Find your karmic lover blueprint with Matrix of Destiny Chart
A karmic lover is basically someone you’re “fated” to meet in this life because of past-life connections, unresolved lessons, or intense soul ties. They often push your buttons or bring up old emotional patterns but the connection is magnetic, addictive, or transformative, sometimes even chaotic.
In short: a karmic lover shows you what your soul needs to grow in love and relationships. ✨
Numerology. Numerological calculation. Date of birth compatibility. Matrix of Destiny. Destiny.
( use this link to get your chart )
Use this for:
• Love Line
• Karmic Line
• Ancestral/Karmic Line
• Male/Female Generational Lines
Each line tells a different story:
Love Line: His soul’s way of loving you, core traits in romance
Karmic Line: Past-life love patterns, intensity, fated karmic connections
Ancestral/Karmic Line ( Male ) : shows patterns, lessons, and traits inherited from your male ancestors. This can affect:
• The type of men you attract
• Male dynamics in your relationships
• Power, authority, or leadership patterns you carry unconsciously.
Ancestral/Karmic Line ( Female ) : shows patterns, lessons, and traits inherited from your female ancestors. This can affect:
• The type of women or maternal energy you attract
• How nurturing, emotional, or caretaking dynamics show up
• Subtle emotional patterns and family karma
Male Generational Line: Male ancestor influence; patterns or traits you attract from male lineage
Female Generational Line: Female ancestor influence; patterns or traits you attract from female lineage
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝
Note : • Note down the 3 numbers of each line. For each number (1–22), look up its line-specific meaning below.
• Numbers that repeat across lines = strongest karmic connections.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝
1
• Love Line: Independent, magnetic, can pull away; draws you in with authority.
• Karmic Line: Past-life freedom patterns; lessons in detachment and self-reliance.
• Male Ancestral/Karmic: Male lineage traits of authority, control, or assertive karmic lessons.
• Female Ancestral/Karmic: Female lineage traits of nurturing, emotional guidance, or karmic push-pull.
• Male Generational Line: Male lineage shaping assertiveness, protective dominance.
— synopsis: in which you and michael are fated lovers, in every and any lifetime. In this timeline you work at a toys r us and meet Michael during the height of his thriller era.
— genre: romance (it had to be done chat; I love f5ve.)
— pairing: Thriller!era Michael X Fem!Reader
— notes: small mini series: in every timeline you and Michael are fated to meet. And also fated lovers. If the idea of past lives or fated loved makes you uncomfortable (for any personal/religious reasons) then DNI. I got inspired by this song and kinda wanted to do a lil somethin with it. It’s meant to be very cute and romantic so you don’t have to take the plot line very seriously. Nothing in this is meant to be taken as accurate or true, it’s all FICTION. Enjoy the Michael + jpop crossover and do check out F5ve if you’re interested. Anyways yes!!!!! It is implied that you two get together each chapter. Even if I don’t strictly say it.
—more notes: since I can be a little insecure about my work, I tend to make active updates for it. Fixing things here and there so please bear with me if I change or add things hours or up to a day later.
— song quote: any life, any galaxy I choose you everytime. I choose you everytime.
“Fate leads the willing, and drags along the reluctant.” — Seneca”
Today would be a good day no, a wonderful day. That’s what Michael told bill as he got ready for his only free day in over a month. Ever since the success of thriller life for him had gotten exponentially complicated and his privacy had pretty much vanished quicker than it did when he’d still been in the Jackson 5. He couldn’t say he was ungrateful, after all his years of manifesting worked like he always thought it would. That was the thing with him, if he wanted something then he would imagine it already in his hands and the universe would deliver. It always delivered.
Sometimes though, something he hadn’t asked for would fall right into his hands. And he didn’t know how to react to it.
He’d been in the back seat of his rolls Royce, window slightly ajar when Bill got into the drivers seat, looking at him from the rear view mirror. “So, where to?”
“You know where.” Michael said, a soft chuckle leaving his lips. He could hear distant screams from fans camped right outside of the hayvenhurst gates.
“I do?” Bill asked, mostly as a joke.
“Yeah, I’ve only been talkin about it all day yesterday. The toys r us? It’s been awhile. I miss it.” He threw his head back against the seat with a deep sigh, not in disappointment but more like in relief. Since he’d been in a good mood he cracked the window open more as the car slowly passed by the crowd, some tried to get close, others threw gifts in hopes it would land inside. Some made it, some didn’t, but Michael gave an appreciative wave, leaning back again once bill drove further down the road and into the highway.
Michael’s eyes lingered on the road ahead.
“I’ll tell ya, I’m happy to finally have a free day. Joesph’s been drivin me up the wall with his crap. But hell, if leavin the house is the only way to avoid him..I’ll do it every time.” He admitted.
There had been an air of silence. He had plans to stay home, wanted to indulge in a movie night with his mother, maybe even sit at the poolside with a couple of his brothers. But today Joesph had been in this certain mood, a mood that always had a way of bringing the whole house down. Michael wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.
But that aside, he had this strange feeling in his chest, his intuition screaming something at him. And who was he to ignore a gut feeling?
You’d been organizing the aisles when he walked in, placing board games in order of categories. Placing teddy bears in neat rows. Working here was a breeze, the children and their parents were polite for the most part and it was only ever really crowded during holidays.
The only thing that sucked was the constant reorganizing you had to do. Despite the good behavior some of the kids exhibited, some were not so great. They’d play with the toys and either keep them on the floor or toss them in different aisles.
As your back was turned, one kid came running up, damn near making your heart fall to your ass. He’d been full of energy, jumping up and down as he spoke “hello ma’am!! I’m here with my mama!! Do you work here? That’s so cool I want to work at a toy store, I’d get to play all day n I would never go home!!” His mouth opened again, as if he was going to say more but he was swooped up by his mother who’d slid a hand over his mouth. He didn’t seem even the least bit bothered by it. She gave two looks. One held embarrassment and the other apologetic.
“I’m sorry, it’s his birthday soon, been treatin him to desserts so he’s been very energetic.” She gritted her teeth, speaking quietly under her breath. “But starting today he’s goin on a sugar break.”
You shake your head, a sympathetic look flashed across your face. “no complaints here, it’s a toy store, kids play.”
She chuckled in response. “Suppose you’re right.” Then turned, preparing to leave. However for a split moment she stopped and turned back asking if the store carried a specific toy set. One that her son saw on a commercial and had been begging for ever since. You nodded and directed her with one finger and told her the aisle it was on.
Then you leaned forward to pat the kid on the head, wishing him a happy early birthday.
This had been witnessed by Michael. The moment he had even walked through the automatic doors, his eyes immediately drifted towards you. While at first he didn’t seem too particularly interested, he kept offhandedly passing the same aisle you were in. Bill had been next to him, pushing the cart, gazing around the store, radiating pure authority.
Each time they looped back towards the aisle, Michael would stare and for no particular reason at all. At least not one he could actively think of. However around a certain loop his mind had already formed an opinion. Pretty.
Bill noticed, obviously he would, but he hadn’t said anything yet. He followed Michael’s gaze, realizing he’d been watching you. It was only when they both looped back for the 7th time that bill actually said something.
“Alright Michael,” he murmured, voice expressing amusement. “This is the 7th time you’ve passed that aisle.” He put clear emphasis on the word “that.” His words teasing “if you want somethin from that aisle I can get it for you.”
Michael froze in place, his eyes darting towards the floor “don’t be ridiculous bill, I’m just lookin,”
Meanwhile over in the aisle, you’d been working on your last box. Technically you had much more to do considering it was still morning, but the day had been slow anyways. Not like anyone was asking you for help on anything. You’d been completely oblivious to Michael and apparently every other customer was too.
“Looks like she could use some help.” Bill said nudging him in your direction. “Maybe you should offer some.”
Michael immediately flushed, his face going red “the hell bill? Don’t..don’t do that I can’t just approach her..”
“And why not? You’d be a gentleman if you did. Go on, what’s the worst that could happen?”
Michael pulled his hat down more as if his shades didn’t already do enough to cover his face, then stuffed his hands in his pockets. “What if she thinks I’m weird?” He asked, words laced with slight insecurity.
“What’s wrong with weird?” Bill asked. Michael scoffed “well there’s a difference, there’s fun weird and there’s creepy weird. I don’t want her to think I’m a creep.” Even though he was now feeling nervous, bill wouldn’t feed into it. Instead he redirected the tone of the conversation. Continuing to be supportive.
“Well if you keep walkin back around the aisle just to stare, your worst fears might just come to fruition. Just go in there, be smooth, be a gentleman. Trust me, I know you’re capable of that. I see the way the ladies look at you.” He winked at Michael, placing a hand on his shoulder “go on.”
Those words had been exactly what Michael needed, because now he’d been making his way towards you, he took off his shades, placing them in his pocket as his loafers clicked against the floor. Convenient timing too since you had gotten up to grab a Lego set from the top shelf. You grabbed a slight hold of a lower shelf, just to make sure you wouldn’t slip but in the end a Lego box set ended up falling and scattering parts everywhere. With clear frustration written on your face, you rolled your eyes at the inconvenience, muttering a small curse under your breath.
“Course this happens when we’re short staffed.” You mumbled, crouching down to pick up the pieces.
A voice addressed you. A soft friendly one. “I can help with that.” Then you saw a figure crouch in front of you, hands reaching to collect the pieces. Face not yet visible since you weren’t looking up. But rather down at his shoes.
“Oh thank you, but you don’t have to—“ a hand accidentally brushed over the same piece you’d went to pick up. Thats when you two had finally locked eyes.
You don’t know why..
But it was in this exact moment that your heart skipped a beat.
Silence fell over the aisle, silence so heavy that you could physically feel it. so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. His dark brown eyes felt like they were purposely trying to draw you in.
You’d never met this man before and yet his presence had felt so..familiar.
“Oh, um. Sorry I—“ you stuttered, utterly embarrassed. But that’s when you realized it. “Wait, are you Michael Jackson?” If his face wasn’t a dead giveaway then the white socks and loafers certainly were. “Or are you a look alike?” You added, eyes squinting. Michael couldn’t help but give a wide smile, chuckling in response. “You’re funny.”
Your eyebrows instinctively raised “scuse me?”
“No, no hold on, not in a bad way I’m sorry. I meant that as in you’re unintentionally funny. M’not a look alike, I am actually Michael Jackson.” He held his hand out “what’s your name?” You took his hand and shook it, feeling an electric charge shoot up your spine. Didn’t matter that he was the biggest celebrity out right now, it felt as if you’d already known this man, as if you’d met him before. It was actually a little jarring. It felt like some cosmic pull.
“Y/n.”
“Y/n hm? Pretty name. For a pretty lady.” He mumbled, biting the inside of his cheek. “It’s strange,” “I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere. I can’t really explain it. Hopefully me sayin that doesn’t creep you out though.”
