#chapter four

[alexsiple]

yeah so it's here. a perfectly nice blanket

[lostgirl88]

Dónal Finn as Thomas Hayward

[riotgurlll]

ׂ╰┈➤ SUCKER PUNCH! ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁

Chapter Four: Upside Down

MIKE WHEELER X NOBODY!READER.

↳ in which a loser boy meets an even bigger loser girl.

𖤓 ch.4 CONTENTS: reader is described as chubby, unfortunately I do use Y/n for simplicity sake I’m sorry, mentions of bullying, awkwardness, friendlessness, eventual yearning, shitty nerd x grumpy loner trope, silliness, 80’s, physical violence, mentions of blood and slight gore..? (Scrapes n’ stuff like that), verbal bullying, talking poorly about oneself, 

𖤓NOTE: HELLOOOO! So, this chapter takes place during 'The Crawl' Episode in season five, and while it will be similar to the canon, I will be changing things so that you, the reader, can feel more involved and immersed! Get ready for some drama, romance, and shit inducing panic! (it is a time skip btw.. but after this one, no more!)

I WILL BE UPLOADING THIS TO WATTPAD AS WELL! I like Wattpad's formatting :)

Ch.5

— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Upside down!

THE smell of freshly salted fries right out of the fryer and grilled burger patties filled the Jukebox, chatter filling the new diner in Hawkins as people sat around together and ate their deliciously deep fried and greasy meals.

Boy you turn me,

"There is absolutely zero way that Wolverine would beat The Hulk in a fight." Lucas argued with Mike as he took a bite out of three French fries at once. Michael gave the young man what was probably the nastiest, sassiest look any human being could muster as William Byers sat in-between the two boys at the counter, nervous as they literally argued over him. Poor boy.. should he excuse himself to the bathroom so they could have some privacy...?

-Inside out!

"You're actually an idiot, all he has to do is- oh, I dunno, Slice his Achilles tendon and it's quite literally wraps??" Mike argued back. Will opened his mouth to say something, but quickly shut it as Lucas repeated what their friend had said in a childish, mocking tone. Mike gasped in astonishment, but before he could fuel the debate anymore, you came with a rounded tray full of hot food. "Boys, you're gonna drive away our customers." You scolded through gritted teeth. this wouldn't be the first time you had to tell them to shut up per Shepherds orders: in fact, it was a weekly occurrence... if not, daily.

What? They got a family discount on the food!

After the 'earth quake' that literally split Hawkins into sections like it was a tray of brownies getting distributed at a family gathering, the lovely record shop known as The Afterglow was sadly split with it, along with many other shops and small businesses. Both you and Shepherd were distraught, his whole life's work destroyed due to interdimensional chaos--well, to everyone else other than you and your friends, it was actually just a gnarly natural disaster.

A whole lot of shit went down since Veronica Steel punched you in the face, and ever since then your life had been permanently altered. You made new friends, found new movies and songs you liked, discovered that there were real life monsters in a creepier, nastier version of your world that were out to get people in Hawkins, found out super powers were real... Oh, and you got a car! Like you said, a whole lot of shit.

Of course, it wasn't all fun in games. You also lost people. Like Eddie, and even your best friend Maxine Mayfield, who was now in a coma that seemed to have zero improvement and no sign of changing any time soon, like she was stuck in limbo or something. You found yourself listening to Kate Bush a lot, missing your friend more than anything in the world. You visited her with Lucas quite often, but left the two of them alone most of the time because you knew that he was affected the most by the terrible, heartbreaking incident that transpired back in March. It was a rough time for all of you.

Dustin especially, he had grown... Distant.

Speaking of which, your eyes trailed to the empty stool at the counter besides Lucas, the place the curly haired geek usually sat. You pointed to it with your thumb. "Where's Dustin?" You ask the three boys in your sight. They all exchange a glance and shrug, you join the gesture with a roll of your eyes. This wouldn't be the first time Dustin had canceled or just straight up ditched plans--and you were sure as hell it wouldn't be the last.

"L/n! Table four's food is gettin' cold already! Hop to it!" Shep scolded from the window behind the fountain that led to the kitchen. Your head whipped to the food placed on the window sill and you nearly dropped your now empty tray. "Shit!" You curse, nearly slipping as you dash to get the food ready. God damn, how long had that been there??

The boys winced at Shepherds harsh tone as you carry on with your job, Will finally digging into the chicken tenders he had been waiting for. Lucas had gotten another batch of fries and onion rings, while Mike got the Jukebox classic 'Turntable Burger' with tater tots.

"Man, I've never seen her work so fast in her life." Lucas chuckled, watching with the group as you delivered table fours food and apologized kindly for the wait. "-yeah, never seen her act so nice to people either." Mike teased, of which you heard, so it earned him a glare as you moved to another table that had just sat down so you could take their orders. The actual Jukebox located by the restrooms of the joint played Diana Ross upon some strangers request, nearly giving the group of teenagers a heart attack when they first heard it start to play. Thankfully, the radio that you had conveniently kept on the edge of the counter for 'news' and 'weather updates' had remained silent the whole time.

"Y/n's a hard worker guys, give her a break. I'm sure she's always been." Will defended, taking a bite of his chicken with a smile. He hadn't known your time at the Afterglow, and hadn't even known you at all for very long. Even then, the two of you got along pretty well. "we're just messing... It is funny though, seeing her in that stupid uniform and smiling at strangers." Lucas added, earning a small laugh from both the boys. "They must pay good, cuz' I know it kills her."

Mike shrugged and spoke with a mouthful. "As long as we get heavily discounted food, I don't care."

You weren't the only one with a new job. Like previously mentioned, that radio you kept on the edge of the diners counter was used so you could tune into the radio segments from The Squawk, something that was absolutely mandatory since you and your friends with sneaking around the military and trying to find a big bad monster under the table. That's where Robin and Steve spent their time, broadcasting things like weather, musical facts, and playing tunes for the people stuck in Hawkins. Robin was the true voice, and honestly? She was pretty damn good. Sometimes, she'd let you recommend songs to play and she'd put them on the next morning for you to listen to on your way to school in the brand new car you had gotten. Okay... Not brand new, but it was new to you.

Your parents got you the car because they didn't feel safe and confident in you riding your bike everywhere. With all the past disappearances, 'murders', and natural disasters transpiring now? They wanted you in a car. So. they got you a shitty old Toyota Camry that was the most ugly color you could ever conjure up in your mind. It had rust, scrap metal that replaced damaged parts, torn seats in the interior... But, it drove. It got you where you needed to be.

Actually, you were ecstatic when your parents surprised you with it a little after they made you get your license. You then drove yourself in your new hot ride to the plans you had with your friends, surprising them as well. Dustin had said it looked like shit, so you promptly threatened him and smacked him on the shoulder. Will thought it was cool, so you offered to drive him home at the end of the movie night you all had. Now, you were one of the designated drivers... As long as Steve wasn't available-cuz' lets be honest, the beamer was way cooler than your Camry.

And due to the fact you had a car, you had obviously stopped biking to school in the mornings.. which brings you to now, waiting at a stop light right before the turn you had to take to get to the same shithole high school you had been going to since what felt like the dawn of time. Your fingers tapped to the rhythm of the song you requested as Robin kindly broadcasted it to all of Hawkins: A Blondie classic, of course. You still had a smile on your face from what she had said before playing it on the radio.

"-Which, Hawkins.. Brings me to our next song this morning: courtesy of a great, good friend of mine who always insists there's 'another way', this is Blondie's 'One way or another', enjoy kids--this one is for you, L/n."

You mouthed the lyrics that were so well known to you, reminiscing the days where you and Max would have dance parties in your bedroom while punking out to the band. Your mother would burst in, telling--no, demanding the two of you to 'knock it off' and 'quiet down', to which you would both break out into laughing fits the moment she slammed your door and walked away.

You shook the memories out of your head before you could get upset. You wanted today to be better than yesterday, you just wanted to relax... See your friends, get through school and have the night off from work. Maybe you'd take a bubble bath.

You slammed your hands against the wheel harder as the climax of the song came on, hitting in unison of the drums that played on your radio and dancing to yourself.

Not far away from where you had just drove past, The boys peddled like hell as Holly lingered behind and waited for the turn to go to the Elementary school. They glanced at the radios that were haphazardly taped to the front of their bikes as the song played. "It's a good song," Will nodded, pulling up closer to the group. Lucas and Mike looked to one another and shrugged, Mike spoke.

"Yeah, it is."

