#but I spent way too much time on this not to talk about it

[alchemistc]

Post finale crack treated seriously. Ravi "Who's Tommy" Panikkar stirring shit up for his new friend.

red string

"You know you guys are like, weirdly interconnected, right?" Ravi asks, like Buck hasn't spent the last ten minutes admitting he doesn't know how to reach out to Tommy.

"How would you know?"

Ravi has the grace to look a little squirrelly for half a second. "Okay so I know a lot of people at the LAFD. Because of the Academy stint. And - well, a lot of them know I own rentals."

"Thanks for letting me do month to month, by the way."

"Yeah you sure did remind me that you saved my life a bunch of times before I agreed to that. I had to send in a special request with the company that runs that apartment building."

"Your life is way more important than a special request, Ravi."

Ravi looks like he has something else to say about that, but.

"You're veering off the point. I'm trying to tell you you two have like, a weird red string thing going on and it's kind of driving me crazy that you won't just figure it out and go live in his house month to month until you figure out your crap and like, elope like the crazy people you are."

Buck takes a second to let that sink in. "Have you been asking all your LAFD buddies about Tommy and me?" His narrowed eyes don't seem to have the same effect as Hen's. Ravi stares back at him like he's making a stupid face.

"In my defense, I did try to ask you but you spent weeks trying to find a way to pull his pigtails."

He's not touching that with a ten foot pole. Nice ammo for when he gets home, though. "So you, what, put together an itemized list of reasons we should be together?"

"Gross. No. I gossiped, like a normal person."

"Lists are important, Ravi."

"If you don't do something on your own I'll get his number from one of the guys at Harbor I know and tell him about all the baked goods you foisted on me for two solid months after he dumped you. And about all the pining I've had to put up with since -."

"Evan. Hey."

Buck is the sort of person who always wants to play it cool and never quite manages. The table jumps when he cracks his knee against it.

And there he is, in all his glory. Date night chic, four buttons undone, hair perfectly tousled, probably that aftershave that always made Buck want to live in the junction between his neck and shoulder.

"And that's my cue," Ravi says, and does a terrible approximation of a wink as he scoots out of the booth. "This is a setup. I set you both up. Tommy, this beer is yours, please sit. Don't make me do this a third time."

And then he's gone.

Tommy slides in, and it's familiar in a way that Buck doesn't enjoy.

Ravi reappears. "I already had his number, that was a decoy because I saw him walking in. Please, for the love of God, talk this time."

They stare at each other for a long, long time. Tommy has this way of looking at him that always makes Buck feel like he could run through a brick wall. Like Tommy would take care of him after even though it was a dumb thing to do. Like Tommy would thank him for the opportunity to take care of him.

"So Ravi has a theory," Tommy says, after they've taken their fill of staring in silence.

"I kept interrupting him but it kinda sounded like he's been spending way too much time dissecting our lives."

Tommy's smile lights up this dingy sports bar like nothing else. "Kinda reminds me of you, if I'm honest."

"He doesn't even like spreadsheets, Tommy."

"God, I love you."

It's a terrible place to start.

It's an excellent way to keep going.

[thegoldencontracts]

Hi sorry to bother you, but can you please make a part 2 of the courting fic where the prefect realizes what they were trying to say and "un-rejects" them?

Love your writing, keep up the good work!!

So happy to see people on the same page as me here, because I wrote the fic right before going to bed and my immediate thoughts were (I feel so bad so themm... wait but they're also being kinda stupid shit GUYS LOCK IN)

Anyways Part Twooo to this fic let's gooo! Featuring them getting a taste of their own medicine because I thought they deserved it (affectionate)

Cultural Exchange

—"You could have just said you liked me."

Characters: Leona, Ruggie, Floyd, Azul (same as in the first fic)

Notes: Let me I tell you I had wayy too much fun writing the little intro for each section I thought I was sooo clever didn't I

Leona:

—Humans are known to give flowers to their objects of affection. Bouquets, particularly those containing roses, are a common gift given to someone a human wishes to date.

Your phone, you noticed, was already open. A google page laid in front of you. Did Leona try to look something up and forget to close it? No, as slothful as he seemed, being careless like this just wasn't in his character.

But the phone was opened to-

Lion beastman courtship rituals.

The page stared you in the face, daring you to read.

"Lion beastmen," it said. "Have extended courting rituals. They stake out their desired mate and spend time building relations."

Wait. Those weeks the two of you had spent together...

"When the time is right, beastmen will often roar to declare their intent. They show desire by pawing, nuzzling, and-"

He'd roared beforehand, hands all over you.

"Biting."

Goddamnit you just fumbled Leona Kingscholar.

You wanted to crawl into a hole. You wanted to apologize. And you kind of wanted to yell at him for not just saying that like a normal person when you asked what was going on.

But that would have to wait for another time.

For now, you'd have to find some way to make it clear you returned his interests.

Flowers. Everyone, boy or girl, old or young, broke prefect or genius lion prince, could probably appreciate a nice bouquet.

So you stopped by Heartslabyul and the Seven themselves or whatever the deities of this world were must have been smiling down upon you, because they had a bunch of extra roses from some growth spell mishap they needed to get rid of.

"Good luck with your boyfriend," Ace had said, snickering.

So here you were. Outside of the Savannaclaw common room, a bouquet of flowers in hand.

"You gonna eat that?" Ruggie, standing in front of you, looking at the flowers scrutinizingly. Noticing the expression on your face though, he just laughed. "Jeez, I'm just joking with ya! I can get my own food. Maan, you're so dense... shishishi, no wonder Leona-san's obvious signs went right over your head!"

Speaking of Leona-

"Can you take me to him?" You asked, and Ruggie nodded.

"'Bout time. Leona-san's been in a mood since you shot him down." You didn't shoot him down, you just asked what he was talking about! "He's been sulkin' all day."

You had a feeling Ruggie was just saying that to embarrass him.

"But anyways, come on! The sooner you lovebirds kiss and make up, the better."

The door to Leona's room was locked. But Ruggie just pulled a hairpin, fiddled with it, and-

Of course he picked the lock.

"Your mate, Leona-san!"

"The herbivore's not-"

And Ruggie was gone. Just you and him now.

Leona stared at you from where he was lounging in his bed, tail flicking expectantly.

"You saw it, right?" He asked, voice deceptively impassive. You nodded.

"This all would've been a lot easier if you just explained what you meant. "I mean..."

You pulled the small bouquet of roses from behind your back.

Leona just stared, confused.

"Are you- callin' me an herbivore or something?" He asked. "You tryin' to say I'm fragile like the flowers?"

What.

He had the gall to expect you to understand these lion mating rituals or whatever, and he couldn't even understand what flowers meant?

"Lighten up, herbivore, I'm just jokin' with you," he said, taking the bouquet. "I do my research."

Unlike you was left unsaid.

"I really am sorry Leona-san," you said. "But how was I supposed to know you biting me was a mating ritual?"

"Well, it's more obvious than flowers," he huffed. You had to disagree, but since he was following your, uh, 'courting rituals'...

"I guess I should return the favor," you said, grabbing his arm. His face flushed ever so slightly, barely noticeable on that tanned skin of his.

And then you bit. He stared, shocked. But not the good kind.

"That," he said. "Was the weakest bite I've ever seen?"

"Huh?"

"You really are an herbivore," he said, before putting his head on your lap. "I'm going to sleep."

His tail flickered contentedly, though.

Cute.

Ruggie Bucchi:

—Humans give food items to their prospective mate, particularly sweet items with either a heart-shape or a heart-shape container. To highlight their affections, the sweet items are often made by hand.

Ruggie had been avoiding you. It was clear as day.

The excited little "Morning, Kantokusei-kun!" whenever he saw you had turned into a chorus of excuses about Leona calling for him and whatnot. His constant visits to your room had all but vanished.

You were getting fed up with it. What did you do? Did you accidentally eat his donut or something?

It all came to a head when you bumped into Leona in the greenhouse.

"Hey, herbivore," he said. There was something almost unnerving about the calm in his voice, the way he scrutinized you like he was picking apart the very fiber of your being.

After a while, though, he laughed.

"Ruggie's got himself up in a twist over nothing," he said.

"Um, what?"

"You," he said. "Do you know," he trailed off. "What hyena beastmen do—"

"—When they find someone they want to mate?"

Where did this come from?

"The guys do this thing," he continued. "Step forward and step away. Then they cross their legs and present their scent."

Oh.

He'd crossed his legs, telling you to join him on the bed...

"Seem familiar?" Leona said, a languid grin. "Good. Now clear this whole thing up. Ruggie's being a pain."

You accidentally rejected him! Goddamnit!

Well, if he'd just been a little more clear, you wouldn't've-!

Whatever. You needed to make it clear you liked him back, you supposed.

And what did you do when you liked someone? Make them chocolates! Heart-shaped ones for good measure. Plus, Ruggie liked food gifts, so that seemed like something he'd appreciate.

So you got to it. Made your chocolates, and off to Savannaclaw you went.

You knocked on the door. Once. Twice. Thrice.

Maybe he wasn't there?

But no; you heard a muffled yelp, from none other than him.

He wanted to hide. Unfortunately for him, in the time of your friendship, you'd long since learned how to copy his lock-picking technique.

Hairpin in the lock. Another one to serve as a tension wrench. And with a little bit of fiddling...

The door was open. Ruggie was staring at you, eyes blown wide.

"Hey, uh, pal!" He said, opening the window. "It looks like Leona-san needs another tonkatsu sandwich, and-"

"I'm sorry," you said, rushing to block the window before he could jump out of it. Well, hopefully that wasn't actually what he was planning, but you could never be too sure. "I mean, you were being really really vague, so honestly it was kinda your fault, but I- you know-"

You sighed.

"Just take this," you said, shoving the box of chocolates in his hands. "This should tell you how I feel."

You didn't know how you expected Ruggie to respond, maybe eat the chocolates happily, maybe say something about the changed nature of your relationship—

But you didn't expect him to stare at the chocolate like it personally offended him.

"What's this supposed to mean?" He asked. "You tryin' to butter me up so I owe you later or somethin'?"

What. What was he talking about. What was going on in his head when he said that.

"They're- They're heart-shaped chocolates," you said. "Do you- not feel the same way anymore or something?"

Ruggie stared at you like you'd just said the sky was green.

"Heart-shaped-" he stared at the chocolates. "Wait, m so iss this like- uh- it could be- you givin' me your heart-"

You saw the moment the puzzle pieces clicked together in his head. He probably didn't have the completely right idea, but eh, good enough. His face went bright red.

"You, shishi, didn't have to- go all this way, y'know," he said. "Not that I'm conplainin'."

He popped one into his mouth, and you could tell he liked it from the way his face brightened.

"Good?" You asked, and he just shoved the uneaten half of the chocolate into your mouth in response, the imprint of his sharp canines clear as day.

You chewed for a few seconds. It really was good. But more importantly...

"That was an indirect kiss, y'know."

"Indi-what?"

"Indirect kiss. Your lips and my lips touched the same thing."

"Talk about weird," he said. "Sharin' food like that's completely normal!"

And then, popping another chocolate into his mouth, he continued:

"Can't you humans just sniff each other like any normal person?"

Floyd Leech:

—Humans will often use humorous expressions of desire with prospective mates in order to gauge interest. These are known as "pick-up lines".

Floyd had been avoiding you all week now. You had absolutely no clue what you did. Was he really that upset you'd told him to just be honest if he was bored with your rambling?

But still, the fact remained that he was avoidant, and just generally in an awful mood. Maybe something else had happened? Maybe it was just a mood?

Your question was answered when Jade cornered you after school, a toothy smile that most certainly didn't reach his eyes.

"I hear you've had quite the spat with my brother, Prefect," he said. "I understand that you may not return his feelings, but I would advise you to apologize for your harsh words. My brother is not, as you insinuate, the sort to court another so casually."

Wait.

Court?

"What do you mean, 'court'?" You asked. "I was talking, he started yawning, he asked me to dance out of nowhere, and then he got angry and left. Simple as that. Where do you see courting?"

The gear seemed to turn in his head for a while, before realization dawned upon him, mouth widening into a little 'o'.

"Prefect," he said. "Are you aware that moray eels open their mouths wide as a sign of desire?

"Huh?"

"When a moray eels sees a prospective mate," Jade re-iterated. "They open their mouths. And as a finalization, they perform a mating dance."

Mouth opened wide... Mating dance...

"Holy shit," you said. Jade just stared at you, still slightly threatening.

"You're telling me he was trying to tell me he liked me and I pretty much called him a fuckboy."

Jade nodded.

"Indeed, you did."

You could only sigh, long and low.

"Damnit."

"I do suggest you, ah, clear the air," Jade said, though his tone made it clear this was more of a demand. "Make it clear to him what I realized."

"Yeah, yeah." You still thought he should've just told you what he wanted.

Jade nodded, satisfied.

"Then I'll be leaving," he said. But before he left, he turned back, for just a split second.

"Prefect?"

"Yeah?"

"My brother and I both lack very little in terms of comfort," he said. "So I think you'll find that actions and words shall both speak louder than any bribes you attempt to bring."

And with that cryptically delivered piece of advice, Jade was gone.

You got to work. No point in making something, you recalled. Best to just bring yourself and your own sincerity.

Floyd was near impossible to track down. You really thought you deserved points just for doing that. He really put you through the wringer, after all.

"Floyd!" you said at last, trying your best to stay calm as he scowled. "I have something to say."

"I don't wanna hear it."

"You- You do!" You said. "Listen, I know you're annoyed because I called you a playboy, but have you ever considered-"

"Shut up."

"-That it was actually your fault for being really really vague while also managing to misunderstand me in the worst way possible?"

Floyd looked like he wanted to snap your neck. He also looked intrigued, though, which was a good sign.

"What're you saying?"

"I'm saying that I didn't know you were trying to tell me you liked me!" You said. "I mean, you looked like you were yawning, and I don't know jackshit about moray rituals, so what the hell was I supposed to think? All I know is—I'm talking, you're yawning, and suddenly you want to dance. Of course I'm going to think you're bored!"

Floyd stared at you for a few seconds.

And then he burst out laughing.

"F-Floyd?!"

"Eheh, you're so stupid sometimes, Koebi-chan!" Very nice. "But you've got some guts for a shrimpy. Maan, I remember why I like you so much now."

In an instant, he was back to his typical, lackadaisical mood.

"Use your head a little more next time, alright? I really thought you were trying to say I was some flaky little guppy," he said. You shook your head vehemently, pushing down your urge to tell him that he was the one being ridiculously vague.

"No, I know you're not like that, I mean- I like you too!" Now what. "Uh- Uh-"

"You know, Floyd," you said. "They say the tongue is the strongest muscle."

Now, he just looked confused.

"It's not. When it comes to strength by size, the masseter-"

"So," you said. "Wanna wrestle?"

He narrowed his eyes.

"Tongue-wrestling would be boring. Why're you even bringin' wrestling up right now? Lame."

Did- Did he seriously not get it?

"Our tongues should wrestle," you re-iterated. He shook his head.

"How'd you even do somethin' like that?" he asked. "Just, like, put your lips together-"

You didn't even have time to realize when it all clicked for him because he grabbed you.

"Changed my mind. I wanna tongue-wrestle with you, Koebi-Chan!"

"And you were calling me the oblivious one?"

Azul:

—Humans will often initiate contact between their lips and the lips of a prospective mate, a phenomenon known as "kissing". When done for an extended period of time, this is called "making out".

Azul did not act particularly different.

But you could tell he was upset. It was written all over the slight strain of his saccharine smile, the way he laid it on just a little bit too thick when he attempted to ingratiate himself to you, and the slight bags under his eyes—a sign he was overworking himself in an attempt to distract from his problems.

Yep. He was definitely upset.

And of course, inevitably, the twins cornered you.

"You did somethin' weird to Azul," Floyd said, glaring at you. "Fix it or I'll squeeze ya."

Jade snickered from behind him.

Of course. Welp, you had absolutely no clue what you did, sooo...

"Is this because I offered to take him to the Doctor's office when his arm kept changing color?" you asked. "Seriously, I knew he didn't like getting help, but- ugh, isn't that too far!"

"Why'd you do that?" Floyd said. "Man, Koebi-Chan really is mean, tellin' Azul he's sick for wantin' to make you his mate."

"What does changing color have to do with, uh, mates?"

Floyd looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or slap you.

"You do know a little octopus like Azul changes color because he wants to be your mate, right?"

...

That couldn't be. That just- it-

"Indeed," said Jade. "Octopi will also often grab their prospective mate from behind."

His arm was changing color. He'd grabbed you from behind.

"Goddamnit," you said. Couldn't he have been a little more specific?!

That was it. You were not dealing with this stupid misunderstanding any longer! This stupid, insanely intelligent, oblivious octopus was going to know you liked him!

You stomped away.

"Where're you going, Koebi-chan?"

"Oya, going somewhere, Perfect?"

"Clearing the air," you said. That seemed to be an answer they approved.

"Actions speak louder than wor-"

"I know."

You cut off Jade's attempt at delivering cryptic advice before storming over to the VIP Room. There was Azul, working on some contract or the like.

"Azul."

"You're not allowed to be in here, you know. There's quite a hefty fee."

"Azul."

"Yes?" He looked up, looking entirely unhappy to see you.

"I didn't realize that thing you were going last week was a part of octopus courtship, you know," you said. "You really should've told me."

"What are you-"

"Let me show you a human courtship ritual to set things straight."

And you kissed him. It was not the sort of kiss that I initiated fireworks, nor was it anything like the novels you'd read. In fact, it was an exceptionally awkward kiss, because Azul was an awful kisser. You didn't entirely mind, though, it was cute.

You both had to pull away because Azul was out of breath, gasping and wheezing like he'd been made to run a mile for P.E.

"Does that make my feelings clear?" You said. He just huffed, looking firmly at his contract.

"I- suppose we can work something out..." He muttered, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Why don't you take a seat?"

The offer seemed simple, but the truth of it was clear.

He was considering that relationship.

So you sat, enjoying the contented silence and the resolved misunderstanding. But there was one thing you had to get off your chest.

"You know, it's insane how bad you suck at kissing."

"Shut it."

[chocolatepot]

I would argue that "gooner" very much started in the same place it is now.

When people started talking about it last year, it was in horrified fascination at the original meaning as a kink: really slow edging, spending hours masturbating without coming. People love being disgusted by kinks they hadn't heard of before, and this one was well-chosen to disgust America -- in our favorite Protestant Work Ethic paradigm, time should always be spent productively (whether that's making money or just practicing a hobby), and this is pure hedonistic idleness.

Almost immediately, it started to be applied outside of that specific meaning, in a generally derogatory sense that someone thinks about porn/masturbation too much based on fanart they reposted on social media, sexual comments they made, etc. There's no such thing as a porn addiction: the concept was invented by evangelical Christians who thought all porn use was shameful, and it's broadly used in the same way, to say that someone is committing the sin of idleness But Worse (because it's sexual).

Pointing to someone and saying "they're obsessed with solo sex" is a fantastic way to delegitimize them and their interests, even on the left. Add onto this the ongoing issue of purity culture looking down on any hint of sexuality in fiction, also happening on all sides of the political spectrum ... and you have the prevalence of "gooner" as an insult.

"gooner" is straight up just a weird conservative dogwhistle at this point

[texasbama]

I don't think I even need time to sit with the finale. there is nothing to even sit with. the finale, much like most of season 8, was underwhelming and disappointing more than anything. too much emergency, not enough character story. the pacing was terrible. I mean.

Season 8 will be known as the season of what could have been. We started this season with the hope that we would pickup where season 7 left off and that we would see our fave characters deal with certain things. Instead we got: Gerrard (known bigot) be humanized over and over. we got multiple episodes of the Hotshots and Brad bullshit. HenRen and Mara got a whopping one episode (and 10 seconds in the finale)

Buck's relationship ended as quickly as it started (no complaints there), and Buck spent all of 8B being a placeholder in Eddie's home. and Eddie. god my poor baby. Eddie began the season without his son yet we never got to see Eddie really work to repair the relationship the way we should've. We saw Chris twice over FT. in 801 and 808. We didn't get to see Eddie talk to him about moving. We didn't get an in depth conversation with Chris once he was in Texas. All these things happened off screen. then in the finale, we see no talk about Eddie moving him and Chris back to LA. it's just tada! they're back! and Buck has already moved out (or is in the process)

another two parter. They killed the patriarchal figure of the show and then proceeded to give the audience three underwhelming episodes to say goodbye to Bobby and to end the season. This show will never be the same without Bobby Nash and his death was treated like it was just a normal thing that happens all the time.

Out of 18 episodes, 9 were two parters (three for the season opener) and each one was more exhausting than the last. in one season we dealt with a beenado, Athena's plane, Maddie's kidnapping, the virus/lab that killed Bobby and then this building collapse. It was just TOO MUCH. too many emergencies. too much focus on side characters (Brad, Abigail Spencer's character, etc) and not enough on what we love about this show-the characters. the found family. instead we were dealt a huge loss with Bobby's death and very little character driven stories.

It's so frustrating because we know what this show is capable of. we've seen them balance high action emergencies and still write interesting and meaningful stories for our mains. season 8 did not give us that at all.

Now don't get me wrong, there were moments I did truly love-but they were just that-small moments. Eddie dancing in his underwear, Buckley Diaz family reunion, Madney having another baby, HenRen adopting Mara, Bathena in 801-803. But when you think about these moments, they were so small in the grand scheme of things. and that's just not how it should be.

We all know where the blame lies. I don't even have to say it. This show was a hot ass mess behind the scenes. more so than usual. and it showed in damn near every episode. This season is an example of what happens when you have a showrunner who has no regard for the safety of his cast/crew and absolutely no regard for the integrity of their show and it's characters.

good riddance.

[rafessecret]

girlie i have a requesttt 🥰 so , maybe rafe and reader are bestfriends, reader is like a sweetheart and all, and shes so oblivious she cant see rafe feels more and wants more so one night when they hangout at her place he confesses and maybe some smut? LOVE YOUR WRITING BTW ANGEEL

⋆˚࿔ oblivious¡ reader && bsf¡rafe cameron

I'VE LOVED YOU FOREVER

You and Rafe have always been inseparable. Like gravity—you orbit each other naturally, wordlessly, like the universe arranged it that way and forgot to tell anyone else. He’s always there. Waiting by your locker, stealing your food with a grin, and tugging on your sleeves when he wants your attention. And you, with your big eyes and soft voice, never see the way he looks at you.

Because you’re too kind. Too sweet. Too busy giggling at dumb movies and offering him the last bite of your ice cream. You fall asleep on his shoulder during car rides, wear his hoodies without asking, hold his hand like it means nothing—and it drives him insane. Because to him, it means everything.

You don’t know it, but he memorises you. The way you chew your lip when you’re nervous. The soft rise and fall of your chest when you sleep. How your laugh curls in the air like something holy. He thinks you're the prettiest thing he's ever seen, all sunshine and sugar and so effortlessly good it hurts.

He keeps all his feelings locked up tight, sealed behind smiles and teasing nicknames. But sometimes—just sometimes—he wonders what it would be like if you knew. If you really knew how much he loves you. How your voice steadies him. How your trust makes him feel like he’s worth something. How just being around you makes the world bearable.

You think he’s just your best friend. But he’s quietly, desperately, hopelessly in love with you. And he would never risk losing you. Even if it kills him a little more each day. You don’t know what makes today feel different. It’s been sweet, like always. You and Rafe spent the whole afternoon wrapped up in each other—driving around nowhere, laughing too loud, stealing fries off each other’s plates like you’ve done a thousand times before. He knows all your favourite songs. You know all his soft spots. It’s always been like that.

Now it’s nighttime, and you’re in your bed, side by side, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The lights are off. The sheets smell like lavender and the lotion you put on before bed. Everything is warm and quiet and close. You’re whispering secrets, giggling between yawns, brushing your toes against his under the blanket. It’s innocent, familiar. Safe. You’re talking about some guy who asked you out earlier in the week, but you laugh it off—like it was strange or silly. Like you didn’t get it. You never really do. ❝It always surprises me when people say that. That I’m pretty, I mean.❞

Rafe goes quiet. Too quiet. And you feel it. The way the air shifts. Then his voice, low, soft, aching: ❝I get it. You’re beautiful. Of course he asked.❞ You giggle, nudging him gently. ❝Rafe, stop. You’re just saying that.❞ But that’s what breaks him. He sits up suddenly, like the words are forcing themselves out. His hands are trembling. His breath’s gone all uneven.

❝I’m not. I’m not just saying anything. I love you. I’ve loved you since before I even knew what it meant.❞ You freeze, blinking up at him, wide-eyed and stunned. ❝Shit—I didn’t mean—I mean I did—but I shouldn’t’ve said it like that—fuck. Don’t hate me, please. I didn’t mean to ruin this.❞ He looks wrecked. So scared. So soft.

You reach up, gently, and take his hand in both of yours. Press your lips to his knuckles. ❝You didn’t ruin anything. You’re my favourite person. You always have been.❞ And then you kiss him—just once, soft and slow. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He kisses you back like he’s been holding his breath for years. At first, he’s hesitant. Nervous. His lips brush yours, soft and unsure, like he’s scared you might pull away. Like he doesn’t quite believe this is real—that you kissed him first. That you want him back.

His hands tremble where they press into the mattress on either side of you, caging you in without ever touching you. You feel how hard he’s trying not to shake, how tightly he’s holding himself together.

❝It’s okay,❞ you whisper into his mouth between kisses. ❝You’re okay.❞ He exhales like he’s breaking apart. And then he kisses you again, deeper this time. Still nervous. Still careful. But he lets himself taste you, lets himself lean into it. His lips slot over yours perfectly, and he’s breathless, desperate in a way that’s all bottled up.

Rafe groans into your mouth like he’s starving—like the taste of you is the first thing he’s ever truly wanted. He kisses with this aching kind of hunger, tongue pushing past your lips like he’s been dreaming about this exact moment forever.

His tongue licks into you slow at first, savouring it, then deeper—wet and hot and messy. He fucks your mouth with it, gentle but desperate, like he can’t help it. Like he wants to crawl inside your body and live there. You moan softly, lips parting wider, letting him take and take and take. Your fingers brush against his jaw, soothing, anchoring. You feel the way his breath catches, how he leans into your touch like he needs it. Like he needs you.

You tug at the hem of his shirt between kisses, breathless. He pulls back just long enough to tug it over his head, and your eyes go soft—your breath catching. He’s all nervous smiles and flushed cheeks, but your gaze is warm and adoring, and it makes him feel like maybe he’s not so scared. ❝You’re beautiful,❞ you whisper. He swallows hard. ❝You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.❞

You kiss again, and this time there’s no hesitation. Just want. Just heat. Your hands roam his chest, his shoulders. His hands finally touch your waist, hesitant but hungry. He fumbles with your shirt, asking, ❝Can I?❞ You nod. He undresses you like you’re something sacred. Like he’s scared he might break you. And when you’re bare beneath him, he just looks. Drinks you in. Breathing heavily. Awestruck. ❝Are you sure?❞ he whispers. ❝I’m sure. I want you, Rafe.❞ It nearly undoes him.

His breath catches, jaw tight, the weight of your words wrecking something deep inside him. You’re laid out beneath him—eyes soft, chest heaving, skin flushed with anticipation—and he looks at you like you hung the damn stars.

He lines himself up between your thighs, and you feel him—hard, thick, and big. The tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, and your breath stutters, hips twitching. He strokes his hand up your thigh, spreading you wider, fingers trailing dangerously close to where you're dripping for him. ❝Fuck,❞ he breathes, eyes dark and ravenous. ❝You sure, sweetheart?❞ You nod, voice breathy. ❝I’m sure. Please, Rafe. I need you.❞

He groans, low and hungry, and starts to push in—slow, almost teasing. The thick head of his cock parts your folds, dragging through your slick as he eases in inch by inch. Your mouth falls open, gasping at the stretch. It burns in the most delicious way. ❝Oh my god—Rafe—❞

❝I got you,❞ he grits out, forehead against yours, watching every twitch of your face. ❝Fuck, you’re so tight. You’re taking me so well, angel.❞ He bottoms out with a trembling moan, buried to the hilt, cock pulsing inside you. Your pussy clenches around him, fluttering, greedy, and wet. His arms are shaking, holding himself up as he breathes through the urge to fuck you into the mattress right then.

You’re wrapped around him, thighs trembling, nails clawing at his shoulders. He starts to move—deep, slow strokes that drag every inch of him along your walls. You whimper, head falling back as he rocks into you, hips rolling, hitting that sweet spot over and over.

❝So fucking good,❞ he murmurs against your neck, tongue licking a stripe up your throat. ❝Been thinking about this for so long. How perfect you’d feel.❞ His hand trails down, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, wet circles as he keeps fucking into you. You jolt, crying out as pleasure coils sharp and fast in your stomach.

❝You feel that, sweetheart? How wet are you? How you’re squeezing me like that?❞ he groans, voice filthy. ❝God, you were made for me.❞ And then he loses control. His rhythm turns rough—desperate and fast, hips slamming into yours with wet, echoing sounds. The room is filled with your moans, his panting, and the sound of skin on skin. He’s fucking you hard now, raw and deep, your slick coating him, dripping down your thighs. ❝So messy,❞ he pants, watching where you're joined. ❝Look at that, sweetheart. You’re soaking me.❞

You’re crying out, back arching off the bed, overwhelmed by how good it feels. He’s hitting that spot again and again, making you dizzy and incoherent. ❝Cum for me,❞ he growls, fingers tightening on your hips. ❝Cum all over my cock.❞ You shatter, legs shaking, cunt clenching down on him so tight he chokes on a moan. You cry out his name, loud and shameless.

Rafe follows, hips stuttering as he thrusts deep and stays there, groaning against your throat as he cums—thick and hot—filling you up. He keeps thrusting shallowly, riding it out, fucking his release deeper inside. Then he collapses on top of you, breathing hard, face buried in your neck. His hands stroke your sides, your thighs, gentle now.

❝You’re everything,❞ he whispers, kissing your face, your lips. ❝Mine. All mine.❞ He stays inside you, warm and full, bodies tangled, and for the first time—it feels like the beginning of something real. He holds you after. Kisses your face. Whispers your name like a prayer. It’s passionate. It’s real.

And it’s the beginning of everything.

── ⋆ 𝐲𝐚𝐩 : ahh! I love the best friend concept probably more than anything, so thank you so much anon for giving me an excuse to dive back into it. this was sooo fun to write, I hope you guys love it too!

── ⋆ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 : @scne-vampire @browniepop62 @urcoolgf

©RAFESSECRET ⋆˚࿔ est. 2025

[beanarie]

part 3 of buck takes a mental health break. things get kind of epistolary (ish) from here on out.

~

Los Olivos is... nice. Super nice. Buck has driven through a couple of times, but he's never stopped here. He squints at his phone, triple-checking the address, before he rings the bell.

The door opens, and it's like the sun came out. "Buckaroo!" Carla smiles big and wide. "You get in here right now." Her arms wrap around him as unabashedly as they always did. He gleans as much warmth and comfort as he can before she lets go to give him a once over. "Look at Mr. Universe! My goodness, so much more of you to love now. Come in, come in. I hope you're hungry. I've been cooking since late morning, but if you'd shown me a recent photo, I would've started yesterday."

He manages to put away most of the ribs she put in front of him, with her husband Elden polishing off the rest. After ignoring her protests and helping load the dishwasher, he takes in the photos taking up most of the wall space and several surfaces.

She chuckles at the one he stopped in front of. "That's from the wedding of, uh, you-know-who."

"It's a beautiful photo." Elden is wearing a suit a similar shade of blue to the one Buck wore to his and Abby's disastrous first date. If he closes his eyes, he can still hear Bobby's voice in his ear, giving last minute advice as he helped Buck with his tie.

That part of it was a good memory.

"You okay?" Carla asks.

Buck shakes himself, seeing a way out that's sure to be worth it if only to see her reaction. "Uh, hey. Do you remember how Abby had that ex that kind of smashed her heart into little pieces?"

"Oh, yeah. She was hung up to an embarrassing degree. Her mom used to talk about the guy, too. She loved him."

"I forgot about that," Buck says under his breath, suddenly thinking about Tommy hanging out with Abby's elderly mom, being mildly caustic at each other while playing scrabble or doing a puzzle.

"Why would you bring up whatshisn-?"

"Uh, Tommy."

She tilts her head, intrigued. "Good memory."

Later Buck is proud of himself for making sure she's sitting before he gives her the story. As it is she laughs so hard she almost falls off the couch.

"Your life, I swear," she says, wheezing. "I don't know why I'm even surprised."

Buck finds himself grinning along, wider than he has in a long time.

"You know, you lit up a little when you talked about him. You still like this guy?"

"Yeah," he says, only a little doubt in his mind. "I think so."

"He really thought you were in love with Eddie?" She has an incredible gobsmacked face. "Now, I adore that man, and the two of you would be pretty as hell." She winks and Buck snickers. "But he has a talent for making things hard, and you, Evan Buckley. You deserve something easy."

~

(Hen): Hey, Eddie told me what he said. Say the word, and Karen and I will get him ostracized from every parent group in the county.

(Buck): Don't do that.

(Buck): It affects Chris.

(Hen): Good point. We could do gyms. You have no idea how important gays are to that scene.

(Buck): I might not be Gay-gay but I have spent a little time in gyms. I know.

(Hen): Right, that's fair.

(Hen): You seemed like you were managing. I should've noticed you were making yourself smaller.

(Buck): Thanks, Hen.

(Hen): You're missed, just so you know. Not just during shifts. You'll always be one of ours, understand?

(Hen): Buck?

(Hen): Maybe you don't understand. That's on me. I'll do better in the future.

(Buck): I miss you, too. The lady who served me at this truck stop diner had glasses like yours.

(Hen): I hope you gave her a good compliment.

(Buck): Of course I did. And a big tip.

~

Oakland is next, Lucy doesn't have a spare room ("My partner's brother is staying with us for a while. He's a funny little shit. You'll probably be best friends.") but she does have a pullout couch, and when Buck lies at an angle, his feet don't dangle off the edge.

He and Lucy get just this side of absolutely trashed. When they've toasted to Cap's memory multiple times and the stories slow to a trickle, she grabs his phone. "I'm gonna find you a not-nice boy on grindr."

Buck sits back in his chair and gives a have at it gesture. He watches her, always so comfortable in her own skin. "When did you first, y'know, know?"

She doesn't hesitate for a second. "Eleven. Heather Edison. Sixth grade English. She read for Juliet in class and I wanted to be Romeo so bad."

"Who did you get instead?"

She makes a face. "Tybalt. Ugh."

"What's it like growing up knowing pretty much the whole time?"

"Well, I got a couple years on you. It was a lot of sussing people out and very carefully figuring out who was safe to share that part of myself with." She picks up her shoulders breezily. "Sometimes I was wrong. It happens."

"That sounds terrible. I'm sorry."

"Price of admission," she says. "Now, do you wanna stick with the Greek god aesthetic, or do you feel like broadening your horizons a little?"

Sheree, the girlfriend, brings him coffee the morning after.

"Do you miss it?" she asks. "The job? If you're anything like Lucy... She broke her wrist once and the whole time she couldn't be out there it was like she was locked in a glass case full of water."

The job is what killed him, Buck thinks idly. But even now, he recognizes that it's also what kept him going as long as he did. Buck sips at his coffee. "It's only been a few days," he says with a little teasing smile. "Right now it barely counts as time away."

~

(Eddie): Chris said it's my fault you left and then he stopped talking to me again

(Eddie): it's not really is it?

(Buck): I don't know what I'm supposed to say to that. It feels like no matter what I do it's wrong, so I'd rather not engage at all for a while.

His phone rings. Buck rejects the call, then pulls over and drinks half a water bottle.

(Buck): I know this was hard on you, but finding out after the fact was not worse than being there. It wasn't. Bobby's face that night will be with me on my deathbed. Maybe you'll always remember how Chris looked when you told him, but you get a lifetime of new memories to replace it with.

Buck plugs all that in from the notes app, then immediately has a thought.

(Buck): If you ever talk to me like that again I'll transfer for good.

Hands shaking, he turns off alerts from Eddie. Then he texts Chris a photo of himself and Carla at her house. The amount of exclamation points he gets in return chips away at the concrete block around his heart.

~

(Buck): Am I exhausting?

(Buck): Sorry. Hi how are you?

(Tommy): Too late, you already set the tone. Exhausting? You did tire me out on a regular basis

"Oh," Buck says to himself.

(Tommy): in the bedroom. But I'd never say you were exhausting, that's not how I think of you at all. I don't see how anyone could.

(Buck): Oh

(Tommy): Howie told me about your sabbatical. Where are you now?

(Buck): A couple hours outside Salt Lake City.

(Tommy): Exciting stuff. Don't let the mormons get you.

(Buck): Truck driver fell asleep and caused a pileup. That was pretty exciting.

(Tommy): Not for an old pro like you. Did you have to bust out your skills?

(Buck): For a bit. No fatalities, that was good. Mostly just concussions and whiplash.

(Tommy): Look at you, working on your vacation.

It's such a simple exchange, but the concrete block feels even weaker now. He remembers Bobby saying He's good for you, at a time that they later found out was him saying his goodbyes. That taints it, somewhat, but Buck can't get over that Bobby thought he'd be leaving Buck in a good place, with Tommy.

(Buck): Thank you, Tommy

(Tommy): For responding to your texts? It was a real hardship. I'll never get those 90 seconds back.

(Buck): For making me smile. You always do that.

(Tommy): You're pretty good at that yourself. Drive safe, Evan.

[superhoeva]

the thought of walsh and abbott both getting possessive over reader at work and the both of them competing while double domming reader after they're all off is driving me insane

(i think you've opened pandora's box...)

When your name tumbles from their lips at the same time, all you can do is freeze.

“C’mere for a sec, kid. Got a good one for ya.” Jack is the first to start again, B-lining for where you stand at a monitor, ten seconds-post finishing a chart for your latest patient. “Guy in 18 has a–”

“Actually, I need you with me. Single GS incoming, six minutes out,” Walsh appears on the other side of your shoulders, clenching her hand together to keep her from grabbing your arm like she so desperately desires.

Pursing your lips, you keep your eyes on the screen. You end up kicking yourself in the inside when you can’t find anything to make it look like you’re busy.

“Well, sorry, Dr. Walsh but she’s coming with me,” Jack declares, making sure to soften his face with a quick smile when he nods his head at you to follow. “Gotta reattach the tip of an index finger, want you gloved up so I can talk you through the suture–”

“Too bad. I need her with me in Trauma. Have Parker do it, she could handle that with her eyes closed. Easy.”

“Parker’s busy, and this is a good learning opportunity for the kid. Or have you forgotten we’re a teaching hospital, Dr. Walsh?”

“She can learn just as much from a GSW as she can from a replantation.”

“You sure about that one?”

“Hey,” you breathe out, moving to step in between where the two are starting to unconsciously tug toward one another. You even throw a little frown at them but it probably looks like more of a pout because you hate when they get like this–and you know they know you hate it when they get like this. “Really, you guys? Right here?”

A handful of thick seconds pass. Finally–

“...come on.”

“...let’s move.”

Huffing, you drop your arms and toss an annoyed glare at the ceiling. “Fuck me.”

“Fuck me…” you whisper out, flinching when Emery circles a drenched tongue around your clit at a whine-indcucing pace. You squirm against Jack’s front, who doesn't stop the sloppy kisses he pressing just below your ear when he tightens his grip around you. “Ah.”

“Thought y-you all we’re supposed to be–shit–making up f-for earlier,” you whimper, “not this.”

“Should’ve had me go first. Would’a let you come on my tongue at least three times by now, doll.”

“Oh, I think you spent your fair share of time down here yesterday afternoon,” Emery smacks along your slit, hand squeezing at the plush of your thighs as she sends a cutting look past you toward Jack. He meets the sharp gaze, sending a just-as-piercing leer while his teeth move to nibble at your jaw. “Could still taste her when you kissed me before work. You should fucking shave, by the way.”

Just as Jack hurries to rebut, Emery sucks at you clit with enough force to wail a moan from you loud enough to cover Abbot’s rasp. He rolls his eyes at the two of you even though his cock jumps at the sound and the sight.

“Can someone please just fuck me?”

A little of the tension melts, Jack and Emery sharing a small quirk of the lips.

Dragging her lips up your body, Walsh hangs over you and Jack in a close hover. She bends a little, sharing a long snog with Jack before pulling away and turning to you.

“We’re sorry, baby,” she coos, cupping your cheeks and bending to kiss your lips. You feel Jack breathing deep behind you as her tongue swipes across yours. Giving you one last peck, she pulls away with a quick wink that only you can see before helping Jack shift you against him. “Got her?”

“Yeah. You set, hun?”

A genuine smile ghosts across Emery’s mouth, and she stares at you and Jack. Chest warming, she hums out an easy mhm. 

“You?”

Jack grins at Emery, pecking a kiss to your shoulder just before lacing his fingers with the woman at your front. “Never better, baby.”

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[wbbfannnnnn13]

Motion Sick // Chapter 6

Theme: homoerotic friendship messy core...

A/N: Oof, this was a challenge, but I felt obligated to get another chapter out quick with all ya'll being crashouts. You guys crack me up, but I secretly (not-so-secretly) love it. My mind is straight mush now, but it was a lot of fun writing this chapter, kind of dialogue heavy at parts, but I hope you enjoy.

