Hello can I request a reader who’s with the express and dating Dan Heng. While in Penacony, Sunday uses his tuning on the reader to make them attack the crew in an attempt to stop them from interfering with his plans? Up to you how it ends, I prefer angst but am totally down for fluff as well. Maybe she ends up hurting one of them and after they get her back, she has to deal with the aftermath of what she did even though it wasn’t really her.
“Peace Is Not Silence”
Summary: During the Charmony Festival in Penacony, you and your partner, Dan Heng, find yourselves caught in the crossfire of Sunday’s grand design. Still serving as the leader of The Family, Sunday uses his Halovian “tuning” ability to sway your mind—forcing you to turn against your own crew in a desperate attempt to keep them from interfering with his plans. Under his influence, you strike Dan Heng and nearly bring him down before the connection is shattered. In the aftermath, you awaken aboard the Astral Express wracked with guilt, struggling to reconcile what you did with the knowledge that it wasn’t truly your choice. Time passes, and when you meet Sunday again—now a quiet member of the Astral Express seeking redemption—you must decide whether forgiveness is something either of you deserves.
Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with Bittersweet Ending, Mind Control, Emotional Whump, Post-Battle Guilt, Protective, Redemption Arc, Found Family, Soft Reconciliation.
Warnings: Mind manipulation/Emotional coercion, Character injury (Dan Heng, brief but significant), Psychological distress and guilt, References to past trauma and moral conflict, Heavy emotional themes (redemption, forgiveness, identity).
The Dreamscape feels different tonight.
You notice it first in the way the air trembles—like a heartbeat hidden beneath the golden lights of Penacony’s endless skies. The Charmony Festival hums in the distance, laughter and music spilling through dreamlike streets. Yet beneath all that beauty, there’s a faint dissonance—like a melody just barely out of tune.
Dan Heng senses it too. You see it in the subtle tension of his shoulders, in the way his fingers hover near his spear. He stands beside you in the moonlight, his voice low and steady.
“Stay close. Something’s off.”
You nod, though you don’t need the warning. You’ve traveled with him long enough to recognize the way he moves when he’s uneasy—measured, precise, as if one wrong step could shatter the illusion around you.
The two of you are supposed to be meeting Welt and March at the plaza. Sunday had gone ahead to “smooth things over” with the local Harmonists. He’d smiled then—soft, reassuring, the kind of expression that made even the most guarded person want to believe him.
Maybe that’s why you didn’t question it.
Maybe that’s why, when the world begins to hum—not with sound, but with feeling—you don’t fight it right away.
The shift comes like a sigh through glass.
A warmth slips into your mind, gentle as sunlight through water. Sunday’s voice—no, not quite a voice, something deeper—threads through your thoughts, soft and melodic.
“You don’t have to fight anymore. You’ve suffered enough, haven’t you?”
You stumble forward. The sound around you dulls, colors deepening into dreamlike shades. Dan Heng catches your arm instantly.
“[Name]? What’s wrong?”
You want to answer. You try to answer. But your voice feels far away, swallowed by the golden hum flooding your chest. Sunday’s presence presses closer—familiar, divine, heartbreaking in its gentleness.
“Peace,” he whispers through the bond. “Let me give you peace.”
Your world narrows.
You don’t remember drawing your weapon. You don’t remember moving at all. One second you’re staring at Dan Heng’s worried face—and the next, you’re lunging.
Dan Heng parries instinctively, his spear meeting your weapon in a crackling burst. Sparks scatter between you, catching on the threads of the Dreamscape.
“[Name]—stop!” His voice is calm but strained, every word deliberate. “This isn’t you.”
He’s right. You know he’s right. But Sunday’s melody won’t let go—it curls through your mind, painting over guilt with gold, sorrow with serenity.
“They only bring you pain,” it whispers. “Let me take that pain away.”
Your blade swings again, and this time you see red—his shoulder jerks back, blood blooming where the edge grazes him. The sight should horrify you. It does—somewhere deep down—but your hands won’t stop trembling with borrowed purpose.
The world around you wavers like heat haze. Dan Heng doesn’t retaliate. He doesn’t raise his spear to strike. Instead, he plants it in the ground between you, steadying himself despite the wound.
“I won’t fight you,” he says quietly. “You’ll hate yourself for it later.”
The words pierce sharper than any weapon.
The melody in your head falters.
You clutch your skull, a cry ripping from your throat as the golden sound shatters—symphonic, terrible. Sunday’s presence flickers, a whisper of regret brushing against your consciousness.
Forgive me.
And then the world collapses.
When you wake, everything hurts.
The Astral Express hums beneath you, familiar and safe in a way that feels cruel after what happened. Welt’s voice murmurs nearby, low and analytical. March’s soft sniffles punctuate his words.
You can’t bring yourself to open your eyes until you feel a cool hand brush against yours.
“[Name].”
Dan Heng’s voice. Tired, but calm.
You open your eyes to see him sitting beside your bed. His shoulder is bandaged, his movements deliberate—measured to hide the pain. The sight of the injury makes your stomach twist.
“I—” Your throat feels raw. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know.” He cuts in gently, eyes downcast. “Sunday used his tuning on you. Mr. Yang confirmed it.”
His words should ease you, but they don’t. The memory is too vivid—the flash of red, the way his body staggered back, the way you wanted to stop but couldn’t.
Tears burn behind your eyes. “You could’ve fought back.”
“I told you,” he says softly. “I won’t.”
The silence that follows is heavy. The Express moves through the cosmos, starlight spilling through the window and painting him in pale silver. For a long time, you just watch the rhythm of his breathing—steady, grounded, painfully human.
“You were right,” you whisper. “I do hate myself for it.”
Dan Heng finally meets your gaze. There’s no anger there, no blame—only quiet weariness, and something gentler beneath.
“You weren’t yourself,” he says. “But you fought it. That’s what matters.”
You shake your head. “I hurt you. I could’ve—”
“Then learn from it,” he says, voice firm but calm. “Don’t let his choice define you.”
You exhale shakily. “He said he wanted to bring peace. That he didn’t want anyone to suffer.”
Dan Heng looks away, eyes distant. “That’s how it starts. People who think they can erase pain forget it’s what makes us real.”
You reach out, hesitant, fingers brushing his sleeve. He doesn’t flinch—just watches the gesture quietly before turning his hand to cover yours. His touch is warm, grounding.
For a moment, the guilt doesn’t vanish—but it quiets.
