The bell over the radio station door jingled, sharp and familiar.
“Good morning, America,” Steve announced to no one in particular, shrugging off his jacket. “You’re welcome, Hawkins, your favorite co-host has arrived.”
Robin, already at the desk, didn’t look up right away.
Steve froze mid-step.
Slowly, deliberately, his eyes tracked downward.
The black coat.
The black coat.
Hanging off Robin’s shoulders, a little too big. Sleeves pushed up, and the collar turned down like it belonged there.
Steve’s mouth fell open.
“…No way.”
Robin glanced up, already bracing. “What?”
“That,” he said, pointing, delighted. “That is not your jacket.”
Robin looked down like she’d forgotten she was wearing it. “Oh. This? It’s…” she stalled, then waved a hand. “Cold.”
Steve crossed his arms, grin spreading. “Uh-huh. And did the cold also walk itself over here last night, brood attractively, and offer you outerwear like some kind of emotionally repressed knight?”
Robin’s ears went pink instantly. “Shut up.”
Steve laughed, genuinely happy. “I knew it. I knew something shifted.”
Robin tried to deflect, busying herself with her notes. “Nothing ‘shifted.’ We just… talked.”
“Mhm. And you just happened to keep the jacket?”
“She said I could,” Robin muttered.
Steve softened. “You look good,” he said, quieter. “Different. Like… lighter.”
Robin risked a glance at him. He was smiling, not teasing now. Just proud.
“…Yeah,” she said. “I feel it too.”
Across town, Harper sat at the kitchen table, tea cooling untouched beside her.
Max squinted at her from across the room. “Okay. Pause.”
Harper frowned. “What?”
“You’re missing something.”
Harper looked down at herself. Black boots, jeans, shirt…
Her shoulders stiffened.
El followed Max’s gaze, eyes widening just a bit. “Your jacket.”
Harper blinked. “Oh.”
Max leaned forward, predatory. “Oh?”
“I lent it to someone,” Harper said, way too quickly.
El tilted her head. “You never lend your jacket. You were mad when I took it once.”
Harper opened her mouth, then closed it.
The radio crackled to life on the counter.
“Good morning, Hawkins,” Robin’s voice filled the room, warm and bright. “Today’s story is about… repairs.”
Max’s eyes lit up instantly. “Oh my god.”
Robin continued, carefully casual.
“About patching up fingers after small accidents. Fixing transmitters that don’t want to cooperate. And how sometimes, when things are quiet, you end up talking longer than you meant to…”
Harper’s fingers curled around her mug.
“…about stars,” Robin said softly, “and how some people carry more than they let on. And how offering something simple, like a jacket, can mean more than grand gestures ever could.”
Max slapped the table. “IT’S YOU.”
Harper groaned. “Max.”
“She kept the jacket,” Max sang. “You gave her the jacket!”
El smiled, gentle and knowing. “You trusted her.”
Harper swallowed. “…Yeah.”
The radio hummed on.
“And maybe,” Robin finished, voice lighter again, “some couples don’t rush. They just… fix things together. One wire at a time.”
Max beamed. “Details. Now.”
Harper rubbed the back of her neck, hopeless. “It wasn’t… dramatic.”
“That’s worse,” Max said gleefully.
El reached over and squeezed Harper’s hand. “I’m glad,” she said simply.
Harper looked at her, surprised.
“You deserve someone who sits with you,” El added. “And keeps you warm when you forget to.”
Harper exhaled, something easing in her chest.
From the radio, music swelled, soft and hopeful.
And somewhere across town, Robin tugged the black coat a little closer, smiling into the mic, knowing she was being heard.
No clear destination, just movement, putting one foot in front of the other until the weight in Harper’s chest dulled enough to breathe around it.
Tonight, it didn’t.
Her shoulders were tight, jaw clenched, thoughts circling old scars like they’d just been reopened.
By the time she realized where she was going, the radio station lights were already glowing ahead, steady and familiar.
The door creaked softly when she pushed it open.
Robin looked up from behind the desk, surprise flickering across her face before melting into something gentler. “Hey… you’re early, or late. Or…” she waved a hand, “time’s fake.”
Harper managed a thin smile. “Steve gone?”
“Yeah. Took off about twenty minutes ago.” Robin tilted her head. “You okay?”
Harper hesitated. That was new. Normally she’d deflect, crack a half-joke, disappear back into the night.
Instead, she stayed.
“Can I… sit?” she asked.
Robin didn’t question it. She just nodded and pushed a chair closer. “Yeah. Of course.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the low hum of equipment filling the space. Harper stared at the floor, fingers flexing like she was grounding herself.
“I don’t usually talk about this,” she said finally. “So… if I stop halfway, it’s not you.”
Robin leaned back, careful not to crowd her. “Okay.”
Harper swallowed. “I didn’t always have… this control.” She gestured vaguely, meaning everything and nothing. “When I was younger. It scared people… I mean my powers…”
Robin’s expression didn’t change. She just listened.
“There was an accident,” Harper continued. “I lost control, just for a second.” Her voice tightened. “That’s all it took.”
Robin’s breath slowed, matching hers.
“My parents were there,” Harper said. “They tried to protect me, or stop me. I don’t know anymore.” A beat. “They didn’t make it.”
The room felt suddenly very small.
Robin’s voice came quietly. “Harper…”
“I killed them,” Harper said. “What child kills their parents… I… ever since, it’s like… if I let myself care too much, something breaks. Someone gets hurt.” She laughed once, humorless. “So I… I am afraid of this. Of you… that I could….”
She finally looked up.
Robin didn’t look away.
“That scares me,” Harper admitted. “Because if I lost you…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I don’t know if I could carry that.”
For a long moment, Robin said nothing. Then she smiled.
“Okay,” she said. “First of all, wow. That’s… a lot. And I’m really glad you told me.” She shifted closer, elbows on her knees. “Second, if we’re sharing trauma tonight, I have to say, my coping mechanism is talking until everyone else either laughs or begs me to stop.”
Harper huffed despite herself.
“And third,” Robin added gently, “you're not a monster, okay? You lost control and it ended badly but it's not like you didn't want it to happen. I'm sorry for your parents. I can only imagine that kind of pain.” Robin put a hand on Harper’s, squeezing gently.
Harper looked unconvinced, though.
Then, Robin stood suddenly. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“Rooftop,” Robin said, already grabbing a jacket. “Trust me. It helps.”