WC: 5K

Warnings: angst, cussing (maybe)

**** Chapter 6 ****

It had been a couple weeks since the talk. Not a movie-scene blow-up or some epic “I choose you” moment—just a weirdly vulnerable heart-to-heart in the film room. Two people sitting in the blue glow of paused game tape, finally hitting play on everything else. No tears. No yelling. Just honesty.

And ever since, something had shifted.

They weren’t exactly glued at the hip again—more like orbiting the same planet without crashing into each other. Which, all things considered, was progress. A miracle, even.

They talked now. Real talk. Not just hey-good-drill or sarcastic comments about the weight room playlist. Full sentences. Actual conversations. Last week, Paige had even stayed behind after practice to argue about whether fruit snacks counted as a recovery food. Azzi said no. Paige called her a menace to sports science.

She hadn’t realized how much she missed this until it was back—until she could breathe around Paige again.

And honestly? Azzi had been breathing easier in general lately.

Breaking up with Derrick fucking Jones had cracked something open in her—in a good way. Like stepping out into fresh air after holding your breath too long. She hadn’t even realized how much energy she’d spent pretending. Pretending to be fine, to be all in, to care more than she actually did. The relationship had felt like lukewarm soup—tolerable, sometimes comforting, but never enough.

The moment it ended, she didn’t feel guilt. She felt relief.

She went home, ate half a sleeve of Oreos, and slept for twelve straight hours. When she woke up, the weight was gone.

Aubrey had cheered. Caroline had shown up with a Costco-size tub of cookie dough and refused to leave until Azzi talked. Really talked. About everything—about Paige, about the exhausting math of liking someone you weren’t sure you were allowed to like, about being tired of playing small.

They sat cross-legged on the floor of Azzi’s room, spooning dough straight from the tub and watching a muted rerun of The Princess Diaries like they were thirteen again. Caroline wore one sock and a messy bun, and kept making off-handed comments like, “This entire situation has big Mia Thermopolis energy,” which didn’t make any sense, but somehow helped.

Somewhere between Azzi muttering, “I don’t even know if I’m gay or bi or just… late to the party,” and whispering, “I don’t know who I am without basketball,” Caroline had looked at her—really looked at her—and said:

“Even if it’s too late for you and Paige… it’s not too late for you.”

Then she added, more serious this time, “You don’t have to figure out your whole identity tonight. But you do have to stop acting like you don’t get to have one.”

And for the first time in a long time, Azzi felt like maybe she wasn’t broken. Just… becoming.

Azzi hadn’t cried. But she had believed her.

So she started paying more attention to her own feelings. Not Paige’s. Not anyone else’s. Just hers. She poured more into practice, into film, into the one thing that had always made sense—basketball. Her first love. The only thing that had never made her feel like too much or not enough. And in the quieter moments—walking to class, waiting in line for coffee, sharing a laugh with someone in the library—she let herself notice. The way a girl’s smile made her stomach flip. The way it felt nice, just looking. Just wondering. Not in a dramatic, world-tilting way, but in those small, flickering moments that felt like maybe, finally, a beginning.

And Paige? Paige seemed good. She was still sidelined, still rehabbing, but there was a steadiness to her. Kathryn made her laugh, even if her jokes weren’t that funny. And maybe that was enough.

Azzi had told herself she was happy for her. Said it out loud enough times that it almost felt true.

Season had officially started, and Azzi was already feeling it in her bones—in a good way. There was a calm she hadn’t known she needed. Less pressure. More focus. Her shot felt smooth. Her legs felt fresh. She was ready. 

And of course, Paige had gone full Coach P.

Not that Azzi minded—most of the time.

“Okay, defense shows high hedge, what’s the read?” Paige called across the court during transition reps.

Azzi didn’t even look up. “Corner skip or hit the cutter.”

“Uh-huh. And if Aaliyah actually remembers how to seal this year?”

Azzi grinned. “Drop pass. Easy bucket.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Bold of you to assume Aaliyah’s gonna remember the playbook and not just bulldoze everyone like a human wrecking ball.”

Azzi laughed. “Hey, it’s a valid strategy. Chaos is still technically a tactic.”

“Tell that to the refs. She’s already averaging one offensive foul per scrimmage.”

“Justice for Aaliyah,” Azzi said solemnly. “She’s just out here catching strays and setting illegal screens.”

Paige smirked. “Yeah, yeah. Meanwhile you’re out here running point like Sue Bird’s ghost is whispering in your ear.”

Azzi tossed the ball toward her. “You’re just mad I’m learning to do your job better than you.”

Paige caught it one-handed and shrugged. “Well, someone’s gotta keep the dynasty alive while I’m stuck pretending to enjoy hip mobility drills.”

It was… nice. Their rhythm.

Azzi had always admired the way Paige saw the floor—like she had cheat codes no one else had. Like the defense moved in slow motion just for her, every trap and rotation already decoded before it even happened. Paige didn’t just react—she anticipated. Manipulated. Threaded passes through windows that barely existed.

It was part art, part science, and Azzi had spent years trying to figure out how she did it.

So yeah, it meant something—having Paige in her ear now. Not just nitpicking her handles or telling her to keep her elbows in. But actually pushing her to see the game differently. To read spacing in real time. To feel the shift of a defense before it fully committed.

Though that didn’t stop Paige from offering shooting tips, which was ridiculous. And also entirely on brand.

“Wrist’s a little stiff today,” Paige said casually after Azzi drained six straight from the wing.

Azzi deadpanned, “Please enlighten me, Steph.”

“Just saying, maybe you’re due for a form check. Could be a thumb drift situation.”

Azzi blinked. “You really wanna die today?”

Paige smirked. “It’s giving 12% left-hand involvement.”

“I will end you.”

“You’d miss.”

Azzi couldn’t help it—she laughed.

They still had their bruises. Still had history—the kind that didn’t fade easily, no matter how much time passed. But this? This quiet, cautious rhythm they were building now? It felt like something new. Not perfect. Not certain. But real. Steady in a way that maybe didn’t need labels or guarantees.

Something worth holding onto, even if just with open hands.

Paige

Paige tried not to stare.

But it was hard not to when Azzi was running the floor like she owned it. Confident. Locked in. The kind of sharp that made her want to clap and curse at the same time.

She watched from the baseline, arms crossed over her hoodie, trying to act like she wasn’t tracking every move. Footwork. Tempo. Angles. The way Azzi looked off the defender before slipping a bounce pass through traffic that made two managers gasp out loud.

“Jesus,” Paige muttered under her breath, even though her heart was doing this dumb little fluttery thing she immediately ignored.

It was good. This was good. They were good.

Better, at least.

She hadn’t been sure how that film room conversation would go—if it would break them, fix them, or just confirm that some things weren’t meant to be salvaged. But somehow, it had done none of that and all of it at once. They weren’t glued to each other like they used to be, but there was something solid in the space between them now. Friendly. Safe.

Mostly.

Paige knew what Azzi thought—that she was fine, happy, moved on.

And in a lot of ways, she was.

Kathryn was great. Chill. Low drama. The kind of person who didn’t need a spotlight, didn’t flinch at silence. She sent memes at 2 a.m. and always asked how Paige’s knee was doing before anything else. She let Paige rant about PT without trying to fix it. She made things easy. Steady. Predictable in a way Paige hadn’t realized she craved.

She didn’t ask questions Paige didn’t want to answer.

Like how she was really feeling. Or whether she ever thought about last season. Or what it meant when Paige couldn’t meet Azzi’s eyes for a full thirty seconds after that assist drill last week.

Kathryn didn’t ask, so Paige didn’t have to say.

She didn’t have to explain the scar tissue in her body or the messier kind layered somewhere under her ribs. She didn’t have to name the ache she still felt sometimes—quiet but persistent, like a song she couldn’t quite skip.

With Kathryn, everything had its place. Everything made sense.

And still… sometimes it felt like wearing a jacket that almost fit. Like if she just didn’t breathe too deep or move too fast, no one would notice the way it tugged in the wrong places.

**** 

If this was what Azzi looked like at the start of the season… the rest of the NCAA should probably go ahead and panic.

Twenty-six points. Six steals. Two blocks. One no-look dime that had the entire bench on their feet. She was everywhere—disrupting passing lanes, beating defenders off the dribble, calling switches like she’d been running point her whole life. Calm. Dominant. Untouchable.

Paige was proud. Like… stupidly proud.

She stayed composed on the sideline, of course—clapping, high-fiving, doing her little “Coach P” head nod—but inside? She was doing cartwheels. Watching Azzi level up like this? It was everything she wanted and everything she wasn’t sure she could handle.

The win itself wasn’t a surprise—Northwestern wasn’t exactly a team anyone was watching. But a dominant win still mattered. Momentum mattered. And Azzi had set the tone for the entire season. Paige would’ve killed to be on the floor with her, just for one quarter. Just to feel the rhythm again. But instead, she cheered. Coached. Supported.

It was enough. Kind of.

No major celebrations after the game—just fist bumps and ice baths. Everyone had already circled the Texas matchup on the calendar. Bigger test. Bigger stakes.

Still, the team wasn’t going to let a W go unacknowledged.

Naturally, they ended up piled into Azzi, Aubrey, and Caroline’s dorm suite, half-eaten pizza boxes scattered across the counter and someone’s Bluetooth speaker cycling through a very questionable playlist. No one brought drinks—look at all of us being responsible, Paige had joked when they’d passed a gas station and kept driving. Instead, they loaded up on soda, gummy worms, and arguments about who would win the West this year.

The TV was tuned into the NBA game, but no one was really watching. Side conversations buzzed in every corner—Caroline arguing with Nika about Steph vs. Dame, Aubrey attempting to rank all the High School Musical soundtracks, and Paige just… floating. Listening. Letting herself feel like part of it all again.

Until she realized Azzi wasn’t there.

She looked around casually at first, scanning the room like she might’ve just missed her. But the couch was full. The kitchenette, too. And that familiar gravity Paige always felt around her? Gone.

She leaned toward Aubrey. “Hey, where’d Azzi go?”

Aubrey didn’t look up from her phone. “Something about homework, I think.”

Paige raised a brow. “What, her and Derrick off doing microeconomics by candlelight?”

Aubrey blinked at her. “What?”

Paige furrowed her brow. “What do you mean, ‘what’?”

Aubrey looked up fully now, brows furrowed just as tightly. “Paige… they broke up.”

Paige froze mid-sip of her Diet Coke. “What?”

Caroline, sitting on the floor with her head against the couch, chimed in like it was nothing. “Yeah. Like, a couple weeks ago.”

Paige’s heart didn’t exactly drop—but it did shift. Like the ground underneath her had tilted a little to the left. Just enough to feel it.

“Oh,” she said. And then, stupidly, “I thought they were good.”

Aubrey and Caroline exchanged a look. Quick. Subtle. Not subtle enough.

Something in Paige’s chest pulled tight. She opened her mouth to ask more—when a bedroom door opened.

And there she was.

Azzi stepped out into the living room, hoodie half-zipped, glasses on, hair pulled into a low puff like she hadn’t given it a second thought. She looked… casual. Comfortable. Way too unaffected for someone who had just set the court on fire two hours ago.

“Sorry,” she said, sliding back into the room like she hadn’t been missed. “Forgot about some discussion posts.”

“Nerd,” Caroline muttered under her breath.

Azzi flipped her off without looking.

Paige tried to play it cool, but her brain was already halfway down a rabbit hole. Because discussion posts didn’t explain the way Aubrey had looked at her. Or the way Caroline had said it like it was obvious.

She didn’t know what she was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

Azzi dropped onto the couch across from her, grabbing a slice of cheese pizza and taking a bite like nothing had changed.

And maybe it hadn’t.

But for the first time in a long time, Paige wasn’t sure she understood the game she was watching.

Azzi

Azzi played out of her mind tonight.

Career high. Thirty-two points. Against the number three team in the nation. She couldn’t stop smiling—not in the postgame presser, not in the locker room, not even as she tried to act like she wasn’t replaying it all in her head every five seconds.

This was fun. Like, really fun.

The kind of game where the rim felt like a magnet and her body moved like it already knew what to do before her brain caught up. Where the defense couldn’t keep up and the crowd fed off every bucket. Where she could feel it—that shift. Like maybe this wasn’t just a good start to the season. Maybe this was her season.

And when Paige came up afterward, arm slung across her shoulders in that way that always made Azzi feel like she was still tethered to something solid, she said it so casually you’d think she hadn’t just handed her the highest compliment in the universe:

“National Player of the Year. I’m calling it now.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, tried to laugh it off—you’re so dramatic, P—but inside?

Her chest buzzed.

Because it wasn’t just anyone saying it. It was Paige.

Yeah, they were only a year apart. They’d come up in the same circuits, trained together, pushed each other. But still—there was something about Paige that always felt… next-level. The way she read the floor. The way she led. The way she carried herself like she already knew who she was.

Azzi had admired that. Still did. So hearing her say something like that, even half-jokingly?

It hit different.

While the Northwestern win hadn’t exactly earned a celebration, this one definitely did. This wasn’t just about rankings. It was about making a statement. UConn was still UConn. And Azzi? She was someone to watch this year. 

Naturally, the plan was Ted’s.

It was basically written into the culture of the program. Big win? You go to Ted’s. Birthday? Ted’s. Existential crisis before midterms? Ted’s with mozzarella sticks.

And with their next game not until Sunday, they had time. A whole six days of breathing room to celebrate, recover, and maybe watch the tape three times before Coach could even schedule film.

Azzi had already changed into jeans and a cropped tank top , still riding the high of the night. Hair damp, lip gloss swiped on at the last minute, hoop earrings in because Aubrey told her they were “absolutely essential for main character energy.” She didn’t argue.

Tonight, she felt like the main character.

****

The second she stepped into Ted’s, it was like the night tilted in her direction.

The music pulsed low and steady under her feet, the lights were dim enough to feel flattering, and every head seemed to turn when she walked through the door. Some double takes. Some straight-up stares. Caroline leaned in behind her and whispered, “Try not to trip over all the attention you’re getting, superstar.”

Azzi just grinned.

She earned this. She was the moment.

The drinks came quickly—someone handed her a hard cider, then a seltzer, then something pink and dangerous that Aubrey claimed was “hydration adjacent.” Her limbs loosened, the edges of her mind softened, and for the first time in… she didn’t even know how long, her brain wasn’t buzzing with plays or questions or complicated feelings she hadn’t made space to sort out.

Everything felt light.

Easy.

Even Derrick, camped out in the corner with his friends, scowling like someone had stolen his fantasy football password—he couldn’t touch her mood tonight. He didn’t even register. He was background noise.

And Paige?

Paige was across the room, curled into a corner booth with Kathryn, heads tucked close, laughing over something Paige was showing her on her phone.

It should’ve stung. A couple weeks ago, it might have.

But tonight? Azzi didn’t feel jealous. She felt done.

She was just about to rejoin the group when someone stepped into her path.

“Hey.”

Azzi turned—and paused.

Tall-ish. Blonde. Bright blue eyes and a confident smile that made her brain short-circuit for a half second. The girl looked familiar—maybe from class? Definitely someone athletic. Softball, maybe?

And okay—she was cute. Like, actually cute. The kind of cute that made Azzi stand a little straighter without meaning to.

Azzi blinked. Oh no.

She had a type. Apparently, it was tall, blonde, and alarmingly self-assured.

“Congrats on the win,” the girl said, voice low but certain. “And the thirty-two points. You kinda went off.”

Azzi blinked. “Thanks. I—sorry, I think we had a class together?”

“Yeah,” the girl smiled wider. “Sociology. You were always late.”

Azzi laughed. “Guilty. You sat near the back, right?”

“Middle-left,” she said. “But I’ll take back-row cool girl energy if that’s what you remember.”

Azzi tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “Okay, I’m not trying to be rude, but what’s your name again? I wanna say Lily… or maybe Laila?”

The girl laughed, clearly not offended. “Lexi. But I’m flattered you remembered the first letter.”

“Lexi,” Azzi repeated, like she was trying it on.

It fit.

Lexi tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You looked like you were having a good time out there. On the court, I mean.”

Azzi smirked. “What, you watch women’s basketball?”

“I do now,” Lexi said, not missing a beat. “Especially when someone drops thirty-two with a side of four assists.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “You memorizing my stats?”

Lexi shrugged. “I did my homework before walking over here. Can’t show up unprepared.”

Azzi bit her lip, trying not to smile too hard. “You walk over to girls a lot? Or just the ones who embarrass Texas on national television?”

“Just the hot ones,” Lexi said, like it was obvious.

Azzi choked on a laugh. “Okay, wow.”

“I mean,” Lexi added, leaning in slightly, “if you’re not into girls, feel free to let me down gently. But I figured it was worth a shot.”

Azzi tilted her head, heart thudding just a little too loud in her chest. “And if I am?”

Lexi smiled slow and easy. “Then I’d ask if I could buy you your next drink. Or at least distract you from your MVP fan club long enough to learn something that’s not in the box score.”

Azzi stared at her for a second, then tipped her head toward the bar, grinning. “Okay, Lexi-from-Soc. Impress me.”

****

Azzi hadn’t expected to have this much fun.

She and Lexi ended up at the bar, tucked between a group of baseball players and some overenthusiastic birthday girls singing along to early 2010s throwbacks. The noise blurred around them. None of it mattered. Not when Lexi leaned in to be heard, not when she made a face after trying Azzi’s drink, not when she laughed at something dumb Azzi said and bumped their shoulders together like they already had a rhythm.

It was… easy. Surprisingly easy.

Flirting with girls wasn’t something Azzi had done before—at least not consciously. But now, in the middle of it, she realized how different it felt. Not necessarily better. Just… different.

Guys always came in a little loud. Like they had something to prove. There was a performance to it—like they were trying to win a prize, and she was the prize, and everyone was aware of the transaction.

This?

Lexi asked questions and actually listened. She made eye contact in a way that felt open, not invasive. She wasn’t trying to take up space—just offering to share it.

Azzi didn’t feel like she had to act a certain way or say the perfect thing or pretend like she didn’t care. She could just… be.

And okay, yeah, she still got a little flustered when Lexi tucked her hair behind her ear or touched her forearm when she laughed—but she didn’t feel like she had to hide that either. It didn’t feel like a game she didn’t know the rules to.

It just felt right.

Not in some overwhelming, life-altering way. But in a quiet, steady way that made something inside her settle.

Maybe she really was into girls. Maybe she was into both.

She wasn’t sure she had the exact words for it yet, but for the first time, that thought didn’t send her into a spiral.

It made her smile.

Because here she was—talking to a girl. Flirting. Laughing. Feeling something. And it wasn’t scary.

It was good.

Paige 

At first, Paige didn’t notice.

Or at least, she told herself she didn’t.

She was mid-laugh, curled into the corner booth with Kathryn, legs tangled comfortably beneath the table, trading stories about their worst high school team bus rides—when the vibe shifted. Just a blip. The kind of thing most people would miss.

But Paige noticed. She always noticed.

She caught the change in body language out of the corner of her eye. Azzi at the bar. Some girl leaning in close, touching her arm like they were already three drinks and a secret in. Paige had seen Azzi lean in like that before. Only it used to be toward her—in the dark, in private, in all the ways they never talked about out loud. 

Azzi smiling like she meant it. Tilting her head like she was genuinely interested in whatever that girl was saying. Like she was… into it.

And then that girl—whatever her name is—laughed too hard and said something that made Azzi look down, all flustered and cute and—

Paige’s stomach dropped.

Just straight up collapsed.

She looked away immediately, like that would help. Like not seeing it meant it wasn’t happening.

Kathryn said something about the birthday girls near the bar and laughed again, but Paige didn’t catch it.

“Paige?”

Kathryn’s voice was soft, but her hand was firmer now—on Paige’s wrist. “You good?”

Paige blinked. Nodded too quickly. “Yeah. No. Sorry. Zoned out.”

Kathryn searched her face for a second. Long enough to feel it—something off between them. The first crack.

Paige tried to fix it with a smile. The wrong kind. Too sharp around the edges.

Kathryn gave her a look like she didn’t believe her, but didn’t press. She leaned back, giving Paige a little space, which only made the knot in her chest tighten.

Across the bar, Azzi laughed at something the other girl said, head thrown back, face flushed. She looked good. Like really good. And Paige felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Pissed off.

Like, irrationally. Deeply. Offensively. Pissed.

Because what the hell?

Since when did Azzi flirt with girls? Since when did she flirt with girls in public? Since when did she laugh like that with someone new—someone who wasn’t trying to pretend the past never happened?

Paige could feel it building in her chest, hot and loud and impossible to silence.

“Bro. What is happening on your face right now?”

Paige looked up to see Nika sliding into the booth beside her, eyebrows raised in that twin telepathy kind of way.

“Nothing,” Paige said automatically.

Nika narrowed her eyes. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’re lying with your whole body right now.”

Kathryn, sweetly oblivious or maybe just choosing not to get involved, stood up and said she was going to grab another drink. Paige nodded, eyes locked on the table.

Nika waited until she was out of earshot, then leaned in. “Get up.”

“What?”

“Bathroom. Now.”

Paige opened her mouth to protest, but Nika was already yanking her by the arm.

She barely had time to register the sticky tile floor before Nika locked the door behind them and folded her arms. “Spill.”

“There’s nothing to—”

“Paige.”

She said it like a warning. Like a truth Paige wasn’t allowed to outrun anymore.

Paige crossed her arms too, mostly to keep her hands from shaking. “I’m fine. I just… noticed Azzi talking to someone.”

Nika blinked. “Lexi. Yeah. They’ve been talking all night.”

“And?” Paige said, too fast. “It’s weird, okay?”

“What’s weird?”

Paige threw her hands up. “I don’t know! That she’s out here flirting after just breaking up with her boyfriend? That she’s flirting with a g—what is that, even?”

Nika’s mouth pulled into a slow, knowing smile. “Caroline said she had an epiphany. That she might like girls.”

Paige blinked. “She what?”

“Yeah. Like two weeks ago. Aubrey said it was a whole thing. Apparently Caroline brought cookie dough and everything.”

Paige stared at her. “Why does everyone know this but me?”

Nika shrugged. “Maybe because you're too busy pretending you don’t care.”

Paige opened her mouth, then closed it again. Because what was she supposed to say to that?

Nika softened, but only a little. “I know it hurts. But she’s not doing anything you didn’t already do. You're with Kathryn?”

That one landed. Deep.

Paige didn’t say anything at first. Just looked down at the sink, jaw tight, heart thudding in a way she couldn’t steady.

Because Nika was right. She had moved on—or at least, tried to.

She had Kathryn.

Kathryn, who brought her coffee before rehab. Kathryn, who asked how her knee felt before asking how she felt. Kathryn, who laughed at her dumb jokes and always knew when to give her space without making her ask for it.

She was sweet. Thoughtful. Cute in a soft, almost-too-good-to-be-true kind of way. Honestly? Kathryn was perfect on paper.

And Paige was happy with her. She was.

So why did she feel like she’d just been sucker-punched by something she wasn’t supposed to feel anymore?

Why did it still matter what Azzi did with someone else?

The guilt pressed in, low and sharp.

She didn’t know what any of this meant. But suddenly, she wasn’t so sure she liked where it was going.

Because this wasn’t just about Lexi and her overly confident smile. It wasn’t even about the flirting, not really. It was about Azzi. Azzi, who used to look at Paige like she was the only one in the room. Azzi, who used to climb into her bed after road games and steal the covers and kiss her like she was afraid to stop. Azzi, who—when it came down to it—couldn’t choose her out loud.

Not when it mattered. Not when Paige had finally been ready to be chosen.

And now? Now she was suddenly out here figuring things out—out loud—with someone else? With some girl named Lexi who didn’t know any of the messy, bruised history they shared?

What made her easier to choose?

Paige’s jaw clenched.

Because if Azzi had been scared then, if she hadn’t been ready—fine. Paige had told herself she understood.

She gave her space. Gave her grace.

But this—Azzi laughing, wanting, letting someone else see it—

That was what Paige had begged for.

And now Azzi was finally doing it.

Just not with her.

When Paige stepped back into the bar, everything looked the same.

The music thumped low under the buzz of conversation, lights dim and familiar. Someone was shouting near the dartboard. Caroline was holding court in the corner with half the team. The floor still stuck a little with every step.

But something had shifted.

Or maybe it was just her.

She walked back to the booth like she was sleepwalking. Like her body knew the motions even if her brain hadn’t caught up.

Nika’s words still echoed somewhere in her chest, too loud to ignore.

Across the room, Azzi was still at the bar. Still smiling. Still talking to Lexi, close enough that their shoulders brushed every time one of them leaned in to say something. Paige tried not to look. Tried not to notice—but it was impossible not to.

She slipped back into her seat beside Kathryn. Kathryn, who looked up and smiled, that warm, gentle kind of smile that always made Paige feel like she was being chosen.

Paige smiled back. Or at least, she tried.

She told herself to be present. To focus. To let it go.

But her mind kept drifting. To Azzi. To the way she lit up tonight. To the way she never once looked over.

The tension settled somewhere beneath her ribs—dull, steady. Not loud enough to break her, just loud enough to make everything else feel a little quieter. A little less real.

Kathryn reached for her hand under the table, and Paige let her. She even laced their fingers together, like she meant it.

But in her chest, something felt… off.

Like she was still chasing a version of herself that had already moved on. Like someone had turned the volume down on everything else, and Azzi’s laugh was still the only thing she could hear.

[dina-winchester]

The Things We Don’t Say

Pairing: Teen!Dean x You

Warnings: slow-burn, emotional, soft heartbreak, no use of Y/N, teenage angst

A/N: In the early seasons, Dean wears a ring—and this is how I’ve always imagined the story behind it.

It started with detention.

Dean Winchester walked into your life like trouble wrapped in leather—smirking, cocky, a little too charming for someone who clearly didn’t care about homework or rules. You’d rolled your eyes the first time he leaned on your desk, spinning a pen between his fingers like he owned the place.

“You’re not from around here,” you said flatly, arms crossed.

He grinned. “What gave me away? My rugged charm or the fact I parked in the principal’s spot?”

He wasn’t just passing through, though. He stayed. Enrolled at the school. Started showing up in classes like he hadn’t just wandered in off the road. He’d mutter something vague about his dad getting work nearby, but you never pressed.

Over the next few weeks, you saw more of him. In the hallways. At the diner after school. Sometimes leaning against that black car in the parking lot like he was waiting for someone—but his eyes always found you.

You didn’t mean to fall into step with him. It just… happened.

You started talking between classes. Then after school. Then in the middle of the night, when he’d sneak up to your window and tap on the glass like something out of a movie.

By fall, he was driving you to school. By October, he was kissing you behind the bleachers. And by the time winter hit, everyone knew you were his. He didn’t need to say it. It was in the way he stood a little closer, the way his eyes tracked you from across the room like he couldn’t help it.

You’d never said I love you. Neither had he. But it was there, thick in the air between you. In the way he held your hand. In the way he pressed kisses to your temple when no one was looking. In the way you curled up in the front seat of the Impala, tucked under his arm, and felt safe.

In the way he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking. In the way he kissed your forehead before letting you go for the night. In the way he smiled, quiet and real, when you laughed too hard at something stupid.

He never said what his family did. Never said where he came from, or why he always seemed to carry so much weight in those green eyes. You didn’t ask.

He stayed. That was enough.

You spent spring wrapped in his flannel shirts, riding in his dad’s Impala with the windows down and the music too loud. He’d reach for your hand without thinking. He’d kiss you like it meant something.

But he never said it.

Then summer came. And with it, the ending.

You had him—really had him—for nearly a year.

A full year of late-night drives and flannel jackets, of shared secrets and stolen time.

He told you on a Tuesday, in the middle of an empty field behind your school. The same place he kissed you for the first time.

“Dad got a job,” he said, voice low, hands stuffed in the pockets of his worn jeans.

Your stomach dropped.

“Where?”

He shrugged, not looking at you. “Couple states over. He wants to leave by the weekend.”

Silence fell between you. Heavy. Familiar. Like this was always coming.

You swallowed. “How long?”

He looked at you then. Really looked at you. “I don’t know. Could be years.”

It shouldn’t have surprised you. But it still hurt like hell.

You stepped closer, heart already breaking. “So that’s it?”

He reached for your hand, laced his fingers through yours. “I don’t want it to be.”

You didn’t say anything. Just squeezed his hand and nodded once.

The next day, you sat with him behind the gym before school, his arms around you, your head resting on his shoulder. The air smelled like summer heat and cut grass. You held something small in your palm—a silver ring, worn but strong. You’d had it for years, tucked away in a drawer. Waiting for the right moment. The right person.

Dean looked at it, brows pulling together. “What’s this?”

You didn’t explain. Just reached for his hand—your fingers brushing his knuckles like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go—and slid the ring onto his right ring finger. It fit like it had always belonged there.

“There,” you whispered, eyes shining. “Now I’ll be with you. Wherever you go.”

His throat worked as he stared down at his hand. “You sure?”

You nodded.

But the moment stretched too long. And the silence between you filled with everything that wouldn’t fit into words. Your chest ached, tightening like it couldn’t hold another breath.

“I’m not gonna say goodbye,” you murmured, voice barely holding together. “I can’t.”

He looked up at you—and the look in his eyes just undid you. He stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat between your bodies, the panic barely hidden under your skin.

“Then we won’t,” he said quietly, firmly. “Screw goodbyes.”

You blinked up at him as your throat tightened.

“This is just ‘I’ll see you later,’ alright?” he added, resting his forehead gently against yours. “You and me? We’re not done. Not even close.”

You tried to be strong. You really did. But the moment cracked you open, tears slipping down your cheeks before you could stop them.

“God, I was fine yesterday,” you laughed through the tears, wiping at your face with the sleeve of your jacket. “Now I can’t even keep my eyes dry for five minutes.”

Dean’s hands were on your cheeks in a second, thumbs brushing gently under your eyes.

“You don’t have to be fine, sweetheart,” he said softly, his voice breaking in ways he’d never let anyone else hear. “Not with me.”

You shook your head. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I know.” His forehead pressed against yours. “I don’t want to either.”

You reached up, curled your fingers around the collar of his shirt like that might somehow keep him here. Keep time from moving.

And then, because you had to say it at least once before he drove away—

“I love you, Dean.”

He exhaled like the words knocked the air out of him.

His arms wrapped around you, tight, grounding, like he could hold the pieces of you together. You buried your face into his neck, breathing him in, trying to memorize every second, every heartbeat.

And when he kissed you goodbye, it was slow and quiet and full of desperation. Like a promise he couldn’t say out loud. Like maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t the end.

He wears the ring for years.

Even when it gets scratched.

Even when the silver dulls.

Because that ring? That moment?

It was the first time someone told Dean Winchester he was loved.

And meant it.

A/N: Thank you for reading, I hope you liked it! Feedback is very much appreciated. 🥰

Read part two here

[aizzp]

Just wanna be with you

Synopsis: Paige and Azzi have been way too busy for their own liking.

Word count: like 800 i think

a/n: ive read too much angst and i cant take it no more so heres some fluffy stuff. also ive been wanting to start writing for a while so lmk if you guys fw this oneshot AND this is unedited lolz

“Hey baby,” Azzi cooed, as she entered her dorm room. She was met with the sight of Paige snuggled all up in her blankets, her eyes half closed as a soft smile appeared on her face at Azzi’s appearance. 

It had been a long week of practice and everything else that was in the way of them spending time together. Azzi had just gotten back from a photo shoot for a cover of another magazine while Paige was spending her first off day napping away in Azzi’s room. 

Azzi walked into the room with a fat smile, placing her keys on her dresser. She took out one of Paige’s shirts that was in her dresser along with a rainbow pair of boxers. Sighing in relief as she changed out of her uncomfortable jeans, not minding the fact that Paige was now wide awake, eyes raking her toned figure up and down. 

“Did I ever tell you about your belly piercing?” Paige mumbled, her tone smug. 

“Shut up Paige,” Azzi rolled her eyes, “I’m tired. Move over, you're taking up too much space.”

“No I’m not,” Paige replied, spreading her limbs out to cover the whole bed now to spite Azzi, “Still got plenty of space for you baby.” 

Azzi frowned at this, sitting on the very edge of the bed instead, “Whatever, I’ll just go then if you don’t want me here.” 

“What! Noooo,” Paige says, dramatically waving her arms in the air while sitting up and wrapping her arms around Azzi, “Stay with me please. You know I always want you in any way possible.” 

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Azzi shrugs, being too stubborn to give in to Paige.  

“Don’t be like this mami,” Paige sighs, dipping her head into the crook of Azzi’s neck, taking a deep breath, “I missed you so much.” She began to pepper light kisses along her jaw before making an attempt to give her a peck on the lips.

Azzi, still stubborn, turned her head, leaving the kiss to land on her cheek instead. She proceeded to look around. 

“C’mon baby,” Paige began to pout, tugging Azzi down into bed, “I haven’t spent time with you in too long.” 

Azzi huffed at this, knowing she was right, it has been far too long. Azzi had missed Paige just as much. 

Paige successfully pulled Azzi down into bed with a smile, her arms wrapping around Azzi and their legs intertwining. She began to attack Azzi with kisses once again, all over her face, only stopping to say, “You know, I missed you so so much mami. I even started talking to your hoodie as if it was you.” 

“You’re unbelievable,” Azzi giggled, she was in disbelief. She knew Paige was down bad, but talking to her hoodie was a whole nother level. She’d turn to look Paige in the eye now, admiring the blonde’s features and taking in her scent. 

With a magnetic pull, the two of them leaned into each other now. Their lips meeting in the middle, taking each other in softly. Paige sighed into the kiss, neither of them trying to deepen it. It was domestic, another way to say, ‘I miss you’. 

Azzi broke the kiss off first, pushing Paige’s face away with a smile as she tried to chase Azzi’s lips. “I missed you too baby,” Azzi said, replying to Paige. 

“Yeah, I know,” Paige says, making Azzi wanna whack that smug expression off her face. 

“Gosh, I wish you couldn’t open your mouth,” Azzi groaned, visibly annoyed. 

“Take that back,” Paige frowned. 

“No.” 

“Well, you’re not gonna be saying that when you’re beneath me,” Paige said.

“Oh shut up,” Azzi rolled her eyes, “I’m tired baby, just wanna nap and be with you please.” 

Paige’s expression softened, realising Azzi wasn’t in the mood for any banter. “You have an off day tomorrow too right?” 

“Don’t act like you don’t know my schedule off by heart,” Azzi snorted.

“Okay, well. We both have off days tomorrow,” Paige smiles, “Lemme take you on a date baby.” 

“You didn’t need to ask,” Azzi smiled, cuddling into Paige’s neck. 

“I will anyway,” Paige grinned, “I’ll even bring you breakfast in bed with flowers tomorrow morning.” 

“Uh huh, I’ll be looking forward to that,” Azzi said, her voice slowly turning into a mumble as she got sleepier. 

“You know I wouldn’t let you down like that baby,” Paige added, “I love you.” 

“I love you too baby,” Azzi replied, lazily grinning as she felt Paige give her a kiss on the forehead. 

The two of them ended in comfortable silence, basking in each other's scent. Just the sound of their breathing left, with hearts beating in sync. Azzi cuddled further into Paige, arms tightening around each other as they pulled each other closer. 

Slowly their breathing slowed down, drifting off, leaving the rest of the world behind them.

[clairewritesfanfics]

Hear me out . Invincible variants with a powerfull (scarlet watch powers maybe ?) reader that's just pure chaotic evil like am talking world destroying unhinged .

She doesn't care about anything other than getting pure entertainment from the suffering of others . She doesn't care about conquering world or managing the viltrumite empire . Just wanna be out there causing as much chaos as physically and mentally possible for her .

I just know some of the variants would love to have a woman like her on their side .Well some of the others would try and do anything possible to try and tame her .

TRIGGER WARNINGS: torture, murder, violence, mild gore, mild swearing

Inside a dingy little cell in an abandoned asylum, Samantha Eve Wilkins was forced to stand by the chains on her wrists, digging into the flesh of her arms as they kept her upright. This room was empty except for her and the pulley contraption keeping her in place. There were no guards, no special machine or cameras to monitor her. The door wasn’t even locked. It was her captors’ unique way of reminding her that she was no threat. She wasn’t worth jack shit. 

She couldn’t remember how long they’ve been keeping her here. There was no clock or window, and she found herself fading in and out of consciousness far too often to rely on her circadian rhythm to tell the time. Her meals weren’t regular either, sometimes a random person would walk in and force a disgusting broth down her throat, leave for what, thirty, maybe forty minutes, then come back; other times she was left without anything to eat for so long she passed out standing. 

She thought back to where it all started, or better yet, back to who started it all–

You weren’t like anything Earth has seen before. You arrived one day and just started destroying everything. Immortal and the other veteran heroes came to stop you, but it was embarrassing how they couldn’t even land a single blow. When Immortal sought diplomacy in an act of desperation, you snapped your fingers and he was just…gone. The GDA threw everything they could, but you made quick work of them too, throwing their quantum bombs back at them and smiling faintly the entire time.

Eve and the Resistance she formed spent a year formulating a plan to defeat you. But one day, one hot and humid day, while her team stood around their makeshift war room, you appeared out of nowhere. She remembered how stiff her bones became at the mere sight of you. You were smiling at them like a child who poured water on ant hills to see “what would happen.”

“I’m not here to kill you,” you kindly reassured them, tracing a finger on one of their blueprints. “But here’s a tip: my real bedroom is on the fifth floor, not the third.” 

When it was time to finally attack, you gave them a look of disappointment. “Is this it?” 

Eve gave everything she had until the day you killed her. When her powers brought her back to life she woke up here.

“It’s truly disappointing,” your voice interrupted her train of thoughts. She didn’t even notice you coming in.

And you were here with him. Your alleged “bodyguard.” You didn’t actually need anyone protecting you, but this man followed you around and slaughtered anyone that even glanced at you the wrong way.

His eyes weren’t on her but on you. He was always looking at you. It disgusted Eve how much affection his gaze carried, like you hung the moon and stars.

You clicked your tongue. “You had the ability to manipulate matter on a sub-atomic scale and you used it for what, flying? Making pink shields? I thought I found someone who could entertain me for a while longer, but I haven’t even done much and you’re already this hopeless.” You sighed dramatically. “I guess I’m cursed to be alone.” 

The man put a hand over your shoulder and you gave him a smile–a true smile–and patted his cheek. “I’m joking, sweetie.”

Eve found her voice and snidely remarked, “You really are a match made in Hell.”

Like two meerkats, you and your lover glanced at her at the same time. He seemed displeased. But you just laughed and walked over to her. “I do like the sound of that.” You waved your hand and her head exploded. Her blood stopped before it could touch you, they remained suspended in the air like deep red marbles.

“What if she comes back?” He asked. “You killed her over a thousand times before and she recovered every time.”

“Your analytical skills require work, Mark.” The blood marbles lost their shape as they finally fell with gravity. “Think back to all those times I tortured her, I always left her with a partially intact skull at least.”

You raised your knee and then stomped down hard on the gray and white matter scattered in the blood. “But even she can’t come back without a brain.”

The truest definition of a match made in Hell. If there is such a thing as soulmates then you two are proof of that. Designing a species-specific zombie virus? Leave the spreading to him! Death games that force superheroes to kill each other? He’ll be the best enforcer ever! Stealing someone else’s dog? He has your back! He has ripped children out of their mothers’ bellies for your “experiments,” made millions kneel to your name, ravaged planets by your side–there are few lines he will not cross for you. 

NO GOGGLES, head cap, mohawk, shiesty, sinister

He doesn’t understand your obsession. He wished he could get it, that he could let go of his humanity and allow you to fill the void it leaves, but it’s not that easy to change. Even with everything he’s suffered, he still finds himself hoping, yearning for a better and peaceful world where you two can be happy. But he hides that hope, snuffing it almost as much as you do. If being a monster is what it takes to have you in his life then he will throw away everything. 

FULL MASK, maskless, prisoner 

He’s much more stringent than the others. There are limits to how many cities you can level and who you are allowed to hurt. The people who get sucked into your madness beg him for help thinking he’s a hero, but the truth is that he simply does not derive pleasure from torture. He doesn’t join in on your “fun,” usually he’s just there, watching over you. He keeps a loose leash, not because he cares about the lives of mere ants, but because even he knows the folly in being a king without a kingdom. 

FLAXAN, omni-mark, viltrumite, target

a/n: I kept humming the chorus to Evil Love while I wrote this lololol

MASTERLIST | request rules | ask box

image lifted from: https://gamerant.com/invincible-all-alternate-dimension-invincibles-fates/

[fwaist]

idk how you manage to make porn sound beautiful your writing is sooo good,, could i request D from the nsfw alphabet for carmy??🙏🙏🌸 please and thank you

😭😭 thank you so much, this is seriously such high praise! i’ve definitely spent a lot of time honing my craft, so i’m happy that it’s paying off! now, enjoy getting let in on carmy’s dirty little secret…

d is for dirty secret | carmen berzatto

warnings: explicit sex, degradation (consensual), emotional vulnerability, power dynamics, aftercare, past trauma mention (work-related stress), crying, dom/sub elements

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @talsorchard, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna

It doesn’t come out easily. Nothing ever does with Carmy—not the good things, not the soft things, and definitely not this. He’s too guarded, too clenched behind the ribcage he built out of guilt and grief and sharp-edged expectations. Sex, for him, was always something that existed in theory. He’d had it, sure. Here and there, quick and forgettable. Mostly desperate. Never deep. Never slow. Never safe. And never like this—with someone patient enough to wait for the real him to come out, for the parts he doesn’t understand, the ones he’s afraid to want.

