Warnings: graphic medical scenes, severe blood and injury, emotional trauma, intense hospital emergency, near-death experiences, no use of y/n, hurt/comfort vibes, happy ending, established relationship, suggestive language, possible inaccurate medical terms
Word count: 3.4K The Pitt masterlist
a/n: this was requested by a lovely anon
You were pulled out of your dream by the shrill screeching of your alarm. Your body flinched out of sleep, a groan escaping your lips as the noise continued to blare.
For some reason, Frank liked to be woken by what he referred to as “sounds of nature,” which meant that for the past four years you’d been waking up to the sound of roosters cawing.
You’d tried to tell Frank that people hadn’t woken up to that sound since maybe the 1800s, but he didn’t seem to care.
Frank liked waking up like he was living on a farm, and you liked seeing him wake up happy, so you sacrificed your earbuds in the name of love.
It did not, however, mean you enjoyed it.
You didn’t like the alarm in general — it meant peeling yourself out of bed and dragging your body toward what was sure to be a grueling shift — but you disliked Frank’s alarm even more.
You tugged your pillow from beneath your head and pulled it over your face to dull the sound.
“Make it stop,” you groaned into the pillow, your voice muffled.
After a second, the screeching finally stopped, and the bedroom was swallowed by silence once again. You sighed softly, grateful for the lack of noise.
Warm hands wrapped around your waist as Frank burrowed his nose under the pillow you were hiding beneath, his head settling in the crook of your neck. His nose bumped against your ear, tickling you and drawing out a soft laugh.
“Morning, baby,” Frank whispered against your ear.
You tugged the pillow off your face, turning your head so you could press a soft kiss to his lips.
“Morning,” you whispered against his smile.
You turned your body around, letting Frank pull you tight against his chest. You breathed in, savoring that familiar scent that just seemed to come with Frank. You wanted to stay like this for the rest of the day—unfortunately, you had work.
The alarm started blaring again. You groaned, which only made Frank laugh. He reached back blindly for his phone and shut it off.
“We better get up before we’re late.”
You slapped a hand over your face.
“Oh God. No. I refuse.”
Frank laughed again and tugged you even closer as you let your body sink deeper into the mattress. He pressed a kiss to your temple.
“Just think—tomorrow we’re both off. No alarms. No trauma bays. No patients throwing up on my shoes.”
His lips dragged along your cheek.
“We can stay in bed as long as we want… go to Altius for dinner… and then I’m taking you home, and you’re gonna be screaming my name all night long.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Frank.”
He kissed that spot just under your ear—the one he knew turned you into absolute putty.
“What? I’m motivating you.”
When he pulled back, you brushed your nose against his, leaning in for another kiss.
“First we have to work twelve hours,” he whispered against your mouth.
You moved back with a dramatic groan.
“Way to ruin the moment.”
The smell of stale coffee and antiseptic hit as soon as you walked through the double doors. You and Frank ended up standing shoulder to shoulder at the board, your name already splattered under three cases.
“Looks like I’ve got a possible radius and ulna fracture,” you said. “What’d they give you, Frankie?”
He squinted at his line. “A fuckin’ abscess drainage. I swear they’re assigning me the boring ones on purpose.”
You bumped your elbow into him. “That’s because you need to be nicer to people.”
Frank turned like he was ready to protest, then your offer sank in.
“You’re taking the abscess?” he said, eyes brightening.
You shrugged, casual. “Sure. You can take the fracture. Grab Mel and knock it out.”
He leaned in until his lips brushed your ear.
“God, you’ve never been sexier. I’m tempted to bend you over the nurses’ station right now.”
You rolled your eyes and shoved him lightly.
“Calm down, cowboy. This just means you owe me. Next case I don’t want? You’re taking it. No complaints.”
He backed away with that stupid wink.
“You got it, baby.”
As you walked toward Dana, she shook her head at the sight of Frank disappearing into the hall.
“You are way too nice to him,” she muttered.
“It’s my weakness,” you said, because… yeah. It was.
You found Javardi triple-checking her pockets like she’d misplaced her entire existence.
“Javardi!” you called. “Have you seen an abscess drainage before?”
She perked up. “Not in the ED. I’ve only seen videos.”
“Perfect. You’ll observe this one with me. Ask whatever you need. And then I’ll have Dana assign us the next abscess that comes in — that one’s yours. Deal?”
Her eyes widened like you’d just handed her a Christmas bonus.
“Yes! Thank you!”
The patient was in his late fifties, a big guy, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. His chart said thigh abscess. The swelling under the blanket confirmed it.
“Hello, Mr. Bernstein,” you said warmly. “I’ll be your doctor today, and this is Dr. Javardi — she’ll be observing. I understand you have an abscess. How long has this been going on?”
“A week and a half,” he grunted. “Hurts like hell. I don’t even know what I did.”
“They can be really painful,” you said gently. “Today we’ll numb the area, drain it, and get you started on antibiotics and pain control. You may need to come back in a couple days for a dressing change. Any questions?”
“No. Let’s do it.”
You pulled the instrument tray closer. Behind you, Javardi laid out the supplies with careful precision.
“Alright, I’m going to disinfect the area and then inject lidocaine for numbing,” you explained. “The lidocaine burns — I’m sorry in advance.”
As you swabbed the skin, Bernstein glanced at Javardi.
“You a student doctor?”
She smiled shyly. “Yes, sir.”
“That’s impressive. Congrats. What year are you?”
You weren’t paying much attention to the exchange — just focusing on getting this guy fixed up and out of the room as fast as possible. There were other people who needed the bed.
Maybe if you had been listening, you would’ve noticed how he wasn’t even looking at Javardi as she chattered nervously about being a student doctor. Maybe you would’ve caught the exact moment his eyes flicked to the scalpel. The precise second his body leaned forward to grab it.
But you weren’t paying attention.
So you didn’t notice any of it until white-hot pain exploded in your side.
Everything happened at once.
Javardi’s scream tore through the room. The sound that came out of you wasn’t even a scream—more like the air had been punched out of your lungs all at once. Your hand flew to your side, warm blood already slicking your fingers.
Dana burst through the doorway, eyes wide as she searched for the source of the scream. When she saw you slumped on the floor, your palm stained red, she didn’t hesitate.
“Code white! Security — I need security!”
Robby and Ahmed barreled in behind her, going straight for Bernstein. The room detonated into chaos: shouting, the crash of a rolling cart, Bernstein snarling something incoherent as he fought them.
But all of it felt… weirdly distant. Your vision wasn’t focusing the way it should. Your ears rang. The pain was white-hot, stabbing—and then somehow ice-cold underneath.
Dana dropped to her knees beside you, eyes huge. “Jesus—okay, okay—pressure, we need pressure on that wound—Javardi, get Langdon, now!”
You tried to speak, but nothing came out. Dana pressed down on your side, and you let out a raw, broken groan.
“I know, hon. I’m sorry, I know. I have to keep you from bleeding out.”
Frank barreled into the room like someone had launched him from a canon. He didn’t even look at Bernstein or the chaos around him — his eyes found you instantly.
He froze.
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
Then he dropped to the floor beside you, hands cupping your face, his voice too calm to be real.
“Hey, baby. I’m here. Look at me. Don’t worry.”
His gaze flicked down to where Dana’s hands were drenched in your blood. His eyes snapped back up, meeting Dana’s — her expression mirroring exactly what he felt.
You swallowed hard, tasting metal.
“Frankie…”
“Stay with me, baby,” he blurted, breath shaking. “Don’t you dare close your eyes, okay?”
“We need to move her, Frank — if we don’t, she’ll—” Dana stammered.
“I know!” Frank snapped, louder than you’d ever heard him.
But it wasn’t anger that made him raise his voice — it was fear. Dana knew that, so she didn’t take it personally.
Javardi was talking to Robby, stumbling through an explanation about how she hadn’t seen it coming, how there were no signs of distress. Robby called for Princess, asking her to take Javardi somewhere else — the girl was clearly in shock. Princess nodded, guiding her out by the shoulders. As they passed you, you could hear Javardi sobbing apologies the whole way out.
Someone touched Frank’s shoulder, snapping his attention upward. Mel crouched beside him, her expression sharp and focused.
“What do you need?” she asked.
Frank didn’t hesitate.
“You’re gonna take over pressure. You have to be aggressive. I don’t care if she screams — she’ll bleed out otherwise.”
You barely inhaled before Mel and Dana switched hands.
The scream tore out of you before you could stop it.
Frank gathered you into his arms, lifting you like you weighed nothing.
“We’re going to the trauma bay. Mel — keep that pressure. Don’t stop. One, two, three—”
He stood, muscles tensing as he carried you out while Mel kept her hands clamped to your side.
People jumped out of the way. You heard gasps, someone calling for a crash cart, a nurse shouting to prep a trauma room.
Frank’s breath was hot and ragged against your hair.
“Stay awake,” he kept saying. “Baby, stay awake. Don’t do this.”
Bright lights. Cold air. Too many hands.
They lowered you onto the bed, and you cried out when Mel’s pressure shifted for even a second. Perla grabbed scissors, slicing open your scrubs and exposing the full wound. It wasn’t small. A sickening amount of blood pooled beneath you.
Frank’s voice cracked.
“Fuck.”
Robby rushed in beside you.
“I need TXA on board now! Give me ketamine, two bags of O-neg STAT! Langdon, keep her with you!”
Frank cupped your cheek with blood-soaked fingers, forcing your gaze up to his.
“Hey. I’m right here. Stay with me. Stay calm.”
Your vision shimmered. Your ears buzzed.
Frank tried to smile.
“You always said if you were ever hurt you’d want Robby as your doctor instead of me. That’s still kinda rude, by the way.”
You actually felt a weak flicker of amusement.
Your hand — slippery with blood — lifted halfway before you could stop it. Frank caught it instantly, pressing it to his mouth.
“Frankie…” you gurgled.
His breathing faltered.
Behind him, a monitor beeped erratically.
Then—
It didn’t.
A flat, continuous tone filled the room.
Everyone froze.
Frank’s head whipped toward the monitor.
“No,” he whispered.
The world went silent.
Robby shouted from somewhere far away, “Push epi! Start compressions! Now!”
Frank snapped back into motion and climbed onto the gurney, starting compressions himself. A sickening crack echoed—your sternum giving way.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered raggedly as he pumped your chest. “But you’re not leaving me. You don’t get to leave.”
Minutes stretched—endless, brutal.
Twenty minutes later, Robby’s voice was quiet.
“Frank… it’s time.”
“No!” Frank barked, still compressing. “We keep going! She’s not gone!”
He leaned down, forehead pressing to yours.
“Tomorrow—I was gonna propose. The ring’s hidden in my locker, top shelf. You can’t miss that. You promised me a lifetime, baby—don’t you dare—”
Dana’s voice broke. “Frank… she’s gone.”
His entire body trembled. Tears streamed down his face as he choked, “We’re supposed to get married. Have kids. Grow old. I love her. I love her—”
Robby placed his hands on Frank’s. “Frank… time of death is 11:42.”
Frank collapsed over you with a raw, broken sound no one in the room would ever forget.
Mel never stopped applying pressure.
And then—
A blip on the monitor.
Another.
Robby turned. “Dana—pulse check!”
“I have something!” Dana gasped.
“Dr. King—on the gurney. DO NOT lift your hand. Hang another liter. Push norepi. OR, now!”
Frank kissed your forehead before they raced you out of the room. He stood there shaking, covered in your blood.
Robby took his shoulders. “We got her back. She has a shot. Garcia will take care of her. She’s a fighter.”
Frank sobbed. “This was my case. She switched with me.”
“No,” Robby said firmly. “Don’t do that. You saved her. Those compressions saved her.”
Frank broke, pulling Robby into a hug. “Thank you for not giving up on her.”
“It’s not me you should be thanking. Mel’s the one who kept pressure even after we called it. She’s the one who gave her a chance.”
Robby patted Frank’s back as he finally pulled away from the hug.
“She’s gonna make it, Frank.”
He nodded absentmindedly, his eyes still glued to the door they’d wheeled you through. Robby left the room, leaving Frank alone with his thoughts for a moment.
He felt exhausted all of a sudden, the adrenaline that had been pumping through him finally draining from his body. He stumbled out of the room, his eyes immediately finding Mel talking to Robby. Her scrubs and hands were covered in blood.
Your blood.
Frank’s stomach lurched at the sight, but he forced himself to walk toward her anyway. Mel’s head snapped over to him at the sound of his shoes against the floor.
“Dr. Langdon, they’ve started the procedure, she’s—”
But before she could finish, Frank stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her in a tight, desperate hug. Mel let out a startled sound. Frank’s voice broke against her shoulder.
“God, you saved her, Mel. You fuckin’ saved her. I can’t thank you enough.”
Mel awkwardly patted his back, still clearly unsure of what to do.
“You’re welcome, Dr. Langdon.”
When he finally let her go Dana was at his side, her hand moving to rest on his back as she gave him a soft look.
“Frank. Go shower. I promise—if we hear anything, I’ll come get you myself.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, like leaving the hallway meant abandoning you somehow—but Dana just held his stare. Eventually his shoulders dropped, and he nodded.
The locker room felt wrong. Too quiet. Too normal. Frank stripped out of his blood-soaked scrubs with shaking hands. When he stepped under the water, the red spiraled down the drain in thin, diluted streams. He pressed his palms to the tile and let the water hit the back of his neck. His chest hurt. His eyes burned. His breath kept catching in that half-sob way he couldn't stop.
By the time he walked out, hair still dripping, fresh scrubs clinging to him, Javardi was waiting. Her face crumpled as soon as she saw him. Frank could tell just from looking at her that she'd been crying just as much as he had.
“I’m—I’m so sorry,” she cried. “I froze. I got in the way. I should’ve—”
Frank let out a sigh, his hand moving to rest gently on Javardi’s shoulder as her face twisted into a deep frown.
“This wasn’t your fault, Javardi. You couldn’t have known what he was going to do—there weren’t any signs. You said so yourself.”
Javardi stared at him, tears spilling freely down her cheeks.
“Don’t beat yourself up about it, okay? Just go home. Get some rest.”
She nodded, crying even harder, and backed away down the hallway.
Hours later, you slowly slipped into consciousness.
Everything hurt. A deep, throbbing, full-body ache that made your breath stutter. When you tried to shift—even a little—a sharp stab tore through your side, and you let out a groan.
Frank jerked awake instantly.
His head had been resting on the mattress beside you, his fingers tangled with yours. His eyes shot open—red, puffy, glassy. He looked wrecked.
You blinked at him, your voice scratchy. “Frankie… you look terrible.”
He let out a weak laugh—half relief, half broken sob. “You literally died, and that’s the first thing you say?”
You tried to laugh, but the motion made your voice twist in pain. Frank immediately shushed you, lifting from his seat so he could press a soft kiss to your temple.
“God, I love you,” he whispered against your skin—skin that, thankfully, was no longer cold and clammy like it had been the last time he kissed you.
“I love you too.” You squeezed his hand as best you could as he settled back into his seat.
For a long moment he just stared at you, drinking in the fact that you were alive—breathing—talking. The adrenaline was gone, but the terror still clung to him.
“What… what happened?” you whispered.
Frank swallowed thickly.
“We almost lost you.” His voice cracked. “We did lose you. For a minute.” He dropped his forehead to your hand. “Don’t ever do that again.”
You smiled faintly. “I’ll try my best.”
Frank let out this shaky little laugh at your words — the kind of sound someone makes after almost drowning. It lasted all of two seconds before the smile fell right off his face.
He went quiet. Completely still. And then his chin wobbled. His breath hitched. His eyes filled again, overflowing before he even tried to stop it.
“Frank…” you whispered.
He shook his head like he was mad at himself for breaking. A tear hit the blanket near your hip. You squeezed his hand weakly, your thumb brushing over his knuckles.
“Hey. It’s okay. I’m okay. I promise.”
His shoulders caved inward, like everything he’d been holding back finally punched through.
“I was so fucking scared,” he choked out. “I thought—God, I thought I lost you for good.”
You dragged in a slow breath, ignoring the ache that lanced through your ribs.
“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
He looked at you, like he still didn’t quite believe it. Then he let out this humorless little scoff.
“Life’s too fucking short, isn’t it?”
You blinked, confused. “Frank…?”
He inhaled sharply, sat back just a bit, and wiped his face with the heel of his hand. Then his gaze softened in this heartbreaking way, and he shook his head.
“I was gonna wait,” he said quietly. “Better circumstances, you know? Something romantic. Something… not this.”
Your eyebrows lifted slightly.
He swallowed hard. “But after today? After watching you—after hearing that monitor—” His voice cracked again. “You never know what’s gonna happen. So I’m done waiting. I’m done pretending I’m not ready.”
He reached into the pocket of his scrub pants — the new pair Dana forced him into — and pulled out a small, black velvet box. His hand shook.
Your breath caught, and pain flared in your torso. You let out a soft gasp.
“Frank—are you seriously proposing to me while I’m lying in a hospital bed?”
He gave a watery laugh.
“Yeah. I guess I am.” His thumb brushed the lid of the box. “So… what do you say?”
You stared at him — at his wrecked face, his trembling lip, his desperate, hopeful eyes — and your heart swelled painfully in a way that had nothing to do with your injuries.
“Yes,” you whispered. “Of course I’ll marry you.”
Frank let out a relieved, broken laugh that instantly dissolved into more tears. He leaned in, pressing his forehead lightly to yours, careful of all your lines and bandages.
“Thank God,” he breathed. “Thank God.”
He kissed your hand — over and over — whispering your name each time like a prayer.
Frank slid the ring onto your finger with hands that were still trembling, letting out a shaky breath like he’d been holding it for hours. His eyes flicked up to yours, still glossy but finally… lighter.
“So,” he murmured, giving you that crooked, exhausted smile, “how’s it feel to be Mrs. Langdon?”
You blinked, took the smallest inhale — and immediately regretted it.
“Honestly?” you rasped. “Like shit.”
There was half a beat of silence before Frank barked out a laugh, trying to smother it against your arm.
You groaned, “No—don’t make me laugh, it hurts—”
“Sorry, sorry,” he said, absolutely not sorry, still laughing through what might’ve been lingering tears.
You started laughing too, breathy and pained but real, and reached over to squeeze his hand. “God, we’re a disaster.”
Frank dropped his forehead against your arm, still smiling. “Yeah. But I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
You smiled at him, nose bumping into his as you gave him a soft kiss before whispering, “Me neither.”
The Awful Daring of a Moment's Surrender | Dr. Frank Langdon
SUMMARY: Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the rain, or the way your guard had been ground down over weeks of double shifts and subtle stares--but you felt solt. Unarmored. And Frank noticed. Of course, he did, but he let you have
Creative Event: A Doctor A Day
18, Prompt: "I was hoping it'd be you."
Color: Black
PAIRING: Dr. Frank Langdon x f!reader (nurse)
WORD COUNT: 6.3K
WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, tension-filled 'enemies' to lovers, the one-bed trope, a pervy patient, nurse harassment, cheesy conversations and tropes, inner turmoil, mentions of divorce and kids, rehab, MOVIE MAGIC PLOT AND PACING lol, fluff, angst, etc.
A/N: This was so much fun to be a part of! I word vomited, but oh well. Thank you for creating this @ananonymousaffair, @clubsoft, and @letsgobarbs!
Frank’s eyes found you again. They always had. It had become something akin to muscle memory, something more like a bad habit he would never break.
He’d been trying to distract himself all day—rewriting notes, rechecking vitals that didn’t need checking, drowning in labs—anything to avoid thinking about the subtle shift in gravity around you, and the single truth it pointed to: things between you weren’t the same.
It was most obvious in the way you smiled at everyone but him. The way you didn’t joke anymore. The way you walked right past him like the space between you wasn’t even worth acknowledging.
Frank didn’t notice at first because you weren’t cruel with it. Rather, distant. Professional. Fine. Yet, that was what cut.
He had been through enough to know when something was wrong. Rehab taught him to hear quiet rejection, to notice when people flinched, or made space, but it hadn’t prepared him for this; for being back, being so-called "better," and still losing something he hadn’t even realized mattered so much.
You.
You, the person who used to crack jokes entirely at his expense. The one who once split stale vending machine chips with him during back-to-back codes.
The one who used to call him Frank, as if it meant something. Now it was just: Langdon, again. You’d pressed a reset, and he had no idea how to handle it.
It made him restless, fidgeting between cases and rushing through notes just to keep moving.
Even now, leaning over the computer screen, was just another performance; posture rehearsed, hand perched on the mouse, eyes blank on the screen, but he wasn’t reading.
He was watching you. Not with malice, not even with interest, but with a persistence that had come to a point.
The nurses whispered, the med students’ eyes bouncing between the two of you when you shared a case, and even the patients read between the lines to find something you were intentionally ignorant of.
You poised yourself well, ignoring it. You moved through the ED with the kind of grace only long shifts could carve out: quick, tired, and efficient.
You’d been on your feet for too long, and it showed. The blood pressure cuffs slung around your neck, bruises bloomed under your eyes, and everything that started neatly was now purely functional. Still, you managed to find warmth for everyone: patients, techs, and the second-year who forgot how to use the glucometer.
Everyone but Frank. That’s what made it personal.
“God–!” Frank shook his head, trying to refocus.
“Now’s not the time to find God, Langdon.” Dana hummed sarcastically, pushing a tablet into his chest. “...or the time to makin’ eyes. Leave the girl alone.”
“I’m not—” He’d almost fallen for the trap. It took effort to pull his eyes away from you to come up with something clever. “You wear that cross around your neck, but that doesn't make you a saint.”
“You’re warming up.” She was half-impressed with his counter. “If I still had a heart, I’d find this all moving.”
“There’s nothing to find.” He scoffed, flipping through the chart—stomach pain, mild tachycardia, probably innocent enough. “Give this to Whitaker, I have to…”
Dana watched his thoughts trail off his tongue. Frank didn’t look at his surroundings, moving swiftly with instinct, and chasing after you.
You were in Room 2, helping an elderly woman with a bedpan situation that was rapidly becoming a story.
You were tired—so tired. The fluorescent lights felt like a second skin, and your scrubs smelled like antiseptic and cafeteria curry.
That was when he walked in.
“Need a hand?” Frank leaned in the doorway, stethoscope slung loose around his neck like a badge of charm.
You didn’t turn; there was no need. “Not unless you want to glove up.”
“Tempting.” His hands remained secure in his pockets.
You exhaled, kept your focus on the patient, and murmured, “I’m almost done anyway...”
The woman in the bed chuckled. “He’s handsome. Is he yours?”
“No—”
“—Not yet.” Frank, amused, muttered, not even sure why he said it. Habit. Hope, maybe.
You shot him a glare.
“Just offering help. I know the nurses have their opinions, but c’mon.” He held up his hands with feigned innocence. “I’m ER Ken. Infectious charisma, average height but above-average presence—”
“I’ll remember that for the next peer eval.”
“Put it under ‘Team Dynamics.’” He grinned.
You tucked the woman in, adjusted her oxygen, and brushed her shoulder in a way so small and human it made Frank ache. He remembered that version of you. Kind and unflinching, a better presence than he deserved.
Yet, you walked past Frank like he wasn’t there, heading to the nearest hand sanitizer.
“I’ve been trying to figure out if I did something…” Frank followed you, knowing he’d have to spit it out; you only reserved so much time for his antics. “If I said something. You’ve been—”
“Don’t make this a thing.”
“I’m not. I just…” Frank hesitated, uncharacteristically uncertain. “You used to talk to me.”
“I still talk to you.”
“Barely.”
Your jaw worked, tension spiking along your spine. You didn’t meet his eyes. You focused on rubbing your hands.
“I haven’t relapsed, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Frank was quieter now, afraid of mentioning his slip-up would doom him further. He spoke, though, desperate for your trust. “I’m keeping up with the meetings. Still doing the steps, I just—”
That made you pause, just a fraction.
Frank exhaled like he hated himself for even needing to say it. “I just—I don’t know if you think I’m…”
“I know.” Your voice clipped, cutting him off before the self-deprecation. “Everything’s fine, Langdon.”
The silence was stretching, and you still wouldn’t look at him.
And he didn’t know—couldn’t even guess—that it wasn’t judgment in your distance or silence. It was longing.
Because the truth was, you missed him.
You missed the guy who lit up each shift with jokes and zero-hour brilliance, who remembered weird details like who drank Diet Coke instead of coffee and who had knee pain when it rained. He’d pull someone back from a code and then flirt with a phlebotomist in the same breath.
You missed the chaos, the gallows humor, the late-night vulnerability he didn’t show anyone else. You missed what he’d been to you before everything fell apart, before he disappeared into rehab and came back someone careful and trying.
You stared at your drying hands longer than necessary because Frank Langdon was all wit and half-sincere charm. There was just enough vulnerability to make it dangerous.
You wanted to let him stay steady. You wanted to respect the ground he’d fought to gain back. So, you’d built walls instead of reaching for what you used to have. Frank mistook the bricks for bitterness.
“I just…” He was careful this time, more measured with confidence for the first time in a while. “I don’t want to make it worse.”
You finally looked at him then. You opened your mouth—
All the pagers buzzed. Rapid Response, Room 5. Frank’s name echoed overhead. You didn’t say anything, just turned toward the call.
—
There were three trauma codes before noon. Two staff call-outs. The crash cart had gone missing for forty goddamn minutes—later found wedged behind the elevator by an intern who looked like he might cry.
There was a broken limb attached to every wall. The psych consult was MIA. And the coffee in the breakroom had devolved into some viscous, black, tar-like substance that no one had the heart to dump out.
You hadn’t sat down since 06:45. Your legs ached. It felt like your brain was holding itself together with surgical tape and gauze.
Somewhere in the blur of vitals and codes, Frank had appeared—gliding through the chaos like he was born for it, which, annoyingly, he probably was. He hadn’t said much to you, just glanced a little too long across charts and supply drawers, and handed you things you didn’t ask for.
You didn’t speak about the curt conversation.. You didn’t need to. The silence between you had changed shape into something warmer, heavier.
It remained unspoken. Observed. Especially by everyone else.
“You seeing this?” Perlah had muttered in Tagalog near the med cart earlier, watching the way Frank hovered too long beside you. “He’s not even being subtle anymore.”
Even the newer med students were catching on. They tracked Frank’s movements like nervous meerkats, always watching, half-scared he’d snap if someone asked a dumb question near you. But there was no time for teasing now; the ED claimed your time.
“Room six—” Dana called, waving a chart. “Gary’s back.”
That name landed heavily. He was a regular, known for the kind of slow, slurred vulgarity that turned any nurse’s stomach. He came in bruised and bleeding every few weeks, drunk and grinning, always with something to say.
Princess made a face. “I got him last time.”
“We’ve got two fresh traumas, a seizure in the hallway, and a combative patient screaming about lizard people in four." Dana tried. "Who’s got the thickest skin today?”
In moments, she’d start picking whoever locked eyes with her. So, you’d already stepped forward, grabbing gloves.
“I’ve got it.”
“You sure, kid?” Dana gave you a look.
You nodded. Confident and detached, you’d handled worse.
You were wrong.
Gary was worse than usual—reeking of rotgut whiskey and stale piss, the cut above his eye oozing lazily.
“I was hoping it’d be you.” He grinned when he saw you. That same slow, lecherous grin.
“Let’s keep this quick, sir.” You didn’t blink.
“Aw, c’mon, sweetheart. Don’t be like that.”
Behind you, one of the med students cringed.
“Vitals first.” You added flatly. “Then we can deal with that eyebrow.”
Gary wouldn’t let up. Kept leering. Mumbling shit you didn’t want to hear. When you reached for the BP cuff, he grabbed your wrist, fingers greasy and possessive.
“Come on, let’s—”
Something in you snapped like brittle wire. You broke, pulling away.
You didn’t remember what you said next. Only that your voice was sharp, loud enough that Kiara was in the room a second later, followed by an orderly. Only that your hands were shaking when you left the bedside, that your breath came too hard, too fast.
The room froze.
You didn’t notice Frank, not yet. He was standing at the mouth of the trauma bay with a chart in his hand, his whole body stilled in the chaos.
The med students watched him watch you, eyes flicking nervously between his unreadable expression and your barely-contained rage.
“Hey, hey!” Kiara appeared behind you, palms up, gentle. “Hey—I’ve got it. Ahmed’s on his way.”
“He put his hands on me.” Your words came out harsher than you meant.
“I know...” She reassured quickly. “...but you’re shaking. Go breathe. We’ve got this. Go.”
You couldn’t move at first. Then you did.
The second you stepped out of the trauma bay, the air felt different. Things weren't as bright or as cold, but it felt like you were vibrating just under your skin.
You braced your arms on the half-wall near the ambulance entrance, trying to ground yourself.
It was stupid, maybe. Overblown. He hadn’t hurt you. But it wasn’t just about Gary. It was about all of them: the patients. The way they looked at you. Talked to you. Touched you. Like being a nurse meant being furniture with a pulse.
Still inside, voices filtered through the ED. Beyond the worried gossip, Dana clocked Frank quickly, reading his intention through his body language.
“Don’t.” Dana warned. “Don’t go charging after her.”
“I’m just—” Frank’s tone was quieter.
“She doesn’t need a hero. She needs backup.” She looked at him sternly, eyes pointed above her glasses. “And if you’re gonna be in her corner, be in it. Don’t mess around.”
“I’m not.”
“Then listen to me—” Dana eased in a way he didn’t expect. “From mother to son: she’s one of the best we’ve got. This place barely holds together on a good day. She needs someone she doesn’t have to fight with or protect. So, just do it right.”
When the door clicked behind you. You didn’t need to look.
Frank.
He leaned against the wall beside you, close enough to count.
“You okay?” He asked eventually.
You exhaled slowly. “Fine, Langdon.”
He didn’t push. Just nodded once. “Saw what happened.”
"Everyone did." You stared at the asphalt, borderline mocking yourself. “...And I was supposed to be the one with the thick skin.”
“You are.”
You looked at him then. His face was tight, concern tucked under practiced calm. His eyes didn’t move from yours.
“I’m just so tired.” You put aside everything, admission taking over. “Tired of being professional when I’m shaking. Tired of being the one who doesn’t get to snap.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” You asked, the words sharper than intended. “You’re a resident. You raise your voice, and people listen. I raise mine, and they send me outside.”
Frank didn’t answer right away. The siren-whine of an ambulance in the distance curled under the tension between you.
“This place grinds you down.” He answered thoughtfully. “Chews up good people and spits out the burned-out husks. Especially nurses.”
You looked over at him. “How poetic.”
“You get poetic when you’ve had two hours of sleep and four patients die on you before noon.” He teased.
“It’s not just today, you know.” You needed it all out. “It’s all of it."
The short-staffing. The harassment. The way nurses get called emotional when they push back.
“You’re not wrong.”
“Then what do we do?” You turned your body toward him, arms still crossed.
He looked back at you, eyes softer than they’d been all day. Maybe all week.
“We look out for each other.” He said. “We start there.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve. Maybe because they weren’t vague. Weren’t said with distance. They were about you. About him. About now.
“You’ve been doing that.” You caved. Your bravado was thinning. “More than I expected.”
More than you gave credit for.
“I don’t always get it right, but I’m trying...” He smiled a little, not like he was proud of himself, but like it hurt to admit.
“I’m not used to someone having my back.”
“I am,” he said, almost gently. “Used to having yours.”
Something cracked open between you. Something that felt like acknowledgment. A beginning without the comfort of denial. A door you could choose to walk through again, with the space not to.
“You don’t have to solve this for me.” You sniffed over your disdain, pride getting the better of you.
“I know.” Frank smiled, just a flicker. “Doesn’t mean I won’t step in if you need someone in your corner.”
You let yourself breathe for the first time in what felt like hours. And when the doors behind you swung open again—Dana’s voice calling your name, someone barking for Frank—you didn’t move right away.
Neither did he. Just for a second longer, you stood there. Together.
—
Twelve hours bled into twenty-four.
The day-shift staff were long gone, replaced by the night crew with their thermal mugs and haunted stares. The vending machines buzzed like they were short-circuiting. Someone's half-eaten dinner steamed under the warming light in the break room, forgotten in the rush of a trauma that never came.
But now it was quiet. Too quiet.
The kind of still that only came when the ED hit a strange middle space, where the sickest patients had been stabilized or shipped upstairs, and the waiting room had emptied enough to mop the floors.
There was no screaming, no alarms. Just the low murmur of machines, the shuffle of shoes over waxed linoleum, and the tired hum of lives slowly sorting themselves back into place.
And through it all, there you were, still there, still moving.
You were doing a double. Again.
The badge clipped to your scrub top felt like it weighed more than you did. Your feet throbbed, your hands were dry and red from sanitizing a thousand times. You’d been charting for so long, your signature didn’t look like handwriting anymore.
Then, somewhere around hour fifteen, you noticed Frank wasn’t orbiting anymore.
He was still there, but not present. Not watching you like before.
There were no one-liner flirtations, no smug grins when you passed in the hallway. No caffeine jokes, no impromptu debates over IV push vs drip. No teasing. No lingering. Just…doing his notes in the corner like everyone else.
At first, you welcomed it. Space was good. The distance made it easier to forget the way he laughed at 3 AM, or how he always remembered who hated banana-flavored anything and kept those syringes off your trays.
But now, it just felt off, wrong.
Even when he passed by your station earlier, he didn’t offer a look.
You felt it in your stomach; something folding in on itself. The feeling lingered even when your shift finally ended, and you planned to smother it at home.
However, outside, the rain came down in violent sheets, hammering the windows like fists.
The storm had crept in slowly, quiet drizzle around hour twelve, upgraded to a full deluge by twenty. You’d caught a glimpse of it while restocking in triage. The sky looked bruised black and blue. Thunder growled low and constant.
Now, while you tried to outwait it, you saw Frank standing near the exit with his jacket in hand, keys spinning around one finger, watching the rainfall like he was trying to time it.
“You're really going out in that?” You asked, voice rough from disuse.
Frank turned slowly, his hair messier than usual, exhaustion shadowing his jaw. “Was gonna try. Why? You think you need a canoe?”
You huffed out a breath, almost a laugh. “Just need the city bus to show up and not hydroplane into traffic.”
“You're serious?” He raised a brow.
“Public transit loyalty card. VIP tier.” You held up your badge and tapped the back.
“You’re not actually waiting for the bus in this shit, are you?” Frank didn’t laugh, but something flickered in his expression. It was a tired amusement.
“Might just crash in an on-call room.” You shrugged, hands pulling at your sore neck.
“Classy.”
“It’s either that or drown crossing Main.”
Frank didn’t answer right away.
Instead, the rain smacked louder against the glass. You could see the reflection of streetlights bending and breaking in the puddles. What was left of the night felt waterlogged, like the whole city was sinking into the hidden sunrise.
“Come on.” Frank caught his keys, no longer playing with them in contemplation. “I’ll drive.”
“You don’t even know where I live.” You frowned.
“Figure it out on the way.” Frank pulled at the door, rain competing for volume. “Unless you're really attached to the lumpy cot and crusty blanket.”
You hesitated, but the thought of peeling off your scrubs and collapsing into anything that wasn’t hospital property won—barely.
—
The drive was slow. Treacherous.
Frank didn’t talk much, just adjusted the heat and tapped the steering wheel. Water pooled in the gutters and flooded intersections. The radio kept chiming in with traffic alerts. Flash flood warnings shot across his dashboard screen like small, polite threats.
Frank’s wipers cut across the windshield in long, rhythmic arcs. Streetlights smudged through the downpour. Everything looked like it was dissolving in slow motion.
You sat rigid, arms crossed over your chest, not because you were cold, but because the silence between you carried the weight of earlier, even when you thought it had passed.
When he turned down the bridge toward your part of town, the red-and-blue lights started flashing before you could say anything.
Detour. Road closed. Flooding past the viaduct.
“Seriously?” You sat back in your seat with a groan.
Frank just sighed, threw the car into reverse, and made a lazy U-turn.
“What now?” You asked.
He didn’t answer until you were headed towards the next light. “You crash at mine.”
You turned your head slowly. “What?”
“I’m not dropping you at a bus stop in a flood zone.” He didn’t glance at you.
“And what, you just collect stray nurses like wet cats?”
Frank smirked. “Just the ones who hate me.”
You looked out the window again. The storm hadn’t let up. There wasn’t another option. So you stayed quiet.
—
Frank’s apartment was unexpected.
It was small. Not cramped, but modest in a way that made you hesitate in the doorway. You’d assumed, maybe unfairly, that a trauma doctor with Langdon’s swagger would live somewhere sleek—high-rise, steel finishes with a skyline view.
What was before you was simple, lived-in, and chronically unfinished. It was the kind of space that felt like someone had moved in, but hadn’t quite arrived.
The walls were still bare. A few cardboard boxes sat scattered, half-unpacked. One had BEDROOM scribbled on it in black Sharpie. Another, in faded ink, simply read DON’T OPEN.
A third sat partly torn open, its contents halfway spilled: mismatched mugs, a phone charger that looked like it had been through hell, and a cracked photo frame you pretended not to see Frank kick under the couch.
You didn’t ask. Instead, you just toed off your shoes and stepped inside.
The couch squeaked beneath you as you sat, not in the polite, old-furniture kind of way, but in the unmistakable squeal of plastic still clinging to its original shape. The kind people only left when they were afraid to settle.
“Jesus.” You cursed, adjusting your weight and wincing at the sound. “What is this?”
Frank came out of the kitchen, holding two chipped mugs. “You’re lucky I have furniture; most of my things are still in storage. This was my brother-in-law’s. He was gonna throw it out, but I figured… y’know. Good enough to sit on.”
You shifted again, causing the plastic to shriek. “That’s a generous definition of ‘good enough.’”
Frank grinned, tired. You took the mug he offered. It said “#1 Dad” in fading black letters. You didn’t comment. He didn’t either.
“I’d offer something stronger...” He was eager to fill any lull, holding onto any conversation with you. “...only keep decaf and regrets around here these days.”
There were toys scattered in places they didn’t belong—ghosts of smaller hands that hadn’t visited in weeks. A plastic dinosaur on the windowsill. A pink glitter sneaker was half-tucked under the bookshelf. A toddler’s sippy cup wedged next to a water-damaged copy of The House of God and what looked like an untouched grief workbook.
Frank noticed you noticing.
He didn’t say anything, but he rubbed at the inside of his wrist where a bracelet or a watch might’ve once lived. He didn’t wear jewelry anymore. Not even the stuff his kids made. Not the macaroni bracelet. Not the braided cord with their initials. Not the ring from before.
Every time Frank looked down and saw those things, it was like a jab. They acted as a reminder that he let those around him down. That his kids had a dad who disappeared for a while, only to come back paler, carrying twelve steps in his pocket, and a shadow where self-esteem used to be.
He didn’t want to see the evidence of the old version of himself—before he was the kind of man who had to prove, every day, that he could be better. So, the jewelry stayed in a drawer along with the birthday cards he hadn’t opened.
And still, you were here. Sitting on his couch, holding one of his two good mugs, like this wasn’t the strangest place in the world to be after a double shift.
“So—” Frank said eventually, settling on the other end of the couch with a tired sigh. “You always this judgmental about interior design, or just when I’m trying to impress you?”
You raised the mug to your lips, amused. “If this is you trying to impress me, I think I owe Mateo twenty bucks.”
“That’s tracks.” The corner of his mouth twitched.
The couch squeaked again when he leaned back.
You let the joke hold for a while, watching headlights swim through the blinds. There was a slow hum to everything: the fridge, the radiator, the pulse in your ears.
"It’s not weird.” You confirmed quietly. You knew Frank, what weighed down his wit; you could still read him better than himself. “Having me here. It’s just a favor.”
Frank didn’t look at you right away, but you felt the pause behind his next breath. He nodded slowly. Thoughtful.
The weight behind his usual smirk had softened lately, turning into something more cautious. This was a man who used to fill a room with charm like secondhand smoke. But lately, he moved like he didn’t want to leave a mark.
“It’s just…” You started, then let it trail off. You set your mug down on the floor, where it wobbled once before settling. “Sometimes I need a break from my place, too. Been sleeping with the TV on just to drown out the walls.”
It was a strange kind of comfort, this mutual unraveling in a too-small space. You were both tired. Post-shift wired on surviving adrenaline. The kind of fatigue that makes things feel a little sideways.
“Thanks for not…” He scratched his jaw, eyes flicking toward the unopened box labeled DON’T OPEN. “...y’know. Asking.”
You tilted your head. “About what? The boxes? Or the fact that your couch came wrapped like a crime scene?”
That got a real laugh out of him. One of those low, worn ones that cracked around the edges.
“Bit of both.” He confessed. “It’s all still kind of… in progress.”
You glanced at the plastic-wrapped cushion under your thigh. “If this couch is the final product, I’m worried.”
“Don’t be,” Frank said dryly. He didn’t want to scare it off, whatever this was, whatever fragile bridge had pulled you back toward him tonight. “I’m planning a grand unveiling in 2037, right after I find the will to unpack the blender.”
You nudged his ankle with your foot lightly. “Now that’s impressive.”
He smiled. It wasn’t a big thing. But it was the real one—the kind that didn’t feel like a mask.
Frank’s smile stuck around, small and lopsided. You could tell he was tired, the kind of tired where everything got a little looser at the seams and emotions sloshing around in the silence between words.
Side by side, your legs brushed faintly whenever either of you shifted. The kind of closeness that felt accidental on the surface but wasn’t, not really.
Frank lifted his mug in a half-hearted toast. “So, what’s the nurse-verified rating on my hospitality so far?”
You tilted your head, letting your eyes wander the apartment. Still mostly boxes. The flickering votive candle on the counter cast shadows over the sippy cup on the bookshelf and the sad, slumped dinosaur on the floor.
“Well…” You said slowly. “The couch sounds like a haunted pool float, and I’m pretty sure your radiator is planning a coup. So… solid seven out of ten.”
“Seven?” Frank repeated, looking genuinely wounded. “Kind of harsh. I lit a candle.”
You turned your head toward the tiny flame on the counter, flickering like it was afraid of commitment.
“That’s a tea light you found at the bottom of a drawer.” You replied. “And it smells like sadness.”
“It’s called Rain Linen, too,” Frank argued.
You sipped your coffee. “Exactly.”
He laughed—barely there, but real. “Tough crowd.”
“You’d get an eight if you found me a blanket that doesn’t come out of one of those boxes.”
Frank stood halfway, grabbing something draped over the armchair. He tossed it toward you—a sweatshirt. Soft. Worn. Still faintly smelling of him.
“Emergency blanket.” He said as he slumped back into the plastic-wrapped cushion. “Limited stock.”
You didn’t fight it. Just pulled it over your head like it belonged there. It smelled like him, laundry detergent, stale coffee, and something else—maybe an old cologne he didn’t wear anymore. You wondered if it had been for the kids. Or for someone he didn’t live with anymore.
“…okay….” You conceded. You tilted your head back, exhaling slowly. The ceiling had a faint water stain in the corner. “Eight.”
Frank’s mouth ticked upward. “Progress.”
The candle flickered again, casting a gold hue over the curve of Frank’s cheek.
“You know,” you began after a beat, eyes half-closed. “This still beats sleeping three feet from the janitor's closet.”
“To low standards and plastic couches.” Frank raised his mug again, mock solemn.
You clinked your mug against his with a small thunk of ceramic. “Cheers.”
Frank glanced at you. He felt something loosen in his chest. Something that had been wound tight for months. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like a walking regret.
—
The mattress was too warm, too comfortable in the wrong places, and still smelled new. It dipped in the middle, pulling you both toward the inevitable gravity of sharing something too small and too temporary.
Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the rain, or the way your guard had been ground down over weeks of double shifts and subtle stares, but you felt soft. Unarmored. And Frank noticed. Of course, he did, but he let you have it.
You weren’t touching Frank, but you could be. One shift of a knee, one breath too deep.
The room was dim, just the orange haze of the streetlight bleeding through the small bedroom window.
The storm pressed against the windows, reminding you it still wanted in. With the city humming below, the sirens trailed faintly through the neighborhood. It felt far away. Blurred. Like the hospital had been some kind of fever dream, and now this was the strange after-image left behind.
The couch hadn’t been an option. It still wore its plastic wrap like a shield. Then, Frank, in all his unbothered chaos, had only shrugged, claiming to be “too tired to pretend I have a real living room.”
So now you were here. In his room. Back to back. Sort of. On his mattress, the only thing unpacked.
The bedroom wasn’t tense, just tired. There was that mutual, bone-deep exhaustion—the kind only the ED could pull out of you.
You could still taste the metallic tang of adrenaline if you thought hard enough. You could still feel the ghost of the pulse line flattening on a trauma patient, the cold sting of antiseptic on your skin.
Frank exhaled a low sigh beside you. “Goodnight, Nurse Sunshine.”
“There it is.” You smiled faintly as your eyes stayed on the ceiling.
A beat.
Then his voice, faintly curious: “There, what is?”
“Your teasing.” You turned slightly to glance over your shoulder at him. “You’ve been weird all night. Frank Langdon with a filter is too nice—I thought you’d finally burned out.”
“What, were you hoping for something else? Is that it?" He made a soft sound—a half-scoff, half-humorless laugh. "Next time, I’ll insult your handwriting and throw a chair for balance.”
“Christ.” You cursed, gaze flicking toward the ceiling to hide your humor. “Forgot how soothing your bedside manner was.”
Frank shifted behind you, the mattress dipping further under the redistribution of weight. You turned to face him more fully, your arm folding under your cheek.
He was already watching you. Not with the usual glint. No smirk, no challenge. Just something unreadable. Curiosity, maybe. Or restraint. Tired, yes—but present. Focused.
Neither of you spoke.
The room pulsed with something heavier than words. The kind that sits just under your breastbone and hums. You could feel the heat of him, the nearness. Your limbs didn’t ache at the warmth, but your chest did.
You could see everything in this light—the faint scar on his chin, the deeper ones in his eyes. He looked lighter, too, in this space. Less Langdon: The Golden Boy and more man with a mess of half-open boxes and a T. rex toy in the corner, no one had stepped on yet.
He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t lean in. But he didn’t look away either.
“I’m not the only one off tonight.”
“Yeah?” It was more of a confirmation than a question, but you still asked.
He gave the smallest nod, the kind you’d miss if you weren’t looking right at him.
“You’re not usually this…” The corner of his mouth tugged like he meant to make a joke of it, but couldn’t find the punchline.
“Don’t read into it. I’m just… tired.” Your voice was a breath more vulnerable than you wanted.
“You’ve been tired before. I’ve never seen you like this.”
You swallowed hard. Your throat felt dry. Frank studied you a beat longer, then let his head fall back on the pillow with a lazy sigh.
“I guess all it took was getting you in my bed.”
You breathed out, less annoyed, more amused. Then, a laugh escaped before you could catch it, surprising even yourself.
But it lingered there, in the warmth between you, in the nearness that should’ve felt strange. It should’ve felt wrong.
“Just a long week.”
“It’s been a long year.” Frank nodded.
“You too, huh?” You offered a slow shrug, letting your arm drape over your stomach like a flag of surrender. “Turns out watching people fall apart for a living isn’t super rejuvenating.”
Frank didn’t smile, but there was something in his face, recognition, maybe. Or guilt, worn soft by time.
The bed dipped again as he shifted, stretching his legs. His hand brushed yours, not enough to be deliberate, but enough to jolt something loose. You didn’t move it away.
“I almost called you last week.” Frank nodded once, small and tight, like the words had cost him more than he wanted to admit. “After that DOA in Trauma 2.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He was quiet long enough that you thought he wouldn’t answer.
“Didn’t want to make it—didn’t want to… need something from you.”
That did something to your chest. Twisted it.
You could’ve made a joke. Dodged it. Asked about his IKEA allergy, but you didn’t. Instead, your fingers curled closer to his on the sheets, knuckles almost brushing.
You let everything settle, let it fold around you like a blanket that didn’t quite reach the feet.
Yet, you still whispered, “I’m here now.”
Frank didn’t say anything. But he didn’t move either. And in that moment, still and peaceful, the air between you did what the hospital never let it do—it breathed.
If you’d asked yourself at the beginning of the shift whether you’d end up here—in Frank Langdon’s bed, staring at the ceiling with your pulse in your ears—you would’ve assumed you'd collapsed into a coma and someone was feeding you fevered hallucinations out of spite.
You blinked slowly. Your eyes didn’t open again right away. The mattress was too warm. Your limbs were too heavy. Everything floated.
The fluorescent-bright hospital was a universe away now. But for a second, your mind drifted there—half-asleep, half-aware—and you saw Frank again the way you had earlier that night.
He was without his usual sharpness. Not bored, or cracking some off-color remark to distract from the tension in the room, but listening. He’d knelt next to an elderly man in Trauma 3, held his hand when the monitors began to drop, and whispered something—something kind, but you couldn’t hear the words.
