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blueywrites · 2 years

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trouble

modern au, emt!eddie x fem!reader. the four times you aren't hurt and the one time you are. pure fluff, a little drama, mentions of blood, non-graphic depictions of injuries. (15.8k)

For @newlips' Milestone of Love celebration. Congrats, lovely! 💙

fun fact: the scenario described in Scene 5 is actually pulled directly from real life, minus the pretty metalhead (unfortunately 😔). Also, blame my fatigued brain for not mentioning this last night, but HUGE thanks to my loves @myosotisa @fracturedarkness @abibliophobiaa and @hauntingbastille for all your help and ideas!! Couldn't have done it without you bbys 🫶💙🌻

The sun is beating down on your head, conjuring a halo of sweat that stings your eyes. You’d thrown your hair up into a claw clip some time ago, but it’s coming loose now as you’re jostled by elbows and knees. It’s all claustrophobia, all heat, all overwhelming sensations— the tang of sweat and alcohol on the back of your tongue, the thrum of bass rattling your ribcage, and the roar of guttural screaming ringing in your ears.

You can’t get enough.

You’re a dot of pastel sweetness in a sea of undulating black, the only person at this concert wearing a straw crossbody bag and a dainty summer dress. Though it’s July and nearly ninety-five degrees out, everyone else is dressed in black and chains and ripped denim, sweating even more heavily than you are, thick black eyeliner running as they sing along to Spiritbox’s ‘Blessed Be.’ Your best friend Josie is the same— dark hair shaved on the sides but matted with sweat as it spikes down her back, though her denim cutoffs and fishnet stockings are marginally more practical than the black jeans many others are wearing. You’re practical, too; despite the tiny flowers on your dress and the sweet diamond studs in your ears, your white Converse are just as scuffed as the heavy boots around you.

The band Spiritbox is one of the only interests you and your best friend have in common. Since elementary school, you’ve been the visual equivalent of a sun to her raincloud. Though your tastes differ, your personalities mesh seamlessly, leaving you still thick as thieves; despite going to different colleges, you’d both returned home and found jobs nearby, picking up exactly where you’d left off four years before. It’s obvious why Josie would like this band— she thrives on everything metal and alternative. You typically gravitate toward indie music, but you really love the contrast of Courtney's delicate vocals and the heavy driving music punctuated by Mike's guttural growls. The screaming unlocks something primal inside you, and you bob your head and shout until your voice breaks, sounding just like everyone else.

Your attention is drawn from the stage as bodies to your right compress together when a pit starts to form further up. Instantly, you know what that means; you’re still singing along, but you stop when Josie’s slippery hand finds yours, pulling you in that direction. Her olive green eyes flash eagerly as she glances back at you, and you communicate your acceptance through an answering smile. Josie squeezes between bodies to find the edge of the mosh pit, where she deposits you before diving head-first into the fray.

This isn’t your first Spiritbox show, and you know what to do: you brace, resisting the push of the crowd and jutting your elbows to maintain your space as you watch more dark-clad figures join the writhing, thrashing mess. You split your attention between the pit and the stage, content to keep an eye on your friend and let the coiled aggression of flung bodies stir you further, accentuating the music. You have no desire to mosh, and Josie knows that, but you enjoy watching while she shoves and bounces off others, sharp limbs swinging wildly, staggering with sparkling eyes and a broad grin—

The deafening music muffles the sound of a thick elbow connecting sharply with Josie’s face, but the visual is so jarring that you could swear you hear the crack.

“Josie!” Your hoarse cry cuts through to the closest two thrashing bodies, who halt at its urgency. Despite how violent a mosh pit appears to be, as soon as the moshers realize someone is hurt, the aggression dissolves on impact. You reach out your hands as a chain of helping hands deposits your friend before you with haste.

You guide her immediately through the crowd, which parts almost eagerly at the sight of her blood painting the ground, pressed into the grass by heavy boots. You wince at the hunch of your friend’s shoulders, the visible pain on her face; one of her hands covers her nose but does little to staunch the sticky flow of blood. Josie relies on you to direct her, watery eyes nearly scrunched closed as you emerge from the press of damp bodies at the back of the crowd, dodging around stragglers, eyes scanning for a white canopy and red emblem designating the first aid station. It’s over on the right, peeking over that sea of black, and you head that way.

When you get there, both of the young men there are standing like statues facing the stage, showing you a mop of unruly light brown waves and a long ponytail of dark frizzy curls that might look feminine if it wasn’t for the obvious broadness of his shoulders.

As you reach the table with Josie, the taller man with the ponytail is the first to notice your approach. He’s dressed in a short-sleeved collared shirt tucked into belted pants, all black on black on black. In fact, he looks more suited to join the crowd than to tend them with the smattering of tattoos on his pale arms and the shaggy bangs that feather his forehead. And he glints with silver— a silver chain around his neck, rings of silver through his ears, even a silver septum piercing with spiked ends that peeks from the bottom of his soft nose. He’d look just like another groupie if not for the paramedic sigil on the breast of his shirt.

Despite his aggressive appearance, his brown eyes are warm as he abandons his view upon spotting you, dark brows flashing up as they scan Josie’s body with a clinical air. “What happened here?” he asks, and his voice is pleasantly smoky, friendly and casual as he pulls on rubber gloves with practiced motions.

“She got hurt,” you supply, relinquishing your friend to him so he can guide her into a folding chair. Despite the inanity of your observation, the man doesn’t react beyond a little twitch of his full lips as he kneels in front of her. Josie also doesn’t offer more explanation, merely grunting as the paramedic gently but firmly pulls her hand away from her face.

You cringe as her arm is moved aside to reveal the mess of her nose and the front of her saturated t-shirt, but he doesn’t bat an eye, wiping her face gently with dampened gauze to clean the drying blood away. As he works, eyes trained on the movements of his fingers, he asks, “What was it, doll? Did you catch an elbow to the face?”

The pet name could have been awkward, but he says it so casually that it doesn’t feel slimy like a come-on would. It just feels like part of his personality to call people names like that.

“Yeah, in the pit,” she grumbles, and he tips his head sympathetically, curly ponytail swaying.

“That’ll do it,” he says. Once Josie’s face is clear of blood, he hands her some dry paper towels, motioning toward her shirt and telling her with some humor, “I’ll just let you handle that part.”

She chuckles wetly, scrunching the fabric in her fist with the towel to press out the blood. As it transfers to the paper, the paramedic clears his used supplies into the biohazard bin before returning to his place, kneeling before her, warning her quietly that he’s going to touch her face before he does it.

You watch, hovering a little awkwardly near them as he palpates her nose gently with the tips of his fingers. He seems to have a way of putting people at ease with the cadence of his voice. It’s casual, almost preternaturally calm, but musical, too, engaging in a way you wouldn’t expect. He remains careful while examining Josie’s nose, even as he grows distracted as a new song starts. He starts glancing over toward the stage, moving through the motions clinically, detached despite the warmth and humor in his voice when he says cheerily, “Well, it’s not broken. That’s a relief, huh?”

She sighs, olive green eyes melting to confirm that it is, in fact, a relief. “Yeah.”

A smiling flash of white eyeteeth and then he’s standing again, skirting around you without really acknowledging you as he digs around in a box of supplies. He returns with an icepack, cracking it to activate the gel inside before wrapping it in more paper towels. “Hold here,” he instructs, showing Josie where to hold it, replacing his sure fingers with her more ginger ones.

“Thank you,” she says, standing and flanking you as he peels off his gloves, folding them inside each other before leaning back against the table with his hands braced behind him. Your eyes are drawn to the tendons of his forearms, pale and dotted with ink.

He doesn’t reply to her thanks directly, though his deep brown eyes twinkle with mischief. “You just had to go gettin’ hurt during the best song of the show, didn't you?”

His tone is exaggerated to ensure she knows he’s teasing, and it’s only when she chuckles that his full lips split in a pleased grin, attention turning again toward the stage as a particularly wicked guitar solo begins.

You pipe up then. “It’s only the best song in the show if they don't play 'Holy Roller.'”

“No way they don’t play 'Holy Roller,'” he retorts instantly, brown eyes flashing in your direction. The loose curls around his jaw lash his chin as his head jerks in a not-so-subtle double-take, and those eyes widen as he realizes it was you and not your friend who spoke. His gaze flicks you up and down quickly, taking in your sweet floral dress and your white converse. When his eyes catch yours, the curl of his lips reveals a level of intrigue. “And here I thought you were just the chaperone,” he says, again with that teasing, musical cadence that seems characteristic.

There’s the temptation to be offended, but this guy seems harmless beneath the ink and frizzy shag; the wolfishness of his smile doesn’t bely the warmth in his eyes. Guessing that he can probably take as much as he dishes out, you scoff, quirking a brow and pursing your lips in mock offense. “Maybe you shouldn’t make snap judgments about people. I’m sure most people don’t call 911 and expect their first responder to look like a heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing.”

A barking laugh pierces the air between you, and despite yourself, you can’t suppress a smile. Rather than being put off by your challenge, he seems delighted; the manic widening of those plush lips crinkles the corners of his eyes. His smile instantly brightens his face as he tips his head toward you. “Touché,” he says before straightening up, pushing off the table to jam his hands in his back pockets.

The sudden weight of his stare has your skin prickling despite the heat of the July sun; you turn from it quickly to ask Josie if she’s doing okay now.

She pulls the icepack from her face, scrunching her nose to test out the pain. “Yeah, I’m good. C’mon, I wanna get back out there.” She scowls, craning her head as if she’s looking for something.

“Back to our spot, you mean?”

“No, back to the pit,” she replies incredulously as if it’s obvious. Your brow crinkles with a mixture of dismay and wry fondness, but you know better than to offer resistance. If there’s one thing you’ve learned over the years, it’s that Josie takes your reminders of caution as a personal offense. As you start to walk away from the medic tent, falling into stride together, she shoots you a sour glare, grumbling, “This is what happens when you feed me jello shots.”

Your outrage is instant; you spin on your heel, stopping short to face her and gripe right back, though she doesn’t slow when you do. “I did not! Actually, you stole my jello shots, Josie.”

“Ah, I get it now. You look like an angel, but you’re secretly trouble.” You hear that teasing cadence behind you, and you turn to find the paramedic standing beside his companion once again, body angled toward the stage but head tilted to eye you slantingly. He looks amused, and you’re torn between blushing and pouting, protesting and giggling, so you just freeze, doing none of the above. Unbothered, he twists and bends smoothly to root in the cooler behind the folding table. Your eyes are drawn to the cords of his pale neck and the flash of silver in his ears.

“Here,” he says, straightening and offering you two water bottles held together in one broad hand. He drops the joking tease, all professional concern once again. “Take some water with you. Make sure you keep hydrated if you’re drinking.”

You backtrack quickly to take both bottles from him, smiling as you meet his warm brown eyes. “Thank you,” you say.

“You got it,” he replies, but you don’t hear— you’re too busy hurrying to catch up with Josie, who’s cutting a path right back to the pit, stubborn as always.

The walk from the company parking lot to your office building is two long blocks away and takes a brisk five minutes, eight if you’re not in a rush. And you’re not this morning. The sweltering August heat has decided to grace your town with a brief reprieve; all the typical ills of summer are eased today, leaving behind a pleasant dry heat, a slight breeze, and bright sun in a puffy-cloud sky. You relish your brief stroll in the sunshine and find yourself wishing your cubicle faced the park across the street, if only so you could torture yourself with its tantalizing view, yearning to instead be seated on a bench shaded by the cherry trees.

Your gaze drifts that way as you walk along the sidewalk, and a bright spot of yellow catches your attention. As you draw closer to your building, the shape discerns itself into an old man swaddled in a canary-yellow raincoat, the plasticky hood caught between his hunched shoulders and the back of the wooden bench. Beneath the open raincoat is a checkered shirt, a pair of brown trousers, and a bowtie that looks to be his Sunday best, though it’s currently Thursday. His loafer scuffs the concrete beneath him as he swings one foot absently, gazing up at the puffy-clouded sky.

Another individual relishing this unexpected gift early in the morning. You smile softly to yourself and turn from the old man as you grasp the handle, pulling the heavy glass door open. A blast of cold air unleashes upon you, and you shiver your way to the elevator. As the aluminum doors slide open, the park slips from your mind, evaporating like dew from grass.

Four hours later, the brrringing of phones and the fuzz of light office chatter have fully replaced the sound of early morning birdsong in your ears. Your eyes flick to the bottom right corner of your laptop just in time to see the forty-nine tick to fifty. The sight brings relief and a timely grumble of your stomach, and you close the lid of your laptop decisively. The promise of a cobb salad from your favorite nearby lunch shop hastens your steps to the elevator.

When you push open that heavy glass door once again, the air is warmer, and the street is more active now, but the sun on your skin is just as welcome. The park and its cherry trees call to you as they had this morning, and your eyes find that bench you’d been yearning for once again. It’s empty now, almost beckoning for you. You indulge in the sight for a moment despite your hunger, lush green blooming behind brown wood, visible between the cars that zoom past.

And then the tiniest sliver of canary yellow peeks from beyond a bush.

You were about to walk on, but you pause then, craning your neck to try to catch more of that color. A small shift and you see it again— the canary yellow of what is undoubtedly the sleeve of a raincoat.

Is that the same old man from this morning? Even as you question it, you know the answer; you know it must be him. You frown, puzzled, wavering as you’re torn between two impulses. Your stomach pangs hollowly, reminding you of cobb salad. What business is it of yours what a stranger does? You imagine how silly you’d feel wandering over there to bother him for no reason. But as you watch him, he hobbles further into your sight, resting one unsteady hand against the trunk of a nearby tree. Your heart stirs, and you find your feet moving of their own accord to the crosswalk.

You approach him slowly at first, with the caution one might use when edging toward a wild animal. His back is turned to you, revealing a head of thin gray hair haloed around a sizeable bald spot like candy floss. Hesitantly, you inch closer, feeling a little ridiculous as he fidgets there in the grass just off the path, one hand still tremulously holding onto the trunk as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. His eyes are darting over the bushes and paths restlessly, as if searching. You’re just deciding what to say— or even whether to say something at all— when he turns his head and catches sight of you with watery eyes.

His brows jump as he registers you, and his pruny mouth opens in a little ‘o’ of surprise. “Oh,” he says, sounding delightedly surprised. “Hello!”

You feel a bit caught out, heat rushing to your cheeks as he pivots slowly to face you, one hand still stuck to the tree. But you’re committed now that he’s seen you; you might as well follow through on your impulse. “Hi, sir,” you try, “are you looking for someone?”

The old man doesn’t answer your question. Instead, very matter-of-factly, he says, “My knees are hurtin’ me.”

It has you reaching for him almost automatically, hooking your hand underneath his elbow. He welcomes your help unhesitantly and without complaint, shifting with your coaxing grip. He feels so frail beneath your fingers, almost weightless; when he lets go of the trunk to rely on your stability, you hardly notice the difference. He barely lifts his feet when he walks, loafers dragging in the grass, and you edge with him toward the path with tiny shuffling steps. Stepping from the grass to the concrete feels laborious as he trembles with the effort.

As you lead him patiently back toward the bench from this morning, you can’t help but wonder how long he’d been standing by the tree. And then, you can’t help but wonder how he even got here to the park, considering how much effort it’s taking him to walk a dozen feet. This isn’t a residential area, and this man isn’t just old. He’s positively feeble.

He clasps your hand as you help him turn and sinks down onto the wood with a bone-weary sigh of relief. Rather than releasing your hand, he pats the back of it with his other, smiling pleasantly. “Thank you, Ruthie,” he says, continuing to pat your hand as if he’s unaware of it. “I’m ready to go home now.”

You blink with utter bafflement, eyes flitting over the old man’s creased face and his watery blue eyes gazing at you with fondness. It dawns on you fairly quickly that this man isn’t just having trouble finishing his casual stroll in the park. And it explains why he’d looked surprised but happy to see you and hadn’t offered any resistance when you helped him.

Yet you have no idea who he is or where he lives, and your name is not, in fact, Ruthie.