The night air was sharp but clean, stars scattered like pinpricks above Hawkins. They sat side by side on the roof, legs dangling, the world quiet below them.
Robin handed her a beer.
Harper raised an eyebrow. “Hopper would kill me.”
“Oh,” Robin looked around playfully, “I don't see him anywhere. Hey, what he doesn't know, doesn't hurt him right?”
Harper chuckled. “You know, you're a bad influence?”
“But you like that,” Robin teased without thinking.
Harper looked away, flustered. “I do.”
Robin smiled, and for a moment silence settled between them. But it was comfortable, and after a few deep breaths, the tension Harper carried seemed to vanish.
“You were right,” Harper said.
“Hm?”
“It helped. To go out here.”
Robin smiled and tipped her bottle against Harper's.
They sat, enjoying each other's presence whilst pointing out stars until Robin hugged herself and shivered.
Without a word, Harper slipped off her black coat and draped it over Robin’s shoulders.
Robin blinked. “Hey, you’ll freeze.”
“I won’t,” Harper said simply.
Robin tugged the coat closer taking in Harper’s scent that clung to it.
Harper glanced over. “It suits you.”
“You think so?”
Harper nodded.
Robin smiled at that. Then softer: “You don’t have to protect everyone all the time.”
Harper stared up at the sky. “Feels wrong not to.”
“Well,” Robin said, nudging her knee lightly, “maybe sometimes you can just… sit, and let someone sit with you.”
Harper thought about that.
“I like it when you’re here.”
Robin grinned. “Good. Because I kind of like when you accidentally patrol your way into my life.”
Harper shook her head, but this time she was smiling, really smiling.
Above them, the stars stayed steady.
And for once, Harper let herself believe that caring didn’t always mean losing something.
Harper didn’t mean to pass the radio station again so soon.
At least that’s what she told herself as she slowed near the building, boots scuffing the pavement just enough to justify her stopping.
The windows glowed faintly, the way they always did, warm and safe.
Sometimes she waved, or nodded, and sometimes she just kept walking. Harper was like a phantom on patrol, counting shadows, watching cars that didn’t belong, and internalizing any possible exit in case of an emergency.
No lab coats.
No vans.
No men who looked like they were pretending not to look.
Only then would Harper let herself breathe and continue on.
Tonight, though, something was off.
The front door was cracked open. A sliver of light spilled onto the steps, and inside; fast and frustrated muttering.
Robin.
Harper hesitated for half a second before pushing the door open.
“Hey,” she said softly, the way you did when approaching a skittish animal, or a bomb.
Robin startled anyway.
“Oh!... Harper. Hey… Hi!” She laughed, a little too quick, then gestured vaguely at the mess of wires and equipment spread across the desk. “Uh… Ignore all of this. The transmitter’s being a jerk.”
Harper’s eyes swept the room automatically, checking corners, windows, even the ceiling.
All clear.
Then, she noticed the red. Her gaze fell on Robin’s hands where a thin line of blood welled up where metal had bitten her finger tip. Robin tried to hide it when Harper frowned.
“You’re bleeding,” Harper stated, already moving.
“It’s nothing,” Robin replied. “I barely feel…”
But Harper caught her wrist, not tight, but enough for Robin to go quiet instantly. She guided Robin to sit down, movements careful like she was handling fragile glass. From her pockets, Harper pulled out a pack of fresh gauze pads and bandaids.
Robin blinked. “You carry med kits around?”
“This might sting,” Harper said, ignoring the question.
Robin swallowed. “Fair.”
Harper drenched a pad in some water from the sink and cleaned Robin’s finger, gently.
Robin hissed slightly. But the brush of Harper’s thumb over her knuckles grounded her enough to ignore the pain.
“It’s for moments like this,” Harper clarified. “In case it’s needed.”
Robin glanced up. “Hey,” she said quietly. “This is kind of… a reversal.”
Harper’s mouth twitched. “You cleaned my hands. After the mall battle.”
“Yeah.”
“You said it helped you think… to process what happened.”
Robin smiled, small and fond. “It did.”
Harper wrapped the finger with a bandaid, and was gentle to the point of excess.
“You know,” Robin said, voice light but warm, “This really wasn’t necessary. It’s just a scratch…”
“The smallest scratch can become your downfall if ignored,” Harper said. “At least clean and protect it.” Their eyes met. “So it can heal before the next fight.”
“I guess… Wait, next fight? You don’t think…”
“I feel it. The storm is quiet, but not gone. Whatever is still lurking out there, will come back.”
Robin swallowed hard.
Their hands lingered even after Harper was done. Neither of them moved.
Eventually, Robin cleared her throat. “So uh… since you’re here… And clearly better with your hands than I am…”
Harper raised an eyebrow.
“with machines,” Robin rambled, “I meant with machines… I…”
Harper smirked. “Sure you did.”
“Look, I could really use some hands to…”
Harper chuckled, amused. But Robin cursed at herself for the implications.
“I’ve got tea. I’m stuck with this stupid machine, and you’re clearly talented with fixing things. I thought maybe you could help me?”
“Consider it fixed,” Harper said and crouched by the transmitter to study it.
“Thanks,” Robin muttered and turned to make them tea.
Harper’s fingers moved confidently when she adjusted a wire and tightened a screw.
Robin watched after placing down two steaming cups. It felt like witnessing magic when the machine hummed back to life.
“Wow,” Robin let out a breathy laugh, “You’re officially my favorite surprise visitor.”
Harper stood and brushed dust from her hands. “I can… walk you through a safer setup next time.”
Robin looked up at her. “You’d come back?”
Harper shrugged, pretending her heart wasn’t doing something reckless and hopeful. “I walk a lot…” She sipped the tea. “And clearly someone has to check you’re not bleeding out.”
Robin smiled. “I like when you pass by.”
“And I like your tea.”
Their eyes met.
Harper sighed. “I don’t mean to seem… weird, or like I’m stalking you. I just… I want you to be safe. After everything that happened. I can’t bear the thought of… losing the ones I care about. Not again.”
Robin’s expression softened at the confession. Despite herself, she cupped Harper’s cheek gently who froze just for a second. “You won’t lose me. I can see that you care, and I like that, and I never ever in my life believed I'd ever have that… This.. someone checking in to see if I was alright. I mean, Steve is an amazing friend, everyone else is so nice but you…” Robin paused, hesitating. “I care about you too.”
