Reader who has an incredibly cozy room. Like. So so cozy, but hides it.
Frankly, you’re a little ashamed. Here you are in an elite task force after years of training and being in the military…and you have upward of 5 stuffed animals on your bed.
There’s beanbags and tapestries and string lights (because down with the big light) and rugs and pillows and blankets and stuffed animals and night lights.
And the rest of your team cannot know this. Could you imagine? The big bad Ghost or your captain being surrounded by all this fluff? No doubt they would take the piss out of you for it, so yeah they aren’t allowed in your room.
…until Johnny (because of course it was Johnny) becomes incredibly nosy. He doesn’t know how to mind his own business on a good day, so you always skirting around what your room looks like, and refusing to let them in, and making sure you shut the door fast, gets suspicious quick.
Finally, he’s fed up enough that at the end of the day, when you’re all dispersing to your rooms after hanging out in the rec room, he lets you sneak into your room. Lulling you into a false sense of security, before barging into the room before you can shut and lock the door.
You yelp a, “Soap!” but it’s too late…he’s inside and the rest of the team are peering in through the door.
Your hands come up to cover your face in embarrassment as they all take in the spectacle that is your room.
The fluffy rugs overlap on the floor, entirely covering the hard concrete that comes with the room. The cinder-block, jail-esque walls are similarly covered by various pretty tapestries. Johnny isn’t entirely sure how, but you’ve strung up a canopy above your bed, encasing the millions of pillows and blankets and stuffed animals into its own world. The lighting is extremely pleasant too, warm and orange from various spots in the room instead of the aggravating, cold, fluorescent, big light.
Soap was ready to make fun of you for whatever you were hiding in here, and honestly he still could, but…it was nice. You had an oil diffuser in the corner giving off a nice, calm, relaxing scent too and suddenly all he wanted to do was stay here and cuddle up to the beanbag in the corner.
“Well isn’t this…cozy…” he settles on saying.
You groan and finally remove your hands, “don’t start, Johnny! I know it’s embarrassing.”
“No…no, hen it’s…” he’s twirling in a circle trying to take in every angle, “nice.” He means it.
The others are encroaching in now too. Kyle being the most bold and coming to join Johnny in the middle. Ghost and the captain linger by the door, but you can tell they’re intrigued. Ghost is paying a lot of attention to the stuffed animals on the bed. John seems enraptured by the oil diffuser and rugs.
When no one says anything and you notice their faces are more intrigued than anything else, you settle a bit. Could it be they craved a little softness too?
“Do…do you wanna come in?” It was a long shot, you half expected them to laugh and run out.
Instead Simon and John take a step in and close the door.
“You can sit down,” you inform them as you take a seat on your bed, grabbing a pillow to hug.
Johnny makes a bee-line for the beanbag he’d been eyeing, but Kyle tries to beat him there which sends them into a stupid scuffle. Johnny wins, so Kyle shuffles back dejectedly to take a seat on your bed next to you.
To your surprise, Simon plops down on the ground right where he is, trying to be subtle about how he runs his hands through the fluffy rug. John is canvassing the room, taking it upon himself to touch every single nick-knack you have displayed.
You sit in silence for a moment, watching them all settle in and relax into the environment. You still notice Simon paying particular attention to the fluffy things, so you grab a raggedy old cat stuffie and throw it at him, giving him the plausible deniability that you were just being stupid and trying to annoy him. You ignore how he keeps it clutched in his lap.
They end up asking you questions about where you got everything and how long it took you to set up, even asking if they could poach some ideas for their own rooms. Kyle reluctantly admits he wouldn’t mind a night light. Johnny starts snoring on the beanbag.
Theres something about it becoming a safe place for them too that settles your soul. It’s nice seeing them like this; soft, relaxed. There’s too much hardness in your job, they deserve something that doesn’t hurt.
soft!reader who has absolutely no business falling in love with someone like rafe cameron. you're gentle in every sense of the word. you wave at strangers. you cry when animals get hurt in movies. you apologize to furniture when you accidentally bump into it.
then there's rafe. broad shoulders. military haircut. calloused hands. a permanent crease between his brows that makes him look angry even when he isn't.
people cross the street when they see him. little kids hide behind their parents. meanwhile you're reaching up to brush a leaf out of his hair because "you've got something right there." and rafe just stands there, letting you. he'd let you do just about anything.
military!rafe who is so impossibly careful with you. everyone assumes he'll be rough by nature and somehow they couldn't be more wrong.
the man who's trained to kick down doors and carry seventy pounds of gear across miles of unforgiving terrain treats you like you're made of spun glass.
every touch comes with a silent, "is this okay?" one hand resting on your waist to guide you through crowds. fingertips brushing your cheek before every kiss. always slowing himself down because he never wants you to feel rushed. never wants you to feel scared.
soft!reader who sends him the sweetest care packages while he's deployed. homemade cookies that arrive slightly crushed because shipping never goes the way you hope. handwritten letters covered in tiny doodles around the edges. polaroids of your everyday life: the flowers blooming outside your apartment, the coffee shop you both love, your dog wearing the hoodie he accidentally left behind.
you think they're silly. rafe thinks they're the greatest things he's ever received. he keeps every single letter folded neatly inside his duffel bag & rereads them on the nights when home feels impossibly far away.
military!rafe who never tells anyone how much he misses you. his buddies know, though. every time mail gets handed out, rafe suddenly disappears somewhere quiet with another envelope covered in your handwriting and when he comes back, he's smiling. not the cocky grin everyone knows but the smile with something reserved entirely for you.
soft!reader who worries about him constantly but never wants to make him feel guilty for leaving. so instead of saying, "i'm scared," you ask things like,
"are you sleeping enough?"
"did you remember your jacket?"
"have you eaten today?"
and rafe always smiles because that's just you. always taking care of everyone else first, even when your own heart is breaking.
military!rafe who comes home after months away and almost forgets how small you are until you're standing in front of him, looking up with watery eyes and smiling so brightly it nearly knocks the breath out of him. "hi." that's all you manage before your lip starts wobbling.
rafe immediately opens his arms. "c'mere, sweetheart."
you don't even hesitate. you practically melt into him. for the first minute neither of you says anything. words could never compete with finally being able to hold each other again.
soft!reader who absentmindedly plays with his dog tags whenever you're cuddling. turning them over between your fingers, tracing the engraved letters. never saying anything, just needing something to keep your hands busy. rafe notices every single time. eventually he starts unclasping them himself and placing them in your hand before settling back against the couch.
he knows they'll end up there anyway.
