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mars4hellokitty · 5 days ago

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It's fashion week, and you caught word that your favorite girl will be there — so naturally, you've already booked a flight and packed a $200 dollar dress. With the help of a familiar face you somehow get in, but it turns out you aren't the only one causing controversy.

◟`# fiction contains: producer!Sevika, rogue reporter!reader, plussize!reader, interactive fanfiction, smau elements, cursing, smoking, trespassing, photography, enemies to . . .?, back and forth, voyeurism, public whiplash, more to be added.

INDEX /// PREV.

⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⠀⸝⸝ 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 @zzelysian

⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⠀⸝⸝ disclaimer: For this series I am using Joanna Pincerato + ChrissybStyles as stand ins for twitter posts, selfies etc for the sake of convenience. Feel free to imagine reader however you see fit! Enjoy ໒꒰っ˕ -｡꒱১

18 HOURS EARLIER.

"For the last time, I wasn't trying to sneak into anything — this isn't a heist, it's fashion week. Calm down.."

The words came flatter than you'd intended, especially since you hadn't actually expected them to catch you. Truly, you were more accustomed to the blissful ignorance of American security.

That wasn't the case in Italy.

In all honesty you'd been more careless than usual — lingering backstage in an effort to get a photo of the stage, wearing a dress that was neither subtle nor formal enough to make you seem like a lost press intern. It was nerves, it's not every day you invade Superstudio Più. That, and the fact that the industry you were currently hijacking wasn't exactly easy for someone with your.. assets to blend in.

Go big or go home though, right?

"Unauthorized access is still unauthorized access," the security leering above you groused. His firm arms were folded with an accent that would almost interest you — if he wasn't currently trying to kick you out. The other was even less interested if that was possible, too busy staring at his coworker.

Felt a whole lot like you were interrupting something, actually.

Unamused by your blatant disregard to what was typically common knowledge, the taller man continued.

"You're not on the list. That camcorder isn't helping your case either."

You raised a brow, an exasperated sigh leaving your lips as you gestured to your Cassandre Matelasse purse, the most expensive and impractical thing in your current possession.

"Well it wasn't going to fit in here, you'll have to take that up with Saint Laurent." You shrugged, knowing that you weren't exactly building yourself a better case. Then again, there was no way out of this hallway otherwise, so you may as well go out funny.

That was until someone turned the corner.

For about fifty seconds you thought you were looking at an angel.

Her hair was curled in soft ringlets down her shoulders, cheeks glistening with soft glitter that highlighted her nose and collarbones. Despite being in nothing but a white satin silk robe, you could feel the wealth that radiated from her.

And yet, she seemed so familiar.

The guards murmured something in reply to her presence, momentarily distracted and giving you a chance to wrack your inner mind palace. Those lashes, that constant pulled pout and the little A that curled around her collarbone, that she swore stands for angel and not—

"You're— wait, you're her. The model."

It all connected like an insert pin, this girl practically haunted your Twitter timeline. She was notorious not only for those late night tweets that likely should've stayed in the drafts, but also her crumbling situationship with that Mercedes driver. While you'd been somewhat keeping up with the statements and hearting the occasional edit from Barcelona, your schedule was tight packed with your own problematic love interest.

Still, it felt like you were meeting Ellen or something.

It was her next comment that brought you back to the moment.

"And you're the girl Sevika wants to strangle with a lanyard.." The model mused, a faint and frankly tired smirk pulling at her lip.

Oh, that was you all right.

"The one and only.." Being the one Sevika couldn't stand was something you took pride in, because sure, she didn't give a shit about anyone.

And yet, she gave enough of a shit to block you at four in the morning after you'd tagged her in a clip of batman and joker with the caption 'this is so us'.

It was a sad moment to be sure — inevitable, but sad.

That was part of the reason you were here, actually. The days of spamming your favorite person were no more. Technically, you had no choice but to book a flight to Italy when you realized Sevika had partial collaboration with one of the designers.

Too lost grinning at your own ridiculous plan, you'd failed to notice that the security were already moving to escort you out. That was until you were hit with your second surprise of the night.

"She's with me."

They blinked, you blinked.

"Excuse me?" The previously silent security man spoke up, his arm already linked with yours. You had to nod in agreement — because what the hell was this girl talking about?

"She's with me, it's fine.."

The guards looked amongst themselves, and once again you were impressed by how easily the rules slipped away when it came to someone with money, with fame.

They dropped your arms, mucking each other off with a mumbled "if you say so, ma'am."

They disappeared a little too quickly into a doorway, and you sent them a silent apology for sneaking around loud enough for them to have to go back to doing their actual job.

Still, your nerves were fried — you were in.

"Okay, wow. You didn't have to do that, but holy shit- thank you."

She waved her wrist, smile still absently polite but there was a playfulness in there beneath all the makeup.

"Don't mention it.."

"No seriously though, I owe you — would've been one shitty ride back to the hotel if I got kicked out after an hour."

A quiet laugh left her lips, the hallway still rattling with distant chaos from the dressing rooms. She smirked briefly.

"I didn't have anything better to do. Plus, they were about two seconds from dragging your ass out of here."

"Would've been worth it," You mused — "Would've made a great thumbnail."

She smirked, you wanted to blush. It wasn't very typical for you to run into a walking Victoria's Secret Angel, especially one that knew who you were. The model shook her head, leaning against the cool concrete wall.

"What are you even doing here?..."

"Would you believe that I'm here for the fashion?" You posed, feigning innocence, though the look you received in return was enough to make you break character.

"Okay fine, I heard that Sevika was gonna show tonight, and I figured— you know, if I could just coincidentally end up near her.."

"So you want to crash her night. Again."

You put a hand over your heart at such a blatant accusation, a completely true one of course, but an accusation nonetheless.

"I just need to speak with her, business related." You shrugged, voice drifting a tad implicative. "Plus, I've seen you work with Sevika before. You're like.. friends?"

"Something like that." The model snorts, arms folded as her gaze shifts down the hallway.

It was nearing call time, you had to stop beating around the bush.

"I need to get close to her tonight, I've been off my game since the premiere.." You trailed, a hint of heat flickering through your gut at the memory. She'd one upped you then, but you were prepared this time.

"So you are sneaking in just for her."

"Obviously. I'm sure you'd do it too.." you chimed, a toothed grin tugging at your lips. Two could play at that game.

"You've got a death wish.." The model scoffed, deflective. Still a raw nerve, noted.

"I've got a camcorder and a vendetta, big difference."

That got a laugh out of her, and you raised a brow as she fished into the pocket of her robe. Your mouth literally watered as she pulled it out — A VIP pass. Not the cheap shit you got off Amazon. It was glossy, glowing faintly under the lights, it was real.

Then she held it out to you.

"Well, I happen to know that she's got a free seat next to me tonight.."

Whoever put you on positive affirmations needed a raise, because this level of a success streak needed to be studied on WIRED.

You blinked, dumbfounded. "You're not being serious.."

The model only nodded casually, like she wasn't offering you the keys to the city, the golden ticket to the factory. She gestured to the main seating area, slowly filling with media relations and private listers.

"First row, middle of the aisle. I'd suggest keeping a low profile, before she realizes how coincidental her seating arrangement is."

You beamed, and not in a cute way. Wide eyed, jaw open — already shaking with adrenaline.

You snatched the pass before she had a chance to change her mind, slipping the lanyard around your neck and feeling the weight of something real — something lush. You wanted to thank her, to fall to your knees and shake the heel that gifted you such luck.

But she was already walking away.

⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⠀⸝⸝

"Stai dicendo sul serio?"

— The rouge haired woman scoffed, wrinkled thin sheets dragged up one side of her naked chest. The hotel room still reeked of sweat and Zucca spritz, the mattress still warm. Sevika was half dressed, dragging up her suit pants and fumbling with the belt. Too busy coating herself in rich aftershave, the woman spoke again.

"You promised I'd at least get dinner this time," She huffed, accent thick as she leaned over to grab a small nail file from the nightstand. Red streaks of damp hair still clung to the back of her neck, lip ring glinting in the low light. Sevika swiped her creased shirt from the floor that was still strewn with leather and a long discarded G-string.

"Can't be late, coordinator is already up my ass about missing the gallery house premiere.." She grumbled lowly — lips still hot and swollen. Her tie was half on, shirt still unbuttoned as her head cocked back in mild irritation. It didn't make a lick of sense why she'd need to go to a fashion show of all things, sure, her brand had helped but it still didn't feel necessary.

"Call some room service, put it on my tab.."

The naked beauty rolled her eyes, cash still stuffed into her purse — straight from Sevika's wallet.

"You and your room service.."

The producer tugged her coat from the chair, slinging it across one shoulder and swiping her leathered wallet from the dresser. Damn events. Her gaze trailed across the room, feeling along her body for anything she might've missed before they landed on the unclothed woman now stretching, gleaming silver chain dangling from her fingertips.

"Forgetting something vita mia?"

The hooker snickered as Sevika thundered over, snatching the chain with a huff of annoyance. Her cheeks were hot, upper chest sweated — hips still dented from the harness. She didn't have time to deal with it, she was already supposed to be at the venue. The woman currently attempting to climb up her chest while she adjusted her necklace was tempting, but it had to wait.

Sevika pushed her back onto the bed, leaning over with a low whisper against the curve of her ear.

"I'll make it up to you.."

The actress grinned, knowing. Sevika's glittering chain hung down, low enough to paw at.

"Yeah, don't act surprised when you see that tab.."

The producer huffed, brows furrowed as she pulled back from the bed. She still stunk of that cheap body spray the woman always insisted on using, hair pulled back messily from kneeling.

An attractive woman was going to be the death of her one day, and she'd embrace it with open arms.

Sevika pursed through the glimmering hotel lobby, beneath delicate chandeliers and marble flooring to the limousine that was already parked outside — and had been for the past twenty five minutes. The driver was unamused, already shifting gears to take off as she shoved into the backseat.

The drive to the venue was brief, a cigarette between her fingers that hung outside the window as the leather seat fused to her upper back. The VIP pass hung down her throat like a chain. Outside, the streets of Milan were getting busy, the lights twinkling amidst the night air in a blur. Tipsy, still hot and tired.

This would be interesting.

The car pulled up at the Superstudio Più, a crowd of paparazzi still cramming the doors in a last ditch effort to catch any late arrivals. They were mixed amongst fans, a sea of bodies that were just about being held back by the security team. Fashion shows were nowhere near her scene, and yet again she was regretting listening to that silly event planner and all those efforts to make her more appetizing to the public — whatever that meant.

After another long breath of tobacco, Sevika pushed out of the car.

Using one hand as a shield, she shoved through the ambush of flashing lights and screams, fans clawing at the barriers. It was only now that she was being camera lashed that she'd realized her aviators were back at the hotel, typical. It certainly would've helped cover her slightly puffed eyes, but at least the smell of liquor was smothered by her cologne.

To be honest, she was only here for the after party.

The lobby was just as messy, scattered gatherings of reporters and batshit interns that were barely managing to hold it together as they chased after influence. There was a buzz in the air, drinks clinking and heavy chatter as the mob moved toward the seating area. She split through the crowd, lingering large as usual.

It made it easy to part the people, especially when each of them knew exactly who she was.

The VIP section was clean, tied off taut with a red barrier and an air of materialism. With a glint of her lanyard they let her in despite the cut off for late arrivals, her hand selected seat right near the front.

Granted, if she'd shown up on time she probably would've noticed that the seat next to her was already taken — that there was an obscured face with familiar rings.

Instead she sank into the velvet like it was built just for her, head still swirling and cheeks hot from the rush. Her neck tilted back, a small sigh drifting from her lips as the rest of the crowd seemed to settle down. A fizzling tension loomed over the air, the music kicking in with a hush of smoke. The lights fell, a dainty wave of excitement rushing through the mass.

"Pretty venue, right?" A soft whisper came from stained lips, just as the music began to lift.

Should've fucking known.

Her eyes pressed shut, jaw clenching before letting out that smothered breath.

"You're getting bold.. Milan security could have you in a holding cell.." Sevika murmured, eyes splitting open to get a real glimpse of you. Your hair drifted in warm waves, that smile she couldn't stand, that dress — god, that dress. It did you every favor. The crowd surrounding had stilled, apprehensive, glittering eyes trained on the illuminated runway.

But Sevika? Her eyes were only on you.

A gentle giggle flit from your throat, smooth above the soft orchestral melody that drifted through the theatre. The twinkling lights made your lip gloss glisten like star dust, and she'd take that sight to her grave. It was the alcohol. The sultry hymns thrummed along the floor, up into the velour seats. Sevika hadn't seen you since the premiere, and for a fleeting, blessed moment she'd thought that maybe you'd finally given up.

Unfortunately, she knew you better than that.

"They wouldn't keep me, I'm too charming.." You grinned, cocking a brow her way.

She deadpanned.

"Charming my ass.." She muttered under her breath, reaching for a passing champagne glass before her sense had time to catch up.

"Missed you too.." Another soft laugh left your tinted lips, eyes crinkling gently as the crowd began to settle — the lights setting.

The runway pulsed to life — a blooming flower of pastel rays that twinkled along the stage like a split open sky. The soft colors pierced through the crystal ornaments, perfectly timed lighting to paint rainbows across the allured faces, yours too. They glittered against your eyes, and it took an awfully long time for Sevika to realize that she was still staring.

You meanwhile, were entranced by the fluttering feathers by the stage, each curtain and chain breathing life. Everything glowed, like a scope of clouds that the moon hit just right.

It was ethereal, surreal, and the show had only just started.

"About the premiere.."

Your voice was a gentle murmur, eyes still blown as the models began to take the stage. They practically floated, sheer silken trains that looked like they were carried by the breeze itself. It was nothing short of lush — beautiful pearls that glittered like a sea of treasures that were finally being displayed beneath a fine light.

Cameras shuttered, whispers humming beneath the sultry violins.

Sevika pressed the thin rim to her lips, the bitter champagne burning as she gave a half hearted attempt at watching the runway. Being flushed with such softness, glowing gowns and thin fabrics that she wouldn't dare touch with a sharpened tooth made her rough, disconnected. Even still it was hard to focus, especially when you smelled like caramel and feelings she shouldn't be having.

It's the alcohol.

The room had grown warmer, audience leaning in with a stifled awe.

"I.."

Your train of thought kept slipping, too enthralled by the angels that continued to bless the stage in sheer mist. It felt too crude to speak, too loud to think. The harps hummed, a distant dream that caressed the fabric of reality like a lost lover. It was enough to make your heart race, cheeks warming beneath the lights — and Sevika noticed. There was an wonder in your gaze, something that kept you glued to the runway like you'd never seen anything like it before. Then, she remembered —

You hadn't.

Her eyes locked onto your profile, that delicate dip of a chin and the twinkle in your eyes brought out by the flickering lights. Sevika was so used to your incessant voice, the constant nagging, but this was different. This was you beside her, and you looked.. different.

Her jaw clenched, gaze ripping back to the stage.

The music swelled, a soft crescendo as the curtains flushed like butterfly wings. Then, she appeared — the one everyone was waiting for.

A collective inhale, a stunned silence.

The star of the show, with a dress that shimmered beneath the lights in an unearthly silver glow — the sheer fabric gliding along every expanse of skin. It clung to her frame in gentle ripples, a dress made of pure starlit dust. The bodice was structured, an illusion of a long forgotten glacier that had just begun to melt.

The dress split above her upper thigh, parting to reveal glittering Capezio pantyhose that would tempt Jupiter itself. Her glistening train melted beneath the gentle runway breeze, each pearled diamond flickering like stars bleeding into mercury. It was translucent, beautifully delicate with a life of it's own. The model reflected everywhere, in everything. Her cheeks where high, opal — metallic.

A comet grazing earth for the briefest reprise.

There was a single moment, awe. Then, everyone needed to capture it.

Cameras thrust like doves, a fluster of chatters and chits that near blinded the crowd. Nobody had seen the model since the article had released, and now she was burning brighter than any other star the industry had. Her expression was unmoving, dreamlike. She was real, and for a small fleeting moment, you understood why she practically owned each runway. The poise, that lifted chin even in heels so dangerous it sent a tremor with every step.

You hadn't even realized your heart was racing.

Sevika was still sat firm, an almost tired kick to her dark eyes. She was no stranger to this, and certainly no stranger to the met attendee who she traded secrets with over the occasional cocktail. It was an act, a familiar one at that. Sevika swirled the bubbling champagne in her left hand, silver rings glistening amidst the glamoured VIP section. The model looked stunning, like a glass vase — delicate, easily shattered.

You were leaning in, and Sevika noticed. The scent of your perfume invaded her personal space, mixed closely with those glittering jewels you insisted on layering. Her gaze flickered to yours, but you were completely transfixed on the walk. The diamonds, glistening stars that felt as though it belonged to the sky, not a Milan runway. And yet, she could feel something else radiating from you — apprehension.

"She looks so.. beautiful.."

Your voice came a quiet whisper, a hushed lull above the violins. And god, Sevika couldn't look away. Those twinkling eyes, the ones that always wrinkled when you grinned. That damn caramel spray and those pulled lips that always had something painfully annoying to say. Her lids hung low, tongue dry.

"Yeah.."