You chew your lip as you look into his placid face. He seems calm right now, but if he’s confused— if something medical is going on— that could be easily disturbed. Gently, you chance a question. “Where is home? Do you know your address?”

His face scrunches up, wrinkles folding on themselves as he squints at you quizzically. His voice gains more strength with its incredulity. “What d’ya mean, Ruth? Born and raised in the same house and you don’t remember our address?” He shakes his head, glancing away as he pulls back his hands and folds them in his lap.

Well, that clarifies it— he clearly thinks you’re his daughter, though you’re probably about twenty years too young for that. Your thoughts whir as you consider how to respond and keep him from becoming truly agitated. “Aw, you got me!” you say, pretending you were pulling his leg. He seems to buy it as his frown eases and he looks back at you with begrudging amusement. Gently, you say, “I just gotta make a phone call, and then we can go, okay?”

The old man’s reply is perfectly jovial, and it fills you with relief. “Tha’s okay, dear. I got my crossword.” He reaches inside the raincoat and pulls out a tightly-folded rectangle from the breast of his checkered shirt, working it open to reveal a creased page from the newspaper. He digs in his pants pocket, and a pencil emerges along with some crumpled tissues and plastic-wrapped suckers that scatter near his feet. You frown, eyes darting between his spilled belongings— or trash— and his face. He doesn’t notice as he settles into the seat, seeming content to wait and work on his crossword.

You have half a mind to pick the candies up so he won’t trip on them, but the phone call you have planned seems more urgently needed. You trail a few steps away to call the non-emergency police number, eyes darting to and from the old man as you provide your location and explain the situation quietly to the operator. “He seems… confused,” you say. “Like, not all there.”

“Is he agitated?”

“No,” you say. “But he thinks he knows me, and I don’t know him. He keeps calling me Ruth when that’s not my name.” Nervousness bubbles at the base of your throat, concern rising for the older man whom you now view as your responsibility. “Do you think he’s okay?”

There’s a pause, and then the operator says neutrally, “It could be a number of things. I’m sending someone out right now to check on him. Are you okay to wait with him until the paramedics arrive?”

You’re already nodding before the question is finished. “Yes, that’s fine.”

“All right. They’re on their way.”

You hang up and glance at the man again, feeling a tug at your heart when you see him holding the crossword so close to his nose, how the paper wobbles in his grasp. He seems caught up in it, which honestly is a relief. You don’t know how much longer you’d be able to keep up the pretense of knowing him if he wanted to talk to you more. Your cobb salad is all but forgotten now as worry prickles in your chest; you stand sentry over this stranger from a distance, keeping an attentive eye on him as you wait for help to come.

It doesn’t take too long for the ambulance to arrive, and your heart leaps as it pulls along the curb in front of the park. You jolt forward a couple of steps, fluttering your fingers in a little awkward wave at the blurry figures behind the glass as if they need your help finding the old man in the bright yellow coat, as if they need your assistance at all, really. You feel silly again, cheeks burning as you impulsively change your mind. Rather than meeting the paramedics at the ambulance, you march over and plop down next to the old man on the bench.

He startles slightly when you join him, and you almost feel bad to have scared him, but then he’s smiling at you again. “Ruthie!” He exclaims. “Is it time to go to the cleaners?”

You’re saved from having to answer as you hear the ambulance door pop open, and you follow the old man’s gaze to the figure swinging himself jauntily down from the rig with one pale hand braced atop the door.

Well, I’ll be damned.

Even at this distance, that frizzy shag of curls is unmistakable, though it’s loose around his shoulders now. You remember what you’d said at the concert almost a month ago: ‘I’m sure most people don’t call 911 and expect their first responder to look like a heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing.’ Your heart skips and thumps hard as he comes closer, and you clasp your hands tight in your lap. The tatted-up paramedic with the warm honey-brown eyes and the wolfish flashing grin may be memorable, but a squirm of self-consciousness races through you as you consider how unmemorable you are in comparison. Not that you can blame him, considering how many people he likely interacts with every day.

His eyes remain fixed on the man at your side as he lopes your way, and you lick at your bottom lip as he comes close enough to see the glint of silver in his ears and beneath his nose. “Hey, Mr. J,” he says casually, and you glance at the man sitting beside you, who’s still watching him approach blankly without acknowledgment. When your eyes meet honey brown again, a corner of his lips crooks up in a fond grin. “Well, hello there.” He draws the words out with a hint of teasing, and a smile blooms automatically on your face. “Been out moshing in any more flower dresses lately?” He adds as he closes the distance quickly, and you feel your self-consciousness melt into effusive warmth knowing he remembers you.

“I only mosh for Holy Roller,” you say, and his grin widens before his attention turns back to the man at your side. The paramedic drops to one knee before him, a forearm braced against his other thigh. With his face now close enough, the old man’s watery eyes light in recognition.

“Ed!” he exclaims in a delighted rasp, even more enthusiastic than when he’d greeted you. You turn curious eyes to the curly-haired man in front of you, wondering if that’s actually his real name or if it’s just one bestowed upon him like ‘Ruth’ had been to you.

Unphased, ‘Ed’ repeats his earlier greeting. “Hey, Mr. Jenkins.” He maintains that same warm friendly tone, though it seems more careful than the one he used with you and Josie. “How you doin’ lately? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Mr. Jenkins sighs dramatically, the deep, weary sigh of the elderly. “Ah, Ed. Ya know, it’s my hips,” he says, shaking his head as if it’s a shame. “Dang things are always givin’ me issues. Don’t get old if you can avoid it.”

The paramedic’s lips quirk sympathetically. “I’ll try not to, Mr. J,” he says obligingly. “You still doin’ bingo at the VA on Thursday nights?”

As Mr. Jenkins leans eagerly forward to tell him all about it, you watch the paramedic slip his pale fingers around the paper-thin skin of the man’s wrist, nodding absently as he looks up at the sky. When he checks his watch, you realize he’s taking the man’s pulse.

Subtly, as Mr. Jenkins happily prattles on, the paramedic flashes a tiny flashlight to assess his pupillary response before checking the rest of his vitals, the musical cadence of his answers acting as a distraction while he evaluates him. Your eyes skate over the paramedic’s face— his soft nose, his wide brown eyes, his pink lips, and his strong jaw framed by frizzy curls that hang past his collar. As you do, you feel a surge of admiration for his manner, but you’re not quite sure what about it has you impressed.

As he replaces the flashlight pen in his pouch, the old man looks between you. “Have you met my Ruthie?” When honey brown flashes to you quickly, you shake your head minutely, staring at him and hoping he gets the hint.

After a brief pause, the paramedic finally replies, “Can’t say I have.” Your shoulders drop in relief that he’d caught on.

Mr. Jenkins pats your bare knee with his shaky hand right below the hem of your pencil skirt. Your mouth tightens in a bashful smile as he gushes, “Oh, she’s a good girl. A real good girl. You’d be lucky to find a girl like this, Ed.”

It’s both charming and uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of this old man’s unwarranted affection, and you feel your cheeks heat with a fierce flush. Beyond your control, your eyes dart to the man across from you to find him smiling— closed-lipped and crooked, so a dimple pops on one cheek. “She sure seems like it, Mr. Jenkins,” the paramedic answers, and your cheeks positively burn.

Mr. Jenkins continues on as if he hadn’t been interrupted, and you avert your eyes to the safety of your lap. It doesn’t offer much of a reprieve, however, as you can’t escape how the sweet, confused old man still has your knee in a vice grip and the guy in front of you is staring right through you with those honey-brown eyes. With an air of authority, Mr. Jenkins announces, “You outta take my Ruthie to the drive-in. They show the double features on Wednesdays, more bang for your buck. And treat ‘er to a milkshake; she loves a good black and white.” He jabs a shaky finger toward the paramedic to punctuate how serious he is. “Ya hear me, Ed?”

Oh, my gosh. It was one thing to compliment you, but setting you up with a stranger has edged this conversation past uncomfortable and into nearly mortifying. Your stomach flutters with discomfort and nerves at the idea.

“I hear you, Mr. J,” you hear him answer, and when you look up, he seems to be holding back laughter; his eyes are crinkled, lips fighting to stay pursed when they want to smile, and his voice is dripping warmth. As he stands, stretching his back, his piercing eyes return to you. “Hey, Ruth,” he says neutrally, “would you help me with this?” He tips his head toward the ambulance and you nod quickly, hastening to follow.

As you fall into step beside him, you become acutely aware of your closeness— the sway of his narrow hips, the jangle of his belt and med-pack, the thump of his heavy boots against the concrete, the faint scent of tobacco and spice that clings to his black collared shirt. Your eyes dart quickly to the curtain of hair hanging by his collar, how soft the curls look from this distance. You turn your chin toward him but keep your eyes on the ambulance. “He’s been there since before eight this morning,” you say quietly, “in the park. I saw him on my way to work. When I came out for my lunch break, he was just standing under a tree.”

You feel the heat of the paramedic’s bare forearm radiate against your elbow as he ducks closer, his voice still musical even in a murmur. “So, what, you thought you’d check on him?”

“Well, yeah,” you say, crossing your arms as you prickle with self-consciousness. The motion has your elbow bumping against his skin, and the heat of it flashes like a burn. “It just didn’t seem right to leave without checking if he was okay. He was confused; he asked me if we were going to the cleaners.” You glance at him, and he’s still ducked to hear you as you speak softly; his brown eyes are so close that you can see the varied shades of brown in them, like the rings of a cedar tree. You swallow thickly. “I think he thinks I’m his daughter.”

“You did the right thing,” he replies, his voice gentle and tinged with fondness. “Mr. J is well-known around here. Sweet guy, harmless. He’s got dementia.”

Your eyes soften as you blink at him, compassion welling up as he speaks about the old man with such kindness. He straightens suddenly, and you realize that you’ve reached the side of the ambulance.

He tugs open the door and calls to his partner, who peers over from the driver’s seat. “Hey, can you call Jimmy, tell him his dad’s in Washington Square Park?”

“Sure thing,” comes the answer, though you can’t really see him.

The paramedic closes the door again, and when he leans back against it, crossing his arms casually and propping a boot against the metal frame, you realize asking you to help him with something was just pretense. For some reason, that makes you glow with that same effusive warmth you’d felt when you first heard him address you again, brown eyes alight with his tease about mosh pits.

“So,” he says, lips quirking in a slanted grin, “I take it your name’s not Ruth.”

You chuckle through your answer. “No, not Ruth.” You scrape your two front teeth against your lip before adding, “It’s y/n.”

He nods, and his curls sway with it. The grin grows fractionally. “I’m Eddie.”

“Nice to meet you. Officially, I mean,” you add quickly, and your hand wants to stick out to shake his, but a bigger part of you cringes at the impulse. You keep it stubbornly stuck to your side.

“Yeah, you too. Officially,” he says warmly.

A door slams again as his partner gets out of the truck, crossing by the front bumper. He’s tall and a little broader than Eddie— knowing his name has your stomach fluttering with warmth— and his hair is shorter but no less impressive, with brown waves that bob against his forehead as he heads over to Mr. Jenkins. “Steve!” You hear the old man exclaim behind you, and your eyes find honey brown as if by instinct. You exchange a fond grin with Eddie at Mr. Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting, marveling at how affection curls behind your sternum for this man who was such a short time ago a total stranger. Mr. Jenkins, that is.

Of course.

And soon, a stranger again he will become, you realize as Eddie pushes off from the door, jamming his hands in the pockets of his black pants. “Thanks for staying with him. And calling it in. Most people wouldn’t have done that,” he tells you, and you blush with pleasure at the genuineness you hear.

“It was no problem,” you say. For a moment you just stand there, feeling awkwardness creep up. You shift your weight to one hip and twist your heel; when the gravel grinds loudly underfoot, you stop, suppressing a wince. You’re desperate to move on, so you blurt, “I’d better get back to work.” You pause, adding, “Will he be okay?”

“He’ll be fine.” Eddie sounds so entirely assured of the fact that you believe him immediately, nodding with relief. He squints at you, jerking his chin to look at you sideways, and his dark hair sways as he does. “Hey. You didn’t have lunch, did you?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

He pulls one hand from his pocket to wave absently in the air. “You said you left to go get lunch but checked on Mr. J instead, right? So you didn’t get to eat.”

You fumble to reply, but he’s already spinning, pulling open the door to the ambulance and hauling himself up. He bends over the seat, black pants pulling taught over his thighs and butt, and you quickly look away.

His voice comes muffled at first. “Here—” There’s the heavy sound of his boots hitting asphalt and then a crinkly rectangle is being waved at you. “ —have a protein bar,” he finishes, brandishing it toward you.

Your brows crinkle. “Oh, I’m really okay—”

He cuts you off, kindly but firmly. “I insist.”

You take it from him gingerly. It’s a Cliff bar— peanut butter and chocolate. You meet wide honey-brown with a thankful smile. “This isn’t your lunch, is it?” you tease.

Eddie scoffs, waving you off. “Of course not,” he says, rotating around you and hopping up onto the curb, but the twinkle in his eyes and the dimple of his cheek leave you without confidence.

There’s the impulse to question him further, but he doesn’t give you the chance; he starts walking backwards toward the bench with meandering, though purposeful, steps. “See you around,” he says, saluting you with two fingers tipped against his temple. You wave mutely, and he flashes one last parting grin before turning away.

You stand motionless for a moment, staring at his back until you catch sight of his partner throwing you a curious glance. That snaps you out of it, and you hurry to the crosswalk.

Yet before you tug open that heavy glass door, you can’t help but glance back one more time. Between the flashes of passing cars, you see Eddie: he’s sitting next to Mr. Jenkins on the bench, legs spread wide and elbows resting on his knees, bobbing his head with big swings of his dark curls as the man shows him his crossword.

This time, when the cold air blasts you in the face, you stay warm.

“You really do like black and white, huh?”

Your eyes dart up to catch brown. “Hm?”

Your date folds his hands against the tablecloth, twining his fingers together. His lips twitch up into a crooked grin as he motions with his chin. “You’re wearing a black blouse and a white skirt. Last time we went out, you were wearing a black dress and a white cardigan.”

You blink, brows darting up. “Oh!” you say, glancing down at yourself. He is indeed correct— you’re wearing the same colors you had on your first date with him, entirely by coincidence. He leans back as if expecting you to be impressed that he’d noticed, and you smile, brightening your voice even further. “That’s right!” you say, tipping your head and lightly teasing him. “Well, aren’t you observant?”

He preens under your attention. “I try to be,” he says smoothly. “It pays to be observant in my line of work.”

You lean forward, resting your chin in your palm. “Speaking of, how go things on the fifth floor? I rarely venture down there.”

“Oh, you know…” He keeps up the flirtatious banter, mirroring your position: broad hand cradling his strong chin, elbow planted on the table. “Just convinced Synegen to sign over all their marketing needs. No biggie. All in a day’s work for us fifth-floorers.” His brown eyes twinkle. “Maybe you’ll have reason to come down more often now.”

Daintily, you sip your wine, which burns pleasantly warm down your throat as your eyes rake over his features: long, alkaline nose, square jaw, dreamy brown eyes, and a neat, high fade. “Maybe I shall, Matt,” you smolder, and his grin widens.

This is your second date with fifth-floor Matt— as Josie refers to him since you’d met him in the elevator of your office building— and it’s going quite well if you do say so yourself. Typically, you wouldn’t agree to a date with a guy you’d just met, but Matt’s boldness had a certain charm about it when he’d caught the elevator door to keep it from closing and hit you with that white smile and a proposition of dinner. And it certainly didn’t hurt that he was handsome and clearly built even under the slacks and dress shirt.

As he’d pointed out, you’d worn black and white on your first date but had felt slightly underdressed at the swanky place he’d whisked you away to. You hadn’t been expecting all the bells and whistles, though to your relief, he’d seemed pleased to have impressed you rather than disappointed. The conversation had flowed well between you, and he hadn’t been too forward at the end of the night, leaving you with a pleasant impression. When he’d called to ask you out again— of course within the permissible four to seven days post-date, and no sooner— you hadn’t had any reason to say no, which is why you find yourself at yet another swanky restaurant, Italian on this occasion. And you’re dressed a little more formally this time: black silk blouse, tight white skirt, and Josie’s tall black strappy things that she affectionately calls her ‘stripper heels.’