It starts one night with him restless beneath you, half-sweaty, half-high from the way your mouth had ruined him earlier, his chest rising sharp and fast like it always does when his brain’s spinning. You’re curled over him, sticky from his come, his hands still trembling a little on your waist. And you whisper it again—what you’ve been asking for days now, soft and coaxing at the seam of his ear.

“Tell me what you want.”

He’d brushed it off every time. With a shrug. A scoff. A smile so fake it could’ve been carved out of soap. But now, with his body unraveled under you and his walls cracked just wide enough to bleed, he gives you something real.

It’s barely a whisper.

The kind of truth that feels like it might fall apart if he says it any louder.

“I want you to… talk down to me,” he breathes, like he hates himself for saying it. Like the words are burning their way up his throat.

You don’t react at first. You don’t laugh, or blink, or flinch—and that’s what keeps him from shutting down. Just you, breathing steady, still wrapped around him like warmth itself. Your hand rests flat over his ribs, right where his heart stutters like a wounded animal. You feel it when he says the next part, even softer.

“Like, really mean. Tell me I’m fucking lucky. That I don’t deserve it.” He closes his eyes, shame flickering behind his lashes. “Tell me I’m not good at it. That my dick’s big but I don’t know how to use it. Just—fuck with me. I want that. I think.”

There’s silence between you for a beat. A long one. Weighted like a decision.

You kiss the underside of his jaw, gentle, slow. Your voice stays low, careful, reverent in a way that makes him shiver.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Why?”

He turns his head, eyes still shut. His breath catches. Like he’s scared you’ll ask, and even more scared you won’t.

“I used to get screamed at every day,” he says. “New York kitchens. Every service. Every fucking hour. About things I couldn’t fix. About things that weren’t my fault. I’d throw up before shifts sometimes. Wake up with my heart pounding so hard I couldn’t breathe. And no one gave a shit. You just kept your head down. You took it. Or you left.”

He swallows.

“But when you do it—when you say those things—I’m not alone in it. I’m not scared. You still want me. You’re still inside me, on me, with me… whatever. I can take it. It makes it feel like… power, I guess. Like I get to choose it, this time.”

The words bleed into the dark between you, soft and aching. He’s not looking at you, not even now. He’s never looked so open and so closed at once—shoulders tense, jaw sharp, but his chest… wide open. Exposed. Like a wound that stopped bleeding and never learned to scar.

You take your time before responding. You run your thumb over the ridge of his hip, feel the tremor in his leg as your palm drags down the muscle of his thigh. He’s still half-hard. The confession didn’t scare his body like it scared his voice.

“Okay,” you say again, slow and deliberate. “I’ll say whatever you want. I’ll be so fucking mean.”

He groans at that, almost involuntarily. His cock twitches between you, already starting to swell.

“But I want you to listen, too,” you add, leaning in, brushing your mouth over the corner of his. “When it’s over. When I say the other stuff. The real stuff. You gonna be able to do that, Carmen?”

His eyes open finally. Wide. Blue. Fragile.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I want that, too.”

So you rise to your knees over him, slow and deliberate, watching the way his gaze trails up the length of your body like it’s a prayer he doesn’t know the words to. He’s beautiful in this light—hair a mess of curls, collarbones sharp and flushed, chest still marked where you bit him earlier. He doesn’t look away when you reach down and wrap your hand around him again.

He’s thick in your palm. Heavy, flushed pink with arousal, veins standing out with the blood rushing under his skin. His head tips back again as you stroke him, your thumb grazing the slit—wet, slick, leaking already like the need never really left him.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Please.”

“You are lucky,” you say, your voice sharpening just a little, steel under silk. “You don’t even know how fucking lucky you are, do you?”

His eyes flutter. He pants.

“You get to fuck me, Berzatto. And you don’t even know what you’re doing. All this dick and no clue how to use it.”

He moans. Loud. Desperate. You climb over him again, press the thick head of him against your entrance and watch him come undone.

“God, look at you,” you murmur as you sink down onto him—inch by inch, slow and merciless. “Already losing it. Haven’t even started.”

And he hasn’t. His hands clutch your hips like you’re a lifeline, his chest arched up into yours, breath wild and broken as you bottom out.

You see it in his face—this release of something deeper than lust. Like shame being peeled off layer by layer. Like trauma being rewired by pleasure so sharp it makes him cry out. You ride him slow at first, but the way he bucks up into you, the helpless noises—he’s not going to last. He’s not meant to.

You lean in, fingers gripping his jaw. Your mouth close to his ear.

“Bet they made you feel small, didn’t they?” you hiss. “Made you feel like you weren’t worth shit.” He nods, choked, undone.

“Well now I’m making you feel like that. And you’re fucking hard for it.”

He shouts, hips jerking helplessly under you, his whole body convulsing with the force of it.

“That’s it, baby. Fucking take it.”

And he does. With everything he’s got.

You don’t slow down. You don’t stop—not when he’s this far gone. Not when his eyes are rolling back, not when his jaw’s gone slack and his hands are pawing blindly at your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His cock is twitching deep inside you, thick and swollen, pulsing like it’s too much for him to hold in. Like he’s going to break apart and you’re the only thing keeping him from floating off the bed entirely.

“You feel that?” you whisper, dragging your hips up and slamming back down—hard enough to knock a sharp gasp out of him. “That’s me doing the work. Not you. You just get to lie there like a good little fucktoy and take it.”

His breath shudders. You can see the way the words hit him—low and deep and hot, turning something in his chest inside out.

His mouth opens, tries to form a sound, but nothing comes out. Just a gasp, a moan, something wrecked. You lean down, mouth against the sweat-damp skin of his neck.

“I could get off on this cock without you even doing a single thing,” you murmur, voice sharp as teeth and sweet as poison. “All that talk about how good you are with your hands, how precise you are in the kitchen—but in bed? You’re fucking useless.”

He groans—full-bodied and helpless. His hands clench on your thighs like he’s in pain, like the pleasure is boiling over and he’s barely holding it in. His face is flushed to his ears, hair stuck to his forehead in damp curls, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle twitching.

You grin—slow, dangerous, almost fond.

“Pathetic,” you hiss. “You’re so goddamn pathetic like this, Carmen. You like that, huh? Being used like this? Being told what a worthless little thing you are?”

His whole body jerks. His back arches off the mattress. “Yes—fuck, yes—don’t stop, please don’t—”

You don’t. You fuck him harder. Faster. The wet sounds of your bodies colliding fill the room, slick and obscene. His cock slips so deep inside you it punches little cries out of your throat, but you don’t stop—not when he’s so close, not when you feel his stomach start to tighten and his legs begin to tremble under you.

You bring your hand to his throat—gentle at first, just resting there, just enough pressure to feel his pulse hammering. His eyes flutter open, dazed and desperate. You don’t squeeze—you don’t have to. The look in your eyes alone has him panting like he’s about to die from it.

“You’re gonna come for me again,” you say, low and firm and mean. “You’re gonna come like a desperate little bitch because I said so. Because you’re mine. You hear me?”

“Yes,” he gasps. “Please, I—fuck, I’m—”

You slam down on him one more time, and that’s it. His mouth falls open around a silent cry and he comes—hard. Harder than before. Harder than he’s ever come in his life. His whole body seizes beneath you, thighs clenching, spine bowing, his cock kicking deep inside you as he fills you with it—hot and pulsing and endless.

He doesn’t make a sound at first. Just trembles. Just holds on like he’ll die if he lets go. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, wet at the corners like he’s short-circuited, like whatever he just felt was too much to process in real time.

When it finally passes—when the shock stops rolling through his nerves and his body goes soft beneath you—he blinks up at you like he forgot how to speak.

You pull off him slowly, carefully, your thighs trembling as you settle next to him. He’s a mess—chest heaving, sweat gleaming on his skin, hair ruined, come smeared across both your thighs. You reach for a towel and gently wipe him clean, pressing kisses to his jaw, his temple, the corners of his mouth.

He swallows hard. Blinks. Still not quite there yet. You drag your fingers through his curls and wait.

“You okay?” you whisper, soft again. Stripped of cruelty. Honest.

He nods, dazed. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, I just—” He lets out a long breath, like something that’s been stuck in him for years finally dislodged. “That was… insane. I didn’t even know I could feel that much.”

You stroke a thumb under his eye, wipe away the tear you hadn’t pointed out.

“I meant what I said earlier,” you whisper. “You’re not useless. Not even close. You’re so fucking good, Carmen. And I love you.”

His eyes cut to yours then, sharp and clear, and he smiles—small and warm and real.

“I know,” he murmurs. “You’re sweet.” He leans in, kisses you lazy and slow, tongue dragging against yours like a man drunk on want. Then he laughs, rough and low. “But goddamn, you look so hot when you’re mean.”

You grin against his mouth.

“Lucky for you,” you whisper, “I love being mean to you.”

And from the look in his eyes—hungry, wide, reverent—he knows you mean it.

[dodger432101]

A day out! Lux Imperator/Mr Ring-A-Ding x Reader Part 5

It's 7 O'clock and you're already up making breakfast. Why are you out of bed so early? You're going on a trip outside the picture house! You'd spent all of yesterday and the majority of Wednesday in here with Lux. While you have enjoyed your time with him, you stink. And could do with a change of clothes. Neither of those needs can be met in this building. 

Lux is, of course, right by your side as you make yourself a quick meal. A little extra food ‘just so happens’ to ‘fall’ onto your plate, so Lux selflessly offers to help you with that (mostly with any pancakes you made). Ah. You hadn't actually.. told him you were going out today. You'll have to get round to that soon. After breakfast, you decide.

You stand in the kitchen as you eat. No point carrying it out just to bring the plate back in to wash it. Lux is sitting on the counter next to the plate, kicking his legs to the beat of the song playing on the little radio you brought in from the diner. He has his eyes closed as he enjoys a pancake he picked off your plate, a small smile on his face. A God shouldn't be allowed to be this cute. 

The both of you look up at the distant sound of a door opening and closing. Even though you know it could only really be one person entering the building, you can't help but tense slightly. “Relax, sunshine! It's just Mr Pye.” How the hell does he know that? Guess your God was more omnipresent than you realised. Said man strolls into the room shortly after his arrival had been noted, making you and Lux giggle to yourselves. Reginald looks between the cartoon and his employee, a confused look on his face. Nevertheless, he smiles as you wave at him, taking one hand away from the film reel he's clutching to return the gesture. Huh. 

“Good morning, you two! Gosh, I can't believe it's Friday already..” Your boss sighs deeply, walking over to stand next to you. “Not important right now of course. How did it go yesterday, hm?” He nudges your arm gently with his elbow. Right. You learned that your little God loves you, proving Mr Pye had been correct in his hypothesis. You contemplate shoving some food in your mouth to save you from talking to your boss about how the God who had technically kidnapped 15 people in this building does indeed love you and that, despite his misdeeds, you love him too. However one glance at Mr Pye's hopeful expression quickly shuts down that idea. 

“You were right. This time. Don't think that makes you some kind of oracle.” After that you turn away to finish off what's left of your breakfast, not missing the way Reginald bounced on the soles of his feet in his excitement for you. 

“Ah but I told you! I saw what you couldn't, my dear. I don't even know how you could've missed it, he wasn't exactly subtle now was he?” Mr Pye pokes you on the shoulder, making you turn and waft his hand away as he dances back, laughing. You have a little finger sword fight with your boss, trying not to laugh too much and choke on the remaining food on your plate. 

Lux watches your interaction with a fond smile. Anytime he saw you happy he couldn't help but feel a warmth in his chest. Seeing Mr Pye not be so mopey was.. nice too, he supposed. The God of Light could go without having the older man around. He only wanted you. Unfortunately for Lux, your boss knew more about the maintenance of the machines and films than you did. You were just a cleaner, there to sweep up popcorn and other various foods and liquids the general public threw about the picture house. Plus, Mr Pye seemed to like watching films for longer periods than you, sitting in his theatre for just about a whole day, which was good for a God that fed off light. Speaking of..

“Ah, uhm, sir. If you're not too busy today with my employee here, could you perhaps..?” Lux fought with his whole being to not roll his little pie cut eyes as Mr Pye held out that film reel. It'd been one day! Could he not be without that lady wife of his for more than that? 

“Oh, of course Mr Reginald Pye! I'm sure our dear cleaner can find something to do for the duration of that film, eh toots?” Lux turns his head so one of his eyes is only visible to you, sending you a secret wink. God, he wants to do that again?! 

“Actually, I was thinking about taking a trip outside.. I could really do with a change of clothes. Plus we're running low on ingredients for pancakes with all the ones I've been making for a certain little God.” You'd cleared your plate and are now washing up, flicking a drop of water at Lux as you mention him. He doesn't react to it, his eyes fixed on you, his smile gone. 

“You're.. leaving?” 

Mr Pye seems to realise this could turn into a serious conversation and silently leaves the kitchen. “Just for a few hours, sweetheart. You'll be with Mr Pye anyway, you won't even know I'm gone.” You glance at the toon as you dry your plate, his face very much saying ‘I will definitely know you're gone’. You sigh, putting the plate on the rack before you walk up to where your God is sitting on the counter, standing in front of him. He'd turned his head down as you approached, now looking at his hands. “Lux. Come on now, I can't spend all my time in here. Humans need sunlight, fresh air, access to showers. I promise you, I'll be back before it gets dark. Ok?” You cup his chin gently, tilting his head up so you can better see his face. He's pouting, big pleading eyes slowly looking up to you. The lone violin is back to guilt trip you further. As hard as it is, you meet his gaze with a stern look. You're leaving for the day, he's just gonna have to get used to you not being here. 

“But, I.. ok.” Lux’s shoulders sag as he gives in, leaning his head onto your palm like he's trying to merge into your flesh. He didn't like the idea of you leaving, but arguing with you felt even worse. You lean down to give him a kiss on the forehead, his antennae moving to brush against your nose and cheeks separately. As you begin to straighten back up, Lux wraps his thin arms around your neck in a tight hug. After a few minutes, he speaks up again. “Could you get some other things for me while you're out, sunshine?” You pull back from the hug just enough to see his face again, nodding with a warm smile. “I didn't actually get to explore this little planet when I arrived. I've been in here the whole time. I'd like to see more of what this world has to offer!”

“I can work with that. I could get postcards, they usually show pictures of different places. Maybe an atlas..” Pausing that train of thought for now, you give your God another quick kiss before you pull away from him entirely. “I'll see what I can find while I'm out.” This seems to have satisfied Lux. He's smiling again as he hops off the counter, backing up to the door so he can keep facing you. 

“Thank you angel! I better go join Mr Pye before he thinks we're up to something.. naughty.. in here.” He giggles to himself as you roll your eyes. “I'll see you when you get back, sunshine! Love you!!” Lux blows you a kiss and waves, waiting until you return both gestures before he dashes off. 

“Love you too!” You call after the God, hearing his little giggles get quieter and quieter as he runs to the picture house. Well. He took you leaving for the day better than you expected. 

As you make your way to the exit of the building, you make up a list of what you'll do while you're out. First, you'll go home and get clean, put on some new clothes. Then you can go shopping for pancake ingredients and look for stuff that'll show Lux a bit more of the world than this one building has. Maybe even pick up some other treats for the God to try. He seemed to have a bit of a sweet tooth. Right, to-do list mentally made. Let's head out. 

Lux is watching Mr Pye dance with the brought-to-life image of his wife from the projector room. This isn't the first time he's done this, it's where he got the idea of bringing Mr Ring-A-Ding into the world from. He scowls at the thought of that charming cartoon. That wouldn't be happening again. You were his and that little celluloid didn't seem to get that. Lux snaps out of his brooding, turning his focus back to the couple on stage. Maybe he could try dancing with you when you got back. The size difference would be a challenge.. The little God sighs lightly. It's barely been 20 minutes since you were out of his sight and he's been thinking of you the entire time. Seems he has no room to judge Mr Pye now. Lux leans his head on one hand, eyes on the people below but his mind still on you, wondering where you might be right now. 

You're out on the town, having freshened up and gotten dressed. You'd chosen a light flowing dress, seeing as the weather is still as beautiful as it had been all week. Bag in hand, you make your way into a gift shop on the high road. Easiest place to pick up postcards. You get a varied selection that shows off all Miami has to offer, even some with pictures from other states. You also get a little pamphlet about Miami. Can Lux.. read? You assume so, as he managed to pick out the Mr Ring-A-Ding cartoon yesterday. Or he just asked Mr Pye for it. Mentally shrugging, you pay and head off to the nearby grocery store. 

The God of Light is practically falling asleep in the projector room. After their little dance, the Pyes started having a conversation. That was 15 minutes ago and they're still talking. Lux stretches his arms with a quiet groan. “Gosh, how much could a dead woman have to say?” He looks at the clock in the room. You've been gone nearly an hour. What's taking you so long? His head is now resting on his arms, eyes forward as he begins to worry about you. Did something happen? Were you hurt, out there, where he couldn't help you? What was happening to him? Lux lowers himself onto the floor as his breathing quickens, arms wrapping around his legs as his thoughts swarmed. He was panicking and he hated it. Gods didn't worry like this about humans, or anything. Gods didn't care. This God did, for one little human, and he was terrified of the thought of losing you. 

You've gotten what you need to make pancakes and are now looking around the shop for other treats for Lux. Chocolate, sure. Chewy sweets, well he didn't have to worry about cartoon teeth. You hope. Maybe your little God would like fruit. You pick out some strawberries, peaches and apricots. You and Mr Pye could always eat them if Lux didn't want them. As you look for other snacks you could buy, an all too familiar voice calls to you. 

“Hey there dolly! Gosh ain't this weather beautiful?” Oh dear god it's your co-worker. The reason you no longer work weekends at Palazzo. This guy.. well, he wasn't all that bad. Most people would even think he was a nice, charming lad. The problem was, he was a nice, charming lad. And liked to try to use that charm on you, -you, who’s older than him- all the time. It didn't help that this strange feeling of dread would rise in your chest every time he spoke to you, like every female ancestor you had was warning you about him. “Though you probably don't need tellin’ about the weather. You know everything about beauty don’tcha?” God that line was awful. You put on the best smile you can while your heart races like you're a rabbit staring down a hungry wolf.  

“Oh.. heeeyy. Fancy seein’ you here.” Your eyes are darting around for an escape route. Clothes shop over the road. That'll do. “Look it's lovely seeing you..” You have to swallow down the sarcasm that tries to worm its way into that sentence. “But I have to grab some uh, clothes. A.. friend from highschool had a, uh, a baby!” You dart past him, fighting a shudder as your shoulders brush. Though it seems luck was not on your side at all right now as you hear his footsteps follow you. 

“Oh, sweet! Tell your friend congrats for me. I'll help ya pick out some nice clothes for them!” Why was fate so cruel to you at times? 

Lux is shaking at this point. It's been over an hour now. You're still not back. Why weren't you back? The worried little God was so stuck in his mind he didn't hear Mr Pye say goodbye to his wife, or the door open as he entered the room, or the cautious footsteps of the man approaching. He jumps as the projector clicks off, looking up at the only human other than you that was allowed to come and go from the picture house as they pleased (after they asked his permission). “You're missing her something awful, ain't you?” Mr Pye slowly gets closer to the God of Light, sliding down to sit next to him. Lux doesn't respond, only hugs his legs tighter to his body. “What’s got you shaking like a leaf in a storm? You.. worried about her?” The cartoon nods after a few second pause. Reginald hums at that, looking around the room as he thinks. “Yeah.. guess that's the difference between us. You Gods exist so far from us, you're not used to the idea of something so finite. Even so,” Mr Pye hesitantly places his hand on Lux’s shoulder. “I know that woman. She's not one to step in front of something dangerous. And she ain't made of glass. She'll be just fine. The world’s big and mighty scary at times, but most of the time? Calm as anything. You haven't got anything to worry yourself sick over.” 

Lux loosens the grip on his legs, unfolding himself as he spreads his legs out. “She'll be back soon, right?” Mr Pye nods, a knowing smile on his face. He waited for his wife to return home, after all.

“Exactly. She'll walk right back in, bag full of all sorts of treats for you, I'm sure. You're not the only one in love after all.” He squeezes the God’s shoulder reassuringly. “I know this must be quite new for ya. Having to worry about a soul that can die. What we humans do is enjoy all the time we have with ‘em, make as many happy memories as we can to remember our loved ones by. As sad as you are when they're gone.. you remember their happiness. And it helps, even just a little bit.” Lux has stopped shaking. He looks up at Mr Pye and gives the man a small smile. “I know you don't want to think about it, but.. she's not gonna be around forever. You're gonna have to do as we do; make the time you have with her count. ‘Cause it's gone so fast..” Lux nods at that.

“I plan to, Mr Pye. Every second with her, I'll remember it.”

Bag full of food, postcards and now clothes, you drag yourself back in the direction of Palazzo. Of course, some higher being wants you to suffer a teensy bit more today. Your co-worker has nowhere to be and so follows after you, rambling about something you really don't care about. At least you used the baby excuse to get some cute little outfits for Lux. If he could wear clothes. If he can eat and interact with you, surely clothes should work on him too. You also picked up some for yourself, might as well have some change of clothes in there. Your mood lifts as the sight of the picture house comes into view. Subconsciously you speed up, both ready to relax and ready to get the hell away from this guy. “Hey doll, we're heading to Palazzo. Ain't your place down that way?” 

You're so annoyed by your coworker's.. everything that your brain skips right over the fact that this creep knows where you live. “Yeah, I picked up some stuff for Mr Pye. He gave me the money for it.” Not too far now, you're nearly there. 

“Ah right. Man, I could go another day without being cooped up in there. Weekends come all too quickly. Though you're probably happy about that, huh?” 

How could you have forgotten? He works tomorrow and Sunday. He's gonna be in there for two days, unaware of the God of Light roaming the theatres. You're going to have to be there to stop Lux from killing the guy (as tempting as it sounded to be rid of him). You come up with a quick excuse for being in Palazzo the next two days. “Usually I would be, but Mr Pye said it's gonna be busy this weekend. Some big showing or somethin’. Wants me working too.” The man's excitement is practically audible. 

“Gosh, he's got you working all 7 days?! Least you'll be in with me, eh?” Ew Ew Ew Ew Ew. Luckily you've gotten to the door, so you just nervously chuckle and try to make it seem like you're not throwing the door open. You turn and wave to him, thanking him for walking you back. “‘course Darlin'! See you tomorrow, then!” He winks at you and waves before walking off, leaving you to shut the door and lock it before he comes up with any excuse to come back to talk to you. You let out a deep sigh of relief, putting your bag down to stretch your limbs. Thank god you were back. 

“Sunshine!!!” The shout of your little God nearly makes you jump. Seconds later Lux comes sprinting over, barrelling into you as he latches on to your legs, the force of the impact nearly knocking you back. “Angel, you were gone for so long! I'm so so glad you're back!” Releasing the God’s grip from your legs, you pick him up into one arm, using your free hand to carry your bag. 

“Oh, Lux. I wasn't even gone for two hours, sweetheart.” You give him multiple kisses to make up for being gone so very long. “I've gotten plenty of stuff for you to look over and try out. Some food and clothes! Might be nice to have a change from that little outfit.” You walk down to your projector room, setting the bag on the table as Lux now clings to your neck. You're too busy going through everything you bought to notice him sniff the shoulder you'd bumped into your coworker's, a glare forming before he rubs his cheek on it to get rid of the stranger’s scent. Thinking he's just being affectionate you giggle, hugging him closer to you. That makes the little God happy again. “Gosh, I sure worked up a hunger out there. Want to try some of these fruits, Hun?” 

You, Lux and Mr Pye sit on the stage of your theatre, enjoying an indoor picnic together. Turns out the God of Light had a varied taste palette. He hoovered up all the fruit put in front of him and was now munching his way through the pancakes you had made. It was a miracle you and your boss had any food for yourselves. Once he'd eaten his way through all of that, Lux looked up at you with big eyes. “There's more in the kitchen.” At that he races off, on the hunt for more pancakes. 

“Who'd think a God of Light would love food so much?” Mr Pye mumbles just loud enough for you to hear, making the both of you laugh. You're half way through chewing a piece of fruit when you remember who you'd seen today. Probably best to let your boss know ahead of time. 

“I.. ran into the weekend cleaner.” Mr Pye freezes at that. Seems he also had forgotten about the one member of staff who hadn't encountered Lux yet. “Umm.. I may have forgotten to mention the God in the building.”

“How do you forget to mention something like that?!” 

“How was I supposed to mention it?! ‘Yeah don't come into work tomorrow, we just have the God of Light in, he's not a fan of people! Except me though, loves me more than anything!.’” 

Your boss sighs heavily, running a hand down his face. “Lux will hate him, actually hate that guy, you know that right? I remember the way he used to speak to you.” You grimace and nod. “Maybe.. It'll be fine. You'll be here, you can reel in Lux if he gets agitated. Hopefully he'll just scare the poor kid out and that'll be it.” Something told you it would be far from that simple. Mr Pye lets out another sigh, getting up slowly. “Well, anyway. It's tomorrow's problem. I'm going back to my theatre, see if there's anything that needs checking over.” He gives a quick thumbs up, as if to calm your nerves, before leaving. 

Lux comes shooting into the room not long after Mr Pye’s departure, a plate piled up with pancakes in his hands. “You weren't kiddin’ about there being more! Good thing I don't really have a stomach or anything!” He giggles, sitting himself in your lap as he returns to eating. You lean your head on the top of his, nose wrinkling as his antennae bend backwards to brush against it. Wonder if that's subconscious or not. “You wanna watch a film or something, sunshine? You can pick! I'll even suffer through a Ring-A-Ding cartoon! Just.. don't expect him to come jumping out the screen this time.” 

You chuckle as you run your fingers through the hair on the back of his head, making the God lean back into you. “Sure Hun. I could do with a sit down after all the walking I did. We can have a look at the postcards and other things I got after.” Lux nods at that, his mouth full. You contemplate on telling him about the visitor coming tomorrow as he makes his way through the pancakes. “Lux, sweetheart..” You start as he finishes the plate, wrapping an arm around him to take it off of him. He turns in your lap, looking up at you with a cute little face. “There's a uh.. weekend cleaner that's going to come in tomorrow and the day after. I'll still be here, so don't worry about that. I just need you to.. not trap him in film or anything, alright? You can scare him out of you want, I'm fine with that. Just no trapping.” 

To your surprise, Lux nods almost instantly. “Ok angel! Anyway, what film do you wanna watch?” You blink at that. Huh. That was easier than expected. He really did listen to you. You decide on a Ring-A-Ding cartoon, Lux giving you a look that says ‘you just picked that to make me dance, didn't you?’. The smile you give him in return confirms it. Still, he gets off your lap so you can stand before you sit back down on one of the theatre seats. Lux waits on the stage, snapping his fingers once you're settled. The projector clicks to life and the Ring-A-Ding film from yesterday begins to play. As your God dances along to his carbon copy on the screen, you relax into your seat with a smile. Maybe the next two days won't be too hectic.

[Hoooo boy, that coworker is gonna clash with ol' Lux. I'm sure nothing too bad with happen. hehehe. Don't worry dear reader, you'll get the best from this situation ;)]

[wolfbluebird]

Woven in Shadows

(Natasha x Fem!Reader)

Word count: 7.4k

Warnings: Fluff, angst.

Summary: You and Natasha face one of the most challenging problems you’ve ever faced.

(Men and minors dni)

There was something unbearably soft about the mornings. Not the ones Natasha spent alone—those were brittle, mechanical things, shaped by years of training and habit, stitched together from silence, cold air, and muscle memory. But the mornings with you—those were entirely different. When the light crept through the curtains in slow, golden ribbons and the outside world seemed to hold its breath, just for a little while longer. When she woke up to the warmth of you beside her, your body pressed sleep-heavy against hers, your fingers still loosely twined with hers beneath the sheets like you’d found her in your dreams and refused to let go. Those mornings made her feel like someone else. Not a spy. Not a weapon. Not the Black Widow. Just a woman in love. And even though the thought should’ve terrified her, it never did. Not when you were here. Not when you rolled closer in your sleep and she got to bury her face in the nape of your neck, breathing you in like you were the only thing tethering her to the earth.

She still didn’t know how she’d let this happen—this, being completely, irreversibly undone by you. There wasn’t a classified file for this kind of vulnerability. No protocol for the way her chest felt too small every time she looked at you, like her ribs couldn’t possibly contain everything you made her feel. She had been trained to resist pain, to live through anything. But this tenderness, this ache of being so in love with you she forgot how to move some mornings—this disarmed her. And God, did it silence her. Natasha didn’t talk much in moments like these, didn’t need to. She said everything in the way her hand traced absent, reverent lines over your skin. The slow drag of her fingers from your hip to your shoulder. The way her lips hovered at the back of your neck like they were always on the edge of a kiss. Like she was afraid if she pressed too hard, you might vanish. She didn’t know how to stop touching you. Didn’t want to.

She used to wake up alone, heart already on guard, the weight of survival pressed into her spine. But now? Now she woke up and found you. You, warm and safe, your body curved unconsciously into hers like you trusted her, like you knew she’d never let anything happen to you—and that wrecked her. Natasha Romanoff, feared and forged in red rooms and bloodshed, brought to her knees by the sound of your breath, the rise and fall of your chest. And she was so careful with you. With how she held you. With how she whispered things into your hair that she could never say when the sun was fully up. “I’ve got you,” she murmured, soft and certain, or “You don’t have to get up yet.” And sometimes, on the mornings where her guard had worn all the way down, when her heart felt too full and her voice too raw, she’d say the one thing that scared her most: “I don’t know who I’d be without you.”

No one else saw this version of her. She didn’t let them. Not Clint. Not Steve. Not anyone. The Black Widow persona was untouchable, crafted from silence and skill and every kind of armour imaginable. But that version of her couldn’t survive in this bed. Not when you made a quiet, contented noise and instinctively reached for her in your sleep. Not when she let you find her hand and hold it, even in dreams. You made her human. You made her soft. And somehow that softness never felt like weakness. It felt like freedom. Like truth. She didn’t always know how to explain what you meant to her—not in words. But in how she stayed, how she curled into you, how she didn’t flinch away from the light anymore. That was how you’d know. You had to know.

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It still amazed her, sometimes, that someone like you had chosen someone like her. You, with your heart that didn’t seem to understand limits. You could walk into a room and feel what people needed—not in a manipulative way, not in a tactical way, but with an instinct born of genuine care. It was your power, yes—your hands could draw pain out of a body like pulling darkness from water, glowing faintly as you did it, warm light bleeding from your skin like it came straight from your soul. But it was more than that. Your gift wasn’t just what you could do. It was who you were. Kind, open, stubborn in the way that only people who believe in goodness can be. You had an Avenger’s badge and the kind of battlefield composure that came from training, but underneath all of it, you were still the person who stopped mid-mission to help an injured civilian limp to safety. Still the one who knelt beside dying strangers and stayed with them, whispering to ease the fear from their eyes, even when you couldn’t save them. You always tried. Always cared. Natasha had never seen anything like it.

She didn’t know how you carried all that empathy and still stood tall. It exhausted her just watching. The way you walked through a world so broken and chose to meet it with tenderness. You let people lean on you, cry into your shoulder, call you in the middle of the night when the nightmares came back. You showed up every time. You didn’t know how not to. And Natasha… she could only marvel at it. She had learned to keep the world at arm’s length. To compartmentalise. You didn’t. You let it all in. You felt for people. Fought for them. Loved them, even when they didn’t deserve it. She knew that your powers took something from you each time—when you used too much of yourself, you went quiet, your hands shook, your skin paled like you were fading out. And still, you kept giving. Still, you kept healing. It made her ache in ways she didn’t have language for. Because she wanted to protect you from everything. From pain. From the weight of your own compassion. From the world, even when you kept throwing yourself at it with open arms.

Natasha loved you because you were good. Not in the naive, fairytale way. You weren’t innocent. You’d seen horror. Fought your way through fire and loss like the rest of them. But you’d come out the other side still soft. Still kind. You reminded her what they were fighting for. Who she wanted to be. You didn’t demand her vulnerability, you just made space for it. She found herself telling you things she’d buried years ago, not because you asked, but because you listened. Because you looked at her like she was worth knowing. Worth saving. She didn’t know how to live like you did, so open and endlessly willing, but she was learning. Watching you, she was learning. And God, it made her fall harder every single day.

Some days, when you came home from a mission, eyes tired and knuckles scraped, you’d smile at her like she was the only thing you needed. And Natasha would feel this wild, unsteady rush of love—because even when the world had taken the best of you, you still had more to give. You’d let her help you wash the blood from your hands. Let her sit behind you, arms around your waist, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades as you rested. She never told you that sometimes, when you weren’t looking, she’d stare at your hands like they were holy. How could something so small hold so much power? So much goodness? You didn’t even see it, half the time. You just did what you did because it felt right. But Natasha saw. Every time. And she loved you all the more for it.

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The compound was already humming with motion when you stepped into the prep bay—voices on comms, boots against metal, the low thrum of the Quinjet coming online through the wall. Stark’s voice was floating in from the main hangar, barking half-joking orders to Steve, while Sam checked loadouts and Wanda flicked her fingers through a tablet in that absent way she had when her mind was already on the battlefield. And in the middle of it all, like a constant, steady presence—you found her. Natasha. Already half-geared up, black suit zipped halfway, her hair pulled back in that braid she did when she didn’t want to be fussed with. You spotted her from across the room and something in you loosened, even now. Even with the heaviness of what you were about to walk into hanging thick in the air. Even with the weight of your role clawing its way up your spine.

She saw you at the same time, and her mouth pulled into that slight, private smile that only ever seemed to exist for you. Not the smirk she wore on missions, not the wry edge she gave the team when they were pissing her off—just something small and soft and real. She reached for you without words, and you came. You always did. You took up the space beside her like it had always been yours. Without asking, your hands moved to help her secure the fastenings on her belt, checking the placement of her weapons, adjusting the straps of her harness. The gesture was almost ceremonial now—neither of you needed help. But you liked the ritual of it. The closeness. She let you fuss over her with a patience she didn’t have for anyone else, arms lifting, body shifting easily under your touch. You slid a spare clip into one of her thigh holsters and murmured, “You’re light on reloads.” She huffed. “You always say that.” But she let you add one more anyway.

When she turned to do the same for you, her hands were slower. Not out of uncertainty—she knew your gear as well as her own by now—but out of that same quiet reverence she always had when she touched you. Like this might be the last time. Her fingers brushed over the clasps on your chest plate, checking for alignment, then lingered just a second too long on your ribs. She didn’t say anything, but you felt it in the way her hand stayed there, steady and warm. Like she was grounding herself. You leaned into it briefly, just enough for your shoulders to touch, and she finally exhaled. “You okay?” you asked quietly, not pushing, just checking. She didn’t look at you at first. Just nodded once. “Yeah. Just… don’t like going in separate teams.” You gave her a wry smile. “I’m a big girl, Nat. I’ll be fine.” But her eyes flicked to yours and something sharp lived there, something she hadn’t named yet. “I know. Doesn’t mean I like it.”

She helped you with your arm guards next, fingers sliding under the straps to check for movement. “Too tight?” she asked. You shook your head, and she sealed the Velcro down, knuckles brushing your wrist. Then, with a glance around to make sure no one was paying attention, she dipped her head and pressed a kiss to the corner of your jaw. Not quite on your mouth, not quite chaste. Just there. Like a touchstone. You let your eyes flutter shut for a heartbeat, memorising it. The shape of her lips. The way the scent of her clung faintly to her suit. The weight of being loved in a place built for war. “I love you.” she whispered. You caught her hand before she pulled away. “I love you too” And for a second, the whole room faded. Just her and you and this fragile, fleeting moment of peace before the storm.

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The Quinjet vibrated steadily beneath your boots, its engines thrumming like a distant heartbeat as it cut through the clouds, high above whatever chaos waited down below. You sat shoulder to shoulder on the bench lining the left side of the cabin, suited up, armed, ready—but folded into each other like none of that mattered right now. The others were scattered around the jet, all of them locked in their own versions of pre-mission focus: Steve reviewing blueprints, Sam checking over drone feeds, Wanda with her eyes closed and headphones in, already half in her own head. But you and Natasha? You were wrapped in your own little world.

Your head rested against her shoulder, heavy with that special kind of tired that only came from battle-readiness—the coiled tension that came from waiting, listening, knowing something was coming but not yet knowing what. Natasha didn’t speak. She rarely did on these rides. But she leaned into you like it was second nature, like her body had been carved to fit yours. One of her hands was loose in yours, fingers curled together in a familiar, easy knot. The other rested on your thigh, thumb stroking in slow, absent circles through the fabric of your tactical trousers. Her touch wasn’t firm, wasn’t possessive—it was grounding. Casual. Loving. Like she didn’t even think about it anymore. Just needed you there, needed that point of contact. And God, you loved her for it.

You turned her hand over in your lap, your fingers tracing the knuckles, the grooves of her scars, the curve of her palm. You ran your thumb over the rings she wore—thin, simple bands of silver and black, nothing flashy, but each one chosen, each one meaningful in its own quiet way. She didn’t wear them for decoration. She wore them like armour. Like memory. Like truth. You twisted one gently around her finger and she glanced down, the edge of a smile tugging at her mouth. “You always do this before a mission,” she murmured, voice low, not quite teasing. “I like your hands,” you said simply, still tracing the ridges of one of the bands. “You never used to wear jewellery, you know.” “I didn’t have anyone to show off for,” she replied, just as quietly. And then: “You ruined me.”

You huffed a soft laugh and bumped your head a little more snugly against her shoulder. She turned slightly to press her cheek to your hair. Just for a moment. Just enough to let you feel the weight of her affection settle in your chest like a second heartbeat. She smelled like leather and metal and something warmer—something distinctly her. “You nervous?” she asked eventually, her thumb pausing mid-stroke on your thigh. You shook your head. “Not when I’m with you.” And you meant it. Not because you were invincible together—God knew that wasn’t true—but because when she was close, the fear didn’t get to take the lead. You could breathe. You could be.

The Quinjet hit a pocket of turbulence, just enough to jostle you both slightly, and without thinking, Natasha tightened her grip on your thigh. Not hard. Just protective. You glanced up at her and found her already looking down at you. Her green eyes, usually so sharp and unreadable, were soft now, filled with something you didn’t have to name. “After this mission,” she said quietly, “we’re taking three days off. No comms. No training. Just you and me.” You smiled, letting your fingers slide between hers again. “Deal.” Then you kissed the edge of her shoulder plate and tucked yourself in a little closer, not caring who saw. This was yours. She was yours. And for now—for this moment—you were safe in each other’s hands

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The Quinjet doors split open to a city swallowed by smoke and fire.

The sky was already red when you touched down—thick clouds of dust rising where Hydra planes strafed across rooftops, shattering glass and chewing through concrete like it was paper. You could barely hear yourself think through the sheer noise of it. Sirens wailed through the chaos. Civilians screamed as they fled down fractured roads, dodging gunfire and falling debris, clutching children, ducking into alleyways, praying for shelter that no longer existed. The city felt alive, but in that sick, devouring way—like it was breaking apart beneath your boots, and if you stood still too long, it might swallow you whole.

Natasha was at your back the second you stepped off the ramp, the rest of the team peeling away into smaller units. Steve was already barking orders through comms—split the grid, cover more ground, keep civilian casualties to a minimum. Stark’s repulsors screamed overhead as he launched toward a collapsing tower, and Wanda vanished in a blur of red as she took off down a side street with Sam, her voice steady as she counted threats aloud. You stayed with Natasha. That wasn’t even a decision. That was instinct. The two of you moved as one, weapons drawn, feet finding rhythm through the cracked asphalt and shattered glass.

“North side’s overrun,” came Sam’s voice in your ear, static-laced but clear. “Three Hydra dropships just touched down outside the stadium. I count at least twenty armed on the ground.”

“I’ve got civilians pinned in the metro station,” Wanda followed, her tone tight. “Sending coordinates. Need backup.”

“We’ve got east,” Natasha said immediately, already vaulting a low wall beside a flaming SUV, her gun raised, eyes scanning. You followed, weaving between rubble and smoke, your body moving before thought could catch up. The heat from the fires made your skin feel slick inside your suit, sweat already trickling beneath your collar. The air was thick—ash, gunpowder, the acrid tang of scorched metal—and somewhere in the distance, something boomed, a building toppling in on itself like a dying animal.

Hydra soldiers swarmed the streets in organised packs, tactical and relentless. Their weapons weren’t standard-issue anymore—tech-enhanced, Stark-like, buzzing with stolen energy. One of them rounded a corner and Natasha dropped him with a clean double-tap to the chest. Another came at her from the left and you threw up a burst of your power—a shockwave of light and kinetic force that sent him flying backwards into a parked car, the metal crumpling like tin under his body. She didn’t flinch. Just nodded once and kept moving. You kept pace beside her, your breathing sharp, adrenaline lacing your limbs with that cold, vibrating edge.

“We’ve got movement by the old post office,” you said into comms, spotting a cluster of black-clad operatives using an overturned bus for cover. “Looks like a command team.”

“Take them down,” Steve ordered. “Clear a path. Every inch we push forward is one they lose.”