—
military!rafe who absolutely adores how trusting you are. not naive. just kind. you still believe people deserve second chances. you still stop to help strangers. you still think the world is mostly good. after everything he's seen, he can't understand how your heart has stayed so gentle. and selfishly he hopes it never changes.
military!rafe who is fiercely protective of that softness. if someone raises their voice at you, he's beside you before you've even processed what's happening. if you get overwhelmed in crowded places, his hand quietly slips into yours. if you're nervous meeting his military friends, he keeps a reassuring hand on the small of your back the entire evening.
not because he thinks you're incapable. the world has been hard on him and he'll be damned if he lets it be hard on you too.
soft!reader who always asks him to tell you about his day. not the classified parts, the ones you'll know bring that look back into his eye, the one that ever rarely comes out whenever the two of you are together..
just the little things. who made terrible coffee, who lost a bet. what the sunset looked like. you know some memories are too heavy to share but you still want to know about his life. you still want him to feel like he can bring pieces of it home to you.
military!rafe who never tells you when he's had a particularly bad day overseas but somehow you always know. the phone rings later than usual, his voice is quieter. he lets you ramble about absolutely nothing: what you bought at the grocery store, how your neighbor's cat keeps visiting. the flowers you planted.
he barely says a word, just listens. your voice reminds him that somewhere beyond all the noise, there's still a life waiting for him. there's still you.
military!rafe who comes home harder every deployment. a little quieter, a little more tired. carrying things he doesn't know how to put down but every single time, you greet him exactly the same: with a smile so full of love it almost hurts, with your arms already reaching for him, with that same gentle, "welcome home."
and every single time he thinks the same thing. if there's one truly good thing he's ever done in his life... it's somehow convincing someone as soft as you to love someone like him.
contains : lite oral fixation , suggestive , fluff
your dorm bed was covered in shopping bags and lip gloss tubes ; you sat in the middle of it all , pretty . waiting to be admired .
“look jabby ,” you said , holding up a glittery tube and twisting it so the light caught . “this one’s called starlight . isn’t that the cutest name ?"
"and this one—oh my god—it’s the exact pink i wanted b—”
“yeah , yeah dollface , i’m watchin' ; don’t trip .” jabber interrupted , lounging at the edge of the bed . shoes still on and leaning forward like he might crawl into your lap .
his eyes didn’t leave your mouth ; every swipe of gloss made him twitch . “that shine’s crazy . like you’d stick right to me if i kissed you , shit’s wild .”
you giggled , oblivious . leaning into your little mirror , lips pursed . “mm . i think this one’s too thick , what do you think ?”
jabber didn’t even glance at the gloss .
his fingers toyed with your skirt hem . restless . “think you could wear motor oil on your mouth and i’d still be on my knees . lettin' you drive me nuts . lettin' you sit pretty and talk sweet—” his words spilled quick . tumbling , then dropped low .
almost reverent .
you blinked at him , lips shiny and parted . “jabs… you’re not even looking at the gloss .”
he grinned . too sharp . nose brushing yours . “nah , lookin at you . lil' haul could burn in a fire ; don’t care . i’d still be stuck right here . watchin you shine .”
his thumb dragged across your lip . smearing gloss . “obsessed babe . like—you don’t even know . got me gone .”
you tried to grab another tube .
he caught your wrist , pressed it to the mattress and crawled halfway over you . jittery . burning up .
“don’t switch it up now dolly .” his forehead pressed to yours . voice trembling . “show me that pout again . c’mon . lemme see it . lemme taste it . been dyin since the second you sat down—,”
his mouth crashed into yours .
messy . eager . gloss smeared like syrup .
he groaned , desperate ; grinding against your thigh like he’d lost control .
“fuck , you’re sweet , sweetest thing i ever touched . mine , yeah , say it—”
his words blurred , rushed . kisses all over your face . jaw . lips again . “mine . mine . mine—”
Summary: A series of interactions. Subtle realizations. Unacknowledged feelings. Your existence to Draco Malfoy was inconsequential, at first. Yet wonders never cease when he decides to acknowledge you.
-
You were the silent type.
He's never talked to you before but he knew of your existence. Like a ghost that lingered at the walls, ever present yet elusive. He knew you from your claimed seat in the Slytherin common room, right by the fireplace. Close enough to his friends' lounging spot yet far enough to be unnoticed.
He knew you were always there with a book in your hand and a stoic expression on your face. He knew that younger Slytherins would sometimes come up to you and ask for help. He knew you from when you would pass his friends when you grab or return a book to the bookshelves.
Other than that, you were just there. Irrelevant. Like a buzz in the air you eventually grew accustomed to. That was your existence: nonconsequential to his life in Hogwarts.
Draco Malfoy didn't give a knut about you until you were partnered up in Potions. After Theo Nott had bolted away from him the moment he heard his partner, he felt the quiet shift of your presence settle beside him on the table. You gave him a small nod as you sat which he deemed not to reciprocate. Chin rested in one hand, he glanced at you once–upright posture, folded hands, neutral expression–then brought his attention back to the board.
-
"Wait."
His hand froze midair, clutching the knife about to slice through the flower heads. He raised an eyebrow and gave you a critical look.
"Don't cut that yet," you continued, undeterred. "Cut that a minute before we add it."
Your tone wasn't condescending, but it was assertive in a way that made his ego curdle. Just a bit.
"And why, pray tell, should I follow what you say?" He sneered.
You merely blinked.
"Well, these particular flower heads are most potent when it's freshly cut." You replied matter-of-factly. "Considering its integrative properties with this potion, we'd want its quality to be as potent as possible when we add it."
Malfoy gave you another skeptical look. He wasn't used to being interfered with in Potions. In fact, he was used to handling the brunt of the work to ensure his stellar marks were left unmarred by his partners' incompetence. So, yes, ego was poked. Just a bit.
"No," he replied as if he were talking to a five-year-old. "Doing that just exceeds the optimal potency level. You'll ruin the viscosity and increase the acidity of the potion." Admittedly, he did feel proud of shutting you down. Ego restored.
