Summer of 1989 ; Chapter 1
“Ain’t like my place is offerin’ bedtime stories.”
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tommy miller x reader
chapter summary: The summer of 1989. His dad sucks. You're solace. warnings: description of abusive father, mention of alcohol abuse, vulgar language, fluff, best friends yay, kissing, implied intercourse without description. reader is roughly 16/17, tommy is 17/18.
w.c 10.1k
Summer, 1989.
The night hung thick and hot—one of those southern summer sweats that clung to your skin like a second layer. Even your sheets had turned traitor, too warm, too clingy, too much. So you'd exiled yourself to the floor, legs sprawled across the cool wood, a pillow folded beneath your neck as you thumbed through Margaret Atwood’s latest. You weren’t even reading, really—just letting the words pass through you like a breeze that never came.
From the corner of the room, your record player crackled with soft resistance, The Smiths murmuring through a haze of static and dust. It was a good kind of background noise. Not loud, not demanding. Just there. Like summer itself—boring in the way that gave your brain permission to slow down. A sweet, stilled kind of nothingness.
Then came the knock.
A light tap-tap against the glass above the beanbags. Your eyes flicked up, already half-annoyed. Already knowing.
And sure enough—
Tommy fucking Miller.
You hissed, “God damnit,” under your breath as you pushed yourself up and stumbled toward the window. He was grinning like he knew something you didn’t, one hand already gripping the sill. His other leg swung up onto the trellis like it had every damn night this month. The wood groaned in protest, and so did you.
You popped the latch and shoved the window open just in time for him to half-slide, half-hurl himself into your room like he belonged there.
“Real quiet, Miller,” you gritted, running to double-check that your bedroom door was locked. “Because my parents are gonna murder you if they hear one creak.”
He landed on his feet with the grace of a kid who’s done this too many times, brushing imaginary dirt off his jeans like this was some kind of polite visit. “Wouldn’t be the first time I died for you,” he muttered, low and smug.
You turned, arms crossed, trying not to smile. Trying not to let the warmth in your chest outshine the heat pressing through the windowpanes. It's true, it wouldn't be the first nor the last time he finds trouble in your wake.
Because damn him—he was the only thing this summer had going for it.
Or, rather… this town.
It was only when your eyes set on his face that the rest of the room went quiet. A new scratch. A long, thin line snaking down his lip.
It looked fresh. Still red, still raw. You barely registered your body moving, your hand reaching, thumb brushing under his jaw.
“Holy shit,” you breathed, faster than you meant to. “What the fuck did you do?”
Tommy flinched—but not from you. Just instinct, like the kind that doesn’t leave. Like he was still waiting for someone else's hand to swing instead of hold. Still, he let you tilt his chin, let you see it in full.
“Nothin’,” he muttered, smirking like it’d make you look less close. “Got into it with the porch railing.”
You scoffed, not buying it for a second. “Was the porch railing wearing a ring? Because that looks a hell of a lot like a right hook.”
He winced when you grazed the edge of it, and that told you everything, “Christ, Tommy,” you whispered, softer now. Less fury, more ache. “You can't keep coming here like this.”
His eyes flicked away, to your bedroom floor, to your half-finished book, to the record player wheezing out some broken refrain. He looked anywhere but at you. Until he did. “Where else’m I supposed to go, huh?” he asked, voice low and not angry—but worn. Frayed. “Ain’t like my place is offerin’ bedtime stories.”
Your hand dropped from his chin. You hated how often this happened. Hated how your room had become his escape hatch. And you hated most of all that you were the only one who knew how bad it really was. He threw himself down onto your floor like it was a ritual—because it was. Pushed your beanbag aside, tugged your extra pillow under his head like he always did. Smelled like sweat, and heat, and the faintest trace of tobacco smoke—none of it from him.
“You know this is the third time this week?” you asked, turning and kneeling beside him.
“Guess that makes it a sleepover,” he grinned, lip split open fresh with it.
"I think sleepovers are supposed to be voluntary for both parties."
You rolled your eyes, tugging the pillow back out from under him just to make him fight for it. He did, of course, all elbows and puppy-dog dramatics, wrestling it back into place until you both dissolved into breathless laughs. But there was tension there. A line you never crossed, both of you knowing exactly where it was.
You sat beside him, knees pulled up to your chest. He reached out, tugged at your sock like a pest. It was always an annoying touch, in one way or another. “You ever think about just leavin’?” he asked suddenly, eyes on the ceiling.
You blinked. “Where?”
“Anywhere. Road trip. California. Shit, I’d even take Amarillo.”
You snorted. “That’s your dream? Amarillo?”
He turned toward you then, and there was that look again. The one he only gave you at night, when it was quiet. When there wasn’t anyone left to pretend for.
“My dream’s not far from yours."
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because you weren’t allowed to believe him. Not out loud.
So instead, you reached for the little first aid tin under your bed, unsnapped it, and tapped your knee.
“C’mon, Miller. Let me patch up your ugly ass again.”
“If I knew bruises got me this kinda attention, I’d’ve started fallin’ on purpose," he drawled, smirking with just a bit too many teeth. You tossed a cotton ball at his face for that one, earning a small huff of a laugh. It was a slow process as you moved over towards your bed.
“Where’s Joel?” you murmur, voice thinner than usual as you turn away.
Your hand disappears beneath the bedframe, fingers brushing past old notebooks and a half-dead flashlight before landing on the cold metal tin. Inside, tucked in like something sacred, was the bottle of isopropyl alcohol. You’d kept it stashed there. Just for him. Just for this.
He didn’t answer right away, and that alone told you more than words could’ve. The bottle clinked softly as you pulled it free, cradled it like something living. You didn’t look at Tommy when you unscrewed the cap, but you felt him watching. He shifted on the floor behind you, the creak of your carpet like thunder in the heavy, humid silence.
“Didn’t come back tonight,” he finally said, quietly.
Your stomach turned in on itself like a wrung rag, but you didn’t ask for more. You didn’t push. Because when it came to Joel Miller, missing didn’t always mean gone. Not yet, at least. Instead, you poured a capful of the alcohol and soaked a cotton pad, your voice flat when you spoke again, “Sit up.”