As the model pursued further, the chatter only grew from the audience. Speculation, curiosity that turned quickly to gossip. "She's glowing," "That dress," "Is that her?" — all tangled beneath the low music, the flashing cameras punching from each side. It made you feel dizzy, and you weren't even the one on stage. And yet she thrived beneath the blinding chaos — unreachable, untouchable.

Then, she looked at you.

A smile twisted at your lips, cheeks running hot because you caught the subtle way her jaw twitched, the effort it took to remain composed. Oh, and Sevika noticed. Her expression flattened, less than amused with the revelation of just how her favorite little stalker managed to crash the venue. You giggled — a sticky sweet sound as you wrapped an arm around hers playfully, offering a thankful wink to the model on stage.

Sevika gritted her teeth — but much to your surprise and her own, she doesn't pull her arm from beneath yours.

The model simply kept floating, shoulders eased back with a sultry bat of her eyelashes. There was a growing confidence to each step, a fluidity that came from years of muscle memory. Whatever she'd lost, it was slowly being pieced back together with each pulse of breath. There wasn't a single eye in the venue that wasn't on her, but there was an inhale of anticipation as she neared the end of the runway.

The soft powdered mist drifted beneath the stage lights, the music twinkling down to earth like a fallen lover. People had already began to stand up, notebooks long forgotten.

A warm smile stuck to your cheeks, fingers unconsciously curling around the heavy muscle beneath your palm that was impressively still there. Sevika was warm, likely drunk, but warm all the same. The moment was charged — a soft glittering tension as the model moved for her final strut.

Then, something changed.

The train of her dress — delicate as a spiderweb on a wet morning, catches on her pierced heel.

One look, one hesitation, and she crashed.

It wasn't pretty.

The fall was raw — like a burning meteor plunged down by gravity against hard ground. Her arms shot out, desperately clawing for anything, anyone to catch her, but it was too late. Her spun up form smashed into the cold, unforgiving runway. Your hand flew to your mouth, horrified. The fabric tore like crepe, slicing straight up along her thigh and back.

The music kept thrumming low beneath the gasps, the strings mimicking the sounds of frayed fabric that split from the beautifully delicate train. The heels? A long discarded clatter against the lower stage.

You couldn't watch — but you also couldn't look away.

Even Sevika, hardened and uncaring muttered a quiet fuck beneath her breath. The fall was palpable, painfully loud. She could feel your fingers tighten taut on he shirt, and when she looked down at your face there was such a deep sympathy there that it stole her breath. There was no joke, no smart comment — just you with misted eyes and a hand over your lips.

"Oh my god.."

You whispered, watching her like a reflection while she sat crumpled at the end of the runway — a beautiful deer that was about to get trampled by the heavy rush of oncoming traffic. The camera flashes didn't stop, instead they got more intense, more vicious. No angle was hers, not even when the tears started. Sevika sat with her head forward despite your hold on her, but something inside had already started to crack.

"She'll get up..." Sevika muttered gruff, pressing the scalding rim of the champagne glass to her lips. Even her eyes were on the model, the shining star of the show — now collapsed in a swaddle of shredded gossamer fabric and running eyeliner. The worst part? Nobody helped her. Not the stage manager, not the sound producer, not even the other models. Instead the music cut completely, offering no escape to the growing chatter. If this was Sevika's ship it would've been tight, clean.

Now there was only rawness, mercilessly suffocated under camera strikes.

Lingering whispers echoed like unloaded gunshots across the audience, followed by an eerie silence that lasted far too long. The runway, once flourished with unbridled with confidence and beauty now felt empty, dead. Models were frozen mid-stride, the wisped train of their garments pulsing faintly in the still air, like ghosts suspended in time.

The lights were harsh, all exposing as the mascara continued to drip onto the reflective runway. Every breath was stolen, captured ruthlessly for a new tabloid, a next article. Worried whispers seemed fake, hidden barely by the gloss of excitement that there was a new headline to be made.

Your own eyes glistened as she wrapped her arms around herself, the shock splitting it off like a plunged knife that had just been ripped out. Tears glittered down her cheeks that mixed with eyeshadow and sweat like little drops of mercury. And somehow, that still wasn't the only commotion.

There was someone shoving through the crowd, someone loud with pushed out shoulders as the security fought desperately to wrangle her back.

The Mercedes driver.

It connected instantly. The hesitation, the sadness backstage.

It was the perfect story, heart breaking romance. Yet for the first time in your life, it didn't feel like yours to tell. So, you looked away.

Glancing up at Sevika she was still sat there, eyes set straight with an irritation brewing there that was almost comforting. Her arm was still beneath yours, and with a shallow sigh your fingers slowly uncurled. You looked back to the model who now limped back stage with more than just a broken heel, and your heart ached for her, for what this meant.

Then, Sevika stood. Abrupt.

No pry away, or slow stretch. With a stuttering heart you expected that she was just going to leave you right here in the VIP section, and for a brief moment, she thought that too.

But when she glanced down at you, those sparkling eyes dimmed with tears and a heart too big for your chest — god. Sevika threw her head back, a hushed groan leaving her throat. She grabs you carefully by the arm, pulling you off the velvet seat.

"Where are we going?" Your voice comes rushed, head still spinning over what remained of the hushed violins.

We. Sevika wanted to scoff at how ridiculous that sounded.

"We? Sweetheart, I'm going to get shitfaced. I'd just rather keep an eye on you than find you crawling through my bar window later."

And there was that smile, that shit eating grin that spread across your cheeks along with a wet giggle — too distracting for either of you to notice a rather close camera flash.

───────────────────────────────

“Like Watching a Goddess Crash to Earth” — Model Falls During Milan Fashion Week Finale, and the Internet Can’t Handle It

The Dress That Tore: Inside the Creation (and Destruction) of the Show’s Finale Look

Back on Her Feet: Why the Milan Stumble Might Be the Comeback Moment of the Year

⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⠀⸝⸝ the biggest thank you to @mars4hellokitty for choosing this route, it was the crossover we didn't know we needed.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @zzelysian, @mars4hellokitty, @satellitespinner, @sevikas-whore, @sevikasswifee, @kittyk-14, @undercoverdesire, @azxteria, @nomoredying, @thalchmy, @flutterlesbian, @hastasupern0va, @wishingonjellyfish, @alexxandria5112, @amri0ram, @pramspams, @sevikalvr, @h2pinky, @sydnerdmwahahahhaha, @riotstemple29.

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mars4hellokitty · 5 days ago

Text

I'M FREAKING OUT HELLO????

── 𝓒𝑹𝑨𝑺𝑯 𝑶𝑼𝑻! 𝜗ৎ⋆.˚

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: f1 driver!abby anderson & supermodel!reader

synopsis: ever since the fall-out of the century, the media has only been pressing for more answers. tonight? they're gonna get it. because when two worlds crash together, hearts aren't the only things being torn.

content: MDNI 18+ content, sexual themes, fluff, angst, swearing, friends to lovers, yearning, jealousy, closeted lesbians, out of pocket humour, use of y/n, usage of alcohol, homophobia, femme!reader, reader is described to be tall and skinny, smau + writing (note: this will be updated as i go)

word count: 7.1k

series masterlist | previous chapter

── ⋮⋮ 𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 @applejusue ,, and a special thanks to @mars4hellokitty for conjuring up this amazing idea, this was so much fun to write !!

CHAPTER 4:

MILAN FASHION WEEK.

The backstage room hummed with the frantic, half-panicked energy only fashion week could conjure. Hangers rattled. Someone yelled for double-sided tape. Hairdryers roared like jet engines. Stylists darted between models like clockwork, all lashes and pins and last-minute sewing kits. And somewhere in the middle of it all, you sat still beneath a halo of LED lighting, makeup brush tracing cool lines across your cheekbones.

You let your eyes fall shut, trying to stay calm. Focused. Professional.

It wasn’t your first runway. It wasn’t even your first Milan Fashion Week. But this was your first show in weeks where your name wasn’t being whispered in the shadows for off-track reasons. The buzz around your last appearance had been deafening — paparazzi, Twitter threads, speculative TikToks dissecting every single pixel of that blurry TMZ photo like it was the Zapruder film.

And then came the statement. Two paragraphs of sterile, publicist-penned denial.

Nothing romantic. Nothing to see.

Just friends.

Since then? Silence. Not a like. Not a message. Not even a meme reaction from Abby.

You’d held up your end of the deal. So had she.

Too well.

Next to you, Jasmine tilted her head back as a stylist adjusted the final piece of gold wire wrapped delicately through her braid. She caught your eye in the mirror and raised her brows.

“You look like you’re about to throw up or bite someone. Hard to tell which.”

You smiled faintly. “Why not both?”

“Fair,” she laughed. “God, it’s hot in here. Is your makeup melting yet?”

“Probably. I’m seconds away from becoming a Picasso.”

She let out a short laugh and glanced around. “Is it just me, or does this whole show feel cursed already? That designer girl threw a brush at someone an hour ago.”

You snorted. “It wouldn’t be fashion week without a crash out and someone losing a shoe.”

Jasmine hummed, tapping away on her phone as her stylist began spraying her hair set. A beat passed before she glanced up again.

“So. You and Abby still not talking?”

Your body stiffened — just slightly — but you caught it before it showed in the mirror.

“We weren’t really talking before,” you replied casually, twisting a ring around your finger. “Not like that.”

She tilted her head at you, unconvinced but not unkind. “You sure?”

“I mean…” you trailed off with a shrug, eyes still forward. “We’re not together. So technically, I’m not lying.”

“Technically,” Jasmine repeated, eyes narrowing just slightly. She didn’t press it further.

The air between you cooled a little, the buzz of the room dulling into a low hum as the pre-show chaos settled. You felt her gaze linger a second longer before she turned her attention back to her phone, tapping open something that made her lips quirk.

You didn’t ask what it was.

Your own reflection stared back at you — flawless on the surface, glitter catching the light just right — but beneath that was the ever-present ache of absence. Of how easy it had been, slipping into Abby’s orbit. Of how hard it was now, trying to breathe without it.

You step out of the makeup chair just as the artist gives you a final once-over, murmuring something about your cheekbones catching the light perfectly. You offer a half-smile, distracted, fingers already pulling at the rings on your hands as you make your way down the hall.

The backstage noise starts to thin out the further you go — shouts of stylists, the hum of hair dryers, the clatter of shoes over tile — all of it fading into a distant buzz behind you. You head toward the dressing rooms, heels clicking, your mind not really on the show, not really on anything at all.

And then, just as you round a corner, you see them.

Two security guards, tall and broad, standing with crossed arms in front of someone mid-argument. You catch the sharp edge of a voice first — fast, sarcastic, slightly exasperated. It cuts through the otherwise polished calm of the hallway.

“For the last time, I wasn’t trying to sneak into anything — this isn’t a heist, it’s fashion week. Calm down.”

“Unauthorized access is still unauthorized access,” one of the guards says in a bored tone. “You’re not on the list. That camcorder isn’t helping your case either.”

You pause, curious, watching from a few feet away. You don't recognise her at first — just the voice, the attitude, the borderline combative energy. Then your brain makes the connection.

The reporter from Twitter.

A year ago, she’d gone viral for getting an entire vanilla matcha hurled at her by Sevika, a renowned producer right there on a random LA sidewalk. The footage — grainy, unfiltered, chaotic — had practically broken the internet. And instead of disappearing in humiliation, the reporter had thrived. She'd made Sevika her public nemesis. Ever since, she’d popped up now and then with petty jabs, hilarious commentary, and suspiciously timed “coincidental” run-ins that always seemed to push Sevika’s buttons.

She wasn't subtle. But she was persistent.

The guard turns toward you. “Miss—sorry, we’re handling this—”

“I can see that.” You fold your arms. “What’s going on here?”

“She’s not authorized to be backstage. Doesn’t have a press pass. We were just about to remove her.”

The girl turns toward you then, eyes narrowing in recognition. “You’re—wait, you’re her. The model.”

You arch a brow. “And you’re the girl Sevika wants to strangle with a lanyard...”

She grins, unbothered. “The one and only.”

You glance at the guards. “She’s with me.”

They blink. “Excuse me?”

You sigh. “She’s with me. It’s fine.”

They hesitate, looking between you and the girl, clearly unsure whether they’ve stepped into some PR trap. But your face is familiar enough — and powerful enough — to shut it down.

One guard clears his throat. “If you say so, ma’am.”

They step away reluctantly, disappearing down the corridor without another word.

The girl exhales like she’s just run a marathon. “Okay. Wow. You didn’t have to do that, but holy shit—thank you.”

You wave it off. “Don’t mention it.”

She tilts her head. “No seriously though, I owe you — would've been one shitty ride back to the hotel if I got kicked out after an hour.”

You smirk. “I didn’t have anything better to do. Plus, it looked like they were two seconds away from dragging your ass out of here.”

“Would’ve been worth it,” she mutters under her breath. “Would’ve made a great thumbnail.”

You shake your head with a quiet laugh and leaned against the cold wall. “What are you even doing here?”

“Would you believe I’m here for the fashion?”

You shoot her a look.

“Okay, fine. I heard Sevika was attending tonight and figured… you know, if I could just accidentally end up near her…”

“You want to crash her night. Again.”

“I just want to speak to her,” she says innocently. "Plus, I've seen you work with Sevika before. You’re like… friends?”

You snort. “Something like that.”

She straightens. “I need to get close to her tonight. I've been off my game since the premiere...”

Your eyes narrow. “So you are trying to sneak in just for her.”

“Obviously. I'm sure you'd do it too...”

There’s no shame in her voice — just pure determination. It's almost impressive. You click your tongue, amused despite yourself. “You’ve got a death wish.”

“I’ve got a camcorder and a vendetta. Big difference.”

You chuckle, then dig into the pocket of your robe. Your fingers close around something hard and smooth. With a subtle flick, you pull out a VIP pass, still glossy, the silver foil catching in the light.

You hold it out to her.

“I happen to know she’s got a free seat next to her tonight.”

She blinks at it, then at you. “You're not serious, are you?”

You just nod toward the runway seating outside. “First row, middle of the aisle. Before she realises what a mistake she’s made showing up tonight.”

The girl lets out a gasp and snatches the pass like it’s made of gold.

You don’t watch her after that. You just keep walking.

Because causing mild chaos in Sevika’s life might not heal your own heartbreak — but it is a decent distraction.

And right now, distractions are about all you’ve got.

Abby adjusts the strap of her blazer as she weaves through the bustling backstage corridors of Milan Fashion Week, a VIP pass slung around her neck like it doesn’t weigh a thousand tons. Her phone buzzes in her pocket. Again.

Jasmine: She’s in makeup now. Hurry up before she heads to change.

Abby exhales, the smallest smile ghosting her lips. She hadn’t planned on coming to the show originally — not after everything. But Jasmine had been gently persistent, and somewhere between the silence and the ache of missing you, Abby had caved.

She’d spent the last three weeks pretending that she was okay. That going back to being friends didn’t feel like swallowing glass every time someone mentioned your name. That seeing the two of you all over gossip sites and having to lie to her team about it hadn’t torn her up inside.

But tonight felt like a step toward something.

Even if you weren’t together. Even if that night had been erased by a sterile PR statement and a thousand retweets. Maybe you could still be something. Something real. She didn’t need a label. She just… missed you.

And she wanted to tell you that.

Abby moves past a pair of models in sky-high heels, nods politely at someone with a headset, and turns down the hallway Jasmine told her about. Her stomach tightens in anticipation. Her fingers twitch at her sides.

And then she hears you.

“Well, she’s with me.”

The voice—yours—is unmistakable. Soft and sure and light in a way Abby hasn’t heard in weeks. She rounds the corner quietly, expecting to find you alone. Maybe still touched up with makeup, that faint shine along your cheekbone. Maybe she’d even say something stupid, like “you look beautiful” just to see you roll your eyes but blush anyway.

But that’s not what she sees.

You’re standing with two security guards, relaxed and smiling. And in front of you is someone else. A girl. Camcorder in hand. She’s grinning at you like you hung the stars.

“She’s with me,” you said. So casual. Like it meant nothing.

Abby freezes.

She can’t hear the rest of the conversation. Doesn’t want to. Her brain latches onto that one moment and distorts it, warps it into something unbearable.

You’ve moved on.

Already.

Her chest tightens, the air thinning around her. She takes a shaky breath, steps back slowly — unseen, unnoticed. You’re still laughing with the girl. You don’t see her turn around.

You don’t see the way she swallows hard and tucks her hands in her pockets to keep them from trembling.

Of course you’ve moved on.

You’re the sun and Abby’s been living underground. Why would you wait?

Her throat burns. She doesn’t let it show. Not here.

Instead, she walks away. One heavy step at a time. The backstage lights blur slightly at the corners of her vision, but she keeps going until she’s out of the corridor, out of range.

The crowd is already filtering into their seats. Music plays softly through the main hall, reverberating off marble and gold trim.

She finds her seat easily. Second row. Front enough to see you clearly when you walk out, far enough that you won’t notice her face if it falls apart.

Abby sinks into the chair, her jaw clenched so tight she feels it in her temples. Her fists rest on her thighs. She doesn’t look at her phone.

You’re not hers. You never were.

But she’s here. Because even if it hurts, she still wants to see you shine.