"For a freshly harvested flower head, yes, that's true, but..." Merlin, will this witch back down? You gently pinched the ends of the petals between your fingers. "These ones were put on a stasis charm. It's winter and its sensitive period after harvest is significantly shortened in the cold. Hence, the charm. The magical influence interferes with the properties of the plant. Feel the petals? They're not as soft as they should be; there's rigidity. That means the release of its sap will be explosive right after the cut."
Malfoy was silent. Reluctantly, he felt the petals between his fingers and, damn it, you were right. He opened his mouth as if to refute you but nothing came out. What you said made perfect sense. Again, damn it.
He scoffed and rolled his eyes but put away the flower heads. You gave him a small smile and continued your work.
-
"Wait."
Malfoy clicked his tongue irritably. He turned sharply to you.
"What now?" He snapped. To your credit, you did hold an apologetic expression.
"I'll do the stirring." You offered. He narrowed his eyes but begrudgingly passed you the stirring rod.
"For Merlin's sake, the stirring is elementary. Don't muck it up." He grumbled as he moved away from the cauldron.
A few minutes passed as he started tidying up the rest of the station when, at the corner of his eye, he saw what you did.
You stirred counter clockwise at the end. Once.
Malfoy was enraged.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He yelled-whispered, grabbing your wrist away from the cauldron. "The instructions were to stir clockwise continuously. Are you daft? Or are you perhaps mad-"
He stopped abruptly when the potion's color transformed from a muted blue to a vibrant turquoise. Perhaps the most vibrant turquoise he's seen on a potion like this, its color almost emitting a soft glow. Malfoy looked at the potion a few seconds more before shooting you a disbelieving look.
There was a glint of triumph in your eyes as your attention was completely fixated on the potion. He saw the slightest upturn of your lips before you schooled your expression back to neutrality. You turned back to him.
"The potion is similar to Moonseed Poison." You explained. "The procedure is almost identical and its properties are all derived from the same family of ingredients."
He scoffed. "And you thought it would be a good idea to apply the same principle to a potion that has completely different effects?"
You shrugged. "Same principle." You eyed the hand still holding your wrist, and he immediately withdrew his hand. He pinched the nose of his bridge, staving off an oncoming headache.
"Merlin, witch." He groaned. "And you didn't think to tell me?"
That gave you pause. You looked away almost sheepishly and added in a small voice. "...I thought you wouldn't be very cooperative."
You fiddled with your fingers and was adamant to look at anywhere but him. At least you had the decency to look a bit guilty.
He gave you a (barely) long-suffering look before moving past to scoop the potion for submission.
To his dismay, Slughorn praised your potion to the point Malfoy wondered if he would cream his pants. He sat back in his seat with a deep scowl in his face which you deemed not to comment on. You continued to work on your report silently even as Malfoy grumbled beside you.
After a while, he turned to you. "How did you know?"
You gave a questioning hum as you continued to work, refusing to look his way.
"How did you know the same principle would work?"
Your quill stuttered before you resumed.
"I didn't."
He raised a brow, giving you an expectant look. You pursed your lips slightly and glanced at him cautiously.
"Gut feeling."
Malfoy turned away from you, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to calm himself. "Bloody hell."
-
From then on, he began to notice you more. It was more so because he had now acknowledged your existence. You were promoted from the title or "irrelevant ghost" to "insufferable potions partner."
As you continued to be paired with him in Potions (to his dismay), he realized that, despite your penchant for having unconventional methods, perhaps there was a reason you were always close behind on the class rankings as the third or fourth top student. You had an intuitive sense for the interactions in each potion, making you an acceptable potions partner. He also realized that the only reason you lagged behind in rankings is because of your experimentations and your cursed gut feeling. With your potions, it was either a hit or miss.
Despite his initial annoyance with you, he couldn't deny that you were indeed competent. He began to develop a reluctant amicability with you and this was quite unfortunate because you began to do things he didn't understand.
-
One Charms class, he had run late and all seats had been taken up except for the one beside you. After receiving an admonishment from Flitwick, he sat beside you with a scowl, murmuring curses under his breath.
He had just set down his inkpot when you put a green apple in his desk space. Before he could say anything, you leaned close to him and whispered.
"I noticed you weren't at breakfast earlier. Figured I'd grab you your daily drugs." You flashed him a small smile before returning to your notes.
He was so surprised that he forgot all about his earlier frustrations. He managed to mumble a thanks before turning to his parchment.
-
"You have a Quidditch match later, right?"
That startled Malfoy. You two have never talked about anything besides academics. He nodded.
You rummaged through your pocket, and you pulled out a small charm shaped in a broom figurine.
He raised a brow at you inquisitively.
"It's a good luck charm." You rolled your eyes, a smile playing at your lips. "Not that you need it, of course. I know you're a good Seeker, but I figured I'd give you one anyway."
He continued to stare at you questioningly, and you grew conscious. Your fingers slowly closed around the charm.
"Well, you don't have to take it. I suppose I could just give it to another player–"
"Whatever." He scoffed and held out his hand. "Give it here. Merlin knows you'll accidentally set somebody on fire with your charms."
Your hand came up to your chest in affront as the other dropped the charm onto his open hand. "Excuse me? That was one time!"
-
Malfoy was met with cheers from the team as he descended from the broom, snitch in hand. He walked proudly, chest out and ego inflated, as absorbed all the praises.
Through it all, the small broomstick charm weighed heavily on his pocket.
-
The two of you were at the library working on a joint Potions project. It was raining hard outside and your table was right beside a window.
"Let me know when the rain gets any more interesting. I'm sure it can write the paper for us."
Malfoy drawled from across the table, interrupting your reverie of watching the rain. You didn't respond, and he paid you no mind as he kept writing down on his parchment.
He felt the prickle of your stare on him instead. He waited a few moments for your gaze to pass, but it didn't. He looked up from his parchment and raised a critical eyebrow at you.
You didn't deem his look with a response. You just kept looking at him as if examining a specimen from behind a glass, chin tucked in one hand and eyes lucid.
"Your eyes have a little blue in them."
That threw him off. What?
"What?" He managed, unable to school the look of shock and confusion from his face.
Again, you didn't respond and simply went back to your work.
-
One particularly boring History of Magic class, he felt a nudge at the side of his leg. He shot you a flat look–yes, he happened to sit next to you again because he can sit anywhere he pleases, thank you very much–and you held out your hand filled with candies from Honeydukes.
"Want one?" You whispered, smiling shyly at him.
