#construction beanie

[westrnbound]

patiently waiting....

[shijoco]

wake me up before you go go

[roughridingrednecks]

Brannan

[alexxgaskarth]

.

[merlyn-bane]

birthday pizza gyoza and blahaj <333

[tryst-art-archive]

[antisocialxconstruct]

the cursed object in question

It's name is Buttercat

The next thing I really want to try is making a plushie like this

and weighted with pellets so it really feels like holding a little newborn puppy. The very first plush I ever made was a TY-sized cat that's overstuffed with pellets in the body AND head, so it's heavy and has no neck support and everyone who ever holds it immediately imprints on it even though it's supremely ugly. I'd like to perform that kind of black magic again but on purpose

[sillybeanies]

meet.... Aurora!

after making mossy i'm still on a dragon kick so here's another custom beanie baby!

Aurora is also handmade from @beanbagbuddies4life's pattern, using recycled and thrifted materials. Her poem reads:

Dancing colours light up the night Dragons are flying high and bright Curtains of colour in the starry sky Flicker and play way up high

I based Aurora more closely on magic due to her short plush, though only aesthetically as magic actually has a different construction to scorch despite looking similar! again the belly had to be narrowed a lot to give her shape and have her sand on her lil toes.

i love her so much! She has so much personality and the sweetest face :3 also she only took me one day to make!

here she is with magic:

(i'm still working on a mossy buddy but im thinking i'll make an auroroa one too!)

[my-debauchery]

Stop.

idol!jisung × afab!reader

g`smut

cw`explicit content, kissing(cheek), cockwarming, begging, edging?, mention of tears, teasing, unprotected sex

wc`0.6k

A/N: not really sure about this, but i hope you like it. as always, constructive criticism is more than welcome. if you see mistakes in cw tagging, please, let me know.

all you can hear is humming of a humidifier, movie playing and jisung's breathing. both of you are naked, half laying against the headboard. you are on top of him. your back against his front. you can feel his rapid heartbeat both on your back and from his cock inside you.

it all started because you decide it'll be fun to tease jisung during dinner. saying he wouldn't be able to resist you and sit through the movie, while you cockwarm him. how wrong you were.

it's you who cannot sit still. you've been fidgeting and squirming around for an hour and there is still 45 minutes left.

you tried to bring jisung's hands forward to your breast's, but he just asked you to not distract him and huged you around the stomach.

you tried to subtly move up and down, pretending to get comfortable. but jisung just tightened his grip on you 'stop moving around, you are distracting me'

you tried to tighten your pussy, hoping he will finally fold. but it just made you acutely aware of how hard his cock become and how dip he's in now. pressing deliciously in all the right places.

'you seem to be quiet hard, do you want me to do something about it?' you say, as you turn your head to the side, trying to look at him 'no. but, please, stop moving around. i'm trying to watch the movie' he smiles and kisses your temple.

you are on edge. it seems you've never been this horny. you want to jump his bones now. you don't care who wins.

you decide to beg and whine for him, knowing it always gets to him 'jisuuuung, please. you win, okay? i am insane for you. can you finally fuck me? pleeease' you are scratching on hiss hands, like a cat in heat.

he chuckles and catches your hands in his grip 'really? are you that desperate? can't wait for 30 more minutes? but, baby, you were so confident, am i that irresistible? weren't you supposed to be the one in control of their desire?'

you flush and try to look away. seeing and hearing jisung be this cocky and slightly condescending to you, made you feel even more hot and wet when you were already 'please, stop teasing. you know i want you an unnormal amount. i was just joking before'

'were you? aren't i still young and quick to cum?' you whine like a kicked puppy 'please, i'm sorry'

jisung humms and traps your arms in a even tighter hug 'i don't know, love. i'm tired after practice and have an earlier call tomorrow for the comeback shoot. let's go to sleep' he says nonchalantly and makes a move to pull out.

'no! stop!' you try to move down, but his hold is to strong.

suddenly jisung pushes your legs over his to the sides, bends his legs and plants his feet firmly on the bed. jisung's action make his cock slip in deeper, making it kiss your cervix.

'oh, i'll stop. we wouldn't want to see you cry, right?' he kisses you cheek and starts slumming his hips upwards.

in the morning, during the shoot, mark asks him 'jisung-a, did you play games all night again? did you sleep at all? why were you late?' haechan sits down next to him 'you should pay attention to your girlfriend instead. she might not like to date a man-child'

he just shrugs 'we were watching movies, so i overslept. sorry for being late' jaemin ruffles his hair on the way out 'it's okay, kid. try not to be late next time, okay?' jisung nods and puts on his beanie. they all shuffle out to the set and jisung smiles to himself, remembering your pretty tears.

he guesses there is no need for others to know, just how hard it is for him to stop playing with you.

[rorylovesangst]

A Burning Hill

construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x

waitress

mood board

song of the chapter is Velvet Ring by Big Thief

tws: physical/emotional abuse, sexual harassment, self harm/suicidal thoughts, trauma/ PTSD

previous chapter → chapter 5 -> next chapter

word count: 2.7k

The next two days are spent watching random TV shows and eating the random soups Simon cooks up and taking sluggish walks up and down your street, bundled up in a hat, gloves, and jacket Simon made you put on before you go. He insisted that getting outside would help, even though it's hardly 35 degrees. “You need to get outside,” he insisted, standing in your doorway with his arms crossed and a wool beanie tugged low over his ears. “Fresh air’ll do you good.”

“It’s barely above freezing,” you’d protested, sinking deeper into the cocoon of your blanket on the futon.

“Good for the immune system,” Simon said, deadpan, as he tossed your gloves onto the armrest beside you. “Hat. Gloves. Jacket. Let’s go. You’re not stayin’ cooped up like this.” Next thing you know, he was herding you out the door like a sheep, your protests muffled by the scarf he wrapped snugly around your neck.

 So, as he whips up some more soup and toast, you pace up and down the street twiddling your thumbs until you hear him beckoning you back inside. “Soup’s ready. Come in before you turn into an icicle.”

Back inside, the aroma of simmering soup and freshly toasted bread filled the air. You sat at your small, slightly wobbly table, a steaming bowl in front of you. Simon pulled out the chair across from you but never took a seat; instead, he leaned against the counter, arms folded, sipping tea from one of your mismatched mugs.

“Not hungry?” you asked, gesturing to the untouched pot on the stove.

“I’ll eat later,” he replied.

Simon doesn’t eat much while he’s here—you’ve noticed that. He focuses on making sure you’re eating instead, dishing out ladles of creamy broth or chunky stew, nudging the toast plate closer when it looks like you’re slowing down.

Conversation didn’t come easily. You didn’t feel up to it, and Simon never seemed to mind the quiet. He filled the space with odd little remarks—a fact about some bird he saw once, a sarcastic jab about your cluttered counter.

“Nice tapestry,” he said once, nodding at the woven fabric hanging crookedly on your wall. “Very… thrift store chic.”

“It was $2.50,” you replied dryly, between spoonfuls.

“Bargain.”

When he wasn’t orchestrating your meals or sending you out into the cold for what he called “revitalizing,” Simon kept busy. He cleaned your bandages with careful precision, his hands steady and warm as they worked. The first time, he winced as he crouched down beside you, and you caught the slightest hiss of pain under his breath.

“Are you okay?” you asked, craning your neck to look at him.

“Fine,” he replied quickly, but you noticed the way his knuckles looked bruised and raw, like he’d been punching something—or someone.

You gestured at his hand. “What happened there?”

“Work,” he said simply, pulling the gauze tight over your wound.

“What kind of work leaves you with knuckles like that?”

“The kind that pays.” He glanced up, catching your narrowed eyes. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

But you did. And it wasn’t just his knuckles. You caught the way he’d press his hand to his ribs when he thought you weren’t looking or the tightness in his jaw whenever he had to bend over. You didn’t push, though. It wasn’t your place, and besides, Simon was an immovable object when it came to talking about himself.

“You could’ve been a nurse,” you’d said, watching him out of the corner of your eye.

“Yeah, right. Imagine me in scrubs.”

You huffed a laugh, but the motion tugged at the burn, and Simon shook his head, muttering something about you being a nightmare patient.

This filled the gaps in what you can remember of that 4-day haze. The four S’s: Soup. Strolls. Sanitize. Simon.  

“Nice of you to show up,” Ronny sneered from behind the counter, a smile on his lips that makes your stomach curl into itself. You’d just walked in, jacket still slung over your shoulders that were already pinched tight.

“I was sick,” you go to explain yourself, but you’re cut off buy his scoff.

“Don’t give a fuck if you were dyin’, you answer my damn calls. Got it, peach?” He raises his eyebrows expectantly, not waiting for you to answer, before turning back to his office and slamming his door, a gust of wind blowing back in your face.  

The day crawls by, thick and sluggish, like wading through molasses. Alamort weights down your limbs, dragging you closer to the dead with every passing hour. When a silverware pair slips from your hands and clatters against the floor, Ronny is on you in an instant. His hand tangles in your hair, yanking you upright, making you squeak. His voice adust as he hissed against the shell of your ear. You keep your eyes anywhere but on him—on the grimy tiles, the peeling paint, the water stains seeping through the drop-ceiling. This only makes him angrier.

His thumb and forefinger clamp down on your cheeks, pressing deep enough to leave dimples against your lithe skin, shaking your head like a rag doll’s. The motion rattles more than just your skull; it sends tremors down your spine, sparking shame and fury in equal measure. You wonder, not for the first time, how no one notices.

But maybe they do. Maybe they’ve just decided it’s easier to pretend they don’t.

Tony must have some idea. The kitchen isn’t far from the office Ronny so often drags you into, and his voice has a way of carrying even when he tries to keep it contained. But Tony doesn’t say anything. None of them do. Not Olive, not the other girls whose names you can’t remember. Those girls, so fleeting they’re like whispers caught on the wind, here one moment and gone the next. Scooped up and whisked away to better things—or maybe just different ones.

You wish you had it that easy.

Your leash is tighter than theirs, short and choking, pulling taut every time Ronny drags you back toward him. You feel it constantly, the invisible leather, rubbing raw against your throat.

Even while you're crouched on a flipped-over milk crate in the stockroom, Olive rambling about some rude costumer, you can still feel Ronny's fingers dimpling your cheeks.

Worthless ditz.

Worthless, due to being spat in your face at least weekly during any minor mistake, has lost its meaning. It’s punch. So overused and washed out it’s almost laughable when Ronny attempts to reprimand you with it.

“You look like shit,” Olive says, interrupting your thoughts. Her mouth is full of bread and cheese, sliding the plate over to you while she speaks.

“Thanks,” you muttered, picking at the crust of the sandwich instead of eating it. Your stomach churned too much for food to feel like anything but a burden.

“I mean it,” she pressed, chewing on her half. “You’ve been off for, what? Four days? You’re not better yet?”

“I’m fine,” you reply, forcing a shrug.

Olive gives you a skeptical look, tearing off another bite from the grilled cheese you’re both sharing. “I told you Simon’s a good guy, didn’t I? Even if he doesn’t seem like it. So, how did it go anyway?”

You glance at the crust in your hand, pulling it apart bit by bit. “He didn’t need to come,” you say, the words quiet but resolute. “I would’ve handled it.”

“Sure you would’ve,” Olive says, smirking as she leans back slightly. “Simon said you were snappy as hell. Didn’t even want him there.”

“I wasn’t—” You stop yourself with a sharp sigh, shaking your head. “I just… I wanted to rest on my own. That’s it.”

“Right. And rest yourself into oblivion,” Olive says with a dramatic eye roll, taking another bite. “And let me guess, you didn’t say thank you, did you?”

You hesitate, shuffling through false memories. “I thanked him.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” she teases, grinning around her bite. “Well, you’re welcome for the cream, just so we’re clear.”

A reluctant smile pulls at your lips. “Thank you.”

“Good. And you’re welcome for this too.” She gestures with the half-eaten sandwich before tearing off another piece and passing it to you. “Next time, just tell me, alright? I had to send Simon since I couldn’t call off, but I could’ve been there, y’know?”

You chew on her words more than the sandwich, your stomach tying itself in a knot. “I know. I just didn’t…didn’t want to worry you.”  

Olive gives you a look that’s both soft and stern, her green eyes narrowing slightly. “Blue, you being you means I’m always gonna worry. That’s how this works.”

Her words settle warmly in your chest, even as you avoid her gaze and focus on the sandwich. You tear another piece but hesitate to eat it. Olive notices immediately, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. “You’re still not eating,” she says pointedly, nudging your arm with her elbow.

“I’ll eat,” you grumble, forcing a bite. The sandwich is dry as it crumbles against your tongue, but you manage.

Olive watches you with a raised brow, making sure you finish before leaning back with a satisfied nod. “Good. I wasn’t about to let you waste half of my lunch.” She didn’t press you further, instead leaning her head back against a shelf. Her brown curls caught the light, forming a kind of messy halo. “Hey, by the way. You doing anything Saturday night?”

You blinked at her, confused. “Why?”

“It’s Friendsgiving at my place. Just a small thing—me, Price, a couple of his work buddies. You should come. I already told Simon to swing by for a bit, so you won’t be totally out of place.”

You winced inwardly at the mention of a social gathering, though you couldn’t explain why.

“I don’t know…” you started.

“Don’t be like that,” she interrupted. “You’re coming. No excuses. Besides,” she added with a sly grin, “I don’t have any other friends, so you have to come. For me, at least. I’ve got Gaz and Soap showing up, too. Thought I’d finally introduce you properly.”

You groaned, rubbing your face with your hands. “Jesus, Olive. I’m bad enough at talking to you. You really think I can handle three more of you?”

She laughed, honeyed and dulcet, like the warmth of sun on your back. “Trust me, you’ll be fine. I’ll even make you a plate to take home if you survive.”

You smiled faintly despite yourself. The thought of her elysian little flat—lush dining room chairs, bergamot candles, hanging plants—felt like a foreign concept. But a small part of you was curious—curious enough to consider it.

“Guys,” Tony’s voice cut through the quiet of the storage room, his head appearing in the doorway like a jack-in-the-box. “You might wanna clear outta here. Ronny’s on one—don’t need him catching you two splitting a grilled cheese, y’know?”

Before either of you could reply, he was gone, vanishing as quickly as he’d appeared.

You sighed, grabbing the plate from the floor. “Did you invite him to Friendsgiving?”

“Yeah,” Olive replied, brushing crumbs from her lap. “But he said he’s got his kids this year. First time in a while. Wants to spend it with them.”

“Oh,” you said, surprised. “I didn’t know he had kids.”

“Yeah, four and seven. Two girls,” Olive said, her voice softening at the mention of them.

“He’s so old,” you teased, a smirk tugging at your lips.

Olive stopped mid-step as you both exited the room, giving you a look that was half incredulous, half amused. “Blue, he’s five years older than me.”

You shrugged innocently, barely holding back a grin. “I’m just kidding!”

The day drags, but you survive—barely. The bell over the door jingles one last time as the final customer leaves, and you begin wiping down tables while Olive sweeps the floor. The clink of glasses and the hum of the lights were your only companions as you scrubbed counters. Olive hummed some forgotten tune while sweeping the floor, the rhythm of her movements steady and grounding.

Ronny’s voice shattered the quiet. “Hey. You.”

Your spine stiffened, the rag freezing in your hand. His eyes locked onto yours like a predator— saccharine visions of tearing through the meat of your skin with pointy teeth and a bloody maw.

“Come here. Now.”

You cast a glance at Olive, who arched a brow but said nothing. Setting the rag down, you followed him into the cramped cage of his office, walking right into his territory.

The door shut behind you, and the air turned heavy, suffocating. You’re waiting for him to pounce. To strike.

“Take off for a week, and then sit around slackin’? Messin’ shit up?” He was backing you against his desk, only stopping once you were pressed against the chipping wood.

“I—I wasn’t sla—” you started, but he cut you off.

“The fuck you were, lazy skank.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Shut up.” His breath was hot against your head, towering over you with something resembling repugnance in his Tartarean eyes.