Tommy obeyed without a word. That was the thing about him—he never fought you on this. Not when you got like this. Not when your voice went tight and your hands moved like muscle memory. You reached out and cupped his jaw, thumb just beneath that fresh cut on his lip. It was already scabbing. Still angry and red. “This one looks worse than the others,” you whispered, not even meaning to say it.
He tilted his head slightly, letting you work. “Maybe I’m just gettin’ uglier,” he offered, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Maybe,” you muttered, and you both let out a breath, a semblance of a laugh.
The pad touched skin, and he hissed, muscles tensing, but he didn’t flinch away. You were careful, always careful, even when your hands were shaking. You didn’t let yourself meet his eyes. “You shouldn’t keep this stuff for me,” he said after a beat. “Ain’t right.”
“You shouldn’t need it so often,” you shot back, sharper than intended, "Ain't right."
Silence again.
The kind that meant he agreed with you, but couldn’t say so. Because that would mean admitting everything else. You finished cleaning him up, tossing the used gauze into a little bag you kept just for nights like this. Your fingers lingered on his cheek before falling back to your side.
“Y’know,” he said, eyes cast down as he pulled at a thread on the seam of your rug, “… you always ask about him first.”
You hummed, dabbing the cut with practiced care, making sure to wipe away every speck of dried blood and the thin layer of dirt clinging to his skin like residue from whatever hell he’d crawled out of. “Stop moving,” you whispered, more to fill the silence than anything else.
Tommy didn’t. Just sat there with his legs crossed and his shoulders hunched, like he was waiting for some invisible blow. It made your stomach twist.
"Are you jealous of your brother?" you asked, so softly it almost got lost under the spin of the fan overhead. You kept your eyes on the wound, working at the grime with a precision that was more intimate than clinical. It wasn’t meant to be mean. And you knew what it sounded like—some bratty, loaded question you already knew the answer to. But it wasn’t about that. Not really. Joel was older. He was hot, yeah, in that rugged way that made even your friends whisper when he passed by in the truck with his arm out the window.
But he wasn’t for you. He was a grown-up, already halfway out of town with one foot in the real world. Practically eight years older.
Joel was the wall Tommy could hide behind.
That’s why you asked.
Because if Joel leaves? Tommy might have more than injuries that only you can tend to.
Tommy’s lips parted like he wanted to say something quick and dumb, his usual escape, but the words didn’t come. You watched his jaw flex under your fingers.
He finally exhaled, shaky. “Jealous ain’t the right word.”
You slowed, waiting.
“It’s just… when he’s around, things don’t go to shit so fast. House is quieter. Pa doesn’t act like such a goddamn drunk.”
You nodded, eyes dropping back to your work. The skin was clean now, the cut shallow but angry. You pressed the last cotton round against it, gently.
“I ask ‘cause I care about you,” you mumbled, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw like it was nothing.
Like it hadn’t already meant something for years now.
You're best friends.
That's all.
He looked at you. Not just glanced—looked. His brows pulled together, like he didn’t know how to accept that. Like it hurt a little, maybe, to hear someone say it out loud.
“I know,” he said, voice like gravel. “That’s why I come here.”
And that—that—landed heavy in the space between you.
Not flirtation. Not tension.
Just the truth. Just a boy with too much weight on his shoulders, and someone who noticed every time he started to sink.
"You listen to the Depeche Mode album?"
It came out of his mouth too quick—too sudden for the mood, too bright for the dim room, but maybe that was the point. Anything to cut through the static silence between you. Anything to scrape the weight off his chest, or maybe distract you from the way his hands were still trembling in his lap. You blinked, caught off guard, eyes finally lifting from the little tin of first aid supplies now resting between you. “…Violator?” you asked after a beat, voice soft. “Yeah. Like, five times already.”
He gave a little snort through his nose, barely a breath. “You’d like it. Dramatic as hell.”
“Says the guy crawling through my window like a teen movie reject.” That made him smile for real this time—small and lopsided, but it reached his eyes just enough to chase off the worst of whatever had been nesting behind them.
“You’re not wrong,” he murmured. “But c’mon… Sweetest Perfection? That’s got your name written all over it.”
You rolled your eyes, but the burn in your cheeks gave you away.
“You always do this,” you muttered, finger grazing against the tube of antiseptic, careful as you lifted to apply it to each mark on his face.
“Do what?”
“Try to make me feel better when you’re the one bleeding on my floor.”
He shrugged, head tilting back against the edge of your bedframe, eyes half-lidded now. Like the effort of it all—sneaking out, climbing in, surviving—was finally catching up to him.
“You patch me up,” he said, quieter now. “Only fair I return the favor.”
You didn’t respond right away. Hand lowering to settle the tube back into the tin. Just leaned back beside him, shoulders touching faintly. Let the sound of the record player’s low hum fill the silence again. Somewhere between a love song and a funeral march.
The kind of song that fits a summer like this—too hot, too heavy, too full of things unsaid.
Four Days Later.
The hum of the crickets outside kept you restless, limbs tangled in a mess of damp sheets and sweat-slicked skin. It was another one of those nights—air thick enough to chew through, heat hanging like a damp rag on your back. Everything was uncomfortable. Even with the ceiling fan cranked to max, its groaning spin only pushed the warmth around, never easing it. Nothing was fun or relaxing.
You hadn’t slept. Not really. Just rolled from one side to the other, forehead pressed to the pillow, trying to ignore the way the silence made your chest ache more than the heat did.
Then—
Knock.
A beat.
Knock, knock, knock.
You knew that rhythm. You always knew.
You didn’t rush, but your legs remembered the way. You made your way across the room, bare feet thudding softly against the wood, fingers gripping the handle. A slow twist, a full spin, and the window swung out like muscle memory. Like ritual.
Tommy was already halfway up the trellis, the worn slats creaking under his weight. His boots landed silently on your floor a second later, shoulders rising with the effort of the climb and the heat. “Your parents aren’t home?” he asked, like he hadn’t timed it perfectly. Like he hadn’t been doing this long enough to know their schedule better than your own.
“They won’t be,” you murmured, stepping aside to let him in properly. “Out of town for the weekend. Some retreat thing.”
He nodded, already dropping his bag by the beanbags like it belonged there. Like he belonged there. His hair was longer than usual, sweat curling it at the ends. Probably hasn't gotten it cut in a while. Dirt smudged along the hem of his shirt, the collar pulled loose. Another fresh cut on his knuckle.