Later, when you finally gather the courage to leave your cabin, you find Sunday standing alone on the observation deck. His halo glows faintly in the dim light, his wings half-furled.
You freeze.
He turns before you can retreat, expression unreadable. The golden pupils of his eyes catch the starlight like liquid sun.
“I see you’re awake,” he says softly.
The words are polite, but there’s a fracture beneath them—a quiet ache.
“Why?” you ask, the question spilling out before you can stop it. “Why did you do it?”
He exhales, and for a moment, his wings twitch—the right one, just barely. “Because I thought I could spare you the pain of what’s coming. I thought I could protect you from it.”
You clench your fists. “By making me hurt them?”
Sunday’s gaze lowers. “That was not my intention. But power… especially Halovian tuning, it feeds on what’s already inside. Fear. Grief. Regret.”
You look away, the ghost of his melody still echoing faintly in the back of your mind. “Then you saw all of it, didn’t you?”
“I did.” His voice softens. “And I’m sorry. Truly.”
The apology hangs between you, fragile as glass.
You want to hate him. You want to demand answers, to make him feel even a fraction of the horror he caused—but all you see in his face is exhaustion. The same kind that lingers in Dan Heng’s eyes when he speaks of his past.
“Just…” Your voice trembles. “Don’t do it again.”
Sunday’s left wing twitches—just once, faintly. “I won’t. Not to you.”
You nod, and for a brief second, the two of you stand in silence, the hum of the Express filling the space where forgiveness should be.
That night, you find Dan Heng again, sitting cross-legged in the archives. He looks up when you enter, his eyes softening slightly.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks.
You shake your head and sit beside him. The quiet feels heavy but not uncomfortable.
“I saw Sunday,” you say eventually.
Dan Heng’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“He said he wanted to protect me.”
Dan Heng hums quietly. “That sounds like him.”
You tilt your head. “You’ve met people like him before?”
“Too many,” he answers. “People who think peace is something you can force.” He glances at you then, his expression unreadable but not cold. “But peace isn’t silence. It’s choice.”
You don’t reply. You just sit there, watching the slow movement of stars outside the window.
After a while, you say softly, “Thank you—for not giving up on me.”
He exhales, and the faintest ghost of a smile crosses his lips. “You’d have done the same.”
You think about it. You think about the way he bled, the way he refused to fight you even when he should have. Maybe he’s right. Maybe you would have done the same.
You lean your head against his shoulder, careful not to press against his bandage. He stiffens for a heartbeat, then relaxes.
The silence stretches, calm and bittersweet. Outside, Penacony fades into distant starlight. Inside, the world feels small and steady again—fragile, but real.
For the first time since the Dreamscape, the melody in your head is quiet.
Description: After their argument, JuJu and Rian try to figure out how to exist again without the weight of everything they said—only to realize they don’t really want distance at all.
Morning comes softer than the night did.
No yelling.
No tension.
Just quiet.
JuJu wakes up first.
She’s still in yesterday’s clothes.
Still in Rian’s hoodie.
Still on Rian’s couch.
And Rian is right there.
Half curled into her side like she never moved.
One arm loosely across JuJu’s stomach.
Breathing slow.
Peaceful.
JuJu doesn’t move at first.
Just watches her.
Because last night still feels too close.
The argument.
The tears.
The “you never loved me.”
JuJu swallows.
Careful not to wake her.
But Rian shifts anyway.
Eyes blinking open slowly.
It takes her a second.
Then she sees JuJu.
And everything from yesterday flickers back into place.
Neither of them speaks immediately.
JuJu looks away first.
“…hey.”
Rian’s voice is hoarse.
“Hey.”
Silence again.
Different this time.
Less sharp.
More scared.
JuJu sits up slightly.
“I didn’t sleep much,” she admits quietly.
Rian hums.
“Me neither.”
Another pause.
Then JuJu exhales.
“I’m sorry.”
Rian sits up too now.
“No—” she shakes her head. “Me first.”
JuJu looks at her.
Rian runs a hand through her hair, nervous.
“I shouldn’t have said you didn’t love me.”
JuJu’s expression softens immediately.
“And I shouldn’t have said it first.”
Rian gives a small, tired laugh.
“Yeah, that was kind of insane.”
JuJu lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh too.
“…we were both insane.”
“Yeah,” Rian nods. “A little.”
Silence settles again.
But it’s not heavy anymore.
It’s just… honest.
JuJu glances at her.
“You still mad at me?”
Rian looks at her like that’s the easiest question she’s ever heard.
“No.”
JuJu hesitates.
“…even a little?”
Rian shakes her head.
“I was never mad at you.”
That makes JuJu go quiet.
Because that’s worse.
In a good way.
Rian shifts closer slightly.
“I was scared,” she admits.
JuJu nods slowly.
“Me too.”
A beat.
Then Rian reaches out carefully.
Touches JuJu’s hand.
This time, no hesitation from either of them.
JuJu squeezes back immediately.
Rian exhales like she’s been holding her breath for a full day.
“…can I do something stupid?” Rian asks suddenly.
JuJu raises an eyebrow.
“That depends.”
Rian hesitates.
Then gently:
“Can I hug you?”
JuJu blinks.
Once.
Then immediately:
“Yeah.”
Rian doesn’t even hesitate after that.
Just pulls her in.
Hard.
Like she’s been waiting all night.
JuJu melts into it instantly.
Face buried against Rian’s shoulder.
Hands gripping the back of her hoodie.
Rian’s voice is soft against her hair.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
JuJu nods slightly.
“I know.”
But her grip tightens anyway.
Like she still needs proof.
Rian pulls back just enough to look at her.
And there’s something lighter in her eyes now.
“You’re kind of annoying, you know that?”
JuJu immediately scoffs.
“Excuse you?”
“But I like you anyway.”
That makes JuJu freeze.
Then she lets out a quiet laugh.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
JuJu studies her for a second.
Then quietly:
“…I like you too.”
Rian smiles.
Small.
Real.
Then leans forward and presses a soft kiss to JuJu’s forehead.
JuJu immediately relaxes like that fixes everything.
where Once upon a time they were madly in love but now they have a 10 year old daughter who tries to protect her 4 year old brother, from the screaming and fighting that happens almost nightly, always putting head phones on him playing his favorite show for him, and one day the fighting got so bad that becca (their daughter) gets in between her father in mother, physically pushing them away for each other, and for once they noticed how much this has hurt her
ohhh I low-key love this one! also it hit close to home.