Harper looked away, flustered. “The guarded one,” she muttered. “They might… be less guarded for once but.. don’t know what’s next.”
Robin smiled at the reference of her broadcast from the other day that was totally not meant to be obvious that it was about her.
“Well, since the other one already chose her… and can see the guarded one struggling, and… whilst they don’t want to get into false hope, they’ll probably take a step closer to guide their chosen one into the next step of their little personal journey… if they let it happen?”
Harper smiled, then nodded. She gasped when Robin pulled her close and into a hug. Harper’s heart raced, pounding against her ribs. She swallowed hard, then wrapped her own arms around Robin’s waist.
“See, the guarded one is doing good.”
“The guarded one… likes that. A lot.”
Robin smiled.
They stayed like that for a long moment. Enough for Harper to close her eyes a bit, and now she knew, when she walked back later, someone was watching her too.
The house was quiet in the way only late nights ever were.
Harper lay on her back on the couch, one arm flung over her eyes, the other holding the small radio close to her chest. The room smelled faintly of dust and cold air. Everyone else was asleep. The world had finally stopped asking anything of her.
She turned the dial slowly until the familiar crackle filled the space. Static. Then…
“Alright, Hawkins…”
Harper’s breath caught before she could stop it. She didn’t move and let the broadcast wash over her again, every word landing heavier now that no one else was listening. Robin’s voice was different at night. Softer and less performative, like she’d been talking to one person instead of a town.
This couple…
Harper swallowed.
She told herself she was being ridiculous. That it could’ve been anyone. That Robin talked like this all the time. That Max and El had planted the idea and now her brain wouldn’t shut up.
But then came the description.
The quiet one.
The guarded one.
The jacket.
The way she stood like she was always halfway out the door.
Harper lowered her arm from her eyes and stared at the ceiling.
“…Like she’d already chosen her.”
Her fingers tightened around the radio.
She replayed that part. Once. Then again.
Not because she wanted reassurance but because something in her chest felt… recognized. Seen in a way that didn’t demand anything back.
When the segment ended and the music swelled, Harper turned the radio off.
Silence rushed in.
She sat up slowly, elbows on her knees, staring at nothing.
“Idiot,” she muttered to herself. “You’re gonna get attached.”
The word already hovered unspoken.
She didn’t sleep much after that.
The next day, the radio station looked smaller in daylight. Less mysterious. More cables and dust. A place where magic happened only because someone willed it into existence.
Harper lingered outside longer than necessary, hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets. She adjusted the collar once. Then again. Then she stopped herself.
In and out, she told herself.
Say something normal. Don’t run.
She pushed the door open.
“...no, Steve, you cannot put ‘Steve’s Hair Hour’ on the schedule…”
Robin’s voice cut off mid-sentence when she turned. “Oh.”
It wasn’t dramatic, nor loud. But it landed.
Harper froze just inside the doorway. “Hey.”
Steve, perched on a chair with a coffee, glanced between them and immediately stood. “Wow. Look at the time. I have… ‘hair’ things to do.”
“Steve,” Robin warned.
He grinned anyway. “I’ll be in the back. Not listening. At all.”
He disappeared far too quickly.
Silence settled, awkward, but not uncomfortable. Like both of them were standing on the edge of something they weren’t ready to name.
“I didn’t know if you’d be here,” Harper said finally. “I mean you're here a lot… I mean I didn't know if you were… busy. Or… on air.”
Robin nodded. “Yeah. I mean. I am. But not right now.” She gestured vaguely. “This is the calm-before-the-chaos hour.”
Harper rocked on her heels once. “Cool. Um. I won’t stay long.”
“Okay,” Robin said. Then, softer, “You can stay though.”
Harper’s mouth twitched despite herself.
She stepped further inside. The place smelled faintly of coffee and warm electronics. Familiar now, in a strange way.
“I heard your broadcast yesterday,” Harper said, staring at the floor like it might offer guidance.
Robin stiffened, just a little.
“…Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Harper exhaled. “Twice.”
Robin’s ears went pink instantly. “Oh my god.”
“I mean…” Harper hurried, then stopped, forcing herself to slow down. “It was good. What you said about… love, and safety. I liked it… and I get it.”
Robin nodded, hands fidgeting with a pen. “You do?” Robin looked surprised and hopeful. “I mean I didn’t mean for it to be… obvious.”
Harper finally looked at her. “It was subtle.”
Robin snorted. “Steve disagrees.”
“That tracks.”
They shared a small smile. It lingered longer than either of them expected.
Robin cleared her throat. “So. Uh. When you say you get it… does it mean…?”
“Yes,” Harper cut in. “I uh… if the couple happened to be… the same then,” She hesitated, then shrugged. “Love is love, right?”
Robin’s expression softened.
“Yeah. I didn’t want to make things weird,” Robin said. “I just… talk a lot. Especially on air.”
“I noticed,” Harper said dryly.
Robin laughed.
Harper shifted her weight again. “For what it’s worth… the quiet one in your story? She noticed too.”
Robin blinked. “She did?”
“Yeah,” Harper said. “She just doesn’t always know what to do with that kind of attention.”
Robin smiled, small and careful. “I think… the other one would be patient.”
Harper nodded once. “That helps.”
They stood there, not touching, but close enough that it felt intentional.
From the back room, Steve loudly cleared his throat.
Robin rolled her eyes. Harper huffed a quiet laugh.
“I should go,” Harper said. “Before he explodes.”
“Yeah,” Robin agreed. Then, quickly, “But… uh… if you ever want to… listen live, or sit in. Or just… exist here.”
Harper met her gaze. “I might.”
She turned toward the door, then paused.
“Hey, Robin?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re good at choosing words.”
Robin smiled. “Only when I’m scared.”
Harper nodded like she understood that perfectly.
She left with her hands in her pockets, heart steady but awake
Inside the station, Robin watched the door long after it closed, smiling to herself, already planning what she might say next time the mic was on.
The radio crackled softly as Robin leaned closer to the mic, fingers tapping against the desk in a rhythm only she seemed to hear.
“Alright, Hawkins,” she said, voice bright but a little too careful, “this one’s for anyone who’s ever pretended they didn’t care about something they absolutely, one hundred percent cared about.”