His hands were on your throat before you could process it, his grip tightening as he slammed you against his desk. His right hand braced against your nape as his left squeezed the column of your throat making you wheeze. Hot tears were already streaming down your cheek before you could recognize the feeling in your chest as panic. It quickly spread like wildfire. You were grabbing at his wrists frantically, crescent shaped holes littering his arms as you tried to pry him off.

“You think you can disrespect me?” he hissed, his face inches from yours. You let out a meek sound—a cry, maybe?—with all the air you had. It was no use. Black started to creep into the corners of your vision, and you were almost glad: Glad that maybe he’d put an end to your misery, glad that you’d get to stop seeing his wicked sneer as you clamped down harder. Which one you’d father prefer was a mystery to you.

Then, as suddenly as it began, he released you.

You stumbled onto your knees, choking on shallow breaths, your fingers clawing at your throat, desperate for anything thinner than air to rush in and soothe the ache. Weeping into the carpet, tears staining it a darker shade of tan.

“Get the fuck up,” he barked, his voice a cruel whip. You tried—you really did—but the oxygen hadn’t yet traveled back to your brain, and you floundered right into his desk with another choked sob. “Out! Get out!” He grabbed you by the shoulder and shoved you at the door. With your legs trembling beneath you, you escaped as quickly as you could with what strength you had.

Olive looked up when you reentered the dining area. Your efforts to swallow the sobs and catch your breath did nothing to hide the mess you were. She paused, broom in hand, her expression morphing into something soft and concerned.

The sight of that worry on her face made the pit in your stomach grow, swallowing up your bones and tissue.

“Blue—honey—oh no…oh no.” She quickly dropped the broom and pulled you into her arms. “What happened?”

The words jammed in your throat, thick and lumpy. You swallowed hard, trying to force them down without choking. “N-nothing. He was j-just...really me-mean.”

Her lips pressed lips against the top of your head, pulling you closer to her chest. “That man’s a nightmare,” she muttered. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded quickly, your voice cracking when you spoke. “I’m f-fine. Let’s just finish up.” You wiped your face with a trembling hand, and even as you did, the dampness was already seeping through your fingers.

Olive didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press further. She resumed sweeping, her movements slow and careful, as if testing the water before continuing. You turned back to the counter, your hands shaking as you scrubbed at spots that weren't even there, trying to make sense of the silence that stretched between you and the world.

Later, at home, the mirror told the truth. Through the cracks and the dust, the bruises on your neck flourished like flowers in May, purple and blue spreading against pale skin. You traced them with trembling fingers before you could notice the tears running down your cheeks and dripping onto your hands.

Your phone buzzed on the counter, breaking the silence. A text from Olive.

friendsgiving. don’t forget. saturday. pls be there

You hesitated, the words blurring before your eyes. Finally, you typed back:

i will.

The reply felt fragile, a candle’s flickering flame, but it was something.

In the quiet that followed, you leaned against the counter, staring at the message. Somewhere, beneath the weight of bruises and silence, a small hope burned. The violent desire for something new. But even a worm will turn.

[gotta-get-back-to-hatchetfield]

Okay so I took some notes during the Hatchetfield Halloween party stream

This doesn't include spoilers for Working Boys (which was actually fucking excellent) and also doesn't include the proposed NMT3 episode descriptions just because I didn't screenshot and I've seen a billion posts of them going around.

Steph's mum's dead, Matt Lang says it's likely something to do with when Solomon Lauter says about the black book 'I'm never touching that book again'.

Nora is the owner of beanies

Melissa is a serial killer in every reality

The black alters constructed by the church of the starry children: Lakeside mall, Waylon place, the highschool, the starlight theatre, CCRP (formerly the site of the Hatchetfield Gazette)

Greenpeace girl's real name is Harmony Jones

Duke's dad was the sheriff of Hatchetfield and was murdered in October 2005 by Wilber Cross

Linda auditioned for Working Boys but was the only person not to make the cut.

Working boys was originally going to be much longer and more complicated and the black book prop was originally commissioned for it. In the end most of that content ended up getting lifted and pulled into nightmare time episodes. The song 'The Summoning' was originally written for Working Boys as the goal was to trick the cast into performing the ritual. This also originally wasn't supposed to happen in Nerdy Prudes.

They're keen to put the brakes on Hatchetfield at some point soon and the next musical definitely won't be Hatchetfield.

NMT2 ends on a cliffhanger because they originally intended to do NMT3 very shortly after to wrap up some of the loose ends.

Doing NMT3 will depend on demand. Writing a season of NMT takes about 4 times the amount of time as writing a musical and If they did NMT3 they'd want to make it even less zoom cally than NMT2 (i.e. have characters talking to each other) which also takes a lot of time and money. They are very keen to do it on a personal level as the arc from NMT2 currently feels unfinished but doing it will depend on demand.

They're keen to do more film style things akin to Working Boys.

Proposed NMT3 episode 'Bottle Imp' was originally planned to be part of NMT S1 E2.

NMT3 would revolve around Halloween.

They originally thought the musical trilogy would start with nerdy prudes must die and have the sequel be 'horny campers must die' (which became absintence camp), the third in the trilogy would have followed a similar plot to proposed NMT3 episode 'Devils night'.

The soldier referenced in the description for proposed NMT3 episode 'Orbweaver' is General MacNamara.

If they ever did another Hatchetfield musical at some point in the future it would be about Miss Holloway and her origins story.

They want to do a Hatchetfield movie at some point, and Working Boys was a test for how well Hatchetfield transfers over to that medium. This would have to be isolated in location and character list to be feasible. Their current thoughts for this would be 'Cast Party Massacre' which would involve a lot of the new characters we met in Working Boys.

[jawllines]

But how could she voice this? Nobody else had made her request it explicitly, so she really wasn’t sure what to request. Any version of her saying it just sounds more and more pathetic, to speak the words aloud would be embarrassing. 

“You want me to stay?” Harry offered, after some time, and she was grateful for it as she nodded, “Just in the room?” 

Her face feels warm as her eyes glance over to the other side of her bed, “It’s. . .it’s a big bed,” she told him, swallowing thickly, “You can lay down if you're tired.” 

Harry’s lips quirk into a tiny, halfway smile, and Y/N had seen that look enough to know some form of a taunt typically follows it, “Oh I see,” he began, lifting himself up onto her bed and crawling over her body to get to the side she offered, “Was this a ploy to get me into your bed? You could have just asked, Sweetheart, but I would have asked for dinner first.” 

or

Y/N finds out a secret and Harry finds a rat 

part 1

part 2

iii.

Y/N has never been so embarrassed.

The hike was her idea; granted, she’s not a big hiker to begin with, and she hardly believes the sneakers she wore were meant for more than casual ambling in a park — but she thought it could be fun. After being cooped up in her flat for a little over a week, she was desperate just to breathe in the fresh air and feel the sun on her skin. It was one thing to be locked away when the weather was bitter and uninhabitable, but it was finally getting warmer, and whispers of Spring were carried in the wind. An open window could only preclude her feelings of claustrophobia for so long before she needed to go outside.  

Since Harry could typically get Thomas to agree to things she’d never thought he might agree to before, he was the one she asked. However, due to the recent attempted kidnapping, even he seemed reluctant to the proposal and Y/N had imagined her plans had fallen through before they’d even truly been constructed. At least she did until Harry sent her a message a little past midnight the following night, with a link that directed her to a trail’s website. Would this be okay? His message read, and Y/N grinned so hard her cheeks were sore as she replied with “Yes!” ten times. 

Y/N is not one who would find joy in exerting herself but she was filled to the brim and gushing with an eagerness she hasn’t felt since being a child, the night before visiting a zoo. She did not for a second consider how sore she’d probably be, especially from the number of hills this trail included along the side of what wasn’t big enough to be a mountain but was certainly large enough to give the illusion. All she could focus on was the thought of the wind kissing her face and the sound of morning birds singing. Aching muscles be damned, she could just take a hot bath when they got back, and maybe she could persuade Harry to massage her feet if it was that bad. 

By the time Y/N woke up Friday morning, Harry was already in her kitchen preparing breakfast but that was hardly shocking. It was her second time witnessing him outside of a pressed suit and she couldn’t say that she was disappointed; Harry looked awfully cute in his hiking clothes. A hoodie that swallowed him up, athletic shorts pulled over black leggings, and a pair of bright red shoes that she could not imagine him plucking out of a store. A beanie was nestled over his head, but he had a hair clip locked around the edge of it, almost like he had it on standby in case he got too warm. 

He turned to face her, smiling warmly as he flipped a pancake, “I didn’t know if you had a water bottle, so I brought an extra one,” he greeted her, “And I bought some of those warm packs you activate by shaking in case it’s chillier than we anticipated.” 

“We need to get a stroller for your kitties so they can come too,” Y/N told him, as she hiked herself up on the barstool beside the counter, Harry working on the side adjacent to her. She rested her face against her fist, watching him putter around putting together the meal. There was something imminently gratifying about putting a man to work in her kitchen while she swung her legs and waited patiently to be fed, so she reveled in that feeling while he answered. 

“I actually do have a stroller,” he told her, “But since this is our first time, I thought it would be better to see the trail before bringing them.” 

With a sigh, Y/N agreed. Harry has brought them over three times since the first and Y/N enjoyed every second of it – he’d explained to her that as long as she doesn’t mind, he’ll bring them over often. This way he gets to spend extra time with them while he’s working and Y/N gets her animal fill as they meander throughout her flat, making it their second home. He’s even left them there overnight once, when he would be returning the following morning but wasn’t necessarily going home (their schedules make no sense to her, not even a little, and she wondered when the hell they ever slept), and Y/N really liked that. She woke up to Gremlin at her feet and Goose nestled against her breast beneath the blankets (and if she hadn’t been so sure that moving would stir them both, she would have taken a picture to send to him). 

They ate breakfast and Y/N pulled on an outfit she hoped would be multifunctional no matter what weather they would face or how much exerting herself would make her sweat. Even the walk to the parking garage lifts her with excitement, happy to finally be leaving the flat. 

“You’re awful chipper,” Harry remarked, following close behind her, his fingers looped around his keys, “Normally for this early in the morning, you’ve grumbled about something by now.” 

Y/N rolled her eyes, “Of course I’m chipper,” she walked around to the passenger seat of the car, “I’m free for a little while! You forget that I’m fucking stuck in there until someone breaks me out, while you can come and go as you see fit, really.” She smiled at the thought of the sun hitting her face, “It’s going to be so nice today too – I can’t wait.” 

“Mm, it is going to be nice,” he agreed mildly, “I’ll keep you out for as long as I can, yeah? But I’m sure Thomas will be blowing my phone up.” He smiled gently, “Things are still. . .fresh.” 

Y/N buckled herself in, brows dipped, “Hm? Did you guys not catch the guy? I thought you did and that’s the only reason I’m being uncaged.” 

“We did,” Harry’s lips straightened out, a dubious glint flickered past his gaze before he snuffs it out, “For the most part.” 

“For the most part?” She repeated with a small sigh – she wasn’t in the mood for twenty questions, she just wanted him to be straightforward.

Harry hummed, “Yes, they found the “mugger” –  it was his son,” Y/N’s brows raised, “Both have been dealt with appropriately for now but of course, everyone is still concerned that this wasn’t just an isolated incident. Things are going to be. . .a little tighter lately, so I was surprised Thomas agreed to this in the first place, but I did push pretty hard.” 

She smiled and nudged his shoulder, “That’s why I like you,” she told him, “Dunno’ what you’re doing to bewitch him but keep doing it, I like doing things.” 

The day had started out so well; Y/N isn’t sure how Harry had found this trail but it was pretty. It started out as a gravel patch of parking lot with a big wooden sign that read Green Haven Trail in big, bold letters, and to the left of it, a small brick building housing a restroom. It had rained last night, so the air smelled of moist earth and morning dew, and it’s a scent that she believes she normally takes for granted. Right now she isn’t though – right now she feels it slip through her nares, down to her lungs. She was more than pleased that it isn’t humid or else each breath would feel wet, and her skin would feel sticky, and she thinks that would have made her sad. Her first time out of the flat in how long, only to be accosted by unpleasant weather? Surely, she’d just lock herself in her room at that point. 

Most of the trail was paved but there were clear sections deeper in, where people had broken off from the designated path and wore down the grass and foliage to create a new route. If she couldn’t see where this off-path trail led, then she wouldn’t have suggested they go near it, but she could make out that it guided them to a mini waterfall from a creak. And after the rain, she knew it would be overflowing and beautiful, so she suggested they go toward it with the best pleading gaze she could give him (though it certainly wasn’t necessary – she believes Harry is a man of strong will typically, but if she asks him for something he typically gives in pretty easy). 

For a moment he seemed hesitant but eventually agreed, so they went toward it, and Y/N marveled at the rocks, the surfaces altering from smooth to rough and jagged, how the water toppled over them dropping down into the large well of the creek. If the weather was just a little warmer she would suggest sticking her feet in but it was still a little too brisk for it. So she made a mental note of this place for mid-June when the hike would undoubtedly be miserable in the summer heat, but the best part of it would be sinking their feet into this well of cold water and kicking them as they cooled down and ate a snack. Y/N assumed she would be with Harry again because. . .well, she usually is with him, isn’t she? 

They stayed there for a while for a short break, since they’d been walking for about thirty minutes uphill at that point. Y/N’s legs were already tired and she was in the middle of trying to find an excuse for them to turn around and start making their way back before she was really tired – but there was no need. No, why would she need a reason for them to turn around when she unwittingly gives them one? 

They had to trek down a small hill to get within closer visual distance of the waterfall and search the creek with their gazes for any potential fish or tadpoles swimming around in the greenish water. Going downhill to get there, meant going uphill to return, and while it wasn’t steep there was a decent-sized slope. Several jutted pieces of stone and rock and root should have made it a relatively easy way back up. Yet somehow, when Y/N tries to balance the sole of her shoe against the curve of a rock, she loses her footing. Her body rocks face first into the dirt, and she knocks her knee against a stone and cuts up her palm from the tree root she’d been gripping onto. Before she could tumble all the way down to the creek, Harry placed his hands on her to keep her steady, one at her hip and the other between her shoulder blades, “Holy shit!” He cried out, his voice echoing in the empty woods, “Are you alright?” 

So now, they definitely had to turn back, because Y/N had dirt smudged on her face, a few leaves in her hair (though Harry did pluck those out for her while they walked), her knee was sore, and her palm was cut up. Y/N doesn’t cry but she wants to, not just because her knee aches, or her hand throbs, or the dirt makes her face feel gross and grimy. All of that she could deal with well enough. 

What she couldn’t deal with, was the fact that she fell in the first place, in front of Harry of all people. How embarrassing – god, she couldn’t stop thinking about it but she wanted to wipe it from her brain entirely and pretend it never happened. But Harry is Harry, there is no way that he would ever let this go without making a sly comment about it every now and then. Especially once she’s all patched up and he knew for sure she was okay. 

She kept replaying the moment in her head: the squawky sound that left her mouth, how dumb she must have looked as she scrambled to stop herself only for Harry to be the one to halt her movement. He probably thought she looked like an idiot – no, she knows he did because why wouldn’t he? If it had happened to anyone but her, Y/N would have found some humor in it, and maybe she was just a bad person but there were compilations of people falling on the internet for a reason. 

Under different circumstances, Y/N would avoid the bathroom at all costs because it seemed like a staff infection waiting to happen but she tried to get into this one, only to find it locked. So not only did she embarrass herself in front of Harry, she had to sit in the car for forty minutes, uncomfortable, her knee aching and her face dirty. At the realization, she felt like she really could cry then, but the only thing that stopped her was the potential for further embarrassment.

“It could have been worse,” Harry tried to soothe her once they were back in the car, “Had I not been there to save your life, you could be in the creek right now.” 

“Shut up, or I’ll shove you in a creek,” she grumbled, brows furrowed at him, “Didn’t you promise to return me unscathed? This is coming out of your paycheck.” He only chuckles at her. 