The Quiet Between the Storms
Tags: #bucky barnes x reader
#bucky barnes fanfiction
#bucky barnes x you
#married but struggling
#family angst fic
#soft reconciliation
#healing is messy
#barnes family chaos
#protective older sister
#reader insert
#domestic hurt/comfort
#emotional communication
#post-fight tenderness
#therapy in action
#soft bucky barnes
#reader x bucky barnes
#kids say the truest things
#bucky barnes fluff
#slowburn healing
#this one hurts in a good way
#reader deserves rest
#becca barnes supremacy
#jamie is the mvp
CW/TW: parental fighting, emotional neglect, child distress, yelling (not graphic), family trauma,
Summary: After Becca’s voice finally cuts through the war zone, Reader takes Jamie out for some air, trying to remember what being a mother used to feel like. But in the soft hum of a car ride, her son breaks her heart in half with one innocent wish.
Summary: Once upon a time, they were the kind of love that made people believe in fate. But now—now it’s Becca who holds the house together. A 10-year-old girl with too-old eyes, shielding her little brother from the thunder of the people who once promised they'd never let it storm indoors.
It started, as it always did, with raised voices.
The walls of their once-lovely home didn’t echo with laughter anymore—they cracked under the weight of shouting, of bitter silences that snapped louder than any scream. Plates didn’t shatter, but trust did. Night after night, the fighting came like clockwork. And Becca… Becca had learned to listen for the signs.
A breath held too long. The sharp note in Mom’s voice. The quiet clench of Dad’s jaw before the storm.
She’d scoop up her little brother before it built. Jamie, only four, didn’t understand anger that didn’t come with cartoons or comic book villains. He just knew the sound made his belly hurt and his eyes sting.
So Becca became his shield.
Headphones over his ears. His favorite show queued up. The volume just loud enough to drown out the words being thrown like knives down the hall.
“Stay here, okay? You’re safe,” she whispered, kissing the top of his head like she'd seen her mom do when things were good—when things still sparkled.
And then, tonight, it was different.
Louder. Uglier. Closer.
She ran—bare feet on hardwood, heartbeat pounding in her throat—to find them toe-to-toe in the kitchen. Her dad’s hands were clenched, her mom’s tears were hot and sharp, words flying like broken glass.
“You never try anymore—”
“I do try, but everything I do is never good enough for you!”
“You gave up on us—”
“Don’t you dare put that all on me!”
Something in Becca snapped.
“STOP!”
Her voice didn’t crack. It boomed. Ten years old, and yet it silenced two adults who had forgotten how to listen.
She pushed them apart—physically. One palm on her mother’s hip, the other against her father’s chest.
“Just stop it! Can’t you see what you're doing?!”
They blinked at her like they hadn’t really seen her in months.
Becca's cheeks were red. Her fists were tight. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears that refused to fall, because someone had to be strong.
“Jamie hides under the blanket every night. He thinks if he can’t hear it, it’s not happening. But I hear it. I always hear it. I see it.”
A beat of silence.
Her mother opened her mouth to speak, but Becca shook her head, tears finally slipping down.
“I don’t want to hate this house. But I do. Because it feels like you forgot how to love us.”
And maybe that was the knife that cut deepest—not because it was cruel, but because it was true.
Bucky took a breath, the kind that shook his chest like after a nightmare. He knelt slowly, his hands trembling.
“Becca… baby girl…” He reached for her, but she stepped back.
“I don’t want ‘I’m sorry.’ I want you to fix it. Or stop pretending like we’re still a family when you’re just tearing each other apart.”
Her mother was crying now. Shoulders shaking, no words left to spin the hurt into something else.
Jamie appeared in the doorway, headphones askew, confusion on his face. “Becca?”
She turned, wiped her face quick, and offered her brother her hand. “Come on, bud. Let’s get out of here.”
And just like that, two children walked down the hallway hand in hand—into the quiet that didn’t exist in the kitchen anymore. Just two people learning how to protect each other, when the people who were supposed to protect them forgot how.
Behind them, Bucky sat down hard on the floor, hands over his face. The woman he once swore forever to slid down the wall opposite him, both of them broken, both finally realizing—
They hadn’t just hurt each other.
They’d hurt them.
And if there was any love left to salvage, it had to begin with this moment. With the silence they let fall between them. With hearing their daughter louder than they'd ever heard each other.
The morning after felt like tiptoeing through the ruins of something sacred.
Bucky had barely slept. Not because the fight had lingered on—it hadn’t. The silence that followed Becca’s outburst had been sharp and thick, curling around them like smoke from a fire that finally burned itself out. No winner. No clean lines. Just wreckage.
When he woke up to an empty side of the bed, he knew she’d taken Jamie out.
Not angrily. Not to make a point. But because she needed to breathe again—and so did their son.
The ride
The minivan hummed down the back roads. Windows cracked. Jamie’s feet kicked rhythmically at the back of the glovebox, little sneakers scuffed and mismatched socks peeking out. The sky was soft gray. The kind that held its breath before rain.
They went to the bookstore first. He picked a dinosaur sticker book and a chocolate chip cookie bigger than his head. Then the duck pond, where he named every duck something silly (“That’s Captain Quackers. That’s Duck Norris. That’s Bucky—with the grumpy eyebrows.”)
She smiled, small and soft. The kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
He chatted like he always did—bright, bouncing, full of tiny stories and four-year-old logic. But when the day began to wind down, and the sky started blushing orange at the edges, Jamie got quiet.
Seatbelt buckled. Juice box in hand. Legs too short to dangle.
And then he said it.
“Mama… I wish Becca was my real mama.”
The words were innocent. Sweet, even.
But they broke her.
She blinked hard at the road, breath hitching so subtly she prayed he wouldn’t notice. He was watching the trees. He didn’t mean it cruelly. He meant—Becca was soft. Safe. Calm when the world wasn’t. And that was everything a mama should be, right?
She forced a smile.
“Becca’s pretty great, huh?”
He nodded. “She makes the loud go away.”
She almost pulled the car over.
Almost.
But instead, she let a tear slip down, salt trailing silently to her chin. Because he was right. Becca made the loud go away. And somewhere along the way, she—his actual mama—had become part of the noise.
At home
Bucky was pacing when they walked through the door. Becca was in her room, reading in the window seat. He’d offered her pancakes earlier. She just shook her head.
When he saw Reader, his face softened. But the look she gave him made his stomach twist.
Her shoulders were stiff. Jaw clenched. Eyes glassy.
And Bucky—he knew that look. That quiet collapse she wore like armor. He’d seen it in mirrors before, on nights he couldn’t breathe without guilt pressing on his ribs.