They look great, but your ankles are aching like a bitch, and you haven’t even gotten your food yet.

“And how are things going for my favorite copyeditor?” Matt asks, taking a sip of his drink, and you blush lightly under his attention.

“Well…” you draw out the word, letting the music and the clinking of glasses around you fill the silence. “Did I tell you about Doris?” He shakes his head, and you’re just about to launch into the story of your accident-prone coworker’s latest kerfuffle when the waiter materializes at your elbow, holding two gleaming white plates.

“Tortellini?” he cuts in smoothly, and you smile up at him as he places it down in front of you. “Scallops?” he confirms with Matt, who immediately picks up his utensils to dig in as you continue your story.

You poke around at your food as you talk about Doris’ misfortune, and Matt nods and emotes appropriately throughout your recollections. “—I don’t know how she manages to get herself into all of these situations, the poor woman.” You shake your head sympathetically, taking a bite of tortellini. It’s wonderfully cheesy with a delicate sauce, and your brows jerk in pleasant surprise as the flavor bursts on your tongue. You chew and swallow quickly to exclaim, “Wow! This is really good.”

Matt is nodding eagerly, threading his finger between the collar of his shirt and his throat, pulling at it absently. “Yeah,” he agrees, “it’s delicious. This place is amazing. You know, I actually—”

He breaks off in a cough, covering his mouth with his fist. “Sorry,” he says, and you smile reassuringly. “I was saying that—” His voice weakens suddenly, and as he clears his throat roughly, your brow tightens in concern.

“Are you okay?” you ask, putting down your fork upon seeing how he tugs again at his collar.

“I’m totally fine,” he assures you, “just have a tickle in my throat.”

Despite his quick hand-waving to dismiss your concern, it doesn’t alleviate that prickle of foreboding you feel building as your eyes scan his face, which looks suddenly more flushed than it did a moment ago. “Are you allergic to anything?”

Matt tips his head, gesturing with his fork and knife. “Well, yeah,” he admits, “but not to this.” He sounds perfectly confident in his assertion, but it doesn’t mollify you. Above his thick fingers, which are still plucking at his collar, pink splotches crawl up his neck.

The foreboding builds insistently, and you know he can detect the new edge of urgency in your voice. “Do you have an EpiPen?”

Somehow, almost inexplicably, Matt still doesn’t look worried. He scoffs, shaking his head even as he concedes, “Yeah, I have one, but I never carry it around with me. Look, I know what not to eat, y/n. I’m not a child—”

You’re not listening because you’re already on the phone with 911.

“I think my date is having an allergic reaction. His throat is itchy, he’s coughing and clearing his throat, and he’s getting flushed.” You glance at him to see his eyes narrowed at you and his mouth open in indignance. “And his lips are swelling,” you add.

Matt pokes at his lips, and you look away as the operator assures you EMS is on their way to the restaurant. “Should I stay on the line?” you ask, gaze darting as you listen to his instruction, even while Matt groans and rolls his eyes.

“You’re being dramatic,” he’s saying, but you ignore him, lowering the phone without hanging up.

“He suggested some fresh air would help. Come on.”

Despite his lunking frame, you’re hauling him out to the sidewalk in your strappy heels with a determination he seems reluctant to truly resist. He could easily break out of your hold, but he lets you manhandle him out into the slight chill of this early September night. You undo the top three buttons of his shirt to loosen the pressure on his neck, working around your phone, which is still clutched in one hand. You suppress a huff at his salacious smile. “I mean,” he chuckles, “if you just wanted to get me out of my clothes, honey, you didn’t have to do all this.”

You shake your head, holding the phone up to your ear. “Yeah, I’m still here,” you say to the operator, “we’re outside now. He doesn’t seem to be any worse.”

Matt’s shoulders sag as he rolls his head, coughing lightly through his words. “I’m not gonna get worse because there’s nothing wrong with me.” He lifts his arms and lets them slap against his thighs, exasperated. “This is such a waste of time—”

The white and red ambulance turns the corner, and you step around your date to flag them down. “They’re here,” you say breathlessly to the operator. “Okay, I’m gonna hang up.”

The vehicle slows to a stop in front of you, and you step back from the curb as both doors open. They close one after another, like the strike of lightning and the boom of thunder following it. The boom of thunder crosses around the front of the bumper, eyes locked on you. And he’s got a beautiful head of hair— thick, luscious brown locks, expertly messy.

Your heart leaps as you recognize him, hearing Mr. Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting echoing in your ear. Because if he’s the boom of thunder, then maybe the lightning strike is—

“I shoulda known you’d be here, Trouble.”

You turn toward the voice, heart pounding despite the quizzical scrunching of your nose. Eddie interprets it correctly, his grin brightening his honey-brown eyes as he clarifies, “As I said, you look like an angel, but since we keep runnin’ into each other like this, it’s official. You must be nothing but trouble.”

You flush at the teasing tone of his musical voice, cheeks pinking, and as his grin turns wolfish with delight, you know he’s noticed. Abruptly, he looks away, and you follow his gaze to Matt, whose brows are furrowed lightly. Eddie’s tone loses the teasing quality, though it remains pleasant. “So, what’s goin’ on here, big guy? You think you’re having an allergic reaction?” he asks, pulling out the flashlight from his pack.

“No,” Matt says firmly, though his voice sounds more hoarse now. “She thinks I’m having an allergic reaction. I’ve just got an itchy throat.”

Undeterred, Eddie steps up to him. “Open your mouth,” he instructs calmly, and begrudgingly, Matt complies. His tongue lolls as Eddie peers inside. “What did you eat?”

“It was a pasta dish,” you offer, watching as Steve hovers nearby while Eddie feels along Matt’s throat with gloved hands. “Scallops, prosciutto, peas, um… white wine sauce. I don’t know the rest of the ingredients.”

“Any known allergies?” Steve asks, and everyone looks to Matt for the answer.

“I already told her,” he says with an air of long-suffering, “I do have a food allergy, but not to this—”

Eddie interjects calmly but firmly. “What are you allergic to?”

Matt sighs. “I’m only allergic to shellfish.”

There’s the briefest moment of stunned silence, and then Eddie tips his chin, pinning your date with his dark eyes— still calm, still pleasant, but with an air of unattestable authority. “Sir, you are having an allergic reaction. Hey, Harrington?”

“On it,” comes the immediate reply, and Steve is digging in the med-pack at his hip, guiding Matt to the back of the ambulance. You watch Matt’s eyes dart wildly, though he allows himself to be pushed along in his bafflement, stuttering questions and weak protests as he goes. You recognize the bright orange cap of the EpiPen as Steve pulls open one of the ambulance’s back doors; distantly, you hear him prompting your date, “Hop up here for me, would you?”

You hear a jangle close by, and the sound pulls your eyes from the ambulance to the man still standing at your side. His arms are folded behind his back now, his full lips dimpled in a secret smile. In Josie’s tall heels, your face is closer to his, and you nearly feel the brush of his wild hair against your blouse as he sways closer with his upper body so he can mutter at you with glittering eyes.

“Really?” Eddie says, and the ghost of his breath stirs the hair beside your ear. Your body prickles with heat, stomach fluttering as he straightens again, quirking a brow and looking highly amused. For some reason, you feel called out, raw and exposed, and you cross your arms and narrow your eyes despite the deepening heat in your cheeks.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you retort. “I don’t give my dates quizzes on animal classifications during the vetting process.”

“Well,” Eddie lowers his voice, and the timbre makes you shiver, goosebumps prickling your arms. “Maybe you should.”

You scoff. “He’s a marketing genius. I think that makes up for it.”

Eddie’s mouth twitches before his dark eyes widen. Your gaze is drawn to his eyelashes, which are enviably long. “So,” he asks casually, “did you enjoy that protein bar?”

You’re left reeling from the abrupt change of subject, but you place the reference quickly. “Sure,” you say, tipping your head, a little bemused as to why he’s asking. “It was fine.”

Eddie’s brows jerk in exaggerated offense as he claps a hand over his heart. “Just fine? First, you eat my lunch, and now you tell me it was just fine?”

Your mouth falls open in incredulity, face utterly indignant as Eddie grins broadly, his eyes crinkling in the corners at your reaction. In the vehemence of your feeling, you step closer, smacking his arm with a familiarity you aren’t entitled to, though you don’t notice as you protest, “You told me it wasn’t your lunch! What the hell, Eddie?!”

He cowers away from you playfully, dissolving into husky chuckles that are both goofy and undeniably endearing. They settle in your stomach, and you feel your lips curving of their own accord. You can’t deny how good it feels to hear him laugh, and you suddenly want more. “Honestly!” You lean into it, advancing on him as threateningly as you can in a blouse and miniskirt, though you know he sees the mirth dancing in your eyes. He backs up a step, playing into your game as you huff, “You’re so—!”

“I can drive myself to the hospital. I don’t need you!”

The shout cuts you off, and your smile dies abruptly as you and Eddie look toward the source of the disturbance. It’s Matt, your date, scowling as he hops down to the asphalt. He’s arguing with Steve, who pops from behind the ambulance to follow him to the sidewalk.

“Sir—” Matt’s ignoring him, stalking toward you with intent. “I can’t force you, but I really must advise you not to drive yourself.”

Matt whirls on him, pointing a finger in his chest. “I know what you’re trying to do. You just want me to take the ambulance because you’ll get paid more. It’s all a big scam.”

Steve’s brow scrunches in an incredulous wince, and embarrassment curdles in your stomach as you watch Matt’s face transform into smugness. “See?” The triumph in the curl of his smile is entirely undeserved. “Can’t argue with the facts. I’m onto you, buddy.”

Exasperation, embarrassment, and self-consciousness mix potently as you feel the weight of Eddie’s eyes on the back of your head like a physical presence. Impulsively, you blurt, “I’ll just drive you in your car, Matt. Come on.”

Matt shoots Steve one last dirty look as you bustle over to him, crossing your arms as he levels Eddie with the same. “They’re just doing their jobs, Matt,” you say, tone bitten a little short as you lead him to the entrance of the restaurant.

“What’re we going back in there for?” he asks, and you blink at him.

“...We have to pay for our food and get our coats,” you say patiently, trying very hard to remain composed. Matt grumbles but pulls open the door for you, and as you pass through the threshold, you hear one last raspy, musical call follow you.

“See ya, Trouble!”

You hasten toward your table as Matt scowls, questioning you suspiciously. “Hey. Why does he keep calling you that? D’you know that guy?”

You just sigh heavily, plastering on a smile as you flag down your waiter to explain the situation. And as you drive your date to the hospital, only one thought follows you.

Leave it to a crisis to reveal peoples’ true natures.

Truthfully, the unfortunate shellfish incident was a blessing in disguise. After taking Matt to the hospital for further treatment and listening to him gripe on the ride home, you’d waved goodbye to any semblance of feeling he may have stirred within you without a shred of resistance. In recounting the tale to Josie, crowded together on the settee in her one-bedroom walkup with half-drunk Trulys in hand, you’d both reached a consensus on the following conclusion:

That bullet was well and truly dodged.

“Enough about fifth-floor fools,” Josie quips, scootching closer as you sip your bubbly and hissing with eagerness, “I can’t believe it was that same guy again! How many times have you run into him now?”

You hide your smile behind the can. “Three,” you say, keeping your voice carefully neutral. But you can’t fool Josie; she’s known you longer than anyone else, aside from your parents. She’s nearly your sister— you spend half your time sleeping at her apartment on the weekends since it’s closer to downtown, and many of the belongings littering the tiny square of her place are yours. Sometimes you feel silly for still living with your parents, but you remind yourself it’s a perfectly reasonable way to save money until you can afford your own place. And you’d move in with Josie, but her apartment is really only meant for one; you end up squeezed into her twin bed or cramped up on the settee whenever you spend a drunken night there, and that's not a permanent solution.

Josie swoons against you. “It’s so romantic,” she gushes, and you squirm at the unexpected sentimentality coming from your raincloud friend. “It’s like fate’s bringing you together.” When she eyes you suddenly, the glint of craziness has you shaking your head before she’s even gotten the words out. “You know, I’m feeling some mashed potatoes. Don’t you want mashed potatoes?” You don’t respond, and she barrels on. “Yeah, I really think you should go, like, chop some potatoes. And then, you know, just accidentally let the knife slip—”

“Josie!”

“What?! Like, don’t cut deep,” she defends, drawing her index in a slanted line across her palm before grinning suggestively. “Just deep enough to need stitches so you can ride him—” she feigns innocence— “sorry, Freudian slip— I meant riiiiiiiiide him in the back of his ambulance—” She bursts into laughter at the horror on your face when she salaciously repeats the same phrase, delighted to have tricked you into thinking it was a mistake the first time.

“Josie!” You snap again, face flooding with heat as she cackles, deriving great pleasure from your embarrassment. “I’m not going to cut my hand open just to hope Eddie shows up. That’s so stupid.”

“Aw,” she pretends to pout, “well, how else are you gonna see him again?”

You scoff, shaking your head, cheeks still tingling with your blush. “Who says I even wanna see him again?” you grumble, turning away from your best friend and chugging your Truly to ward off her response.

But you can’t deny that meeting Eddie three times did, in some way, feel… maybe not like fate, but like more than a coincidence. And in the days following your failed date with Matt, you find your thoughts drifting to that musical voice, those honey-brown eyes, the brush of your elbow against his hot skin, and the way his plush lips formed the letters of the nickname he’d given you:

‘Trouble.’

You’d eagerly waved goodbye to any semblance of feeling you’d had for Matt, but suddenly, there's a paramedic-shaped absence in your life that you feel every time you walk from the parking lot to your office building and glance across the street, eyes lingering on that bench beneath the cherry trees.

After a week, you acknowledge it, accept it, and allow yourself to secretly indulge in the crush you’d formed on the heavy-metal knockoff with the septum piercing and the most endearing laugh you’d ever heard. It lingers in the back of your mind, prompting you to slow the roll of your shopping cart in the bakery aisle of Trader Joe’s and pause beside the package of adorably-named Peanut Butter Brookies. As you pick it up, examining the half-peanut butter cookie half-brownies, you can't help but think of the protein bar with the same flavor.

It's silly. It's inane. It's entirely over the top, and you’d absolutely die of embarrassment if Josie found out. But before you can let yourself buckle with self-consciousness, you quickly add the package of baked goods to your cart and roll on. And on Monday morning, you slip it into your laptop bag.

A thank-you gift for a lunch sacrificed, carried around just in case.

Monday bleeds into Friday, and still, the brownies remain ungifted, perfectly intact inside their hard plastic casing. You check the expiration date, which wasn’t for another two weeks, and they taunt you on your parents’ counter, mocking your whimsy. Still, when your dad comes sniffing curiously around, you feel a spike of instant dismay and snatch them before he can break the seal. He looks entirely baffled as you carry them protectively up to your room.

“Wha—” You ignore his confusion as you tramp up the steps, depositing the brookies back in your bag. You sigh, a sound of long-suffering exasperation with yourself and your own inanity. One more week, you resolve. If I don’t see him this week, I’m forgetting all about this.

And it appears, as Friday rolls around again, that you would need to abandon your silly crush on the paramedic you’d bumped into thrice in three months. Your laptop bag thumps against your thigh as you push open the heavy glass doors of your office building, emerging into the brisk chill of late September, tempered by the golden light of the deepening sun. You allow yourself to sulk, indulging in your disappointment until you reach the glittering blue paint of your Honda Civic. Fate is a fickle mistress. You sigh as you unlock the door and flump into the driver’s seat, depositing your laptop bag onto the floor on the other side of the console. You allow yourself an ironic smile, shaking your head at the notion of fate as you start the car and idle as you tap the phone icon on the screen, intending to call Josie to discuss your plans for the weekend.

Yet when you hit it, it doesn’t pull up your contacts as expected. Instead, it pulls up the list of Bluetooth devices it remembers, and you scrunch your nose at the words ‘y/n’s iPhone’ on the screen, wondering why it wouldn't just connect automatically. But when you tap it, waiting impatiently until the request times out, you realize what the problem is.