You didn’t ask. Not yet, at least.
He threw himself down beside your bed, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath all day. You stayed standing, shifting, watching him for a moment. He looked more tired than usual. More worn-in. And not just from the heat.
“…Long night?” you finally asked, your voice soft, nearly swallowed by the buzz of the fan and the hum of the cicadas outside.
Tommy glanced up at you. Gave you a look that was both too old for seventeen and still somehow so young.
“Yeah,” he said simply, dragging a hand through his hair. “Just didn’t wanna be there.” You didn’t need the details. You’d heard enough from him over the years to read between the lines. You nodded once and turned away, heading toward the closet where you kept the old box fan.
“I’ll get the extra blankets,” you mumbled, even though you both knew he’d end up stealing yours anyway.
“Thanks, dummy,” he said, voice quieter now. Just warm enough to make your heart twitch. Just familiar enough to remind you why you always opened the window.
Before long, the night settled around you both like a soft weight—too heavy to move, too comforting to shake off.
You ended up curled together on the couch, limbs thrown over limbs without much thought. One of your throw blankets draped half over his legs, your socked feet tucked beneath his thigh. The TV buzzed in the corner, playing some scratchy old VHS of an animated movie you'd seen a thousand times. Not anything special. Not really. Just a way to fill the silence.
The kind of film you didn’t have to watch. Just hear. Familiar voices, familiar melodies, flickering light dancing across your living room walls like it had a mind of its own.
Tommy let out a long, quiet breath. His arm was slung behind the cushions, but his pinky brushed against your shoulder every now and again—like he forgot it was there. Or maybe like he didn’t. You didn't question it. Didn’t have to. His presence was loud in all the ways that mattered.
You glanced over once, catching him mid-blink, eyes heavy-lidded from exhaustion or maybe peace. That quiet sort of peace he only ever seemed to find here. With you.
“Y’wanna change it?” he asked suddenly, voice scratchy with fatigue.
You shook your head. “No. I like this one.”
He hummed in agreement, letting his eyes fall closed again, the faintest smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Figured. You always did.” Outside, the cicadas buzzed. Inside, the old animation played on—flickering, faded, and just enough. Just like the two of you. Not quite kids. Not quite something more. But close enough to keep holding on.
"You still thinkin' about the military?"
The words slipped out softer than you meant, barely more than a breath—like your mouth had to wrestle with them first. Like, just saying it out loud made it more real. Tommy didn’t answer right away. He blinked slowly, kept his eyes on the screen, though you could tell he wasn’t really watching anymore. The flicker of cartoon colors lit up the sharp cut of his jaw, the bruise yellowing near his temple, the scab on his lip.
Finally, his thumb tapped once, twice, against the couch cushion.
“…Yeah,” he murmured. “Still thinkin’ about it.”
It landed in your chest like a stone. You turned your gaze forward, too, the movie nothing but background now, noise to drown in. You didn’t want to say it out loud, but the thought of him leaving—of him choosing to go—was something cold and mean curling in your stomach.
“Why?” you whispered, knowing the answer, but still asking. Always asking.
He shrugged, but it was hollow. Forced.
“Get outta here, I guess. Make somethin’ outta it. Outta me.”
You swallowed hard, teeth pressing down on the inside of your cheek. You hated the way he said that. Like this place made him nothing. Like his worth had to be earned in blood and sand somewhere far away.
“…You already are something,” you mumbled, voice nearly lost to the old VHS hiss. “… to me, anyway.”
That made him glance over. Just a flick of his eyes. Then a longer pause. Tommy didn’t say anything, not at first. Just leaned back a little deeper into the couch, fingers curling slightly where they brushed your shoulder. “I know,” he said after a while, quietly. Almost guilty. “That’s what makes it hard.”
And there it was. That weight again. The one that never really left the room. You just shifted closer, rested your head against his shoulder, and let the silence hold what neither of you could say yet. Before long, the soft hum of the old television melted into the background, swallowed by sleep. You’d drifted without meaning to—head tucked into the curve of his neck, the steady rise and fall of his chest guiding your breath.
He smelled like cheap cigar smoke and dirt—like summer sweat and scraped knuckles. It clung to him like a second skin, like something sacred. But to you, it didn’t reek. It didn’t repulse. It was him. And that meant it was safe. You might’ve stayed like that all night, if not for the subtle shift of his body beneath you. A twitch in his arm. A breath too sharp. He moved like he didn’t want to wake you, but your body knew the absence before your mind caught up.
Your words spilled out before you could even register them: “Where’re you going?” It was slurred, drowsy, and fragile around the edges. Like your heart had noticed the emptiness first. Tommy froze halfway out of his seat. His silhouette was nothing but a shadow in the blue light of the paused screen. He looked back at you over his shoulder, one hand raking through his messy hair.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said lowly, his voice all gravel and guilt. “Just… thought I’d head back before the sun comes up.”
You sat up, still foggy from sleep, a crease forming between your brows. “Why?”
He hesitated. Eyes flicked down to the floor, then up to yours.
“Don’t wanna be here when they get back. Don’t wanna get you in trouble.”
There was something else under that, though. You knew him too well not to hear it. The fear. The shame. The pull of a house that never really felt like home.
You shifted closer, reached out, and caught his wrist before he could rise all the way. “Tommy.”
He stilled. The name hung between you like a warning, like a plea.
“You don’t have to go,” you said, softer now. “Not yet.”
He didn’t answer, but the way his shoulders sagged told you enough.
Six Days Later
The magazine pages whispered as you flipped them lazily, the glossy smell of print clinging to your fingertips. Your lamp was the only light on, casting soft shadows across your bedroom walls, the kind that danced just a little if you stared long enough.
A knock—soft, measured—tapped at your window.
You didn’t even flinch.
You just reached over and cracked the window open. The warm night air curled in first, then came Tommy, sneakers quiet against the hardwood, curls messy like he’d just come from another sprint down the alleyway. Or a shower. You could never tell.
“Thought you said you’d knock like a normal person next time,” you muttered, not looking up from your spread of perfume ads and terrible quizzes.
“I did knock,” he said, dusting grass from his jeans. “You’re just picky.”
You snorted.