“Jamie, baby, why don’t you go show Becca your new book?” she said gently, ruffling his hair.
Jamie nodded and ran off, humming.
She didn’t move from the door.
Bucky took a step forward, then stopped, unsure. “He okay?”
Reader nodded. “Yeah.”
But her voice was tight. Fragile.
He studied her. The way her fingers flexed, like she didn’t know what to hold on to. The red rims of her eyes. The wet lashes. The trembling breath.
“What happened?” he asked softly.
She laughed. Bitter and breathless. “He told me he wished Becca was his mama.”
Bucky’s heart cracked.
“Oh.”
“I don’t blame him,” she whispered. “She’s the only one who hasn’t failed him lately.”
“You haven’t—”
“Don’t,” she cut in. “I have. I know I have. I’ve been so busy fighting with you I forgot who I’m supposed to protect.”
The silence was thick, but not angry. Just aching.
“He didn’t mean it to hurt me,” she said, voice wobbling. “He was just being honest. Like kids are.”
Bucky nodded, chest tight. “Like Becca was.”
Reader looked up, eyes finally meeting his. “She shouldn’t have to be.”
“No,” he agreed. “She really, really shouldn’t.”
The quiet truce
That night, they didn’t fight.
They didn’t fix everything either.
But they curled up beside Jamie while he showed off his stickers. They let Becca fall asleep between them on the couch. Bucky kissed her forehead. Reader brushed hair from her eyes.
No apologies were spoken out loud.
But when Reader looked over at Bucky, and he looked back—eyes raw and sorry—there was something like hope in the quiet.
Something like please, let’s try again.
It had been a Saturday.
The kind that hung in the golden pockets of memory like a Polaroid pressed between the pages of a worn-out journal.
Back then, the apartment was small—one bathroom, peeling paint, a leaky faucet Bucky always meant to fix but never quite got around to. But god, it was filled to the brim with joy.
Becca had just turned two. Wild curls tied in tiny puffs with mismatched bows. She had a habit of taking her diaper off when no one was looking and running naked through the living room like a feral gremlin.
“Put some pants on, you tiny menace!” Bucky had shouted, laughing so hard he couldn’t catch her. She giggled like a little stormcloud full of sunshine, smacking her palms against the couch cushions in victory.
Reader leaned against the doorway, filming the whole thing on a beat-up phone with a cracked screen. “I think she gets it from your side.”
“My side? You were the one who told me she’d inherit ‘grace and dignity,’ and now she’s out here mooning the neighbors.”
“She's a free spirit,” Reader said with a grin. “You should be proud.”
He scooped Becca up, spinning her in the air, both of them breathless with laughter. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he said, kissing her pudgy cheek.
Then, like it always did in those early days, the noise quieted. The sun filtered through cheap blinds, painting soft stripes across the floor. Becca curled into Bucky’s chest, finally tuckered out, her breath evening out in hiccupy sighs.
He looked over at Reader, his expression soft, marveling.
“She’s gonna be too big for this one day.”
Reader smiled and crossed the room. “Then we’ll hold her as long as she lets us.”
Bucky nodded, then leaned into her, forehead against hers, their daughter safe between them. “I never thought I’d get this. A home. A family. You.”
“You have us,” she whispered. “Always.”
And he believed her.
They both did.
They meant it.
Later, they danced barefoot in the kitchen, Becca asleep on the couch. The crackling radio played something old and sweet. Reader’s cheek was pressed to his chest, and Bucky hummed along off-key. Her hand rested over his heart.
The floor creaked beneath them. The fridge buzzed. The world outside didn’t matter.
“I hope she remembers this,” Reader said suddenly. “Not the bills. Or the stress. Just… this.”
“She will,” Bucky promised. “Because we’ll keep giving it to her.”
They didn’t know then.
That one day, the fridge would still buzz—but the dancing would stop.
That their promises would gather dust.
That laughter would turn to sharp words, and silence would settle into the corners like mildew.
But on that day?
They were happy.
And maybe that’s the cruelest part of all.
They had it.
They knew how to love each other.
They just forgot how to hold on.
The apartment was quiet.
Too quiet.
Becca had gone to her friend’s for the night—some much-needed space. Jamie was tucked in with his stuffed bear, snoring softly, unaware of the way the walls still held onto the echo of things unsaid.
Reader was in the bath.
And Bucky?
Bucky was searching for an old charger in the junk drawer.
He didn’t mean to find it.
The old phone was cracked, dusty, barely holding on. The kind of thing that should’ve been tossed out years ago. But something made him plug it in anyway. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was grief for something not quite dead.
It took a while to boot up.
When it did, the gallery opened itself like a ghost.
Becca, age two.
Blurry video. Reader’s laughter in the background.
The baby giggling as she ran from him, half-naked, curly hair bouncing. His voice—so full of joy.
Then: the camera turned. Reader’s smiling face filled the screen, breathless and bright.
“You’re gonna wear him out before noon,” she teased.
“He loves it,” Reader said, and the lens tipped slightly to show Bucky spinning Becca in the air. “He loves us.”
“We’re a mess,” he chuckled.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “But we’re our mess.”
And then the screen went dark.
Bucky blinked.
Once. Twice.
His hands were shaking.
The phone dropped into his palm like it was too heavy to hold.
And then the tears came.
Quiet at first. Like shame. Like I should’ve tried harder.
He pressed his forehead to the edge of the table, fist clenched around the chipped phone.
“God,” he whispered, voice breaking. “What happened to us?”
She didn’t mean to walk in then.
Wrapped in a towel, hair wet, skin warm from the water.
She paused in the doorway, still as stone, watching him crumble in the dim light of the kitchen.
“Bucky?”
He looked up fast. Too fast. Eyes red. Breath caught.
“I—I found this,” he said hoarsely, holding the phone out like it burned. “I was just looking for a charger and—”
“I remember that day,” she said softly. Her voice was velvet. Frayed at the edges.
He nodded, eyes glassy. “We were so happy. Weren’t we?”
She walked toward him slowly, each step echoing between them.
“We were,” she said, voice thin. “We were also tired. And broke. And scared half the time.”
“But we fought it together.” His voice cracked. “Now we just… fight each other.”
She knelt beside him, towel still clutched tight to her chest, her hair dripping onto the hardwood floor.
“We got lost,” she whispered. “But Bucky… I still want us.”
His eyes flicked to hers. Wide. Drenched in disbelief.