He didn't say anything and just grabbed from the pile. As he popped the candy into his mouth, he noticed you struggling to open one. He wordlessly grabbed the candy, opened it, and gave it back to you.
There was a flash of surprise on your face before you shot him a smile. He watched you pop the candy into your mouth.
-
Apparently, your title has once again elevated from "annoying potions partner" to "tolerable person to be around."
Yes, he knew of your existence, your presence in the couch right by the fireplace. But when he sat by his friends close to your chair, he also began to notice other things.
He now knew that your expression wasn't as stoic when you're reading. The changes in your face were subtle but he noticed them. A raised brow. Pursed lips. Crinkled eyes. He also now knew that when the younger Slytherins would come up to you, you would also give them small charms or lean into them as if sharing a secret.
He also now has a collection of charms because of you. It could be for a match, an exam, a stressful day, or a random reason you would come up with. He kept telling himself to throw away those junk. He never did.
-
The weather outside was chilly. Which was really something to consider when having a class outside for Care of Magical Creatures. Most of the students were bundled up and huddled together to retain as much warmth as possible.
Malfoy stood beneath a tree, gaze fixed to the courtyard where a certain someone should be walking now that class was about to start.
Sure enough, there you were. All frantic, frazzled, and panting by the time you settled next to him.
He looked at you expectantly as if you owed him an explanation.
"I fell asleep."
"Wonderful."
"Did you miss me?"
"Witch, you must be mad."
You bit back a smile as you tried to tune into the lesson. That was, until you heard him click his tongue annoyedly. You turned to Malfoy questioningly before you felt fabric wrap around your neck.
"If you wanted to die of the cold, you could've just told me to push you into the Black Lake." He grumbled as he adjusted his scarf to be more comfortable on you.
You blinked at him, unsure how to react to such a gesture. By the time, he let go of the scarf, you were positively drowning in his scent. You sunk your head further into the scarf to hide the smile you were struggling to fight.
When you muttered your thanks, all the response you got was a grunt.
-
"Here."
He dropped a bag from Honeydukes beside you as you looked up from your book. You were sitting at one of the larger couches across the fireplace since you had the common room all to yourself. You looked up at him, and he made sure to school a look of nonchalance. Hands tucked inside his pockets and hair mussed just so. That probably didn't work as well because his face was frozen from the cold.
You raised a quizzical brow at him.
He scoffed and plopped down beside you unceremoniously, draping his arm across the couch behind you.
"It's sugar quills. You'd know if you had the decency to at least open the bag."
"Oh."
A pleasantly surprised expression passed your face and you checked that, indeed, there was an assortment of sugar quills in the bag. You still gave him a scrutinizing look as if asking Why?
He rolled his eyes. "You were complaining about running out. You wouldn't shut up about it." A quiet affronted gasp escaped you.
"It was one time..." You pouted, voice small in slight embarrassment. You opened the bag and grabbed a quill. "Thank you."
He only grunted and propped up his head with the arm resting behind you. This gave him the perfect view over your shoulder. And of your nape, apparently. A thought he quickly shook off. His eyes, however, kept drifting to the small hairs that tickled your nape and to the mole nestled at the bottom right.
He blinked his thoughts away. Ridiculous.
Thankfully, a sudden rush of warmth distracted him from his thoughts, realizing that you had cast a warming charm on him. There was a little twinge in his chest at the gesture, although he'd blame the charm for that.
You nudged the bad of sugars quills toward him and flashed him a small smile. "Share?"
He shrugged and grabbed one as you returned to your book. He didn't say anything else and just watched you from the corner of his eye, his head propped up far too closely next to you.
Malfoy didn't know what possessed him to buy those sugar quills. Or to sit down next to you when all he thought about after returning was to lie in his bed. And he certainly didn't know why he kept trying to lean closer to you.
Eager for a distraction, he tried to peek at what you were reading, eyes narrowing at the plethora of unfamiliar words. His curiosity won out.
"What are you reading?" He asked, leaning down to read better.
You startled, and turned to him to explain. This was, unfortunately, a mistake because both of you didn't realize how close he was leaning over your shoulder. This resulted in your faces being mere inches from each other, your breaths mingling. You shared a surprised look before immediately turning away from each other.
A moment passed.
Malfoy cleared his throat awkwardly, attempting to tamper his speeding heartbeat. Merlin, that warming charm must really be overheating him. He blamed your Charms proficiency.
"It's 1984 by George Orwell." You finally said, voice small, and eyes adamantly glued to the book. He turned back to you which, again, was a mistake because he now noticed how flushed your nape had become. Damn it. "It's a muggle book. Social commentary on totalitarianism told through a dystopian setting."
He swallowed, trying to focus on your words than your reddened cheeks.
"Right." He cleared his throat. "So what does doublethink mean?"
At that, the conversation turned for the better as you explained the details of the book to him. Malfoy, thankfully, was intrigued enough to override his earlier thoughts. You both eased into a comfortable atmosphere and, at some point, you had leaned your head against his arm behind.
Whether you noticed it or not, he did not know. But he did not care to comment on it.
Summary: soft girl of the party has a soft heart. The heart who gains all the hearts of the party no matter what she doesn’t mean to do.
Info: this is implied as a fluttershy!reader cause look at the pic I chose as a header?? Anyways will is platonic of cuz he’s gay tf?? Lumax x reader and then mileven x reader. Just greedy yall, and also Dustin is more of a brother figure that now has a little sister figure.
Genre: fluff
Wordcount: 1,190
The softest girl to ever be in Hawkins.
Y/n L/N, friends to Mike Wheeler, Lucas Sinclair, Dustin Henderson, Max Mayfield, and Jane Hopper.
She’s homeschooled due to her anxiety peaking every second someone stares at her. Feeling the stares of people, feeling like they’re just gonna laugh at her makes her sick to her stomach.
She used to eat alone in Mr. Clark’s classroom, not handling school life very well. Dustin was always there for her, like a brother, as he tried to also eat lunch with her. He even suggested eating in the AV club room.
She enjoyed his comfort a lot, and Dustin enjoyed making her comfortable.
Will and Y/n always had drawing contests because Dustin said she could beat Will at anything he could draw. Which prompted the two quiet kids to immediately click due to their interest in drawings be art.
Lucas was always there to back her up, if someone was talking over her, he would shut everything down to make sure people heard her.