The drive home was uneventful, and so was the walk up to her flat. As soon as they get through the doors, Harry directs her to the bathroom and says he’d be in there in a moment with a first aid kit, and Y/N has no fight left to argue. She went in, avoided looking at her face, and plopped down right on the toilet seat, waiting patiently for him. Harry appeared, looking a little too cute out of his leggings, now only in shorts that rode up pretty high on his thigh. He’s got nice legs – Y/N’s been thinking about them often lately. 

First, he tends to her palm, flipping it over and pouting at the sight of it, “Your poor hand,” he muttered sympathetically, caressing the flesh just below her thumb, “Does it hurt?” 

Y/N is unsure if he’s mocking her with how sweet his voice was, but she doesn’t fuss over it – honestly, she kind of likes it, “Yeah, a little.” She replied and he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. 

“Poor thing,” he reached inside the kit, “We’ll get you sorted.” 

After he cleaned it, then slathered it in the antibiotic ointment, and wrapped it up with gauze and a bandage, he got a washcloth wet. It took her a second to realize what he was about to do, until he was suddenly closer to her face than she expected, tenderly swiping away at the dirt smudged over her face. Y/N has trouble keeping her breathing even then. 

This is the closest she and Harry had been since the night they kissed, and she couldn’t keep her brain from conjuring memories of it. Especially when his lips were looking particularly soft today, and slick from whatever chapstick he was using, almost like they were begging for another mouth to press against them. The gentle curve of his cupid’s bow and the pout of his mouth supplicates for her lips to trap it between them. To relive last week, how eagerly he’d kissed her, how his hands had slid to her waist, how he squeezed her –

Honestly, Y/N couldn’t stop thinking about it. She was skilled at acting indifferent to things like this and she’s certain Harry didn’t notice it was dawdling within her thoughts because he would have brought it up – but that didn’t mean it wasn’t. Every day, a few times a day, Y/N is suddenly accosted with a slew of images, all of which involve Harry's puckered mouth. 

Because she’d like to do it again – she wanted to do it again, but there was no way to just ask for it, was there? Not without being weird about it. At least that night they had been drinking, and if they really wanted to they could blame it on liquid loosening prior inhibitions. If Y/N was asking for it completely sober, then there was no turning back from that – then it was something they had to talk about and that’s difficult. Not to mention, she shouldn’t be canoodling with her bodyguards anyway. The time with Niall was a one-off, and she’d never had the urge or desire to do it again (well, maybe once or twice, but that was neither here nor there) – but she wanted it again with Harry. Honestly, she thinks she wants more than just the kiss with Harry. 

And they hadn’t even really discussed the first one yet! Why would they tack on a second kiss? 

With Niall, it was much easier; she sucked him off, and he came in her mouth, they laughed about it and then tried to finish the movie they were watching before both of them promptly fell asleep. When they woke up there was no awkward tension lingering in the air, she swatted him with a pillow so that he would get off the couch and go with her to a new cookie place as he’d promised. Life settled back in as normal, Y/N barely remembered what his cum tasted like after eating an iced sugar cookie, and that was that. 

But with Harry, the whole night persists in her memories. How he admitted to being jealous thinking about her with Niall, and how he wants to be her favorite guard. The taste of his tongue and the impression of his mouth pushed against hers. How he pressed his thumb into her chin and pulled her lips open wider for himself, how heady the feeling was, the caress of his fingers on her hips, her wrists, her jaw. Her cheeks warm when she thinks about crawling into his lap, how she felt him hard beneath her before he pulled away – before he stopped it from going any further. 

Y/N couldn’t help but wonder just how far it would have gone had he not withdrawn from her. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” Harry murmured, and only then does Y/N realize that she’d been staring directly at him as he still carefully wiped away the dirt, “I’m getting shy.” 

Brows pinching toward each other, Y/N frowns at him, “You’re like three centimeters from my face, where the hell else am I supposed to look?” She praises herself for willing the words so quickly from her mouth, instead of floundering how she wanted to when she’d been caught gawking (Harry always teased her that she reverted to her extreme “brat-ish tendencies” once cornered and she continuously proved him right). 

Harry has a knowing smile that Y/N wants to flick off his face like he could read her mind through each of her pores. He always kind of had that look on him though, that would suggest he knew what Y/N was thinking and feeling before maybe even she did. It annoyed her more than anything. 

“You’re being rather rude to someone who saved a clumsy little thing like you from drowning in a creek.” He murmured, standing up from the spot he’d been kneeling before her and tossing the wet cloth into the sink with a wet slap. He holds one finger out to her, a silent command to stay put, and Y/N finds herself listening to him until he returns with a bottle of water. With that in one hand, he pulled open her medicine cabinet and retrieved the paracetamol, popping the cap open and shaking two into his palm, “You need to take these or your knee is going to be sore. Say ahhh,” he held them in his fingers, hovering them over her mouth. 

She scoffed, “My knee is already sore. Give me that, you dick,” she clasps her hands around his, swiping the pills and pushing them past her lips before grabbing for the bottle of water. 

“There you go,” he ignored her insult, “That’s a good girl – y’know, you’re a brat, but you listen well when you want to. Kind of like a fussy cat.” 

A flush of warmth ran from her face, down her throat, and across her chest – the praise, no matter how backhanded, was still praise and Y/N felt her veins twinkle with it. Harry doesn’t seem to notice how it affects her, and if he does, then he is kind enough not to be a pest for once and keep it to himself. He held out his hand for her to take, helping her lift off the seat, “You aren’t limping, which is good, but we’ll still ice it. If you show up to your parent’s house with a bruised knee and scratched-up hand, I’m sure it wouldn’t be appreciated.” 

The reminder makes her grimace – she’d almost forgotten about that. Adam was the first to tell her about it weeks and weeks ago, and then her father reminded her just last week, yet she let it slip her mind again. Willfully she lets it slip from her mind, neglecting the thought – it was always a little awkward meeting with everyone. When she was little, they would coo over her and how cute she was which she had enjoyed at the time, but she had long since passed the age of being cooed at because she was in a pretty dress. And when she was little, she could fuck off and play pretend somewhere with her cousins or by herself and nobody questioned anything because she was like 7 years old and barely knew how to divide numbers. 

Y/N longs for the solace of being little and not needing to be socially present during family events; life was much easier when she could check out and nobody cared. 

“Are you going with me?” Y/N inquired as she followed him out of the bathroom, tugging down the zipper of her jacket and wiggling it off her arms. 

“Hm?” 

“To the family thing,” she dropped the jacket in her hamper, leaving her in a sports bra but she thinks nothing of it while she waits for his response, “Were you the one going with me?” 

Harry pauses, if only for a brief second, and Y/N sees a look she’s never seen before flicker through his face before he’s smiling again, “Aw, cute! You want me to be there with you?” 

She did, for some reason, she felt like it would be better with him there. Adam and Niall always get pulled off at things like this, but Y/N felt like Harry might stay by her side for it. She had nothing to base this feeling on beyond just knowing it in her gut. 

And when she doesn’t grumble or call him an asshole for teasing her, Harry must realize she’s serious, because the gleam in his eyes softens to one that is gentle and pitying, “It won’t be me accompanying you, though I would love to,” he told her, “I’m wanted elsewhere that day.” 

She frowned at him, already feeling the whine bubble in her chest before he could finish his sentence, “Just tell them that you don’t want to do that and you want to do this instead.” 

“As much as the princess’s word is considered –” 

“Eat shit.” 

“ – I believe that request would be denied. Thomas wants me for a more delicate and potentially violent matter, so that’s where I’ll be.” He sighed, thumbing over his eyebrow, “Though you do manage to be delicate and violent as well, maybe I could ask for a trade.” 

Y/N flipped him off before plopping down on the couch, watching as he began to kick off his shoes at the doorway now that they were settling inside. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if the reason Harry wasn’t going was more than him being needed elsewhere but she couldn’t come up with good enough logic to back the claim. Unless he was the Harry from her childhood, and he was desperately trying to avoid a situation where that fact may be found out, but even that doesn’t seem like his speed. He was much too casual and unconcerned for her to think he’d go to that level just to keep up some weird little secret. 

That doesn’t mean she’s a hundred percent convinced, but she just dwells on it a little less. 

“It’ll be okay, you know,” Harry says after a while, as he’s opening up her windows, pulling the curtains open to let sunlight pour into her room; it glitters off her coffee table and places a glare over her tv, and the sweet chirp of birds still singing early in the morning fills her flat (along with the sound of cars driving below them but the morning traffic had slowed considerably by that point), “Just a few hours of family shit, and then you’ll be done. Can come home and take a shower and relax afterward.” Y/N follows him around the room as he goes to her other window, “It won’t be so bad. Maybe you’ll even have a little fun.” 

She doesn’t have it in her to fight him, “Yeah, maybe,” she offered quietly in return, leaning her head back and letting her eyes flutter closed, trying to ignore the throbbing in her knee, “It just feels weird to see them is all, and having nothing to show for the years that have passed since I’ve seen them last. Like. . .I dunno, I have to sit and listen to everyone else and their successes and I’m happy for them but I can’t help but. . .wish that I had something too. But all I’ve got is attempted kidnappings and a hobby that I haven’t perfected when I’ve got nothing but time to perfect it.” Y/N puffs a mirthless laugh. 

“Self-depreciation doesn’t look good on you,” he clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth and he sounds closer than he was before but she keeps her eyes shut, “Why don’t you start selling your art?” 

That does make her peek an eye at him, “Listen, I know I’m having a little pity party, but I don’t need you being mean and adding to it.” 

“I’m not being mean,” he retrieved a package of frozen vegetables from her freezer before he made his way to sit down beside her, body turned so he faced her directly, “I’m giving you an idea. Your art is good, and all the comments people have made on it in class tell you how cute the things you draw are. So yeah, maybe they wouldn’t sell in some smarmy art gallery, but they would definitely make a cute sticker on a water bottle or a laptop case. And what’d you get your degree in, wasn’t it business related? Marketing?” Y/N’s face pinches up. 

“So?” 

“So put two and two together, Darling, you’re smart,” he told her, “You make cute stickers and you have some understanding of marketing – start selling them online!” 

It. . .wasn’t the worst idea she’s ever heard. The people in the class had called her drawings cute, even the instructor had told her they were charming in a cutesy way. If other people liked them – if Harry really thought that other people would like them enough to stick them somewhere they had to look often – that would give her something to do, wouldn’t it? Something to focus on. . .something that could entirely be her own, and didn’t have to be a question of her safety, with no worry about getting her from point A to point B, and her name wouldn’t be out there. She could do it all under a different name! Loads of Etsy shops and the like don’t have the artist’s real name at all. 

It could just be her own little thing, and if it didn’t work, she could scrap the idea and pretend it never happened. But it was something. . .it could be hers. 

“Hm.” That is all she replied, despite the cogs clicking and turning in her brain. 

Harry sighed, plopping down in the space beside her, “I reckon you just like being difficult,” he told her, stretching one long leg out so it was sitting beneath the table, “Hm? I think you like trying to rile me up.” 

“Maybe.” 

                                                           .                                .                            .

Y/N has been having nightmares. 

As a child, she used to get them a lot. Sometimes they could be vivid; feel as real as a memory and Y/N would have trouble separating what was real and what was a dream. It was an unfortunate byproduct of a burdened subconscious, or at least that’s what the child psychologist told Thomas. And he then took a far more strict and tender approach to isolate her from the world of her parent’s work, which Y/N never really understood. Why wait until a child begins to show emotional distress before keeping them from something potentially emotionally distressing? 

They come and go, depending on the current state and status of her life. Times of stress brought them prolonged and heavy, bogging down her brain like waterlogged branches in a typically dry terrain. A monsoon of shadowy figures, hushed low voices, and crimson puddles. Trying to close her eyes but they’re being held open, trying to move through dense air with gelatinous limbs, trying to scream but her voice just barely leaves her throat. It’s nothing but frustration bubbling to her boil through her veins in the worst way, and when she finally does wake up, it lingers for a few minutes as she acclimates to being conscious.  

Once she has one, she’ll have them almost nightly until the problem is addressed or they eventually wither away. She doesn’t bring them up much – Niall and Adam know about them, but Thomas isn’t aware, though she doesn’t think he’d actually care. And she isn’t sure if her parents were even aware of her first round of them when they had concerned the nannies and guards enough to report them to Thomas. If they did know, they never brought it up. 

So she guesses it made sense that nobody alerted Harry to their existence if they were to ever occur while he was there.

They had started happening two weeks ago, shortly after the attempted kidnapping. It was scary, though it didn’t get very far, knowing that someone could find her location so easily was worrisome for future endeavors. And had this guy been more tactful and maybe a touch more forceful, then the situation could have gone horrendously bad – she could have been in a lot of trouble, and when her mind starts wandering to what could have been waiting for her. . .it’s awful. 

For the most part, they had been pretty tame. Y/N wakes up disoriented and groggy around 4 AM, she wanders out to the living room to find whoever was there that night, and if they were awake she’d make them both tea and stay up for a while. Niall was there the first night, and when she suddenly appeared in front of him with her hand stretched out, holding a mug to him, he gave her a knowing look, “Hm? Nightmare?” She nodded, and he made room for her on the couch, moving his computer, his iPad, or whatever he had brought over to keep himself busy for the night, “Do you want to talk about it?” She shook her head, “Fine, then you’re g’na have to listen to me rant about this fucking series I’m watching because. . . .” 

Adam asks fewer questions and most of the time is asleep when she wanders out but when her door clicks open he’s pulled from his sleep with a snort, “You okay?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Mm,” he would hum, “Go back to bed then, I’m not ready to socialize.” 

“I’ll just be up for a little, you can stay asleep,” she’d assure him, but she didn’t want to be alone, so she would make her tea and then sit on her feather blue recliner (that she was surprised he isn’t inhabiting) with her phone. Adam would say he’d stay up with her but make no move to change his position, so he always ended up back to sleep anyway. 

Bill and Martha were usually asleep too when she wandered out, but they were never ones for much conversation anyway. They would open their eyes, see she is in no imminent danger, then go right back to bed and that was that (nothing and nobody could make her feel more like a little kid than those two, and Thomas when she does see him). She would putter around her kitchen quietly, but take her tea into her room, wrapped up in her blankets and clicking through Youtube videos on her telly, comforted by the knowledge she isn’t alone in the flat. 

Some days there is nobody there with her at night, maybe an extra guard lingering outside the building, but no one inhabits her living room. Those nights Y/N is suddenly confronted with the harsh reminder that she lives in a constant state of fear, gnawing at her lip, jumping at every creak or click that echoed against the walls. It makes her feel like an idiot so she doesn’t bring it up to anybody, that on a regular night being alone can be weird, but on a night she’s had a bad dream it could be weird and long. It was stupid and made her feel like a child.

Tonight, for whatever reason, the dream was a lot rougher than it had been. While the prior nightmares were more nondescript things and hazy situations that she could just tell were bad but did not have comprehensible images of – this was much more lucid. Every touch felt like a burn against her skin, the hand cupped over her mouth and squeezed her nose shut stealing her breath away, the heart racing panic struck her fast, and her fingertips felt numb. She was thrashing, her throat sore from screaming, she needed help – she needed it right then, but there was nobody there. She was alone, she’s always been alone, she’s never safe, never, never, never –

“Y/N!” 

Her eyes split open, the beat of her heart pounding through her chest and ringing through her ears, and her trembling hands stay still at her sides. It took her a few silent, panicked moments before she realized she’d been woken up from a dream, staring at the figure who slowly, but surely, becomes Harry through her bleary gaze. Almost instantaneously relief floods through her, and icy spikes that dotted her vessels are now replaced with warmth, melting them. Y/N isn’t sure if the comfort is brought by the fact that she knows she’s awake so much as it is brought by seeing Harry – he usually showed up in her dream, and dream her was always reassured by his presence. His face usually meant whatever was plaguing her was finished – whatever shadowy, dark figure digging their nails into her arm dissipated. 

It was not until Harry spoke her name again that Y/N finally realized she’d been dreaming but she was awake now. Her eyes burn and her cheeks are wet – she’d been crying? Her bones feel stiff and creaky as she pushes herself from the mattress, pressing her knuckles against her eyes to try and rub the sleep from them. “You were having a bad dream?” Harry’s voice is low, his tone gentle, like he was creeping up on a resting bear and was worried to startle it. 