Copy. Easy. You and Natasha exchanged a glance, no words needed, and split like a pincer—her circling wide, drawing fire, you going high through the wreckage of a half-demolished café. You moved like a shadow, quick and quiet, your boots barely making a sound as you reached the upper floor and targeted the enemy cluster below. Natasha’s voice came sharp through your ear: “Three on the left. One’s got a launcher. He’s mine.” You dropped down behind the others just as she said it, landing hard, sending a surge of power into the ground that knocked two of them off balance. Natasha swept in from the other side, lethal and silent, her widow’s bites crackling as she struck.

It took less than forty seconds. Four down. Breathing heavy. No injuries. You exhaled shakily and reached out without thinking. She caught your wrist before you even finished the motion, steadying you, anchoring you. Her eyes swept your face quickly, checking. You nodded once. Still good. Still together.

Then the comms sparked again—Steve, urgent. “Heads up. They’re not just here for chaos. Hydra’s after something. Possibly someone. Stay alert. Watch each other’s backs.” Natasha gave your hand a final squeeze. “Let’s go find out what they want.” And with that, you ran.

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You were headed toward the next comm drop—half a mile east, near what used to be a bank tower—when you saw them. A surge of people breaking away from the chaos, not toward safety, but downward. Into the subway station. Dozens of them. Men, women, kids clutched in trembling arms. Faces smeared with soot, tear tracks cutting through the grime. People moving on fear and adrenaline alone. You spotted the old iron staircase before Natasha did, half-buried behind the remains of a toppled delivery van, the station sign scorched black, barely readable. But there it was. The underground entrance gaping like a throat.

You grabbed her arm without thinking, the instinct too fast to question. “There,” you said. She followed your gaze instantly, eyes narrowing. And then she saw them too—silhouettes flooding down the stairs, some stumbling, others carrying the injured. No guards. No order. Just raw, unfiltered panic. “Shit,” Natasha breathed. “If they’re hiding down there…” She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. You both knew exactly what could go wrong.

There was no time to clear it with the others. No time to ask for backup. You both moved. You broke off from the street without hesitation, her hand brushing your back as she followed you through the wreckage, ducking low under a collapsed awning and hopping the railing to the stairwell. The air grew heavier with every step down. Cooler, but laced with the metallic sting of stress-sweat and electrical burn. Somewhere below, the flicker of backup generators cast uneven shadows across the cracked tile walls. The fluorescent lights lining the platform ceiling were failing in bursts—flickering, buzzing, casting everything in an unsteady white-blue glow.

You hit the bottom of the stairs and heard the murmurs immediately. Shuffling feet. The low, anxious voices of those trying not to cry, not to panic. Dozens of civilians gathered near the far edge of the platform—some pressed back against the walls, some huddled by broken benches, others frozen in place near the train tunnel entrance. The emergency lights strobed against their faces. Their eyes widened when they saw you and Natasha. One kid stepped behind his mother. Another tugged at someone’s sleeve and pointed. You didn’t look like rescuers—you looked like more trouble. But then you holstered your weapon. Natasha did the same. And slowly, the fear in their eyes turned into something else. Hope. Or maybe just the dim shape of it.

You and Natasha moved like you were wired together, no words needed, just motion and breath and instinct honed by too many missions where hesitation cost lives. She stayed close—shoulder to shoulder with you as you stepped onto the platform, scanning the crowd like she could catalogue fear by the way it clung to people’s skin. You saw the way her eyes shifted over every face, not searching for threats this time, but for injuries. For weakness. For someone about to collapse under the weight of it all. You watched her soften in real time, the Black Widow melting away piece by piece, until only Natasha remained—quiet, fierce, steady.

You crouched beside an elderly man slumped against a pillar, his lips pale, fingers trembling. “Sir, can you hear me?” you asked gently, already checking for blood, pulse, coherence. Natasha was at your back, her hand pressed lightly against your spine for a breath—grounding you, letting you know she was there—before she peeled away to kneel beside a woman holding a baby wrapped in a soot-streaked jacket. “How long have you been down here?” she asked softly, almost tenderly, her voice a careful thing. The woman didn’t answer, just clutched the child tighter and nodded toward the far tunnel. More down there. Others. Her eyes said what her mouth couldn’t.

The air was thicker down here—stagnant, warm, laced with fear and oil and whatever was burning in the electrical room two levels above. The lights overhead crackled every few seconds, casting everything in stuttering shadows. Every time it went dark, the crowd held their breath. Every time the light returned, someone sobbed in relief. You reached out and steadied a teenager trying to haul her injured brother up from where he’d collapsed. “We’re going to get you out,” you told her. It wasn’t a promise. It was a decision.

Natasha’s hand brushed yours as she passed you a med pack from her belt. You took it without looking, already pressing gauze to a bleeding shoulder, your knees soaked in someone else’s blood. “We’ve got to organise this,” she murmured close to your ear, voice low, clipped. “Triage first. Get the kids into one group. Anyone walking goes with them. We keep the others here until we know it’s clear above.”

You nodded, your free hand already motioning to the small, trembling clusters around you. “They’ll listen to you better than me,” you said, and it was true. Natasha’s voice carried. Not because it was loud, but because it was anchored. She could still a room with a glance. She could make the end of the world sound manageable. She stood tall, shoulders squared, her braid falling loose over her shoulder. “Everyone who can walk,” she called out, loud enough to cut through the murmur of fear, “start gathering by the west stairs. Parents, hold your kids. We’re going to move, but not yet. You’re not alone. You’re safe with us.”

A pause. Then, slowly, people began to move.

It wasn’t a wave. It wasn’t sudden. But they trusted her. Trusted you. And sometimes that was enough to start.

You and Natasha stayed in motion, side by side, touching shoulders, exchanging glances that spoke volumes. You could feel the weight settling in the base of your throat—the sheer number of lives pressing in around you, fragile and scared and clinging to whatever threads of hope they could find. Natasha didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. But when her hand caught yours in a quick, silent squeeze between moving bodies, you felt the tremor in it.

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It happened fast.

One moment, people were starting to calm—fragile and frayed but clinging to the safety you and Natasha offered like a life raft. Parents gathered their children. The injured were laid out in a loose triage area near the back wall. Natasha had even gotten a small group seated and breathing together, grounding them with that quiet authority of hers, voice low and steady like she was narrating calm into their bones. You had just finished checking the pulse of a boy in his twenties—dislocated shoulder, bleeding from the head, but still alert—when the scream came.

Then another.

And another.

The crowd twisted, rising in a panic all at once like a wave crashing backward. Eyes wide. Feet scrambling. People shoved past each other, frantic, clawing to get away from the stairwell they’d just been told led to safety. A mother tripped, nearly crushed beneath a swarm of bodies before you lunged to haul her back up, pressing her behind you. “What is it?” you called, voice lost in the rising chaos.

Then you heard it.

The metallic clatter of boots on concrete. Not just one pair—dozens. Heavy, synchronised, tactical. And voices—barking orders in harsh, clipped tones through filtered masks.

Hydra. They were forcing them back down.

Natasha was already moving, already raising her gun, her jaw clenched so tight it looked carved in stone. “They’re driving them in like cattle,” she snapped, stepping into position at your side as civilians poured around you, stumbling, shrieking, desperate to get away from whatever was above. “They know we’re here. They want hostages. Or a trap.”

The subway platform filled with noise—panic, echoing off the tiles, ricocheting in every direction. Someone screamed that they saw guns. Someone else yelled about smoke. You reached out to grab a child nearly crushed between fleeing legs, pulling her tight against your side as her father came skidding in after her, shouting her name.

The air felt tighter now. Compressed. Like something wrong was crawling down your throat. The flickering lights above strobed faster, casting Natasha’s silhouette in bursts—her stance sharp, her shoulders squared, one foot already braced forward. Her expression had changed. No softness now. Only fire. Only fury.

“They’re close,” you said, eyes locked on the stairwell where shadows started spilling in—a flicker of black uniforms, the glint of weaponry. “We don’t have much time.”

Natasha turned her head slightly, just enough for you to see the barest crack in her mask—not fear, but something worse. Calculation. She was already counting bodies. Counting civilians. Counting how many bullets she had left and how much time you’d need to get them out.

“We hold the line,” she said. You nodded. And then the shadows started to move.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The first wave of Hydra soldiers hit hard—but they weren’t prepared for you and Natasha at your full fury. You moved like a mirrored pair, a machine of muscle and instinct and precision born of too many missions side by side. Natasha ducked beneath a wild swing, drove her knee into a man’s gut, then spun and shot another square between the eyes without even blinking. You launched yourself at the group surging toward the civilians, slamming one into the tiled wall hard enough to crack it. His helmet clattered to the floor. You didn’t let him breathe again.

Gunfire cracked like thunder in the narrow space, echoing off tile and metal. Sparks flew. Someone screamed. Natasha covered a mother shielding her children, her body between them and the fight as she snapped off two perfect headshots and then dropped to a crouch to reload. You slammed your palm into the underside of a soldier’s chin, following it with a knee to the groin and a vicious elbow to the throat. He went down like a sack of bones. Another took his place almost instantly. It didn’t matter. You were faster.

The bodies started to pile. But it wasn’t enough. The ground began to tremble.

At first, you thought it was just the chaos—the pounding boots, the concussive blasts. But then it became unmistakable. The air shifted. The lights flickered. A low, mechanical rumble crawled up the tracks like a storm coming alive.

The rails were vibrating.

The unmanned subway carriage was coming.

You didn’t know if Hydra had triggered it as a failsafe or if it was some malfunction spiralling into hell, but you felt it—through your boots, up your spine, in your skull. And you weren’t done yet. You couldn’t be.

Only one soldier left now. The others were dead, bleeding into the concrete, twitching where they fell. Natasha had pulled back toward the crowd, ordering people into lines, shouting for them to move fast but stay low. Her eyes found you once, sharp and burning, but she didn’t call out. She trusted you. Trusted you to end it.

You squared off with the last man.

He was taller, heavier. Stronger than the others. Smarter, maybe—he hadn’t rushed you like they did. He was tactical. And relentless. He struck with full-body weight, trying to overwhelm, trying to drive you back. Blow after blow, your arms jarred from blocking, your ribs aching from a glancing hit. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t yield.

The tunnel roared louder. Your fight dragged toward the platform edge.

You could feel it—every inch of ground behind your heels disappearing. Every step he took forcing you closer to the drop. The empty tunnel gaped behind you, a black void shuddering with oncoming force. You could hear it now—screeching metal wheels, the high-pitched scream of a speeding train screaming down the tracks with no brake, no driver, no goddamn mercy.

Natasha shouted your name—but you couldn’t look. You were too close to the edge. And he knew it. He grinned behind the mask. You didn’t flinch.

The kick landed with the force of a battering ram—steel-toed boot slamming into your stomach so hard you saw stars in the tunnel lights. Your breath exploded out of you in one ragged gasp, your vision narrowing to a pinprick of white pain. Every nerve in your body lit up with fire, but you gritted your teeth and refused to let go. Fingers clamped around the soldier’s leg, digging in through fabric and muscle, anchoring you both to the edge of the tracks.

He struggled—big, brutal, certain that the fight was his—but your desperation lent you strength you didn’t know you had. You heaved with every ounce of will, dragging his weight forward. The rails groaned beneath his boots as he teetered, arms windmilling for balance. Your own boots scraped against the edge of the platform, toes curling over the lip as you fought the pull of gravity and the promise of oblivion below.

Behind you, the tunnel yawned wide and pure black, broken only by the harsh white slash of the oncoming carriage lights. They grew brighter with terrifying speed, reflecting off your sweat-slicked skin and the soldier’s gleaming helmet. In that moment, sound dropped away—no train screams, no crushing echoes—only the single, hammering beat of your own heart. You tightened your grip, muscles tearing, and launched your final surge.

And then there was only light. The carriage tore through the spot where you’d stood, its metal side a blur of bone-shaking speed. You and the soldier vanished into that unstoppable force, leaving nothing but a whisper of displaced air and a spine-tingling silence that rolled up the tunnel walls like a wave.

Natasha’s world shattered in a heartbeat. The seconds stretched unbearably long as she stood frozen at the platform’s edge, the echo of that unrelenting metal thunder fading into a hollow silence that screamed louder than any gunshot. Her breath caught, tight and ragged, like it had been crushed beneath an invisible weight. Her chest heaved violently, trembling with the sudden onslaught of panic and despair.

Her knees nearly buckled, but she forced herself upright, gripping the cold railing as if it could anchor her shattered soul. The gun in her hand slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor, the sound a cruel punctuation to the chaos swirling inside her. Her eyes were wide, wild—dilated with shock and disbelief, searching the darkness as if somehow willing you back from the void.

Then it broke through—the raw, guttural scream tearing from deep inside her throat, a sound so desperate and broken it wasn’t human. It was a sobbed wail, a furious cry against the cruel, unbearable truth that you were gone. She dropped her head forward, hair tumbling like a dark curtain to hide the tear tracks streaking her face. Her hands trembled uncontrollably, fists clenching and unclenching as though trying to squeeze the pain back inside.

Memories flooded her mind in jagged shards—your laugh, the softness of your touch, the way you’d looked at her just moments ago with that fierce, unwavering kindness. Each memory stabbed sharper than the last, twisting inside her like a knife. The silence around her was suffocating, filled only with the sound of her ragged breaths and the distant chaos of the battle still raging.

She staggered back from the edge, collapsing onto the cold tile floor, curling into herself as if to hold in the agony threatening to swallow her whole. Tears spilled freely now, hot and relentless, as if mourning the loss not just of you—but of every future they’d dared to imagine.

Natasha Romanoff—the Black Widow, the woman who had faced death more times than she could count—was utterly broken. And in that moment, all that fierce strength turned inward, burning like a wildfire of grief and rage that promised this loss would haunt her forever.

Steve’s boots pounded urgently down the stairs, Wanda right behind him, their faces taut with alarm as they burst into the subway station. The chaos around them seemed to dim, the noise of panic and battle fading into a sharp, focused silence the moment they spotted Natasha. She was slumped near the platform’s edge, eyes wide and haunted, trembling like a ghost trapped in a nightmare.

Wanda reached out first, her voice gentle but firm. “Natasha, come with us. We need to get you out of here.” But Natasha shook her head violently, every movement sharp with desperation. Her voice cracked, raw and frantic. “No. No, she’s still there. I know it. If I track the carriage, I’ll find her. She has to be okay.”

Steve stepped closer, his hand on Natasha’s shoulder, steadying her as she swayed. “Nat, you’re not thinking straight. We don’t know what happened down there.” But she pulled away, eyes wild, refusing to be consoled. The determination in her gaze was fierce—terrifying.

Wanda’s hand glowed softly, a gentle light reaching out to calm the storm inside Natasha, but Natasha flinched, stubborn and broken. “I’m not leaving,” she whispered fiercely, her voice cracking under the weight of the impossible hope she clung to. “She’s alive. She has to be.”

They exchanged a look—Steve’s calm, grounded; Wanda’s filled with quiet sorrow—before gently, carefully, they began to pull Natasha away from the platform’s edge, away from the darkness where you’d vanished. But even as they moved her, Natasha’s eyes stayed fixed on the tunnel’s depths, searching for a sign, a miracle, anything to hold onto.

Steve and Wanda moved with quiet urgency, guiding Natasha away from the platform’s edge and back toward the stairwell. Her legs were unsteady beneath her, each step a battle against the weight pressing down on her chest—a crushing grief she refused to let go of. The fire and chaos of the city had begun to dim as the last Hydra forces were driven back, their ruthless storm finally broken.

Outside, the city was scarred but still breathing. Streets littered with debris, smoke curling upward into a heavy sky streaked with fading orange light. Civilians—shaken, some with tears still wet on their faces—huddled in small groups, guarded now by Avengers moving methodically to restore order and safety. The roar of battle had faded into a tense silence, broken only by distant sirens and the occasional crackle of radio chatter.

Natasha stood apart from it all, eyes vacant, the firelight catching on the tears she refused to wipe away. The victory felt hollow—like a hollow shell where joy should be. The weight of what she’d lost settled deep inside her like an unhealing wound. Part of her soul was shattered, scattered somewhere in that dark tunnel beneath the city, lost to the unstoppable carriage and the cruel mercilessness of fate.

She moved slowly, mechanically, as if she were a ghost drifting through the ruin of a world she no longer recognized. The smiles, the relieved embraces around her—all felt distant, unreachable. Wanda approached carefully, her voice soft, almost a whisper. “Natasha…”

But Natasha only shook her head, eyes locked on the smouldering horizon. “No,” she murmured, voice raw and brittle, “No part of me is okay.”

And in that silence, heavy and unyielding, it was clear: something vital had been ripped from her forever. The Black Widow, the woman who had fought so fiercely against the darkness, was broken in a way no mission, no fight, could ever fix.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The quinjet hummed steadily as it soared away from the ruined city, slicing through thick clouds stained orange by distant fires. Inside, the hum was almost deafening in its normalcy, a cruel contrast to the chaos left behind. Natasha sat rigidly, her eyes fixed on the dark window, watching the blur of clouds and fading light, but her mind was miles away—tangled in the empty space beside her.

Her hand moved almost instinctively, reaching out for the familiar warmth that had been there just hours before. Her fingers brushed against cold, empty leather—the seat you had occupied on this flight. The sharp absence of your presence hit her like a physical blow. She curled her hand into a fist, struggling to hold back the sudden, raw ache inside her chest.

She missed the way your head had rested lightly on her shoulder, the soft weight grounding her in a world that often felt too sharp, too dangerous. She missed the gentle pressure of your hand in hers, your fingers weaving between hers, mindlessly playing with the many rings that adorned her fingers—tiny distractions that somehow made everything seem okay.

Now, her rings felt heavier, colder, stripped of the subtle warmth your touch had always brought. The silence between her and the empty seat was a cruel reminder of everything lost—every soft glance, every whispered word, every quiet moment of comfort she had taken for granted.

Natasha’s jaw tightened, a bitter knot settling deep in her throat. The mission was over, the threat vanquished—but the battle inside her raged on. And in the stillness of that quinjet cabin, with only the steady drone of engines to fill the void, she was left facing the vast, aching emptiness that your absence had carved into her world.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The funeral was held in a quiet chapel nestled near the Avengers Tower, its stone walls heavy with centuries of solemn prayers and whispered farewells. Outside, the world moved on unaware, but inside, time itself seemed to slow, caught in the suffocating grip of grief. Soft, muted voices mingled with the occasional stifled sob, the air thick with the scent of lilies and worn leather hymnals. The gathered Avengers stood like shadows, their faces grave, each bearing the weight of a loss too profound for words.

At the front, beneath the altar, stood the casket—immaculate, polished to a high sheen, yet heartbreakingly empty. The lid was closed as if to honour a presence that had never been returned. It was a painful symbol, a cruel gesture to contain a void that no wood or metal could ever fill. The absence of a body made the grief all the more intangible, a ghostly wound that refused to heal.

Natasha stood close, her posture rigid but trembling beneath the surface. Her eyes were glassy, swollen from nights spent crying herself awake, red-rimmed and raw as if the pain had scraped away the moisture altogether. Every breath was shallow, uneven, a ragged attempt to hold herself together. Her hands clenched the front of her coat, knuckles white, as though grasping for something to keep her tethered to this cruel reality.

She thought of you—the light in her life that now flickered out too soon. In the endless corridors of her mind, she pictured a different future, one where the two of you stood together in front of friends and family. She’d imagined delicate white dresses flowing softly around you both, the warmth of your hands entwined tightly as you declared your love before the world. That vision had been her sanctuary, a place where hope still bloomed despite the darkness.

But now, that sanctuary was shattered. The altar was empty, and so was the space beside her heart. The echo of that absence reverberated in every corner of the chapel, a haunting silence that swallowed the whispered prayers and the gentle hymns. Natasha’s breath hitched, breaking through the stillness with a raw, ragged sob that tore from deep inside her chest—a sound so broken it seemed to fracture the very air.

Around her, the Avengers formed a protective circle, their presence both a balm and a reminder of the family they still had. Wanda’s hands found hers, warm and steady, fingers lacing tightly with a desperate tenderness that spoke of shared sorrow. Steve stood silently nearby, one hand resting lightly but firmly on Natasha’s back, offering strength without words, a steadfast anchor amid the storm of her grief. Bruce’s usually reserved demeanor softened, his eyes shadowed with empathy as he gave her the space to unravel without judgment.

No one dared speak of the body lost to the dark, the relentless subway tunnel that had swallowed you whole. The unanswered questions, the what-ifs and might-have-beens, lingered like ghosts around the room, pressing down on every heart. The empty casket was both a tribute and a torment, a physical reminder of the absence that could never be filled.

Natasha’s sobs grew louder, jagged and desperate, tearing through the chapel like a storm breaking loose. The Black Widow, the woman known for her unbreakable will and icy composure, was stripped bare—left vulnerable and shattered by a loss too vast to comprehend. Her soul felt torn, a piece forever missing, leaving a hollow ache that no victory, no mission, no promise could ever mend.

As the ceremony drew on, the faces of her friends blurred through her tears, their quiet support a fragile lifeline. But beneath it all, Natasha knew the truth she dared not say aloud: a part of her had been lost that day in the tunnel, taken with you in a way that would haunt her forever. The future she once dreamed of had been extinguished, leaving only the cold, painful present—and the unbearable weight of an empty altar.

❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖ ❁

A/N: Haven’t been posting for a few days because I’ve been writing this beauty, hope you all like it… and I’m sorry 😔. But I hoped you enjoyed reading it xx

Ps. I’m not paying for anyone’s therapy after this xx

[Masterlist]

[omgfangirlland]

The Shadows That Nurture 30

Went and voted- going to be a white night tonight 🫠 I don't even want to think about the outcome tbh. The russian muppet is already calling fraud and the exit poll votes aren't even live yet.

Anyway- Enjoy!

Masterlist || First || previous<< Chapter 30 >>next(TBC)

Gordon was growing too old for a lot of things. Drinking and partying, roller coasters, horror movies, his job, and above all, the mess that was the Wayne family.

He remembers the day he found you, shivering in the cold shadows of Crime Alley as your hands clutched at your mother. He remembers how much blood you were covered in, the terrified look on your face, the pure shock you were in. And he remembers how reassured he felt when he found out you were Bruce’s kid.

Bruce had grown so much from the boy who burned the lawn of his professor, from the kid who spent so much time in detention, who had to spend his early life in Arkham’s boys’ rehabilitation home, who got himself expelled from the pure violence running through his veins. He did so well with Richard, but maybe Gordon deluded himself into believing that.

The man has felt guilty since the whole truth went public. Sure, it has died down quite a bit, but he couldn’t help it. You were so small then, so frightened, to see the malice and hate in your eyes, the pain threatening to crack your even, calculated voice- it hurt. He promised you that Bruce would love you, that the young billionaire would protect you.

He should have checked in. He should have, especially when his own daughter didn’t talk about you as she did the others, like she did even about Damian. Gordon didn’t even know you were missing, he truly thought that Bruce would be better. He was with the others, he was with Barbara. How could he be a second father to her and not even a guardian to you?

The old officer rubbed at his face, trying to erase the tiredness. And his daughter… When he asked her about this madness, the guilt and shame that overtook her face hurt more than a gunshot. He raised her better than that, raised her not to be afraid to speak up and question authority figures, to help defend the defenseless. How could she do that by night, and give a child the cold shoulder by day? She saw how the other treated you, she told him how she did. Barbara should have told him earlier. He would have fought for you- hell, from everything he’s been finding out, he was sure Bruce would have willingly given you up.

You were just another kid he couldn’t do right by. Another number weighing on his shoulders. He should have checked up on you.

Barbara could only watch as the guilt ate at her father. It was like being teleported back to when Joker shot her spine out, like it was his fault everything happened. She wasn’t sure what her old man could have done right by you, not when everyone was so willing to not even try, not when she wasn’t willing to try.

If someone asked her about you a few years back, she’d just brush you off as an annoying kid Bruce took in. But you weren’t. You were curious, tried to worm your way into the dynamic of everyone, but that was just normal kid behavior. You didn’t throw tantrums because shit didn’t go your way, at least nobody saw them, and you didn’t deliberately break stuff or acted out to gain attention. At most, you had bad timing with your questions, or maybe she just fell in line with the others and was trying to find an excuse.

She could say you were easily forgettable, that you were too busy doing your own thing, but you were a child. It was their job to integrate you into the family, into society, it was their job to nurture you into something great. Barbara’s lips pursed as she realized how bad that line of thought was. You weren’t something to be shaped into whatever they wanted, into the next Robin, the next Batgirl, into the next heir of Wayne Enterprises.

You were an artist, a good one, and not because of how many things you won, but because your art shone with emotions. Every piece was a little glimpse of how you felt, and maybe she wasn’t as experienced in art as Damian, but she could see the little symbols of longing you had of them, of how your art immediately changed to something happier around the time the Rogues took you in, how it turned neutral, little signs of them slipping back in when Cassandra and Duke came in the imagine, and how it returned to happiness when the Graysons took you in, the drawings on your social media shining with glimpses of them, not the bats.

She hated it. Hated to see how you viewed them, a grim presence in your life, there just to ruin your day. You didn’t view Nolan like that, even after everything he did. You didn’t even want to be a hero, he forced you to be one. So why did you prefer them over your real family? It couldn’t be just because they showed you some affection and were part of your school life.

For now she put the thought away, jotting a note that perhaps it was because of Markus and Deborah Grayson as she got back to her work. Cecil was sure it was because of the woman, but she couldn’t trust one man's opinion, not again.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Everything went to shit so quickly, the Reanimen were strong as a unit, but against two versed Viltrumites, you, and Mark, it was easy to cut through them. However, as Thragg and Conquest were clean and quick in their actions, Mark and you were sloppy. Your brother was simply in too much pain from the sound wave to try and pull his punches, and you were in too much distress to care about being careful.

Your fingers were twitching for Cecil’s blood, to put the bastard down, even though you understood why he’d do something like this. He wasn’t a meta, he was a mortal, merely a human with too much power and responsibility. He was doing what he thought would be best for everyone, for the world. But your loyalty was never his, and he should have been more prepared. And yet… you stopped Thragg from decapitating him.

“Rudy. Get this fucking thing out of my head. Now.” Mark limped as Robot followed him, and your hands shook as blood dripped off them. An argument seemed to be happening in the background, but the yelling was being drowned out by a buzz ringing in your ears. You weren’t ready for immortality, for losing people you actually cared for. You couldn’t lie to yourself anymore. “Should have let us kill him.” Grandpa Morgan’s grumble finally brought you back to Earth.

“Maybe.” You whisper, your head snapping behind you as you finally register what everyone was arguing about, your eyes sweeping over Robot’s mechanical body and the others. “Rae’s right. You’re not even the original right now.” Kate straightened at your words, everyone’s eyes going to the one on her chest.

“Maybe Cecil was right about having contingency plans, but putting a bomb in my brother’s head is too far. First of all. Second, if you, any of you, think you’re safe, you’re wrong. Cecil is very similar to Batman, and we all know that the furry has contingency plans for his own kids. You’re not free, not safe, once you think of stepping the wrong way, you’ll be next.”

Your eyes move to the Immortal and Kate. “And third, you two are beyond pathetic.” Rex snorted at the comment, unable to keep it in from shock, but no one else was willing to comment or argue on it. “You’re angry-“ Abe was trying to placate you, to redirect your emotions. “Yes. I’m also terrified. At how easy it was for him to sneak something so deadly into my brother, a boy who’s only been on our side, and at how easy it is for you to deem it as right, not willing to see the bigger imagine.”

“And I’ll double down on what I said. You two are pathetic.” Thragg shifts behind you, arms crossing over his chest as he simply observes. He’s been doing that since he landed on Earth. “I have no expectations of Kate, she’s not my friend, and she’s reckless and stupid in the way she fights. No technique, no strategy, just duplicate yourself as much as you can and hope for the best. It’s pathetic, a waste of potential.”

“But I expected more from you, Abe. I expected you to stand up for us, considering we were your anchor for a while, but truly, that’s my bad. I shouldn’t expect that from spineless bastards who can’t even stand up to their younger lover.” You shrug. “Your fighting styles aren’t that different either. You used to be better, but since the Guardians got murdered, you’ve become useless. Jumping in, fist at the ready, all that power running through your veins, and yet, you’re the first to drop.”

“It’s pathetic. All of it.” You sigh, shaking your head as you gently nudge the two Viltrumites towards the door, done with the Guardians and ready to just get your brother and go home. And with that, the guardians broke into two sides. Samson rubbed at his temple as his name was called.”I owe her a lot…” His eyes moved from one side to the other. “I still believe that this was just a misstep- I can’t fix this from the outside.”

“But if push comes to shove, I know damn well it wasn’t Cecil or the Guardians who pulled me from rock bottom.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

After talking to your parents, Mark went off to talk to his friend, maybe sneak in Eve’s room too, you could smell the romantic angst off them. It could never be you. “Thragg, please move over a bit, you’re invading my personal space.” You could only sigh as the man barely moved, still keeping his knee touching yours. ”….Thank you.” Your eyebrow twitched as the man nodded.

Conquest was flipping through the note cards and books Oliver insisted he and Thragg could learn from, calloused fingers tracing the cartoonish drawing of a child with his parents and other family members. His eyes first went to Nolan, who was snoring on the armchair with Oliver draped over his lap and snoring just as loudly as his old man, before settling on you, lingering on your tired eyes. “You called me Grandpa. We’re not blood related.”

“We’re not.” You shrug. “But I’m not blood related to anyone in this house either, and Nolan and Debbie still call me their daughter, Mark and Oliver still call me their sister. My blood family never did. They let their enemies raise me, so blood doesn’t mean much around here.” Conquest only snorted at you. “Blood means everything to Viltrumites.” A shit eating grin slowly took over your lips as the opportunity to meme presented itself. “Well, too damn bad, grandpa. You’re family now, a Grayson, deal with it or perish.”

“…What does a grandfather even do? What’s the responsibilities that come with the title?” Deep down, Morgan liked how easy you welcomed him in, how willing you were to give him a purpose beyond being a killing machine. “Good question.” You hummed in thought, trying to find a way to explain it in correlation to how he knew how to live. “Well, traditionally, the role of both grandparents is to love and nurture their grandkids, but usually the grandfather takes a more easy-going way of it while still being a protector. We’ll talk about gender roles and how they harm both women and men later, but for example, my friend’s grandpa was more willing than his grandma to climb a cliff and jump into a lake with him. She was thinking about both of them being hurt and in pain, trying to protect him from the get-go, while the Grandpa had the freedom of just thinking about creating more memories-“

Morgan stopped listening a while back, and now that Thragg was poking fun at the way you were rambling, trying to over explain, he was deliberately not listening. He could do that. He could protect the boys and you, he could… he’ll try to love and be there for you. He watched as you got more and more angry while Thragg remained blank-faced, his permanent frown still present even as his eyes shone with mirth… Yeah, he could try.

“Yes! Always frowning does give me a headache, what about it?!-“ Your childish bickering got interrupted by a knocking on the door. “I’m not done with you- We’ll get back to your mean mug, that much tension in your face can’t be just your resting face.” You huff as you get up, moving fast to your front door and opening it.

“Hello neighbor!” Horror overtook your face as your shoulders slumped in defeat. “I do not have the mental capacity for this right now… or ever.” Dick Grayson didn’t get another word in as the door was slammed in his face, Damian not even being noticed. You’ve never locked a door and drawn the blinds closed as fast as you just did, being even quicker to turn around and hiding yourself under Thragg’s discarded cape. “I’m not here, I died thirty years ago.” The man just raised an eyebrow. “You’re nineteen… Almost twenty.”

“I don’t care, I died thirty years ago.” Conquest got up, the couch creaking in relief, and straightened his back. It was the moment for Grandpa to protect his family. “I’ll get rid of the worm-“ He stopped as your hand snuck from under the cape, waving dismissively as you whined a small no, slumping back on the couch with defeat. He pouted, saying that he deemed this a worthy kill, but he was ignored.

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Sneak peek ch 31: “You’re bald.” Conquest’s mutter made you wheeze, your shoulders shaking as you covered your mouth. Mark did his best not to laugh, nails digging into his knees. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Lex huffed. “By our standards, you’re old and out of your prime. And you’re weaker than her. Too weak. Your offspring would be useless.” Luthor stared into the void for a few seconds, mouth agape as he parked in front of a cozy farmhouse. “Okay, slow down-“

[vampiriito]

Pillow talk and pleading the fifth amendment (r.c flashback)

(JJ Maybank x pogue! reader x Rafe Cameron) ..in which you found yourself torn between two worlds when your best friend, JJ Maybank, who you've been in love with since forever starts dating Kiara. In a jealousy haze you start hooking up with Rafe Cameron, the infamous kook prince. Do you manage to keep everything casual and under control? No, is it fun? Also kind of no, given you hate yourself each time you managed to orgasm. And especially since Rafe's favorite activity is to pick on you and your friends outside the bedroom..

warnings; mentions of drug use, over-dosing? (not quite), me losing the plot lowkey, Ward Cameron, sex in a public space (please don't do it. we are so back baby). likes, reblogs and comments help a lot! hope you enjoy reading! <3

"Silence" noun /ˈsaɪ.ləns/

1. The absence of sound. 2. A deliberate pause or withholding of speech, often loaded with unspoken meaning or tension. 3. In emotional contexts, the space between words where truth often lingers too loud to name. 4. A fragile truce between two people who’ve said too much and not enough all at once. 5. What settles after confession, when honesty becomes too heavy to fill with noise. Example: "I just figured we’d have this conversation sober," she said, and silence followed—not empty, but full of everything neither of them was ready to admit.

The LED lights above you hummed with a soft, indifferent buzz, a sterile kind of white that made the whole waiting room feel colder than it already was. You could barely feel the sharp edges of Rafe’s car keys biting into your palm, but you wouldn’t let them go. They were the only solid thing anchoring you to the moment—those keys, still warm from his hand when you pried them from it, now cold with panic.

The hospital was your least favorite place on the entire island. Not because it was loud or ugly or smelled like bleach, but because nothing good ever came out of it. Hospitals were made of death and pain and long silences between life-altering news. And your life already had too much of all three. Every second you spent here felt like a second stolen from whatever version of reality you were trying to hold onto.

You tried to block out the overlapping voices, the faint, mechanical beep of monitors, and the shrill distant wail of a new ambulance pulling in. None of it mattered. Not the way the receptionist eyed you with thinly-veiled judgment, or the way your friends hovered a few feet away, whispering among themselves, waiting for you to crack first so they wouldn’t have to ask the question. So they wouldn’t have to look you in the eye and say what the fuck happened.

But you couldn’t crack. You didn’t even know how anymore. The tears had dried up somewhere between them dragging Rafe out of your arms and wheeling him down a corridor you weren’t allowed to follow. The sobs stopped sometime after you dropped into this plastic chair, too shell-shocked to scream, too sunburnt and exhausted to care about how ridiculous you looked—wrapped in a towel, an American flag bikini still clinging to your damp skin, legs sticky with the remnants of sunscreen and sweat.

You were a walking contradiction: someone who looked like they’d just come back from a beach bonfire but felt like they’d aged ten years in a single afternoon.

You weren’t shaking anymore. Your legs had gone still ages ago, and the sting of your sunburn barely registered over the weight that pressed into your chest like a truck parked on top of it. All you could focus on was the thought—obsessive, looping—is he gonna die?

Was Rafe Cameron, insufferable, impulsive, fucked-up Rafe, really going to die? Would your voice be the last thing he ever heard? Would he remember your fingers against his clammy neck, checking for a pulse? Your trembling hands slapping his cheek, begging him to wake up, to breathe? Would he remember you screaming his name, flooring it through red lights, cursing at your tears because they made the road blur?

And worse—what if he didn’t die? What then?

Would you go back to pretending it was just fun? Just sex? That you didn’t stay up thinking about him when you left his bed, or that your heart didn’t stutter with guilt and something more when his name lit up your phone?

How would you even look him in the eye? Hey! You survived an overdose, let’s go back to sneaking around and pretending we don’t actually care about each other.

No. It wouldn’t be that easy. It was never supposed to be that easy with him. And now, you weren’t sure if anything about this would ever be easy again.

You blinked slowly, numb all over, your grip tightening on the keys until one jabbed painfully into the fleshy part of your palm. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe it was the sinking feeling that no matter what happened in that ICU room—whether he made it out or not—something between you died today. Something that wouldn't be revived, even if he was.

And still, you sat. Frozen. Waiting.

Because deep down, no matter how many times you tried to convince yourself you didn’t love him, you knew that if someone came out and told you he didn’t make it—you wouldn’t know how to keep living in a world where Rafe Cameron no longer existed.

The sound of footsteps padded softly on the vinyl floor, growing fainter as the person walked further down the hall, leaving you in the midst of the quiet, steady beeping of the machines around you, the hum of overhead lights. You didn’t look up, didn't look up even as the sound of footsteps grew closer again, and you didn’t look up at first when someone sat down silently in the seat next to you.

“Hey.”

Your eyes flicked to the side, surprised to see Pope settling into the seat like he was just waiting for a bus. He said nothing else for a long moment, his eyes staring straight ahead at the white wall across from him.

You didn’t respond right away. Your mouth opened slightly, as if some instinct urged you to speak, but nothing came. The silence dragged out, thick and awkward, pressing into your ears like cotton. Eventually, you turned your head, eyes flickering up with effort as your surroundings slowly registered again. That’s when you really saw them—your best friends—standing a few feet away like ghosts waiting for permission to haunt you.

JJ looked like he was trying not to pace, jaw clenched so tight you could see the tension in the muscle along his cheek. His arm was slung loosely around Kie’s shoulders, but the hold didn’t look casual. It looked protective. Tethered. Like he needed her there to keep from unraveling completely. Kie’s face was unreadable, her lips pressed into a thin line as she studied you with that same careful gaze you’d seen her use when bandaging wounds or picking her way through a fight she didn’t want to escalate. Wary. Measured. You couldn’t blame her.

John B stood nearby with his arms around Sarah, who had her face buried in his chest like she could physically block out the entire hospital if she just held on tight enough. She was whispering something to him, her fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt, and you didn’t have to hear the words to know what she was saying. You knew that tone. That low, scared murmur people used when they were bargaining with reality. When they were saying please, not like this.

It hit you then—Sarah was scared, too. And of course she was. No matter how much animosity existed between her and Rafe, no matter how venomous their sibling dynamic had grown over the years, they were still bound by something that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with blood. You thought of your own brother, your chest tightening at the idea of losing him. The idea of watching someone you’ve known your whole life fade into something cold and still. If the roles were reversed, if it were him, you’d be inconsolable.

So maybe you did understand Sarah after all.

Pope sat beside you now. You hadn’t even noticed him take the seat until you felt his presence next to yours—calm, quiet, unnervingly gentle. His hands were folded in his lap, fingers twining and untwining like he was trying to work up the nerve to speak but hadn’t yet figured out where to start. You felt the weight of his concern without him saying a word. It radiated from him, warm and grounding in the worst possible moment. And that was almost worse than if he’d snapped or shouted or asked a hundred questions you couldn’t answer.

You stared down at your hands again. The keys had left little imprints in your skin, angry red lines that throbbed faintly. You blinked at them like they didn’t belong to you, like you were watching someone else clutch them with white-knuckled desperation.

It took everything in you to pull your voice from wherever it had retreated to.

“Hi,” you said, barely above a whisper. The word tasted unfamiliar in your mouth, thin and fragile like it might fall apart if you tried to say anything else.

Pope turned his head to look at you, but didn’t speak. JJ shifted like he was about to, but Kie stopped him with a gentle hand on his chest. Sarah finally lifted her head, her tear-streaked eyes landing on you, and for the first time in what felt like hours, you met someone’s gaze. Her expression broke your heart. It wasn’t anger or blame or pity—it was something more painful. Something like recognition. Like she saw a version of her brother reflected in you, and maybe, for a second, she hated that she understood.

But none of them said anything. None of them moved closer. They just stood there, orbiting you like satellites around a dying star, unsure of what to offer.

And maybe that was the worst part—knowing there wasn’t anything they could say to fix it. No words to erase the image of Rafe’s body slumped against the car seat, breath shallow and lips tinged blue as you drove. No sentence strong enough to soften the way your heart kept replaying his name over and over again like a prayer you weren’t sure anyone was listening to.

So you sat there, still and sunburnt and trembling somewhere deep inside, not knowing what you needed—only that it wasn’t this. And maybe that was the scariest thing of all.

Pope fidgeted on the chair, his foot tapping impatiently against the scuffed vinyl floor as the silence stretched between you both. He didn’t mean to stare, knew it must have been the last thing you wanted right now, but he couldn’t help it. It was the first time in a long time that you really looked vulnerable, and it scared the hell out of him.

He ran a over his face, the gesture half-nervous tic, half-nervous habit, and felt his leg bounce more urgently against the floor. It was an uncomfortable kind of quiet. The kind of uncomfortable that sat wrong between friends. Friends who usually knew how to fill the silence with laughter and bad jokes and too many drinks. But none of that worked here.

He cleared his throat.

“You did a good thing today, you know.” The words landed flatly, but the look in his eyes softened the blow. He meant it. You knew he meant it.