Even Mike did it mostly, he’d always look at y/n to make sure she was comfortable. If she’s too silent and is looking down at her fingers. Chewing on her nails, picking at the flesh of her fingers.
He’d put his hand on her shoulder or just put his hand on hers.
Having eleven in the party’s life brought more things to the table.
After Will went missing, y/n felt sick, sick physically at the thought her beloved friend was dead.
She missed all the action being homeschooled and grieving the potential loss of a friend. But she didn’t know that Mike was practically ranting about her to a girl named eleven.
Eleven saw a picture of Y/n, immediately stalking the poor soft girl in the void. She saw y/n writing, wearing a soft yellow cardigan and a pink and white dress.
Y/n didn’t know how eleven was just staring at the pretty girl.
“Pretty.” Eleven repeated out loud, eleven got out of the void. Knowing who y/n now is. She understands how Mike can just bring her up every 3 minutes.
Time passed, Will was actually alive and well, bringing y/n to a soft relief. Hugging him at the hospital, the party felt restored.
Meeting Max, was kinda weird to say. Y/n was taking a fresh breath of air after being home all evening. While she walked on the sidewalk, wearing her favorite palette clothing of pink, yellow, and white, a girl came rushing in with her skateboard towards her.
Not that she meant it on purpose, it’s just y/n didn’t see her clearly.
She ran y/n over with her skateboard, making her fall on her back, and Max fell on her side.
“SHIT!” Max yells, getting up to even grab her skateboard. Y/n got up to also get her skateboard, trying to ignore the stinging feeling in her hands and butt.
“Are you okay?” Y/n’s soft voice did her magic. Ring through someone’s head. Max felt her hands touch hers, but they left as she got electrocuted. Making the redhead pull her hand back.
“Yeah.. I’m okay. But I should be asking you that.” Max quickly said, ignoring the feeling she felt. She grabbed y/n’s hand, seeing the small bruises on the skin.
“I’m fine,” Y/n spoke, looking at Max. She realized the girl hadn’t practically seen before. “Are you new here?” She asked.
Max nodded as she started to grab her skateboard and pull y/n towards the other way. “I’m Max, what’s your name?” Max says, finding this an opportunity to just know more about this girl who has gotten her attention. And maybe even heart oddly.
“I’m y/n!” Y/n said excitedly, happy to make a friend.
And it went from there as soon as the party had fully known one thing as time grew. The party made a devoted rule towards the girl, and that was never to yell or speak loudly towards her at all.
Everyone took it seriously.
A little too seriously, eleven was by y/n who was shopping. During the summer was fun as y/n softly smiled towards the teenage girl.
“I think this cardigan would look good on me.” She says, Eleven smiled back. Loving the soft smile she and Mike adored.
“Yes. It’s perfect, for you.” She says in the same tone you spoke.
Nodding, you go to the cashier to get this. The cashier seemed to be cranky, not liking how the poor girl was trying to get her wallet from her purse.
“Can you hurry up?? This isn’t the retirement home sweetie.” The man said, gruffly and roughly which made y/n flinch a bit while she felt her heart spike. Not cause of the man’s voice. No. Cause was she really holding up the line?
“Sorry sir I’m just—”
“I don’t need a backstory, hurry up.”
Eleven’s brows narrowed, not liking how the man was talking to the girl. After getting the money on the counter and quickly leaving.
Eleven stayed a bit behind, squeezing her hand, making most of the clothing rackets fall to the ground. The man was in shock and stumbled at what happened.
“What the?!”
Eleven wiped her nose with her hand. Walking quietly by the girl’s side.
Summer came quicker than blinking.
Will and y/n would have a drawing contest at his house, he’d even let y/n play a bit of D&D mostly. She understood most of it, it was nice to know what the boys liked.
“That’s beautiful y/n!” Will complimented the girl who smiled widely. “But check mine out!” He exclaimed, showing a picture of him and y/n dancing around with music notes in medieval times.
Y/n put her work down to do some happy claps. “Omg!! That’s amazing, you should be an all-time artist.”
Her soft voice mixed with praise and excitement, and even encouragement. It brought will even more up to being open to her.
Sadly she couldn’t hang out with Dustin since he was mostly hanging out with Steve instead. But that was fine since she got to hang out with the other party members during the summer.
Although it felt like she was third wheeling.
During the summer, Mike and eleven would persuade y/n to hang out with them a lot at Hopper’s cabin. Due to of course eleven can’t be seen out in public.
Not without her pet bunny, named Angel of course. Eleven seemed to freeze seeing the bunny, y/n forgot about the lab while she goes to hide Angel away. But eleven wanted to show that she can get over her trauma.
For their girl, as Mike has said once to eleven. Practically claiming the girl for him and eleven.
And eleven liked that.
Meanwhile, Lucas and Max would plan movie dates at y/n’s house. Making sure they had her perfectly between them both.
Lucas felt like a king, having two beautiful girls with him was heaven. Max and Lucas squeezed both of y/n’s hands
Not even bothering to tell how flushed the girl was.
“What is happening…” y/n thought to herself.
She didn’t know that she was the butterfly surrounded by flowers needing her attention.
Pretty soft things
Simon Riley fluff
soft!reader x Simon Riley (suggestive themes +18)
It was no secret that Simon “Ghost” Riley was not a fan of cute things, let alone anything remotely feminine in nature. ‘Soft’ simply wasn’t a word in his vocabulary. That is, until you came into his life all delicate, sweet, and pretty—the complete and total opposite of anything he had ever known.
It had started off slowly when you first moved into his apartment. A once bare, relatively barren space was quickly transformed into a cozy, soft sanctuary filled entirely with your touch. At first, Simon pretended to act completely indifferent. He insisted that the new plush rugs, the moody, warm lighting, and the endless assortment of vanilla sugar candles were entirely ridiculous. But if it made you feel more at home in his space, he wasn’t going to stop you.
Deep down, though? He absolutely loved it. The exact moment he stepped through the front door, all the heavy, dark shit he carried from his deployments seemed to instantly melt away, his senses immediately overtaken by the comforting sight and scent of you.
That quiet fondness eventually progressed to Simon handing over his black card, practically insisting that you abuse use it to your heart's content. He made more than enough money given his hazardous line of work—a fair compensation for a dangerous life, so to speak.
Because of that, he wanted nothing more than for you to spend it, secretly knowing you would do far more good with his wealth than he ever could.