It had stopped you cold. The grief in Frank’s face wasn’t performative. It wasn’t for anyone’s benefit. It was real.
You saw it. You felt it. Something in you shifted then, even if you didn’t want to name it. He hadn’t seen you watching, and maybe that’s why it stuck.
Now, here, in his bed—not touching, but close—you wondered if that shift was still echoing somewhere close. You turned your face back toward the window. Let your eyes follow the glint of rain on glass.
“Am I too lucky to think this’ll carry into tomorrow?” Beside you, Frank’s breath was steady and slow.
Frank’s words were measured, like he wasn’t quite asking, but already knew the answer might disappoint him.
“I can be bribed with coffee.” You slurred just slightly from the edges of exhaustion.
A beat of a pause, then you heard the way he exhaled—half a chuckle, half a release of something else. Something heavier.
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“I’m a nurse.” Your words ran together in a whisper. “We run on spite and caffeine.”
Frank shifted slightly, and you felt the faint brush of his knee against yours under the blanket. It wasn’t intentional. Probably.
That the warmth blooming low in your chest had nothing to do with him, or the softness he showed when he didn’t think anyone was watching. That the way your voice had dropped, the way your guard had slipped, wasn’t because of the look he gave you now, or the subtle way he’d been retreating all night like he didn’t trust the shift between you.
You told yourself all of that, but you didn’t move away. And neither did he.
Outside, the storm calmed to a hiss. The sirens faded. Somewhere in the next room, the heater kicked on again with a clunk. Familiar, homely, mundane.
You just lie there. Still. Frank shifted slightly, breath transitioning into the rhythm of sleep.
And maybe tomorrow, in the bright buzz of hospital fluorescents, it would be like nothing happened at all. But now, in the hush of the storm and the slow exhale of sleep, something had shifted.
☆ IT'S MEANT TO BE POP! by @ceriseangels no man has ever really treated you right. frank langdon vows to change that.
❀ SCHOOL GIRL CRUSH by @clarktologist you bring your elderly neighbor to the ER after a fall, only to be faced with your high school crush - who is hotter, more capable and just as charming.
❀ ILL OF YOU by @whatif-ialreadydid langdon is sick!
❀𖦹☆ FLARE UP by @ratonnhhaketon reader is stuck in bed with a migraine and frank simply cannot stand to see it. He's still in his scrubs, so might as well play doctor just a little bit longer.
❀ LOVER BOY by @novatheory date night with frank langdon
JACK ABBOT
𖦹❀ YOUR MIND'S WALKING OUT by @lovebugism no one at the pitt knows you and jack are separated when you show up to the emergency room during a particularly chaotic shift, with a number of dubious symptoms that force you and jack to reconcile
☆ LITTLE BLUE PILL by @thedilfydoctorshow jack has worries about your age gap. you try to tell him that he has nothing to worry about
☆ TAKE CARE OF BUSINESS FOR ME by @lovebugism your relationship with jack has always been 50/50: he buys you everything, and you let him. this arrangement, as he calls it, works perfectly - until you start to worry that you may not be the only one who's doing it with.
❀ YOU OWE ME AN IUD by @kittyminion jack abbot rocked your world so hard that he dislodged your iud, leading you to visit the ptmc emergency room, not knowing that he was the night shift attending
☆ A BID FOR ATTENTION by @pinkandblueblurbs michael robinavitch x jack abbot x fem!reader
☆ SLEEPYHEAD by @aureatelys robby just wants to take a nap in the on-call room before going home. his colleagues have other plans.
MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH
☆ LEVEL UP by @thedilfydoctorshow so what if robby's having a midlife crises?
☆ SOFTER, HARDER, IN BETWEEN by @/ceriseangels you're in a very sticky situation with your senior attending
☆ SEVEN-WEEK CURSE by @cinnxmxngxrl robby’s dating history is infamous, no relationship survives past seven weeks. So when he asks you out, you strike a deal: no sex until seven weeks have passed.
☆ A BID FOR ATTENTION by @/pinkandblueblurbs michael robinavitch x jack abbot x fem!reader
☆ SLEEPYHEAD by @aureatelys robby just wants to take a nap in the on-call room before going home. his colleagues have other plans.
SPENCER REID
𖦹☆ SPRING INTO SUMMER by @nereidprinc3ss the highest highs and the lowest lows of your on-again off-again relationship with spencer reid, tracked through the seasons of a year.
❀ SPARKS FLY by @parfaitblogs in which you kiss your best friend when the clock hits midnight, you feel bad, but he’s all too forgiving.
❀ FOOTNOTES ON INTIMACY by @esote-rika boundaries are important in any relationship—even fake ones (especially in fake ones). spencer reid is very good at sticking to the rules you’ve discussed together, until he does something off script that sends you spiralling.
❀ LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO by @reidrum in which spencer and his sunshine girl go ice skating
❀☆ ONLY ANGEL by @/parfaitblogs in which you crash into a not-so-stranger at a party, puzzle pieces fall into place, and you find yourself ending up in his bed.
❀ ANGEL EYES by @/ceriseangels spencer and his wife teach chessy how to ride a bike. when things don’t go according to plan, diana saves the day.
☆𖦹 UP IN THE CLOUDS by @/esote-rika after a few near death experiences during a case, spencer muses on your mortality, and decides to take advantage of everyone’s state of unconsciousness by showing his love for you right there on the jet.
𖦹 AM I STILL LOOKING FOR IT? by @miedei you've found yourself in a routine with spencer. you're not sure if its any good for you, but you want him anyway.
𖦹❀ MOSAICS by @crescndo spencer reid is not as unloveable as he was made to think. ups and downs are inevitable, and "i love you"'s come easier than he once thought, and so does existing. he'll love the parts of you that have never experienced care.
❀ PLUSH, INTERRUPTED by @/reidrum in which dr. reid attempts to find the perfect birthday gift for you
❀ ALOE BARBADENSIS by @/nereidprinc3ss in which you and spencer reid just want to lay around in your room after a day at the beach. the team does not respect your privacy.
❀ SICK AS A DOG! by @clarktologist spencer comes home to his girlfriend being... well, sick as a dog.
𖦹❀ NORTHERN ATTITUDE by @gold-onthe-inside after your friends with benefits arrangement comes to an end, spencer's persistence gets him to the bottom of your fear to commit to him, especially when all signs point to you liking him back.
𖦹 THERE'S A MONSTER UNDER THE BED by @pathologicalreid in which spencer brings you back to your apartment for the first time after it was broken into, and it seems the burden might be too much to bear
☆ FATHER FIGURE by @mercy-burning spencer becomes an unlikely source of comfort after his son breaks up with you.
❀ FATE, AND OTHER LIES by @brattyspence girldad!spencer who can't seem to find a logical reason why he was given the chance to be a father
𖦹 I KNEW IT, I KNOW YOU by @/parfaitblogs in which your boyfriend comes to find you amidst radio silence, and you finally let out all your frustrations and insecurities.
❀ IMPORTANT NAMES by @morguesiren how your best friend helped your daughter come into the world.
☆ ROOM FOR THREE by @incognit0slut nobody knows about the contract you signed to be your boss’s sub until spencer finds the document. aaron proposes a deal in exchange for his silence.
☆ BUSY WOMAN by @it-was-summer after spending countless months watching you break men's hearts, spencer is surprised when you call a sudden dating hiatus. amid your 'break,' you confide in your lanky coworker how much you miss certain physical intimacies. spencer is quick to offer a solution.
𖦹 DARWINISM by @/reidrum the you that broke up with spencer to follow your dreams in london isn’t the same you that returns a year later
☆ IN THE SECRECY OF HIS ROOM by @/esote-rika you have several (stereotypical) assumptions about your nerdy coworker; he proves how wrong you are about them.
❀ LOVER BOY by @ellecdc spencer reid x rossi!daughter who didn't realize they were dating
𖦹❀☆ LOVE ME TENDER by @foxy-eva when you finally tell him about your struggles with sex, spencer proves to be the most understanding and gentle boyfriend anyone could wish for
☆ TAKE WHAT YOU NEED by @burymagdalene after going full hermit mode during finals, you reach out to your relatively new boyfriend for a textbook he might be storing in his apartment. or, spencer putting you through his mattress for the first time as finals stress relief.
𖦹❀ SLEEPING WITH THE LIGHTS ON by @/parfaitblogs in which the first time you kill an unsub hits you like a truck, and spencer reid is there to pick up you back up.
☆ LET'S PUT IT TO THE TEST by @misserabella experienced! spencer x inexperienced! reader
❀ WAKE UP CALL by @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat a night partying turns the morning into one big whirlwind of figuring out how the hell you ended up in your coworker's bed
☆ LOVE YOU MORE by @dudeitiskarev as newlyweds, you and Spencer can’t hold back the urges of wanting each other at all times
𖦹❀ PRESSURE POINTS by @gghostwriter after a traumatic event, Spencer coaxes you back to the land of the living, right by his side.
AARON HOTCHNER
☆ AMOR FATI by @ssa-dado you save your coworker’s life and he fucks you as a thank-you? wow! you can’t help but wonder how his wife feels about this particular expression of gratitude.
☆ CORRUPTION by @minswriting you've never had sex before and don't really know much about pleasure. aaron decides to teach you the many ways you could be ruined.
☆ SUMMER LOVIN' by @/aureatelys after your dad thwarts your plan to have a not-date with aaron at the drive-in movie theatre, you improvise.
☆ MR. HOTCHNER by @mggslover in which being a nanny for the Hotchners doesn’t only mean taking care of jack, but also pleasing your boss
☆ SOAKED by @goorgeousz your window gets stuck and hotch decides to help you. but it’s too hot to wear proper clothes, and he nearly loses his mind.
𖦹❀ HIGH EXPECTATIONS by @/clarktologist you get yourself hurt in the field. aaron covers up his worry with frustration.
❀ FRESH by @cringeiknow aaron physically cannot resist touching you after your ‘everything’ showers.
𖦹❀ PR (PENNE RIGATE) by @/ssa-dado sometimes you spiral so hard you start hallucinating david rossi - dave, sorry - groping your boyfriend’s tit the first time you meet his coworkers. silver lining? aaron’s forearms are flour-dusted and flexing over pasta dough.
☆ ROOM FOR THREE by @/incognit0slut nobody knows about the contract you signed to be your boss’s sub until spencer finds the document. aaron proposes a deal in exchange for his silence.
❀ TASTE OF VICTORY by @/clarktologist after winning a hard-hitting case against aaron hotchner, he takes you out for a celebratory drink. turns out prosecutors and defense lawyers can get along.
❀ LOVE IS AN EASY DANCE by @softtdaisy just you and Hotch celebrating your engagement and how much you love each other
❀𖦹 FAMILY LINE by @sentryfiles he snickers when he secretly whispers you that and you’re sure this is the family you were born to be after all, it just took you a little while to find it. or: aaron shows what the unconditional love of a family should be like.
☆ BACKSHOTS... BACK PAIN, SORRY by @/ssa-dado it starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. you’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED]
☆ NOT THE DESPERATE TYPE by @/aureatelys the apartment across from hotch's has been empty for as long as he can remember. and then you move in, and you always seem to forget to close your blinds.
☆ FINGERS & THUMBS by @inknopewetrust aaron knows how much you love his hands.
❀ BODYGUARD by @/softtdaisy hotch is your hot bodyguard and flirting with him helps making the situation better
if anyone wants to be removed from this list, please let me know! i'll be adding more to this list as i read!
✦ SUMMARY: For two hundred years, she has remained untethered. Unseen. A shadow walking the borders of legend, neither savior nor monster—until war calls her name. Yet power like hers was never meant to be controlled. And some myths do not end in salvation. Some end in fire. In ruin. In storm and blood and the breaking of the world. Because gods do not grant mercy and storms do not bow.
✦ STORY RATING: R — Strong language, graphic violence.
✦ GENERAL WARNINGS: female!reader, slow burn, reluctant allies, gore, angst, torture, moral ambiguity, political intrigue & war, everybody needs therapy but no one gets it, slight au—author has taken some liberties. English is not my first language — Please check the warnings on each chapter if you choose to follow this story.
✦ STATUS: in progress.
╰› opinions, thoughts and feedback are greatly appreciated!
general masterlist ∿ announcements ∿ asks ∿ moodboards
「⚡︎」 chapter one.
「⚡︎」 chapter two.
「⚡︎」 chapter three.
「⚡︎」 chapter four.
「⚡︎」 chapter five.
「⚡︎」 chapter six.
「⚡︎」 chapter seven.
more tba soon...
I am a storm inside of skin. And even the sky is too small, to contain the agony of this.
᯽ SUMMARY: What has always been a volatile dynamic suddenly pushes closer to a dangerous line.
᯽ WORD COUNT: 4.4K
᯽ WARNINGS: MDNI ! — female!reader, autumn court!reader, enemy to lovers (ish), language, a lil violence as foreplay, angst, azriel is an asshole. whole lotta attitude. no physical descriptions but it is mentioned later that she has enough hair to put in a braid (as a bastard baddie, any type of description could fit tbh). no use of y/n. english is not my first language.
᯽ MAY'S RADIO: after sjm gave her announcement the other day, i got my shit together (barely) and locked in to finish what was supposed to only be a one-shot that i started back in january. long story short, i got carried away because i got horny for this fictional male (when do i not?). anyways, buen provecho!
❮ GENERAL MASTERLIST ꩜ PART O2
You hit the mat hard enough that the world stuttered.
Air fled your lungs in a humiliating whoof, the impact rattling straight through your spine as shadows curled tight around your wrists, pinning you before you could twist free.
Gods. You were going to kill him.
Azriel hovered over you, wings half-flared, shadows whispering like they were personally offended by your continued existence. His knee pressed into your sternum—just enough to remind you who’d won this round.
You bared your teeth. “Breathing air that you contaminate deeply unsettles me.”
A flicker—just teeny tiny flicker—of amusement crossed his face before he schooled it away. “Cauldron, aren’t you insufferable.”
“Funny,” you wheezed, shifting your hips, testing his balance, “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
His grip tightened. Not enough to hurt. Enough to warn.
Around the ring, Cassian made an exaggerated choking noise. “Someone should time them. I give it five minutes before they start making out.”
“Six,” Mor said mildly. “She’s stubborn.”
You twisted suddenly, using the moment he leaned in to murmur something sharp in your ear to roll you both. Shadows scattered as you came up on top, blade at Azriel’s throat before he could blink.
“Nothing aggravates me more than seeing your face every day,” you said sweetly.
“Yet,” he replied calmly, utterly unfazed despite the knife, “you keep coming back.”
Your smile turned feral. “I’m Helion’s emissary. You’re a glorified guard dog for another High Lord. We’re bound to cross paths.”
A lie. And you both knew it.
He surged upward, flipping you again with brutal efficiency. This time, he leaned close—too close—his mouth near your ear, his breath warm against your skin.
“I’m going to kill you,” he murmured.
“Oh, keep talking dirty to me.” you purred.
For half a heartbeat, Azriel froze.
It was microscopic. A hitch in his breath. A sharp flare of his shadows like they’d collectively sworn.
Then his knee pressed down harder—not necessarily crushing or cruel. Just deliberate.
His mouth dipped closer to your ear again, voice dropping into something lethal and low. “You don’t want to hear what I’d say if I started.”
Heat curled straight through you—unwelcome, traitorous.
You smiled anyway.
“Bold words for someone who started this on his knees.”
That earned you a sound—something between a growl and a scoff—as he shoved off you and rose in one smooth motion, wings flexing like he needed the space.
The mat was still warm beneath your palms when you pushed to your feet.
Azriel straightened across from you, rolling his shoulders like the last exchange hadn’t even touched him. Tattoos flexed along his arms as his wings shifted—vast, dark, blocking half the sun like a personal threat.
Illyrian brute.
Your gaze dragged, traitorous, lingering a second too long on the corded muscle of his forearms, the way his leathers strained across his chest, the wingspan that made your instincts scream both danger and—
Nope. Absolutely not.
You tilted your head instead, lazy, infuriating. “You know,” you said, circling him, “for someone who prides himself on being the Night Court’s deadliest weapon, your left hook is a joke.”
His shadows tightened. “You’re talking too much.”
“Oh?” You smiled. “Is that why you keep missing?”
The next strike came fast—too fast. You barely ducked it, felt the rush of displaced air skim your hair as his fist slammed where your face had been. You pivoted, kicked low, caught his knee just enough to throw him off balance.
Azriel recovered instantly, spinning, wings flaring as he grabbed you mid-turn and slammed you down again.
Harder this time.
The mat rattled. Your lungs emptied in a sharp gasp, stars bursting behind your eyes.
Gods fucking damn him.
He loomed over you, breathing steady, not even winded. One knee between your thighs, hands braced on either side of your head, shadows caging you in like a personal prison.
Up close, he was infuriatingly solid. Warm. Everywhere.
“Stay down,” he said quietly.
You laughed. It came out breathless and reckless and absolutely the wrong reaction.
“What?” you asked, craning your neck just enough that your noses were almost touching. “Afraid I’ll win?”
His eyes flicked—just once—to your mouth.
Mistake.
You bucked your hips, rolled, used his momentary distraction to twist free and flip him onto his back. This time you straddled him, pinning his wrists above his head with your knees locked tight around his waist.
His wings shuddered, half-spread, scraping the mat.
Oh. That was… interesting.
You grinned down at him. “My turn.”
His shadows writhed, testing your hold. “Get off me.”
“Make me.”
You leaned forward, hair falling around your face, your nose nearly brushing his. You could feel the heat of him now—radiating, intoxicating, distracting in a way that made your thoughts skid dangerously close to places they had no business going.
Strong arms. Tattoos. Big wings that made you wonder what else was bi—
No. Absolutely fucking not.
You whispered instead, right by his ear, “Careful, Shadow Boy. You’re blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” you said smugly. “It’s adorable.”
His response was immediate and brutal.
He surged upward, strength explosive, flipping you both again until you were pinned chest to chest, his forearm across your throat—not cutting off air, just enough to remind you exactly who you were provoking.
“Watch it,” he growled.
Your pulse hammered. You swallowed hard—and smiled anyway.
“It’s cute how easy I can rile you up.”
For a split second, something dangerous flickered in his eyes. Not anger.
Something darker. Hungrier.
His mouth dipped closer, voice a low murmur meant only for you. “Keep pushing me and you’ll regret it.”
You tilted your head, lips nearly brushing his jaw. “Is that a threat… or a promise?”
His breath hitched.
Around you, the training ring had gone dead silent.
Cassian cleared his throat loudly. “I’m just saying—if you two start tearing each other’s clothes off, I’m leaving.”
Azriel didn’t move. Didn’t break eye contact.
Neither did you.
The tension snapped with both of you shoving each other apart at the same time, stumbling back, breathing hard, flushed and furious and very much aware.
He straightened, wings snapping in tight. “This session’s over.”
You wiped sweat from your brow, smirking like you hadn’t just been seconds away from making a catastrophic life choice. “Running away already?”
He paused at the edge of the mat, back to you.
“This is pointless,” he said. Cold. Final.
You wiped sweat from your brow, smirk firmly in place. “You seemed pretty invested a second ago.”
“All that fire… and still desperate to prove it belongs in the room.” he said evenly. Not loud or sharp. Almost casual.
The words hit before you could brace for them.
See, you and Azriel had never gotten along. Centuries of friction had seen to that. While you’d always maintained a pleasant relationship with the rest of the Night Court, the same had never been true of their spymaster.
From the moment he’d laid eyes on you, he’d decided he didn’t like you.
And so it began.
Maybe it was that you hailed from Autumn. Or who your progenitor was. Or that you’d followed your half-brother Lucien to Spring and worked under Tamlin. Or maybe it was none of those things. Maybe it was everything.
It had been too long to say for certain.
What mattered was this: if Azriel was going to be an ass, you’d hit back twice as hard.
That was the game. The unspoken rule of this strange little dynamic you shared. Barbs traded like blades, tension sharpened into something almost enjoyable. You’d even learned to look forward to the next encounter—wondered, distantly, how he’d try to provoke you this time.
But no matter how vicious the banter, how sharp the sparring, there had always been a line.
And until now, neither of you had crossed it.
The implication settled in anyway.
Bastard. Unwanted. Too much. Never enough.
You felt it anyway—sharp and fast—right beneath your ribs.
To be completely honest, you had heard worse.
You had grown up on cruelty—learned early how words could be sharpened. You had survived Beron’s house, the casual brutality of brothers who took pleasure in reminding you of where you stood.
You knew what real pain felt like.
And yet, this slid in beneath the armor. Found something unguarded.
Because it came from someone who knew. Someone who understood what it meant to be weighed, found lacking, and still expected to endure.
That was what made it burn.
Fuck this stupid, no-brain Illyrian brute and his sanctimonious bullshit. Fuck his need to feel superior by pretending restraint made him better than you. He didn’t get to talk about desperation. He didn’t get to talk about belonging. Not to you.
Fine.
If he wanted to bare his fangs, you could remind him you had teeth too.
So you smiled.
Wide. Lazy. Infuriating.
“That’s a lot of analysis for someone who claims not to care,” you replied coolly. “Should I be flattered, or is this just your hobby?”
His expression did not change but something behind his eyes did.
The moment the words left him, something in his chest locked down hard. Too late. He had meant to wound—yes—but not there. Not with that particular blade.
It was the kind of strike he recognized immediately.
A subtle shift. A tightening, as though he’d just realized the blow had landed harder than intended. As though he’d aimed for armor and struck bone instead.
You stepped back, rolling your shoulders, arrogance settling over you like a second skin. Polished. Untouchable.
“If I’m trying to prove I belong,” you said, “you’re doing an awful lot of watching for someone who’s already certain of his place.”
Mor’s brows lifted a fraction.
Cassian went quiet.
Azriel’s expression was blank, but his eyes searched your face with something sharp and unreadable—like he was checking for damage.
You gave him none.
You took a step closer, unhurried, smile still in place. Still elegant. Still bored.
“I’ll save you the effort,” you continued, voice smooth as glass. “I don’t need to prove I belong anywhere. I go where I’m useful—and where I’m wanted.”
A pause. Just long enough to let it sink in.
“And if that unsettles you,” you added lightly, “I suggest you stop standing so close to the fire.”
Silence dropped over the ring.
Cassian let out a low whistle under his breath.
For a heartbeat, he simply stood there, wings rigid at his back, shadows drawn in so tight they were nearly gone.
Then his gaze dropped. Not in submission.
In retreat.
He turned from you without another word, stepping off the mat with a precision that felt deliberate—controlled to the point of pain. His wings folded fully, tight to his body, as if to make himself smaller.
The shadows followed without hesitation.
By the time he reached the archway, they swallowed him whole.
Gone.
Cassian let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“Well,” he said at last, rubbing the back of his neck, his usual grin nowhere to be found. “That stopped being fun about three minutes ago.”
He glanced between the archway Azriel had vanished through and you, his expression unusually sober. “You two don’t fight like people who hate each other,” he added quietly. “That was… something else.”
Mor shot him a look, but didn’t contradict him.
You bent and picked up one of the daggers discarded near the edge of the mat.
Turned it once in your fingers.
Twice.
The leather-wrapped hilt creaked softly as you twisted it, slow and deliberate, the metal catching the sun. Your expression didn’t change. Still calm. Still bored.
“Don’t read into it,” you said lightly. “He runs his mouth. I hit back.”
Cassian opened his mouth—then closed it again.
“I gave my last fuck three centuries ago, he’s going to need a time machine to find it.”
You turned, sighted the nearest training dummy, and hurled the dagger.
It struck dead center. Buried to the hilt.
The echo rang sharp across the yard.
Cassian winced—not at the throw, but at the effortlessness of it. “Right,” he muttered. “Yeah. Totally fine.”
Mor approached with a faint smile, tilting her head and lowering her voice. “Lucien would be proud.”
You shrugged, rolling your shoulders like the exchange hadn’t lodged somewhere sharp and inconvenient beneath your ribs.
You snorted softly, shaking out your hands. “At least someone would be.”
Cassian shifted his weight, glancing toward the House. “So,” he said, carefully casual, “you staying for dinner, or…?”
You stilled.
Just for a breath.
Then you smiled again—smaller this time, crooked at the edges. “Tempting,” you said. “Truly. But I think I’ve had my fill of… intensity for one evening.”
Mor studied you for a heartbeat, too perceptive to miss the way your fingers flexed, then relaxed.
You rolled a shoulder. “Besides, that means I'd have to stay at Lucien's and I’d hate to impose on Elain and him right now. Newly mated bliss and all that.” A pause. A grimace. “I don’t think anyone needs to be subjected to that level of… enthusiasm.”
Cassian snorted despite himself.
“You could stay here, if you'd like”
“Nah, don’t worry,” you said, already retreating a step. “I think I’ll spare everyone my charming disposition tonight.” You glanced between them with a faint, apologetic smile, “please, tell Rhysand and Feyre I owe them a rain check. Same goes for Nesta—tell her I’ll make it up to her. I will finish that book, and I fully intend to argue about it properly when I’m not in the mood to throw someone off the cliff.”
Mor’s mouth curved, soft and knowing. “I’ll tell them.”
You nodded, relief flickering through you at not being pressed.
“Thanks,” you said. “For understanding.”
Cassian hesitated, then gave you a short nod. “Anytime.”
You didn’t linger.
Didn’t look back toward the archway.
You headed for the path leading away from the training ring, posture easy, steps unhurried—every inch the composed emissary, the female who never stayed anywhere she wasn’t certain she wanted to be.
Only once you were gone did Mor exhale.
And only then did Cassian mutter, “Yeah. That wasn’t about imposing.”
“Oh, you think?”
The House was warm tonight. Candlelight flickered across the polished wood of the dining table, turning glasses of wine into small pools of dark ruby. Conversation drifted easily between the others, light and unguarded in the way it often did when they were all together like this.
Across the table, Cassian was halfway through some ridiculous story about training earlier that week, his hands moving wildly as he spoke, nearly knocking over a goblet as he reenacted some dramatic moment. Rhys leaned back in his chair beside Feyre, shaking his head as Cassian embellished the story further, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward in quiet amusement.
Mor reclined with the loose elegance she wore like armor, swirling the wine in her glass while Emerie murmured something low into her ear that made her smile. Feyre listened with the kind of soft amusement she seemed to carry with her now, her elbow resting on the table as she watched Cassian’s performance with fond patience.
Elain passed a dish across the table without looking up, movements gentle and absentminded, as though she were listening more than watching.
It grated against the tight knot in Azriel’s chest.
He sat at the far end of the table, wings tucked tight behind him, jaw locked. He picked at the food on his plate without tasting it.
Nesta’s attention, however, remained fixed.
On him.
He could feel the heat behind that stare, so Azriel kept his gaze on his plate.
He told himself he’d had reasons.
Good ones.
He leaned into them as he sat there, shadows restless at his shoulders like they, too, were looking for somewhere to put the excess of him.
She was a risk. That hadn’t changed.
Autumn bred survivors who learned early how to weaponize charm…
Beron didn’t let weakness linger long in his court—especially not in bastards. His bastards. Anyone who made it out of there intact had learned how to bend without breaking, how to smile while calculating exits.
(Azriel had also learned that type of lesson in his own life.)
And she carried his blood.
He had every right to be cautious.
She was Beron’s blood.
She was Eris’s sister.
She had worked under Tamlin.
He lined the facts up in his mind like evidence, each one solid enough on its own.
No matter how far she ran from it, no matter how carefully she curated herself, that shadow followed. It always would.
Eris had learned to thrive in it. Beron had thrived because of it.
Azriel had every reason to believe she had learned something similar.
She questioned him. Pushed him. Refused to yield ground simply because he asked—or because he was Azriel. She challenged his calls, his instincts, his conclusions, and did it with that infuriating calm, that sharp intelligence that made it impossible to dismiss her as reckless or naive.
She didn’t defer. She never did.
Mother above and Cauldron saved him…she enjoyed it. Enjoyed needling him, watching him bristle, watching the shadows tighten. Enjoyed stepping into his space and refusing to flinch.
That alone was dangerous.
So yes—he told himself—calling it out had been necessary. Drawing a boundary. Reasserting distance. Ending a spar that had gone too far.
Except.
He hadn’t needed to say that.
The realization slid in slow and merciless.
He hadn’t needed to reach for implication. For worth. For belonging.
He hadn’t needed to touch blood at all.
He knew better.
Because he’d grown up with the word bastard lodged like a blade between his ribs.
Because he knew exactly how it felt when someone decided your survival was something you had to justify.
Azriel’s grip tightened on the fork again, metal biting into his palm.
He hadn’t said the word.
That was the lie he’d almost convinced himself of.
But he’d circled it. Named everything around it. Let it hover between them, sharp and undeniable.
And the worst part—the part he couldn’t excuse away—was that he’d done it because he knew it would land.
Because he knew she’d understand what he meant.
Because, for a split second, he’d wanted to see if she’d crack.
The thought sat ugly and unwanted in his chest as he stared down at his plate, appetite long gone. He’d been in a foul mood since he’d left the training ring earlier.
Cauldron boil him alive. Azriel knew he’d fucked up, ok?
He did not regret questioning her. He did not regret keeping distance.
But he found, to his irritation, that he regretted being the one to put that look in her eyes.
Across from him, Nesta’s fingers tapped once against the wood of the table. A small, deliberate sound.
He glanced up.
Her gaze was sharp. Assessing. Not neutral.
Cassian had told her.
Of course he had.
Nesta did not speak. She didn’t need to. Disapproval radiated from her like quiet heat.
Azriel held her stare for a moment—then looked away.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
He was angry. Mostly at himself.
Because he’d crossed a line he’d sworn long ago to never use against anyone else.
Fuck.
Azriel had said worse to enemies. He had cut deeper. Colder. Cleaner.
So why the hell was this sticking?
Azriel reached for his glass instead of his food.
He did not hate her. But he did not trust her. And for Azriel, that distinction mattered.
He had crossed a line he knew oh too well.
And tonight, as conversation drifted easily around the table and the House hummed with warmth, his thoughts slipped back uninvited to the training ring.
To the way she had stood there afterward.
Composed. Elegant. Untouched.
Beautiful.
The word slid into his mind with such quiet certainty that Azriel stilled, fingers tightening slightly around the stem of his glass.
Beautiful.
Not the obvious sort of beauty others noticed first—the bright smile, the quick laugh, the easy charm that seemed to follow her into every room.
The kind of beauty born of refusing to bend when someone expected you to.
Azriel took a slow drink of wine to bury the thought before it could root.
Across the table, Nesta’s fingers kept tapping against the wood. She had not taken a single bite of her food in several minutes, he noticed.
“You look miserable,” she said flatly.
Well, here we go, he thought with a bitter chuckle.
The bluntness of it made Cassian groan immediately, dragging a hand down his face as though physically pained.
“Cauldron boil me, Nes,” he muttered, glancing toward Rhysand as if hoping the High Lord might intervene.
She didn’t even glance at him. Her silver eyes remained locked on Azriel.
“What?” she said coolly. “He does.”
“We’re trying to have a pleasant dinner,” he said, though there was more amusement than irritation in his tone.
Nesta leaned back in her chair, folding her arms with the kind of languid confidence that suggested she was entirely unconcerned with anyone’s comfort but her own. “Then perhaps your brother shouldn’t sit there brooding like someone just kicked his dog.” Silver eyes cool and unimpressed.
Mor choked softly on her wine. She tried to hide it behind the rim of her glass, but the grin tugging at the corner of her mouth betrayed her.
“If you’re going to sulk,” she added, “at least do it somewhere else. The rest of us are trying to eat.”
Cassian scrubbed a hand over his face. “That’s… not helping.”
“I’m not trying to help,” Nesta replied.
Across the table, Elain finally looked up.
She had been quietly buttering a piece of bread, movements slow and delicate, as though she were arranging flowers rather than preparing food. But now her attention shifted to Azriel, her brown eyes thoughtful.
“She didn’t seem upset when she left,” Elain said softly. Her voice was gentle enough that most strangers might have missed it. No one at this table did.
There was no accusation in the words, just certainty.
Cassian shifted again, clearing his throat. “Look,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, “whatever happened in the ring—”
“It happened,” Nesta said.
Rhys had been silent through all of it, leaning back in his chair with a relaxed ease that fooled no one who knew him well. One arm draped over the back of Feyre’s chair, fingers idly tracing patterns against the wood as he watched the exchange unfold.
His violet gaze eventually settled on Azriel.
“She’s been doing this work for centuries,” Rhysand said at last, his tone was calm. Thoughtful. “And she’s very good at it.”
Azriel said nothing.
Rhysand continued, tone conversational. “She’s brokered more successful negotiations between courts than most diplomats manage in their entire lives. Kept peace talks from collapsing. Prevented trade disputes from turning into open hostility.”
Feyre nodded slightly beside him.
“And,” Rhys added, glancing toward her briefly, “she helped Feyre escape the Spring Court.”
Azriel’s shadows shifted.
Brave, they whispered.
Rhysand’s mouth curved faintly as he noticed.
“So forgive me,” the High Lord went on mildly, “if I find it somewhat puzzling that our spymaster still insists on treating her like a potential threat.” Rhysand watched the shadows grow restless at their master’s back, amused. “Especially,” he added lightly, “when you only seem to become this unpleasant after certain interactions.”
Cassian leaned forward on his elbows, a slow grin spreading across his face like sunrise over bad decisions. “What interactions?”
Rhysand’s mouth curved faintly. “The last council meeting, for example.”
Cassian leaned back in his chair, the grin turning positively feral. “The one with Summer and Dawn?”
“And Day,” Rhysand added smoothly.
Cassian snapped his fingers as understanding dawned fully across his face.
“Gods,” he said, glancing at Azriel with a shit-eating grin. “Cianan.”
Rhysand swirled the wine in his glass, watching the dark liquid catch the candlelight.
“If I recall correctly,” he said smoothly, “Summer’s emissary seemed rather… attentive to her.”
Cassian barked out a laugh. “Attentive? That male was flirting so hard I thought the poor fool might start writing poetry by the end of the meeting.”
Mor let out a soft, delighted laugh, leaning back in her chair as she swirled the wine lazily in her glass.
“Oh, he was absolutely flirting,” she said, a bright, mischievous smile spreading across her face. “And she handled it beautifully.”
She took a slow sip of her wine, clearly savoring the memory. A small, wicked smile tugged at her mouth as her gaze flicked briefly toward Azriel.
“I do enjoy watching a powerful male realize he’s completely outmatched.”
Azriel set his glass down.
Slowly.
The faintest twitch pulled at the muscle in his jaw before he smoothed his expression back into its usual impassive mask.
Rhysand observed the movement with open interest.
“And if my memory serves,” the High Lord continued, voice perfectly mild, “that was roughly the moment Azriel’s mood took a turn.”
Cassian leaned back, arms crossed behind his head now, grin unrepentant. “Took a turn?” he said. “It tanked.”
Nesta watched the exchange with open curiosity, clearly entertained now.
Azriel’s shadows tightened along the floor.
“You’re reaching,” he said.
Rhysand only smiled.
“Am I?”
He tilted his head slightly, studying Azriel the way he studied particularly interesting chess moves. “Or perhaps our brother simply doesn’t enjoy competition.”
Cassian snorted. “Oh, he hates competition.”
Azriel pushed his chair back. The scrape of wood against stone cut through the room.
“I’m done here.”
Cassian looked up at him, amusement written all over his face. “Already? Why leave so soon, brother?”
Azriel’s wings shifted tightly behind him.
“You’re talking nonsense,” he said flatly.
Cassian exchanged a look with Rhysand.
“Are we?” he asked innocently.
Rhys’s smile was subtle but unmistakable.
Azriel didn’t answer.
His shadows were already curling tighter around him, restless and agitated.
As he turned toward the doorway, Elain’s quiet voice followed him.
“She likes you, you know.”
Azriel paused.
Only for a heartbeat.
Behind him, Nesta snorted.
“That explains a lot,” she muttered.
Azriel left before anyone could see whether the words had made a dent in his armour.
His shadows followed him out of the dining room, restless and unsettled.
And Rhysand only watched him go with quiet, knowing amusement.
okay so maybe like reader has been a part of the inner circle for a looooong time like since the batboys were kids and they've all been friends forever, naturaly azriel has been in love with her since then, and a few years ago he realised they were mates (she doesn't know)
this one time she walks into the townhouse in just a bra and trousers, casually just walking in drinking coffee while the rhys and cass are just flabbergasted (cass being cass is eyeing the goods real hard because shes always been hot and he knows it) rhys is smirking and all (hes no less honestly)
then az walks in and hes just like what the fuck, she tries to explain smth happened to her shirt on the way and hes just grumbling and takes off his own shirt and is like put this own (cass is naturally making comments that make az's blood boil)
then you can choose where that goes from there
lmfaoooo im so sorry i couldn't get this idea out of my head
its okayyyy if you can't write it!!!
hi! sorry it took me so long to post but i've been really busy with university and only now have i had some free time.
anyway, here it is! thank you so much for this request, i loved writing it!
i hope you like it! 🫶🏻
my hero
azriel x reader | a small but very happy incident.
words: 2.2k
masterlist
tick
tack
tick
tack
"ugh," a heavy groan escaped your lips at the sound of the clock. you seated slightly, your head pounding without mercy.
as you looked at the window, your eyes fought against the early sunlight, before adjusting and finally allowing you to fully open them.
it took you a few seconds to remember your surroundings, and to be honest, to remember anything.
the confusion didn't last long when all the memories from last night hit you all at once.
you had gone out for the night with morrigan. you went to rita's for a girls night.
a night with a lot of drinking and dancing and singing and drinking again — mysterious headache solved.
you looked down on you, seeing the shiny short black dress you had chosen for last night specifically.
you passed your hands through your messy hair and took a glance at your bedroom, absorbing the chaos that a very drunk you had caused.
how could just a person cause such a mess?
tick
tack
tick
tack
"ugh!" a loud annoyed groan left your lips again
at the sound of the clock that kept attacking your brain.
before you could think twice, you turned and reached out to punch the clock, causing it to fall to the ground.
you lowered yourself on the bed sheets with an arm over your head.
this was going to be a very long day.
and that's when it you.
your eyes and two seconds later, your legs were fighting against the bed sheets.
after losing that battle, you ended up falling to the ground with a loud noise.
a small 'huff' came out of your mouth before getting up and running to the clock as quickly as possible to check the time.
10:07 am
"oh, shit."
you were late for your internship at the clinic.
"oh, shit."
you quickly begin to look for clean clothes at the same time you try to get rid of your dress.
you manage to find something that looked relatively clean and put it on, your heart racing as you tried to get your hair to not look like a complete mess.
when you finished putting your hair in a more presentable state, you hurried to put on your shoes, but when you noticed the time again, you only managed to put on a sock before grabbing the first pair of shoes in sight and running out of your room.
as you run for the stairs, you didn't have time to react before a body collided with yours and spilled coffee all over your t-shirt.
the hot contents against your skin forced you to let out a small scream and dropped the shoes to the floor as you struggled to pull the fabric of your t-shirt away from your body.
"shit, shit, shit!" you cursed at the same time you blew on your t-shirt.
great, as if your day wasn't already going badly.
"sorry," a small voice said.
you met your attacker's gaze as you looked up to see a beautiful female with green eyes and brown hair — morrigan's friend.
right, you had forgotten that she had come home with the two of you — with mor.
the female looked mortified as you stared at her annoyed. when you saw her opening her mouth to say something, you quickly stopped her.
"don't," you raised your hand at her, you didn't have time for this, "just. . .just go."
you pointed at morrigan's bedroom, whose door was slightly open. the female followed your direction, shrinking a little as she passed through you.
"idiot!" you cursed quietly.
you looked at your bedroom and considered your options: the chances that you may find a new clean t-shirt in the middle of that mess, were very low and you were already late.
so you gave up and made your way down the stairs, starting to unbutton your shirt before completely taking it off, leaving you in your black lacy bra, and entering the kitchen.
rhysand and cassian who had been enjoying a late breakfast found themselves speechless upon your entrance.
their gazes followed you as you moved to the sink and started working on removing the stain.
the males shared a gaze between them, identical smirks forming on both of their faces.
"good morning, y/n." rhysand greeted you as he took a sip of his tea cup.
you jumped startled, your eyes found theirs immediately, "gods, i didn't see you there."
rhysand's smirk grew wider. "oh, we know."
"did you get mugged?" cassian asked as he took in your figure.
you were barefoot with only one sock and shirtless.
"what?" you asked confused.
cassian's eyes roam over your body.
"oh, no, morrigan's friend though it was a good idea to spill her coffee all over me. freaking idiot," you murmured the last part, still focused on the task in hand.
cassian let out a snort "well, i'll make sure to thank her personally for this amazing view."
you rolled your eyes at his comment "oh, shut up, cassian. we grew up together, we've all seen each other naked at one point."
rhys smirked and grew before adding "sure, but we were either kids or teenagers at those times."
cassian glanced at his brother, amusement all over his features "maybe we should go back to those times."
with another roll of your eyes, you tried to suppress a smile at your friend's comment while trying to get rid of the stain.
as on cue, the shadowsinger entered the kitchen to join his brothers for breakfast.
instead, he was surprised with a view of you shirtless — his shirtless mate.
the very reason, rhys and cassian had begun to tease you in the first place.
what made this whole situation much funnier — the fact that you weren't aware of this detail.
and things had just become a lot more interesting now with azriel in the room.
his eyes widened at the sight of you but when he turned to find his brothers, his eyes darkened and a low growl was released.
"nice of you to join us, brother," cassian said casually as he leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest.
he can practically feel the heat coming off of azriel, like smoke coming out of his ears.
"what's wrong, az?" rhys asked him, knowing exactly what was going on but seeing azriel riled up was too funny to miss it.
at the sound of their voices, you looked up and your eyes found a pair of hazel ones.
"oh, hi, azriel." you greeted him with your sweet smile — the one he liked so much.
the shadowsinger found himself melting at your words, at the way you said his name.
his eyes instantly softed, a small blush coming to his cheeks and a goofy smile on his lips, "h-hi, y/n."
you gave him a warm smile before going back to your task.
azriel regained his composure at the sound of his brothers' muffled laughter.
he sighed and rolled his eyes at their behavior, he hadn't catched a break from them since he revealed the mating bond on one drunken night.
cassian elbowed rhys gently in the ribs to get his attention, when his eyes found his, the general gestured with his head to the shadowsinger.
"hey, az" cassian tried to contain his urge to laugh, he knew what was about to happen.
"what?" azriel managed to say, his eyes still on your figure.
"we were just talking. . ." cassian started, his voice teasing "about going back to those times when we were teenagers."
azriel face scrunched in confusion, he shot his brother a look.
"you know," cassian continued, his peripheral vision caught rhys trying to control himself "those times where we didn't care about being naked in front of each other."
both rhys and cassian snorted at the sight of azriel's face turning red.
"what?!" the male let out a little too loud then he had intended.
rhys proceeded, "yeah, you know. when we didn't care so much about formalities. don't you agree, y/n?"
you rolled your eyes again at rhys comment, "i think you two have too much free time" you chuckled, "cauldron has mercy on the poor females that will ended up as your mates."
"hey!" both cassian and rhys protested.
azriel smiled at your comment, but it fell when he observed both of his brothers eyes roaming over your body, grins splattered on their features.
azriel moved to the edge of the table, placing his hands on the surface of it before giving them a glare and clenching his jaw.
"stop looking at her like that before i break your faces" he threatened through gritted teeth.
cassian and rhys were quick to lift their arms in surrender, both muttering a small "yes, sir."
azriel rolled his eyes in annoyance. his attention was caught when he heard you cursed quietly.
he sent one last warning look to the two males before moving to stand behind you.
he was so close, that all it took was another step of his for your back to be pressed against his chest.
azriel would love to know the feeling of that sensation, but he remained where he was.
he peeked through your shoulder and saw that you couldn't get rid of the annoying coffee stain.
"gods, madja is going to kill me for being late."
without a second thought, azriel took a step back.
"here," he told you.
you turned to find him taking off his own shirt.
your eyes roamed his body — his sun-kissed skin, his muscles, his illyrian tattoos.
you loved those tattoos.
"put it on," he extended his hand to you, holding out his shirt.
"oh, that's not necessary, az. i-"
"it's okay, y/n. i- i want you too. by the way, why don't you go get your shoes and i'll take you to the clinic? it's quicker that way and you don't have to walk."
your face softened, "really? you would do that?"
the corner of his lips lifted for a small smile, only you to make him feel this way.
"of course."
you grabbed his shirt, "ugh, thank you, az."
you put it on and azriel tried to not let the sight of your small feature into his too big of a shirt to affect him, but he failed when his heart skipped a beat.
you moved forward and grabbed his cheeks, kissing him on the left one.
caught off guard, azriel tried to hide the fact that his skin had heated up under your touch.
a new blush came to decorate his cheeks.
"hm. . .i-" the male couldn't find his words with the sound of his heart roaming in his ears.
"you're my hero, az" you gave a big smile before making your way to the stairs to collect your shoes.
azriel stood there in the middle of the kitchen with a hand making it's way to his face to touch the place you kissed him.
cassian and rhys burst out laughing, not being able to remain composed of their brother in love.
cassian got up from his seat and walked towards his brother, clasping a hand on his back.
"behold of the big bad scary shadow-," cassian leaned over in laughter, "shadowsinger" he managed to complete.
rhys appeared on his other side, "oh, brother. only if your enemies could see you now, they would think how big of a fool they are."
azriel clenched his jaw again, and when he turned to answer them, he was stopped by a honey-sweet voice.
"i'm ready," you told him from the entrance.
once again, the shadowsinger was left completely disarmed.
a goofy smile reappeared on his face.
he didn't even spare a glance at his brothers before making his way to you, "let's go then."
cassian and rhys were left in the kitchen laughing to themselves.
•••
the trip to the clinic was quick.
azriel landed softly on the ground, keeping a hand on your waist and another on your back to make sure you were stable.
you took a step forward before turning to him.
"thank you again, az. you literally just saved my morning."
and there it was that goofy smile again.
"oh, it's nothing really. my pleasure."
you let out a small giggle. you reached forward, surrounding his neck with one of your arms and gave him a kiss on the cheek again.
azriel's heart raced and his voice caught in his throat.
you took a step back "you're my hero, azriel. what would i do without you?"
you caressed his cheek with the back of your hand before giving him one last smile and moving towards the clinic.
"hm, i-" was all the male managed to say while watching you entering the clinic with his shirt.
he watched as you grabbed the door, and turned to him to wave goodbye.
azriel returned the gesture. it was at that moment that he realized how much power you had over him.
he didn't push away that feeling, in fact he embraced it.
it was about time to let the walls he had built so long ago disappear.
and you were the right person for that.
azriel made a decision at that moment.
at the end of the day, he would come pick you up and ask you out on a date.
he would buy you flowers, tell you how he felt and take you to dinner.
Summary: You just moved to Hawkins to be with your sister Max but instead you stumble into a weird group of friends. And one of them particularly catches your attention.
Words: 1.5k
Warnings: none really. just fluff and a heart eyed Steve Harrington.
__________________
Two weeks.
It's been exactly two weeks since you moved to Hawkins to live with your family again. Two weeks since you met your little sister's strange friends who resembled a gang of crazy puppies. Max had never mentioned on the phone that she had found a real village of friends here.
However, she had not even mentioned that she had friends who were older than her. You had already met Nancy and Jonathan a few days ago, but it had taken exactly two weeks before you first saw Steve.
"If that's not the Chaos Crew. Whatever you want, do it quickly I still have to ...", Steve stopped from his preach and stared at the kids with his mouth open. Well, not really the kids. You.
A shy smile pulled at the corners of your mouth and it was difficult for you to interrupt eye contact, but nervously you look away.
“We're here to pick a movie, Dingus. What else?" Dustin rushed into the video store as if it belonged to him.
A girl looked out between the corridors. "The only one who can call Dingus Dingus is me, Dude."
Dustin made a throwaway gesture and threw himself on the videotapes in aisle three. Will, Mike and Eleven spread out in the store as if they were on a mission and they had the task of securing the environment.
You turn to your sister. "Are your friends always like ...?"
"Crazy? Yes, and that was nothing.” Max took her boyfriend Lucas by the hand. "Come on Don Juan, let's look for snacks."
And you were already standing alone at the counter of the video store. In front of you Steve, who leaned more awkwardly than casually on the counter and looked at you silently. You couldn't deny that he was probably the most handsome boy you'd ever seen. There was something about him that made your stupid heart beat faster immediately.
"Well," he cleared his throat as if he had heard your thoughts. Immediately your cheeks got hot. "I uh- Steve. My name. Uh - you know.”
Steve narrowed his eyes as if he was suddenly feeling physical pain.
You had to smile. “That your name is Steve? Yes, I know that.”