-

THE bell rang—sharp and metallic, slicing through the hallway with the same exact pitch and volume it had carried all year, all four years, probably since the beginning of time if you really stopped to think about it. The sound grated on your nerves like sandpaper against skin. You sighed and shut your locker, the hollow clang echoing just long enough to remind you how painfully bored you were. Pure, bone-deep boredom pulsed through your veins as you adjusted the strap of your bag and waited for the day to finally be over.

You had promised yourself this morning that today would be better. That somehow, miraculously, things would feel lighter.

They didn’t.

The familiar sense of dread settled in your chest again, heavy and unavoidable, wrapping itself around your ribs like it always did the moment you stepped foot inside Hawkins High. It followed you everywhere—every hallway, every classroom, every glance from people who thought they knew everything about you. You hated that you kept hoping it would disappear on its own, as if one day you’d wake up and feel normal without ever putting in the work to fix what was broken. Or maybe what was missing.

Even if that kind of change were possible, today clearly wasn’t the day.

There was a tension lingering in the air, something sharp and electric that never quite went away after everything that had happened. The jocks were back on top, loud and untouchable, ruling Hawkins High like they always had. You supposed that when you’d gotten involved with Hellfire—when you’d been pulled into late-night games, laughter, and the safety of shared understanding—you’d forgotten just how cruel the real world could be. How unforgiving. How quick it was to turn its back.

Eddie’s name was ruined. His memory twisted into something ugly by people who’d never known him. Known the truth. Students were still missing. And your best friend—the one who had been the reason you weren’t alone to begin with—was gone, in a coma. If it hadn’t been for her, you wondered sometimes if Vecna would have come for you too. If things would have played out differently.

You always reached the same conclusion: no. Nothing would have changed. If you’d stayed invisible, friendless, tucked safely into the background, the world would have kept spinning the same way it always had. Veronica made sure you remembered that.

“Nice to see ya, loser.”

The voice slid into your ears like poison disguised as honey. You turned sharply, hair bouncing slightly out of place, and found yourself face to face with the wicked bitch from hell.

“Sick hair cut.”

Your jaw tightened. Everyone had changed—senior year did that to people. Ronnie especially. Her hair was longer now, falling in soft Hollywood curls instead of the tight perm she used to wear. Her lips always shone with light pink gloss, gold jewelry delicate and intentional. She looked like she belonged everywhere. You hated how easy it seemed for her.

You hated that you envied it.

Because aside from a different hairstyle, you hadn’t really changed at all. Beneath everything, you were still the same lonely girl you’d always been.

“What do you want, Veronica?” You sighed, the exhaustion in your voice unmistakable.

Before monsters and alternate dimensions, she’d been your personal Demogorgon—only this one wore cute sweaters and smiled while she hurt you.

“Nothing from you, other than to know who did your hair so that I know to stay away from their salon.”

Her laugh rang out, sharp and unapologetic, as she glanced at her friends before looking back at you like she expected an encore. Your brows pulled together as you shook your head, already drained.

“What..?- Veronica, dude, I got my hair cut like months ago.”

You hadn’t shown up one day looking completely different. You’d eased into it over the summer, experimenting quietly, learning how to style it properly with Nancy’s help. It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t dramatic.

“Well, whoever told you it looked good is doing you a great disservice.”

She giggled.

“Nothing looks good on me to you, Steel..” you muttered, voice low.

She opened her mouth to say more, but a loud commotion erupted further down the hall, pulling both of your attention at once. You craned your neck, rising onto your tiptoes, but all you could see were bodies—students packed together, whispering, staring.

Groaning, you shoved forward, pushing past people without apologizing, leaving Veronica behind. Panic sparked when you heard it.

“Henderson!”

Andy’s voice.

Your stomach dropped. Your face went cold as you shoved harder, forcing your way through the crowd, shoulders colliding with yours as you moved. Times like this, you were grateful for your strength.

“Not again..” you muttered under your breath.

You caught fragments—raised voices, laughter, the tops of familiar heads.

“Hope you brought a new change of clothes Henderson... No one wants to see that shit.”

The words made your hands curl into fists. By the time you broke through, Andy and his friends were already leaving, laughter trailing behind them. You adjusted your bag and stared at Dustin, confusion and anger colliding in your chest.

“What the fuck was that? What just happened??”

You barely needed an answer. The torn Hellfire shirt said everything. Dustin didn’t respond. He just turned and walked, shoulders stiff, expression unreadable.

“You have to stop provoking them, man!” Mike said as you all followed, voices raised over the crowd.

“Oh, so this is my fault? Fer’ what? wearing a T-shirt?”

"It's not just a T-shirt and you know that.."

“So I should just be more like you guys and turn the other cheek while they spread more bullshit about Hellfire- about Eddie??”

The name cracked something open. Dustin pulled away again, creating distance you couldn’t bridge.

“Eddie never gave a rats ass about what those mouth breathers were saying and you know it-”

“Yeah, C’mon Dustin. We all know the only thing he’d care about right now is putting an end to all the bat shit stuff happening..!” you reminded.

Dustin stopped, spinning toward you.

“Do you seriously think I don’t care about that?” He questioned. “Really?”

“No, Dustin, We know you care but there is way more prominent and important shit going on right now!” you replied.

“Y/n’s right, Dustin- I mean, what if you get hurt? seriously hurt? You’re drawing too much attention...”

“Will and Y/n are right. Remember what Hop’ said? We need. to keep. our heads. down.” Lucas repeated.

“-Follow the rules, blend in..?”

“yeah, stay focused on our next crawl..?” Mike attached to Will's continuation and you concluded it. “Does that ring a bell, Henderson?”

He laughed—sharp, bitter—leaning against the painted brick wall.

“Do you guys even hear yourselves right now? Blend in..? When is that something we’ve ever done??”

You rubbed your face, frustration burning behind your eyes.

“We stay true to ourselves...--we’re supposed to stay true to our friends!”

“We stand up for what’s right, no matter. the cost.”

“What?- are you crazy?? Do you even hear yourself?? We need to stay alert and we need to stay out of trouble. That includes you.”

“You aren’t listening!”

“No.” Dustin was quick to cut off Lucas. “You’re not.”

And then he walked away, leaving the space between all of you wider than it had ever been. He just.. Walked away.

“You’ve got to be shitting me..!” you let out in disbelief, the words tumbling from your mouth before you could stop them. Your hands dropped stiffly to your sides, fingers curling like you were bracing yourself for impact. You stood there for a second too long, staring at the space Dustin had just occupied, like if you waited long enough he might turn back around. He didn’t. His footsteps echoed down the hall, swallowed by the noise of lockers slamming and students laughing, a sound that felt entirely wrong for the moment you were living in.

“Dustin!-” Lucas called out, his voice sharp with urgency as he took a half-step forward, instinctively ready to chase after him. His jaw was tight, frustration and worry clashing across his face in equal measure. For a split second, it looked like he might actually go after him—might say something that could still pull Dustin back from the edge.

“let him go..” Will sighed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was tired.

Will’s shoulders sagged slightly as he spoke, his gaze fixed on the floor like he couldn’t bear to watch Dustin walk away again. There was something heavy in his tone—resignation mixed with understanding—like he knew that anything said now would only make things worse. You hated that he was probably right.

The hallway continued moving around you like nothing had happened. Students passed by, some whispering, some staring, others completely oblivious. Life went on, uncaring. You swallowed hard, your chest tight with words you hadn’t said and apologies you didn’t know how to make. Dustin wasn’t just angry—he was hurting. And the worst part was knowing that no matter how right you felt, no matter how logical your arguments were, they hadn’t reached him at all.

He was already gone.

And you were left standing there with the rest of them, the space he’d left behind feeling louder than any argument you’d had all week. Your head shook as you stood there in disbelief. You were damn near speechless. "I mean... Are you serious..?" You stammered, looking to your friends.

You had to admit, you weren't the best at controlling your temper. Honestly, that wasn't a secret. And it wasn't that you didn't feel bad for Dustin and Eddie-because you did. A lot. You just couldn't wrap your mind around the disregard he had for what you were all saying, trying to remind him. You were supposed to be best friends... Maybe not you, but Mike and Lucas? No one could reach him... It was painful to watch.

The lot of you had to quickly leave each other to get to second period, but god was the moment ricocheting in your mind... At lunch, you just knew you would have to debrief... Thankfully, you had a whole 45 minutes to collect yourself and calm down.