Because that’s what friends do.

Even if she wishes she could be more than that.

The lights dim slowly, blanketing the room in a hush that feels almost holy. Through the gap in the curtain, you watch as the crowd stills, a thousand glittering eyes trained on the runway. For a second, it feels like the world forgets to breathe.

Then the music begins — soft and surreal, like a lullaby drifting in from another realm. A harp weaves gently through the melody, joined by ambient tones that echo like ripples on water. It vibrates faintly beneath your heels, brushing up through your spine and into your chest.

A low sigh moves through the audience, and the runway lights come to life with a tender glow. Pastel hues spill across the floor — lavender, sky blue, blush pink — mimicking the soft gradient of a waking dream. Light bounces off crystal fixtures above, scattering faint rainbows across velvet seats and stunned faces.

The scent in the air is subtle but familiar — jasmine, maybe, or lilies, wrapped in a veil of something powdery and expensive. It’s comforting. Cool air kisses your skin, a welcome contrast to the backstage heat clinging to your neck.

You peek around the edge of the curtain. From this angle, the room doesn’t look real. Feathers and glass float above the runway like clouds suspended in time. Iridescent panels glint like fairy wings. Everything shimmers, everything glows, and the room feels like it was built inside someone’s dream.

And then, the show begins.

Models glide across the runway like echoes of movement — silent, elegant, impossible. The gowns are unlike anything you’ve ever seen, each one softer and stranger than the last. Layers of sheer fabric trail behind them like fog. Some wear crowns of pearls; others, winged capes that catch the light like dragonfly silk. You can hear the crowd react — a collective inhale, a few murmured gasps, the faint pop of camera shutters.

You swallow.

You glance down at yourself. The gown hugs your body like it was grown for you, not tailored. It’s weightless, almost unreal, like walking in water. Like wearing the sky.

You shift your weight, the fabric of the dress brushing your thighs like silk and static. You steady your breath.

You take a breath. It tastes like perfume and nerves.

Then, a hand gently taps your back. It’s time.

You step forward, and walk into the dream.

As soon as you step onto the runway, a hush falls over the audience like a spell settling.

Your dress shimmers like a frozen breath of wind, sculpted from a sheer, icy blue fabric that glows faintly under the runway lights. It clings to your frame like liquid glass, sculpted in fluid, wave-like folds that wrap around your bodice, rising into structured, off-shoulder swirls — almost like sea foam frozen mid-motion.

A thigh-high slit reveals your leg with every step, the fabric parting like water, and the flowing train behind you ripples with each movement, catching the light in glints of opal and diamond. The material isn’t just iridescent — it’s alive under the spotlight, glimmering with subtle hints of silver and pearl, like moonlight scattered across the surface of a lake.

The dress doesn’t feel made — it feels conjured. As though someone plucked it from the tide of a dream and poured it over your skin. As though you're a pearl from the deepest trenches of the ocean.

And with every step you take, you feel less like a person walking down a runway — and more like a vision floating across the surface of a waking dream.

For a heartbeat, it feels like the entire room exhales at once.

Then, the reaction ignites.

A wave of gasps rolls through the crowd, followed by the frantic clicking of cameras. You can hear murmured phrases — "She's glowing," "That dress," "Is that her?" — all tangled beneath the music, which now sounds like wind chimes echoing underwater. The ethereal theme of the show couldn’t have chosen a better moment to peak, because you are the theme. The embodiment of it. Not a model wearing a gown, but something out of a dream, ethereal and unreachable and stunningly real all at once.

You keep walking.

One step, then another.

And with each one, something in you solidifies.

The nerves you felt backstage burn away like mist under a rising sun. Your spine straightens, your shoulders ease back, and your face settles into that untouchable, camera-perfect calm. The kind that says I know you're looking. I planned on it.

You scan the room in that careful, practiced way you’ve mastered — eyes drifting but never quite lingering. But then you spot them.

Sevika.

And her.

You almost break your stride.

Sevika looks like she’s physically restraining herself from committing a felony. Her jaw is locked so tight you swear you can see the muscle twitch. Her entire posture screams trapped. Meanwhile, the reporter next to her is absolutely thriving. She's leaned in far too close, talking with the kind of enthusiasm reserved for conspiracy theorists or people who just found out they’re sitting next to a viral moment waiting to happen. You can tell Sevika's trying to ignore her, but the show is mid-walk and she has no escape — she’s stuck.

The corner of your mouth twitches.

But you don’t smile — not fully. You hold it back, just enough to feel like a private victory. A glint in your eyes, a tilt of your head. Just enough to keep it yours.

The cameras keep flashing. The dress keeps catching the light like moonlight on water. The audience doesn’t look away — not even for a second.

And as you near the end of the runway, your confidence isn’t just restored — it’s blazing. Every part of you moves like you belong on this stage, like you were designed for this moment. The soft perfume of fresh florals floats through the air from the decor lining the room, blending with the subtle clean scent of fabric and warm stage lights. You can even hear the faint crackle of static from the speakers as the music shifts to its final stretch.

You're nearing the end of the runway, the lights illuminating your body like you were carved from something celestial. The applause has dulled into a soft hum in your ears, the world blurring around the edges, and you’re in it. You’re holding the room. Owning it. Floating in that strange, electric place where you feel untouchable — until you see her.

Dark blonde. Blue eyes. Dressed in a suit made of sin.

Abby.

It’s like the universe takes a breath the moment your eyes meet hers.

And when it exhales, it hits you like a train.

You lock eyes with her, and everything inside you fractures. Time stops. The lights seem to dim around the edges of your vision. You can’t hear the music anymore, or the click of cameras, or the hush of the crowd. It’s like you’ve been dunked underwater, and the only thing you can make out with perfect, brutal clarity is her.

She looks… she looks the same. Earth-toned, grounded, immovable. But her expression? You can’t read it. Not fully. She’s watching you like you’re a painting she wasn’t prepared to see again, like something she’d tried to forget.

Your mind reels.

She showed up. After everything. After Barcelon. After silence. After you tried to convince yourself that maybe — just maybe — you could pretend to be “just friends” again.

And you go through all five stages of emotional whiplash in seconds.

First comes shock. A gut punch. Your breath hitches. Your stride falters — not visibly, not yet — but your chest caves in a little.

Then awe. That she’s real, and here, and watching you. Like a ghost reentering the room, full-bodied and alive. It feels impossible.

Then anger. God, it flares so fast. Anger at her for disappearing. For letting you twist in the wind while the internet dissected that photo. For making you feel so small in the silence. For looking at you like that now — soft, unreadable, and too late.

Sadness creeps in right after. Heavy and familiar. The kind that weighs down your bones. You missed her. You still miss her. You hate how just the sight of her — the possibility of her — rips you open like this.

And then—hope. That stupid, relentless thing that refuses to die. It flickers in your chest, bright and dangerous. Because she’s here. She came. She didn’t text, didn’t call, but she came. Maybe it means something.

And in the space of a single second — where your entire emotional world combusts — you forget where you are.

The train of your dress — light as air, delicate as spun sugar — trails behind you like mist. One wrong shift, one misplaced step, and your heel catches on the fabric. You feel it: the resistance, the pull. Your balance teeters.

You try to recover, but it's too late.

The world tilts.

You stumble. Your arms shoot out instinctively, fingers grasping for purchase in the empty air.

Then—impact.

Your knees hit the floor first, sharp and unforgiving against the sleek runway. The room gasps — an audible, collective sound, like a wave crashing. It’s visceral. Horrified. Sympathetic. The music keeps playing, as if mocking you with its ethereal, dreamlike tones.

And then the worst part—

You feel it.

Rip.

Two of them.

The first is behind you, the train tearing loose with a sickening sound. The gossamer fabric shreds like wet paper.

The second — worse — at your thigh. The slit that was already daring, already toeing the line of scandal, gives way completely. A harsh, jagged rip down the seam. Cold air rushes across newly exposed skin.

And on top of that? The stalk of your heel broke upon impact and detached from your foot.

You feel everything at once. Embarrassment, pain, adrenaline, humiliation. Cameras click. Gasps turn to murmurs.

You can’t move.

You don’t dare move.

Because this wasn’t just a fall. This was your fall. Your big moment. And now you’re sprawled on the floor, legs askew, dress torn, heart ruined.

And still—Abby is watching.

And it kills you that even in this moment. Even when you’ve never felt smaller, more broken, more visible — a part of you still hopes she’ll come running.

Then, the music halts.

Not a fade. Not a gentle cut.

A clean, jarring stop. Like the breath knocked out of your chest.

Lingering gasps echo like gunshots across the venue, followed by an eerie silence that stretches far too long. The runway, once alive with movement, now feels like a graveyard. Models are frozen mid-stride, the delicate train of their garments fluttering faintly in the still air, like ghosts suspended in time.

But you?

You’re crumpled at the end of the catwalk, breath punched from your lungs, the torn remains of your dress splayed around you like fallen wings. The lights above you aren’t just harsh now — they’re merciless, turning every trembling breath into spectacle, every tear-streaked cheek into a tabloid shot.

You hear murmurs. Soft at first, then sharper. Curious. Concerned. Intrusive.

“Is she okay?”

“Was that part of the show?”

“That fall looked bad...”

“Someone do something.”

Your heart is pounding so loudly it’s the only thing you can hear.

You're not used to this. You're used to mockery. Criticism. Gossip columns that praise you in one paragraph and gut you in the next. But concern? Worry? Pity?

You don’t know how to carry that.

So you wrap your arms around yourself, instinctively covering your exposed skin, trying to disappear into your own limbs. You don’t want the cameras catching this angle. You don’t want them to see the way your lip is trembling. You don’t want them to see how real you look. How human.

You never let them see that.

But the tears betray you, hot and fast, leaving streaks down your perfectly powdered face. You’re crying. You’re crying in front of all of them. Your shoulders quake. Your chest heaves.

And then— Then you look up.

And see her.

Abby.

Standing.

Moving.

Coming straight for you.

Time shatters again.

Everything else, everything, falls away. The stage, the lights, the gasps, the crowd, the world.

All you can see is Abby. Her brows knit in panic, her lips parted in a soundless exhale, her steps urgent and unsteady. She's pushing past people, ducking around cameras, cutting through fashion royalty and paparazzi like none of them exist. Her gaze is locked on you — just you — and for a second, your breath returns like a gasp of life.

You didn’t think she’d come. Not after everything.

You didn’t think she’d still care.

And now she’s here. And she’s seeing you like this.

Shame slams into your gut like a wrecking ball.

You can’t bear to let her see you broken. Not her. Especially not her.

Tears rise higher in your throat, hot and thick and unrelenting. You force your gaze away from her, biting down on your lip so hard you taste copper. Your arms tighten around yourself, as if to stop your whole body from unraveling.

But Abby keeps coming.

Until—

A wall of black-clad security steps in front of her.

“Ma’am, you can’t be here,” one of them says, placing a firm hand against her shoulder. “The show’s restarting.”

“I don’t give a sh—” Abby’s voice rises, raw and frantic, but she cuts herself off, jaw tight, trying to push past.

“The show is in motion. You can’t interrupt.”

And just like that, the music returns.

Violins. Breathless, airy tones. The show’s theme, ethereal and dreamlike, now sounds mocking in your ears. Surreal and cruel.

The models begin to walk again.

Everything moves without you.

You’re still there, trembling and tear-streaked, wrapped in ripped silk and ruined dignity. You don’t know how to move. Your muscles are jelly, your bones are betrayal. You’re supposed to be composed. Untouchable. A force.

And now?

You feel like glass.

You glance one last time toward the crowd — toward Abby — but security is guiding her back, her eyes burning into yours as she disappears from view. Her hand lingers at her chest like she’s holding something broken there.

You want to scream.

But all you do is bend down, pick up your broken heel with shaking fingers, and rise.

Every step hurts. Not physically, but somewhere deeper. Deeper than skin. Deeper than bone.

You don’t make eye contact with anyone. You can’t. Your vision’s too blurred. Your head is down. Your arms are still folded around your waist, trying to hold the dress—and yourself—together.

Every flash of a camera feels like a bullet.

Every whisper feels like it’s carved into your skin.

You walk off the runway barefoot, humiliated, humiliated, humiliated, each step dragging the word behind you like a chain.

And yet—you walk.

Because somehow, even in ruin, you know how to perform.

And that’s the worst part of all.

Abby watches you disappear behind the curtain.

She doesn't blink. Doesn't breathe. Doesn’t move.

Only her hand tightens around the edge of her chair — knuckles pale, tendons pulled tight — as if anchoring herself will somehow stop the spiralling chaos inside her.

You’re gone from view now, swallowed by velvet curtains and urgent whispers, but the image won’t leave her. The moment you fell — no, stumbled — because of her. Because she was there.

Abby drags a trembling hand down her face, heart pounding so loud she feels it in her throat. Her eyes sting, but she blinks through it, watching the models float down the runway like nothing happened. Like your fall was just another blip. Like the air didn’t just leave the room. Like her world didn’t just come crashing down right in front of her.

You locked eyes with her. Just for a second.

That was all it took.

She saw it happen in real time. The change in your expression. The stutter in your step. The flicker of every emotion you’ve been trying so hard to bury — shock, confusion, hurt, longing — before it all came undone.

And then you fell.

And it’s her fault.

The guilt is instant and vicious, curling hot and nauseous in her stomach. Like swallowing glass. She can still feel the echo of your eyes on hers — wide, stunned, vulnerable. She’s seen you in every form imaginable: red carpet confidence, chaotic joy, cutting sarcasm. But she’s never seen you like that.

Shattered.

Abby swallows hard, her throat dry, her lungs too tight to work properly. Her mind races, building and rebuilding the moment over and over like a scene in slow motion.

She shouldn't have come.

She knew this was risky. That things were still fragile, tense. She could’ve waited. Could’ve called. Texted. Anything but this. She thought showing up would mean something. She thought maybe it would help. That maybe seeing her in the crowd would be comforting.

But instead?

It broke you.

And god, she saw the tears on your face. Real tears. Running through your makeup like wounds. Abby’s never seen you cry — not even when the scandal first broke, not even when you both agreed to lie through your teeth in front of the whole world. You’ve always held it together. Always held yourself together.

Until now.

Because of her.

The guilt grips her chest like a vice, so much so that it makes her lean forward, elbows on her knees, fingers digging into her scalp as she stares at the floor. She's never felt something like this. Not even after the worst crashes. This isn’t adrenaline. This isn’t regret. This is something else entirely — this is guilt braided with heartbreak, shame laced with longing.

She just wanted to fix things. Instead, she hurt you more.

And the worst part? She hadn’t even meant to interrupt. She just needed to see you. After everything — weeks of silence, the public statement, the distance that felt like oceans instead of cities—she just wanted to be close to you again. Even if just as a friend. Even if she had to swallow every feeling she’s buried beneath that polished exterior.

But now?

Now she’s not even sure if she deserves to be that.

The lights dim a little as the show progresses. People are applauding again, murmuring about the ethereal gowns and dreamy atmosphere. Everything has moved on.

But Abby hasn’t.

All she can see is the look on your face when you hit the ground.

All she can feel is your eyes on hers, filled with everything unspoken.

And all she can do is sit there, stuck in a VIP seat she no longer wants, hands clenched, heart wrecked, and no way to fix it.

Because how do you say I’m sorry for being the reason you broke, when you were already breaking just trying to stay friends?

30 MINUTES LATER...

“Shit. Shitshitshit,” she mutters under her breath, weaving past assistants hauling racks of tulle and wings. “Goddamn fashion circus—should’ve just stayed in the f—”

Her voice is low but steady, more frustration than panic, although there’s a good dose of that too. She’s been cursing since she left her seat, one quiet swear word after another like stepping stones through the ocean of her thoughts. Her fingers are clenched at her sides, nails biting into the seams of her pants. She's walking too fast, too hard, as if her body can outrun what her mind is doing to her.

She stops mid-sentence as someone with a clipboard nearly collides with her. They shriek, drop a headset, and Abby offers only a tight-lipped grunt as apology before carrying on, whispering more swears like a one-woman censorship nightmare.

She doesn’t know what the hell she’s going to say when she finds you. Doesn’t even know if she should say anything.

But she has to see you. She has to know you’re okay. She can’t stop replaying it — your eyes meeting hers, that flicker of emotion that hit her like a brick, and then, the fall. The sound of it. The silence that followed.

Her fault.

She knows it.

Even if no one else connects the dots, even if you never say it out loud — Abby knows you fell because of her.

And now, for the first time in weeks, she has a chance to fix something. Maybe not everything. Maybe not even anything real. But she can at least show up.

Even if it kills her. Even if you’ve moved on. Even if you're done pretending she doesn't make your life harder.

She’s still here. Still stupidly, painfully here.

Her boots slow as she reaches your dressing room. The door is closed. Her hand raises halfway to knock — and then she hears it.

“—do you all understand how humiliating that was for her?!”

Noora’s voice, clear as day. Sharp and venom-laced, full of fire. Abby instinctively flinches. It’s not fear exactly — it’s more like knowing a grenade’s just gone off on the other side of the wall.