He laid down on the floor beside your bed, stretching his legs out in that exaggerated way he always did. Like the world never made space for him, so he had to take it himself.
“What’s the quiz tonight?” he asked, peeking over your blanket edge. “What kind of soup are you based on your emotional trauma?”
“Close,” you said, holding up the page, “It’s ‘What’s Your Signature Shade of Lipstick?’ Apparently, I’m cherry heartbreak.”
“That sounds fake,” he exhaled, “You’re more like… chapstick with a vengeance.”
“So, I'm boring?” you laughed, tossing a throw pillow at his head. He caught it and hugged it like it was the prize at a carnival.
Silence settled for a second, easy and loose.
Then:
“Would you rather,” he started, eyes fixed on your ceiling fan, “Be stuck in a zombie apocalypse… or have to sit through your dad giving a sex talk?”
You groaned. “Tommy.”
“No, c’mon. Answer.”
You rolled your eyes, thoughtful. “Honestly? Zombies. At least with them, I can run.” He laughed low in his throat, satisfied, "I wouldn't peg you for the type to survive."
“Okay, okay—your turn,” you said, sitting up straighter, twisting the magazine shut. “Would you rather go a week without your Walkman, or without Oreos?”
“That’s evil,” he said immediately. “That’s a war crime. You’re violating, like, three conventions.”
“You don't know what a convention is—Pick, Miller.”
“…Oreos,” he sighed dramatically. “I need the tunes more. Music’s survival.”
You gave a mock solemn nod, like he’d just said something incredibly wise.
“Okay, okay,” he said, pointing at you. “Your turn again. Would you rather kiss Joel—”
“Absolutely not.”
“—or,” he went on, ignoring you, “be grounded for a year with no music, no books, no nothing.”
You stared at him, deadpan. “I'd rather chew glass.”
Tommy grinned like a fox. “So you would kiss Joel.”
You launched another pillow at his chest. He caught that one, too, and laughed like it was the best noise in the world. It was. It was the best noise in the world. Eventually, he shifted onto his side, arm propping up his head, eyes settling on yours with that half-serious calm he got when the world slowed down.
The magazine had been forgotten somewhere between the second round of “would you rather” and the moment Tommy started toying with a few loose strands of your hair without thinking. The radio was on now, low volume, casting soft blues—some old song you weren't really vibing to, but didn't dislike either.
You turned your head a little, just enough to catch his eyes where he lay beside you on the rug.
“How’s your dad been?”
The question was gentle, but it landed with a weight neither of you could ignore.
Tommy blinked, his hand pausing mid-braid.
“Same as always,” he muttered, eyes shifting toward your ceiling again. “Worse, maybe. But I don’t know. Think I’m getting better at dodging.”
"Tommy—" You started, and he raised a hand in protest, as if already asking you to calm down. Though it wasn’t a good answer. There wasn’t a good answer to begin with.
“I heard him the other night,” you said softly. “Through the phone when you called. Yelling. Surprised he even let you on the landline.”
Tommy didn’t reply. Just breathed out slowly through his nose and picked at a fray in your carpet. You gave him a minute.
“I dunno,” he mumbled finally, “some days I think I’m used to it. Like it’s just… background noise now.”
You rolled to your side to face him more directly. “That’s not something you’re supposed to get used to, Tommy.”
His jaw tightened. Not angry. Just locked.
“Yeah, well,” he said, voice low, “… you play the hand you're dealt, right?”
You wanted to say something—anything—to fix it. But you’d said things before. He always took them like a thank-you note and folded them into some internal drawer, deep and unreachable.
So instead, you just reached for his hand. He let you take it. Let your thumb trace the ridge of his knuckle, where a fading bruise bloomed soft purple even against tan skin.
“I keep thinkin’ about August,” he said after a long stretch of silence, “’Bout leavin’. What it’ll be like not having a reason to go back home.”
Your heart thudded a little harder. But you didn’t let go of his hand.
Am I not a reason?—
“You’ll have to write me letters,” you said quietly. “Or I’ll send someone to kick your ass.”
He looked at you finally, a tired smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“You’d do it yourself,” he said. “You got better aim than half the football team.”
You shrugged. “Someone had to teach you not to flinch, huh?” And for a while, you both just laid there, hands laced, the weight of the world still heavy—but a little more bearable.
The quiet had started to settle again.
The kind where nothing needed to be said. The kind where it was enough just to share a space, two teenagers on a bedroom floor, toes brushing the edge of an old rug. The hum of the radio filled the silence. Outside, a siren wailed distant and low, swallowed quickly by the thick Texas night.
Then—
“Oh my god—”
You bolted upright so fast it startled Tommy, your voice cracking into a higher pitch than usual.
“What?—"
“It’s on the wall—it’s on the wall, oh my god, Tommy—”
He followed your frantic stare, his eyes landing on a slow-moving brown spider just above your bookshelf. Average size. Harmless, really. But to you?
Apocalypse-tier.
You scrambled backward, nearly climbing onto the nightstand.
“Kill it—Please, please, kill it—Move it out.. Let it leave.”
Tommy blinked, then—unexpectedly—chuckled. Rough, and gravelly from a puberty-bent chuckle.
“Ain’t gonna kill it,” he said calmly, already rising to his feet. “It’s just a wolf spider. They eat worse things.” You stared at him in betrayal.
“Tommy, it has legs, it’s moving, it’s in my room.”
“Technically, you’re in its house,” he mumbled under his breath, stepping toward the wall like this was all perfectly routine. You pressed yourself into the far corner like the thing had a vendetta against you personally. It did. Okay? It totally fucking looked at you.
Tommy grabbed a tissue box and gently coaxed the spider onto one of the corners, slow and patient like he’d done it a hundred times. “They’re misunderstood, you know,” he said, glancing back at you. “People always think they’re tryin’ to bite, but most of ‘em just want out. Just scared.”
“I want out,” you hissed, eyes wide.
With an easy flick of his wrist, he opened your window and let the spider drop onto the trellis below. It disappeared into the shadows.
Tommy shut the pane and locked it. “There. Crisis averted.”
You didn’t relax right away. Not until he sat beside you again, and you could feel that it was gone.
He bumped your shoulder with his own, a little smug. “You good now, tough guy?”
You exhaled hard, the tension finally leaking out of your limbs. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“…Maybe just a little.”