Steve, seated just outside the booth with his feet kicked up, raised a brow. Robin ignored him.
“So,” she continued, “I was out the other day. Just, you know, existing. Breathing. Mindin’ my business. And I saw this couple…”
She paused, but too long.
Steve smirked.
“They weren’t doing anything dramatic,” Robin went on. “No big gestures. No kissing in public like they’re auditioning for a soap opera. They were just… standing there. Close. Like they’d figured out how to take up space together.”
Across town, Harper sat sprawled on Max’s bed, back against the wall, arms loosely crossed. El sat cross-legged beside her, focused but calm. The radio hummed between them.
Max tilted her head.
Robin’s voice drifted on.
“One of them was quieter. Kind of guarded. Like the world taught her early not to expect much. Dark jacket. Looks like she’s always ready to bolt, even when she’s staying.”
Max’s eyes widened.
Harper frowned slightly. “That’s oddly specific.”
El glanced at her. Then back at the radio.
“The other one,” Robin continued, a smile audible now, “talked too much. Definitely the kind of person who fills silence because silence feels… risky. But she looked at the quiet one like…” Robin exhaled softly. “Like she’d already chosen her. Even if she wasn’t allowed to say it out loud.”
Max slowly turned her head toward Harper.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “She’s talking about you.”
Harper scoffed. “What? No. She said couple.”
Max pointed at the radio. “She just described your entire vibe.”
El nodded once. “Accurate.”
Harper opened her mouth, then closed it again. “You’re both ridiculous.”
“And you both are crazy for not finally going out,” Max said.
El touched Harper's arm softly. “We live in danger with the Upside Down. If you wait, you may never get another chance.”
Harper sighed, but didn't answer. Instead, she listened to Robin’s voice again.
Back at the station, Robin swallowed.
“Anyway,” she said quickly, “it got me thinking. About love, and how sometimes it’s not about timing, or bravery, or even wanting it bad enough. Sometimes it’s about the world you’re in. And whether it’s… safe.”
Steve’s teasing expression faded. He leaned forward.
Robin stared at the soundboard now.
“And maybe,” she added quietly, “some people don’t get to love loudly… or easily, or at all. But that doesn’t mean it’s not real.”
The next song faded in, upbeat and wildly mismatched with the ache underneath her words.
Robin pulled back from the mic as the red light clicked off. She exhaled hard.
Steve clapped slowly. “Wow. That was either your most poetic segment ever… or a full emotional confession on public radio.”
Robin spun in her chair. “It was hypothetical.”
“Sure,” Steve said. “And I’m the Pope.”
She stood, pacing. “You don’t get it. It’s not… it’s complicated.”
Steve softened immediately. “Hey. I was teasing.”
Robin rubbed her arms, suddenly smaller. “It’s just… it’s not exactly something you can be casual about. Not here, not now. You don’t just walk up and say, ‘Hey, I like you,’ when liking someone like that can cost you everything.”
Steve was quiet for a beat.
Then: “You deserve it anyway.”
Robin blinked. “Deserve what?”
“To be chosen,” he said simply. “And for what it’s worth? I’ve seen how Harper looks at you.”
Robin froze.
“She does not.”
Steve nodded. “She does. Like she’s bracing for impact and hoping it never comes.”
Robin laughed weakly. “That’s just her face.”
“Robin.”
She faltered.
“Both of you, after the showdown at Starcourt Mall… Something happened then, right?” Steve asked gently. “Whatever it was, she seems… warmer since then.”
Robin stared at the floor.
Then, slowly, a smile tugged at her lips. Small and hopeful.
“…You really think so? I mean, yeah, we… I cleaned her hands. They were full of blood from the fight. I guess something clicked.”
Steve grinned. “Oh yeah, and when you finally figure it out, I expect front-row seats.”
Robin shoved his shoulder, laughing despite herself.
“Shut up, Harrington.”
But she smiled.
“You two deserve to be happy. Don't wait too long.”
Robin nodded. “I guess…”
And across town, Harper sat quietly, radio still humming, unaware that she’d just been loved out loud in the only way the world allowed, for now.
Starcourt Mall smelled like blood and dust. Emergency lights flickered overhead and painted everything in soft red pulses. Voices echoed distantly, Steve arguing with someone, Dustin rambling nervously, Lucas trying to comfort Max who’d just watched her step-brother Billy getting killed by a monster. But here, in some back hallway, it was quieter.
Harper sat on an overturned crate, shoulders hunched, hands resting uselessly in her lap. They were still shaking. Blood had dried in dark streaks across her palms, under her nails and along her wrists. Some of it was hers, most of it wasn’t.
Footsteps approached and stopped in front of her. Robin stood, unsteady but stubbornly upright. Her leg was wrapped badly, hastily.
“You should sit down,” Harper said.
“Perhaps,” Robin shrugged.
Instead, she grabbed a roll of gauze, pads and a bottle of water from a crate and stepped closer.
“I’m gonna clean your hands first,” Robin said, voice softer than Harper had ever heard her.
Harper curled her hands as if she could hide the obvious stains.
“They’re fine.”
“They’re not,” Robin replied gently, then hesitated. “And… I need to do something with mine before I start spiraling so…” She gestured vaguely. “Can I?”
Harper swallowed, “... Okay.”
Robin crouched in front of her.
Up close, Harper could see the blood on Robin’s sleeve and a bruise blooming at her temple. The sight made something twist hard in Harper’s chest.
When Robin took one of her hands, she bit her lip, felt her muscles tensing. Slowly, she uncurled her fingers, revealing the blood stains and some scratches. The first touch of water made her inhale sharply.
“Sorry,” Robin murmured instantly. “Too cold?”
“No,” Harper said. Her voice came out rough. “It’s… fine.”
The water ran red as it dripped to the floor.
“Does it hurt?” Harper asked.
“Hm?”
“Your head. It’s…”
“Oh no,” Robin cut in. “I mean… it feels like a tiny pulsing heart.” Robin muttered.
Harper’s jaw tensed.
Robin worked carefully, like she was handling something fragile. She wiped Harper’s palms, thumb brushing the center again and again. The sensation stirred something in Harper.
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
“I thought I was dead,” Robin whispered suddenly.
Again, Harper’s muscles tensed up.
“I saw it coming down,” Robin continued, eyes fixed on Harper’s hands. “And I thought… wow. This is how I go. Not great, Buckley.”