“You had ONE JOB! One!” Noora’s tone cuts like glass, the fury in it impossible to misread. “It’s your job to make sure even a disaster looks like art. Models fall all the time — but the light cue stays tight. The camera pans slow. The music swells. You make it look intentional. You make her look untouchable. But what did you all do?”

Silence.

Noora keeps going. “She stumbled in front of the entire world and you just stood there and watched. Like she wasn’t the main event. Like she wasn’t the whole show.”

Abby stands frozen in the hallway, her hand still hovering near the door, heart pounding in her ears. She feels like she’s eavesdropping on a war council she was never invited to — but she can’t bring herself to move.

Not yet.

Because for all of Noora’s shouting, Abby hears something else underneath: protection. Loyalty. Fear. The same desperate ache that’s been living in her own chest since you hit the ground.

The truth is, Abby doesn’t even deserve to be this close. Not after what happened. Not after she ruined your walk, ruined your moment, just by being there.

What was she even thinking? That she could show up like a ghost and it wouldn’t rattle you? That her presence wouldn’t knock your carefully balanced life off-kilter again?

You were doing fine. She saw you — glowing, powerful, ethereal in that dress. You looked like something out of a dream. You didn’t need her. Maybe you never did.

Her hand lowers slowly, and her throat tightens as the shame comes crashing in again.

Maybe it wasn’t even about her showing up.

Maybe the problem is that she never really left.

She lingers outside your door for a second longer, then two. Her fist clenches. She could knock. Could face Noora’s wrath. Could force the apology out before she has the chance to back out again.

But the shouting on the other side makes her freeze.

If Noora sees her now…

If you do…

God, what if you think she’s only here to make things worse?

Abby takes a step back, her boots heavy on the floor. Then another. Then she turns, jaw tight, fists shoved into the pockets of her coat like she’s trying to hold herself together from the inside out.

She walks away — retreats, really — muttering under her breath again. The hallway feels narrower now. Like the walls are closing in.

“Goddamn idiot,” she whispers. “Should’ve never come. Dumb, dumb move, Anderson.”

She walks faster.

Down the corridor. Away from your door. Away from the words she’ll never get to say.

Angry. Anxious. Guilty. And worst of all—

Still in love.

“Like Watching a Goddess Crash to Earth” — Y/N L/N Falls During Milan Fashion Week Finale, and the Internet Can’t Handle It

10:45PM CET — Bella Romani, Editor-in-Drama, TMZ Europe

In a night meant to celebrate imagination, elegance, and fantasy, the unexpected happened: the woman hailed as the face of modern fashion — the untouchable, untouchable Y/N — fell.

Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. She fell.

Hard.

The shocking moment took place during the closing segment of one of Milan Fashion Week’s most anticipated shows. And as the internet, the fashion world, and Y/N’s own loyal fanbase try to catch their breath, one truth remains clear: this moment has already become a defining event in fashion history.

The Fall That Froze the Fantasy

From the very beginning, the atmosphere was electric. The venue had been transformed into a dreamscape — sheer clouds suspended from the ceiling, pools of soft light filtering down like moonbeams, and music that shimmered like the stars. The show’s theme was Ethereal Rebirth, and it delivered on every front… until reality hit.

L/N was dressed in a gown so hauntingly delicate it looked conjured, not crafted. The soft periwinkle silk fluttered with every step, catching the lights in a subtle iridescence. The corseted bodice clung to her like starlight; the slit at her thigh flashed with confident power. The gown’s train, airy and regal, trailed behind her like mist.

As she walked, the room held its breath. Phones rose. Flashes sparked. Fashion editors leaned forward.

But then — it happened.

Just as she reached the edge of the runway, her heel caught on the train. Her body jerked forward. The sound of her stiletto snapping was swallowed by a single collective gasp. And then she fell — forward, onto the floor, with enough force that the fabric tore audibly.

“It was like watching a goddess crash to earth,” said one attendee, a fashion executive who asked to remain anonymous. “Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

The moment she hit the ground, the music halted mid-note. The models froze where they stood. The murmurs that followed were brief — quickly drowned by stunned silence.

For once, the fashion world didn’t know what to do.

L/N didn’t speak. She didn’t get up right away. She just sat there, arms wrapping instinctively around herself, trying to cover what had ripped — first at the train, and more visibly at the slit that had now torn far beyond what was intended, exposing her leg up to the hip.

Her makeup, once ethereal, now streaked down her cheeks. Her eyes darted upward — and in that moment, they locked with someone nobody expected: Abby Anderson, the famously private Mercedes-AMG F1 driver and, according to a month of speculation, Y/N’s ex-best friend… or something more.

Whatever was between them, there was no mistaking the emotional collision when their eyes met.

And it was this — this pause, this moment of soul-deep recognition — that some say caused the fall in the first place.

“She saw Abby. That’s when it happened,” said a source backstage. “She looked shocked. Like she didn’t know Abby would be there. She completely lost her footing.”

The Aftermath: A Torn Dress, A Halted Show, and One Very Determined Driver

While models and handlers hesitated, Abby Anderson stood up and tried to move toward the runway — reportedly pushing past a seated guest and calling Y/N’s name.

Security intervened quickly, physically barring her from stepping onto the runway. The show’s coordinator gave a silent cue. The music restarted, and the models began walking again, as if nothing had happened.

But everything had.

Y/N stood, shakily, keeping her eyes down. She hugged herself — not for warmth, but for protection — and walked off the runway alone, her torn dress dragging behind her like a fallen flag.

From the audience, cameras caught Abby clenching her jaw, her fists balled at her sides. She didn’t move again until the lights dimmed.

The Internet Reacts: #ProtectY/N Trends Within Minutes

Online, the reaction was immediate — and intense.

“She’s always been perfection. Seeing her fall made me love her more. She’s human. She's real.” – @ thecoutureoracle

“This is NOT on her. The dress design, the train, the heels — this was a production flaw. I’m devastated for her.” – @ ynsgirl

“She looked right at Abby Anderson. Go watch the clip. That’s when she fell.” – @ mercedesfiend

Within the hour, #ProtectY/N, #LetHerRise, and #TeamY/N were all trending worldwide.

Clips of the moment are already circulating with over 87 million views across platforms. Some fans have even begun editing slowed-down versions of the fall over orchestral music, calling her "The Fallen Angel of Milan."

Others are demanding accountability — from the designers, the event organisers, and even the models who were on stage and did nothing to help.

Backstage: Panic, Screaming, and a Missed Reunion

What the audience didn’t see was what happened backstage.

Insiders report that Y/N’s notoriously fierce manager, Noora, exploded at both the production staff and her fellow models.

“You all watched her FALL and did nothing. You’re supposed to adapt. You’re supposed to pivot and protect. THAT is your job,” Noora was heard shouting.

Meanwhile, Anderson was spotted pacing the hallway just outside Y/N’s dressing room, visibly distressed. Sources say she approached the door, hand raised to knock — but froze when she heard the shouting inside. After several tense seconds, Abby muttered something under her breath (our source swears it was “F*ck it”) and walked away, eyes stormy with guilt.

“She looked heartbroken. Not just upset — devastated,” said a stylist backstage. “She didn’t even know what to do with her hands. Like she wanted to fix something she couldn’t touch.”

Will L/N Recover? Or Will the Fall Follow Her?

Industry experts are already debating what this means for Y/N’s career. Some believe the incident, caught in high definition, could lead to hesitation among luxury brands. But others argue the opposite: that this very moment may deepen her legend.

“It’s tragic, yes. But it’s also cinematic,” said fashion editor Celeste Harrow. “She didn’t just fall — she felt. That’s more compelling than a million perfect walks.”

Insiders say her PR team is already working overtime on damage control, likely pivoting the narrative toward resilience, vulnerability, and power in imperfection. But for now, the model herself has yet to release a statement.

We do know this: if her team intends to spin this into gold, the world will be watching — and waiting.

───────────────────────────────

"FAN OR FIEND?" — 'Reporter' Spotted in VIP Section With Producer SEVIKA During Milan Fashion Show

The Dress That Tore: Inside the Creation (and Destruction) of the Show’s Finale Look

Back on Her Feet: Why Y/N’s Stumble Might Be the Comeback Moment of the Year

taglist: @applejusue @valeisaslut @the-sick-habit @doodl3b3ans @sllushii @liztreez @azxteria @jazzyxox @iadorefineshyt @katherinesmirnova @jomamaonthebeat @vangoes @eriiwaiii2 @monki-nat @oneinameliann @ferxanda @noliaswaves @bluminescent-moon @rhian88 @wiildandfluorescent @luvrmunson @witheredvioletz @sewithinsouls @emmyyyyy777 @lesbones @satellitespinner comment to be added!! ♡

a/n: sorry for not posting in a while guys,, life's been a bit chaotic lately and i'm still trying to plan out my time properly 😔 anyways this crossover was sososo fun!! working together on smth w another writer is always an amazing experience and i'm honoured i finally got the chance to do it! tysm to aj for letting me be involved in one of your works, i've never had so much fun writing something <333

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mars4hellokitty · 5 days ago

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woah you're gender fluid? that's so cool. *drinks u

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mars4hellokitty · 5 days ago

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I'm ready

@mars4hellokitty you're getting ate out for this one 🤞

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mars4hellokitty · 5 days ago

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the three horsemen of Tumblr have posted 😼

@applejusue @zzelysian @korn-dawg

#mars4hellokitty recommends

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mars4hellokitty · 10 days ago

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seam

⚢ synopsis : you’re new to the salt-lake city’s st. mary hospital. ellie’s not. you were trained to make the stitches perfect. ellie was trained to save people—not to be saved. now you’re the one holding the needle.

⚢ paramedic!ellie × female!doctor!reader

⚢ content warning : mdni. hospital au. mild angst. mentions of violence and blood and injuries. medical procedures. hurt/comfort. reader comforts ellie.

⚢ word count : 7.3k

2 in 3 survey respondents (67%) reported having been physically assaulted while practicing EMS.

Nearly all (91%) respondents reported having been verbally assaulted while practicing EMS.

Studies indicate that approximately 10–15% of EMS personnel exhibit symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), significantly higher than the general population.

Verbal attacks, including graphic threats, racial slurs, and other language aimed to frighten or offend, are a regular occurrence in the field for EMS workers

‘show me where it hurts the most so i know where to love you the softest’

You watched her more times than you ever let yourself admit.

Different days blurred into each other—morning, night, pre-dawn greys—and still there she was; tens of patients slipped through her hands like fleeting shadows. Unless her fingers were curled around a half-crushed cigarette or a bitter hospital coffee cup stained the colour of dried blood. Sometimes both. Always both.

She left you standing there in the dim blue, the smell of wet asphalt curling around your ankles, wondering how many wounds those hands had closed—and how many remained open inside her own chest—as she disappeared into the siren-lit dark on her next call.

Your gaze lingered on her longer than it should.

The same ambulance every time, that battered box of rushing lights; the same crew—their driver’s laughter ricocheting off emergency bay walls loud enough to drown out her voice. And her—with that auburn hair twisted into a hasty half-bun, stray strands escaping from under her bandana. Some days it was navy blue, other days black with scattered stars. But you loved it most when she wore the graphite-grey one with small white moths drifting across the fabric like quiet thoughts she’d never say out loud.

Her uniform almost always blended into the dawn—that deep paramedic blue merging with the roads and gloom, leaving only the thin silver stripes of her reflective bands to catch your gaze as she moved. Sometimes, when calls ran late into the warm breath of morning, she’d shed the heavy jumpsuit and stand there in just a dark t-shirt, unfazed by the cold. That’s when you’d catch a glimpse of the ink coiling around her forearm, dark against pale skin—but never close enough to see what it was. Just another part of her you were never meant to read.

Her face at the end of a shift carved your chest open: something about the way she looked smoking alone in the shadowed break zone, eyes somewhere far beyond the fading streetlights, her shoulders lowered; something about her made the cigarette between your own fingers burn down to a silent column of ash, untouched.

It made you want to step closer. To inhale her exhaled smoke like oxygen. To taste the bitter brand of her cigarettes on your tongue. To rest your palm on the fragile cage of her ribs and count her pulse—measure her existence in quiet systoles and diastoles, one by one. To know, for a moment, that she was still there—when she looked like she wasn’t at all.

There was never enough time to say anything real. When you stepped outside for a quick respite between patients, she was already gone—flashlights fading into the damp dark. Circles of red, white, and blue. Blood, your med gown, and her uniform. Or she’d arrive just as you exhaled that last breath of smoke, pushing through the ambulance bay doors with someone clinging to life under her hands.

Your shifts never lined up the way you wished they would. Different clocks. Different doors. The most you could do was catch her shape in passing: the chestnut shade over the blue, elusive figure, the hasty gait of someone used to counting seconds of delay slipping into your memory like an impulse you couldn’t let go of. You didn’t know her, not really. But your eyes kept finding her all the same—like they owed her that small, quiet insistence of being seen.

She moved through your world like a passing siren—urgent, loud in her silence, and gone before you could even think of something to say. There was never space for words. Not when she was carrying someone’s life. Not when your pager screamed in your pocket, dragging you back to your own drowning patient.

That’s the thing about working in emergency. You’re always tending to the dying or running from them. There’s no pause for introductions. No quiet corners for first names or favourite songs. Just a glimpse of her, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, gloves pulled tight over long fingers, jaw set with that fierce, fragile concentration—and then she’s gone, swallowed by the next call, the next street, the next heartbeat that needed hers more than you did.

Habits, once carved deep into your bones by duty and routine, rarely changed. They hadn't changed. But sometimes, by some mercy of rosters and schedules, the world—St. Mary’s endless glass and steel corridors—gives you five minutes. Not a golden hour. Just a sliver of time sharp enough to split your morning in half.

It doesn’t even feel real. It feels like a cliché—the tired kind they romanticize in Grey’s Anatomy. You’ve never actually watched it, but somehow still hate it. You’re standing here now, leaning back against a concrete column outside the emergency bay, thumb bruising the empty plastic of a disposable lighter, flicking again and again with no spark. The filter of the cigarette clenched between your lips, the taste of stale paper and nicotine ghosting your tongue.

Then there is a spark.

“Hey, doc. Need some fire?”

Her voice comes from your left. She’s stepped up beside you, leaning with one shoulder against the wall like it’s the easiest thing, lazy and loose. From a distance, anyone would think she looks relaxed, almost careless—but now you’re close enough to see the grey shadow of exhaustion hollowed beneath her eyes, etched deep into the soft skin there, like bruises that no amount of sleep could heal.

It comes hoarse from the cold or the last call she took—you can’t tell. She holds out a lighter—metal, heavy, engraved with something you can’t read. For a second the world narrows to nothing but the flick of her thumb and the quiet hiss of flame.

You read her name stitched above her chest pocket—just ‘Ellie’. No surname. No hint at anything more. It tastes bittersweet, fitting her perfectly.

Her fingers smell of mint antiseptic, yours of lemon foam soap. You hate lemon. But you think you could get used to mint.

You cup your hands around hers to shield the flame from the restless wind, bending forward until the warmth of the fire kisses your cigarette. Ellie’s hands are coarse from gloves and cold air, fingertips split with small healing cracks. You know yours feel the same—dry, raw, the skin punished by constant scrubbing. The price of lives saved. The small one at this point, right?

“Thanks,” you murmur, exhaling smoke between words.

She flips the lighter closed with a soft metallic click. “No problem.”

Ellie shifts her weight against the column and adds, almost like an afterthought, her eyes still on the empty parking lot—yours on her.

“Tough night?”

You huff a quiet laugh, smoke curling past your lips. “Aren’t they all?”

She gives a small shrug, eyes flicking to yours briefly before returning to the street. Then she offers you a tiny smile in the corner of her mouth, the one that makes something in your chest ache.

“Damn, you’re right.”

One of her boots taps lightly against the concrete, a restless rhythm you can almost hear, or maybe it’s the subtle drumming of her fingers against the side of her thigh, marking out a beat only she knows.

You steal a glance at Ellie—a real glance, now that she’s close enough for the thin light to slip across her features. Freckles. Dozens of them, scattered rust-brown over pale skin like copper splinters against snow. It’s too cold for freckles to exist, with too little sun for them to burn so bright, but there they are—stubborn, vivid, almost defiant.

She’s shorter than you thought. Somehow, in your mind, she’d always loomed taller—maybe it was the way she carried herself, heavy with silent purpose. Her voice surprises you too. Softer than you imagined. Not rough or low or cutting like her jawline might suggest. Almost gentle. Almost boyish.

It’s hard to tell the color of her eyes. They’re narrowed against the dim dawn light, lashes casting shadows that break her gaze into fragments. Brown, maybe. Green. Hazel. You can’t tell, and somehow that feels right—like even her eyes refuse to give everything away.

Today she’s wearing a new bandana. Red—but not the red of ambulance lights or fresh arterial blood. It’s warmer and softer, like a cowboy’s neckerchief in an old western film, muted and worn by years of sun and grit. You know you’ll think of that red next time you peel off blood-soaked gloves in trauma bay three.

There’s a small silver stud piercing her brow, nestled into an old scar that cuts through it at an angle. Another mark of what she’s survived. Her forearm is inked with dark leaves and wings—you see it now, as clear as you see your own palms—curling over the ridge of another healed scar, half-hidden by her rolled-up uniform sleeve. She’s draped in fabric, metal, ink, and old wounds—all those layers wrapped tight around whatever truth lives underneath.