He faltered. Panic in the eyes. “Whatever the little shitheads said about me, it's all a lie. I also have older friends, I swear.” While still babble, Steve lifted himself over the counter and swung his legs to your side. He kicked over a stand and some videotapes. "Shit."
At the same time you bend down to pick up the tapes from the floor. You reach for an edition of Back to the Future and pause when his hand accidentally touches yours. Your gaze shot up to him and only now did you notice how close you were. But none of you seemed to want to change it.
"They didn't say anything bad about you," your voice was much quieter than intended, as if you wanted to tell him a secret.
Steve's gaze darted over your face. "What?"
"All they said was that you work here and can handle a baseball bat."
Steve grinned. "Yes, thats true indeed."
"And one of those shitheads is my sister. You don't have to justify yourself, because I've spent the last two weeks with her and her friends."
A thoughtful look and then Steve tilted his head. “Two weeks, huh? You've been here for two weeks and none of the little idiots said a word? Max could have mentioned that she has such a ... a sister. That's almost criminal.” He collected the rest of the scattered tapes and straightened up again. You do the same.
“In her defense, I was pretty busy unpacking. It's strange how a whole life fits in just a few boxes.” You handed him the stand and when he reached for it, your hands touched again. This time it seemed less accidental than before and the thought chased goosebumps over your skin.
Pull yourself together. You just met him. Jeez.
“So you're staying? You know. In Hawkins?” He swallowed and a small glimmer of hope made his eyes light up.
You nod. "Looks like it, yeah."
Steve smiled and the butterflies in your stomach did somersaults. Your thoughts went to the question of how it would feel to kiss that smile. Or how his hair would feel between your fingers. Or how much you would have to tiptoe to reach his lips, because he towered over you by at least a head.
"Hey! Steve ... the man back there gives smoke signals right away if you ignore him even longer," cried the girl with the short hair from corridor three. "Get your ass moving, Dingus."
Steve cleared his throat and nodded frantically with an embarrassed expression on his face. “Yep. Great timing. Wonderful.” He apologized and went to the waiting customer.
"So you're Max's sister?" the girl asked. "I'm Robin."
You introduce yourself to her. "Nice to meet you, Robin. And yes Max is my sister. I just moved here."
"My condolences," she murmured.
You shake your head. "No reason for that. I think this city here is exactly to my taste." Stealthily, you glance over at Steve and notice that he is already watching you and pretending to listen to the customer attentively. You quickly look away again and Robin smiled knowingly.
"That's going to be awesome! Hey," Max and Eleven stepped to your side. “We have chosen a few movies and are equipped with snacks to the top. Let's go!”
Robin set out to collect the tapes and snack packs and Steve seemed to take that as a sign to end his conversation as quickly as possible. Your heart made a little jump as he stepped to your side again.
"You're leaving again?" he asked the group.
Dustin frowned. "Yeah, we're gone again. Don't worry, we have better things to do than watch you work, Din..." Robin interrupted him with a warning tone. "Whatever. Bye!"
The kids grabbed the captured tapes and made their way to the door. Steve gestured silently, as if he was looking for words but just couldn't find any. Just as you were about to join the others, Robin sighed theatrically.
“Ugh... We're off in half an hour. Steve and I are coming to your movie night.”
Steve stiffened next to you, giving the exact image of you. Your shoulders tightened from a mixture of excitement and the feeling of having been caught.
"Do you really want to watch movies about aliens with us?" Will asked and held up the tape to Alien.
Robin seemed to regret her words. “Yep. Aliens. Wouldn't want to miss it.”
The kids nodded in consent and left the store. Robin turned away conspicuously inconspicuously and once again you and Steve were among yourself.
His brown eyes literally shone and his smile was incredibly contagious. "Then uh then we'll see each other later. Right?"
You nod grinning. "Right."
You say goodbye with an awkward wave and with a quick step you follow your sister and her friends. You could feel his gaze following you outside. But only when the glass door fell into the lock behind you, you dare to take a quick look over your shoulder. You could just see in time how Robin turned to Steve, who stared at her like a little child who had Santa Claus in person in front of him. You couldn't read lips, but Robin seemed to say very clearly something like: You owe me!
Sorry, blackthorns as a concept are so gothic. What do you mean there are a bunch of orphaned kids with dark hair, pale skin, and creepy/mesmerizing blue eyes? What do you mean the oldest is constantly drugging his uncle to keep him sane? What do you mean the uncle is a raving lunatic hidden in the attic who befriends vampires and is weirdly obsessed with the ancient history/myths his family is named after? What do you mean the only Blackthorns who don’t have startlingly dark hair are half faerie, smelling of the wild woods, with horrible knowledge, and ears like knives? What do you mean they’ve looked the same for the last 200 years? What do you mean a villain is trying to hunt them for their blood? What do you mean they listen to the raging sea on stormy nights? What do you mean they wake up every day to see their brother wearing the face of the father he killed?
summary: 4 times you and Steve find yourselves acting as parents for the party, and the one time you act like a couple
pairing: steve harrington x fem!(byers)reader
word count: 8k
warning(s): some swears, plot inaccuracies, definitely canon divergent (please don't come for me), highly unedited, I wanted to write something fun but I honestly feel like it's really jumbled and not great so I apologize for the poor writing (I'm still kind of getting back into it)...
a/n: another 4 + 1, who could’ve guessed? they really seem to be what I always go back to. This one is a little (more than a little) fluffier and lighthearted than my last steve fic...hopefully y'all enjoy! Feedback and comments are always highly appreciated <3
• ж • ж •
I. D&D Danger
The Wheeler's basement smells like old carpet mixed with the faint chemical tang of permanent markers from Mike’s countless D&D maps. Whatever pizza the boys had abandoned two hours ago left the air with a fading scent of pepperoni and melted cheese. Strings of mismatched Christmas lights are hung along the walls—Will’s doing, of course—casting the whole room in a warm, patchwork glow.
You sit cross-legged near the old record player, flipping through a borrowed, totally not stolen box of Jonathan’s carefully labeled cassettes, trying to decide between The Clash or the Talking Heads. The boys had been playing D&D for hours, their voices rising and falling in bursts of excitement. The girls had decided to have a sleepover at Hopper’s—no boys allowed, they’d specified. But with no one else around to supervise, that left you responsible for your brother and his three best friends.
For this campaign Will was the Dungeon Master, and it was Mike’s turn to make a move. While he pondered his options, for a blissful moment, everything was quiet.
Then it wasn’t.
“MIKE, you can’t just skip the traps!” Dustin barks, slamming his palms on the table so hard the character sheets flutter.
Mike leans back in his chair, arms crossed with the dramatic flair of a teen boy convinced he was right. “I’m not skipping them. I’m strategically avoiding them.”
Lucas throws his pencil down. “That’s literally the definition of skipping.”
“It is not–”
“Yes it is!” Lucas responds with a mature indignation you knew only he was capable of making look cool. On Dustin, it would come across whiny and petulant.
“No, it’s not—”
“It is!” Lucas insists once again. He wasn’t about to back down, especially not to Mike.
Will’s voice comes out small, drowned beneath the storm. “Guys, can we just—”
No one hears him.
You sigh, setting down the cassette you’d been holding. Here we go again. You stand and brush dust off your jeans, already halfway to the table when the basement door creaks open.
Boots thud down the old wooden stairs.
“Hey, uh, sorry I’m late,” Steve calls, shaking the cold from his body as he descends. He holds a paper bag in one hand. “I brought ice cream.” Even though it’s freezing outside, ice cream really does sound great right about now.
You steal a glimpse of him as your gaze locks on his figure. Steve’s hair, impossibly thick and wild, catches Will’s Christmas lights like a halo of soft brown waves. His eyes, warm and alert, flick around the room, half in amusement, half in exasperation, and his jawline carries that mix of boyish softness and emerging sharpness that makes him impossible to ignore.
The denim jacket on his shoulders is worn in all the right places, sleeves casually rolled, and his sneakers are scuffed but perfectly comfortable, like they’d barely survived the walk from his car to the front door. His every movement has an easy confidence, that subtle sway of someone who could be both reckless and dependable at the same time.
He freezes when he reaches the bottom step. So do you.
The boys are mid-argument, halfway standing, voices overlapping. You’re standing with your arms half-crossed in irritation. And without even thinking, without even meaning to, you and Steve both plant your feet, cross your arms, and give the exact same unimpressed stare.
Identical and perfectly mirrored.
“Hey, hey!” Your voice calls in a chastising manner. “Knock it off.” You say firmly.
“Knock it off,” Steve echoes at the exact same time, nearly a fraction of a second apart. You both look menacing and parental and totally in tune with each other.
The table goes dead silent and all four boys stare with wide, unnerved eyes.
Will blinks, slow and owl-like. “Did you guys just…”
Mike’s jaw hangs open. “That’s creepy.”
Lucas leans forward as if studying a strange new species. “Oh my god,” he shudders, “they’re synchronized, like they’re one person.”
Dustin points dramatically. “You two spend so much time together you’re starting to sound the same.”
Heat rushes across your face, spreading onto your cheeks, just now realizing how close you are to Steve. You drop your arms like they’re on fire. “We are not—we didn’t coordinate that.”
Steve’s face flushes with embarrassment. “Yeah, that wasn’t— I mean, we didn’t— it’s just a coincidence shitheads…"
“No one said it wasn’t,” Dustin’s tone carries teasingly, grinning like Christmas came early.
You agree, gesturing between yourself and Steve, “Right.” You affirm. “A coincidence.”
“Uh-huh,” Lucas responds flatly.
Will tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “You guys kind of do that a lot.”
Your stomach does a weird little flip. “Do what?”
“Act like parents,” Mike says, not even trying to cushion it.
You nearly choke on your own breath. “Parents?” Being a babysitter you could get behind, even being an older sibling figure is something you’d expected. But a parent? Absolutely not…you don’t act like one.
Steve doesn’t like the warmth that fills his chest at the implication. “Okay, wow—okay—nope. No. We’re— that’s— absolutely not what’s happening.”
“Totally,” Dustin adds cheerfully, “full on married couple, mom and dad energy right there.”
“Excuse me?” You and Steve blurt in unison again.
This time, the kids don’t hold back before losing it. Mike slaps the table in sheer amusement at your expense. Lucas simply doubles over wheezing. Will hides a smile behind his hand, and Dustin practically vibrates with smugness. It’s written all over his expression, got ya.
You press both palms to your face in exasperation. “Oh my god.”
Steve leans closer to you, lowering his voice while the boys cackle. “They’re doing this on purpose, y’know? They like to see us riled up.”
“They’re evil,” you whisper back.
“We can hear you,” Lucas cuts in with a sly grin.
Dustin gestures proudly between the two of you. “We’re right here.”
Steve's posture straightens, blowing out a breath before attempting to regain control. “Look—just—can you assholes get back to your campaign before I lose the last bit of sanity keeping me alive?”
“Language,” you blurt automatically, pointing at him like a scolding mother. It’s a habit you’d picked up from being around Dustin’s fowl mouth so much.
Steve stares at you, wide-eyed. “Did you just mom-voice me?”
The boys almost howl in laughter and Mike nearly slides right off his chair. You feel your ears burning. “I did not mom-voice you.”
Steve raises a brow, mouth tugging into a teasing, lopsided grin. “You totally did.”
“I did not.”
“It was kinda hot,” He mutters, so quietly you almost question whether you heard it.
Your heart plummets into your shoes. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Nothing,” Steve says immediately, voice slightly too loud and too serious. “S’just a figure of speech.”
Across the table, the boys all exchange glances, eyebrows wiggling, smirks forming. The kind of smirks that make you want to lock them in the Upside Down for an hour.
You glare. “If you tell anyone about this, I swear—”
“We won’t,” Will promises sweetly.
“We absolutely will,” Dustin corrects, grinning.
You groan, dramatically dropping onto the couch like the world had betrayed you.
Steve walks over and gently nudges your knee with his. “You okay?” he asks, voice softer than before. “They’re… um… a lot.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “Believe me. I know.”
He offers a crooked, warm smile—the one he only does when he thought no one else was paying attention. “For what it’s worth… I like when we’re on the same team.”
Your chest tightens again, pleasantly, confusingly.
You look up at him and he looks back at you. And for a brief, suspended moment, the chaos of the basement falls away. The glow of the string lights warms Steve’s face. And the two of you feel oddly, undeniably in sync.
Will’s voice breaks the moment, soft but hopeful: “Um… can we keep playing now?”
You and Steve answer instinctively, perfectly in time: “Sure.”
Another round of laughs erupts from the table. But neither of you corrected it. They were never going to let you live this down.
• ж • ж •
II. The Group Project
Outside, dusk settles over the yard in deep purples and soft peach streaks, turning the kitchen windows into reflective glass. Indoors, the overhead light casts a warm glow across the clutter —half-finished meals pushed aside, a pile of school mail crumpled on the counter, and one lone sock that definitely didn’t start the day where it ended up.
Tonight was supposed to be simple.
The plan—your plan—was to spend a quiet Wednesday finishing a book you’d been putting off. Maybe make some tea. Maybe listen to music. Maybe not referee any disasters for at least a few hours.
But fate, apparently, had other ideas.
Because at nearly 7pm there’s a frantic, uneven knock at the Byers’ front door followed by Dustin’s unmistakable voice calling, “(Y/n), open up!”
You don’t even get a chance to answer. Will opens the door instead, and Dustin barrels in like he’s fleeing wolves.
“We need help with a project,” He announces, breathless like he sprinted the whole way. His curls are wind-tangled, his jacket is half-zipped, and his cheeks flushed from the cold.
Before you can even speak, he’s dumped the contents of his bag onto the table in an academic explosion: glue sticks with bitten caps, an avalanche of loose papers, two crushed Twizzlers, and what looks dangerously like a frog diagram Will did last year.
Will appears behind him, looking apologetic. “Sorry,” he says. “He got…excited.”
Lucas trudges in next with the exhausted despair of a man going to war. “This project is killing us.”
You raise your eyebrows, you know for a fact this project isn’t due until later this week. “It’s Wednesday.”
“Exactly,” Lucas says, dropping into a chair like he’s accepted death. “It’s basically due tomorrow.”
“It’s actually due Friday,” Will mumbles.
Lucas waves a hand. “Same difference.” Unlike the others, Lucas has never been one to procrastinate. He prefers to be ahead of schedule.
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “So what exactly do you need help with?”
“History presentation,” Dustin says. “We need a poster. A good one. Like, award-winning. Like the kind of poster people applaud for.”
You blink slowly. “You don’t get applause for school posters.”
“You do,” Dustin says gravely, “if you do them right.”
Before you can sigh again, the door opens again, and Steve pokes his head inside. He steps cautiously into the kitchen, shaking off his jacket, eyes scanning the room with the practiced alarm of the seasoned babysitter he is.
“Hey! Am I late? I came as soon as I heard—” His gaze falls on the table. “Oh. Wow. That’s… a lot of paper.”
You cross your arms, mildly begrudged and equally curious. “Why are you here?”
“Lucas told me you might need backup.” He shrugs, lifting a grocery bag with the confidence of a man who believes snacks can solve anything. “Plus, I brought provisions.”
He unloads chips, pretzels, Capri Suns, and a box of brownies like he’s setting up camp. And the boys look at him the way baby ducks look at the first thing they see.
Steve beams like he’s been handed a trophy. You fold your arms. “So you’re helping too?”
He shrugs with a grin that is far too casual to be accidental. “Just in case.”
Dustin takes a bite out of one of the brownies, sending you a toothy grin as he does it. He passes one each to Will and Lucas with glee. “This,” Dustin announces, “is why Steve is allowed to come to group projects.”
Steve salutes him. “Glad to be of service man.”
Within minutes, the dining table turns into a chaotic workshop, an island of absolute academic activity. Will is sorting his pencil crayons by shade like you knew he would and Lucas, well, Lucas is fighting and losing against a glue stick cap that refuses to open.
You pull the poster board to the center. Spreading it out, you smooth its surface with your palms. It’s cool and stiff under your hands — blank and expectant.
Dustin’s voice whispers a quiet shit, shit, shit, as a tin of glitter spills on his pants. He stands, dusting it off onto the floor. You chuckle and sigh, shaking your head in bemusement, that’ll be a clean up problem for later.
“Okay,” you say, ready to begin. “Let’s get started. We’ll keep it simple. Neat. Clear.”
You tuck your knees under the chair you’re sitting on and lean forward, sketching the first pencil guidelines. The familiar pressure of graphite scraping paper grounds you; it’s something you can control.
Steve wanders to your side, pulling a chair next to yours. He doesn’t lower himself gently, he drops into it with that boyish clumsiness he pretends he doesn’t have, the seat legs squeaking across the floor.
He sits next to you — right next to you, close enough that your elbows brush every time you shift — and he tries to look like he understands what’s happening.
He doesn’t. At all. He hasn’t completed a school project like this in years. You try not to think about how close he is, but you fail immediately. He smells like winter air and the faint cologne he uses only when he’s trying to impress a girl. It’s warm with something sweet pulling at its edges.
He picks up a pencil and squints at the page of instructions. “So, uh…what’s this part?”
“That’s the rubric,” you reply.
“Right. Right. Of course.” He nods confidently. Then lowers his voice. “What’s a rubric again?”
You bite back a smile. “It’s just the grading guide.”
“Oh.” He leans back slightly. “Yeah, I totally knew that.”
“No you didn’t,” Will says without looking up.
“Didn’t ask for your input, Wizard Boy.” From anyone else, you might have taken offence on your brother’s behalf, but Steve has this teasing rapport with each of the kids—it’s easy and heartwarming.
Will just rolls his eyes and keeps colouring.
You slide a reindeer-shaped eraser toward Steve. “Here. For morale.”
He accepts it solemnly. “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”
A few minutes pass in silence as each of you work diligently on your parts. Honestly, you’re kind of having fun; getting back into the groove of a school project reminds you of your own time in high school. It wasn’t always the best, but it brought you closer to Steve. Despite hailing from very different social groups, trauma had bonded you together in a way you’d never have expected. The upside down feels distant in this moment, and that in itself feels nice.
You’re sketching out the title letters when you feel Steve lean closer, his arm brushing yours again.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Can you… uh… help me with this?”
You look over. He’s struggling with the scissors, fingers covered in a light coating of glue. He’s stuck.
You blink slowly, staring at him with a soft smile.
“Steve.” You snort.
He grins, embarrassed but charmingly so, and nudges your knee with his under the table.
“C’mon, don't laugh” he says softly. “I feel stupid.”
“You’re not stupid.” You tap the poster board sending him a lopsided grin. “You just, look a little sticky.”
Standing to grab a wash cloth from your kitchen counter, you wet it slightly. “Here,” you say, taking Steve’s hand in yours, careful not to cut yourself with the scissor’s blades. You help Steve, guiding his hand free once the glue has been successfully wiped away.
The kids notice that change in the room. They absolutely notice. A fresh, nervous energy fills the air.
Lucas nudges Will. Will raises an eyebrow, and Dustin smirks knowingly like he’s in on some grand romantic conspiracy.
Steve eyes Dustin carefully, as if to say not a word, not ONE word. But Dustin doesn’t care, he’s more than happy to watch his friend fall apart at a simple touch from your hand on his. The curly haired teen bites the inside of his cheek trying not to comment—and failing, whispering something like they’re so obvious.
You pretend not to notice.
Another bout of silence falls amongst the group, settling with your dissipating nerves. Each of you agrees, you want to get this done as efficiently as possible, even if it doesn’t seem like it. Now, you’re busy shading the title letters — your hand resting naturally close to Steve’s
Just when the chaos seems manageable, Joyce wanders by carrying a basket of folded laundry. She stops and takes one long look at the table. Her brown eyes take in the scene piece by piece: You leaning in, fingers smudged with pencil dust, and Steve beside you, shoulders angled inward as if drawn to your orbit. Your hands brush each time one of you reaches for a marker.
Joyce watches as the boys work with suspicious innocence. Five Capri Suns sit next to each other, straws already poked in.
A subtle, knowing smile touches her face — warm, gentle, approving. “Oh,” she says, lingering just a heartbeat too long, “you two look cute working together.”
The room freezes. Steve inhales sharply, feeling caught. He blinks unnaturally hard like someone hit pause on his brain. Your eyes widen, sending a glare her way that says: Mom, get out. Joyce simply glides out of the room without clarifying or apologizing, leaving behind the smoldering embarrassment of the interrupted moment you totally weren’t having.
By the time the project is almost done, the boys have stopped doing much of anything, letting you and Steve finish their work for them.
Steve is helping you outline the final border — or at least trying to — his shoulder brushing yours in a way that feels intentional now. He holds the ruler, his long fingers guiding him as he traces the final touches. He leans in a little closer, voice dropping to something low and warm.
“You know,” he nods at the poster. “At this rate, we’re basically co-parenting a school project.”
Your cheeks warm at the thought. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” His tone is soft, teasing but honest underneath. “We make a pretty good team, don’t we?”
You freeze for half a second. Just half. And you try to focus, you really really do, but he’s just so distracting.
The house is suddenly very quiet. The distance between you and Steve is small, just a few inches, maybe less but the air shifts, humming with an almost-something neither of you has been brave enough to name. And Steve is watching you, not in the big, bold way he sometimes does, but softly, like he’s asking a question he already knows the answer to.
You swallow. Then you snatch the ruler from his grasp and jab it into his chest.
“Focus, Harrington.”
He laughs under his breath. It’s low, sweet, and the sound slides right under your ribs.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Sure thing Byers.”
But he doesn’t move away.
And neither do you.
• ж • ж •
III. Mad Max
The call comes just after sunset, the hour when Hawkins shifts from blue to violet, when houses glow with warm windows and the ravens call loudly enough to fill the cracks of silence. You’re drying the last dish when the phone rings again. Will grabs it before you do, the cord stretching across his chest like a lifeline.
You can tell it’s one of those calls by the way his face changes—brow pinched, lips pressed thin, eyes flicking toward you.
“It’s Steve,” he says, voice tight, eyes wide and anxious. “Max ran off. Again.”
Your stomach drops. There’s a small, tight pull in your chest. It’s not fear, definitely not panic—just that familiar weight of here we go, mixed with the tug you always feel whenever the kids need you. You suppose it’s a familiar responsibility that comes from loving too many people too much.
You’re grabbing your jacket before you even realize it. Will isn’t surprised. He doesn’t have to ask; he just steps aside to let you pass.
And when you finally step outside, the cool night air hits your skin—crisp like late autumn and early winter should be, carrying the scent of dry leaves and woodsmoke. And there he is.
Steve, leaning against his car, fiddling with his gloves. His hair is wind-tousled, his cheeks flushed, his hands jittery with too much adrenaline and too little direction. He looks up the second you appear.
Relief floods his entire expression.
“You came,” he breathes out, like he was half afraid you wouldn’t.
“You called.” You affirm. As if there’d be a time when you could say no to him. Like you’d ever not show up.
When you finally get a good look at him, you notice there’s worry in his eyes. And underneath it—because you’ve learned to read him—there’s this fear that he’ll mess this up. He doesn’t say anything, just unlocks the car and you slide in, the familiar smell of pine car freshener wrapping around you.
As he pulls away, he keeps glancing over at you with these quick, jittery cuts of his eyes on you like he needs to make sure you’re actually there.
“She just—she took off,” he mutters, voice clipped. “Lucas said something, and then she was gone, and I—” He swallows hard. “I don’t know if she’s mad, or scared, or both. Jesus probably both.”
You touch his arm lightly, grounding him. “She’s not running from you, Steve.”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t believe you yet.
He drives the two of you in complete silence for a while before coming to a stop on the edge of the woods. You find yourselves at an entrance to a trail you know Max likes, one she uses when she just needs to get away.
“You ready?” You ask Steve with a soft smile. He doesn’t respond, too caught up in his thoughts to speak. He simply nods and takes your hand in his. It’s grounding…for both of you, in a way that usually would spark a kind of nervous energy. But right now, it’s exactly what Steve needs.
As evening clings to the forest trail like a heavy blanket, it's cast in a half-shadow, half-silver moonlight state. The air is cool and smells of pine needles and damp earth as the last bit of violet sky filters through the branches.. Steve’s flashlight cuts through the shadows as you both walk, the beam slicing through the trees like thin, trembling fingers.
The crunch of frozen soil under your feet fills the silence between you.
“She could be anywhere,” Steve mutters. His shoulders are tight, a helm of anxiety written all over him.
You can feel Steve’s worry, almost like it’s a physical heat pouring off him. He’s walking too fast, scanning everything, body coiled like he’s ready to fight whatever hurts the people he cares about.
You’ve seen that look before. In the Upside Down, in hospital rooms, in quieter nights like this.
“She shouldn’t have to deal with this alone,” he murmurs as if it’s his fault she ran. “None of them should.”
But you hear the real fear beneath it: I should’ve kept her safe. I should’ve noticed sooner. I should’ve been enough.
In the years you’ve grown to know Steve, he’s always held himself to an insurmountable standard. It’s one that he would never expect from anyone else but himself. He has to be ready for anything at any time from anyone. And he has to be able to take it on alone. That’s one of the things you’re trying to break down—this need to fix everything by himself. You’ve tried countless times to tell him I’m here too. Sometimes you think you’re getting through to him…this isn’t one of those moments. But you’d be damned if you stopped trying.
After a few minutes of more silent sulking, you hear something familiar: the uneven scrape of wheels on the dirt. You follow the sound around a bend, and there she is, sitting at the edge of the tree trunk with her skateboard on her lap like a shield.
Her chin is tucked to her chest, knuckles white on the board's underside.
“Red?” You murmur softly, easing down beside her. You approach slowly, like you’re nearing a cornered animal, because in some ways, you are.
Max sniffles once, but doesn’t look up. In Max-language, that means: I’ll talk, just not yet.
“Hey,” you continue, leaning in closer beside her. The ground is cold through your jeans. “Want to tell me what happened?”
She shrugs, nails digging into the underside of her skateboard. You can see the tension coiled in her shoulders. Her body language betrays her, anger, shame, frustration, hurt all tangled up.
“It was stupid,” she mutters.
“If it made you feel this bad,” you glance at her with a sympathy for her pain, “it wasn’t stupid Max.”
She shakes her head in slight protest before muttering, “The boys were just being idiots,”
Behind you, Steve hangs back, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, pretending he’s not desperately listening while also desperate to give space. His hands rest on his hips and his eyes don’t leave her for a second.
“They wouldn’t stop arguing, I just felt like I couldn’t control anything.” Max finally says. “And then Lucas said I didn’t need to be so dramatic. And Mike got all Mike about it. So I left. Before I yelled…or cried.”
The last word breaks. Just slightly. “I don’t know,” she continues, “I figured they wouldn’t even notice I was gone.”
You give her a look. “You know they notice everything you do.”
Max kicks a pebble, hard. “Yeah, well… I didn’t want them to see me cry.”
That slices clean through you. You bump her shoulder gently. “Max. Crying doesn’t make you weak.”
“It makes me look like a baby.” Is her honest response, and she means it.
“It makes you look human,” you correct softly, pulling her into a soft side-hug.
She sniffles but refuses to cry in front of you. It’s Max’s way of trying to be tough, even though you already know how soft-hearted she really is. For a moment, the world goes still around the three of you. Steve leans down to meet your level, each of you now sitting on the cold dirt floor. Max’s breathing is easier, her shoulders are lower, and her jaw unclenches. She needed to be seen, and with you and Steve, she feels she has been.
But just when the moment is finally tender, real, and grounding—she ruins it in the most Max Mayfield way possible.
“Ya know,” she grumbles abruptly, staring between you and Steve, “You two are like our divorced parents who still love each other. It’s kind of annoying.”
You blink. In that moment, Steve actually chokes on his own saliva.
“Divorced?” he echoes, like she just accused him of murder. His voice cracks on the second syllable.
The red head rolls her eyes. “Yeah. Like the way you show up together. And fight together. And then act weird when anyone points it out.” You give each other a look that asks, we totally don’t do that right? But she continues before you can think about it more, “One of you is the calm one,” she points to you, “and one of you is the chaotic one, but you’re always together anyway. It’s a whole thing…Classic divorced-but-still-grossly-in-love behaviour.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose, when Steve makes a move to protest being labelled the chaotic one. “Don’t even start,” you warn Steve without looking at him.
“I wasn’t!” he puts his hands up in defence. Then quieter, “…I wasn’t.”
Max snorts. “God. That’s exactly what a divorced dad would say.”
Steve looks incredulous and personally victimized. Divorced? Why can’t you both be happily married in this scenario?
But as he takes in Max’s smile and the quiet laugh she lets out at his reaction, he can see how much she needed this—a moment to break the tension with something ridiculous. Her eyes are no longer stormy…and that was the whole point of this.
“C’mon,” you say gently, nudging them both to get up from your spots on the ground. “Let’s get you home.”
Max finally nods, rubbing her eyes tiredly as you lead her back to the car. She leans on you both during the short walk, and when you finally reach the vehicle, Steve lifts her onto the seat gently. He buckles her in like a true parent.
Max falls asleep before you’re even back on the road, skateboard still clutched to her chest. She curls into the corner of the back seat, exhausted and small in a way she’ll deny forever.
Steve drives slowly now—the careful, protective version of him that surfaces only when the kids are nearby… or when you are. The silence in the car is warm, heavy. Not awkward. Just… charged.
The road unwinds in long, quiet stretches. Golden pools of streetlight glide over the windshield. The car hums.
You rest your elbow on the window, watching the blur of passing houses. Steve glances at you a few times—quick, flickering looks from under his lashes, like he’s trying to find the right words but they keep slipping away. They’re the kind he thinks you don’t notice.
Halfway down the road, pulling into the Mayfield driveway, he inhales deeply.
“You know…” he says quietly, “you’re… really good with her.”
You shrug off his words. “She just needed someone to listen.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean… you’re good with all of them. With the boys. And El.” He pauses, fingers tightening on the steering wheel.
“—and with me.”
Your heart stutters. “I never expected anyone to care about me the way you do.” His brown eyes meet yours as he puts the car in park.
It’s subtle, but the way his voice dips? The way the words feel heavier than they should? It does something to you.
You try to play it off, but your pulse betrays you, thrumming in your ears. You can feel it in your wrists, in your ribs, and in your throat.
“Somebody has to be the calm one,” you say softly.
Steve huffs a laugh, warm and self-deprecating. “Yeah. Well. That’s definitely not me.”
You pretend to look out the window, steadying your breath. “You don’t give yourself enough credit,” you murmur.
“You give me too much,” he replies.
“That’s not true.” He shifts his hand on the center console. Yours shifts too. Barely, casually. Maybe not casually at all.
Your pinkies brush. And Steve freezes—just a breath, just a heartbeat—but long enough for the air between you to thicken, warm and electric with currents of tension.
He doesn’t pull away and neither do you.
“Thanks,” he whispers, almost too quiet. “For being you.”
Your heartbeat answers for you and you let your hand drift the final few centimetres until your pinkies tough tentatively. Steve exhales and neither of you pulls away.
• ж • ж •
IV. School Pick-Up
The Hawkins High School parking lot looks like a battlefield every weekday at 3:15 p.m.—car exhaust drifting in the cold air, teachers shouting instructions like air-traffic controllers, and children flooding through the front doors in unpredictable, chaotic waves.
You’re already tense just pulling in. Picking up Will always stirs something in your chest: protectiveness, guilt, that familiar edge of worry you’ve never really shaken since he came home from the Upside Down. Even on normal days, you watch the doors like he might need you in the span of a heartbeat.
You exhale, trying to shake it off. Will is safe. School is just school. Your fingers tighten around the wheel anyway.
You turn into one of the few remaining spots—and then a flash of gold catches your eye.
Of course. The BMW.
You watch as Steve swings into the spot right next to yours with practiced ease, like the two of you rehearsed this moment. Which is ridiculous. Except he really does show up at the same time as you more often than not, and you really have noticed. And part of you hates that you’ve noticed, and the other part—some stubborn, traitorous part—really, really likes it.
Your heart jumps a little before you can stop it. Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.
You open your door and step out just as he does, and his face lights up instantly, as if your presence was the best thing he could’ve seen in this entire parking lot disaster.
“You doing the afternoon pickup too?” He asks, jogging a few easy steps toward you.
His tone is casual, but his eyes flick over you with that warm, open softness you’re still not used to. You fight the flutter of it.
“Yep. My mom’s working late, again.” Your voice sounds normal. You feel anything but.
His expression dips into something gentler. “Ah. I’m here for Dustin and Max. They wanna check out some new arcade game or some nerdy shit like that.”
The image of Steve watching aimlessly as Dustin and Max school each other on some arcade game is… absurdly cute. Dangerous thoughts. You push it away.
You’re about to say something back, something normal, something friendly, something not obviously lovesick, when the school doors burst open.
A tidal wave of kids floods out.
“Steve! I’ve been waiting forever!” Max yells, barreling toward him with her skateboard like she owns the pavement.
At the same second, you spot Will weaving through the crowd, his backpack bouncing. The way he breaks into a grin when he sees you cracks your chest open a little. He still looks so small coming out of a building so huge.
“You’re here! Finally!” He gasps when he reaches you, even though you’re early.
You laugh and ruffle his hair. “Nice to see you too.”
And that’s when the universe decides to absolutely annihilate you.
A teacher—you think she’s one of the kids’ English teachers—approaches you and Steve with that warm, frazzled, end-of-day smile teachers wear for parents like armor.
“Oh, good! There you are!” She chirps. “Your kids were very well-behaved today.”
Your brain trips over itself so hard you actually blink. Your kids?
Beside you, Steve goes rigid. Max snorts so loudly she almost chokes. You and Steve make the exact same face—wide-eyed, frozen, about to malfunction.
“Our what?” You stammer, but Steve jumps in, panicked.
“Oh—they—um—only one of them is mine,” He blurts.
You whip your head toward him. Only one of them is his? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
He realizes what he just said in real-time, eyes going feral. “I mean—none!. None are mine, I don’t—I’m just, you know?” He shrugs his shoulders in panic, struggling to get his point across. You know what he means…he’s just picking them up. But the teacher in front of you doesn’t seem to get the message.
Will is wheezing against your arm, absolutely delighted.
Dustin materializes out of the crowd like a summoned gremlin. “What is happening?” He demands—but then the teacher smiles fondly at him too, like he’s your collective third child, and he looks like Christmas arrived early.
“Oh my god,” He whispers, nudging you and watching Steve with utter amusement. “Oh my god, this is amazing.”
“Sir,” the teacher says kindly to Steve, patting his arm like he’s having a breakdown, “You don’t have to explain anything. Parenting is hard.”
You swear you see Steve’s soul momentarily leave his body. Max crosses her arms. “Yeah, Dad, stop being weird.”
Your jaw drops. You’re 97% certain Steve just lost the will to live.
“MAX,” he hisses, voice cracking.
You try—really try—not to laugh. But a strangled sound escapes anyway, and you have to hide your mouth behind your hand before you openly lose it. The teacher, blissfully unaware of the carnage she’s caused, waves cheerfully and moves on to the next cluster of kids.
Will is practically vibrating. “You two should get matching minivans!”
“Don’t. Even,” you warn him, but your cheeks are already burning.
Steve looks like he’s seriously considering changing his name and moving to another state. “Okay, shitheads.Nobody ever speaks of this again. Got it?” He points to each of them with an intensity you adore.
“No promises Dad,” Dustin cackles.
You start steering Will toward your car before he throws more gasoline on the fire. Your heart is still thumping, too fast, too warm, and you’re terrified it’s obvious.
But then—something prickles at the back of your neck.
You glance over your shoulder. Steve is still standing beside his BMW, leaning one elbow on the roof, watching you like he doesn’t want this moment to end. Like you’re something he’s memorizing.
When your eyes meet, he says aloud: We’d be cool parents though.
Everything inside you short-circuits. You pretend not to hear him, but a small smile creeps its way onto your face. Your hand slips, keys nearly tumbling. Will looks up at you with raised eyebrows. “Why do you look like that?”
“Headache,” you say immediately.
Will squints. “You’re the weirdest person I know.”
You don’t look back again. You don’t trust yourself not to melt into a puddle in front of the entire school—but even as you close the car door, you swear you can still feel Steve’s grin pressed somewhere under your skin.
You’d make great parents, you think.
And on the way out, you’re nearly certain you hear Dustin ask Steve, “So, between me and Max, which one of us is yours?”
And you can’t help but laugh…you wonder how he’s going to get out of that one.
• ж • ж •
+ I. When acting like a couple ends in becoming a real couple.
Your house always feels a little small on nights like this.
Not physically—God knows Joyce keeps the place spotless, every corner well-loved and lived-in—but emotionally, the walls feel closer when the whole Party is together. Their energy ricochets around the room: loud, sharp, earnest, and chaotic. You’ve grown used to it by now: the mess, the noise, the unpredictability, but even so, every movie night walks that thin line between heartwarming and total combustion.
Tonight lands firmly on the combustion side. It happens fast, so fast that you don’t notice the exact moment the tension shifts. One moment the kids are debating movie choices, the next they’re fighting over pizza, and it devolves—fast.
Mike grabs the last slice before Dustin’s hand even reaches the plate.
“I called it!” Dustin erupts, shoulders shooting up like he’s about to engage in mortal combat.
Mike clutches the slice to his chest. “Calling doesn’t count!”
Dustin’s mop of curly hair takes up most of the space in your vision. He lifts an eyebrow with conviction,“Uh, yes it does!”
“It actually doesn’t!”
Somewhere behind them, Lucas shouts, “You’re both idiots!” which does absolutely nothing to de-escalate the situation.
On the other side of the room, Max throws her head back with a guttural noise of disgust before bracing her hands on the wall and storming down the hall. The bathroom door slams so hard the vibration echoes into your teeth.
Will tries to intervene once—very softly, very hesitantly—but Mike snaps something over his shoulder without thinking, and Will immediately shrinks back, retreating toward the end of the couch like he wishes he could disappear into it.
El stares at the TV remote with growing frustration. You know what she’s thinking. Maybe she could fix the evening with her powers if she tried hard enough, and you swear you see her jaw tremble.
You know the signs. You’ve babysat these kids long enough. Once one kid spirals, the rest follow like dominos.
You inhale through your nose, prepared to wade into the emotional battlefield, and then you look up. Steve, standing by the kitchen counter, meets your gaze across the living room. His gaze immediately grounds you.
What happens next is wordless and instinctive. It’s a practiced rhythm you didn’t even know you had with him—but apparently you do, because the two of you fall into perfect sync without so much as a nod.
You head for the emotional fires; Steve heads for the practical ones.
It’s almost choreographed, like some part of you already knew how to do this together. You calm the feelings while Steve stabilizes the room.
You move to Will first, because the defeated slope of his shoulders is impossible to ignore. His anxiety is a quiet thing, but you’ve learned to read him better than anyone. While you try not to treat him any differently than the others, he’s your brother. And he’s been through far too much for a kid his age.
You crouch down. “Hey,” you say gently, touching his elbow. “Take a breath with me, okay?”
Will’s eyes flicker up to yours, glassy and full of unshed worry. But he listens. He always listens.
You breathe slowly. He follows. He steadies.
“There you go,” you whisper. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
His shoulders sag with relief.
Next, you make your way down the hall and knock on the bathroom door. “Max? It’s me.”
A beat. Then a muffled, “They’re idiots.”
You lean your forehead against the door, trying not to smile. “They are,” you admit. “Certified idiots. But they’re also your idiots, and they’ll feel pretty terrible if you stay mad all night.”
Silence. Then a very soft: “I’ll come out in a minute. Don’t tell them I said anything.”
You smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
When you head back down to the living room, the entire energy of the room has shifted and it only takes you one glance to know why. Steve has transformed the space.
The lights are now dimmed to something warm and soft. He’s grabbed popcorn from the microwave as it's quietly replenished, and the last slice of pizza has been mysteriously replaced with two half-slices so no one feels cheated.
Blankets have been pulled down from the hall closet, unfolded and ready. He hands pillows to each of them with ease. The chaos now feels smoothed, softened, and rearranged into a soft sense of comfort.
Somehow he even got Mike and Dustin to sit, still glaring at each other but at least seated, their anger settling from wildfire to the faint glow of an ember.
You meet Steve’s eyes over the room. It hits you in the chest—unexpected and overwhelming—that this feels easy. Natural. Not like something you’re improvising, but something you’ve done a hundred times together. You’ve been a team long before either of you admitted it.
And one by one, the kids melt into calmness.
Will curls into a pillow pile, comforted. El leans against Max who has now rejoined the group, her frustration dissolving with sleep. Lucas steals a corner of a blanket and tucks it under his chin. Mike and Dustin argue, but it's half-hearted now, the kind of bickering they only do once they feel safe.
It happens gradually, but beautifully. Their breathing evens out, their fighting drains away, and instead of chaos, your living room becomes a cocoon of trust, warmth, and soft teenage exhaustion.
And the whole time, you and Steve move in tandem: adjusting blankets, soothing frayed edges, nudging cups out of danger, exchanging small, fond looks that make your stomach twist.
And by the time they’ve all settled, the house is quiet except for the hum of the TV.
You and Steve end up on the couch. It’s totally not intentional, but because there’s nowhere else to sit. A single blanket is draped over both of you, and though neither of you comments on it, you feel every point of contact like a spark.
As you sit there, the kids finally asleep, the movie plays low in the background. Your knees suddenly brush and you rest your shoulders together. Your hands settle close, almost touching on the cushion.
Steve’s warmth bleeds into you, calm and familiar and terrifyingly comforting. When you look over, his gaze is already on you. In the way that you’re noticing more and more often, it’s soft around the edges, lit by something you’ve never seen from him so openly before.
In a voice so gentle it feels like an intimate secret, he says “Sometimes I feel like we really are their parents. I mean, we’re already doing the hardest parts.”
Your heart feels like it skips a beat. He continues, watching you with a bravery that makes something twist in your chest. “Maybe,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your lips for the briefest, most devastating second, “we should just make it official.”
It lands differently than you expected. Not teasing, not flirty, and it certainly doesn’t seem like a joke. He’s serious. Nervous. Hopeful.
You swallow, because suddenly there’s a whole confession rising inside you—a tidal wave of things you’ve been too scared to voice.
“Hmm. You do make everything easier,” you hum teasingly, then seriously, you whisper. “With the kids. With Will. With… everything really. When you’re here, it feels like I don’t have to hold everything alone.”
His expression breaks open, softens, deepens. “You don’t,” he says, voice thick. “You never have to, not with me. We have something real, and something I never want to lose (Y/n).”
Your heart surges. “Are you sure you really want this?” You ask, searching his face for any uncertainty.
He nods without hesitation. “Yeah.” His tone carries with so much confidence, you wish you could express yourself like him. “I want you and I want this. I have for a long time.”
Something in you unravels. Something else roots itself deeper. You lean in slowly, giving him time to pull away if you’ve misread this—if this isn’t what he meant—
But he moves with you. You meet halfway, and he meets you with as much care for you as you have for him.
The kiss is slow and warm and breathtaking in its tenderness. Steve exhales against your mouth like he’s been waiting for this—for you—longer than he knows how to admit. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek in a touch so gentle it makes your eyes sting.
You melt into him as he pulls you closer, and the world narrows and expands all at once.
It feels inevitable, yet so so right.
You’re officially together. Exactly where you both belong.
Fred, George, and Lee have been avoiding you all day and you’ve had enough. When you blackmail your way into the Gryffindor common room to confront them, you don’t expect Fred to start bombarding you with strange compliments. You definitely don’t expect what comes next.
———————————————————————
It started at breakfast.
You were late. You’d overslept after a long night studying, your robes slightly askew, one sock barely matching the other. Your hair was still damp from a rushed spell, but you didn’t care, because you spotted them instantly.
Fred, George, and Lee. Your best friends since First year.
They were clustered near the middle of the Gryffindor table, heads bowed together in hushed laughter over something probably dangerous and definitely not approved by any adult with a brain. It was your favorite thing about them, really. The way chaos seemed to orbit around them like they were made of gravity and trouble. It made life interesting.
Your feet were already moving toward them before you realised.
Fred looked up just as you reached the bench, mid-laugh, his eyes bright. Something about that made your stomach flutter in that embarrassing way it always did when he looked at you like that. You’d harboured a very secret crush on the boy since Fourth year when he’d sent you a Dwarf-Valentine.
You’d been upset that no one had been interested in giving you one, so to cheer you up he’d gotten you one telling you what a great friend and excellent witch you were. The thoughtfulness and unexpected sweetness of the gesture had you falling head over heels in no time. You’d been a goner since then.
You smiled and slid onto the bench. “What’d I miss?”
Fred blinked, mouth opening like he had something to say - then he glanced to George. George’s eyebrows twitched once, a silent message passed between brothers in a blink.
“Actually,” George said, shooting upright and clapping his hands together, “we’ve got to go.”
“Go?” you echoed, laughing lightly. “Where?”
“Greenhouse,” Lee added, already pushing back from the bench.
“Heard something’s exploding,” George said quickly, grabbing a cold slice of toast like it was a getaway snack. “Don’t want to miss it!”
Before you could blink, they were out the doors, laughing again as they vanished. You sat there, alone on the bench, staring at their empty seats.
Weird.
You stabbed your spoon into your porridge with a little more force than necessary, but it wasn’t enough to set off alarm bells just yet. After all, the boys were always hurrying off to execute elaborate pranks.
Later that day, after double potions, was when you started to notice something might be amiss.
Snape had been especially vicious that day, stalking around the room like a bloodhound with something to prove. Fred had dropped a beaker. It had exploded. Snape’s robes were still faintly steaming. And then Fred had the gall to tell Snape his hair was looking particularly greasy today, which earned him a detention and a deduction of 10 points from Gryffindor.
Still, the class had ended. And you’d hoped - expected - you’d walk to Care of Magical Creatures with the boys like always. You’d been paired with a Hufflepuff this time in class, but you packed up fast and trotted after the trio as they left the dungeon.
You caught them in the hallway just beyond the staircase. “Oi! Wait up!” you called.
Lee turned, smile flickering across his face. “Hey! That was brutal, yeah?”
“Snape nearly swallowed his tongue when your beaker shattered,” you teased, nudging Fred.
The Weasley boy laughed, but it was tight. Shorter than usual. His hand scrubbed through his hair like he didn’t know what to do with his limbs.
“Actually,” George said suddenly, “we need to check on something.”
“In the greenhouse,” Lee said smoothly, already pulling Fred’s arm.
You frowned. “Didn’t you just go there? At breakfast?”
George nodded, too quickly. “Y-yeah, but, different thing. Something with the…mandrakes.”
“Mandrakes?” you echoed skeptically. “What could you possibly need with those? They scream bloody murder when you touch them.”
“Right,” George said. “So we have to touch them very carefully.”
Fred gave you a quick, apologetic look - eyes darting down, cheeks flushing a little - and then let himself be pulled away again.
You watched them disappear around the corner, your chest tightening, your breath catching on a question you couldn’t quite ask.
———————————————————————
You didn’t plan to stalk them.
You just happened to overhear Fred telling Angelina that he’d be in the library during free period doing ‘research’.
Fred Weasley? Research? As if.
It was obviously a lie. Or a cover. But part of you still clung to the hope that maybe it was all in your head and they weren’t avoiding you.
You brought a few books to make it look casual. Waited outside the doors, leaning against the wall, ear tilted toward the hushed shuffle of pages and whispers inside. You stared at the flickering torchlight against the stone and reminded yourself not to be weird. Not to be clingy.
They’d come out. You’d walk together. Like always.
Then, movement. You spotted them sneaking out a side entrance.
All three of them - Fred, George, and Lee - hunched over like they were avoiding Filch himself, looking side to side before scuttling toward the Charms corridor.
Your heart sank. They hadn’t seen you. And you didn’t call out.
You just stared as their silhouettes faded into the shadows, something cold settling in your throat. It was obvious they were up to something, which was not the usual part. The usual part was that the four of you were always up to something together. So why had hey left you out?
Your fingers clenched around your books so tightly the parchment covers creased.
Later that afternoon in Transfiguration was the worst one yet. That was when you finally admitted to yourself that they were actively avoiding you.
You were sat at your usual desk, which you normally shared with Fred. You were pretending to study while the classroom filled up, but you couldn’t focus on any of the words your eyes skimmed over.
You felt…off. Like you were waiting for something you couldn’t admit to wanting.
You heard the door swing open again and your head snapped up, too quickly.
Fred stepped in, scarf askew and hair wind-blown, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. His eyes landed on you - on the empty seat beside you waiting expectantly for him to occupy it - and he froze. The hope that had bubbled up in your chest fizzled out instantly.
He looked guilty. Not surprised. Not excited. Not even sheepish. Guilty.
“Hey!” you said, forcing cheer into your voice, trying not to sound too eager. “I’ve been looking for—”
“He forgot something!” George shouted from beside Fred, louder than necessary.
“What?” You frowned.
He turned to Fred, patting his arm. “Right? You forgot something important!”