“No, no I feel the same way. I can’t explain it either but you felt a little familiar.”
Your hands broke apart as you both started collecting the pieces again, conversation continuing.
“Maybe we met when we were kids? I’ve been on road so many times throughout my life. It’s not crazy to think we mighta crossed paths back then.”
“You could be right.” Although it felt much deeper than that.
Bill watched from the end of the aisle, not exactly trying to be in your faces. Michael said something funny, you laughed and the conversation felt playful, comfortable. Michael was actually incredibly sweet and by the time all the Lego pieces were placed back into the box you held onto it.
“Not gonna put it back?” He asked
“And risk my boss killing me? Hell no. He’s got this strict policy where we can’t have damaged toys out on the shelves. The toy itself doesn’t even have to be damaged, if the box is, it goes in the back.”
“What happens with it?”
“Gets donated to kids sometimes, most times it’s thrown out though or just ends up in a thrift store.” The two of you walked side by side, towards the register, bill only a few paces behind with a cart full of things had Michael wanted.
Once arriving you scanned everything, and he paid with no issues. Thing is though, he didn’t want to leave..n you didn’t want him to either. Another thing that couldn’t be explained because why did you want him to stay?
“So uh, thanks.” He said.
“No problem. But I should be saying that to you. I appreciate the help.”
Michael shook his head “it’s no problem really, you seemed a little stressed.” Then he added “Actually, I have to ask, what time do you get off work?”
“Oh, Around 5pm, why?” You asked, curious.
“Well it’s just that I’ve got a day off today and, I was wonderin if you wanted to do something?”
Your eyebrows raised as you leaned over just a bit” Like..?”
“You could come over to my place, I’ve got this really good collection of movies if you want to binge any.”
“What if you’re an axe murderer?” You said, your tone playful.
“Guess you’ll just have to find that out.” He responded entirely too quickly. He then coughed, pretending he didn’t just sound stupid. “Only if you want. That is..”
Pairings: knight!steve harrington x accused!witch reader, soldier!steve harrington x nurse!reader, baseball coach!steve harrington x intern!pediatrician reader
Wc: 7.7k
Warnings: mention of deaths in past lives, WW2, near fatal car accident, coma scenes, emotional distress, drunk driving, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, healing, angst with happy ending. reincarnation au, soulmates au, fated lovers, SLOWBURN.
Summary: After years apart, you return to Hawkins for your brother’s graduation and find yourself drawn back into a life you don’t fully remember, but your heart does. As love rekindles with Steve Harrington, memories bleed through dreams, pain, and déjà vu, revealing a bond that has survived fire, war, and time itself. In this lifetime, you choose survival.
Part 1: Embers of Love
──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────
The fire took you slowly.
Flame swallowed linen, then skin—beauty giving way to flesh, flesh to bone, bone to ash. Smoke rose thick and black, carrying your name into the sky until even that was gone. The crowd did not stay to watch the end. They never did. By the time the last scream was swallowed by crackling wood, they had already turned away, satisfied, righteous, cruel.
Only Steve remained.
He stood where the heat still burned his face, where embers glowed like dying stars. He did not move as the night deepened, as ash settled over his armor, as guilt carved itself deeper into his chest. He stayed until the fire collapsed inward, until there was nothing left but a blackened stake and silence.
Dawn came softly, almost merciful.
As he turned to leave, the first light caught on something half-buried in the ash—a dull glint of bronze. Steve froze. He knelt with shaking hands and brushed the soot aside.
The necklace.
A thin bronze chain, scorched but unbroken. The rose pendant still intact, its petals darkened but whole. Yours. The same necklace he had pressed kisses to when he thought the world was kind. The same one he had whispered promises into, believing he could keep them.
His breath broke. He closed his fist around it, metal biting into his palm, grounding him in pain. He could not save you. That truth would never loosen its grip. But there was something he could still do: The children.
They hated him. They had every right to. But hatred did not keep them safe—this town would never let them be. When Steve came for them again, when he said they would leave, that he would take them far away, they did not forgive him.
They followed him anyway.
Because they knew the truth, the crowd had burned away: he loved you. He still did. And he would spend the rest of his life proving it.
The children grew, though the world had tried to break them.
William became a protector, standing where fear once stood, because once, someone had stood in front of him and said he was safe.
Maxine disappeared into whispers and shadows, forming quiet networks to shield women and children the way you had shielded her—fierce, unyielding, unheard until it was too late for their enemies.
And Holly became an inventor, building wonders with steady hands and fearless questions, dedicating every creation to the woman who had told her she was never broken.
In them, you lived on.
Decades passed, and the world moved on without him.
The sickness came quietly in a distant land—fever, shaking chills, lungs burning with each breath. Steve knew the signs. He had treated it in others, crushed herbs with steady hands, whispered the same reassurances you once had. But when it came for him, his hands faltered. He refuses treatment as penance. He lay pale against rough linen when his brother finally found him.
Dustin knelt at his bedside, tears blurring his vision. Steve pressed the bronze necklace into his palm, fingers trembling. “Give this,” he rasped, coughing hard, “to the woman you’d protect with your whole life.” A breath, broken. “Because I failed to protect mine.”
The fire in his chest faded. And then Steve Harrington was still.
1943 - somewhere on the battlefield
The knock came just before dawn.
Two sharp raps on the door, followed by silence so heavy it made your ears ring. When you opened it, a soldier stood stiffly on the step, helmet tucked under his arm, a folded flag held against his chest. He did not meet your eyes. He did not need to speak.
Your brother was not coming home.
His wife fell to her knees, clutching the flag, while you? The world cracked quietly after that—no screaming, no collapse, just a hollowing ache that settled deep in your bones. Grief became something you carried everywhere, like an extra limb you never asked for. And to survive it, you did the only thing that made sense: you volunteered.
The field hospital was a sprawl of canvas tents and mud, the air thick with smoke, blood, and antiseptic. Artillery thundered in the distance, close enough that the ground trembled beneath your boots. Groans, shouted orders, prayers whispered into trembling hands—it all blurred together into one endless sound.
You worked until your hands ached and your eyes burned. Bandage. Stitch. Press. Breathe.
Late one afternoon, they brought him in on a stretcher. “Bad hit,” a medic barked. “Bullet wound—shrapnel too.”
You nodded and took your place, fingers already moving as they cut away his uniform. Blood soaked through the fabric, dark and warm beneath your gloves. He was young, like you. Too young. Dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, jaw clenched tight against the pain.
As you cleaned the wound, his eyes fluttered open. He looked at you like he’d been searching for you his whole life.
“Have we met before?” he rasped.
You didn’t look up. “I don’t think so, Sergeant.”
He huffed a weak laugh, immediately regretting it as pain flashed across his face. “No… I think I’ve seen you before.” His gaze stayed fixed on you. “Oh. Right. In heaven.”
Despite yourself, your lips twitched. You shook your head, focused on your work. “Sergeant, I think the bullet damage reached your brain.”
“Shame,” he murmured. “Thought I was making you smile.”
You pressed fresh gauze against his side, firm enough to draw a hiss from him. “Save your strength.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said softly. Then, after a beat, “Steve Harrington.”
You paused just for a second before continuing your work. Outside, the guns roared. Inside the tent, for reasons you couldn’t name, the world felt strangely familiar.
Steve came back three weeks later, boots clean, uniform pressed, a thin scar pulling at his brow where death had almost kissed him. He stood at the edge of the tent like he didn’t quite belong there, cap tucked beneath his arm.
“Sergeant Harrington,” you said, not looking up. “You healed well.”
“Because I had a good nurse,” he replied. You could hear the smile in his voice.
That night, when the guns were quiet and the camp hummed with tired relief, he found you again. A local bar, he told you—dim lights, real glasses, jazz drifting through smoke and laughter. “Just for a night,” he said. “To remember we’re alive.”
You shook your head. “I don’t have time for dancing.”
“You deserve it.”
“My purpose isn’t to be happy,” you said gently. “It’s to save lives.”
He didn’t argue. He never did. He only smiled, softer this time, like he was memorizing you. He kept coming back anyway.
Then one night, the sky split open.
Explosions tore through the field, screams ripping through the dark. Stretchers flooded the tent, blood soaking the ground faster than you could clean it. And then you saw him—Steve, barely conscious, uniform shredded, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths.
Your hands shook for the first time.
You cleaned his wounds with ruthless focus, stitched where skin refused to hold, pressed until your arms burned. When the last soldier was treated, and the tent finally fell quiet, you returned to him.
He hadn’t woken. You sat beside his cot, exhaustion dragging you down, and took his hand. It was warm. Still here.
You bowed your head, breath shaking, and whispered prayers you had not dared to speak since the day your brother’s name was folded into a flag.
“God,” you breathed, desperation stripping you bare, “take my sins if You must. Count them all—every doubt, every fear, every moment I failed. Just… spare him. Let him live. Let him walk away from this war.” Your grip on his hand tightened. “I’ll carry whatever punishment you choose, if You leave him here.”
Tears blurred your vision and spilled freely now. “Stay,” you whispered, forehead pressing to his knuckles. “Please… stay.” A broken laugh slipped through your sob. “I’ll go with you. To the bar. I’ll dance. I’ll do anything—just don’t leave.”
His fingers moved. Weak, trembling—but unmistakably alive.
Steve’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then finding you. With what little strength he had left, he lifted his hand and brushed the tears from your cheek, thumb warm and clumsy.
“Yo—” he croaked, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth, “you can’t take that back.”
You laughed through your tears, clutching his hand to your chest as if letting go would tempt fate again.
Months passed, and the war wore on, but Steve healed. His wounds faded, leaving only the scars that told the story of survival. One quiet evening, when the camp was mercifully calm, he found you again—this time, not as a soldier needing rescue, but as a man seeking something more.
A local bar, dimly lit and smoky, hummed with music and laughter. The band played “I’ve Got But One Heart” by Frank Sinatra, a soft, warm melody that seemed out of place among the chaos of war, yet perfect for this stolen moment. Steve held out his hand. You hesitated, then let him guide you onto the dance floor.
You moved together like the world had slowed just for the two of you, bodies close, steps almost synchronized, laughter slipping between them.
“I promise,” Steve said softly as the song reached the bridge, forehead brushing yours, “after this war… I’ll marry you. We’ll survive it together. I swear.”
Your chest tightened, heart skipping in disbelief and hope.
He pulled a small velvet pouch from his pocket, hesitating. “I have this,” he whispered. “A necklace from my great-great-great-grandfather—a mighty knight, they say. I never imagined I’d meet the woman I’d want to spend my life with in the middle of a war. But when this is over… it’s yours.”
From the edge of the room, a young soldier named Dustin—one of Steve’s men—watched with awe. He muttered to a friend, voice quiet but certain, “She’s the only one I’ve ever seen him look at her like she hung the stars and moon herself.”
