#law is naturally white spotted. because im horrible.

[nocontextonepiece]

opwc au doffy is a calico and cora is a tortoiseshell by the way. because the thought wouldnt leave me alone

[themusicplayedherlife]

Some Sugar

Part 3:  you think you can open my heart?

pairing: sugar daddy!steve rogers x reader characters: reader, steve rogers, cassandra jones (oc), selena (oc), others word count: 3k+ warnings: angst, family issues, money problems, cursing, talks of sex summary: family can be pretty wild a/n: sorry this took so long, but shit happened--from car accidents to quarantine to a lack of motivation, and it was just really hard to write anything. I tried, but it was all shitty. Couldn’t even bring myself to finish this chapter, but I managed it, until I realized that part of this chapter wouldn’t fit in to this anymore and needed to be pushed back -insert grimacing emoji- so really this chapter could’ve been posted weeks ago lmfao IM SORRY

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Quiet hums reach your ear as you stare at your phone’s screen, the large sum of money with too many zeroes staring back at you. It hasn’t even been a week yet and you’ve already received your first allowance—first. 

You throw yourself back onto your twin sized bed and the spring mattress squeaks horribly under your weight; you ignore it as your mind drifts to your conversation with Steve a couple of nights ago, your phone still in your hands and resting on your stomach.

“Even if you have a month left, it’s best to pay off the debt now.” As much as you wanted to pay attention to his blabbering, you were a little busy trying to keep your mind from how fast he was driving.

He had started off slow, or as slow as the speed limit allowed, really, until he got wrapped up in your story about your mom’s cancer returning, your sister’s self sacrificing nature (“She takes after you then,” he said with a grin), and your aunt and her subtle threats that were no longer so subtle.

Left hand gripped the seat tightly while your right hand clutched the handle on the roof. Your feet occasionally slammed down on the floor, braking whenever you felt Steve was going too fast for your liking. Wasn’t Captain America all about doing the right thing and following the law? Being safe? Honestly! He was lucky the streets were empty and there weren’t any cops in sight. You could have laughed at the imaginary headline: Captain America and His Sugar Baby Pulled Over For Driving too Fast. “Right,” is all you managed to say. 

“I can probably wire you the money tomorrow and then some,” he said, completely oblivious to your dilemma. You didn’t—and still don’t—know whether that was a good or bad thing. “We should probably figure out how allowance is going to work first, though—hey, are you okay?”

You ripped your gaze from the blur of the world outside, eyes a little wide to find Steve alternating between looking at you and the road. “Can you—can you maybe ease up on the gas a little?”

He blinked, eyes falling to his dashboard and soon the world started blurring less and your body was no longer trying to fight against gravity. You exhaled and let go of the leather seat that you’re sure you’ve scratched up, and he chuckled. “Bad habit,” he admits. “More used to my motorcycle than a car.” Right. Captain America rode a motorcycle.

You leaned back into the seat and your head rolled against the headrest to look at him. “That’d explain it.”

He chuckled, looking at you from the corner of his eye. “I’ll be more careful.”

“Yeah, that’d be great.” It’s sarcastic, and you almost feared he’d be mad but he only chuckled in response, blue eyes twinkling with mirth. Huh.

“So, allowance?”

Allowance. Right. That’s a thing. Allow-ance. Why is that such a weird word to you now? “I trust you.” (Selena had advised you a base price of 2,000 per meeting, but you thought—like most of her suggestions—it was ridiculous. “Give yourself some credit,” she had said when you scolded her.) “Whatever you think is right, I’ll accept.”

For a moment he mirrored your frown, until he nodded resolutely and smiled. “I’ll handle it.”

And handle it he did. Not that you’re surprised that Avengers make bank because c’mon they’re heroes! You just didn’t think they’d make that much bank to spare this much money! Tony Stark? Sure. He owned a damn company—or was on the board, you don’t know anymore. But the rest? Not so much.

A familiar ring from your phone pulls you out of your thoughts and you don’t even bother checking who it is, you just accept the call. 