-

“I’m getting real sick of his shit.” You grumbled the words under your breath, stabbing your fork down into the sad pile of cafeteria food on your tray like it had personally wronged you. The plastic utensil scraped harshly against the tray, the sound sharp enough to draw a few glances from nearby tables. Your jaw was clenched, shoulders tight, irritation rolling off you in waves. You’d never claimed to be good at controlling your temper—especially not lately—and Dustin had been testing what little patience you had left.

Across from you, Will paused mid-bite. He didn’t say anything right away, just looked at you with that familiar, gentle sympathy in his eyes—the kind that said I get it, even if I don’t fully agree. Then he sighed quietly and shifted his gaze to the rest of the group, like he was bracing himself before speaking.

“I know... He actually told me he want’s to start up hellfire again...”

The table went still.

Your fork froze halfway to your mouth before you dropped it back onto the tray with a dull clatter. You stared at Will, disbelief written all over your face, a humorless scoff escaping your lips before you could stop it.

“I’m telling you- calling it right now, he has lost. his damn. mind-”

Your voice was low but sharp, frustration bleeding into every carefully separated word. Hellfire—again? After everything? After Eddie? The idea alone made your chest tighten, equal parts anger and fear bubbling just beneath your skin. It felt reckless. Dangerous. Like tempting fate when fate had already proven how cruel it could be.

“Who lost their mind?”

Dustin’s voice cut through the moment like a knife.

He appeared out of nowhere, tray in hand, and before any of you could react, he dropped it down onto the table with a solid thud and slid into the seat Eddie used to occupy. The sound of plastic against metal echoed louder than it should have, your heart lurching painfully at the sight. For just a second, the world tilted—like muscle memory had kicked in and your brain expected Eddie’s voice to follow.

It didn’t.

Dustin leaned back slightly, looking around at all of you with raised brows, confusion flickering behind his eyes as one by one, your faces went pale. Silence stretched. Mike’s mouth opened and closed uselessly. Lucas stared down at his tray like it suddenly held the secrets of the universe. Will’s shoulders stiffened.

And you—your earlier anger vanished instantly, replaced by pure, stomach-dropping dread.

“Uhm...”

The word slipped out of you weakly, all bite and attitude wiped clean in a heartbeat. Your fingers curled around the edge of your tray, knuckles whitening. You weren’t scared of Dustin—but you were terrified of hurting him, of confirming whatever ugly thoughts had been rattling around in his head lately. You scrambled for something—anything—that wouldn’t blow this wide open.

“Andy! Andy lost is mind!”

Phew. Good save.

You seized onto it immediately, nodding along like it had been the plan all along. Your heart was still hammering in your chest as you forced yourself to relax, rolling your shoulders like nothing was wrong.

“Psh, yeah... The way he’s been acting? What a cunt... Right?”

You lifted your fork and waved it dismissively in the air, doing your best impression of casual, though it felt stiff and forced even to your own ears. You shrugged, eyes flicking briefly to Dustin’s face, searching for any sign that he didn’t believe you.

Dustin watched all of you in silence, his gaze moving slowly from face to face. There was something unreadable in his expression—not anger, not amusement, just a quiet, lingering suspicion. Like he knew something was off but couldn’t quite put his finger on what. Finally, he gave a small nod.

“Yeah.”

The word was short. Flat.

He looked down at his food, poking at it absently, and the tension didn’t ease—it just shifted, settling heavier over the table. He glanced back up at you all again, eyes narrowing slightly, like he was watching a group of circus freaks trying and failing to act normal.

There was a silence.

Not the comfortable kind. Not the kind filled with jokes or shared looks or what used to be Eddie’s loud commentary echoing across the cafeteria. This silence was thick and suffocating, filled with everything none of you were saying. Forks scraped. Trays shifted. Somewhere across the room, someone laughed too loudly. Your eyes drifted to Mikes, only to see that his were already on you. It was almost like you guys spoke telepathically, but you looked away before it could go on any longer. Your eyes now glued to the food you played with sadly on your tray.

And all you could think about was how wrong it felt—Dustin sitting there, Eddie’s seat empty, Hellfire hanging over your heads like a ghost none of you knew how to put to rest.

Then, it happened.

The radio sitting at the far end of the cafeteria table let out a sudden, violent screech- feedback shrill enough to make several students wince and groan. Forks paused mid-air. Conversations around you faltered, then slowly dissolved as heads began to turn. The noise crackled and popped, static bursting through the cheap speaker like electricity crawling over exposed wires.

Your heart stuttered.

Before anyone could react, the static cleared just enough for a familiar, bright voice to break through the chaos.

“Hey there friends! This is Rockin’ Robin!”

Your breath caught instantly.

Every single one of you leaned forward at the same time, chairs scraping faintly against the cafeteria floor as you hunched over the table. All eyes locked onto the radio like it was the only thing left in the room. The laughter, the chatter, the clatter of trays faded into a dull blur at the edges of your hearing.

“Sorry for the abrupt departure, Hope you all survived without me..”

You felt it ripple through the group—shock, relief, disbelief—colliding all at once. Robin. Broadcasting. Your fingers curled tightly around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as you stared at the radio, half-expecting the voice to disappear again.

“We had some...annoying technical difficulties!”

Her voice dipped and rose theatrically, punctuated by random sound effects—cartoonish beeps, faux explosions, static bursts—that matched her tone perfectly. It was so Robin that it almost hurt. Almost.

She continued in a sing-song cadence, bright and deliberate, like she was trying to mask something beneath it.

“But! To make it up to you, we have a very special treat...that is sure to turn your day...”

Your chest tightened.

Slowly, one by one, you looked up from the radio and met the eyes of the people around you. Mike’s brows were pulled together, disbelief etched deep into his face. Lucas had gone rigid, his hand frozen halfway to his drink. Will’s lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something but couldn’t find the words. Dustin’s gaze flicked between each of you, searching, calculating.

It couldn’t be.

Not now.

Not yet.

It made no sense. The timing was wrong. Everything was wrong. Your pulse hammered in your ears, each beat louder than the last as dread crept up your spine, cold and familiar. It was all so confusing.

…Today…?

The radio hummed softly between words, the silence stretched just long enough to make your skin prickle, and you knew—deep down—that whatever was coming next was about to change everything.

"Upside down."

𓏲ּ𝄢🎼ılılıll|̲̅̅●̲̅̅|̲̅̅=̲̅̅|̲̅̅●̲̅̅| llılılı🎼

TAGLIST!

@druthesigma @mosquit-no1 @aerissblog @otakusimp1 @rafessidemeal @applejjacks @olivebolivee @lalalandincraz @toeoffrog @mochi-ssu @su1c1dalt3ndenc1es @gumusservilvr

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part four: a familiar stranger

word count: 2.2k (sorry)

warnings: none, i think

three | four | five

Y/N stood behind the counter, arranging a new batch of books by the window, her fingers brushing the spines absently. The scent of fresh coffee mixed with the fragrant blooms that lined the shelves, creating an atmosphere that felt homely.

She was distracted, humming softly to herself as she dusted off the shelf when the door jingled again. Looking up, her eyes widened slightly at the tall figure stepping inside—a man in a dark suit, his posture casual but commanding. Her heart skipped a beat.

It was him – the man from the other night.

She recognized him instantly, though she couldn't place his name. That face—the sharp jawline, the slight stubble, the cool, collected demeanor—had stayed with her since that awful night in the alley. She still hadn’t quite figured out what had happened, or why she couldn’t shake the memory. His face lingered in the back of her mind every time she found herself alone, but the thought of him often made her skin prickle with unease.

She froze for a moment, unsure what to do. He wasn’t looking at her yet, and he seemed absorbed in browsing the shelves, his hands casually brushing over the books. Without thinking, she blurted out, “Hey, you!”

Lando's head snapped up, his hand twitching for his holster as his eyes locked onto hers for a moment. Lando kept his expression neutral, though his mind raced until he could finally place where he’d seen her before. His brows furrowed then – he hadn’t given her his name. He had left her with nothing: no reason to remember him, no reason to seek him out. 

Unless… 

No. She was looking at him with something almost like gratitude.

The girl looked different then the last time he saw her– not pale and shaking, not clutching a cup of tea like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart. She was standing behind the counter of the small shop, wearing an apron dusted with flour and smelling faintly of cinnamon and roses.

Oh, and she was looking right at him.

A slow beat passed. Lando tilted his head slightly, schooling his features into something neutral. “Do I know you?”

She waved, stepping forward through the swinging gate, shifting slightly on her feet like she wasn’t sure if she should be doing this. “I—uh, I don’t know if you remember me—”

He let out a quiet laugh. 

Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea.