Lee immediately stepped forward, grabbing the older twin’s. “Yes. Very urgent. Explosion-related.”
They turned and ran. Actually ran.
You sat there, your skin prickling with heat. Your face felt like it had been slapped. Not dramatically. Not cruelly. Just…dismissed. Like you didn’t matter.
You stood up slowly, your vision stinging. Anger pulsed beneath the surface - hot, fast, desperate. This wasn’t a coincidence anymore. This had to be on purpose. Something cracked inside you, and you’d already started scheming up a little plot of your own.
It took you less than five minutes after Transfiguration to find Neville Longbottom. The last person who’d made it into the Gryffindor common room had done so through him, so it only made sense for her to start there as well.
“AHHH!” Neville thrashed against her hold like he’d just been attacked by an acromantula.
She hushed him as she dragged him into the nearest broom closet, shutting the door behind them with a slam. “Shut up!”
Neville just kept screaming.
“Calm down, Longbottom. No one’s dying!” You soothed, though there was an edge of annoyance in your tone. “Well, maybe I am. Of frustration.”
Neville finally stopped yelling for help and blinked at you in confusion.
“I need access to the Gryffindor common room.” You explained.
“You’re not even in our house!”
“Technically no, but I’ve been in there loads of times.” You justified your intrusion.
“Then ask one of your friends to let you in,” Neville reasoned.
“No, they’re the reason I need to get in. They’ve been avoiding me, and I want to know why.” You explained, but that didn’t seem to even remotely set Neville’s mind at ease.
“I’ll get in trouble—!”
You leaned in close. “Let me put it this way. If you don’t help me, I will casually mention to Professor Sprout that you’ve been growing screaming fungi under your bed again. Oh yes, Lee told me all about that.”
Neville paled. “You wouldn’t.”
You smiled. “Try me.”
———————————————————————
The corridors of Hogwarts were never easy to navigate when one was flustered and humiliated. But you didn’t care about getting caught out after curfew anymore. Not tonight. Not when your pride had already taken enough of a beating.
Your legs carried you at an angry pace through the darkened castle, one hand gripping your wand and the other dragging poor, wide-eyed Neville Longbottom along behind you by the wrist.
“Honestly, I didn’t think you were this mean,” Neville whimpered.
“I’m not mean,” you snapped, hair wild and heart pounding. “I’m just…desperate.”
When you reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, you planted your feet and stared down the guardian with narrowed eyes. “Let us in.”
“She’s not a Gryffindor,” the portrait sniffed.
“She’s got more nerve than me, that’s for sure,” Neville muttered.
“Password?” she said curtly.
You looked to Neville and the boy muttered weakly, eyes cast downwards, “Treacle Tart.”
The portrait scowled, scandalized, but opened anyway with a disapproving glare.
You stormed into the common room, boots thudding against the carpet, heart hammering in your throat.
There they were. Fred, George, and Lee. All three lounged on the couches by the fire, laughing about something, heads tilted back like they didn’t have a care in the world.
Until they saw you.
George’s laughter died mid-cackle. Lee froze with a Bertie Bott’s bean halfway to his mouth. Fred’s eyes widened like a deer caught in the headlights.
“Oh, look,” you said, voice dripping with venom. “The Three Musketeers. How cozy.”
“…Oh no,” George muttered.
You crossed the room with purpose, arms crossed tightly over your chest, eyes blazing. Fred looked like he wanted to melt into the cushions. Lee glanced sideways, calculating escape routes. And George did that thing where he rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish and guilty and trying not to laugh at the same time.
“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve tried to hang out with you lot today?” you snapped, each word slicing through the thick tension like a well-aimed hex. “Every time I show up, you vanish. At breakfast? You suddenly need to tend to a greenhouse explosion. I try to sit with you at lunch? You’re nowhere to be seen. You even skipped out on Transfiguration! McGonagall was furious!”
Fred looked like he was being interrogated under magical duress. You didn’t realize how pale he’d gone until now.
“I thought maybe I was imagining it,” you went on, breath trembling. “That I was reading too much into it. But I’m not stupid. You’ve been avoiding me. All of you. So, what is it? Did I say something? Do something? Did I get too…what? Too annoying? Too clingy?”
Fred’s jaw flexed. George winced. Lee actually lowered his head like a puppy in trouble. None of them answered.
“I thought we were friends!” your voice cracked. “If I’m such a bloody problem, then just say it to my face! Be men and say it!”
Silence followed, punctured only by the crackling fire.
And then Fred opened his mouth, and what came out was the last thing you expected to hear. “You look so hot when you’re angry.”
You blinked. “What?”
Fred’s eyes widened in horror. “I said you look hot. When you yell. It’s doing something weird to me. Merlin’s beard, did I say that out loud? I did. Didn’t I?”
Lee groaned and covered his face. George let out a strangled “Oh, blimey.”
“I also think your hair looks like something out of an oil painting,” Fred continued, voice rising in panic. “And you’ve got this little frown line when you’re concentrating that makes me want to kiss you stupid.”
You stared, heart hammering in your chest, partially frozen in shock. “You’re joking,” you breathed. “You’re making fun of me.”
“I’m not! I wish I was!” Fred blurted, struggling now as Lee shoved a hand over his mouth.
You took a step back, face flushing now for an entirely different reason.
George raised his hands defensively. “Okay. Listen. We can explain.”
“I’d love for someone to start doing that!”
George winced. “We dared Fred to break into Snape’s private stores. You know, for fun.”
“Of course you did.”
“And…he nicked some Veritaserum.”
Your eyes narrowed. “You gave him Veritaserum?!”
“No!” Lee said, eyes wide as he struggled to keep Fred from licking his palm to escape. “Well, yes, but we all had some! It was for a game of truth or dare. We upped the anti. Thought we were only taking a micro dose. He had too much. Turns out it was like, a full dose and a half.”
You gaped. “So…he can’t lie?”
“More like he can’t stop telling the truth,” George said grimly. “It’s been hours. It’s…gotten worse.”
You could hardly believe what they were saying, because that meant everything else Fred had just blurted out was true. “Prove it.”
Lee looked at Fred, then smirked. “Oi, Fred. Remember that time you got stuck in the girls’ toilets in second year? Why were you in there?”
Lee removed his hand to allow Fred to speak, the boy confessed, “Because I wanted to find out if Angelina had a boyfriend!”
“OH MY GOD,” you muttered, horrified and delighted. You’d always suspected that he’d followed you and Angie in to eavesdrop but he’d never admitted it before.
Fred groaned, flopping backward into the couch and covering his eyes with both hands.
Your thoughts spun. If everything he said - about you, your hair, wanting to kiss you - was the truth. You swallowed thickly, feeling your stomach stir with emotion. “Oh.”
George raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
You turned to him. “Why were you hiding him from me, then? Specifically?”
The boys glanced at each other and Lee swiftly clamped his hand over Fred’s mouth once more. No one answered until Fred bit down on Lee’s hand. Lee yelped and it gave Fred enough wiggle room to jerk away and blurt out quickly, “Because I’m scared of what I might say to you!”
George lunged with a pillow and slammed it over Fred’s face. “Shut UP.”
Lee added a blanket for good measure. Fred’s muffled voice still came through,” You smell really good too, by the way! Like all the time. Makes me wanna—”
“OKAY THATS ENOUGH!” George attempted to talk over his brother, drowning out what Fred was trying to say
You stood there, cheeks flushed, utterly speechless. “…Right,” you muttered. You turned to Neville, who was still frozen in place like he’d witnessed a murder. “Neville. Sorry for the…attacking, and dragging, and threatening, and all.”
He nodded numbly. And without another word, you turned and walked out. As you disappeared out the portrait hole, Fred sat up again, pillow askew. “I said too much, didn’t I?”
George and Lee groaned in unison.
———————————————————————
The next morning, you seriously considered skipping breakfast.
You’d hardly slept a wink after last night’s emotional ambush. Your heart still hadn’t fully recovered from the fact that Fred Weasley - the same Fred you’d been crushing on for years - had not only complimented you in front of half the Gryffindor common room, but had apparently consumed so much Veritaserum that he couldn’t stop doing it.
You kept replaying it in your head, over and over:
“You look so hot when you’re angry.”
“You’ve got this little frown line when you’re concentrating that makes me want to kiss you stupid.”
“Because I’m scared of what I might say to you!”
Was that real? That happened, right? You didn’t hallucinate it? You gripped your bag a little tighter and stepped into the Great Hall.
The scent of warm bread and roasted tomatoes hit you immediately, but your eyes went straight to the Gryffindor table. There they were. Fred, George, and Lee. Almost exactly where they’d been yesterday.
Fred was talking animatedly - too animatedly, actually. George and Lee sat on either side of him like guards flanking a volatile prisoner. Every time Fred opened his mouth, they both twitched.
You hesitated. You could turn back. Pretend you forgot something. Sit with the Ravenclaws or maybe join Angelina and Alicia further down.
But then Fred looked up. And his eyes locked on yours like he’d been waiting for you. And he lit up.
That was the thing with Fred Weasley. When he smiled at you, it was like the whole bloody ceiling of floating candles turned a little warmer. Brighter.
He practically stood to wave you over. You swallowed hard and crossed the hall on slightly shaky legs, avoiding every other pair of eyes you felt watching you.
“Morning,” you said, managing something between polite and painfully awkward.
“Good morning,” Fred said, tone suspiciously sincere. “You look radiant. No, actually, radiant’s not enough. You look like if the sun and Aphrodite had a baby and raised it in a faerie grotto.”
Lee choked on his pumpkin juice. George’s head hit the table with a soft thunk.
You blinked. “What?”
Fred kept going. “Honestly, I don’t know how you manage to look that good this early in the morning.”
You sat slowly, stiff as a cursed statue as George shoved a croissant in Fred’s mouth.
“Eat,” he commanded.
Fred chewed obediently, eyes still on you like you’d hung the stars yourself.
You stared down at your plate. “I’m guessing the Verituserum is still in effect?”
“Yeah,” Lee said flatly. “We have no idea when it’ll wear off.”
“Is he…okay?”
“Other than an irresistible inclination to spilling whatever is running through his head, it seems so,” George shrugged.
“I’m absolutely mortified actually,” Fred said through the croissant. “Also, you smell incredible. Like vanilla and warm sugar and—ow!”
George had elbowed him.
“Umm,” you said cautiously, picking up your spoon, “how long does this usually last?”
“Veritaserum usually wears off in twenty-four to forty-eight hours,” Lee muttered, flipping his sausage over like it had offended him. “Unless, of course, you chug it like a lunatic.”
“How was I supposed to know it’d turn me into a sappy git!” Fred said indignantly.
“You were already a sappy git, now you’re just a sappy git with no filter!” George hissed.
You tried not to laugh, but it snuck out. A quiet, amused chuckle, followed by the tiniest smile you couldn’t hold back.
Fred’s eyes widened like he’d won the Triwizard Tournament. “She smiled,” he said, almost reverently.
Lee pointed his fork at Fred. “Don’t.”
“You know how I love it when she does that,” Fred added. “It’s beautiful. Makes my insides all warm and fuzzy.”
George groaned and shoved a spoonful of scrambled eggs in his brother’s mouth.
You looked at them - all three of them - and the knot in your chest began to loosen. There were still questions. Still nerves and embarrassment and chaos swirling in your chest like a stirred cauldron.
But Fred’s eyes - soft and unguarded and fixed entirely on you - held no joke. No teasing. He couldn’t lie even if he wanted to. You nudged your toast and tried not to overthink the blush crawling up your neck.
“So,” you said, eyes flicking to Fred’s. “What else are you dying to tell me that you haven’t yet?”
Lee immediately smacked his forehead. Fred swallowed the eggs and leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “That your laugh makes me feel like I’m not about to completely combust. Which is impressive, because I’m nearly always about to combust when I’m around you.”
George tackled him. Literally tackled him sideways onto the bench. Everyone in the vicinity turned to look. You burst out laughing.
Fred - flattened under his twin and with a piece of bacon in his hair - groaned at his own confession. “I hate this! Get me out of here!”
So Lee and George did. They hurried him out of the great hall like a fire was at their heels.
———————————————————————
You should’ve known better than to think Potions class would be anything less than a disaster today.
For starters, Snape already looked murderous before anyone had entered the dungeon. His robes flared like bat wings as he prowled between the desks, eyes narrowed, mouth twisted into his usual expression of ‘I hate all of you equally’.
The only good news was that he’d paired you with Fred again. The bad news was also that you were paired with Fred again.
Still under the effects of Veritaserum. Still unable to lie. Still completely incapable of shutting up. You’d barely opened your textbook before he leaned closer.
“You look like someone who should be immortalized in stained glass.”
You choked on air.
He was sitting next to you, casual as anything, chin in his palm, elbow on the desk, watching you like you were the most fascinating part of the room - which you were sure you weren’t. There were literally flames under cauldrons around you, and still Fred was looking at you like you were the only thing burning.
“Fred,” you hissed, glancing around. “Not now.”
“You smile with your whole face,” he whispered. “It’s devastating.”
“Oh my god.”
Snape swept past your table, his cloak snapping dramatically at his heels.
“Mr. Weasley,” he said, in the tone one might use for stepping in dung. “If you insist on breathing loudly, do it elsewhere.”
Fred snapped upright. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. You’re more intimidating than usual. Though still just as much of a git.”
The room froze. A Hufflepuff dropped their pestle and it clanged on the flagstones.
Snape turned very slowly. “Excuse me?”
You kicked Fred under the desk before he could say anything else but it wasn’t enough to stop him. He flinched. “I wish I could say I didn’t mean that. But, well, I did.” He clamped his mouth shut, face red.
Snape narrowed his eyes. “Ten points from Gryffindor.”
“But it could be a compliment!” Fred tried. “You’re very…committed to your aesthetic? Of course it wasn’t a compliment—”
You were going to die here. Your body would be found slumped over a cauldron and people would whisper, she died because Fred Weasley called Snape a git during Veritaserum detox.
You grabbed Fred by the wrist and hissed, “Shut. Up.”
“I’m trying! But you’re right here, and it’s really hard to be normal around you when you smell like dessert and…and you keep tucking your hair behind your ear like you don’t know what that does to me. But of course, I guess you don’t know what it does to me but I can tell you it does a lot.”
You dropped your ladle and it splashed green liquid across the desk.
“Ms. Y/l/n,” Snape drawled. “Would you like to join your partner in detention?”
“No, sir,” you said through clenched teeth. “Desperately not.”
Snape stalked off, muttering about incompetent teenagers.
Fred turned to you, very quiet for once. You risked a glance. He was biting his lip, face flushed, clearly fighting the urge to say anything else. He picked up the ingredients list and started grinding roots with unnecessary intensity.
You stared at the way his forearms flexed as he moved. You were losing your mind at the way his veins were defined by the tense muscles running all up his arm. You were suddenly very thankful that the boys had kept you out of their after hours truth or dare game. Otherwise you were entirely sure you’d be in a worse predicament than Fred.
You forced yourself to focus on the recipe before you and collected a handful of eels eyes. The crack of someone’s cauldron exploding across the room caused you to jump, the eyes scattering from your palm and across the floor. You swiftly hurried to collect them before Snape could notice. Only, the moment you bent down Fred let out a loud, barely contained groan.
“Merlin, you look good when you do that. Makes me wanna—”
Your spine instantly straighter, stomach clenching to meet Fred’s eyes. His face was screwed up in effort, teeth digging into his bottom lip to stop himself from completing his sentence. He looked like the restraint was killing him.
“Shit, shut up, shut up, shut up,” he murmured under his breath, turning his head and refusing to look at you as his fists clenched.
You forced yourself to clear your throat, ignoring him and going on with rushing the eel eyes to stop yourself from doing something impulsive. Like grabbing his tie and kissing him over a bubbling cauldron.
———————————————————————
It was late.
The corridors were nearly silent, the kind of quiet Hogwarts only ever managed in the deep belly of evening, where most students were tucked away in their dorms, and even Peeves seemed to be sleeping - or plotting.
You’d just left the library, arms full of books you weren’t really reading, head still spinning from a few days of emotional whiplash and truth bombs you hadn’t asked for.
Fred had been avoiding you again after the potions fiasco, but not in the way he had before.
Now it was more like he was dodging danger. Like he was terrified he’d open his mouth and say something truly nuclear. So every time you entered a room, George or Lee shoved him behind a curtain or distracted you with a stupid prank or practically dragged him into another hallway by the scruff of his neck.
And honestly? It was driving you insane.
You were tired of the avoidance. Of the interruptions.
So when you turned a corner and he was there - alone, just walking with his hands jammed into his pockets, looking like he’d been pacing - you jumped on the opportunity.
Fred looked up and instantly stopped walking. His face was pale, like he’d been holding his breath since the morning. His eyes went wide. “Oh no.”
“Hi,” you said slowly, lowering your stack of books. “What are you doing?”
“Trying not to have a breakdown.”
“Charming.”
Fred looked down at the floor, then back at you, and you saw the exact second he gave up trying to be subtle.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
You blinked. “Do what?”
“This. Not telling you. Or, I guess I have told you, I guess, in a very roundabout way. But that was all by accident and now it’s wearing off, and my brain keeps screaming at me to shut up and I can’t because I’ve already said too much and not enough, and…Merlin’s balls, you’re looking at me like that and it’s making it worse.”
You stared at him, stunned. “Like what?” you managed.
“Like you might kiss me if I say the right thing.”
“Well, try it and we’ll find out.”
Fred let out a weak laugh, raking both hands through his hair until it stood on end.
“You make me nervous,” he said, almost breathless. “That’s the problem. You always have. Not in the bad way. Like, the good kind of nervous. The butterflies-so-loud-I-can’t-think kind. The ‘don’t screw this up, Weasley’ kind. The kind where I’m terrified of saying the wrong thing because you’re the first person who makes me want to get it right. And I’m scared that as soon as this wears off, I won’t be able to say it anymore so I need to get it out now.”
You swallowed hard, heart thudding somewhere in your throat.
He stepped closer. “I’ve had a million chances to say this when it would’ve mattered more. When it would’ve been easier. But I blew it. Because I was afraid of saying too much. And now, thanks to that bloody potion and my own bloody stupidity, I’ve already let it go too far without finishing it, and I don’t know if I ruined it or not.”
His voice cracked. “I like you. So much I don’t know what to do with it. It’s not just a crush, or a joke, or something I can charm my way through. It’s real. And terrifying. And I’d rather get hexed by Snape than spend another day pretending it’s not killing me to keep this in.”
You didn’t realize you’d moved until you were in front of him.
So close you could see the pink flush across his cheeks, the frantic flick of his gaze between your eyes and your mouth, the tight tremble of his fists at his sides like he didn’t trust himself not to grab you.
“Say it again,” you whispered.
He blinked. “What?”
“Say it again. Plainly. No verbal gymnastics.”
Fred swallowed. “I like you.”
“Like I’ve never liked anyone before,” Fred cleared his throat. “I mean I’ve liked people before, but it’s never been like this. Like, ‘thinking about you before I fall asleep’ kind of like. Or ‘writing jokes in my head just to tell you later’ kind of like.”
You leaned in and his breath hitched.
“I like you so much it hurts,” he whispered. “You’re smart and sharp and you see through all my jokes and you call me out and you make me laugh when I don’t want to and I hate how much I love it.”
Your brain was short circuiting, and you could t hold yourself back anymore. You surged forward and kissed him.
He made a sound - half gasp, half relief - as your fingers curled into his jumper and his hands finally flew to your waist, tugging you impossibly closer.
It wasn’t perfect. It was frantic and messy and desperate in a way that only years of longing could create. But it was honest. Unfiltered. Completely, breathtakingly real.
When you pulled back, breathless, your forehead still resting against his, Fred whispered, “I like you too Fred, and I don’t need Veritaserum to admit it.”
Fred’s smile widened. “You do?”
You flushed. “I mean, you’re obnoxious and loud and constantly in detention, but yeah. I do.”
“Oh COME ON!” Came a loud yell in unison, and both you and Fred whirled to see George and Lee skidding around the corner, both panting.
“We’ve been hiding him from you for days,” George gasped. “We even hand fed him yesterday like a newborn owl!”
“And all of that was for nothing?” Lee groaned, tossing his hands in the air. “He told you anyway!”
Fred just grinned. Smug. Glowing. Like he’d just won the House Cup, the Quidditch Cup, and your heart all in one go. He reached down, laced his fingers through yours.
“Actually,” he said, eyes never leaving yours, “I’d say it was worth every damn second.”
summary: he would love you till the end of time. everyone can see it, and they can only hope that you’ll come to your senses and realize that too.
words: ~6.4k (i went overboard LMFAO)
warnings: light angst, some mentions of death / violence (but dw it's a happy ending)
a/n: first ever hp fic in like, ever LOL so apologies if this seems off in any way. the timeline for this is a lil weird?? but basically the fic starts during the spring of GOF: you’re a year below fred & a year above the golden trio : ) ALSO i highly recommend listening to 'moonlight serenade' by frank sinatra ESP during the parts it's mentioned in. you'll see why :))))
add yourself to my hp taglist here!
spring
Given that springtime was nearly over, it was rather cold outside.
The sky gleamed a bright, cornflower blue, with the May morning breeze hitting your skin. You, Hermione, and Ginny found yourselves huddling together in the stands and tightly clutching each other to keep warm.
Anticipation nipped at your insides like tiny needles. You had spent the past half-hour at breakfast listening to a nervous Ron ramble on about how he hardly knew what he was doing, and seeing an unusually quiet Fred pick at his food. You knew it wasn’t like him to spend almost an entire meal without saying more than a few words.
“You ok?” you mouthed, glancing over at the redhead in concern.
“As long as you’re looking at me,” Fred replied, attempting a small smile. He pressed something warm and fuzzy into your hands under the table. “You’re my good luck charm today. Keep this for me during the match.”
You nodded, and felt your heart warm as you looked down to see that it was the fuzzy scarf he always wore during Hogsmeade trips or around the castle when it got particularly chilly. His initials had been hand-stitched into one end—undoubtedly Mrs. Weasley’s handiwork. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
“That’s my girl.”
The Gryffindor team filed out into the stadium to be instantly met with a cacophony of loud cheers and applause. Your throat was already starting to hurt from screaming alongside the seas of blazing red and gold, though the match had yet to begin.
Without even realizing it, you found your eyes scanning the area for a particular ginger-haired Beater, and the tension you didn’t even know you had in your shoulders loosened as soon as you saw him.
“You’re not even playing, yet I’d say you’re as big of a mess as poor Ronald,” Hermione chuckled lightly. “Concerned for someone?”
“Oh shut up,” you muttered, tightening Fred’s scarf around your neck just a bit more. “It’s the last match of the year—I’m just as nervous as everyone else. I need to see someone beat Malfoy’s egotistical arse to a pulp.”
Both her and Ginny snorted at this.
“You’re right…but that’s not who I was referring to,” your best friend reminded you.
You rolled your eyes. “Uh huh.”
“Don’t you think you care a little too much? More than a friend should?”
“No,” you stated flatly. But Hermione knew this was a lie—after all, she had known you for five years now and could tell when you were lying. She watched as you fiddled with the ends of the colorful scarf around your neck—a flash of something caught her eye, and she squinted to see F.W. embroidered in delicate gold.
Of course you were being serious, she chuckled to herself. She decided to not say anything about why you had Fred’s scarf on, and instead joked, “Do you think he or Ron’ll make it without getting a concussion?”
“Now that’s hard to say…” you began, knowing how the two boys were sometimes often quite clumsy. “Fingers are crossed that my Fred will be just fine.”
“Your Fred? What about Ron?” she raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you care about both of them?”
“—Both of them will be just fine,” you quickly corrected yourself. “They’ll be alright.”
“Okay…” she said, unconvinced that your reply wasn’t just a slip of the tongue.
Turning your attention back to the game, you heard Lee Jordan’s classic, enthusiastic voice echo across the grounds. “Welcome to the last Quidditch match of the YEAR! We have quite the game in store today, Gryffindor versus Slytherin…”
Eventually, after the captains shook hands and everyone mounted their brooms, Madam Hooch blew her whistle and released the balls into the air. Loud cheers filled the stadium once again, and all fourteen players shot up into the sky. You were only really focusing on one thing—or person, really. It seemed that you couldn’t take your eyes off him.
“—aaand that’s a Bludger to the head from Fred Weasley, ouch, that’s gotta hurt…There goes Katie Bell, making a swift pass over to Johnson…there’s Johnson with the Quaffle! And then, ,there he goes…Fred Weasley does it AGAIN! Malfoy gets a hard Bludger to the back—”
Right then, Fred caught your eye and winked. You sent back a shy wave in response.
Everyone tries their best to ignore the Slytherin section’s jeering taunts and chants of Weasley Is Our King. You didn’t need to look over to know Ron was hardly taking it.
From there on out it was a blur of motion, noise, and loud sounds, and before you knew it, the match was over and done.
“—GRYFFINDOR WINS! WITH WEASLEY’S GAME-WINNING BLOCK AND POTTER’S SHEER SPEED, THEY WIN!” The excitement is clear in Lee’s voice. “GRYFFINDOR WINS THE QUIDDITCH CUP!”
The crowd went wild again as Fred made his downward descent. As soon as the tips of his shoes touched the grass he jumped off and immediately rushed over to you as fast as his feet would take him.
Your head was spinning and you could barely tell what was going on amidst the ground-shaking noise and overall chaos. But there he was in front of you now, sweaty and tired but grinning wildly nonetheless as he brought you into a tight embrace. He started spinning you around and you couldn’t help but join in on his contagious laughter.
“There’s my good luck charm,” he whispered into your ear as he set you down, breath fanning against the skin behind your ear.
Having no words left except pure joy, you shook your head and smiled as you leaned into him, squeezing him back even tighter. “I’m so proud of you.”
Both of you were too busy to notice that your friends around you had stopped congratulating the other players and chattering with one another, their eyes now on you two. Ginny, Harry, and Hermione exchanged a look, and Ron, amidst his nerves and exhaustion, cracked a grin as he watched his older brother and best friend savoring a moment with each other.
Hopefully, they’ll realize it for themselves…he thought. Amidst the chaos of the past year, he knew that all of them—especially the two of you—deserved a bit of peace more than anything.
summer
“Last one there is a rotten egg and has to take the soddy backup broom!” Ginny shouted. You all immediately broke into a sprint at this, scrambling to go outside for yet another round of backyard Quidditch. Harry damn near tripped over his own feet as he and Ron tried pushing over each other to squeeze out the back door. Fred and George were doing the same thing, and you and Hermione used this chance to sneak past them. You silently high-fived each other at this.
“Boys will be boys…” she laughed quietly, linking your arm through hers as you continued walking across the meadow, the grass brushing against the fabric of your trousers. “There’s no catching a break around here.”
Lo and behold, poor Ron was forced to take the backup broom, grumbling the entire time as everyone put their gear on. “I hate you guys. Haven’t I been through enough already?”
Everyone took turns being the score-keeper, and this time it was Hermione (she had also been score-keeper the last two rounds as she was a bit tired, and didn’t really mind). She sat down under the giant apple tree as she chose the teams.
“Harry, George, and Fred!” she called out. “Versus the rest of you.”
“That’s so not fair!” Ron complained. “You have two Beaters and the—”
“—youngest Seeker in a century on one team,” Harry finished his sentence with a cheeky grin.
Ron rolled his eyes. “At least I’m with you, Y/N…I guess…”
“Thanks for the compliment, Ronald,” you said with a slight hint of sarcasm.
It was only a few minutes in the match when Fred found himself distracted. He was supposed to be on guard, but his eyes kept wandering over to you, zipping around on your broom with ease, gliding through the air like a bird. He wondered when he stopped seeing you as just his ‘best friend’ and started seeing you as someone who made his heart beat faster; someone who he desperately wanted to see smile because that’s all he needed to make his entire day.
“Awe, come on, Freddie, get your head back in the game!” you called out to him in a teasing voice as he just barely blocked a flying Bludger hurtling towards his face. “Don’t wanna be slammed into, now do you?”
He shook his head and quickly snapped out of it. “Of course not.”
“Blimey, Fred! You nearly gave yourself another concussion there from ogling at her!” George exclaimed.
“I can’t help but be charming,” you joked, sending Fred a wink. “Enjoy the view while you can!”
It was only mid-morning/barely afternoon by the time you finished the last match, but if anything, your sore muscles told you that it felt like days had passed. Adrenaline was still thrumming in your veins as everyone headed in, laughing at the thrill of flying through the skies without a care in the world.
“Remember that losers have to make lunch!” Harry reminded.
Ginny groaned. “Come on. Way to ruin the vibe.”
You, her, and Ron all let out long sighs before heading straight to the kitchen to whip something up for the six of you. Food bets needed to stop…
After a quick meal of sandwiches, everyone headed back outside to play more rounds of backyard Quidditch. You opted to stay in this time around; the dull ache in your shoulders and lower back telling you you’d had enough for the day. One cold shower and some quiet work helping Mr. Weasley organize his home office later, you slumped onto the sofa.
The remainder of the afternoon and evening went by slowly but peacefully. Eventually, you found yourselves sitting around on the living room floor, playing board games well into the night while the crickets chirped outside. The days were long, and cracking jokes and long talks came much easier than they normally did. Of course, Fred sat next to you the entire time, finding a way to be touching you in one way or another no matter what. Shoulders pressed together closely, fingers tracing patterns into your palms, a hand rubbing your back.
Harry gulps down his mug of butterbeer before launching into a dramatic retelling of when Professor Moody turned Malfoy into a ferret, earning roars of laughter and “That git deserved it” from all around. Fred follows up with the first time him and George tested prototypes of their Puking Pastilles, which ended with a delirious Lee Jordan and Ron’s face turning greener than mandrake leaves (much to Mrs. Weasley’s horror—she sent both twins death glares at this).
You were too busy losing it to notice an arm—Fred’s—snaking around your waist, pulling you into his side. But when you did realize it was him, you didn’t say anything, and just simply relaxed against him. It was second nature to you both; you’ve learned to anticipate him sliding up next to you. And, it was comforting to know that he would always be nearby.
Despite being the last one to go to bed, Fred was the first one awake before dawn had even broken over the horizon. The skies were clear but grey, and the roosters had yet to make a sound.
“Wake up,” you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder.
“Whaddayawant,” you groaned, voice groggy. “Listen Ron, it’s too early to play Quidditch, tell Wood that you want to go for a round instead…”
“Hey, it’s only me,” Fred replied. “Come on, I’ve got something to show you.”
Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you got up, being careful not to step on Hermione or Ginny’s hands or arms on the way out the door. He kept a hand pressed against the small of your back the entire way down the creaky staircase.
“Ta-da…” he whispered, the classic Weasley grin spreading across his face. “Take a look at this beauty.”
“A…record player?” your brows furrowed in confusion. “This is what you woke me up at 4 a.m. for?”
“Dad got it at this old Muggle store in central London years ago, he said it was a ‘thrift shop,’” Fred explained as your eyes glanced over the cracked, but beautiful record player on the kitchen table. “D’you reckon it still works, though?”
“We’ll have to see for ourselves,” you shrugged.
He placed the vinyl CD into the player and adjusted the needle, and within seconds a slow Muggle tune began to play.
“Oh, I know this one…Hermione has told me about it before. Frank Sinatra is quite famous in the Muggle musical world.”
“Well, then…may I have this dance?” Fred extended a hand out to you. You shake your head and roll your eyes, but take his hand and allow him to pull you close. His arms wrap around your torso as your hands rest on his shoulders, and you allow yourselves to get carried away by the slow, melodic ballad.
My love, do you know
That your eyes are like stars brightly beaming?
I bring you, and I sing you
A moonlight serenade
Fred gently twirls you around the kitchen before bringing you back in and smoothly catching you by the waist, and you’re surprised at how easy it is for him. You often forgot that he had a knack for dancing—it wasn’t often that you got to see him do so.
“And you were about to be upset at me for waking you up,” he leans in to say.
“You’re forgiven,” you exhale, resting your head against his chest. “But you know I could never be upset with you.”
Long after the song had ended, you still found yourself wrapped in his embrace.
Mrs. Weasley was heading downstairs to start preparing breakfast, but suddenly stopped midway. Her heart warmed as she took in the sight of you and Fred standing in the middle of the kitchen, eyes closed as he hummed a foreign tune, slow dancing without a care in the world.
Deciding not to interrupt, she stands there for a moment, smiling as she watched her boy fall in love with the young woman that she hoped to call her daughter one day.
fall
“—Godric’s sake, I’m so tired of losing,” Ron groaned as you quickly smacked the top of the deck with your wand, dust flying into his face. “I’m never playing this with you again.”
You rolled your eyes as he coughed and dusted himself off. “Okay, no Exploding Snap, then no more sweets from Honeydukes ever again.”
“Fine, I’m playing, I’m playing,” he sighed, rubbing the side of his forehead as the colorful deck of cards reshuffled themselves. “You’re almost as horrible as my brother.”
“Almost as horrible as who—hey, Y/N, is that my jumper?” Fred paused as he approached you and Ron sitting at the coffee table, as Luna, Neville, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny watched on.
“Dunno, is it?” you shrugged innocently, tapping your chin. “Hey, Nev, you want a go? I have to finish reading my book for McGonagall’s class.”
Neville nodded, and Ron raised a fist in triumph. “FINALLY! Bring it on, Longbottom.”
You shifted onto the couch so Neville could take your spot, and without another word, Fred sat down right next to you. The deep burgundy color of his Gryffindor sweater only further brought out the color of your eyes, he noticed, which sparkled brightly under the dim lighting.
Fred then shifted to lay his head down in your lap, and you didn’t even do so much as flinch. With your book in one hand, you used the other to start brushing your fingers through his hair. You hadn’t even realized what you were doing until you heard him let out a quiet sigh of contentment.
“Did I ever tell you that you’re absolutely brilliant?” he glanced up at you from where he lay, watching carefully and intently. “Sometimes I’m surprised that you weren’t sorted into Ravenclaw.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Weasley,” you laughed softly as you turned the page.
Right as you were about to turn the page again, he stopped you by lightly tugging your wrist. “Y/N?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you okay?”
“What are you talking about?”
He carefully turned your hand to look at the scratches etched into the back of it. They were beginning to fade, but the occasional shifts in movement would cause them to sting and sometimes crack open.
“When did Umbridge do this to you?” Something unfamiliar flashed in Fred’s eyes, and he seemed angry for the briefest of moments. But the darkened look was quickly replaced with one of concern. “Does it still hurt?”
“No, not at all,” you lied as you set down your book, but he didn’t miss the way you winced slightly as he adjusted your hand to look at it again.
The rest of your friends had scattered elsewhere at this point, the typical noise now having faded into a soft chatter of sorts. Hermione came back with a bowl of yellow liquid, eyeing you worriedly. “Strained and pickled Murtlap tentacles…these should help…”
“Oh…thank you…” You placed your hand into the bowl and immediately exhaled with relief.
“I think I’m going to sleep a little early tonight…I’ll see you two at breakfast? Take it easy, Y/N,” Hermione gave your shoulder a squeeze. You nodded as she gave you one last smile and walked away.
Once the pain had faded into a dull ache, you set the bowl of murtlap on the table and leaned back against the sofa. Fred was now laser-focused on something he was holding, fiddling with it using what looked like a small pair of tweezers. Assuming that it had to do with the joke shop he and George were working on, you paid it no mind, and picked up your copy of Guide to Advanced Transfiguration again.
You were far too absorbed into your book to notice when Fred had slipped whatever that thing was onto your finger. It was cold to the touch but fit snugly.
“D’you like it?”
“What is…” You put your book away and glanced down, about to say something half-sarcastic, but immediately stopped.
It had to have been the most beautiful ring you had seen. Although it was slightly on the thinner side, it glittered brighter than any star you had ever seen. You twisted your hand this way and that as you watched the material catch the light.
“...You know my ring size,” your voice trailed off as you took notice of the hopeful look in Fred’s eyes. “But what is this for? You know we’re—”
“For when the time comes,” he explained simply, raising your scarred right hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss there. His gaze on you remained steady and comforting in the same way that his presence made you feel. “You’ll wait for me, won’t you?”
Tears prickled at the edges of your eyes, and you nodded, feeling a sudden lump form in your throat. You were filled with a warmth that you knew had nothing to do with the blazing fire in front of you. “You know there’s no one else.”
How your best friend could make your chest ache in this way, you had no clue…For some odd reason, you thought, it wasn’t all that difficult to picture a future with him in it.
Not when he was your future. You loved him, no doubt, but when it came to describing your exact relationship all words fell short. You were close friends, but was it in the same way that you and Hermione were friends? Or you and Ginny?
But he’s my best friend, you told yourself. He’s been my best friend for over six years.
But ‘best friends’ don’t make you feel the way that Fred does.
Best friends went beyond just saving you a seat at the Great Hall if you woke up late for breakfast or slept through lunch because of a long nap. They didn’t pull you away on Hogsmeade trips and insist on hanging out with you one-on-one when you could very well just hang out together as one big group with all your friends.
They definitely didn’t fashion you a ring by hand in the middle of one quiet fall night, but he did.
“Earth to Y/N?”
“Hm…what?”
“You okay? You seemed a little spaced out there, love,” Fred raised a brow at you as he sat up, taking your hand in his.
“Just…thinking,” you hummed, letting your head lean against his shoulder. He pulled you into his side at this, tenderly brushing his lips against your forehead.
“About how I’m your favorite person on the planet and that I’m loads funnier than Georgie?”
“As if you’d ever be the only thing on my mind.”
Fred pouted, his bottom lip sticking out. “Ouch. That hurt.”
“I’m kidding,” you glanced up at him, pouting slightly. “You’ll never leave my mind. I’m holding you hostage.”
“And that’s a sentence I’d want to extend for as long as I could,” he responded.
Voldemort's return and the premise of another war loomed overhead. But he found that when your warm hand slipped into his, body leaning in close, and your laughter ringing through the air like shooting stars, it was easy for him to forget. To fall into you and feel as if you're the only thing that mattered in this world because frankly, you were.
winter
There was one big thing to look forward to today: another Hogsmeade outing. The final weekend trip before Christmas was always a little bittersweet, but filled with the most pure joy.
The Great Hall was decked out from ceiling to floor as it always was during the holiday season. Bits of snow delicately floated down from the crystalline ceiling as the classic giant Christmas tree stood tall behind the staff table. You stopped every few seconds to admire the decorations despite having been here for nearly seven years now and seeing (and even having helped one time) the grandiose setup.
Excited chatter filled every table as you went over to the Gryffindor table to sit with your friends. Ron was already piling his plate with food, grinning excitedly as he did so.
“Where’s Fred?” you asked as you sat down next to George.
“Already missing your lover boy?” the younger twin teased. “He’ll be down in a sec. The lazy arse overslept so Lee went to drag him down here.”
“Oh, okay…” You paused for a moment. “Wait, he’s not my—”
You felt someone squeeze your shoulder behind you before pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head, stopping you from finishing your sentence.
“Morning, my love,” Fred greeted casually as he slid into the spot next to you, seemingly oblivious to the stares he got from his gesture. “You sleep okay?”
“Merlin’s beard, Fred, when are ‘ou going ‘o admid it?” Ron groaned, in the middle of chewing his third drumstick.
“Yeah, when?” Ginny echoed. “I’m going to hex you if you don’t.”
“Tell me what?” you tilted your head to the side as you glanced between them.
“Oh, uh, nothing!” she said quickly.
“Nothing!” Fred grinned sheepishly. Ginny sharply jabbed an elbow into his side. “OW!”
You rolled your eyes, deciding not to question the odd exchange.
Fred placed a soft hand on your thigh, using his other to swipe a croissant from your plate.
“Hey!”
“You know you love me,” he teased.
“Shut up,” you muttered, feeling your face burn, a smile crept up on your face nonetheless. You continued eating, his hand remaining in place, and pretended like you didn’t mind what he was doing.
You exited Hogwarts to flurries of snow blowing around, adjusting your hat and (Fred’s) scarf accordingly to protect your face from the biting winds. Hogsmeade was relatively quiet today, so you took every second you had to relish in the peace.
“Godric, you’re freezing,” Fred’s bright smile turned into a slight frown when he noticed you were shivering, rubbing your gloved hands together. “Here.”
He shook off his coat and handed it to you, helping you put it on by holding the sleeves out. You let out an involuntary sigh of relief once the warmth enveloped your body.
“T-thanks, but aren’t you gonna get c—”
“Trust me, I’ll be alright,” he assured you, squeezing your hands. “Don’t want to get sick before Christmas, right?”
You managed a nod, and he casually slung an arm across your shoulders. “You’re the best.”
“Don’t need to tell me twice,” he grinned. “Now come on, I think we have some drinks waiting for us.”
As always, he had pulled you away from your friend group to “spend extra special time with the coolest and funniest girl in the world” and though you rolled your eyes at this, you allowed him to take the lead. (You weren’t complaining.)
Maybe it was the snow, maybe it was the added heat from Fred’s jacket, or maybe it was something else, but you were in an unusually good mood today. Fred noticed how you smiled more than usual, eagerly tugging his hand as you pulled him from shop to shop.
“Y/N…you’ll drain my pockets,” he groaned as you stopped in front of Honeyduke’s, positively beaming. “And you’ll rot my teeth.”
“Please…?” you begged. “I’ll die if I don’t get a bag.”
“Y/N, love, come on…” But seeing the blissful and innocent twinkle in your eyes made it damn near impossible for him to say no. “Alright, fine. Pick out what you want, it’s on me.”
“You’re the best!” you squeezed his arm before heading into the shop together, hand in hand. “This is why I love you.”
“Ow? Placing my worth based on how many sweet treats I am willing to bestow upon you?” Fred feigned offense at your statement. “But it’s okay. I love you too.”
Half an hour later, you were walking out of the sweet shop with a bag filled to the brim, and Fred was magically several Galleons lighter.
The two of you were only a three-minute walk from the castle grounds when the wind started to pick up. What was once a light snowy drizzle had suddenly turn into a full-blown blizzard, obscuring your vision for meters.
“I can’t even—I can’t see a thing!” you yelled over the whipping winds, trying to shield your face. “Fred, where are you?”
“Right behind you,” he murmured, circling an arm around your middle. “Don’t worry.”
But then, you felt something cold and icy slip down your jumper.
“Fred Weasley!” you yelled as he ran away, laughing with another clump of snow in hand. “You get back here right this instant before I kick your arse—”
You lunged forward and went sprinting after him, well, as fast as you could through the thick blankets of snow. Fred’s laugh echoed through the frigid air as you rolled up a giant snowball and chucked it at him. It hit him square in the back and he nearly fell from the impact.
The blizzard added an extra layer of difficulty, but you were determined to win by sheer talent and not take the easy way out with magic.
Your arms began to ache from forming and throwing snowball after snowball, and you were sure that you’d be getting bruises all over your body (especially from one particularly hard hit between your shoulder blades when you’d been distracted). But seeing Fred so blissfully happy made it worth it—for a split second, you could pretend you were both thirteen again, no worries in the world except for beating each other in Quidditch.
“Okay, this is so over!” you shouted as you chased him over a small hill and finally jumped on his back to tackle him, causing him to fall face first into the snow.
“You absolute—” he began, voice muffled. “Ow.”
He fell silent for a few seconds and stopped moving, causing you to worry. “Freddie, you alright? Fred!”
After you panicked for a few more seconds, Fred finally flipped over, clutching his stomach as he laughed at you. “You actually thought I was hurt?”
“It’s not funny!” you exclaimed in a high-pitched tone. Your face flushed as you realized you practically sitting on him and awkwardly shifted off, opting to kneel by his side as he sat up. “What if you actually were? I’d like to be the one that heals you, not hurts you, thank you very much!”
He smirked. “Aw, so you were worried about me. You care, don’t you?”
“Shut it, I do not,” you scoffed.
His eyes trailed down your ring, which still shone so brightly, as you absentmindedly fiddled with it.
“...I think you’re missing a little something, don’t you think? Or maybe it’s me that is,” he said so quietly that you almost missed what he’d said. “A diamond, perhaps….”
“A diamond?” your voice came out in the tiniest of whispers as well. “I think you’d look alright in a little silver…”
Fred then cupped your face in his hands, which forced you to look back up at him. He gently grazed his thumbs over your cheekbones and there was now what seemed like a look of longing in his bright hazel eyes. He’d always gazed at you admiringly but that was because he was your best friend, you told yourself (a lie that, time and time again, you’d try and fail over the years to convince yourself of). Best friends loved and cared for each other, that’s what they’re supposed to do.
But here he was, making you feel things that a friend normally didn’t. And you didn’t even try to push him away because you didn’t want him to leave; you never wanted him to.
He finally closed the ever-decreasing gap between you two and kissed you, capturing your lips in his. You buried a hand in his messy hair and pulled him closer; as close as you possibly could, desperate for the way he made you feel so alive because he was the one thing keeping you anchored to the ground.
IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou, he says over and over. You swore you’d explode, feeling him smile against your lips, tugging you even closer.
the in-between
The chasm of grief, so cold and uninviting, seemed to open up and swallow you whole.
You hated war. You hated watching the blood of innocent people being shed by the ruthless works of evil. You hated that you had survived while so many you had grown to know and love didn’t. They’re just kids. They’re too young. They didn’t deserve to die the way they did. They’re just kids. They’re just kids.
You weren’t sure how you even survived.
As soon as you locked eyes with each other, you, Harry, Ron, Luna, Ginny, Hermione, Neville, Dean, Seamus, and Parvati collapsed into one giant hug on the floor, tightly clutching one another. You had all been incredibly lucky to have made it through together.
Fred’s eyes carefully scanned the room, searching for a familiar face. When he saw you there in the corner, eyes squeezed shut and clinging to your best friends, he wanted nothing more than to approach and comfort you. But he knew you all needed this time together—you had lost many loved ones, and they were some of the only family you had left. So he let you be, leaning against the wall and watching from afar.
Over the next hour or so, people slowly started trickling out of the Great Hall—parents coming to pick up their kids, families reuniting—until it was just you, Harry, Hermione, Lupin, Tonks, Sirius, Fleur, and the Weasleys. There was an unspoken feeling of gratitude lingering in the air and you could sense the relief all-around.
Your heart clenched as you watched Harry embrace his godfather. Your mother had died when you were young and your father had suffered a similar fate as the Longbottoms, so watching families reunite always sent a spear through your chest.
“Hey,” you heard, feeling someone intertwine their fingers with yours. You didn’t need to look over to know it was Fred. “Sickle for your thoughts? Tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”
Leaning into him, you closed your eyes, attempting to will the tears away. “I don’t…I don’t know. I just hate war. While I’m glad this is over, I can’t help but think how unfair it all is. People losing each other, being torn apart…Voldemort’s gone, I know, but it just feels like he took a part of me to the grave with him.”
“I hope it’s not the part that made you fall in love with me,” Fred joked, and the corners of your lips quirked up in a grin.
“Of course not…” you murmured, “you’d have to pry your heart out of my cold, dead hands to try and take it from me. I’m here now, whether you like it or not.”
“For good?”
“For good,” you stated, reaching up to kiss him softly. “I love you.”
“And you know I love you more.”
epilogue (it’s a new spring with you)
With the Dark Lord gone, there were many loose ends to tie up and much-deserved resting to do. You had stayed behind to help start with cleaning up the castle grounds, before deciding to take the Hogwarts Express back home all togehter—for old time’s sake.
“What about the shop?” you asked George as you sat down between him and Fred. “Don’t you two need to be there?”
“We reckon it’ll be just fine—it’s not just us there anymore, remember?” he said, “but, Freddie thought you were more important. That’s why we’re here.”
Resting your head against his chest, you gazed up at Fred and smiled. “You left for me?”
“You know all that I do is for you,” he explained as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Ew my teeth, they’re going to rot from the cheesy sweetness,” Ron groaned. “You’d think that the war would wipe all that out.”
“Oh shut it, Ronald,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “Let them live.”
You drifted off and slept through the entire ride home, feeling a tad bit more refreshed when pulling in to King’s Cross station. It was a blur from there: taking the Floo network, carrying bags, washing up, and whatnot. You felt as if you were on autopilot with a barely functioning Muggle battery. All you wanted was to collapse on the floor and sleep forever, but you wanted to sit around the living room floor with your friends and catch up like you always did during the summer.
Lupin and Tonks had gone home to take care of Teddy while the rest of you were settling in. Chatter filled the Burrow as you spent time unpacking, and you found that you’d missed all the noise more than you initially thought. Dinner was an equally chaotic but also peaceful affair, filled with plenty of toasts, extra servings, and laughter, of course.
While Sirius was busy telling the table about the Mauraders’ antics, Fred squeezed your hand, jerking his head behind him to indicate that he wanted to go out back.
Now? What is it? you mouthed.
Fred nodded. Yes, now, so come on.