“It was the correct thing to do…” you mumbled, the words catching in your throat like gravel, swallowing hard in a useless attempt to ease the ache that had rooted itself there. It didn’t budge. The lump sat stubborn and swollen, pulsing with every unspoken thought you were too tired to shape into words. Your gaze dropped again, first to the floor, then to the keys still gripped in your palm—his keys. They’d left indentations in your skin, shallow reminders that your fingers hadn’t relaxed since you’d parked his car outside. You couldn’t remember pulling the parking brake or locking the doors. It had all blurred together—sirens, shouting, hospital lights, his name. His name, always.

You didn’t look up, but you could feel their eyes on you, all four of them. The weight of their attention pressed down like a humid storm before the first thunder cracks. Pope had meant well—you knew that—but his words still rang with something deeper than what he said out loud.

“It was the correct thing to do,” sounded like comfort on the surface, like reassurance passed between two lifelong friends. But you knew him too well. You could hear the subtext in his voice. You did a good thing today. Even if it was for someone we all hate. Even if it wasn’t what we would’ve done. The rest went unsaid, but you could feel it all the same. Hanging there in the air between you and everyone else. Suspicion masked in concern. Unspoken questions tucked into silence so loud it bordered on cruel.

Because of course they were wondering. Why you? Why had you driven him here? Why had you been with him in the first place, let alone close enough to get him into a car and rush him to the ER before he stopped breathing altogether? And more importantly—what the hell had been going on between you and Rafe Cameron behind everyone’s backs?

You could see the confusion in their posture, even without meeting their eyes. The discomfort. The uncertainty. They didn’t want to say it here—not while sterile walls and beeping monitors were separated from the waiting room by a single swinging door—but you knew it was coming. Later. At the chateau. Probably the moment they thought your nerves had settled and the adrenaline had drained from your system. That was when it would begin.

JJ would be the one to break the silence. He always was. He never let tension linger long enough to rot. He’d corner you with that same mix of protectiveness and fire, demanding answers the others were too polite or too shocked to voice. His voice would be sharp, edged in disbelief. What the fuck were you doing with Rafe? How long has this been going on? Is this some kind of joke? And you'd sit there, either lying or giving him fragments of a truth that none of them were ready to hear.

But that confrontation wasn’t happening yet. Right now, you were here, in this awful waiting room that smelled like bleach and despair, clutching keys that didn’t belong to you and wondering why the hell it felt like you were the one bleeding out.

Another beat of silence.

“Pope’s right. You did the right thing.”

It was JJ this time. You could tell because the words were more blunt on his tongue, the tone a little too matter-of-fact in an effort to mask the concern. If it had been Pope, the words would’ve come out softer, maybe even gentle. You thought for a second that it should’ve bothered you how different they were at the same time they were just alike, but nothing felt normal right now. Nothing felt right.

The chair creaked as JJ shifted on to the edge, leaning his elbows on his knees in a way your mother always told you gentlemen shouldn’t. His fingers fidgeted with his cuticles, picking at the skin surrounding his thumb with anxious agitation. His expression was almost unreadable, if it weren't for the concern you'd come to know so well.

“The right thing,” he said again, like he was trying to convince you as much as he was himself.

Kie spoke next, her voice uncharacteristically fragile. She was holding onto a crumpled piece of paper, ripping and smoothing the edges like it was the only thing she had. It was the first time you’d heard more than a syllable from her in hours—hours it felt like, anyway.

”This wasn’t your fault,” she said, the words firm and deliberate.

"I'm not blaming myself." The words came out quiet but steady, a practiced kind of control that didn't match the chaos clawing through your chest. Your fingers kept turning the keys over and over again in your lap, fidgeting with them like they might morph into something useful—like they might grow a mouth and explain all of this to you. That it was a prank. A twisted cosmic joke, carefully engineered by whatever cruel forces were watching from above. Because that would almost make more sense than the truth: that you were sitting in a hospital waiting room still in your swimsuit, clutching Rafe Cameron’s car keys, waiting to find out if he was going to live or die.

JJ's words hung in the air behind yours, his comfort soft but cautious, careful not to press too hard. But your own echoed louder. “The right thing.”

Of course it had been the right thing. There was no debate about that. But the thing no one told you about doing the right thing was how awful it could feel—how it could splinter something inside you even as it saved someone else. And it especially didn’t feel good now, when even saying “was” felt like a gamble. Because was implied a past tense, and past tense meant he didn’t make it. The only thing keeping you in this seat instead of curled up beside his hospital bed was the slippery, uncertain promise of if.

If he made it. If he woke up. If you’d get the chance to look at him one more time before walking away for good.

But if was dangerous. It was hope dressed up as mercy, and mercy was something you didn’t feel like you deserved.

Even now, as the hum of fluorescent lights pressed down like static and the hospital sounds all blurred together, you felt the guilt weaving itself through your veins. Not guilt for saving him. No, that part you’d do over again without hesitation. But guilt in advance—for the lies you were going to tell your friends when they finally asked what happened. For the half-truths you'd feed JJ, whose eyes you'd avoided since the second you stepped inside. For the way your heart still ached when you looked at JJ, even though it had been somewhere else lately. Somewhere messier. Somewhere with Rafe.

Maybe that was the worst part. That every version of guilt you carried tonight was layered—dense and heavy, folding in on itself until it was hard to breathe under the weight of it. You didn’t even know who you were trying to protect anymore—Rafe, yourself, JJ. All of them, maybe. Or none at all.

Everything around you felt too sharp now. Too clear. Like the moment you finally put on your glasses after weeks of pretending you didn’t need them, and the world snapped into place a little too harshly. The edges of your decisions became impossible to ignore. You saw the lines you’d crossed. The wreckage you might’ve left behind. And yet here you were, sitting in that uncomfortable chair like a penitent sinner, praying for a second chance you knew you couldn’t afford to take.

Because if Rafe lived—you’d lose him anyway. And if he didn’t—God, if he didn’t— You weren’t sure who you’d be on the other side of that.

Pope shifted in his seat, fidgeting with the edge of his backpack. The look on his face said he had more to say—a lecture about guilt, maybe, or an attempt at comfort that would’ve fallen flat. But he didn’t have to make the mistake of speaking. It was JJ’s turn again, and he wasn’t one to hold back for long.

”You didn’t mean to get him so high he nearly overdosed, did you?” It was the first direct question aimed at you, and the accusation stung.

JJ’s voice sliced through the fog in your head like a sudden crack of thunder, pulling you from the repetitive fidgeting of Rafe’s keys in your hands. You hadn’t even realized how tightly you were still gripping them, your nails half-mooned into your palm, metal pressing cold and unforgiving into your sweat-slick skin. You should’ve returned them to Sarah by now. You knew that. But some part of you—some pathetic, panicked part—wasn’t ready to let go.

His accusation wasn’t loud, but it still hit with the weight of something unforgivable. Like a dull knife hurled into wet sand—too clumsy to pierce clean, too heavy not to land with impact. And still, it lodged itself in your chest, lodged itself deep. You blinked at him slowly, your stomach flipping not from guilt but from the raw shock of the moment.

Was that what they thought? That you got high with him? That you were the reason he ended up in the ICU?

JJ didn’t dress his concern up in soft words the way Pope had. He never did. He didn’t believe in cushioning the truth. Not with you. Not now. Especially not in the sterile, too-quiet hallway of a hospital, where everything already felt too raw and exposed.

You looked up at him finally, your head moving slowly, your gaze skimming across each of your friends’ faces like you were taking roll in a classroom you no longer recognized. Your eyes asked a silent question—Is that what you all think?—but none of them answered. No one said a damn thing. Not Pope. Not Kie. Not Sarah. Not even John B, who looked almost guilty just for standing there. All of them just… watched. Silent. Waiting. Like they were giving you a chance to explain, like their belief in you was on pause, suspended between JJ’s words and your response.

“Excuse me?” you asked, voice low and disbelieving. Your eyes narrowed just slightly—not a full glare, but enough to slice through the stunned concern on JJ’s face. Enough to let the irritation break through the shellshock that still gripped your shoulders. You didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. But the edge in your tone was unmistakable, sharp with disbelief, scraped raw from everything you'd already been through tonight.

JJ’s expression didn’t soften—but the look in his eyes did. There was a flash of recognition as you finally focused on him, a brief moment that said he’d hit a nerve he wasn’t sure he should’ve touched. A beat later, it was gone.

He’d pushed too hard. He’d done the one thing they’d all agreed on—don’t ask questions, not yet. But his mouth worked like a well-worn habit, his temper pushing him to keep going, the worry inside him demanding answers from someone, anyone.

JJ held your gaze as your words landed between you, every line of your face shifting from shock to irritation to something that looked like a cross between vulnerability and defiance—your eyes glittering bright and sharp in the fluorescent light, like you were willing him to keep pushing. He hadn’t gotten any real answers yet.

He had no choice but to keep going. It would be easier for everyone if he’d just let it go. He knew that. He usually tried to let it go. But JJ was a lot of things, and rational didn’t rank very high on the list.

"You heard what I said." It came out less accusing this time, more like a tired statement of fact. He was still holding your gaze, but the way he was still fidgeting with the hem of his shorts betrayed the indifference in his voice. He was getting antsy. He needed better answers if he was going to step back and let this go. He just didn’t know if he really wanted to hear them. “Did you… get high with him?”

The look on their faces wasn’t unfamiliar—but it was devastating. Quiet guilt. Subtle judgment. They didn’t need to say it. You could see it in the shift of their weight, in the way they avoided your gaze even as you searched each of them for a scrap of defense. They’d talked. They’d all talked. About you. About Rafe. About this. You weren’t imagining that—they had already decided something before JJ even opened his mouth.

The realization made your chest tighten until it ached, until breathing felt like trying to swallow glass. They’d formed their theories in hushed tones while you sat with his blood drying under your nails. You weren’t angry yet. That would come later. What you felt now was something worse—abandonment. A brutal kind of loneliness that tasted metallic in your throat. You didn’t just lose Rafe tonight—not entirely, not yet—but you were beginning to think you might’ve lost them too.

You exhaled slowly, not trusting your voice at first. “No,” you finally said, the word sharp but cracking at the edges. “I didn’t get high with him.”

It was a simple sentence. It should’ve been enough.

But none of their faces shifted. No one softened. No one moved to apologize.

Your gaze flicked to JJ again, hardening despite the sting behind your eyes. “It’s not like me and Rafe are—” You stopped yourself, the sentence dying somewhere in your throat, unraveling before it could even form. Your lip curled, more in confusion than anger, as the absurdity of it all sank in. “Why the hell would I be doing coke with Rafe Cameron?”

You hadn’t meant to raise your voice, but it echoed anyway—cutting through the buzz of hospital lights and the occasional intercom call like glass underfoot. The question wasn’t just for JJ anymore. It was for all of them. A direct accusation. A demand for answers you weren’t sure you wanted to hear.

All four of them jumped when your voice cracked, all of them looking away except for JJ. His eyes were fixed on you in a way that bordered on uncomfortable. This wasn’t what he was expecting. Sure, he didn’t like the idea of you getting high with Rafe, but that had almost seemed like the logical explanation until you pushed back, the harsh tone of your question making his chest squeeze unpleasantly.

“Well, I don’t know. I sure as hell didn’t think you’d be driving him to the damn hospital either,” he shot back.

Your voice came out thinner than you expected—strained and bitter, the exhaustion eating at your edges finally forcing its way out. A small, humorless scoff clawed up your throat, barely past your chapped lips before your jaw locked tight around it. Disbelief buzzed in your ears, thrumming louder than the hospital lights, louder than the beeping monitors and the clipped footsteps echoing off sterile floors. This—this—wasn’t the time. It wasn’t the place. But apparently, your friends disagreed.

You hadn’t said anything when JJ started dating Kiara. Not really. You hadn’t brought up how it hollowed you out. How it carved up all your softness and left you aching in a place none of them could see. You didn’t tell them that Rafe was a coping mechanism with a pretty face and dangerous habits. That he was the wrong person to reach for, but the only one who felt just as wrong inside as you did.

And now—now they wanted to play detective? Sit in a hospital hallway and dissect the choices you made while you still didn’t know if Rafe was going to survive?

“I should’ve let Barry drag him into his filthy trailer, right?” you said, voice trembling with restrained fury. “Gone about my day while he OD'd on Barry’s floor somewhere on the filthiest edges of the Cut?”

Your words came in a rush, raw and cracking at the seams as your expression twisted under the weight of too much emotion and too little rest. You could feel yourself shrinking under it—into the ugly discomfort of the molded plastic chair, into the fabric of your damp clothes, into the guilt that clung to your skin like sweat. You weren’t trying to be dramatic. You were trying to survive the night.

“I saved him,” you muttered, quieter this time, gaze falling to the keys again—those fucking keys still warm in your hand like they meant something. “And all any of you care about is why.”

None of them answered. And that silence—that hollow, heavy silence—told you everything you needed to know.

Each of your words landed like a blow, and you watched as they flinched from the impact—Sarah, Kie, and Pope. They all looked away, the guilt weighing on them like a physical thing. But not JJ. His arms folded across his chest, his jaw clenched tight.

“Nobody’s saying you didn’t,” he finally muttered. “I’m just trying to figure out how the hell this even happened.”

He watched as you pressed your lips together, almost wincing when your jaw clenched—almost. JJ had lost his temper before. Hell, he’d lost it with you more times than he could count. But you’d never looked at him like this. He’d never seen you this cold, this furious, this… wounded. He wanted to fix it. God knows he wanted to fix it. But he didn’t have the right words, and he was never good at apologies.

JJ ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, frustration and guilt twisting in equal measure, his chest tightening until it ached.

“I didn’t even think you two talked,” he said, words tight in his throat. They should’ve come out lighter, more casual. Like he didn’t understand. Like he didn’t even care. Instead, they came out almost desperate, the effort of hiding them like sandpaper against his skin.

"We don’t!" you whisper-shouted again, and your voice cracked just enough to betray the pressure building behind it. You pressed your lips into a thin, pale line, blinking hard, willing yourself not to cry—not from sadness, but from frustration. The kind that felt like you were being backed into a corner, surrounded by people you loved who couldn’t seem to recognize how hard you were trying.

You looked at JJ, really looked at him, and saw that flicker of something dark and unrelenting behind his eyes—the kind of thing he got when he felt betrayed. But what did he expect from you? To let Rafe die on the floor? To pretend like it hadn't happened?

“The only time me and Rafe ever talk is when he decides he needs to put me and my social status down at work,” you spat out, your voice trembling now with the effort to sound collected. “Or when I defend you guys from his stupid remarks.”

That much was true. It was also not the whole truth—and the guilt made your chest burn hotter because of it.

You and Rafe had done a hell of a lot more than talk. Recently. Often. Sober. With a kind of desperation that neither of you dared put a name to. And the memories came flooding back now, like cruel ghosts rising up to mock you.

Just last night—Jesus, just last night—he’d cornered you upstairs during the costume party. Your friends had been dancing downstairs, shouting lyrics, laughing. And upstairs, he was fucking you like he needed to carve the shape of you into his bones. Like it was the last time. Maybe it was.

The image made your stomach twist violently. Now here you were, the heat of his hands still seared into your skin, and he was somewhere at the end of the hall with a tube down his throat and charcoal in his stomach. Maybe dying. Maybe not.

Suddenly, the guilt bubbled up like bile, thick and acidic, choking out anything that sounded like reason. You could feel your pulse in your temples, the nausea curling at the base of your throat. Because the truth was ugly. And you couldn’t tell it. Not here. Not now.

So instead, you swallowed hard and clung to your anger like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

“I drove him here because no one else was going to,” you added, softer now, but just as sharp. “And maybe that makes me stupid. Maybe it makes me a traitor in your eyes. But it doesn’t make me a liar.”

You didn’t mean to look away from them so suddenly, but you did—your gaze dropping to your lap, to the keys you’d nearly dented into your palm. Anything to not see the judgment or confusion or betrayal on their faces. Anything to keep from breaking open right there in front of them. Because if you started crying now, you wouldn’t stop.

And none of them—not even JJ—would understand what the tears were really for.

JJ hated himself for pushing you. For making this—this—happen in a hospital hallway, in the place that stank of too-clean surfaces and too much death. He could see it, in the way you were breaking apart—in the way you looked like you were going to say everything you were keeping locked away and let it burst open right here, right now. It made him want to scream. Or throw up. Maybe both.

Pope cleared his throat, and JJ sent him a warning look that all but begged him to stay quiet. But Pope, for once, ignored him. He looked almost pained, watching you fold back into yourself, shoulders hunched and head bowed like you were trying to hide from them. Even with your face partly hidden, JJ could still see the hurt on your

“No one’s saying you’re a liar,” he said gently, shifting to face you in his chair beside you. Hand twitching as if he wanted to reach out and touch you before he spoke up again, to soften the blow of his next words. “We just don’t understand how you ended up in a car with Rafe Cameron.”

He waited for you to speak, but the only sound you made was an ironic, bitter scoff—not even lifting your head to acknowledge him. Pope was patient, though—he always was. He waited another beat, another moment. And when you still didn’t answer, he let some of the tension in his back loosen, voice quieter now, almost imploring.

“Come on. It’s just a question.”

Kie was the one who spoke up this time, and her voice broke right through the heavy silence in a way that made the hair on JJ’s arms prickle upright. “We’re not calling you a liar,” she said, the edge to her words a little too sharp to sound like anything but annoyance.

“We’re just trying to figure out why the hell you drove him here.”

Your eyes moved from Pope to JJ and then to Kie when she finally spoke, her voice careful like she was trying not to spook you. But it still felt like some poorly written intervention scene in a low-budget indie drama. You could almost hear the imaginary director yelling cut and reset. Except this was real. Your reality. Your consequence. Your secret, bleeding out under the sterile lights of the ICU waiting room.

You pulled the hospital-issued blanket tighter around yourself, the synthetic material scratching your already sunburnt skin, but you didn't flinch. You didn’t even register the keys still biting into your palm, half-moon indents surely forming from the grip you hadn’t loosened once. Your body was a collection of sensations you couldn’t bother to decipher right now. The only thing you were sure of was that this—them—was the last thing you needed. Their prying. Their assumptions. Their questions dressed up as concern.

You could feel their eyes on you. Studying. Waiting. Pressuring. And you knew you had to lie. You had no choice but to lie.

Because what were you going to say? That Rafe had his hand between your legs twelve hours ago while calling you a thousand pet names with a smile on his face? That he kissed you like he hated you but needed you, that you had buried yourself in him like he could drown out everything else that hurt? That this thing between you wasn’t about coke or love or loyalty—it was about escaping, about breaking something before it broke you?

No. You couldn’t say any of that. Not when their eyes held quiet judgment and their hearts still thought of you as their moral compass. The “good” one. The level-headed one. The one who wouldn’t touch Rafe Cameron, let alone let him touch her.

So you inhaled slowly and said instead, “Because he needed help?” Your voice cracked only slightly, but it was raw enough to force the silence back down their throats. You met Kie’s gaze dead on—like you were daring her to call you out.

“It’s not like he came to visit me on the cut so we could get high together,” you continued, the bitterness in your throat almost stronger than the desperation. “He was at Barry’s, clearly messed up, and then suddenly… he was just there, standing at the edge of my yard like some statue. Just watching me argue with my mom.”

You swallowed, the memory flickering behind your eyelids. Rafe’s pale, slack face. The stillness in his movements. The silence in his stare.

“I got pissed. Thought he was being a creep, like usual. I dragged him back toward his car—back to Barry’s—and that’s when I noticed he was too quiet. Like… not there. His eyes weren’t focusing on me. His skin felt wrong.”

You blinked hard. “I panicked,” you said, and that was the truest part of all. “I shoved him in the SUV and drove him here because I know what an OD looks like. I've seen it before. My cousin—” You stopped yourself, realizing your voice was rising not in volume, but in edge. That familiar rasp of unraveling.

A beat passed. The silence grew teeth.

“He needed help,” you repeated, this time quieter. Like the words were losing their weight, or maybe just their ability to hold the wall between you and everything you weren’t saying.

And still, none of them spoke. Not even JJ. You could tell they were trying to process, trying to parse truth from performance.

You wondered if any of them would notice the story didn’t quite explain why Rafe came to you.

Or why he trusted you.

You sat there in the thick silence, waiting for someone to break it. But no one spoke. Each one of them watching you, like you were something complicated. To be figured out. It was all too familiar. JJ was clenching and unclenching his fists in the seat beside you, like he was physically holding himself back from opening his mouth. He’d never been good at staying quiet.

Another excruciating minute of silence passed before JJ spoke again, his gaze drifting back to you.

“Are we supposed to believe you just happened to drive him to the hospital because it was the right thing to do?” Each word was tight with pent-up frustration, his eyes hard as he fixed you with a look that was just as desperate as it was accusatory. He didn’t give you a chance to answer.

“Because that’s some serious bullshit.”

The moment you stood up, the room seemed to pull tighter around you, like the hospital walls were leaning in to listen. The blanket hit the chair with a quiet thwap, and for the first time since you sat down, your body felt separate from the heaviness you'd been carrying. But it didn’t lift the pressure—it just gave it space to move.

You could hear the shift. Their silence wasn’t empty anymore—it buzzed, like a live wire was running under the floor. The faint rustle of Kie adjusting in her seat. The subtle exhale Pope tried to stifle. The way JJ’s jaw twitched, like he was biting back something he wasn’t sure he had the right to say. And you could feel the weight of Sarah’s stare most of all, her quiet, tense heartbreak radiating from across the room.

“What is wrong with all of you?” you snapped before you could reel it in, the heat in your voice cutting through the stale air. Your voice wasn’t loud, but it sliced. You could see JJ stiffen. Pope blinked. Even Kie recoiled slightly.

You turned your attention to Sarah, and it made your throat constrict. Because this wasn’t just some girl from your friend group. This was the girl who’d first made you feel like you belonged somewhere. Who never once looked at you like you were less. The one who painted your nails on her bedroom floor and helped you lie to your mom about where you were spending the night. The only other person who really knew what it felt like to straddle the blurred line between two sides of the island.

“This is your brother we're talking about here,” you hissed, your voice low but heavy, so weighted with disbelief it hurt. “Did you guys expect me to let him die?” You laughed, sharp and humorless, your hands cutting through the air like punctuation marks. “Sure, I hate Rafe Cameron—who doesn’t? But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna sit there and watch him choke on his own tongue without lifting a finger.”

You were unraveling now, but it wasn’t messy. It was sharp. Controlled. A blade pressed flat instead of plunged deep. “I wouldn’t do that with anyone,” you added, your voice quieter now, trembling with something close to defeat. “I don’t care who he is. Who I am. If it were any of you… you think I wouldn’t do the same?”

Sarah didn’t respond right away. None of them did. Just the low hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant squeak of nurses' shoes on the linoleum.

You were breathing harder than you realized. You wiped at your face, not even sure if there were tears or sweat or something in between. And still, the only sound was the too-steady rhythm of the hospital around you—heartbeats and machines and a silence that felt colder than anything else.

You’d never seen JJ look so still. No fidgeting, no tapping his foot, no hands drumming across his chair. He was frozen, face so carefully blank it made your heart clench. His eyes never left your face. In any other scenario, he probably would’ve stood up and started pacing with a violent energy, running a hand through his hair and yelling until he ran out of steam. But not now. He looked like he was holding his breath. Like if he moved even an inch, the moment would fall apart.

Pope was the one who shifted this time. He’d always been the peacemaker, the one who tried to get the right words out before anyone could say something they’d instantly regret.

“We’re not trying to say you shouldn’t have helped him,” he started, his voice measured and neutral.

Your head turned so fast it startled even you, the momentum matching the fire finally catching in your chest. “No,” you cut Pope off before he could finish his statement, your voice low but loaded, vibrating with the kind of fury that came from being both heartbroken and insulted. “You're all just a bunch of fucking children.”

It wasn’t a shout, but it landed like one. You saw it hit them—the recoil in Kie’s posture, JJ’s eyebrows pulling together tighter, Sarah’s mouth parting like she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Pope flinched, barely, but enough for you to feel like you’d just struck something solid and vital. And maybe that was fair. Maybe they deserved to hurt a little.

“You’re too wrapped up in your stupid little social feud to realize that a living, breathing person was close to dying today.” Your voice cracked on the word, like the weight of it had finally started to catch up with your throat. “And if I hadn’t been fast enough—if I hadn’t gotten in that car and shoved him in the passenger seat—he would’ve died with me. In that fucking SUV. With me.”

You jabbed your chest with your finger like a physical reminder that you’d been the one there. You. Not them. Not his friends—because he didn’t have any. Not his family—because they’d all given up. You.

“A person he doesn’t even like. Or know. Imagine that,” you scoffed bitterly, voice trembling again despite how hard you tried to hold it steady. “Imagine if the roles were reversed.”

And that was when the memory slammed into your chest like a brick wall.

The kook party. The spiked drink. The way the music had warped and melted around you as your limbs turned foreign and numb. The way no one had noticed you slipping out the front door, or cared when you stumbled into the yard, head spinning, skin clammy. The way you were slumped on the curb, eyes glazed over, mouth full of dry cookies and iced tea you didn't even remember purchasing from that stupid corner store.

Rafe.

Rafe Cameron, with his stupid expensive shoes and permanent scowl, crouched in front of you with an unreadable look on his face after he realised you'd been spiked. Not judgment, not amusement. Just a cold, sharp focus—like he was calculating. And then a ragged breath, a low curse, and he was the one who sat next to you until you could walk again. The one who didn’t leave and instead carried you to his car and took you his house to throw up. Who didn’t even mention it again.

You hadn’t told anyone. You never would. And today felt like repayment. Like some unspoken karmic loop closed in on itself.

But they didn’t know that. None of them did. And that was the worst part.

So you let the silence settle in again, harsher this time. You watched them—JJ, Pope, Kie, Sarah John B—and for the first time ever, you didn’t feel like you belonged among them. You felt like an outsider, like the girl from the wrong part of the island who had accidentally seen too much and been through even more.

The silence fell hard. None of them knew how to respond. Because you were right—no matter how badly they hated Rafe, they couldn’t deny the fact that his life had basically depended on you being there. And maybe they didn’t want to admit that.

Sarah was the one who finally cracked. Her shoulders slumped, and her eyes closed like it physically ached to look at you. Her voice was low. Just barely above a whisper, like she was holding back tears.

“I get that,” she said, and she sounded tired. Weary. “And I’m sorry. Thank you. For helping him.”

Kie was the next to speak. Her words were measured, but there was a tinge of guilt behind his her tone.

“We’re not saying you didn’t do the right thing, okay? We’re just—we’re just worried.”

Your eyes lingered on Sarah for a beat longer than necessary, trying to decipher whether her quiet “thank you” held any real weight or if it was simply a lifeline tossed into the storm to steady things before they unraveled further. You wanted to believe it was sincere. You needed it to be. But the walls were too high now, the hurt too fresh, and trust felt like something fragile you’d dropped miles back.

Your gaze shifted then, cutting to Kiara—seated like she always was, perfectly poised next to JJ, her hand draped gently over his like a calm hand on a loaded weapon. JJ still looked at you like he wanted to dissect you open, like he was trying to untangle the muscle and sinew of your soul just to uncover the why of everything. You met his stare for half a second, just long enough to remind him you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of breaking down. Not here.

You nodded once, short and stiff, something final in the gesture before you spun on your heel. The ache in your feet was a dull throb against the sterile floor, but you welcomed it—anything that grounded you, anything that made you feel something other than the guilt and rage still boiling beneath your skin.

You walked with your shoulders tense and jaw locked, brushing past nurses and patients and the too-familiar, soul-draining scent of antiseptic. You ignored the stares that trailed behind you—people squinting in curiosity or judgment at the bikini top you’d never had time to change out of, the faded denim shorts that barely covered your thighs, the sneakers scuffed beyond recognition. Your hair was a mess and your makeup had long since smudged away, but none of it mattered. Not tonight. Not after what you’d seen. What you’d done.

Your legs carried you toward the end of the corridor, away from the ICU and the harsh fluorescent lights, until you found yourself standing numbly in front of a vending machine tucked into a quieter corner of the hospital. It buzzed softly in the silence, promising the kind of mindless comfort only processed snacks could give.

You pulled out the only bill you had—creased, torn at the corners, damp from your palm. A pathetic, crumpled dollar. You smoothed it with your thumbnail and fed it into the machine, watching as it inhaled it slowly and blinked its readiness. You keyed in the number for a small pack of crackers, your stomach reminding you it hadn’t been fed in hours.

Nothing happened.

The machine blinked. Thought about it. Then blinked again.

Nothing.

You scowled, hitting the return button, already knowing what was coming. The machine spit out silence. Your snack remained in its place, unmoved, sealed behind a wall of plexiglass and rejection.

Of course. Of course.

Your head thudded lightly against the cool glass of the vending machine as you closed your eyes, willing yourself not to scream, not to cry, not to let the exhaustion win. You barely heard the footsteps behind you until a crisp, clean ten-dollar bill slipped past your shoulder and into the machine’s slot.

A voice followed. Calm. Rich. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist.

“Try something with a little more substance.”

You froze.

Slowly, like a horror movie character sensing the monster behind her, you turned your head to the side.

Ward Cameron stood behind you.

Casually dressed in a navy pullover and khakis like he’d just come from a dinner meeting instead of a hospital waiting room. His hair was neatly combed, face calm in that practiced, politician-perfect way of his. The faintest smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Your throat went dry. You didn’t speak. Not yet. You were too tired, too stunned.

He punched a few buttons on the machine, and you watched as a small bag of chips dropped into the bottom of the dispenser. He bent down and grabbed them, holding them gently in his hands.

Then he offered them to you, like you were a terrified animal who might run if he moved too quickly.

You’d never admit it to Sarah, but her father scared you. Not in the way most adults scared teenagers—with strict rules or power trips—but in a way that felt older, colder, and far more calculated. Like his smile had been carved from something artificial and his charm practiced in a mirror. There was a distance in his eyes, something eerily hollow, like he was always looking through people rather than at them. He resembled Rafe, and not just in the obvious genetic ways. It was the kind of resemblance that made your stomach twist—the kind that reminded you of sharp smiles, quick tempers, and threats laced with courtesy.

His presence beside you now felt oddly surreal, especially here, under the washed-out hospital lights. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there with the ease of a man used to getting what he wanted, used to owning every room he entered. And without a word, he slid a clean ten-dollar bill into the vending machine slot from behind your shoulder, punching the selection number for the bag of chips you'd tried and failed to buy. When the machine clunked and whirred, the packet dropping into the tray with a finality that sounded louder than it should have, he plucked it out and offered it to you like it was some ceremonial gesture.

Your stomach gave a soft, traitorous grumble. You were too hungry to pretend you didn’t need it. So you took it, slowly, hesitantly, your fingers brushing against his for the briefest second before pulling the bag close to your chest.

“Thank you,” you muttered, clipped and stiff. The words didn’t feel like enough, but nothing would’ve.

Ward’s mouth curled into a smile—tight-lipped, unreadable. “Of course.”

He said it like it meant something. Like the thanks wasn’t really about the chips.

You focused on the bag, trying not to let your shaking fingers crinkle it too loudly. Trying not to recoil from the weight of his attention.

“You know,” Ward said, his tone light but laced with something else, something that made your spine stiffen, “when I got the call, I assumed it was a mistake. My son, overdosing in a car… and not alone. And then they tell me you drove him here.”

Your jaw locked. Of course he’d heard that much. Probably heard more than he should have already. “Not exactly what I expected,” he added, voice softening just enough to sound polite again. “You must’ve cared a great deal to get him here in time.”

“I didn’t do it for Rafe,” you replied, tone flat, eyes still fixed on the floor, on the vending machine, anywhere but him. “He showed up and needed help. That’s all.”

Ward’s gaze didn’t waver. “Still. Most people would’ve called someone else. Or left him there. Especially people who’ve been taught not to trust my family.”

You finally looked at him then, your stare tired but direct. “Most people aren’t me.”

He seemed to consider that for a moment. Then nodded, slow and thoughtful, the smile never quite reaching his eyes. “True.”

There was a pause—long enough to make your chest tighten. “Were you with him?” he asked finally, voice calm but edged with something darker. “When it happened?”

Your blood ran cold.

The question didn’t need clarification. It wasn’t just about geography. He was asking if you had been with Rafe in the way people whispered about. If you were the kind of girl who would be with someone like his son. His words weren’t crude. They didn’t need to be.

“He showed up in front of my yard,” you said, your voice low and even. “Didn’t say a word. Just stood there watching me fight with my mom. He looked… off. Quiet in a way Rafe Cameron is never quiet. So I dragged him to his car and realized something was wrong. That’s it.”

Ward nodded again. Like he was filing the information away for later, tucking it into some private ledger where people’s actions were weighed and tallied. He didn’t ask anything else. He didn’t have to. He'd already seen enough.

“I’m sure Rafe will remember it,” he said, stepping back, fixing the collar of his blazer with a slow, careful hand. “If he wakes up.”

The statement struck with more finality than intended. You tensed, shoulders rising toward your ears, but you didn’t flinch.

“I don’t really care if he does.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, flat, cold, unfeeling. You wanted it to sound defiant, bold. It just sounded tired.

Ward gave another slight nod, a flicker of something—pity, maybe?—crossing his face before the mask settled back into place, as smooth and blank as before.

His eyes lingered, studying you, weighing you in a way that made goosebumps prickle up your arms. He had a habit of looking through people like they were just objects, toys to be used. When he spoke, his tone was too quiet, too gentle.

“Rafe’s not someone anyone wants to help. Hell, he doesn’t want it. From anyone.”

He was looking at you with something new in his eyes, and you couldn’t tell if it was sympathy or warning.

You paused mid-bite, the taste of salt and starch going flat on your tongue as Ward’s statement settled into the space between you. Rafe didn’t want help. You turned the words over slowly in your mind, trying to decide if that was truth or just the version his father preferred to believe. You’d only been sleeping with Rafe for two weeks— barely fourteen reckless, stolen, chaotic days—and even in that short time, it had become painfully clear that he did need help. Maybe more than anyone else you’d ever met. He needed it in the way someone drowning needs air but forgets how to reach the surface.

And still, his father said it like a final verdict. Like needing help was weakness, and weakness wasn’t something a Cameron could afford to admit.

“No one wants help,” you said after a long silence, your voice quieter now, stripped of the edge it had when you’d spoken to the pogues. “People think they’re supposed to do everything alone. Like it makes them stronger.”

Ward’s expression didn’t change, but you saw something shift behind his eyes. A flicker. Recognition, maybe.

“But that’s not how it works,” you continued, gaze slipping back to the vending machine, your body starting to sag under the exhaustion curling in your bones. “Especially not when someone’s life’s on the line.”

You hesitated again, then resumed chewing slowly, forcing yourself to swallow around the knot in your throat before you added, “I didn’t ask him if he wanted my help.”

You looked up now, met Ward’s gaze dead-on. “Didn’t think he’d argue with me on whether or not he deserved to live.”

The silence stretched between you, taut as wire.

Ward blinked, once, slowly. His posture didn’t shift, his hands still folded loosely in front of him like he had all the time in the world. Like your words meant nothing—or everything—and he hadn’t decided yet which it was.

Finally, he gave a small nod. “Good,” he said simply, almost absently. Then, as if remembering who he was supposed to be, he added, “He’s lucky you were there. Even if he doesn’t know it yet.”

He reached out then, lightly patted your shoulder—like he thought that was what a grateful father should do. But the gesture felt off, misplaced. Like a wolf trying to comfort the rabbit it might eat later.

Then he turned again, his shoes clicking faintly down the sterile hallway.

You watched him disappear around the corner, your appetite gone and your mind buzzing. Because what scared you more than Ward’s calmness… was how much of Rafe you’d seen in it.

And maybe—how much of yourself you'd started to see in Rafe.

You stood alone in the corridor, watching the vending machine whir and clink and blink like everything was normal. You’d been expecting an argument, an explosion, threats that were easy to brush off. Instead, you felt like you’d been dissected. Like your reasons were laid out on a table for someone else to read, leaving you torn open and wrong.

The first thing Rafe noticed was the beeping. Slow. Rhythmic. Loud enough to irritate the back of his skull but not loud enough to drown out the weight in his chest.

The second thing was the taste in his mouth—cotton and metal and something sour. His tongue felt thick, throat raw like he’d been yelling or crying or choking. Maybe all three. His hands twitched against the stiff, tucked-in hospital sheets, and the tape on the IV in his arm tugged like a leash.

Then the third thing hit.

You were the last thing he remembered. Your voice, sharp with panic. Your hands—clumsy, but determined. The distant sound of a car door slamming and you yelling at someone—maybe him, maybe the universe. Then everything had gone sideways and black and gone.

Now his eyelids fluttered open, slow and sluggish. The light was too bright—so bright it made his stomach turn—and he squinted against it, trying to make sense of the washed-out ceiling tiles above him. Everything in his body felt wrong. Heavy. Weak. Cold under his skin. His heart was beating in uneven, anxious thuds, like it wasn’t sure it wanted to keep doing its job.

And then the real awareness set in, slow and thick like syrup. He was in a hospital. There was a needle in his arm. His shirt was gone. There were machines.

Fuck.

His fingers curled into the blanket like they could disappear inside it, embarrassment settling somewhere beneath his ribs and shame chasing quickly behind. He didn’t have to look down to know what had happened. He could feel it in the hollowness behind his eyes, the pressure in his skull, the vague, acidic memory of being empty and scared and spilling over.

OD.

He’d fucking OD'd.

And you were the one who helped him.

His jaw clenched automatically. That alone was worse than the vomiting, worse than the tremors in his limbs or the blood in his mouth. Because it wasn’t supposed to be you. It wasn’t supposed to be anyone. He’d been careful. Or he thought he had. Stay away from the hard shit unless you want to tap out early, Barry used to say. But he hadn’t. He’d gotten sloppy. Sloppy enough that you—your bikini probably still half on, attitude still sharp—had to scrape him off the floor of his own mess and drive him here.

The thought made him want to tear the IV from his arm and bolt out the door. Instead, he sank further into the bed, chest rising unevenly as the door to his room creaked open.

He didn’t look.

He didn’t want it to be you. But part of him—the loud, ugly part—ached for it.

Because for all the shit he gave you, all the twisted, toxic back-and-forth between you two, when you touched his wrist in that car, when you yelled his name and refused to let him fade out, it was the only time in the past year that someone had held on like they meant it.

The shame came like a slap.

His head throbbed, dull and mean, like the aftermath of a riot. His stomach churned. The last thing he remembered was Barry’s trailer, the heat, the stench of unwashed clothes and stale beer—and then your voice. Sharp, irritated, panicked. Your hands on him, shoving, dragging. His car. The movement. You yelling something—his name?Your mom?

He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. His body didn’t want to move. Like it was punishing him for trying to leave it behind.

Rafe closed his eyes.

He had almost died. Again.

And the only person in the world who had done something about it was you—the girl he wasn’t even supposed to look at. Not in public. Not in front of anyone. He exhaled, bitter and slow. You didn’t even like him. And yet, when it mattered, you were the only one who showed up.

How fucked up was that? A slow, creeping dread curled in his stomach. Not about dying—but about waking up. About whatever came next. About seeing you again and pretending nothing happened. About pretending you were still just fucking and fighting and keeping secrets in the dark.

Because now you’d seen him. Really seen him. Broken and quiet and half-dead.

He didn’t know how to come back from that.

He lay there, the pain in his head and the ache in his chest warring with the shame that was starting to seep through his bones. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin. His fingers clenched the edges of the thin hospital sheet, twisting the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

He heard the door to his room creak open, letting in streaks of sterile fluorescent light that pierced his retinas. His eyes stayed resolutely shut, his entire body tensing like steel cables.

He heard the soft, tired voice of his sister bleeding into the sterile hum of the hospital corridor outside his door. Even with his eyes closed, he could tell she was talking to someone—her tone was lighter than it had been before, but still frayed at the edges, like string unraveling under too much pressure.

Sarah lingered in the doorway for a beat. He could feel her silhouette blocking the light, casting a soft orange glow across his eyelids before it disappeared again. The door creaked, then clicked shut, sealing off the hallway noise and wrapping the room in the kind of dim silence that made it hard to breathe.

Rafe stayed still, chest rising and falling in the even rhythm of someone trying a little too hard to look unconscious. Then he heard the footsteps. Soft. Hesitant. They padded across the linoleum floor like whoever they belonged to didn’t want to be heard. Then the scrape of a plastic chair being dragged forward, legs dragging against the tile. A pause. Then it settled—closer to his bed than he liked.

His breath hitched for half a second, barely noticeable unless someone was looking for it. His fingers curled tighter into the thin sheets, the IV tugging slightly at the motion. He didn’t dare open his eyes.

He didn’t know who had sat down.

He wanted it to be Ward—that made sense. That was easy. Safe. Ward would sit silently, probably judging him with narrowed eyes, mentally filing this moment away under “disappointments,” but Rafe could take that. Could handle the sharp-edged disappointment of a father who’d seen too much already.

But the air was wrong.

The person sitting beside him didn’t bring that cold, authoritative weight with them. They brought a buzz. Nervous, jittery, anxious. The kind of presence that made his skin prickle under the hospital gown. Not Ward. And not a nurse either. Nurses didn't sit that close.

This was someone else.

And even though he kept his eyes shut, Rafe already knew. It was you. Because no one else would sit in silence like that. No one else would come into the room like they didn’t know whether they were allowed to. No one else would carry that specific kind of guilt and urgency in the way they breathed—soft, deliberate, like you were trying not to make it worse.

You were here.