The Brit allowed recognition to seep into his expression. “Yeah, yeah! Of course I do,” he said smoothly, tilting his head. “How are you?”

She brightened at that, clearly relieved. “Oh! Good. Yeah, um—” she gestured vaguely toward the shop, where books lined the windowsills and flowers spilled over wooden crates.

“I—uh—” she faltered, awkwardly pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, clearly realizing only after she had called out to him that she didn’t actually know his name. “I just—um—” She gestured vaguely, eyes darting to the street like she was suddenly unsure about everything.

He slipped his hands into his pockets, tilting his head slightly, playing along. “You just…?”

She hesitated, then let out a nervous little laugh. “I just—wanted to say thanks.”

Lando raised a brow, feigning curiosity. “For what?”

She blinked up at him, almost as if she was debating whether or not she’d imagined their last encounter entirely. “The other night,” she clarified, soft but certain. “When I… you know. Sort of… had a moment.”

A moment. That was one way to describe it.

Lando allowed an easy smile to curve his lips, playing the role easily—the kind stranger who just happened to be in the right place at the right time.

She wrung her hands nervously, trying to pick the right thing to say. “I work here. And, well, I saw you passing by, and I just—I felt bad about not thanking you properly before, and since you’re here now, I thought maybe—” She motioned awkwardly to the coffee bar. Her hands flailed a little, as if trying to physically grasp the right words.

Lando raised an eyebrow, amused despite himself.

She huffed, exhaling sharply before blurting out, “Do you want a free coffee?”

That… was not what he had been expecting.

He blinked. “What?”

“A coffee! Or, uh—” She hesitated, then pointed back to the menu boards. “I mean, we also have tea. And books. And flowers. I wouldn’t recommend eating the flowers, though, even if some of them are technically edible—”

Lando bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. 

“Or, um. A scone? If you like those. I mean, you don’t look like a scone person, but—”

She stopped herself, her cheeks warming. “Sorry. That was weird.”

Lando blinked. What the fuck.

This stranger who had seen something she shouldn’t have, who had been this close to being food for trees, and now she was… offering him free coffee. 

She was worrying about whether or not he was a… scone person?

Something twisted in his chest, something he couldn’t put his finger on. He wasn’t sure whether it was amusement or exasperation. For a moment, Lando just stared at her. He had been expecting to have to keep an eye on her from a distance. To make sure she hadn’t started asking too many questions, hadn’t put together the jagged pieces of what she had seen that night.

But here she was, looking at him like he was just some good Samaritan who had done a kind thing. Not the monster who had left blood on the pavement.

She gestured at the display case just beside them. “I also made cinnamon rolls earlier? They’re, um, not burned. So that’s a plus.”

He stared at her, and for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do.

She was odd, and noticeably so. There was a softness to her, like she wasn’t used to talking to people for too long. But she was also determined in that way people got when they had made up their mind about something.

It seemed she had made up her mind about him.

Lando should have walked away. Should have brushed her off, ignored her, let her exist in her little café world and left it at that. The smart thing to do would be to walk away. Instead, he found himself saying, “I wouldn’t say no to a coffee.”

Her whole face lit up. “Really?”

Lando smirked, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, alright,” he said smoothly, stepping closer. “Surprise me.”

As she spun around and practically bounced into the backroom, Lando followed along the counter, shaking his head. 

She doesn’t remember my face. 

Good.

Lando watched as she hurriedly started making something, moving with a little too much focus—like she wanted to get it right. He leaned casually against the counter, surveying the shop. It was small but warm, shelves lined with books and carefully arranged bouquets of all sorts of flowers from lilies to chrysanthemums to peonies.

It suits her, he thought.

She quickly ducked behind the counter to prepare the coffee. She could feel the heat in her cheeks. Her hands fumbled a bit as she worked—milk, no milk? Sugar?—she couldn’t decide. She didn't want to mess it up.

But as she focused on pouring the hot liquid, she couldn’t stop herself from stealing glances at him. He was still standing there, leaning against the counter, watching her, an unreadable expression on his face. She almost wanted to go back up to him and apologize for how weird she was being, but instead, she took a breath and tried to settle herself. She could do this. She could just be... normal.

"How’s your day been?" she asked suddenly, giving him a tentative smile. 

Is she being too friendly? Not friendly enough?

“I mean, I don’t... I don’t know what you’re in town for, but…” she gave him a once over,” —like business or something?”

Lando chuckled lightly, scanning the passing people through the large windows with an analytical gaze. “Yeah, something like that,” he replied absentmindedly, leaning back against the counter. “Mostly just meetings n’ shit. Nothin’ too excitin’.”

The coffee machine hissed, a brief distraction from the awkward silence that lingered between them. For the first time in hours, the knot in her chest loosened just a little. Surprisingly, it was him that broke the silence. Turning his attention back to her, he suddenly asked, “Why books?”

His question about the books caught her off guard, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized that books were the one thing that hadn’t ever failed her. She clung to them like a lifeline, especially nowadays.

“Margot lets me do pretty much whatever I want,” she laughed lightly, clearly fond of the elderly shopkeeper. “I… uh, like to read, so I curate some stuff for here, and then if anyone finds something they like, they can just buy it.”

“D’you have a favorite?”

To his credit, he almost appeared genuinely curious. But Y/N had given her bookish rants to enough people to know how boring they were, so she gave him a smile anyway.

She hadn’t noticed how intense his eyes were – geodes of green and gray and gold. It took a conscious effort to avoid eye contact with him. His gaze was always direct, as if giving the person in front of him his full attention. Something about it made her feel nervous, analyzed.

“I… I don’t know. There’s this one I really like. The Night Circus? It’s a fantasy — sounds dumb, I know— but it’s not just about magic. It’s about… well, people, really.”

Lando’s eyes glimmered, his head tilted in interest. “Fantasy, ay? Didn’ think you were the type, to be honest.”

“Yeah,” she laughed weakly, smiling a little easier now. “It probably sounds cringey, but that one… it’s different. It’s dark, but beautiful. Like… it’s about choices. And sacrifices. The kind of things people don’t think about until it’s too late.”

He appeared to consider her words, nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds like you’ve got a thing for dark, complicated stories.”

She laughed. Before she could think too much about it, the next words were already out of her mouth. “You’re one to talk.”

Lando smirked, but there was no malice behind it, just acknowledgement. “Fair enough. I s’ppose I’ve got a bit of a story m’self.”

The way he said it, with such casual ease, made her wonder. But before she could ask, he went on, his voice soft and steady.

“Well, I’m just glad you’re safe.”

His words were simple, but there was something in the way he said it. A beat passed before she finished making his drink and slid it toward him, smiling nervously. “Here you go. I hope you like it.”

Lando took a slow sip, keeping his expression unreadable. He could feel her eyes on him as he did.

“...So?” she asked, her voice almost hopeful.

He let the silence hang just long enough for her to start rocking on her feet. Then he gave a small nod. “Not bad.”

She visibly relaxed, pleased with herself.

Lando smirked against the rim of the cup. 

She had no idea who she was dealing with.

“You’re a good person.”

She looked up from the counter she’d been wiping at.  

Well that was unexpected.

“You’ve got a way with words,” she laughs softly.

He shrugged, the motion effortless. “I’m good at getting people to trust me.”

Just then, for a second, her pulse quickened. His words hung in the air, almost too heavy, too meaningful. But he didn’t give her too much time to think about it. Before she could think too hard about it, she watched him slip back into his suit jacket with a pensive look on his face.

"What do I call you?"

The question hung in the air for a long beat.

Lando’s heart skipped—just a beat. His brain moved fast, calculating options, weighing the risks. He could lie, give her a fake name. But there was something about her that made lying feel wrong.

He considered his options, the name he might give, but all of them felt too close to the truth. Out here, in the open, surrounded by people. It was all too exposed.

Lando opened his mouth, and the lie came naturally, like a practiced reflex. "I go by… Liam."

Liam. It wasn’t far off. Close enough to feel realistic, yet distant enough to keep his true identity unknown.

Her eyes sparkled, expressing brightening at that. "Liam. That’s nice. A strong name."

He just nodded, hoping she couldn’t see the tightness in his jaw. His phone begins to vibrate in his pocket.

"Well, Liam, it’s nice to finally know your name."

And for a moment, Lando almost believed her. For just a moment, it almost felt like he was just a man in a coffee shop, having a drink with someone who wasn’t afraid of what he was capable of.

It wasn’t long before he realized how dangerous that thought was.

Because she didn’t know.

"Yeah," he said, his voice quieter now. "Nice to meet you."

