summary: navigating a complicated relationship with cook isn’t so easy.
word count: 8.3k (im sorry)
a/n: i’ve been writing this on and off for a little while now; i really wanted to make a fic where i write cook like he is in the actual show!! it’s based off of how i interpret one of my favourite elliott smith songs and i wanted to do it justice! i hope you guys enjoy and definitely listen to the it if you haven’t before :)
Situations get fucked up and turned around sooner or later / I'm in love with the world through the eyes of a girl, who's still around the morning after.
The first time you see him, it’s not romantic. Not even close.
You’re wedged into a kitchen that smells like spilled beer and smoke, your back pressed against a sticky counter. The party is already winding down, though you’re not sure it ever really wound up. A couple of people dance lazily in the living room, bodies slumping against the bassline of whatever song someone half-bothered to put on. You’d been dragged here by a friend who’s since disappeared, probably upstairs with someone else, leaving you stranded in a sea of strangers.
That’s when you notice him.
James Cook. Everyone calls him Cook, and from the way his name carries across the room, you can tell he’s the kind of person who fills it without even trying. His laugh cuts through the haze, sharp and reckless. He’s on the table, shoes on the wood, nearly knocking over an ashtray as he swings a bottle above his head like it’s a trophy. His grin is wolfish, wide, the kind of grin that dares you not to look.
You don’t mean to stare. But you do.
“Oi,” he says, pointing the neck of the bottle at you like he’s been waiting for this. “You. Yeah, you with the face.”
Your face. You blink, startled like a deer in headlights, and someone nudges him, telling him to shut the fuck up. But he doesn’t. His attention is fixed on you now, heavy as smoke, and it makes your pulse kick up even though you hate yourself for it.
He jumps down from the table, landing in a messy thud. There’s a moment where you think he’s going to veer off, latch onto someone else, but no he comes straight towards you, weaving through bodies with that same reckless grin.
Up close, he smells like cigarettes and cheap cologne. His eyes are blue, bloodshot at the edges, and yet they pin you in place like he’s sober enough to mean it.
“You been starin’?” he asks, leaning down too close, voice pitched in that Bristol drawl that sounds like a challenge.
You should say no, shake your head maybe. You should roll your eyes, brush past him, find your friend and leave but instead, your mouth betrays you.
“Maybe.” is all you simply say to him voice coming out soft, quiet.
His grin sharpens. “Knew it.”
Cook’s not beautiful, not in the polished way some boys are. He’s messy, raw edges everywhere — bruised knuckles, a healing cut across his jaw, a singular stud in his ear catching light when he moves. He’s the kind of boy your mother warned you about, a stereotype; in fact he’s the very stereotype of a bad boy that everyone would describe and still, when he leans closer, when his voice drops low like he’s letting you in on a secret, you can’t pull back.
“You don’t belong here, do ya?” he murmurs. “Look at you. All serious. All… proper.”
You bristle. “And you do?”
That earns a laugh that’s loud, full, the kind that draws eyes across the room. He doesn’t care. Maybe he likes it that way.
Before you can think, he plucks the cup from your hand, downs what’s left in one swallow, and slams it back onto the counter. Then, with a casual shrug, he says, “Stick with me tonight. Promise I’ll make it worth it princess.”
You almost laugh in his face. Almost. But something in his expression stops you — a flicker beneath the bravado, quick and fragile. Like he’s daring you to see through it.
Against your better judgment, you let him lead you outside. The night air is sharp against your skin, cleaner than the heat inside. Cook lights a cigarette, offers you one. You shake your head, and he smirks like he expected that answer.
For a while, you just stand there, him smoking, you watching the way the glow of the ember carves his features in half-light.
He talks. A lot. About nothing. About everything. About how shit college is, how wild he was last week, how life’s just one big shitshow. You don’t know why you let him keep going, except that there’s something magnetic in the way he fills silence, like he’s terrified of it swallowing him whole.
And when he finally asks for your name, you give it. He repeats it, testing it on his tongue, then grins. “Fits you, pretty name.”
You should walk away. You know you should. But when he looks at you like that, like maybe, just maybe, you’re not just another face in the crowd, you don’t.
Later, when the party’s splintered into nothing and dawn is starting to bleed into the sky, you find yourself walking home with him. Neither of you say much as you walk side by side, shoulders brushing against each other. He hums a tune under his breath that’s off-key, but familiar. Very familiar. You recognize it after a moment: Say Yes by Elliott Smith.
Something about that sticks with you.
Cook isn’t who you thought he was. Or maybe he is, and that’s the problem.
Either way, it’s the start.
Cook isn’t a constant in your life. He’s a storm, rolling in loud and sudden, breaking everything in his path, and then gone again before you can catch your breath. But somehow, he keeps finding you. Or maybe you keep letting him.
The house is already heaving by the time you get there, bass rattling the windows, lights strobing, bodies packed so tight you can barely breathe. The air reeks of sweat, smoke, and cheap vodka, and there’s a sickly-sweet stickiness to the floor that clings to your shoes. You’d told yourself you’d only stay an hour. Long enough to not seem boring. Long enough to maybe forget the restless ache you’ve been carrying since the last time Cook left you standing alone.