For the briefest, most fragile moment, you want to be someone allowed to touch what’s beneath all that steel.

Ellie moves beside you, pulling her lighter back into her pocket, and tugs at the thin wire disappearing under red fabric. You realize she’s wearing cheap wired earbuds, the kind you can buy for five bucks at a gas station, one dangling loose against her chest.

“Hey,” she says. “Want an ear?”

You blink at her. “What?”

She pulls out the free bud and offers it to you between calloused fingers. Up close, you hear the faint bleed of music from the bud—soft guitar and a woman’s voice, low and smoky, carrying something tired and tender in every note. It feels… intimate. Unexpectedly so. It’s like Ellie’s offering you a pulse from her own chest.

“You don’t have to,” she shrugs, almost embarrassed now. “Just… figured you might wanna hear something that isn’t alarms or screaming for a sec.”

You hesitate only for one blink before you take the earbud from her hand. Your fingers brush, bare skin against bare skin, and you move in closer to place it into your ear. Closer than you meant to. Closer than you’ve ever been. You can’t tell if it’s her quiet breath ghosting over the hollow of your throat or just the breeze slipping beneath the V-neck of your scrub top.

The music spills into you instantly—quiet guitar, a woman’s voice soft and hushed, singing words that make your chest tighten until it’s hard to breathe. Like she’s singing straight into your bones, to all the silent parts of you that never learned how to speak.

You’re staring at the ground, at the faded bloodstains on your clogs, at the faint reflection of ambulance lights in the rain-slick concrete. You don’t see that Ellie’s not looking at the parking lot anymore. She’s looking at you.

One of your eyes is always half-shut

Somethin' happened when you were a kid

I didn't know you then and I'll never understand

Why it feels like I did

You swallow around the sudden ache in your throat, pulse fluttering against the collar of your scrubs. The song feels too raw, too knowing. Like it’s been waiting there all along for this moment, for you to hear it beside her, breathing in the same bitter air.

You

You must've been lookin' for me

Sendin' smoke signals

Your eyes go wide. The smoke catches in your throat, sudden and thick, and you almost cough on it. It makes you wonder if Ellie hears it the same way. Wonder if that’s why she offered the earbud in the first place.

Her eyes catch yours—sharp, a little sly beneath those fiery lashes that flicker like embers. She hears it the same—it’s clear. Her thumb skims the edge of the lighter in her pocket, metal on metal. The frayed dirty-white wire between you isn’t the red string, of course. It’s more practical—more real. Like surgical suture, thin and strong enough to hold flesh together.

It hasn’t stitched you to her yet. But it’s tangled you both in the same knot, with the song that’s meant for this exact moment, for this exact pair of strangers.

Ellie’s lips curve into a small, knowing smile.

“Smoke signals, huh?” she says under her breath, almost teasing. “Fitting.”

Her gaze holds yours for a heartbeat longer—unspoken, but charged—before she finally looks away, leaving the space humming with what’s left unsaid. No explanation. No follow-up. Just a word left hanging between you.

It almost feels like there’s a world beyond the bay doors—a world where people touch each other softly, where music plays for no reason other than it existing, where your lungs don’t taste like smoke and antiseptic and grief.

But then the real doors hiss open again, snapping the illusion in two like a sterile package.

The pause, the one stretched thin between smoke and melody, burns down to the filter. The shared wire goes slack.

Somewhere behind Ellie, someone whistles—a sharp sound that slices through the air. You follow her gaze. There’s a woman with amazing hair and a man whose voice carries even across the parking lot. They’re waving. At her, of course. But maybe… at you too.

You raise a lazy salute back. Smile, almost despite yourself.

She doesn’t say goodbye. Neither do you. But something about the way she steps back, facing you the whole time—a little slower than necessary, the way her eyes stay locked on yours—makes it feel like a promise anyway. There’s a glint in her brow, a little silver catching the light, just like her smile does.

“You’re good company,” Ellie says, almost offhand, and you know you’ll hold onto it longer than you mean to.

Then she turns, and the two of them catch up to her. One throws an arm around her shoulder, says something with a grin. Ellie laughs. Bats him off. Teases back.

She doesn’t look back. But you’re certain—she knows you’re still watching.

Her eyes are green, you realize it now.

The day moves slowly.

Your shift unfolds in muted tones: a kitchen burn, a twisted ankle, a boy with a Lego up his nose who leaves beaming, popsicle in hand. It’s the kind of rhythm you almost wish for—not quiet, but manageable. Nothing unfixable. You move like clockwork through the familiar steps, write notes, change gloves, smile where it’s needed. Your feet ache, but your brain hums in a low, steady gear.

But then—like a power line vibrating, the air begins to buzz.

The stillness isn’t still anymore. It’s waiting.

You feel it in the way the nurses fall quieter, how the charge tech stays half-turned toward the radio. You feel it in your pulse, syncing to something unspoken. Like the hospital has shrunk—no more cafeteria chatter, no distant footsteps down sterile hallways. Just this room and the voice.

“Fourteen-year-old female, restrained passenger, T-bone collision, high impact. Stable airway. BP ninety over sixty. GCS fourteen. Tachycardic, signs of internal bleeding. ETA three minutes.”

The pre-arrival report hits hard.

Fourteen.

You flex your fingers, once, twice—the motion is meant to loosen the stiffness, but it doesn’t do much. Your gloves are still on the tray. You reach for them without thinking. Somewhere in the distance, monitors chirp their sterile rhythm. Closer, someone mutters a code to the charge nurse. You stand by the trauma bay doors, waiting. It’s not your first call, not your first child. But it hits every time like the first one.

“Page surgery. Tell them we’ve got a possible internal bleed with unstable vitals. I want that OR hot and ready by the time she rolls in.”

You give the order to the guy by the phone—he dials the number and relays the message to the OR, as if handing over the key to a life saved.

The voice is Ellie’s, you notice belatedly, like a side thought. Her low, focused register. The clarity behind every syllable. She’s already in the thick of it. And as you pull on your gloves, count your breaths, you brace to meet her there.

You don’t need the rest of the dispatch to know what’s arriving. Something heavy. Something that drips dread from the soles of its boots. There’s a patient in that rig whose life is unspooling thread by thread—and Ellie is threading the needle, racing to hold it together.

The hospital bends in unknowable ways.

Corridors twist like veins—some clogged, some bleeding, some lit in soft gold like redemption. You’ve walked them long enough to know: the cycle loops here. Life and death curl through the same doors, ride the same stretchers, sometimes held in the same hands.

Within this endless turning, your path and Ellie’s are destined to cross at moments that matter most.

After the chaos, after the desperate fight for breath and heartbeats, you picture a quiet moment shared between you: two silhouettes leaning against the cold counter, the tension melting away in a lull carried by another song you’d offer. You would ask her when she gets her day off, and she would shrug with that indifferent charm, like time is a stranger you both barely recognize. Maybe she’d smile, just a little, and stay a moment longer in the calm before the storm.

But both of you walked away from peace a long time ago—willingly. The double doors crash open like the inhale before panic, and the world narrows to red.

They wheel her in fast. Everything spins fast now on your fingertips, holds its breath, counts seconds. Face as pale as printer paper, streaked with dried blood. A cervical collar holds her neck in place, chest rising unevenly beneath a too-large hoodie. She’s small—smaller than you imagined when Ellie called her ‘passenger.’

There’s a vivid slash of red bisecting her cheek where the glass bit. A faint, blooming bruise crawls up from beneath the collarbone, the unmistakable signature of a seatbelt. Life-saving. Life-threatening.

You glimpse the numbers on the monitor: HR one-forty. She’s shocked. Breathing fast. Still conscious. Still here.

And holding the stretcher at her side, pressing one steady hand to a blood-soaked bandage over the girl’s abdomen, is Ellie. She comes in like a stormlight.

She doesn’t look up right away—too focused. A second medic holds the opposite rail. You catch the glint of golden hoops under her curls. Dina. Ellie’s glove squeaks as she adjusts pressure, her mouth a tight line.

“She was belted,” Dina reports, clenching the rails. “Passenger side. Car ran a red and hit them at sixty. She was awake on scene. Responsive. We’ve got suspected pelvic fracture, open radius on the right. GCS fourteen when we loaded, twelve now.”

“Two lines in, oxygen running, BP still dropping,” Ellie adds quickly.

The voice now has a face again. Eyes sharp, barely blinking under the harsh lights.

You nod once, already checking the monitor. “Let’s cross-match. I want type O standing by.”

The girl shifts and whimpers.

“Hurts.”

“I know, kiddo,” Ellie murmurs, barely above a breath. “You’re doing good. Almost there.”

Her voice trembles just a little at the edges. You see it in her eyes when she looks down at the girl: a kind of fierce, quiet urgency, as if this child’s breath is tethered to something inside her too.

Like she needs this girl to make it just to keep something intact within herself. There’s no hesitation in her, only that steadfast will you’ve seen before in people who’ve already lost too much. She holds on like she’s holding herself together.

You move in with your team. The tempo accelerates—vitals shouted, IVs opened, blood drawn. Ellie doesn’t leave; another pair of knowing hands never hurts.

The girl’s eyes flutter open again. She stares at Ellie.

“I like your bandana,” she whispers. Graphit grey. Moths.

Ellie huffs something like a laugh, but it’s hollow.

“I’ll get you one.”

You feel it—the whole room balancing on the edge of something fragile. As if one wrong word could tip it all. You’re already moving.

There’s a rhythm to this place when it matters most. The space itself understands what’s required. No one raises their voice. There’s only movement, deliberate and fast, as though all of you share one breath, one pulse. An invisible thread connects hands to tools, eyes to monitors, minds to the patient on the stretcher.

Her pupils react, but sluggishly. Eyes close one more time. Her pulse weakens by the second. Her skin is too pale now. The monitor flattens and then kicks back up again—a warning. You feel Ellie hovering close. But she doesn’t interfere. She knows and seems like she trusts.

“BP’s dropping—seventy over forty.”

Someone to your right is already hooking her to the monitor.

“Pulse thready. 140 and climbing.”

“She’s guarding. Belly’s rigid,” you say. “Intra-abdominal bleed.”

You don’t need a scan to know it. Her body is telling you everything.

You gesture sharply toward the nurse nearest you.

“Two large-bore IVs. Wide open. Start crystalloids.”

Then to respiratory:

“Bag her. Get me a 7.0 tube and a blade.”

There’s a murmur behind you: “Portable ultrasound’s on its way—”

“No time,” you cut in. “Tell them to hold the OR—we’re not making it unless she stabilizes.”

You slide closer, fingers pressing gently, assessing. Skin cold. Cap refill delayed.

“She’s decompensating,” someone mutters. You already know.

“Epi. 1 milligram. IV push.”

You slip into that practiced mode—not detachment, no, never that, but something honed and trained. Gloved hands apply pressure; direct orders flow from your lips. The team responds like muscle memory. Tubes in, fluids running. Your own heartbeat becomes background noise.

The monitor begins to slow. Then the line goes flat. It screams what her body no longer can.

“Starting compressions,” you say, already leaning in.

You move with certainty, the weight of every training session, every case before this one, packed into motion. One-two-three-four. You count out loud.

Your palms press down rhythmically, precisely—the heel of each hand digging into the girl’s narrow chest, the fragile rise of ribs beneath the skin yielding just slightly, like the surface of something meant to break. You can feel the sternum shift under pressure, then not.

“Bag every thirty. Let’s go.”

You switch. Resume compressions. Another round. Another minute. No response.

The girl’s lips part, but no life comes through. For one impossible second, it feels like something flickers under your fingers—not a pulse, not quite, but the echo of one. As if life were a string just barely within reach, and all you have to do is grab it, hold tight. You keep pressing. Keep reaching. The ribcage creaks. There’s blood at the IV site now, a smear blooming against pale skin, and time is spilling just as fast.

You pause, glancing at the screen.

“Give another epi. Start a second line. Keep fluids running.”

Ellie hasn’t moved. She’s behind the chaos, but her presence feels close, like something gravitational. Her eyes are locked on the girl, and something in them sharpens, hardens—the kind of need that demands the world to listen.

You try again. Another rhythm of compressions. This time slower. Focused. Your voice starts to falter in your own head, but you keep going until the monitor answers you with silence. Not even a flicker.

You straighten slowly. Gloves hang heavy from your fingers, like they belong to someone else.

“Time of death…” someone says.

The words float past you.

A nurse moves behind you, pulling the curtain half-shut, maybe as a kindness. The room drains around you like the sea pulling back after impact; a wave receding, leaving wreckage in its wake. Footsteps scatter. Clipboards reappear, charts begin to fill. Death, it turns out, demands a surprising amount of paperwork.

You hear the soft rustle first. A shift of weight. Ellie is lowering herself to the floor, her back hitting the wall like she can’t stand upright another second. She’s collapsing more than sitting, legs stretched out, head tipped back. One hand limp at her side, the other curled slightly like it’s still pressing into a wound that’s no longer bleeding.

You follow and sit beside her in silence, your back hits the cold tile. Your breath is still coming short, hands aching from the compressions. They tremble against your thighs, and you clench them, useless. Something inside you scrapes raw.

The curtain ripples faintly behind you. Voices fade. For now, it’s just the two of you in the aftermath.

Ellie doesn’t speak. There’s no expression on her face, no face at all, only void. Not the absence of feeling, but the presence of something worse. She isn’t a person in that moment—she’s grief, made flesh.

A hollow shaped like a human. A silence you could fall into and never find the bottom.

Slowly, she pulls the bandana from her head. It’s damp with sweat. She wipes her face with it, slow, methodical—eyes still unfocused. Then stares at the cloth in her hands, like she doesn’t recognize it.

And then it hits her, you can see it. In that look is everything unspoken: failure. Fury. Regret that doesn’t know where to land.

Ellie finally pulls her gloves off, slowly, like it hurts to let go.

“I hate when they’re that small,” she mutters, not looking at you.

You say nothing. There’s nothing to say.

She draws her knees up, elbows balanced loosely on them. The crease between her brows is permanent. The burden on her shoulders too.

“Her dad died on impact,” she says after a beat.

You look at her. She doesn’t meet your eyes, maybe she can’t. Her voice doesn’t shake. If anything, it’s too even.

“She kept asking. I didn’t know what to say.”

You nod slowly, and there’s a flicker of something sharp under your ribs.

“She never knew.”

“Maybe that’s mercy,” you suggest.

“Maybe,” she agrees without believing.

You reach into your pocket, thumb brushing the edge of a crumpled pack of cigarettes. You don’t light one. Just hold it, pressing the soft cardboard flat, like you could crush the craving.

“Other driver?”

Ellie twists the fabric tighter. You hear the cotton strain.

“Broken clavicle. Couple ribs. Walked away.”

You blink and shake your head. Of course he did.

“They died,” you murmur, “and he’ll get a sling and a scar.”

Ellie exhales a sound that isn’t quite a laugh.

“The universe flips a coin,” she says. “And it lands wrong side up. Every time.”

You exhale, shaky, staring at the empty space in front of you for a moment. Your clogs are dirty.

"Is that mercy too?" you ask, not quite sure who you’re asking—the world, her, yourself.

"If that’s mercy, then I don’t want it."

The apple slices are cold.

You packed them from home that morning—sealed in a zippered pouch, soft with cinnamon, too dry to be fresh but familiar enough to finish.

The sweetness lingers as you chew, slow, distracted, seated on the edge of a vinyl couch in the staff lounge, shoes unlaced. The lights overhead buzz faintly, the kind of fluorescent hum you stop noticing after your second month in the ER.

The clock ticks toward midnight, the quiet is generous. A rare lull between traumas.

Ellie had been here not an hour ago.

She leaned against the wall like she owned the gravity in the room, one boot crossed over the other, arms folded, the navy of her uniform dusted with road salt and coffee stains and the tiredness that doesn’t wash off.

Her sleeves were shoved up to the elbows, exposing the scar on her right forearm—a thin, pale crescent that caught the light every time she moved. The wings covering it froze too. She didn’t sit. She never did when she didn’t have to. Said her legs didn’t know how to rest.

You were still chewing your first slice when she reached over and stole one from the pack, not breaking eye contact. She bit into it with all the entitlement of someone who’s done this a hundred times before—and knew she’d get away with it a hundred more.

“Was that the last cinnamon one?”

You asked, more out of routine than protest.

She just smirked, that half-lidded look that made her eyes shine darker.

“Didn’t check,” she said with her mouth full.

Then rolled her eyes when you stared her down, like the crime was yours for expecting decency.

The radio crackled before you could answer: a sharp, sputtering burst that sliced the air in two. Ellie froze mid-bite. Not startled, just… listening. Her head tilted slightly, like a wolf catching something just beyond the tree line.

“Unit Three, call in. Code response, address incoming.”

She chewed the rest in silence, tossing the stem of the apple slice back into the bag with a soft flack.

“Better be quick,” she muttered, grabbing her jacket off the back of the chair.

“You owe me coffee,” you said, without looking up.

“Save me the bottom of the thermos,” she called back, halfway through the door.

“You always say that.”

“And you never do.”

And then she was gone. Boots squeaking faintly down the corridor, the door swinging closed behind her like the last breath of a promise. Her absence didn’t feel like silence—it felt like pressure in your chest.