“I don’t know how to fix this overnight,” she said, tears slipping down her cheek. “But I know that when Jamie asked me if Becca could be his mama—I wanted to scream. Not at him. At me. Because he should’ve said me, Buck.”
Bucky reached for her hand. His thumb grazed the soft inside of her wrist, trembling.
“You are his mama,” he said fiercely. “And you are still my girl. If you want to be.”
Reader let out a watery laugh. “I do. But we have to want it even on the days we don’t like each other. Even when we’re tired and mad and the laundry’s never done.”
“I want it,” he whispered. “I want you. I want to find our way back.”
She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his.
“I want to try.”
Outside, the rain finally came.
But inside? For the first time in what felt like forever, they let it fall without screaming.
Just two people.
Sitting on a kitchen floor.
With nothing but an old phone and a shared promise that maybe—maybe—there was still something worth saving.
They rehearse the conversation in the hallway like they’re about to go on stage.
They exchange a glance—somewhere between fear and a flicker of nervous laughter—and knock gently on Becca’s bedroom door.
“Yeah?” comes her muffled voice, guarded.
The door creaks open.
Becca’s curled up on her window seat, one leg tucked under her, the other swinging gently to a rhythm only she can hear. Her book is open, but she’s not reading. Not really.
“Hey, Bug,” Bucky says softly.
Her eyes narrow slightly. “You never call me that unless something’s wrong.”
Reader winces. “Can we sit?”
Becca shrugs. “It’s your house.”
It feels like a punch. But they take it—because they know they’ve earned worse.
They sit on the edge of her bed, a little awkward, too close together for comfort and not close enough to feel like parents again.
“We want to talk to you,” Reader begins, voice steady but gentle.
Becca closes her book. Doesn’t look at them.
“I know we haven’t been… good,” Bucky says, choosing the word like it’s fragile glass.
“We’ve been hurting. And we didn’t protect you or Jamie the way we should’ve,” Reader continues.
“We let the fights get louder than the love,” Bucky adds. “And that’s on us.”
Becca’s lip twitches. She doesn’t speak.
“But,” Reader says, swallowing, “we’ve been talking. Really talking. And we’re going to start therapy. Together. And separately. We want to learn how to do this right. How to be better. For you. For Jamie. For us.”
Bucky nods. “It won’t be perfect right away. It might not even feel different at first. But we’re going to try. Every day.”
There’s a pause.
Hope, trembling in the silence like a leaf on the edge of falling.
And then—Becca scoffs.
Actually scoffs. A sound full of disbelief and bruises.
“Sure,” she says, rolling her eyes, the bite behind it sharper than anything they’ve heard from her before. “Until next week, when you’re yelling again over who forgot to do the dishes.”
Reader flinches like she’s been slapped. Bucky’s mouth opens—then closes.
Becca shrugs. “I mean… sorry. But you always say you're gonna try. And then you don’t.”
“We know,” Bucky says, voice low, guilty. “And we don’t expect you to believe us yet. We just want you to know we’re starting. And we’re not going to stop.”
Becca doesn’t reply.
She just turns her face back to the window, chin tucked into her knees.
“I have homework,” she mumbles.
They both nod. No anger. No pushback.
Just heartbreak.
“Okay,” Reader says softly. “We’ll be downstairs if you want to talk.”
They leave quietly.
Behind them, Becca blinks back tears she doesn’t want to cry. Her chest feels tight with a confusing ache. A tiny voice inside her wants to believe them.
But she’s ten.
And she’s tired.
Downstairs
“She rolled her eyes,” Bucky mutters into his hands on the couch. “Our kid rolled her eyes at us.”
“She’s allowed,” Reader sighs. “We’ve taught her not to expect better.”
There’s a long silence.
Then Bucky whispers, “I don’t care how long it takes. I just want her to trust me again.”
Reader curls into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Then we keep showing up. Quietly. Every day.”
And they sit there, in the silence they used to fill with shouting—letting it hold them gently, for once.
It’s late.
The kind of late where the house hums low and warm, where even the ghosts of old arguments settle into corners and sleep.
Bucky leans against the doorframe of Jamie’s room, arms crossed, watching his son whisper to a stuffed dinosaur like it’s a sacred ritual.
Reader’s on the floor, legs crisscrossed, helping sort bedtime books back onto a crooked little shelf. Her hair’s in a messy bun. There’s a smudge of toothpaste on her cheek.
And somehow—Bucky thinks she’s never looked more beautiful.
Jamie flops back dramatically onto his pillow. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“Ready for what, kiddo?” Bucky asks, stepping inside.
“For my big important bedtime question.”
“Oh no,” Reader groans, playful. “The big important one? Should we sit down for this?”
Jamie nods solemnly. “It’s serious.”
They both sit—Bucky on the edge of the bed, Reader beside him.
Jamie looks between them with his usual squinty-eyed concentration, like he’s still figuring out how the world works—and he’s decided tonight he’s gonna crack it open.
“If you and Mommy love each other… why were you fighting so much?”
Reader's smile fades just a touch. Bucky stills.
But they don’t deflect.
“We forgot how to talk,” Reader says gently.
“And we let our feelings get too loud,” Bucky adds. “We stopped listening. Even when we were trying to love each other, we didn’t do it the right way.”
Jamie nods, like this makes sense in the way four-year-old brains understand big feelings better than most adults ever will.
“I think… love can still be loud,” Jamie says softly. “But maybe it should be the hug kind of loud. Not the mad kind.”
Reader’s throat tightens.
“Yeah?” she whispers.
“Yeah,” Jamie says, his voice going sleepy-soft. “Like when Becca reads me stories, and she makes the dragon voices real big. Or when you sing in the kitchen and mess up the words and Daddy laughs.”
Before sleep pulls him under completely, he murmurs one last thing:
“I’m glad you’re staying.”
It’s a whisper.
A wish.
A little seed of trust planted right there beneath the covers.
Outside the room
They don’t speak at first.
Just stand in the hallway, hearts full, eyes brimming.
Reader leans into Bucky’s chest, and he wraps his arms around her like maybe—just maybe—he remembers how to hold on again.
“He doesn’t understand all of it,” she murmurs, voice shaking. “But he feels it.”
“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, kissing her temple. “He does.”
And somehow, that makes it matter even more.
Because love doesn’t need to be perfect.
It just needs to be louder than the pain.
She didn’t mean to spy.
Not really.
She just came downstairs for a glass of water.
But when she paused at the edge of the hallway—just out of view—what she saw made her freeze.