You don’t have to look for him. He finds you.
“Oi, look who it is,” he drawls, slipping an arm around your shoulders like he’s been waiting for you all night. His breath is warm against your ear, sharp with alcohol. “Knew you’d turn up princess. Couldn’t stay away, could ya?”
You roll your eyes, but he doesn’t let you shrug him off. His grip is firm, heavy, like he’s staking a claim. It would be easier if he weren’t smiling at you like that — that smile that says you’re the only one in the room who matters, even if you know better.
For a while, you let him drag you through the chaos. He dances, if you can call it that, spinning you clumsily until you nearly trip over someone’s legs. He howls with laughter when you shove him, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. Everyone’s watching, and maybe that’s the point. Cook doesn’t just live in the spotlight; he demands it.
But it shifts. It always shifts.
By the time you’re nursing your second drink, you can see it happening — the slur in his words, the way his jokes grow sharper, the restless energy under his skin turning mean. He’s agitated, prowling, eyes darting around like he’s spoiling for something to snap at.
Some guy, taller and broader, bumps into him near the kitchen doorway, sending Cook’s drink sloshing onto his shirt. It’s nothing, barely worth a mutter of an apology, but Cook latches onto it like it’s a declaration of war.
“The fuck you playin’ at, mate?” His voice cuts through the music, sharp enough that people nearby freeze.
The guy holds up his hands. “Relax, man. It was an accident.”
But Cook doesn’t relax. His jaw sets, eyes blazing, and before you can step in, he shoves the guy hard in the chest. The crowd reacts instantly; a ripple of noise, phones flashing up, someone yelling for them to take it outside.
“Cook!” You’re there in front of him, pressing your hands against his chest, trying to hold him back. He’s all tension, coiled tight, fists ready. You can feel his heart pounding under your palms.
“Let it go,” you beg, voice low, desperate. “Please, just let it go.”
For a second, his eyes meet yours. And you think — maybe. Maybe he’ll stop. Maybe you’re enough to pull him back.
But then someone behind you laughs. It’s not even about him, you’re sure of it, but Cook hears it, and it’s over.
He lunges, shouting, fists swinging. It takes three people to haul him back, his voice tearing through the air: curses, threats, raw fury. The guy’s shouting back, but it’s all noise, all violence that doesn’t touch the hollow pit in your stomach.
You get shoved in the scuffle, your drink spilling down your front. No one notices. They’re too busy holding Cook as he thrashes, his knuckles splitting open when he catches someone’s shoulder by accident.
Finally, someone shoves him out the door. The music starts up again, louder than before, like the house is trying to swallow the memory of it. But you can’t. Not when you can still hear him outside, pacing, shouting into the night.
You find him slumped against the curb, chest heaving, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and rain. His fists are raw, one eye already swelling. He spits onto the pavement and laughs, hollow and jagged.
“Fuckin’ wankers,” he mutters to himself. Then he sees you. “What? You here to have a go at me too sweetheart?”
You fold your arms across your chest, trying to ignore the sting in your eyes. “What the hell was that, Cook?”
He shrugs, all bravado, like he didn’t just nearly tear the house apart. “Nothin’. Just having a laugh.”
“Are you serious?” Your voice cracks sharper than you expect. “You could’ve gotten arrested. Again. You could’ve gotten hurt!”
“Yeah?” He staggers to his feet, swaying slightly, but his eyes are locked on yours. “And why d’you care so much, eh? Why’s it always you pullin’ me out the fire? Why are you always lookin’ out for me like I’m worth the trouble?”
The words hit harder than they should. Because you don’t have an answer. Not one you’re ready to say out loud. You want to say because no one else will. You want to say because, for reasons you don’t even understand, he matters to you. But the words won’t come. They’re too big, too dangerous.
So instead, you shake your head, turning away, your voice barely above a whisper, “Maybe I shouldn’t.”
And for once, his mask slips. The grin falters, the bravado cracks. For just a heartbeat, he looks like a boy who’s never heard such painful words in his life. You don’t expect the flicker of hurt that crosses his face. You don’t expect him to reach for your wrist, gentle this time, his voice dropping low.
It’s not a command. It’s a plea. Quiet, broken, so unlike him that it makes your throat ache. It’s the first time you’ve heard him sound small.
And it terrifies you more than his shouting ever did.
You turn away, leaving him standing in the rain with his fists bleeding and his eyes hollow. And even as you walk, the sound of his voice follows you, echoing in the dark.
And you realize — you don’t want to.
Not in some dramatic way. Not slamming doors or throwing words you can’t take back but in the small, quiet decisions that build a wall brick by brick. You stop answering his calls. You let his texts pile up, one-sentence messages like: u coming out?, u up?, need u princess, until the screen burns with them. When you see him at college, you look past him, pretend you’re too caught up in your books, your friends, anything else.
It hurts. Of course it does. But being around him hurts worse.
Because Cook isn’t safe. Not for you, not for himself. He’s a fire that doesn’t care what it consumes, and you’re so, so tired of being the one who has to drag him out of the ashes.
Still… you can’t help it. You notice him. Of course you do.