Harper shook.
“I didn’t even think. I just…” Harper said, “I couldn’t stop it…”
“I know,” Robin interrupted softly.
Harper looked at her and Robin finally met her gaze.
“You didn’t hesitate,” Robin said, “And you saved me. That’s the part that stuck.” Her hands paused. “You barely know me,” she added, “Not really. Yet, you jumped in just like that.”
Harper swallowed hard.
“I knew enough. I mean… invading secret Russian tunnels beneath a mall and surviving it has to mean something.”
Robin chuckled quietly and smiled, then went back to cleaning, gentler now. She wiped the blood from Harper’s knuckles, her wrists, her fingers, lingering just a second longer than necessary, like she was grounding both of them.
“You scared the hell out of everyone,” Robin said, “Including yourself, I’m guessing… Leaping at a giant flesh monster like a sparkling energy ball… like lightning… that’s…”
“I don’t like losing control,” Harper huffed.
Robin nodded, “Yeah. I figured.”
She wrapped fresh gauze around Harper’s palm, snug but careful.
For a moment, Harper watched her hands instead of Robin’s face.
“From me,” Harper said. “You’re here… not scared of me.”
Robin didn’t reply right away. She tied the gauze and leaned back on her heels.
“Why would I be?” She asked.
Harper looked up, confused.
“The situation… that fight was terrifying. But you? I live because of you… everyone does. You and El… You’ve got your special skills and without it we’d.. we’d be dead and… You both think you’re monsters… that you’re dangerous but… you’re someone I trust.”
The words landed heavy.
Harper exhaled shakily, like she’d been holding her breath since the battle.
Robin stood with a wince and offered her hand to help Harper up, who took it without thinking.
Their hands fit just right. Harper bit her lip at the feeling. Then, she grabbed a fresh gauze pad and gently pressed it to Robin’s temple. Robin tried to hide the flinch but failed. Harper squeezed her hand just enough to make it feel bearable, as if she could take away the pain. Their eyes met.
“Hey,” Robin added, quieter now. “If you ever feel like you’re gonna lose control again…”
Harper wiped the blood from Robin’s face, listening with a hum.
“... you don’t have to do it alone,” Robin finished.
Something settled deep in Harper’s chest.
“Okay,” she breathed out.
Robin smiled.
For the first time, Harper felt like the ground beneath her feet might actually hold.
The radio station was quieter than usual at night, hushed, like it was holding its breath.
Harper lingered in the doorway for a second, just listening. The equipment hummed lowly, a chair creaked, and someone exhaled, slow and thoughtful.
"Door's open," Robin called without turning around. "Unless you're a government agent, in which case, wrong night, buddy."
Harper smiled despite herself and stepped inside.
"Damn. Guess I'll reschedule my evil plans then."
Robin glanced back then. Relief flickered across her face before she could stop it.
"Oh, it's you," she said. "You okay?"
That question always meant more coming from her.
Harper shrugged. She took her jacket off, hanging it on the back of a chair.
"Everyone else seems to be," Harper stated. "Steve already bailed?"
"Yeah. Took Dustin home. Gave me the 'don't stay up too late' speech." Robin rolled her eyes fondly. "But I asked about you, Harp." She patted the chair next to her. "Wanna sit?"
Harper bit her lip, hesitating. Then, she sat down. Close, without touching.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Harper fumbled with the hem of her shirt nervously.
"Earlier," Robin spoke up quietly, "I saw you clock the exits first."
Harper huffed.
"Habit."
"It saved us," Robin pointed out. "It was care. In your own way." Her voice grew softer now.
Harper turned her head. But Robin wasn't looking at her. She stared at the soundboard instead. Her fingers fidgeted with a knob she didn't need to adjust but did it anyway.
"It's your way to check on everyone," Robin continued. "Even me. You make sure that everyone is alright, and that... I like that."
Harper swallowed.
"You don't need to be checked on, Robin."
Robin finally looked at her.
"But I do! I just don't like to admit it."
The air shifted between them into something lighter, softer.
Harper leaned back in her chair.
"Tonight, you didn't. You were steady."
"I nearly threw up," Robin snorted.
"Internally steady," Harper amended. "Counts."
That earned her a grin, until Robin's expression grew thoughtful, vulnerable in a way she only ever let slip at night.
"You good?" Harper asked.
"Yeah. It's just... I used to think that I may never have that kind of closeness... like couples do. I mean..." Robin sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "It's complicated for me, you know?"
Harper hummed.
"Is it complicated now?"
"Now," Robin said, voice barely above a whisper, "this feels right." She gestured vaguely between them. "It feels real, too real and it," she swallowed, "it scares me."
Harper's heart kicked and her breath hitched slightly. She turned fully toward Robin.
"Don't be," Harper said. "It's that side effect from overthinking..."
Robin laughed at that, cutting her off softly.
"Wow, that comes from you?"
"Growth," Harper deadpanned.
They laughed and it faded into something warmer.
Robin leaned in first, testing the space between them.
"So, you're saying I am overthinking this?"
Harper didn't move away. She met her halfway, her hand finding Robin's.
"Totally," she muttered under her breath and closed the remaining gap.
Their lips met, gentle and soft. There was no rush to it, no urgency. It was a decision made long ago, only revealing itself now.
A sigh left Harper when they pulled back. Their eyes met.
Robin smiled at her, real and unguarded.
"Okay," she murmured. "I like that... like a lot and I hope I'm not in some Vecna mind-game that ends in some horror..."
"Robin," Harper interrupted her, but chuckled. "No overthinking. Not tonight."
Robin grinned and rested her forehead against Harper's.
They stayed like that for a moment. The station hummed around them, the world held at bay. Just two women choosing to be each other's constant tonight.
When you first got cast in The Old Guard sequel as Quynh, you hadn’t expected your world to shift so abruptly—or so intensely.
Working alongside Charlize Theron was a dream. She was one of the greats: unapologetically bold, grounded, magnetic in a way that stole the air out of any room. On-screen, your chemistry was immediate—fluid and fierce. Off-screen, it started with light teasing during rehearsals, late-night drinks after long shoot days, and lingering glances when one of you thought the other wasn't looking.
At first, it was easy to chalk it all up to proximity. Co-stars grew close. That was normal. You had shared secrets between takes, traded playlists, and fought over the last piece of chocolate in the craft tent like siblings. But something inside you stirred whenever she leaned too close or laughed at something only you said. It felt dangerous… intimate.