Y/N nodded wordlessly. The most he gets from her is a small hum as she tries to organize herself and her thoughts; she isn’t used to someone being here as she wakes up, staring at her warily, so she tries to force herself to speed it up. She didn’t want to worry him. And now that she thinks about it, when was the last time he’d spent the night here? He probably didn’t even know she had dreams like this to begin with. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Harry pressed carefully, and there was a small thud of four feet landing on the bed. She looked over to see Goose pad over to her, rubbing up against her torso and finding a spot in her lap before a low rumble of purrs overcame her. 

“What time is it?” Y/N inquired. 

Harry looks at his watch, “2 AM.” 

“Too late to talk about it,” she murmured, though she still felt shaken up. Her hands tremble as she smoothes them down Goose’s back, searching for more comfort in the soft fur, a wobbly rise and fall of each breath from her chest, “Was I being loud?” 

Harry gave her a small, empathetic smile, “Just a little,” he told her, “We could hear you,” it took her a second to realize we meant him and the cats, “And Goose was sitting outside of your door. At first I thought maybe you were awake, talking on the phone or something but you started yelling for help.” 

Grimacing, she frowns, at the image of Harry clambering to get up and burst through her door, overwrought with worry and his adrenalin spiking. His job – the whole reason he is here – is to keep her safe. So how horrifying is it to hear that one objective may be compromised in the middle of the night, on a floor way too high for someone to have snuck through a window?  “I’m sorry, that was – that’s probably scary.” 

“Yeah, it definitely wasn’t my favorite experience,” he agreed, “But I’m glad I could wake you up from it.” She scratched between Goose’s ears, feeling warm that the cat was concerned enough to sit outside her door once she heard her. She’s sure Gremlin is still blissfully sleeping wherever he was originally. “Well, I’ll let you go back to sleep. Call me if you need anything.” 

Y/N had thought that she was feeling better – she was awake, and she knew she was awake, so there was no reason for the same rimy panic that had been suffocating her to return at the mention of Harry leaving. Nor was there a reason for her to reach out and grab his wrist before he could get too far, a pitiful refusal pulled from her lips that feel sore and dry, she’s sure from her own teeth. Harry was safe – he couldn’t leave this soon after she’d woken up, she still needed a little bit – still wanted to be near him, and to hear him talk or even just sit silently at his side. 

But how could she voice this? Nobody else had made her request it explicitly, so she really wasn’t sure what to request. Any version of her saying it just sounds more and more pathetic, to speak the words aloud would be embarrassing. 

“You want me to stay?” Harry offered, after some time, and she was grateful for it as she nodded, “Just in the room?” 

Her face feels warm as her eyes glance over to the other side of her bed, “It’s. . .it’s a big bed,” she told him, swallowing thickly, “You can lay down if you're tired.” 

Harry’s lips quirk into a tiny, halfway smile, and Y/N had seen that look enough to know some form of a taunt typically follows it, “Oh I see,” he began, lifting himself up onto her bed and crawling over her body to get to the side she offered, “Was this a ploy to get me into your bed? You could have just asked, Sweetheart, but I would have asked for dinner first.” 

“Fuck off,” she grumbled, but it held little spite to it. Y/N wiggles back down beneath her covers, and Goose – disturbed but never grouchy – walks to the side, waits for Y/N to find a position she’s content in, and then returns. Y/N lays on her side so Goose tucks herself along her belly as she likes to, curling her face into her paws. Gremlin, who must have finally roused from his own blissful slumber, appeared on the bed at Harry’s feet before taking a seat, his tail undulating behind himself, waiting patiently for Harry to snuggle beneath the blankets. 

“Had I known you slept on a cloud every night, I would have asked for this sooner,” Harry said quietly, breaking through the silence of the room, only previously broken by the whirring of her fan above them, “It smells good in here too.”

Y/N watches him closely, as his head is against her pillow. Nobody else has ever laid in her bed before, and Y/N only ever sleeps on the left side of it, so she’s sure the right feels just as it did when she bought it. It’s weird to see someone there – but it only feels natural that it would be Harry, for whatever reason. Among the cotton, rosy pink duvet cover, in a long sleeve undershirt, his body having disappeared up to his shoulders snuggled beneath the comforter. He looks cute, especially when he turns to face her, and gives her a big closed-mouth smile that she told him in the past made him look like a pleased frog.

“You’re comfortable?” Y/N inquired and once Harry nodded, she finally closed her eyes again, “That’s good.” 

Some time passes. Y/N is unsure how long, but she’s almost certain that she’s fallen asleep until Harry's voice, syrupy and smooth as it always is, slithers into her ear, “I know you don’t want to talk about it and that’s fine,” he murmured, “But I just want you to know, I would never let anything or anyone hurt you. Never.” . 

She falls asleep easily then. 

                                                               .                           .                       .

Y/N used to have nightmares when she was younger, Harry had vague memories of that.

“I had a nightmare that a bad guy tried to kill me again,” she told him casually one day when they were on the swings, like it was the most normal conversation in the world, “It really sucked. They were super mean.” 

“Did you get away?” Harry remembered being concerned, even as a child. Y/N was younger than him, not by much, but enough that he’d felt a sense of responsibility for her. Harry hated his bad dreams, so he empathized with her plight. Whenever he had a bad dream, his mum usually came into his room and comforted him, but Y/N told him once that her mum didn’t like being woken up in the middle of the night for something not urgent. If she had a bad dream and woke up scared but the sun wasn’t out, she would hug her teddy tight and will herself back to sleep – that’s what she had told him, at least. 

With a shrug of her small shoulders, she kicked her legs back and forth in smooth glides, “Dunno’, I woke up before he could.” 

He was concerned then and he was concerned now. 

When Y/N offered him the spot next to her, Harry didn’t hesitate for even a moment. If she was scared enough to stuff away that prideful, bratty side of her to request it, then Harry wouldn’t make her second guess herself. Instead, he tried to make it as normal as possible, with a small tease as he crawled in beside her. He’d resigned himself to the idea of staying awake until he knew for sure she was fast asleep. It took ten minutes or so, but eventually, her measured, even breaths and sleepy sighs lull him into his own slumber. 

Harry wakes two or three hours later, warm. Warmer than he had been when he fell asleep, which he wouldn’t have questioned if not for how icy cold Y/N typically kept her room. For a brief moment, he thinks that maybe her fan shut off and he made the conscious decision to get up and turn it back on for her, but when he moves, he feels a weight on his arm that stopped him. A weight that is different from that of Goose or Gremlin. 

Once he opened his eyes, Harry found that Y/N was snuggled up against him. 

It wasn’t in a sweet, movie-like way as things like this typically went in stories and movies. It was in a very Y/N-like way though – her left leg thrown across his hip, her body flush against him, her face halfway jammed in his chest and her arm stretched over his neck; she’s about one sleepy shuffle away from smothering him with her bicep if she moved just right. Harry thinks it’s very telling that she does not sleep with someone often because she had somehow rolled herself all the way over to his side when there had been a good distance between them to start. 

Carefully, he began to reshape her, moving her arm from over his throat. Harry had been making a conscious effort to be gentle so she stayed asleep, but a small grumble lifted into the air around them that sounds close to “Stop it.” but when Harry says her name, there is no response. Instead, she wiggles her shoulders, her arm finding a place around his waist instead, and scooted closer.

Tch, he rolled his eyes but he could feel a fond smile pulling at his cheeks, She’s even a brat in her sleep. 

Harry lets himself enjoy it for a little while. The warmth of Y/N pressed to his side, the peach-scented lotion still permeating from her skin, the feel of each rise and fall from her chest as she took a breath. His insides feel cotton-soft and melty, he traces circles in the center of her back and waits patiently for her to fall deeper into her head. Once she does, he tries again to carefully remove her from the glued position she’d been in, because while he likes being cuddled close to her, he knew she would be mortified if she woke up. 

This time she goes easily, letting him lie her arm at her side before sliding his hand beneath her thigh, attentively guiding it off of his hip. Y/N stretches, and turned away from him, her arms sliding around a pillow and hugging her face against it. What a cuddly little thing, Harry thinks, she’s probably searching for something (or someone) to put her arms around the whole night. It makes his heart twist in his chest, a weird mix between an ache and a yearning for her. He wondered if these bad dreams would disappear if she always had someone there to cuddle to her body, like an oversized stuffy. 

The idea of it has a pout forming on his lips. Y/N, in the time he’s known her, is driven heavily by physical affection that she is not receiving often. She may grouse when Adam touches her shoulder when he reaches over her head to get in the cabinet, but she leans into his hand. If Niall is around, chances are Y/N is touching him in some way, either with her legs across his lap, or their hips side by side (which. . .Harry has no right to feel an ugly twinge in his chest any time he sees it but that doesn’t stop it from happening). Martha wasn’t the soft type, but Harry had walked in on Y/N leaning against the pillow Martha held to her body while they watched the telly. When Harry had come to her room in a panic, just to see for himself that she was okay (after Otto’s botched kidnapping attempt), she melted against his knuckles that he couldn’t help but stroke against her cheeks. 

Harry had met her parents several times – they were. . .kind as they could be, with what they do, but they were not the nurturing type. They were cool and distant, and even though Harry knows they love their daughter, and talk sweetly, they just didn’t seem like the type to cuddle and coddle. And instead of growing an aversion to touch, she grew too long for it, even in small doses, even from her bodyguards. Where else could she get it? Harry is certain if she went out with her friends she would be touchy and clingy, flopped over them in some way, shape, or form. 

Gremlin moves relatively little with the change in positions, and Goose lets out an annoyed huff before following Y/N’s body, snuggling up against her back. It was almost disgustingly cute how much Goose enjoyed her girl time with Y/N; even though she was the less fickle of the two, she really didn’t warm up that easily to people but with Y/N, it only took a couple of days before she was sleeping in her lap. Harry thinks that not only are cats a good judge of character, but they seek out people who need healing, like little furry psychotherapists that say nothing but do plenty. Where he would normally be a bit jealous, he was glad that Goose had chosen Y/N to snuggle with and love on her. 

Harry sighs to himself. It’s only a matter of time before Y/N realizes that she’s been right all along about knowing him, he was just holding his breath and waiting for it. In his head, when he’d started this, the idea of keeping it all a secret from her seemed easier. There would be no need to go into the details of why he left, to relive any of it, to divulge what he had done, or to break his promise to Thomas, to his father, to her father. He could go on with her like they were two strangers and his past didn’t matter. And Harry doesn’t know why it is so important to him that she didn’t think the sweet boy he was turned into the man he is today; it felt as though it broke the mirage of normalcy his childhood had there for a little while. If the image Y/N held in her head of him was altered, it would pull at his stomach and tug around his heart. The boy she knew was good, not a drop of blood on his hands – the man she knew now had hands covered in the murk and filth of gang politics, rivalries and wars, drugs and guns. 

To keep the two mutually exclusive brought him more comfort. 

But Y/N is perceptive and she recognized him almost immediately. As smart as she was, and as sneaky as she could be, he had a feeling deep in his gut that she would be seeking answers at her parent’s house. It would be easier if Harry wasn’t there too, so she wouldn’t have to sneak around him to do it. And if she finds out. . .well, Harry has accepted that it might happen and he could only hope that she isn’t too angry with him. In the grand scheme, it has changed very little of their dynamic. Harry is a completely different person than he was when he left this place – when he left her. 

His biggest regret, looking back at it, was leaving her alone. Even before this title, when they were just kids playing, he always kind of felt like her unofficial bodyguard. Or even just a companion for her – she didn’t have many other friends, and for whatever reason, both of their parents (or more so his parents and Thomas) thought it was a fine idea to just have them play with one another. Harry thinks it would have been a one-time thing when his father was first getting heavily involved with them, however from what he had heard at the time, Y/N had requested him. 

Or maybe requested was a strong word. He supposes the better way of phrasing it was when Harry's father told him that the little friend he made the week prior asked, “Where is Harry? Is he coming to play?” Which was a request enough for Thomas to invite him to a park that day. They saw each other pretty much weekly after that, depending on what was happening or the state of affairs the organization was in. Actually, Harry doesn’t even think Y/N remembers that much – he had a slightly bigger involvement in her life than he thinks she realizes. But when he speaks to Y/N about her childhood (or more, when she brings up a random anecdote), he finds that she doesn’t recall quite a few things about it. Like her brain had packed it away in storage boxes and stuffed it up in the attic – he’d once read that memory loss was an intrinsic, almost instinctual survival skill. Anything she deemed emotionally traumatic, she may have just conveniently booted from her head, and that. . .well, that might have been most of her years as a kid. 

If he knows anything about her, he knew that she would be upset with him initially but he could only hope she moved past it. Harry would have loved to go with her to her family event, even if she found out with him there, then they could at least discuss it immediately or on the car ride home instead of her stewing over it. But Thomas and Garrison had pulled him aside for different matters – the ones he had described as much more violent than a dinner with a ton of members in a gang, surprisingly. 

There might be a mole. That’s what Garrison had told him privately, that he didn’t trust Otto was in this alone; that nobody just knows where Y/N’s location is, barely anyone knows where she lives and this was an outlet mall 40-ish minutes away. It was just too convenient that Otto would know where she was without there being someone to tell him or some way of knowing. So everyone was under a microscope: Adam, Niall, Martha, Bill, and even some of the new people – Kai, Charlie, Betty, Rebecca. Harry understood why all of these people were on the list, but – 

“Why not me?” He inquired, brows dipped, “I appreciate that I’m not, but I don’t understand why exactly.” 

“You’ve been around since she was a kid,” he’d reminded Harry like he didn’t know, “There will always be a little more trust between us with you than the others. We know you wouldn’t let anything happen to her and you wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize your family.” 

So while Y/N was with her family, he would be preoccupied snooping in places he probably doesn’t belong. It feels wrong to spy on the other bodyguards like this, and even the newbies; he feels guilt trickle through his chest when he is flicking through files of them. But he knew it had to be done. . .that Y/N’s safety was the top priority, even if it meant potentially betraying the trust of his colleagues. 

He’s worried about what he might find. He’s worried about how Y/N would react if it was anyone close to her. 

Worry soaks his brain, weighs it heavy, and drags his eyelids closed so he would stop watching the back of her sleeping head. He needed to sleep – maybe he should have kept her tucked against his side, cozy and warm because he’s sure he could have fallen right back to sleep then. He already knew he would spend at least ten more minutes contemplating what the next few weeks could bring them. The last time he’d had a little bit of trouble falling back asleep in her flat was after they kissed. 

That kiss. . .Harry’s cheeks feel hot thinking about it. He could still feel her against his mouth if he focused hard enough; the taste of her tongue, how soft her lips were, the way she felt in his lap. He could also remember how embarrassing he’d been coming into her room saying he was jealous, which is the only part of the night he wants to forget. They probably needed to talk about it – when he’s speaking, and Y/N’s staring at his mouth, he feels like he should bring it up, but the words always stick to the back of his throat like honey. 

It was inappropriate, Harry shouldn’t have agreed to do it but Y/N was so cute asking him and he’s human, after all. She wanted to kiss and Harry loved kisses and how could he deny her of such a simple pleasure in life? Especially when she said she didn’t get to do it often? It would have been criminal for him to refuse her! And Harry may participate heavily in unlawful, corrupt things, but he was no bloody monster – his job (in part) was to make Y/N happy, and if a kiss was what did that then so be it. 

(At least this is what he convinces himself.) 

Thinking about it either does two things for him: makes him hard, or gives him soft, twinkling feelings in his stomach. Thankfully, tonight it was the latter, so he revels in the sentiment and finds himself drowsy once again (he’d worked himself up enough that he felt wide awake which would not do – they still had a few hours to sleep and he wanted to make use of it). There is comfort in knowing that if Y/N starts to have her nightmares again, he’s right beside her – he wondered if he’d ever be able to be at her flat without wanting to be next to her.

What he said before she fell asleep, he meant – he wouldn’t let anyone or anything hurt her, and that includes a shitty dream. 

                                                              .                          .                          .