The way his laugh is quieter in the hallways now, like he knows you’re not looking his way. The way he still smokes outside during break, shoulders hunched against the wind, always glancing at the door like maybe you’ll walk through it. The way his hands are still raw, knuckles split and healing in scabs, but there’s no story to them this time — no glory fight, no crowd cheering him on. Just silence.
You tell yourself it’s not your problem.
Until the rain; always the rain.
It’s a bleak Wednesday afternoon, sky bruised and heavy, when you spot him outside the corner shop. He’s standing there without a hood, hair plastered to his forehead, the soaked fabric of his hoodie clinging to him. He looks smaller this way, the sharpness of him softened by the rain.
When he sees you, his face lights up like the sun’s broken through the storm.
You should keep walking. Pretend you didn’t hear him. But your feet betray you, stopping just as he strides up, shoes splashing through puddles. He smells like cigarettes and damp fabric, but underneath it is something familiar, something that twists your stomach in knots.
“What do you want, Cook?”
He shrugs, hands buried deep in his pockets, grin lopsided. “Nothin’. Just… missed you, yeah?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you admit that you’ve missed him too — missed the chaos, missed the way he makes the world brighter even as he burns it down — then what’s the point of all this distance you’ve forced between you?
He falls into step beside you anyway, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You walk in silence at first, only the sound of rain smacking against the pavement. Then he starts talking, filling the air the way he always does. About how the shopkeeper nearly threw him out for loitering, about some fight he didn’t get into (a miracle, apparently), about nothing at all.
You try not to listen. But you do. You always do.
Then, softer, almost drowned out by the rain:
“Been thinkin’ about you princess. Loads.”
Your chest tightens. You keep your gaze fixed ahead. “Don’t.”
“Can’t help it.” He laughs under his breath, but it’s thin, shaky. “S’like—fuck, I dunno. You’re in my head. Even when I don’t want you there.”
Something in your stomach twists because you know exactly what he means. You’ve tried to cut him out, but every night when the house is quiet, you hear his voice in your head. “Don’t say that.”
You stop walking. He almost bumps into you, blinking in surprise.
“This can’t keep happening,” you say, the words tumbling out fast, sharp, before you can swallow them back. “I can’t keep… cleaning up after you. Watching you wreck yourself. Waiting for you to turn up on my doorstep bleeding or drunk or both.”
For a moment, Cook doesn’t move. The rain drums against his shoulders, his hoodie clinging to his frame, and he looks like a boy caught in a storm much bigger than this one.
Finally, he says, voice low: “I’m tryin’, you know.”
You almost laugh, but there’s nothing funny about it. “You’re not. You don’t know how.”
That’s when he snaps, though it’s not loud, not like before. His voice breaks instead.
“Maybe not, yeah? Maybe I don’t fuckin’ know how. But you—” His jaw works, eyes wet but not from the rain. “You’re the only thing that makes me wanna try.”
The words slam into you, sharp and tender all at once.
You shake your head, because it’s too much. Because it’s not enough. “That’s not fair, Cook. You know it’s not.”
“Life’s not fuckin’ fair.” His grin comes back, but it’s weak, brittle. He rakes a hand through his soaked hair, looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright. “But I’m here, ain’t I? Not in some cell, not startin’ some fight. I’m here, talkin’ to you. Doesn’t that count for somethin’?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you give him that sliver of hope, you know you’ll fall right back into the fire.
So you do the only thing you can — you walk away.
This time, he doesn’t follow.
But when you glance back once, just once, you see him standing there in the rain, still watching you go, his shoulders slumped like maybe he already knows you’re the one fight he doesn’t know how to win.
And God help you, your heart aches anyway.
You thought pulling away would make it easier. That if you starved the connection, it would fade, the way bruises fade, first sharp and purple, then dull, then gone. But instead, it festers. It’s in everything.
In the halls at college, throwing his head back in laughter that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. On the steps outside, cigarette dangling from his lips as he trades jabs with Freddie or JJ. At parties, surrounded by girls who touch his arm, his shoulder, his chest and the way he lets them, grinning wide, though you can tell it’s hollow.
You hate that you notice. You hate that every time your phone buzzes, you still hope it’s him, even though you’ve stopped answering. You hate that he still gets under your skin, even when you’ve done everything you can to scrape him out.
The calls come less often, sure. But when they do, they’re raw and vulnerable. Voicemails slurred with his accent, words spilling like he’s half-drunk and half-bleeding.
“Oi, it’s me. Just… yeah. Just call me back, yeah? Please.”
Or: “You don’t get it princess. I’m not alright without you. I’m fuckin’ not.”
You delete them, but the sound of his voice stays, gnawing at you.
Then, one night, he shows up.
It’s nearly 2 a.m. when the knock rattles your window. At first you think you’re dreaming, but then you hear it again, urgent, insistent. You drag yourself out of bed, heart hammering, and when you pull back the curtain, there he is.
He’s standing in the rain again, jacket pulled tight around him, shoulders hunched. His hair drips into his eyes, and when he sees you, his mouth twists into something that’s not quite a smile.
You hesitate. Every bone in your body screams to shut the curtain, crawl back into bed, forget this. But you slide the window open anyway. He clambers in clumsily, nearly knocking over your lamp, bringing the smell of rain and smoke with him.