You must have left your phone in your cubicle.

Another sigh, this one longer and far more exasperated at the thought of trekking all the way back to the office after a long work day. You briefly consider just going home without your phone, but it’s Friday, and that would mean languishing without it for the entire weekend. A momentary inconvenience now is not worth the giant inconvenience that would be.

You groan as you pull your laptop bag back into your lap, petulantly pulling the strap over your head as you lock your car and begin the walk back to the office.

All looks the same as it had ten minutes before— the golden sun is still glinting off the windows you wish your cubicle faced, and the cherry trees are still swaying gently across the street.

The only thing not the same is the ambulance sitting stationary against the curb across from those heavy glass doors.

Your footsteps falter in surprise for only a moment before incredulous giddiness has your heart racing. There’s no fucking way, you think, stamping down on your excitement as you maintain outward composure, walking calmly up to your office building despite the fluttering you feel inside. You even whisper temperance as you pull open the door, wincing as that typical blast of cold air hits you. “Don’t be ridiculous,” you tell yourself as the clacking of your heels echoes hollowly in the lobby. “There’s no such thing as fate—”

The elevator dings cheerily, and the stretcher emerges first, revealing a pair of familiar leopard-printed flats and the rich darkness of your coworker Doris’ pudgy legs. You stop, eyes going wide as her torso, chest, neck, and head are slowly revealed. Her half-moon glasses are slightly askew, the crystal chain clinking against the heavy earrings dragging down her drooping earlobes as she’s maneuvered gently into the lobby.

Your mutterings about fate are abandoned immediately as you rush with concern. “Doris!” you exclaim in dismay. “Oh my gosh, are you okay? What happened?”

She draws steadily closer as you stand in the middle of the lobby, her stretcher wheeled by medical personnel. You don’t look at them, eyes locked on your coworker as she grimaces at you. You know Doris is accident-prone, but this is beyond a little coffee pot mishap. Your chest tightens with nervousness at the pain on her face. She grunts, humphing, “Tripped and broke my damn ankle.” She shakes her head as if with disgust. “I told Doug I could’ve made it down myself, but he insisted on calling the ambulance.” She groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is humiliating.”

Your brow crinkles with sympathy, voice going gentle with reassurance. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, Doris,” you say, looking at her encouragingly as she slants a glance in your direction.

She enunciates each word very deliberately, snapping, “I broke my ankle tripping on a damn pencil, y/n.”

You purse your lips to keep from smiling, though the laugh builds up in your chest, wanting to burst out. In your defense, because of the potent combination of Doris’ accident-prone nature, her delivery of that line, and, truthfully, the fact that you can’t help but imagine what it looked like when she tripped over a pencil. Who trips over a pencil?!

It’s not funny. It’s NOT funny.

With the barest shred of merciful dignity, you manage to maintain your composure. “I’m sorry, Doris,” is all you can manage, and you rotate as she’s rolled even with you to keep facing her. The older woman humphs as she passes, and your eyes dart to the back of the large paramedic’s head, running over the bristles of his short hair as he diverts to the wall to hit the switch that automatically opens the door for wheelchairs.

You relax your mouth and let the smile grow as you turn away from Doris, but your heart leaps into your throat as you stop short just an inch from colliding with the second paramedic, who is standing far too close for comfort. Your heart leaps into your throat but drops into your ass as you register the honey-brown of his eyes, the wild curls that frame his pale face, and the scent of smoke and spice as Eddie towers over you.

You freeze, and your belly flutters wildly as his full lips split with a grin. “Hey there, Trouble,” he says, and for a moment, all you can do is blink at him mutely until your brain connects with your mouth.

“Eddie!” you exclaim, and in your surprise, you don’t temper your reaction to seeing him. You beam brightly, eyes wide with delight as he falls back on his heels, jamming his hands in his pockets. His expression melts into pleasure at the sound of his name so keen in your mouth.

“You know,” he teases, voice pitched a little lower than usual, “you didn’t have to plant that pencil if you wanted to see me again.”

But the implication of his teasing words and his tone skates right over your head because you’re already digging in your laptop bag, singularly focused on the unexpected rush of being able to deliver your gift. “I wanted to give you this—” you pull out the package with an air of triumph, “to thank you for, well… everything with Matt, I guess, but also for the protein bar. I figured you like peanut butter and chocolate.”

You thrust the brookies toward him, and Eddie takes the package gingerly, staring down at it. You watch a couple of microexpressions dart across his face, too quick to decipher, and then he’s crooking a smile at you. “Thanks,” he says, “that’s really cool of you.”

You nod, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth, and as Eddie stares at you for a moment, you suddenly become aware that he might think it’s weird you’ve been carting around a container of food, hoping to run into him. Before you can stumble too far down that rabbit hole, Eddie redirects you, asking casually, “So, how’s Shellfish doin’? Holding up okay now?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Your honest answer comes quick and unabashed. “There was no third date.”

There’s a flicker of something behind Eddie’s eyes, and then it’s gone. He leans in, cupping one hand to the side of his mouth as if speaking in confidence. “Y’ask me, I think you dodged a bullet. A man who doesn’t know his mollusks is not a good catch.”

You chuckle at the play on words, and Eddie seems tickled that you’d caught on quickly. A dimple emerges on his cheek, and you feel that low fluttering again. “He was a little too macho for me anyway,” you say dismissively, shrugging and hoping he gets the message that you couldn’t care less about Matt. “He had a big ego, and I didn’t like the way he talked to Steve. It’s like he had to be the big man on campus.”

Eddie snorts, a little sardonic as he replies, “Well, maybe he should date my ex. She loves that tough guy shi—” he glances at you quickly, seeming a little embarrassed of his almost slip-up. “—stuff. She called me a glorified nurse as if that’s an insult.”

You come alive with warmth, choosing to take that to mean Eddie is single. And not only to mean that he’s single, but that he wants you to know he is, now that you said you’re single. That giddiness is returning, filling you up until you might burst; impulsively, riding that high, you say, “Can’t say I agree. Personally, I like a man who has a nurturing side.”

You don’t know where the hell that sudden boldness came from, and you rush with shyness almost immediately afterward as you see Eddie’s brows jerk. For the briefest moment, he looks taken aback, and then he’s beaming that eye-crinkling smile. It’s almost manic, brighter than any you’ve seen on him yet, and it’s utterly beautiful.

“Munson!”

Eddie startles at the sharp, impatient shout from outside, and you realize that it must be his partner calling him. Eddie stutters into action, fumbling through an apology as he jerks toward the doors with your gift rattling in his hand. “No, it’s fine,” you assure him, and when he glances back at you one more time before tugging open the heavy glass, you bite your lip, fluttering when you see the pink on his cheeks.

You watch him through the glass as he jogs over to the ambulance, his long curls bouncing as he disappears from your view. Part of you— a big part of you— is resisting the sibilant whisper that it would be awkward to follow him, and you’re just about to do it when the elevator dings again. You turn toward it automatically, meeting the panicked eyes of your office’s youngest intern, Carrie.

She seems surprised to see you, and her mousy nose quivers as her eyes widen. “You’re back?” she squeaks, rushing toward you immediately.

“Yeah,” you say cautiously, “I forgot my phone—”

She clutches your arms, quivering with desperation. “Oh, thank God you’re here. I was hoping to catch you in the parking lot—” You’re alarmed to see the sheen in her eyes, the wobble of her lip. “I really need your help.”

Immediately, your hand finds her shoulder, concern welling up to replace all else. “Look, Carrie, it’s okay,” you say, guiding her back to the elevator. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

By the time she’d wavered through her explanation, and you’d helped her fix the “crisis”— a simple jam in the new Xerox made unreasonably urgent by your boss’ exaggerated threat that if anyone broke the expensive copier, they’d be paying for it out of their earnings— you return to the lobby to find the street conspicuously lacking in one unmistakeable red and white vehicle.

The walk back to the parking lot— plus one phone and minus a package of baked goods— is dull and lackluster. Disappointment swoops in your gut as your foolish hope that maybe you’d catch the ambulance down the block is dashed when you reach your car with no such sightings. And you can’t even curse fate because you’ve gotten your wish.

Fickle as ever, she’d delivered Eddie to you so you could return his kindness as you’d hoped. But she’d ignored the secret yearning of your heart, leaving you at the mercy of her whims.

And she wouldn’t oblige you again without a cost.

It’s the burst of an impact you couldn’t possibly brace for. There’s the squeal of brakes and then the sickening crunch of metal. Powder in your mouth as you gasp. A rain of shattered glass. And then ringing, deafening silence.

In the stillness, the moments replay over and over, winding through your mind like a snake chasing its tail, each bone of its spine a single, disjointed thought.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.

Your mother forgot the cranberries.

You were driving home from the store.

You stopped at the corner of Macopin and Hamberg Turnpike.

Two roads feed into one; the leftmost has the right of way.

There’s a cop car waiting at the left fork.

He waved you on.

You didn’t see the box truck coming around the corner.

He waved you on.

So you went.

The ringing, deafening silence dissolves slowly into sounds— the blare of a police siren, the hissing of a radiator. You turn your head slowly and glance at the passenger seat for your phone, and your stomach lurches at what’s past it: the crumpled remains of the passenger-side door where your vehicle is pinned against the guardrail, and beyond, the sea of trees it’s protecting you from.

There are tiny clatters of glass as you shift restlessly, heart pumping frantically as the shock begins to wear off and the adrenaline kicks in. Right outside your window, the hood of the box truck is bent and warped, and if you were to reach out your shattered window, you could run your palm along the warm metal. The reality then sets in: you’d been hit by a box truck and pinned against the guardrail.

You’re lucky to be alive.

A voice swims, echoing in your ears. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”

You try to blink the daze away, to break free of the two thoughts the fractured bones of the snake have transformed into. Thank God I was driving dad’s Suburban. If I’d been in my car…. You desperately do not want to finish that sentence.

You whimper with effort, and the voice returns more urgently. “Ma’am. Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” you call weakly.

The voice comes again. “Are you hurt?”

“I—” You move slowly, shifting your body minutely. A bend of your elbow. A shrug of your shoulder. Something along your collarbone aches like a burn. “I don’t know,” you reply honestly, and your voice wavers with the realization. Slowly, other sensations emerge: you discern sharp soreness in your arm. You wince, and that tightening of your forehead stings. You can’t see your legs; they’re concealed beneath the airbag, and your heart pumps harder.

Suddenly, you’re holding your breath. You’re afraid to shift your legs, afraid to feel a rush of pain, or worse, to try to move them and feel nothing at all.

You turn your head fractionally, eyes straining to see out the shattered window, but the box truck is in the way. “EMS is on their way, ma’am. We’re gonna get you out of here.” You realize then that the voice must belong to the cop.

“Thank you.” You feel your eyes rush with tears. “Is… is the other guy…?”

“He’s okay,” the cop answers, and you breathe a shaky sigh of relief, letting it puff out your cheeks.

“Okay,” you answer in a small voice, and there is no reply.

As you wait for EMS to arrive, you concentrate on doing everything you can to reduce your panic, knowing that the worst thing you can do is allow yourself to freak out. You take slow, deep breaths, resisting the urge to suck in air greedily even as your lungs protest. By degrees, very gradually, the frantic pumping of your heart begins to slow, and the airbag at your steering wheel starts to deflate. And by the time it’s sagging flat against the wheel, you hear the crunch of nearby tires over grass and gravel and see a long flash of red beyond the vehicle wedged against your own. That must be the firetruck. As your body calms, experimentally, you begin to test out some movements, starting with the low-risk ones. Slowly, you bend your elbows until your hands are in front of your face and examine your fingers and arms. There’s a quickly-forming contusion swelling on your left forearm, and anxiety spikes once again until you run your fingers over it. It hurts, but not that badly, and you breathe a sigh of relief that it doesn’t seem to be broken. You feel along your face blindly, and there’s some stinging on your forehead and left cheek, but otherwise, there is no pain. Without moving your head, you unbuckle yourself and pull down the neckline of your sweater. As you feel around, you discover that the pain travels diagonally across your collarbone, and your fingers don’t come away with blood. Logically, the sting on your chest is likely just a burn from the seatbelt.

Higher-risk movements come next. You shift so, so slowly, resolving to stop as soon as you encounter any pain. But you turn your head, and there is none; you wiggle your toes, and they move. You sway your hips, and they obey, and when you lean forward toward the steering wheel, you meet no resistance.

Somehow, you think you’re okay. You don’t anticipate the rush of emotion the realization conjures, and a tear slips to cut through the airbag powder on your cheek.

You hear footsteps and voices approaching then, but still, all you can really see is the bent-up hood of the box truck. Slowly, the sounds discern themselves into words. And it’s a revelation that pulls another tear from your eyes when you realize one voice is familiar.

He’s saying, “The cop said it’s a woman. She’s lucid—”

Your voice comes out small but sweet with melty hope. “Eddie?”

The voice ceases immediately, and the silence is like a chasm. And then you hear your name rasped in that musical timbre. “...y/n?”

You breathe a laugh, shaky with relief. “Yeah,” you croak. “It’s me.” Instantly, the lingering stormclouds— the apprehension, the shame, the acrid, biting fear— all disperse as you picture a bright smile and honey-brown eyes, leaving behind only the tracks of dew on your cheek and the singular belief that now, everything will be okay.

“Harrington,” Eddie barks, “tell those fuckers to hurry up and get this truck out of the goddamn way.”

Every ounce of tension you’d been relieved of is tightening that musical voice now as it goes impossibly harsh. “Hey!” The sudden bite of his shout is shocking. “Let’s go! What the fuck is taking so long?”

A sliver of Eddie peeks at the edge of the window, and his voice gentles again. “Are you hurt, sweetheart?”

“No, I think I’m okay,” you say, shaking your head.

Some grit, some tight urgency returns as he says, “No, don’t do that. Don’t move your head. Just stay still. Stay right there, okay? We’re gonna get you out.”

As bodies flit around in the background, you stare at the sliver of Eddie’s face— the paleness of his skin, the dark curtain of his hair, the glint of silver in his earlobe— waiting for the moment you can see his eyes again. You stare as uniformed men crowd around the truck, and you stare until it begins to roll away, pushed by their combined effort. And as soon as there’s enough room, Eddie is shuffling sideways until his face fills the window, honey-brown eyes wide and just as breathtaking as you remembered.

Before either of you can speak, Eddie is urged bodily out of the way to make room for the firefighters, who try to open the door only to find it stuck. One of them brings over a corded device held two-handed while the other passes you a scratchy orange blanket through the opening of your window. “We need to remove the door,” he tells you. “Hold this up to protect yourself.”

From behind the curtain of orange, you listen to them slowly and meticulously peel away the door of your father’s destroyed car. Eventually, after some long minutes, the shadow beyond the blanket falls away, and you hear the thump of heavy metal hitting the grass. And when hands pull the blanket away, the reveal of dark curls, lanky limbs, and a familiar handsome face fills you with a sense of awe that any magician would envy.

Ta-da.

“Hey, Trouble.” Eddie’s voice is gentle but hoarse, and he’s smiling, but it’s a little tight. You think his face looks pale as he looks up at you; you’re a few inches taller than him where he’s standing on the ground. His eyes rove over you restlessly. “How're you feelin’?”

“I’m okay, I think,” you say again as Steve comes to stand beside Eddie, holding a neck brace. “I don’t think I need that,” you add. “I feel fine.” You turn your head to demonstrate, and Eddie instantly scowls.

“Look—”

Steve cuts in smoothly. “Does anything hurt? Anything feel numb?”

You shake your head, stilling your movement when Eddie jerks forward, jaw clenched tight. “Just my arm hurts, but I don’t feel numb.” You show them the contusion on your left arm, which looks no worse than it did earlier.

You can see that Eddie is still doubtful, but Steve walks you through basic checks. “Wiggle your toes for me.” “Try to move your foot up.” “Now the other one.” “Bend forward.” You follow his instructions easily, and in the end, he shifts back, conceding that you are, indeed, likely unharmed— at least in any crucial way.