The gathering comes quicker than Y/N would have liked, but she figured it was better than the worry of it lingering like a gloomy cloud over her. Y/N had woken up that morning with a sort of weird relief tied into her anxiety; a premature peace was brought on by the fact the day was here and she was one step closer to getting it over with. No matter how unpleasant she would find it, most of these people were family, and if not family, then held a deep-seated, often fear-induced respect for her parents. It wasn’t like anyone would be blatantly mean to her or quiz her too hard on what she was doing, why she was doing it, where she was doing it, because. . .well, wouldn’t that make them look a touch suspicious? These sorts of questions would only be acceptable from her grandparents and that’s if they could talk about something other than how hard it is to use the bathroom the older they get. 

Y/N kept reminding herself of this in the hours leading up to the party and it made her feel much better. They were doing this because her grandparents were coming in from Dublin, where they had settled after passing the torch to her parents (neither was from Ireland, but both were drawn to the lush green hills and a seemingly endless supply of Guinness which is all they could wish for in their old age). Everyone would be much more intrigued by them than they would be by her – she felt silly for getting so worked up over going. Was it not a little self-absorbed to think everyone would want to know what she was doing?  Who gave a shit about what was going on with her besides a handful of other people? 

She had told this line of thinking to Niall who would be accompanying her to the party. “That’s awfully pessimistic but if that’s what makes you feel better then yeah, they’ll probably be focused on what your grandparents are chatting about. They’ve got some brutal fucking stories, but your Nan is so cute, you don’t expect her to be telling them.” 

It’s true; her Nan wears bright-colored cardigans and keeps her hair styled neatly in feather white curls. She knits, sews, and bakes cookies. When she was in town while Y/N was a child, she would take her (bodyguard-less, because “If something goes wrong, I’ll take care of it,”) to feed ducks in the park, or to pick out yarn for a blanket. Very normal, Nan-like things, so you really wouldn’t have guessed that she used to shoot people’s feet if they betrayed the family. 

The weather was much warmer today so Y/N wore a dress – her mum and Nan liked her in dresses, and though Y/N had a love-hate relationship with the garment, she’d like to make them both happy. A light blue, patchwork material that came just above her knees, with loose puffy short sleeves and a square neckline. Niall gave her a mocking gasp when she walked out in it, “I was half expecting to see you in sweats and a tank top, I never see you all dressed up.” 

“Because I’ve been on house arrest, dick,” she retorted, pulling her socks over her feet. 

With a snort, he pulled his phone out, “Harry’s g’na be so fucking jealous he didn’t see you in a dress.” 

“Huh?” Y/N slid her left foot into her shoe (the mary jane like shoe but was lacking the buckle that really made it a mary jane), “Why would he care?” 

“Because you look cute and he’s a sucker for you looking cute,” Niall says it like it’s obvious, confusion reworking his face into a confused frown, “He coos over like every cute thing you do.” 

“He’s just teasing.” 

A scoff leaves him, “Whatever you say – now smile for the camera.”  

Y/N smiled nice, big, and pretty, her head tilted dramatically and her middle finger stuck out toward him. It is the opposite of a deterrent for the blonde, who chortles as he takes rapid-fire pictures from varying angles, muttering something about, “See how you like it when this one goes to your Nan.” After the pictures are taken, she stands and smacks his arm lightheartedly. She wondered if Niall had actually sent it to Harry and her suspicions were confirmed just as soon as they got in the car to leave.

I can’t believe you’ve had such a cute dress and never told me or Goose, you know how much she loves dresses. She’s going to be so hurt.

The memory of Goose rolling around in a few of her dresses (and other various items of clothing but mostly her dresses) when Y/N was going through her closet (in a fit of pure boredom), plants itself into her brain. It makes her smile, even though she knew she’d be removing remnants of tortoiseshell fur off the fabric; she just wanted to scent her and all of her things. Harry told her Goose was in the midst of trying to adopt her but the paperwork is hard for a cat so it’d been taking some time. 

Rolling her eyes, she let her thumbs dart around the keyboard. 

Don’t use the cat as an excuse, pervert

The drive isn’t as awful and damning as she thought it might feel; it’s about 30 or so minutes out from where she stays depending on what traffic is like and Niall is on some soapbox about a drama he’s currently watching. She watches as the cityscape changes to suburbia, and from suburbia closer to the countryside. Not the house on stilts beside a river and a boat beside the car countryside, but the smarmy, affluent kind – where it wasn’t really countryside, but there were acres upon acres of land to own. The trees they pass are a blur of brown branches speckling with green as they shift to Spring, and bushes that never lost their green, to begin with.  

Anxiety still bubbles in her belly but more from the prospect of seeing people she hasn’t seen in a while, than it was from being worried they’d ask how she was doing. Because she realized she could A. Always lie, and B. Harry did give her a good idea the other week about opening some form of online shop. She’d started laying the groundwork for it down, so she could at the very least talk out of her ass about what she was doing. That was if anybody asked – she wouldn’t just bring it up on her own. 

Y/N finds that she just needs to tap into that part of herself she uses with her friends when she is able to go out with them. The part of her that completely erases any possibility that she has a life outside of what they were doing at that moment; narrowly avoiding questions that probe too deeply into her day-to-day, steering the conversations toward the person she was talking to and their life. Everyone likes to talk about themselves if you show you’re willing to listen, Y/N found that out relatively quickly. 

Her parents’ house, much like them, is gaudy and extravagant and too big. It’s a pretty place, but she just doesn’t necessarily see the need for columns lining the stairs leading up to the house, or the large brass lion knocker on the front door. The chandelier in the foyer when you first enter is about a thousand crystals that cast glittering shadows along the slate grey walls. From the foyer, directly in front of the door is a bifurcated staircase, and beneath either set of stairs splitting off from the main row, there was an entryway to the kitchen and a sitting area, both just on the side of too big. She could already see people moving around in the kitchen and could tell that most people were in the backyard where the majority of this would be taking place. 

This wasn’t the house she grew up in so there was no personal attachment to the walls, the floors, or the doorways. She doesn’t stop to linger around a spot on the wall she remembered being measured against when she was little, nor does she see little mirages of a small her running around the halls in a moment of nostalgia. Y/N walks through the foyer, her shoes clicking against the hardwood as she makes her way to the backyard. 

There were a lot of people to greet and she was feeling overwhelmed, but nobody noticed (nor seemed to care) about her arrival. It made it easy to slink around, seeking out her grandma who she knew would be sitting beneath one of the tarps they had set up shielding away the blinding son. She was in the middle of speaking to a group of people, so Y/N was going to stand and wait patiently off to the side, but her eyes flickered over, a smile broke out over her face, and she waved her closer, “Is that who I think it is?” Y/N lowered to hug her, “God, you’re looking like an adult! Where the hell is your grandfather, someone call the lazy sod over.” 

It was easy with her like it always was. Y/N spoke to her for a while, and hugged her granddad when he made his way over, (“Is your hair longer? Looks longer – you know, your mother had long hair when she first met your dad, like down to her bum, it was ridiculous! We used to beg her to get it cut, we thought it’d get trapped in a door.”). She spoke to them both briefly, and they told her they wanted to plan a trip where she came to Ireland for a visit, and she agreed immediately. Her Nan cooed and doted over her for a moment, pinching her cheek and murmuring something about her needing to sleep more, “I can tell you’re tired, you get that same look your dad gets. Why aren’t you sleeping? Is your mattress comfortable?” 

Y/N thinks, if her life was slightly different, these questions might annoy her but she revels in them. No matter how old you get, it’s nice to have someone worry over you a bit; to not see Y/N often but to know when she looks tired, to want to know why she isn’t sleeping, to wonder if it is her mattress. This is the kind of normal worry, about her sleeping habits, or how she’s eating, or if she’s happy – not about rivals and strangers to her that feel contempt for her parents but somehow translate that to hurting her. 

“We’ll talk later,” her Nan promised her, swatting her bum and giving her a small push, “Go mingle with your family, they’re missing you. And find your parents, tell them to stop working and come pamper me, I haven’t seen either of them for more than ten minutes.” 

She listens (her grandma is not someone you ignore orders from) and mingles. Y/N feels increasingly stupider for being so worried because really, nobody cares what she’s doing now, they mostly want to chat and reminisce over memories from years ago. She’s happy to listen, to laugh, to avoid any segues that might lead to delving into her life or opening a door where that might be a topic. Even if it was, she wondered if everyone just knew not to interrogate her – everyone is too worried about upsetting her parents to dig too deep into her shit. For all they know she could be doing under-the-cuff shit for them that nobody but she knew about (she isn’t but she could definitely could be – they aren’t above doing shifty things like that). 

Eventually, she did find her parents and it was. . .as it always was. They almost seemed like they were mid-meeting, which she hadn’t known, but all talked among themselves and the several people sitting beneath the stone gazebo (besides the pond they had built, with fish swimming around in it and a small waterfall because of course they had that) once she appeared, “Hi,” she greets unceremoniously, “Nan says stop working and go dote over her.” 

“Of course she did,” her mom smiled brightly, “Come here and hug me – where’d you get this dress? I love it, I’d be wearing that if I was just a few years younger.” 

“Try a decade,” her father teased, reaching over to squeeze her arm, “How’s my girl, huh? You all,” he turned to the others, “Go ahead and socialize, we’ll spend some time with our daughter.” 

They talk for a while, they’re the only ones inquiring about her life, and what she’s doing, and as she speaks it only then settles in her brain that they’ve got no clue. Y/N always imagines Thomas being puppeteer’d by her parents, doing as they say, but she forgets that for the most part, they do give him a fair amount of autonomy. Only relatively big notions (like her going to university) are discussed as a group. They do know that she’s being confined to her flat and they at least have the decency to  appear like they feel bad. 

“Once things settle,” her mum had patted her knee, “Things will be better, and you’ll be able to go out more. There’s. . .something going on right now, it’s better to air on the side of caution. Especially after what happened.” 

“Yeah, I get it,” she doesn’t. . .she tries her best to though, from their perspective, “Figure it out quick though, I want to go loiter at a mall or something soon.” 

She did end up telling them about her plan with art – after she told them about the art classes, which they seemed only vaguely aware of. Y/N went into it, about the cutesy drawings, about an online store, and they nod and say things like, “That sounds nice, Honey,” which is precisely what she expected. Something gentle, slightly dismissive, like they’re listening to a 12-year-old get overly enthused about her hobby. It was nice to talk about it with someone other than Harry though, even if she was certain they were only half listening. 

Her mother is the one to bring Harry up, sipping from her glass of wine, “Hm? He’s your newest guard is he not? How’s it going?” 

“It’s good,” she shrugged her shoulders, “He’s nice,” I kissed him the other week, “And he’s got two really cute cats that he brings over,” he slept in my bed the other night because I’m having horrible nightmares – do I look tired to you? Nan says I look tired, that’s probably why, “Yeah, it’s fine. Has he said anything?” 

Her father cleared his throat, “From what Thomas has said, he does well at all aspects of his job,” he gave a tight-lipped smile, and there’s. . .a look there, in his face, that caught Y/N’s attention, “Which is always good to hear, when we’re trusting someone with you.” 

“He does kind of remind me of someone,” her lips move before she can really think it through, bringing it up, but her dad’s disposition had changed ever so slightly – something that Y/N wouldn’t have noticed had she not been trying to read them the entire conversation, “I used to spend time with someone when I was little, who was named Harry. He just disappeared one day though.” 

As soon as her mother opened her mouth to respond, her father cut her off, with a smooth, almost immediate precision, “Hm, I think I remember him,” he reached for his drink from the table, “But he and his family moved quite a while ago, I believe. There was a company in Australia I believe, that wanted to hire him. That is if I’m remembering correctly.” 

Y/N thinks if her father had answered any other way, or even just slightly differently, she wouldn’t have questioned it. Maybe she would have finally given up, and let it go because even if she did know Harry from when she was younger he clearly didn’t want her to remember him for a reason. If she had anything else to do with her time, she probably wouldn’t have even cared that much to bring it up past asking Harry if she knew him from somewhere. 

But it was weird how he’d answered her. It was too fast – and how do you think you remember somebody, but go on to explain they moved to Australia? Plus, from what Y/N has gathered through bits and pieces she hears from her guards and from what she remembered when she was little, people don’t just stop working for her parents. They don’t just go on their merry way unless they are exiled, and even then, the offense would have to be pretty minor to come out unscathed. 

Once you’re in this world, you’re in it. There’s no dipping a toe in and deciding it’s too cold; the only option is to sink into it, down to the shoulders, and embrace it when the water lapping at your neck is finally warmer than the air blowing around above it. 

“Ohh, okay,” she plays nice and dumb, smiling gently, “Well that settles that then. I was just wondering.” 

The tension that had risen in his shoulders loosened, and he relaxed back in his chair, “Tell us more about this business you’d like to start – I know someone who specializes in marketing for start-ups and. . .” 

It’s brushed under the rug because of course it is, and Y/N keeps chatting with them a healthy amount before excusing herself to the restroom. This is when her parents make their move to visit with her Nan (“What a joy it is to dote on your mother-in-law,” her mother sighed, grabbing her wine), so they split ways. Y/N does have to piss, that much is true, but she’ll also be taking a detour to the library, where the photo albums were kept. Nobody questions where she’s going or why she’s going there, but she does manage to narrowly avoid Thomas who would have definitely not trusted her when she told him she wasn’t doing anything to rouse suspicion. 

The library, in comparison to the rest of the house, is actually one of the smaller rooms. She wondered if it was actually small or if the towering bookcases made it appear more compact than it was. On either side of the room, the walls were bookshelf-beside-bookshelf, filled to the brim with different novels, titles, hardbacks, and paperbacks (she doesn’t even think her parents are that into reading). Adjacent to the door, the wall is a window that reminded her of Edward’s room in Twilight, only this one was composed of bulletproof, thick glass and had large curtains that could be drawn if it was night. In the center of the room was a small couch, a coffee table, and a lamp (which has a very limited purpose when there’s a huge light fixture hanging from the ceiling that lights up the entire room as soon as it’s flicked on). 

It takes her a moment to skim over different bindings until she finds the odd, large bindings of the photobooks. They aren’t labeled but she remembered that her mother, in all her perfectionist glory, had them color coded by years. Y/N knew that vibrant purples, blues, and greens were from a period starting with her birth so that’s where she starts. She pulled out all of them, bundled them in her arms, and went to the couch. Vaguely does Y/N remember a time when she was always posing for pictures whether she wanted to or not, and while it wasn’t necessarily either of her parents taking the picture – someone was. Thomas, any bodyguard, her Nan, uncles, aunts, and cousins if they were all together. So there are plenty of pictures to sift through, almost an annoying amount. She thinks she’ll be in here for hours. 

Three photo albums in, she begins to lose hope. What was she even looking for? Some proof that Harry existed when she was little? Who was to say anyone had even taken a picture of them together in the first place? And for her parents to keep it, when one of them at the very least, was not interested in her knowing that he had existed in her life before a few months ago when he’d entered her flat, following close behind Niall? It was unlikely. 

She nibbles at her thumbnail, heaving a sigh and almost irately flipping through pages now when she sees it. 

When she sees him. 

If Y/N had looked through it any quicker she would have missed it. A picture at the park, two children stood beside the obnoxiously bright blue tunnel slides: one of them was her, in a frilly pink sundress that had large yellow flowers printed all over the front, and jelly shoes she has a vague memory of regretting because the mulch from the ground kept scratching her. She had a big, front toothless grin, her head over-exaggerated in its tilt and one of her hands were held up like she was waving. Her arm was wrapped around a boy, just a little taller than her, who had awful cargo shorts you could only get away with wearing at 9 and a green shirt with a FIFA logo. His hair was brown, cut short, his eyes were light, she could tell, and he had two dimples just as she remembered. Looking at this photo, she knew for sure. 

It was him. 

That fucking liar. 

She carefully slides the delicate paper from the plastic sheet and presses it off to the side, before continuing to flip through. One picture would be enough, she knew, but she wanted to build an arsenal of proof. He could try to explain away one picture, but not several. Not when she could tell the structure of his face, the way one side of his mouth has always pulled up higher when he smiled, the crinkles beside his eye when he grins. 