For a moment, neither of you speak. He’s dripping water onto your floor, his breath uneven, his fists clenched like he’s holding himself together by force.
Finally, you whisper, “What are you doing here?”
He looks at you, and for once, there’s no grin, no bravado. Just tired blue eyes, rimmed red.
“Didn’t know where else to go.”
The words cut straight through you.
You want to reach for him. God, you do. But instead you wrap your arms around yourself, like distance can save you. “Cook…”
“I’m fuckin’ losin’ it, alright?” His voice cracks, low and ragged. “I go out, I drink, I fight, I fuck random girls, and none of it—none of it fills it. None of it feels like… you.”
The silence between you is unbearable.
Finally, you shake your head. “You can’t just come here when you’re empty and expect me to fix it. That’s not love, Cook. That’s—”
“Maybe not,” he snaps, throwing your own words back at you. But there’s no heat in it, only desperation. “But it’s the closest I’ve ever come.”
The look in his eyes makes it hard to breathe. He’s not just asking you to let him in your room. He’s asking you to save him. To say he’s worth saving.
So you turn away, your voice a whisper. “You should go.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then you hear him curse under his breath, sharp and broken, before climbing back out into the rain.
You don’t sleep that night. You just sit there in the dark, staring at the wet footprints he left on your carpet, wishing you didn’t care as much as you do.
The distance doesn’t break all at once. It splinters. Little fractures, small cracks that keep widening until you don’t even realize how deep they go.
At first, you think maybe he’s listening. Cook doesn’t bang on your window again, doesn’t show up at 2 am. He still looks at you in the halls, but he doesn’t call out. He still smokes outside, but he doesn’t try to wave you over.
And that should make it easier. Shouldn’t it?
But instead it feels worse.
Because Cook isn’t built for silence. And when he starts keeping it, it’s like watching him fade. His laugh gets quieter, stretched thin around the edges. He goes out, sure and you hear about him at parties, see photos pop up on friends’ feeds but even there, he looks dimmer. Smiling wide with girls pressed into him, but the grin doesn’t reach his eyes.
You tell yourself you’re not going to care. That you’re done. That the ache in your chest every time you see his name on someone else’s page is just muscle memory.
But then, one night, it boils over.
It’s another party, one you hadn’t planned to go to, but your friend dragged you along, promising “It won’t be Cook’s scene.” But of course, it is. He’s impossible to avoid.
You spot him the moment you walk in: Cook in the middle of the living room, dancing on a table again, vodka bottle raised high, grin painted on like armor. Everyone’s cheering. Everyone’s laughing. And it feels like deja vu — the same chaos, the same storm you’ve tried to walk away from.
You tell yourself to leave. You make it as far as the door. But then his eyes catch yours.
In two seconds, he’s off the table, shoving through the crowd, weaving past grasping hands and laughter until he’s in front of you. Breathless.
You fold your arms. “I didn’t come for you.”
He smirks, but it’s fragile. “Still, you’re here.”
“Not for long.” You move to push past him, but he blocks the door, hand flat against the frame.
“Don’t do that,” he says, softer now. “Don’t look at me like I’m nothin’.”
Your chest tightens, anger and sorrow tangling. “What do you want from me, Cook?”
He laughs but it’s loud, jagged, wrong. “What d’you think? I want you. I’ve always wanted you princess.”
“Yeah? You want me until the next fight, the next bottle, the next girl in your bed?” The words are sharper than you mean them to be, but you can’t stop. The hurt pours out, years of watching him burn himself alive. “I can’t be the one who keeps pulling you out of the fire. You’ll drag me down with you.”
Something in his face cracks. He steps closer, so close you can smell the alcohol clinging to him, the smoke in his hair.
“Then let me fuckin’ burn,” he says, voice raw, shaking. “Just… don’t walk away.”
The silence after is unbearable.
His eyes are wide, desperate, and for the first time, you realize he’s terrified. Not of fights, not of the police, not of consequences but of you leaving.
Because you want to believe him. You want to believe you’re enough to change him, to save him. But you’re so tired of bleeding for him, too.
You push past, your voice breaking. “I can’t, Cook. Not like this.”
When you glance back once, he’s still standing by the door, fists trembling at his sides, his face a storm of hurt and fury. For a second, you think he might scream, or laugh, or smash a bottle just to fill the silence.
He just stands there, watching you go.
And you finally realise that this is the fracture. The place where something has to give, or it’ll all collapse for good.
That’s the thing about Cook — when he falls, everyone sees it. Everyone’s got a story, a snapshot, a blurry video on their phone. You don’t want to listen, don’t want to look, but the whispers find you anyway.
“Cook got in it with some bloke outside the club.”
“He was off his head, like properly gone.”
“Did you hear he nicked a car? Crashed it into someone’s garden.”
You don’t know what’s true, what’s exaggerated. But every story has the same thread: Cook, reckless. Cook, untouchable. Cook, burning himself down like he’s daring the world to stop him.
And every time you hear his name, your stomach twists.