You don’t track hours anymore. Time passes in the number of patients patched, bled, sutured. It’s not Wednesday or Thursday. It’s two overdoses and a seizure, three stitches, and a stillbirth. It’s the count of how many made it through your hands without slipping.

You’re peeling the last slice of apple from its waxy bag when the radio speaks again.

“Female, late twenties, stab wound to the upper arm. Medic down. ETA four minutes.”

You freeze.

Not because it’s unusual—you’ve seen worse. But because you know who was on shift in Unit Three tonight.

The apple falls from your hand.

There are people who should never end up behind your trauma bay doors. Ellie became one of them so fast. But now they’re bringing her in. Nothing about the night feels still anymore.

You rush into the trauma intake area, your steps quick and measured.

The door creaks open. She’s there.

For a moment, you’re not sure what exactly you’re seeing—mostly blood. A torn sleeve. Her left hand clenched into a fist.

“I’m fine,” she says, before you even ask.

She’s not.

Ellie doesn’t wait for a stretcher. She walks in on her own, rigid and persistent. You see the disdain flicker across her face as she sidesteps the gurneys that she has carted through too many nights, too many battles. Dina walks beside her, silent and steady. She doesn’t reach out, because Ellie would reject that touch, that sign of vulnerability. She’s the one who always holds firm, who lets anyone lean on her, but not vice versa.

Ellie hates this wound, the blood smeared on her torn jacket, the way this night shreds the illusion of control she so fiercely clings to. She’s not herself—or rather, she’s not who she pretends to be.

Your gaze flickers past them to the figure trailing behind—Jesse. You’ve never seen him in the hospital before. He’s taut, wary. Just like Dina, just like Ellie. They’ve seen too much. They’ve been through hell, and still, they’re just people.

Around you, nurses shout back and forth: talk of police arriving, locked wards for patients under supervision. You catch the strained urgency in their voices, the fragile order trying to hold in place as chaos swirls outside.

You’re supposed to calm them down. This is what attending physicians do. But when it comes to Ellie, you realize you’re just human too. You’re gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles pale.

You’d seen Ellie hurt before—scraped and bruised. She always laughed it off. Always moved like she had somewhere else to be. But this is different. The way she holds her arm close to her side. The set of her jaw.

It takes a second longer than it should, but then it clicks back into place.

Not calm—never that. But function.

You lift your head.

“Someone get a trauma bay ready,” you call out, voice sharp, too clear. “Page Ortho for standby. And I want imaging ready for secondary survey. Just in case.”

Almost makes you believe you’re not falling apart inside. Then Ellie speaks.

“I’m not staying,” Ellie grits out. “It’s a fucking scratch.”

There’s blood staining the gauze like rust. She’s favoring her arm, barely disguising the tension in her shoulders. Her whole body’s coiled like she’s waiting to bolt.

“I can walk this off. Just clean it up and I’ll go.”

Your mouth opens—to do what, you’re not sure. Argue? Beg? But Dina cuts in without ceremony.

“Ellie. Shut the fuck up.”

Her voice is flat. Not cruel, but tired in a way that says we’ve already done this. She stands at Ellie’s side like a wall—shoulders squared, eyes unreadable.

“You’re not walking anywhere,” Dina continues. “You’re getting stitched. Properly. By someone who actually knows what they’re doing. So sit the hell down and let her help you.”

She points at you, and you feel…blessed? Ellie doesn’t look at you. She looks at the floor, then at the blood on her hands. Her jaw works silently for a beat. But she doesn’t argue again.

Jesse approaches, pale and silent, eyes flicking from you to Ellie and back. You catch the tremor in his hands before he shoves them into his jacket pockets.

“Call came in as a seizure in a parking garage. Seemed routine, but Ellie—she clocked something was off. The guy wasn’t postictal, just… too calm.”

Dina swallows hard, arms still crossed tight. “Before I could even get the bag open, he pulled a knife. Grabbed me—wanted the narcs. Morphine, fentanyl, whatever we had stocked.”

“She didn’t even blink,” Jesse adds, eyes flicking to Ellie again. “Stood between him and the kit. Told him to go ahead and try.”

You click your tongue, glancing at her for a second.

Dina exhales shakily, somewhere between pride and fear. “He slashed her. She still wouldn’t let him near the meds.”

“Can we not do the memorial service while I’m still bleeding?” she mutters. “I’m literally right here. And not dead.”

Her tone is dry, biting—but thinly veils the exhaustion underneath. Ellie may be all cracked edges right now, but she’s still the one dragging the spotlight off herself, even when the floor’s slick with her blood. Dina snorts quietly but doesn’t argue. Neither do you.

You scan the floor—too many eyes, too much noise. The nurses are doing what they always do: triaging, organizing, controlling the chaos. But Ellie doesn’t need chaos.

She needs space.

“I’ll take her,” you say, more to the room than to anyone in particular. “Treatment Four. Alone.”

You meet Ellie’s eyes for the first time since she walked in. She doesn’t protest. You move out of the brightness, down the corridor where the fluorescent hum is softer, the doors closed, the world waiting just beyond.

Stepping into the treatment room, you switch on the surgical lamp and let the harsh overheads stay off. Let the night be gentle, if nowhere else, then here. It smells like absence—of anything human.

Ellie follows later, her boots dragging just slightly—a sound she wouldn’t let slip on any other night. You point to the exam table without a word, and she climbs onto it like she’s done a hundred times before—with patients. Not like this. Never like this.

The stainless tray is already waiting—cold, clean, clinical. Syringe. Gauze. Forceps. Suture. A language of silence and habit. No poetry here, just function.

You press the pump beside the sink. Lemon-scented soap spills into your palm. The same one you always hated. But tonight, you don’t mind. You scrub fast, focused, as if time were something that could slip through your fingers. Ellie’s blood already has.

You snap on gloves. Tear the paper pouch of suture material open—with your teeth. It's rushed, clumsy, but it works. You’re past elegance now.

You ease the jacket off her shoulders, careful not to brush the wound. She’s silent, watching you with something unreadable, while you peel the sleeve back to reveal the wound: a deep, angry gash along her upper arm, just shy of needing surgical closure. It’s clean enough. Contained. But she’ll scar. You wonder if she’ll mind.

“I’ll numb it,” you say quietly, already drawing up lidocaine into the syringe. The metal tray clinks softly as you set it down beside.

Ellie scoffs under her breath. “Why bother?”

You pause for a moment. “Stop asking stupid questions.”

“Okay, doc.” she grins crookedly.

You inject the anesthetic slowly, watching her jaw clench, but she doesn’t flinch. She never flinches.

The exam table groans as Ellie shifts, bracing her uninjured hand against the edge of the table.

“He wanted the box. Got pissed when we didn’t hand it over.”

She says it like it's nothing. Like she's describing the weather.

Your heart skips; no, folds. A sharp, invisible inward motion, like the body trying to shield something soft. You imagine it: Ellie between the seats, between decision and reaction. Dina too close to the blade. Jessie slamming into reverse. The box—the one they guard like a life raft. Painkillers, sedatives, vials sealed in glass. Ellie wouldn’t give it up. Of course she wouldn’t.

There’s a type of ruin no one sees. The kind that doesn’t show up on x-rays or ultrasound. And it’s not her arm, or the torn fabric, or the way she won’t meet your eyes now. It’s the fracture underneath.

She’s so quietly wrecked that something in you breaks with her. No noise, no drama. Just a thread snapping, pulled too tight. Your fingers tremble once before you hide it. You reach for the next tool with precision that feels like a lie.

“He knew we were coming.”

Her fingers curl around the edge of the table.

“Didn’t hesitate. Like it was the plan all along.”

Each thing she says is like a fresh cut. Words are shrapnel. You pick up the needle, it’s curved. A sliver of cold steel glinting under the sterile light. Her next words hit you worse than a gunshot.

“He said hospitals are for the rich. Said the rest get the knife.”

She finally looks at you. And you wish she hadn’t.

Her lips parted. There is war in her eyes, which are rimmed with dark circles, and her freckles are faded and pale under the harsh hospital lighting. She’s drained from blood loss and sleepless nights. You can see it all—beneath the defiance, past the smirk she’s too tired to wear. The fear. The shame. The bitterness of being saved when she’s spent her life doing the saving.

“Hospitals are for the ones who need help. For broken. Wounded. Lost.”

Ellie’s voice is quieter and smaller. She doesn’t look away.

“Then maybe I’m in the right place. For once.”

Instead, she leans in—barely, but enough. Her shadow stretches closer to yours. The thin streaks of dust smudged across her cheekbones, caught in the dried sheen of sweat. A faint trace of dirt under her jaw. Proof she went down. That she hit the ground hard and didn’t care enough to wipe it away.

Something aches in you.

You want to reach out. Thumb the dust from her face, let your palm cradle the weight of her jaw. Let her rest her temple against your shoulder, even just for a minute. Just until the air in her lungs stops shaking. But your hands are full.

With gloved fingers, you lift the black nylon suture. It’s damp with antiseptic. You’ve done this before. Muscle memory guides your hands. But your heart doesn’t follow.

You lean closer, bringing the needle to her skin—and freeze.

Ellie doesn’t smell like metal. Not like hospitals. Not even like smoke anymore. She smells like cinnamon. Like apples warmed by breath. And something darker, bitter, grounding—coffee, maybe.

You hate how steady your hands need to be. You hate that they almost aren't. You inhale and pierce. The point slips beneath the surface, you watch it travel through, curve up on the other side, and catch it. The first knot is done. As if it could hold more than just torn flesh. As if it could hold her.

You’ve always been good at this. Your instructors used to call your sutures textbook-perfect—you never thought much of it. Only now, with Ellie do you realize what it means to offer your hands in the shape of care.

You wish you could touch her slumped shoulders with bare hands. Wish you could smooth every bruise the world left on her. But all you do is pierce her skin again. Add another mark to the map she never asked for. All you leave is another scar.

“Why do you do it?”

You try to make it sound casual, to fill the silence.

Ellie’s breath hitches—barely—but you hear it. The echo of it travels through the room, mixing with the low hum of ventilation.

“Do what? The job?”

“The ambulance.”

“Stop asking stupid questions,” she hits back without a blink. You pull the stitch through, shifting on your chair, and continue your reasoning unbothered.

“First aid’s everything. Surgeries, diagnoses—all that’s important. But the first five or ten minutes? They decide everything. Whether someone makes it to the OR… or doesn’t.” you pause to hold the nylon in your fingers in a different way. Then you go on.

“Most people don’t stick with it. It’s dirty. Dangerous. People die in your hands, in your arms. Then you do it again the next day.”

You look at her in an endless try to understand.

“So why did you stay?” your whisper caresses across her cheek.

“I don’t have some grand story for you.” her response curls around your lips.

You reach for the metal tray, taking a fresh gauze pad. Your eyes linger on her skin for a moment—torn, red, angry. The suture is almost finished.

“Everyone’s got one. Oncologists lose someone. Surgeons want to fix what couldn’t be fixed before. There’s always a story.”

“What’s yours?” Ellie raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t change the subject.” you smile, but it’s faint. She doesn't.

The needle breaks the quiet. She watches your hands, not your face. Ellie sighs sharply, runs her palm over her face.

“I lived. Others didn’t,” she says at last. There’s something hollow in the way the words come out. Like it’s been rehearsed, over and over in her head, but never out loud. “You said—five-ten minutes decide everything. Well, they decided.”

You crashed ninety-nine times before. She’s your hundred. She says it like dying is just one of the possible outcomes of being alive. Like she's already built a home inside that guilt and calls it survival.

You pause to tie another knot.

You want to say something like: You don’t owe the world your suffering. Or: You were just a kid. Or even: You made it out. I’m glad you did. But none of it feels right. None of it feels enough.

So you lean in just slightly, close enough for her to feel it even if you never touch her. And your voice is a whisper that brushes her shoulder, that doesn't try to fix her. Would it heal her if you’d kiss the freckle on her shoulder?

“They decided wrong.”

Your final stitch is tight and clean. Unshakable. It won’t make the scar disappear, but it will smooth it, maybe. Neat. Almost invisible in the right light.

For one heartbeat, you’re not a doctor.

You’re just someone sewing the person they love back into herself. One thread at a time.

⚢ an : okay it feels so weird. but believe it or not, this was originally supposed to be a 1.5k short story. well… anyway :)) i don’t have a med phd, i’m just a girl who loves to write fanfiction. don’t take it too seriously — some technical details might be incorrect. over and out is not dead, trust!! this idea just wouldn’t let me live in peace, it was haunting me — and i hope there was a greater purpose to that. also, i had so much fun writing this. i love short stories (7k words? yeah. short). sorry for any mistakes! it would be super nice of you to leave a comment, reblog, inbox, or just anything to let me know how you liked it!! mwah mwah thank you for reading <3

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mars4hellokitty · 10 days ago

Text

missed calls

chloe price x female!reader

main masterlist

summary: after meeting chloe price in a support group, both of your lifes were completely altered by the other.

content warning: alcohol and drugs. not use of y/n. good ending tho!!

word count: 7.8k

Fridays weren’t always the worst day of the week.

There was a time, way back, when Fridays meant skipping out early with her dad in his beat-up truck, windows down, music up. Milkshakes at the diner. Stupid jokes. His laugh. That warmth in her chest like she was safe. Like the world, even with its cracks and rust and fuck-ups, still had her in it. And him.

But that was before. Before the crash. Before the coffin. Before Joyce started talking like a ghost in her own home, and before David planted himself in her life like mold that wouldn’t go away. Before Max Caufield vanished from the city. Before Rachel Amber came in like fire, and disappeared like smoke.

Now Fridays meant the opposite of escape. Now, they meant the group.

The ugly little community center just outside Arcadia Bay was exactly what you’d expect: beige walls with peeling posters about “wellness,” fluorescent lights that buzzed too loud, and a faint scent of overbrewed coffee.

And here Chloe sat, legs stretched out in front of her, arms crossed over her chest, hood up even though it was warm inside. Her nails were chewed short again. She’d smoked half a pack on the drive over and still wanted another.

The metal chair beneath her groaned as she shifted. There were about nine other people in the room. Most she’d seen before. No one looked her in the eye for long anymore.

That was fine. That was preferable. She didn’t come here to connect. She came because she had to. Because Joyce had begged. Because after the overdose, the ambulance, and the silence that followed, Chloe hadn’t been able to look at her mother’s face without feeling the weight of her failure. Her mom didn’t even cry when the nurses said “she’s lucky to be alive.” She just sat. Still. As if crying would’ve taken more strength than she had left.

“Just one meeting, Chloe. That’s all I’m asking.”

She had to say yes. Not because she believed it would help. Not because she wanted it. But because she didn’t know what else to do. There wasn’t much left to break inside her, but the thought of seeing Joyce bury another person was unbearable.

So here she was. Again.

Every week, like clockwork. Pretending to listen to people talk about their lowest points while she mapped escape routes in her head. There were stories of pills, anger, silence, absent fathers, abusive boyfriends, cutting, fear, rehab. All of it bleeding together into a kind of white noise.

Chloe sat in the back. She didn’t speak. Didn’t listen. Just counted down the minutes until she could walk out, light a cigarette, and pretend none of it happened. That’s, of course, until you showed up.

You walked in, quietly. You didn’t look around like you wanted attention, you just looked tired. Like you’d been carrying something so heavy for so long that your body had adapted around it. And Chloe noticed it instantly. You weren’t the kind of girl who got noticed. Your clothes were oversized, your sleeves stretched over your hands like you didn’t want to touch anything, your backpack had one strap nearly torn, and your hair looked like you hadn’t had the energy to brush it that day. You moved like you didn’t expect anyone to see you. You didn’t even bother to introduce yourself.

And Chloe couldn’t stop staring.

She didn’t know why, not at first. Something inside her recognized something inside you, and that terrified her. Because she wasn’t used to seeing reflections anymore. She thought Rachel was the only person left who had cracked through her defenses, who burned through her with that fierce, golden kind of chaos. But you — you were different. You didn’t come in blazing. You came in quiet, bleeding silently. And Chloe felt it. Felt you. Like your pain was vibrating on the same low, invisible frequency she lived on every damn day.

You didn’t speak. And neither did she.

But she saw the way your hands fidgeted in your lap, trying and failing to hide how bad they were shaking. The way your eyes never stayed anywhere too long. You didn’t lean forward when people spoke, you didn’t nod along or fake empathy or pretend you were engaging.

She didn’t hear a word anyone said in the group. Not that she usually did, but this time, it was different. She couldn’t even pretend to listen because you were there, not saying anything, not doing anything, but pulling her toward you like gravity. And the worst part? You hadn’t even noticed her. It almost made Chloe’s chest ache how your eyes didn’t search for her the way hers did.

The session ended earlier that day. The group clapped weakly, as the chairs scraped loudly. Backpacks zipped. People started talking again. A few hugged. Chloe stood slowly, her eyes already searching for you. You hadn’t moved. You were still sitting, like the surrounding noise hadn't been registered.

She took one step. Then another. And then someone cut between you. One of the regulars said something to the group leader that drew her attention. Another girl dropped her water bottle. Someone else reached for their jacket, stepping in Chloe’s path. And when she looked again, you were gone.