Eddie abruptly hoists himself onto the kickplate, planting his feet and filling the space where the door used to be. His closeness is sudden, and your eyes dart over everything— the metal of his belt buckle that’s now even with your bent elbow, the black on black on black of his paramedic uniform, the neck of his collared shirt that pulls further open to reveal more pale skin as he reaches for you. And then he’s everywhere, bending forward until his curls are brushing your cheek and his smoke and spice is in your nose and your stomach is fluttering so wildly you feel you might fly away.

“Hold onto me,” he mutters, and his voice is so close— low and musical and hoarsened by something that sticks in his throat— that your breath catches. His hand wedges between your legs and the seat, and gingerly, you wrap your arms around his neck and lift your knees so he can slide his arm underneath them. When his other arm comes across your back, muscles flexing to test your weight, you realize that he means to pick you up.

“I can just jump down, you know,” you say, and the wheezy chuckle he huffs into your hair is half-amused and half-incredulous.

“See,” Eddie says, and you feel him shift, testing his balance as his arms tighten around you, “this is why I call you Trouble.” The teasing warmth of his voice brings a flush to your cheeks, and instinctively, you duck your head against his shoulder. When you do, and your lips skim the column of Eddie’s throat, you feel the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows. “Hold tight, okay?”

You tighten your arms obligingly and nod, and as the plump of your lips brushes the warmth of Eddie’s skin, he lifts you out of the broken skeleton of your crushed vehicle.

There is no time to worry about whether you’re too heavy or if Eddie will drop you because, before you know it, he’s laying you on the nearby stretcher. His hand finds your shoulder and presses you gently, though firmly, flat to the tilted back. Your eyes dart among the personnel that still litter the grass until they catch on the cars driving slowly past, and beyond them, the fated intersection— the nexus of this entire mess.

Suddenly, Steve is at your elbow. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”

“Yes,” Eddie interrupts before you can reply, and your eyes dart between them as Steve shoots him a weird look. But Eddie doesn’t waver. “She’s going.”

“Only if she wants to—”

“She’s going whether she wants to or not,” Eddie interrupts him, nostrils flared and voice a little sharp. “She needs to be evaluated.”

“I wanna go, Steve.” You head off the storm you can sense brewing between them. “I wanna go to the hospital. Can someone just get my phone and my bag?”

“We’ll make sure all your personal belongings are with you, ma’am.” It’s the cop from before, speaking from a short distance away. You nod, glancing at each of the men as Steve and Eddie continue to stare at one another for a tense moment before Steve mutely takes hold of the stretcher’s metal frame. Eddie does the same on your other side, and together, they load you into the ambulance.

It isn’t exactly a shock when Eddie hoists himself up beside you, shutting the back doors with a definitive thunk. His heavy boots clunk along the metal flooring as he flanks you, sitting down on a stool near your elbow, nearly hovering over you like a stone-faced sentinel. It’s odd to see him like this— tense and wound tight, his mouth pressed into a hard line as his eyes dart over your body restlessly, never settling in one place. He’s always been so calm and casual in every encounter you’ve had with him, and you’d figured that's just what he was always like. You think of how he’d felt carefully along Josie’s nose, occasionally glancing toward the stage as Spiritbox played one of their best songs. How he’d seemed friendly and warm though also detached.

You think, as his lips twist and he rips open the zipper of his med pack, that Eddie is not detached right now. And that thought makes you go warm with its implications.

As the ambulance rumbles to life, Eddie pulls out a small cylindrical object and sets it down on a tray. He pulls on rubber gloves, roughly tugging them down his hands before firmly taking your wrist, fingertips on your pulse point. You watch him wide-eyed as he stares at his watch to count the beats before letting you go.

When his hands find your abdomen, you jolt in surprise, and he pauses for only a moment before pressing down on your belly. “Tell me if anything hurts,” he says, and the part of you that was flattered thinking about what the loss of his composure might mean flares in exasperation instead.

“I feel fine,” you tell him.

Eddie doesn’t look up or stop his palpations. “Could have internal bleeding,” he mutters, almost as if to himself.

“I am not bleeding internally, Eddie,” you say, trying to remain patient.

“Who’s the medical professional here?” You think he’s trying to joke, but it falls flat between you since his voice is too tense to hold the same musical charm as his normal teasing.

You sigh heavily, enduring until he’s satisfied. “There, see—?” A sudden light blinds your left eye, and you wince, unable to maintain your composure any longer. “Eddie, what the hell?!”

Undeterred, he checks the other eye in the same way, ignoring your squirming. “I’m checking your pupillary response,” he says. “You could have a concussion.”

And with that, he starts talking. And once Eddie starts, he does not stop.

Your arm is throbbing, the skin on your chest stings, and now your head is spinning with each word that comes out of his mouth. “Head trauma,” “loss of coordination,” “muscle laxity,” “cerebral hemorrhage,” “disorientation,” “amnesia,” “vision disturbance,” “hematoma.” Eddie’s rambling goes on until you finally snap his name. “Irritability,” he says, nodding to himself.

You huff. “No, Eddie, I’m not irritable. You’re just giving me a headache.”

That doesn’t make him stop; that makes it worse. In an instant, he’s standing, not realizing that you were exaggerating for effect. His face is hovering over you as he braces his hands on the metal bars caging you into the stretcher, eyes darting as he questions you intently. “Where is the pain? Is it sharp and shooting? Dull and aching? How bad is it, scale of one to ten?”

You suppress a whine because despite your attempt to dissuade him, now he’s blathering on even more, and his gloved thumb is running over your forehead, and you can’t even enjoy it because his touch is stinging the tiny cuts on your skin. And all you want is for him to stop talking, and he won’t. Eddie just won’t shut up—

Impulsively, you fist your hands in the fabric of his shirt, surging up as you yank him down, swallowing his words as you kiss him firmly.

The words stop instantly, but Eddie also stiffens, going completely rigid as you kiss him. And the fact that you can taste him— smoke and spice like Big Red chewing gum— drives home exactly what you’ve done and how unbelievably inappropriate it is.

You release him, flopping back onto the stretcher with your hands curled against your chest as the heat floods your face with such intensity that you fear your flesh might melt from your bones. Hot mortification rushes through you, nearly nauseating as Eddie stares at you, expression unreadable, eyes dark in the dim light of the ambulance and lips downturned just slightly at the corners. Embarrassed isn’t the word for it. The seconds that tick by are nearly unbearable, and if you could, you would sink into the floor, descend to the asphalt and below to the dirt, and then down, down, down through the surface of the earth to melt in its molten core just to escape this moment.

Finally, once you’ve begun to break out into a cold sweat, Eddie says hoarsely, “You sure you aren’t concussed?”

Your brow crumples with dismay, but then he’s cupping your face, his broad palm cradling your cheek, and his hand is warm beneath the latex. And you barely have time to appreciate how those honey-brown eyes soften before Eddie’s ducking to kiss you.

It’s the second time you’ve felt his lips, and now, you don’t panic. You just bloom.

Eddie’s lips are warm and soft and just slightly chapped, enough to make them rasp against yours pleasantly when he shifts his head slightly. You make a little noise against his mouth when he lingers, and your heart melts when you feel him smile. He parts from you just briefly to make it sweeter when he kisses you softly again, and then once more before finally pulling far enough away to gaze at you. He murmurs, and the teasing cadence is back in his musical voice. “Y’didn’t have to get yourself hit by a box truck to see me, you know.”

You feel dazed in the best way. “Yeah?” you say, voice small and delicate and questioning. Eddie smiles, and you lean into his touch as he strokes your cheek with his thumb.

“Yeah,” he says softly.

Your eyes widen hopefully. “So does this mean you’re gonna take me to the drive-in?”

Eddie throws back his head and laughs— not a barking, surprised laugh, or a goofy, husky chuckle, but a rasp of pure relief and delight that has you blooming with pride. You don’t even mind that his hand falls from your cheek to clutch at the railing for support. When he straightens, his curls are wild and beautiful as they frame his face, his honey-brown eyes are twinkling, and that dimple you’re becoming partial to is out for you again.

“Slow your roll, Trouble,” he says fondly. “Let’s get you checked out first, and then we can talk about shakes and a movie.”

The only drive-in movie theatre in the state is half an hour away, and the final showing before they close for the season is next Wednesday, and if that’s not fate, you don’t know what is.

It doesn’t matter that it’s rather a lot colder than it typically is at the very end of November. The inside of Eddie’s refurbished 1979 Chevelle is toasty, and you’re cuddled up under numerous knitted throws you’d gathered from your parents’ house, so the chill of the milkshake on your fingers doesn’t bother you. You set yours in the cupholder beside Eddie’s, strawberry next to chocolate. You nearly double-take when you pick his up and shake it, eyes darting to mischievous honey-brown when you realize it’s already more than half gone. You take a pouty sip, letting the taste of rich chocolate melt and mingle with fruity strawberry in a perfect melding of flavors. Eddie snatches your cup, pursing his lips around your straw and sucking cheekily. The chunky rings that glint on his fingers are unfamiliar but entirely welcome, and so are the battle vest, the green flannel, and the tight jeans ripped at the knees that replace his typical paramedic uniform. Finally being able to see Eddie in his street clothes still hasn’t worn off, and you tingle even as you pretend to glare at him.

“You better not drink all of mine just because you nearly finished yours before the movie’s even started,” you tell him, trying to maintain your glare even though it’s already melting at the charming grin Eddie hits you with.

“Oh, Trouble,” he sighs, eyebrows crinkling in pretend earnestness, and you fight stubbornly against your lips. “I would never drink all of your milkshake. Mr. J would never let me live it down if I did.”

You lose the battle then, plunking his cup back in the cupholder as you grumble through your smile. He replaces your cup smoothly, smacking his lips in an exaggeration of enjoyment, eyes glittering. “Man, your shake really is good, though. If I didn’t like you so much, I might be tempted to finish it.”

His grin turns wolfish as you blush and look away. You’ve only gone out twice, but it's clear by now that Eddie enjoys nothing more than seeing the effect he has on you— the way his words and touches can conjure goosebumps, shivers, and blushes from thin air. Sourly you sit there, wracking your brain for how to get him back.

It comes to you, and your lips curve with a smirk. Suddenly, you know just the thing.

You begin to deepen your breaths, exaggerating the rise of your chest and frowning in confusion. “Eddie? I feel faint,” you say weakly, glancing at him to see the enjoyment fall from his face as he transitions instantly into medical mode.

“What’s wrong?” he says, his typical calm paramedic cadence edged with concern. Your lips twitch as you hear it, but you suppress the impulse, wanting to continue your game. “Sweetheart, is it your head? Do you feel dizzy? What does it feel like?”

“I think…” you pause dramatically, eyes darting to take in his reaction, “...you’ve taken my breath away.”

Eddie’s concern flattens as he stares at you, entirely unimpressed. You just beam, pleased with yourself, and in the light of your smile, the mask of disapproval cracks; the dimple emerges as he loses the battle with his own grin. With faint amusement and plenty of fondness, Eddie says, “You really are trouble, aren’t you?”

The giant screen blazes to life in front of you, casting Eddie’s wild curls in a faint glow. The planes of his face soften in the light as the film begins, but neither of you move to switch on the radio yet. You simply gaze at him for a moment— this heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing and a not-so-secret heart of gold. When your sentiment floods your eyes, you watch Eddie’s honey-brown melt in kind. You hum your agreement, leaning over the armrest, and when Eddie meets you halfway, you reward him with a tender kiss. “I really am,” you murmur against his lips, and they brush yours as he smiles.

“Well, Trouble, it’s a good thing I know CPR,” he murmurs. And as the Wednesday double-feature begins, the movie’s soundtrack becomes the delight of your giggles, the warmth of Eddie’s chuckles, and the sweet press of your lips meeting again and again.

ask💌 | kofi🌼 | masterlist🌱

#blueywrites #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic #newlipsmilestoneoflove

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sammy-is-not-smiley · 2 years

Text

Let It Hurt (Pt 2)

Steve Harrington x fem!reader (afab)

Summary: Steve has been your best friend for years despite his douchery in early high school. You would tell him anything... well, anything except for the fact that you've been feeling his physical pain since elementary school. The way he finds out is less than ideal. But he's been keeping secrets of his own...

Word Count: 5.2k (I went nuts lol)

Warnings/Tags: Soulmate au (kinda), language, no use of (y/n), depictions of severe pain, depictions of torture, injuries mentioned, crying, kind of a breakdown, angst, a period is mentioned so reader is afab, set in season 3, soulmates to lovers, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort (yes there's eventually comfort this time, I promise)

A/N: GOOD GOD Y'ALL I did not expect the last one to absolutely blow up. I've gained like an extra 100 followers from all this so thank you so much. I wouldn't have written something so loved if I hadn't gotten a request. If you have an idea you wanna entrust me to write, don't hesitate to jump in my asks! I love hearing from people. (p.s. angst is my favorite to write) Now here's your part 2!

Part 1: Right Here!

You awoke to echoes of screaming. You didn't want to open your eyes, the light in the room behind your eyelids was already making your head throb with a vengeance.

"Help!! Someone, help!" Robin's desperate voice rang out, the sound bouncing off the walls and judding into your skull. It was then you realized you were sat up, straps compressing your legs, arms, and chest. You were bound even more than before.

"Hey, would you stop yellin'?" You heard Steve's voice grumble behind you.

It took you a moment to register it was him, but when you did, a small light of hope lit up in your chest. You lifted your head up slightly, trying to take in a breath. The pain in your head stemmed down your neck now. In fact, it encapsulated your entire skull.

"Steve! Oh my god," Robin exclaimed, still a bit too loud for your taste.

"Steve?" You croaked out.

"Oh my god! Oh my god, you're both awake," She chuckled slightly, simply out of disbelief. "Both awake. Um, are- are you okay?"

You shook your head no as if she could see from where she sat behind you.

Steve took in a breath. "My ears are ringing, I can't really breathe, and my eye feels like it's about to pop out of my skull…"

"That checks out," You muttered, not intending for anyone to hear. Nobody seemed to.

"But you know, apart from that… I'm doing pretty good." He finished, his nose sounding stuffy. They really liked hitting his nose.

Robin let out a breath. "Alright, well, the good news is they're calling a doctor for you both."

There was a moment of silence before Steve registered her words. "Both?" You felt him turn slightly in your direction. "They hurt you?"

"No," You quickly replied.

"Wait, I thought-"

"Robin, shush," You snapped too loud, making your head throb again.

It was silent once more as Robin connected the dots. Steve didn't know, and you didn't want him to know. "Right, no, I meant… I meant just for you Steve."

"They didn't hurt me," You tried to reinforce. "Robin's just… tired."

"Oh." He uttered, clearly confused.

"Hey, guys," Robin changed the subject. "I have an idea. Steve, you see that table to your right?"

You felt Steve turn his head to your side.

"No, your other right."

"Oh," Steve looked the other way. Apparently the table was behind where you sat.

"You see those scissors?"

"Uh-huh."

"I think if we moved at the same time, we could move over there, I could maybe kick the table, and knock them into my lap."

You snorted, turning your head in her direction. "They left scissors in here with us?"

"What morons," Steve laughed. He was definitely letting on that he was doing better than he felt.

At the count of three, you all scooched in unison, Steve and Robin to their side, you backwards. Just as you finally were seeing some light at the end of the tunnel, only a mere few feet from the table, you all over shot your momentum. All together as a unit, the chairs slid out from under you and you all fell to the floor with a hefty clank of the chairs.

At first you groaned, but then a grin slowly spread across your face. "Shit," You giggled with no choice but to look up at the ceiling as you laid on your back. This was all insane. Absolutely insane.

Robin was obviously feeling the same as she began giggling as well. She shook under you, small squeaks bubbling from her.

"You- You guys okay?" Steve asked, clearly not gathering what could be so funny to you both.

"This is fucking ridiculous," You half suppressed a laugh.

You felt Robin nodding. "I can't believe I'm gonna die in a secret Russian base in a sailor costume." You could hear the smile on her face, jovial despite the situation. The comment only made you laugh harder.

Just as your giggles died down, the door burst open once again and men flooded the room. Your giddy moods were cut short, instantly replaced with terror. Over you now stood a man in uniform, obviously some sort of high ranking official, probably the man in charge. He towered over you, shaking his head and tutting.