Steve pressed the necklace into your hand, eyes soft but resolute. “And when I give it to you… it means I’m keeping my promise. For the rest of my life.”
You held it close, letting the music, the laughter, the warmth of the moment, and the weight of fate settle around you both. The war could rage outside, but here, just for tonight, the world belonged only to you two.
Steve’s hand lingered on yours, calloused fingers brushing against yours one last time. The camp was quiet at dawn, the faint smell of smoke and gunpowder still in the air, men hurrying to their posts. Dustin had just been captured, stolen into enemy hands. Steve’s eyes were dark with fury, but before he left, he pressed a desperate kiss to your temple.
“I’ll come back,” he whispered, voice ragged. “I swear, no matter what.”
You held his gaze, heart pounding. “I’ll wait,” you said softly, fingertips pressing against his cheek. He nodded, gripping his rifle, and was gone in the blink of an eye.
Night fell, the silence before a storm. Then came the roar of engines, the crash of bombs, the screams of soldiers and civilians alike. You ran, heart hammering, mud sucking at your boots, but Hopper and Murray were waiting—shadows in the chaos.
“Thought you could hide from us, little nurse?” Master Sergeant Hopper sneered, his boots pressing into the churned earth.
“You’ll pay for this, traitors,” you spat, trying to wrench free, but Murray’s hand gripped your arm with cruel strength.
Pain flared as he struck. You gasped, collapsing to the ground, the flames of your camp reflected in your wide, terrified eyes. Hopper shoved you forward, boots grinding into your side.
“No mercy. No witnesses,” Murray said, voice cold. “Orders are orders.”
The shot rang out. One. Perfect. Final. Silence followed. The fire consumed what little remained of your world, smoke curling into the dark sky, carrying your screams away.
Weeks later, Steve returned—victorious, battle-worn, yet hollow. He saw the aftermath: ash, scorched camp. The news tore through him like a blade. His world was shattered.
The war ended. Flags waved, trumpets blared, and towns celebrated. Steve walked among them, armor gleaming, medals pinned—but his eyes were empty, the laughter of life long gone. He had won battles, liberated towns, survived the war… but the woman he loved, the one who had been everything, was gone. And the man who survived it all had become a ghost of himself.
Years passed. Steve married, had two sons, and a life that on paper seemed complete. But the man he had become was a shadow of who he once was. Anger simmered under every word, every gesture—quick to flare, slow to fade. Friends whispered of PTSD, of survivor’s guilt. They didn’t know the truth.
His wife, patient and perceptive, knew better. She saw the haunted look in his eyes when he thought no one was watching, the way his hand brushed the small velvet pouch hidden beneath his coat—the necklace, the necklace he had promised you but never gave. Nights were filled with whiskey and silence, the bottle offering a numbness that nothing else could.
And still, despite the life around him, the married life, the sons, the celebrations… his heart was elsewhere, lost in the smoke of a campfire, in the echo of a name he could never forget.
One cold night, the fire in the hearth guttered, casting shadows across the room. Steve’s breath hitched, shallow and uneven. His hand, clutching the necklace, fell limply to the side. His eyes closed, not with peace, but with the weight of decades of grief and love unspent. The man who had survived every battle, every war, every fire… finally did not wake.
She found the letter three days after the funeral.
It was tucked inside the old desk in his study, beneath war medals she never knew where to put and a velvet pouch she had never been allowed to open. The paper was yellowed, folded carefully, like he had rewritten it many times before deciding on these words.
Her name was written at the top.
My wife,
I don’t know how to say this aloud, so I will leave it here, where I have always left the truth.
I am sorry for being a poor husband to you. For the silence. For the anger. For the way my eyes were always elsewhere, even when my body was beside you. Our marriage was real on paper, but I fear that is where it ended. You deserved warmth, devotion, a man who could look at you and stay. I tried. God knows I tried.
But there was a war inside me that never ended.
He wrote of the nurse then. Not your name, never your name, but the way you laughed softly in the dark, the way you prayed with shaking hands, the way you held his life like it mattered more than your own.
I have been searching for her ever since she died. In dreams. In crowds. In the quiet moments when the world slows and memory hurts the most. Loving you was never a lie, but it was never complete. I was already bound to a ghost.
Her hands trembled as she turned the page.
Please believe me when I say this: my failure was never your fault. You gave me patience I did not earn, and sons I did not know how to love properly. I was cold to them, it was because I was afraid of loving again and losing everything twice.
At the bottom of the letter, he had written one final request.
The necklace is not yours to wear. It was never meant for me to give while I still lived in the past. Keep it safe. One day, give it to someone worthy of it. Someone who loves fully, without fear, without war in their chest. Someone who will finish the story I could not.
She closed the letter with shaking hands and finally opened the velvet pouch. The bronze rose lay inside, worn smooth by decades of grief and longing.
For the first time, she understood. And for the first time, she forgave him.
1989 - Hawkins, Indiana
The morning smelled like cut grass and summer heat, the kind that stuck to your skin no matter how early you left the house. Today was Dustin’s graduation. The thought made your chest tighten, pride and something heavier tangling together in a way you couldn’t quite name.
As if that wasn’t enough, Hawkins Memorial Hospital had called last week.
We’re pleased to inform you…
Internship accepted.
You hadn’t told anyone yet. Well, to your Dad only, for this is a surprise to Dustin and to your Mom, who now lives two states away with a new address and a life split neatly down the middle by divorce papers and careful silences. You still wrote her letters. Long ones. The kind you never knew how to end. Dustin sent shorter ones. Messier handwriting. More enthusiasm. Less restraint. But that all changed because of the internship.
The car sputtered just outside the edge of town.
“No—no, no, no,” you muttered, tapping the steering wheel as if intimidation might help. The engine coughed once more, then died completely. You pulled over, heart sinking, and climbed out to inspect the damage.
Flat tire.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” you hissed, kicking the gravel in frustration. Of all days.
A familiar rumble slowed behind you. Tires crunched to a stop. You straightened as a police cruiser pulled up alongside the road, red and blue lights mercifully dark.
The driver’s door opened.
“You alright there?”
You turned to find a broad-shouldered man stepping out, coffee in one hand, badge catching the sun. Chief Hopper, he introduced himself. Hawkins was small like that—you recognized faces even when you didn’t know names.
“Flat tire,” you said. “And I’m already running late.”
He nodded, surveying the damage. “Graduation day?”
You blinked. “How did you—”
“Lucky guess,” he said, gruff but not unkind. “Town’s buzzing.”
You hesitated only a second before sighing. “Yeah. My brother’s.”
He glanced at his watch. “I can give you a lift. You can’t fix that in five minutes.”
You shouldn’t have agreed so quickly. You knew that. And yet, urgency won out over caution. “Okay,” you said. “Thank you.”
The cruiser smelled faintly of old coffee and something metallic. As you buckled in, an uneasy prickle crawled up your spine. Not fear. Just… awareness. Like you’d stepped into a place where too much had already happened.
Your eyes drifted to the dashboard. A photograph sat tucked near the windshield—two girls, smiling, frozen in a moment that felt painfully permanent.
“Your daughters?” you asked gently. “They’re beautiful.”
Hopper’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “Yeah,” he said after a beat. “They were.”
“Oh,” you murmured. “I’m sorry.”
He exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the road. “Funny thing,” he said, almost to himself. “People tell me things. Things they don’t usually say out loud.”
You glanced at him, surprised.
“They do the same with you,” he added.
You let out a small, awkward laugh. “I get that a lot. Guess I’ve got one of those faces. People say I make them feel… safe.”
Hopper snorted softly. “Hell of a thing to be.”
The car rolled on toward town, graduation banners already visible in the distance. Your heart beat faster—not just from nerves, but from that strange, familiar sense that something important was already unfolding. You didn’t know it yet, but this was the beginning.
The open field buzzed with noise long before the program began—banners dancing in the wind, parents calling names across rows, the echo in speakers. Banners reading CONGRATULATIONS CLASS OF ’89 hung crookedly.
You spotted your mother immediately.
She was sitting in a bleacher, twisting a tissue between her fingers, eyes already shining. The moment she saw you, her face crumpled.
“Oh—no,” you laughed softly, stepping into her arms before she could fully fall apart. “Please don’t start yet.”
She hugged you tight, like she was afraid you might disappear again. “I just—look at you,” she whispered. “You came all this way.”
“I wouldn’t miss this,” you said, then hesitated before adding, “And I got accepted.”
Her head snapped back. “Accepted?”
“Hawkins Memorial. Internship. Staying for good”
She stared at you for a second, then promptly started crying harder.
“Oh my God,” she sobbed. “I knew it. I knew you’d do this. I’m so proud of you.” She wiped at her face, laughing through tears. “I’m never going to survive today.”
You smiled, chest warm and aching all at once, and guided her to her seat. You took the one directly in front of her, close enough that she could reach out and grab your shoulder whenever emotion overwhelmed her again.
Two people slid into the row beside you a moment later.
A man about your age, dressed neatly in a suit that looked worn but well-loved, dropped into the seat next to yours with a quiet exhale. Beside him, a woman in a jumper layered over a dirty white off-shoulder top leaned in to say something under her breath that made him snort.
You caught only fragments—easy familiarity, shared history—but you didn’t look too closely. Not yet.
The speaker stopped. The chatter softened.
When Dustin’s name was finally called, your heart kicked hard against your ribs. He walked onto the stage grinning like he’d already won something, adjusting the microphone with exaggerated seriousness.
His speech was… Dustin. Rambling, earnest, wildly off-topic. You laughed. You cried. You lost it when he flipped off the principal on his way back to his seat.
The field exploded in confetti and cheers.
You were already on your feet when the ceremony ended, weaving through the crowd with the bouquet you’d bought earlier—last-minute, slightly wilted, but perfect anyway.
“Congratulations, Dusty!” you said, arms opening wide.
Dustin froze.
His eyes went wide. His mouth fell open. “Holy shit.”
Then he ran at you full speed, nearly knocking you over as he wrapped you in a crushing hug. He pulled back, stared at your face like you might vanish, then hugged you again.
“You’re real,” he said breathlessly. “You’re actually here.”
“I told you I’d come,” you laughed, blinking fast.
“So,” one of his friends said nearby, eyes flicking between the two of you, “Dustin has a sister. I thought that was a joke.”
“That’s why he never brought it up again,” a red-haired girl added dryly, crossing her arms. “None of us believed him.”
Dustin scowled. “You’re all dead to me.” You laughed, warmth blooming in your chest—brief, bright, and precious.
From a few steps away, you felt it again. That pull that made your heart ache for a moment.
Dustin left for college at the end of August.