Gone like smoke. Gone like Rachel. Like her dad. Like Max. Gone like everything else that ever mattered. She pushed through the people, got to the hallway. Empty. The parking lot was fading into dusk. Her truck sat there like it always did, but you weren’t anywhere.

She stood there for a long time, hands in her pockets, feeling like the world had just walked away again, and she hadn’t moved quickly enough to follow.

That night, at dinner, she barely spoke. Joyce had made Chloe's favorite dish, and kept her voice gentle. Not pushing. Not too hopeful. Just… waiting.

“How was the meeting?”

Chloe shrugged. Fork in hand. Eyes on her plate.

“Fine.” Joyce nodded, quiet. She didn’t ask more. Then Chloe looked up. Her voice low. “I think I’ll go again next week.”

Joyce blinked. She didn’t say anything. Something in her face flickered. Relief, maybe. Or belief. And Chloe looked back down at her food.

After, once she was lying on her bed, music low, smoke curling from the cracked window, the ceiling stared back at her. The rain tapped quietly against the glass. Her hoodie still smelled like nicotine. And in her head, there was only you.

Friday came like a storm that had been building in her chest all week. She told herself she wouldn’t care if you didn’t show up.

She lit a cigarette before she even parked. Walked into group fifteen minutes late. Sat in the same chair, hoodie up, eyes low, listening to the same recycled grief from kids trying their best not to drown. But her chest was doing that thing again. That tight thing. The one that made her fingers dig into her sleeves and her brain scream don’t fucking care, don’t look around, don’t check the door like a lovesick dog.

But, she checked anyway. You weren’t there. And it was like the air got colder the second she realized it. She tried to sit through it. Tried to let the minutes pass like they were supposed to. But her leg wouldn’t stop bouncing, and someone next to her kept sniffling, and the room was too bright and too clean and too fake.

So she left. Didn’t say a word. Just stood up, walked out, lit another cigarette with shaking fingers, and climbed the rusted stairs to the roof like the smoke might stop her from remembering your face.

She hadn’t expected anything. Not really. You were probably just another burnout like her, floating through the system. Maybe you got transferred. Maybe you overdosed. Maybe you finally slipped into that place Chloe always hovered over and never had the guts to fall into.

But then, when she hit the last step, there you were.

Hood up, legs curled underneath you, cigarette dangling lazily from your fingers. Your hair looked different in the wind. Your face pale, haunted, like you hadn’t slept in a week. You didn’t look at her when she opened the door. And for a full three seconds, Chloe forgot how to breathe.

And before she could react, she chose to ignore you. Completely. Because in her head it made sense. So, she lit her cigarette with practiced ease, and leaned back against the low concrete wall. She inhaled hard. Smoke bit the back of her throat. Good.

Before silence could settle, she heard your voice behind her.

“Holy shit” you snorted. “I knew you were stalking me.”

Chloe didn’t look over. Just took a long drag and closed her eyes, like maybe if I don’t react, she’ll think I’m someone else. But the corner of her mouth twitched. Because your voice, tired and dry and amused, hit her right in the gut. Still, Chloe didn’t look. Didn’t trust her face to be casual enough yet.

Then, teasing her, you added, “You’re the creep from last week. Stared at me the whole time like I was gonna vanish or something.”

That did it. Chloe let out a choking laugh, exhaling smoke hard through her nose. Her shoulders shook with it. She shook her head, muttered, “Jesus,” and finally turned.

Your eyes — when they locked on hers — were so sharp, it made her forget how to sit still. Chloe smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, well. You did look like you were about to vanish. I was just waiting to see if you’d leave your body mid-share circle.”

“That would’ve at least made the session less boring.”

There was a long pause. The wind picked up again. Your hair blew in your face. You didn’t push it away. And Chloe, who was trying way too hard to look chill, lit another cigarette out of sheer panic. She felt like her mouth might betray her, say something too real, so she defaulted to sarcasm.

“So what, you just sit on roofs and wait for someone to fall in love with you?”

You didn’t laugh, not really. More of a breathy, bitter sound. “Bold of you to assume anyone falls in love with me.”

Chloe froze. Just for a second. But something in her chest twisted painfully. The silence settled again, heavier this time. Then your cigarette shifted in your fingers and Chloe caught it — your sleeve falling back just enough to show a faded hospital bracelet.

Her stomach dropped. Your name was printed on it. What a twisted way to get to know your name, she thought. The paper was creased. The edges dirty, like you hadn’t taken it off. Maybe hadn’t even noticed it was still there.

But Chloe noticed. Of course she did.

“Didn’t feel like joining the circle jerk?” Chloe said, but her voice faltered, softer this time.

You shrugged, looking out over the parking lot. “Got discharged this morning. Barely made it here in time to hide.”

“Hospital?”

Another shrug. “72-hour hold.”

Chloe swallowed. She didn’t know what to say. Or rather, she didn’t know how to say it without sounding like she cared too much, too fast. She didn’t want you to feel how much her heart was pounding.

“Nice bracelet,” she said instead.

You laughed once, bitter. “Yeah. Super on trend.” Chloe smiled, and then flicked her cigarette over the edge and sighed. You picked at your sleeve, eyes down. “So, what’s your deal?”

She hesitated. Then shrugged, reaching for her lighter again. “Still figuring it out. Step one was not dying.”

You nodded. “Sounds familiar.”

She wanted to ask about you. About what happened. About the bracelet and the hold and the way you didn’t flinch when she looked at you too long.

But she didn’t. You weren’t ready. And neither was she.

Trying to keep a steady voice, she asked, “Are you from Arcadia Bay?”

“Not really. I just moved here because my dad said it was the best program in all Oregon.” Chloe nodded. “I'm from Newport, not far, though.”

“It is a few hours away. You come here every Friday for an hour?”

You looked at her, eyes narrowed. Trying to figure something out. “I'm staying with my aunt until I get better.” You stood up suddenly, brushing ash off your jeans. Chloe’s stomach dropped like she was twelve again and watching her dad drive away for the last time.

But you didn’t leave right away. You looked down at her, voice casual, but not cold. “I like your hair, by the way.”

Chloe blinked. “…What?”

You turned, walking toward the door. “The blue. It matches your eyes.” She stared after you. Frozen. And then, just before the door clicked shut behind you, you looked back. “See you next Friday, creep.”

It became a thing.

Not planned. Not talked about. Definitely not agreed upon.

But every Friday, once group started, Chloe would bolt up the back stairwell to the roof, cigarette already halfway to her lips. And you’d be there. Every damn time.

Always already there, actually. Legs up on the ledge, hoodie sleeves pulled over your knuckles, face turned toward the sky. You never greeted her with more than a look. A twitch of your mouth. A knowing glance that said hey, creep without needing the words.

And Chloe… she’d sit on the opposite side. At first. Always pretending it wasn’t a big deal. Always smoking like she wasn’t counting every second between your glances, every movement of your fingers as you tapped ash off the edge, every time you spoke — in that low, dry voice.

Some Fridays you didn’t talk at all. Other Fridays you talked too much. But never about the things that led you both here. That was the unspoken deal. Instead, you gave her pieces. Scattered breadcrumbs you never meant to drop, but Chloe remembered.

“Sorry I missed last week,” you said one day, on your second cigarette, kicking your legs a little like you were trying to feel something. “My aunt had a meltdown over me sleeping past noon. Said I was ‘slipping again.’”

Chloe snorted. “Is she, like, your parole officer or just a fun roommate?”

“She’s the only one who volunteered to take me in. My mom’s…” You trailed off. Picked at a loose thread on your jeans. “She’s not in the picture. Not really. I guess she kind of erased the picture.”

Chloe didn’t say anything, just flicked her ash and nodded once, sharp and understanding in that way that didn’t need language.

You went on. “I’ve got a brother, though. He’s older. Lives two states away. He… He doesn't know I relapsed... Multiple times.”

“Are you still in touch?”

You focused your attention to the blue butterfly that rested besides Chloe. “You could say that.”

By the fourth Friday, you showed up with an old sticker-covered thermos and handed it to her without looking.

Chloe raised an eyebrow. “You trying to poison me?”

“Hot chocolate,” you said. “My aunt made some, and I wanted to be sure you ate at least something.” The blue-eyed girl didn't look convinced, so you smiled warmly, and added, “don't worry, creep. This is the real kind. Not that powdered crap.”

She took a sip. Burned her tongue. Pretended she didn’t care. “Holy shit, this is actually good.”

You smirked. “Don’t act so shocked. I’m mentally ill, not talentless.”

And Chloe choked on her laugh, nearly dropped the thermos, and for a second — just a second — she forgot how much she hated everything.

The fifth Friday, she brought up her nerdiness for films.

And as she ranted abou how fucking cool Blade Runner was, you tilted your head. “You ever seen Corpse Bride?”

Chloe narrowed her eyes. “No. But I’ve seen Coraline, though. ”

You breathed in, feigning offense. “Dude. Tim Burton has nothing to do with Coraline.”

“Wait, really?”

You laughed, not even couching from the cigarette. “Do yourself a favor and watch Corpse Bride, will you?”

Before she could think it twice, Chloe blurted out, “Well, maybe we could watch it together?” You blinked. The silence that followed was heavy. Like even the wind was waiting. She rubbed the back of her neck. Already feeling the anxiety crawl up her stomach. “Or any movie you like. Could be fun.”

You looked at her. Really looked. And then you smiled. “That would be nice.”

Chloe’s heart did something ugly and soft and terrifying all at once. “…Cool,” she said, like it wasn’t the most important fucking ‘yes’ she’d heard in months.

Chloe woke up with her face buried in her pillow, a crust of eyeliner smudged across her cheek. She blinked slowly at the ceiling, trying to remember what day it was, why her sheets felt too hot, and why her phone was buzzing from somewhere under the blankets.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

She groaned. Rolled over. Fished it out. 1:47 PM

“Shit.” She bolted upright, nearly launching herself off the bed. Her spine cracked. Her heart absolutely exploded in her chest.

You. You were supposed to come over. Or maybe you’d left because she was a lazy, passed-out idiot who couldn’t even get her ass up for the first real thing she’d looked forward to in... what, months? Years?

She practically fell out of bed, dragging on the first hoodie she found, hair sticking out in a thousand directions, socks mismatched. She didn’t even brush her teeth. Just charged out of her room like something was on fire. Which, emotionally, it was.

But she stopped cold on the last step of the stairs. There you were.

In her goddamn living room. Sitting on the couch, casual as hell, talking to Joyce like you’d known her for years. One leg tucked under you, a glass of orange juice in your hand, and — holy shit — your hair done. Not in that half-assed, shoved-under-a-hoodie way you usually wore it, but actually done. Tamed. Soft.

And the clothes. Gone was the baggy, faded hoodie and the jeans that could’ve belonged to someone’s dad. You had on something still oversized, still comfy, still you — but there was intention now. A long-sleeved black top layered under a loose band tee, ripped tights, and a pair of boots that had seen better days. You looked like a ghost trying to blend in with the living, and failing beautifully.

Still pale. Still tired. The dark moons under your eyes looked untouched. Chloe’s chest did a weird fucking thing when she saw them. Like confirmation that you were real.

But you were smiling. You smiled when you saw her — sleepy and stunned and slack-jawed at the base of the stairs.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” you teased, lifting your juice like a toast.

Chloe blinked. She was still paralyzed.

Joyce laughed, warm and delighted. “I was just telling your friend how I was gonna march up there and drag you outta bed if you didn’t show.”

Chloe’s face burned. She didn’t know how to respond to this. You. In her house. Drinking juice. Talking to her mom.

You didn’t even like to eat breakfast. You told her that last week. You said you felt sick in the mornings, that food didn’t feel right in your mouth. And yet here you were, sipping a glass of juice like it was no big deal, like this was normal. Like Chloe hadn’t just come down the stairs ready to have a heart attack over the fact that you might be gone.

“Uh,” she managed, voice dry as hell. “You... got in.”

“She knocked,” Joyce chirped. “Very politely, by the way. You’ve got a polite one. I like her.”

Chloe wanted to die. Right there, at the foot of the stairs. Wanted the house to implode, or at least for the floor to eat her whole.

She cleared her throat, shoved her hands in her hoodie pocket, and muttered, “You... wanna come up or whatever?”

You raised your eyebrows in amusement. “Wow. What an invite.”

Joyce swatted Chloe’s shoulder as she passed. “Let her finish her juice first, lady. Jesus.”

“She doesn’t even like breakfast!” Chloe hissed, like that proved something, like she wasn’t losing her goddamn mind seeing you in her living room.

You grinned over the rim of your glass. “Guess I make exceptions.”

And fuck, the way you said that. Casual. Teasing. But soft.

Joyce grabbed her purse and keys, already halfway out the door. “I’ve gotta head to the diner, but you girls behave, yeah?”

“Sure will” you replied.

The door clicked shut behind her. Silence. Chloe stood frozen for a beat, then finally turned and looked at you. Really looked.

“Dude,” she said. “You’re, like... terrifying.”

You snorted. “Because I talked to your mom?”

“Because you’re in my house, charming the one person who still kind of tolerates me. And you even drank juice. Who the hell are you?”

You shrugged, sipping the last of it. “Maybe I wanted to impress you.” Chloe choked. On nothing. You laughed, biting your lip. “Fuck. You’re so easy to mess with.”

She pointed a finger at you like a warning. “You’re so lucky you’re kind of funny.”

“Kind of?” you echoed, standing now, stretching again. The hem of your shirt lifted a little, showing a flash of your hipbone, pale and marked faintly by something Chloe didn’t dare ask about. Not yet.

You walked past her on the stairs, glancing over your shoulder as you said, “Show me your room, Price. And try not to faint on the way.”

Chloe stood there for half a second longer. Heart in her throat. Mind racing. And then she followed, two steps at a time, suddenly seventeen again, suddenly so far from the edge she didn’t know how to breathe without the fall.

Her room hadn’t changed much since she was fifteen. Still smelled like old incense and stale smoke, vinyls stacked like makeshift shelves, posters peeling slightly from the walls. A few crushed soda cans littered the desk, and her bed wasn't made, her blanket thrown half on, half off, pillows wherever.

Still, you flopped down on it without hesitation. No judgment in your eyes. No weird reaction to the mess. You kicked off your boots, curled into the blanket like you belonged there — like it was normal for you to be here, in her space, lying on her bed like you’d done it a hundred times before.

And Chloe? Chloe just stood there, staring like she was trying to memorize the whole scene. And failing.

“Alright, Burton bitch,” she said, grabbing the stack of dusty DVDs beside her old player. “Ready?”

You tilted your head. “Is that even a question?”

She smirked, biting her lip, heart thudding so loud it might’ve echoed off the walls. She slid Corpse Bride into the player and hit play.

The screen flickered to life. And god, you looked beautiful in blue light. Like something from the film, half-gothic, half-fantasy, skin washed pale and eyes glowing like you’d stepped out of a graveyard ballroom.

She sat down beside you, way too aware of how close her knee was to yours.

Halfway through a song, she blurted, “fuck. Okay. I get it.”

You turned to her, brows raised. “Get what?”

“The Tim Burton thing. I used to think his stuff was, like, try-hard dark. But watching it with you?” She gestured at the screen. “Makes total sense. You look like you belong in one of his movies.”

You laughed, dry and warm and so easy. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” Chloe muttered, staring a second too long before pretending to be super interested in a dancing skeleton.

The air shifted. The room got quieter, like it was holding its breath with her.

And then, halfway through the piano duet, you sat up a bit, reached into your pocket, and pulled out a pre-rolled joint. Casual. Like it was part of your standard kit.

Chloe blinked. “Damn. Okay.”

You gave her that crooked little grin she was starting to obsess over. “You smoke?”

“Cigs. Nicotine. Nothing... you know.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Haven’t really touched weed since… A long time.” Since Rachel, actually.

Your expression softened, but you didn’t pry. Didn’t push. Just held the joint out, shrugging. “No pressure. Just figured. Mood’s right.”

Chloe looked at it, and then at you. You were holding it between two fingers, loose and lazy, hair falling over your cheek like shadows. You didn’t look dangerous, but something about you definitely was. Dangerous to her balance, her grip on herself, her carefully built wall of I-don’t-give-a-shit.

“Fuck it,” she mumbled, and took it.

You lit it for her. And your fingers touched hers — a soft press, a spark so small it almost felt imagined. She inhaled. And coughed. “Jesus.”

You laughed. “Lightweight.”

“Oh, fuck off,” she rasped, blowing smoke through a grin.

You took a hit and leaned back on your elbows, eyes half-lidded, lashes catching the TV light. “You know,” you said slowly, “for a girl who looks like she’d call me a poser and kick me in the shin, you’re kinda sweet.”

Chloe barked a laugh. “Sweet?”

You turned to her. “Don’t deny it. You let me invade your room and ruin your day.”

“You could never ruin my day.”

That seemed to shut up your pride. Instead of mocking her comment, you stared at her, doe eyes looking right at her blue ones.

Chloe’s lungs forgot how to work. “You—” She pointed at you with the joint. “Are actually evil.”

You tilted your head, mock-innocent. “You’re the one blushing.”

“I’m not blushing,” she lied, eyes wide.