He took your hand and led you out the back door to the orchards, crescent moon shining overhead. A faint smile graced your face as you thought back to the days you spent together under the giant apple tree, reading stories from Hermione’s books to one another, skipping stones by the lake, and tending to the chickens.
A familiar tune started drifting through the air, and Fred extended a hand towards you.
“May I have this dance?”
You were immediately hit with a wave of déjà vu at his question, and allowed him to sweep you up into his arms. He placed his hands on your waist and you felt sparks shoot up your spine at his touch. Your arms wound their way around his neck as you swayed to the melody, losing yourselves in a dreamy lullaby. Though you had done this with him before on several occasions, it still felt like you were falling in love all over again.
You swallowed hard as you thought about how you had both been forced to grow up so fast. Moments like these—of pure bliss and childlike innocence—were far and few between, so they were to be greatly cherished. It was easy when he was twirling you around like this; effortlessly guiding your motions, to forget that anything and anyone else existed.
Closing your eyes, you focused on the feeling of his warm hands through your sweater and the soothing sound of his soft hums, allowing them to carry you away.
At one point, he briefly stops before spinning you outwards—but this time, he doesn’t pull you back in to catch you. You’re about to be confused but then, you turn around to see him down on one knee, a glittering diamond ring in hand. You froze in place, completely shocked.
“A diamond, perhaps…” you echoed, recalling that one winter night when you had kissed him for the first time, feeling like your heart was going to explode out of your chest.
“It’s always been you,” said Fred in a simple, soft tone of voice. “Always has been and always will be.”
Your eyes began to water. “You’re bloody kidding me…”
“Y/N, I know I joke around a lot—hell, I opened a whole shop with Georgie…but one thing I’ve never joked about is the way I feel about you.”
“Fred…”
“...Will you marry me?”
You opened and closed your mouth but no words seemed to come out. All you could manage was a small nod before tears fully blurred your vision and you stepped forward, hand shaking as he slid the diamond ring on.
When his lips brushed against yours, time seemed to splutter to a stop, and you felt your weary heart slowly but steadily stitch itself back together.
Except, he was the one holding the needle and telling you that there was no need to be anxious or scared because he’d be by your side for the rest of your life.
So don't let me wait
Come to me tenderly in the June night
I stand at your gate
And I sing you a song in the moonlight
A love song, my darling
A moonlight serenade
summary: it’s christmas at the burrow and you can’t shake off the enchanted mistletoe that always seems to follow you wherever you go
words: ~5.1k
warnings: holiday cheesiness. my bad writing. lots of fluff. getting together/first kiss(es) cliches. fred being a rizzler (or at least trying to). mistletoe cliches. basically a lot of cliches
a/n: i had to. it may be mid-march but i couldn't resist another cute holiday fic. also i’m so sorry lol i went overboard again. will i ever write anything short 💀
“Oh, my sweet girl, it’s so good to see you!” Molly exclaimed as she came forward, bringing you in for a tight, motherly hug. “How have you been?”
“I’ve been great,” you smiled kindly. “Thank you again for letting me stay, I didn’t want to feel like a burden but Fred and George said they already told you I was coming—”
“Nonsense! It’s no problem, dear,” she insisted, smoothing your hair back. “It’ll be wonderful to spend the holidays together.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” you said, “and I’m most looking forward to your roasts.”
“You’re too sweet,” she patted your cheek, “now, I’m sure you all are exhausted. Let’s head on home, shall we? George, Ron, help her and Hermione with their things, won’t you?”
“But Mum, we already have our own things to c—” Ron immediately stopped talking once he saw the warning look on his mother’s face. “Okay…”
While him and George took ahold of your things, Fred fell into step besides you, casually slinging an arm over your shoulders. “Excited to spend Christmas with me?”
“No,” you joked, trying to shrug his arm off. He only pulled you further into his side, and you chuckled lightly, “I’m only here for your mum’s cooking, of course.”
“Wow, so my irresistible charm didn’t work on you?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“I’ll have to try harder then,” he shrugged, then leaned in to press an exaggerated, dramatic kiss to the side of your head. “Well, I’m happy you’re here.”
He spent the rest of the walk out of King's Cross making a show of being extra affectionate and cheesy, causing Ron to look over at Ginny and gag, and a nostalgic smile to grace Mrs. Weasley’s features.
The Burrow was a hive of activity in the final days leading up to Christmas—everyone was busy rushing around helping with something. Fleur was gliding through each room, feather duster and other cleaning supplies floating behind her in a glowing trail, Bill and Charlie were working outside in the front and back yards, and you were helping Mr. Weasley fix up various gadgets. You hated cleaning and repairs, but talking to the kind man made the time go by much faster than you expected.
“So, Y/N, I hear that you have some Muggle knowledge,” Mr. Weasley spoke up as you carefully took a clock apart, inspecting each of its parts, “could you tell me what is this thing called the ‘internet?’”
You took the cloth from his outstretched hand and began to wipe at the glass as you spoke, “Yes, my mother is a Muggle so I know a good amount of stuff. She’s been writing to me about the new computer her and Dad got back home, and it’s fascinating. You can do just about anything on the Internet. Search up cute animal pictures, read the news, play some games…”
“Do these pictures move?”
“No, but we have videos,” you explained, “they’re recorded clips and they’re kind of like moving pictures.”
“Fascinating. You’ll have to show me sometime,” he smiled, “And, I still have that—what is it? Camera recorder, that you brought over the summer?”
“Camcorder, sir,” you corrected, “it’s a video camera. You can record videos on there and play them as many times as you would like.”
“You’ll have to show me one day,” said Mr. Weasley.
Just as you were nodding in agreement, you felt someone come up behind you. A sudden warmth flooded your senses and you didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was.
“What’s going on here?” Fred murmured as he propped his chin on your shoulder and snaked his arms around your waist, squeezing tight. You couldn’t find it in yourself to tell him to let go; it was like every muscle in your body relaxed the moment you realized it was him.
“Well, Fred,” Mr. Weasley replied, “Y/N here was telling me all about the Internet and video recordings. Quite ingenious, these Muggles are.”
“Is that so?” His nose just barely brushed your cheek and you felt your heart explode. It wasn’t like he’d never put his hands on you in the past, but something about the moment felt more intimate than the rest. “You’ve got to tell me all about it.”
“She’ll tell you once you get your hands off her and go help Mum with dinner,” a voice sounded from behind you both. You turned to see Ginny standing there with her hands on her hips, a knowing smirk on her face. She exchanged a pointed look with her father that somehow, both you and Fred missed. “Oh and Y/N, she wants you to come too, if you’d like.”
Fred grumbled to himself and carefully released you from his arms. You tried to ignore how it suddenly felt cold when he did.
“Go on, Fred, go help your mother,” Mr. Weasley gestured with his hand, “I’ll take it from here. And Y/N, thank you for your help.”
Just as you were about to cross over to the kitchen, a hand on your arm stopped you in your tracks.
“What is it this time, Fred?” you sighed.
“We can’t walk past this, it’s bad luck.”
“For Merlin’s sake, what are you talking a—” you followed to where his finger was pointing, eyes landing on a bundle of mistletoe hanging from the top of the entryway. “—oh.”
“Mistletoe,” he flashed you a cheeky grin. “Pucker up, sweetheart.”
You felt heat creep up your cheeks. “Are you being serious?”
“I’m being dead serious—I promise I’m not bad.”
“Fine. Only because it’s ‘tradition.’”
That was all the signal he needed before he gently tugged you close and connected your lips in a tender kiss. You instinctively reached up to cup his cheek with one hand, heart beating rapidly when you felt him smile against your lips and tighten his hold on you.
After a few moments you pulled away, feeling as if you had just been doused in gasoline and set on fire. Your heartbeat hadn’t slowed down in the slightest.
“That wasn’t too terrible, now was it?” Fred raised a brow at you in question. Were you just imagining things, or were his cheeks kind of pink as well?
“Terrible,” you lied, pretending to look disappointed.
“But you know you love me,” he sing-songed as he walked away into the kitchen.
“As much as I love Umbridge,” you sing-songed back.
“Hey!”
You rolled your eyes and followed him, ignoring the pointed looks that your onlookers (particularly Ginny) sent your way.
This had to have been the first morning in ages in which you felt well-rested. Well, if you could call it morning; it was nearly noon and you had just woken up, almost suspicious at the lack of heaviness pressing down your eyes as they opened. You were one of the last ones to wake if you didn’t count Ron, who often slept until lunch.
Looking down, you realized you had somehow ended up wearing Fred’s sweater rather than your own to sleep, the giant monogrammed ‘F’ standing out against the maroon in golden thread. You were too lazy to try and question it, however, so you opted to brush the thought off and quickly got ready, brushing the tangles out of your hair.
“Y/N, guess what w—” someone called out from below as you made your way to the winding staircase.
Before you even had the chance to respond, your foot caught on the step below you and you slipped backwards. You braced yourself for a hard hit on the rock-solid floor, expecting to hear a crack, but didn’t, and felt a strong pair of arms catch you around the waist instead.
“Almost took a hard fall there, didn’t you?” Fred chuckled lightly, “you’ve got to be more careful.”
Even after you had steadied yourself, he didn’t let go of you nor did he step away. Your face flushed at the realization.
“Yeah,” you mumbled, suddenly feeling hot, “definitely. I’ll…try not to trip like that next time.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Several moments of silence passed, and his eyes were still on you, a slight look of endearment shining in them.
“What?” you were now feeling confused, “is something wrong? Is there something in my hair? Please don’t tell me it’s a spider—”
He simply shook his head, staring upward. You followed his gaze to see a familiar cluster of sage-green leaves with white berries hanging from the top of the doorway by a ribbon.
“Mistletoe,” he said confidently, but you could’ve sworn you saw a light shade of pink dusting his cheeks. “I wonder who put that there?”
“Dunno,” you shrugged, suddenly feeling flustered, “maybe someone’s just trying to spread the holiday cheer. Did they teach Dobby to scale the walls or something?”
“Now that kind of makes sense.”
“Totally.”
“Or maybe, Georgie did this,” he guessed, “can’t really think of why else we’d get caught under it again.”
“You think?”
“Possibly.”
“Yeah. That makes sense too.”
“...Alright, we’re delaying this,” Fred declared after several moments of silence, eyes flickering down to your mouth.
“No, we’re not,” you awkwardly coughed, turning away to try and hide your blush, “you’re delaying it, not me.”
“Then let’s get it over with, love.”
“Okay, fine.”
Rising up onto your tiptoes, you looped your arms around his neck and kissed him softly, trying your best to ignore the swooping sensation in your stomach.
“There, now we won’t be cursed to a life of loneliness.”
“Y/N, would you be a dear and help me with chopping the vegetables?” Mrs. Weasley called you from your spot in the living room where you, Hermione, and Ginny were sprawled on the floor, hovering various random objects in the air. “It won’t take too long.”
You stood up and dusted yourself off. “Oh, sure, of course.”
Cooking wasn’t your favorite activity in the world, but you didn’t hate it either. Still, it wasn’t like you went out of your way to whip something up to eat if you could help it. But you genuinely enjoyed it when it was with Mrs. Weasley; she always had a good story or two to tell, and made for great company. Her meals always reminded you of those of your grandmother and mother’s.
Taking one of the freshly washed knives, you slowly began to chop the onions, careful to avoid cutting the root because you knew you’d turn into a teary-eyed mess if you did. You knew you could use a bit of magic to speed up the process, but both you and Mrs. Weasley swore up and down that there was something different about homemade, handmade meals.
Right when you were about to finish your work, your hand slipped and the blade sliced across your palm. You hissed in pain and quickly jerked your hand back, muttering a string of swears under your breath. Blood started dripping from the cut, small scarlet droplets hitting the counter. So much for being careful…
Fred was by your side in an instant, taking your hand in his and peering at it worriedly. “You’re bleeding.”
“Way to state the obv—” you were about to say something snarky, but the moment he adjusted your hand, you winced and swore again. “That fucking hurt!”
“We need to get this bandaged up,” he stated, not caring that your blood was now getting onto his sleeves. He let go for a moment to hastily wrap your hand in a towel before holding onto it again, “Come on.”
You reluctantly obeyed and followed him to the nearest washroom where he gently lifted you by the waist and set you down on the countertop. Resisting the urge to swing your legs back and forth, you watched him curiously as he began to rummage around the bathroom, opening and closing several cupboards until he found a small box, setting it down beside you.
“Luckily, this isn’t a bed-binding injury,” he explained, setting a small box down beside you, “so it won’t need any fancy spells to fix.”
“Fred, I’m fine, you don’t have to baby me. I’m perfectly capable of doing this myself,” you sighed. “It’s just a cut. Maybe a little deep, but still—just a cut.”
“Well, I want to help you. And for what it’s worth, I don’t like seeing you hurt. Even if it is ‘just a cut.’”
Realizing he wouldn’t let up, you stopped trying to argue. “Alright then, have at it.”
Fred flipped the lid of the box open and pulled out a roll of gauze and several cotton balls, along with a small vial of some basic disinfecting tonic. He gingerly unwrapped the makeshift bandage around your hand, tossing it into the wastebasket by the sink.
“I’ll try and be as gentle as I can, but no promises…I’m sorry,” he warned.
“Just hurry up and do it,” you gritted your teeth, the stinging sensation in your palm growing worse. “Let’s get it over with.”
He first ran a cloth under the water and gently pressed it to your skin, cleaning the excess blood away. The cold felt good against your skin, but this relief was short-lived once he pressed the tonic-soaked cotton ball to the cut and you yelped in pain.
“I know, I’m really sorry,” he whispered, continuing to gently dab at the wound. “It’ll be over in a sec.”
It was almost odd, seeing this gentler, softer side of him that you rarely ever saw make an appearance. He was dead silent as he worked, and you couldn’t help but stare at the way his brows creased in concentration and how he held your hand so gently as if it was made from fairy dust and starlight.
“Alright, you’re all good,” Fred announced a moment later, gesturing down to your newly bandaged hand. “You’re all good to go.”
“Thanks,” you exhaled.
With Fred’s help, you hopped down from the counter, feeling the cold floor against your bare feet. It was only when you looked back up that you realized how close you were standing—you were practically chest-to-chest—along with the mistletoe growing from the ceiling. The stupid plant was taunting you and you hated it. Were you ever going to get a moment of peace this Christmas…
“Was that there before?” you questioned. “I could’ve sworn it wasn’t…”
“Who cares?” Fred shrugged, “we’ve got to kiss now, right?”
“Obviously…” And before you knew it his lips were pressing against yours, arms sliding around your waist. The taste of gingerbread and firewhisky filled your senses as your lips collided, getting a whiff of something smoky and sweet.
It was weird to finally be at eye level with him because you were sitting on the edge of the sink, and this sudden dynamic change had butterflies sweeping through your insides.
“Right, well,” Fred cleared his throat as you broke away from him, suddenly bashful, “and they say a kiss will make it all better.”
“Yeah. I’m feeling loads better already.”
There was a different sort of look in his eyes this time; it was as if he wanted to say something more, but held back.
In spite of the ‘awkwardness’ you still let him hold your hand all the way back down to the kitchen. He didn’t mind, of course.
It was finally Christmas Eve and you were beyond exhausted but couldn’t have been more excited—Christmases at the Burrow were your absolute favorite. Mealtimes in particular were always filled with endless laughter; there was never a dull moment at the dining table and you loved every minute of it.
After a lively pre-holiday supper, Ginny declared that it was time for a giant lip-sync dance party, so you all cleared up the entire living area, pushing chairs and sofas to the edges of the room.
Mrs. Weasley had a wide selection of music for you to choose from and you decided to pair up, each person randomly sticking their hand in a hat and pulling out a slip of paper that had the name of the track they’d be ‘singing.’ You and Hermione were put together and got stuck with Celestina Warbeck’s “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love.” Everyone howled in laughter as you pulled out the thin sheet of paper, reading the title. Those howls only magnified as you launched into an overly dramatic, opera-like performance, dancing around the room with your best friend. The two of you ended the sequence with Hermione dipping you dramatically and almost dropping you, causing you to slip momentarily.
The whole room burst into applause and both you and your best friend bowed, grinning from ear to ear.
After everyone had gone for a round it was a free-for-all, so once Mr. and Mrs. Weasley finished their dance, Ginny tugged you into the center of the room. “Come on!”
“Oi, you’re staring,” George pointed out, leaning to whisper into his twin’s ear. “You’re so in love.”
“Shut up,” Fred grumbled, not taking his eyes off you. His eyes followed your frame as you and Ginny twirled each other around, heads thrown back in laughter and clutching each other because you had spun yourselves dizzy. It was hard not to; he was completely mesmerized. This was his Christmas gift, he told himself, he didn’t need anything else. “Am not. Besides, you know she only sees me as—”
“Are too. You know, you can be so thick sometimes.”
But then you nearly stumbled and fell for what felt like that millionth time this past week, and again, Fred rushed forward mid-conversation to catch you.
“Thanks.”
“Anything for you, darling.”
“Would you look at that,” Ginny snickered as she regained her balance, and jabbed her finger upwards, interrupting the brief ‘moment.’ The music continued to play softly in the background. “you two! Stop right there!”
“Bloody hell,” you let out a long groan. You didn’t want to look up this time. Fred looked just as smug as his sister did, if not more. “Not again.”
“Oh, no!” Fred feigned a look of surprise, “it’s as if it’s following us! Bit strange, innit?”
“Yeah. Very.”
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” you heard several voices—likely Ron, George, and Hermione—chant. Everyone else watched on in amusement.
“Why don’t we give them what they want?” Fred hummed, a hint of amusement painted across his features. “They get a show, and we get to kiss. It’s a win-win.”
“Whatever you say,” you muttered.
He then gently caressed your cheek and brushed his lips against yours, sending a strange spark of sorts shooting down your spine. It felt as if you’d been thrown into the icy depths of the Black Lake yet you were still afloat, missing the fate of drowning just by the feeling of his lips.
You were too caught up in the newfound feeling to try and figure out why you’d been caught under the mysterious plant for what seemed like the thousandth time already. This time around, though, you had less complaints waiting to burst forward from the tip of your tongue.
“Oi! Save the rest of it for the bedroom!” a loud voice jolted you from your trance, and the two of you finally broke apart for air, “keep it family-friendly down here!”
“Ron!” Ginny punched her brother in the shoulder, causing him to wince. “Stop ruining the moment!”
Everything resumed as normal, though Fred found himself sitting closer to you as the evening wore on, one hand placed on your upper thigh as if it was meant to be there all along.
By the time you had all washed up and gotten ready for bed, you were tired out of your mind, but still found it difficult to fall asleep. Hermione and Ginny watched with amused looks as you paced around the room in frustration, half-convinced that by morning there would be scuff marks in the floorboards from where your feet had been.
“I just don’t understand,” you groaned as you flopped backwards onto your bed, pulling the sheets all the way up to your chin. “It’s everywhere! How come no one else is getting caught beneath it as frequently as us?”
The redhead girl simply laughed, “are you complaining about locking lips with him this often? Last I recall, you seemed to quite enjoy—”
“Oh shut it,” you scoffed, “I like following a holiday tradition. Even if it’s more often than I’d like.”
“Uh huh.” Ginny didn’t look convinced in the slightest. “Keep telling yourself that, Y/N.”
“She’s not wrong,” Hermione chimed in as she got into bed as well, “if I didn’t know better I’d think you’d been together for ages.”
“It’s all fake,” you mumbled, voice trailing off as the realization hit you, “none of this is real. If I’m going to kiss him, I want it to be real real. No mistletoe, no bets, no nothing. I want to remember it and I want it to mean something beyond just a silly little tradition.”
The two girls fell silent for a moment as they took in your words.
“...He was your first, wasn’t he?” asked Hermione. “And second…and third…”
Your lack of response told her all she needed to know.
The delirious feeling remained when you woke up early the next morning.
Changing and getting ready felt harder than normal; the moment you sat up in bed, you wanted to lie back down and go back to sleep. Hermione and Ginny clearly felt the same way, judging by their bleary eyes and tired groans. It was Christmas Day, and the only present you really wanted was a good night’s rest. And you thought you would finally be getting some, until George had starting pounding on your door and demanded you all wake up before they broke the door down.
“How about I break your bones instead, you git!” Ginny snapped as she threw the covers off herself, storming to the door and swinging it open. “We’ll be down in a minute, geez!”
“Someone woke up on the wrong side of bed…” George sang. “That’s not the holiday spirit. Come on. Mum says we can’t open presents till you lazy bums get downstairs.”
Ginny rolled her eyes and promptly closed the door with a huff, walking over to her bedside to change. You wanted to wait longer out of spite, but knew that you’d be bothered relentlessly if you didn’t head down in time.
“Men,” Hermione chuckled lightly as she pulled her jumper on over her head. “They’re really children at heart.”
“You could say that again,” you rolled your eyes, “they don’t know when to stop.”
“Hey!” Ron interjected. “You can’t go generalizing like that, it’s not fair.”
“I second that,” Charlie spoke up, “it’s not fair.”
The entire family was already gathered around by the time you came downstairs; the large pile of presents that had been under the tree now moved to the center of the room. You made it your mission to ignore the way Fred’s hair was all messy from having just woken up moments prior, and the way he ran his hand through it, which only messed it up even further. It was infuriating that he looked good without trying, and it was even more infuriating that his cocky self just knew and had now caught you staring.
He sent you a wink and patted the empty spot next to him on the couch. Conveniently enough everyone else had already sat down, leaving you no choice but to sit by his side (But were you really complaining, though?).
“Happy Christmas, everyone,” Mrs. Weasley beamed brightly, clasping her hands together, “since we’re all here and awake now, let’s get started. We’ll go in a circle, and each pick something from the pile—Arthur, why don’t you go first.”
Any lingering frustration or bad moods had lifted the moment Mr. Weasley presented the first gift, which happened to be addressed to Fleur, from you. She unwrapped the package to reveal the skincare set that you knew she’d been eyeing for ages—it was from when you’d gone on a day trip to Paris together and she caught sight of it in the department store, and talked about it nonstop until you went to get dinner.
Fleur let out a small squeal and immediately came over to embrace you, “Thank you! I ‘ave been looking for zis for ages but couldn’t find it anywhere else! How did you get your hands on it?”
You and Bill exchanged a quick look, “I have my ways.”
She gratefully kissed your cheek and patted your head, “Thank you so much. I will be using it every day.”
Before long, everyone was drowning in their own pile of presents. One of your favorites had to have been the one that Bill and Charlie worked on together: they gifted you a hand-crafted obsidian dagger, which Charlie explained took months of convincing the goblins to make, but was worth it in the end. (He left out the part where they’d half-threatened Griphook with two dragons, of course.)
“Wait, Fred, you still haven’t given Y/N your gift!” Hermione pointed out. “Come on, stop staring and give it to her!”
“Huh, what—” Fred quickly snapped out of his momentary daze, blinking a few times and reaching behind himself, holding a small box in his hands. “Right, Y/N, this is for you—”
“If this is another box of mistletoe,” you began as you turned to fully face him, “I’ll punch you—”
“It’s not, I promise. But,” he cleared his throat and lowered his voice, trying to hide the slight nervousness in his tone, “can we head outside? I was planning on giving it to you to open privately, if that’s alright.”
“Yeah, sure…” you were a bit confused at this but got up with him anyway.
“You hurt her and I’ll hex you,” Ginny warned as he held the front door open for you, hand beginning to reach for her wand. “Don’t think I won’t do it.”
A gentle breeze blew through the air, carrying with it the musical sound of the wind chimes overhead. You breathed in deep as you sat down on the doorstep next to Fred, wringing your hands out—for whatever reason you were nervous, and you usually weren’t nervous around him. Maybe it was the cold December air or the fact that you had an irregular sleep schedule that gave you occasional migraines, you didn’t know…
“You okay?” he gently bumped your shoulder with his. “You’ve got something to open, remember?”
“Oh…yeah…”
Fred eyed you carefully as you undid the pale blue ribbon and unwrapped the small package, opening the box. Nestled amongst soft velvet was a pearlescent, heart-shaped locket outlined in glowing gold. For the first time since you met you were at a loss for words, which was strange given that you always knew what to say and were often quick to reply with something equally sharp-witted and sarcastic to match his energy.
“Open it,” he urged, and you just barely heard him over your rapid heartbeat, popping the locket open with shaky hands. Inside was a tiny moving image of the two of you together by the Black Lake, ear-splitting grins on your faces as you sat on his shoulders and his hands tightly clutched yours, trying to keep you from falling off. You remembered how Harry was laughing so hard that the camera shook and Hermione had to help him steady it before he took the shot.
He smiled softly at you. “Not mistletoe, like I promised. What do you think?”
“It’s perfect,” you exhaled, gazing up at him, “I love it.” I love you.
“About the mistletoe, though…” Fred continued, “you’re probably wondering why we got caught under it so much.”
“Funny enough, I was going to ask,” you said, looking back down and watching him trace slow patterns into your palm. “How is it that it kept catching just us? As if it was following us around…”
“Because it was,” he admitted sheepishly.
“So you’re saying…”
“I bewitched them to do that, of course. Just like…” he lightly snapped his fingers, causing a bundle to appear over your heads, “...this. I thought that making excuses to get you under the mistletoe would get you to realize how I felt but Merlin, you didn’t catch on at all.”
You sucked in a breath. “I don’t get it. W-what do you mean—”
“I’m bloody in love with you, Y/N, what other girl would I willingly try and kiss five times in a row?” he shook his head, cheeks flushed a bright pink both from his blush and the icy breeze, “You really thought I’d care that much about an old holiday ‘tradition?’ I only cared about you, and I still do. That isn’t going to change.”
Then he gently brushed your hair to the side to clasp the necklace on; once he was done, he lifted his hand and placed it against the side of your face, thumb skimming over your cheekbone in a gentle motion. He brought you in close and connected your lips together, sending a searing heat through your body like an all-consuming wildfire and it was utterly intoxicating. And it wasn’t fast or terrifying in the slightest bit—it was slow, steady; just like the way you fell in love with him.
He tilted your chin up just the slightest bit to deepen the kiss, and you felt like you were going to explode. The world was spinning but you had come to a standstill, the feeling of your lips moving in sync and his warm hands keeping you tethered to the rocky earth.
You couldn’t help the grin that crept up your face when you pulled back for air. Leaning forward and resting your chin against his shoulder, you let out a breathy laugh, holding him tight around the torso. Maybe you were quite oblivious for taking until Christmas Day to realize your best friend fancied you, but at least you got something (well, multiple things, really) out of it—which neither of you were complaining about.
“I take it that it went well, then?” a voice sounded out from behind you both. “Did it work?”
“Merlin’s saggy beard, Georgie, the love of my life and I were having a moment,” Fred groaned quietly, and you too would’ve been equally embarrassed except all your brain seemed to focus on were the words, love of my life, and repeat it over and over inside your head.
“You were in on this too?”
“How could I not be?” George winked, “when your idiot of a twin brother won’t fess up, someone’s got to step in and help.”
The rest of Christmas zipped by in a flash—nothing really changed, asides from the fact that Fred’s hand now remained on yours at all times except for when you were eating or went to go wash up and change.
And no more rogue mistletoe appeared above you in hallways or doorways of any kind, but Fred still waited patiently on the other side, hoping to steal another kiss or two.
summary: rumor has it that you and fred weasley are going out. being the instigators you two are, you decide to play into said rumors. but just how far could you go before you lose sight of the line between fiction and reality?
words: ~7.9k LMFAO I REALLY WENT OVERBOARD HERE
warnings: cheesiness, cliche 10 things i hate about you vibes, both y/n and fred being oblivious idiots. what’s more to love
a/n: you thought i’d avoid writing another fake dating fic? with fred? NEVER. ik there r some fake dating fred fics out there but i swear we need MORE bc this is the best trope ever idc. also made up a name for the school paper cs i forgot if it was a thing in the books/movies lol. reader is an implied gryffindor/ravenclaw but can technically be in whatever house you’d like : )
add yourself to my hp taglist here!
The problem with Hogwarts was that rumors spread through its halls like fiendfyre.
It all started during the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Harry had narrowly caught the Snitch after a Dementor false alarm and carried the team to victory, causing the stadium to explode into ground-shaking cheers. Waves of deep crimson and gold were pouring onto the field and you almost got trampled in the midst of it until someone pulled you into the center.
“There you are—I was looking all over for you,” Fred beamed. “You were watching, right?”
“I was sitting front row…you literally saw me, Fred,” you stated plainly.
“I know, but I wanted to make sure,” he winked at you, sidelining you into a hug. “You look very pretty, by the way. I think my hat looks better on you than me.”
“Anddd there’s the woman of the hour! He couldn’t stop staring at you—almost crashed into the teachers’ section ‘cause of that,” Lee came over and clasped your shoulder.
“That’s what that was all about? Freddie, you need to get it together!”
“Can’t help when you’re as alluring as a Veela,” the compliment rolled effortlessly off his tongue. He then tilted his chin down to kiss your forehead, and you didn’t bother pushing him away despite the fact that he was all sweaty after being up in the air.
A bright flash of light pulled you out of Fred’s embrace, and you blinked to see Colin standing there with a wide grin on his face, camera in hand.
“Just capturing the moment,” the younger Gryffindor said excitedly. “This is gonna be a good one!”
You thought nothing of it until you went down to the Great Hall for breakfast the following morning. You went over to find your Ravenclaw friends, who seemed to be huddled around something, staring at it intensely.
“Oh, hey Y/N!” Cho beamed brightly at you, moving over to make room for you to sit next to her. “Have you seen the latest school newsletter?”
You filled your plate and took a copy of the Hogwarts Daily Digest that Padma gave you. “No…what’s it all about?”
“Check page 3,” she told you. You took a bite of your toast first, pausing as you scanned over the page. At the front and center was a moving picture of you and Fred embracing, him pressing a kiss to your temple, smiles of pure bliss on both your faces. You had to admit that Colin had a way with pictures; so much so that you almost would’ve believed you and Fred were a true couple just by looking at the article.
“So we’re going out, apparently,” you said, taking another bite of your food, “...Interesting.”
“Several students were interviewed about it, and they’re wondering if you guys are,” Cho explained. “With the way he kept looking over at you during the game, and how he was searching for you after it ended.”
“I—I’ve ought to talk to Fred himself, see what he thinks about this—” you spluttered, feeling hot all of a sudden. “I just—we’re not even—”
“But you would be very cute together,” your best friend added. “I mean, you have known each other for how long now? It wouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone if you were.”
At the end of the day, you went to the library to squeeze in some quiet alone time for reading, curling up on one of the plushy sofas near the bookshelves. You were deep into a mythical book that Hermione recommended, fully zoned in for what felt like forever until the cushion sank a bit, indicating that someone had sat down next to you.
“What do you want, Fred,” you sighed without even looking up from your book. “Come to bother me again?”
He took the book from your hands in response and closed it.
“Hey, I was reading that—” you began.
“I wanted to ask you about the article,” he stated, “don’t you think Creevey’s quite the photographer?”
You scoffed. “If this is about us being a couple, you know we’re not.”
“I was going to suggest something else.”
“And what is that?”
“Given that half the school is talking about us already,” he referred to the whispers in the halls that followed you from class to class, “why not play into the rumors a bit?”
“So you’re suggesting that, what?”
“That we say we’re a couple.”
“...you want to pretend that we’re going out?”
“Why not?”
“That’s insane,” you shot him a glare. “What do either of us get out of it?”
“Practice, of course,” Fred had a proud look on, “but also, why not have some fun with it?”
You stopped and thought about it for a second. He was right—who were you to not want to have a bit of fun? After all, it was just Fred; it couldn’t be that hard to fake-date someone, especially when you had no real feelings for them.
“Fine, but only on one condition.”
“What’s that, love?”
“Promise not to fall in love with me?” You stuck your hand out towards him.
Fred took it and gave it a firm shake, his signature mischievous grin making its appearance. “As long as you don’t fall for me either.”
“Dream on.”
He leans forward, voice dropping to a low whisper. “10 galleons says you’ll fall in love with me first.”
“Oh, please. 20 says you won’t even last half as long.”
“You’re on.”
So it began—settling into the whole routine was surprisingly easy. But of course, it was probably easier since you had money on the line; asides from George, you and Fred were the most competitive people in the entire school. You’d do anything for extra money, glory, and infinite bragging rights.
Making it a point to one-up each other, you began to brainstorm ways to really play up the whole “fake girlfriend” thing.
i. the pda competition, part 1
Monday afternoon’s Potions lesson proceeded as always, with Snape’s annoying, drawling voice instructing you on what to do.
Today’s class was boring but ended early, the only downside being that you were assigned a hefty load of homework.
“By the beginning of Wednesday’s class, you shall turn in to me two feet of parchment on the history of Strengthening Solution and its’ properties…” Snape ordered, “...for now, follow the instructions on the board. Ingredients are in the back. I expect the utmost perfection and accuracy…those who fail shall not be tolerated.”
Groaning internally, you headed to the back of the classroom towards the supply cabinets, Fred following close behind. Either Snape was out to get you both or it was sheer luck that had you paired together for this assignment.
“Wait, you forgot something,” Fred called out as you were about to walk away.
You turned around, a snarky reply ready. “What is—”
You didn’t even have the chance to finish your sentence when he grabbed you by the wrist and tugged you into his chest, kissing you square on the lips. You were completely taken by surprise and had no time to react whatsoever.
Low wolf-whistles and “ooohs” reverbrated throughout the entire classroom as you broke apart.
“What was that for?” you hissed.
There was a devilish grin on his face, and you so desperately wanted to wipe it right off him. “Just trying to be a good fake boyfriend, of course,” he whispered into your ear.
“Touch me again without warning and I’ll break your nose,” you said in a low tone, ignoring the heat rising up your cheeks.
“Miss Y/L/N…Mr. Weasley…” Snape said lowly, “...back to your seats, both of you. This is a classroom, not a bedroom. Get to work.”
Several students giggled at this and you huffed, heading back to your seat. You didn’t speak more than a few sentences to Fred for the remainder of the lesson, face still flushed from the sudden incident. He kept stealing glances at you as you worked in silence, adding the ingredients into your bubbling cauldron with careful, precise movements.
“That’s 1-0 to me,” he reminded you. “Better hurry and catch up, or I’m winning those Galleons.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you muttered, uncapping the bottle in front of you and pouring some of the liquid in.
ii. the pda competition, part 2
After Fred had kissed you in the middle of a packed classroom, you were determined to get back at him, racking your brain for ideas.
You sat under a sprawling tree by the Great Lake with Cedric, Cho, Padma, Ernie, and several other Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students. Somehow, you got lucky and all had matching free periods today, taking the opportunity to have a picnic by the water together.
“A little birdie told me that you and a special someone were going out,” Cedric pointed a finger at you, the other arm slung around Cho’s shoulders. “Now what’s going on?”
“They’ve always been mad about each other, only took them a million years to see it,” Ernie butted in. “Isn’t it obvious? One would think they’re already married at this point, though.”
“Who’s married to who?” you heard someone ask from behind you.
“Speak of the devil,” Ernie said, “there he is!”
“Was going to check on you—see you at supper?” Fred lightly touched your cheek. You nodded blindly, the skin of his hand hot on your face.
“Okay, I’ll meet you there.”
You turned back around to see everyone smirking at you knowingly.
“What?” you questioned, adjusting the collar of your shirt as if nothing had happened.
“Aren’t you two the cutest,” Cho laughed breathily, “Ernie was right. It’s like you’re married.”
“Oh shut up, we’re still much too young for that.”
“Not for long!”
Of course the only empty seat at the Gryffindor table that evening was next to Fred, and he made sure that you were sitting as close to him as humanly possible. All it would take was an extra few inches and you’d fully be sitting on his lap. You shook off the embarrassment and snapped back into it, determined to win the bet.
“I missed you all day, you know,” he admitted, placing a dinner roll onto your plate for you. “Where have you been?”
“By the lakes,” you said matter-of-factly. “Where else would I be?”
“With me, obviously.”
“I’d rather be anywhere else.”
“Well that hurt,” he pretended to look hurt. “I thought I was your favorite.”
“Second to last,” you joked. “Hey, wait—there’s something on your mouth.”
“Where?” he tried motioning around with his fingers but to no avail.
“Right…here…” you murmured, gently grasping his chin and pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of his lip, tasting a hint of the sweet cranberry sauce he’d been eating on the tip of your tongue. Loud gasps erupted through the Great Hall at the sudden private but public display.
Fred inhaled sharply—he knew you were bold, but like this? For once, the jokester had nothing sarcastic to counter you with and was at a loss for words.
When you pulled away, both yours and his faces were a shade of deep scarlet.
“Cat got your tongue?” you smirked, discreetly slipping a sheet of paper into his back pocket. “That’s 1-1 now, Fred.”
Again, Fred was left speechless.
“I feel like I’m interrupting something very…” Ron coughed, damn near choking on his chicken leg. “Intimate. Scandalous. Very—”
“Shut it, Ronald,” you cut him off. “Can’t a girl snog her boyfriend when she wants?”
More jaws dropped at your reply, and you simply continued eating, a victorious grin on your face. Fred looked down and fished the note out of his pocket, unfolding the smooth parchment to reveal your tidy penmanship.
Now who’s the flustered one? you know where to find me if you need me xx
You were so going to win.
iii. the serenade
You found yourself sitting on the bench watching the Gryffindor Quidditch team practice—it was Fred’s idea to show up to as many of them as possible to really sell the whole “fake dating” thing. You didn’t mind all that much, as you got bored easily and liked to have a change of scenery every so often while you were studying.
A loud, abrupt screech caused you to look up from your textbook and you winced, covering your ears.
“You’re just too good to be true…can’t take my eyes off of you…” a melodic voice began flowing across the stadium. Confused, you set your book down and stood up, looking around for the source of the noise.
“You’d be like Heaven to touch, I wanna hold you so much…at long last love has arrived…”
Fred suddenly appeared from the commentator’s box, holding a microphone. He casually leaned against the pole before sliding down and hitting the bleachers, gracefully making his way down the steps.
“...And I thank God I’m alive…” his eyes remained focused on you, blazing gold and green. “You’re just too good to be true…”
“What the—”
He spun around and pointed at you, the corners of his lips quirking up in a childish grin, “...Can’t take my eyes off of you.”
“HIT IT, WOOD!” you heard someone (was that Lee?) yell, and music began blasting from the speakers.
Your friends were eyeing you with delight, fully entertained by the fact that you had absolutely no clue what was happening. Fred continued singing while he sauntered down the bleachers with a grace that you had never seen.
“I love you, baby, and if it's quite alright
I need you, baby, to warm the lonely night
I love you, baby, trust in me when I say
Oh, pretty baby, don't bring me down, I pray
Oh, pretty baby, now that I found you, stay
And let me love you, baby, let me love you”
A blush coated your cheeks as he finally approached you, taking one of your hands in his and twirling you around. He held your gaze the entire time, eyes alight with what looked like genuine joy and passion. The rest of your classmates joined in as they crowded around you, joining together in one voice.
It was impossible to hold back the smile creeping up your face as Fred continued to sing—he was undeniably charming, and you had to admit, this was well worth suffering a brief loss for.
“Oh pretty baby, trust in me when I say…” the final lyrics left his mouth and everyone burst into applause. He made a show of bowing dramatically and kissing your hand in an exaggerated motion.
You rolled your eyes at the overly extravagant gesture. But deep down, you had enjoyed every second of the impromptu serenade.
Within minutes after it ended, Fred’s musical spectacle was the talk of the school. Students nudged each other in the corridors as you passed by, whispering words of encouragement, saying how they wished for a relationship like yours, and wondering where they could possibly find someone like Fred.
You felt him slip something into your robe’s pocket. Fred had sidled up next to you as you headed up the stairs to the common room, still grinning widely.
“2-1,” he reminded you, kissing your cheek before turning to the Fat Lady and uttering the password. He stepped through the portrait hole and turned back to wait for you, then walked all the way inside. “Better continue that game of catch up, I might just steal the title of ‘best fake partner ever’ from you.”
There’s that beautiful smile, the note read. Keep it on for me, will you?
iv. the nightmare
Your body seemed to have a mind of its own, because it was 3:27 a.m. and you were wide awake after barely squeezing in a few hours of sleep.
Nothing you did worked; even the Potion for Dreamless Sleep had failed to keep the nightmares at bay. You didn’t last long before jolting awake, beads of sweat forming at your forehead and chest heaving with raggedy, jagged breaths.
After several minutes of tossing and turning you gave up, quietly tiptoeing down the stairs to the common room. The fireplace was on, indicating that someone was already there—
“Y/N?” Fred turned around from his spot on the couch to look at you. “What’re you doing up at this hour?”
You yawned, “I could ask you the same thing.”
“Finishing an assignment,” he sighed, rubbing his forehead. Sheets of parchment, a vial of ink, and several books were spread out on the coffee table. “You?”
“Nothing,” you lied, sitting down next to him. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He didn’t miss the hoarse tone in your voice nor your tear-stained face, stopping what he was doing to fully focus on you. “Now I know that’s not true. What’s bothering you, really?”
“I said I’m fine, just can’t sleep.” You let out a shuddering sigh and attempted to will the tears away, but your vision began to blur. “Go finish your work—”
“Hey.” Fred’s voice was soft. “Come here.”
His arms gingerly wrapped around your trembling frame to envelop you into a tight hug. He reached one hand up to smooth out your hair as you shook with silent sobs, your hands curling into the fabric of his robes as if holding onto him would keep you from slipping away and losing yourself again.
Fred was never one to be patient, but he knew that you just needed this moment free of chaos. So he waited, laying there with you as he continued murmuring soothing words into your ear, gently rubbing your back; he’d wait for as long as he’d need to.
You didn’t know how much time passed until the tears ran themselves dry and your throat felt like it had been scraped raw.
“Want to tell me what happened?” he suggested. “But only if you’re comfortable, that is.”
You hesitated, wondering if it was a good idea to tell him. Maybe he’d think you were strange…but seeing how he looked so genuine in that moment changed your mind.
“I lost you…I lost everyone. I watched you die, Fred.” Your voice was cracked and raw, which sent a pang through his chest. The image of Fred’s lifeless body trapped between the rubble flashed across your vision, feeling as if it was wrapping its cold fingers around your throat. “I watched you all die and I couldn’t save you.”
“But I’m alive and well right now, aren’t I?” he assured you calmly, “I’ll be here for as long as you want me around. You’ll have to fight to the death to get rid of me.”
Managing a broken laugh, you looked up at him. “Really?”
“Really. What are fake boyfriends for, anyway?” His hand found its place against your cheek, fingers gently skimming across your skin. You leaned into his touch and let out a sigh, lips just barely brushing over his palm.
“No one’s here, Fred…you don’t need to pretend.”
“I know I don’t.” Any and all traces of half-witted sarcasm were gone; wiped clean off his face. Instead, his eyes were glossed over with concern as they raked over yours. “Figured I could keep you company? Since I didn’t want you to be alone in your head like this.”
“I’d like that.”
He then passed a familiar folded square to you, and you opened it with a smile.
I’m here, whenever you need - F.W
v. the hospital wing run-in
“For Godric’s sake, how many more times will I have to see you in here?” Madam Pomfrey demanded as she hurried around, setting a metal tray by your bedside. “This is the third time this month.”
“Sorry,” you winced as you shifted your injured leg onto the pillow she’d set out.
“What is it this time?”
“I broke my ankle.”
“Doing what, exactly?”
Pursing your lips, you elected to tell her the modified version of the story, which was the one where you had tripped while going down the stairs, not the one that included running down the Astronomy Tower after sneaking up there for a dare (the twins’ doing).
She shook her head in disbelief, glancing over the cuts on your face and fixing the bandages around your foot. “You’ll be in here for a few days. We’ll have to regrow the bones in your foot and ankle…my, how someone can break this many bones just from missing a step, I can’t seem to understand…what are all of you doing here?”
You followed her gaze to where Hermione, Ginny, Cho, and Fred were standing by the hospital wing’s entrance, alight with excitement upon seeing that you were awake.
“Guys—”
“Miss Granger, Miss Weasley, and Mr. Weasley, need I remind you that no visitors are allowed at this time! I advise that you all head back,” Madam Pomfrey ordered sharply.
“But we haven’t seen her all last night and this morning! Can we just stay for a minute,” Hermione begged. “Please?”
The older woman sighed as she scanned your friends (and fake? boyfriend’s) desperate, pleading faces. “...Alright, then. Don’t stay too long and for Godric’s sake, let her breathe.”
They immediately crowded around your bed and Fred walked over to your side, crouching down so that you were eye level with him.
“There’s my princess,” his charming persona was back in full force, and he smoothly brushed a few stray hairs out of your face. For what felt like the eleventh time, he was swooping in to kiss your cheek. Not that you were counting. “How’re you feeling?”
“Better now that you’re here,” you winked as you attempted to prop yourself into an upright position, but failed, giving up and flopping back down. “Ow. My foot.”
Ginny pretended to throw up on Hermione, who then elbowed her in the stomach. “Ow!” she yelped. “What was that for?”
“Let’s leave the happy couple alone,” she hissed, and they slowly backed away to give you some space.
Fred pulled up a chair next to your bedside, propping his chin in his hand to stare at you. “I’m sorry, really. I didn’t mean for you to end up with five broken bones.”
“And a concussion, a killer headache, and not to mention dozens of sore muscles,” you grimaced, but felt a slight ache in your chest when you realized he looked genuinely guilty. “I don’t blame you, really. I mean, I was just as stupid and reckless. I definitely could’ve been more careful but I wasn’t.”
“I’m supposed to mess up your lipstick,” he groaned, “not your bones.”
“Someone took ‘public displays of affection’ the wrong way,” you said sarcastically, and then there was a brief moment of silence before you both burst into laughter.
“Damn right he di—OW, Hermione!”
“Gin, let’s go!” With that, the two girls left the hospital wing, leaving the two of you alone.
“Why are you here, anyway? Hermione and Ginny are because they’re my friends, and you’re my—”
“—lovely, charming, undeniably handsome boyfriend, of course. Why wouldn’t I be here?” Fred finished your sentence for you.
“Right,” your voice was dripping with sarcasm, “I just can’t seem to get rid of you, can I? It seems like you’re always around.”
“And yet, you don’t push me away,” a smile tugged at his lips. “Which clearly means that I’m just that irresistible. I don’t need a charm or some silly love potion to reel you in.”
“Don’t think that because I’m incapacitated, this game is over,” you warned him. “I will beat your arse to a pulp, and you’ll be twenty Galleons lighter. I bet you’re madly in love with me already.”
“Believe what you want, my darling,” he sing-songed, twirling his wand between his fingers. “But we all know I’ve already won this game.”
“Yeah, right. We’re tied now, by the way. That’s for getting me injured.”
“Oi! You can’t just—”
“Shh…don’t come crying to me ‘till you lose.”
He ended up staying overnight.
You didn’t protest at all.
Neither did Madam Pomfrey later that evening after seeing him slumped over on your bed, fast asleep, one hand clutching yours like you were the only thing he had left to lose.
vi. the howler
For once you managed to get to the Great Hall before Fred did. The bloke was always criminally late or ridiculously early to everything; it was almost laughable how there was no in between for him.
He finally showed up just ten minutes before breakfast was supposed to end, breathing hard with his hair all messed up.
“What’d I miss?” he asked you.
“Nothing,” you responded. “Just another ordinary day…”
A gust of wind suddenly swept through the hallway causing the napkins to flutter in the air. A giant grey owl came swooping down onto the table and landed straight in front of Fred, clutching an envelope in its curved talons.
“What’s Errol doing here? We’re not supposed to get our daily mail til’ tomorrow,” Ron gawked, “surprised that he’s here given the number of times he’s collapsed mid-delivery—oh blimey Fred, you must be in trouble! You’ve got a Howler!”
Several Gryffindors around you giggled at this.
With a slight look of confusion and fear, Fred carefully removed the seal on the bright red envelope. Molly Weasley’s booming voice immediately came bursting from the pages.
“FRED WEASLEY, HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL ME THAT YOU WERE DATING MY FUTURE DAUGHTER-IN-LAW! I AM DISAPPOINTED IN YOU—Y/N dear, if you’re hearing this, I’m very happy for you and hope to see you at the Burrow soon, I’ll make sure to whip up some homemade custard for you—YOU OUGHT TO TREAT HER RIGHT, BOY, OR ELSE! I BROUGHT YOU INTO THIS WORLD AND I SURE AS MERLIN CAN TAKE YOU RIGHT OUT!”
A silence fell over the entire Great Hall and Fred sat there, in shock. The red envelope folded itself up and then burst into flames, its ashes crumbling to the floor.
“I’ve never seen him turn that red,” George sniggered. “You’re bloody brilliant, Y/N.”
“Y-you did this?” Fred spluttered.
“Can’t say I didn’t,” you hummed, patting his head affectionately. “Your mum was bound to find out, one way or another.”
“And you thought this was the best idea?”