Not that you complained in the slightest. What girl wouldn't love the idea of being spoiled beyond her wildest dreams by the massive, intimidating man she adored most in the world?
Which brought you to right now, in the warmth of your shared bedroom, giving your boyfriend an all-too-familiar fashion show from your latest shopping spree. Simon was finally home for a long stretch, and you were just so incredibly happy to have him back, safe and sound.
“Come onnn, Si—sit!” you playfully pleaded, tugging on his heavy arm to pull your massive lug of a boyfriend toward the edge of the mattress.
Simon complied without a fight, plopping his heavy frame down onto the mattress, his tired, dark eyes filled with quiet amusement at your antics. This wasn't the first time you’d put on a little show for him after a trip to the boutiques. He would never admit it aloud, but he thoroughly enjoyed watching you prance around, posing entirely for his eyes. It was utterly tantalising.
“What do you think about this one? Isn’t it so cute?” you asked, turning on your heel as you toyed with the hem of a soft pink dress. It was incredibly short, but it hugged your figure flawlessly.
Simon all but hummed in response, just as he had for the last ten outfits. They were all some variation of pastel pink, cropped tops, or criminally short dresses.
You rolled your eyes playfully at his typical low grunts before slipping back into the en-suite to change into the very last items you’d purchased with his money.
This one was a matching knit co-ord: a soft, fuzzy cashmere top that draped elegantly off your shoulders with a tiny ribbon bow, paired with a matching mini skirt that sported the same delicate design. The moment you stepped out of the bathroom and back into his line of sight, the air in the room shifted instantly.
Simon’s breath hitched in his chest. He stared at you with a look that could only be described as pure, unadulterated lust. He didn't even know what it was about this specific outfit—it wasn't entirely different from the others—but for some reason, the fuzzy, touchable fabric of the top combined with those innocent little bows made his brain completely short-circuit.
“All soft and pretty, aren’t ya, dove?” he murmured, his deep voice dropping to a low, gravelly whisper that vibrated right through you.
You let out a soft giggle, catching your reflection in the mirror, quietly thrilled that this was the outfit that had finally shattered his stoic composure exactly the way you’d hoped.
But you didn't have long to admire yourself. Before you could even take another step, Simon reached out. In a fraction of a second, his massive, heavy hands locked onto your waist, pulling you straight across the room and onto his lap, his large palms immediately roaming your body as his thick fingers tangled into the impossibly soft fabric of your clothes.
His head buried instantly into the crook of your neck, his rough stubble scraping against your skin as he rained heavy, open-mouthed kisses all over your throat and collarbones, causing a bright burst of laughter to erupt from you.
“Simon! Relax, I can't breathe!” you playfully protested, wriggling under his massive frame as your boyfriend attacked you from all angles, clearly possessing zero intention of letting up.
He only chuckled in response, the sound a deep, rumbling vibration directly against your skin.
“I will,” he mumbled against your racing pulse, his thick fingers hooking into the hem of your top, “but only if you promise to buy more of this fuzzy shit.”
“Mhmm, I promise, Si,” you breathed out, your hands finding the broad expanse of his shoulders.
“Good.”
Before you could even draw your next breath, his massive hands clamped onto your hips and effortlessly flipped you onto your stomach against the mattress. Let’s just say your cute, perfect little cashmere set didn't quite make it through your boyfriend’s sheer eagerness, the sound of tearing fabric completely lost beneath his low, dominant growl.
A story about what it costs to survive—and the one person who refuses to let you lose yourself trying.
pairings: randall kirkland x softangelgirlfriend!reader
synopsis: When kindness starts to look like a liability, you learn how to survive—you take less risk, give less away, stop reaching for people who won’t reach back.
She learns.
Randall is the one who notices first.
What starts as irritation turns into something sharper when the softness he couldn’t stand is replaced by something colder, quieter—something that looks too much like everyone else.
The argument that follows isn’t really about survival.
It’s about what she’s willing to lose to stay alive—and why he can’t stand watching her become someone she’s not.
CONTENT WARNING: emotional distress, survival setting, loss of identity, behavioral change, being taken advantage of, self-sacrificing tendencies, moral ambiguity, arguments/conflict, harsh environment, implied violence/danger, anxiety, internal conflict, themes of survival, angst, soft randall (if you squint)
word count: 2.1k
a/n: thanks to the lovely anon who requested this!! i had so much fun writing this and love the idea of randall dating someone who’s like the complete opposite of him. love this concept and the idea of randall noticing her change before anyone else just stuck in my head. considering turning this into like a non plot series type thing, so think of this as like how they were before they got together type thing!
She says thank you too much.
Not in a way that draws attention, not in that bright, performative tone people use when they’re trying to be liked. It’s quieter than that. Automatic. Like it’s stitched into her, like she doesn’t know how to exist without softening everything around her.
“Thanks.”
“Thank you.”
“I appreciate it.”
It slips out of her without thinking. For everything. Someone hands her a cup of water, she thanks them. Someone barely spares her a glance, she thanks them anyway, like acknowledgment in itself is something she owes something back for. Half the time, the people she says it to don’t even register it. The other half, they take it and give nothing in return.
Randall notices before he realizes he’s watching her.
And it bugs him.
Not because it’s wrong—he doesn’t care about that, doesn’t even know if it is—but because it doesn’t fit. Not here. Not somewhere that eats through people until there’s nothing left but what’s necessary. Softness like that doesn’t last. It gets worn down, traded off piece by piece until there’s nothing left to take.
Or it gets you hurt.
“You always like that?” he asks one afternoon, voice cutting in without warning.
She’s sitting off to the side, splitting what little food she has into two uneven portions. The bigger half is already gone from her hands, passed quietly to someone who hadn’t even asked for it.
She glances up at him, and there’s no embarrassment in it. No defensiveness. Just that same open, unguarded look that makes it hard to tell whether she doesn’t understand what he’s saying or just doesn’t agree.
“Like what?”
He tips his chin toward the empty space in her hands. “That,” he says. “Giving your stuff out like it’s unlimited.”
“They needed it.”
“So do you.”
She shrugs easy, like it’s not even worth arguing. Like her own needs don’t carry the same weight in her head. “I’ll be okay.”
Randall lets out a short breath through his nose, something between a scoff and a laugh.
He shifts his weight against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Heard that one before.”
There’s no real bite to it. Not like there usually is when he talks.