Y/N is conflicted, about whether to be happy or upset or whatever she was feeling. She was happy that she had been right this whole time. She was irritated because he’d been lying to her and her dad just lied straight to her face, but she wondered for what reason it was important that she didn’t know. And she was confused, because. . .well, where the fuck had he gone? From at least four of the photo albums, she finds around five photos from each of them, up until she was around 10. 

She’d worried a sore into the inside of her bottom lip biting at it with fretted teeth, and her forehead ached from the deep furrow she’d had the entire time she flicked through the albums. Y/N was ready to go home, but she knew she’d have to stay for a while longer. 

Just as she was sliding the pictures into her purse, zipping it closed, the door of the library opened. She tenses until she realizes it’s Niall, who squints his eyes, “What are you doing in here?” 

“Hiding and going down memory lane.” She dismisses him quickly, collecting the albums and walking them back to where she’d found them, “Have they started serving food yet? I’m fucking starving.” 

“Watch your mouth, your Nan could be around any corner. She’s quiet on her feet,” he playfully scolded her, not probing any further into her reasonings for being in here, “That’s why I came to get you, the caterers finally have everything set up and I knew you’d fuss if I ate without you.” 

She scoffed, “Thanks, and for the record, I don’t fuss, I hit.” 

He pouted his mouth, rubbing his arm where she’d swatted him earlier, “Don’t I know it.” 

                                                                    .                     .                   .

Y/N loses her nerve.��

For a while, she was riled up and ready for an argument (though she doubts Harry would actually argue with her); Harry was supposed to come to see her that night, so she had very little time to mentally prepare. But from that little time she did get, she’d prepared to let him walk in, sit down, then slam the pictures down on the table in front of him and demand answers. Like why he lied before, why her father lied today, and why he left in the first place. Does it matter? No, not necessarily, and she doesn’t think it would change how anything is right now, but at the end of the day, Y/N is nosy and confused and wants to know why everyone else is in on this and not her. Just like everything else in her life, she is kept in the dark, and she’d just been praising Harry for being the only one who ever kept her in the know, telling her more than anyone else. 

And she thinks if it had been anyone else, she probably would have. If she had looked through those albums and seen a photo of Niall with her, she would have immediately thrown it at him and asked him what the fuck it was about. 

Yet as soon as she saw Harry, who smiled brightly at her as he walked in, holding two strawberry shakes with a big grin on his face. . .she just couldn’t. 

“I brought you a treat,” he told her, kicking the door shut with his foot, “It’s a celebration shake. Do you feel relieved having done it and gotten it over with?” 

It almost felt silly, to think about doing it how she had planned. To show him the photos, like an I told you so! I’m right, you’re wrong, I did know you – it felt like a petulant way to approach the subject. And if there was a good reason that they didn’t want her to know. . .if there was any reason at all, really, why should she have to force his hand in telling her? To shove proof in his face, catch him off guard, guilt him into telling her. . .it just didn’t feel right. She wanted to know, and part of her felt she deserved to know, but maybe not like this. 

She cleared her throat, and smiled gently, “Yeah,” she told him, “It wasn’t too bad.” 

“See! I told you it’d be just fine,” he handed her the shake, “I’ll admit, I am jealous Niall got to go with you in that dress. It was adorable – you look so pretty when you’re all dressed up. Well, you’re pretty always, actually, but I do love dresses.” 

Y/N feels her face warm, mouth pulled into a frown, “Don’t tease me,” she grumbled, pulling the straw of the shake between her lips, but she moves her legs out of the way for him to sit with her on the couch. 

“I’m not teasing,” he defended himself, “Really, I think you’re pretty in whatever you feel comfortable in.” 

Y/N nudged him with her foot, and let the words, I knew you when I was little, I have pictures – fizzle out in her throat. She wants to know – so badly does she want to know, but she just can’t give a reason why she would need to know. And she guesses part of her is a little scared that it might change things between them. There were a lot of things Y/N wanted but that wasn’t one of them; she’d like to keep getting closer to him, to keep looking at him and feeling safe, for that bubble of warmth and comfort to arise in her belly every time he stepped through the door. 

She liked how things were now, so maybe she was okay not knowing. Not yet, at least. . .for a little while. 

“Where’s your head at, hm?” Harry hums low, sweet, and soft; he’s in the usual attire, though the white button-up was loosened by a few buttons and the cuff links were undone. His suit pants were navy blue today, and he treated them with little care, his foot pulled up onto the couch, rolling the leg of the trousers up. He is turned to face her, the hand on his phone lowering so she had his full attention, “You seem far away.” 

“Nowhere,” she lies easily, “I’m just sleepy.” 

Harry gives her a smile – it’s gentle but still big, and she’s suddenly acutely aware of how her heart races when she witnesses it, dimples and all, “Liarrr,” he sing-songs, but uses his free hand to squeeze her calf over the pajama pants she’s wearing, “You can tell me when you’re ready if you want to talk about it,” his voice sinks into her muscles, melts them, “I’ll wait for you. Until then, I reckon we should watch that show. . .the new one with the zombies everyone is talking about?” He would have a good reason, right? Harry wouldn’t just lie to her. . .Harry doesn’t just lie. 

Y/N nodded, her lips twitching up, “So you finally admit you want to see it,” she puffed a laugh from her chest, “After so vehemently denying that you’re interested in zombie shows at all!” 

“To be fair, a lot of them can be shit!” He whined, “But I’ve seen a lot of good reviews, and I heard it’s about some mind-controlling fungus which is a slight deviation from other versions of the story. And legally, you can’t be mean to me because I’m so sweet and brought you a shake.”  

She grabbed the remote, “You’re whiny.” 

“I reckon I deserve to be the whiny one sometimes, you get to be 24/7.” He retorted and Y/N gasped, mouth falling open. 

“I am not whiny!” 

“Oh? Was that a whine I just heard?” When she huffs at him and starts turning her body away from him, he chuckles low, stopping her from twisting her body completely by laying a hand on her bicep, “C’mon, c’mon, I’m kidding.” He scoots to the other end of the couch, “Here, do you want to stretch out? I’m sure your feet must hurt after being in those shoes all day.” 

Her response is to kick her feet up without hesitation, but she wiggles down so that they lay in his lap, “Will you rub them?” Because if he’s going to lie to her about knowing her and then suddenly return to her life as her bodyguard, she thinks she deserves a foot rub out of it at the very, absolute least. 

“Ah,” he places one of her throw pillows in his lap, before delicately laying her foot on top of it, “You just want me here to dote on you.” 

She nodded her head, “Correct.” 

“Brat,” he digs his thumb into the sole of her foot anyway, just above her heel, “Get the show started or I’ll start tickling.” 

Because it’s easy with Harry – it’s always been easy with Harry and that’s what she liked. 

Why make it difficult? 

Why bring it up? 

                                                                 .                             .                           .

The days go on as normal; eventually, they lessen their stringent rules on where she can and cannot go. It’s only a little bit, but she and Harry can finally return to their art classes, where Y/N found the excuse for their absence was they had taken a trip to Spain (she lies about how amazing the rooftop tour of Santiago de Compostela Cathedral is beautiful knowing full well she didn’t even know you could get tours on the rooftop).  They returned just in time for a color theory lesson that goes from a fun grade school color wheel to something that melted her brain. By the end of it, it had turned into something so complex, even Harry seemed genuinely astonished by how deep into it they went. 

“We’ll have to practice later,” he promised, “‘cos I’m going to forget everything she said after the first hour.” 

Y/N goes to a brunch with her Nan, who – albeit reluctantly – lets Harry attend. Thomas was still hyper-aware of any possible danger (as he always is) and thought it would be dangerous for not only Y/N but her Nan (who has made plenty of enemies in her day) to be alone out and about together. Harry offered to sit at a separate table once he noticed her Nan’s displeasure but she waved the idea away, “Why should you be punished because I disagree with how they’re doing things? You’ll sit with us.” 

If Y/N looked back on it, she thinks that Grandma always had a problem with how they raised Y/N. Very, very, very vaguely she has an indistinct and fuzzy memory of her scolding Y/N’s father, “This is no life to live,” she told him, “To force her in this house! To not even let her attend school? She needs friends outside of her cousins and a life. I didn’t raise you to be so stupid.” And Y/N thinks, relatively close to that, she’d been enrolled in a private school (though she moved around quite a bit following that). 

It was nice to spend time with her, and she thinks – even without trying – Harry had managed to woo her Nan in about five minutes. If she let herself indulge, even just for a second, it was like having her boyfriend meet her family but she wipes the thought away as soon as it arises. 

Because she’s been having a lot of thoughts like that; she’d begun labeling them her “senseless, delusional” moments where she even for a second considered having feelings for Harry. They started out infrequently, only every so often (especially when he did something particularly sweet) but with time they grew more recurrent. It seemed, like some sort of sick twist, that they came on stronger once she realized that she knew him from when they were little. 

Which, Y/N thinks if she were more emotionally sound, the opposite would have occurred. She should be put off and repelled, but instead, she finds herself feeling more and more fond. 

Now she notices things that she hadn’t before. All the little idiosyncrasies of hers that he remembered from childhood: how she liked jelly candies and her favorite flavors, the board games she used to play, the stuffies she always liked, the way she hated the sound of nails on a holographic picture, how she thinks the sandwich just tastes better when it’s cut diagonally. They were things that, for whatever reason, she never questioned why he knew before but now that she thought about it, it would be incredibly odd had he known them without knowing her. 

And over time she just realizes that he brings the kind of comfort that only a childhood friend could bring. Familiarity, a tender warmth, the idea that someone still likes you even as you’ve grown and changed into the person you are today. Fundamentally, their relationship was always somewhat forced she guesses – their parents (or his parents and Thomas) probably arranged the first play date. And Thomas definitely arranged for him to be her bodyguard. They were compelled to be in the same space together, but enjoying their time with each other. . .that was them. Harry laughing at her jokes, the feeling that fizzles in her veins when his cheeks get pink, how excited she is to see him when it’s his night with her, the borderline domestic relationship she’s developed with his cats – all of that wasn’t arranged. 

They were friends, Y/N truly believed that. They had been forever now, she guesses, if the decade-long gap in between was dissolved. 

Y/N thumbs through the photos when she’s in her room at night, gnawing at her bottom lip, a zoetrope of memories flickering through her brain. Some things she recalls, some things she doesn’t, and she recalls feelings more than she does conversations or scenarios. She was always happy, she knew that, and she always felt like a normal kid with him. She could tell him things and they could play and things were good and normal.

She found herself wanting to kiss him more every day, which is a bit of a problem. They still hadn’t spoken about the first, logically they should do that before having a second, but the want for it itches beneath her skin. Y/N’s certain he had caught her staring at his mouth several times, probably more than she would like to admit, but he had never really brought it up before. 

Until a random Thursday, at least, when she’d spent most of the day drawing and perfecting different sketches for the first round of stickers (she does a lot of random original cutesy drawings, then some that involve different tv shows and movies – people like to buy cute versions of characters they like, Y/N knows that because she does it all the time). Harry started talking about. . .something, Y/N couldn’t remember, but what she did remember was how his mouth went from forming around the word “apples” to smirking. 

“You stare at my mouth an awful lot,” he taunted her, and Y/N. . .she was feeling more sensitive that day; less fiery than she usually was, so she tilted her head down and murmured an apology, “No, wait,” he clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth, “I was only kidding, Sweetheart, you don’t need to apologize for anything.” 

When she hummed and made no move to look back at him, she felt careful fingers on her chin, guiding her face toward him, “C’mon, Darling, don’t hide. It’s okay! You can look at my mouth all you want, lord knows I’m always looking at yours.” 

Her face feels hot and she swallows thickly, “You’re looking at mine?” 

“Mhm,” he hesitated for a moment, before the pad of his thumb grazed over her bottom lip, “More than I’d like to admit.” 

“We could always,” she spoke against his petting thumb, “We could kiss again then if you want.” 

He leaned in, moments from smearing his mouth against hers, but there was a knock at the door. 

The pizza they ordered had come. 

That was the closest they’d been to kissing again, but once Harry went to answer the door and sign for the food the moment had left them. Y/N is flustered, warm in her face, and has zero nerve to return where they had left off so she nudges him with her foot when he sits back beside her and calls him a wimp when he fusses over it. Things go back to normal – the same as they usually were.

(It was only later that night when she was alone in her bed when she felt inconceivably horny, did she remember that her period was coming. The weeks leading up to it always left her insatiable, sensitive in both her feelings and touch, and if she snuck her hand between her thighs to the thought of kissing him again, well that’s her own problem.) 

The nightmares start to fade too, which is nice, though that means Harry spends less time in her room. He’d made a habit of sleeping beside her, or at least laying down near her until she fell asleep, and she’d always wake up the next morning alone. Though without fail, as soon as a dream seemed to sour, Harry was there at her side to wake her from it, always attentive, squeezing the shoulder he’d just been shaking, “S’just a dream, baby, you’re okay.” He’d calm her down, “Go back to bed.” 

“Thank you, nightmare killer,” she would murmur, tongue feeling heavy in her mouth, and Harry would laugh, and she’d fall back asleep. 

Things were nice, starting to feel a little normal again with the additive closeness she felt with Harry despite knowing what she did. She was starting to feel comfortable again, and not stuck inside all of the time, and she felt like she was getting somewhere with her drawings, growing closer and closer to being able to open her shop. 

And then, one night, Harry is waking her up frantically. 

Harry is not a frantic person – he is usually calm, collected, and measured. Y/N has never truly seen him in action but she’s sure he makes decisions with precision and tact that typically comes from years of experience, though she doesn’t think he’s been at this that long. He’s levelheaded and respectful and acts well under pressure – that makes him deadly. 

So to see him urging her awake, moving quickly, telling her to, “Get up, we need to leave.” Makes her adrenalin spike and panic drip from her ears. 

“What?” She was still foggy, disoriented – what time was it? Her clock says it’s three in the morning. 

“We need to go,” he is reaching beneath her bed, dragging out a bag – her “Go” bag, is what she always called it, something Thomas had instructed her to make even when she was little. It was a duffel of clothes, toiletries, and things that would take too long to grab in the event she needed to leave an area quickly. She’d only ever had to grab it once before when she was younger, but she couldn’t remember why. Though now that she thinks about it, it seemed like it might have been close to the time that Harry had disappeared.

She doesn’t check her go bag often, beyond replacing the toiletries that may have lived past their shelf date, so she was also surprised to see Harry pull a gun from it. A gasp leaves her mouth, she’s still moving too slowly, trying to catch up with what’s happening as he’s fitting it into the holster, “Wait, what? What’s wrong? What’s happening?” 

He’s zipping the bag up, “Bill was fired –” 

“What?” 

“- and it got ugly, he shot at Martha. There’s reason to believe he’s on his way here.” 

“But why –” 

“There’s no time to explain everything,” he threw the duffle over his shoulder, “We need to leave.” 

Her head is spinning, she knows she’s probably annoying him, but she can’t help but search for something to say, for a question to ask, to try and understand what was happening, if she was dreaming or not, if this was another nightmare, “What –” 

This time Harry cuts her off by taking her face in his hands – he was still gentle, but she could sense the urgency, “I will explain as soon as we’re safe, I promise you, baby, but right now we need to leave okay? Get your phone but turn off the location. We’ll go down the back stairwell to the parking garage.” She still seems hesitant, confused, but Harry runs a thumb over her cheek, “Do you trust me?” 

And she does. . .she trusts him implicity, more than she should, probably.   

“Yes.” 

“Good,” he replied quickly, “Come on.” 

[jeonginslefthand]

Harbor Lights ✨

Pairing: Hyunjin x female Y/N (Established relationship (BF x GF), idol!Hyunjin x photographer!Reader)  Genre: Straight fluff, wholesome romantic date fluff  Word count: 1.7k+ Plot summary: Hyunjin decides to take you on an early morning walk along the harbor bridge before he has to perform his idol duties (and possibly for a quick photo shoot with his fav photographer ;)) Warnings: None. Maybe some cheesy lines here and there but what’s romance without some cheesiness to it?  A/N: So this was a random idea that I completely wrote up at 3am (no seriously it was 3am when I wrote this—). Although this was a 3am idea, this is [mostly] proofread and has been through many changes and drafts. I’m still a little new to writing shorter fanfics like this so constructive criticism is welcomed! But other than that hope you all enjoy it and let me know what you all think.