He smiled—but not the cocky one. The real one. The soft one you didn’t see as often. The one that always caught you off guard.
“You didn’t have to be nice about it,” you muttered.
“I wanted to be.” He didn’t say more, but you felt it. That tiny shift in the air. The part of him he didn’t show to everyone else. Not even Joel. The part that didn’t flinch when something ugly looked back at him.
And maybe, for the first time in a while, you weren’t just seeing Tommy for Tommy. But, rather, who he is when he isn't forced to be a Miller.
THREE WEEKS LATER
The engine roared to life beneath your hands, louder and meaner than you’d expected. It rattled through your ribs, made your fingertips buzz. The kind of sound that screamed run, that made your stomach flip and your blood throb hot. It would be too soon if you ever felt this again in your lifetime.
This was—without a doubt—the craziest thing you’d ever done. And you were doing it for him.
The drive was short, just a few streets down, but every red light felt like a lifetime. Your knuckles clutched the wheel like it might buck out from under you, but when you finally parked in the dark mouth of the cul-de-sac, you felt it: that jittery sort of thrill only reckless kids with nothing to lose ever really feel. You slid the stolen keys into your jacket pocket. Still warm. The Miller house sat quiet, porch light off but the living room lamp bleeding faint yellow through the curtains. The patrol car in the driveway was what made your heart stutter.
His dad was home.
Perfect.
You ducked low, sneakers thudding softly as you crossed the backyard and leapt the fence. Not your cleanest vault, but better than last time—your palms stung, a branch scratched your leg, but you didn’t stop. The bungalow was squat and familiar, the roof a shallow climb. Nothing like your second-story escape hatch. You clawed your way onto the shingles, heart hammering, body moving on muscle memory.
You crouched beside the window—his window.
Knock. A pause.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The signal.
Curtains rustled. The old window creaked open. And then there he was—Tommy. Mess of sleep-mussed hair, eyes wide like he was still trying to process what he was seeing.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, voice low but sharp, too surprised to be angry.
“Happy birthday,” you breathed, and held up the keychain.
His mouth fell open. “Is that—? You stole a car?”
You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Borrowed.” It's not like your Dad will miss it for the whole four hours.
Tommy just stared at you. Then he did that half-laugh thing he always did when his emotions tripped over each other—somewhere between awe and disbelief. He blinked once. Twice. “You stole a car,” he said, flatly, not quite believing the words out loud. “With my dad home?”
You didn’t say anything. Just held up the plastic keychain you’d clipped on, shaped like a stupid little dinosaur—the kind of joke he always made at the gas station. Something small. Something dumb. Something his.
"Police officer Father," He looked at it, then back at you. And for a second, you weren’t sure if he was going to start yelling, or laughing. Instead, he sighed. “You’re gonna get yourself killed.”
You tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Figured you could use a break.”
He was quiet. Really quiet. Then: “Yeah,” he said, softer this time. “I could.”
He stepped back from the window, letting you crawl through. You both moved carefully, aware of every creak in the floorboards, every shadow. Only then did you realize—he was shirtless. His frame stood faintly outlined in the low light of his room, back turned to you as he rummaged through a drawer, sleep still clinging to his shoulders like something he hadn’t quite shrugged off yet. His curls were a mess, flattened on one side, the red imprint of his pillow still stamped along his cheek. You must’ve woken him. Hard sleep, too—he always crashed deep when things at home got loud.
You stood awkwardly near the window, hands shoved in the pockets of your hoodie, trying not to stare at the way his back moved, or the slow stretch of muscle when he yawned.
It felt a bit more intimate than your room.
Talk. Say something. Anything.
“So,” you started, voice a little too dry, too loud in the hush of the room, “… Eighteen.”
He paused just long enough to glance over his shoulder, one brow raised, “Big number,” you added, like that helped. Like it meant anything.
Tommy let out a low breath—something halfway between a laugh and a sigh—and finally tugged a worn T-shirt over his head. “Yeah, well. Don’t feel any different.”
You nodded slowly, still avoiding his eyes. “Think you’re supposed to get a new license, vote, buy scratch-offs… Porn section of blockbuster… enlist.” That last word stuck in your throat for a second longer than the rest.
He caught it.
The air shifted. The easy haze of the moment tightened—thin string pulled taut between you. He didn’t say anything right away, just grabbed a hoodie off the back of his desk chair and pulled it on over his head. Then: “You worried I’m still thinkin’ about that?”
You shrugged, gaze flicking toward the floorboards. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I ain’t going anywhere,” he said, firm but not harsh. “Not yet, anyway.”
You glanced at him then, just for a second—and for once, he didn’t look like the kid sneaking through your window to escape a fight.
He looked older. Still the same, still Tommy, but with something under the surface. A little sharper. A little more worn.
You didn't notice as it slowly morphed. But, something about this summer was different. Eighteen didn’t make him different. Life already had. Maybe a little too fast for your liking.
“C’mon,” he murmured after a second, flicking the light off behind him. “Let’s get you outta here before my dad decides to take a piss and sees your shoe prints on the damn roof.”
You weren't that obvious… were you?
A quick nod, falling into step behind him, your heart thudding too loudly in your chest for how calm he looked. Maybe it was muscle memory by now—he’d snuck in and out of his house so many times it was practically routine. But for you? This was chaos. Controlled chaos, but chaos all the same. He paused by the window, then motioned for you to hold up a second as he peeked outside. The porch light was still off. The dog wasn’t barking. The patrol car was empty in the drive. “All right,” he whispered. “Same way you came in, just backwards. Watch your foot on the ledge—it dips on the left.”
“Right.” You crouched near the window, already regretting your choice of jeans as they pulled too tight at the knees. “Totally got this.”
Tommy snorted. “You’re gonna break your neck one day tryin’ to impress me.”
“I’m not—” you started to hiss, but he was already half out the window, crouched low on the shingles, one hand reaching back for yours.
You took it without thinking.
His grip was steady, grounding. Even in the dark, with his house behind you both like something waiting to bite, he made you feel like you weren’t completely out of your depth.
“Okay,” he muttered, once you were both crouched on the roof. “Trellis is on your left. Step lightly, don’t lean too far out. It’ll hold if you don’t freak out.”
You did, in fact, freak out.
