neck and hold it in place and you’re reaching for the poker or his knife or anything, overcome with desperation, helplessly kicking your legs beneath him and—
he gets there first.
the blade lines up against your throat as dean leans back a fraction of an inch, swollen lips dripping blood that mixes with the slobber smeared against his chin. through low lashes, his gaze drops to your throat, watching the pulse leap. his eyes are so dilated, they look like black pools of glee as his mouth curls into a coy grin.
his voice nips at your skin, barely above a whisper. you almost miss the words over the thundering of your heartbeat. the rush of blood in your head. “skin here’s some of the most sensitive on the body, sugar. so thin. so easy to slice through.” warm laughter, so completely and enviously sure of itself, rings all around you. “i don’t have to worry about you acting out, do i, sweetness?”
your stillness is an answer in and of itself. with a satisfied hum from somewhere low in his throat, dean’s other hand reaches for the fly of your jeans, the zipper pinched between bloodied fingers, as he runs it down the teeth.
and it sounds so much like an old song you’ve heard before, but can’t quite place.
-
“so let me get this straight,” the detective says, leaning back in the crackling leather of his office chair until it groans beneath the weight. “you’re saying you witnessed red kill each and every one of your friends?”
“yes.” you nod. “yes, i did, detective.”
“and you don’t know where he ran off to? no clue where he is?”
“no, sir. by the time me and dean came back for the others… after we’d gone to get help… the cabin was empty. except for—”
“your friends.” he finishes.
you close your eyes for a moment. “yes.”
well,” he exhales decisively, smoke curling from his nostrils, “i’m going to have to make sure your story corroborates with your friend’s, and you might be asked to testify in court.” he adds. “but we’ll discuss all of those details at a later date. otherwise, not much else i can pull out of you tonight. you’re free to go. ask the captain to drive you home.”
“thank you,” you murmur, though the word tastes strange in your mouth.
“and if you, uh—” he grunts, shifting the cigar from one side of his teeth to the other “—if you remember anything else, you come to me, okay? we’re all just looking for justice, kid.” he fixes you with a level gaze. “and that involves searching for the truth.”
“i know.”
the room sits in a quiet that feels thicker than the smoke hanging between you. he studies you longer than he should, like he’s searching for a crack in the surface, a glimpse of whatever’s churning underneath.
but you don’t give him anything. just meet his stare evenly. nothing left to give; nothing left in you worth taking, anymore.
eventually, the detective nods. a small, reluctant surrender. “you keep yourself safe out there,” he warns, grinding the cherry-red tip of his cigar into the ashtray until it dies with a faint hiss. “i never want to see you in here again, you got that?”
“okay. i will.”
and when the office door swings open, you can’t help the way your gaze immediately searches for that lazy lean, those sharp eyes, glittering with dark amusement. and when you’re the one to find him, because you’ve grown so tired of being chased—
you already know he’ll be smiling.
-
“i could use the help. always wanted an assistant,” you remember dean looking up at you with twinkling eyes. you remember thinking he was your friend. that you were safe. “an accomplice.”
“i’m not your assistant, dean,” you’d rolled your eyes back then, when it had been a choice. “and definitely not for free. keep dreaming.”
you wonder; did he know, even back then, the price you were going to pay? how much it would end up costing you?
“i know, i know.” he had turned back at that, and that low, lazy laughter followed, like it always seemed to. like you’d let him in on some joke. “you’re just a sweetheart, aren't you?"
Hardness comes with softness — like rocks with soil. You need the hardness to hold you, because without it, you might just drain away.
Is it a crime to be too soft? Too loving, too caring, too emotional? Because in this fast, forward, strategic world, all of that is seen as weakness. But still, those very people — the calculated, the guarded — seek comfort in the ones who feel. The givers. The soft ones. The ones who love without asking, who hold space without needing credit, who give what others can't even imagine offering. And they give it for free.
The truth is — the weak ones aren't the ones who feel deeply. It's those who run from their own emotions. Those who are terrified of being known, being seen, being vulnerable. Being open — that's not weakness. That’s real strength. And being human enough to feel this much? That’s something not everyone has the courage to be.
(not sure if anyone else has thought about this but I haven't seen it & I thought about it last night - got confirmation from my bestie's chart today so)
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not sure how to explain it so I'm going to use my profection last yr which was the 7th house.
I have my moon (cancer) and mercury (gemini) there: cancer rules my 8th house, gemini rules my 7th.
during that yr, I was in a bad state emotionally, ultimately redirecting my focus on myself than forcing myself - gaining more confidence that yr than before. meanwhile, I was talking to strangers, being myself in a setting I normally wouldn't be, and more out of my comfort zone.
in my friend's case: she's in her 8th house this yr too, which is ruled by gemini. though she has no placements in that house; her mercury is in her 4th house and recently she's had disputes with her parent - leading to a change in where she stays.
basically, profection yr houses (& rulers) also activate other houses/planets.
but also placements, and the sign they're under, do the same.
I was talking to her about my north node (aries) and my mars (cancer) - which are in the 4th and 8th houses; and how I essentially took back my power where I was, while also stepping more into myself.