“Aww, is little Freddie all embarrassed?” you teased. “Never thought I’d live to see that day.”
“Quit gloating,” the redhead grumbled. “You haven’t won yet. Better sleep with one eye open tonight.”
vii. the pda competition, part ∞
As it turned out, continuing to slip into your fake relationship only became more fun as the days and weeks dragged on. And being competitive only added to the fun, as you were scrambling to one-up each other.
You often opted to hold his hand when walking from place to place, which wasn’t difficult given that you were almost always with him now and had to sell the idea that you really were together. His hands were rough and calloused from all those hours working on joke shop prototypes, but they were still surprisingly comforting. A way to keep you grounded when your head got stuck in the clouds.
Fred’s signature move was, of course, dropping random kisses on your cheek when you didn’t expect it. Sometimes, when he was feeling bolder than usual, that would change to the tender spot between your ear and jaw, your shoulder, or your nose. And each of those times he made sure they were extra drawn-out and that you were in a crowded area so others would see it. The courtyard. The Quidditch pitch. The classroom (two of those incidents were in Potions, much to Snape’s dismay. He didn’t even bother taking points off due to being too disgusted).
“I have a massive exam today,” he declared loudly to you as you stood in front of his upcoming class together. “I think I’m going to need a kiss.”
“Why?” you scoffed. “What do you need that for?”
“For good luck,” Fred said, “it’s kind of a tradition, isn’t it?”
“You…want a kiss for good luck?” you started.
“I’m waiting…” he sang, face turned slightly in an invitation. You sighed and went up on your tiptoes, doing as he asked. “Thank you. But you have terrible aim…you missed.”
“I fear you’re having way too much fun with this,” you muttered. “Don’t make excuses. My lips are not going near yours unless they absolutely need to now.”
“Oh come on, you know you’re having loads of fun too,” he called out as he walked into the classroom. “Catch you later, sweetheart!”
viii. the butterbeer (alt: the pda competition, part ∞)
It was the day of another Hogsmeade outing and you were hand-in-hand with Fred as you walked down the cobblestone streets together. You had planned to spend the day alone for the most part and join Cho for a meal, but Fred had cornered you at breakfast and insisted you go on a date with him.
“To keep up the façade,” he insisted. “Wouldn’t people find it odd if the castle’s favorite couple wasn’t together?”
You nodded and didn’t protest further; you had no energy to do so anyway. It was far too cold for your taste; you had been dragged out without having time to grab your gloves, blowing hot hair into your hands that were steadily growing numb.
“Love,” he called for you as he took your hands in his, “oh, your fingers feel like ice.”
“No…shit…” your teeth chattered as you attempted to respond steadily. “Might lose ‘em if we don’t hurry up and get inside—”
“Wait one second,” Fred said as you two stopped right outside the Three Broomsticks, wasting no more time in taking his gloves off and handing them to you to put on, while he wrapped his house scarf around your neck. “There. Let’s head in.”
“But—”
“Boyfriend duties, remember?” he winked at you as he pushed the door open, holding it for you to step inside first. “Come on. I think a butterbeer or two’ll warm you up.”
Fred’s hand remained on the small of your back, pressing in gently to lead you to a cozy booth in the back. The added warmth felt quite nice, you thought, but you also wondered how he managed to stay like a human furnace when it the weather outside was so dreadfully cold.
It was hard not to stare at him; catching his gaze every so often while sipping your drink. His hair was all tousled from the frigid winds; you took notice of the way it slightly curled out at the ends, glowing under the hazy yellow bar lights. It was annoyingly endearing how he could look so flawless without any effort and even more so that you didn’t have anything snarky to say.
“Fred, I think we’re being followed…” you whispered as you scanned the near vicinity, fingers brushing against the rim of your mug. There in the far opposite corner sat Padma, Ernie, Cedric, and Cho, attempting to look nonchalant as if they weren’t half-stalking you but they were doing a rather terrible job at it. You quickly looked away.
“So? Isn’t that what we want—for people to see us?” he countered with a tone of confidence. His voice dropped low as he continued to speak to you. “Why don’t we give them a show? No need to be so private.”
Your face burned. “What do you—”
“Not like that,” he chuckled lowly, “what did you think I meant?”
“I…”
Fred paused, then raised his hand and brushed something off your cheek with his thumb. “You’ve got something on your face.”
“Oh, so we’re playing that game now, are we?”
“Indeed, my lady.”
You scoffed quietly and imitated his motion, reaching up to smooth out the crease that had formed between his brows. “Put a smile on your face, why don’t you? You look better that way.”
“I always look good, though.”
“I look better than your greasy arse.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Oh yeah?” you challenged. “I’d like to see you tr—”
Before you could say anything else and before he could stop himself from what he was doing, Fred placed a hand on the nape of you neck and pulled you in, kissing you without another word. All protests left behind flew right out the window (along with your morals, too, you thought) and for a split second, it almost didn’t feel like you were pretending at all.
When you broke apart eventually, breaths a little heavy, neither of you needed to look over to see that your friends were gaping in shock, mouths dropped wide open. Sure, Fred was confident and cocky and you were equally so, but both of you would be lying if you said this didn’t take you by surprise.
“You still keeping track?” His voice still had that low, almost husky tone to it. He was cupping your cheek now, and you let him keep doing so. “There can only be one victor, right?”
“Wouldn’t forget it,” you exhaled. “You think we look convincing enough right now?”
“Without a shadow of a doubt.”
ix. the thunderstorm
The day’s exciting Care of Magical Creatures lesson was cut thirty minutes short due to the heavy downpour that had suddenly came crashing down, bringing with it a booming thunderstorm and soaking all your clothes within minutes.
“Well, that’s it fer today, everyone,” Hagrid announced, “now let’s head back inside, don’ want yeh to catch a cold, we’ll continue when the weather lets up…”
You wrapped your cloak tighter around yourself and flipped the hood on over your head, eyes narrowing as you stared up at the suddenly stormy grey sky. It just had to be on the one day you got to go outside and do something exciting, damn it….
It was freezing, nearly as horrible as that one day in Hogsmeade, and you wanted nothing more in that moment than to simply curl up by the fireplace with Hermione, the Patil twins, and Cho, and talk all evening long. If you could even make it back to the castle in one, unfrozen piece, maybe you’d at least get your hands on some hot chocolate from the kitchens…
A warm hand found yours amidst the strong winds, and all of a sudden you didn’t feel so cold anymore.
As if he had read your mind, Fred said, “how about we sneak into the kitchens and grab something to drink? Hot chocolate, perhaps?”
“Sounds perfect,” you smiled and he draped an arm over your shoulders, bringing you into his side. It felt so natural now, like this wasn’t part of some long-standing bet to fool the whole school; as if you were just two best friends trying to keep warm in subpar temperatures. And it was almost too easy to get used to it.
“Oblivious idiots. I told them for years that they’d be perfect together and it’s only this year that they start going out,” George exclaimed from several yards behind, walking side-by-side with Lee Jordan. “Dunno why it took them so long.”
“Love takes time, obviously,” said Lee as he watched Fred lean into your ear and say something, and you giggled lightly in response, “and now, what matters is that I finally have an excuse to make fun of them during Quidditch matches.”
“Oh—good point.”
“And you’ve noticed that he stopped pranking her? Unlike him, isn’t it?”
“Wait…” George paused as he took in Lee’s questions. His mouth formed an ‘o’ in realization. “He’s utterly whipped, that git.”
“What happens when boyfriend duties overcome prankster duties…this is perfect. Professor Flitwick owes me 2 galleons. I called it that he’d fall first!”
“You bet on them?” George squawked. “With Flitwick?”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t either,” Lee laughed, “I know you did too.”
The expression on George’s face shifted into one of defeat. “I lost,” he muttered, “I owe McGonagall 3 galleons.”
x. verum exeat (let the truth come out)
The Gryffindor common room was alight with chatter once again. After a long, grueling week of exam revisions, Quidditch practice, and a brutal match to be remembered, Lee and the twins decided that a small celebration was in order. They had originally planned on inviting half the damn school but after arguing with Hermione, had to shrink the party down to just their smaller, usual friend group (they swore up and down that they’d clean up and not get detention like last time, but she wouldn’t buy it).
But you knew that if things had the Weasley twins’ names pasted next to them, they’d be far from peaceful; as far as you could possibly get—no matter how big or small.
“Oh, there you are,” you heard someone say from behind, and turned around to see that it was Hermione.
“Not drinking?”
“Someone’s got to take care of the boys after they go wild, right?” she explained. “Besides…I can’t stand the taste of firewhisky. It burns.”
You offered a tired half-smile and agreed. “Yeah. You’re right.”
Hermione seemed to be deep in thought for a moment until she told you, “You’re very lucky, you know.”
“What are you talking about?”
“To have Fred, that is. To find someone who’s that in love with you, it’s quite rare.”
“Oh, please,” you tried to suppress a laugh, “I told you why we’re doing what we’re doing.”
“And?” Hermione raised an eyebrow at you, “feelings change. Bet or no bet, he cares about you and anyone would be crazy not to see that. Ronald is half-blind and he can tell, too. You can’t possibly tell me that everything you’ve done up to this point has been a lie.”
“It’s meant nothing to me,” you said bitterly. “I hate him.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do. And it doesn’t help that he’s everywhere,” you stopped to take a swig of firewhisky, “and I can’t stand it!”
“Do you not, really?”
“I do, but I—”
“You what?”
“I just hate him!”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you think? I hate everything about him!” you exclaimed, exasperated. “I hate the way he always tries to compete with me, I hate the way he doesn’t take things seriously, I hate that stupid, annoying little smirk he has on his face half the time I see him—”
You inhaled quickly; it felt like you’d just drank an entire vital of Veritaserum with the way that words were tumbling out of your mouth. Hermione gave you a look that seemed to say ‘Go on,’ so you did, “—I hate the way he walks down to the Great Hall every morning with his annoyingly perfect messy hair, I hate the way he risks freezing his arse off to give me his favorite gloves so that I don’t get hypothermia, I hate the way it’s so easy for him to kiss—borderline snog me like it’s nothing, I hate how this is all just supposed to be a game of pretend, and—and most of all, I hate the way he made me fall in love with him without even trying. I hate the way I don't actually hate him. Not even close, not even a little bit…not even at all…”
“You…really mean that?”
You whirled around to see that Fred was standing right behind you with his hands behind his back, eyes hopeful, and you felt your heart drop down to your stomach. “Fred—”
“Y/N, I—”
Suddenly it seemed like the walls were closing in on you from all sides, the room spinning; and then, everything around you jumbled into one chaotic mess of noise and color. Without looking to see either his or Hermione’s reactions, without caring that half the room had stopped to see what was going on, you pushed past your friends and quickly clambered out of the portrait hole.
“What was that about?” Ron’s nose crinkled in confusion. “So much for being a cute couple. Now this is just sad.”
“Will you shut it, Ronald,” Hermione whacked him on the shoulder.
“OW—”
“Stop being so dramatic! Don’t let me catch you drinking even one more shot or I will drag your arse back to bed,” she snapped.
“Pleeeease do, I would lov—ow, ow, OW! OKAY!” Ron exclaimed as she pinched his ear and began dragging him away. “Okay! I’ll leave them alone, I’ll stop…”
Chest heaving and vision blurring with tears, you rushed outside, desperate for a breath of fresh air. It was quiet in the courtyard asides from the faint trickling of water but that did little to calm you down; it was still too loud, too chaotic, too much. Sitting down at the marbled edge of one of the fountains, you tried to catch your breath and balance, but the world still kept spinning…it felt like it wouldn’t stop spinning; for Merlin’s sake. All you wanted to do was crawl into a hole and disappear forever, or jump off the Astronomy tower and fly off to a distant land. You didn’t want to have to worry about how you poured your entire damn heart out in the middle of the common room about your fake boyfriend.
Your fake boyfriend that you realized, with horror, you had begun to develop not-fake feelings for.
A chill ran through you at that moment and you shivered.
Then the feeling of something warm—a thick coat—being draped over your shoulders shook you out of your trance. You instinctively slid it tighter around yourself.
“Thought I might find you out here,” said Fred. You opened your mouth, ready to ask how in Godric’s name he knew where you were at all times when he didn’t even have the Maurader’s Map anymore, but stopped. This was Fred Weasley, and you had spent an unhealthy amount of time around each other over the past several months that he had to have picked up on your little habits. He was more observant than he let on.
“What are you doing out here?” You couldn’t bring yourself to look up at him.
“I couldn’t leave you alone outside to freeze, could I?” he asked, sitting down next to you. “What kind of boyfriend would that make me?”
“Please, just…” you inhaled sharply, “I can’t do this. You won. I lost. The game’s over, Weasley.”
“On a last-name basis now, are we? Ouch,” he said jokingly, but dropped the teasing lilt in his voice when he noticed your eyes starting to water. “Talk to me, Y/N.”
“It just isn’t fair,” you whispered, looking down at your feet.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not fair,’” your voice faltered, “you’re not supposed to do that. To do this.”
“Do what?”
“To sabotage the bet. To make me lose track of the scores.”
“Well, I stopped counting, you know,” Fred admitted, tucking a hair behind your hair. “There’s no need to keep track anymore, I think we’ve done enough convincing, don’t you think?”
“But that’s the problem!” your voice cracked as you finally turned to look at him. “It isn’t that I’m probably going to be dozens of Galleons poorer after this. It’s that I’m feeling something I shouldn’t, that…that you made me fall in love with you—”
“Y/N—”
“—I hate the way I care about you far more than I should,” you continued on, “and I hate myself even more for even wishing what we had was real. Because it was all fake, Fred, and you know it. We were faking it, and—”
“Y/N,” he repeated more sternly this time, causing you to stop mid sentence. “Look, I already told you I stopped keeping track. After that night in the common room….that’s when I realized I couldn’t. Lee damn near had to hit me over the head and force-feed me Veritaserum to admit that I was in deep. Galleons and glory be damned, I didn’t care about any of that anymore; it was easy for me to pretend when I was already in love with you.”
“But we weren’t supposed to fall in love, that was the rule,” you sniffed, wiping a tear from your cheek, “I thought we were supposed to follow the rules.”
Fred’s lips twitched into a smirk. “Well, I think some rules are made to be broken.”
And then, he was closing the gap and connecting your lips in a deep kiss. The gentle motion cut through the chilly evening air, washing over you in a blazing heat that had you melting into a haze of firewhisky, adrenaline, and something that smelled distinctly like a crackling log fire and cinnamon.
You had kissed him multiple times before this, but this one felt different than all the rest. It didn’t feel like you were doing it for show in the slightest; it felt genuine and warm and so real.
And the biggest difference was that you never wanted it to come to an end.
“So?” The grin on his face was palpable; contagious, as you broke apart, “What do you say, we stop faking it?”
“Are you fake breaking up with me?” you gasped and pretended to look surprised. “Way to ruin the moment.”
“I’m asking to real-date you, darling,” he said.
“There’s no money on the line this time?”
“No,” he hummed as he leaned forward to kiss you a second time and pretended to think for a second, “but there might be something else on the line instead.”
“And what is that ‘something else?’”
“You’ll have to wait a few years and see.”
xi. the promise
—FOUR YEARS LATER—
Fred was a great planner, of course. “Brilliant,” Harry would say, “absolutely brilliant.” He might’ve been a jokester, but he was a very organized jokester. He always knew what he was going to do and when.
So when it came to you, he thought he had a plan. He thought he had it planned for years; he was thinking fireworks, extravagant displays in the sky, taking you on a sunset ride across Romania on one of Charlie’s dragons. Something to match your free and daring spirit.
But, the moment ended up presenting itself on its own.
It was an ordinary night with yours and Hermione’s families joining the Weasleys for a quiet weekend at the Burrow. Mr. Weasley was listening intently as Mr. Granger and Harry explained the function of rubber ducks and the Internet in great detail, and the rest of you chatted with your parents, Mrs. Weasley, and Mrs. Granger by the kitchen counter about post-graduation plans.
Mrs. Granger had made an off-hand, passing comment about how lovely your silver bracelet—the one with charms of yours’ and Fred’s initials and Patronuses dangling from it—looked on your wrist. And then Fred was saying, “I know something else that would look great on her,” and taking a small box out of his pocket and flipping it open, revealing a blinding bright, silvery diamond ring.
Even as shouts of realization and cheers of joy rose up from around the kitchen, the world seemed to fade away into complete silence when he put the ring on your finger and encircled his arms around your torso, kissing your cheek and whispering into your ear,
Summary: You and Fred are just friends. However, you can't help but feel a tug at your heart whenever he does little things - making you question if your 'just friends.'
warnings: a pinch of angst, cussing, friends to lovers.
Word Count: 4,504
You and Fred were just friends. Nothing less, nothing more. At least that’s what you kept telling yourself. Over and over, like a charm you hoped would eventually work—because if it didn’t, you weren’t sure how much longer your heart could take it.
He did things, little things that didn’t feel exclusively friendly.
Like how he always found you in a crowded room—his eyes scanning until they landed on yours, lighting up like you were the only one worth seeing. Or how he saved you the best part of every dessert at dinner. Or when he’d throw an arm around your shoulders after a long day, fingers curling into the fabric of your robes like he didn’t even notice. Or when he’d lean in close during study sessions, reading your notes upside down, his cheek brushing yours while he made some cheeky comment that had your stomach somersaulting.
And the worst part? He never seemed to notice what it did to you.
It was the casual intimacy of it all—his easy affection, the warmth in his voice when he said your name. The way he’d ruffle your hair when you were annoyed, or hold your pinky instead of your hand when he tugged you through the busy corridors between classes. Things that shouldn’t have meant anything… but always did.
The saddest part was that you knew Fred Weasley. Almost as well as George. You knew he flirted with half the castle. You knew the not-so secret hookups he’s had with other Gryffindors and some Ravenclaws here and there. You knew he wasn’t serious about relationships with them, or maybe even anyone.
However, none of them got the quiet parts of him. The stillness behind his laughter. The worry in his eyes when you were too quiet. The way he’d wait up for you after late Prefect rounds, claiming he “just happened to be up,” even when his hair was mussed from sleep. Or maybe you just noticed far too much and overanalyzed him.
So no, you weren’t in love with Fred Weasley.
But sometimes—when he looked at you like you hung the moon—you really, really wished you were just a little better at lying.
Because whenever he does things like that, you find it even more difficult to keep pretending. Like tonight.
The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with post-Quidditch victory energy—scarlet and gold banners fluttering, laughter echoing off the walls, and butterbeer flowing in celebratory bursts. Someone had dragged a wireless from the dorms and turned the volume up, and a few people had pushed the couches aside to make room for dancing.
You sat curled into the arm of a chair, trying to keep your focus on the cup in your hands and not the way Fred Weasley moved through the room like he belonged to it—easy, magnetic, glowing with that same wild charm that made people gravitate to him without even realizing it.
Your stomach flipped when his eyes landed on you. He was still in his Quidditch gear, hair windblown and cheeks flushed from the game, but somehow he looked better like that—unpolished and completely alive.
“Hey,” he called, making a beeline for you through the crowd. “There’s a rule that says you have to dance with the winning team.”
“I think you made that up,” you replied, raising an eyebrow.
He grinned, unbothered. “I make up a lot of rules. Doesn’t mean they’re not good ones.”
Before you could protest, he was holding out his hand. And you—idiot that you were—took it.
The crowd parted just enough to let the two of you fall into step with the slow rhythm of the music. It wasn’t really dancing, not proper anyway. Just swaying in place, your hand in his, his other resting gently at your waist. But the closeness made your thoughts stumble.
He smelled like firewood and grass and a hint of cinnamon—like autumn wrapped in trouble—and he was looking at you like you were something rare.
“I told George you’d say no,” Fred murmured, tone soft enough that only you could hear it.
You tilted your head. “To what?”
“Dancing with me.”
“Why would I say no?”
His smile flickered at the edges, a little too careful. “Dunno. Just figured you might’ve had enough of me.”
You rolled your eyes to hide the way your heart skipped. “Don’t be dramatic. Why would I ever say no to you?”
He chuckled, spinning you lazily in a slow circle. “I can’t help it. It’s part of my charm.” And it was. All of it was. The humor, the warmth, the way he pulled you close without a second thought like you belonged there.
But you had to remind yourself again- just friends. Thats exactly what you were.
His eyes lingered for a second longer than usual, and his smile shifted—less mischievous, more… genuine.
“You look really nice tonight,” he said, voice quieter than before. “That color suits you. Its my favorite to be exact.”
You glanced down at the red fabric tucked neatly into your black leather skirt—nothing fancy, nothing flashy, just something that made you feel a little braver than usual. “It’s your house color,” you said with a small smirk. “Of course it’s your favorite.”
Fred tilted his head slightly, his eyes still on you. “Yeah, well… you make it look like a whole thing.”
You laughed, mostly because it was easier than letting yourself sink into the way he was looking at you. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re stunning,” he said simply, without any of the usual flair. Just that. And then he looked away like it hadn’t completely disarmed you.
“I could say the same about you,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.
His brows lifted. “What, this?” he gestured to himself—the grass-stained Quidditch uniform, his jersey untucked, pads hanging a little lopsided. “I’m literally sweating. This is me at my least impressive.”
You grinned. “That’s the sad part. You still look good.”
Fred let out a loud, theatrical gasp. “Are you—flirting with me?”
You rolled your eyes. “Relax, Weasley. It’s a compliment, not a marriage proposal.”
“Damn,” he muttered. “And here I was already planning the color scheme.”
He twirled you unexpectedly, making you laugh again as you stumbled back into his arms.
It was easy with Fred. Always had been. You danced like that for a while—slow, steady movements in the middle of a party that was growing louder by the minute. But in your little bubble, the noise faded. He asked you about your classes, groaned when you reminded him about your shared Transfiguration essay, and gave you a dramatic reenactment of how he almost died catching the last Quaffle, complete with flailing arms and fainting poses.
You rolled your eyes, but secretly you lived for these moments—when he let the silliness melt into something softer.
You talked about how much longer you had at Hogwarts, about the DA meetings, about how he and George were already plotting something “big” before they left for good.
He looked down at you as he spoke, his expression open, like he wanted you to remember this version of him—the one who wanted to be more than just a bloke who never took anything serious. The one who wasn’t laughing at the world, but sharing the laugh with you.
And you let yourself pretend, just for a moment, that you were something more.
“Oy, Weasley! Get over here, mate! We need a you!”
It was Lee Jordan, standing near a cleared table that had clearly been repurposed for an aggressively chaotic game of wizard’s Exploding Snap. George stood beside him, smirking like he’d been waiting for the perfect time to interrupt.
Fred groaned dramatically but smiled at you as he loosened his hold.
“Sorry, love,” he said, voice low and far too casual for the way your heart reacted to the nickname. “Best if i head off to Lee before i get a bludger to the head next practice.”
You forced a laugh, letting your hands fall away from him slowly, too slowly. “Wouldn’t want to deprive the common room of your talents.”
He grinned, already backing away, fingers still brushing yours until the last second. “Exactly. Sacrifices must be made.”
And then he was gone—folded back into the crowd, into the noise and the warmth and the chaos that always seemed to orbit him. Like he had never looked at you like that. Like he hadn’t just taken your breath away without even trying.
You stood there for a second, unsure what to do with yourself, before your eyes scanned the room and landed on Hermione, seated near the fireplace, a cup of punch in her hands and a knowing look already blooming on her face.
She glanced up as you walked up to her, lifting her cup slightly in greeting. “Well, you two looked cozy.”
You scoffed, too harsh, too fast. “We’re just friends.”
There was a pause—brief, but enough.
Then Hermione set her cup down and leaned forward slightly, her voice calm, like she wasn’t trying to pick a fight—just deliver the truth.
“You say that like it’s a fact,” she said softly. “But you look at him like you’ve already written a thousand love letters you’ll never send.”
“That’s quite dramatic,” you muttered, though your voice lacked bite.
Hermione didn’t respond right away. She just looked at you—really looked at you—with that frustratingly perceptive expression she wore when she was holding back something she already knew. You hated how well she could read you, even when you were trying not to be readable at all.
“I notice things,” she said quietly, as if reading your mind. “Like how you laugh before he even finishes a joke. Or how you scan a room the second you walk into it—only to relax the moment you see him.”
You stayed silent, because… well, what could you say to that?
“He touches you differently than he touches anyone else,” Hermione continued. “It’s not just friendly. He’s gentle with you. Like he’s afraid if he holds on too tightly, you’ll disappear.”
Your throat closed up. She wasn’t wrong. And that was what made it so much worse.
“I can’t…” You shook your head, struggling to find the words. “I don’t want to feel like this, Hermione.”
She frowned. “Why not?”
“Because it’s Fred,” you whispered, like saying his name too loud would unravel you. “He’s not—he’s not someone who does real feelings. He flirts with everything that moves. He jokes when he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s… impossible to pin down. He’s not the kind of boy you fall for expecting something back.”
Hermione’s voice was gentle but firm. “Maybe he’s not the kind of boy who used to do real feelings. But maybe you’re the exception.”
Your heart ached at that. It would be so much easier if you could believe it.
But you’d seen Fred with other girls. Heard the way he flirted, laughed, turned everything into a joke. And even if he was different with you, what if it was just that—different—but not more?
“You don’t get it,” you said, barely above a whisper. “If I tell him how I feel and I’m wrong, I lose him. I lose this. I lose my best friend.”
Hermione reached over and gently placed a hand on your arm. “I do get it,” she whispered, “More than you think. But you deserve to be loved out loud. And I think Fred might be a lot closer to that than you realize.”
You looked over at her, eyes stinging.
“I’m scared,” you admitted.
“I know.” Her smile was small, kind. “But just because you’re scared doesn’t mean he’s not worth the risk.”
It had been three days since the party, and you still hadn’t stopped thinking about the way Fred had looked at you or the way he spoke to you. You couldn’t stop replaying Hermiones words of affirmation she informed you of.
“You deserve to be loved out loud.”
You didn’t argue with the concept of it- no, you knew your worth. You argued with the fact it was Fred. You knew it wouldn’t be him no matter how many times you’d pray and hope just maybe- maybe he’d be the one who would shout your name from rooftops. The one who would love you out loud. You knew it was a fantasy - a fantasy that you’d have to be mad to believe would become true, because its Fred.
That led to reminding you on Hermiones other expression.
“But maybe you’re the exception.”
You didn’t believe that at all. You refused to. He must look at other girls like that right? You two were just friends. It’s what you both told everyone, so why act like theres something there?
Still, you’d kept it to yourself. Like always.
It was now time for dinner, and the Great Hall buzzed with the usual chatter. You sat across from Ron and beside Hermione, absentmindedly poking at your bangers and mash while Harry launched into yet another rant about Snape deducting points for “existing too loudly.”
“Honestly, I breathed, Hermione,” Harry said, gesturing with his fork. “And he docked me five points for being ‘aggressively present.’ What does that even mean?”
Hermione sighed, though she was clearly holding back a smile. “It means you were being annoying again.”
“He said it with fanfare,” Harry added. “Like it was the highlight of his week.”
You smiled weakly at their bickering, but your focus was slipping. It had been since the moment you caught sight of Fred down the table.
He was leaning in toward Angelina Johnson, all relaxed shoulders and easy grins, his arm casually draped behind her on her shoulder. Her hand was on his forearm—light, familiar—and he didn’t move. Didn’t shift away. If anything, he leaned closer when she said something in his ear, and he laughed—open and loud and effortless. You noticed how she looked at him.
It shouldn’t have meant anything. He and Angelina had been friends for years. Teammates. Comfortable.
But you’d always noticed the way she touched him—like she could. Like she had every right to. And she did, Fred wasn’t yours to claim.
And in the quietest, most insecure part of yourself, she had always been the reason you never said anything. Because if Fred Weasley were going to fall for someone—really fall—it would be someone like her.
Beautiful. Confident. Untouchable.
Not someone who spent the night rereading every word he said and pretending her heart didn’t race at his touch.
You looked down at your plate and tried to focus on the way your mashed potatoes were pooling into your sausage. Anything but the twisting in your chest.
“So I told him,” Harry continued, oblivious, “if he wants me to stay quiet, he can try giving me detention, but I refuse to stop breathing.”
“Very brave of you,” you muttered, your voice a little flatter than intended.
“Thank you,” Harry perked, then returning to his conversation about how ‘insufferable’ Snape was
Hermione looked over at you for a moment, quiet. You could feel her eyes on you like a weight. “You okay?” she asked softly, voice low enough that Ron and Harry wouldn’t hear.
“Perfect..” You mumbled, eyes flickering between Fred and your plate.
Hermione’s eyes followed yours, hers landing on Fred and Angelina - which she immediately caught on. “He doesn’t look at her how he looks at you though.“
“It doesn’t matter, Hermione.” You bit out, voice sounding more bitter than you intended. “I can’t keep telling myself something is there when there isn’t. I refuse to pretend that he’ll randomly wake up one morning and pick me. Because we’re friends. Just friends. And its stupid for me to pretend that theres something more lingering between us when it’s just me.”
You didn’t want to hear any of Hermione’s comforting words now- because you knew you wouldn’t believe it for a moment. Not when Fred was laughing like that, not when his hand stayed where it was, not when you felt like you were five inches shorter than usual and your chest was trying to cave in quietly while everyone else just enjoyed their dinner.
You pushed your food around and nodded along as Ron started going on about Quidditch lineups, and you told yourself—again—that it was fine. Because even though it wasn’t far from fine, you had no say in it whatsoever. You and Fred were friends. Nothing less, Nothing more.
And you had to accept that.
You told yourself you had to start pulling away.
Whatever this thing was—this not-quite friendship, not-quite something more—it was starting to hurt. It sat in your chest like weight, blooming every time he looked at you like you meant something and fading just as fast the second someone else made him laugh harder.
You started with small things. Sitting at the far end of the table. Taking longer routes to class. Turning the other way in corridors when you saw that familiar flash of ginger hair coming around the corner. You told yourself it was for the best. That you were being smart. That it was self-preservation.
But then you saw him in the halls. Again. And again. And always… she was there.
Angelina.
She wasn’t doing anything wrong, not really. She wasn’t draped over him or clinging to him in a way that demanded attention—but she was there. Lingering at his side like it was natural. Like she belonged.
And the worst part? He didn’t look like he minded. If anything, he seemed at ease—laughing at something she said, leaning in close to hear her, nudging her shoulder as they walked.
It chipped away at you slowly. Like frostbite. You didn’t even notice how cold it made you until it started to numb everything else.
So when Fred tried to talk to you—because of course he did—you gave him almost nothing in return.
“Hey, you heading to Charms?”
“Yep.”
“Mind if I walk with you?”
A shrug. “I suppose.”
He tried to joke, keep it light, keep it Fred, but you didn’t meet him halfway. Didn’t give him the usual grin or sarcasm or playfulness he was used to.
Just short answers. Polite, distant. A version of yourself you didn’t even recognize.
He looked at you a little funny when you said goodbye—like he was trying to figure out where he lost you, and whether or not he was supposed to chase after it.
“Hey,” he said, reaching out to gently catch your elbow just before you turned down the corridor. “Hold on.”
You stopped, but didn’t turn.
“You’ve been short with me,” he said, not accusing, just… confused. “Barely said more than a sentence all week.”
You shrugged, eyes fixed on the stone floor. “Busy.”
There was a pause, and then a quiet scoff. “Love, you don’t expect me to buy into that, do you?”
You finally looked at him. He looked tired in a way you weren’t used to seeing—like the mask of constant jokes and easy charm had slipped for just a moment.
But it didn’t matter. You couldn’t let it matter.
“Then don’t,” you said, voice sharper than you meant it to be.
Before he could say anything else, you turned on your heel and walked away, your footsteps echoing far too loudly in the quiet corridor.
Snow had settled thick across the rooftops of Hogsmeade, like icing on a gingerbread village. Icicles hung sharp and glinting from every overhang, and the crunch of boots on the snow-covered paths echoed softly with every step.
You were wrapped in your warmest coat, scarf snug around your neck, but the cold still bit at your fingertips through your gloves.
It was supposed to be a good day. One of the rare weekends where you could all go into the village, drink hot butterbeer, browse shops, feel normal. And for a while, it worked.
You and Harry had argued over whether the sweets at Honeydukes were superior to Zonko’s joke shop, while Ron had made it his mission to find the thickest socks in the village. Hermione kept insisting you all stop walking directly in the path of slush puddles, tugging you out of the way with narrowed eyes and half-smiles.
Eventually, the four of you ducked into the Three Broomsticks for warmth and steaming mugs of hot butterbeer. The fire crackled nearby, warming your cheeks and thawing the chill from your coat. For a moment, you let yourself settle. Let yourself pretend you weren’t avoiding anyone. That you weren’t trying to keep your heart from splitting open every time you saw Fred.
After finishing your drinks, you and Hermione wandered into a little winter shop tucked between two larger storefronts—full of knitted scarves, earmuffs, enchanted mittens that refused to get wet, and cloaks lined with soft furs and golden clasps. Hermione was flipping through a rack of deep green cloaks, going on about practicality and wool content when something over her shoulder stopped you cold.
Fred.
He was across the store, walking with George, Lee, and—of course—Angelina.
He looked good. Too good, honestly. That effortless charm about him, jacket open just enough to show his Gryffindor scarf, cheeks pink from the cold, and his hands animated as he joked with the group.
Angelina was laughing, nudging him with her shoulder. She lingered close. She always did. And as if it couldn’t get worse, Fred turned his head mid-laugh—and his eyes met yours.
Your stomach dropped.
You looked away instantly, hands fumbling with the scarf you were holding. Hermione didn’t notice at first, still explaining how she’d been needing a new cloak for weeks.
“I’m just going to pay,” you said quickly, already stepping toward the counter.
Hermione blinked. “Alright, I’ll just look at these earmuffs—”
“No,” you said too quickly, too firmly. “Actually, why don’t you go ahead to that bookshop you mentioned earlier? I think I’m just going to take a walk.”
She gave you a look. “You sure?”
You nodded, offering a smile that was tight and definitely not convincing. “Yeah. Just… need a bit of air.”
And then you were gone. You didn’t even remember what you bought. You just needed to not be there. Not see him. Not feel that crushing ache rise every time you remembered all the things you could never say. It had been weeks since you spoke with him, but it felt just like yesterday. Too soon. Too early.
After you turned the corner, you let out a shaky sigh. Due to the cold and your heart’s pounding within your chest.
Before you could even think, a hand grabbed your arm—firm, urgent—and before you could react, you were pulled into the narrow alleyway between two shops, boots scraping against packed snow, your heart thrashing in your chest.
“What the—let go of me!” You slapped wildly at the arm until the grip loosened.
“Oi, alright—bloody hell—stop hitting me!”
You froze, your hand dropping mid-swing.
“Fred?”
He stepped back, holding his hands up, breathing hard. “Hi.”
“Are you bloody mad?!” you snapped, your voice sharp, angry, and very much covering the panic and heartbreak roiling underneath. “You don’t just drag people into dark alleyways!”
“I had to talk to you!”
“There’s this thing called speaking like a normal person, Fred!”
He ran a hand through his hair, flushed, snow catching in his lashes. “You haven’t been speaking to me at all. It’s been fuckin’ weeks.”
You folded your arms. “I’ve been busy.”
“Don’t.” His voice cracked a little—just enough to silence you. “Don’t give me that. You’ve barely looked at me in weeks. You won’t sit near me, won’t talk to me, you disappear when I walk in the room. It’s like I’ve done something awful and you won’t even tell me what it is.”
Your throat tightened.
Fred took a shaky breath and kept going.
“I miss you,” he said, voice raw and exposed. “I miss everything. I miss your laugh in the common room, how you always threaten to hex me whenever i steal your homework, I miss your smile. I miss knowing you’ll be there when I look up. I miss… you.”
You looked away, but he stepped closer.
“And I don’t get it,” he said, eyes searching yours. “What did I do? Did I screw something up? Did I say something? Just—just tell me, and I’ll fix it. Just—don’t leave me like this.”
You swallowed thickly, heart racing. And then—
“I’m in love with you.”
Fred froze.
Your words had sliced through the cold air like a blade, sudden and shaking.
“I’m in love with you,” you said again, more quietly this time. “And I’ve been trying to pretend I’m not, but it’s exhausting, Fred. And it hurts. It hurts to see you with her, even if there’s nothing going on. Even if she’s just your friend. Because I’m not just your friend. Not anymore. Not in my head.”
His mouth parted like he wanted to speak, but you didn’t let him.
“You always made me feel like maybe… maybe there was something there. And I held onto that. Every time you looked at me like I mattered. Every time you made me laugh when I wanted to cry. I thought maybe… just maybe you saw me the way I saw you.”
You shook your head, voice cracking.
“But then she’s always there, and you never push her away, and I know it’s stupid, but I thought—I thought if I got some distance, I’d stop hurting. But it didn’t work. It just made everything worse.”
Silence. Thick. Cold. Endless.
And then Fred moved.
He stepped forward, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t clumsy or desperate. It was gentle. Like something he’d been carrying for far too long, and could finally let go.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath trembling.
“It was always you,” he whispered. “It’s always been you. I don’t know how you didn’t see it. I flirted with half the castle just to hide how badly I wanted you. Because I was terrified of scaring you off. Terrified of making you uncomfortable. Terrified that if I wanted you too loudly, I’d lose you completely.”
You blinked up at him, tears brimming, your chest aching in that awful, beautiful way when hope finally claws its way through.
“I don’t want anyone else,” he said. “You’re not some backup plan. You’re not some secret I was waiting to get over. You are—you’ve always been—the only one I’ve ever wanted.”
His voice shook now.
“And if you give me even half a chance, I swear I’ll never let you wonder again.”
Your hands gripped the front of his coat. “Fred Weasley—if you walk away after saying all that, I’m hexing you.”
He grinned—really grinned—and kissed you again. The snow kept falling, yet the cold didn’t touch you.
And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to lie to yourself anymore.
summary: A fiery rivalry with Fred Weasley turns into a secret romance filled with stolen kisses and hidden glances. When the truth comes out—first to Ron, then Molly—the fear fades, replaced by warmth, laughter, and the unexpected feeling of home.
warnings: none
word count: 5k
a/n: i am actually in love with this one bc i freaking love this song so why not romanticize it
The Gryffindor common room smelled of parchment, ink, and the faint char of someone’s failed spell. You leaned against the wall near the fireplace, arms crossed, your wand tucked into the sleeve of your robes. Fifth year was a pressure cooker—OWLs looming, Umbridge’s saccharine tyranny, and the constant buzz of Harry’s latest drama. But none of that was half as infuriating as Fred Weasley, who was currently sprawled across a couch, tossing a Fanged Frisbee in the air with that infuriating smirk plastered on his face.
“You’re going to take someone’s eye out, Weasley,” you snapped, dodging as the Frisbee whizzed past your head.
Fred caught it mid-air, his grin widening. “Only if they’re not paying attention, love. Which, clearly, you are. Always so… vigilant.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t call me that.”
“What? Love?” He sat up, all lean limbs and red hair catching the firelight. “Suits you. You’re so full of warm, fuzzy feelings.”
You scoffed, pushing off the wall to grab your Charms textbook from a nearby table. “Keep dreaming, Fred. I’d rather kiss a Blast-Ended Skrewt than deal with you for longer than I have to.”
George, lounging nearby with a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, snorted. “Careful, Y/N. That’s practically a love letter coming from you.”
Ron, sitting at a table with a half-finished essay, groaned. “Can you two not start this again? I’m trying to focus.”
You shot Ron a sympathetic look. He was your closest friend in Gryffindor, the one who’d welcomed you into the fold back in first year when you’d been too stubborn to ask for help navigating the castle. You’d bonded over shared complaints about homework and his brothers’ endless pranks. But being Ron’s friend meant being in Fred’s orbit, and that was a problem.
Fred Weasley was chaos incarnate—brilliant, reckless, and infuriatingly charming when he wasn’t being a complete git. You’d been at each other’s throats since second year when he’d “accidentally” charmed your bag to spew chocolate syrup all over the Great Hall. He claimed it was meant for someone else. You didn’t buy it. Since then, it was a war of words, pranks, and glares across the common room.
“Focus on your essay, Ronald,” Fred said, tossing the Frisbee to George. “Y/N and I are just having a friendly chat.”
“Friendly?” you said, incredulous. “You charmed my quill to write backwards yesterday.”
“And you hexed my shoelaces to tie themselves together,” he shot back, eyes glinting. “Fair’s fair.”
You opened your mouth to retort, but Hermione, sitting across from Ron, slammed her book shut. “Enough! If I have to hear one more argument about who hexed who, I’m going to charm both your mouths shut.”
Fred winked at her. “You’re no fun, Granger.”
You rolled your eyes and stormed upstairs to the girls’ dormitory, your heart pounding with the familiar mix of irritation and something you refused to name. Fred Weasley was not worth your energy.
—
The Gryffindor common room was alive with music and laughter, a rare moment of rebellion against Umbridge’s suffocating rules. Someone had smuggled Firewhisky, and Lee Jordan had rigged a charmed gramophone to blast music loud enough to drown out the portraits’ complaints. The room pulsed with energy, students dancing and shouting, the air thick with the scent of butterbeer and something sweeter—freedom.
You stood near the drinks table, nursing a goblet of pumpkin juice, your robes swapped for a black sweater and jeans. Ron was beside you, ranting about Quidditch tryouts, his face flushed from a sip of Firewhisky he’d “accidentally” tried.
“You’re telling me Angelina’s making us run laps?” he groaned. “I’m not built for that.”
You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “You’ll survive. Just don’t trip over your own feet again.”
“Oi, that was one time!”
Your banter was interrupted by a loud whoop from the center of the room. Fred and George were demonstrating their latest invention—portable fireworks that spelled out rude words in midair. The crowd cheered as “UMBRIDGE IS A TOAD” fizzled out in sparks.
“Idiots,” you muttered, though a smile tugged at your lips.
Ron followed your gaze. “They’re mental, but you’ve got to admit, they’re clever.”
“Clever at causing trouble,” you said, but your eyes lingered on Fred. His hair was a mess, his sleeves rolled up, and the way he moved—confident, alive—made your stomach twist in a way you hated.
As if sensing your stare, Fred looked over, catching your eye. He smirked, raising his goblet in a mock toast. You scowled and turned back to Ron, who was now complaining about Snape.
But Fred wasn’t done with you. A few minutes later, he sauntered over, George trailing behind with a grin that promised mischief.
“Having fun, Y/N?” Fred asked, leaning against the table, too close for comfort.
“Was, until you showed up,” you shot back, crossing your arms.
George laughed. “You two are like a bad potions experiment—always exploding.”
“Only because she’s so volatile,” Fred said, his voice teasing but his eyes sharp, like he was studying you.
You bristled. “And you’re so insufferable.”
Ron groaned. “Merlin, just ignore each other for one night, yeah?”
Fred ignored him, stepping closer. “Come on, Y/N. Dance with me. Might loosen you up.”
You snorted. “I’d rather dance with a troll.”
“Harsh,” George said, clapping a hand to his chest. “Fred’s not that bad.”
But Fred’s grin didn’t falter. “One day, you’ll admit you like me.”
“In your dreams, Weasley,” you said, turning on your heel and heading toward the dance floor to escape him. The music shifted, a new song kicking in—a pulsing, electric beat that made your heart race. You didn’t know the name, but it felt like a storm, all jealousy and longing, the kind of song that made you want to scream and run and feel everything at once.
You danced with a few friends, letting the music drown out your thoughts. But Fred was never far, his laughter cutting through the crowd, his presence like a magnet you couldn’t shake. When you glanced back, he was dancing with Angelina, his hands on her waist, her head thrown back in laughter. Something hot and sharp twisted in your chest, and you hated it. Hated him. Hated yourself for caring.
—
Later, you found yourself back by the drinks table, catching your breath. The room was a blur of lights and bodies, the music still pounding. You were pouring yourself another drink when Fred appeared, alone this time, his face flushed from dancing.
“Still sulking?” he asked, grabbing a bottle of butterbeer.
“Still annoying?” you countered, not looking at him.
He chuckled, but there was an edge to it. “You’re jealous.”
You froze, your goblet halfway to your lips. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He stepped closer, his voice low, teasing but with something sharper underneath. “You were glaring daggers when I was dancing with Angelina.”
Your face burned. “You’re delusional. I don’t care who you dance with.”
“Right,” he said, smirking. “That’s why you’ve been watching me all night.”
You slammed your goblet down, turning to face him. “You’re so full of yourself. I wasn’t watching you—I was making sure you didn’t set the room on fire with one of your stupid pranks.”
He raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “Sure. And I’m Merlin’s long-lost cousin.”
You were inches apart now, the air between you crackling with tension. The music shifted again, that same stormy song from earlier, its beat sinking into your bones. I’m coming out of my cage, and I’ve been doing just fine… The lyrics weren’t clear, but the feeling was—raw, desperate, like something breaking open.
“You’re insufferable,” you said, your voice shaking with something you couldn’t name.
“And you’re impossible,” he shot back, but his eyes flicked to your lips, and your breath caught.
The argument spiraled, as it always did, a flurry of insults and jabs. But then he said something that stopped you cold.
“You act like you’ve got it all figured out, Y/N, but you’re all talk. Bet you’ve never even—” He cut himself off, his eyes narrowing as if he’d just realized something. “Wait. Have you never been kissed before?”
Your face went scarlet. You had been kissed—once, in third year, a clumsy, awkward thing that left you embarrassed and the boy in question avoiding you for weeks. It wasn’t something you advertised, but it wasn’t nothing. Still, Fred’s words hit a nerve, and you hated how exposed you felt.
“That’s none of your business,” you snapped, turning to leave.
But he grabbed your wrist, gently, pulling you back. “Hang on. I didn’t mean—Merlin, Y/N, I was just taking the piss. But… really?”
You yanked your wrist free, glaring. “I’ve been kissed, Weasley. Not that you’d know what a good one feels like.”
His smirk returned, but there was something softer in his eyes. “Is that a challenge?”
Your heart stuttered. The music pulsed, the crowd a distant blur. He was too close, his voice too low, his gaze too intense. “You wouldn’t dare,” you said, but it came out weaker than you meant.
“Wouldn’t I?” he murmured, stepping closer. And then, before you could process it, his hand was on your cheek, his lips brushing yours—soft at first, tentative, then deeper, like he was pouring every unspoken word into it. It wasn’t your first kiss, but it was the first that mattered. The first that felt like fire, like magic, like him.
When he pulled back, you were breathless, your mind a mess. The song was still playing, its jealous edge mirroring the chaos in your chest. Fred looked as stunned as you felt, his eyes wide, his usual bravado gone.
“Bloody hell,” he whispered. “That was…”
“Don’t,” you said, stepping back, your voice shaky. “This doesn’t change anything.”
But it did. And you both knew it.
—
The next week was torture. You avoided Fred, but every time you saw him—across the Great Hall, in the common room, joking with George—your heart did that stupid flip. He didn’t push, didn’t tease, just watched you with a look that made your skin burn.
One night, after a particularly brutal DADA lesson with Umbridge, you found him in an empty corridor, testing a new prank product. He looked up, and before you could bolt, he said, “We need to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” you said, crossing your arms.
“Bullshit.” He stepped closer, his voice low. “You felt it too. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”
You wanted to deny it, to throw it back in his face, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you kissed him again, hard and desperate, and he kissed you back like he’d been waiting for it his whole life.
It was a secret after that—stolen moments in empty classrooms, hushed arguments that turned into kisses, your heart a tangle of fear and want. You didn’t tell Ron, couldn’t bear the thought of him finding out. He’d never understand why you, of all people, fell for his brother.
But secrets don’t stay hidden at Hogwarts. One night, Ron caught you and Fred in the common room, too close, too obvious. His face went from confusion to betrayal in seconds.
“What the hell is this?” he demanded, his voice shaking.
You froze, Fred’s hand still on your arm. “Ron, I—”
“You’re with him?” Ron’s eyes darted to Fred, then back to you. “After all the crap you’ve said about him?”
Fred stepped forward. “Mate, listen—”
“Don’t,” Ron snapped, storming out.
You stood there, heart pounding, the music from that night echoing in your mind. Fred squeezed your hand. “We’ll figure it out,” he said softly.
But as you watched Ron disappear, you weren’t so sure.
—
The Gryffindor common room was quiet, save for the crackle of the dying fire and the distant howl of wind against the castle walls. It was late—too late for anyone to be up, but you couldn’t sleep. Not after Ron had seen you and Fred, his face twisting from confusion to something raw and betrayed. You sat on the edge of a worn armchair, staring at the embers, your heart a tangled knot of guilt and defiance.
Fred was beside you, uncharacteristically still, his usual swagger replaced by a tense silence. He’d tried to follow Ron after the outburst, but you’d stopped him. This was your mess to fix—Ron was your friend, and you owed him an explanation. But what could you say? That the one person you swore you hated had somehow become the one you couldn’t stop thinking about? That every argument, every glare, had been hiding something you were too stubborn to admit?