You’d seen him like this and you still came back. That realization twisted something inside him, something raw and unfamiliar and dangerous. His jaw clenched. His heartbeat kicked up just slightly, loud in his ears. He wondered if you could hear it. He wondered if you were looking at him now, sitting there with your arms crossed or your fingers laced together like you didn’t know what to do with them.

He wanted to open his eyes and meet your stare, say something cruel or flippant just to tip the power back into his own hands. Just to remind you that this—this version of him—wasn’t supposed to exist. Not in front of you.

But he didn’t. He stayed still, breathing slow and shallow, chest burning with shame and something more dangerous creeping underneath it. Because the longer you sat there, the more it started to hurt.

That you came.

That you cared.

That you were quiet.

And that now, you’d really seen him.

The room smelled like disinfectant and antiseptic. The fluorescent lights hummed softly as he lay there, still and silent. He’d been here before—or similar places, at least. Hospitals came with a kind of static air. He hated it. The smell. The sounds. The way the machines beeped in regular intervals, a reminder that time was passing, even if Rafe felt permanently stuck.

But he didn’t want to move. His limbs felt heavy, like weights were strapped to his arms and legs. His head throbbed with every heartbeat, a steady, dull pain that made him dizzy.

He shifted, his hospital gown rustling with the movement, making soft, grating noises against the paper-thin sheets. The IV in his arm burned, but he didn't have the energy to do anything about it. He just lay there, breath shallow and unsteady, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. The air conditioner clicked on with a shuddering groan, and the sound of the ventilator's steady hum filled the room. He wondered how many people had shared this bed before him. He wondered how many of them had made it out alive.

He was alone. Completely alone. The machines beeped their steady refrain around him, and the sterile walls seemed to press inward. He knew nobody was coming for him. Nobody ever had.

He was used to the isolation. He was used to being ignored. It had been that way ever since his mom left. Maybe even before. His family didn’t know how to love. How to care.

So he lay there, feeling the walls close in, the beep of the monitors mocking him. The emptiness of the room a mirror for the emptiness inside his chest.

In the haze of his mind reeling and his thoughts swirling around his head like bees, he almost forgot that technically he wasn't alone. The presence on the chair next to his bed mocked him, taunted him to open his eyes and look. To confirm it was indeed you. He could hear your breathing, the way you fidgeted with something. The jingle of keys. Your shoes as you moved and tapped your foot on the floor softly.

The sounds made Rafe’s entire body tense. Every muscle coiled like a spring, ready to snap. He wanted to scream, to make you leave. To make you go away forever. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t trust himself to speak. He couldn’t trust his voice to work. He just lay there, listening to the quiet sounds of you in the room, and silently seethed. And if he closed his eyes tight enough, he could pretend you weren’t there at all.

His fingers curled into the hospital sheets again, knuckles whitening. His jaw ached from clenching it so hard.

He hated this. He hated you. He hated himself. He hated the whole damn situation.

He wanted to scream. To rage. To shout for someone—anyone—to come in and chase you away. He wanted you gone. He didn’t want you to see him like this.

But he couldn’t make a sound.

So he stayed quiet. Listening. Breathing. Hating.

And then he heard you. You weren't speaking to him. You were whispering to yourself, still fidgeting with whatever object you held in your hands. He couldn't really make out what you were saying, your voice too low, drowned out by a deep sigh as you shifted in the chair. You thought he was asleep. And he wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

His chest stung with the realization. You thought he was asleep. You weren’t talking to him. And yet, you still stayed.

A flicker of something twisted in his chest, sharp and hot. It felt like anger. Like irritation. Or maybe something more like hurt. He didn’t like it.

He didn’t want your pity. He didn’t want your concern. He didn’t want anything from you.

But you were still here.

Why were you still here?

He swallowed hard, his throat tight and dry from exhaustion. The monitors beside his bed beeped irregularly, betraying his rising heart rate. The IV in his arm itched. The hospital gown scratched his skin.

He wanted to open his eyes. He wanted to sit up. He wanted to yell. To scream at you to get the hell out. To tell you to leave him alone. That your presence made him nauseous.

But he just lay there. Breathing. Silent. Helpless.

He swallowed again. The hospital smells were starting to make him nauseous. The antiseptic. The bleach. The smell of death and illness. It seeped into his nostrils and made his head spin.

He closed his eyes harder, as if he could block out reality by shutting out his vision. His breaths came faster now. Ragged. Unsteady.

He didn’t want you here. But he also found himself clinging to the sound of you breathing. The soft, rhythmic in and out of air. It was a lifeline in the suffocating silence.

His fingers curled and uncurled in the sheets like dying spiders. The monitors beeped louder now, the irregular rhythms giving away his rapid heart rate. His temples throbbed with each passing second. He felt vulnerable. Weak. Exposed.

And you were still there. Sitting. Watching. Judging him. Silently waiting, like some twisted guardian angel sent by his own personal hell.

He wanted to scream. To lash out. To tell you to leave him. But the words stuck in his throat. Choked by shame. By humiliation.

His chest heaved now, the air labored, like the room was filled with smoke instead of oxygen. Every breath burned. Every movement sent spikes of pain through his ribs. But he couldn’t stop himself. He was coming undone, piece by piece, and you were watching, silent and unmoving.

His eyes burned even as they stayed squeezed shut, hot tears pooling behind his lids. He hated himself. He hated you for seeing him like this. He hated how weak he felt. How pathetic.

And yet, he found himself almost, almost hoping you’d say something.

Instead, you shifted again, the chair legs scraping back with that low, dragging sound that felt too loud in the small room. Rafe’s chest went still for a second—panic and relief crashing into each other so hard it almost made him nauseous.

Maybe you were leaving.

Good. That would be easier. If you walked out now, he wouldn’t have to deal with the weight of your presence, the echo of what you’d seen, what you knew. He could open his eyes and pretend none of it happened. No witnesses. No shame. Just a bad night and a blank space.

But the footsteps didn’t go toward the door. They moved closer. And then he felt it—subtle, but unmistakable. The slight shift of weight on the mattress, the dip beside his hip as you sat down on the edge of the bed. He swallowed hard, but didn’t move. His hands curled tighter under the blanket. His heart stuttered once, then kept going.

You were so close he could feel the warmth of your skin bleeding into his. Then came the touch. Just a finger. Light. Tentative. Brushing against his hand, against the knuckle where one of his rings rested loosely. It wasn’t a full touch, not really—more like a test. A question. Are you awake? Are you here?

You lingered there, not pulling away right away, like maybe you were working up the nerve to say something or maybe you already had. Your voice came a second later, so quiet he wasn’t sure he even heard it out loud.

“Still wearing this one,” you murmured, fingertip tracing the worn silver band on his ring finger. It had a small dent near the edge—something you’d noticed once when he was drunk and letting you touch him without flinching, after one of the nights he slept with you. You’d pointed it out and he’d laughed, said it was from when he punched a door in high school. You’d said something sarcastic. He didn’t remember what, only that it made him smile for too long after. Maybe something about therapy.

He stayed still now, muscles locked up under the sheets, afraid to breathe wrong. You didn’t move away. Didn’t say anything else. Just sat there, beside him, like that didn’t terrify you. Like he hadn’t just barely made it out alive. Like he wasn’t the one who had shattered the rules and the boundaries and dragged you into something you never asked for.

Rafe wanted to open his eyes and look at you. He wanted to push you away. He wanted to pull you closer. He did nothing.

His hands were trembling again. The air caught in his throat as you touched the ring, his mind flashing back to that night. The feel of your fingers tracing the indentation. The curve of your hips under his own.

His heart was jackrabbiting in his chest now, every beat sending his ribs screaming in pain. He wondered how long you’d stay here. How long you’d sit and watch him like some kind of wounded animal. He wondered if you’d ever leave.

He wanted you to stay. But he couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

"I brought you your keys…" you whispered again, barely loud enough to register over the faint whir of machines. He heard the soft clink of metal, the way your fingers shifted against each other as you fidgeted with the keyring—his keyring. The one with the faded OBX lanyard and the crooked house key he always meant to replace.

“I think I fucked up your car,” you added, and he could hear the attempt at humor in your voice, brittle and strained, a laugh that barely made it past your throat. “But I’m not sure since I don’t know anything 'bout cars.” Rafe’s jaw tightened, throat constricting around a knot of something too complicated to name. You were trying to talk like none of it mattered. Like this was just some awkward errand you’d done out of obligation.

But your voice said otherwise.

“I should probably get my license, right?” you said, tone a little lighter. Like you were waiting for him to say something. Anything. He didn’t. Couldn’t. And then you sighed—quiet and slow, like you were grateful for the silence. Or maybe just resigned to it.

The keys clicked softly as you set them down on the rolling tray near his bed, and that little sound felt louder than it should’ve. Like it meant something. Like a line being drawn in the sand.

Rafe stayed still, breathing careful and measured, heart aching behind his ribs. You’d brought him here. You’d stayed. You were still here. Sitting on the edge of his hospital bed in that damn bikini top and a hurricane of a night behind you, still finding a way to be soft when he hadn’t earned it.

He wanted to open his eyes and tell you not to feel bad about the car. He wanted to tell you that he'd let you crash it ten times over if it meant you'd still be the one driving him out of the worst night of his life. But he didn’t.

He let the moment sit there between you, thick and trembling and unspoken. And then, like you could feel the weight of his silence pressing down on you, you shifted again, your hands brushing against your thighs, restless and uncertain.

“I just… didn’t want to leave them in the nurse’s station,” you mumbled. “Figured you’d want to know you weren’t alone. Even if you are.”

That cracked something in his chest. But he still didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t deserve to. Not yet.

His heart thundered in his ears, the silence between you both deafening. His fingers twitched violently against the hospital sheets, the urge to reach out nearly overwhelming him.

He wanted to grab you. To pull you closer. To bury his face in your hair and inhale that familiar coconut scent, like the beach and salt and trouble and safety all wrapped up in one.

But he didn’t. He stayed still. Breathing. Silent. Staring at the inside of his eyelids like the sight of you so close was a punishment he hadn’t earned.

Your silence was killing him. It was suffocating. Every second that passed, every breath you took, every soft sound of your fingertips grazing the hospital sheets—it was like a stab to his chest.

Yet he didn’t move. He didn’t open his eyes. He stayed still, frozen, terrified to break the spell.

He thought of the beach. Warm sun. Cool water. The taste of your lips. The way you felt pressed against him, drunken laughter bubbling out of you like summer itself when he magically made you laugh.

His throat ached.

"I wonder if you're gonna speak to me. When you wake up, I mean…" Your voice was softer this time, nearly swallowed by the hum of the machines and the distant sounds of the hospital beyond the door. It wavered, unsteady under the weight of the moment, and Rafe had to clench his jaw to stop himself from reacting. From flinching. From looking at you.

"Don't know how that will work…" you continued, quieter now, like you were talking more to yourself than to him. "We don't even like each other. We barely tolerate each other in bed…"

Your fingers brushed against his ring again—slow, unsure, but still careful in a way that made his heart stutter. That small touch shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did. Because you lingered. Because you stayed. "You're probably gonna yell at me about your car," you whispered, your voice curling at the edges with a sad kind of humor, "and I'll roll my eyes at you and tell you to go fuck yourself. That’ll be less awkward, I guess…"

Rafe’s throat tightened. Every muscle in his body screamed to move—to do something. To open his eyes. To say your name. To tell you that the last thing on his mind was the goddamn car. But he stayed still. He couldn’t move without shattering the illusion. Without cracking open whatever this fragile moment was between you.

He hated this.

Hated how raw it felt.

Hated that you thought he’d pretend again. That he’d yell and you’d roll your eyes and you’d both go back to the toxic little orbit you’d created around each other. Because the truth was, he didn’t want to go back to that. Not now. Not after you'd seen him like this—broken, scared, almost gone. And still here.

Still here, talking to him like you were waiting for the ghost of him to answer.

His hand twitched slightly beneath yours, involuntary. Not enough to give himself away, but enough that the touch of your fingers sent a new kind of ache through him. One that wasn’t about the overdose. One that was about you. About everything you’d just said. And everything you didn’t.

He wanted to tell you he heard you. That he wanted to hear you. That maybe—just maybe—he didn't want to pretend anymore either.

But instead, he let you keep talking, your words weaving into the stillness of the room like confessions meant for a boy already gone. And for now, that was all he could take.

The sound of your voice was the only thing anchoring him to reality. The softness, the vulnerability in it—he wanted to wrap it around himself like a blanket and never let it go.

His fingers curled slightly, a weak, involuntary movement, but it was enough to brush against your hand. He wondered if you noticed, if you felt the way his entire body shivered at the touch. He wondered if you knew the power you had over him. If you could sense how much he wanted to open his eyes and see you. How his jaw ached from the effort of staying still…

He could smell you—coconut and ocean and something faintly sweet. The scent was familiar, intoxicating, and it filled his lungs with a mix of nostalgia and longing. He wanted to breathe you in until nothing else mattered. Until the pain faded and the fear subsided. But instead, he stayed quiet. The monitors beeped, a constant reminder of his mistakes, of the fragility of the moment. Of how easily this could all crumble—like the walls he’d built around himself long before he realized how desperately he wanted you on the other side.

The silence hung heavy, the quiet beep of the monitors the only sound cutting through the air. He could feel you sitting there beside him—close enough to touch, close enough to hear your every breath. But he didn’t dare reach out. He didn’t dare move. He just lay there, suspended in the tension, his heart hammering in his chest like a trapped bird.

And then, suddenly—softly, so softly he almost thought he imagined it—he felt your fingertip trace a slow circle on the back of his hand. Barely touching skin, yet it sent sparks up his spine.

His pulse roared in his ears. Every nerve, every muscle in his body screamed at him to move. To reach out. To pull you into him. To feel the warmth of your skin against his. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He stayed still, frozen, his fingers trembling as your touch burned a path across his skin.

His throat tightened, breath shallow and uneven, the faintest gasp escaping his lips before he could stop it. He was unraveling. One soft circle at a time.

One tiny, simple touch—yet his world was crumbling beneath it, every brick of his defenses crumbling, every wall he’d built to keep you out collapsing into dust. Your fingertip kept tracing that slow, gentle circle, and he was drowning in the feel of it. He was drowning in you.

His hands twitched. Once. Then again. He wanted to grab your wrist and press your palm against his chest. He wanted you to feel his racing heart, to know exactly what you were doing to him.

His eyes burned behind closed eyelids. The urge to look at you, to see your face, was almost unbearable. He wanted to memorize every inch of you. The way your brows furrowed when you were worried. The way your lips parted like you were searching for something to say. The way your hair fell across your face when you leaned over him…

But he stayed still. He didn't move, his body trembling with the sheer force of staying frozen. He let you keep tracing those circles on his skin—slow, deliberate, achingly intimate.

"I wonder if you can hear me. Even subconsciously…" you murmured into the dim hospital air, barely loud enough for your words to drift beyond your lips. It didn’t matter. You weren’t sure you wanted him to hear you. You just needed to say something. To fill the silence that was starting to feel like a punishment.

"Or if you're having a nightmare… Seems like it, by the way you're twitching." Your voice cracked a little, soft but frayed at the edges. You shifted on the bed, trying not to jostle the mattress too much as you glanced at his face—still slack, still pale, but that barely-there crease between his brows hadn’t been there before. His fingers twitched once, a sharp jerk beneath your hand like his body was rejecting the peace around him.

Your finger resumed its invisible path on the back of his hand, tracing the same slow, anxious circle as before. Relentless. Nervous. A part of you was afraid to stop, like if you did, the beeping of the machines might slow down with it. It didn’t feel right, sitting here next to him. But it also didn’t feel right to leave.

"You don't look peaceful, right now" you whispered again, eyes flicking up to his face. His jaw was tight even in unconsciousness, a muscle flexing once in his cheek before going still again. "You never do. Even when you're asleep, you're fighting something." Your thumb brushed the side of his hand without thinking. He was colder than you expected. Not freezing. Just… wrong. Like his body hadn’t fully decided whether it was staying or going. And that scared you more than anything.

You didn’t want to admit how long you’d been sitting here. How many times you almost walked out. Or how the second Sarah had asked you to go in and sit with him while she went back to her house for some clothes for him, your chest had cracked open in protest—but your feet had moved anyway.

And now here you were. Sitting on his hospital bed. Talking to someone who might not even hear you. Tracing circles on a hand that had gripped your hip with bruising force just nights ago. And you didn’t know what that meant. Or why it hurt the way it did.

You exhaled shakily. "I think I’d prefer you angry, honestly. That would make this easier," you murmured, half to yourself. "You yelling, me rolling my eyes, walking away like we always do… that’s easier than this."

Than watching him lie there, skin pale, breathing thin, so still. "Are you angry?"

He felt like his whole body was on fire. Every word you spoke, every touch of your fingers on his skin, every breath you took—it hit him like a tidal wave. His mind was a storm of emotions, a maelstrom of fear, hurt, longing, anger... but also something dangerously tender. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.

But he didn’t—couldn’t— move. His chest remained still, his eyes squeezed shut like a child too terrified to look under the bed.

Your words cut like a blade, sharp and honest.

His breath caught in his throat, a choked sound escaping his throat before he clenched his jaw again. Your words were like salt in the wound—true, but stinging all the same. You always did know how to push his buttons. How to make him feel raw, exposed, seen in a way he didn’t want to be.

But worse than that—he knew you were right. Being angry was easy. It was his default. He’d perfected the art of being a dick a long time ago.

The silence stretched out between you, thick and heavy as the oxygen in the hospital room. You kept tracing those circles on his hand, every movement like a tiny stab at his heart. His mind was still a tornado of tangled thoughts and emotions, but one thing crystallized in the chaos: He longed to move. To open his eyes. To reach out and touch you, to pull you into his arms and cling to you like a man drowning.

But he stayed still. Terrified of what he’d see if he looked at you—and even more terrified of what he’d feel.

And then Rafe felt it. It was annoying, being bound by his closed eyes to only feel and not see. Brace for impact. Your finger stilled and you shifted, leaning over him as your hand swiped at his forehead, as if checking for his temperature but not quite. Maybe pushing his hair back gently, too hesitant and afraid not to wake him.

When your fingers brushed his forehead, a soft gasp escaped his lips before he could stop it. Your touch was gentle, tentative, but it set his skin on fire all the same. The feel of your hand gliding over his hair, shifting strands aside... it took everything in him not to pull you closer, to bury his face in your lap and cling like a child.

His body tensed, the muscles in his arms straining against the urge to move, to open his eyes, to drink you in like a man dying of thirst seeing an oasis.

Your touch was a drug, a dangerous, addictive drug, and he was drowning in it. Every sweep of your fingers across his forehead, every brush of the strands of hair—it sent shudders through his body. His heart hammered against his ribs, the beep, beep beep of the heart monitor giving away his racing pulse.

He wanted to reach for you. He wanted—needed—to touch you back. To feel your skin beneath his fingertips. To know you were really there, solid and real and not just a hallucination.

You pressed your lips to his cheek. Awkwardly, like you wanted to kiss his forehead but settled on his cheek. Maybe Rafe was dreaming. He actually was fast asleep and not wide awake pretending to be unconscious, and you weren't real. Because in no parallel universe, did Rafe think you out of all people, would kiss his cheek so gently, barely there. Even if these past weeks sent you spiralling into his bed, kissing him drunkenly every chance you got.

For a moment, time froze. The feel of your lips on his cheek—warm, soft, real—sent a shiver through his body. His breath caught, his eyelids fluttering with the urge to open, to look at you, to make sure this wasn’t some cruel trick of the universe. But he stayed frozen, every muscle taut with restraint.

His heart was racing, his thoughts a jumbled mess of how is this happening and I don’t want this to stop and please don’t leave me like this.

The moment stretched on, and Rafe was beginning to wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing. Had you really just kissed his cheek? A dream. It had to be a dream. Or a hallucination. This kind of tenderness, this kind of tenderness from you… it couldn’t be real. Right?

But then you spoke, your voice softer than before, tinged with something vulnerable.

"Rafe…?"

His breath caught in his throat as your voice cut through the silent. His name on your tongue—so soft, so quiet—it sent a shiver down his spine. His heart thudded loudly in his chest, his mind racing. Was this real? Was he dreaming? Or was he just crazy… like he’d always been?

He struggled to keep himself still, his fists clenching and unclenching beneath the sheets, his body shaking with the effort. He wanted to move. To speak. To hold you. But he stayed frozen, paralyzed by fear and want.

"Still asleep.." you mumbled, your soft sigh fanning across his cheek as you lingered leaning over him. "What the hell am i doing..?" you asked yourself, pulling back just a little, poking the back of his hand faintly.

The touch of your finger against his hand—like a spark of electricity—nearly sent him over the edge. His body wanted to respond, wanted to reach out and grab your hand, to pull you back, to keep you close. But he stayed still, his eyes still shut, his jaw clenched tight. He was hanging on by a thread—a fragile, dangerously thin thread—and one more touch, one more word from you, could send him crumbling into pieces.

And then your words—muttered, almost to yourself, but he heard them. "What the hell am I doing…" it echoed in his head like a refrain. He wanted to answer you, to tell you that he didn't know, that he didn't understand any of this, but that it was the best damn thing that had ever happened to him. But he stayed silent, his body still trembling with the effort of keeping his eyes closed, of pretending that he was asleep when he was anything but.

The room was so quiet that he could hear his own heartbeat—loud and erratic in his ears. He could feel you hovering over him, your presence like a weight on his chest. He wanted to open his eyes. He wanted to look at you. To see your face, to see if this was real. But the fear kept him paralyzed. The fear that this was a dream, and that he’d wake up any second, and you’d be gone.

He stayed still, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his mind a swirling storm of emotions and confusion.

Your finger traced mindless patterns on the back of his hand, a tender touch that sent sparks flying across his skin. He wanted to pull you closer, to gather you in his arms and hold you tightly against him, to bury his face in your hair and lose himself in your scent. But he stayed still, every muscle tense with restraint, his mind screaming at him to move, to act, to do something.

He could hear the soft, barely audible sound of your breathing, and it was driving him insane. He wanted to hear you say his name again. Just once more.

The silence between you stretched on, and with every second that ticked by, Rafe was increasingly certain this was a dream. There was no way in hell you could be here, sitting next to his bedside, holding his hand like you actually, inexplicably, cared. But he clung to every second, relishing the feel of your fingers brushing his skin, savoring every quiet breath you took.

And then, with a sudden jolt, his eyes fluttered open—just a fraction, just enough to catch a glimpse of you through half-lidded lashes.

Not clearly—not the way he wanted to—but enough. Enough to make his stomach twist. You were hunched slightly, posture tense, like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to be comfortable next to him. Your finger kept tracing the back of his hand, slow and repetitive, and he realized you weren’t even really thinking about it anymore. It was just something you were doing. Something to keep your hands busy. Or your mind quiet.

Your lips moved with a soft, low hum, breathy and almost inaudible, but it was enough to worm its way under his skin. The melody was familiar, some song he knew from somewhere—maybe a party, maybe his car, maybe just something you sang under your breath when you thought no one was listening. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that you were here. Still here.

And he was awake.

But he didn’t move.

He didn’t say a word.

He just watched you from under his lashes, forcing his chest to keep the same rhythm it had when you walked in. Because if he broke it—if he let himself react—then you’d stop. You’d jerk your hand away. You’d fold in on yourself and walk out. Maybe for good this time. He didn’t want that.

Not now. Not when he could see the faint tremble in your fingers and the raw edge of exhaustion tugging down your features. You looked like you hadn’t slept. Like maybe you couldn’t sleep after dragging him out of whatever hell he'd created for himself. Like some part of you had been stuck in that moment ever since.

His throat tightened.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to care. You were supposed to hate him—do hate him. Weren’t those your words? We don’t even like each other? But you were here anyway. Sitting beside a half-dead asshole who never gave you the decency of a real conversation, and humming like you were trying to coax something alive in him again.

He lay there, frozen, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the sight of you, hunched over his bedside, humming some nameless tune. Your fingers lingered on his skin, your touch soft and lingering, and he felt his breath hitch in his throat. He should look away. He should close his eyes and pretend to still be asleep. But he couldn't. He wanted to commit this moment to memory. The way the moonlight caught in your hair, the soft curve of your lower lip as you hummed, the tension in your body that screamed "i don’t belong here."

His chest ached with the effort of stillness. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to speak, to move, to say something—anything—before you realized he was awake and pulled away. But he stayed silent, his mind racing, weighing the pros and cons, considering the consequences. And then you started humming. The sound was soft, almost soothing, like a salve on his frayed nerves.

He let himself savor it, let the sound infiltrate his veins, let it sink into his bones. For a brief moment, the pain and emptiness of the hospital faded away.

Your humming washed over him, a soothing current in his stormy mind. He wanted to let himself get carried away, to lose himself in the sound and the feel of your touch, but something held him back.

Fear. Fear that if he moved, if he spoke, if he in any way reacted, you'd stop. And god, he didn't want that. Not when this, this quiet moment with you, was the closest he'd ever felt to peace.

You. The girl from the wrong side of the island. Part of the group of people he looked down on, His little sister's best friend. The girl in love with her best friend who had a girlfriend. You had nothing but lust and some sort of irritation burrowed in your heart for Rafe and yet you were sitting beside him like an angel, humming a song casually like he hadn't survived an overdose.

The irony of it all wasn't lost on him. You were not supposed to be here. You were not supposed to be by his bedside, holding his hand, humming a tune like you actually cared. But he didn't want to think about that now. He didn't want to think about what it meant or what this meant for the future. He just wanted to stay here, in this moment, and savor the feel of your presence beside him.

He didn't know what would happen tomorrow. He didn't know if he would wake up to find you gone. But for now, he decided, for once he would just let himself have this. Just for a moment, he would let himself pretend that you were here because you cared, not just because you pitied him. He’d enjoy the way your humming vibrated in his bones, the way your fingers sent tingles across his skin. He'd commit every second of this to memory, storing it away like a precious relic to be taken out and admired later.

And if tomorrow came and took you away, well… he’d deal with that when it happened.

His eyes closed again as the weight of exhaustion pulled on his eyelids. Every part of his body was screaming for rest, but he didn't want to miss the sound of your humming. The way it lulled him into a false sense of security. He was half tempted to risk it all—to reach out and pull you closer, to bury his face in your hair, to wrap his arms around you like some sort of lifeline.

But he didn't. He stayed still. He stayed frozen. He stayed silent. Pretending to sleep. Pretending to be dead when he was more alive than he'd ever been.

You didn’t know he was awake.

He could tell by the way you sat—shoulders still tense but less guarded than before, like you’d let yourself forget, for just a moment, that you were in a hospital room with a boy who nearly died. Like you were slipping into the space between what was and what almost was.

And then there was the humming again. Soft. Slow. Soothing in a way that made something ache behind his ribs. It was familiar now—recognizable. Nothing’s gonna hurt you baby…

Cigarettes After Sex. He knew the song. Not from a playlist of his own, but from the first night he took you home, when you’d passed him your phone in a haze of tequila and dare-me eyes, telling him to pick something. Anything. And when he’d scrolled past that one, you said, “Skip it and I’ll punch you.” He hadn’t. You’d hummed along back then too. Just like this. Breathless and detached, like you were somewhere else. Like the song was safer than silence.

Now, it felt like you were trying to lull him back from the edge. Like you thought the humming might keep the nightmares away.

Nothing’s gonna hurt you baby, as long as you're with me, you'll be just fine…

It didn’t make sense. Not coming from you. Not when the last real words you’d said to him were probably something sarcastic or cruel or both. But here you were, fingers ghosting his, voice so low it barely existed, and humming a song that sounded like a promise.

He swallowed hard. Or tried to. His throat still felt like sandpaper. You were too close. Too kind. Too real. And Rafe didn’t know how to exist around that. Not without tearing it apart or pretending it didn’t mean anything.

But here, now, under the white fluorescent halo of a hospital room where everything was too quiet and too honest—he didn’t have the strength to pretend.

So he watched you. Watched the way your lips moved with the melody. Watched the way your thumb occasionally brushed against his knuckle like you didn’t even realize you were doing it. Watched the way your eyes stayed on his hand like if you looked at his face, you’d break apart.

And it made something unravel in him. Quietly. Without drama.

Just this slow, deep kind of ache he couldn’t name. Because you were humming a love song to a boy you weren’t supposed to love. To a boy you didn’t even like. And yet you were here. Humming like it mattered. Like he mattered.

And he’d never hated himself more for letting you be the one who had to carry this weight.

The song carried on, your honeyed voice weaving the lyrics of cigarettes after sex like a lifeline through the stillness of the hospital room. The sound was soothing, but the meaning hit him like a punch to the chest.

No one was supposed to care. Hell, he wasn't even sure if he deserved such gentleness. But here you were—sitting beside him like some angelic apparition, humming a goddamn love song like you were trying to stitch back together the pieces his own recklessness had shattered.

His heart was hammering again, but not out of fear. Out of something dangerous and unfamiliar.

Every note that left your lips seemed to resonate in his bones, a steady, melodic rhythm that drowned out the beeping of the machines beside him. He was entranced, captivated by the sound of your singing, the way your voice dipped and rose with the tune. It sent a shiver down his spine, a small part of him wanting to reach out and touch you, just to prove to himself that this was real.

And then the song ended, and you still sat there—thumb brushing his knuckles like you'd forgotten you were even doing it. Like it was just second nature to be so tender with him.

He let out a slow, shaky exhale, his eyes flickering from your hand to your face and back again. This was dangerous. Whatever this was. It felt too real, too intimate. The way your touch felt like both a comfort and a dagger in his chest. He wanted more. He wanted to reach out and pull you closer, to bury his face in your shoulder and inhale the scent of your hair. But he didn't.

Instead, he let the silence stretch on, the aftertaste of the song lingering in his throat like a vow neither of you had spoken aloud.

Which was stupid on Rafe’s part, really. Because the only reason you ever let yourself get close to him was another boy. Not him. Never him. You’d been in love with JJ. Everyone knew it. Especially Rafe, who saw it in the way your eyes always flicked toward him when he wasn’t looking. In the way your voice dropped around his name, like it was some kind of wound.

And now JJ was with Kiara.

So you ran. Straight into Rafe’s arms—or more accurately, into his bed, into his car, into his house at 2 AM with mascara smudged and a half-hearted excuse about needing a ride. You chose Rafe to be the one to catch all the shards when you shattered. Chose him to witness the parts of you you didn’t want anyone else to see—ugly, bitter, broken.

Maybe Rafe should’ve said no. Should’ve told you to go cry on someone else’s shoulder. But he didn’t. And he knew why.

Because even if you never really looked at him—not the way you looked at JJ—he liked being the one you came to. Even if it was just to bleed all over him and leave when you were done.

Maybe he would’ve been okay with that. Would’ve kept letting you swing by his house when the pain got too loud, would’ve taken your calls and your chaos and let you scream in his passenger seat until you felt like breathing again. Maybe he could’ve handled being the rebound, the fuck-up, the angry boy you used to forget another one.

But now you’d seen him.

Not in some backseat or drunken hallway. Not in the dim safety of a party hookup. You saw him sick. Fading. Dying. You saw the tremor in his jaw, the vomit on his shirt, the way his body crumpled under the weight of what he put in it. You saw him raw.

He didn’t know what that made you. Not after this. Not after tonight. His eyes stayed shut, but his mind raced with questions he couldn’t voice. How long had you been at the hospital? Did your friends know where you were? Did they ask what happened, or did they pretend not to care? Were you ashamed? Guilty?

Would you feel dirty for sitting here next to him? For caring, even a little?

Just like you did after the first time you slept with him. When you pulled your clothes on like you were trying to erase what had just happened. Like he was a mistake you kept letting happen.

And maybe he was. It didn’t stop him from wanting you to stay. Even if it was just to say goodbye.

The silence hung heavy in the air between you, his chest rising and falling with shallow, strained breaths. His breathing was still shallow, his voice rough and barely audible as he finally spoke—a quiet rasp that sounded like sand scraping bone.

He swallowed, his throat tightening with the words that threatened to surface. "How long have you been here?" he rasped out, eyes still closed. A beat of hesitation, his jaw clenching—then, quietly, like he was afraid of the answer.

The way your finger stilled on the back of his hand was the first giveaway. Not abrupt—just tense, like someone who'd just realized they'd been caught staring too long. Rafe didn’t open his eyes fully, not yet. But he could feel the shift. The way your breath hitched just slightly. The way your hand hovered instead of resting, suddenly unsure.

Then your voice broke the silence, and he felt it more than heard it. "How long have you been awake?" It wasn’t cocky. Wasn’t smug or sarcastic or sharp-edged like it usually was. It was weak—softer than he’d ever heard it. Meant to sound casual, maybe even a little accusatory, but it fell out clumsy and low. Awkward.

You sounded awkward.

You.

The mouthy, annoyingly perceptive girl from the Cut. The girl who’d once told him he had the emotional depth of a shot glass and the self-awareness of a toddler. The girl who rolled her eyes every time he opened his mouth, who pushed him away with insults but never actually left.

You sounded flustered. Like you weren’t sure if you should even be here anymore. Like the moment had stretched too far past what you could pretend to handle.

And Rafe almost hated how much he liked it.

He let out a weak, humorless laugh, his voice low and gravelly with exhaustion. "Long enough to hear you butchering Cigarette After Sex," he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lip despite the pain. His eyes flickered open, taking in the way you were still perched beside him like some kind of guardian angel with a barbed tongue.

He let out a quiet exhale, his gaze locking onto yours. "Didn’t think I’d ever get you singing Cigarette After Sex of all things."

Rafe would’ve laughed—should’ve laughed—if the weight in his chest didn’t feel like it had multiplied the second you pulled your hand away. Something about the way you retracted so quickly, like his skin had burned you. Like now that he was conscious, aware, the rules had shifted again and you were scrambling to keep up with the new version of reality. One where he could see you being soft.

You fidgeted like you hated yourself for being caught. Fingers twitching in your lap, restless. Your eyes flickered toward the windows like you were looking for an escape route, and Rafe tracked every micro-movement with a kind of quiet desperation, memorizing it like he wouldn’t get to see it again.

He caught the low mutter under your breath—half a curse, half a prayer. “Jesus Christ.”

Your hands dragged over your face, muffling the rest of it. “Great�� That’s just… really awesome,” you said a little louder, sarcasm clinging to the edges like armor. And then, because you always had to find a way to downplay the tension before it suffocated you, you added: “Didn’t know you even listened to Cigarettes After Sex.”

He could feel the shift in the air, the way your body had tensed when he spoke—when he acknowledged the tenderness you’d been carefully hiding. It was like you’d been caught mid-act, exposed in a way you hadn’t planned. A vulnerability you hadn’t allowed.

But Rafe couldn’t help himself. He was a bit of a masochist, after all—and something about bringing out your softness, your humanity, when you were so desperately trying to bury it, just... did something to him.

His smirk widened, a flash of something darker behind his eyes. "What? You think I’m some kind of moron who doesn’t know good music when I hear it? Come on, Cigarettes After Sex? That’s like, basic indie-rock 101."

He let the words linger for a beat, watching you squirm—noticing the way your jaw clenched, the way your hands gripped your thighs a bit too tight. It was almost fun, teasing you like this. Almost. But there was something softer beneath it all, something he refused to acknowledge.

Your gaze flitted to him, half glare, half disbelief—eyes dragging slowly over his face like you couldn’t quite believe he was choosing to talk about music after waking up from an overdose. But you indulged him anyway. Maybe out of shock. Maybe because it was easier than bringing up the elephant in the room. Your voice, when it came, was soft. Brittle in a way he didn’t recognize on you.

"It’s a great song," you said simply. There was no venom behind it. No sarcasm. Just the quiet kind of honesty that didn’t need to be louder to be true. You didn’t look at him after you said it. Just stared at the window again like the night outside had anything to offer you. Your fingers still twisted in your lap, knuckles pale from how tight you were holding yourself together. And Rafe didn’t say anything right away. He just watched you—the way your jaw clenched, how your brows creased slightly like you were mad at yourself for still sitting there.

He should’ve felt powerful, he thought. Having you there like that. Rattled and trying not to show it. But he didn’t. He felt something heavier. Something that settled low in his chest and made it hard to breathe. Because this wasn’t you coming over drunk to mouth off and climb into his lap. This was you—staying. Still humming even when you thought he was unconscious. Still clutching his keys like they meant something.

And now here you were, trying to act like the song was all you cared about.

Silence settled over the room again. It was a heavy, palpable thing. Thick and suffocating, like the room itself was holding its breath, waiting. Rafe’s eyes stayed fixed on you, tracing your features like they might shift suddenly, like this version of you—soft, honest, real—might evaporate if he looked away. And he didn’t want to take his eyes off you. But he couldn’t find the words to break the silence.

Because what do you say to a girl who hummed a love song to your unconscious body and then pretended she didn’t mean it?

The silence stretched on, and Rafe could feel the tension tightening like a wire. The air was brittle, the hum of machines in the background only serving to highlight the weight of everything unsaid between you. The words were on the tip of his tongue, burning to be spoken, but he couldn’t bring himself to say them. The admission felt like carving out a part of himself, leaving him raw and vulnerable. And Rafe didn’t do vulnerable. Not ever.

But you... you were the exception. You always were.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke. His voice came out rougher, more vulnerable than he meant it to, but he didn’t let himself flinch.

"You stayed."

There it was. The truth—the admission. He’d known it the moment he woke up and his first thought had been you. But saying it out loud... that was different. It made it real. And it hung in the air, like a confession and a question, all rolled into one.

You wasted no time humming again, the soft sound barely audible over the machines beeping steadily beside him. Your fingers twisted around one of your cheap plastic rings, turning it again and again like it held all the answers you didn’t want to say out loud. You pressed your lips together, brows furrowed, pretending that piece of jewelry was the only thing that mattered in the room—like it was more interesting than the boy you’d just seen half-dead hours ago.

"Your sister asked me to sit here while she went back to get you clothes," you mumbled finally, voice low, casual in the way people get when they don’t want to admit they’ve been crying. "I think she suspects us sleeping together, but doesn’t wanna address it."

You scoffed softly, a bitter little laugh that didn’t match the flicker in your eyes when they met his again. Like the idea should’ve been ridiculous—like it was—but some part of you knew it wasn’t, and the weight of that truth lingered behind your stare. You tried to stay dismissive, light. But your gaze was too charged, too heavy. The kind of look people give when they’ve seen too much and don’t know how to carry it.

Rafe watched you in silence, throat tightening as his heart gave a tired, stuttering thud. He wanted to say something smug. Something easy. Something that would make it all feel smaller than it was.

But all he could do was look back at you. And wonder why the hell it suddenly felt harder to breathe now that you weren’t pretending to hate him.

His fingers flexed against the hospital sheets, his jaw clenching as his mind raced. Everything felt raw, exposed. His thoughts flickered between the words he wanted to say, the ones trapped in his throat— "I don’t want your pity." —and the ones that might actually slip out— "Why are you still here…" He swallowed hard, the hospital lights making everything too bright, too harsh. He wanted to reach out. To grab your hand, to yank you closer, to push you away, to… what?

Instead, he turned his gaze to the sterile white walls. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, illuminating the sterile room and the cold machinery around him like a spotlight. Every breath felt heavy, every muscle in his body tight, like a coiled spring about to snap. He closed his eyes again, letting the familiar hum of the machines fill the silence between you. When he spoke, his voice came out rougher than he intended.

"I don’t like pity, you know." His knuckles whitened against the sheets, jaw clenched. "You think I want you here because you feel sorry for me?"

You sighed, the sound quiet but weighty, and your fingers finally stilled in your lap. For a second, you didn’t look at him—only down at his hand, the one you’d been tracing soft circles on like it was second nature just minutes ago. Now you stared at it like it burned. Like touching him had been some kind of betrayal, and you weren’t sure to who.

Your jaw clenched. He could see the muscle tick. Then you shifted beside him on the bed, the movement stiff and restless, like your skin didn’t fit right. “I don’t pity people,” you muttered, almost defensive, your voice quiet but carrying that familiar edge. You glanced away again like it hurt to look at him for too long. “I’m here because…”

The pause stretched. You hummed again, low and distracted, your mind clearly elsewhere as you tried to fish out the right words.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, a bitter little breath escaping you. “It didn’t feel right leaving without making sure you were, y’know…alive.”

The word hung between you, thick and uncomfortable. Not dramatic. Just true.

He let the silence linger for a beat too long. The hum of the machines filled the air, sharp and mocking, like they were laughing at him. But Rafe couldn't bring himself to move. Couldn't bring himself to speak, because that would mean acknowledging the way his heart thudded in his chest like a wild thing. That would mean admitting that your presence was doing something to him. And Rafe didn't do softness. Not ever. But...

He swallowed hard, his voice a gravelly, ragged thing. "Still alive," he whispered, the words rough with something like pain.

His gaze flicked to the window, rain pattering against the glass like a hollow applause for his survival. The sound was monotonous. So quiet, but somehow louder than everything that came before. Another pause.

He licked his lips, his voice cracking slightly with vulnerability, and he hated himself for it.

"You can go now. If you want."

It was a lie and they both knew it. He didn't want you to go, but pride choked the words. He wanted you to stay. To stay and keep humming that damn song.