You made it halfway down before your foot slipped, your body knocking against the wooden frame with a loud thud that echoed down the street. You clamped your hand over your mouth, wide-eyed.
“Jesus,” Tommy hissed from above, then dropped after you with practiced ease, boots silent on the grass. It baffles you how he could make a half-story jump look easy. He caught your elbow before you could stumble again.
“You good?” he asked, voice low.
“Yeah,” you wheezed. “Mostly just… bruised my pride.”
He smirked, just barely. “That thing’s made of glass.” You elbowed him softly, trying not to grin too wide as the two of you crept down the street, the stolen car still parked a block down. You handed him the keys without a word, already knowing you weren’t the one who should be behind the wheel.
He'd been driving since he was thirteen. Probably. A sad, unfortunate task of driving your father home from the bar.
Tommy opened the door, eyes flicking across the empty road before jerking his chin toward the passenger side.
“You’re insane,” he muttered once you were both in, engine purring like a wild animal barely tamed. “Stealin’ a car. Hoppin’ fences. Breakin’ into my house.”
“I brought cake,” you offered, motioning towards the back, a small cake in a semi-beat up box resting on the floor of the passenger side.
That smile again—quiet, tired, crooked. It looked good on him. “You’re still insane.”
You leaned your head back against the seat. “Yeah. But I’m your kind of insane.”
Tommy didn’t answer right away. Just put the car in gear, eyes fixed on the road ahead like there was nothing else in the world he needed to look at. But his voice came soft as the engine’s hum. “Yeah,” he said. “You are.”
The car hummed along the cracked pavement, tires crunching against loose gravel on the side streets. The night air slipped in through the cracked windows, carrying the faint buzz of cicadas and the distant glow of streetlights.
Tommy’s hand tapped rhythmically on the steering wheel as “Just Like Heaven” spun through the speakers, Morrissey’s voice low and urgent. You sang along quietly, half-smiling, head leaning against the window as the world blurred by in soft streaks of light.
“This one’s yours, right?” he asked, glancing your way, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he nodded toward the radio.
You shrugged. “One of ‘em.” He flicked the dial, then settled on something louder — “Love Shack” by The B-52’s. The beat was infectious, and the car filled with your voices belting out the chorus, off-key but all in. Somewhere between laughing and singing, Tommy pulled off the main roads and slipped the car into a narrow dirt path that led to the local forest preserve. The headlights cut through tall grass and low-hanging branches. Your heart kicked up—not just from the thrill, but from the rawness of being out here, away from all the noise and rules. The car came to a stop near the edge of the woods. Tommy killed the engine, and the world fell almost completely silent—except for the chirp of night creatures and the distant rush of a small creek.
“C’mon,” he whispered, swinging open the door and jumping out. You followed, the box of cake clutched tight in your hands.
He led the way, moving with that familiar ease through brambles and shadows, scaling the low fence at the preserve’s border without hesitation. You paused for a breath, the cool night air washing over you, then hoisted yourself up beside him on the wooden ledge. From here, the town sprawled out beneath you—a scattering of sleepy lights blinking against the dark canvas of the night. It was quiet, save for the distant hum of life.
Tommy pulled the cake from the box and handed you a plastic fork. You both ate in companionable silence, the frosting sticky on your fingers, the cold cake sweet and real.
“Thanks,” he said finally, voice softer than before. “For this. For everything.” You shrugged, your eyes fixed on the stars just barely visible through the trees. “I’m glad you came,” you admitted quietly.
He looked over, that half-smile still lingering. “Yeah, me too.”
The night stretched out around you—endless and wild, just like the two of you.
Tommy poked at the soft cake with his fork, eyes fixed on the distant glow of the town below. After a long moment, he finally spoke—voice low, careful.
“Hey… I might be leaving.. earlier than I had planned…" A beat, "… August.”
Your fork froze mid-air. The words hit like a fist to your gut—sharp, unexpected. You blinked, trying to steady your breath, but it caught in your throat.
“August? That soon?” Your voice cracked, disbelief sharpening every syllable. “You never said— I thought you were still figuring it out. You didn’t even talk to me about this."
"You'll be missing senior year—You're dropping out?"
The questions rattled in your throat.
He looked away, jaw tight. “I didn’t wanna worry you.”
But you felt the sting of betrayal twist inside your chest.
You trusted him. You thought he’d hold onto this secret a little longer, or better yet, let you in before deciding something so big.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you trusted me,” Your voice was raw, trembling. “I was here—waiting. Thinking, maybe we had more time.”
Tommy’s hand reached out hesitantly, but you pulled back, the hurt sharper than the night air.
“It’s not like I wanted to leave,” he snapped, voice rougher than you'd ever heard it. “You think this is what I want? I’ve got my dad breathing down my neck every damn day—I don’t even breathe right and he’s ready to throw a punch.”
You stilled, heart thudding, but he wasn’t done.
“I can’t live like that anymore. And I can’t stay here just because it’s easier for you.”
The silence hit like a slap.
Your lips parted, the words caught somewhere deep in your chest, burning like acid. “I didn’t ask you to stay for me, Tommy. I asked you not to disappear like I never mattered.”
His face tightened, jaw clenching.
“Yeah? Well I’m tired of being scared shitless in my own home,” he barked suddenly. “It ain’t all about you.”
The words dropped between you like a landmine.
He turned away, breath caught halfway between anger and regret, already knowing he’d gone too far. His shoulders slumped—just a bit—his hands flexing at his sides like he wished he could take it all back.
But the damage was done.
You turned your face toward the stars, blinking fast, hoping the cold night air would dry the sting in your eyes before it spilled over. Everything inside you cracked in quiet, invisible places.
He’d never spoken to you like that.
And still—it wasn't the anger that hurt.
It was the fact that maybe, deep down, he’d meant it.
The night suddenly felt wider. Like the space between you wasn’t just emotional—it was physical now, stretching mile by mile. And for the first time, you wondered if there would ever be enough left to come back to.
It was already unraveling. And neither of you knew how to stop it.
Your chest tightened, panic bubbling up like acid in your throat. The room spun just a little too fast.
“I_—I…_ I have to go home,” you blurted out, voice shaking. “This isn’t a good idea. Being here, with you—.”
Tommy’s eyes snapped to yours, confused, hurt. “What are you talking about?”