The portrait hole swung open, and Ron stormed in, his face still flushed, his eyes blazing. He stopped short when he saw you and Fred, his gaze flicking between you like he was trying to solve a puzzle that made no sense.
“Ron,” you started, standing up, but he cut you off.
“Don’t,” he snapped, his voice low but sharp enough to cut. “Just… don’t. How long has this been going on?” His eyes locked on yours, and the hurt in them made your chest ache.
You opened your mouth, but the words stuck. Fred stepped forward, his hand brushing yours as if to steady you. “A few weeks,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “It wasn’t planned, mate. It just… happened.”
Ron laughed, a bitter sound that didn’t suit him. “Happened? You’re my brother, Fred, and you—” He turned to you, his expression softening just a fraction, but the anger was still there. “You’re my best friend, Y/N. You hated him. You told me a hundred times how much you couldn’t stand him. And now you’re—what? Sneaking around behind my back?”
Your face burned, the weight of his words sinking in. You were stubborn, independent, the girl who didn’t need anyone’s approval—but Ron’s disappointment hit harder than you expected. “I didn’t mean to lie,” you said, your voice quieter than you wanted. “I just… I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t even know what this was until it was too late.”
Ron ran a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps. “Too late? Merlin, Y/N, you could’ve told me. Instead, I find out by walking in on you two—” He gestured vaguely, his face twisting like he couldn’t even say it. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
Fred’s jaw tightened. “Ron, listen. I know you’re pissed, but this isn’t about you. It’s about us.” He glanced at you, and for a moment, the firelight caught the softness in his eyes, the kind he only showed when no one else was looking.
Ron stopped pacing, his shoulders slumping. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? It’s you, Fred. You’re my brother, and you’re… you. You prank people, you break rules, you leave a trail of chaos everywhere you go. And she—” He pointed at you, his voice breaking. “She’s too good for that. She deserves better.”
The words stung, not because they were true, but because they echoed the doubts you’d been fighting since that night at the party. Fred was chaos, a wildfire you couldn’t control. But he was also the only one who saw through your walls, who matched your stubbornness with his own, who made you feel alive in a way you hadn’t before.
Fred’s hand clenched into a fist, but his voice stayed steady. “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t spent every day wondering why the hell she’d even look at me?” He stepped closer to Ron, his height making him seem older, more serious. “But I’m not playing her, Ron. This isn’t a game.”
Ron stared at him, then at you, his eyes searching for something—reassurance, maybe, or proof that this wasn’t a mistake. You wanted to give it to him, but your own heart was a mess of fear and want, and all you could do was stand there, caught between the two brothers.
“I need time,” Ron said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t… I can’t deal with this right now.” He turned and headed for the boys’ dormitory, the portrait hole swinging shut behind him.
You sank back into the armchair, your hands covering your face. Fred sat on the armrest, close but not touching, like he wasn’t sure if you wanted him to. “He’ll come around,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced.
You looked up at him, your throat tight. “What if he doesn’t? He’s my best friend, Fred. I can’t lose him.”
Fred’s eyes softened, and he reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You won’t. Ron’s stubborn, but he’s not stupid. He just needs to get over the shock of his best mate snogging his brother.”
You laughed despite yourself, the sound shaky. “You’re awful.”
“And you’re stuck with me,” he said, his grin returning, though it was softer, almost hesitant. “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
You met his gaze, the memory of that first kiss flooding back—the music, the heat, the way it felt like the world had tilted. “I haven’t,” you said, and the words felt like a confession.
He leaned down, kissing you softly, and for a moment, the world was just the two of you, the fire’s warmth, and the quiet promise of something real.
—
The next few weeks were a tightrope. Ron barely spoke to you, his silences heavy with unspoken hurt. You threw yourself into DA meetings, channeling your frustration into spells and strategy, but every time you saw Ron across the room, wand raised, his jaw set, guilt twisted in your gut. Fred, meanwhile, was a constant—slipping you notes in the common room, stealing kisses in the shadows of the library, his presence a reminder that you’d chosen this, chosen him.
The breaking point came during a DA meeting in the Room of Requirement. Umbridge’s decrees had tightened, and the group was practicing defensive spells, the air thick with tension and the unspoken fear of what was coming. You were paired with Ron, casting Protego against his Stunning Spells, but his aim was sloppy, his focus elsewhere.
“Ron, come on,” you said, lowering your wand. “You’re not even trying.”
He glared at you, his wand still raised. “Maybe I don’t feel like helping you and Fred play happy couple.”
The room went quiet, heads turning. Harry, standing nearby, raised an eyebrow but stayed out of it. You felt Fred’s presence across the room, his eyes on you, but you kept your focus on Ron. Fred gave everyone in the room a look reminding them to mind their own business.
“That’s not fair,” you said, your voice low but firm. “You’re mad, I get it. But shutting me out isn’t going to fix anything.”
Ron’s face reddened. “You lied to me, Y/N. You and Fred, sneaking around like I’m some idiot who wouldn’t notice. How am I supposed to trust you?”
Your temper flared, but you forced it down. “I didn’t lie. I just… I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t even know what I felt until it was too much to ignore.” You stepped closer, your voice softening. “You’re my best friend, Ron. I’d never hurt you on purpose.”
He looked away, his jaw tight, but you could see the fight draining out of him. “It’s just… weird. You and Fred. He’s my brother, and you’re… you. I thought you hated him.”
“I did,” you admitted, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Or I thought I did. Turns out, he’s not so awful.”
Fred, who’d been pretending not to listen, snorted from across the room. “High praise, love.”
You shot him a glare, but there was no heat in it. Ron looked between you, his expression softening, though he still looked like he’d swallowed a sour Bertie Bott’s bean.
“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” he said finally, his voice low. “Fred’s… Fred. He’s not exactly known for being serious.”
Fred walked over, his usual grin replaced by something steadier. “I’m serious about her,” he said, his eyes on Ron. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Ron studied him, then you, and something shifted in his gaze-acceptance, maybe, or at least the start of it. “Fine,” he said, exhaling sharply. “But if you break her heart, I’ll hex you into next week. Brother or not.”
Fred’s grin returned, full force. “Deal.”
—
The resolution wasn’t instant. Ron was awkward for days, his conversations with you stilted, but he stopped avoiding you. You caught him watching you and Fred sometimes, his expression a mix of curiosity and resignation, but he didn’t pull away again.
The real turning point came during a chaotic night in the Great Hall. Umbridge’s Inquisitorial Squad had raided a DA meeting, and you, Fred, and Ron ended up in detention together, scrubbing cauldrons under Filch’s gleeful supervision. Fred, predictably, turned it into a game, flicking soap suds at you when Filch wasn’t looking. You retaliated, splashing him with water, and soon you were both laughing, your hands brushing as you reached for the same sponge.
Ron groaned, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. “You two are disgusting.”
You froze, expecting another argument, but Fred just grinned. “Jealous, Ronniekins?”
Ron rolled his eyes, but he flicked a sud at Fred, and for the first time in weeks, the three of you were laughing together, the tension melting into something warmer, something familiar.
Later, as you walked back to the common room, Fred’s hand in yours, Ron fell into step beside you. “You’re still a git,” he said to Fred, but his tone was lighter.
“And you’re still a prat,” Fred shot back, but he squeezed your hand, his eyes warm.
Ron glanced at you, his expression softening. “You’re happy, yeah?”
You nodded, your throat tight. “Yeah. Really happy.”
He sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Then I guess I’ll live with it.”
—
The Burrow was a riot of warmth and chaos, its crooked walls humming with the energy of summer. The kitchen smelled of fresh bread and lavender, the garden buzzed with gnomes scurrying through the overgrown grass, and every room seemed to creak with the weight of Weasley family life. You’d been invited to spend two weeks here before sixth year, a gesture from Ron to mend the lingering awkwardness between you after he’d caught you and Fred together. But now, standing in the cluttered living room with your trunk at your feet, you realized this was going to be harder than you thought.
Keeping your relationship with Fred a secret from Molly Weasley was like trying to hide a Firework from Filch. She had a sixth sense for mischief, and you and Fred were walking a dangerous line. The plan was simple: act normal, no touching, no lingering looks, and definitely no sneaking off. Ron had made it clear he wasn’t going to cover for you if his mum got suspicious. “I’m not lying to her,” he’d muttered on the train ride home. “She’ll have my head.”
You glanced at Fred across the room, where he was helping George levitate a stack of old Quidditch Weekly magazines to clear space. His sleeves were rolled up, his hair a mess of red catching the sunlight streaming through the window, and when he caught your eye, he winked. Your stomach flipped, and you quickly looked away, your cheeks burning. Merlin, this is going to be impossible.
Molly bustled in, her apron dusted with flour, her wand tucked behind her ear. “Y/N, dear, you’re in Ginny’s room with Hermione,” she said, her voice warm but firm. “Boys, you’re all upstairs. No funny business, mind you.” Her eyes lingered on Fred and George, who both put on their most innocent expressions.
“No funny business here, Mum,” Fred said, his grin too wide to be trusted.
You bit your lip to keep from laughing, grabbing your trunk and heading for the stairs. Ron followed, carrying Hermione’s bag, his ears red as he avoided your gaze. “This is a terrible idea,” he muttered under his breath.
“Relax,” you whispered back, though your heart was racing. “We’ve got this.”
But you didn’t. Not really.
—
The first few days were a masterclass in restraint. You and Fred were careful—too careful. You sat at opposite ends of the dinner table, where Molly piled plates high with roast potatoes and shepherd’s pie. You avoided brushing shoulders in the narrow hallways. When Fred passed you the butterbeer during a game of Exploding Snap in the garden, his fingers lingered a fraction too long, and you yanked your hand back like you’d been burned. Ron noticed, rolling his eyes, but Molly was too busy scolding George for charming the cutlery to dance to see.
At night, though, the Burrow’s creaky floors and thin walls made secrecy a nightmare. You’d lie awake in Ginny’s room, Hermione’s soft snores beside you, and hear Fred’s laugh from upstairs, low and warm, carrying through the house. It was torture, knowing he was so close but untouchable. The memory of that party kiss—the heat of his lips—kept you restless, your heart a mix of longing and fear. What if Molly found out? Would she send you home? Lock Fred in his room until school started back?
On the fourth night, you couldn’t take it anymore. You slipped out of bed, tiptoeing down the hall to the kitchen for a glass of water—or so you told yourself. The house was dark, the only light coming from the moon spilling through the windows. You froze when you heard a floorboard creak behind you.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” Fred’s voice was low, teasing, but there was something softer in it, like he’d been waiting for this.
You turned, your breath catching. He was leaning against the doorway, wearing a faded Weird Sisters T-shirt and pajama bottoms, his hair sticking up at odd angles. The moonlight made his eyes glint, and for a moment, you forgot how to speak.
“Keep your voice down,” you hissed, but your heart wasn’t in it. “If your mum catches us—”
“She’s snoring loud enough to wake a dragon,” he said, stepping closer. “We’re safe.”
You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Safe? You’re about as safe as a Blast-Ended Skrewt.”
He grinned, closing the distance between you. “And yet, here you are.”
Before you could retort, he kissed you—soft at first, then deeper, his hands finding your waist. It was reckless, standing in the middle of the Weasley kitchen where anyone could walk in, but you melted into him, the world narrowing to his warmth, his heartbeat, the faint taste of peppermint on his lips.
A loud creak from upstairs made you both jump apart, your heart pounding. You held your breath, listening, but no one came. Fred chuckled softly, his forehead resting against yours. “Close call.”
“You’re going to get us caught,” you whispered, but you couldn’t stop smiling.
“Worth it,” he murmured, stealing one more quick kiss before stepping back. “Go to bed, love. Before I do something really stupid.”
You rolled your eyes but headed back to Ginny’s room, your pulse still racing. The Burrow felt alive with secrets, and you were starting to think you’d never survive two weeks.
—
It happened on the seventh day, during a chaotic Weasley family Quidditch match in the orchard. The sky was a brilliant blue, the air thick with summer heat and the shouts of Ron, Ginny, and George as they zoomed around on brooms. You were on the ground, ostensibly keeping score with Hermione, but mostly watching Fred. He was a blur of red hair and laughter, dodging Bludgers with effortless grace, his grin infectious as he taunted Ron mid-air.
“Nice dive, Ronniekins!” he shouted as Ron fumbled a catch. “Maybe try using your hands next time!”
You laughed, and Fred’s eyes flicked to you, his smile softening for just a second. It was a mistake. Molly, who’d been setting up a picnic table nearby, caught the look. You saw her pause, her hands stilling on the tablecloth, her eyes narrowing as they darted between you and Fred.
Your stomach dropped. “Hermione,” you whispered, nudging her. “She’s onto us.”
Hermione glanced over, her expression a mix of sympathy and alarm. “Oh no. Just… act normal.”
But normal was impossible when Fred landed a few minutes later, sweaty and grinning, and tossed you a water bottle. “Stay hydrated, love,” he said, the word slipping out before he could stop it.
Molly’s head snapped up like a hawk spotting prey. “Fred Gideon Weasley,” she said, her voice dangerously calm. “What did you just call her?”
The orchard went quiet. Ron, still hovering on his broom, looked like he wanted to sink into the ground. George snorted, clearly enjoying the chaos. You felt your face heat up, your stubborn streak urging you to stand your ground, but your heart was pounding.
Fred, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “I called her love,” he said, meeting his mother’s gaze. “Because that’s what she is.”
You wanted to throttle him for being so bold, but your heart did a stupid flip at his words. Molly’s eyes widened, then flicked to you, her expression a mix of shock and something softer—concern, maybe, or realization.
“Y/N, dear,” she said, her voice softening but still firm. “Is this true?”
You swallowed, your independence warring with the urge to hide. But Fred’s hand brushed yours, a quiet anchor, and you found your voice. “Yeah,” you said, lifting your chin. “It’s true.”
Ron landed with a thud, muttering, “Here we go.”
Molly’s mouth opened, then closed. She looked at Fred, then you, then back at Fred, her hands on her hips. “And you thought you could keep this from me? In my own house?”
“We weren’t sure how you’d take it,” you said, your voice steady despite the nerves. “Didn’t want to make things weird.”
“Weird?” Molly’s voice rose, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “You’re sneaking around under my roof, and you think that’s not weird?” She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Merlin’s beard, you two. I raised seven children—I know when something’s going on.”
Fred grinned, undeterred. “So you’re not mad?”
“Oh, I’m mad,” Molly said, pointing a finger at him. “Mad you didn’t tell me! And you—” She turned to you, her expression softening. “Y/N, you’re practically family already, but you’re still a guest in my home. I expect honesty. And no sneaking off to the broom shed, understand?”
Your face burned, but you nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Weasley.”
She huffed, then pulled you into a sudden, bone-crushing hug. “Oh, come here. If you’re going to be with my Fred, you’d better get used to this.”
Fred laughed, but there was relief in his eyes as he met yours over his mother’s shoulder. Ron, still hovering nearby, groaned. “Can we go back to Quidditch now? This is too much.”
George zoomed down, clapping Fred on the back. “Told you she’d figure it out. Mum’s got eyes like a Niffler.”
The rest of the day was a blur of Molly’s overbearing warmth—she insisted on setting an extra place for you at the table, as if you were officially part of the family now—and Fred’s teasing, his hand finding yours under the table when no one was looking. The Burrow’s chaos wrapped around you like a warm blanket, and as you sat in the garden that night, Fred’s arm around you, Ron bickering with George, and Molly’s laughter drifting from the kitchen, you realized you’d found something you hadn’t known you were looking for.
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After protecting the kids from demodogs and sentient tunnel vines with Steve, a weekend babysitting Holly Wheeler together is supposed to be simple. That is until feelings neither of you expected start to make things way more complicated.
gn!reader, takes place in between seasons two and three, people who fight monsters together to lovers, tooth-rotting fluff 16k
── .✦
It doesn’t take long to remember why Holly is your favorite Wheeler. She’s patient and sweet, amazingly level-headed for a preschooler, and her manners could put some adults to shame. Compared to her siblings, Holly’s a little sweetheart. And a mama’s girl through and through, clinging to Mrs. Wheeler more often than not.
Like now, she wriggles in her mom’s lap, scrunched over a coloring book at the dinner table. She squints at her box of crayons and purses her lips— choosing colors is hard when you’re five. She hasn’t said a peep since you arrived, but in the foyer, she greeted you with a clumsy wave and a sheepish smile.
“It would be Friday afternoon to Monday morning,” Mrs. Wheeler explains, stirring a glass of lemonade with a curly straw. “I’d ask Nance but she’s having a girl's weekend.”
You glance at Steve. You know girl’s weekend is code for spending the night with Jonathan Byers. But if he knows it too, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t so much as bat an eye at her words. In fact, he’s relaxed under Mrs. Wheeler’s gaze. He’s sitting in a chair he’s sat in dozens of times before, talking to a woman he sees more frequently than his own mother.
You don’t know her as well as he does, but you aren’t strangers by any means.
“And Mike, well, he’s not old enough to watch her for that long. But he’ll be staying over at Joyce’s so you don’t have to worry about him,” she pauses to sip her drink. “I’d pay you, of course. I don’t know what your schedules look like— I know you’re probably busy with the new job, Steve— but I figured since it’s a few days, I’d offer it to you both.”
Steve flashes an honest smile and leans forward. “Are you kidding? I’d hang with this squirt for free. I’m actually off this weekend so it works out.”
Mrs. Wheeler beams, eyes springing to yours.
“Yeah, I could help too,” you shrug. You also happen to be free this weekend and the extra cash would be nice.
“Great! You both are so lovely. Oh, I was so worried, I kept telling Ted– well, it doesn’t matter now.” Her bracelets clink and clash as she reaches across the table to cover your hand with hers. “You’ll have to keep an eye on these two. She becomes quite the riot when her Stevie comes over.”
Steve chuckles and raises his hands in defense. “She owes me a rematch at Candyland so I can’t promise anything.”
Mrs. Wheeler’s fingers retract from yours, landing on the end of Holly’s pigtail. “She’s really missed having you over. Asks about you still.”
Holly ducks her nose into her paper, pink traveling up her ears.
“Is that right?” Steve teases. “I’ll have to swing by more often.”
“Please. You’re welcome anytime, Steve. Whether Nancy’s here or not.” Her attention drifts to you. “And the same goes for you. Mike won’t stop talking about that comic book you gave him.”
A smug grin surfaces. Out of all of the kids, Mike is a tough one to please.
“I’ve never been away from Holly for so long. But I trust you guys.” Mrs. Wheeler pecks Holly’s crown to hide a wobbly smile, her sentence spilling out in a breathy string of words.
She really does trust you both. It would take another set of hands to count the number of times either you or Steve had driven her kids home safely. This is just different. She loves all of her kids equally, but Holly’s her baby.
Holly’s eyes cast up at her mention, bright as a sunlit gem.
Mrs. Wheeler smooths her daughter’s sleeves down her shoulders. “But Holly’s a good girl. Right, Hollybear?”
She turns to bury a toothy smile in her mother’s shirt.
Mrs. Wheeler is meticulous as she presents each and every detail of Holly’s routine. From car seat safety to emergency contacts to allergies, she covers every question you might have before you have it.
Steve’s a good listener but he’s cursed with a very short attention span. Mrs. Wheeler lost him somewhere around Holly’s sudden aversion to mac and cheese, but she doesn’t seem to notice. You’ll fill in the gaps for him later.
This won’t be the first time you’ve babysat with Steve. Dustin roped you both into hunting his pet lizard-turned-alien which very quickly escalated to protecting four children from not one, but several, vicious aliens. Safe to say you two are experienced enough to handle one kid for a couple of nights.
You haven’t seen Steve much since then. It’s summer now. The demodogs and sentient tunnel vines feel much more like a dream than something that actually happened to you these days. Steve works at the Scoops in Starcourt, or so you’ve heard several times– Dustin only reminds you about every time you see him. But despite being as close to death as you’ve ever been beside Steve, visiting him at work feels strangely wrong. Like crossing a line that neither of you ever drew.
You would not consider Steve Harrington your friend. You’re friendly, as you might be with a neighbor or coworker, but you don’t talk much outside of world-ending, portal-to-another-dimension kind of events. He’s family in a weird sort of way, bound by the shared trauma and unspoken loyalty— like someone you only see at family reunions, familiar enough to care about but still a stranger in most ways. High school was a long blur and your circle of friends couldn’t have been farther from his. So you don’t know Steve, not really. But of what little pieces of him you have come to know in the last year, he’s not half bad at babysitting.
ᯓ★
On Friday afternoon, you park your car beside Steve’s shiny BMW in the Wheeler’s driveway. You take the house key that had been slipped from Mrs. Wheeler’s key ring to yours and unlock the front door. And you find that inside, it’s completely silent. Holly’s quiet as a mouse but she’s still a kid and kids make noise.
Your bag drops onto the floor beside Steve’s shoes as you toe off your own. When the kitchen and living room turn up empty you jog upstairs. Alarm sinks in on the last step where you still hear nothing. No shouting, no laughing, no crying, no nothing.
There’s a large window in the hall upstairs, dividing Nancy’s room from Mike's and Holly’s. In your panic, you miss the suspicious lumps in the drapes that frame it.
As you brush by, Steve rips the curtain across the rod and shouts, “Ha! Gotch– Oh.”
Your entire body jerks, fear cinching every nerve. “Christ! Steve!”
“Sorry, sorry!”
Your nostrils flare with hot air as you shove him, “You scared me!”
His open palms hover in between your chests, unsure how to help. “I thought you were Holly. Sorry.” He gives you an apologetic once-over before a breathy chuckle escapes.
“It’s not funny. All the shit we’ve been through. God.” He’s lucky you didn’t punch him. A part of you still wants to.
“Mommy says that’s not a nice word,” Holly says from behind you.
You turn, shoulders sagging in relief. “I didn’t mean to say that. Sorry.”
“Stevie, I was supposed to find you,” she whines incredulously, hands planted on her hips.
“We can go again. I’ll find a new spot.”
Her frown mends as quickly as it appeared and she skips back to her room to count.
“Sorry,” Steve reminds you. “Help me find a spot to hide?”
Soft eyes, a softer smile. It’s hard to stay mad when he looks at you like that. “Okay.”
Twenty seconds isn’t very long to hide. Especially when Holly counts as fast as she does and when you spend half of your time standing in the hall. So you end up crouched in the corner of Mike’s closet, Steve arched over you, trying his hardest not to crush your toes.
“Jesus. Does this kid even wash his clothes?” Steve whisper-shouts. “It smells like something died in here.” His palm snaps to the wall behind your head, the flesh of his arm warming your ear.
“You actually couldn’t have picked a worse place. Oh my God.” You press the neckline of your shirt over your nose. Steve’s wearing enough cologne to drown out the stench of dirty socks, though it’s choking you all the same.
“We had like three seconds. I panicked!”
You’re glaring at him but only a fraction of light filters in from underneath the door so you’d guess he doesn't see.
The closet is the first place Holly checks when she barges into Mike’s room, but you’ve never been happier to be caught so fast.
“My turn!” She glows in victory, pigtails swishing like yellow ribbons as she shouts.
Steve huffs. “Let’s take a break. We’ve been playing for like an hour.”
“Can we play tag?”
“In a little while. I’m tired.” He pinches her neck playfully until she squirms out of reach. “How’d you have all that energy?”
She shrugs with her whole body. “I dunno. I’m a kid.”
A laugh bubbles out of your throat. When your eyes flit to Steve you find him already smiling at you.
“What about something a little more chill,” you suggest. “We could color?”
“Bracelets?”
“You want to make some?”
She nods, “I can’t reach them. The beads are on top of my closet.”
“I’ll get ‘em,” Steve offers. “Come show me where.”
You fan out her multitude of craft containers across the kitchen table. Beads, charms, strings, all neatly filed away. She pops open a lid and plunks down across from you. Steve takes the seat at the end in between.
“What color bracelet are you gonna make?” you ask, raking through the rainbow of options.
“Umm, yellow. No– green!”
“Nice. Here’s a cute little frog charm. Want that?”
“Mmmm. No, thank you.”
“I’ll take it,” Steve says, stretching his hand toward you.
You drop it in the center of his palm where it clinks against a handful of blue beads. They’re pretty and vibrant like the sea. A flicker of an idea pulls you to grab your own handful.
Holly slides four beads onto a string, two lime green and two baby pink. She drags the other end up and they all slip off, bouncing in separate directions across the table. You smack one before it dives onto the floor and Steve catches another two mid-air.
“Can you help me tie it?” Holly asks from under her chair, searching for the fourth.
“Sure.” Steve swaps his bracelet for hers, triple knotting one end. “I like these colors.”
She resurfaces with a grin, voice lilting as she speaks, “Do you like purple?”
“Yeah, purple’s okay. Do you?”
She nods, pinching a lilac gem and examining it.
You slip into a peaceful rhythm. The bead bin rattles as Steve digs his fingers in. He murmurs something about sparkles as he shuffles. Every now and then, you peek up at him. And each time, you find that he’s fully absorbed in this, rubbing his chin or poking his tongue out in concentration. You’d even bet he’s having fun.
“Can you tie it on me,” Holly asks when she finishes.
Steve takes her hand gently, fingers engulfing her tinier ones. “This good?” He tugs the strings across each other at her permission, sealing it with an extra knot for good measure.
Holly starts a second one as you finish your first. You hold it up triumphantly for them to see– red and blue beads between every white pearl.
“Very patriotic,” Steve teases.
“It’s for you. For scoops. These are the colors right?”
He softens, eyes rounding like brown buttons. “Wait, really? Thank you. Wow.” He inspects it fondly where you release it in his palm. “Will you tie it?” His arm shoots over to your side of the table.
You feel his gaze shift from the bracelet to your face as you lace it. And you pretend that it doesn’t make your cheeks burn.
“You don’t have to wear it to Scoops if you don’t want to,” you mumble, releasing his wrist.
“What? Of course, I’m wearing it. No one’s ever made me a bracelet before.”
Your lips bend up into your cheeks as he leans back in his seat. He twists and turns his arm, looking it over again with a similar expression. “Now, it was supposed to be a surprise, but since I’m almost done, I actually made this for you.” He scoops up the piece he’s been working on and waves it in front of you.
You cock an eyebrow and smirk. “You sure you didn’t just decide that since I gave you one.”
“I didn’t! I was planning this the whole time! Right Holly, didn’t I say that?”
“No?”
“Holly, come on now.” He elbows her arm. “Supposed to back me up.”
“But you didn’t,” she giggles.
“Holly doesn’t lie, Steve.”
“Okay, I didn’t say it. But I thought it. I was gonna give it to you I swear.” He jams another couple of beads on his string. “See! Look, it has your favorite color on there.”
“It has every color on there.”
“One of which is your favorite.”
You roll your eyes as he takes your wrist. His hands are warmer than yours, softer than you expect too. He stills as your palm flips face up. A jagged, fleshy ridge runs from the bottom of your pinky to the meat of your thumb. Steve was there when you got the scar. He’s never said it, but you know he blames himself for it. A demodog had you pinned in that damned junkyard school bus so Steve pushed you out of the way but you caught yourself on a broken window.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
His head dips in a silent nod. He isn’t sure whether to believe you or not. Either way, he feels sorry still.
His bracelet is a statement piece for sure. It truly has every color under the sun and a random assortment of charms and shells. But it’s sweet that he gave it to you. Even if he totally did not plan to do so at first.
He makes a second bracelet for Holly with purple string and butterfly pendants. Holly gives her next one to him as thanks, then begins on a third for you.
Steve stands from the table. “I’m hungry. Grilled cheese okay for dinner Holly?” She nods as do you when he asks you the same.
Your focus drifts between him and the necklace you’re starting for Holly. He coasts around the kitchen naturally, like you imagine he would in his own house. But it’s a bizarre sight. Steve Harrington cooking you food, in the Wheeler’s kitchen out of all places.
And he’s about as good as a chef as you expect him to be. He’s clumsy and uncertain, even dropping a spatula on the floor with an, “Oh, shi–ugar…” But he kindly refuses to accept any help or advice when you offer.
He eventually swings around the kitchen island, brimming with pride, one plate in each hand. They’re set in the space you’ve cleared and you quickly see that the sandwiches have been cut adorably into stars. You just as quickly see– and smell– how burnt they are. They aren’t black, they’re edible for sure. But Holly’s five, and polite as she is, most kids would never willingly eat this.
So you aren’t surprised when she looks at it in disgust, borderline horror.
“Look, it’s a star,” Steve beams, oblivious.
Your chest aches with the desire to laugh and an equal pang of sympathy.
Holly shakes her head, visibly toning down her expression for his sake. “Can I have something else?”
“It’s good! I promise, just try it.”
She slowly shakes no again.
“Steve,” a peel of laughter escapes your lips. “It’s burnt.”
He scoffs. “It’s not that burnt.”
Your mouth twitches in a funny little line and your eyes leap between him and the plate. “It’s pretty burnt, Steve.”
After a moment of silence, he sighs and picks both plates back up.
“Wait,” you shout, “I’ll still eat mine! Mine isn’t that bad. You did a good job!”
He sulks at you. “You’re just saying that. I’ll make new ones.”
“No, it’s okay, really. I’ll eat this one. I don’t mind.”
He plants the plate in your grabby hands and spins back toward the stove.
Round two is much better, still star-shaped, and a few shades lighter. Holly thanks him more than once while eating it without you even asking her to. If only Nancy and Mike were as precious as her. And Steve eats the first attempt, now cold, and admits that it tastes, “slightly burnt.”
You take the empty plates to the sink to wash while Steve and Holly lug the jewelry kits back upstairs. You meet them in Holly’s room after. They’re playing house, Steve the dad, and Holly the mom, with four babydolls for children. She appoints you to be the neighbor when you join.
You knock on her bedpost, pretending it’s her front door. “Holly, in one hour you’re gonna take a bath.”
Her head pops out from under the blanket. “Can we watch a movie before bed?”
“Sure, but we have to do bath now if you wanna watch the whole thing.”
“Okay!” She kicks the sheets away, jumping off the bed in a race to the bathroom. Steve winces as she steps on his hand.
“Do you need help?” he asks, sprawled across the bed, socked feet hanging over the edge.
“No, I got it. You can rest in peace now,” you joke, halfway through the door.
Holly is self-sufficient enough to bathe herself so all you have to do is supervise. You find a matching polka dot set of pajamas in her dresser and a towel under the bathroom sink. And she gets dry and dressed all by herself, Miss Independent.
“So there’s The Little Mermaid, E.T., Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory…” Steve trails off, kneeling in front of the entertainment center.
Holly hands him a VHS tape, “This one?”
“Ooh, good pick.” Steve feeds the tape into the player and rewinds it.
You pat the couch cushion beside yours as Holly skips over. Steve hits the light before flopping into the recliner with a satisfied groan. The Jungle Book glows to life on the TV, casting an indigo wash over each of your faces. Holly curls into herself, knees tucked to her chest, arms wrapped tight around them.
“Here,” Steve chucks a blanket from the basket at his side.
“Thanks.” You scoop it off the floor where it missed the couch and billow it out over you and Holly. “Don’t fall asleep, Harrington.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Steve folds one leg over the other and crosses his arms, eyes glued to the screen. He reminds you of Mr. Wheeler sitting in his recliner like that. It’s alarming how attractive you find it. He’s not even doing anything worth staring at. You force your eyes back on the TV.
The credits scroll up the screen for a whole minute before you realize the movie has ended. You aren’t asleep but you aren’t totally awake either. Steve’s not far off by the looks of it and Holly, on the other hand, was out like a light halfway through. Her head presses into your upper arm, her hand scrunched in the blanket on your thigh. The weight is nice, making it all the harder to pick yourself up and get her to bed.
But thankfully Steve’s there to help. He twists in his chair until his back clicks, smiling when he catches sight of you and Holly. “I’ll carry her up,” he whispers.
You gently work Holly’s stubborn fingers from the blanket as Steve stands. He pushes the rest of the fabric into your lap before bending to scoop Holly up.
“Be right back,” he says, starting toward the stairs.
You tug the blanket higher, seeking lost comfort in its folds, though it doesn’t compare to the warmth Holly provided.
Steve pads back down not a minute later. He stops on the last step, hanging over the railing. “You awake?”
“Barely,” you mumble.
Steve plods up to the front door to check the locks. He orbits into the kitchen and then back around to the living room to turn the TV off. He’s being the responsible one. You aren’t sure why this surprises you.
“Come on,” he opens his hand toward you.
Your arm snakes out from under the blanket, and he lifts you effortlessly. You’ve seen how strong he is, how he fights, but it still surprises you.
“I was gonna suggest another movie but I don’t think either of us’ll make it.”
You catch a yawn from Steve. “I know. I’m so tired. It’s not even late.”
He hums from behind you on the stairs. “Yeah. Who knew this’d be so exhausting.” He’s only being slightly sarcastic. There’s an obvious truth to what he implied, but at the same time, it is so much harder than you realized it would be.
You stop at the landing, sluggishly turning to face Steve. “Well, goodnight, I guess.”
“Goodnight.”
You splinter into opposite ends of the hall. Steve let you have Nancy’s room for obvious reasons, though he wasn’t thrilled about crashing in Mike’s bed. He’s probably better off on the couch after seeing the kid’s closet.
You change into cozier clothes and untuck Nancy’s quilt. Like with Steve, you and Nancy aren’t really friends. It’s strange being in her room, settling into her bed. And it’s almost stranger that Steve is sleeping across the hall. Yet, there’s an odd comfort in it— being surrounded by people who went through the same thing you did.
ᯓ★
There’s thumping in the hall– footsteps, too light to be Steve’s. You fight the urge to go back to sleep. Holly needs a babysitter. But it’s not an easy feat, not when you’re swaddled like a baby in blankets much softer than the ones you have at home. You’re warm and it’s so quiet it feels like a gift; that is, until you remind yourself that kids and quiet don’t usually go hand and hand. She could be answering the door to a stranger, scaling the counters, setting the kitchen on fire, the possibilities are endless.
You force your heavy eyes open and flinch as a much brighter pair come into focus.
Holly bends over you with this innocent endearment you cannot possibly be mad to be woken by. “Told you, Stevie,” she says.
“No, you woke ‘em up, goofball.” Steve lingers at the foot of the bed in a pair of striped pajama pants and a faded Olympics tee. You’ve never seen him in pajamas before, or anything quite like it.
You prop yourself up on your elbows and rub your eyes for a better look.
“Sorry,” he supplies. His voice is still raspy with sleep and his oh-so-perfect hair shoots up in wild peaks. The sight makes your chest buzz. “She said you had to get up to.”
You redirect your attention to Holly, pinching the neckline of your shirt back over your shoulder as you sit up.
“Can we have eggs?” she asks you.
“Sure.”
She traps her lip between her two frontmost baby teeth. “Five?”
“Five eggs!” Steve chides. “Just for you?”
She turns to nod at him, smile blooming.
He wears the same joy, ruffling her already unruly bed-head. “What are you a linebacker?”
She giggles, clueless as to what he’s talking about.
“Let’s start with two and if you’re still hungry you can have more,” you compromise.
You are undeniably a better cook than Steve, but the bar is low after yesterday. You serve scrambled eggs and unburnt toast. Holly looks at her plate like she hasn’t been fed a day in her life and she shovels spoonfuls of it in her mouth like it’s her last meal.
Steve watches her with an anxious frown. “Smaller bites, Holl.”
She nods but doesn’t exactly slow her pace. Steve chases your eyes, knocking your ankle with his when you don’t look. He gives you that funny face parents make. Help me out.
You shrug. “It’s just eggs. Babies eat eggs.”
He cycles through several emotions—frustration that you won’t back him up, disbelief that babies eat eggs, and a lingering fear that she might choke. But he stops himself from asking all the what-ifs, he trusts you.
Holly swallows half of her glass of chocolate milk in one go. Steve looks mildly horrified.
“My God. She’s like a little human vacuum,” he mumbles through a mouthful of toast.
You snort into your glass. If Holly heard him, she’s too preoccupied to care.
After breakfast, Steve sets her up in front of the TV to watch cartoons while you clear the table. He disappears into the basement in search of a board game but comes back with some deflated, plastic thing.
“What happened to the board game?” you ask. “What even is that?”
“It’s a kiddie pool. Let’s go outside. It’s nice out.”
“I didn’t bring a bathing suit.”
“Me neither. Just wear that.”
You wrinkle your nose down at your pajamas. “Go see if she wants to.”
He smiles, retreating back into the living room. Shortly after, he shouts, “She said yes!” Footsteps pound up the stairs, followed by a second shout, “Don’t run!”
Mrs. Wheeler calls the house phone and is pleased to hear your good report. She reminds you several times to apply sunscreen to Holly’s ears and that there’s an extra can in the upstairs bathroom. You wrangle Holly over to put her on and promise to call back before bedtime when she refuses to hang up.
You sift through your bag, changing into the closest thing to swimwear. Steve takes forever in the bathroom, which doesn’t surprise you one bit. He comes out in a crisp white tee, way too expensive-looking for a pool day, and a pair of red gym shorts.
“What are you, the lifeguard?” you joke.
His hands snap to his hips. “Uhh, I’ll have you know I’ve been a certified lifeguard for two years, so yeah, actually.”
You roll your eyes, brushing past him for the extra can of sunscreen. “Are you ready? Holly’s waiting.”
“Yeah. Let me go blow up the pool. I’ll be outside.”
You fix your hair in the mirror and tuck a few towels under your arm before heading downstairs. Holly’s already outside, criss-crossed in a big lawn chair and watching Steve with incredible boredom. He stands barefoot in the grass, the deflated pool pressed against his chest. He pulls away from the air valve when he notices you, quickly capping it with his thumb.
“You okay?” you ask, laughing lightly.
He nods, red-cheeked and breathless. “Think there’s a hole in it. Been blowin’ for like five minutes.”
“Huh,” you drop the towels and take one end of the limp plastic. “Try again.”
He funnels more air inside, it dispurses evenly underneath your palm. You don’t hear any air wheezing out so you turn it over for further inspection.
“Oh, Steve. Here, look.”
He pops his mouth off and follows your pointer finger. A second valve at the bottom, unhinged and releasing his hard work steadily.
“Oh, you’re kidding me. Why’d they put one under there?”
You shrug, plugging it back up. “Holly, let’s get some sunscreen on so your mom doesn’t kill us.”
Holly hops off the chair and skips to your side. You mist her skin in several layers, lathering a generous amount over her ears. When you move onto yourself, she grabs her basket of toys and climbs into the dry inflatable. Steve retrieves the hose and releases a cool stream into the pool, splashing Holly’s feet.
She squeals and scoots back. “Cold!”
Steve’s thumb eclipses the opening so the water bursts out in wide a fan. He trains it at Holly, spraying her until she’s soaked and screaming.
He’s giggling in a way you’ve never heard. Genuine, open-mouthed reels of laughter. You hate to admit it, but it’s really cute. So infectious you can’t help but join.
He glances back for your reaction, pleasantly satisfied. And your smile incites a great idea. He swings the hose around, aiming it straight at you.
“Steve!” Your arms shoot out to block the attack but it’s no use.
“What?” he says, the epitome of innocence.
Your eyes narrow but a smirk prevails. “Oh, you–”
Holly tackles the back of his thigh with a scream. Steve stumbles forward and the hose slips from his grasp.
You lunge for it before he even realizes what happened. And by the time he does, he’s already drenched. “Payback!” You laugh maniacally as he combs his hair out of his eyes.
He’s laughing too, bent at the waist, still shaking his surprise. But only until he catches your gaze– then comes the glint of something playful, almost daring.
Steve barrels straight through the spray like a bull. He chokes your fingers over the nozzle, bending and bending the line until the water pours straight down your head.
Holly dashes behind you to wrangle the wiggly tail of the hose, squealing at every layer of mist she catches.
You and Steve wrestle with it, his hand on your hip, yours pushing his shoulder. He’s gentle but still strong. And his touch sears through the cold water, your skin tingling in his wake.
The second he sticks the end down the back of your shirt you scream. “Okay, okay! I surrender!”
He crimps the hose with one hand, smirking deviously.
“I surrender,” you repeat, heaving through your laughter.
Holly drops her end of the hose, backing up one slow step at a time.
“Truce?”
“Truce,” you nod, stepping up cautiously to shake his hand.
He accepts your hand, using it to yank you closer and blast you again. You chase and dodge and tackle each other under the blazing sun until your legs feel like jelly. But the game eventually slows as exhaustion creeps in.
You and Steve collapse in the lawn chairs while Holly lays belly-down in the pool. Water sloshes over the rim onto your toes as she kicks, a brief reprieve from the sticky heat. You're relaxed, but your mind wanders. You keep hoping the Wheelers won’t notice the sudden increase in their water bill.
“Dustin talks about you all the time.”
You tear your eyes away from Holly, blinking back into reality as you face Steve. “What?”
“Dustin, he talks about you all the time. Kid loves you.”
“Oh. He’s a sweet kid. Talks about you too. Keeps telling me to come see you at Scoops.”
Steve chuckles, more of a half-hearted puff of amusement than a real one.
“Which, I’m sorry I haven’t, by the way,” you confess.
His eyebrows jump, lips parting in soft surprise. “Oh, no. Don’t worry about it. He’s just being Dustin.”
You press a blade of grass flat under your heel, as if the right words might sprout from the dirt. “I dunno. I mean, don’t you think it’s kinda weird that we don’t like talk? After everything?”
The words bounce around Steve’s head for a minute. He fixates on your choice of weird. Weird, like bad? Weird like you want to talk? He can’t decide. And he’s afraid if he opens his mouth, the wrong words will tumble out.
But he tries anyway, “Honestly, I thought you didn’t want to be friends. You were just so… distant after.”
You rub the length of your arm, lips creasing into a frown. “Sorry, I was just. I don’t even know. Rattled, I guess.”
“Yeah, rabid dogs with faces that split open and try to eat you tend to have that effect.”
Your frown melts, little by little.
“But we should’ve been there for you more. It was a hard time for everybody.”
His apology echoes in your mind, the ache like a weight on your chest.
“You could visit if you wanted to. At scoops. I could get you ice cream for free.”
But the ache doesn’t stand a chance against the way he makes you feel.
“Okay.” Your cheeks round with a sincere smile. “I’d like that.”
He turns his head, as if to hide, but you still catch an echo of your own expression. Your eyes flicker across the contours of his profile, following the graceful line from his ear to his collar, before drifting over the sculpted shape of his arms and the long expanse of his thighs. Steve Harrington is objectively attractive. This isn’t the first time you’ve thought so. But it is the first time that fact makes your head spin.
Maybe it’s the heat. The sun feels like it's roasting you alive, and Steve’s attractiveness certainly isn't helping. You’re feeling strange, thinking crazy things– the kind of thoughts that only come when you’re on the verge of heat stroke certainly.
You stand abruptly and the grass sways underneath your feet. But you get your bearings before anyone notices. “Holly, can I come sit in the pool?”
Her eyes pop up, grin distorted underneath the water. She props her elbow up and rests her cheek in the palm of her hand. “What’s the password?”
“Umm, can you give me a hint?”
A high-pitched hum. “Okay. She’s my favorite character.”
“Uhh, Barbie?”
“Nooo.”
“Strawberry Shortcake?”
“Nooo.”
“Hello Kitty?”
“You’re really bad at this,” she giggles. It would be really cute if you weren’t possibly dying right now.
“It’s Care Bears,” Steve interjects, snapping his fingers. “Uhh, the yellow one. Umm, Funshine!”
“Yes!” Holly glows like the sun on Funshine herself. “Stevie can come in.”
Steve stands but he doesn’t get in. “Come on, Holl. It’s hot.”
“There’s a new password.”
“Okay, okay. Can I have another hint?” you ask.
Her tongue curls out to lick the sweat off her lip. “My favorite color.”
“Purple?”
“Yes,” she nods and sits up. “But I really like yellow and blue and pink too.”
You sink into the water, unsure if there was ever a wrong answer. It’s shallow and lukewarm, barely grazing the tops of your thighs, but it’s enough to cool the sun off your skin. Steve follows, and the space tightens awkwardly— the inflatable wasn’t built for three. His knee brushes yours while Holly’s toes nudge your foot, but neither of them seems to mind.
You cup water up to your cheeks and pour it down your arms.
“Better?” Steve asks, a droll little pinch to his features.
He’s staring at you which is definitely not helping but you nod anyway.
“Why don’t we move to the shade?” He stands before you or Holly agrees, offering his hand to pull you up.
She races Steve to the nearest tree, though he doesn't stand much of a chance dragging the pool behind him. He refills it with fresh water and encourages Holly to splash you gently while he runs inside to make lunch. By the time he returns, you’re feeling much more yourself.
“Bon Appétit,” Steve announces, lowering himself slowly onto a towel. He carries three animal-shaped plates stocked with fruit and PB&Js, one in each hand, another balanced on his forearm.
Holly scrambles out of the water, plopping onto the other end of his towel. You get out too, shaking a second one out to lay beside theirs.
“Lion or hippo?” he asks Holly.
She hums for a long time, inspecting each plate meticulously before pointing to the lion.
“Good choice.” He sets the plate in front of her crossed legs and passes you the hippo. Steve takes the polar bear for himself, which notably only has half a sandwich.
“Where’s the other half?” you ask.
He takes a large bite, pressing his hand to his mouth to reply, “Ran out of bread.”
“Here.” You rip one of your halves in half.
“Thanks,” he says, syllables tangling as he chews.
Holly watches the interaction fondly before pulling apart her own sandwich. It splits in a jagged line, mostly crust on one half. But happily, she thrusts the bigger piece toward Steve, jelly dribbling down her little fist.
He tilts his head, a growing smile mirroring yours. “You eat it. I have enough now.”
She crinkles her nose. “You eat it!”
“No, you!” He squeezes her slim bicep. “You need to get big and strong.”
“What about you?”
“I’m already big and strong.”
She considers this, giving him an obvious once-over that makes you laugh. “Trade?”
“Okay, trade.” Steve chuckles, exchanging one of his halves for hers. He licks a stripe across his knuckle where her sticky fingers brushed his. It’s as innocent as the gesture can be but something about it has your cheeks burning in a way the sun couldn’t.
Conversation tapers off, replaced with an easy quiet. Your stomach is satisfied with the food, but it’s your heart that feels the most nourished, steeped in the comfort of good company. You hadn’t expected to enjoy hanging out with Steve or Holly this much.
Holly slouches into your arm, stretching her legs across the grass like a bridge between the towels. Her heels push into the pudge of Steve’s thigh, the faintest smirk crossing her lips.
He squeezes her ankle until it darts away.
Gradually, she presses again and in turn, he squeezes, but this time he doesn’t let go. She squeals as he drags her down your side. But all hell breaks loose when he starts tickling the bottom of her foot.
She shrieks, thrashing and squirming against his hold, giggling in between gasps. “Ste–vie!” she cries.
Her laugh is too pure of a sound to be real, Steve thinks. His resolve crumbles, grip faltering. And Holly’s heel slams smack into his jaw. Steve winces, bending away to cradle his cheek.
You straighten up. “You okay? Let me see.”
Holly’s legs go limp in the grass, her shoulders tense in your lap.
Steve’s hand slackens unveiling a red splotch not much darker than his sunburnt cheeks. He meets your eyes with a dismissive shake, “It’s okay.”
You believe him. It doesn’t look nearly awful enough to make your concern stick. And his face has been through worse. Billy Hargrove painting his fists red with Steve’s blood is one of the things you remember most about that night.
His attention dips down to Holly. She sniffles, eyes glistening in the sunlight with a frown nearly reaching her chin.
“It’s okay. I’m okay, Holl.”
Holly putters, whimpers drowning the edges of her words. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay! I promise! It doesn’t even hurt,” he reassures, cupping her kneecap.
You tug her off the ground and she sinks into your arms naturally. Hot tears pave a path down your neck only to dissolve in the fabric of your shirt. You coax her sobs out, one back rub at a time.
Steve waits until she settles with this pitiful look on his face. “I know you didn’t mean to Hollybear. Just an accident. Hmm?”
She nods against your chin.
He strokes the back of her arm, fingers grazing yours where they work. “Please don’t cry.”
Holly sniffles.
“You know what might help me feel better?” She lifts a sweaty cheek off your chest as Steve opens his arms. “A hug.”
She pushes out of your hands into his. He holds her tight, providing one loving squeeze after another.
This is not how you pictured Steve to be under normal babysitting circumstances. A voice like sweet honey, eyes warm like the sun. He’s very soft, and so undeniably kind. And not just to Holly, but also you.
Steve hooks the spare towel closer, draping it across her back. “Lean back,” he tells her.
She avoids his gaze as she does, tears melting away under his touch.
“You know what I think?” He cinches the towel at her collar like a cloak.
She hums.
“I think we should have popsicles for dessert.”