"You wake up too, eh? Good," He smirked, looking over the predicament you three had gotten yourselves into. "Where did you think you were going?"

He gestured with his hand, motioning the men in the room to lift you all back upright in your chairs.

"P-please-" You nearly whimpered when sat back up, nothing on your mind but to simply beg. What for, you weren't sure yet, but you were scared and desperate.

"Let us try again," The man said, ignoring your plea. Slowly, he circled around you all, like a predator observing prey, before making it back around to Steve.

Your eyes followed the man as he brought his hand up and thumbed Steve's busted lip. Not only did it elicit a wince from Steve, but you as well.

Your stomach dropped as soon as it happened, making you quickly turn your head away from the man hoping he didn't notice. However, the tingling on your neck told you he had, and he was staring right at you.

"Don't touch him," You breathed. It came out a lot less menacing than you intended.

The man hummed, standing up straight again and murmured something in Russian to one of the men. You watched as the guard walked over to Steve, grabbing him by the hair and raising a fist.

"Wait, stop!" You jolted, fighting against your restraints.

Steve struggled as well, gritting his teeth. "No, no, no, no-"

"Shush!" The general yelled, driving a spike of pain into your skull. He leaned down in front of you, eyes squinted, analyzing you for a moment. Then a question. "Who do you work for?"

"Scoops Ahoy," You responded like it was obvious.

Without hesitation, the guard over Steve delivered a swift blow to the eye socket. You yelped in pain as Steve groaned, now being held up by his hair. You on the other hand were allowed to drop your head, once again tasked with withstanding the pain.

Your breath stuttered in your throat. "Please, s-stop, it… It hurts…"

The general tilted his head, then grasped your chin roughly, tilting your head up and tilting from side to side as he examined you. There were no notable injuries on your person. Other than squinting the same eye as Steve's bruised one, not a scratch was on you. You wanted to kick yourself when you realized he took notice of it, glancing between you and Steve.

His brow was together in thought as he once again gave a command you didn't understand.

Another punch to Steve's jaw made you flinch in the general's hand, pitifully letting out a sob.

Another command, another punch, right into Steve's aching ribs.

If not for the straps holding you upright, you would have once again doubled over. Instead you only moved slightly against the mans hand, your abdomen visibly tensing.

"Stop! Stop it, you bastards!" Robin screamed, however to no avail as she was promptly ignored.

The general let you go as you silently suffered again, standing upright and smiling down at you. "Very interesting…"

The men scattered around the room as soon as another command was uttered from the man's mouth. Hands surrounded you all as the men tugged and removed the straps holding you as a unit only to strap you down again, individually in each of your chairs this time. They pushed Robin into the corner of the room, then grabbed Steve and slid him in front of you to face you. Only then did you see the extent of his wounds. Dried blood smeared on his face from an obvious nose bleed, uniform stained red, his eye a deep shade of purple and nearly swollen shut. Anger bubbled over inside you at the sight, making you finally find your voice.

"Don't touch him, he's had enough!"

The general simply smiled at you as he pulled a red handkerchief from his pocket, then circled around behind you.

The last thing you saw was Steve, worry written all over his face. Then you were shrouded in darkness as the handkerchief was pulled over your eyes, secured at the back of your head.

"What are you doing?" Steve panted as he watched. "Don't you dare hurt her, I swear, if you do anything to her-"

"Oh, not to worry," The man behind you interrupted dismissively. You could hear his footsteps walking around you back to Steve. Your teeth began to chatter as your adrenaline was surely hitting its peak now.

What did they not want you to see?

"We will not hurt her. Only you will."

"What-"

"Just sit. Watch your friend carefully, hm?"

It was silent for a moment before there were footsteps again, then Steve burst to life. "What is that? Wait, no, stop, get that away- Agh!"

Pain instantly webbed over two of your fingers as if they were slowly being crushed by a tool. You fought your restraints and flexed the hand in question, small whimpers emitting from you helplessly.

The pain gradually got worse as Steve yelled and begged, as did you. Then it steadied to a single ongoing pain. "Stop-" A cry slipped from you.

"Where is the pain, little one?" The man called over to you.

You shook your head, mostly in confusion, but the man interpreted it as resistance.

The pain fluctuated, making you lurch. "Agh- Th-the hand! His fingers, the first two fingers," You sobbed in defeat. "Stop, stop, please stop, make it stop…"

The pain was relieved then, if only enough to assure you they weren't going to break Steve's fingers. The ache of a bruise would remain and you flexed your hand again as if it would help. You still let out a sigh of relief.

Light stung your eyes when the blindfold was pulled off, now soaked with tears. When your eyes adjusted, you looked up to meet the half swollen gaze of Steve. Realization, hurt, sympathy, horror, all of it was draped over his face like a thick veil as he stared back at you. You looked down and saw the red impressions on his fingers from whatever had been clamped down on them. Next to him stood a man in white, a metal tool held in his hand.

The general stood there, holding Steve's head up by the hair to watch you. The man's grin was borderline psychotic. "Congratulations, you were correct."

You closed your eyes and lowered your head, teeth still chattering. The jolly expression on the official's face told you he planned on using this new information completely against you. Especially the longer you overstayed your welcome.

The man in power looked over to the man in the white overcoat, the man you assumed was supposed to be the doctor Robin mentioned. Another command in Russian, and the doctor walked to the table behind you. You couldn't bring yourself to look up at anyone, especially Steve.

"Now, try telling the truth this time, yes?" The general asserted as he wandered his eyes over each one of you. They pulled Robin up next to you both again. "It will make your visit with Doctor Zharkov less painful."

◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

Your body swayed slightly before you let yourself lean back onto the side of the ambulance, watching the smoke rise. The mighty Starcourt was completely destroyed. Destroyed by a-… Well, you had yet to fully comprehend what it was and the events that had even transpired. All you were able to understand clearly was that you were alive, along with a couple adults, a group of middle schoolers, and your co-workers…. Could you technically call them co-workers now? Maybe just leaving it to friends was safer to say.

Your stomach was still a little queasy from whatever drug that doctor had injected you with, and your muscles ached from overexertion. Your eyes were so heavy they felt swollen, yet you knew if you laid down, sleep wouldn't come to you easily. Watching the last remaining flames and the smoke ahead of you was mesmerizing. Like you were sleeping with your eyes open.

The moment was broken as your face twitched a little in pain. Steve must have accidentally scratched his stitches again.

You hadn't looked at him since you all threw up in the bathrooms together. In fact, once you were sober, you had walked out claiming to need another drink of water from the fountain. After that, events happened so quickly you could hardly keep up. You were grateful at the time to have had something to distract you both with. Even now you were trying to distract yourself.

Bringing your hand up to your face you rubbed your forehead, a headache still refusing to leave you and Steve be. You'd come to accept that the pain probably wouldn't subside for a while.

Robin rounded the ambulance, wrapped in a security blanket. Her eyes were still red and it was clear she needed sleep as badly as you. Yet there you both were, still up and running.

"Hey… They look over you already?" Her voice was more gravely than usual, most likely from all the yelling she had done while you all were held hostage.

You nodded, still gazing at the wrecked mall. "Other than a couple bruises, I'm fine."

"Mm-hm," She hummed, clearly unconvinced.

"What?"

She rested her shoulder on the ambulance, leaning in closer. "Look… I don't fully understand a lot of what's happened, but I do think you need to talk to Steve. At least before we go home."

You sighed begrudgingly. You knew that was probably what you should do, yet all you wanted to do was hide from him. "What would I even say, Rob?" You mumbled.

She snorted then, causing you to look at her. "Dude, all you'd probably have to say to him is 'hi' before he'd do all the talking. He always has shit to talk about."

It was your turn to snort. "Yeah, sure…" You sniffled then, guilt blossoming in your chest. "It's… It's because of me they hurt him more…"

"Yeah… I-I mean no!" She caught herself, making you smile. "That all was just…. It was…. A lot. What was all that? With the Russians I mean, and the blindfold?"

By this point, and with everything you had gone through together, you thought Robin could handle what you've kept to yourself for so long. After all, your empathy with Steve was by far the tamest secret of the night.

You let your head rest back on the ambulance and closed your eyes. "I've been able to feel his pain ever since I was a kid," You let out in a breath.

When it was silent for longer than you liked, you looked to her worriedly. She was simply staring at you, looking as though she were thinking.

"You can feel his pain? Like, all of it?"

You nodded. "Physical, yeah."

It took her a moment more, hugging herself in the blanket as she thought. "That…. Makes sense actually." She snapped her fingers and pointed. "That's why they did that stuff, they tested you!"

You nodded, a shadow of gloom over your brow.

"And that's…. Why you passed out. Because he passed out."

Another nod.

"And he doesn't know, does he?"

You couldn't help but give a grin then, not one of joy, but more out of nihilism. "Of course not."

"And why, exactly?"

"I don't know, I just…. Got into the habit of keeping it from him. I think in general I was just scared. Scared I would scare him away or make life harder somehow." You hugged yourself, finding it hard to look at even Robin now. "I couldn't lose him… or bear him not believing me."

Robin began giggling, catching you off guard.

"What?"

She shook her head, dragging a hand down her tired face in exasperation. "I seriously doubt he would do any of that, especially after tonight. Also, you weren't in the bathroom when he talked about you."

"Talked about me?"

"Mm-hm," She nodded. "You're not the only one keeping secrets."

Your eyes widened and you pushed yourself off the ambulance. "The hell does that mean?"

"Nope, no more," She put her hands up defensively, "I wash my hands of this, I'm not enabling you any further."

"Oh, come on, Rob-"

"No! The only way you'll get more is if you talk to him yourself," She smirked. "Or do I have to actually drag you over there?" Her thumb thrown over her shoulder, she pointed to Steve in the neighboring ambulance, speaking with the paramedic. For the first time you looked past her to gaze at Steve, his shoulders sagged as he had an arm wrapped around his abdomen. You could feel the bruised ribs he was cradling.

You looked back at Robin, giving her a small pout. She returned it, although much more sarcastically. Simultaneously, you both broke out in smiles and giggles.

"You're a dick," You said, shaking your head.

"Only when you guys are idiots."

You rolled your eyes, turning to glance at Steve again. This time you caught him already looking at you, swollen eye and all. He raised his hand ever so slightly to offer a tiny wave, as if he were scared he would drive you away again.

You gave a tiny wave back.

"Fine," You muttered, walking past Robin and making your way over to him, eyes trained in the ground.

From this angle, the police car lights flickered blue and red over Steve's face, almost hiding the fact he was covered in purple bruises. Slowly you slipped next to him, sitting on the bumper between the open doors. Loose gravel crunched under your feet on the asphalt.

"Hi…"

"Hey…"

A shiver ran up your spine, but you weren't sure if it was from the breeze or your nerves.

"So, uh, Robin said I should talk to you."

He nodded, a single strand of grimy hair bouncing to his forehead. "Yeah, she told me to talk to you too."

You blew a puff of air out of your nose in a laugh. "Was that when you wouldn't stop talking about me in the bathrooms?"

Steve let out a laugh then, scratching the back of his head. "She told you what I said, huh?"

"Nah. Only that you said stuff. She left me on a cliffhanger just to get me to come over and talk to you," You dryly chuckled.

"Hm," He replied, "So you were kind of ignoring me after we got out."

You grimaced, looking down at your beat up shoes. "Yeah… Look, I'm sorry, I really didn't wan-"

"Why didn't you tell me?" He interjected, turning to look right at you.

"... Tell you...?"

He scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. "That you can feel this," He lifted his arm and pinched it.

Your hand balled into a fist at the pain and you looked away. Why were you still so scared? Why did you still feel so shameful about all of this?

"You figured that out, huh?"

Steve shifted himself closer, close enough now that your shoulders were touching. "I'm not upset, okay? I just…" He sighed. "It's all so crazy. How long have you been able to feel it— When I hurt?"

You chuckled lightly. "A while. Since like elementary school."

"Shit," His hand reached out and grasped yours. "Look, if I had known, I would've-"

"I know-"

"No, you don't," He turned himself to you, bare knee bumping yours. "You really don't know. You don't know how much I would have done differently. How much more I would've cared, how I would have treated you better, how I would have… How I would have stood up to my dad somehow…" He paused, then cleared his throat. "I wouldn't have thrown myself into fights as much if I knew you were out there feeling everything, thinking you couldn't say a thing about it. If I had known, I would've realized you understood me more than literally anyone I've ever met."

You could feel your nose begin to tingle, a clear warning of tears threatening to bubble up. You pursed your lips, not trusting yourself to reply.

Steve scooched even closer, his knee now pulled up and resting behind your back, his other on the ground. He smelled of sweat, smoke, and blood, yet somehow a small wisp of his cologne still lingered. It all mixed together into a scent that would only ever remind you of this night.

His warm hand left yours to delicately glide up your opposing cheek. You sniffed as he pulled your face to turn and look at him.

"If you had told me, I would have told you that I've felt things too."

Your brow softened when your eyes went round, your heart sinking to your stomach. "Things?"

His face went downcast for a moment, as if in some sort of regret. "Remember when you dislocated your wrist in 3rd grade? And I went and got help?"

You nodded. You remembered the teacher had come to help you after Steve ran off, but then he didn't come back. The next time you saw him wasn't until school the next day. You had been upset that he hadn't come back with the teacher to help or even come over to your house to see if you were okay after school. He had apologized when you went off on him, but that was all. As kids, it was easy to just forgive and move on. Play the next game of tag.

"You were pissed at me… I ran and hid from you because I felt it too." He scratched his chin, looking off at the demolished mall. "That was the first time. It freaked me the hell out. I felt when it happened, and I felt when they popped it back in a few hours later at the hospital. I could tell when you bumped it wrong or strained it. I could feel it all." He looked you dead in the eyes then. "And everything after that."

You shook your head, your brow laden with confusion as you put your hand over his on your face. "You never said anything either…"

He smiled softly and shrugged. "I didn't think you had to know. To be honest, I thought it was all just some weird hallucination or something."

Your expression shifted into one of disapproval.

"Oh don't you even," His smile grew at you, "You're just as guilty for not telling me."

"Yeah, I…. I know… I'm sorry," You muttered, the wounds scattered over his face taunting you again. While only a few hits had been delivered upon the discovery that Russian general had made about you, all of the injuries hurt the same. Both physically and otherwise. "I guess we all have our secrets."

Steve moved his other hand to cradle your face fully, his face moving closer to nearly rest his forehead on yours. While smiling only a second before, his eyes were now filled with something more serious. Something you had never seen directed at you before. It made your attention on him freeze and heat rise to the back of your neck.

"Well, while we're confessing secrets… Can I let one more slip?"

You couldn't tear your eyes away from his, which you quickly noticed kept darting down to your lips. Was he really doing this?

"You… have another?" You squeaked, voice barely audible.

He nodded. "If you'll let me show you?"

You dumbly nodded back, your mouth slightly agape and eyes as round as a couple of full moons.

He leaned in, finally resting his forehead onto yours, one of his hands sliding down to the nape of your neck. When your noses bumped he turned his head slightly, fitting your faces together like a puzzle. His breath brushed over your lips, puzzle pieces almost completely flush.

A jolt went through you like electricity by a single thought. "Wait-" You pushed him back slightly at the chest.

His eyes shot open, gazing at you in anticipation.

You didn't continue, only stared at him a moment, trying to get a handle on the speeding thoughts swirling your mind. Your pause was just long enough to watch sorrow cover his features.

"I read it wrong, didn't I?" The hand on your neck slid down to your shoulder in dismay, the weight of it heavy.

"No… No! God no, I just…. There's…." You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to think. "You don't… Have to do that… if you dont really want to."

He tilted his head. "Who says I don't want to?"

You shook your head, biting your lip nervously. "You don't have to be close and sweet like that just because you feel bad for me." The tingling returned, tears now visibly welling.

Steve leaned back further, far enough to be able to start analyzing you. His eyes darted around, trying to pick apart what you had just said. "Because I feel ba-?… You think I want this just to make it up to you somehow?" He challenged, his thumb stroking your cheek in an attempt to possibly keep you calm.