He needed to leave before he started thinking too much. But as he turned to walk out, she stopped him again. "Liam," she said, her voice softer this time, as if testing the weight of his name in her mouth. "Will I see you again?"

Will you?

The only answer that felt honest was the one he couldn’t give. Instead, he smiled—a smile that didn’t reach his eyes—and nodded.

"Maybe." And with that, he stepped out into the evening air, leaving her behind as he headed back to the real world — his world.

[buggboyy200]

At least he has some company now.

[thelonelyshore-if]

mc will have a chance to take their shirt off????

If MC's ribs are injured in the crash they can take their shirt off in the gas station bathroom!! Potentially in front of Jay or Ravi, even!

(otherwise, setting MC's chest is a part of the nsfw customization sequence, so it also comes up if MC hooks up with Yasmin, tho ig their shirt technically stays on lol )

[saphicangel]

orbital mechanics: edge work

Kk Harvey x femme!reader

synopsis: you've always found comfort in the order of things: the careful arcs of particles, the certainty of formulas. caroline harvey moves through life like a force you can't calculate, impossible to ignore and harder to forget. somehow, the two of you end up lab partners.

content warnings: college setting, slow burn, idiots in love, friends to lovers, physics (yeah it's a warning), tooth rotting fluff, internalized homophobia, reader has rough relationship with parents, pining, possible smut;)

➢chapter four || next chapter

You don’t fall asleep right away.

You try different positions without meaning to, turning onto your side, then your back, then back again, as if your body might eventually land on the version of itself that knows how to settle. The room stays dim and still, the blinds breaking the streetlight into thin lines across the ceiling. Your roommate’s breathing is even in the dark, steady enough that you can almost pretend it should be contagious.

It isn’t.

There’s a restlessness under your skin that doesn’t match the stillness of everything else. You keep telling yourself tomorrow is just a plan, something simple you agreed to without thinking too much about it. But your mind doesn’t really accept “simple” as an answer tonight. It keeps circling back, not to a single memory, but to the idea of it — the rink, the unfamiliar space, her there in it like it belongs to her in a way you can’t quite anticipate.

And then, unhelpfully, to you being there too.

You think about how easy it was to say yes, and how much less easy it feels now that it’s real in a way that has a time and a place attached to it. It isn’t even fear, exactly. More like awareness of all the things you can’t quite predict yet — how you’ll act when it’s just the two of you outside the structure you’re used to, whether you’ll still sound like yourself when there’s nothing academic to hold onto, whether you’ll end up overthinking every pause the way you are now.

The ceiling doesn’t offer much in return for any of this.

So your thoughts keep going anyway, drifting back to her without needing permission, the way she looked when she said it like it mattered less as a question and more as something already decided, and how easily you agreed despite yourself.

Eventually, you stop trying to settle and just lie there with it, awake in a way that doesn’t feel like it’s going anywhere yet.

She’d insisted on walking you back to your dorm. She was just trying to be nice, but your mind keeps replaying the brief quiet where neither of you seemed eager to say goodnight.

You stare up at the ceiling, letting it blur slightly at the edges as your eyes stay open longer than they should.

She had been close enough that you noticed things you probably wouldn’t have otherwise—the faint warmth of her presence cutting through the cold air, the way she lingered for a second longer than necessary before turning away. There had been a moment where it felt like she might say something, something small and ordinary, and then she didn’t.

You turn that over in your head without meaning to.

Your stomach tightens faintly, more out of confusion than anything you can name cleanly.

You roll onto your side, pulling the pillow closer like it might anchor your thoughts somewhere else.

It doesn’t really help.

It’s probably nothing, you tell yourself. It makes sense that it’s nothing. She’s like that with people — easy, open, unguarded in a way that doesn’t require interpretation. You’ve seen it in class, in passing conversations, the way she talks like she’s never second-guessing the space she takes up.

So there’s no reason to assign meaning where there isn’t any.

Still, your mind doesn’t fully let it go.

It keeps circling back to the idea that tomorrow you’re actually going to see her again, outside the structure you’ve gotten used to. Not in a classroom where there’s something to focus on, not in a setting where you can pretend everything is purely functional. Somewhere unfamiliar enough that you won’t quite know what version of yourself shows up.

And that uncertainty is what lingers most, not her specifically, but the gap between how easily she seems to exist in situations like this and how carefully you tend to move through them.

You pull the blanket higher, staring into the inky blackness of the room until it stops feeling like a shape and just becomes something you’re lying inside of.

Then there’s the rink factor that keeps haunting you, as if it’s been waiting for a gap in your thoughts.

You’ve never really skated before. There was that one time on rollerblades with your sister, the kind of memory that comes back more as sensation than story—uneven pavement, too much confidence at the start, then the sudden loss of it, and the very immediate decision after that to never try again. Not exactly a reassuring reference point.

So your mind fills in the rest on its own.

The idea keeps replaying—you slipping, making a fool of yourself in front of her, and her realizing she’d rather hang out with someone who actually belongs in the world she’s immersed in, not some clumsy biophysicist.

You turn your face into the pillow with a small, frustrated exhale, as if that might interrupt the loop.

It doesn’t.

You lie there for a moment longer before the question surfaces again, sharper this time only because you already know the answer before you reach it.

Why did you agree?

Because you wanted to.

It arrives too cleanly to argue with, which is part of the problem.

Because you like her. Not in any way that feels structured or sensible when you examine it closely—just something that crept in gradually and now makes itself obvious in moments like this, when there’s nothing else to focus on. A childish crush, you suppose, the kind that doesn’t announce itself so much as it accumulates in hindsight.

You shift onto your back again, the ceiling barely visible in the dark.

Tomorrow won’t be the library or a classroom, where there’s something to hold onto if the silence gets too long. It’ll be her space instead, somewhere she knows exactly what to do without thinking, and where you’ll be trying to figure out how to exist without overcorrecting every step.

You don’t even know how many people will be there.

It’s strange how that thought only arrives now, as if your brain had been avoiding it on purpose. You let it sit for a moment, then let it go.

Tomorrow, you’ll see what happens.

_____

The rink is louder when she isn’t on the ice.

Caroline sits on the wooden bench in the locker room, elbows resting on her knees, slowly retaping the blade of her stick even though it doesn’t really need it. The fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead, and the distant scrape of skates carries through the walls from an earlier session.

She’s only half paying attention to what she’s doing.

Two days.

It’s only been two days, but the memory keeps resurfacing anyway—the soft spill of library light across the table, your shoulder dipping closer as you explained something she barely followed, the quieter edge your voice took on when it wasn’t meant for anyone else.

She’s heard you talk in class before, of course. Confident, precise, like the idea is already fully formed before it leaves your mouth. But that night had been different. You weren’t performing. You weren’t trying to land anything or prove anything. You were just… talking. To her.

She exhales through her nose, slow.

She hopes you actually come.

Not because she doubts you—she doesn’t—but because she’s already started holding onto the thought of it, and now it feels strangely fragile. She finds herself replaying small details from the other night, things she barely noticed then and can’t quite let go of now.

She told herself it was simple. Just skating. Just something to show you. But now it feels less contained than that. Like she’d reached for a reason to be around you and only noticed afterward how much she’d wanted one.

She hopes she didn’t make it too much. Too direct. Too easy to misread.

And she really hopes you didn’t decide, somewhere between agreeing and now, that it would be simpler not to come after all.

“You’ve gone over the same spot three times.”

Caroline glances up. Laila’s propped against the lockers, watching her with quiet amusement.

“I noticed.”

“Didn’t seem like it.”

Caroline presses the tape down again. “Just fixing it.”

Her friend tilts her head. “You’ve been ‘fixing’ it for five minutes. This about library girl?”

Caroline’s hand pauses. “She has a name.”

“Yeah,” Laila says. “And you’re still not saying it.”

Caroline rolls her eyes, but warmth creeps into her face anyway. “I invited her here.”

“I know.”

Caroline looks up. “You know?”

“You’ve been weird since Tuesday,” Laila says, shrugging. “Also you asked me what time the public skate was, like, three times.”

Caroline exhales. “She’s coming today.”

The girls eyebrows lift, but her expression softens a little. “Okay. So this is why you’ve been distracted all morning.”

“I’m not distracted.”

“You showed up early,” Laila says. “You never show up early for public skate. And you’ve checked the clock at least five times.”

Caroline opens her mouth, then closes it again. “That doesn’t mean I’m nervous.”

Laila shrugs. “It means you care.”

Caroline looks away for a second, jaw tightening faintly. “She’s… different.”