She watches him for a second, like she’s actually thinking about it, like she might take it seriously.
“Still,” she says after a second, “thank you.”
He frowns at her like she said something that doesn’t make sense.
“For what?”
She tilts her head slightly. “For saying something.” Then continues softer. “For looking out for me.”
That throws him off in a way he doesn’t like.
He hadn’t meant it like that. Hadn’t meant it as anything, really. It was just… a comment. An observation.
“I didn’t say anything,” he shoots back immediately. “I made a comment.”
“It counts.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
She smiles anyway.
That… irritates him more than it should.
He looks away first.
“Whatever,” he mutters.
It’s small, but it’s real, like his intention doesn’t change the outcome for her. Like it counts regardless.
And that should’ve been the end of it.
It isn’t.
He doesn’t notice the change right away.
Or maybe he does, and just doesn’t care enough to name it.
At first, it’s small.
She hesitates.
Someone asks for help, and she pauses instead of moving right away. Just a second—but it’s there. Like she’s thinking about it now, running it through a set of rules that didn’t exist before. Sometimes she still steps in. Sometimes she doesn’t.
Then she stops offering.
Stops hovering near people who look like they’re struggling. Stops splitting what she has. Keeps to herself more, stops inserting herself into situations that don’t directly involve her. It’s as if she’s learned where the invisible lines are and decided not to cross them anymore. Like she’s finally figuring out how things work.
Smart.
That’s what it is.
Smart.
Her voice changes too, a little. Less extra. Less… her.
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
“Fine.”
The extra words disappear. The softness that used to round everything out gets trimmed away, piece by piece, until what’s left is efficient. Careful. Distant.
And eventually, the thank yous stop.
That’s what Randall notices first.
Not in some big, dramatic way. It’s just… gone. A beat that used to exist, a rhythm he hadn’t realized he’d gotten used to until it wasn’t there anymore.
She hands him something one day—he doesn’t even remember what—and turns away like it’s nothing.
No pause. No acknowledgment. No “thanks.”
Nothing.
He waits for it without meaning to. It doesn’t come. He catches himself almost saying something.
Doesn’t
Just watches her walk off, something in his expression tightening for a second before it disappears. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t mean anything.
But it does.
Because once he sees it, he can’t stop seeing it.
It’s in everything she does. Or doesn’t do.
She doesn’t look at people the same way anymore. Doesn’t step in. Doesn’t react. Someone drops something right next to her and she just keeps walking like she didn’t hear it.
Someone asks for help, and she gestures vaguely toward someone else instead of stepping in herself. She keeps her food now—every bit of it—tucked away like she’s finally learned the lesson everyone else picked up years ago.
And maybe that’s a good thing.
Maybe that’s what she’s supposed to do.
But it doesn’t sit right.
Not because the behavior itself is wrong, but because it’s her doing it, and it looks… off. Like she’s wearing something that doesn’t quite fit, like it pulls in the wrong places.
Randall leans back against the wall one evening, arms crossed, watching her pass by like she doesn’t even register he’s there.
“Hey.”
“What?”
She pauses, but she doesn’t fully turn toward him. The distance is subtle, but it’s there now—something measured in the way she holds herself, in how much of her she allows anyone to see.
“When’d you start ignoring people?”
“I don’t.”
He lets out a quiet huff. “Yeah. You do,” he continues, flat. “Just watched you do it.”
“They’ll figure it out.”
“That’s new.”
There’s something different there. Not colder, exactly. Just… shut down in a way it wasn’t before.
“People said I needed to stop,” she says.
“Stop what?”
“Being stupid.”
The word sits wrong.
Randall’s expression shifts, something sharper creeping in.
“Who said that?”
She shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Yeah, it does.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she says, a little firmer now, though her voice stays level. “They weren’t wrong.”
He pushes off the wall then, uncrossing his arms.
“Right,” he says, tone flat. “So now you just don’t do anything.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
She exhales, already looking annoyed. “I’m just not making things harder for myself anymore.”
“By what—acting like you don’t see anything?” he cuts in.
“By not being an easy target.”
“So this is you fixing it?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You call this better?”
“I call it necessary.”
There’s no softness left in it.
“Necessary,” he repeats, pushing off the wall as irritation sharpens into something more pointed. “No. This isn’t necessary. This is you turning into everyone else.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” she shoots back, and finally there’s some heat in her voice. “They’re still alive, aren’t they?”
“Barely.”
“But they are.”
“And you think this is why?” he presses, stepping closer now, frustration creeping in around the edges. “You think acting like you don’t care is what’s keeping them alive?”
“It’s part of it.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s what’s left after everything else gets stripped away.”
She exhales sharply, already looking like she wants out of the conversation. “I’m not doing this with you.”
“Yeah, you are,” he counters, stepping into her path before she can move past him. “Because this isn’t you.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I don’t have to. I saw who you were before.”
“Yeah?” she says, turning fully toward him now, something raw slipping through the cracks. “And where did that get me?”
It lands.
Not loud, not dramatic, but exactly where it needs to.
“Nowhere,” she continues, quieter but sharper. “It got me taken advantage of. It got me ignored. It almost got me hurt.”
“And this is better?”
“It’s safer.”
“Is it,” he asks, voice dropping, “or is it just easier?”
Her jaw tightens. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about,” he shoots back, something deeper threading through the frustration now. “I’ve seen what this place does to people.”
“So have I.”
“Then you should know better.”
“Know better than to survive?”
“No,” he says, the word cutting clean. “Know better than to lose yourself doing it.”
She lets out a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s easy for you to say.”
That one sticks.
Because it’s not wrong.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, even though he already knows.
“It means you already know how to be like this,” she says, gesturing toward him. “You don’t hesitate. You don’t second-guess. You don’t care about people you shouldn’t. That’s how you survive here.”
Each word lands steady, deliberate.
“And I don’t,” she adds, softer now. “So I’m learning.”
Something twists in his chest, sharp and immediate.
“Yeah,” he mutters, jaw tightening, “and how’s that working out for you?”
“Better than before.”
“No, it’s not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he says, stepping closer again, voice rougher now. “Because you look miserable.”
That stops her.
Not completely, but enough to crack something in the surface she’s been holding together.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he cuts in, not letting her pull away from it. “You don’t talk to anyone, you don’t help unless you have to, you don’t—” He exhales, shaking his head. “That’s not surviving. That’s just existing.”