You helped him pack the last box into the trunk, hands lingering longer than necessary as if touching the car might keep him close. He hugged you hard before getting in, muttering something about writing every week and definitely not crying. He cried anyway. You did too, once the car disappeared down the road.
After that, life settled into something quieter.
You worked as an intern in pediatrics at Hawkins Memorial Hospital, days blurring together in antiseptic white and soft-colored walls. Children learned your name quickly. Parents trusted you without knowing why. You were good at sitting on the edge of beds, explaining things slowly, making the pain feel smaller just by staying.
Derek and Thomas were your favorites.
They were both ten, both stubborn, both convinced hospitals were evil places filled with needles and lies. Derek liked dragons. Tomas liked dinosaurs. Neither liked staying still.
“You have to come,” Thomas insisted one afternoon, swinging his legs off the exam table. “Coach Harrington says we’re gonna win this time.”
Derek nodded solemnly. “He promised.”
You raised a brow. “Your coach promised?”
“Yeah,” Thomas said. “He always does.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Alright,” you sighed. “I’ll come. One game.”
That was how you found yourself sitting on the metal bleachers on your day off along with other mothers, the sun warm against your shoulders, the smell of grass and dust thick in the air. Children shouted and laughed across the field, sneakers kicking up dirt as the game began.
You clapped when Derek hit the ball. You cheered when Thomas stole second base. You waved back when they spotted you in the crowd, grinning like you were the best thing that had ever happened to them.
And then, across the field, you felt it.
Your breath caught.
Your gaze lifted without thinking, drawn to the man pacing near the dugout, baseball cap pulled low, whistle hanging loose around his neck. He was laughing at something one of the kids said, clapping a hand on a small shoulder, voice carrying just enough to be heard.
Steve Harrington—your brother’s best friend.
The sound of your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. A sharp, hollow ache bloomed in your chest, sudden and disorienting, like you’d misplaced something vital and only just realized it was gone.
What is wrong with you? you thought.
He glanced up then. Your eyes met across the field.
The world tilted—not dramatically, not loudly but enough that you felt it in your bones. His smile faded into something quieter, more focused. Like he was trying to place you. Like he already knew you, somehow.
The game ended with cheers and dust and high-fives. Derek and Thomas ran toward you the second it was over, faces flushed, voices overlapping.
“Did you see that?”
“Coach says I’m getting better!”
“We won!”
“I saw everything,” you laughed, crouching to their level. “You were amazing.”
They ran off again a moment later, tugged away by parents and teammates.
You straightened—and nearly collided with someone.
“Hey,” a familiar voice said.
Steve stood in front of you, close enough that you could see the faint scar near his brow, the crease between his eyes when he smiled.
“You’re Dustin’s sister, right?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah. That’s me.”
He grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thought so. He talks about you like you’re some kind of legend since you swhoed up on his graduation.”
You huffed softly. “That sounds like him.”
He nodded toward the field. “So—how was the game?”
“It was good,” you said honestly. “I only came because Derek and Thomas begged me.”
Steve laughed. “Yeah. That tracks.”
His eyes softened as he looked back toward the kids, now dogpiling each other near the fence. “They talk about you all the time. I heard how cool and chill their doctor is. You know that, right?”
You blinked. “They do?”
“Constantly,” he said. “They trust you. Means a lot.” Something warm settled in your chest, easing the ache just a little.
“Well,” you said quietly, “they’re good kids.”
Steve met your gaze again, something unspoken passing between you—recognition without memory, familiarity without reason. “Yeah,” he agreed. “They really are.” For a moment, neither of you moved.
Your shift ran long.
It always did.
By the time you stepped out of Hawkins Memorial, the sun was already dipping low, the parking lot washed in that dull orange glow that made everything feel slower. Your arms ached from carrying pediatric supplies down from storage—boxes of donated toys, spare linens, and laminated posters meant to make hospital rooms feel less like cages.
You unlocked your car with your elbow and popped the trunk, staring at the pile like it might magically organize itself.
“Okay,” you muttered. “One trip.”
You lifted the first box and immediately regretted it.
The cardboard bent slightly under the weight, edges biting into your forearms as you shuffled forward. The box wobbled. You sucked in a breath, trying to adjust your grip.
“Hey—careful.”
You startled. The box tipped—
—and suddenly, hands were there. Strong, steady, taking half the weight without hesitation.
“I’ve got it,” Steve said.
Your heart slammed painfully against your ribs. You turned, breath caught halfway in. “I—sorry. I didn’t see you.”
“That’s okay,” he replied easily, already guiding the box into the trunk like this was the most natural thing in the world. “Those look heavier than they should be.”
You let go slowly, fingers tingling. “They always are.”
Steve straightened, brushing his hands against his jeans. He looked… out of place and not at all. Jacket slung over one shoulder, hair a little mussed, like he’d just come from somewhere emotional rather than practical.
“I was visiting someone,” he said, nodding toward the hospital. “One of the kids. Broken arm. Nothing too serious.”
You blinked. “Let me guess. One of your kids?”
Steve smiled. “You know him?”
“I know all of them,” you said softly.
That ache bloomed again—sharp, sudden, deep. You pressed a hand to your chest without thinking, fingers curling into your shirt.
Steve noticed.
“You okay?” he asked, concern slipping into his voice.
“Yeah,” you lied, breath uneven. “Just…long day.”
He hesitated, then reached for the next box without asking. “Here. Let me help.”
You didn’t stop him. The two of you worked in quiet rhythm, unloading the trunk piece by piece. Your hands brushed once. Then again. Each time, it felt like touching something familiar you weren’t supposed to recognize.
When the trunk finally empty, you leaned back against the car, exhaling.
“Thank you,” you said. “You didn’t have to.”
Steve shrugged. “Seemed like I was supposed to.”
The words landed heavier than they should have.
You met his eyes. For a moment, the parking lot faded—the cars, the lights, the hum of the building behind you. Just him. Just you. That strange pull tightening between your ribs.
“Well,” you said quietly, breaking the moment, “I should—”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding, though neither of you moved right away. “Me too.”
He stepped back first this time. “I’ll see you around?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
As he walked away, you watched him go, heart aching with the sense that something important had almost surfaced—and slipped away again.
Steve took a step back, then another, like he was about to leave—and then stopped himself. “Hey,” he said, turning around.
You looked up from where you were still leaning against your car, fingers hooked around your keys. “Yeah?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit you’d noticed more than once now. “So… this might be weird. Or maybe it’s not. I’m bad at telling the difference.”
You smiled faintly. “You’re doing fine.” That seemed to help. Just a little.
“I was thinking,” he continued, gesturing vaguely between the hospital and the parking lot and the space the two of you seemed to keep circling, “maybe we could grab a coffee sometime. Like—actually sit down. Talk. No boxes. No chaos.”
Your heart stuttered.
Coffee. Simple. Normal. Terrifying.
You hesitated—not because you didn’t want to, but because something in you whispered this matters. That familiar ache stirred again, quieter now, almost hopeful. “I work weird hours,” you said slowly. “And I’m not great at… normal.”
Steve smiled, soft and understanding. “That’s okay. I’m only good at stranger things.”
You laughed, the sound surprising both of you. “Okay,” you said finally. “Coffee.”
His shoulders relaxed like he’d been holding his breath. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you confirmed.
He grinned, real and unguarded this time. “There’s a place on Main. Not fancy. But the coffee’s good.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
He nodded, stepping backward toward his car. “I’ll see you then.”
“See you,” you replied.
As he drove away, you stood there for a moment longer, hand pressed lightly to your chest—not in pain this time, but something warmer. Something opening instead of breaking.
The coffee shop was quiet in the late afternoon, all chipped mugs and humming machines, sunlight slanting through the front window. You sat across from Steve, hands wrapped around your cup more for grounding than warmth.
“So,” he said, smiling a little. “Any hobbies that don’t involve saving kids and carrying heavy boxes?”
You huffed softly. “I sleep. When I get the chance.”
“Any good dreams?” he asked. You hesitated.
“I’ve been having… weird ones,” you admitted, eyes dropping to the surface of your coffee. “Ever since I got here to Hawkins.”
Steve leaned back slightly, giving you space without pulling away. “Weird how?”
You hesitated again, then laughed under your breath. “This is the part where I sound a little insane.”
“I promise not to run,” he said lightly.
You took a breath. “Sometimes I dream I’m being burned. Like—at stake. I can smell it. Feel it. And other times…” You frowned, searching for words. “I’m young. Wearing a nurse’s uniform. Wartime. I know it’s the forties. I wake up knowing things I shouldn’t.”
Steve didn’t interrupt. “That’s… intense,” he said carefully.
“Yeah,” you agreed. “It’s probably stress. Or my brain being dramatic.”
“Doesn’t sound dramatic,” he said. “Sounds… vivid.”
You nodded. “That’s the worst part. It feels familiar. Like I’m remembering instead of imagining.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just thoughtful. Steve finally spoke. “Do they scare you?”
“Sometimes,” you said honestly. “Sometimes they just make me sad. Like I lost something important and can’t remember what.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I get that.”
You looked up. “You do?”
“Not the dreams,” he clarified. “The feeling.”
Your chest ached again, softer this time. “Guess we’re both a little weird,” you said.
Steve smiled. “Good. Normal’s overrated."
It didn’t happen all at once. It happened in small, ordinary ways.
Steve started showing up at the hospital on his days off, sleeves rolled up, paint on his hands, following your instructions like they mattered. Together, you turned sterile pediatric rooms into something softer. Fun posters. Brighter curtains. A crooked mural, one of the kids insisted on changing it.
“You missed a spot,” you teased once.
He squinted at the wall. “That’s intentional.”
“You painted over a cloud.”
“Abstract.” You laughed more than you had in years.
And you started showing up too.
Rain or shine, win or loss, you were there in the bleachers, cheering louder than you meant to. The kids noticed first. Then the parents. Then Steve, glancing toward the stands like he was checking that something important hadn’t disappeared.
After games, he’d walk you to your car. Sometimes you talked. Sometimes you didn’t. The silence never felt empty.
Dustin called from college, voice bright and excited, teasing you about your “boyfriend.”
“He’s not my—” you started.
“I can feel your smile,” he interrupted. You didn’t argue after that.
Somewhere along the way, you realized the ache was gone. No tightness in your chest. No phantom grief. Just warmth. Steady and grounded, like your body had finally decided it was safe to stay.
Steve asked you out on a Tuesday. Nothing special about the day. No fireworks. No signs that this moment would matter more than most.
You were sitting on the hood of your car after a late game, legs swinging slightly, the field lights clicking off one by one until the world narrowed down to just the two of you and the quiet hum of night.
“So,” Steve said, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “I’ve been thinking.”
You smiled. “That sounds dangerous.”
He huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. But I think it’s worth the risk.” Then he looked at you. Really looked. Not rushed. Not unsure.