“Mornin’,” Steve’s voice greets you, a smile very much apparent in his voice and your heart does a flip. “I’m downstairs.”

You sit up hastily and in your hurry you almost fall off, eyes darting to the closed bathroom where Esmeralda is showering. “What?” Didn’t he say you were meeting at noon for lunch?

“My meeting got pushed back to this evening, and since you asked for the day off from the restaurant, I thought we’d make the most of the morning.”

“I’ll be down in a moment.” You pause when the doorbell rings. “Please tell me you’re not at my door right now.”

“No, but that might be Peter Parker.” How does he know—Shit. Right. He mentioned knowing the kid from his internship after you told him about your sister. “Just saw him enter the building with his friends.”

“Did he see you?” You really hope not.

“I don’t think so. If he had, the kid would’ve said something.”

You let out a relieved sigh and open the door just as you hear Ned say: “I swear that was Captain America downstairs!”

“What?” He said they didn’t see him!

“Morning,” Peter greets you as MJ rolls her eyes at Ned’s comment.

“I didn’t see anyone,” she says pointedly at him, before greeting you and smiling when you let them in.

You dumbly stare after them.

“It was him!” Ned insists, making a beeline towards the window facing the street and dragging Peter along with him.

MJ turns to you as she moves around the half wall separating the kitchen from the living room, not surprising. “Mind if I grab something to eat?” 

“Sure?” You still don’t know why she bothers asking.

“The windows are tinted, Ned,” Peter hisses. “I can’t see.”

“You got Greek yogurt? Oh. You do. Cool.”

Ned frowns and scratches his head, murmuring, “I swear it was him.”

You sigh, and drop your hand holding your phone without ending the call. “Can you tell Esme I got called into work?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, turning away from the window. “Sure!”

“And tell her to shoot me a text before you guys leave for school.” Peter nods, not really paying attention to you as he joins Michelle in the kitchen, already knowing the drill. “No dirty dishes in the sink.”

The last thing you see is MJ flashing you a thumbs up before you close the door behind you.

As you make your way towards the stairs, you lift your phone back to your ear. “Didn’t see you, huh?”

“I may have poked my head out of the window to say hi to the kid, until I heard them mention you and your sister.”

“Yeah. He usually picks her up, doesn’t like Esmeralda going to and from school alone,” you explain as you search around the street. With a sigh you immediately spot him. “Can’t you drive a least expensive car? You stick out like a sore thumb.”

He chuckles and you hear movement before seeing the driver door about to open. “I could always drive my motor—“

“No, no, no!” You rush towards him. “Do not get out of the car.”

“But—“

“Ned was looking out the window when I left,” you say, your eyes moving to the windows of your apartment, but thankfully don’t see him. “He still might be.”

He sighs, but obliges, the door closing.

“Thank you,” you tell him as you hang up the phone and open the door.

“They're bound to find out,” he says, raising an eyebrow in your direction as you buckle yourself in.

You know, and you tell him as much, “I don’t know how to exactly explain this—“you motion to him and you—“yet.”

He frowns, fingers tapping against the steering wheel as he pulls away from the curb. “We’ll figure it out.”

He takes you to a small restaurant in Brooklyn. Light blue walls and leather seats with white and golden lights—it’s retro, super retro, but cozy. Steve keeps his sunglasses on and the bill of his hat low. It’s ridiculous if he thinks this is really a disguise that works.

The curious host leads you to a table in the back, away from prying eyes—hopefully—after you ask for a booth. He settles into the leather facing the door and you opposite of him, large painting being the only thing you have sight of other than Steve, and yourself if you turn to your left and stare at the mirror covering a third of the wall.

She hands you both menus and leaves after you take a quick scan of the drink menu.

“How effective do you think the sunglasses and hat are?”

“It’s covert,” he defends, playful offense in his voice.

You lean on your crossed arms resting on the table. “You’re literally wearing sunglasses indoors, Steve. That’s weird. And bound to attract attention.”

“Tony does it all the time.” Is he whining?