Mom was sitting on the counter. Literally sitting on the counter, like she used to back when Dad would make pancakes at midnight. And Dad was between her knees, forehead pressed against hers, both of them grinning at something dumb and quiet.
And laughing.
Not the forced kind. Not the we’re trying not to cry kind.
Real.
Warm.
Soft.
Becca’s fingers tightened around the glass in her hand.
She didn’t know what to do with the ache in her chest. It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. But it wasn’t relief, either.
Because it was too late for kisses on countertops and inside jokes.
Wasn’t it?
She went back to her room without drinking the water.
Scene Two: Therapy, Session One
The office was too quiet.
Soft jazz played from somewhere invisible, and everything smelled like lavender and worry.
Becca sat as far from her parents as the loveseat would allow. Jamie was with a sitter. This was for them.
The therapist smiled gently. “This is a space where no one gets interrupted, okay? We speak. We listen. We feel. And we respect.”
Reader cleared her throat. “We’re here because we forgot how to be partners. And because our kids were paying the price.”
Bucky nodded. “We didn’t come to win arguments. We came to stop having them.”
Becca stared at her knees, arms crossed tight. “You say all the right things in here. But when we get home… it’s always different.”
That one stung.
Hard.
But the therapist nodded. “That’s real. That’s valid. So let’s talk about how home can start to look like this space. Not perfect. But safe.”
Becca didn’t open up right away. She shrugged more than she spoke. But when the therapist gently asked, “What’s something you miss?”, her voice wavered as she said:
“…Sunday pancakes. And the way they used to dance in the kitchen.”
Reader’s eyes filled. Bucky reached out, slowly, palm up between them.
Becca didn’t take it.
But she didn’t look away, either.
Scene Three: The Letter
Becca found it tucked into her backpack on a Tuesday.
No envelope. Just folded paper in Bucky’s unmistakable scrawl. He didn’t ask her to read it. Didn’t say a word about it.
But she did.
Under her blanket. Flashlight between her knees. Like a secret.
Bug,
I know you don’t trust me right now.
And that’s okay.
Trust is like a bridge. We burned parts of ours. I know that.
But I want to build it back. One plank at a time.
With pancakes. With therapy. With silence that isn’t scary.
You were the first thing in my life that ever felt like hope I could hold.
I still remember the first time you curled your tiny hand around my finger.
I remember thinking, Please don’t ever let go.
I let go in a different way, didn’t I?
I let go of the parts of me that were supposed to protect you.
And I’ll never stop being sorry for that.
But I’m still reaching, Bug.
Every day.
I’ll be reaching.
Love always,
Dad
She read it three times.
Folded it neatly.
Put it in the front pocket of her backpack.
And the next time Bucky asked if she wanted pancakes on Sunday?
She didn’t answer.
She just sat at the counter.
Where she used to.
It was Becca who lingered in the doorway this time.
Reader was on the couch, curled up with a book, slippers half-off, hair messy, glasses sliding down her nose. Bucky sat beside her, one leg bouncing with nervous energy, flipping through therapy handouts like he could find the perfect sentence to fix everything.
Becca hadn’t meant to interrupt.
She just wanted the charger from the coffee table.
But her mom looked up and smiled—genuine, small, like a candle you’re scared to breathe near.
And then Bucky smiled too. Not wide. Not expecting.
Just soft.
And when she grabbed the charger, she paused.
Just a second.
Then—like it was nothing, like it was everything—Becca stepped forward and wrapped her arms, stiffly, around her mother’s neck.
Reader froze for half a breath.
Then melted.
She held her like she used to—tight but not too tight, hand gently brushing curls that weren’t so little anymore.
“I missed you, sweetheart,” she whispered into her hair.
Becca’s voice was barely audible. “I’m still mad.”
“I know.”
“But I missed you too.”
And then she turned to Bucky, cheeks flushed.
Her arms didn’t go all the way around this time. But she pressed her forehead to his shoulder. Just for a moment.
And it was enough to wreck him.
Scene Two: Jamie, Again
It was a Tuesday. Therapy day.
Tension hummed soft and uncomfortable as they all waited in the car. Becca was reading. Reader rubbed her thumb along the seam of her jeans. Bucky stared out the windshield like he could psychically will time forward.
Jamie kicked his legs in the backseat.
“Becca?”
She looked back. “Yeah?”
He grinned.
“Are you still mad at Mommy and Daddy?”
Becca’s eyebrows arched. “That’s not really your business, Jamie.”
“But I want to know when we’re all gonna be happy again.”
Reader turned around, startled.
Jamie shrugged like it was obvious. “I like it better when it’s warm in the house. It used to feel cold, like the fridge was open forever.”
Bucky snorted quietly. “The fridge, huh?”
Jamie nodded seriously. “It’s warm again now. Still kind of wiggly warm. Not like fuzzy blanket warm. But not cold.”
Becca blinked.
Then—just barely—she smiled.
“You’re weird,” she told him.
Jamie grinned wider. “You’re my best friend.”
And maybe that’s what healing looks like.
Not declarations.
Not clean slates.
But warmth—wiggly, wobbly, messy warmth—sneaking back into a house that used to echo.
And holding on to it.
Even if it’s only for one moment longer than the last time.
It was a bone-deep cold that settled in the floorboards before either of them noticed.
Bucky stood in the kitchen, mug in hand, frowning as he watched his breath puff out in the morning air.
“Shit,” he muttered, tapping the thermostat. “C’mon, c’mon…”
No clicks. No hum.
Just silence.
By the time Reader shuffled in, wrapped in two layers and rubbing her arms, Becca was already bundled in a blanket on the couch and Jamie was shivering despite his favorite dinosaur hoodie.
“Is the heat out?” she asked, voice strained.
Bucky nodded once. “I’ll call someone.”
“Can we even afford that?” Her tone wasn’t accusatory. Not quite. But it wasn’t gentle either.
He looked at her slowly. “I’ve been working overtime, remember? We’ve been catching up.”
“Catching up doesn’t keep the kids warm when it’s twenty-three degrees out, Bucky.”
“I know that,” he said, teeth gritted.
And there it was.
The spark.
The tension in her shoulders. The way his jaw set. The look exchanged that usually spiraled into three days of eggshells.
But this time—
“We’re not doing this here,” she whispered sharply, cutting herself off mid-snap. Her eyes flicked toward the living room, where Becca held Jamie tight beneath the blanket.
“Right,” Bucky said, already grabbing his coat. “Garage?”
Reader nodded, pulling on boots.