Stray kids masterlist

~~~

“[Y/N] wake up!!” 

You sleepily turn over in your sheets as your boyfriend shakes you awake. Usually, he’s in a rush to get to a dance practice or a recording session. He only has time to give you a small kiss on your cheek thinking you’re still asleep (you’re not though. All of his moving around naturally wakes you up). But this morning he’s up at who knows what hour trying to get you up for reasons you have yet to find out. 

“Hyunjin…” you sleepily say as you turn to check the time. 5:30 AM. Way earlier than when he usually wakes up. “Do you need me for something? Why’re you up so early?” 

“Come on, it's not that early.” Hyunjin pouts. “Get up and get dressed! We’re going somewhere special.” 

You sit up in bed looking at Hyunjin confused, raising your eyebrow. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see!!” Hyunjin teases. “Oh, and bring your camera with you.” 

Hyunjin leaves before you can question him further. He rarely asks you to bring your camera. That’s only reserved for special occasions like sightseeing on world tours and special dates. Maybe he is taking you to a special place for a breakfast date? It would be a miracle if he found a place that opened before 6. Maybe he wants to have a mini photoshoot? Hyunjin’s always saying you take photos like a professional (and always makes sure to get his good side). 

With all these thoughts running through your head, you get up from your bed and start getting dressed. You don’t put on anything too flashy, grabbing a hoodie and some oversized jorts. You top off the outfit with a pair of worn out Converse and a beanie. As you pick up your camera, Hyunjin comes back into your room with an even bigger smile on his face.

“Ready to go [Y/N]?” He asks.

“Yeah. You still haven’t said where we’re going.” You respond.

“We’re going on a little walk. I just want to spend time with my girl. It feels like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

He has a point. With the next comeback around the corner along with prepping for the tour, it’s like he’s never home. You knew it wouldn’t be easy being with an idol, but deep in your mind, you wished you could spend more time with him during these comebacks. Although you would prefer not to be up so early, if it meant spending more time with your boyfriend then it’s all worth it. 

The two of you leave your cozy apartment and you start following Hyunjin as he walks. Wherever you’re walking must not be far if he didn’t immediately hop in the car (although technically this already counts as starting the walk). The two of you get a little further and see a bridge and a harbor appear. Hyunjin stops and grabs your hand as he turns to you. 

“We’re going to walk on the harbor bridge! I hear the view is breathtaking.” Hyunjin explains. 

“I feel I’ve seen this bridge before…” you start to look at your surroundings and see you probably passed this area a few times. 

Hyunjin doesn’t respond and he pulls you toward the bridge. You take note of your surroundings as the two of you walk on the bridge. There barely is anyone on the bridge. You see one or two people in workout clothes taking a run in the opposite direction. The two of you are practically alone and you start to understand why Hyunjin chose this place. The sound of the water flowing below you coupled with the chirps of the morning birds and the slow rise of the sun enhances the peaceful atmosphere. The warm breeze flowing along your neck gives you a feeling of comfort. You could take in the atmosphere for hours, wishing that time would stop so you could take in this moment with just your boyfriend.

You both find a stopping point in the middle of the bridge and you take a step forward taking in the view. Hyunjin was right, it was absolutely gorgeous. The sun perfectly hits the water to give it a subtle glimmer. There are two lookout goggles and a bench on the opposite side of the goggles. You and Hyunjin go up to the goggles and look through them to get a better view of the water surrounding you. As you back away from the goggles, you study the rest of your surroundings and think to yourself this looks like a scene straight from a painting. Just looking at what’s in front of you gives you the inspiration you need to snap some quick photos. 

You pull your camera out and start to take some pictures of the water. Hyunjin slowly sneaks up behind you and begins to cuddle you from behind. 

“Knew you wouldn’t resist the chance to take some photos!” Hyunjin teases.

“Shut up!” You respond. “I will admit, this is peaceful. I miss spending quality time with you like this.” 

Hyunjin doesn’t respond and embraces you some more, taking in the feeling of your presence. He didn’t need to respond. You knew he felt the same. The two of you sit in silence for a moment as your mind wanders off.

You turn to Hyunjin appreciating his beauty in this moment. The sun is doing wonders for him… you think to yourself. The rays of the sun hitting Hyunjin’s skin at the right angles make him glow brighter than he usually does. You’re hit with a wave of inspiration thinking of how you can capture this moment on your small camera. 

“Can you pose right here for a moment?” You ask pointing at a spot on the bridge in between the lookout goggles. Hyunjin smiles and quickly walks over to the spot with his back against the bridge getting in a casual pose. You hold your camera up adjusting yourself trying to find the right angle.

“You look so beautiful when you're taking photos. I don’t understand why this is just a hobby.” Hyunjin says. 

“And I don’t understand why you just paint as a hobby.” You respond still trying to get the perfect angle. “Your paintings are beautiful. Every time I see one I’m transported to another world. So what made you choose the idol life?” 

Hyunjin thinks for a moment before responding. “Because I love the stage. I love being up there performing, dancing my heart out. It’s something I don’t think I’ll fall out of love with. If I turn painting into a job, I’m afraid I won’t love it as much anymore. Nothing I make will feel like… me.” 

“And that’s how I feel about photography. Well, almost. Maybe as the years go on, I’ll feel differently and turn this into my side hustle. But for now, I want to enjoy this without worrying about how much money I can make out of it.”

You adjust some settings on your camera as you position it towards Hyunjin again. “Besides… isn’t it kinda hot knowing I only take pictures for you?” 

“Okay, there’s no denying that.” Hyunjin laughs. “But one day, promise that you’ll consider selling your beautiful pieces. They don’t deserve to be kept locked away in your computer.” 

“Only if you promise to do the same with your paintings.” 

“Hmm… maybe…” Hyunjin teases.

“Very funny. Shut up and hold still for a moment.” 

You finally get the angle you want and snap a few shots of Hyunjin. He changes up the pose a couple of times and you adjust accordingly. The rays of the sun continue to enhance his beauty as it rises. It’s like he’s naturally photogenic with his energy complimenting the entire scene. You finish taking the photos and show them to Hyunjin. He smiles appreciating the way he looks through your lens. 

“Okay, it’s your turn now!” Hyunjin smiles. “Go and pose on the bridge!” 

You’re hesitant at first, but you slowly hand Hyunjin your camera as you go to the same spot he was in. You’re not used to being in front of a camera, but you do your best to get in a comfortable pose. Noticing your struggle, Hyunjin walks up to you and helps you with the pose. 

“Just relax. Pretend there isn’t a camera. It’s just you and the harbor atmosphere.” Hyunjin softly says to help you relax. 

Hyunjin’s soft voice helps you relax, comforts you even. You look off in the distance zoning out for a moment until you hear a small CLICK!

“Perfect! Keep posing naturally like that. Like your beautiful authentic self. You look your best when you’re not worrying about what’s around you.” Hyunjin reassures you, continuing to make you blush with his soft voice. 

He takes a couple more photos and you go back to get your camera from him. You look through the photos, admiring the way your boyfriend captured your presence. It’s amazing how you’re able to see yourself in a different light (both figuratively and literally). 

“What do you think? I’m not as great as the professional [Y/N], but I think these do your beauty justice.” 

“They’re amazing Jinnie!” You respond. “A few retouches in Lightroom and maybe these will look almost as good as my photos,” you say teasingly.

Hyunjin laughs before responding. “How about we continue our walk darling? The rest of the bridge leads to the next city. It’s long but if you’re up for it I think it’ll be worth it.” 

“I think that sounds perfect!” You respond with a smile. 

The two of you finish your walk along the bridge. It took about twenty minutes to get to the end of the bridge to the next city and you take a photo with Hyunjin celebrating the moment. You notice a coffee house near you and politely drag Hyunjin for a quick coffee date and a bite to eat after all the walking. The two of you chat it up enjoying each other’s company, completely losing track of time taking in the moment. As Hyunjin is telling his stories from idol practice yesterday, he suddenly remembers he had his phone on silent and he pulls it out. He opens it to multiple missed calls from Chan and a few text messages from him. Hyunjin quickly gets up and you quickly follow him as he opens his phone to one message in particular:

BangChan: Hey! Are you coming to practice or what? 🤨

[roughridingrednecks]

Temple

[strangersteddierthings]

The Conversation

Final Part of The Interview [Part One] [Part Two] [Ao3]

Steve finishes putting on his boots, shoves a beanie on his head, and grabs his thermos of coffee before heading outside. Robin had texted when they left Pendleton so they should be arriving soon, and he wants to make sure the dogs stay clear of the driveway, and also finish some of the chores he is being lazy about. The mountain air is cold in February, and the snow is deep, but it's still warm for a winter day in Eastern Oregon.

His childhood house had been at the edge of a little forest. His current home is tucked away in the woods, trees for miles, and the nearest neighbor farther still than that. He's lived a lot of places, been able to see the whole of America almost, and in the process, he's learned that he'll always be a small-town boy. The real revelation is how at home he feels in this two-bedroom cabin sequestered away from any town at all. Sure, he's got to drive a little over half an hour to get to the nearest grocery store, but he's learned he likes that.

He's got 1600 acres of woods all to himself and the dogs. He's owned this property for almost four years, but recent events made him finally move out here. Originally, he'd bought it to make it as another flip project, but something in his gut told him to make it a vacation home / safe haven for his family instead. Robin, mainly, as a getaway from the LA life and overwhelming spotlight she'd started to face as her music career took off. He might be turning it into his permanent home and base of operations, but everyone knows they're still welcome.

Anyway, the day might be warm for winter, but the night won't be, so Steve sets his thermos on the top of the wooden railing of the porch and heads down the steps to the woodshed. The plan in the summer is to update the cabin, which includes adding central air and a good heating system, but until then, portable heaters are in the bedrooms and the wood stove gets the rest of the cabin. There's also plans to start the construction on the guest house. It's going to be a busy summer.

He replenishes the woodpile on the porch from the woodshed and debates chopping more but decides against it. That can be a tomorrow chore. Next is cleaning up the snow paths he's made previously. Doesn't want anyone falling on their ass on the way to the house, no matter how funny that'll be to watch. As usual, Pancake makes the task difficult because she wants to play with the snow shovel. Melody cries until he throws snow into the air by the shovel full for her to play in. Chowder, old man that he is, supervises from the porch, front paws hanging just off the top step.

It's rough going but he manages to complete the few chores, even with two dogs underfoot.

Steve is on the front porch, forearms holding his weight as he leans against the railing, thermos of coffee between his hands, taking in the afternoon sun and enjoying the silence when Dustin's work truck slides into the driveway. Almost literally, given the foot and a half of snow still on the ground. The driveway is long, okay. Steve's doesn't have enough time in his day to keep up with salting it all.

It'll be strange to see Eddie after all these years. He still can't believe Robin got him to come. When he'd asked how she did it, she brushed him off with an it's not important.

Speaking of Robin, she's the first person out of the truck, sliding out of the passenger seat and then cursing when she drops right into the snow. She shoots an accusatory look towards the cabin, and therefore Steve, like he placed the snow there himself, when the fault is Dustin, who has left the driver side with plenty of room between the truck and the snowbank.

Dustin gets out of the truck and Steve faintly hears him say this side, man, less snow before pushing his door closed and turning to brace himself as Pancake and Melody rush from the porch to circle like sharks, barely restraining themselves from jumping up. Chowder follows after slowly, taking his sweet time getting to Robin, his favorite human. Steve can't even be jealous about that because Robin is his favorite human, too.

The back driver side door opens, and he watches as Eddie Munson all but falls out of the truck. It's the least graceful anyone's looked getting out of the back of the truck and that's counting Chowder and his old man hips. Seeing Eddie again is- well, it's a lot of emotions all at once, but they're are all overshadowed at the moment by how Eddie looks... well, bad. His hair is longer than Steve's ever seen it, a little longer than mid-back length, but it looks like it hasn't seen a proper hair brush in a couple of days. Even from this distance Steve can see the bags under his eyes. He looks like he hasn't slept in days.

He pushes himself off the railing and meanders down the two steps, waiting for them to notice he's waiting. Robin trudges out of the snow berm and to the front of the truck, where Chowder is waiting patiently for his pets and kisses. Dustin has managed to get Melody to stop hopping in front of him so she can get her side scratches, and Pancake has realized there is a new, third person with a set of hands currently not petting her, and is circling Eddie, waiting for him to reach down and pet her but he just stands completely still, heading tracking her in her circles.

"She's friendly, I promise," Steve calls out, which makes Eddie's head snap up to look for the source of the voice. Well, everyone looks, but Eddie looks like he's seeing a ghost, which. Fair. Steve kind of feels the same way.

"Hello, Dingus," Robin calls as she stands from her crouched position, where she's been cuddling Chowder. As soon as she stands, he starts making his way back to the porch. "I have delivered one Edward Keaton Munson. You are not allowed to ask anything of me for, at minimum, a year."

"Steve! Why didn't you tell me you knew the Eddie Munson?" Dustin shouts.

Robin is scoffing, clearly offended. "Am I not famous enough for you Henderson!?"

"Get back to me when you've run a 24-hour Dungeons and Dragons live stream for charity!" Dustin shoots back, then has to dodge Robin's half-hearted punch aimed for his arm.

Eddie stays silent, looking more pale than when he got out of the truck. Steve's a little concerned he's going to faint.

"You been living under a rock, Dustin?" Steve asks. "My knowing him is apparently the only thing on the internet currently."

Dustin puts his whole head into the eye roll. "You spend a month backpacking with your girlfriend in the southern hemisphere and you never get to hear the end of it. I told you I'd catch up on your drama after I catch up on my DnD Live Plays."

"You also missed me winning a Grammy, you know."

"I thought Steve's thing was more important?"

"You are impossible, Henderson."

"You guys going to argue in the snow all afternoon, or do you want to come inside?" Steve says then places his fingers in his mouth and whistles. Melody and Pancake dash for the front door, where Chowder is already waiting. Dustin, Robin, and a still eerily quiet Eddie fall into line to walk the trail to the porch Steve had cleared.

Steve jumps the steps, grabs his thermos, lets the dogs in, and then holds the door for everyone else. Robin and Dustin breeze past, but Eddie slows, eyes jumping around Steve's face as they just look at each other for a moment. Eddie opens, then closes, then opens, then closes his mouth.

"Hi," Steve offers up, shifting a foot to hold the door open so he can wave his fingers at Eddie.

Eddie swallows thickly, then whispers back, "hey."

"In the house, Eddie. Don't want to let too much cold in," Steve tilts his head towards the doorway.

"Oh, right, sorry," that kick starts Eddie again and he crosses the threshold, Steve close behind.

Robin and Dustin are currently occupying the bench just inside the door, taking off their shoes. Once Dustin has his boots off, he leaves the bench, heading to the kitchen. Eddie seems lost, just standing in the entryway, so Steve takes the spot Dustin just left and proceeds to undo the laces on his boots. He gets one boot done by the time Robin stands, wandering after Dustin once she's hung up her coat, scarf, and gloves. Eddie doesn't move still, so Steve pats the empty spot beside him.

"No shoes in the cabin. Dogs track in enough snow, don't need us doing it too," Steve says, then busies himself with his other boot.

He sees Eddie sit and begin to untie his- jesus, he's not even wearing boots. Just a black pair of sneakers. Eddie unties his shoes in silence, sitting rather stiffly next to Steve.

This quiet, obedient Eddie is not what he expected.

"You want something to drink?" Steve asks, once both of them are free of their shoes.

"No, thank you."

"Alright. Have a seat, then," he gestures towards the couch. The cabin door opens up directly into the living area, which Steve has set up as 3/4th a living room and 1/4th dining room, in that a small kitchen table is along the far wall. Beyond that wall is the kitchen, where Robin and Dustin are undoubtedly helping themselves to his coffee or hot chocolate.