You tell yourself you’re not going to get involved. Not again. Not after the last time, not after the way he looked at you in that doorway, begging. You made your choice. You walked away.
But then, one night, you see it with your own eyes.
You hadn’t planned to go out but your friend drags you along to a pub, promising a quiet night. It’s not quiet. It never is. And as soon as you step inside, you feel it — the static in the air, the way people’s eyes keep darting toward the corner.
He’s slumped in a booth, a half-empty pint glass in front of him, cigarette smoldering dangerously close to the wood. He’s laughing too loud at something someone said, head thrown back, but the sound is jagged, cracked. His lip is split again, fresh bruises blooming across his knuckles.
And when his eyes land on you across the room, the laugh dies in his throat.
For a long, heavy second, neither of you move.
Then he’s on his feet, stumbling toward you, nearly knocking over a chair. His grin is crooked, desperate, but there’s no joy in it. Just rawness.
“Knew you’d turn up,” he slurs, voice thick with drink. “Knew you couldn’t stay gone.”
“Don’t.” He sways closer, eyes glassy but fixed on you like you’re the only thing anchoring him. “Don’t tell me you don’t fuckin’ care. ‘Cause you’re here. You’re always here.”
Your throat tightens. The whole pub is watching now, the weight of it pressing on your skin. He’s unraveling in front of everyone, and it’s unbearable.
You grab his arm, hauling him outside before he can make more of a scene. The cold night air hits you like a slap. He shivers, pulling his jacket tighter around him, eyes darting over your face like he’s searching for something.
“What are you doing to yourself?” you demand, your voice breaking despite yourself. “You’re going to get yourself killed, Cook.”
He laughs again, hollow. “So what? Maybe that’s what I fuckin’ deserve.”
Your chest caves in at the words. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” His voice rises, raw, shaking. “Why shouldn’t I? World don’t give a toss, does it? Freddie’s gone, Effy’s gone, my family’s fucked—” His voice cracks. He looks at you, eyes burning, and it’s like he’s stripped bare. “You’re the only one left who ever bloody saw me. And you still walked away.”
The silence after is unbearable.
Because he’s right. You did walk away. And yet, looking at him now — trembling, broken, clinging to you like you’re the last thing keeping him from shattering — you feel the walls inside you start to crumble.
You want to tell him he’s wrong, that you do care, that you never stopped. But the words stick in your throat.
Instead, you whisper, “I can’t save you, Cook.”
For a moment, he just stares. Then his grin slips completely, and all that’s left is the hollow boy underneath.
“Maybe not,” he says, voice barely audible. “But you’re the only one I want tryin’.”
And it leaves you standing in the dark, torn wide open, knowing something has to give. Because if you don’t, if you let him spiral like this, he won’t survive it.
The night smells of damp brick and cigarette ash. The streets are slick from earlier rain, puddles reflecting dim streetlights. You’re walking fast, head down, trying to shake off the evening — the pub, the whispers, the sight of Cook unraveling in front of everyone. You’re not sure where you’re going, only that you need air.
Footsteps echo behind you.
You don’t have to look to know it’s him. His steps are uneven, a stumble wrapped in swagger. He calls your name once, twice, each time softer, like he’s afraid you’ll bolt.
“Don’t,” you say without turning. “Don’t follow me.”
But he does. Of course he does.
You spin around at the mouth of an alley, heart hammering. He’s there — jacket wrapped tightly around him, hair damp, eyes ringed in bruised shadows. He looks nothing like the boy who once grinned at you the first time you met him. He looks wrecked, completely utterly wrecked.
“What do you want from me, Cook?” Your voice cracks despite yourself. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Something in him snaps. The grin he tries to wear flickers out, leaving only rawness.
“Don’t you fuckin’ say that.” His voice is low at first, but it’s shaking. “Don’t you dare.”
You cross your arms, trying to keep steady. “I’ve been watching you tear yourself apart. You think I can just stand here and—”
“You think I don’t know?” he cuts in, louder now, fists clenching at his sides. “You think I don’t see it? The way you look at me, like I’m a bloody train wreck? Like I’m already done?”
He takes a step closer. The anger is there, but underneath it is something desperate.
“I know, alright?” His voice cracks. “I know I ruin everythin’ I touch. I know I’m a fuck-up. But I can’t—” He stumbles over the words, then pounds a fist against his own chest as if to dig them out. “I can’t lose you too!”
The sound echoes off the walls. He’s trembling now, whole body taut like a live wire.
“You’re it for me,” he says, the words torn out of him. “You always were. And if you walk away now, I swear to God, I’ll never—”
He stops, breath heaving, like he’s on the edge of something he can’t even name.
You stand there, rain dripping from your wet hair, every part of you aching. You’ve seen Cook angry, drunk, reckless. But you’ve never seen him like this: stripped to the bone, terrified, begging without even realizing it.
He looks at you, eyes burning. “Please don’t go.”
And suddenly all the walls you’ve built start to crack. Because underneath everything — the fights, the chaos, the nights you told yourself you were done — you still see the boy who pressed his forehead to yours in a crowded club and made you feel like you weren’t alone in the world.
You step closer now, slowly. His shoulders tense, but he doesn’t move.