But you shook your head, bitter tears pooling behind your lashes. “You’re leaving. You’re not waiting. You’re already gone, Tommy. I feel like I’m just… a stop before the next thing, and maybe you don’t even care if I’m still here when you’re gone—here, without you.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, then said, “That’s not fair.”
You scoffed, voice cracking, “What’s fair about this? I thought we were something. I thought I mattered more than some damn deadline.”
Tommy’s jaw clenched. “You think I want this? You think I want to hurt you?”
“Then don’t leave like this. Don’t just decide without me,” you snapped, your heart shattering with every word.
The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy. Finally, he ran a hand through his hair, fingers tightening against thick curls, voice low. “Look, I’m not saying goodbye yet. I’m just trying to figure it out. I don’t know how this ends either.”
You swallowed hard, wiping your face roughly. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe there is no ending. Maybe this is the ending."
Tommy’s gaze softened, but the weight still hung in the air: “I don’t want to lose you.”
You gave a bitter laugh, “You don't know what you want to lose."
And with that, the tension simmered but didn’t fully fade. The night wrapped around you both—heavy, uncertain, and raw with things left unsaid.
ONE WEEK LATER
The week that followed felt endless. Your world shrank down to the four walls of your bedroom, the heavy weight of silence pressing in on you like a stone. You were grounded—no phone calls, no going out, no distractions—just you and the growing ache in your chest. Your father was pretty mad about the car, evidently.
Every afternoon, you stared out your window, hoping for a sign, some kind of message from Tommy. But there was only stillness. No knocks, no visits, no echoes of his laugh.
It was then, in the quiet and loneliness, that the truth settled deep and stubborn—you loved him. Not just as a friend, but something more, something raw and real. And now, you were losing him. Losing him to something you couldn’t fight, couldn’t change. Days passed in a blur of walls, until one night, just as the sky turned navy and the stars blinked awake, you heard it—a sharp knock at your window. Your heart leapt, hope rising, but you stayed still. Too scared to move. Too numb to answer.
Another knock. Then another.
When you still didn’t respond, the unmistakable sound of a lock snapping cracked through the night.
Your breath caught as the window slid open, and there he was—Tommy, breathless, eyes wild but filled with something fierce.
“I’m not letting you shut me out,” he muttered, voice rough with desperation.
You didn’t know if you wanted to be mad or relieved.
All you knew was that suddenly, the walls around you weren’t so suffocating anymore.
It felt like for the first time in a week, you had inhaled.
"Did you just break my fuckin’ window?" you hissed, sitting up in bed as the frame creaked and gave way.
Tommy’s hands were already gripping the sill, one leg halfway in like he was scaling enemy territory. "Wasn’t gonna just sit out there all night while you ignored me."
"You broke the lock!"
"You weren’t answerin’."
You stared at him, lip trembling, rage and heartbreak fusing into something sharp. “You can’t just—crawl through here like everything’s fine.”
He stepped in slowly, the hardwood creaking beneath his boots. His hair was messier than usual, face was flushed like he’d been pacing outside for a while. “Didn’t come to pretend it’s fine.”
You looked away, arms crossed tight over your chest, trying to keep yourself from unraveling. “You left. You chose to leave, Tommy. And you didn’t even tell me ‘til the night of your damn birthday.”
“I was gonna—”
“But you didn’t!” Your voice cracked, too loud for the hour. You didn’t care. “You waited until I was in a car with you. After I brought the cake. After I climbed your goddamn roof. You waited ‘til I was too far in to walk away easily.”
He ran a hand through his curls, jaw clenched. “You think it’s been easy for me? You think I want to leave?”
“You didn’t have to make the choice yet.” Your voice broke into something smaller. “But you did. You made it without me. Like I was just—I dunno. Temporary.”
That landed. You saw it in his face.
Tommy stepped forward, careful, like you might bolt. “You ain’t temporary. Not to me.”
You looked at him, tears blurring the edges of your vision. “Then why does it feel like I already lost you?”
Silence.
He sat at the edge of your bed, hands clasped, elbows on his knees.
“Because I was stupid. I should’ve told you sooner. Should’ve asked what you thought. I just—I got scared, alright? Scared you’d look at me differently. That you’d stop… carin’.”
You didn’t say anything, just stared at him, your throat tight and hot.
“I’m not askin’ you to be okay with it,” he muttered, softer now. “I just needed you to know that this—you—mean more to me than anything I’m walkin’ into.”
You wiped your face with the back of your sleeve, breathing raggedly. Not remembering when the tears had started, only recognizing that they came out in heavy, depleted gasps, “I hate that I love you."
He blinked. His mouth opened—then shut.
Then opened again, “Say that again.”
You just shook your head and turned away, too tired, too wrecked.
But he was already pulling you into him, arms tight around your shoulders, voice low and cracking against your ear.
“I love you, too." A beat, "God help me, I do.”
And for the first time in days, the tightness in your chest loosened—just a little. You're kids. Teenagers. Young adults, or whatever. Nobody knows what love is, really. If it's sitting on your floor, giggling to old scratchy records, or bragging about how he almost scored a detention after fifth period. Or, when you're curled up in your bed listening to him talk about the way his dad ruthlessly beats him. How each scratch, and old scabbed scar, made you feel sick. Nauseated. When you felt ugly after homecoming, and he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear—so carefully, it felt like he was touching glass. And that was the first time you felt the burn. The—all-consuming, swallowing burn in your stomach. Helping him study for his chemistry final, and realizing that he's a lot brighter than he lets on to be. He hides it, almost.
The silence settled between you like fog—thick, warm, but charged with something that made your fingers twitch against the fabric of his shirt. You hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t meant to feel it, let alone speak it out loud. But it was already in the air. Spoken. Tangible. And now he was holding you like he meant to protect you from the world falling apart, the same way he always had—but different. This time, there was weight behind it. No more pretending. No more circling what this was. His thumb moved, slow and calloused, brushing just under your eye. Wiping away the last of the tears. You leaned into it before you could stop yourself.
“You serious?” he murmured, barely above a whisper, like he couldn’t believe it was real. You gave a small, wordless nod, not trusting your voice. But he saw it. Felt it. And whatever restraint he was holding on to finally crumbled.