“Different how?”

Caroline hesitates. “She’s really smart. Like—I don’t know— she talks about things and they actually makes sense. And she doesn’t try to simplify it for me. She just… explains it.”

Laila’s mouth quirks slightly. “And that’s intimidating?”

“A little,” Caroline admits, quieter now. “I don’t want her to think this is stupid.”

She gestures loosely toward the rink, like the word isn’t quite enough to cover it.

Her friend pushes off the locker, moving a bit closer. “You’re literally one of the best players on the team.”

“That’s not the same thing,” Caroline says. “She’s in a different kind of world. Labwork, science, all of that—it’s just…” She shrugs once. “Not mine.”

Laila studies her for a second.

“You like her,” she says matter-of-factly.

Caroline huffs. “I just don’t want to scare her off.”

“That’s not a no.”

Caroline doesn’t answer.

The silence that follows feels longer than it should.

She thinks, unhelpfully, of the way you said her name. It had stayed with her, lingering in a way she didn’t know what to do with. There had been a small, unfamiliar warmth that followed it, like she’d only just realized she was hearing it properly for the first time.

She swallows that thought before it can settle.

“She looked nervous Laila,” she says instead, after a moment. “At the library. I don’t want to make that worse.”

Laila exhales, less sharp now. “Then don’t turn it into a thing. Just be normal.”

Caroline gives a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “That’s your advice?”

“It’s solid advice,” Laila says. “You’re the one making it complicated.”

Caroline shakes her head, grabbing her gloves. “I’m going out early.”

“Shocker,” Laila teases.

Caroline heads for the door, then pauses.

“What if she hates it?” she asks, almost under her breath, like saying it too clearly might make it more real.

Lila lets out a small, amused huff. “Then she’ll have witnessed you do something impressive at least once in your life. That’s hardly a loss.”

Caroline gives her a look. “Wow, you are on a roll today”

“Relax,” the girl huffs a laugh, pushing off the lockers. “She’s too smart not to like you.”

Caroline shakes her head faintly, but the tension in her shoulders loosens just a fraction anyway. She adjusts her gloves once, then twice, like her hands need somewhere to go, and finally moves toward the exit.

The moment she pushes the door open, the air changes.

Cold slides in immediately—clean, sharp, familiar. The noise follows next: distant skates carving into ice, the low hum of the rink beyond the corridor, voices echoing faintly off the walls. It feels bigger out here, more open, like everything is already in motion without her.

She steps into it anyway.

This is her element.

And still, as she starts toward the ice, there’s a thought that lingers just behind the ease of it—

That of course she wants you to be impressed.

She just can’t stop thinking about what comes after, and whether you’ll still be there for it.

____

You wake before your alarm.

For a second you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember what normal mornings are supposed to feel like. Then it hits all at once—the rink, the time, the fact that you said yes and there is no version of reality where you wouldn’t say yes, so now you are going.

Your stomach flips.

Okay. Fine. That’s fine. It’s just skating. It’s just her. It’s just— no, don’t think about it too much.

You get up too quickly like that will help.

Getting ready turns into a problem you did not consent to solving this early. You change your sweater, then immediately think: no, too much? too little? what does “too much” even mean in a rink context? Do people even look at sweaters or are you just inventing social surveillance again—

You change it again.

Better. Probably. You hope.

You check the time. Even though you know the time. Then again. Because numbers are comforting until they aren’t.

What if you’re too early. What if you’re too late. What if there’s some unspoken timing rule you’ve missed and everyone else knows it except you.

You don’t have time to think about it cause you leave anyway.

Outside, the air is sharp enough to make your thoughts briefly pause, like they’ve been reset. Your hands stay buried in your pockets as you walk, shoulders slightly too tense, your body is anticipating outcomes before they happen.

And still your brain keeps going anyway.

What if the clothes are wrong. What if you look like you’re trying too hard. What if you’re not trying hard enough and that’s worse. What if her entire team is there and they hate you—

You inhale.

Okay. Relax. It’s not even a date.

Just get there.

When you reach the rink, you hesitate at the entrance.

Inside, it’s colder than you expected. The smell hits first—sharp, clean ice mixed with rubber and something metallic. The overhead lights reflect off the surface, making the rink look brighter than the rest of the building. There aren’t many people yet. A few scattered figures at the far end. Mostly empty.

Then you see her.

Caroline is already on the ice.

She’s moving fast, cutting across the rink in smooth, controlled lines. It’s immediately obvious this is different from anything you’ve watched online. The speed doesn’t translate the same way through a screen. Here, you can hear the edges bite into the ice, the quick shifts of weight, the faint spray when she stops sharply.

She turns, accelerates again, weaving through a set of cones. Her posture is low, balanced, completely sure. There’s no hesitation in her movements—just instinct layered over precision. She adjusts mid-stride without breaking rhythm, like she’s constantly recalculating without thinking about it.

Your attention is laser focused on her.

She looks completely at ease.

It’s almost disorienting, seeing her like this. Before she’d been relaxed, but still careful, still aware. Here she moves like the space belongs to her. Like she understands it in a way you never could.

She pivots sharply, skates backward for a few seconds, then turns again, gliding across the center of the rink. The light catches on the faint flush in her cheeks. Her breath is visible in short bursts.

You feel something tighten in your chest.

You’d seen highlights, sure. Clips of games, quick edits. But this is different. This is the quiet between plays, the repetition, the control. This is the part that doesn’t get recorded.

She’s a genius in her own field.

The realization comes slow, but it changes something. You suddenly feel more nervous than before and not just because you’re about to step onto ice.

She slows, glancing toward the boards, and that’s when she spots you.

Her expression shifts immediately. The focus softens, replaced by something warmer. She skates toward you, carving an easy arc before stopping near the edge.

Up close, there’s the faint rise and fall of her breath, the cold clinging lightly to her skin, the way she seems to settle into stillness differently here than she does anywhere else.

“You’re early,” she says, lifting a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair back under her headband.

“I didn’t want to be late,” you reply, suddenly too aware of your own voice in the open space between you.

Her mouth curves slightly, something easy and unforced. “Good.”

She doesn’t move away straight away.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she adds, like it’s not something she had to decide to say.

She hops over the boards, blades clicking softly against the rubber as she comes onto the walkway. She’s standing right next to you now, her eyes still bright from the ice.

“You okay?” she asks, head tilting.

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. I think so. I just— I should probably say I’ve never done this. Like, ever. There was rollerblading once, but that was… a disaster. I hit the ground pretty much immediately and decided I was done with anything involving wheels or blades or forward motion in general.”

You stop, realizing you’re still talking.

Caroline’s mouth tilts, not quite a laugh, more like she’s trying not to make you feel self-conscious about it. “That’s fine.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah,” she says, like it’s obvious. “It just means we take it slow.”

She shifts slightly closer to the edge of the ice, not crowding you, just… there, within reach if you needed it. Her hand rests lightly on the top of the boards as she looks at you.

“I’ll help you on,” she adds.

A beat.

Then, softer — almost absent, like she assumes it without needing to say it out loud:

“You’re not going to do it alone.”

A few minutes later, you’re standing on the ice.

The moment your weight fully settles onto it, you realize nothing in your life has prepared you for how unstable “standing still” can feel here. Your hands find the railing immediately and stay there, fingers tightening around it like it might disappear if you let go.

The surface under your feet doesn’t feel like ground so much as a suggestion of one.

Caroline steps onto the ice beside you like a pro (which she is obviously), “Okay,” she begins, voice softer than it was off the ice. “Try not to panic.”

“I’m not panicking,” you say, which is an immediate lie your body contradicts.

“You’re doing good so far.”

“I haven’t moved yet.”

“Believe it or not, that’s part of it,” she reassures, like that settles the argument completely.

She shifts a little closer, not rushing you, just adjusting to your space the way someone does when they’re paying attention without announcing it.

“Can I—” she starts, then stops.

You nod before she even finishes.

Her hands come to your elbows, light at first, just enough to anchor you without taking over. There’s warmth through the layers, steady and real, and your focus narrows immediately to the fact that you are now extremely aware of where your arms are.

“Try and push towards me,” she instructs gently. “It’s okay.”

You try, but your skate slides away from you, a fraction too far, and your grip snaps instinctively onto her sleeve.

She doesn’t react like it’s a problem. She just steadies you, firming her hold slightly without changing the ease in her voice.

“Easy,” she mutters gently, steadying you. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

You take another small step. Then another.