Eddie shuffles off to sit on the edge of the couch, as close to the armrest as he can get. Now that Steve can see him closer, he can see he's added more piercing to his face than just the eyebrow ring he wore in high school. Snake bites, a septum piercing, and a second eyebrow ring next to the original. He's sure that if Eddie's hair wasn't covering his ears, he'd see more metal there. Eddie had hung up the coat he'd been wearing but under that is a hoodie he didn't take off, so Steve can only guess if he ever got those tattoos he'd been planning in high school. His entire outfit is black, which just makes him look sickly in the cabin lighting.

Steve drops himself into the chair facing the couch. It's Melody's favorite chair to curl up in, but Steve thinks she'll forgive him for taking it. There's tension in the room, so he tries to break it. "You look like you've seen a ghost, dude."

Eddie makes a weird nose, almost a whimper or a whine, but before he can say anything, Robin rounds the wall, holding a mug of hot liquid and she says, "Oh, I'm sure he feels that he has. I didn't tell me we were coming to see you."

"Robin!" Steve is shocked.

"What? You said you wouldn't mind getting some closure, so I got him here. Does it matter how?" She takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch from Eddie, making a show of how comfortable she is in the space by sitting cross-legged and leaning back against the couch, in comparison to Eddie who is sitting up completely straight, barely on the couch with how close to the edge he's sitting.

"Yeah, it does! If he's not here voluntarily- if Eddie doesn't want to talk to me you can't-"

"I do," Eddie says. It grabs Steve and Robin's attention and Steve sees Eddie almost wilt under their twin stares. He clears his throat before continuing, "I mean, I would have come still, if she'd told me. I do want to talk to you. Apologize for.... for everything. So much I don't even know where to begin, or how."

"Uhh, this feels like something personal," Dustin says from where he's standing with his own mug, hovering nearby. "Should I be here for this?"

Good question. Steve doesn't care if Robin and Dustin hear what they talk about, but Eddie might. "How about we just relax a bit. How was the drive?"

Eddie scrunches his face, a half confused expression on his face.

"Fine," Robin says at the same time Dustin says, "Tense as fuck."

"Those two things don't seem like they match," Steve says.

Dustin moves to plop himself on the couch in between Eddie and Robin, then quietly curses as his drink sloshes over the edge of the mug. He starts mopping at it with the sleeve of his shirt as he says, "Robin is a liar. The tension in the truck is going to linger that's how bad it was. I'll be feeling the tension every time I get in the rig. Clients will feel the tension when I pull up to their curbs!"

"It was not that bad!" Robin swats Dustin. Successfully this time, since there's no way for him to dodge unless he wants to spill his drink again.

Steve just laughs. "Robs, light of my life, mate of my soul, knowing you and your grudges, Dustin's probably going easy on the description of the tension here."

"Well, there wouldn't be tension if I was allowed to say what I want to say."

"Can we go, like, five minutes without your negativity?"

"My negativity!? I'm not negative, I'm rational and level-headed!"

"You are not sounding very level-headed right now."

Dustin chimes in, "Steve's right. Level-headed people don't have to shout that they're level-headed."

"What say you, Eds?" Steve asks, the old nickname slipping out. He doesn't have time to be embarrassed about it though.

Eddie stands quickly and flings his hands in the air, having reached an invisible limit Steve is unaware of, pacing about the living room as he basically shouts, "Why don't you hate me!? You should hate me! I hate me! I can't- why are you just sitting there, trying to have a-a decent conversation with me? You should be screaming at me! You should be mad! Why aren't you? My fuckin' song ruined your life!"

The silence in the living room is heavy following that, all eyes on Eddie. Even the dogs, who had been in various states of sleep, lift their heads and look in Eddie's direction.

He looks mortified by the out burst, and his face turns red. "I-I'm sorry. I- I'm just, I'm sorry. I need air."

They all watch silently as Eddie jams his shoes back on and goes out the front door without tying them or grabbing his coat.

Steve sighs, deep and annoyed. At Robin and himself. He looks to Robin and she looks shocked by Eddie's outburst. She was watching the door, but turns her head to meet Steve's eye, a small frown on her face.

"Well, it's not like he's going far," Dustin says. "You going after him?"

"I don't know if I should."

Dustin scoffs. "Don't be an idiot, of course you should. We drug that guy to the middle of nowhere to talk to you. He agreed to come to the middle of nowhere even though I could have been a hit man hired by Robin to off him in the woods and he didn't even complain. Didn't even question. I don't know what happened, but I think you two need talk it over."

Steve blinks at Dustin. "Since when did you get so wise?"

"I've always been wise. You just refuse to see it with your ageism. Go. Robin can fill me in on the beef, here in the toasty, cozy cabin, while you two chat in the cold, and freeze your asses off."

"I don't have ageism-"

"Wrong argument to be having, Steve!" Dustin interrupts. "And take another cup of coffee with you. Even if he doesn't drink it, dude doesn't have gloves either so y'know, warm the hands."

Steve does just that. Fills his other thermos with coffee, taking a chance by adding cream and sugar, before putting his boots, coat, and beanie back on. He throws Eddie's coat over his arm and tucks both thermos' against his body with that same arm so he can have a free hand to open the door.

Eddie isn't far. He's pacing back and forth in front of the truck, talking to himself.

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Steve steps off the porch and makes his way to Eddie. "Hey."

The pacing stops and Eddie turns to look at Steve. They just look at each other as Steve approaches. Steve doesn't stop until he's close enough to reach out and touch before he shuffles the two thermos's to his other arm and extends the one with Eddie's coat on it out.

"Thank you," Eddie says, taking the coat and shoving himself into it quickly.

"Brought you coffee, too," Steve holds out one thermos and after a pause, Eddie takes it, too, then almost instantly brings his other hand up to cradle it, warming his fingers.

He looks up from the thermos and meets Steve's eye. "I am sorry, Steve. I'm sorry for how things ended between us, and for the song I wrote, and for-for not thinking about how people would be able to work out that you were the Steve from Hey Steve. You should hate me for that alone. I'm so sorry for everything that's happened because I didn't think of the consequences."

"I don't- I don't hate you man. Not... not anymore. Not for a long time."

"Well, you should!"

Steve frowns. He wants to argue because who is Eddie to tell him how he should feel? But that's not going to help anything. "When Robin called me. During her interview after the Grammy's and asked if she could tell the truth I never- I didn't know what she meant by the truth. But. Well, nothing she said was a lie, but it wasn't the full story."

Eddie stays silent, seemingly waiting for Steve to continue.

"Those first two years after our breakup were- I'm not going to lie, they were fucking awful. I think I received my first bit of hate mail the very same day Hey Steve released. It was harsh. All from the same person, but sent to my Facebook and my Twitter and Instagram. Guess they really wanted me to read it.

"And then, with each passing day, a new person, new message, just as awful. After three days I deleted Instagram and Twitter. Then I locked down Facebook but like- physical letters showed up at my house. I can't lie, it certainly felt like you'd ruined my life."

Eddie makes a wounded sound at that. "That's because I did! What I did was unforgivable and-"

"You don't get to decide for me if I forgive you or not!" Steve snaps. "I haven't actually said I did forgive you, did I? All I've said is I don't hate you."

That gets Eddie quiet again for a moment, then he says, "you ended up hospitalized because of me."

"Robin said I ended up hospitalized, and that's true, but it wasn't- It was more complicated that just being your, and your fans', fault. For people who were supposedly on 'your side' of our breakup, they used a lot of homophobic language. That's how my mom found out. The letters were easy enough to just get rid of because all the bad shit was on the inside, but someone sent a post card, and mom collected the mail that day. It's... I don't like talking about this."

"Then don't," Eddie is quick to say, "you don't have to explain anything to me, or make yourself relive these events. It's- you don't owe that to me."

"I think I need to. I wrote you a song, said I'd do it all again, and I meant that. I want you to understand why. Just. Just give me a minute."

Eddie nods and takes a sip of his coffee. He looks pleasantly surprised and takes bigger drink before his face falls into a frown as he stares down at the thermos and Steve has to look away. He turns and squeezes his eyes shut to continue. "Mom showed the postcard to my father, and he confronted me that evening. It was.... it didn't start off bad. He asked if it was true. That I was gay. I made a choice, then. I didn't have to; I could have lied. I could have told him I was straight and that I didn't understand what the postcard was saying, but I didn't.

"I knew how he felt about queer people, and I told him the truth anyway. I was bisexual. I thought it was a miracle that he didn't kick me out instantly. Instead, he calmly asked me if that meant I liked woman. I said it meant I liked more than just woman.

"Then he told me that didn't matter. That so long as I liked woman, I would be with a woman, and that we never had to speak of this again. And I told him no. He didn't get to decide that for me. He said that he would rather have a dead son than a faggot one. And I thought- I never- surely he was just meaning, like, metaphorically, right? Like, he'd disown me, kick me out or something so I scoffed and said- God, I was so stupid. I knew it wasn't safe, but I was so angry at him, I shouted 'dead or alive, I'm your faggot son so deal with it.' And he- he said 'dead it is' and he attacked me."

He hears Eddie suck in a breath, hears the crunch of snow in what could only be Eddie taking a step towards him but stopping after just one step. Steve doesn't know if he wants Eddie to close the distance and give him the hug he knows Eddie wants to do. Steve doesn't know if he'd welcome the embrace or not. He sucks in his own shaky breath, and continues, "He almost beat me to death that night. The only reason he didn't was because mom dialed 911," Steve turns around, looks at Eddie and sees the tears falling down his own face reflected on Eddie. "As far as I know, dad's still serving time for his attempted murder, so like, at least I don't have to worry about him. And mom... I don't even know what to think of that.

"She called 911, didn't want to see me die, I guess, but also couldn't have a gay son. She sold the house, and everything in it, while I was still in the hospital, and just... disappeared. Robin's family took me in. She told that story during the interview, you knoe, but I wasn't even at the house when that guy with the gun showed up. I was meeting with a lawyer.

"She-Mom was- I don't know what she was trying to do but she gave me the family business. The whole company! It felt like she was trying to buy my forgiveness, except she didn't ask for it and still hasn't contacted me. It's like... she felt guilty about what happened but hated me at the same time. Felt she needed to do something to alleviate her guilt? Or maybe she just wanted to cut herself free of the whole Harrington name; free herself from me and my father. I don't think I'll ever get closure for that one."

Steve quits talking, needs to take another moment. He'd already rambled on about more than he meant to but talking to Eddie had always done that to him. Afterall, before they dated, they'd been friends. He sips at his coffee, not knowing what else to say.

"Jesus, Stevie, I'm so sorry. I didn't know- It's no excuse but I'm just so sorry."

He doesn't think Eddie knows he called him Stevie, but it's nice to hear. "So, see, it wasn't your fault. Your song set things into motion, for sure, so it's nice to hear an apology, but like, if anyone is the bad guy in this situation, it's Richard Harrington."

"But Robin said she just had to help you move to here. That you still get hate mail, and doxxed. That's on me. I saw your list of addresses, Steve! You've had to move, like, eight times a year!"

Steve can't help the cackle that springs from him. He surprises himself with the laugh, and Eddie, too, if his wide eyes and eyebrows hidden behind his bangs are any indication. "I- yeah, I move a lot. And yes, this most recent move was because of a brick with Hey Steve scratched into it broke my living room window, but like, I've only had to move because of harassment like, four times, if I'm counting the whole mom-selling-the-house thing."

"What?"

Steve holds up a finger, adding a new one as he counts them out. "Mom sold house. Scary gun guy at Robin's. The year anniversary of your first album's release. I was still in Hawkins, figuring out what to do with all the money I'd, uhh, inherited I guess, so I was easy to find. And the most recent one. Not sure what inspired it this time. Usually, the hate mail resurges when you go on tour, but it's less and less every time. Anyway, none of those other moves are because of crazy fans."

Eddie blinks at him, a picture of confusion. "But I found a YouTube video and that guy- he showed all your old addresses. He said- I thought..."

"Well, there are a lot of addresses. But not because of your fans. I move for my job. Do you... did you even read the truck?" Steve gestures to Dustin's truck and Eddie steps around to see the printed H&H Project Flip and below that is their website.

Eddie looks back to Steve like that answers nothing. Which, fair, but it would answer a lot of questions if Eddie had looked up the website. "After that surge of anniversary hate, I knew I needed to get out of Hawkins. Robin was graduated, then, and headed to college. I decided I wanted to see more than just Hawkins. I followed Robin to college in Chicago, and uh, bought a house. A real fixer upper but that was fine. I had plenty of money to throw into it. On a whim I thought, what if I try to fix it. I had a lot of free time and if it ended up badly, I could afford to pay a professional to fix whatever I broke. I found that I loved doing that."

He's still just being looked at like he's not making sense.

Steve rolls his eyes, "I flip houses, dude. Me and Dustin. Harrington and Henderson Project Flip. I was in Chicago for three years, lots of addresses for that city. But then Robin pointed out there were a lot of states. That I should see all 50 of 'em by renovating a house in each. She'd moved in with her then-girlfriend by this time, so she said I should go. See the States at the least. So, I did. I find it easier to just live in the house I'm renovating, so I'm not paying mortgage and then rent somewhere else in the same city."

Eddie looks like he's had a rug pulled out from under him and he lets out a laugh that's a little hysterical.

"And moving so much has allowed me to meet so many amazing people, y'know? I got friends in all the states. So, like, yeah, you did ruin my life, but like, just my life from 18 to 20. So, yeah, I'd do it all again. Did you think I've been living in perpetual misery for the last ten years?"

"Robin certainly made it easy to assume that, so yeah!"

"I think she did that on purpose. To hurt you back."

"I deserve it," Eddie says. "I didn't even try to check in on you. Well, once, but when I couldn't find you on any socials I just. Gave up."

Steve shrugs. "I didn't reach out either. And if you'll remember, I broke up with you. Screamed in your face that we were over and went home."

"I don't know when, or even if, Corroded Coffin will tour again, but I swear to you, we'll never play or release Hey Steve again. And I'll release a statement, or go on camera, or something, and address this. I can't make it right, but I can make a change starting now, to do better and be better," Eddie says this while gripping his thermos to death.

"I believe you, and I forgive you."

Eddie nods grimly, then looks from Steve to the cabin, and back to Steve. "Do you think Robin will ever forgive me?"

"I don't know. You hurt her pretty badly, too. We were all best friends in school and when we broke up, you cut off Robin, too. And then, when she started to gain her own fame- I think when she first moved to LA, she thought you'd try to reach out. But you never did."

A silence falls over them, and Steve refuses to break it. He's done enough talking. They drink their coffees 'til they're empty before Eddie speaks.

"Where does this leave us?"

Steve thinks about it before answering. "You were my best friend before you were my boyfriend. You'd been in my life longer than you've been out of it. We don't have to be anything. We can have our closure and go our separate ways, if you'd prefer. But, I think I'd like another chance at being your friend."

"I can do friend," Eddie says slowly, like he's picking his words carefully. "I can. But, full transparency, I think I still love you."

It hurts to hear, after all the pain and the time, and it's a bittersweet kind of hurt. "I'll always love you, Eds. I meant it, you know, every word of the song. But I don't know if we can, or should, try again. We were so good until we weren't."

Tears spring from Eddie's eyes when Steve says he loves him, and they don't stop falling even as he's nodding along with everything Steve says. "No, I know. I know. I just, I needed you to know. Friend is, it's so fucking great. More than I ever expected, and certainly more than I dared hope."

"Come on. Let's go inside where it's warm and chat with Dustin and Robin like civilized people. I need a break from the heavy talk."

"Yeah. Me too. Thank you, Steve. For the chance."

Steve shrugs and shoots him a crooked grin. "Yeah, well, ruin this a second time and Robin will rip you to shreds on live TV, probably."

There's more to talk about. More hurts to heal and things to discuss, Steve knows. And maybe after all the talking, they'll learn they've changed too much to even be friends. But that'll be okay, because if that's how it goes, it'll be because they talked it out instead of screaming at each other in a living room.

If they've changed too much, this time, it'll end gently.

It doesn't stop Steve from letting a little bit of hope in. That this won't end, that they can find a way to be in each other's lives again.

As friends, or more.