“We already do everything together,” he said. “I just thought… maybe we should stop pretending it’s not something. Go on an actual date. Make it official.”
Your heart didn’t pound. It didn’t ache. It settled.
“I’d like that,” you said softly.
Steve exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He reached for your hand, slow and careful, like he was giving you every chance to change your mind. You didn’t.
Your fingers laced together easily, naturally, like they’d done this before.
Steve stepped closer.
For a second, he hesitated—eyes flicking to yours, searching. Then he reached up, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he was grounding himself.
And then he kissed you.
It was gentle at first. Almost uncertain. But something shifted the moment your lips met, something deep and instinctive, like recognition snapping into place.
You felt him tense.
His hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer, like he was afraid that if he didn’t hold on, you might slip away. The kiss deepened, unhurried but intense, his grip tightening just enough to say stay.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath uneven.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “I just—”
“It’s okay,” you said, fingers curling into his jacket. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He nodded, holding you a second longer than necessary, like he needed the proof.
And standing there, wrapped in his arms under fading stadium lights, you realized something else too. For the first time since coming back to Hawkins, nothing felt unfinished. It felt like being exactly where you were meant to be.
1993 - Hawkins, Indiana
Three years of dating Steve Harrington felt both impossibly long and nowhere near enough.
When he called and said he had a surprise, you knew—somehow—that this wasn’t small. He sounded nervous in that quiet way he got when something mattered too much to joke about.
The restaurant was warm and elegant, candlelight softening the edges of the room. A small band played near the corner, the notes slow and familiar. You froze when you realized what song it was.
“Steve,” you murmured, almost laughing. “This is my favorite.”
“I know,” he said gently.
And suddenly, your chest tightened—not with ache, but with recognition. The music carried softly between you.
Like a river flows,
Surely to the sea…
Steve reached across the table, taking your hands. His thumbs brushed your knuckles, grounding, steady. “There’s something I’ve wanted to give you for a long time,” he said. His voice wavered, just slightly. “Something that’s been waiting.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet pouch. Your breath caught. When he opened it, the world narrowed to a single object.
A necklace.
The one you had seen in your dreams of firelight and candle smoke. The one that rested against your skin in dreams of stone walls and bloodied fields, of whispered vows and wartime prayers. The one that had followed you through centuries, always just out of reach.
“Stevie…” you whispered, tears already blurring your vision.
“My grandmother gave this to me,” he said softly. “She told me it’s been in my family for generations. That I should only give it to the woman I want to protect, save, love—and build a life with.”
The band played on.
Darling, so it goes,
Some things are meant to be…
“This necklace holds decades of love,” Steve continued, eyes shining. “Fire. Wars. Hard years. Joy. Survival. My grandmother believed it carries warmth, care, and laughter.” He let out a shaky laugh. “She even said six kids.”
You laughed through your tears.
“I want decades—centuries if that's possible, with you,” he said, voice breaking now. “I want a life that survives everything. Will you let me give this to you? Will you make me the happiest man in the universe?”
The lyrics swelled around you.
Take my hand,
Take my whole life, too…
You nodded before you could speak, tears falling freely now. “Yes,” you breathed. “Yes.”
Steve stood, moving around the table, pulling you into his arms as you kissed him—slow, deep, reverent. Like a vow spoken without words.
He lifted the necklace from the pouch and fastened it around your neck, fingers trembling as the pendant settled against your chest.
“I know it’s not a ring,” he whispered against your temple. “But I wanted it close to your heart.”
You pressed your forehead to his, smiling through tears. “It’s perfect.”
Because it was.
The necklace had crossed centuries, survived fire and war and loss. And now, finally—It had found where it belonged.
Tomorrow, you are getting married.
Your mother said it was bad luck for the bride and groom to see each other the day before the wedding. You told her it was superstition, that the future didn’t work that way anymore, that love wasn’t so fragile it could be ruined by a glance.
She only smiled sadly and kissed your cheek.
So you left the hospital late, chart notes unfinished, heart full and impatient. Tomorrow you will walk toward Steve in white. Tomorrow, everything will finally be allowed to be happy.
The road was quiet. Too quiet. You never saw the truck until it was already there.
Headlights.
Metal screaming.
The world is spinning sideways.
The impact snapped your body forward, then back, then into glass and steel as your car spun and slammed into the storefront on the corner. Sound vanished, replaced by a high, shrill ringing that swallowed everything else.
Pain came second. Your vision blurred, lights smearing into color and shadow. Somewhere, someone was screaming. Somewhere, people were running closer. You tasted blood.
Sirens.
Hands.
Shouting.
Your chest burned. Your body felt wrong, heavy, unresponsive. As darkness crept in, the only thing you could think of was him.
“Steve,” you whispered, the name barely more than breath and then there was nothing.
Steve was laughing when the phone rang.
Robin had said something ridiculous. Dustin was mid-rant. Nancy and Jonathan were pretending not to smile at each other from opposite ends of the room. There were empty bottles, cheap decorations, the quiet joy of a life about to change.
Steve almost ignored the call. Almost.
When he answered, the world ended.
He didn’t remember dropping the phone. He didn’t remember falling to his knees. He only remembered the sound his chest made when it collapsed inward, like something vital had shattered beyond repair.
“No,” he said hoarsely. “No—no, you have the wrong—”
Robin was beside him instantly. Dustin was frozen, pale. Jonathan caught Steve before he hit the floor again.
At the hospital, everything smelled wrong. Too clean. Too bright.
Steve saw the man first.
Murray. He’s sitting, alive and being patched up by a nurse. “The driver,” someone said quietly. “Drunk. Says he didn’t see her.”
Steve didn’t remember crossing the room.
He only remembered his fist connecting with Murray’s face, the sickening crunch of bone, the way Jonathan’s arms locked around his chest too late.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Steve screamed, voice breaking apart. “You said you were sober. You said—” He choked.
“That’s my wife,” he sobbed. “That’s my wife in there. We’re getting married tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
The word meant nothing now.
The hospital room was dim and quiet, machines humming softly like they were afraid to be loud. Tubes and wires traced your body, keeping you here in ways Steve didn’t understand and didn’t trust.
You looked small. Too small.
Steve sat beside your bed and never left.
Days blurred into nights. Nights into weeks. He stopped coaching. Stopped going home. Stopped being anything but the man holding your hand and begging the universe not to take you. Your fingers were cold in his.
“I know,” he whispered one night, voice raw. “I know what I did.” His forehead rested against your knuckles. Tears soaked the sheets. “I remember now,” he said. “All of it. The fire. The war. The way I failed you every time.”
His breath shook violently. “You gave me this life to make it right,” he pleaded. “I know you did. And I’ll be honest, God—I’ll be selfish. Please. Please don’t take her.”
The machines kept breathing for you.
“She saves lives,” he whispered. “She’s spent her whole life saving people. Please save hers.” Steve squeezed your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. “She’s the girl in my dreams,” he sobbed. “The one I burned. The one who held my hand while I bled out. The moment I sat beside her at that graduation, I dreamed of the stake. When she watched my games, she was the nurse. It’s always been her.”
His voice broke completely.
“I can’t do this again,” he begged. “I can’t lose her in every lifetime. Not again. Just this once. Please.”
Inside the dark quiet of your body, you heard him. The sound of his voice cut through centuries. Tears slipped from the corners of your closed eyes, warm and unmistakably real.
Because now you knew.
The nameless knight.
The faceless soldier.
The boy who had loved you badly and lost you every time.
Steve Harrington.
Your fingers twitched in his grasp and Steve felt it.
Present - Hawkins, Indiana
“Wow,” Michael said softly, blinking a little too fast. “That’s kind of tragic.”
He paused, then added, almost reverently, “But also… really inspiring.”
The living room was warm with late afternoon light, dust motes floating lazily in the air. The school assignment sheet lay abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten in the aftermath of the story you hadn’t meant to tell all at once.
“For our activity,” Dustin said, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, “we had to share our favorite love story.” He grinned, sniffing. “Dude, we are definitely getting that award.”
Your four girls—Jane, Willow, Lucy, and Maxie, were tangled together on the carpet, arms wrapped tight around one another. Jane cried openly. Willow tried to pretend she wasn’t. Mxie clung to Lucy like she was afraid letting go might break something.
“It’s not fair,” Maxie muttered through tears. “You went through all of that.”
You smiled softly. “I wouldn’t change it.”
Steve sat beside you, quiet, eyes red, jaw tight like he was holding back a thousand memories all at once. When he finally looked at you, it was with the same expression he’d worn in every lifetime when he realized you were still here.
He leaned in and kissed your temple, slow and steady.
“Every fire,” he said quietly. “Every war. Every loss.” His voice wavered, but he didn’t look away. “It was worth it.” Your fingers laced with his, familiar and sure.
“I spent lifetimes afraid that loving you meant losing you,” Steve continued. “But now I know that we always find our way back.” He smiled through tears. “And this time, we got to live. The way we wanted.”
The kids watched him with wide, reverent eyes.
“This is the part where we exist,” you said gently. “Where love survives.”
Steve squeezed your hand. “Where it lasts.”
Outside, the world went on—ordinary and beautiful and safe. Inside, surrounded by proof of every choice you’d ever made, you understood something simple and profound.
Some love stories don’t end.
They endure.
──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────
Read Steve Harrington did not sign up for this (but he will do it again) for a glimpse of their domesticated life.
a/n: first of all, thank you so much for reading embers of love. thank you for every like, reblog, and kind message. your support truly means more to me than i can put into words.
i poured my whole week into writing this part, heart and soul, and i hope you can feel the love, pain, and healing woven into it. please enjoy reading as much as i enjoyed (and suffered a little) writing it.
and lastly, i hope we all find our steve harrington — in this life, and in every lifetime. 🤍
The Universe is a Romcom-Obsessed Bastard (and your mouth is on his mouth ohmygod)
A/N: id, i hope this is okay, i enjoyed this haha, i used the clichee romcom tropes for this
warnings: ideka, smut, maybe ooc, annoying i suppose?
Let’s start here: Nanami Kento does not believe in fate.
He believes in efficiency. In logical progression. In pressed suits, well-balanced spreadsheets, and sushi lunches that don’t involve talking to strangers. He believes that the world is shit, and his job is to tolerate it with some dignity, until his bones rot out of his cursed salaryman body.
That is—until you fucking crash into him.
Literally. Physically. Cat-first.
*-*
The sky is overcast in a way that makes the light feel lazy, like it forgot it was supposed to commit to a full grey-out or go full sunshine. Nanami Kento, tired of pretending that life had flavor, is walking back to his apartment after yet another soul-deepeningly bleak day of law firm paper-pushing. His soul was probably sold to capitalism in a past life—this one was just payment collection.
His life is a series of precise steps.
Coffee at 6:43 a.m.
Suit: pressed, tan, predictable.