Alas, a tear still escaped and dripped down your face. "Yeah you don't have to get with me like that just because you feel bad for a few fights, okay? I'm not upset that you-"

"That's not why," He deadpanned.

"Huh?"

"That's not why I want to kiss you."

The tears froze, as did the internalized denial of the situation at the utterance of those words.

I want to kiss you.

"I mean, it's part of it," He admitted, "The whole pain thing I mean. But I don't want this because I pity you or anything or because I feel bad for getting beat up. I mean sure, I never want you to feel that again, but… You have to know those aren't the only reasons, right?"

All you could do was stare back down at your lap, fighting the additional tears threatening to spill and flood the whole parking lot.

"Shit, you really don't…" He muttered, letting the hand on your cheek slide upwards into the roots of your hair. "You're so much more than just that empathy to me. Really, you are, you hear me?"

You sniffled, once again squeezing your eyes shut causing a round of tears to fall down at rapid fire. Steve caught all of them with a gentle brush.

"Seriously, you're one of the funniest people I've ever met. You have the prettiest eyelashes, the most adorable laugh, and you're hell of a lot smarter than I am," He lightly joked, reaching down to grab your hand once more. "You've helped me be better, forgave me when I didn't deserve it, and let me rant to you about whatever shit would piss me off. And you care so much about Henderson and his nerd friends. My life would be so sucky without you... even if I do have to feel your god awful period cramps." He snickered. "I want you in it more for as long as possible. I want you closer."

Despite the joke, your body shuddered in a frame wracking sob. The emotions were now pouring out from you in violent waves. The tears weren't just from Steve, it was buildup from the whole damned night. A dam of hurt, fear, sorrow, anxiety, disappointment, horror, regret, sadness, and pain had been building up over the course of hours and hours. Suddenly, this was the pressure that made everything come flooding out… and you couldn't stop it.

"Oh, babe," Steve cooed, his soft hand hooking your neck and pulling your face into his chest. The pet name sparked something inside you, but it was quickly engulfed by the absolute tornado of intensity ripping you apart from the inside.

Steve couldn't feel your emotions, true, but he could feel how hard you bit your lip trying to stifle any noise that tried to escape. He could feel your body shudder in his clutch. He could feel the wet tears you rubbed into his shirt. And he could feel his heart breaking, not because he was hurt by you— hurt that you thought he would do such a thing to you out of guilt. No, it was because you had genuinely thought he couldn't love you like that. He could see the denial in your face, the false belief you must have come to adopt over time.

Steve waited patiently for you to calm, rubbing your back and resting his cheek on the top of your head. Your lungs began aching with each breath, your throat was going dry and burning. Eventually your choppy inhales slowed and your whimpers began to cease. Deep breaths became easier to take in and the blur in your vision cleared. When you came back to the moment at hand, you realized you had brought your legs up off the ground and to your chest, leaning against the warm body beside you. In a ball, Steve had wrapped around you like a shell, rocking you ever so slightly.

Your body shook again, this time in a small laugh. "I should be the one comforting you, you know. You're the one with broken ribs and stitches in your face."

You felt him chuckle against you, the sound rumbling your ear against his chest. He smiled, relieved to hear you joke around again. Tilting his head, he looked down at you trying to see your eyes. They were finally open again.

When you caught his gaze, you stared back up at him in attention, eyes red and nose runny. While you were sure you looked like hell, all he could see was the damp sheen of tears and sweat highlighting his favorite parts of your face.

"Can I please kiss you now?"

You let out a breath as you sat up, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "I'm all gross, though."

He grabbed the back of your neck again and gently yanked your face to his. "Shut up and just let me kiss it better."

You rolled your eyes. "You're such a dork-"

His lips greeted yours, warm and soothing, the obvious pain of his busted lip cast aside just to feel each other's being. Your chest exploded once again with overwhelming feeling, but this time it was manageable. It was more than manageable, in fact, it was welcome. It was no longer a spark sucked into a gloomy tornado, but a ray of light, casting a sensation of healing rays from your chest outwards. Both of your movements melded together like clay, as did your breaths, creating a back and forth that you had been longing for. It was as if you were charging each other with hope after a night full of negatives and hopelessness. It was like being at home again after being gone for so long.

He was the first to pull away, his hands holding your head with a slight tremble in them. It made your heart swell. He was just as worked up as you.

"Ouch." He said under his breath.

A woozy smile burst over your face, rays of light reaching the surface. You brought your hand up to lightly brush your thumb over his bottom lip. "I think this should heal more before we try that again."

He shook his head, eyes drooped with lovesick admiration. "Let it hurt," He mumbled before leaning in once more, pressing his mouth to yours.

You accepted it with a grateful hum.

A/N: Thanks again for reading! Seriously loved the new people flowing into this blog and the comments you all leave. It means a lot. My confidence is boosted <3 Requests are open!

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shhh-secret-time · 9 months

Note

HIII could you do Kyle x reader where it's a soulmate au?? plsss and thank uuu

Anon you were so patient with me! Thank you! And thank you for requesting my favorite boy! I'm so down bad for the sweet red head.

Warning: Strong Language, Tooth-Rotting Fluff

Pairings: Kyle x GN!Reader

'Oh my god! I'm going to fucking kill him.'

The tips of your fingers traced the golden ink like sentence on your palm, watching as the cursive font danced across your skin. It happened every morning at eight on the dot, a new sentence would sketch itself into your skin. When it first happened, you thought maybe someone drew on you when you weren't paying attention, especially since the next day the words changed. But the font was beautiful and shimmered in the light, what pen could do something like that?

Later as the years went by you learned that apparently you had a soulmate, and these were their thoughts. Whoever they were scared you sometimes with the things they thought about, usually very violent thoughts. It made you wonder what type of person they were. I mean you were sure they wouldn't act on it; you've thought tons of things but that didn't mean you were a bad person. It almost made you wonder what your soulmate thought of your inner voice.

South Park was a small town, not many people chose to actually live in a town that was riddled with a backwater run down mentality. It was famous for all the wrong reasons, but that meant everyone kind of knew each other, or at the very least of each other. The kids you went to elementary with followed you to middle and you followed them to high school. Now here you were in community college sitting in the library with the few people you could call friends.

Bebe Steven's was the first person to call you a friend, so her friends became yours, adopting you into their little group. A close-knit group of people who cared about you, what more could you ask for?

"I can't do it anymore Wendy, please!" Speaking of the blonde, the poor girl was slumped over the table with her cheek pressed into the math textbook. Her bottom lip was poking out and if you didn't know her so well you would swear those crocodile tears were real.

"Bebe you barley passed the last test, and that's because you were copying off of Nicole!" Wendy sighed as she gave into the pitiful whine of her friend, reaching over to pat the top of her curls.

"I knoooow but can't we just have a little break? Pleaaaase! I need to spill some tea!" Bebe sprung up and you knew what was coming. Bebe had a secret weapon, the most powerful puppy eyes in South Park. Before Wendy could avert her eyes, she delivered the killing blow. "Please Wendy? Just ten minutes~ it's super hooooot tea~."

You smiled softly at the both of them, shooting Wendy a look of pity as you watched in real time her lose the internal battle. Wendy's shoulders slumped forward, and she finally smiled.

"Fine...ten minutes and then we're going back to work."

"Yes!" Bebe cheered as she threw her arms around Wendy, pulling her into a tight hug. "SO, guess who found their soulmate!"

You tensed up at the subject maybe without even realizing it, you pulled your sleeve over your palm and held it up to your mouth. You had a horrible habit of chewing on your bottom lip to keep yourself from protesting the conversation.

"Who?"

"Mercedes!"

"Like...waitress Mercedes?"

"Yeaaah! Ugh she's so lucky! I wanna find mine already! At least you're in the same boat I am." Pulling herself from Wendy, Bebe turned to look at you with a smile.

"Y... yeah. Wait Wendy is too, isn't she?" You muttered past your sleeve.

"No! Wendy already knows hers! She's just not doing anything about it!" Bebe sneered and crossed her arms under her chest, her lips pursed into a pout.

"But...why?"

"I just want to focus on me right now. School is important and I don't know, I've got time." Wendy replied with a shrug of her shoulders.

You stared at her in awe, there were times when you couldn't help but admire her. Wendy seemed like she had it all figured out, like she knew what she wanted from life and wasn't afraid to grab ahold of it.

Maybe you should take a page from her book, start doing things for you. The fear of your soulmate being some terrifying violent person shouldn't stop you from at least trying to find them.

It was as if the conversation was breathing life back into Bebe, she perked up and grinned at you. But when your eyes met hers all you could see was the mischief in them, if you didn't know better you'd swear it was excitement.

"Apparently the closer you get to your soulmate the words on your palm with change! You'll be able to tell what they're thinking in real time! Haaaave yours changed yet?" Bebe sung out, her hands reaching across the table to gentle take yours.

She flipped your hand over, so your palms were facing up, her beautiful done red nails seemed to contrast yours. She traced them across the font on your palm with a hum. "Or are you like Wendy and you're waiting? You've gotta know right?"

"N...no I don't. I've been-", you stopped and bit your bottom lip again, "... kind of afraid to find out who it is."

"What? Why?" Bebe took your hand and gave it a squeeze like she was trying to reassure you to keep going.

That's when you pulled your sleeve up the whole way so she could see the rest of the sentence. Their eyes widened and silence fell over the three of you. You kept your eyes on your lap as you let them read it so you missed Wendy's little head tilt. The words ringing in her ears like she could hear it. No, it couldn't be...could it?

"Well, they're just thoughts, right? It's not like whoever it is will actually do it! Come on hun you can't let that stop you! Just, like, pay extra close to your palm today! There might be something sweet on there if they're nearby!"

You furrowed your brows at that if they were nearby? Maybe it was a little harder to tell when everyone in the school wore gloves because of how cold it was, you included. After a few moments of debating between everything you nodded at her and decided you'd keep your gloves off today. With that Wendy's phone chimed letting your little group know that your ten minutes were up, and it was time to get back to studying, but now you were out of it. You couldn't focus on learning anything else but your palm, watching the font like if you blinked you'd miss it.

But nothing changed, the threat on your palm stayed for the rest of the study session. With a sigh you packed your things and got ready to leave the library, the girls hugging you tightly as they went their own way. Leaving into the halls of the school, passing past other students whose voices seemed to fade into the background. But despite your attempts to smother everyone else out, no one could really tune out South Park's famous boys. Stan and Kyle were standing by their lockers talking and for once it was Stan that seemed to be getting under Kyle's skin.

"Dude, this is the fourth time you've blown me off! Come on, we made these plans last week!"

"I know man, but the band needs me! We've got a gig coming up and we have to get more practice in! I'm sorry Kyle, I'll make it up to you!" Stan shot him an apologetic look.

Kyle sighed and simply rolled his eyes, "Sure dude, one of these days I'm going to cash in all of the times you said you'll make it up to me."

Stan let out a laugh and wrapped his arm around the taller man's neck bringing him down to his level. You smiled at the both of them, you didn't know Stan very well, but Kyle was always nice to you. You admired the fact that he always spoke his mind, whoever his soulmate was had to be the luckiest person on earth. Not only because of how sweet he was, but again he always spoke his mind, there was no guessing at what he was thinking. You peered down at your palm again and blinked in surprise, it had changed.

'He's lucky he's my best friend.'

Oh. Oh.

'Are they looking at me? Do I have something on my face?'

You could feel your heart rate pick up, eyes bouncing between your palm and Kyle. Your head was now on a swivel looking around as if the answers would emerge out of the many groups walking around. When Stan broke away from Kyle with his guitar on his back, the red head began putting his books away. There you stood, glued to this spot watching him with intense eyes. So, when he turned and saw your passionate gaze he couldn't help but flinch on the spot, but he couldn't tear his eyes from you.

Your palm changed again. You couldn't believe it. Just a minute ago you were telling your two best friends about how you were afraid to meet your soulmate and now here he was. This felt almost too cliche, like the universe was tired of you trying to run from it. And now here you were standing in the hall, a few steps away from someone who was supposed to be yours. Did he know? Probably not from how quiet you were and how you liked to keep to yourself. So now here you were with all that knowledge and nowhere to run.

'Their eyes are so pretty; I don't know why I've never noticed before.'

Was he trying to kill you? You felt the compliment go straight to your heart, making it speed up. Your face was turning red at his words, even if he didn't say them, you could almost hear them. You felt something in your chest tug you towards him, like your heart was leaping in his direction and demanding that you listen to it. Kyle watched as you made your way to where he was standing, moving through the halls like nothing else matters.

"Um...hey, is everything okay?" Kyle nervously looked down at you, he couldn't help wondering why his heart was racing so hard.

Sure, you were attractive, but that wasn't all you were. Sure, he really liked your laugh when he heard you talking with Bebe and Wendy, and he secretly wished he made you laugh like that. Sure, you had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, but he would never tell you that. How could he? What if you thought he was a freak and oh my god you're saying something and he's not paying attention.

"- so yeah, can you take your gloves off for me?"

"H-huh my gloves? Uh sure." Kyle shook himself out of his trance, he didn't know why you needed his gloves off but that was his fault for not paying attention.

As he removed his gloves you got a glance at his palm looking for any signs of words on his palm.

'I never realized how tall he is.' Those were your thoughts. Your thoughts were on his palm, and he doesn't even realize it yet.

"Did you need to borrow them? Are you cold?" He's asking you with such a soft voice, care laced in his tone.

"No no I just um okay this is going to sound really strange... b-but can you think of an animal for me?"

"An... animal? Like my favorite animal?"

"Sure. That works." You chuckled at the confusion on his face, brows furrowed together in deep thought which was exactly what you wanted.

'Fox.' That's cute.

"Your favorite animal is a fox?" You asked looking up from your palm with a smile.

"Huh but I... how did-" He stopped. The whole situation came crashing down onto him, his mouth opened to say something, but nothing would come out. So now he just looked like a fish gasping for air.

"Yeah I- wow this is it. I think you're my soul-mate Kyle." As you showed him your palm you almost had to laugh about how many times you've flashed it at people today.

Those deep forest green eyes of his watched the golden light on your palm swirl and change as his thoughts did. The tips of his ears turn red as he desperately tries to keep his thoughts under control, soulmate or not he didn't want to scare you off with stupid shit his brain comes up with.

"Is um...is your favorite animal on my palm too?" No. It wasn't.

'His eyes are like emeralds.'

"You think my eyes are like emeralds?"

"You think my smile is cute?" You shot back with a small smirk making him look away, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

Kyle and you stood in silence for a few moments, hearts racing and nervous shifting from foot to foot. "So, um...my weekend is free do you wanna grab a coffee?"

"I'd love to get coffee with you Kyle~" You let out a laugh, your hand coming up to cover your smile, but it was stopped by his.

The warmth of his hand beating back the chill of yours, they were softer than you thought they'd be. His thumb nervously rubs against your knuckles enjoying the way your hand felt in his, so much smaller but it fit so perfectly. Kyle smiled brightly at your response, a wave of relief washing over him and a breath he didn't know he was holding. He took the first step towards the door with you in tow, a soft glow between the both of you. Something deep inside of you felt complete, like pieces of a puzzle or links of a chain.

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papiliotao · 2 years

Text

MOVIE NIGHT

♡ — Reader: GN

♡ — Characters: Heizou, Kazuha, Scaramouche, Xiao, Venti

♡ — Synopsis: immersing yourselves in the wonderful world of films.

♡ — Content: modern!au, fluff, crack, established relationship in Venti’s, mutual pining in Kazuha’s, friends to lovers in Kazuha's and Heizou’s, Scara being a little mean and grumpy, reader is roommates with Scaramouche, Xiao is oblivious, but he's got the spirit

♡ — A/N: welcome to another episode of Rei can’t write the same amount for each character. No, I’m definitely not biased lmao I’m so sorry, Venti enjoyers </3 I hope you enjoy the fic though! Likes and reblogs are appreciated 💕

Heizou

Shikanoin Heizou is a splendid friend, but he’s also the last person anyone wants to watch movies with. For one, he always chooses films of the same genre: mystery, and in addition to this, he’s too smart for his own good. You’re certain your friend must possess some sort of sixth sense because he never fails to predict the most ludicrous of twists. On one hand, you’re impressed by his superhuman abilities, but on the other hand, you can’t get through a single film without Heizou spoiling the ending for you.