You both danced around it—whatever it was.
Until that press conference.
You sat side by side, answering questions with the rest of the cast. It was lighthearted until someone from the press joked, “Y/N, if no one’s claimed you yet, I’d gladly take you out after the premiere.”
You laughed politely, but didn’t see the way Charlize’s jaw clenched.
What you did see was the sudden shift in her posture. She leaned closer to the mic with a sly smirk and threw her arm casually around your co-star—a stunning woman with soft eyes and a flirtatious smile.
“Oh, if Y/N’s not available, I might have to steal this one here,” she teased, her voice smooth and sultry.
The crowd laughed. Your heart dropped.
Charlize didn’t even look at you after that, not during the rest of the panel or even backstage. That night, she left with the other woman and didn’t text you back.
For two days, you tried not to let it bother you. You told yourself she didn’t owe you anything. That you were friends. That this weird, aching jealousy you felt was just frustration.
But the truth was cruel and simple: You wanted her. Badly.
By the time you ran into her at the hotel bar that weekend, the tension had become unbearable.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, cornering her gently by the dim-lit counter.
She didn’t deny it. Just took a sip of her wine and said, “I figured you were busy with your admirers.”
Your eyes narrowed. “So that’s what this is? You’re punishing me because some reporter made a joke?”
Charlize turned to you fully then, eyes sharp. “I wasn’t punishing you.”
You stepped closer, breath hitching. “Then what were you doing?”
Her voice dropped. “Waiting.”
“For what?”
Her lips were inches from yours now. “For you to stop pretending you don’t feel it too.”
You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.
Instead, your hands found her waist, and she pulled you in like she’d been starved for this—starved for you. The kiss was slow at first, testing, almost trembling. Then urgent. Devouring.
Charlize backed you up against the corridor wall, hands running up under your coat as her mouth moved with exquisite purpose—tasting, biting softly, coaxing sounds from you you hadn’t meant to make.
You tangled your fingers into her hair, tugging just enough to make her growl against your lips. She lifted your thigh around her waist and pressed into you, like she wanted to disappear into your skin. Her kiss moved down your jaw, your throat, her breath hot and erratic.
“You drive me crazy,” she whispered against your collarbone. “Watching you laugh with everyone like nothing’s going on. Like I don’t matter to you.”
You tilted her face back to yours. “You matter to me.”
She looked at you like you were both a miracle and a curse. “Then stop pretending.”
So you didn’t.
You kissed her again, deeply this time—like all the moments you’d missed and all the nights you’d spent replaying the sound of her laugh in your head had finally found their release.
Later that night, in her hotel room, under low lights and tangled sheets, she made you say her name—again and again—as if she needed to own every whisper, every moan, every part of you.
She kissed you like it wasn’t just lust, but something unspoken that had been simmering for far too long. And you gave into it fully.
The Morning After
You woke up wrapped in her arms, your head on her chest, her fingers tracing soft circles on your back.
“So…” you said sleepily. “What now?”
Charlize smiled into your hair. “Now, we stop pretending.”
And that’s how it started—not just a love affair, but something real. Something that had always been there… waiting for one of you to be brave enough to claim it.
Summary: You step into the whirlwind of your first major film festival, nerves on edge, applause echoing in your ears, and fleeting moments that hint at something (or someone) unexpected. ~ Word Count: 2.1k
A/N: well well well... here is my promised new series for Jenna!! I haven't decided on a name yet but I felt the need to get this first chapter out to you asap so here she is. This is mainly an introductory chapter into the world but either way I hope you enjoy and I'll see you very soon <3
Chapter 1
“What the fuck am I doing here?”
A question you found yourself asking repeatedly.
Studying film was never supposed to take you anywhere. When you were younger, sure, you had the usual starry-eyed dreams: standing on the Oscars stage, lights blinding, applause crashing down as you thanked your wife, your parents, maybe even you’re Year 9 English Teacher for “believing in you”, and dedicating it all to the kids you didn’t even want yet.
You pictured yourself shoulder to shoulder with Hollywood’s biggest names, hardly batting an eye as they praised you for your “incredible talent,” like that sort of thing happened all the time. In your head, you’d perfected the casual wave, the tearful-yet-dignified acceptance speech, even the modest shrug you’d give when Spielberg inevitably called you a genius.
Of course, those fantasies always skipped over the fact that your savings account could barely cover a bus fare, your “signature look” was just whatever wasn’t wrinkled on the floor, and the only spotlight you’d ever stood under was the flickering fluorescent bulb in your kitchen. Reality wasn’t champagne and golden statuettes; it was Aldi wine, unpaid internships, and watching your emails get ghosted harder than your last Tinder date.
And deep down, you knew better. You weren’t stupid. The dream didn’t magically appear just because you wanted it badly enough. You were a woman in an industry still run by ego-driven men and padded by nepo babies. No connections. No famous surname. No trust fund waiting to swoop in and cover the artistic risks. Just you, your stubborn streak, and the hope that sheer talent might be enough.
So the fact you’re here now feels like a miracle.
You’d been making films for years, but submitting your latest film, Stillwater, to Cannes began as a half-joke - a why-not click on the application form, per se. You shot it in two frantic months with a skeleton crew and a budget that barely covered coffee, and yet somehow, against all odds, the film picked up momentum, popping up at festivals wherever you could afford the entry fee. But Cannes? This was a different universe.
You were in way over your head.
The car pulls up, and you immediately regret everything. The suit you splurged on feels more like a chokehold than clothing, and the shoes (a last-minute purchase) appear to have been engineered by someone with a grudge against feet. When you step out, there's no roar of approval or camera flashes chasing you. If anything, the noise dips, the crowd clocking instantly that you’re no one worth knowing.
That sting hits deeper than you’d like to admit.
You tug on your jacket, as if rearranging the fabric will magically transform you into someone who belongs here, because the only thing worse than being ignored is having this disaster immortalised in unflattering paparazzi photos.
The thought of hundreds of cameras flashing in unison made your stomach flip, and you briefly considered sprinting back to the car, and hiding under the seat like a nervous raccoon.
You walk tentatively towards the carpet, running through your agent's instructions in your head like a mantra.
That’s right, you had an agent. You still weren’t sure if they’d confused you with someone else, but you weren’t about to correct them.