Clients: unoriginal, overpaid, ungrateful.
Yuji: the one blindingly bright golden retriever of a new recruit he tolerates (fondly, if he’s being honest, which he usually isn’t).
Evenings: silence, scotch, and jazz.
That is, until you show up. Or rather—your absolute fucking menace of a cat does.
Your dumbass cat escapes.
Again.
Chairman Meow (yes, that is his real name, yes, he wears a red bowtie, and yes, he is neutered but still full of hubris) has slipped out onto the hallway of your apartment complex because you left the door open to grab a package full of glow-in-the-dark moon socks and a set of enamel pins shaped like serotonin molecules. Because you have taste.
You're in a science-themed dress today. Today’s look? "Under the Sea": jellyfish earrings, an ocean-wave blue midi skirt, and a blouse patterned with little cartoon cephalopods. Some of it thrifted, some of it hand-embroidered, all of it slapping hard.
And when you chase the little red-bowed bastard down the hallway yelling “CHAIRMAN GET YOUR ASS BACK INSIDE,” you don’t see the man stepping out of his apartment, carrying a briefcase full of precisely organized legal documents and absolutely no tolerance for bullshit.
And you—running at full cat-mom speed—fucking slam into him.
Like, movie-style. His briefcase pops open. Papers explode. There’s wind? How is there wind inside? Doesn’t matter.
The hallway turns into a snowglobe of legal jargon and you land on him—chest to chest, tangled up in fallen paper and your own apologies, blinking up at him as if someone just drop-kicked you into a romantic comedy directed by Satan.
“Oh shit—I—fuck—I didn’t mean to—he just, I—CHAIRMAN YOU LITTLE DICK, GET OVER HERE—!”
“You... tackled me,” the man says.
His voice is deep. Like old jazz vinyl and judgment.
His face is angular, suit perfect, blond hair sleeked back like he works as a Bond villain part-time. Glasses. Cold blue eyes. He looks like a capitalist wet dream. But also like he hasn’t been kissed in a decade.
“I’m—so sorry, oh my God, let me just—are these yours?”
You reach for a stack of papers fluttering in front of his face and somehow your hand brushes his and it’s like—static.
Not romantic static. Like. SEXUAL TENSION static.
And he freezes.
Nanami is not religious. But in this moment, staring into the eyes of a woman dressed like a sea-themed fever dream while her cat claws at his Italian leather shoes and his legal briefs litter the floor like confetti, he considers the possibility that the gods hate him.
Or worse: that they’re trying to set him up.
“I believe your cat is attempting murder,” he says flatly.
“That’s just his love language,” you offer brightly, standing up with a grunt, a bit out of breath, brushing paper from your thighs. “I swear he’s usually not—well, no. He’s always like this.”
You finally meet his eyes and—oh.
Oh no.
You’re hot.
No. No, he can’t do this. You're all soft curves and unapologetic presence, and your smile is too much. It's not even flirtatious—just open, and alive in a way that Nanami is so violently not.
His life is grey. You’re—technicolor chaos.
You’re stickers on a laptop, you’re frog-shaped mugs and themed earrings. You probably say things like “vibe check” unironically.
He wants to walk away.
He also wants to bite your thighs.
"Please don't sue us." Is the only he registers coming from your mouth.
*-*
The day your underwear ends up on his balcony, he thinks he's hallucinating.
It's not just underwear.
It’s a bra. And not just any bra.
A black lacey number with stars embroidered on it and little moons dangling from the strap.
It’s floating off his balcony railing like a flag of surrender from the gods.
He hears a knock on his door.
You’re standing there.
Face bright red.
Wearing a skirt patterned with planets and a hoodie with the word “photosynthesis” written in glitter font.
“So… uh… we had a bit of a wardrobe malfunction,” you say, voice strangled with embarrassment. “There was wind. My laundry line. And I think—some of my… intimate apparel… may have defected.”
Nanami blinks.
“Defected?”
You point over his shoulder. “Yeah. Uhm. I think my bra is doing recon on your balcony right now.”
Silence.
Like God hit pause.
He moves aside with the resigned weariness of a man who has seen too much already.
You dash past him, muttering “sorry sorry sorry,” and retrieve the offending lace with all the dignity of someone trying to stuff their soul back into their chest.
He catches himself staring.
He hates himself for it.
*-*
Nanami is coming back from the store. It’s raining like someone up top has a grudge.
He has paper bags full of pretentious ingredients for a meal he won’t finish cooking. (He’ll drink instead. Again.)
Across the street, he sees you.
You’re… of course you’re dancing in the rain. Like some goddamn Studio Ghibli heroine.
You’re spinning, lifting your face to the sky, wearing boots and another one of your chaotic outfits—this one star-themed, with constellation tights and a glitter raincoat.
Then his umbrella catches the wind. Like a little bitch. And flies off.
He stands there. Sopping. Drenched. Staring after it like a man betrayed.
You look over. And you wave.
He considers throwing himself in front of traffic.
*-*
OTHER INCIDENTS INCLUDE:
You both getting stuck in the elevator. There is tension. You try to make jokes. He tries not to die of proximity to your thighs.
Chairman Meow sneaking into his apartment and curling up on his chest. Nanami freezes. Chairman purrs. You burst in, horrified, but Nanami is like “...he’s asleep now.” You just blink at him like “who are you and what have you done with my cat’s mortal enemy.”
You accidentally knocking on his door with a biology diagram stuck to your ass. He tries not to comment. You absolutely catch him staring. There is eye contact. You walk away in shame. He closes the door and has to sit down.
Nanami lies awake at night.
Staring at his ceiling fan.
Listening to jazz and wondering why the universe decided you of all people needed to burst into his world like a fucking glitter bomb.
You, in the apartment next to him, are writing notes for your next lab meeting on the behavioral adaptations of parasitic fungi, while eating Oreos out of a frog mug, and wondering if your hot neighbor hates you or wants to rail you against his bookcase.
The truth is:
He wants both.
*-*
There’s no way to sugarcoat this: you are a walking cliché.
At least this week, apparently.
Because Fate? Karma? The romcom gods perched in the clouds watching your life like it’s a drinking game?
They have had their little giggle and decided to crank the dial to "maximum ridiculous."
There is no peace.
Not in the hallway.
Not in the elevator.
Not in Nanami’s life.
Certainly not in his heart, which seems to be developing a permanent arrhythmia every time you appear in his periphery wearing skirts that swish when you walk and hair that’s always somehow tied up in the most biteable way.
The universe, that meddling bastard, is not done.
*-*
First is: ELEVATOR INCIDENT: aka "GROCERY APOCALYPSE"
You’re juggling too many things, as always.
Two reusable bags filled to the brim, precariously stacked with a chaotic mix of practical (tofu, cat food, off-brand oat milk), and you-core (glitter glue, three avocados, a vintage biology textbook you found for $2, and a lemon-patterned oven mitt you couldn’t resist).
And you're wearing today’s outfit:
Theme: Mitochondria
A skirt with cellular structure embroidery, a hand-painted blouse that says “THE POWERHOUSE OF THE CELL” in cursive across your chest, and lime green boots. You look unhinged. Adorable. Possibly employed by a magical university.
Nanami is in the elevator when you dash in at the last second—huffing, mumbling “thank youuu sorry thank you,” and then the doors shut.
Nanami Kento. Looking like melancholy in human form.
Tired eyes. Blonde hair neat. Pinstriped shirt with the sleeves rolled just a little too high. Frown already in place. And holding a sad little box of green tea.
“Ah,” he says. “You again.”
“Hi,” you say brightly, hoping he doesn’t notice you’re sweating like a banshee.
Then: tragedy strikes.
A bag handle gives out.
The universe says: fuck your life.
And your groceries scatter like a biblical plague.
“Oh no—FUCK—!” you yelp, bending down, already wanting to dissolve into ash.
Your can of soup rolls directly into his shoe.
He blinks down at it. Then at you. Then—silently, mechanically—kneels to help.
“It’s always something with you,” he mutters, collecting your off-brand Oreos like this is his karmic punishment for living past 30.
*-*
It’s been days since the Elevator Can Incident™.
You’ve been good. You’ve stayed inside. You even (begrudgingly) locked Chairman Meow in the bedroom just to avoid further chaos.
But today? Today, the gods decide: it is time.
You’re hauling two tote bags full of your research (today’s chaos: mycology—sexy mushroom data and all), arms cradling a thick stack of graphs, lab notes, and half-filled notebooks that smell faintly like anxiety and dry-erase marker. You’re dressed like an academic cartoon character (today’s theme: fungal chic—a mushroom-print blouse, earthy green skirt, and clunky boots).
You’re sweaty. You’re tired. You can feel the precarious balance of your paperwork shift—
And then you crash into a wall of man.
A very specific man.
You don’t even need to look up. You already know who it is.
You know the smell of his goddamn cologne. You know the oppressive aura of corporate sadness and barely restrained thirst.
You look up anyway.
“Nanami,” you breathe.
He blinks. “Why is it always you.”
And then: your papers go flying.
The bags tip. The stack in your arms collapses like a dying Victorian woman. You just stand there and watch your week’s worth of work become floor confetti.
You are absolutely going to cry.
“Oh my god—I’m so fucking—this is so—Jesus, I—fuck—!”
You blink fast, swallowing the lump in your throat. But your hands are shaking and you feel like a goddamn loser and—
“I’ll help. Let me help,” he says again, already collecting pages. His movements are precise, practiced, like he’s done this for someone before. Like he’s been this person.
And then—
“I’ll carry these,” he says. And before you can stop him, he’s standing with one of your tote bags slung over his shoulder, the other in hand, and your stack of loose documents pressed to his chest like it's his own lifeline.
You look at him.
You blink.
“You’re… really hot when you do things like that,” you say, immediately regretting it.
He stops.
And then—he smiles. Just a tiny twitch of lips. Almost imperceptible.
“Is that so?”
You consider throwing yourself down the stairwell.
“Come in for a sec,” you blurt. “You’re already holding half my dissertation. Might as well come inside.”
*-*
He steps inside your apartment like it might bite him. You toss your bag onto the couch and try to organize the papers, heart still jackhammering from shame and also from Nanami Kento in your apartment.
“It’s a bit of a mess—don’t judge—”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“I have like six mugs in the sink, ignore those.”
“You drink that much coffee?”
“Who said they’re for coffee?”
Nanami opens his mouth to respond, but the moment is cut off by the sound of claws tapping on tile.
“Oh no.”
Chairman Meow enters.
Wearing his little red bowtie. Walking with the deliberate menace of a feline dictator.
He stares Nanami down like he remembers every insult this man has ever uttered.
“That’s the Chairman,” you say, nervous. “He—uh. He has opinions.”
Nanami crouches. Slowly. Holds out a hand.
“He’s well dressed,” he murmurs.