“I’m not walking away,” you say, your own voice raw now.
His breath stutters. His hands twitch like he’s not sure whether to reach for you or keep them at his sides.
“Say it again,” he whispers.
And when you say it, you mean it.
The words seem to break him open completely. He lets out a shaky laugh that’s half a sob, then covers his face with his hands like he’s ashamed of himself. When he drops them, there’s no swagger left, no mask — just a boy who wants to be better, even if he doesn’t know how.
You reach out, fingers brushing his knuckles. He flinches, then lets you hold his hand. His skin is cold, scraped raw at the edges, but he holds on like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.
“I don’t know how to do this right,” he murmurs, eyes on the ground. “I’ll probably mess it up again.”
“We’ll figure it out,” you say softly. “But you have to try.”
He nods, swallowing hard. “I will. I swear.”
And for the first time, you almost believe him.
The rain starts again, soft at first, then heavier, but neither of you moves. Cook’s head drops against your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck, and for a moment, a fragile, impossible moment, you feel like the world has stopped spinning.
Like maybe there’s still a way forward.
The morning after feels strange.
You wake up to silence, and for once, it’s not the heavy, suffocating kind. It’s just… still. Cook’s asleep on the edge of your bed, curled up like he’s afraid to take up space. His shirt is still damp from last night, his shoes kicked carelessly by the door. He looks younger in sleep, softer, like the weight of the world slipped off his shoulders for a few hours.
For a moment, you just watch him breathe.
Then his eyes flicker open, bloodshot but clear. He groans, scrubs a hand over his face, and squints at you. “G’morning, princess.” His voice is hoarse, rough from sleep, smoke and shouting.
You almost smile, but you don’t. “Morning.”
He sits up slowly, looking around your room like he doesn’t quite know how he got there. When his gaze lands back on you, there’s no smirk this time. Just uncertainty.
“You meant it?” he asks suddenly. His voice is quiet, almost boyish. “Last night. That you weren’t walkin’ away.”
You swallow. “Yeah. I meant it.”
Relief flashes across his face, raw and unfiltered, and it guts you.
But you add, carefully: “That doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy. You can’t just… say things and keep doing the same shit. If I stay, something has to change.”
Cook nods, fast, like he’s afraid you’ll take it back if he hesitates. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. I’ll—” He breaks off, frowning, like he’s not sure how to finish. “I’ll try. For you, I’ll try.”
It’s not a promise of perfection, but it’s something.
The days that follow are uneasy, but different.
Cook still lights up a cigarette the moment he’s outside, still mouths off to teachers, still laughs too loud in places he shouldn’t. But there are cracks in the chaos now, small moments where you can see him holding back, making a choice instead of letting the spiral take him.
He doesn’t storm your window drunk anymore. He calls first.
He doesn’t pick fights just to feel alive. He walks away from one, his jaw tight, fists trembling, but he does it.
He still messes up, of course. One night he stumbles in with glassy eyes and slurred words, and you almost tell him you’re done. But then he looks at you, shame carved deep into his face, and whispers, “Didn’t mean to. Just… slipped. Don’t give up on me.”
And against your better judgment, you don’t. Holding him close as you lay in bed together.
One evening, the two of you sit on the roof, legs dangling over the edge, sharing a packet of crisps between you. The night is quiet, peaceful even, the streetlights blinking through the dark.
Cook leans back on his hands, staring up at the stars you can barely see. “Y’know,” he says, voice soft, “I keep waitin’ for you to wake up one day and realize I’m not worth it. That you could do better.”
You glance at him, the curve of his jaw sharp in the dim light. “I already know I could do better,” you say honestly.
He winces, but you’re not done.
“But I don’t want better. I want you. Just… not the version of you that’s trying to self-destruct. You’re it for me, always have been.”
His throat bobs as he swallows. For a long time, he doesn’t answer. Then he mutters, almost to himself, “Guess I’ll just have to stick around then, yeah?”
It’s quiet after that, but it’s the kind of quiet that feels less like a void and more like a beginning.
For the first time in a long time, you think maybe, just maybe you could build something that lasts.
Rebuilding doesn’t happen in a blaze of glory. It happens in fragments.
Small, ordinary moments that feel like nothing, until you realize they’re everything.
Cook shows up on time. That’s the first shift you notice. He doesn’t make you wait for hours, doesn’t leave you sitting on a bench checking your phone over and over. He’s late by five minutes, sure, but he comes running down the street, breathless, holding two cheap takeaway coffees.
“Got us the fancy stuff,” he says, handing one over. You open it to find the lid splattered, coffee half-spilled. He grins sheepishly. “Alright, maybe not fancy. But it’s warm.”
And somehow, that matters more.
At college, he sits beside you instead of at the back, even though you know he’d rather be anywhere else. He fidgets throughout the whole lesson, tapping his pen against the desk, whispering dumb jokes under his breath, but he stays. When the teacher calls on him, he shrugs and says something half-coherent that makes the whole class laugh but he doesn’t storm out, he doesn’t make it worse.
You catch him glancing sideways at you after, like he’s waiting for approval. You don’t say anything, but when you nudge his leg under the desk, his grin comes fast and wide.
But it’s not all progress.