His forehead leaned against yours first. Breath warm, shared between you in the space of a heartbeat. Then, slowly, tentatively—his nose brushed yours. And then he kissed you. Soft at first. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he touched you too hard. His lips were warm, unsure but wanting. Desperate in a way you hadn’t expected, like he’d been holding back for years and now the dam had cracked.
You kissed him back just as desperately, hands curling into his t-shirt, pulling him in closer, grounding yourself in the only thing that felt real—him. The pain, the fear, the ache of knowing he’d be gone soon—all of it dissolved into that kiss. The way he cupped your face like he was memorizing every inch. Into the little gasp you let out when his hand moved to the small of your back, keeping you close. When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless and a little dazed, he let out the smallest laugh—barely a sound, really—like he couldn’t believe it had happened.
“You know this changes everything, right?” he whispered.
You nodded, heart pounding. “Yeah.”
"Yeah—I know."
And you meant it. Even if it hurt. Even if the summer ended, and he'd leave, and nothing would ever be the same again. For right now, he was here. And he was yours.
But it didn’t. It changed nothing.
Not really.
You woke up to an empty room. A hollow space where warmth had been just hours before. The blanket was still half-pushed down from where he'd slid out, his scent still clinging faintly to the pillow beside yours—sweat, earth, cheap soap, and something that was just him.
But he was gone.
He usually was, sure. Slipping out before sunrise, before your parents could catch him, before the world could press its weight back on his shoulders. But this time… it wasn’t the same. This wasn’t sneaking out. This wasn’t teenage rebellion or a midnight escape. This felt like a goodbye.
Your chest ached, heavy with the realization. Something cold coiled in your gut, worse than guilt, worse than anger. It was an absence. A ghost before the body was even gone.
You sat up, pulling your knees to your chest as you stared at the open window.
The lock he’d broken was still busted. Hanging loose.
You told yourself not to cry.
That it was just Tommy.
That he’d be back like always. Grinning like an idiot, calling you baby-girl or some stupid nickname he made up just to get under your skin. Until last night, whispering it into your ear as you followed the motions of each other's hands slipping underneath fabric. An Intimacy you never thought you'd have shared—especially with your best friend.
But your throat burned. Your chest clenched.
Because deep down, under all the denial, you already knew.
Tommy Miller just broke your fucking heart.
WINTER OF 1993 Austin, Texas
Tap.
A pause.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound of the pen striking the podium sliced through the idle hum of the lecture hall. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting the room in a dull, bone-colored glow. Your eyes blinked against it, focus drifting between the empty lines of your notebook and the voice that finally broke the silence.
What a familiar rhythm.
“Mushrooms,” the professor said, slow and sure, “are just like us.”
You shifted in your seat, the denim of your jacket brushing against worn plastic armrests.
No one around you laughed. Not today.
Dr. Halpern was a known eccentric—half biologist, half prophet, and all intensity. His lectures were unpredictable. Sometimes thrilling. Sometimes unnerving. Always precise. Today, though, there was something different in the way he carried the silence between each word.
“Cordyceps,” he said, clicking the projector remote with a twitch of his fingers. A distorted image appeared: an ant, stiff and lifeless, with a fungal stalk piercing through its skull.
“It’s a parasitic fungus. Latches onto the brain. Manipulates behavior. Forces movement. Controls the host. The body moves, but the mind is no longer its own.”
He spoke cleanly, clinically. But something in his tone itched beneath your skin.
The room had gone still, too still. Pens stopped scratching. Someone a few rows back let their leg stop bouncing.
“So could it affect humans?” a voice asked. It was a half-laughing question, barely confident enough to be heard.
Dr. Halpern smiled. Not kindly.
“No. Not yet. Not with current climate conditions.”
A pause.
“But it’s not entirely out of the question.”
Another click. A still of a rainforest. Then a slide of a CDC chart. Then nothing.
“All it takes is temperature. Adaptation. A small shift in the way the world turns.”
He said it like a fact, not fiction. And you could feel the way the words settled in your chest, like dust that wouldn’t move even if you coughed.
You looked down at your notes. Still blank. Still waiting.
Outside, the sun shone heavy and golden through the tall lecture windows. But it felt cold.
The room felt too quiet now. The kind of quiet that you knew would stick with you long after the bell rang. The kind of quiet that doesn’t leave your bones, even after the semester ends. And maybe, for the first time, you wondered what the end of the world would actually feel like. The lecture continued for what felt like hours, brain drifting in and out of focus. Eventually, everyone stood up and packed, some dropping off their statements at the front.
You slipped the paper across the edge of Dr. Halpern’s desk, the printed pages curling slightly from where your fingers had gripped them too hard during the walk across campus. He didn’t look up right away. Instead, he pinched the top corner of the paper between two fingers and tugged it forward, adjusting his glasses. His lips moved silently as he scanned the title. Then, he made a sound—small, almost amused. Not unkind. “This is the piece on environmental psychology and developmental trauma?”
You nodded. Words caught in your throat. You hadn’t given it a title. Didn’t know how to.
His eyes scanned the first paragraph again, then flicked to yours.
“The path you drew between cyclical abuse and emotional response mechanisms is… intense,” he said plainly. “The father figure—violent, unpredictable. And the boy, always afraid, always calculating. How he survives in that house… It’s vivid. Uncomfortably so.”
You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. You weren’t ready to lie and call it fiction.
“But it’s excellent work,” he added, softer this time. “Unflinching. Brutal in the right places. There’s clarity in your anger. And control in the way you let it bleed through.”
He tapped the pages with the back of his pen, then gave a slow nod. “You’ve got a good voice. You should use it.”
You nodded again, more out of instinct than conviction. Your hand was already on your bag strap, itching to escape. His compliment lingered in the air between you, like smoke from a match that had just gone out. The moment felt too quiet. Too seen. You muttered a thank you and turned, heart thudding too fast in your chest. The hallway outside was humming with students, the overhead fluorescents buzzing, a girl laughing too loudly into a payphone. You leaned your back against the brick wall just outside the classroom, staring down at the empty palm of your hand like it should be holding something.
You hadn’t said his name once in the essay. But every sentence was his.
Every bruised sentence. Every corner of the page filled with that house, that silence, that boy with scraped knuckles and too-wide eyes.
Tommy.
authors note: hi i love him, your honor. anyway feedback is appreciated tyvm!!!
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