They left quietly.
In the garage
It smelled like paint thinner and old holiday boxes.
They didn’t turn the light on.
Reader leaned against the cold washer. Bucky paced once, twice, like a caged animal trying to remember what being soft felt like.
“I’m scared,” she said first. “Not mad. Not at you. Just… scared. It’s freezing. And our kids are—”
“I know,” he cut in, voice tight. “I know. I’m scared too.”
Reader blinked. “Then why does it feel like we’re on opposite sides every time something goes wrong?”
Bucky ran both hands through his hair, breath fogging in the air between them.
“Because I feel like I’m failing you,” he said. “All of you. And when I feel like I’m failing, I panic. I shut down. Or I lash out. Or I say something stupid because I don’t know how else to feel in control.”
Reader’s throat tightened.
“And I get loud,” she whispered. “Because if I’m not loud, I’m crying. And if I start crying, I don’t know if I’ll stop.”
He looked at her, slowly.
“We suck at this,” he murmured.
“Not as much as we used to.”
A faint smile flickered on her lips. It didn’t last.
“I just want them safe, Buck. That’s all. I’m not blaming you. I’m scared with you, not at you.”
That landed.
He crossed the room and wrapped her up in his arms, coat and all.
“I’ll find a way. We’ll get a space heater or go stay with Sam for the night. We’ll figure it out.”
She nodded against his chest. “Promise me we won’t ever do this in front of them again. Even if it’s big. Even if it’s real. We take it here. To garages or bathrooms or closets or the back porch—I don’t care.”
Bucky kissed the top of her head, his voice thick.
“I promise.”
Back inside
They made cocoa. Pulled the mattresses into the living room like a campout. Let the kids sleep under every blanket they owned.
Bucky told ghost stories. Reader gave Becca her warmest socks. Jamie fell asleep on her chest.
And for the first time, a real problem didn’t break them.
It bonded them.
Quietly. Like snow falling outside.
The living room was a quilted mess of warmth.
Every comforter. Every extra pillow. Couch cushions repurposed as forts. Fairy lights twinkled above them like stars someone had lovingly strung just for the night.
Becca slept to the left, curled around Jamie, who snored lightly with his stuffed dinosaur tucked into his hoodie.
Bucky lay on his side, facing Reader. One arm beneath his head, the other tentatively tracing the edge of the blanket between them.
“Remember when we used to dream about this?” Reader murmured, voice a hush so soft it could’ve been mistaken for the wind.
He smiled, slow and sad.
“Yeah,” he said. “Back when we didn’t have two nickels but all the love in the world.”
“You told me you wanted four kids. And a dog.”
“I was ambitious.”
She chuckled quietly. “I said I’d settle for two and a lizard.”
He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “We got the two.”
“Still time for the lizard.”
A silence settled between them. Not heavy. Not empty.
Just full—of everything they hadn’t said in years.
“I used to watch you with Becca,” she whispered, “when she was little. You’d hold her like she was made of glass, and I remember thinking—God, if we can just hold on to this, we’ll be okay.”
He turned back toward her.
“We let go,” he said softly.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “But tonight… we held on.”
He reached for her hand beneath the blanket.
And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime—she didn’t pull away.
Scene Two: Cocoa & Courage
The sun filtered in gently, laying pale gold across tangled hair and blanket hills.
Jamie was still out cold. Becca stirred first.
She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up, blinking at her family all sprawled around her like a soft battlefield after the war.
She padded into the kitchen without a word.
Ten minutes later, Bucky blinked awake to the smell of cocoa.
And Becca’s voice—quiet, hesitant—from the doorway.
“I… made some.”
Reader stirred beside him, eyebrows lifted.
Becca cleared her throat, holding two mugs like they were precious.
“I didn’t know how much sugar, so I guessed.”
Bucky sat up slowly. “Thanks, Bug.”
Becca set them down gently and hovered, unsure.
Then—after a long breath—she looked at them and said:
“I saw you two last night. Heard you walk out to the garage. You didn’t fight in here.”
Reader’s heart clenched. “We promised, remember?”
Becca nodded, looking down.
Then she whispered:
“I’m proud of you.”
The words cracked something open in Bucky that he didn’t even realize was still closed.
He reached out, fingers brushing hers. “You mean that?”
She nodded. “It’s not fixed. But… it’s better.”
And that was everything.
Because from Becca—that wasn’t a compliment.
That was trust.
That night, the house was still a little cold.
But the warmth?
It didn’t come from the vents.
It came from something earned.
Something rebuilt.
And something still, always, worth fighting for.
You thought getting your license would mean freedom. Instead, it just gave you more roads to cry down.
Driving around Hawkins with no destination, you keep running into pieces of Eddie Munson - memories of red vines and playlists, old back roads, and broken guardrails. And maybe Chrissy was always kind, and maybe Eddie thought he was doing the right thing, but heartbreak still hits like a pothole you never saw coming.
Meanwhile, Eddie's realizing the worst thing about letting someone go to protect them... is finding out they never wanted protection. Just you.
And when your headlights meet again, it's quiet. It's late. It's honest.
And maybe - just maybe - it's not too late to drive back home.
1.6k words
You’re not sure why you got in the car.
Well, that’s a lie. You do know. It’s the first night you’ve had your license, and Hawkins is too small, too quiet, too full of Eddie-shaped shadows for you to sit still.
The keys jingle when you start the engine, a nervous sound. The headlights slice through the dark, but they don’t light up the aching spot in your chest. It’s just there - steady, dull, stupid. Like a bruise you keep pressing just to feel something.
You don’t really have a destination. You just… drive. The way you used to with him.
Your fingers curl around the wheel the same way they used to curl around his jacket sleeve when he drove, the beat-up van rattling over potholes and blasting Iron Maiden like you were the only two people in the world.
Now? The radio plays something sad and slow. You let it. You don’t bother switching it off.
The gas station on the corner still has the flickering sign. You remember the way Eddie used to lean over the counter, flirting with the bored teenager who worked there just to make you laugh. He’d come back with a pack of red vines and a bottle of orange soda, toss them in your lap, and say, “Told you I’d find treasure.”
You blink hard, trying not to picture it. Trying not to imagine him there now, with someone else in the passenger seat.
Your heart twists.
You make the turn anyway.
The street by the middle school is worse. The hill just past the playground - the one with the broken guardrail - was his favorite spot. He said the view made Hawkins feel bigger than it actually was. You remember the way he’d park, cut the engine, and let the silence fill the van. You remember his hand finding yours, the heat of his palm. The way he said your name like it was a song.