Some nights, he paces your room like a caged animal, restless energy buzzing off him. “I feel like I’m gonna crawl outta my skin,” he mutters, tugging at his hoodie strings. He wants the noise, the parties, the chaos — you can see it in the way his hands shake.
You sit with him anyway. Sometimes talking helps. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes all you can do is watch as he burns through another cigarette at your window, smoke curling in the moonlight, his eyes hollow but trying.
It’s fragile. Always fragile.
One evening, you find him sprawled on your floor, sketching on the back of an old worksheet with a biro. You’ve never seen him sit still long enough to draw before.
“What’s that?” you ask, leaning over.
He flushes, quick to cover the page with his hand. “Nothin’. Just… doodlin’.”
You pry it out of his grasp anyway, and he groans. On the paper is a shaky, crooked version of your face that’s more cartoon than portrait, but unmistakably you.
“It’s awful,” you tease, holding it up though there’s a small smile on your face.
“Oi!” He snatches for it, laughing. “Spent a whole bloody five minutes on that.”
You laugh too, and for a moment, it feels easy. Like maybe this is what it could be, if you both let it.
But the fragility never goes away.
The next night, you find him sitting on your bed with his head in his hands, knuckles red and raw again. You don’t even ask because you already know he slipped and probably picked another fight somewhere he shouldn’t have.
When he looks up, his eyes are full of shame. “Don’t… don’t chuck me out, yeah?” he says, voice breaking. “I tried. I really fuckin’ tried.”
And it hurts, God, it hurts, because part of you wants to scream, to tell him you can’t keep stitching him back together. But another part of you sees the crack in his voice, the way he’s bracing for you to leave, but you don’t, you can’t.
So you sit down beside him, pressing your hand over his trembling one. “I’m not going anywhere baby,” you whisper.
He leans into you, shaking, and you realize this is what rebuilding really is — not grand gestures, but fragile choices made again and again.
Staying. Holding on. Trying.
The days blur, stitched together by the same fragile rhythm: school, cigarettes, stolen moments on rooftops. Some days Cook feels steady, his grin sharp and bright like the boy you first fell into. Other days, he’s frayed at the edges, jittery and restless, like he might split apart if you blink too long.
You never know which version you’ll get. But you stay.
One afternoon, you walk through the park together. The sky is low and gray, the grass damp beneath your shoes. Cook keeps kicking at stones, shoulders hunched against the chill.
“You ever think about the future?” you ask, more to break the silence than anything.
He snorts. “Future? I’m Cook. I don’t even think past tomorrow.”
You give him a look. He grins, but it falters when he sees you’re not laughing.
“I dunno,” he mutters. “Don’t think the world’s got much in store for me.”
The words are flippant, but his tone isn’t. It hits you in the chest; the quiet resignation, the way he says it like it’s fact.
“You don’t get to decide that yet,” you say firmly.
Cook glances at you, like he wants to argue, but instead he just shoves his hands in his pockets. “Maybe not. Maybe you’re the only one who believes that.”
And you realize: maybe you are.
Later that week, you find him in your room again, half-asleep on your pillow, the telly buzzing faintly in the background. He stirs when you sit beside him, blinking groggily.
“You ever get sick of me?” he asks suddenly, voice muffled.
Your breath catches. “What?”
He shifts, eyes barely open, and repeats it: “Do you ever get sick of me?”
The question is raw, unguarded, and it undoes you. You think of all the nights you almost walked away, the fights, the exhaustion — and yet, here you are.
“Sometimes,” you admit, honest because he deserves it. “But I never stop wanting you anyway.”
His lips twitch like he wants to smile, but instead he hides his face against your shoulder. “That’s fucked up,” he mumbles.
“Yeah,” you whisper, pressing your cheek to his hair. “It is.”
And maybe that’s the truth of it: the two of you are messy, broken, stitched together by something that shouldn’t work but somehow does.
That night, as he drifts off, you catch yourself tracing the bruises on his knuckles with your thumb. He stirs, murmurs your name, and squeezes your hand weakly in his sleep.
For the first time in a long while, you don’t feel like you’re holding him back from the edge. You feel like maybe, just maybe you’re pulling him toward something else.
Not safe. Not easy. But real.
And in the long quiet, that feels like enough.
It happens on a night when you least expect it.
Another party, another house full of bass rattling the walls, laughter spilling out onto the street. You hadn’t wanted to come, you’ve seen enough of Cook drunk, wild, destructive but your friends dragged you along.
And, of course, he’s there.
At first, it feels like deja vu: Cook in the centre of it all, drink in hand, voice loud, grin reckless. You feel your stomach sink because maybe nothing’s changed after all. Maybe the past couple of months' quiet promises were merely just words in the dark.
Some bloke twice his size shoulders him, muttering something sharp under his breath. You see Cook’s jaw tense, fists curling, that familiar spark of violence in his eyes. This is the moment you dread, the moment you’ve seen too many times before: the swing, the blood, the chaos that always follows.
But then, for the first time, Cook doesn’t take the bait.
He exhales through his nose, fists trembling, every muscle tight with restraint. His eyes flick across the room and land on you.