Smile convincingly, not creepily; look engaged, but not desperate; shake hands firmly, but don't hurt anyone; answer questions briefly, but sound interesting; keep your jacket straight, and under no circumstances, for the love of all that is holy, trip. Simple, right?
Impossible.
Everywhere you looked, someone you’d idolised for years floated past, gliding through the chaos with an ease that made your knees wobble. Your brain shrieked holy shit, that’s them! on a loop, your jaw threatening to unhinge itself in awe. You tried to breathe normally, but your chest felt like it had been replaced with a jackhammer. And just to really twist the knife, every single one of these people was here to watch your film. Your stomach lurched violently at the thought—part excitement, part terror, part pure, unadulterated panic.
Stepping onto the carpet, the photographers piled behind the barricades like caged animals, cameras firing so violently it felt like your retinas might combust on the spot. You flinched at each flash, wondering if this was what a seizure felt like.
A worker appeared out of nowhere, scribbled your name onto a whiteboard, and held it up like a lifeline in the madness. You gave a tight, awkward smile and shuffled forward, trying to convince yourself you weren’t about to keel over.
Then your eyes caught a figure ahead. Suddenly, all the noise made sense.
Jenna Ortega.
The Jenna Ortega.
She was in front of you.
Right now.
Your brain short-circuited. You had to remind yourself to keep moving, keep smiling, keep breathing, because yes, you were standing here, and yes, the paparazzi were still trying to eat your soul, and yes… she was right there, just a few steps ahead of you.
Cheeks burning and eyes probably still glazed from sensory overload, you posed as best you could. Did you look like you had a stick up your ass? Almost certainly. Were you going to Google “how to pose on a red carpet” the second you got home? Absolutely. And yet, somehow, amid the flashing lights and hushed murmurs of recognition from nearby press, you managed to give the impression, however fleeting, that you belonged here.
Even if most of the attention was stolen by the generational talent next to you.
By the time your soul had been drained dry by photographers shouting questions you didn’t understand and clicking with reckless abandon, Jenna had already melted into the crowd. Someone swooped in to guide you forward, and you practically limped along, desperate for a pause from the relentless sensory assault.
You shuffled through the crowd, funnelled toward the theatre like some reluctant migratory animal, your shoes threatening mutiny with every step.
A photographer leaned a little too far over the barricade for a close-up of your panic-stricken face, and you almost considered throwing yourself to the floor just to escape.
Finally, you rounded a corner and the noise shifted; less screaming, more murmurs, the soft shuffle of expensive shoes on polished floors. The smell of popcorn and expensive perfume hit your nostrils simultaneously, and for a moment, you felt like a human pinball bouncing between sensory overload and awe. A line of attendants motioned you forward with polite urgency, and you followed like a nervous, slightly perplexed robot.
The theatre doors opened, revealing a cavernous space of plush red seats stretching into the darkness. You paused, blinking like a deer caught in headlights, realising just how small you felt in comparison. Distinguished faces were already settling in, murmuring and laughing as if they’d done this a thousand times, as if they owned the place.
You bit your lip a little harder, tripping over your own feet once or twice as you walked down the aisle, muttering silent apologies to anyone who noticed. The weight of the moment pressed on you: this was not your typical indie screening at home, where the audience was forgiving and sleepy. All of these people were expecting something. And you were... well, you.
Your seat finally came into view, perfectly centred, giving you a commanding view of the screen but also placing you in the most exposed position imaginable. You sighed, adjusting your jacket like a suit of armour. Somewhere, a whisper of movement caught your eye, and your gaze lifted to find Jenna taking her seat a few rows ahead.
Calm, collected, untouchable.
She made it all look absurdly easy.
This was going to be a long evening.
The lights were dimmed, and the screen flickered with the final moments of the previous film. Over the last hour, the theatre had hosted a parade of festival favourites: sweeping period dramas, taut thrillers that left hands gripping armrests, and quirky experimental pieces that elicited polite, confused looks.
Each film concluded with applause, some tentative, some thunderous. Standing ovations rolled down the rows in waves, echoing off the high ceilings. You tried to breathe normally, but every cheer twisted your stomach. You shifted in your seat, tugging on your jacket as if the fabric could boost your confidence.
The nerves were never about execution.
Stillwater was meticulously crafted. Every frame and camera angle had been carefully considered. The fear came from the risk you'd taken: unusual narrative jumps, long, uncomfortable silences, and a scene where the protagonist does something morally ambiguous that you knew would divide the audience.
As the lights went completely dark, the applause from the previous film continued to echo. The screen flashed to life. The opening scene played, your carefully chosen music swelling beneath the dialogue, each sound bite perfectly placed.
You sat rigidly, hands folded, your gaze darting subtly between the screen and the audience. Every murmur, rustle of a program, and subtle nod or frown made your stomach twitch. This wasn't a casual viewing. This was Cannes, and your film, your small, risky, audacious film, was on display.
You reminded yourself to breathe. Sit up straight. Maintain your composure. Smile politely when necessary.
These people were here to observe your work, not to judge your character.
Still, each daring shot and quiet pause that defied convention felt like a tightrope walk. You had trained for this moment for years, but it didn't stop your heart from pounding.
And then it began: the scenes you were proud of and the ones that made you nervous. Your cast delivered flawlessly, your edits created the tension you desired, and the riskier choices paid off in ways you could only hope for.
You noticed subtle reactions from the audience: a held breath here, a quiet shift forward there. A few heads cocked thoughtfully, some people's eyes flickering with curiosity, others narrowing in intrigue. You allowed yourself to relax slightly; you could still see that your gamble was working.
The first credits rolled, and there was a moment of silence. The entire room appeared to hold its collective breath. Then, like a wave breaking against the shore, applause erupted throughout the theatre.
You froze, caught between relief and disbelief as the applause erupted around you.
It was loud.
It was authentic.
People were clapping, standing, cheering, and perhaps even whooping. You weren't sure if anyone shouted your name; you hoped not, but the sound, the sheer volume, made your stomach lurch violently.
You rose slowly and awkwardly from your seat. Hands hovering as if you didn't know where to put them, you gave a stiff bow, a small wave, anything that suggested you appreciated the love without appearing completely insane. The theatre continued to roar, a tidal wave of recognition that made your brain stammer: This is happening. This is real. And, yes, you are indeed here.