Each one is cautious, uncertain, your balance still negotiating with the ice. Caroline moves with you without making it feel like she’s moving for you — adjusting only when she needs to, matching your pace like it’s something she can easily fall into.

You become aware of her in a different way now. Not just beside you, but close enough that you notice the rhythm of her movement syncing with yours.

“You’re not even trying,” you say, half accusation, half something softer you don’t quite name.

“I am,” she replies immediately. “I’m trying not to let you fall.”

That earns a breath of a laugh from you, small and unsteady in the cold air. She beams.

Your hand brushes hers again as you shift your weight. It happens quickly, incidental, almost— but neither of you acknowledges it. Caroline simply readjusts a fraction closer, like there was never any question about whether she would.

“Look forward,” she says, quieter now. “Not down.”

You try.

“See? you’re getting it,” she beams.

You snort

“Yeah, I’m one step away from a wildly dramatic fall and a hospital visit.”

A laugh catches in her throat, quick and unplanned. She shakes her head slightly as if that alone might reset her composure. “I’m being encouraging.”

“You’re being cautiously optimistic,” you correct, still trying very hard to focus on your feet and not the fact that ice is apparently optional in its commitment to stability.

Her smile lingers this time.

“I can be both,” she says, like she’s considering you more than the sentence itself.

You risk a small glance at her. “That feels like a dangerous combination in a coach.”

A pause—her gaze flicks to you properly this time, assessing, amused.

“I’m not your coach,” she corrects, too fast for it to be casual, then lets the moment soften as she exhales a small laugh. “I’m just a girl trying to keep you upright.”

“Well,” you say, ignoring the tell tale feeling of heat climbing up your neck. “On the bright side, if you fail, and I do fall, at least it’ll be consistent with my previous record of athletic excellence.”

A beat. She blinks once then her entire face lights up, as she laughs—real and unguarded. You almost fall over.

“Y’know you’re kind of funny when you’re stressed,” she observes, eyes still bright.

Your head snaps up slightly. “So, that wasn’t stress. That was controlled scientific caution.”

“Mm, was it?” she hums, pressing her lips together to hold in a laugh, clearly unconvinced, but it seems irrelevant, because she’s smiling anyway.

“You’re not as bad as you think,” she offers, and her cheeks heat up.

“I think you’re just good at compensating,” you counter, noticing her sudden flush and chalking it up to the cold of the rink.

Her mouth tilts. “That too.”

You glance at her, brief but deliberate. “Show-off.”

She chuckles softly, the sound carrying across the mostly empty rink and dissolving into the open space around you.

You make the last stretch back toward where you started without noticing when your shoulders stopped being rigid. Your steps are still careful, but they don’t feel like negotiations anymore. Caroline stays close, not hovering, just near enough that the possibility of reaching for her sits in the background rather than at the front of your mind.

When you slow, you realize you’re still clinging to her, loosely now, more out of habit than necessity.

Neither of you comments on it.

You shift your weight again, more carefully this time, testing how much of it is really yours to control. “How long did it take you to learn?”

The question comes out casual, but you’re already watching her, curious in a way that has very little to do with skating technique.

Caroline tilts her head, thinking, her gaze drifting across the rink like she’s looking back through something. “I don’t really remember. I started when I was little.” She gives a small shrug. “Mostly I remember falling. A lot.”

“That’s reassuring,” you say, though your attention lingers on the way she says it—easily, without embarrassment.

Her smile softens. “You’re doing better than I did. I used to refuse to let go of the boards.”

“That sounds exactly like me five minutes ago.”

“Yeah,” she remarks, glancing at your feet, then back up, “but you did eventually let go.”

You hesitate before answering, because it feels important to get it right. “You were holding me up.”

“I still am,” she says, she says, almost absentmindedly.

There’s nothing pointed in it—just a simple acknowledgment—but it sticks anyway, and you find yourself a little more willing to learn.

You push forward again, steady, testing each shift before committing to it. Caroline matches your pace automatically, easing her stride so you don’t have to think about keeping up.

After a moment, she gestures with a small tilt of her chin toward the open center of the rink. “Wanna try a bigger loop?” The suggestion sounds casual, like she’s offering rather than encouraging.

You hesitate, eyeing the extra distance. “If you promise not to let me fall.”

Her smile is quick, a little amused at the edges. “I promise… that I’ll try,” she adds, the tease soft enough that it almost slips by.

You raise an amused brow at her. “So you’ve got jokes now?”

She shifts her shoulders in a half-shrug, skating just slightly ahead before easing back into step with you. “My friends do all say I’m the funniest person on the team.”

“Mhm,” you hum, considering her with exaggerated seriousness. “And that’s in addition to being the best player on the team?”

A small laugh escapes her, quieter this time, like she wasn’t expecting you to push it. “Yeah,” she admits playfully, glancing sideways at you. “That too.”

“Impressive résumé,” you compliment.

You circle a little wider than before, trying to sound as casual as possible. “You make this look… very easy,”

The blonde breaths out a laugh. “It doesn’t feel easy.”

“Well,” you breathe out, “you make it look like it is.” Your gaze follows the effortless correction in her balance. “You don’t even hesitate.”

She shrugs, bashful under your appreciation, glancing down at the ice as she glides. “I’ve been doing it a long time. After a while you just… stop overthinking every movement.”

You tilt your head slightly, considering that. “That must be nice.”

She looks at you briefly, like she’s trying to figure out whether you mean skating or something else. “You do that too, though. In class.”

You blink. “Overthink?”

“No,” she says, quick to correct herself, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “The opposite. You explain things like you already know where they’re going.”

You look down at your skates, adjusting your footing. “That’s mostly an illusion.”

“Still counts.”

You take another careful step. “I think I prefer problems where the ground doesn’t move.”

“That’s fair,” she says, amused. “But you’re adjusting.”

You regard her, a little more confident than before. “And you’re surprisingly encouraging,”

Her mouth curves. “I’m trying not to scare you off,” she admits, the tease light but deliberate.

Your gaze snaps to hers. Up close, her eyes look brighter against the cold air, the pale blue catching the overhead lights in a way that makes you look a second longer than you mean to. “You never scared me.”

One eyebrow lifts, just slightly. “Your grip says otherwise.”

You automatically loosen your hold on her arm, heat creeping up the back of your neck.

“That- that’s just because of the ice,” you protest, adjusting your grip, fingers aware of the solid line of muscle beneath it.

Caroline scrunches her nose like she’s considering whether to accept that excuse. She glances down briefly, then looks back up at you from under her lashes, expression openly unconvinced.

“That’s very reassuring then.”

She turns her head forward again. You follow a beat late, still recalibrating your balance and reminding yourself, firmly, that feet are supposed to be the main focus here.

Caroline glances sideways at you just as she adds, lightly, “Try not to admire the scenery too much.”

Your heart stops for a second before you catch the relaxed expression on her face, and snort despite yourself. Then of course that’s the exact moment your balance gives out.

For a split second, you tip the wrong way, instinct kicking in too late—

Her hand is already there at your waist, steadying you before the panic can properly form.

“Woah, okay,” she says, like nothing happened at all, though the corner of her mouth is still trying—and failing—to stay neutral.

A beat later, it breaks into a quiet laugh anyway, and you follow before you can think about it.

It stays low between you, unforced, carried softly across the empty rink and fading into the open space as you keep moving.

Somewhere around the second loop, the conversation stops stalling the way it did at the start. She mentions early practices, you answer with something about research that keeps you up all night, and instead of trailing off, it just keeps going.

She reacts more fully now when you speak— you realize you like it when she’s unguarded around you like this. Makes it easier to keep talking. You stop pausing before you answer. It feels less like taking turns and more like following each other’s rhythm without planning it.

By the time you notice, the silence between you isn’t something you’re managing anymore.

__

You slow near the boards, catching your breath. “Okay,” you start, still riding the afterimage of movement. “This is actually more fun than i expected.”

Caroline hasn’t been able to tear her eyes away from you this whole time. She hopes It’s not obvious— just that her attention keeps catching on small things like the way you’re breathing a little faster, or the way your hair has gotten all windswept and is now framing your face beautifully.

When you speak, something in her expression shifts immediately. The relief that follows is subtle but unmistakable, softening her face before she even realizes it.

“Yeah?” she asks, but it comes out quieter than before, a little dazed, a little too pleased, like she’s still catching up to the idea that you’re actually enjoying this, that you’re here, that it isn’t something she imagined wrong.

“Yeah”

She shifts her weight and taps the ice once with her blade, like she’s marking the moment rather than responding to it. “Told you.”

You let your attention drift across the rink for a second, still slightly breathless, before looking back at her. “You’re a good teacher.”