And instead of throwing a punch, he steps back.
The bloke laughs, shoves past him, mutters something else. Cook just shakes his head, lets it slide, even though you can tell every part of him is screaming to explode.
And then he’s crossing the room, pushing through the crowd until he’s in front of you. His hands are shaking, his grin shaky too, but there’s pride in it, defiance.
“See that?” he pants, breathless like he’s just run a marathon. “Didn’t do it. Didn’t fuck it all up.”
You blink, stunned. “You… didn’t hit him.”
“Course I didn’t.” He’s grinning wider now, wild and nervous all at once. “’Cause you were watchin’. And I want—fuck, I want you to see me try.”
The words knock the air out of you.
Before you can answer, he grabs your hand, not rough, not careless, but desperate and he tugs you out the door. The noise of the party fades behind you as he pulls you into the cool night, still buzzing with adrenaline.
“I’m doin’ it, yeah?” His voice cracks. “I’m tryin’. For you. For us.”
Your throat tightens. He’s not perfect, not even close. But standing there, flushed and shaking and proud of himself for walking away from a fight, you realize this is his version of a grand gesture. Not flowers. Not speeches. Just choosing you over the chaos.
And somehow, it’s worth more than anything else could be.
You squeeze his hand, hard. “Yeah, baby. You’re doing it.”
And for the first time, you see him believe it too.
The morning after the party, you wake to find him already awake beside you.
Cook never wakes up first. Usually, he’s the one sprawled across the sheets, dead to the world until noon. But now he’s propped up on his elbow, watching you with this soft, almost shy look, like he’s memorising the shape of you in the light.
“What?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.
“Nothin’,” he says, and it almost sounds believable except he doesn’t look away.
It’s disarming, the way he looks at you. Like you’re not just another girl, not just another night. Like you’re something he’s terrified to lose.
You reach for his hand, and he lets you take it, fingers slotting into yours like they’ve been waiting. For once, there’s no rush, no storm. Just the quiet thrum of morning and the warmth of his skin against yours.
The days that follow feel different.
He still fucks up sometimes. He swears too much at teachers, gets too loud when he’s had a pint, pushes boundaries just to see if they’ll bend. But he always comes back to you. Always finds your eyes in the chaos, like they’re his anchor.
And you notice the small things: how he leaves the fights earlier than he used to, how he calls instead of showing up wasted at your window, how he listens, really listens, when you tell him what scares you.
It’s not perfect. But it’s real.
One night, you’re sitting together on that same rooftop where everything once felt like it was falling apart. The night stretches out before you, street lamps flickering against the dark. Cook passes you a cigarette, but you shake your head, and he just shrugs, taking a drag himself.
After a long silence, he says, “I used to think… I dunno. That I weren’t built for this. For someone stickin’ around. For someone lovin’ me proper.”
Your chest aches at the honesty in his voice.
“And now?” you ask softly.
He turns to you, grins that familiar reckless grin but there’s something steadier behind it now, something you hadn’t seen before. “Now I think maybe I got one good thing in me. And it’s you.”
The words land heavy, raw, and you feel your throat tighten. He’s not good at this, not at all, but he’s trying, and it’s everything.
You lean in, press your forehead against his, and whisper the only answer that matters.
His breath stutters out, and then he’s kissing you, deep and desperate, but gentle too, like he’s finally figured out you’re not something to burn through — you’re something to keep.
And for the first time, you believe it: Cook might actually be enough.
It doesn’t happen overnight.
The fights don’t disappear, the chaos doesn’t vanish. Cook still runs hot, still tests the world like it owes him something, still slips into old habits more often than either of you would like. And you still snap at him, still doubt sometimes, still wonder if it’s all just going to crumble again.
But the difference now is simple: he comes back.
Every single time, he comes back.
Months later, you’re sitting in the back garden of his mum’s place. The grass is overgrown, the paint on the fence peeling, and Cook is flat on his back in the middle of it, cigarette dangling from his lips as he stares at the clouds.
“Looks like a dragon,” he says, pointing up.
You squint. “That looks nothing like a dragon.”
“Course it does. Big fuck-off wings. Breathin’ fire. Proper dragon innit.”
You roll your eyes, but you lie down beside him anyway. The sky is pale and wide, and when his hand finds yours in the grass, it feels easy. Natural.
“You ever think,” he says after a long stretch of silence, “that maybe we didn’t ruin it? That maybe we’re just… gettin’ it right this time?”
Your throat goes tight, because the truth is — you do.
“I think,” you whisper, “that maybe we said yes when it mattered.”
Cook turns his head, grinning at you sideways, eyes warm in a way you never thought you’d see. He squeezes your hand, hard, like he believes it too.
And for once, the world feels like it might actually let the two of you have this.
Not perfect. Not clean. But yours.
Light leaks through the cracks, and you let it.
woah okay hi im back, i’ve been super busy lately (i got to see ptv this week) but i’m off for a couple of days. i’ve been wanting to write something based off of ‘say yes’ for ages! i got a little carried away but i hope you guys like it!! comments, likes and reblogs are always appreciated, thank you so much for taking the time to read all of this! more fanfics soon thanks to my friends giving me motivation heh <3