Somewhere in the haze of clapping, you caught her gaze.
Her lips lifted in the faintest curve, barely there, but enough. Enough to make you straighten, to feel the air shift without a sound. You held her gaze, a reflexive smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
She didn’t look away. Her eyes lingered for a heartbeat longer than seemed polite, curious perhaps, the kind of hold that made it feel like the theatre had shrunk to just the two of you. The clapping washed around you, chaotic, unstoppable, but for a moment, it became background noise.
You responded with a nod, almost imperceptible, and the faintest tilt of your head. She mirrored it. No words. No other movement.
Your stomach fluttered. A photographer’s flash illuminated the rows of seats, but she remained a steady point in the chaos, the only line of calm in the storm. The audience cheered, heads turned, someone coughed, and yet you stayed locked in that quiet exchange.
The final applause rolled on, and still she held it for a breath longer. Then, as if finally remembering the room existed, she glanced toward the stage again. But the faint curve of her smile lingered in your mind.
The standing ovation began to ebb, people slowly settling back into their seats. You followed, sliding down into your chair with a careful, measured motion, hands folding in your lap. The theatre had returned to its quieter rhythm, murmurs and shuffles replacing the roar of clapping.
Exhaling a breath you hadn't realised you were holding, you sank into the seat fully this time. Somewhere, a subtle excitement hummed in your chest, buried under the weight of the moment, tucked neatly away for now. You looked toward the screen, at the fading glow of the credits, and let yourself sit there, still, quietly, letting the applause’s echo linger around you.
The night was far from over, but for this one small, suspended moment, you were simply sitting, breathing, and feeling like maybe, just maybe, you belonged.
Plot: You get hired as a hit man to take out Andy, it's her death or die trying.
AN: Hey chicas, I'm in the mood for some shorter fics. Just because I need to like mass produce them to feel good about myself. trust the longer fics are coming, it will just be a little bit.
Warnings: mentions of mommy issues, teasing (words), death, immortality, murder, hit man, fem reader, if I do a second part then smut. Lmk if I missed anything. 18+
Word Count: 700
She fought like hell, scratches bleed on my cheeks, my shoulder needed to be popped into place twice. To say I was in pain is an under statement but I have to keep fighting. It’s my mission. Take out the Andromache of Scythia, do it or die trying. There was no other option. It was my death or hers.
My dagger is to her throat, her back against me. She elbows my ribs trying to get me off but I hold her tightly. My nails dig into her side, praying to gods I don’t believe in to get her to stay still. With all the energy I have left I slice like my life depending on it, letting her body drop like a bag of bricks.
I turn on my heels whistling a sweet melody. An old song my abuela taught me, ‘sing when the jobs are done, let me know you're okay even if I am no longer here’ she’d say. Her shakily hands holding my face. A melody that is cut off by wood pushing against my windpipe, pushing all the air that was in my lungs out.
“I can’t die. I told you.” I want to struggle against her but her raspy voice and body heat sinking into my skin I can’t think straight. Like they dare me to move, to crush my own wind pipe. I begin to panic when my air supply becomes dire. My mouth trying to gasp out, begging for even a droplet of air.
“Please” is all I can choke out before I’m on the ground before her. My world turns black.
A bright light engulfs the darkness and all I feel is pain. My throat scratchy, a cough rips from my throat.
No, this can’t be real.
“Hey chica, have a nice sleep?” It was her, with her black hair and arms I couldn’t fight to get out of.
“What…happened?” My throat burns as I find the words.
“Well you are one of us. You can not die, whether you want to or not.” She says it like it’s normal.
“What do you mean I can’t die?” I glare at her, panic seeping into my lungs.
“Your immortal sweetheart.” I hiss at her, at her distant attitude. Before I knew it I spit at her. I don’t know if it’s anger or fear yet, my brain is everywhere. Unwilling to focus on the truth, not willing to accept her words. A hand yanking my head back by my hair brings my awareness back to her. Those blue orbs bore into my skull.
“Watch your attitude. I didn’t choose this for you, you were picked by the gods. I have no way of telling you why they made this decision but they did, whatever reason it was for. You were sent here to help with something, probably something we don’t even know is coming. So, get your act together so you can heal and start your training within the week.” Her voice is stern, leaving no room for questions.
Her hand releases me, sending me onto the floor. My palms landing on the concrete floor, the coldness jerking my brain into action. I get up, as fast as my body will allow, and I run after her. My steps are as silent as I trained them to be, but it wasn’t quiet enough. When I got close enough she dodged me. Picking me up with such ease just to have me laying over her shoulder. Her steps never faltering.
“Be good for me and stay still.” My body tenses at her tone as she carries me through the halls.
“Fuck you.” She just chuckles at that.
“I’m sure you’d like to, I can already tell you have mommy issues.” I gasp, sending my hand to the back of her head. A thud echos through the hall, maybe I had a little too much momentum.
“You’re so lucky you just came back or else I’d have you pinned to the floor begging for the torture to end.” Venom is the only thing that comes from that tone.
“Kinky.” I chuckle as I can practically feel her eye roll.
Wednesday Addams x My OC Shadowstrike aka Lucy Blackwood
Scene: A dimly lit alleyway in Nevermore's nearby town
Shadowstrike steps out of the shadows, her glowing red eyes catching Wednesday’s attention as she stands by a weathered, gothic bookstore. Wednesday raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.
Wednesday: “You’re either a figment of my imagination or someone who enjoys dramatic entrances as much as I do.”
Shadowstrike: (leaning against the wall) “I heard this town had a peculiar charm. Didn’t expect to find its mascot lurking about.”
Wednesday: (tilting her head, tone dry) “I’m not lurking. I’m observing. Big difference. And you are?”
Shadowstrike: “Someone who prefers the dark. You?”
Wednesday: “The light annoys me. So does most of humanity.”
Shadowstrike smirks, flipping a small gadget in her hand before stowing it away.
Shadowstrike: “You’d do well in my world. Lots of shadows, plenty of people to outsmart.”
Wednesday: (narrowing her eyes) “Careful. Flattery gets you nowhere with me.”
Shadowstrike: (chuckling softly) “Good. I’m more into action than words. Shall we see who outsmarts whom?”
Wednesday: (smirking) “Finally, someone worth my time.”
The two exchange a look of mutual understanding, a subtle challenge lingering in the air as they disappear into the shadows of the town.