You grinned. “You’re so blushing.”

“Shut up.”

You didn’t. Instead, you just scooted a little closer.

Not enough to press against her, but enough that your knee brushed hers again. Light, then intentional.

“Do I make you nervous, Price?” you asked, voice roughened slightly by the smoke.

Chloe’s throat worked around a sudden lump. “You wish.”

“Oh, I know I do.” Your smirk was evil, devilish, smug as hell. “But I think you like it.”

“I think you’re full of shit.”

“Maybe,” you said, taking another slow hit, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. “But you’re still staring at my mouth.”

And fuck. She was. She didn’t even deny it.

The room went silent for a beat. Only the soft hum of the movie, the clink of ash falling into an old soda can. Chloe’s voice came out rougher than she meant. “You’re a fucking menace.”

You leaned closer again, and this time your lips brushed her ear. Barely. A ghost. “I like how you say that,” you whispered. “Like you want me to stop.”

She shivered. The joint burned down between you. Chloe took it with shaking fingers, pulled another hit into her lungs, trying desperately to hold onto whatever cool she had left.

“Do you flirt like this with everyone?” she asked, but her voice was already breaking at the edges.

You looked at her. Really looked. And said, “No.” Then softer, “just with you.”

The joint burned to its filter, and Chloe’s fingers brushed yours when she passed it back one last time. There was nothing left to inhale, but you held it anyway. Just to keep holding something she touched.

The TV flickered forgotten in the background, pale ghosts dancing across the screen. The air smelled like smoke and whatever cheap cologne Chloe wore.

You didn’t remember who leaned in first. Maybe it was both of you. Maybe it didn’t matter. All you knew was suddenly her mouth was on yours — rough, fumbling, all teeth and breath and need. Like neither of you had kissed anyone in a long time. Or maybe like you had, but no one like this. No one who tasted like mistakes and nicotine and something real for once.

She made a noise in her throat, half-surprised, half-starved, as you pulled her down onto the bed, mouths crashing again. Chloe’s hands were at your waist, under your shirt, not grabbing, just there, grounding herself, like if she didn’t hold onto something solid she’d float away. Your leg hooked around hers. Her hair was in your mouth. Her heart was pounding loud enough you could feel it in her chest.

“You’re—” she started, panting a little, forehead against yours. “You’re actually so fucking annoying.”

You grinned, eyes lidded. “Says the girl making out with me like she’s about to start crying.”

She shoved your shoulder lightly. “Shut up.”

“You like me.”

“No shit,” Chloe muttered, just before kissing you again.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t romantic. It was feral, and desperate, and earned. All this built-up static between you, this flammable tension — it exploded, messy and imperfect and exactly what both of you needed.

“What the hell is going on in here?!”

The door slammed open like a gunshot. You both froze. Chloe whipped around so fast she nearly elbowed you. Her entire body locked up.

David Madsen stood in the doorway, red-faced, fists clenched at his sides, that goddamn paranoia in his eyes like he was a soldier storming a battlefield instead of a stepdad walking into his teenage stepdaughter’s bedroom.

The second he smelled the weed, his face darkened.

“Are you fucking serious, Chloe?”

“Hey—” she sat up, voice already defensive, dragging a blanket over both of you, your clothes rumpled, lips swollen, the room spinning, still under the effect of the weed.

“I knew it!” he barked, stepping in like he owned the place. “You think I wouldn’t notice? You think I’m stupid?”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your heart slammed against your ribs like it wanted to be ripped out. The air felt thin. Wrong. You shrank into her bed, small and still, unsure if you were supposed to be here anymore.

“Relax,” Chloe snapped, trying to sound calm but clearly trembling. “It’s not—it's just—fuck, it’s not what it looks like.”

“It looks like you’re getting high again, after everything that’s happened. After what you put your mom through. After your overdose.”

The room dropped ten degrees. You looked at Chloe, shocked. But she was staring at the floor.

“No,” she muttered. “Don’t—don’t bring that up now—!”

David turned on you. “And you.” His voice lashed like a whip. “What the fuck is a junkie doing in my house? What are you filling her head with? Huh?”

Your breath caught.

“No,” Chloe snapped, voice louder, firmer. “Don’t you talk to her like that—”

“I want her out!” David shouted. “Leave right now before I call the cops!”

You were already up. Boots back on. Your jacket in your arms, clutched like a shield. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t move fast enough. You moved past him, head down, heart pounding so hard it felt like blood was dripping from your ears.

“Wait—” Chloe reached for you.

You didn’t stop.

“I—I’m sorry,” she called out, her voice cracking, raw with shame. “Please, don’t go—”

But you were already out the door. Gone before she could say another word. The door slammed behind you like the end of a chapter. And Chloe just stood there. In the middle of her room. Eyes burning, fists shaking. The echo of her shame and her failure and everything she’d started to hope for crashing down around her like shattered glass.

“You ruin everything,” David muttered under his breath.

That did it.

“Get the fuck out of my room!” she screamed, voice high and broken, shoving him back with everything she had. “Get the fuck away from me!”

“You’re acting like a goddamn child—”

“I don’t care! I don’t care if I never grow up, if it means I don’t have to be like you!”

Chloe sank to the floor, breath hitching in her throat, shaking so hard she couldn’t hold herself up. The blanket still smelled like you. The taste of you was still on her lips. And all she could do was cry. Just ugly, wrenching sobs into her hands, wishing she could tear her skin off to escape the guilt.

[11:43 AM] hey im so fucking sorry pls just text me back i didn’t know he’d be home i swear you okay?

No response.

Monday Night.

[2:02 AM] can’t sleep i keep thinking about your face when he started yelling you looked so scared i hate him i hate him i hate him i’m sorry. again. god i’m so fucking sorry.

Tuesday.

[7:26 PM] are you even getting these you didn’t deserve any of that you’re not a bad influence. he’s just a fucking moron i liked seeing you. i liked having you here. i like you please talk to me please

Wednesday.

[3:14 AM] i’m going insane do you hate me do you wish you never met me i wouldn’t blame you if you did

She’d sent at least fifty texts by now. Some deleted before they were sent. Some half-written and abandoned in her notes app, buried. Chloe wasn’t used to begging. Or waiting. Or feeling this fucking raw. But every time her phone stayed silent, something inside her cracked wider.

Now it was Friday.

The sky was gray. Not raining, just that kind of thick, pressing cloud that made the whole town feel like it was holding its breath. Chloe didn’t even pretend to go to the meeting, she just went straight to the roof.

Two cigarettes deep. Boot scuffing the gravel like maybe if she stomped hard enough, her guilt would fall through the building.

Every second dragged like maybe the clock was broken. Like maybe time wanted to make her suffer. And still, you were nowhere to be found. The spot where you usually sat was empty. Like you’d never been there at all. She pulled her phone out of her pocket. Hands trembling.

[5:27 PM] are you coming? please. i’m on the roof it’s friday you never miss a friday without telling me

She waited. Waited until her lungs hurt. Until the sun started to dip. Until the group meeting ended and people filtered out into the parking lot below, laughing like nothing had collapsed. Until her phone buzzed, and your name popped in her screen.

She answered so fast she nearly dropped the phone.

“Hello?”

For a beat, it was silent. Then, your voice — low. Distant. Not angry, just… tired. Hollow in a way that made her blood run cold. “I think it’s better if you stop trying to see me.”

Chloe’s stomach dropped. “What?”

You sounded like you were reading from a script. Like you’d rehearsed this. “Your dad was right.”

“He’s not my fucking dad,” she snapped, voice sharp with panic. “Jesus—no, no, please don’t do this. Don’t say that.”

“I mess things up,” you said quietly, like it was just a fact. Like you were reciting your own obituary. “I don’t want to ruin you, too.”

“You’re not—what the fuck are you talking about? You didn’t ruin anything. I want to see you, okay? Just—let me talk to you. Let me see you. Please.”

“Chloe…” And the way you said her name, soft and broken, like it hurt to even speak it — it shattered her. “I can’t.”

Click. The line went dead. For a second, Chloe just stared at her screen. Then her breath caught. Froze. Cracked. And she screamed.

A guttural, awful sound — half-animal, half-child. Rage and grief in one. She hurled her phone across the roof, watched it hit the edge and bounce dangerously close to tumbling off. She didn’t even care.

“Fuck!” she yelled into the air.

She paced. Kicked gravel. Nearly twisted her ankle. Sat down hard and pressed her fists into her eyes, like maybe she could erase the world that way.

Because what did she expect? Of course you would leave. Of course the first good thing she wanted in years would vanish the second it touched something real.

She knew she was losing it the second she left the roof. Like, really fucking losing it.

Because instead of going home, or lighting another cigarette, or laying in her bed until time stopped mattering, Chloe sat in her truck with the engine running and your voice ringing in her head. “I think it’s better if you stop trying to see me.”

Bullshit. You didn’t believe that, not really.

Not with the way you looked at her last week. Not with how your fingers had curled against her arm like you didn’t want her to leave, not with how you let her kiss you like that—like you needed it just as much as she did.

That wasn’t nothing. It couldn't be nothing. And yeah, maybe she was selfish. Maybe she was being a fucking psycho.

But Chloe couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t sleep or breathe or do anything except replay every single thing you’d told her. Every detail. Every little comment of your life, you dropped without even knowing how much she was catching. “My aunt’s house is pretty close to the shore, you can hear the waved crushing when you can’t sleep.”

Your aunt. The coast. The waves. It was all she had. So she took it.

It started with driving along the cliffside. The radio off. Just the sound of the wind pushing against her windows and her teeth grinding in frustration.

She scanned every house facing the beach. After the fifth turn-off and the third dead end, Chloe nearly gave up. She slapped the steering wheel, cursed out loud, nearly turned around—

Until she saw it. A small, wooden house. White paint chipped in places. Porch light buzzing. Plants along the railing that looked like they hadn’t completely given up yet.

And standing in the yard, watering something in a dusty pot, was a woman.

And Chloe knew. Don’t ask her how. She just knew.

She pulled up too fast and nearly stalled the truck. Stepped out before she could even think of what the hell she’d say. The woman looked up, cautious but not cold. “Can I help you?”

Chloe shoved her hands in her hoodie, heart racing.

“Uh… I’m looking for—” she said your name, and immediately felt her throat tighten. “I’m—fuck. I’m a friend.”

The woman tilted her head. Blinked slowly. Her mouth pressed into a thin line. Like she was trying to figure Chloe out.

“You must be Chloe.”

Chloe’s stomach flipped. Tried not to think too hard how your aunt knew her name. “Is she home?”

The woman sighed gently, then shook her head. “She left half an hour ago. Didn’t say where. I'm sorry.”

Of course you didn’t. Chloe nodded. Bit the inside of her cheek. “Okay. Uh—thanks. Sorry for just showing up. I’m not a creep or anything, I just—” she paused.

“I know,” the woman said softly.

And then Chloe was back in her truck. Nothing left but that tight, desperate buzz under her skin.

So she drove. There was only one other place in Arcadia Bay that ever made her feel remotely okay. One place that had been constant, no matter who left or died or got replaced by screaming stepdads and hospital bills.

The lighthouse.

She didn’t even realize how fast she was going. She just needed to be there. To sit on the ledge and pretend like the world couldn’t reach her for a minute. The sun was already low by the time she parked. The air had that salty chill that bit through her hoodie. But she didn’t care.

She climbed the hill. Boots crunching the dirt. And before she arrived, she saw smoke. Not from a cigarette, it was something thicker. Like weed. And there you were.

Sitting on the stone ledge with your knees pulled up, a half-lit joint in your hand and your hair pulled back, eyes set on the ocean like you were waiting for it to swallow you whole.

You didn’t even look surprised to see her. Just tired. Like you had expected this. Like maybe you had hoped she’d find you, but didn’t want to be the one to ask. Chloe didn’t say anything. Not yet. She just stood there, a few feet away, fists shoved deep into her pockets.

You looked up. Met her eyes. Silent for a beat. “Took you long enough, you creep.”

Chloe’s mouth twitched. “Didn’t exactly leave me a map, you idiot.”

You held out the joint without looking. “Want some?”

“Fuck it,” Chloe muttered, walking over.

She sat beside you, legs dangling. Took a drag. Let it hit hard in her chest before she passed it back. You both stared at the waves for a long time.

“You didn’t answer,” Chloe said. Voice low.

“I know.”

“You said some really fucked-up shit.”

“I know.”

Chloe laughed once, bitter. “Cool. So we’re doing the whole emotionally unavailable thing, huh?”

You shrugged. “Didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

“Jesus, why?”

You didn’t answer. Chloe’s jaw clenched. “You really think what he said matters to me? David is a joke. He’s a fucking joke.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not.” That shut her up. You took another hit. Then said, “He wasn’t wrong, Chloe. You’re already dealing with your own shit. You don’t need mine.”

“I want your shit,” Chloe snapped, then groaned. “Okay, that sounded better in my head.”

You snorted. Looked at her for the first time in what felt like forever.

Her heart almost stopped. You looked like hell. Worse than before. Your eyes were sunken, pale skin glowing under the moonlight, but god—she wanted to touch your face so bad it hurt.

Then, you exhaled slow. “Sorry I disappeared.”

“You broke my fucking heart,” Chloe said, blunt and tired.

You blinked. “I don’t even know what this is yet,” she continued. “I just know that when I’m not around you, it feels like shit. And when I’m with you, it feels like—like maybe everything’s not doomed.”

You looked down at your shoes. “That’s a lot of pressure.”

“I don’t care.”

“Chloe—”

“Shut up,” she said, but her voice cracked. “Just—can we sit here? For a while? You don’t have to say anything. Just… don’t make me leave without you again.”

“Okay.”

You didn’t say anything as you and Chloe walked down from the lighthouse, just your arms brushing sometimes, your footsteps falling in rhythm, your hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands like you were trying to disappear back into them.

Chloe kept glancing sideways. Not to stare. Just to make sure you were still there. Still real.

There was something about you in the dark — how quiet you got, how soft your face looked when no one was watching, how the wind picked up your hair just enough for her to want to brush it behind your ear.

She didn’t. She just shoved her hands in her pockets and walked.

Your aunt’s house was dim when you got there — porch light on, screen door open just a crack. Chloe saw a shadow move behind the curtains and braced herself for the awkward meeting. But when the door creaked open, the woman just let out a heavy breath and crossed her arms, relief softening the worry in her shoulders.

“There you are,” she said gently, then gave Chloe a nod. “Ah, hello again, Chloe.”

“Uh. Hi.” Chloe lifted a hand in some awkward salute that made her want to walk straight into traffic.

Your aunt sighed again, like she was exhausted from caring too much. “Come in. I made pizza.”

Chloe was about to mumble some excuse — truck’s running, late night, whatever — but then you spoke. You didn’t look at her when you said it, just brushed past her up the steps and muttered, “You should stay the night, though. It’s pretty dark out there.”

And she froze. Because she knew. You weren’t talking about the dark.

She didn’t say anything. Just swallowed hard and nodded.

Inside, the house smelled like vanilla and sea. Chloe’s stomach growled embarrassingly loud as your aunt served you both like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And Chloe hated how much it felt like home. After dinner, your aunt gave Chloe a folded-up blanket “just in case” and then said goodnight with a little wink.

You pulled her by the sleeve up to your room. It was small. Barely enough space for a dresser and a twin bed. Not much on the walls. A half-open suitcase shoved in the corner. A mug on the windowsill with dried flowers in it.

It didn’t look like you. And somehow that made sense.

“Sorry,” you muttered. “Haven’t exactly unpacked my personality yet.”

Chloe just stepped in, dropped her jacket over the chair, and sat down on your bed like it would disappear if she touched it too hard.

Then you crawled in beside her. Your body folding into hers like you’d done this a thousand times, like she was some place safe.

You didn’t kiss her right away. You just laid there. Listening to your aunt moving around below. The fridge humming. A branch scratching the window.

Then you whispered, “I didn’t know you overdosed.”

Your voice was soft. Fragile. Like you weren’t sure you were allowed to ask.

Chloe closed her eyes. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

Chloe turned her head toward you. “I mean… you had to know I was fucked up. That’s literally why I went to that stupid group. My life was—” she sighed. “It was shit.”

You smiled faintly. “Mine was too.”

Silence again. Then you reached out and gently lifted her arm. Your fingers ghosted across the scars there. She stiffened, just slightly, but you didn’t flinch. And neither did she.

Your hands kept moving — tracing old bruises, healed burns, little reminders of everything she’d survived.

Then you shifted and pulled up the hem of your shirt, just enough to show her your own.

And Chloe leaned in, and kissed each one softly. One at a time. Like they were words in a language only she could read. She didn’t ask what they were from. Didn’t need to. Then, as she laid her head against your shoulder, you whispered, “I hated my life… until I met you.”

And it broke her. It broke something open. Because for the first time in years, someone said the thing she’d been trying to scream at the sky since her dad died, since Rachel vanished, since everything started falling apart:

That maybe, just maybe, love could be a reason to stay. She didn’t say anything back. She just held you tighter.

You fell asleep like that. Entangled and exhausted. A little high, a little broken, but whole in a way neither of you understood yet. And Chloe, as she drifted off to the sound of your breath, finally let herself hope for another morning.

Because you were in it.

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