She swallows, gaze dropping for a second before she forces it back up. “At least I’m still here.”
And that—
That’s it.
“This place already ruins people,” he says, quieter now, but heavier. “Don’t help it.”
He holds her gaze, something real breaking through the usual edge in his voice.
“Do you think I like being like this?” he adds. “You think this is something you should be aiming for?”
She doesn’t answer.
Because she doesn’t have one.
“I didn’t start like this,” he continues, dragging a hand over the back of his neck, pacing once like he needs to burn off the weight of it. “Nobody does. This place takes whatever you were and grinds it down until this is what’s left.”
He gestures to himself, something bitter flickering across his face.
“And you want to speed that up?” he asks, looking back at her. “You want to do that to yourself on purpose?”
Her expression shifts, just slightly.
“I’m just trying to survive,” she says, but it’s quieter now. Less certain.
“Yeah,” he replies. “So was I.”
The words settle between them, heavy.
“And look how that turned out.”
That’s what finally gets through.
She looks at him differently then, like she’s seeing past the surface of him for the first time, like she’s noticing what it cost him to get here.
“I don’t know what else to do,” she admits, and there’s something fragile in it now, something honest.
Randall exhales slowly, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders.
“You keep going,” he says. “The way you were.”
“That doesn’t work here.”
“It did,” he counters. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”
“Barely.”
“Barely counts.”
She lets out a small breath, shaking her head. “You don’t get it.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“I can’t keep being that person if it’s going to get me killed,” she says, voice tightening again, but not as defensive. “I can’t keep giving things away, trusting people, acting like things are normal when they’re not.”
“I’m not saying be stupid,” he says, more controlled now. “I’m saying don’t kill the only part of you that makes this place bearable.”
She goes still.
“Not just for you,” he adds, quieter.
Her gaze lifts back to his, something unspoken settling between them.
“You don’t have to be like me,” he says. “That’s not something you should want.”
A beat passes.
“Trust me.”
There’s something almost ironic about it, but neither of them acknowledges it.
Silence settles, but it’s different now. Less sharp. Less guarded.
She looks down at her hands, turning everything over, and for once he doesn’t interrupt it. He lets the quiet sit, lets her work through it without pushing.
After a moment, she exhales, her shoulders loosening just slightly.
“…Okay.”
It’s not a promise.
But it’s something.
It doesn’t fix everything, doesn’t magically undo the shift.
The next time someone asks for help, she still hesitates. It’s there, that pause, that instinct to pull back, to protect herself the way she’s been trying to.
Then, slowly, she steps in anyway.
Not like before. Not automatic.
But it’s hers.
Later, when she passes Randall in the hallway, she slows just enough to catch his attention, holding something out for him to take.
“Here.”
He takes it, glancing at her.
She starts to walk off.
There’s a pause.
It’s small. Uncertain.
“…Thanks,” she says, quieter than it used to be.
It’s quieter now. A little uncertain, like she’s still figuring out how much of herself she’s allowed to keep without it costing her.
Randall nods once, like it’s nothing.
“Yeah.” he mutters.
But he doesn’t look away as she walks off, watching her as she goes.
And this time, there’s no irritation in it.
Just something quieter.
Something that looks a lot like him making sure she doesn’t disappear into this place the way everyone else eventually does—even if he never says that part out loud.
It’s because he’s decided—quietly, without saying it out loud—that if the world tries to take that softness from her again, it’s going to have to go through him first.
dividers/borders by these lovely people: @dollywons @uzmacchiato @mieluno
When John McTavish was shot and survived, his world fell apart.
Price went MIA after General Shepherd was found dead in his office.
Ghost transferred to another unit and was supposedly in Russia now.
Gaz sent him letters, but didn't have time to visit due to tracking down Makarov with Laswell.
And Soap, well John on paper and on hospital forms and on discharge documents, was left behind.
Soap didn't feel like a miracle. He felt left.
He replayed it constantly, the shot, the heat, his own stupid surprised thought of well, that's not ideal before everything went black.
Then there was the waking up.
Hospital bed. Tubes. Silence. His own heartbeat sounding foreign in his ears.
No one was there to greet him. Just machines.
He got one shaky video call with Laswell instead. Efficient. Polite. Regretful. Telling him the team was preoccupied. Telling him they hadn't forgotten him.
Letters. Neat handwriting. Too measured. Too careful. Like Gaz was trying not to lean on grief as he wrote: Wish I could be there and working leads not done and hold tight, Johnny.
Soap stared at them on the bedside table like they might explode.
Cheers for the letters, mate. Shame paper doesn't help me walk straight.
Just vanished off the grid, swallowed by shadows and guilt and whatever hole men like Price crawl into when they fail to save the word and their people.
Come kick down my door, Cap. Tell me you need me. Anything's better than disappearing like smoke.
He didn't vanish. He replaced Soap, replaced the team.
Transferred. Redeployed. Wheels up. Gone. Russia, of all bloody places. Probably standing in the snow somewhere solving problems with guns and monosyllabic grunts, same as always.
I got shot in the noggin', you poxy bastard. The least you could is haunt the hospital corridor like usual.
It was raining the first time you showed up at his flat. A quiet, apologetic kind of rain. The kind that barely tapped, like it was scared too knock to hard.
Soap swung the door open a touch too fast, half-expecting pity, paperwork, or press.
Instead, you just blinked at him.
You held a tote bag against yourself like a shield. Your scrubs a muted color.
You said something short, soft, unremarkable--
Name, role, schedule--
And stepped in when Soap grunted something that could have meant fine or piss off. He didn't know either.
You watered the one suffering houseplant. You re-organized his medication into a weekly tray with colour-coded stickers. You did laundry and folded blankets into neat squares even though he unfolded them just to spite organization.
You also made tea that tasted like warmth and quiet rain.
But the thing was: you didn't act like he was fragile.
You carried groceries up two flights without asking if he needed help. You unscrewed stuck jars without handling them to him.
You stepped around his sharper moods like you'd spent a lifetime dofigin emotional barbed wire without getting snagged.
It pissed him off at first.
Then it unsettled him.
Then, quietly, it steadied something in him he didn't know was still shaking.
He kept excepting you to pry. To poke the scar, metaphorically or literally. To ask if it hurt, if he remembered, if he killed the man who shot him, if he was scared, if he was okay--