Your gaze snapped back to him, sharp and unsettled, like something he said had cut too close. Your brows drew together, the tension in your jaw so familiar it almost mirrored the pounding in his own skull. Rafe didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Not with the way his head felt like it was splintering open and every emotion he’d swallowed over the last twenty-four hours was clawing its way back up his throat. But you looked at him like you already knew. Like you could see inside the mess of him and still hadn’t flinched yet.

"I don't," you said, voice plain. Flat in that way you got when honesty made your skin crawl. "I don't have anywhere to go at the moment."

You grimaced right after—sharp and involuntary—like even admitting it out loud made you sick. Like the words left a bad taste in your mouth. And Rafe didn’t need to ask why. He knew that look. He’d only ever seen it when you talked about your mom—brief, bitter mentions that always came wrapped in sarcasm and avoidance. That expression had followed your voice more than once: slurred and distant when he’d driven you home from a party, or breathless and quiet when you sat up in his bed and reached for your clothes. Anytime he asked “where are you going?” you’d answer with that same grimace, muttering something vague about your mom like it was the last name you ever wanted to say out loud.

And now you were sitting here. Not running. Not making a joke to deflect the heaviness in the air. Just... sitting. Grimacing. Still beside him. And for some reason, that made it all feel heavier. Realer. Like the space between you was full of things you didn’t know how to say and both too exhausted to lie about. "Do you want me to?"

His throat tightened, the machines and the rain and the silence of the room all pressing down on him like a physical weight. He couldn’t look at you—not without feeling like his chest was cracking open. So he stayed focused on the hospital wall, staring at the cracked-white paint like it held the secrets to life. But his hand twitched toward you. A fleeting, involuntary movement that betrayed the need he refused to name.

"You don’t have to stay," he murmured, voice rough.

But his hand stayed there, just beside yours, fingers twitching like they wanted to reach for you. The tension in the room was suffocating. The unspoken questions, the tangled emotions, the ache of something neither of you could name.

Rafe’s gaze flickered toward you, just for a moment, before he forced himself to look away again. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a rough whisper, the words like sandpaper in his throat.

"But don’t go. Please. Unless you want to."

You nodded—slow, absent-minded—then blinked like you were coming back into your body. Your fingers twitched again in your lap, and you shifted slightly where you sat on the edge of the bed. Like being there was either the most natural thing in the world, or like you were tethered by something invisible—some mix of guilt, habit, or maybe that awful, unspoken thread neither of you could name. A part of Rafe wanted the silence. Wanted the solitude that always came after these things, the numb emptiness that used to wrap around him like a blanket. Loneliness had been the only thing that never left him, the one constant. But another part of him—ugly and vulnerable and twelve steps past pathetic—knew he’d take it personally if you got up and left. Especially after he said please. Probably the first time in his life he ever meant it.

He didn’t know what would happen once he got out. Didn’t know what the rules were anymore, or if there even were rules. Would you keep sneaking into his room? Would you stop pretending it was meaningless? Would you stop showing up at all? He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t predict much when it came to you—not anymore. All he knew was that the second JJ looked at the girl he liked to pretend he was loyal to, said the wrong thing, or kissed Kiara in front of you again, you’d come crawling back, eyes glassy and voice mean, and Rafe would be right there waiting. He hated it. Hated how willing he was to be your crutch. But the thought of not being the one you came to was worse.

"I wouldn’t like to be alone after something like that," you said quietly, barely above a whisper.

The words pulled him out of his spiral. His gaze snapped back to you, and something in his chest cracked a little. Because it didn’t sound like pity. It didn’t feel like judgment or guilt or some half-hearted attempt to be kind. It felt... honest. Like you meant it. Like it came from some place deeper than you probably meant to show. He glanced at you then, studied the softness in your face that you didn’t try to hide, the way your features relaxed into something real and open instead of guarded. And suddenly he wasn’t thinking about the overdose, or your mom, or JJ, or anything at all—just the strange comfort of you still being here, still tethered to the bed like you hadn’t found a reason to walk away yet.

His throat tightened at your words, his pulse thundering in his ears. You’d always been fiercely independent, never needing anybody—and here you were, admitting you didn’t want to be alone. It sent a spike of something sharp and unfamiliar through his chest.

He nodded slightly, jaw clenching, but he didn’t say anything. Because what you’d said... it felt raw. Real. And Rafe didn’t have words to combat it. So he just sat there, looking at you. Silently begging you not to leave.

The soft hum of the machines filled the silence, the steady rhythm matching the unsteady beat of his heart. His fingers twitched again, the urge to reach out nearly overwhelming. To touch you, to anchor you in some way.

Instead, he swallowed hard, jaw ticking. The quiet stretched on, and Rafe felt like something in his chest was being slowly, painfully unraveling.

"Tell me what to do," he rasped, voice gravelly and low, like the words had clawed their way out of him against his will.

"What do you mean?" you asked, brows furrowing in confusion now.

There was something vulnerable in his gaze when he looked at you, his voice coming out more hoarse than he meant it to. Like admitting what he needed was a kind of violence.

"In this moment. Right now. What do you need me to do?" he said, voice cracking just slightly, his hand finally reaching tentatively out toward you, just a feather-light touch grazing the edge of your thigh, the gesture almost involuntary.

You snorted—a sharp, graceless sound that once upon a time would've made Rafe roll his eyes and say something cruel just for the hell of it. He even remembered doing it once. Made some sarcastic jab about you laughing like a pig or something equally shitty, just to get under your skin. But now he just stared, oddly still, watching the way you hunched over and brought your hand to your mouth, laughing into your fingers like you didn’t mean to. Like the sound embarrassed you. It almost sounded forced—except it wasn’t. He’d heard it before. Seen it before. That same laugh breaking free when you thought no one was listening, or when your walls slipped just long enough for something real to get through.

"I want you to stay alive, preferably," you muttered, the words half-sincere, half-laced with that same snorty kind of humor. Then, leaning closer like you weren’t perched on a hospital bed beside a guy who nearly died, you added, "And not be a dick towards my friends anymore..." Your tone turned teasing, and you tilted your head slightly, close enough that he could feel your breath and see the glint of playfulness behind your eyes. Like you were back at some party, standing too close and saying something sharp, trying to provoke him just because you liked the way he bit back.

And for a second, it really did feel like that. Like the hospital bed and the IVs and the faint bruises didn’t exist. Just the two of you, toeing the line between flirtation and a fight, because it was the only language you both knew how to speak.

His gaze sharpened as your tone turned teasing, heat flickering behind his eyes at the proximity. His thumb brushed your thigh instinctively, the touch light—almost accidental. He snorted at your jab, the sound harsh but tinged with amusement, because old habits die hard and this… this was comfortable, in its own messed-up way.

"Don’t give my dick a complex, angel," he retorted, the edges of his lips twitching upward in a smirk. "Besides, you’d miss my particular brand of dickheadery."

The smirk faded for a moment, your proximity suddenly overwhelming in a way it hadn’t been before. Your hair brushed his shoulder when you leaned closer, and the scent of your shampoo flooded his nostrils—something sweet and faintly ocean-like that reminded him of late-night drives down to the marsh. He wanted to lean into it, to press his face against the curve of your throat and breathe it in like it was oxygen, but he restrained himself. Barely.

"I’ll play nice," he rasped, fingers tightening on your thigh despite himself. "…when I want to."

"You'll play nice?" you echoed breathlessly, a small smile tugging at your lips in spite of everything that didn't allow you to act like this. The hospital, the insistent smell of anti-septic, the whole situation itself. Flirting in a hospital room after he almost died.

He nodded, eyes flicking to your lips for just a moment before meeting your gaze again, his voice rough and low. The scent of the hospital stung his nostrils—sterile and harsh—only adding to the surrealism of the situation. His fingers flexed against your leg, his touch still lingering, as if he couldn’t bring himself to pull his hand away.

"For you," he murmured. "I’ll play good. Most of the time."

His thumb rubbed a slow, absent-minded circle against your skin, the contact both grounding and stirring something low in his gut. The hospital lights buzzed faintly in the background, the sterile smell mixing with the sudden, electric awareness of how close you were. How, under different circumstances, he’d pull you into his lap and kiss the smirk off your face. Instead he just looked at you, jaw clenched, like you might dissolve if he didn’t focus.

"What else do you want, then?" he rasped. "A pinky promise? My firstborn?"

You shrugged, casual but too aware, your eyes dragging slowly over his face like you were mapping it—memorizing the exhaustion, the dullness in his eyes, the bruising under them that hadn’t quite faded. You didn’t flinch or look away like he expected you to. Like most people would have by now. Instead, you just nodded, lips twitching with some barely-contained smirk. “First born works, yeah,” you said, voice dry but light. Then you shifted, leaning slightly into your palm, the space between you and him warm and quiet and impossibly charged.

Your gaze flicked sideways to the monitor—subtle, but not subtle enough. He followed it with the corner of his eye just in time to catch the slight uptick in his heart rate, that little spike on the screen giving him away before he could even pretend to keep his cool. And then you were looking back at him, lips pressed together like you were trying not to laugh. Like maybe it gave you some kind of satisfaction knowing he was still so easy to read when it came to you.

“But I’ll take anything you’re willing to part with,” you added, voice lower, slower, softer—but not soft. Not gentle. Not with him. Just real. Your gaze dropped briefly to his mouth and then lifted again, dragging slow and deliberate. Close enough to feel the shift in the air. Close enough that if he turned his head even slightly, your noses might brush.

His eyes darkened, his breath hitching slightly as you leaned in closer. The hospital bed creaked faintly under your weight when you shifted, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. He swallowed hard, the monitor’s sudden uptick in rhythm giving away how fast his heart was pounding. He should be annoyed, irritated that you knew him well enough to know exactly what buttons to push.

But he wasn’t. Instead, his fingers flexed against your thigh, grip tightening almost possessively. A low, rough chuckle escaped his lips.

"Careful, angel. That’s how accidents happen."

The words lingered, thick with tension, and he knew you could feel the heat of his gaze on your mouth. His throat bobbed again as your breath mingled with his, and his heart rate spiked again on the monitor. He shouldn’t, he knew he shouldn’t—you were perched on his hospital bed like some kind of damned miracle, and he was a goddamn mess. But the distance between you was narrowing, and his restraint was slipping, and—

"Christ." His fingers dug into your thigh. "Just… c’mere."

"Where?" you feigned innocence and confusion, throat bobbing as you swallowed "Are you delirious from the morphine perhaps?" eyes flicking down at his hand on your thigh like it belonged there.

A sharp, rough laugh escaped before he could stop it. He tugged you abruptly toward him, a smirk playing at his lips. The monitor’s beeping rate increased, betraying the quickening of his pulse as you leaned into him.

"Delirious?" he echoed, breathless, hand still gripping your thigh like a lifeline. "Try desperate."

His gaze burned into you, thumb brushing the inside of your knee as if it were accidental, like that simple touch hadn't set his skin alight. The monitor's sharp beeping was all but forgotten now, his other hand reaching up to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear with unexpected gentleness. His voice came out low and hoarse, like your proximity was testing his control.

"You’re a goddamn menace, angel." He murmured, calloused fingers lingering on your jawline. "How the hell do you make a hospital bed feel dangerous?"

You huffed, a breath caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief, eyes narrowing just slightly as you took him in. Of course he’d say something like that. Here he was, still pale and drawn, hooked up to machines that were literally keeping track of whether he was still breathing right—and he had the audacity to talk about hospital beds feeling dangerous. Like this was just another place to play the game you two always tiptoed around, even when everything else had fallen apart. Like his father or sister couldn't walk in any minute to check up on him.

Your voice dipped, slow and teasing, “What exactly feels dangerous about the smell of antiseptic and the constant beeping of a heart monitor?” You cocked your head, eyes dragging across his face, lingering on the faint color climbing up his neck, blooming just enough at his cheekbones to make your smirk stretch wider.

He was flushed now. Flushed and watching you like he wasn’t in a hospital gown and you weren’t the girl who had drove him to the hospital half-dead. "You're in a hospital bed, not a goddamn motel, Rafe.."

And still, somehow, the tension between you hummed louder than the monitor.

He didn’t flinch when you said his name, didn’t look away. He just kept staring at you, gaze sharp, his calloused thumb tracing slow circles on your skin like the gesture somehow calmed him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, mouth quirking at your teasing tone, though the monitors’ frantic beating gave him away.

"Motel’s got better sheets," he retorted, fingers tightening on your thigh. "This bed? Might as well be a goddamn medieval torture device. Still doesn’t stop me from wanting you in it, though."

He leaned closer, his breath hitting your mouth, the beeping of the monitor growing louder as his heart rate spiked. The scent of hospital disinfectant was faint against the sudden heat of his proximity, the warmth of his palm searing through the thin fabric of your pants. His thumb pressed harder into your thigh, as if anchoring himself there, and his voice came out in a low rumble.

"Maybe it’s the threat of somebody walking in," he murmured, his lips tilting in that infuriating smirk. "Adrenaline’s a better rush than morphine, angel."

“I’m not fucking you in a hospital, Rafe.” Your voice was flat, deadpan, not budging an inch even as he leaned in slightly like he thought he could charm his way through heart monitors and IV lines. Your brow arched in mock boredom, feigning nonchalance like you weren’t acutely aware of how close he was, or how his gaze lingered too long on your mouth every time you spoke.

You didn’t move back. Didn’t need to. He was the one tethered to wires and machines, and you were the one making his heart rate stutter with every calm, teasing word. You tilted your head, letting your eyes flick slowly over his face, deliberately lazy in the way you studied him.

“How would that even work?” you murmured, softer this time, your tone shifting—mischief laced into every syllable. You leaned in, just a little, the corners of your mouth tugging upward as you caught the way his monitor spiked again, a telltale rhythm you didn’t need a medical degree to interpret.

“I mean,” you added, almost too thoughtfully, like you were really considering it, “unless you’re into dangerously public, half-conscious near-death experiences. In which case—we should probably unpack that when you’re not attached to an EKG.”

The monitor's rhythm spiked again, betraying the way his breath caught in his throat as you leaned in, your words hitting their mark. His mouth twitched, struggling to hide a smirk even as his heart skipped. His grip on your thigh tightened, fingers digging in almost as a reflex.

"Dangerous? Baby, I’m always down to unpack my daddy issues in the most wildly inappropriate way possible. But…" he paused, his voice dropping, rougher now. "You gonna be the one stuck explaining to the nurses why my pulse is going into cardiac arrest while they’re on break?"

"Okay but, how would that work?" you asked again grimacing in amusement and curiosity.

He snorted, a low, almost wicked chuckle escaping him. His thumb pressed a slow, deliberate circle into your thigh, palm still pressed firmly against your skin. The thought of it, of doing something so reckless in a place where he was tethered to machines and beeping monitoring instruments, was both stupid and undeniably thrilling, and he had never been good at resisting the urge to test boundaries.

"Where there’s a will," he murmured, voice low, gaze flicking to the door, "and a hospital bed with built-in handrails… there’s a way."

"You’re actually serious," you said slowly, blinking at him like you were still trying to make sense of whether he was joking or just deeply unhinged. There was a pause, one filled with disbelief and faint amusement, your eyes narrowing slightly as you studied his face—like the answer might be etched into the lazy curve of his mouth or the glint behind his heavy-lidded stare.

His expression didn’t change much, if at all. That was the part that got to you. He wasn’t smirking the way he usually did when he was baiting you into snapping at him or storming off. He looked almost unbothered. Like he really thought the two of you could get away with something like that here—surrounded by antiseptic, cold fluorescent lights, a heart monitor still chiming at steady intervals, and nurses roaming just beyond the thin hospital walls.

“You’re not kidding,” you added, tone somewhere between amused and incredulous, your voice low as you leaned slightly forward, like proximity might help you figure out if he’d truly lost his mind or if this was just Rafe being Rafe—disaster disguised as charm, heat tucked inside recklessness. “You actually think this is the time and place to pull the ‘we’ve got tension to burn’ card?” you asked, a breath of laughter escaping you as you sat back again, shaking your head. “Jesus Christ, Cameron.”

He let out a soft, hoarse breath, his smirk widening at your reaction—the disbelief, the amusement. The way you looked at him like he’d lost his damn mind, and you still hadn’t moved a single inch. The fact that the thought of doing something so reckless in this sterile hellhole, with his heartbeat still racing like a junkie’s, made his blood run hotter than a normal person’s should.

"Think you’re doubting my creativity, angel," he murmured, thumb still tracing circles on your thigh, eyes dark and burning as they flicked to the door.

You bit the inside of your cheek, suppressing the flicker of heat that crawled up your neck at the nickname, at the way his thumb kept moving like he had all the time in the world—and not a damn IV still attached to his arm. You should’ve pulled away. You should’ve rolled your eyes and told him he was out of his mind. But instead, your thighs pressed a little tighter together where you sat, a reflex you hoped he didn’t catch, though you knew damn well he did.

“Creativity’s not the issue,” you murmured, voice just above a whisper, your gaze following his to the door for a second, just long enough to feel the weight of what he was implying. You looked back at him, heat dancing behind your eyes as you leaned in slightly, hovering just close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek. “I just don’t think you’d survive a round with me in your condition,” you added, smirking faintly, letting the challenge hang in the air between you. “Might flatline for real this time.”

You tapped the monitor lightly with your finger, the beeping still erratic but steady—mocking the way your own pulse started to climb.

His pulse spiked as you leaned in, the monitor’s steady rhythm skipping with a sharp uptick at the sound of your voice, low and challenging, a hint of that smirk tugging at his own lips. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on your thigh—a reflex he couldn’t control—and he exhaled slowly, his tone lowering to match yours, the heat in his gaze intensifying.

"Sweetheart, I’ve survived worse than you. I’m not scared of a little cardio."

You didn’t mean to breathe in so slow, didn’t mean to let your lashes lower the way they did as his words hit—sharp, cocky, completely inappropriate considering the location and the context. But god, he was infuriating. And warm. And stupidly charming in that reckless, firestarter kind of way that always got under your skin when it shouldn’t. Your eyes flicked down to where his hand gripped your thigh a little tighter, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. You knew better than to entertain it. Knew better than to let that look in his eyes unravel something in you. But he made it impossible not to—especially when he looked at you like that. Like you were a dare. Like you were the sweetest sin in reach.

You let the silence stretch, just for a second longer than necessary—because you could feel the anticipation thick between you, like molasses in the summer heat—and you liked watching him squirm beneath all that cocky bravado. His breath faltered just barely, just once, and it gave you the smallest high.

Then you leaned in close enough for your nose to almost brush his, your voice low and sweet and laced with trouble.

"If you die with my name in your mouth, Cameron, I’m haunting you."

Your fingers slid up over his wrist, featherlight, deliberate. Not quite giving in, but not pulling away either. His skin was still warm despite the chill of the hospital room, and you swore you could feel his pulse beneath your fingertips—racing, eager, like it was daring you to keep going.

"And if I so much as hear a nurse coming," you murmured, your gaze dragging slowly from his mouth to his eyes, "I’m letting you explain exactly why your heart rate’s off the charts." You tilted your head slightly, lips ghosting by his ear now, barely brushing. He smelled like antiseptic, faint sweat, and something distinctly him that you couldn't quite name—but you hated how much you liked it.

“Try not to be too loud, hm?” you added, voice like silk over broken glass. Your hand rested just above his, your thigh still pressed under his touch, and you let your smirk bloom—slow and mean and dangerously amused. “Or do. I’m sure Sarah would love to come back early and hear what kind of recovery exercises you’re into.”

You didn’t move away. Didn’t back off. You just let him sit in the tension of it, let it wrap tight around his lungs like a vice, daring him to close the distance first.

His breath hitched as you leaned into him, the heat of your body searing into his own, your proximity dizzying and dizzying. The monitor's rhythm spiked sharply with each beat, giving away how badly his heart was pounding, no doubt setting records in the process. His lips twitched into a smirk that was all teeth and zero grace, his eyes dark and daring.

"Angel, you’ve got no idea the kind of exercise I’m capable of even flat on my back. And as for Sarah? She’d probably start taking notes."

You bit back a laugh, biting your bottom lip instead, though it didn’t help much with the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. His voice was low and cocky, all smooth filth wrapped in rasp and adrenaline, and the image he painted only made it worse—made your chest tighten with a mix of disbelief and that unmistakable, dangerous heat that only he seemed to spark.

“You’re disgusting,” you whispered, your voice breathy with amusement, like you didn’t actually mind one bit. Your nails grazed the inside of his wrist, slow and featherlight, a small retaliation for how smug he sounded. “Delusional too. You think I’m gonna fuck you while your father’s down the hall and your IV’s still in?”

You shook your head but didn’t move, didn’t inch away. In fact, your knee slid just a bit closer to his hip, your lips dangerously close to brushing his again. You saw the way his eyes tracked your mouth like it was a lifeline, saw the way he swallowed thickly like that smirk of his wasn’t fooling anyone.

“I mean…” you added, a wicked edge sneaking into your tone as your thumb traced a slow, taunting circle over the faint line of his waistband beneath the scratchy hospital blanket, “I could see how a girl might be tempted. You do look kinda hot with the whole tragic overdose thing going on.” You grinned, sharp and playful, and leaned in to murmur, “But I like my men conscious enough to beg.”

Then you let the silence stretch again, your mouth barely hovering over his, letting him feel the threat of a kiss you didn’t quite give, letting your breath ghost across his lips like a dare.

“Think you’ll be up for it by tonight, or do I have to schedule your next overdose for the weekend?”

He let the silence stretch, his own heartbeat filling the void, the monitor's beeping still erratic and sharp. The hospital lights flickered faintly overhead, casting strange shadows across his face as he held your eyes with an intensity that bordered on desperation. His thumb brushed your jaw, rough and trembling, like he was holding back some fierce, wild thing—and losing the fight.

"Christ, woman… you gonna actually kiss me or is this just another goddamn mind game with that pretty mouth of yours?"

You didn’t hesitate—your fingers curled beneath his jaw, thumb brushing over the bruise blooming on his cheekbone as you leaned in and caught his mouth with yours. It was soft for half a second—tentative, almost uncertain—but that vanished the moment you felt him respond, his lips parting under yours like he’d been starving for it, for you. A breath escaped from your chest like it had been trapped there all day, caught somewhere between panic and want.

This was insane.

Less than ten hours ago you’d been pacing a sterile waiting room, wondering if his overdose would be the last thing you ever heard about him. And now you were here—kissing him like it was second nature, like nothing else existed beyond the way his hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer with a low, strangled sound lodged deep in his throat.

Rafe Cameron had always had a way of undoing you, unpeeling the carefully built walls of hate and snide remarks until all that was left was the heat. The tension. The reckless pull neither of you could name out loud. You thought burying your heartbreak in him would be a one-time mistake, something to drown out the aching echo of JJ and Kiara. But the mistake had festered—had grown legs and teeth and need. And now it was kissing you back like he’d die if you pulled away.

Your hands were in his hair, pulling just enough to make him hiss through his teeth, his tongue tracing your bottom lip with that same cocky desperation that always made you weak. You barely noticed the wires and IV lines anymore, not with the way his hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers burning hot against your skin.

The heart monitor was losing its mind beside you, the high-pitched beep a giveaway that should’ve made you stop—but it didn’t. If anything, it made you kiss him harder, made you climb onto the bed, straddling his hips with a kind of quiet urgency you weren’t ready to name. His mouth broke from yours only to trail down your jaw, teeth grazing your pulse as you gasped, hands gripping his shoulders to steady yourself.

“Careful,” he rasped against your skin, voice wrecked and breathless, his smirk practically audible. “You’re gonna flatline me for real.”

You laughed—soft, disbelieving, drunk on adrenaline and heat—and kissed him again, deeper this time, like you didn’t care who was outside that door or how messed up everything was. Because right now, none of it mattered. Not your heartbreak, not his overdose, not the arrangement you both pretended wasn’t turning into something far more complicated.

Right now, it was just you and Rafe, tangled up in the chaos you created together.

The monitor was screaming now—sharp, rapid notes that vibrated with each frenzied beat. Your hands slid beneath his flimsy gown, exploring the muscles of his chest, the heat of his skin nearly scorching beneath your palms. The hospital lights seemed to flicker and dim, the room around you both a blur of antiseptic and adrenaline as the kiss turned filthy and desperate.

He groaned into your mouth, his hands moving to your hips, grip bruising as he rocked against you, his voice a shattered whimper muffled by your lips.

"Don't stop. Don't— god, don't stop."

His breathing was ragged, almost labored now, the sound of his shallow gasps matching the erratic rhythm of the monitor as he clutched your hips—fingers digging in so hard he was almost shaking. His mouth dragged wet kisses along your jaw, your neck, his voice a mix of urgency and fever. His voice trembled, ragged and unguarded.

"You’re— f-fuck—" he panted, his words breaking as he dragged you impossibly closer, heart hammering wildly under your palm. The monitor whined sharply, like a panicked alarm in the background.

“You’re stupid.” You finished his sentence with a scoff, but the edge of it was breathless, all heat and tension as your hips hovered just inches above his lap. You weren’t sure if you were trying to protect him or protect yourself, but the hesitation didn’t match the way your fingers curled tighter in his hair, tugging hard enough to drag a sharp breath from his throat. There was something dangerous about how gently you were treating him and how rough you were holding on—as if your body was at war with itself, unsure whether to cradle or devour him.

Rafe’s eyes fluttered for a second, not in pain, but because you looked at him like you were trying not to fall apart. His smirk faltered just slightly, like he wanted to say something smug but didn’t have the air left to manage it. His hands gripped your waist, firm but not pushing—guiding, like he needed to feel that you were real. That this was happening. That you were here, in his hospital bed, straddling him like he wasn’t one second away from falling apart again. You weren’t letting him fall apart. Or maybe you were both unraveling, and pretending it was still casual was easier than admitting what this really was.

“If you’re gonna talk shit,” he rasped, voice low and husky against your mouth, “at least commit to it while you're riding me.”

And maybe you should’ve been more careful, more thoughtful, more anything. But instead, you shifted your weight, finally letting yourself sink onto him, just slightly, just enough to make his breath stutter—and yours catch right along with it. Even if technically you were still clothed.

His eyes blew wide, a ragged groan tearing from his throat as your weight settled against him. The bed creaked, his hips jerking upward reflexively, the hospital sheets twisting around them both as his head fell back against the pillow. His chest heaved, the monitor's rhythm now a frantic, erratic crescendo.

"F-Christ," he gasped, his voice cracking, "This… this can’t be real, I’m actually halluc—hnghhh—" His head lolled back, his words dissolving into a low, guttural groan.

His fingers dug into your thighs, hips rolling upward—slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the friction and the contact even as the heart monitor screamed in protest. His teeth grazed your collarbone, your pulse fluttering violently under the scrape, his own pulse racing to match.

"Careful," he muttered against your skin, one hand slipping up your spine to curl around the back of your neck, dragging you closer, breath hot. "Still need… t'breathe…"

“Not a hallucination,” you muttered, lips brushing his, your breath fanning against his mouth as you dove back in, desperate and rushed, like kissing him could drown out the chaos spiraling in your head. It was reckless. It was impulsive. It was so Rafe. The kiss wasn’t tender—there was nothing soft about it. It was messy, laced with frustration and need, your hands sliding into his hair, anchoring yourself there like you were afraid he’d vanish if you let go.

There was a voice in the back of your mind, the only sane part of it still functioning, screaming for you to stop—reminding you that he was in a hospital bed, that he nearly died, that his sister could walk in any second with his clothes and find you straddling her brother like some deranged porno cliche. That his father, of all people, could appear with one knock and a disapproving stare that might actually end you. But none of it stuck long enough to matter. Not with the way he kissed you back like he needed it to survive. Like this was more than just lust or bitterness or some fucked-up coping mechanism.

Rafe let out a low, strained groan into your mouth, and his grip on your waist tightened, his fingers pressing hard into your hips like he was daring you to move, even a little. Even as your knees dug into the mattress on either side of him, careful not to press too hard into his sides, you felt the tension simmering under his skin. His chest was still faintly trembling, and you hated that you noticed it. Hated that it made you slow down just enough to pull back an inch and stare at him.

“Tell me to stop,” you whispered, breath catching in your throat as your thumb ghosted across his cheek. “Say the word and I’ll get off.”

His breath hitched, pupils blown wide as he stared up at you, his thumbs rubbing frantic circles into your hips like he couldn't decide whether to push you away or pull you closer. The monitor beeped wildly in the background, a frantic counterpoint to his own fractured breathing.

"Stop," he murmured hoarsely, voice trembling—then his lips crashed against yours again, his hands sliding to your lower back to yank you flush against him, hips bucking upward. A low, shuddering groan escaped his throat. "Don’t. Don’t you dare stop."

“You just said—” The words barely left your lips before you gave up on them entirely, leaning back in, lips crashing against his with more heat than logic. It was messy and fast and selfish, all tongue and teeth, a frantic kind of kiss that came from something deeper than lust—something raw, like fear and relief twisted together. Your hands slid down his shoulders, pushing him back into the pillows with more care than you meant to show, silently pleading for him to stop moving so much, to stop trying to meet you halfway when he was still strapped to machines and barely a few hours out of hell.

There was no rhythm to any of it. No slow burn. Just urgency. A need to feel something else, to get lost in something you knew—Rafe’s mouth, his hands, the heat rolling off his skin. You kissed him like you were trying to forget the look of him pale and unconscious, and he kissed you like he was trying to forget the weight of his own failure. His fingers gripped your hips like he didn’t care if he got caught, like he didn’t care that this was reckless and loud and borderline insane.

Your breath hitched as he moved against you again, and you pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “You just said stop.”

His breath was ragged and uneven when your lips left his, his hips still instinctively rocking upward like he was desperate to have you back. The monitor beside the bed was shrieking at a full-out, shrill alarm now, but you could barely hear it over the drumming of your heartbeat against his chest.

"I lied," he rasped, "Now get back here before I die for real."

"This is a shitty hospital, with even shittier staff," you muttered, breathless against his mouth, your words brushing his lips as you pulled back just enough to catch your breath. Your fingers fumbled with the zipper of your hoodie, dragging it down just slightly, exposing the swell of your chest and the thin strings of the bikini top you were still wearing—the same one you had on when you drove him here in a panic, heart in your throat, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

You scoffed softly, the sound laced with disbelief as your eyes flicked toward the heart monitor. The numbers were climbing, spiking, flat-out screaming that something was happening. Something intimate. Something reckless. “Your heart monitor is going crazy and no one's busting through the door to check up on you.” You looked back at him then, expression wry and amused despite the tension in your limbs. “We could be murdering each other and no one would even blink.”

The joke was there, hanging loosely between your panting breaths and the heat simmering in the tiny hospital room. But your tone dipped—low, dark, laced with something that wasn’t just lust. It was challenge. Temptation. The urge to pull him under all over again. And from the way his fingers were digging into your hips, you knew he felt it too.

His eyes tracked the way your hoodie slipped down your shoulders, a sharp, ragged breath catching in his chest. His pulse spiked, sweat beading at his temples as the machines beside you screamed in alarm. But he was focused on the way your skin felt under his palms—hot, alive, still clinging to the faint coconut scent of the sunscreen he’d smelled earlier. The hospital gown he was wearing did nothing to mask the heat and hardness of him against your thigh, the flimsy fabric doing nothing to shield him from the hunger in your eyes.

"Christ, you are going to get us murdered."

Your hand dipped down between your bodies, eyes still locked on his flushed, blown-out expression as your fingers patted blindly over the thin fabric of the hospital gown. When you finally found him—hot, hard, and straining beneath the useless cotton of his gown—your lips curled into something between a smirk and a scoff, equal parts amused and aroused. You pressed your palm against him fully, teasing, slow, feeling the twitch that followed your touch.

"You're this hard over the thought of having felonious sex?" you murmured, voice low and thick with disbelief, like you couldn’t decide if you wanted to laugh or moan. Your thumb dragged lazily along his length, still through the boxers, and you leaned in closer, letting your breath ghost along his jaw. “You realize this is probably illegal. Immoral. Borderline psychotic, right?”

Your tone was laced with amusement, but your hand didn’t stop—just squeezed a little tighter, a little slower, as if daring him to say it out loud. Daring him to admit he wanted it anyway. And from the wild pace of the heart monitor and the tension buzzing beneath his skin, you already knew the answer.

His hips pressed upward reflexively against your hand, his head falling back against the pillows with a soft, breathless laugh that turned into a shaky gasp. His hands found your hips again, grip bruising, as if the contact was the only thing anchoring him to earth while the monitor screamed in protest beside them.

"I’m—hnghh—pretty sure they don’t list reckless hospital hookups in the Ten Commandments," he managed to spit out through gritted teeth, a half-hysterical grin cracking across his face. "But I’ll pay your bail. Promise."

His eyes fluttered shut, his breathing growing ragged as the heart monitor's frantic rhythm matched the pace of your hand against him. Every touch, every press of your palm had him unraveling further, the heat between your bodies like a live wire. His hands roamed your skin, sliding up your back, dragging your body closer as if he could fuse you together and end this agony of wanting you. The heart monitor's screech spiked, a shrill reminder of the danger of this—of wanting you this desperately when his own body was still a mess of tubes and bandages.

"Don't cum yet." you murmured, your voice just barely above a whisper, low and commanding as your hand slipped beneath the gown and into his boxers. You wrapped your fingers around him fully, the heat of him pulsing in your palm as you moved with slow, deliberate strokes—purposeful, unhurried, like you wanted to drag it out just to punish him.

Your forehead pressed against his, breath mingling with his shallow ones, the closeness almost too much to bear. You squinted into the dim hospital room, eyes flicking down instinctively as if trying to catch a glimpse of your hand around him, half hidden by flimsy fabric and shadows. The rhythm of the monitor behind you ticked higher with every passing second, a sharp, steady reminder of how dangerously close this all was—how alive he was under your hands, how much control you held in this exact moment.

"I swear to God, Rafe, if you come before I say so—" you started, voice strained and breathless, more threat than plea, but the growing slickness of your strokes betrayed your own restraint cracking too.

His mouth fell open in a silent gasp, the sound of his name from your lips like a plea and a curse all at once as he arched his hips upward in a futile search for more touch—more friction, more you. His grip on your hips tightened, nails digging into your skin like he was holding on for dear life, as if letting go would shatter the fragile high he was chasing, one far more intoxicating than anything he'd ever snorted or swallowed. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one stuttering out of him like a confession, catching in his throat with every slow, deliberate drag of your hand along his length.

The heart monitor spiked again, the rhythmic beeping climbing to a shrill pitch that matched the pulse he felt hammering in every vein. He knew he should tell you to stop, that this was insane, that if someone walked in they’d probably sedate him and drag you out—but his body was louder than his brain, and your touch drowned out the rest of the world anyway.

"Fuck—" he choked, voice raw and hoarse as his hips jerked again, but you held him steady, pushing down harder on his pelvis with your free hand to keep him in place like he was some wild thing you were taming. Your forehead pressed firmer against his as your eyes locked, breathing the same stale hospital air and somehow still managing to make it feel heavy with heat. You looked like you were studying him—his flushed cheeks, the twitch in his jaw, the way his eyes flickered from yours down to your lips and back again.

And still, your hand didn’t falter. If anything, you tightened your grip, twisting your wrist just slightly as you dragged your palm up the underside of him, deliberately slow, like you wanted him to feel every second of it. You watched the way his brows pinched and his mouth parted again, the way his body tensed under yours like he was seconds from falling apart.

"You’re gonna make a mess," you whispered, voice low and warm and sinful as your thumb circled his tip, teasing. "And you’re gonna thank me for it."

His chest heaved with every ragged gasp, the heart monitor’s rhythmic warning screaming behind him, the sound of your voice in his ear making his pulse spike all over again. The way you commanded his body with touches that were both sinful and divine left him dizzy, the heat pooling beneath his ribs threatening to erupt like a wildfire.

His fingers found the messy curls at the nape of your neck and tugged, dragging your face closer until your mouths nearly crashed together in a clash of desperation and hunger. His voice came out in a groan more than words, rough and desperate. "Do it, then. Make me lose my fucking mind."

That was all the permission you needed. You shifted back just enough to unbutton your denim shorts, the stiff fabric tugging awkwardly as you shimmied them down your thighs in the cramped space between his body and the rails of the bed. It was clumsy, ungraceful, your movements rushed and frantic. You didn’t bother kicking them all the way off—just enough to pull your underwear to the side and climb back over him, the air between your legs already hot and damp with everything you were feeling and refusing to name.

Rafe watched you like he was hallucinating all over again, his hands itching at your thighs like he wanted to help but couldn't move fast enough. His breath came in short, shallow bursts, chest rising and falling beneath your palm as you steadied yourself. You reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around him again to guide him to your entrance. The second his tip brushed against you, slick and aching, you both exhaled like it was the first breath in hours.

You sank down onto him slowly, every inch drawing a guttural sound from his throat, his hands flying up to grip your hips like a lifeline. The stretch burned in the best way possible, the position awkward but grounding, the high-pitched beeping of the monitor spiking in time with your movement. Neither of you acknowledged it.

He threw his head back, eyes squeezed shut, a string of curses falling from his lips as you settled fully onto him. It wasn’t graceful—it wasn’t meant to be. You both moved like people starved, like the day had unraveled something deep and frayed inside you that only this could stitch back together, even if it didn’t last.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, hands sliding up to your waist like he didn’t know whether to hold you tighter or worship you. His gaze flicked up to your face, flushed and focused, and the corner of his mouth tugged up even as his breath faltered. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smirked, breathless, fingers curling around the edge of the headboard behind him for leverage as you rolled your hips. The sound he made was somewhere between a moan and a prayer. “You’ll die happy,” you murmured, half-joking, half-maddened with want.

And as you found your rhythm, the creaking of the hospital bed mixing with the frenzied monitor and the sound of skin on skin, nothing else mattered. Not the beeping, not the hallway, not the fact that this was the most reckless, fucked-up thing either of you could’ve done. It was just him. Just you. And the fire you couldn’t stop stoking.

Your movements were frantic, reckless, as you rode him with a desperation that left no room for breath, let alone words. But even his own breathless gasps couldn’t drown out the sound of the monitor—the steady, insistent shrieking that pulsed in time with the building pressure in his core.

His eyes locked with yours, wild and unblinking, and he tried to form words between thrusts—to tell you to slow down, to take it easy, to be gentle. But the words died on his tongue, replaced by a keening sound that teetered between pain and relief.

His calloused hands slid up your thighs, fingertips digging into your skin like he was anchoring himself to the only steady thing in this world. Your name burst from his throat in a broken, ragged moan—equal parts plea and worship—as he surged upward, meeting your frantic rhythm with equal passion, no thought for finesse or finesse.

The hospital bed shook beneath you both, the shrill, erratic rhythm of the monitor finally matching the pulse racing beneath his ribs. A broken laugh escaped him, breathless and wild, tinged with a manic edge. "You’re insane. We’re both insane."

"It was…" you started, but the words stumbled and caught in your throat, lost in the effort to stay quiet and the full-bodied concentration it took to keep him buried deep inside you without faltering. "It was your fucking idea, not mine. I’m just—getting corrupted here," you finally breathed out, the sentence tangled and rushed, barely making it past your lips as your pace picked up again. The obscene sounds filling the sterile room—slick, needy, desperate—only spurred you on, drawing a deep, guttural groan from his throat as your hips rocked into him.

Your grip on the bedframe tightened, knuckles white as the other hand slid up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone. His hands alternated between gripping your hips with bruising intensity and sliding up to your chest, fingers dragging over the exposed curve of your breast where your hoodie had fallen open, nails grazing your skin like he wanted to memorize the feel of it. Your eyes dropped down between your bodies, your breath catching as you watched the way he disappeared inside you over and over again, the slick mess you were both making only adding fuel to the fire crawling up your spine.

"I’ve never been more wet in my entire life," you confessed in a low, wrecked voice, a shiver of disbelief laced through the admission. It wasn’t a line. It wasn’t something to make him lose it—it was the truth. Raw and unfiltered, just like every breath you shared between the frantic kisses and trembling exhales.

Rafe let out a strangled sound that was half laugh, half moan, the cords of his neck straining as his head fell back against the pillow. "That’s 'cause you love being bad," he rasped, eyes meeting yours with a feverish gleam. "Just needed the right fucking reason."

You clenched around him involuntarily at his words, the pressure curling low and fast in your stomach, that reckless, overwhelming tension building to the point of no return. His fingers dug deeper into your thighs, pulling you down harder, deeper, chasing that brutal, perfect rhythm as if this was the last time either of you would ever get to feel it.

And maybe it was. But in that moment, nothing else existed. Not the smell of antiseptic, not the heart monitor blaring at your pace, not the ghosts of everything unspoken. Just this: your bodies tangled in a hospital bed, both wrecked in entirely different ways, clinging to the only thing that still felt alive.

His own breath came in shaky, frantic whimpers, eyes wild and unfocused as he watched you ride him with an intensity that bordered on violent. The slap of skin echoed in the air, sharp and obscene, drowning out the screams of the monitor—or maybe he just didn’t care to hear it anymore. He thrust upward to meet your movements, the hospital bed groaning beneath you both, and the words tore themselves from his throat through gritted teeth. "You’re ruining me." His voice was raw and ragged, torn apart with want.

His thumbs dug into your hips—a silent plea to slow the punishing pace as his breath hitched, the rhythm becoming erratic. The monitor’s tempo quickened, a shrill, erratic hum. His head swam with the heat, the oxygen-deprived frenzy, the dizzying high he chased toward.