“He’s a slut,” you reply. "Even if I castrated him, that hasn't affected his slut-itude."
The Chairman sniffs. Then climbs up onto the couch. Makes eye contact with Nanami.
And kneads directly on his briefcase.
You make a strangled noise.
“I’ll… make dinner?” you offer. “As a thank you. For helping.”
Nanami nods once. Loosens his tie.
“Alright.”
You might pass out.
*-*
You make pasta. It’s nothing fancy. But it’s warm, and you watch him take the first bite with terrifying anticipation.
“It’s good,” he says, soft.
“You’re lying.”
“I don’t lie about food.”
“You look like you lie about feelings though.”
“That’s different.”
And then—you’re drinking.
Just a little wine. Just one glass. Two.
He sits on your couch, legs spread, shirt unbuttoned at the throat. You’ve taken off your boots. The lights are dim.
Chairman Meow steps on the LED light remote.
The room is suddenly, violently, PINK.
Nanami blinks.
You freeze.
“This is not—this wasn’t—fuck—”
“Your apartment is—pink.”
“That’s not what it looks like!”
“It looks like a love hotel.”
And then—you’re on him.
You don’t even know how it happens.
One moment you’re reaching for the remote, the next your hand is on his chest and your face is close and—fuck it.
“You’re so—fucking hot when you’re exasperated,” you whisper.
His breath hitches.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says. But his voice is wrecked. Like he’s already gone.
“And you’re gonna let me kiss you, aren’t you?”
“...yes.”
You crash your lips to his like the universe owes you one.
Like you’ve been dying for this.
Because maybe you have.
It’s messy. Vulgar. Your teeth knock, your glasses fog. His hands are suddenly everywhere—waist, thigh, up your back. You straddle his lap and he groans—actually fucking groans—into your mouth.
“I knew,” he mutters, lips trailing your jaw, “from the moment you tackled me in the hallway… that you were going to ruin me.”
You laugh against his throat.
“Oh pretty boy,” you whisper. “I haven’t even started.”
And in the background, bathed in neon pink light, Chairman Meow watches.
Purring.
Like the fucking demon he is.
*-*
You’re on his lap.
Breathless.
Tipsy.
Pink-lit and panting.
Nanami’s tongue is in your mouth, his hands are on your hips, and your brain is completely fucking gone.
He kisses like a man starving.
Like someone who’s been denied this very specific pleasure for way too long.
Like your mouth is salvation.
“You taste sweet,” he murmurs, breath ghosting across your lips.
“Yeah, I had strawberry wine,” you whisper, kissing him again. “And also I’m just like… naturally delicious?”
Nanami huffs a soft laugh into your neck. “You are,” he says. Earnestly. Like an actual simp.
Your thighs squeeze around him. “Oh, fuck.”
You slide off his lap. Onto your knees.
You are a woman on a mission.
And then—you slide off his lap, onto your knees, ready to do what God and every nasty little demon in heaven intended.
“Let me taste you,” you whisper, palms on his thighs. “Wanna see what a 9-to-5 sad boy’s got for me.”
He makes a choked sound, somewhere between “fuck” and “god help me,” and you are loving this for you. You reach for his belt.
“Wait—” he says, voice like cracked porcelain.
You blink up at him, pouty. “Wait?”
“If you put your mouth on me, I will come in under ten seconds,” he admits, like a man confessing war crimes.
You pause. “…That’s not really a deterrent, Kento.”
“It is for me,” he mutters. “Let’s move. Bedroom.”
His cheeks are flushed. Real color, high up, rare. His voice is wrecked.
You stare.
You bite your lip.
You smile like a fucking demon.
“Then let’s go to my room,” you purr, standing—legs wobbling a bit—and grabbing his hand.
*-*
You shut the door.
You lock the door.
“That’s necessary,” you say, dead serious.
Nanami raises a brow. “Uh.. to keep me in? Or... To… keep the cat out?”
“Correct. He knows how to open unlocked doors. It’s how my last relationship ended. He jumped on the bed mid-fuck and hissed at my ex’s balls.”
Nanami blinks. “...I see.”
“It was very dramatic,” you add. “There were teeth.”
He swallows hard. Then looks at you—really looks at you—and you swear his eyes go dark.
He steps closer.
And starts undressing you.
Not fast. Not horny fumbling.
It’s reverent.
Like you’re a book he’s wanted to read for months.
Like every button, every layer, is something sacred.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he murmurs, sliding your blouse down your arms. “You know that?”
“I mean, I suspected,” you pant, shivering under his hands, “but I appreciate the confirmation—”
He unclasps your bra.
And freezes.
Like he just saw God.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters.
“They’re big,” you say, trying to sound casual and not wildly, violently turned on.
“They’re perfect.” His hands are suddenly there, cupping, stroking. “Fucking—your thighs, your stomach, everything—you’re unreal.”
You’ve never been looked at like this.
Like someone wants to worship and destroy you all at once.
*-*
He lays you back.
Kisses his way down your belly like he’s following a treasure map.
Big hands keeping you steady as you squirm.
Then—
Then his mouth is on you.
And fuck.
It’s not just that he’s good.
It’s that he’s a goddamn professional.
He kisses your pussy like it’s his job. (And frankly? He deserves a raise.)
He flattens his tongue, curls it just right, sucks when you beg, traces little figure eights until your thighs are trembling.
Like he studied your anatomy.
Like he knows exactly where your clit is, and how to suck it just right, and how to groan into your pussy like his life depends on it.
“Oh my god—Kento—fuck, I’m gonna—”
He doesn’t stop.
He locks eyes with you and keeps going like a man possessed.
You come.
Hard.
Fingers in his hair, legs shaking, sobbing his name like it’s a prayer.
He licks you through it. Slow. Gentle. Filthy.
When he finally pulls back, his chin is wet.
His eyes are dark.
His cock is hard as a fucking brick.
“You good?” he pants.
You whimper. “I might see colors now. Like new ones.”
*-*
He’s palming himself now, trying to not rut against the mattress.
You tug him up, start undoing his belt again, drunk on pleasure, and just as you’re about to mount him like a horny gremlin—
“Wait,” he breathes, chest heaving. “Do you have protection?”
You blink.
“Oh, so you’re hot and responsible? Fuck me, I guess.”
“That’s the idea.”
“URGH,” you groan. “You’re responsible. I hate how hot that is.”
So you wobble into the tiny bathroom attached to your bedroom. Legs shaky, thighs still quivering, fully pink from the situation between his legs which is, let’s be clear, intimidating.
You open the cabinet.
Empty.
You check the drawers.
Empty.
“CHAIRMAN YOU LITTLE SHIT,” you yell.
You rummage. Mutter. Curse. Until—you find one singular condom. The other boxes? Under the sink, because Chairman Meow likes to bat them around like sinful little toys.
You emerge, victorious. Holding it above your head.
“We got one, baby.”
And then—you see him.
Naked.
Just standing there. Unapologetically bare.
Broad chest. Soft stomach. Thick. Hair trailing down his belly to a cock that honestly might be the eighth wonder of the world.
Oh. My. God.
He’s tall, cut, broad-chested and somehow lean at the same time. Muscles that shouldn’t be allowed. Veins. V-lines. Strong thighs.
He’s big. Of course he is.
Lean thighs, sharp hipbones, and a cock that looks like it’s going to ruin you in four separate languages.
You stare. Openly.
“You’re—Jesus,” you whisper.
He blushes. Blushes.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“It’s called objectification,” you reply, tossing him the condom. “Take it as a compliment.”
You stop again. Stare. For a long time.
“You’re ogling,” he mutters.
“I’m worshipping,” you correct. “You look like if depression did Pilates.”
“That’s… actually not inaccurate.”
You roll the condom on. He groans.
“You okay?” you ask, hands on his chest.
“Just… nervous. Been a while.”
“If this is rusty, I can’t wait for the polished version,” you murmur.
You climb onto him, slow, controlled—until the stretch hits and you both groan at the same time.
“F-fuck,” you whisper. “Big.”
“You’re—tight. Christ.”
He moves slow. Hands gripping your waist. You rock your hips, the drag delicious. Every thrust is careful, deep—intentional.
But then—
“Lube,” you hiss. “Hold on.”
You roll off, legs shaky again, and grab a bottle from your drawer. Squeeze. Return. Slide back onto him with a filthy squelch.
Now?
Now it’s smooth.
It’s wet.
It’s perfect.
“Sorry,” you say, breathless, slicking him up a bit more. “Needed this. You’re like—girthy.”
In which, you and Aang started to have dreams of each other, not knowing that you both were lovers of a past lifetime. Only to meet once again
Contains: Aang x Reader, Reader is Sokka's and Katara's sister, fated lovers(?), fluff, slight angst, comfort. Connected dreams. Modern au, atla as the past. Reader is a year older than Aang.(Aang is 22, Reader is 23) NO SMUT.
Word count:...I don't know it's long
Warnings: This is the first time I'm writing on Tumblr! Sorry if I make any mistakes. English isn't my first language. So sorry if I mischaractize any characters!!
It all started three weeks ago.
Three weeks, 2 days, and 12 hours exactly, from what you recorded in your journal. But it the time since you started to dream of him
At first, you were brushing it off, thinking that he was just a person that was part of your dreams, someone that your mind had conjured up so seamlessly and perfectly. Especially since he had these arrows on his body.
Then....came the next night, and you both met again. It was shocking, even he was shocked too. But you both talked. You thought it was a mere coincidence.
But it happened, again, the next night and every night, Same place. Same little air temple. Same weird strange clothes, and the same man.
Sometimes, you see him with an big strange creature he had called appa, or with a lemur with unusually big ears that he had said was Momo. It felt...right, for the most weirdest reasons. It felt...like an memory of a life you don't remember around them.
More specifically him. You just can't quite place it. Neither can he. No matter how many times you tried to remember his name after you wake up. You couldn't, and it ached at you. Hard, that you couldn't remember the name of him.
Of the man that laughs were like the wind chimes on your balcony.
Of the man that grey eyes always seemed to light up each time he sees you back in the dream realm.
Of the man that held your hands and promised to find you one day.
Of the man that was just a boy when he fell in love you back at the-
Wait. When did the last part happened?..when did it-
"....Reader...."
"hey....earth to..."
"Reader!!"
You snapped out of your daze, Head shooting upward and looking around. You swore your heart was racing as fast as an hummingbird. Until your gaze finally landed right back at Sokka.
Oh.
Right.
You're here, with your family, with dinner on your plates. Gran Gran's special, an special broth she makes from her garden ingredients, in the middle of the table.....with Sokka snapping his fingers close to your face. your older brother pale blue eyes squinted with exasperation and suspicion at the same time. If that was even possible
But undeniably, he was relieved beyond comprehension seeing you finally snapping into awareness. "oh thanks the spirits! You been out looking off into the sunset for a while. I thought you lost your mind" he chuckled, though you, on the other side, felt your cheeks and ears warming due to the fact you were lost for a long time.