Holly meets his eyes then, excitement glimmering underneath the droop of lingering guilt.
“How does that sound?”
“Good,” she admits meekly.
A smirk thins his lips. “I dunno though. What if we get a tummy ache?” He pokes her belly through the towel. “Maybe it’s not–”
“No– I want one!”
“I dunnooo,” he sings.
“Please, Stevie! You already said.”
“How bad do you want it? Like this much?” He pinches his fingers together, leaving the slightest gap between them.
“No, no!” She shakes her head, casting her arms out as far as they’ll go. “This much!”
He sighs loudly, shoulders sagging for the dramatic touch. “Okay.”
Holly’s arms curl around his neck as he stands. He’s more than happy to carry her, but the added weight makes him groan.
You trail behind automatically, half enjoying the show and just as excited for a treat. Steve pins the back door open with his foot, returning a smile you hadn’t realized you were sharing. Your cheeks are starting to protest, sore with overwhelming happiness.
“What color do you want?”
“Pink! Pink!” Holly shouts in his ear, loud enough to make you wince. But Steve doesn’t react in the slightest to her volume. You’d all taken a piece of the Upside Down with you after El sealed it up. And just when you seemed to forget it, you’d be reminded in the form of scars, nightmares, headaches, and in Steve’s case, hearing loss.
He opens the freezer, Holly propped on his hip. She’s far too big to be carried like that comfortably but he does it anyway.
“Pink for Holly. Red for Steve.” He leans back to find your face. “For you?”
You purse your lips, “Surprise me.”
Steve stows Holly on the countertop so he can snip the plastic tips. She receives her popsicle first, then you, and finally Steve.
“Matching,” Holly observes as you sit beside them on the couch.
Steve crosses his popsicle over your identically red one when you raise an eyebrow. “Look at that,” he says.
She hums, gnawing on the plastic wrapper. Steve pushes the ice up for her and thumbs away the dribble at the corner of her mouth. She doesn’t seem to notice, but it catches you off guard. Steve’s such a natural at this you almost can’t believe he’s an only child.
You turn the TV on to an episode of Care Bears as Holly slumps into Steve’s chest, slurping the last of her slush loudly.
“Sleepy?” you ask when she kneads her eyes.
“No.”
You chuckle, combing her frizz back. “Okay.”
“You know, it’s okay if you are sleepy,” Steve mentions, equally amused.
“I know. I’m not.” Her tone is casual, a portrait of nonchalance, despite the yawn that slips out afterward.
You and Steve exchange a look of mutual fondness.
“I’m pretty tired,” Steve declares, reclining into the cushions with a fake yawn. “I think I’ll take a nap.”
Holly twists against him to watch. It doesn’t take long for her little fingers to poke and prod his lashline.
He peels one eye open, playfully cocking an eyebrow.
She giggles and pinches the skin closed.
You’re trapped between nervously supervising she doesn’t poke his eye out and leaving to get a baby wipe for her hands which you imagine are very sticky with popsicle juice. Either way, you’ll be surprised if Steve doesn’t have pink eye by morning.
“I’m sleeping,” he whines and headbutts her palm gently.
“Nooo,” she whines back, wedging her hand across his mouth. Delirium is setting in, a nap is imminent.
Steve opens his eyes, giddy just the same. “Okay. You got me.”
Holly frees his mouth to swipe a streak of red from his chin. Her tongue pokes out in prime concentration.
A staggered laugh of disbelief is shaken from Steve’s chest. He hadn’t expected Holly to be difficult, but she’s been nothing short of delightful. She’s sweeter than Mike and Nancy combined and smarter than he thought kids her age could be. For a self-indulgent second, he hopes that his kids will turn out something like her.
Holly reels back around to lay on her side, eyelids sagging with an inevitable heaviness. Steve draws the towel up to her chin, fixing his palm to her back. You watch her drift off, eyes slipping up every so often.
When you’re positive she’s out, you cautiously dislodge the popsicle wrapper from her fingers. Steve passes his as you stand.
One of the many hard things about kids is all the cleaning. Holly’s as neat as a five-year-old gets, and still, every moment of peace is an opportunity spent putting things back where they belong. You head outside to tip the pool over and collect stray towels and toys that didn’t make it back in.
By the time you return, Steve’s passed out, mouth ajar, head craned back against the couch. It’s not a particularly attractive expression– he’d probably be embarrassed to wake to your staring– but you can’t find anything other than endearment in yourself.
You shower and change into fresh clothes and end up on the opposite couch to watch TV. But Care Bears isn’t all that entertaining anymore so you rest your eyes for just a second.
A second turns to several and when you reopen your eyes you discover the clock is two hours ahead of where it was before.
The silence is only comforting for a fleeting moment before anxiety creeps in. Your eyes flick from the TV, now powered off, to the other couch where Steve and Holly are not where you left them. Nor are they in the dining room, kitchen, basement, or backyard. You take the stairs two steps at a time and nearly trip over a blanket strewn across the banister when Holly screams.
You’d have kicked her door off the hinges if it came to it but are thankful it’s already open. Holly is perfectly safe, bent over the remnants of what you assume was a pillow fort.
You release a breath caught in your throat and sag against the doorframe. Steve offers an apologetic smile when he notices.
Holly glances over but quickly returns to their game. “You’ve destroyed my kingdom!” she shouts, drilling a finger into Steve’s chest. “Off with your head!”
You’re too stunned to laugh, but a noise of confusion skips out. Steve gawks at Holly in pretend despair, scrubbing any seeping amusement off his lips with the back of his hand. He’s dressed in sweats, Holly in a princess dress. But more importantly, his face has been caked in makeup and his hair twisted into two fluffy knots.
“You!” Holly yells with a scowl aimed at you. “Hold him down!”
Steve pleads at your ankles, pressing his forehead to the carpet in prayer. It takes every ounce of you not to break character and laugh. There’s something so surreal about Steve Harrington, former King of Hawkins High, in sparkly eyeshadow, kneeling before a little girl to beg for his life. It’s hilarious as it is heartwarming.
“If I may propose a suggestion!” You counter, equally dramatic. “A trade! For this silly man’s life, we will help rebuild your kingdom twice as big! Princess I–”
“Queen!”
Steve snorts but she must miss it.
“My apologies. Queen Holly, I can assure you this new Kingdom will have all of the finest luxuries that royalty like yourself might desire.”
She takes a second to process the big words. “Fine!” She sneers, diving onto her mattress which is absent of all its sheets and blankets. “Chop! Chop!”
You bite your lip, chasing the fervent smile away. Steve gets right to work, sorting pillows from most to least sturdy. You steal another chair from Nancy’s desk and help Steve double-knot the roof to it. It’s no mansion, but it is long enough for Steve to lie down in, which is a job well done in your book. Especially when you’re under strict supervision and listening to a thread of loud critiques.
You lift the door flap for Holly to crawl through. “Your quarters, Your Grace.”
She glances over her shoulder with a wicked, but mostly adorable, expression. “My name is not Grace! It’s Holly! Queen Holly to you!”
The explanation dies on your tongue because how can you possibly argue with that? You’re just grateful to still have your head.
After the grand tour, Queen Holly disappears into one of the tent’s offshoots with a handful of stuffed animals she's referring to as her royal guards.
Steve scoots closer, whispering behind his hand, “I think we need to stage a coup.”
You lean into his good ear, affection spilling off your tone, “I didn’t know she could be so mean.”
“Me neither! She must be hanging out with Mike.”
“Must be.” You grin for what feels like the millionth time today.
You’re sitting knee to knee, close enough to catch the heat of Steve’s breath on your cheek. You drag the pad of your finger across his cheekbone where teal eyeshadow has been caked on in several layers. “I like this,” you compliment.
I kinda forgot she put that on.” He ducks his head bashfully, peeking up through his eyelashes. “Do I look pretty?”
“The prettiest.”
He receives it as teasing, but it’s true, you do think Steve is pretty. A strong nose, kind eyes, and sure, maybe the hair. But now that you’re inches apart, you notice twin smile lines, a series of freckles down his cheek, and a faded scar across his forehead. You linger there more than anywhere else, under the guise of judging Holly’s makeup job, of course.
But the silence twists into something less comfortable with each passing second. A brief twitch of emotion flickers across Steve’s face, gone before you can name it. “So… pizza for dinner?” he blurts out.
Before you’ve processed what happened, Holly shouts, “Cheese please!”
Steve splinters from your gaze, calling back, “Yes, My Queen.”
Dinner is pleasantly easy. The pizza’s delivered and paper plates save you from the hassle of dishes after. You eat at the kitchen table, sharing stories and smiles, strangely like a family.
And after dinner, Holly has a bath; and after bath, Steve whisks her off to bed. You’re left to your own devices for once, a benevolent bout of peace, but still, you can’t seem to relax.
The spray of the bathroom light paves the hall leading to Holly’s room. You tiptoe up to the door and peek inside.
Steve’s on the floor, slouched against the side of the bed cradling Holly to his chest. He flinches as your shadow veers across the moonlit wall.
“Sorry,” you whisper, dropping onto your knees beside them.
Holly picks her head up, tear tracks shimmering as she turns. Her lip wobbles through a whimper.
You soften like wax near a flame, eyes flitting to Steve who looks equally at a loss.
She curls her knees into his tummy in a way that probably hurts. The poor thing dissolves into fresh tears, spilling out faster than Steve can chase away.
“Holls, it’s okay, honey. Me and Stevie are here, okay?”
She strains to speak through a chain of gasps, “I want my Mommy!”
“I know, I know. She’ll be back before you know it, I promise,” you steer sweat-slick hair behind her ear.
“I want her now.”
“We’ve got ya, Holl,” Steve chimes in.
“We’re right here.”
“No– Mommy!”
It goes like this for a while, soothing reassurances met with unyielding resolve. Holly’s not one to be stubborn for no reason. She’s so exhausted and upset it breaks your heart. You try reading and music and back rubs but there seems to be no end to her sobbing.
Steve strokes her ankle where it’s now tucked underneath her in your lap. He looks exhausted– hair draped over his forehead like a claw, extra weight embedded in each of his eyelids. You’re both at your breaking point. “You wanna sleep with me tonight Hollybear?” he says in a tone gentler than you’ve ever heard.
“No. Mommy,” she persists.
“You can sleep with her when she gets back. But tonight you get to have a sleepover with Steve. Or you can even sleep with me in Nancy’s bed, okay?”
Red-rimmed eyes flick between you and Steve. Neither option is as good as Mom.
“Both,” Holly whines.
“Wanna lay with both of us?”
She nods. “In the middle.”
“Okay,” you turn to Steve. “We can do that.” Your words are colored like a question but he’s already nodding his answer.
He shovels Holly from your lap, cheek pressing into hers in an unspoken exchange of relief. “Alright, munchkin. Let’s go steal Nancy’s big bed. Sound good?”
She hums her approval into his ear.
Steve pokes Nancy’s door open with his foot, swinging around to the tucked side of the bed. You crawl across your end as Holly slides off his chest. She molds herself against your shoulder, tugging Steve closer when he settles.
“Goodnight, Hollybear,” he says.
She steals your hand from underneath the comforter, then his where it lies on the sheet. Your knuckles brush Steve’s where they are stapled to her chest. “Goodnight,” she sighs.
Steve strokes up and down the back of her hand, his touch a quiet catalyst. She’s asleep in mere minutes, snoring softly, fingers limp against yours.
Steve nudges your hand where it’s already pressed to his, whispering when you turn, “Am I crazy that I find all of this kinda fun?”
You shake your head, a smile working its way across your lips. “Guess that would make me crazy too.”
“I know I always complain about driving those little shits around but Holly’s actually really fun to babysit.”
“Yeah, she is. At least it’s not the end of the world this time, right?”
“Yeah, that probably helps, huh?” Amusement ebbs into a sigh. “I’m kinda dreading going home, to be honest.”
“Why don’t we put Mike in a wig? Kidnap Holly for ourselves.”
He snorts into his pillow. “Oh, yeah. That’ll work. ‘Yeah, I dunno Mrs. Wheeler, she had a crazy growth spurt while you were gone.’”
“We’d take good care of her.”
“We would,” he nods. “You’re really good with her.”
“So are you. Kinda surprised me actually.”
“Really? Cause Dustin tells me weekly I’d make a good mother.”
“Yeah, but they’re different. Older. And don’t get me wrong, you’re great with them and they love hanging out with you. Holly’s just little. You’re so much gentler with her, and like, you always seem to know what to do.”
“For the record, I have no clue what I’m doing.”
“Me neither. I don't know what Mrs. Wheeler was thinking asking us to do this.”
Intertwined laughter fades, but something else— something similar— lingers. An almost tangible buzz of energy, as if the silence itself is alive with unspoken words. You entertain the idea that the feeling’s not exclusive to just you. That Steve hears the same jitter in his pulse and feels the same flutter against his ribs. That you aren’t alone to be feeling such a way.
“Is it–”
“Are we–”
“Sorry, you go,” he jabbers out.
The words trickle back down your throat, too thick to cross your tongue again. “You can probably go now,” you decide.
His gaze jumps to Holly’s chest where his hand is still coupled with one of hers.
“If you want,” you amend. “You don’t have to.”
“You don't mind? If I stayed?”
You shake your head.
“Just worried she’ll wake up if I move.”
You try to flatten your excitement as you reply, “You can stay.”
His gaze swims with yours across Nancy's room, skimming over the cluttered dresser, the desk strewn with books and pens, to the shuttered closet doors.
“Sorry about– you know– I heard Nancy… dumped you,” you say, immediately regretting the awkward phrasing.
“Harsh,” he squints and casts you a bittersweet grin. “But true.”
“Is it… weird? To be in here?”
“A little. But not as much as I thought it would be. Hell of a lot better than Mike’s room.”
You hum, watching the gentle shift in his brows.
“Is it weird for you?”
“Me?” you ask. “In what way?”
“You and Nance. You don’t always see eye to eye.”
“I mean, yeah. When our decisions involve risking our lives– or the kids– she’s pretty damn impulsive. And she can be real stubborn and selfish sometimes too. But I dunno, I still love her. She’s been sort of like a sister since everything started. I think that’s why we argue.”
“What does that make me? Your brother?”
You roll your eyes. “No, you’re the stray dog we adopted.”
“Okay. That’s just mean.”
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” Your laugh laps out louder than you intend, but Holly remains still. “I dunno who you’d be. The love interest?”
“I can work with that, sexy love interest–”
You scoff. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Harrington.”
“Okay, okay. But love interest because…”
“Cause you dated Nance.”
“Oh,” he exhales.
“You don’t agree? Should we go back to stray dog?”
“Oh, shut up. I’m going to bed.” Steve rolls onto his side with a sigh.
“Keep your snoring to a minimum, please.”
He grumbles, narrowing his eyes at your smirk. “I don’t snore.”
“You do. I could hear it from here last night.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did,” you argue. “It definitely wasn’t Holly.”
“Whatever. Goodnight.”
“Night.”
Only when your eyes are closed does his smile finally emerge. It’s silly how quickly you can pull it out of him. It throws him for a loop every time. But with you at his side, maybe he’ll dream of happier things for once. Either way, it’s easier to fall asleep, just knowing you’re there falling asleep too.
ᯓ★
“Shhhh!”
“No, you shhhh,” a lighter voice giggles.
“Holly,” Steve scolds, mirth buttering his tone. You know he’s smiling by the sound alone.
Holly’s laughter triples in volume but then is abruptly muffled.
“Ew– did you just lick me?”
And this all just sounds way too cute to miss out on. You pry your lashes apart, still sticky with sleep, and flip on your side to face them.
They freeze, eyes widening adorably in sync. Steve is reclined against the headboard, an arm bent behind his neck. Holly is sprawled halfway across his tummy, toes tickling your side.
“Sorry,” he offers like you’d be mad. But how could you possibly be anything but enamored waking up to their giggly little voices? If you could be woken up like this every day, you would.
You shake your head, scratching underneath your eyes. The walls are bathed in muted colors, waiting to be warmed by the sunrise. It’s still early.
Holly rolls off of Steve onto the floor and barrels out of the room.
“Where are you going?” he shouts.
“Potty!”
Steve turns to you, eyes roving across your bedhead for an embarrassingly long amount of time. “Good morning.”
“Morning.”
“Did she kick you last night?”
You rake your fingers through your hair, quickly moving them to your lips to stifle a yawn. “Not that I remember.”
“Oh, you’d remember. Trust me. She was on top of me the whole night.” He’s smiling like an idiot. He couldn’t sound annoyed about it if he tried.
“Aww, she loves you,” you coo.
“Yeah,” he agrees, pink dusting his cheeks, “I can’t wait to do this.”
“Hmm?”
“Settle down. Have a family. I wasn’t, like, a hundred percent sure before, but I am now.”
“You’ll be a good dad.”
He beams at you like he’s just won the lottery. “You think?”
“For sure.” And he really would. You’re sure of it after last night.
He opens his mouth to speak but your stomach cuts him off with an obnoxious growl. “Hungry?” Steve chuckles.
“Shut up.” You swipe your pillow and smack him.
He smacks you back, pulling it to his chest before you can steal it. “Wanna go out for breakfast?”
Your brain short circuits. You forget you’re babysitting and not just laying in bed with Steve Harrington for fun. He is not asking you on a date like your heart assumes.
“Oh, yeah. Sure. For sure,” you sputter out, heat licking up the back of your neck.
“I’ll go see what she wants,” he slides onto the floor and shakes his legs awake.
Steve’s tall, even sluggishly slumped over. But even more so as he stretches– arms rising with his shirt, revealing a fraction of golden skin above his waistband. A long, lazy moan climbs out of his chest.
You push the comforter off before you burst into flames.
Holly determines she wants IHOP because they put chocolate chips and sprinkles on the pancakes. Steve supplies her with an outfit and wrestles her hair into pigtails with bows to match her skirt. It’s surprisingly coordinated and admittedly cute, but maybe you’re wrong to be so surprised– he knows his way around a comb and a closet.
“Can I get pancakes?” she asks Steve, perched on the bottom step of the stairs.
He’s cross-legged on the floor, hunched over to lace her sneakers. “I already told you yes, silly goose.”
“Can I get extra sprinkles?”
“Uhh, does your mom let you?”
She thinks about it before answering. “Yes, I think so.”
“Sure, then.” He grins, clapping her tied shoes together before standing.
You shoulder Holly’s bag, stuffed with books and toys and a jacket in case it rains, courtesy of Steve who insisted she might need it. “Ready?” you ask him.
Steve races Holly to the car while you lock up. Mrs. Wheeler installed Holly’s car seat in Steve’s beamer before she left but you’ve yet to use it.
“It’s too tight,” Holly whines from the car, loud enough to hear from the top of the driveway.
“I know, ‘m working on it,” Steve assures, working his fingers under the straps. “Just gotta figure it out.”
“Hurry!”
“I’m hurrying, Holl. Give me a sec’.”
You open the passenger door and peek around the headrest to view her. The belts are buckled but not tight enough to spark concern. “He’s going as fast as he can, Holly. Be patient.”
She squirms under his hands, exhaling sharply. And like her, Steve’s frustration mounts, jaw tightening, brow furrowing. His fingers keep slipping and he’s not totally sure which button or strap is for loosening.
You swing around to Holly’s door and cup Steve’s shoulder. “Let me try.”
He knocks his head on the roof as he pulls out.
You wince, “Okay?”
He softens as you reach for his neck, though your fingers never land. Still, the tender look you offer is enough to cure any bumps or bruises he might’ve gotten.
It’s an unfortunate amount of trial and error before Holly is fastened in properly. Steve cranks the AC on full blast when you finally settle into your seats and circles through radio stations after he backs out. He finds the kid’s station, playing a Muppet’s song that Steve apparently knows every word to. He sings unapologetically loud, a stupid grin sewn to his face.
When you arrive, Holly happily holds your hand through the parking lot, still clutching tightly as you wait to be seated. She climbs onto your lap to make room on the waiting bench for a woman looking ready to pop out a baby any minute. Steve stands at your other side, arm braced behind your neck.
“How old is she?” the woman asks you fondly.
“She’s five,” you return her smile, bouncing your knee. “Right, Holly?”
Holly twists to hide in your neck, nodding.
“She’s very cute,” she says with such love you already believe her baby is in good hands. “Your sister?” Her eyes flick from yours to Steve who is mostly oblivious to the conversation.
“No, just babysitting.”
“Oh, well, you’ll make good parents one day.”
The comment renders you speechless. It’s not that you hadn’t considered children before, but you hadn’t pictured them with Steve. With his smile, his eyes, his nose. It’s that this woman who doesn’t even know you imagined it before you had. You blink at her stupidly through a forced smile.
Steve squeezes your shoulder, ripping you from your thoughts. “You okay? Table’s ready.”
You get seated in a booth overlooking the parking lot.
Holly bends across Steve’s lap to point through the window. “I see our car!”
“Yeah, that’s her.”
Holly’s face contorts with confusion. “Her? Your car’s a girl?”
“Yep–”
The waitress swings over with a handful of menus and a hasty introduction. Steve already knows what he wants and he places Holly’s order after his, making sure to clarify the extra sprinkles when she calls his name repeatedly to remind him. As soon as you decide, the waitress bustles off with the pair of menus to another table.
Holly slides her paper menu closer, examining each activity.
Steve picks open the box of crayons, revealing a stingy three– red, green, and blue. “You know, for a multi-million dollar company, you’d think they could afford more than three crayons.”
“And more staff,” you add, eyes tailing another waitress zipping from one table to another.
Holly points at herself, Steve, and then you, counting, “One, two three. Three crayons for three people.”
“Yeah, good point,” Steve pats her thigh. “Always the optimist.”
“Op-ta-nist?”
“Op-ta-mist,” he clarifies.
She snags the green crayon and presses it to the paper. “What’s that?”
Steve opens and closes his mouth. “Well, it’s like– it’s when you– you’re happy a lot. Grass is always greener on the other side, you know?”
Steve lost her at the metaphor but she’s too focused on staying inside the lines to care about the definition of optimist anymore.
“You got there eventually. Sort of,” you tease.
His foot stabs your ankle under the table. “Shut up.”
Steve lets Holly win every single round of tic-tac-toe while showering her with praise, convincing her she's a tactical mastermind. You can’t quite tell if she’s onto him, but she’s too busy grinning to say otherwise.
The waitress plants your and Steve’s plates on the table first, reaching behind to scoop Holly’s off her tray next. “And, chocolate chip pancakes with extra sprinkles for the little one.”
“Thank you,” you manage to say before she leaves to tend to another table flagging her down. “Holly, want syrup?”
“Yes, please.”
You pour a spiral of maple syrup over Holly’s pancakes. The amount of sugar on her plate might qualify it more as candy than breakfast. And she’s ogling the food like it’ll grow legs and run away.
“Steve, will you cut them up for her?”
He nods, swallowing a mouthful of scrambled eggs and trading his fork for a knife. As soon as he slides her meal back over, Holly ravages the pancakes, spooning another bite in her mouth before she’s swallowed the last.
The waitress whisks by with drink refills, joy driving her to a smile at the sight of Holly and her half-empty plate.
“I swear we feed her at home,” Steve chuckles through his own joke. What a dad thing to say. “Can we get some more napkins?”
And it’s like he knows what’s going to happen. Holly stretches across the table for the syrup bottle, drawing back with an open-mouthed grimace.
“Uh-oh.” She presses her chin to her chest. There’s a patch of syrup turning the hem of her pink shirt brown.
“What?” Steve throws a pigtail behind her shoulder so he can see. “Oh. It’s okay.”
“It was an accident,” Holly explains.
“I know. It’s okay.”
“It’s sticky.”
“It’ll wash off.” Steve dunks a clean napkin in his cup of water and dabs it across the stain.
“It’s too cold,” she complains, pinching the fabric away from her skin.
“Sorry. It’ll dry. Have to get the syrup out, though.”
You deliver another wad of napkins to Steve’s hand. He pushes them against her belly, soaking up any excess water. His patience never frays.
Holly looks up, worry etched into her voice, “Will it stain?”
“I dunno,” you supply truthfully. “We’ll throw it in the wash when we get home.”
Steve pays the bill with the cash the Wheelers left and scrapes his wallet for change, stacking two quarters on the table when he finds them. “Since you’ve been such a good listener. There’s a sticker machine up front,” he tells Holly.
Steve might as well have slapped a ticket to Disney World on the table. Holly literally jumps for joy, right out of her seat. She buys a random Lisa Frank sticker and pockets the second coin for her piggy bank.
It’s Steve’s idea to go to the playground afterward. The park is teeming with life, the kind of chaos that only a weekend morning can bring. Swings creak under the weight of eager kids, and the monkey bars have their own traffic jam. Parents wrap the playground like a barricade, their chatter drowned out by laughter and shouts. But the heat presses down ruthlessly, making every step feel like you’re wading through a sauna.
Holly tears away from Steve’s hand as soon as her shoes hit the mulch, rejoicing in her newfound freedom with a little skip. She races up a set of stairs to wait for a turn on the tallest slide.
“Should’ve brought sunscreen,” Steve says, eyes following Holly down the slide. She flashes you both a prideful smile from the bottom.
“She’ll survive. We won’t stay long. It’s too hot.” You pull your shirt out to fan your chest, dabbing the sweat beading at your sternum.
“Careful!” he shouts as she hops from one platform to the next. She continues to bounce along the path, one wobbly leap at a time. A particularly long jump has Steve cringing. He’s trying really hard not to be overanxious and it’s as sweet as it is amusing.
He side-eyes your grin with an opposing frown. You don’t even have to say anything for him to know you’re teasing him. “What?”
You shrug, smile doubling. “You.”
“What about me?”
“You’re just funny.”
“My concern is funny to you?” he accuses.
“She’s fine, Steve.”
He makes a noise of disagreement, arms crossed and a hip popped out dramatically far. You see why Dustin teases him for being motherly.
Holly struggles with the monkey bars. She makes it halfway across before her arms start to shake and her hands slip. Steve lunges forward as he watches her plummet to the ground. But before he can swoop in, Holly pops up, dusts the dirt from her skirt with a nonchalant shrug, and marches on, completely unfazed.
“See. She’s fine,” you reassure.
“Whatever,” Steve grumbles, strolling away to sulk in private.
He makes a slow lap around the playground, hands planted firmly on his hips, casting a critical eye over the chaos. Meanwhile, you snag a spot on a bench, where most parents are engrossed in magazines or gossip, blissfully detached. You watch Steve get roped into playing a monster, though you can tell he secretly loves it.
It doesn’t take long for him to start stomping around, roaring and growling, chasing the kids as they shriek and scatter. And when they finally tire him out, he collapses beside you, his shirt clinging to his sweaty back, and his breath coming in ragged bursts.
“I told her five more minutes,” he says, stretching an arm across the back of the bench behind you. His curls shine honeycomb gold in the spray of sunlight and his skin echoes the warmth of desert sand, softened pink like the blush of sunset. He looks strikingly gorgeous sprawled out beside you.
Holly trots over not much later, alarmingly upset.
You sit up, urgently shaking Steve’s thigh to grab his attention. “What happened, honey?”
“I– I was,” she sucks in a staggered breath, “I was climbing the stairs and– and a boy, he pushed me.” Twin rivulets of tears are unleashed with a blink, converging at the curve of her chin.
You scan her from head to toe. Nothing looks broken or bloody. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” she strains.
You drag her into your chest, pressing a loving cheek to her ear. “Did it scare you?”
She nods, hiccuping into your neck.
“I’m sorry, Holly. That wasn’t nice at all.”
Steve’s gaze shifts between Holly and the playground to search for guilty suspects. He finds none, thankfully, though he’s still itching to wring out whatever parent it is not watching their kid– which is unfortunately most of them.
“Let me see,” he coaxes Holly over for his own checkup. He picks a piece of mulch from her hair and flicks off another stamped into her calf. “Think you’ll make it? Should we call an ambulance?”
She doesn’t smile at his joke like you hope.
“Ready to go home?” you ask.
She sniffs into her sleeve. “Yeah.”
“Alright.” Steve hoists her up as he stands. Holly's long legs wrap around his waist, feet swaying against his thighs as he walks.
Holly naps on the way home, not by choice but by sheer exhaustion. She convinces herself she didn’t actually fall asleep when she wakes up in the driveway, swearing, “I just closed my eyes.”
But it’s quickly apparent that twenty minutes was not enough. She cries because her leftover pizza for lunch is cold in the middle and again when she rubs the sauce in her eye. You turn on a movie, hoping to induce another nap, but The Aristocats is just too good to sleep through. Thankfully, her grumpiness wanes into a more manageable pout, her arms uncrossing to snuggle closer to you on the couch.
When the movie ends, she slinks up, her departure leaving your lap cold. After a long-winded debate about what to do, you all finally agree on playing a board game. Steve steers Holly downstairs to pick one out and she returns with a rekindled excitement, dropping the game Twister at your feet.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with Twister, but you were expecting something easier. Candy Land or Chutes and Ladders. So you let Steve and Holly go first. The round ends in a heap of tangled limbs and giggles, a winner unclear. But Holly wins the match against you, admittedly fair and square. And it’s all fun and games until she insists you and Steve must compete.
“Ehh, Holly. My arms are tired,” you reason.
“But I wanna be the referee too,” she whines. “Pleaseee!”
Steve shrugs at you, a playful little curve to his lips. If you say no, that makes only you the bad guy. And you just can’t bring yourself to break Holly’s heart over something so simple.
“Okay,” you sigh, ignoring the nervous tick in your chest.
Holly pushes you by the hips onto the mat to stand opposite Steve. She gets situated on the floor and excitedly flicks the spinner, calling, “Left foot. Blue!”
You each step toward a blue dot. Easy.
“Right foot on green.”
Right foot, green. You’re shoulder to shoulder now, hips angled toward his.
“Right hand… yellow!”
“Here we go,” you mumble, bending down to reach yellow. “Okay.”
Steve chuckles and follows suit, free hand hovering awkwardly behind your shoulder.
You twist your head until you can’t, just to see the stupid look on his face. “You know, your long legs really give you an unfair advantage here.”
“Don’t be a sore loser,” he chides, hot breath fanning the back of your already hot neck.
“Don’t speak so soon, Harrington. You’re the one who’s gonna lose.”
“Right hand, red,” Holly announces.
You lean back toward red, headbutting Steve’s side so you don’t fall. He curls into position next, swaying until his back pocket is inches from your nose.
“Oh my God, Steve. Get your butt out of my face!” You’d shove him if you had an extra hand.
Holly giggles in that contagious way kids laugh, automatically pulling one from Steve.
“Don’t make me laugh. If I go down, so are you,” he reminds you.
“Umm, left foot green,” Holly says.
Steve groans dramatically, whining. “What! Holly, that’s impossible. Spin again.”
She cackles, reminiscent of Queen Holly. “Nope, you have to! That’s the rules!”
And somehow, you both make it to green without knocking each other over. But you’re getting distracted– Steve’s hand has brushed your calf three times now and his shirt is loose, hanging off his chest in a way that gives you a clear view of his tummy. This might as well be sabotage. You tear your eyes away. You must focus. You didn’t care much for winning before, but something about Steve brings out your competitive side.
“Right hand, green.”
You bow your knee until it’s wedged uncomfortably into your ribcage so you can reach the green. Your thighs quickly begin to ache. You won’t last much longer in this position. Especially not when Steve arches over you like a human bridge, the zipper of his jeans tickling your back where your shirt has scrunched up.
He shakes his hair out of the way so he can see you, albeit upside down. His smile stretches wide, radiating pure, unfiltered joy. He’s having the time of his life, and admittedly, so are you.
Your elbow juts out, nearly giving under the weight of his gaze alone. But you snap it back in place and practically beg Holly, “Spin.”
“Left foot blue!”
You and Steve lunge for the same blue circle. His sock slides against the tarp, leg extending much farther than he’s prepared for. His arm buckles, chest slamming down against your back. Your elbows give out immediately under the force of his weight, jaw slamming into the floor.
“Shit, sorry! You okay?”
A burst of laughter tumbles out of your mouth before you can answer. But maybe it’s an answer in itself. Your chin stings but you're fine. Better than fine, even.
As soon as Steve scrambles off of you, you flip onto your back. His eyes trickle down you in assessment, eyebrows knitting together, mouth twitching like it can’t decide whether to frown or smile.
“I’m okay,” you manage, smiley and breathless.
“Did you hit your face?”
“Just my chin.”
He reaches for your face with hesitant fingers. “Sorry.”
You shake your head, bolstering his wrist as he cups your chin. “I definitely won.”
And just like that, all his worry washes away. He pries your hand from his wrist, wrenching you up to sit. “Technically, you hit the floor first.”
You glance over to Holly for her professional referee’s opinion but find she’s no longer there. “Where’s–”
“I found it!” she yells from the upstairs. What exactly she found, you’ve no idea. But she comes stomping down the stairs not a minute later with a little box in her hands. Bandaids, you realize, as she dumps the contents on the twister mat beside you. “They’re Hello Kitty,” she says, stripping the paper backing off of one.
You let her little fingers stamp it to the curve of your chin. It’s not bleeding, nor does it really hurt that bad, but the gesture is sweet enough to melt your heart. “Thank you, Holly. You’re so gentle. You should be a candy striper.”
“I don’t think I’m old enough.”
“When you’re older then.”
Steve decides Twister is far too dangerous to keep playing, but Holly demands a game of Mouse Trap so it works out. Steve wins, despite you and Holly’s strategic alliance halfway through. And by then, she’s asked about dinner twice so you shelve the rest of the games and head up to the kitchen to decide together.
Holly hums into the freezer, “Chicken nuggets… pizza rolls– oh! Eggos, can we have Eggos?”
Steve bites the inside of his cheek, peering over her, “Why don’t we cook something? We could have a fancy dinner. Like a dinner party.”
“Can we dress up?”
“Sure,” he shrugs, flipping a pack of ground beef over.
“Pasta?” you call from the pantry.
“Ooh, yeah. Let’s do that.”
Holly sprints upstairs for a costume, much more interested in the party than the dinner. You pull a box of noodles and an unopened jar of sauce from the shelf while Steve grabs a pot from the cabinet and sticks it under the faucet.
“Careful. Stove’s on,” you announce, flicking the dial on high.
Steve backs up from the sink slowly, water sloshing over the side of the pot when he bumps the table.
“Steve,” you chuckle, pulling a dish towel from the oven handle, “It doesn’t need to be that full.”
“No?”
“No, dump like, half of that out.”
He nods, pouring some out and depositing the rest over the stove. “I’m gonna be honest, I’ve never made pasta before.”
“Yeah, I could’ve guessed,” you quip, elbowing his side with the box of noodles in hand. “Pour these in?”
He takes the box and gives it a good shake. “How much?”
“Maybe half? Little more?”
He tips it over the water, snapping it back up when much more than half slides out. “Oops.”
“It’s okay.” You chuck a few stray pieces from the counter into the pot. “Everyone’s getting seconds tonight. What do you like in your pasta?”
“Sauce?”
The laugh fizzles out in your throat as you realize he’s not making a joke. “Besides sauce. Cheese? Meat? Spices?”
“Oh, uhh, I’m not sure.” Steve scratches the back of his neck, hand retracting to fidget with the hem of his shirt. He’s antsy, clearly nervous. Maybe embarrassed of his cooking knowledge, or rather, lack of it. Or perhaps afraid the pasta will end up something like the first set of grilled cheeses.
“We’ll keep it simple then. Holly probably won’t like it too fancy anyway.”
Steve nervously watches the water bubble, foam climbing up the sides. “Do you like garlic bread? Saw some in the freezer.”
You fish the box out and line a pan with three pieces. And with bread in the oven and the pasta starting to boil, you hop on the counter to wait.
“How long does it take?” Steve asks.
“Not long.”
You open the drawer beside your legs and find a big wooden spoon. Lucky guess. “Here. Stir.”
His eyes follow the ladle, stirring with steady hands. It’s a peaceful quiet, his focus unusually soft. Not the urgent, fate of his life kind of determination you’re used to seeing.
When it’s ready, you pinch the spoon’s neck, fingertips sweeping his for the half a second before he lets go. “Now we strain the water. Then we can add the sauce.”
You find a strainer and plant it in the sink while Steve carries the pot over and pours. He sets it back on the stove, per your orders, and offers a hand when you struggle with the sauce lid.
He pins the jar against his chest, knuckles straining white in several attempts to twist the cap. But it pops off after a good shake, spraying sauce across your cheek, and spinning to the floor like a frisbee.
Steve freezes, gawking at your face with a stupid smile.
“Steve!” You scoop up a dish towel and smack his arm.
He throws his hands up and turns a shoulder to you. “I didn’t mean to,” he snickers.
“Don’t laugh! I’ll pour that whole jar over your head.”
He doesn’t buy your threat one bit, still laughing as he sets the jar down and steals the towel from your hands. “I’ll get it. Sit still.”
You summon the most menacing glare you can manage while suppressing a smile. He presses the towel to your cheek, thumb gliding across your skin as he wipes the sauce in one languid motion. His eyes flick down to your lips and you’re positive you aren’t imagining it.
But you’re sweating and your stomach is churning and– “The pasta!” You ram into Steve’s shoulder trying to get by, rushing to turn the stove temperature down.
Steve whisks up behind you to see the food. “Is it burnt?”
“No, no. It should be fine.” You scrape the ladle under the bottom layer of noodles. “Pass me the sauce?”
You avoid his eyes as you take it. Was he going to kiss you? Maybe just thinking about it? Or perhaps there was just sauce near your mouth and you’re spiraling over absolutely nothing.
You toss the food in sauce and divide it into three plates silently.
“Holly! Food’s ready,” Steve shouts as he fixes the table with napkins and silverware.
She clambers down the steps in a tutu and a cardigan that you’re pretty sure is Nancy’s. Her smile drops. “Where are your clothes?”
Steve looks down at his sweats. “Holly, I think we’ll just–”
“Please, Stevie. It’s a dinner party, remember?”
His eyes dart to you, though you still can’t bring yourself to look at him. “One sec.”
He swings back into the kitchen wearing a tweed suit jacket, a silky, black one draped over his arm. His is a few sizes too big, shoulder pads drooping down his biceps, and the sleeves swallowing his hands. He pushes the fabric up his elbows to hand you the other jacket. “For you.”
“Thanks,” you deadpan. It comes off less sarcastic than you aim for.
Holly and Steve adopt similar grins as you slip the jacket on. “You look dashing,” she compliments.
“Very,” Steve agrees, taking a seat beside you.
You spend the rest of dinner internally debating whether he’s flirting or just indulging in Holly’s playful antics. The uncertainty makes your stomach flip, and suddenly you aren’t so hungry anymore.
After the dinner party concludes, it’s Holly’s suggestion to go for a walk. She wheels her bike out of the garage, fitted with a set of training wheels and a handlebar bursting with tinsel. A yawn rolls off her tongue as she launches down the driveway. It raises your hopes for a smoother bedtime tonight.
Even as the horizon melts into the Earth, the summer heat clings like a heavy hand. Trees project long shadows along the road, eating what’s left of the sunlight. Bugs buzz and birds chirp, but a sleepy stillness is ubiquitous.
“What?” you ask suddenly, whipping your head to face Steve. He’s drenched in gold, pale wisps of hair riding the breeze as he strolls.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re staring at me. I feel it.”
“I wasn’t,” he assures.
You blink at him. You can’t decide whether to be annoyed at such an obvious lie or embarrassed by the truth.
He jogs ahead before you’ve come up with something to say. Halfway to Holly, he shouts, “Come on, slowpoke!”
It only takes one loop around the block for the heat to catch up. Holly complains incessantly about her helmet strap being too tight even after Steve fixes it and you’re itchy from sweat and mosquito bites. Steve’s, well, he might be the only content one. Happy even, guiding you home with a subtle bend to his lips and a soft glow tinting his cheeks.
Holly whines about having to take a bath, and while you might negotiate it another night, you can see the damp line down her back. But like you suspect, all grievances are forgotten the second she gets in. She likes playing in the bath, even if she forgets it. It’s where she keeps her mermaid Barbie and her collection of rubber ducks, coincidentally all named Bob.
And while bath time might tend to feel like more of a chore as a babysitter, tonight is different. It’s your last night at the Wheelers, and while that’s not new information, it is startlingly sad. You aren’t irritated when she splashes water in your eye or when she leaves a trail of it down the hall for you to clean. You can’t be, not when you know you’ll miss it.
Steve helps you tuck Holly into Nancy’s bed. After pinky swearing that you’ll both return at your own bedtime, she drifts off easily. You’re thankful, of course, but a piece of you secretly hoped to be needed longer.
“Must’ve been tired,” Steve whispers, pushing slowly off the bed. “You okay?”
You nod, tearing your eyes from Holly to meet Steve’s. “Kinda sad.” You shrug, murmuring, “Stupid.”
“It’s not.” He cups your shoulder and runs a warm hand up and down your arm. “Come on.”
You take his hand and let him lead you across the hall and down the stairs. He pulls you onto the couch so you land pressed into the same cushion he’s on. “Y’know, babysitting Holly’s a breeze compared to the usual shitheads. We don’t have to worry about her taking my car keys or fighting interdimensional monsters or summoning a gate to hell,” he says.
A soft laugh parts your lips. “Think Holly will put in a good word for us with her parents?”
“You kidding? She loves us. Especially me,” he jokes. “Hate to break it to you but I’m definitely her favorite.”
“No, you are not. Shut up.”
He catches your fist mid-punch, cradling your hand like it’s made of wet sand. His thumb crosses each divot between your fingers, stroking up and down your knuckle slowly. “I’m sure they’ll ask us to babysit her again at some point.”
You hum in agreement.
“Besides, we could expand our horizons. There’s like a million other children in Hawkins that need babysitting.”
Your smile spills into your cheeks. “We?”
“Yeah, I think we make a pretty damn good team. Don’t you?”
“I do, but… we don’t have to limit our interactions to just babysitting, you know?”
“What are you thinking? Dinner and a movie? Next weekend?” His eyes flick from your fingers to your face– to each eye, sweeping down the center of your nose, stopping right at your lips.
You turn away in an attempt to soothe your heart as it pounds up to your ears. “Smooth, Harrington.”
He reels you back in gently by the arm, confidence shining through his smile.“What? Did I read this wrong?” He knows he didn’t, he’s teasing you.
“No,” you mumble, “You didn’t.”
He leans in to whisper, “Can I kiss you then?”
You nod, pushing into the soft press of his lips with your own. He’s not hesitant, nor is he harsh. Steve knows how to kiss, that much is clear. He trades your hand for your cheek, gently tilting your face to the side as he pulls away.
Your eyes flutter open to a doting gaze. One that travels down the lines and slopes of your neck like they’re made of candy. Steve plants a second kiss on your lips, though fleeting in comparison to the first. But he plants several more to make up for it, working his way in a Z down your cheek, across your jaw, and back down your neck. They’re quick, ticklish little pecks of affection. A sweetness if you ever knew it.
“Steve,” you admonish, though giggles betray your tone. The hands that frame his face glide gently down to his throat, your thumbs meeting at his Adam's apple. “We’re babysitting.”
“I know,” he says, kissing your lips for a third time. “Just had to get a few extra in there. For all the times I thought about kissing you this weekend.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why?” He laughs, bubbly like you’ve surprised him. “It’s true. I thought about it all weekend.”
You don’t know why you ask– why you even thought of it at a time like this– but you question him, “What about Nance?”
“What about her?”
“You don’t…” you trail off, afraid to even speak the possibility into existence.
“We’re done. We have been. For a lot longer than I was willing to admit,” he admits honestly.
“Yeah, but do you–”
“I don’t. Still have feelings for her. Not like that, anyway.”
You meet his eyes, feeling a strange blend of emotions you can’t quite name.
“If you don’t believe me, you’ll just have to let me prove it to you,” he holds your gaze, warm with a sincerity that makes it hard to doubt him.
“I believe you.”
You let Steve kiss you several more times on that couch. He’s patient, deliberate, and more kind than you ever imagined he’d be. It’s hard to understand why Nancy would ever let someone like that go.
ᯓ★
On Monday morning, you blink awake first, the comforting weight of a hand that’s not yours across your hip and another, much lighter one, at your belly. You turn over slowly, finding Steve and Holly wrapped around each other like ivy on trellis. You don’t imagine many people look this pretty asleep. The comb of long lashes kissing the soft flush in his cheeks. The golden lather of sunrise in each wild swoop of hair. The way his lips part for a sigh cuter than you knew one could be.
He mumbles something unintelligible, sleep talk perhaps.
You whisper back anyway, “What?”
Steve sighs, smearing his cheek against the pillow. “Being a creeper.”
“Me?”
“Mhmm.” One eye slowly unbinds itself from sleep. Steve adores the tight-lipped smile on your face, broad with an infatuation he forgot could be aimed at him. His hand twitches at your side.
“You just look so pretty when you sleep,” you admit. Is it too soon to say such things?
His eye closes as he smiles, nosing into Holly’s hair, selfishly keeping it to himself. You reach across her body to find it, swiping a loving finger across his lips when you do.
You stay in bed for as long as Holly will allow– which is not very long after she wakes up– but you don’t mind. You watch fondly as Steve helps her brush her teeth and as she helps Steve toast and butter the Eggos. Like Steve, Holly’s a good kid. They’re both helpers at heart.
And you’re sure to remind Mrs. Wheeler of that when she rings the house to let you know they’re almost home. Holly’s excitement quickly dwindles into sadness the moment she realizes you won’t be staying. But she uses it to bargain one final game of hide and seek before you go.
“Come on.” Steve drags you by the wrist, bustling upstairs to the bathroom. He throws the shower curtain aside and jumps in, offering his hand to help you after. You sit scrunched together, knee to knee on the porcelain floor, giggling like children.
“Shhh,” you squeeze his kneecap. “You’re gonna get us found.”
He jostles your shoulder, mouth agape. “You’re the one who’s laughing!”
“No,” you insist, though the light in your eyes suggests otherwise. Curiosity sparks and the irrepressible urge to act on it wins. You lean in for a kiss, confirming that’s all it takes to shut Steve up.
He tastes like maple syrup, loving with his lips as much as his hands. He pulls back for breath and returns for another peck, pressing into the corner of your mouth where your smile keeps drawing higher and higher.
“Hard to kiss you when you're smiling.”
“Can’t help it,” you defend. “Never been so happy.”
He softens like warm icing, a sweet and gooey mess in your arms. But the shake of the front door closing stiffens him.
“Mommy!” you hear quickly after.
Steve scrambles up and over the lip of the tub, tugging you out with him. You follow him downstairs where Mrs. Wheeler swings Holly in her arms like she’s much smaller than she really is. Mr. Wheeler steers a suitcase silently through the entryway.
“Did you have so much fun?” she asks Holly, peppering kisses across her temple. “Ohh, I missed you!”
Holly revels in the affection overload, bending backward to giggle at you and Steve.
Mrs. Wheeler grins. “How was she?”
“Great, as always,” Steve assures. His cheeks are flushed, his hair mussed— though you could chalk that up to bedhead, not the aftermath of your short-lived makeout session.
You nod, adding, “We went swimming and to the park and–”
“IHOP!” Holly yells. “I got pancakes with chocolate chips and extra sprinkles!”
“Did you? Sounds like you had a lot of fun.” Mrs. Wheeler plants Holly on her feet. “Can you give hugs? Say thank you for being such good babysitters?”
Holly launches herself at Steve. He sends you a smirk over her shoulder, rocking her side to side in his embrace. You can just hear him say, I told you so.
But she offers the same enthusiasm and more for you, dragging you onto the floor for a proper goodbye hug. “I don’t want you to go,” she pouts in your ear.
“We’ll come back. We can have playdates?”
“Can’t you just live in Nancy’s room? She’s never here anyway.”
You can’t help but laugh. “I wish I could,” you admit honestly.
She reluctantly loosens her grip on your shirt when you peel away.
Mrs. Wheeler sees you and Steve off with a warm smile. Holly darts through her mother’s legs for one final hug on the porch. You wave goodbye, the moment slipping into something bittersweet before Steve bumps his shoulder into yours, a playful grin softening the farewell.
You dawdle up to your car, wringing your hands together when you reach the door. “So.”
“So,” he parrots.
“This weekend, right?”
His smirk blooms into a full smile. “Friday? Pick you up at seven?”
“Okay,” you nod.
“Okay,” he chuckles, clipping a hand around your jaw and leaning in.
You turn away so the kiss skips across the softest stretch of your cheek. “Steve.”
His eyes never leave your face as he assures you, “They’re not looking.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Holly waves at you through the living room window, a smile as wide as her face. Steve’s hand falls down to his side and he takes a platonic step back. You both return her goodbye, but Holly stays, her little hand pressed to the glass.
“Think she’ll tell?” Steve asks, not an ounce of worry in his tone.
You shrug, tugging him back in by the waist for a proper kiss. “I guess it wouldn't be the end of the world.”