You press the gas a little harder to speed past it.
You tell yourself you’re just being dramatic. Teenage angst, right? First heartbreak. You’re probably supposed to feel like this.
But it doesn’t explain the tears threatening to spill when you pull onto Maple Lane and see her house.
Chrissy Cunningham’s porch light is on.
You grip the wheel tighter. You don’t know for sure if Eddie’s in there. You haven’t talked since the breakup. But people talk. You’ve heard things. Seen things.
She was always nice to you. Sweet, even. But it didn’t stop the pit from forming in your stomach every time you thought about them together - her perfect ponytail and sunny smile, and Eddie’s stupid soft heart. Maybe she fits better with him. Maybe he’s laughing with her right now, handing her red vines, telling her she deserves the world.
He told you the same thing… before he said goodbye.
You turn the corner quickly, headlights cutting over her mailbox.
You don’t want to cry. Not over someone who let you go without a fight.
But your hands are trembling now.
You end up near the school. It’s empty, dark except for one security light flickering near the gym. You park in the lot, your car humming gently beneath you.
This is where he used to wait for you after practice. He’d pull up early, lean back in the driver’s seat with his feet on the dash, humming whatever song was stuck in his head. You’d throw your bag in the back and climb in like you were made to be there.
You sit in silence now. The air feels heavier here.
You still see his face in the white cars. Sometimes even your front yard.
You bite your lip to keep the sob in.
He said you deserved better.
He said he wasn’t good for you.
But he never gave you a chance to argue.
You wonder if he was right.
You wonder if he regrets it.
You wonder if he even misses you.
The clock on your dashboard blinks 10:14 PM. You wipe your eyes. The sadness doesn’t fade, but you’re too tired to keep fighting it. You put the car in gear.
You don’t know where you’re going next.
Maybe you’ll end up at the overlook again. Maybe you’ll drive past his trailer.
Maybe you’ll just keep going.
You press your foot gently to the gas and think to yourself, I got my driver’s license last week… just like we always talked about.
And then you drive.
Alone.
Eddie knows he messed up.
He knows it every time he drives past your house but doesn’t pull in. Every time his phone rings and he hopes it’s you - even though it hasn’t been for weeks.
Every time Chrissy Cunningham looks at him like she’s waiting for him to grow a spine.
He didn’t mean to hurt you. That was the whole point.
You deserved someone better. Someone who didn’t live in a beat-up trailer. Someone who didn’t get side-eyed in the hallways or called a freak when he walked by.
You deserved someone your parents wouldn’t warn you about.
Someone safe.
So he let you go.
He told himself it would be the right thing. That it would hurt at first - sure - but it would fade. You’d move on, date someone your dad would approve of, go to college and get out of this dead-end town with someone who wasn’t Eddie Munson.
But then he saw you at school last week. Laughing with your friends near your locker.
And he felt like he couldn’t breathe.
You hadn’t seen him. He was half glad, half destroyed by that fact.
Because you looked okay. Like you were surviving just fine without him.
But he wasn’t.
Chrissy knows. He thinks she figured out the second he told her you’d broken up.
She was nice about it - annoyingly nice.
Didn’t try to flirt or pretend he was over it.
No, instead she did something way worse.
She started trying to fix it.
“You’re an idiot,” she says now, curled into the passenger seat of his van with her legs tucked under her. They’re parked in front of her house after a tutoring session she begged him to help her with (calculus, which she still sucks at). “She didn’t want perfect, Eddie. She wanted you.”
“She deserves someone who won’t hold her back,” he mutters.
“She deserves someone who doesn’t lie to her and then mope around town like a heartbroken golden retriever,” Chrissy snaps. “Do you even know where she is right now?”
Eddie frowns. “What?”
Chrissy taps the screen of her phone and hands it to him.
It’s a video.
You.
Behind the wheel of your car. The camera is shaky - some kid from school filmed it while you were driving slowly past the school gym, windows down, eyes red and glassy. You didn’t notice the camera. You were mouthing the words to some song, heartbreak written all over your face.
The caption reads: “This is what getting your driver’s license and your heart broken in the same week looks like.”
It has almost 100 likes.
Eddie feels sick.
“She’s been driving in circles all night,” Chrissy says, softer now. “Because it hurts. Because she still loves you.”
He stares at the screen.
You’re beautiful. Even with your eyes red. Especially with your eyes red.
He presses his thumb against the pause button and hands the phone back. “She shouldn’t have to hurt like this.”
“Then go fix it,” Chrissy says, like it’s that simple.
Maybe it is.
He drives away before he can talk himself out of it.
—
The road to your house is darker than he remembers. Or maybe it just feels that way without you in the seat beside him.
HIs hands are sweating. He wipes them on his jeans. This is stupid. You might not even be home. You might slam the door in his face. You might -
But then he sees your car. Parked at the curb. Headlights off, but the taillights are still glowing faintly.
And you’re still behind the wheel.
He parks behind you. Hesitates.
Then he gets out.
—
You see him in your rearview mirror and your breath catches in your throat.
He’s wearing that denim vest. The one you used to steal during lunch and wear around like it belonged to you. His hair’s a little messier than usual. His eyes look tired.
He doesn’t knock on your window.
He just… waits.
So you get out.
You don’t say anything at first. Neither does he.
The wind rustles the trees above you.
Finally, he speaks. “I heard you’ve been driving a lot.”
You let out a breathy laugh that’s more ache than humor. “Yeah. It’s quiet when I do. Helps me think.”
Eddie nods slowly. “You thinking about me?”
You lift your eyes to his, startled.
“Cause I’ve been thinking about you,” he says. “Nonstop. It was supposed to get easier. But it just got worse.”
You cross your arms over your chest, trying to hold yourself together. “Then why did you break up with me?”
“Because I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says, voice cracking at the edges. “Because I thought I wasn’t enough.”
Silence.
Then you say, “You were everything to me, Eddie.”
And that’s all it takes.
He steps forward. His hand cups your cheek like it used to. Like it never forgot how.
“You still mad at me?” he asks softly.
“I don’t know,” you whisper. “But I still love you.”
He leans in.
You don’t stop him.
The kiss is slow and aching. Not rushed. Not messy. Just full of everything you’ve both been holding back - every what-if and every I-miss-you and every unsaid thing.
And when it breaks, you’re both breathless.
“I’m sorry,” Eddie whispers. “I never should’ve let you go.”
You rest your forehead against his. “Then don’t do it again.”