This leads to you making a bet with Heizou. If he can watch one movie with you without giving away anything about the critical plot points, you will do one favour for him — anything he wants (within reason, of course). When you propose the idea, you’re surprised by how quickly Heizou agrees. It seems that he’s confident in his ability to keep his mouth shut.

The two of you choose to watch a detective movie. For the first half of the film, he’s able to hold himself together impressively well. He simply sits still and stares at the screen with interest lacing his gaze. Heizou doesn’t speak, doesn’t express surprise or grief when the first victim of the fictional murderer is found dead, and doesn’t chime in when the detective is investigating leads. However, one particular scene shatters his resolve.

The detective has caught the killer in the act, but their figure is hidden beneath a thick cloak. Their identity is obscured, and they do not speak a word. As the detective starts ranting about how they have connected the dots and figured out the identity of the murderer, Heizou starts shifting uncomfortably next to you. You look over to him and see that he is struggling to stay quiet. Finally, he gives in to temptation.

"What kind of detective are you? That’s — " before Heizou can speak another word, the figure pulls down their hood to reveal that the detective's conclusions are completely off the mark. Your jaw drops. Heizou regains his composure and breathes out a sigh of relief. Thanks to the film’s impeccable timing, he hasn’t lost yet. He manages to make it through the rest of the runtime without spoiling anything — not that there’s much left to spoil. Once the credits roll, Heizou brings up the favour you promised him.

"What do you want?" you ask, breathing out a sigh of defeat.

"A kiss," your mischievous friend smirks at you. His eyes glitter as he speaks. You stare at him, absolutely flabbergasted.

"Where is this coming from?" you inquire, narrowing your eyes at Heizou.

"For someone who’s been forced to watch so many detective movies, you sure are bad at deciphering clues. I love you — as more than a friend. I thought I was making it fairly obvious, but it seems you’re just as clueless as the characters that were onscreen mere minutes ago."

Kazuha

As your childhood friend, Kazuha has spent countless nights sleeping over at your house and watching cheesy films with you — emphasis on cheesy. Even though the two of you are now in college, your tradition of having movie nights every week has never ceased. However, your feelings toward the boy have changed dramatically.

There was a time back when you were in elementary school where Kazuha was nothing more than your best friend. The two of you would cuddle on his couch while viewing Disney movies. At the time, you thought nothing of the close proximity, too focused on the film to read too much into Kazuha’s actions. You didn’t notice the way he would stare at you instead of the screen. You didn’t notice the way he would gently pull you closer whenever you seemed scared. And you didn’t notice the way he would sigh wistfully whenever you watched romance movies that you found abhorrently cringey.

However, now that you’re an adult, you are able to catch on to Kazuha’s subtle affections, prompting you to consider the prospect of the boy having a crush on you. Your theory causes you to come to the startling conclusion that you reciprocate his sentiments. In an official capacity, you’re still best friends, but deep down, you know that there’s more to it. He likes you, but you’re too scared to confront him about his feelings, too afraid of taking one wrong step and decimating your precious friendship.

It doesn't help that Kazuha is only becoming more and more bold with his advances. Case in point: today’s weekly film viewing. As always, Kazuha has his arm wrapped around you, cuddling with you for comfort. He’s so close that you can feel his breath tickling the side of your face, so you try your best to direct all your attention toward the movie to prevent your visage from turning a vibrant cherry red.

Kazuha has chosen to watch something romantic this week. In hindsight, letting him pick the film was a mistake. As a result of your poor decisions, you are now seated on a couch in a television-lit room beside your best friend-turned-crush. Sappy dialogue plays in the background as Kazuha gently plays with your hair. You risk a glance at the boy, and you are rendered breathless.

His white hair catches the weak light of the screen in a way that makes it seem as though it is made from strands of moonlight. The gentle smile on his face makes your heart flutter. Most beautiful of all, however, are his vibrant red eyes. Piercing crimson meets your gaze as Kazuha notices you staring at him.

"The pickup lines in this movie are a little generic, don’t you think?" Kazuha asks you. You breathe out a sigh of relief when he doesn’t bring up the fact that you were very obviously admiring his appearance just a few seconds ago.

"I guess you’re right," you reply. "Does my favourite poetry nerd think he can do better?" you tease your friend.

Kazuha seems lost in thought for a second before responding. "I like to think that I would be more genuine with the one I love. Instead of repeating the words of lovers before me, I would like to offer the person dearest to my heart words of affirmations specific to them." His answer makes you melt on the spot. Kazuha is such a sweet and thoughtful person.

"Is there anyone you’re thinking about in particular?" you innocently inquire.

Kazuha chuckles lightly. The sound of his laughter is swoon-worthy. "There is. I could write pages upon pages of poetry about them — in fact, I already have. Perhaps we’ll be able to read them together someday."

"And who is the lucky person you’re crushing on?" you ask Kazuha. You try to make your tone light so that your question don’t make him feel as though you’re interrogating him. However, you’re almost certain that desperation oozes from the subtle cracks in your soft voice. An awkward silence hangs in the stagnant air.

"It’s you," Kazuha whispers. "It’s always been you." You feel your heart soaring out of your chest. Despite the fact that you have been somewhat aware of Kazuha’s affections for an eternity, hearing him confess his feelings still causes the blood to rush to your face. Your lips can’t help but curve into a tender smile.

Kazuha makes eye contact with you, desperately searching your gaze for any semblance of reciprocation. He seems to find what he’s looking for because a split second later, the boy relaxes completely.

As the film in the background ends, you and Kazuha come to a mutual understanding. His heart belongs to you and yours to him. The first act of your love story with Kazuha has concluded, but you are sure there is still much more to come.

Scaramouche

Scaramouche is nothing short of an interesting roommate. You’re not quite sure why, but he often goes out of his way to avoid you. To your dismay, it almost feels as though you are living alone. You’ve always wanted to get closer to the boy, but he refuses to speak to you unless necessary, and he hardly ever leaves his room. When he does decide to talk to you, his responses are either blunt or straight up snarky. He pokes fun at you in attempts to provoke you. Although you find his attitude infuriating, you also long to understand him. Scaramouche has piqued your curiosity in every way possible.

It just so happens that you find the perfect opportunity to spend time with him on a rainy summer day. Initially, you are intent on heading to the local park to meet your friend for a picnic dinner. However, after taking only a few steps outside your apartment complex, a few light drops of rain hit your head. Despite this, you continue forward, hoping that Mother Nature will take pity on you and calm the cries of the storms at hand. Your wishes are not fulfilled, as after only a few minutes, you are forced to head back as gentle rain becomes a raging thunderstorm.

When you re-enter your apartment, you notice that the place is almost completely dark. The only light inside the small space is a faint glow being emitted from the living room. Cautiously, you walk into the room. As you approach, you notice the faint sound of people conversing coming from the room. Strange. Does Scaramouche have guests over?

Your questions are answered when you step into the living room. Hushed whispers ring out over menacing music, evoking an ominous feeling within the depths of your soul. However, as you look over at the couch, you feel all the tension in your body dissipate into nothingness. Scaramouche is sitting down on the black cushions, remote in hand, and he appears to be watching something on the TV.

As you make your way toward your roommate, the floorboards creak and groan, causing him to whip his head around. His eyes widen as they land on you.

"What are you doing here?" Scaramouche asks you, furrowing his brows as he speaks. He regards you with an unreadable expression.

"I live here," you tell him. You know that he didn’t mean the question in that way, but you want to get a reaction out of him.

Scaramouche heaves out a heavy sigh. "Whatever," he mutters dismissively. He turns back to the screen.

"What are you doing?" you question Scaramouche, slowly walking over to the couch. You stand beside the piece of furniture, hesitant to sit down. Scaramouche doesn’t respond for a while. Perhaps he is hoping for you to leave. However, you continue to stay by his side, so he finally gives in and speaks.

"I’m watching a horror movie," he informs you in a dry tone. "Why? Do you want to watch with me? Somehow I doubt you would be able to handle it." Even in the dimly-lit room, you can see the wide cheshire-esque smirk spreading across Scaramouche’s face.

You roll your eyes. "I’ll be fine!" you insist, sinking down into the couch. The cautious thoughts that had been plaguing your mind just moments prior have now vanished. All that remains is a burning desire to prove Scaramouche wrong.

Despite your determination, you have to admit that your roommate is right. The film is frightening. However, as you look over at Scaramouche, you notice that he appears rather indifferent. It seems that he really isn’t scared. On the other hand, you feel yourself getting somewhat jumpy. The movie keeps catching you off-guard.

Chills run down your spine as ghosts emerge to confront the protagonist at every twist and turn they take. The backstories, motifs, and physical appearances of the entities cause you to shiver, and the gruesome nature of the characters’ demises has you shaking.

Subconsciously, you edge closer and closer to Scaramouche throughout the runtime of the movie. Around three fourths of the way through, you’re shoulder-to-shoulder. You don’t notice anything, but Scaramouche does. He doesn’t comment on it.

"How are you feeling?" Scaramouche suddenly asks out of nowhere, causing you to jump. He hits the pause button on the remote he’s clutching and waits to hear your response. The room is now completely silent. Scaramouche’s gentle breathing is audible in the stillness, and a sense of calm washes over you as you listen. You gradually regain your composure.

"I’m fine," you say. Although you try to make your voice seem confident, it comes out shaky. By the light of the television screen, you can see Scaramouche’s brows raise in a skeptical manner, and he turns off the TV.

"I don’t believe you." Scaramouche declares, his voice steady in stark contrast to yours. You pout, but you don’t try to argue with him. He’s right. The film has scared the wits out of you. "Listen, it’s obvious that you don’t want to watch more. Why don’t you just go to sleep or something?" he waves his hand dismissively.

You yawn upon hearing his words. Although it is still early, something about freaking out over a movie for a solid hour is immensely tiring. Perhaps sleeping is a good idea, but you are also afraid that the images of the ghastly figures within the film will follow you and materialize within the realm of nightmares. The mere thought makes you tremble. Gathering up all your courage, you ask Scaramouche a nearly outlandish question.

"Stay with me?" you stutter, shyly looking into his eyes. In a normal instance, you would not even consider requesting such a thing, but desperation often drives people to do crazy things.

Initially, the only response to your plea is an empty silence. You look down, wishing you could take back your words. If Scaramouche rejects you now, you will never be able to look him in the eyes again, but to your surprise, your roommate sighs and nods his head when you finally find the strength to meet his gaze.

Instead of leading Scaramouche to your room, you simply adjust your position on the couch and lay your head down on his lap. Your roommate opens his mouth to protest, but he sees the relaxed expression on your face and relents. Finally content knowing that you’re with someone who will protect you, you close your eyes and drift off into a peaceful slumber. Instead of nightmares, your dreams are filled with sweet cotton candy skies, shimmering beaches of bejeweled sands, and oceans of the deepest azure.

As you are sleeping, half-coherent thoughts form in your unconscious mind. You begin to realize that perhaps Scaramouche isn’t as bad as he appears on the outside. With him, you feel a sense of serenity like no other, despite the fact that you are not all that familiar with each other. For now, you are content with the fact that you and your roommate have taken the first step in a long process of opening up to each other.

Xiao

Xiao doesn’t watch movies often. He doesn’t have a preferred genre, doesn’t have a favourite actor, and hasn’t watched more than five classics. In other words, the man lives under a rock.

When you learn of this, you immediately take it upon yourself to introduce Xiao to a wide array of cinematic masterpieces — and some laughably terrible movies just for the fun of it. Even though the two of you only know each other through mutual friends, you feel too much pity for Xiao to not help him explore the world of films. He's been missing out on absolute gems for years.

Besides, Xiao's reactions are always priceless — his reactions and, well, his lack of reactions. As an example, whenever the two of you watch horror movies together, Xiao stares at the screen with a straight face. He even goes so far as to criticize the logic of certain scenes.

"This doesn't make any sense. How did the protagonist trip over nothing?"

The absurdity of cinema logic never fails to puzzle Xiao. His comments, although slightly too serious at times, are always amusing, and they never fail to elicit a light chuckle from you. Unbeknownst to you, Xiao’s heart feels as though it’s about to leap out of his chest whenever he hears your laughter. He doesn’t quite know when or how his feelings toward you began to fester like a storm within his feeble heart.

In any case, Xiao is undeniably starting to fall in love with you, but he never says anything because he fears rejection. His crush on you is why he never says no to your invitations to enjoy films together. Over time, your monthly movie nights turn into weekly hangouts — rather uncharacteristic for the typically anti-social Xiao, leaving you wondering why he treats you differently.

This leads into your current situation. The two of you are sitting down in your living room, watching a teen romance movie. Subtle uncertainty lingers within the air, but you don’t really feel uncomfortable. You never feel uncomfortable with Xiao. Despite his cold exterior, he’s actually an absolute sweetheart, and it shows in the way he’s reluctantly cuddling you to keep you warm right now — albeit a little shyly.

The movie the two of you are watching is rather cringey and overly dramatic. It’s almost painful to watch the protagonist pine over their love interest, refusing to confess because they’re afraid of being turned down. They talk about how incredible their crush is, the comfort that they bring, and how they would love to have them by their side forever. Despite all this, the protagonist is still afraid to declare their affections, retaining a mindset plagued by the woes of doubt and insecurity.

You begin to realize that the main character is rather relatable, but you can’t quite put your finger on why — until you glance over at the amber-eyed boy sitting next to you. The realization that the film just perfectly described your feelings toward Xiao hits you like a truck.

You love Xiao.

You’ve loved him for a very long time.

But you were just too oblivious to tell.

You are so tangled up in a web of your own emotions that you don’t notice the way Xiao stares at you. He longs for you just as much as you long for him, but the two of you are both far to oblivious and fearful to confess your feelings right now. So for the time being, all you can do is steal quick glances at each other and shyly link your pinkies together, hoping that the seeds of affection within your hearts will give you the courage to turn your friendship into a blossoming romance.

Venti

Whenever it’s Venti’s turn to pick the film you’ll be watching for movie night, you just know that he’ll choose one of two things: a Disney movie or a musical. It’s no secret that Venti loves music, so he sings his heart out to all the musical numbers. He has memorized every lyric to every song flawlessly. The duality of your boyfriend’s voice makes you think that he himself could be a movie star. Sometimes it is light and airy to portray the carefree and joyful atmosphere of a scene, reminiscent of a light breeze on a sweltering summer day. However, Venti is also able to make his tone dark and wild — like the unpredictable gale of a fearsome storm.

Despite the fact that the beguiling melodies that leave Venti’s lips are no less impressive than the songs of sirens, sometimes he becomes a little too obnoxious for your liking. There are times where he can’t stop singing, even after the characters have stopped. Although his voice is delightful, it gets irritating because you can’t hear what’s going on in the film. In these instances, the best course of action is to take matters into your own hands.

You can usually get him to shut up by playfully nudging him with your elbow. Squishing his cheeks so that he can’t sing properly also works, and as a bonus, he looks adorable. However, this time, you decide to try something new.

You turn to your boyfriend and stare at him until you catch his attention. Once he is looking back into your eyes, you lean closer to him and wait until he gives you a sign that he’s alright with what you’re about to do. Venti seems to understand and nods, lips parting slightly. He never rejects your advances. Then, you close the distance between the two of you at an excruciating pace, savoring the frustrated expression on your boyfriend’s face. By this time, he has forgotten all about the movie. He is focused on you and you alone.

At long last, you plant a passionate kiss on his lips, fulfilling all his desires. Something about the way he tastes reminds you of freshly-baked apple pie — warm and sweet. You kiss him until he is breathless and red in the face, and when the two of you finally pull apart, your boyfriend is at a loss for words.

He stays silent for the rest of the film.

#r.archives *ೃ༄#heizou x reader #kazuha x reader #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #xiao x reader #venti x reader #genshin imagines #genshin impact #genshin x you #genshin x reader #genshin fluff #genshin fanfic #genshin impact x reader

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