That gets a small, almost reluctant shrug out of her—but she doesn’t hide the way her expression changes, like she’s trying not to look too pleased and failing.

“You aren’t as impossible to teach as you acted like you’d be,” she says instead, skating a fraction closer as if it’s not something she’s thinking about.

You lean back lightly against the boards, smile still there without you really calling it. “Don’t get too confident, there’s still room for disappointment.”

Her mouth twitches. “I’m already confident.”

There’s a brief pause as your gaze drifts toward the open stretch of ice, the center of the rink where the light looks a little brighter, a little emptier.

Then back to her.

“So…” you start, trying to make it sound like it came out of nowhere and not like you’ve been thinking about it for the last minute. “What else can you do?”

The blondes attention catches on you immediately. “You mean besides preventing you from falling?”

“Yes,” you huff, nudging your skate forward a fraction like you’re proving you’re still capable of forward motion. “The advanced stuff. The impressive part.”

Her expression shifts in a way that’s almost invisible at first, as if she hadn’t expected you to ask that, then settles into mild amusement.

“You want a demonstration?”

You hesitate just long enough to feel slightly ridiculous, then shrug. “I mean… I saw you before.” A beat. “You looked pretty good.”

It comes out more honest than you meant it to.

And for a second, she just looks at you—not reacting right away, like she’s deciding what to do with that information.

“Did I?” she asks, mouth tilting like she already knows the answer she wants.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you say, dry on instinct, though it doesn’t quite land the way you intended.

Her gaze holds for a second longer than necessary, like she’s weighing something she doesn’t say out loud. Then she tips her head toward the open ice. “Okay. Stay here. Hold the boards.”

“I feel like that’s code for ‘don’t move.’”

“It is,” she admits, and the smile that follows is quick — almost amused at how easily you’ve read her.

You shift your hands to the boards, fingers curling lightly into the padding as she pushes off.

The change is immediate.

She’s not matching your pace anymore, not adjusting or waiting — just moving. Clean, confident strides carry her across the rink in long lines that look almost unhurried until you realize how fast she’s actually going. She leans into a curve and the ice answers cleanly, edges biting, body balanced in a way that looks less like effort and more like certainty.

For a moment you stop tracking words altogether.

She pivots sharply, gliding backward with an ease that makes it look like forward motion in disguise, then turns again, already rebuilding speed as she cuts across the ice.

Cold air, distant rink noise—everything fades slightly behind the movement.

Then she slows, stopping in a controlled spray that fans out and settles around her skates, and only then does she turn back toward you, like she’s remembered you’re there at all.

You’re still staring at the ice when she comes back toward you, because your brain is still trying to reconcile what you just watched with normal human movement.

“You should probably disclose that in advance,” you say as she slows near the boards.

Caroline snorts softly. “I did. You just didn’t believe me.”

“That’s fair. I also didn’t believe I’d willingly stand on something this unstable again after the rollerblading incident.”

That earns her attention.

“You still skate after that?” she asks.

“Not really,” you admit. “I mostly fell into a mailbox and decided it wasn’t for me as a concept.”

A quiet laugh slips out of her, a little surprised, like she wasn’t expecting that level of specific failure.

“I used to have a teammate like that,” she says, resting a hand on the boards. “She refused to leave the ice for anything. Thought falling meant you were ‘building familiarity.’ She said it like it was a philosophy.”

“That sounds like something a physics major would say right before injuring themselves,” you retort.

“Exactly,” she smiles, amused. “She plays in Europe now. Still falls a lot.”

You hum. “So there’s hope for me.”

“Lower expectations,” she corrects immediately.

That makes you smile despite yourself.

She shifts closer, still casual, or at least trying to be. “Alright. One adjustment. You’re thinking too early.”

“That’s not a technical term.”

“It is in my world,” she quips. “You hesitate before you even need to move.”

You hum. “I call that risk assessment.”

“I call it slowing yourself down,” she replies.

A beat.

Then she adds, almost offhand, “My sister does the same thing when she drives. It’s why I don’t let her near parking structures.”

You didn’t know she had a sister, you realize you actually don’t know that much about her other than the obvious, you find yourself wanting to know as much as possible. Before you can ponder it more her hand finds yours gently, and you forget how to slack for a moment.”

“C’mon we’ll try gliding next, you’ll be skating circles around me in no time.”

You look at her, unable to resist the sweet tone inner voice and sigh. “Fine. But If I fall, I’m blaming your family.”

“Totally fair,” she agrees without missing a beat, already pushing off.

You let her help you reset your stance—skates angled slightly outward, knees soft, weight centered over the blades and face probably redder than a tomato.

you just watch her reset her stance; skates angled slightly outward, knees soft, weight centered over the blades like gravity is optional when you know what you’re doing.

Then she straightens, taking your right hand again.

“Okay,” she says, “this time don’t step. Just push and let the blade glide.”

“Easier said than done.”

“That’s exactly what it is.”

She adjusts your hand in hers, and you feel it immediately when she moves: the difference between shuffling and sliding.

“Lean forward a bit,” she instructs. “Not your whole body. Just enough to stay over your inside edges.”

“My what now?”

“Inside edge,” she repeats, like it’s obvious. “The blade will do the work if you stop fighting it.”

You do your best to follow instructions.

It’s not smooth, but it’s longer than before—a real glide instead of a series of saved moments. Your weight wobbles once, instinctively trying to correct too hard—

Her hand steadies you instantly, no stall, like she was already expecting it.

“Easy,” she mutters, calmer now. “Let it catch you. Don’t chase it.”

“I am deeply uncomfortable with how much trust that requires.”

“You’re doing it anyway,” she points out

“I’m not sure that was my decision.”

A soft laugh slips out of her. “It sorta was.”

You manage another glide, more stable this time. Her grip only tightens when you need it, then loosens again like she’s adjusting to you rather than controlling you.

“I think I’m a better figure skater than you.

“I’m going to say something controversial,” you mutter.

“Hit me,” she responds immediately, already easing her pace like she’s preparing for the worst.

“I think I’m a better skater than you.”

Caroline actually stops half a beat too cleanly, turning her head toward you.

“…You think what?”

You keep your eyes forward, like this is a completely reasonable scientific statement. “Well, any good scientist knows not to dismiss a result just because it contradicts expectation.”

“That’s not how skating works,” she squints, amused.

“It is if you consider baseline performance under initial conditions,” you reply. “And compared to your first-time performance, where you specifically said you ‘kept falling,’ I’d say my current trajectory is objectively superior.”

That earns you a laugh from her, the intoxicating sound that you would make a complete fool of yourself just to invoke more of.

“You’re comparing yourself to my worst case scenario,” she defends.

“I’m comparing datasets,” you correct.

Caroline shakes her head slightly as she skates beside you again. “That’s not how datasets work either, if I remember our professor correctly.”

“Still,” you continue, “my error rate is currently lower.”

“Mm,” she hums, glancing at you like she’s genuinely considering this now. “I think your sample size is a little optimistic.”

You narrow your eyes. “That sounds like deflection.”

“That sounds like caution,” she counters easily. “I thought good scientists don’t conclude on one trial.”

You pause just slightly mid-glide. “If you’re saying I need more data-”

“I’m saying,” she stops you, tone lighter now but clearly entertained, “you might need to come again.”

Oh

“Oh,” you chirp, too casual for the way your pulse is racing right now. “Well, in that case, I suppose I should run another trial. For accuracy.”

Something softens around her eyes, like sunlight finding a gap it wasn’t looking for.

“Anytime you want,” she mumbles, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

And she says it so easily that it takes you a second too long to remember how to breathe normally.

a/n: long ass chapter to make up for how short the last chapter was. Lowkey did not proofread everything guys please forgive me for any mistakes🙏 i actually had a lot of fun writing this chapter, less physics metaphors if anyone noticed cause this is Caroline’s turf.

As always feedback is appreciated, any constructive criticism on the dialogue will also help cause I struggle there😭

taglist: @imonagetawaycar @averagelobotomyenjoyer

[anthrofractal]

DESCRIPTION: Nomiani says, "Okay. Thank you for coming this far." With that, the two part ways. Joy's History heads back towards the swamps, and Nomiani continues down towards the layered pit. Once down there, they stop and look around. It's eerily quiet. The pit is lined with layers of soft, pressed stones that seem to sparkle. Some of the sparkle has flaked off into piles of powder.

Choose one:

Pick up sparkling powder

Examine the strata

Go south

Go west

Remaining time: 1 day 23 hours