Though he raised an eyebrow at you, tilting his head, he was watching your expression. He raised one of his arms to the back of your chair. He could tell something was up. Especially with the way you drifted.
"but really, you been out for a while. You okay? Nothing...bad going on...or" his face shifted into an knowing, smug grin seeing your face shift into that flustered expression you had since you were a kid. "you're not thinking of a special guy are you, eh?"
Immediately, You placed a hand behind your head. Rubbing the back of your neck as stared to the side when he had mentioned an "special guy" you wanted to give him an glare or shoot a look at him to shut up "It's...it's not that- it's just-"
Thankfully, Katara was there to save your day as she placed placed the bowl of broth in front of you. "Oh leave her alone Sokka, finals week is coming up soon, she's probably more concerned with that than an "special boy" She placed an bowl on his side of the table too, which made him just shut up for a while to focus on the food.
She turned back at you with an warm yet concerned smile, placing a hand on your shoulder "but he has a point you know? You've been drifting off into your head these past few weeks..you're not overworking too hard on the finals. Are you?"
You sighed, reaching for the bowl and the spoon now given at your side. She was right, it had become noticeable that you were off more in your mind.
"I just...have a lot in mind really." you didn't specify what you meant as you turned your eyes to look at the wall. You can't help but feel that you have a lot in mind. With...him. With the finals, but also, with the strange echoes, and the heavy deja vu that you felt.
Sokka just hummed to your response. Currently dipping his bread in the broth and eating it. He pointed the bread to you as he looked at you with an knowing look.
"That's what Aang been saying too you know?" he spoke muffled, eating while speaking. "saying he had an lot in mind, but looks up at the sky with longing eyes like a-" Katara firmly slapped his arm slightly trying to not let him ramble too much
Aang, you didn't know much of him, Sokka and Katara just met him about 3 months ago, but from what you could tell. He was pretty close with the two of them. Enough to make a group with other people you know, Like Toph.
Sokka rubbed his arm and pouted back at Katara. "ow what was that for!" Katara only huffed, moving to look back at you as she placed a hand on yours.
"Well...whatever you have in mind, I hope you can ease it down...I'm here in case you need anything, okay? Sokka's here too...though he won't do anything but add to your mess" Sokka gasped dramatically, giving a pointed stare at Katara.
You didn't say anything, but smiled warmly at Katara's words. She always with you, and Sokka too, it reminded you that you weren't alone. Even if you don't want to say anything else about the topic.
"Well...enough of this talk, I was thinking. Maybe we could go together to the museum to that new section they opened, all of us. With Aang and Toph. And I guess Zuko can come too. It would be fun" Sokka's voice ease through the heavy air as he looked towards you.
You hummed slightly. The museum, of course. You know that place as well as you knew your major. Since you were studying the great Era of harmony to be an historian. That place was the only area that gave you deja vu each time you visited. Especially with those statues.
"that...would not be too bad" you smiled slightly, he always incorporated you into his plans, mostly since you never really came out of the room unless Toph dragged you out, or Katara did. "I guess I could meet this Aang too"
Aang, his name always felt too weird for you in your tongue, it felt...warm, but heavy with deja vu. You wondered why...but you didn't focus on it too much.
Katara clasped her hands together. Smiling brightly. "Oh wonderful! I already got the tickets too for tomorrow! Trust me. He's a very nice guy once you meet him. And I already have so much plans for after it..."
..................................
You didn't know when exactly did you went to sleep after dinner.
Maybe it was due to the plans for tomorrow clouding your mind. And the tug of your heart each time the museum was getting mentioned. The deja vu clouded your mind enough for time to blur out.
Those memories....there were always those memories that didn't feel like yours. About war. About an boy that laughed similarly to the dream guy in your dreams. About happy moments. Intimate moments.
But you didn't focus on that as you entered the dream place.
And once again. It was the same place. The same old temple that you always admired. The wind blowing softly, and there? There he was.
The same dream guy with those beautiful grey eyes that always brightened when he saw you. He was standing nearby appa. Patting his fur before he turned to you.
And just like that they bloomed with happiness as you stood there for a while. Before you moved and rushed towards him. Every burden. Every duty. Always melts away when you saw him, time meant nothing here, and so did both your loves.
"woah hey there!" he laughed as he wrapped his arms around you. Twirling you around for a bit before settling you down. Still holding you close as he looked into your eyes. "Miss me that much?" he tilted his head, his crooked grin appearing just as every time he's with you.
You giggled lightly, tilting your head to the side as you looked at his face. Your heart thudded happily. Despite these three weeks, you two had bonded instantly, it was a connection that felt as old as time itself. "Well, who can blame me when this day been long?"
He just chuckled back as he let go, though his hands lingered, hovering in the air for a second too long as he moved it to appa. He didn't add to your words, or respond. Because it was true.
The air shifted into comfortable silence as you moved to rest on appas side, the big air bison responded with a low rumble shifting slightly. His wide tail tapping the ground before he moved to rest
He just shift the topic instead. Settling beside you. His hand near you, pinkie touching pinkie. "If the day been long...mind telling me about it? I love to hear what happened on your side" He gave a warm smile, the type that made his dimples shine and eye crinkle at the edges.
That always had captivated you, yet reminded you of an memory you couldn't place, of a man that had the exact same smile, only that it was covered with a love that transcends time. You raised your shoulders slightly.
"Well, nothing really, just focusing on class, working, coming back home to study for the finals. And hanging around my siblings" you moved to touch your hair slightly. An habit of yours. Before your hand settles on your knee.
The grey eye man absorbed every word, his eyes never leaving yours, or the way your hand shifted, instead. He raised an knee. Putting his arm on it. "Yeah, I get that...Finals. I have them too, next week, luckily I'm studying for it with a couple of friends." he rubbed the back of his head. His eyes closing as he gave a sheepish grin.
You felt an weight move off your shoulders. There it was. The fact that you both could relate to an situation so easily. "That's...not that bad actually. I study alone. Since my friend. #&/#, is blind, and her tutoring..is something"
When you try to mention toph, the name just..blurs. That was one strange thing. You can't mention any name here. Neither your own. Or his. It was the one thing. The one thing that keeps you two from finding each other.
His eyes didn't widened at the blurred name. He got used to it after a couple of dreams shared together, and he just sighs, his smile softening. "I get that, I have a blind friend too in my group, but that doesn't stop her from being herself, she's great. Oh! actually, we were talking about going to the museum tomorrow-"
You stopped, your eyes widened at what he had mentioned. Museum? Talking? A group of friends? That...reminds you of the talk Sokka and Katara were having "....My siblings were talking about going to the museum too...tomorrow, during the morning."
The moment you had mentioned it. He went still. His whole body went still and he didn't breath for a while. You know it felt like a coincidence, to both you, and him. Maybe it's not the same museum. Maybe it's not even the same place.
But the fact that you both had some of the same groups made you two realized.
"wait. That means-" he tried to speak. But as suddenly as the realization came.
---------------------------
You woke up in your bed. Heart racing, eyes widened. Gasping. Sweat sticking to you.
No.
No. No!
You were finally getting somewhere, you were finally getting a grasp of his location, and if it was possible that maybe. Maybe you both can meet.
The door to your room opened. Katara peeking in to check on you. She was already dressed. Holding her bag with her. Her blue eyes gently looking at your figure as you immediately straightened. "Good morning dewdrop, You woke up a little late than usual, but that's okay. Just get dressed so we could head out" she spoke warmly as she then closed the door. Leaving you to your own devices.
Later than usual? You swore you felt that the dream was more shorter than usual. Way more shorter. It felt...like you were just kicked off the moment you were grasping at strings that appeared.
But you didn't waste too much time on thinking. Your heart raced at the thought of him. If he was there, if he's going to the exact same museum...
Then you won't wait to see if he's real.
--------------
Sokka and Katara were inside the car, With Sokka warming the car due to the snow that had been starting to fall due to December, and early winter weather. He hummed an light tune until he yelped when he heard the sounds of the car door closing shut, with you there. Dressed up in your best winter outfit.
"Oh for the love of spirits dewdrop! You scared the life out of me for a second and..." he side eye you from the rear view mirror. Seeing you were more..dressed up that usual. "..Are you seriously wearing that scarf? You never-" Katara cut him off before he makes any rude comments. Looking back at you from the passanger seat. "Don't listen to him. You look beautiful...and excited. I guess the museum really brought your spirits up?"
You just nodded, a lot in response. Staying quiet. Though your leg were bouncing up and down in response to her question. Katara took that as an yes as she turned back to look at your older brother. "well, if we're all here. Then let's get moving Sokka"
"right. Yes. Of course." Sokka started to move the car away from the driveway. Settling into the road to start moving to the museum. It was 11 minutes from your home. Which was not too far. "Museum time it is baby!"
The drive there felt long. Too long for you in fact as you bounced your leg continously through the ride. Your heart thumping at an speed that felt like it would rip through your ribs and run out the road.
What if he's not there? What if it was a lie? What if your dreams were just...dreams? You hoped. Badly. That it wasn't those options. You hoped dearly, because...he felt real. His touch felt real. His words, his laugh....
You just hoped it was not something just an dream.
By the time you arrived. You spend at least 5 minutes outside while Katara was calling the group. Or the "Gaang" as Sokka likes to call it. You fidgeted with your fingers. Staring up at the round iceberg statue that lingered outside the museum.
Then, there was a voice, a familiar voice, and you turned.
Right there, a few feet away. Was him. The same man, with his arrow tattoos. Wearing mutes brown yellows and Vermillions. While holding an leash to a very fluffy big dog with cream fur and But those eyes..you couldn't help but think-.
"Aang! You're early come over, meet my sister, reader" Katara called out, and right then. You didn't move. He didn't move. Your eyes watered with the memories of the dreams swarming right back at you. All the memories. All the things you shared with one another. You couldn't help but let out a shaky breath and say just one single thing.
"...Aang...?"
"....." he was silent. Still, with grey eyes widened as the snow fell between the both of you. His dog, Appa, only let out a light ruff. Nudging him to move. There was no reaction until...a bright, glowing smile broke through his face as he let out a breathless laugh, he let appa move ahead towards Katara and Sokka. But his gaze was duly on you as he started to run towards you.
And he didn't just wave. Or hug you. He embraced you. Lifting you up and twirling you around, Aang eyes were almost teary as he held you tightly and close to him.
"my dream girl!...my dream girl"
Finally. You both found each other. Again.
Just like every other lifetime.
To the ones that wanted to be tagged ❤️ : @ninrixs
Hope you readers liked this! It's my first masterpiece, and hopefully, maybe I can make a part two soon?