A broken laugh spilled from between his lips despite the way his chest trembled with shallow breaths. "Christ, we’re gonna get—ahh— caught. ”

Your gaze snapped to his, the sharp rise of your brows echoing the storm of pleasure and irritation flashing across your face. The rhythm of your hips faltered for just a second, breath catching in your throat as you steadied yourself enough to speak. "So be quiet then," you hissed, voice low but scolding, like it wasn’t your fault he couldn't keep it together. Your fingers wrapped around his jaw, firm and demanding, thumb grazing just beneath his lip as your eyes locked on his, wide and unrelenting—expectant. Daring him to defy you.

He looked up at you like he might, like he’d throw something cocky right back in your face—but then he saw the fire burning in your expression, the intensity barely held together by the thin thread of control you were clinging to. His mouth parted slightly under your grip, a heavy breath slipping past his lips, but he didn’t speak. Not with words, at least.

You didn’t wait for a promise or a nod—you just resumed the motion of your hips, slower this time, deliberate, grinding down against him in a way that made his eyelids flutter and his back arch off the mattress. You kept your hand on his face, holding him there, making him feel it. Making him watch you fall apart around him all over again.

"Good," you muttered, barely audible over the harsh breaths filling the space between you. "You’re prettier like this anyway."

The praise hit him like a punch, his body tensing beneath you as he bit back a moan. His hips rolled upward instinctively, chasing the friction even as his hands slid down to grip your waist—a fleeting struggle between need and control. But the monitor’s shrill scream was a constant reminder of where they were, and his breathing stuttered erratically as he met your slower pace. His jaw tensed under your grip, eyes never leaving yours as you rode him, his fingers flexing against your hips like he needed to anchor himself to something real.

"Better shut me up then, or someone’s gonna come in.."

He fought to keep the sounds trapped in his throat, chest heaving as his trembling hands gripped your hips harder. The heart monitor screamed louder, as if mocking his struggle to stay under your control. His eyes flinched toward the door before snapping back to your face, a ragged groan escaping as his hips jerked upward wildly against yours—a reckless, desperate plea without words. He could feel himself unraveling, the heat pooling low in his gut, but the threat of someone walking in only heightened the thrill.

"You're the one whimpering like a bitch in heat at the thought of someone walking in…" you bit out between ragged breaths, your voice strained with the effort it took to keep your moans low. Your words came out slurred, not from lack of intent, but from the pleasure starting to get the best of you. Still, the taunt landed exactly how you wanted it to—cutting and breathless.

Your gaze didn’t leave the mess of your bodies, focused intently on the way his trembling hand alternated between scrabbling for your thigh, gripping tight enough to leave marks, and fumbling lower, desperate to find your clit. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to anchor you to him or pull you further apart. Every time his fingers brushed the right spot, your body jolted, rhythm faltering for just a second before you picked up the pace again with a curse under your breath.

The slick sound of you moving against him was absolutely filthy, echoing off the sterile hospital walls like you were taunting fate itself. You could feel how close he was in the way his muscles locked under your hands, the way he couldn’t even look at you without his breath hitching. Your fingers dug into his chest as you rocked faster, trying to chase your own release even if it meant dragging him with you at full force.

"Fucking pathetic," you gasped, the insult laced with something far more sinful than cruelty, your smirk barely held together as your moans grew shakier. "You’re lucky I’m not the one who scares easy."

His laughter was a choked, fractured thing, almost lost beneath the sound of your bodies moving together. His fingers gripped your hips almost violently, the line between pain and pleasure blurred beyond recognition as he clung to you like a lifeline. The edges of his vision blurred, his mind consumed by the heat between you, the sharp, desperate rhythm building to a crescendo. The words you spoke dug into him like a blade, sharp and biting, and he let out a raw, guttural sound that bordered on a shout—part moan, part prayer.

"You wanna— try—me?"

His gaze found yours in a sudden, sharp jerk of his chin, eyes wild and hungry and bordering on feral. He shifted under you, body trembling with the effort it took to sit up, his arms wrapping around your waist like manacles. He hauled you back until you were flush against his chest, your head falling back against his shoulder in a strangled gasp. His mouth closed in a hot, messy kiss against your neck, teeth grazing your skin in a way that sent a sharp bolt of heat straight to your core.

Your pace faltered when he yanked you down against his chest, your gasp swallowed by the heat of his skin as your mouth pressed against the curve of his shoulder. The sudden change in position made your breath catch, especially when his hands gripped your ass and started thrusting up into you—deep, purposeful, almost punishing. There was nothing gentle about it. Each snap of his hips had your moans breaking into fractured, muffled whimpers against his collarbone, your nails digging into his shoulder like you needed something to anchor you.

"Try you?" you breathed, half-laughing, half-moaning, the sound wrecked and breathless as you pulled back just enough to sneer into his neck. "What the hell are you gonna do, all strapped up to an IV and bed-ridden?" Your voice was defiant, teasing—but it cracked slightly at the end, betrayed by the pressure building low in your stomach and the wet slap of your bodies meeting. He could feel it—how your resistance was slipping, how much you wanted this, even while your words played the opposite role.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he shifted beneath you, adjusting his angle with a hiss through his teeth, forcing a strangled moan from your throat as he found the spot that made your thighs tremble around his hips. The rhythm got rougher, more frantic, the rustle of fabric and the creaking of the bed only half-drowned by the wailing of the heart monitor.

You buried your face in his neck again, teeth scraping over the sensitive skin there, one hand fisting in the sheets beside his head, the other planted over his heart like it might steady either of you. His heartbeat was racing—wild, reckless, unhinged beneath your palm. Like it didn’t care about stopping. Like it wanted to burn out on you.

"Still think I can't do anything?" he panted into your ear, voice thick with that dangerous edge you both knew too well. His hand slid between your bodies again, this time finding your clit with unsteady but determined fingers, and your body jerked above him, a shudder wracking your frame as the friction sent a jolt through your spine.

You barely managed a sound, hips stuttering again as your mouth hung open, eyes fluttering shut. Every part of you was hypersensitive—his voice, his heat, the way his body kept trying to outpace the limits it was under. It should’ve been pathetic, considering the circumstances. It should’ve been reckless, wrong. But it felt like everything you needed right then. Something to drown in. Something to want.

And fuck, you wanted.

He felt dizzy, his chest heaving beneath your palm like he didn’t have enough air in his lungs to keep his heart beating. The monitor was louder, almost screaming, but neither of you paid it any mind now. The sound was distant, forgotten, a steady rhythm that was no match for the erratic thunder he felt racing through his ribcage. His fingers stilled against your clit, his body tensing as his head fell back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut like he couldn’t handle looking at you any longer.

He looked wrecked.

His eyes opened, unfocused and wild, fixing you with a ragged look that was all heat, no clarity. He looked dizzy, undone, like he was teetering on the edge of losing control, of giving in. "Say it again," he rasped. "Say I look prettier like this."

The words hung sharp and needy in the air, your ragged breaths echoing between them. This was a different plea. A warning. You could feel how close he was, how hard he was holding on to the last threads of restraint. So you gave in. You didn’t have a choice.

Your mouth parted on a breathless sound, not quite a moan, not quite a laugh—something wrecked and fond and barely stitched together by lust. You leaned in closer, your lips brushing his jaw as your fingers tangled in his damp hair, tugging just enough to keep him looking at you, eyes locked even though his were half-lidded and glossy with pleasure.

"You look so fucking pretty like this," you whispered, slow and deliberate, voice like sin wrapped in silk. You dragged the words out just to watch what they’d do to him. And they worked—his entire body tensed beneath yours, a low, guttural sound catching in his throat like it hurt to hold it in. His jaw clenched, his hands gripping your hips like he needed something to anchor himself to the earth.

"Prettier than you deserve to look," you added, mouth ghosting over his cheekbone, "especially with me like this on top of you." Your nails scratched lightly down his chest, following the flush that bloomed hot and fast across his skin. His eyes fluttered shut for a second—just a second—but that second was enough for you to feel his restraint snap, his hips jerking up hard into you, the groan that tore from his throat unfiltered, raw.

"Fuck—" he hissed, as if the praise alone shattered something inside him. The way he held onto you shifted, no longer just grounded in desperation, but something close to reverence. Like your words had marked him in a way that left bruises invisible to the eye but not to the soul.

You kissed him then—open-mouthed, messy, uncoordinated—as his body started to stutter beneath yours, as if your voice had been the final push off that edge he’d been dangling over. And you didn’t stop. You chased every tremble in him with the drag of your hips, every fractured breath with something filthier whispered against his skin.

You meant every word. He really did look fucking pretty like this. And he was too far gone now to argue.

He didn’t hold back this time—he didn’t hold back anything. The sounds he let out were obscene. He didn’t care if they heard him, he didn’t care who heard him. All he could focus on was you. The way you felt beneath his fingers, the way you moved above him, the sound of your breath, your voice in his ear, telling him how good he was, making him feel like he was the only thing in this world worth existing for.

His fingers dug into your thighs so hard you felt like he was going to draw blood, but the flash of pain only sent more heat coursing through you. The way his breath hitched in his chest, the sound of your name tumbling from his lips in broken whimpers, was just enough to finish you off. You felt yourself falling apart with a strangled moan, your head dropped to his shoulder, body trembling with the force of it. And he was still moving against you, even as the wave started to slowly recede, as if he just couldn’t bring himself to stop just yet.

You could barely breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but hold on as he kept thrusting up into you—chasing that high like he needed it to live. His rhythm had lost any sense of control now, sloppy and urgent, all instinct and need. Your moan was still echoing in the sterile air of the hospital room, and his name was still caught somewhere in your throat, raw and sweet and soaked in aftershock. He was the one unraveling now, and you could feel it. In the way his hands trembled where they gripped you, in the way he buried his face in your neck and let out a groan that sounded more like a sob.

"Fucking—shit, angel—" he gasped, the words muffled against your skin. And then you felt him stiffen underneath you, a broken sound tearing from his throat as he came, hips jerking up into yours in shallow, frantic thrusts, chasing every last ounce of pleasure like he was scared it might disappear. You held him through it, body still twitching from the remnants of your own orgasm, nails dragging lightly down his back, whispering something you didn’t even know the meaning of against his ear—something like 'good', something like 'I’ve got you'.

He slumped back against the pillow, chest heaving, face flushed and lips parted in total ruin. The heart monitor was still beeping far too fast, still betraying every flutter of his pulse like it was trying to tattle on both of you. But neither of you moved. Not right away. You just sat there, still connected, your fingers brushing through his damp hair as your breathing slowly came back under control.

"Told you," he murmured eventually, voice hoarse and wrecked. "Still got it. Even flat on my back."

You let out a shaky laugh, forehead resting against his, but didn’t argue. Not yet. Not when your legs were still trembling and your heart was beating just as loud as his. Not when the taste of him was still on your tongue and the stupidest decision of your life still felt like the most intoxicating."We just had sex in a hospital room." you stated the obvious, trying to regulate your breathing enough to climb off.

He chuckled, the sound rough but somehow just as soothing, wrapping his arms around you like he couldn't bear to let go just yet. There was a vulnerability in his voice as he caught his breath, something raw and honest. "Didn't exactly have a lot of options here, did we?"

"There was only one option and it was not having sex in a public space where people come to get treated." you mumbled, forehead resting against his shoulder as you finally tapped his forearm, a silent request to release you so you could shimmy back into your shorts and get decent before Sarah showed up. Rafe let out a low, breathless laugh against your hair, chest still rising and falling like he’d run a marathon. His grip loosened on your hips slowly, almost reluctantly, like his body hadn’t caught up to the reality of what you were asking. “Yeah, well, he rasped, eyes fluttering shut as if even the thought of letting go was too much. “We didn’t exactly weigh all our options, did we?”

You sat up carefully, legs aching in that sore, satisfied way that made your heart thud with leftover adrenaline—and maybe just a touch of shame. You grimaced as you reached blindly for your shorts, fingers fumbling with the denim as you tried to make yourself presentable again. The sticky evidence of what you’d just done still clung to your thighs, making the act of pulling your clothes back on feel like a cruel joke.

Rafe watched you from under heavy lids, his gaze shameless as always. “You know,” he drawled slowly, voice wrecked but teasing, “for someone who was very against hospital sex, you were extremely committed once we started.”

You turned to glare at him over your shoulder, zipping your shorts up with more force than necessary. “Because someone,” you muttered, shooting him a pointed look, “can’t go five minutes without being a walking, talking bad idea.”

He just smirked, not even bothering to cover himself fully yet, looking all too pleased with himself even while tangled in hospital sheets and sweat. You pulled your hoodie back on and zipped it halfway, giving him one last look—the kind that warned him not to push his luck—before settling back down into the chair beside his bed, still flushed, still breathing a little too fast, but now trying to look like you weren’t falling apart from the inside out.

And right on cue, there were footsteps down the hall. You both froze. You glared at him again.

“Not a word,” you warned, and Rafe just grinned, letting his head fall back against the pillow like the bastard he was.

He watched as you shot him another glare, the smirk that had been on his face only growing wider and more infuriating. God, he loved it when you looked at him like that—like you wanted to punch him and kiss him and strangle him all at the same time. He let out a low, shaky chuckle, the sound still ragged and rough from all the sound he’d made just moments ago. "Don’t worry,” he rasped, “my lips are sealed.”

The door creaked open just as Rafe finished speaking, and your entire body went stiff in the chair, trying to school your face into something resembling casual boredom rather than post-orgasmic wreckage. Rafe’s smugness didn’t falter an inch—if anything, it deepened—while you reached up to smooth your hair, forcing yourself to sit back like you hadn’t just been fucking his brains out minutes ago.

"Knock knock," Sarah’s voice rang out in that half-sarcastic, half-sweet way she always used, and she stepped inside, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. "Wow, you look like shit," she told Rafe without missing a beat, dropping the bag at the foot of the bed. Her eyes swept over him, taking in the messy hair, the flush still high on his cheeks, and then flicked to you, brows lifting just slightly. "You look… less like shit. Which is shocking, honestly."

You gave her a tight smile, trying not to let your voice come out winded or shaky. "Thanks, Sarah. Always a pleasure."

She snorted. "Got your stuff. Hoodie, sweats, your gross sneakers. Figured you'd rather wear something that didn’t scream overdose victim." Her eyes didn’t linger long—thank god—and she didn’t seem to pick up on the weird tension still clinging to the air like smoke.

Rafe, for once in his life, said nothing.

Sarah turned back to him, finally noticing his silence. "What? You die again or something? You’re being weird."

"I’m on a spiritual journey," he rasped, eyes fluttering closed like he was genuinely reflecting on his near-death experience, hands folding over his chest. You choked on a laugh, and Sarah rolled her eyes.

"You’re a dumbass," she muttered, walking over to plop the bag onto the bedside table. "Anyway, dad’s in a meeting with hospital admin. He’ll be here soon. Thought I’d beat him to the punch and make sure you didn’t look like an unsupervised crime scene when he walked in."

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak without giving something away, while Rafe gave a half-assed thumbs-up. Sarah turned to leave, tossing one last glance over her shoulder.

"You two… good?" she asked, casual but just curious enough to make your stomach clench.

"Peachy," you said quickly, maybe too quickly.

"Never better," Rafe added, his voice smug again beneath the hoarseness.

Sarah gave a short laugh. "Okay, freaks." she looked between the two of you, lingering at the foot of the bed while Rafe shot you a look behind her back. Your eyes tracked her silhouette as she made her way across the room to the table further in the room, reaching for one the water bottles left there courtesy of the nurses.

You let out a breath, forcing yourself to relax as she took a few sips, the silence heavy in the room. You could feel the heat in the room, still thick with the aftermath of what you and Rafe had just done, could feel the dampness in your shorts and the flush still lingering across your skin beneath the hoodie.

Rafe’s eyes flicked from Sarah to you, something dark and hungry flashing in his gaze when he took in the way your chest still rose and fell a little too fast, the way you were avoiding his gaze. Then his gaze shifted back to Sarah, his expression casual and almost relaxed, like he already hadn’t been taking pictures of the memory of you in his head only minutes ago. He cleared his throat.

Sarah stopped mid-sip, turning back to give him a curious look, like she couldn’t quite reconcile the fact that he'd just gone for over a full minute without saying something offensive or obnoxious.

Rafe shifted against the pillows, fingers toying with the sheet in his lap. "So, uh, you heard anything about when I’m getting out of this shithole?" he asked, tone deliberately casual.

Sarah set the water bottle down, leaning against the table with her arms crossed. "Don’t be so dramatic. You’re basically on bed rest for, like, ten days or whatever. Then you’re home free, as long as you don’t immediately get yourself killed.”

He grunted. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll try not to overdose within the next ten days. No promises, though.”

Sarah rolled her eyes.

"I know you’re joking, but you’re not funny." she deadpanned, and he actually cracked a smile.

You watched their exchange in awkward silence, hands curled tight in your lap. It was surreal, hearing them talk like this. You’d gotten so used to them hating each other.

And then, just when you thought the tension might start to dissipate, Sarah redirected the spotlight back onto you with a disarming sort of casualness that made your spine straighten instantly. She leaned against the table, legs crossed at the ankle like she was lounging at brunch and not in the aftermath of a near-death experience.

"So," she started, her voice light—too light—“did you thank Y/N for… y’know?”

She trailed off, and her smile faltered just enough to show she realized the sentence carried more weight than she intended. Her eyes darted between you and Rafe, like she was picking up on something—something subtle, or maybe not so subtle—and trying to decide if she should push further or back off.

You didn’t dare look at Rafe. You could feel his body still radiating heat beside you, could still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin, the echo of everything that just happened thudding beneath your skin. The flush that was rising in your cheeks had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with being thrown under the bus.

Rafe, of course, didn’t make it easier. He let out a breath, almost a laugh, as he tilted his head slightly like he was trying to play it off.

"Yeah," he rasped, voice still ruined from earlier. “Thanks for the… ride.”

The way he said it made your skin crawl, because you could tell he was being smug without even looking at him. And Sarah, bless her, didn’t seem to pick up on the double entendre—or if she did, she didn’t let it show.

You forced a tight smile, swallowing hard as you avoided both of their eyes. “It was nothing. Just glad I got here in time.”

Sarah gave you a genuine, if slightly confused, nod. “Still. We all owe you. I don’t even want to think about what would've happened if you weren’t there.”

Rafe shifted beside you, and the mattress creaked under his movement. You finally dared a glance at him, catching the glint in his eye. It wasn’t teasing—not entirely. There was something else there. Quiet. Heavy. Unspoken.

He held your gaze for a moment, something almost gentle flashing in his gaze, like he was trying to say something without saying a word. The moment was broken by Sarah’s foot tapping the floor impatiently, and he tore his eyes away.

Sarah cleared her throat, eyeing the two of you with curious suspicion. She looked back at Rafe, shaking her head lightly.

"You’re lucky, you know.” she said to him, and then shot you a look.

Rafe chuckled. "Oh, I know," he murmured, that smirk back on his face. "Got a guardian angel.”

The comment made your spine tingle. It was almost sweet. Almost intimate. And it was far too much to unpack in front of Sarah, who was glancing between you like she had no idea what to make of it.

Sarah looked wryly between the two of you, her brows lifting just slightly as if, for the briefest moment, she'd caught the double entendre stitched neatly into the charged silence between your bodies. Her gaze narrowed with faint suspicion, scanning the room like it might offer up a confession neither of you were willing to voice. Then she laughed, light and pointed, brushing off the tension with a flip of her hand as she leaned back against the windowsill.

"Funny story," she said, cocking her head, "I passed by the nurses' station on the way back and one of them was joking about some weird sounds coming from one of the rooms. They think someone was having sex in the hospital…"

She trailed off with a chuckle, shaking her head as if the idea was so ludicrous it could only be laughed off.

Your laugh came out on cue—slightly too high-pitched, a little too sharp—as you fidgeted with the zipper of your hoodie, pulling it up just enough to cover the deep breath you took to keep your face neutral. You didn’t dare glance at Rafe, not with the way his stare was burning holes into the side of your face, not with the way you could still feel his touch like a phantom pressed into your skin.

"People are insane," you said finally, voice strained with false disbelief as you tucked your hair behind your ear and offered Sarah the most casual smile you could muster.

Sarah hummed in agreement, eyes still flicking between you and Rafe with a trace of skepticism lingering just beneath her grin.

"Yeah. Totally wild," she said, almost too slowly. Then she let it drop, pushing off the windowsill and heading for the chair beside the bed. "Anyway, I told them maybe it was just someone watching porn with the volume up. Poor guy might’ve just had a heart condition or something."

She dropped into the chair, crossing one leg over the other as she propped her elbows on the arms.

"But I mean, what kind of sicko would be in the mood to have sex in a hospital of all places?”

She let out another little disbelieving laugh, shaking her head like the whole idea was so insane that it didn’t even deserve being talked about.

You laughed again, trying to control your shaky breaths. The sound came out hoarse and forced, even to your own ears—and from the corner of your eye, you saw Rafe’s teeth sink into his bottom lip.

Sarah continued, oblivious. "I don’t know how the hell anyone could get turned on in a hospital. It's like the least sexy place on the planet.”

Rafe let out a low chuckle from his spot on the bed, shifting slightly against the pillows. "I dunno. I’m finding it pretty sexy in here right now.”

Usually, you would’ve rolled your eyes at Rafe’s crude comments—he had a long-standing habit of tossing out suggestive bullshit whenever you were around his sister, half to irritate her and half to rile you up. It was a game you’d learned to ignore, brushing off every innuendo with an unimpressed look or a sharp retort. But this time was different. This time, it felt like there was a neon sign blinking above your head in bold, blaring letters: I fucked Rafe Cameron in a hospital room.

You could feel it—flashing in red, angry and accusatory, illuminating every corner of your shame as Sarah’s eyes narrowed with something a little too perceptive.

You forced a scoff, leaned stiffly back in your chair, arms crossed tight across your chest like they could somehow shield you from the scrutiny. “Of course you do,” you muttered, deliberately dry, eyes flicking toward Rafe with a sharpness that clearly meant watch it.

And then, without missing a beat, you turned to Sarah, masking the heat prickling at the back of your neck with a casual shrug. “I was gone for a little while to get food, remember? Might’ve been your brother with one of his hookups. I actually saw some girl leave his room when I was coming back.”

You let the lie settle, sweet and venomous, your tone laced with the kind of practiced indifference that only made it more believable. “Looked like she couldn’t get out of here fast enough,” you added with a slight smirk, eyes locked on Sarah’s face instead of the storm brewing silently in Rafe’s expression.

Sarah let out a short laugh, raising her eyebrows.

"Right, of course. Probably just someone from around here trying to snag a sick millionaire." She rolled her eyes, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Although, I don’t think that’s the kind of action a sick millionaire should be getting anyway.”

You let out a short laugh, forcing the tension from your shoulders as you let your gaze drift lazily back to Rafe. He was glaring at you like he wanted to throw you into the next room and strangle you.

The glare was so sharp and hot it burned, and you knew your words were only going to get you in more trouble once Sarah left, but it was worth it for the way Sarah nodded in agreement.

"Not really a time to think with your dick,” she said with a snort, like she’d heard those words a million times before. “But then again, we are talking about my brother here, so.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, still staring daggers at you.

Sarah looked over at him, raising her eyebrows. “What? You can’t argue that I’m wrong.” She let out a short laugh, looking between him and you for a moment before shaking her head.

"But, you know what, you should probably focus on getting out of here first. And then finding some girl to hook up with."

He finally looked away from you, his glare settling back on Sarah. You exhaled quietly, feeling some of the tension leave your body.

"What makes you think I haven’t already?" Rafe drawled.

Sarah raised an eyebrow “Seriously? I’m sure a hospital full of sick and depressed people is just teeming with desperate girls.”

Rafe rolled his eyes for a second time. "Haven’t you heard? Chicks love a guy in pain.”

Sarah snorted derisively, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, maybe a guy in pain that they like. But I don’t think you’ve exactly been winning any popularity contests lately. I’m pretty sure you’ve pissed off every girl in this town."

Rafe leaned back against the pillow, scoffing. "Not every girl..."

"Yeah, the one who left your hospital room didn’t exactly look pissed off…” you chimed in, tone breezy as you examined your chipped nail polish like your stomach wasn’t currently folding in on itself. You didn’t dare look at him, not when the memory was still seared into your skin—him beneath you, hands clutching your thighs like a lifeline, mouth slack and gasping your name like it meant something.

It was meant to be teasing, a jab to throw him off, to claw back a shred of the upper hand. But all it did was trigger a visceral replay behind your eyelids—his voice, guttural and wrecked, the press of his mouth against your collarbone, the way he tasted when you kissed him like you were starving.

Your breath hitched before you could stop it, covered by the scratch of your thumbnail against a flake of polish. Less than twenty goddamn minutes. That was all the time that had passed since you were sinking down onto him in this very room, your hoodie shoved halfway off your shoulders, the heart monitor going berserk while you moaned into his neck and pretended like the world didn’t exist beyond the four sterile walls.

And now you were here—fully clothed, acting like nothing happened, with his sister three feet away and completely unaware of the wreckage still radiating off both your bodies.

You could feel him watching you. That low, smug heat that always simmered behind his eyes when he knew he got under your skin. And he had. He always did.

You crossed your legs tightly, blinking hard as you forced a smirk and added, “She looked… satisfied, if anything.”

There was a beat of loaded silence, the air shifting with a sudden tension as his eyes burned into your downcast face, tracking each tiny movement like a predator, picking up on the twitch in your fingers, the hitch in your breath, the flutter of your eyelashes. It wasn't lost on him. Nothing ever was.

Sarah looked between you, brows furrowed in slight confusion. She let out an airy laugh. "S-satisfied...?”

She let out another laugh, eyes flitting up to the heart monitor which was beeping rhythmically.

"No way. That’s a little much for the hospital, don’t you think?” She shook her head in mock disbelief, eyeing Rafe’s smug face and then turning back to you for confirmation. Except you couldn’t look away from the heart rate monitor.

The beeping of the monitor filled the room, almost loud enough to cover the thumping of your own racing heart. You could feel his eyes on you, like the memory of it all was playing in his head, like he was watching all of it unfold across the room.

The silence was heavy, like the whole room was somehow picking up on the charged energy between the two of you, when in reality, it was only you and Rafe aware of the heat and tension crackling through the air.

Then Sarah broke the silence—thank god—with an eye roll and a scoff, standing up from her chair like she was suddenly tired of the strange mood that had settled over the room.

"You never change," she said, shooting one last look at him before shifting her attention to you. "I'll be back tomorrow. Try and stay out of trouble." Her eyes flicked over to Rafe, one eyebrow raised. "And do not, repeat, do not get yourself arrested—or worse, into another hospital bed."

The door clicked shut behind Sarah and with it, the last buffer of normalcy vanished. The silence that settled wasn’t comfortable—not like relief or calm—but something tighter, heavier. You could feel it snake back in immediately, wrapping itself around your spine and tugging.

Rafe still hadn’t looked at you, but his chest was moving just a little too fast for someone trying to act unaffected. You could tell he was doing the same thing you were—replaying it. All of it. The taste of each kiss, the rhythm of your hips, the reckless desperation that got tangled in his sheets and now in your thoughts.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t know what to say.

The air felt thick with everything you weren’t acknowledging. Your hoodie was still rumpled, half-zipped over your bikini, and your thighs were pressed tightly together like that might erase the way you still felt him. Rafe finally shifted, dragging a hand over his face like it might clear the look from his eyes—the one that said he was still there, in that moment with you.

He tilted his head slightly, finally glancing at you, and the eye contact was a hit to the chest. Not mocking or smug like it usually was, not even playful—just raw, wrecked, and unreadable.

His voice came low, rough-edged. “You’re not gonna say anything?”

You blinked, pulse spiking. “About what? The thing we just did or the fact that it was probably a new personal low?”

He smirked slightly at that, lifting his head off the pillow. “It was probably a new personal high for me, if you want to be specific.”

You forced your jaw to stay slack, keeping the shock from your face. “Why am I not surprised,” you deadpanned, trying to ignore the rush of heat that flared all too quickly in your body at the memory. “Add it to the list of things to regret then, I guess.”

He let out a low laugh, the sound almost lazy. “The only thing I’m regretting is not doing it sooner.”

You sighed, long and exhausted after the day you had, eyes fluttering closed and lolling your head back against the hospital chair.

"Great, I'm happy we had this educational talk.." you muttered, voice quieter than you'd meant it to be, bringing your knees up to your chest on the chair, arms wrapping around them like you were trying to physically fold in on yourself.

When Sarah had been in the room, you’d been too focused on acting normal—on pretending you weren’t still flushed and wrecked and vibrating from what had happened minutes before. Now that she was gone, the silence didn’t bring relief. It made the tension heavier, thicker. And it wasn’t the kind of tension that made you want to snap at him or throw a sarcastic jab. It was the kind that made your skin feel too tight, the kind that made guilt curl up beneath your ribs and settle in deep.

Rafe was still watching you. You could feel it like a brand on the side of your face, his gaze dragging over you, not just your body, but everything—the memory of your breathy moans, your hand on his jaw, your hoodie shoved halfway off, his name on your lips like a secret. You could still feel him. Inside you. Under you. Around you.

And worse, you still wanted him. That was the part that made your stomach twist.

You shifted, trying to shake it off, your fingers tugging absently at the frayed hem of your shorts, eyes still closed. The sting of guilt hadn’t fully sunk in when it happened—it had been buried under adrenaline, lust, the high of knowing he was alive and whole and his. But now it was creeping in, mixing with the ache between your legs and the phantom of his hands still on your hips.

Rafe’s eyes tracked every movement, his lips curving in a mocking smirk but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were dark, gaze still locked on you like he could see right through to your thoughts. “I know that look. What are you thinking about?”

"How horrible i keep feeling with each shameless orgasm you give me, in spite of being the one who also initiates things sober.." came your answer, blunt. Too blunt it sounded sarcastic, head still lolled back and eyes closed. "Can't blame the alcohol or weed for this one.."

He didn’t respond right away, eyes still roaming over you, taking in the way your thighs flexed as you wrapped your arms around your knees, trying to press your legs together like it might lessen the throb between them.

He let out a short “hm”, and you could almost hear the smirk in his voice when he spoke, even if you didn’t look at him.

"That guilt must weigh heavy if you’re making jokes like that."

"At least my guilty conscience works properly, country-club."

He chuckled softly, raising one hand out from the sheets and running his fingertips down your calf, gently digging into the sensitive flesh behind your knee. It was a surprisingly tender gesture, absent of the biting comments he usually shot at you.

"And mine doesn’t?” he asked. There was no malice in his voice, instead, the words came out low, almost soft.

You inhaled slightly, startled as he touched you. Your skin tingled where his fingers roamed, his palm sliding over the curve of your knee, squeezing gently. It was too light, too different from the way his hands had gripped your thighs earlier. You still refused to look at him even as you spoke, feigning nonchalance "I dunno about the guilty conscience but your usual classism complex is definitely shattered." you mumbled, voice betraying how the softness in his voice made you feel "Y'know the thing when you put my friends down for being from the wrong side of the island and then hook up with a girl exactly from the worst side of it."

He chuckled softly again, his hand moving to your knee, thumbing the soft flesh there like he was trying to soothe you, even though you were pretending to be unaffected by his touch.

"No need to sound so condescending, baby."

The words rolled off his tongue low, almost affectionate, but there was a hint of mockery in the way he referred to you.

"I hate you so much as a person, and truly to your core." you bit back, words low and dry.

He scoffed, almost like that was the exact response he'd expected from you, thumb brushing back and forth across your knee, his touch firm and gentle, making you shiver slightly. "I hate you too, baby."

He said the words easily, but there was a hint of mocking affection in his tone, like using the term of endearment was supposed to throw you off.

It did.

You closed your eyes, breathing out heavily. Every touch, every pet name, made something flutter low in your stomach. It was infuriating. It was intoxicating. It made your head feel light and your heart thump in your chest.

You tried to find something to say— a snarky comeback like you usually had on the tip of your tongue, but your brain felt scrambled, all thoughts replaced by the sound of his quickening breaths, the way his fingers traced up your thigh, his face when you were on his lap…

The air felt thick. Tense. His fingers kept roaming, like he was mapping every inch of exposed skin, and he was. Every swipe of his fingers left a trail of fire that had you clenching your thighs, trying to relieve the ache he’d put there. And still, you refused to look at him.

Your hand reached out, subtly flicking his hand away without opening your eyes, sighing in annoyance at the way he was touching you. With the confidence of an entitled prick. "Quit it, Rafe."

He made a low noise in the back of his throat—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

But he pulled back his hand, the one that had made its way to the top of your thigh, his touch leaving a burning trail even after he'd moved it back to the sheets. He shifted in the bed, tilting his head as he looked at your stubborn face, stubbornly refusing to look at him.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm in your ears, and you hated how much that sound made your blood hum.

"Why are you being so difficult?" He sounded amused.

"Plagued by the overwhelming guilt that comes after hooking up with you." you answered dryly, teeth gnawing at your bottom lip lazily.

"Oh yeah, you definitely looked guilty, babe." He snorted sarcastically.

The nickname was meant to sound mocking and condescending, but the word came out of his mouth like a sigh. You could tell he was grinning by the sound of his voice, the smile evident in his words.

"What is your deal?" your eyes shot open. Your expression was part curious part annoyed like you were actually wondering what the hell was wrong with him. Humming before speaking like you considering your words. Something you never did usually.

He raised an eyebrow, his expression amused as he watched the different emotions flicker across your face. Your eyes were fixed on him now, finally locked in on his smug face, and you felt your stomach twist with a familiar sense of annoyance.

"You need to be more specific." He smirked, feigning cluelessness, pretending like he doesn’t know exactly what you mean.

"I'm talking about your tendency to hook up with pogue girls." You closed your eyes again, head tilting back as if your sentence was the most obvious and casual thing ever. "Last summer it was Sofia, this summer it's me." you added, arms wrapped around your knees loosely now. "Feels like you love the power play."

He chuckled, the sound low and taunting. "You’re not the first one to try and psychoanalyze me, you know that, right?"

You grunted. Like you were lost in your own thoughts before speaking again "How did it end?" you asked simply, voice distant and lacking the bite in it. Like you were more focused on the inside of your eyelids than the conversation.

The change in your tone took him off guard, his smirk faltering for a moment. He raised an eyebrow, confused.

"With Sofia?" He clarified.

You nodded your head slightly against the chair, still refusing to look at him even though you could feel his gaze like a brand on your face.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "She was obsessed with me. It was cool at first, but then it became annoying."

"Define obsessed. "

He huffed, rolling his eyes, clearly not enjoying the topic. "She wanted to hangout with me all the time. She was all over me. It was fun at first, but she started getting clingy and whiny. And she constantly wanted to talk."

You chuckled lightly. Despite the fact that technically Sofia was your friend. Kinda. You weren't sure. She was your co-worker. "Isn't that what every other guy wants?"

He groaned, throwing his head back against the pillow before peering up at you through lowered lashes.

"I prefer my girls a little more unattainable." His voice trailed off in a husk, and it made your heart trip.

Your eyes shot open now, grimacing ever so slightly at his attempt to be smooth. "So you decided to hook up with a girl who's pining after another dude this summer?" you asked, tone bitter and mocking.

He smirked. "Yeah, actually." He had the audacity to look amused. "Guess I have a thing for unavailable women."

"So you're a glutton for punishment with commitment issues?" you asked, grimace deepening.

His smirk widened. "If we’re really being thorough, you should add in a hint of daddy issues and a dash of narcissism.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes so hard it made your brain jiggle "Me using you to get over the fact that i'm in love with JJ and it's not reciprocated is your karma for what you did to Sofia." you stated bluntly, deadpanning at him.

He snickered, his gaze on you sharpening. "Damn, baby. You really aren't a fan of holding back punches."

Your eyes roamed over his form, still slumped in the hospital bed, clad in that thin, wrinkled gown like it was some kind of throne instead of a reminder of how close he’d come to dying. He looked way too comfortable for someone who’d scared the shit out of everyone who cared about him—and way too smug for someone who probably committed a felony by having sex in a hospital.

"I'm a fan of blunt transparency," you muttered, voice syrupy with sarcasm as you fixed him with a look that fell somewhere between unimpressed and exhausted. Your arms wrapped loosely around your tucked-in knees, chin resting lazily on top of them as you leaned back in the plastic chair that had molded itself to your spine.

You raised your brows slightly, watching the way his smirk deepened like he knew exactly what he was doing—like your irritation was a language he spoke fluently and loved translating into something dirtier.

His dark eyes lingered on your legs as you shifted in the chair, still refusing to look at him, your thighs spread slightly and legs parted as you sat with one knee bent and one leg hanging off the side. Rafe’s lips twitched with arrogance at your attempt to keep him at bay, like you knew what he was doing. He let his eyes rake over your body, taking in your folded legs and exposed skin like you were his for the taking.

His voice came out low, almost taunting.

"You don’t want complete transparency, baby."

You huffed again, head tilting back against the chair as your eyes fluttered shut, like the weight of everything—the hospital room, the conversation, him—was finally settling too heavy on your shoulders. Your tone was dry, laced with exhaustion and the kind of sarcasm that didn't bother disguising how tired you were of talking around things.

"Complete transparency is all I want, country-club," you muttered, lips twitching with a humorless chuckle that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

There was a beat of silence before you added, voice lower this time, almost like an afterthought: "I’d prefer if you offered it."

It wasn’t a demand. Not exactly. But it wasn’t a suggestion either. It was an invitation he didn’t deserve but still got anyway—a rare glimpse into the part of you that hadn’t entirely learned how to detach from people, no matter how much you tried.

Something changed in the air at your words.

Rafe shifted in the bed, his eyes sharpening, fixating on your face, on the slight furrow between your brows, on the way your jaw clenched just the slightest bit, on the tired slump of your shoulders.

When he spoke next, his voice had lost its taunting edge, replaced by a sudden serious note. "What do you want to know?"

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, hesitation flickering across your face like a crack in the bravado you usually wore so easily. The words burned at the back of your throat before you even let them go, heavy with all the implications you weren’t sure you wanted to deal with once they were out in the open.

"Why do you allow me to use you?" you asked finally, voice quieter than before, stripped of the usual bite—just raw and curious in a way that almost made you uncomfortable. You tilted your head slightly, gaze fixed on his in the dim hospital light like you were trying to read his mind.

"I get the whole appeal of it… I match your freak in bed or whatever," you added, lips tugging into the ghost of a smirk that didn’t hide the vulnerability underneath. "But is it just ‘cause you have no one at the moment? Is that the reason you let me?"

The question settled in the space between you like a challenge and a confession all at once—tinged with bitterness, maybe jealousy, definitely fear. Because if the answer was yes, if it was just convenience, just vacancy he needed filled until someone better came along—then what the hell had any of this even been for?

Rafe's eyes stayed locked on yours, the smirk gone from his face, replaced by a sort of contemplative brooding that gave away nothing. You could see his mind whirring behind the intensity of his gaze, and there was a moment of silence before he opened his mouth to answer that felt like an eternity.

But when he spoke, his voice was steady. Almost soft. And his words changed the game entirely.

"I don’t let you use me."

The answer caused you to avert your gaze to the side, a small, genuine chuckle slipping out before you could stop it. It sounded condescending, maybe, but it wasn’t. You were just…amused. By him. By yourself. By the mess you’d both willingly walked into.

"You and I both know why we started hooking up in the first place," you said, your voice low but edged with something that almost sounded like regret—regret not for what you’d done, but for how easy it had been to fall into it. "The guy I’m in love with has a girl." You paused just long enough for the weight of it to settle between you, then looked back at him, your gaze steady now. "Technically, I am using you."

There was no malice in the words, no cruelty. Just honesty, uncomfortable and sharp in the dim hospital room. You shrugged like the admission didn’t crack something inside you just a little.

"I just figured we'd have this conversation sober," you added, a wry smile tugging at your mouth. "Since I saved you from death, basically."

It was a joke. A shield. Something to hide behind when everything else felt too naked, too raw. But beneath it was the truth you both hadn’t been brave enough to name: something had shifted. And once things shifted, they didn’t just go back.

This time, Rafe actually laughed—a harsh, short sound that sent shivers down your spine because you realized you'd somehow caught him off guard.

For the first time in your life, he didn't have a ready answer, a snide comment. He was just staring at you, his eyes boring into yours like he was fighting with a decision right in front of you.

Before you could get your hopes up, he finally found his voice. "You are such a damn hypocrite."

You followed suit, another small chuckle escaping you "And why is that?"

He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. "You're using me for the same reason you don't like me using everyone else.” He paused, watching you closely, watching the way you stiffened at his words.

And then he added the one word that had your stomach dropping to your toes.

“Unavailability."

author's note: long time no see, i promised fluff and i added some smut because someone said these two can't be alone without fucking and i agree. rafe is so submissive i'm actually kicking my feet and giggling. also weird update if anyone cares but the owner of this blog actually had her first real kiss despite writing the most outrageous smut. crazy right? i'm a loser irl and i get no play ya'll but i have a picnic date planned so maybe in the next update we might be getting more action. I NEED in depth feedback about this chapter, what did you guys think of the song, do you miss me? talk to me i love you all and the more comments and asks the better. is there anyone who's team jj anymore?? (p.s cherry bomb is the next on my updates so be ready cherry bomb lovers.) i'll try and be more consistent but i'm looking for a summer job so i'm only writing at night, on my phone... don't be shy to join my taglist! <3

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