You snort, staring into the dark lenses, imagining where his eyes are. “Yeah, because he’s the Tony Stark.” He scoffs and you shrug. “He can do things like that and get away with it. Not like he’s actively trying to hide himself either.”

“Okay, I get it. It’s a little ridiculous.”

You grin, amused at the small pout forming on his pink lips. Who knew Captain America was a sulker. It’s cute.

Your assigned waitress comes by and takes your order after placing down your drinks that the hostess marked down for you both. You choose something light—a pesto caprese sandwich—compared to the hearty breakfast Steve orders for himself—a loaded omelet, heavy on the cheese. You smile up at the waitress, but you find that her eyes, although listening to you, are trained on Steve. He seems to notice, too, because he smiles politely before gesturing to you with a small incline of his head.

“How about we share a side of tater tots, sweetheart?”

You blink lazily at the nickname just as the waitress drops her gaze to you as if finally remembering that your voice belongs to an actual body. There’s a tingle that curves down your spine and you know he’s staring at you behind his dark glasses. His shoe nudges yours and his lips curl into a lopsided smirk. 

You recline your cheek against your perched arm and tilt your head further into your palm with a smile. “Anything you want, baby,” you coo and Steve lifts a playful brow in question, your smile only growing wider when he nudges your shoe again.

The waitress squirms and mutters something before scurrying away.

“Baby?”

Sweetheart? you want to shoot back, but instead you remain neutral, reaching for your drink with your free hand. “Better than calling you daddy.”

He straightens, visible skin turning red and you stifle a laugh as he shuffles in his seat. “I—“ You don’t break eye contact, if his eyes are following yours, as you wrap your lips around the paper straw and suck the sweet orange juice to coat your tongue. “You can call me anything you want, sweetheart.”

Interesting. “Even Stevie?”

“Anything,” he reiterates, leaning back into the seat to rest his arm over the backrest and you smile. “As long as I get the same privilege.” 

“It’s a deal, sugarplum.”

He snorts a laugh and you just shrug, trying to hide your smile with pursed lips. 

“Tell me more about your family.”

The question cools you down, smile effectively shrinking into tight lips. 

“Like?” you ask, suddenly finding the painting hanging behind his head much more interesting. It’s a simple painting of the beach, golden, warm colors contrasting with the beautiful cool shades of blue and white used for the ocean. 

“You told me about your mom and sister, even Peter and his aunt, but you didn’t mention your dad—unless,” his voice turns soft, posture relaxing as if to put you at ease, “unless you don’t want to talk about him. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t be—“

“It’s okay,” you interject softly, lifting your head from your palm. “I just don’t know where to start.” He nods and removes his glasses with one hand as he reaches for one of your hands. “Um, my dad… he died in a car accident when I was 13.” You watch his fingers as they intertwine with yours, just like they did at the bar. Steve doesn’t seem like it, but he craves physical affection. Always seemingly touching you by holding your hand. Not that you mind it, it definitely comforted you, but you can’t help but wonder: why. “He was a good man. Smart. Loved us all very much. Loved technology,” you emphasized followed by a small laugh. 

He’d spend hours tinkering with home appliances to try and upgrade them. You loved those moments the most, when you’d sit by him and he’d ask for a tool and you’d hand it to him. He’d tell you what he was doing, explain every step and process and what that change would do. He nurtured your mind, treated it as his equal.

He squeezes gently and you let his warmth cover you. “I’m sorry.”

You shrug. “It’s okay. I’ve gotten over it.” He doesn’t mention the twitch of your fingers or the way your voice falters, he instead lets you change the subject. “I also have a brother that is 3 years older.”

Unlike your sister, you, and your dad, JC has always been more artistic, preferring to follow in your mother’s footsteps in learning how to play instruments and singing. He never understood your fascination with tinkering and creating, shunning your father’s activities when he tried to get all of you to help upgrade the television or stereo or whatever project he brought home from the lab.

He frowns at that, a little confused. You don’t blame him. You didn’t exactly mention him when you talked about Esme and your mom. “Did he move away?”

“Yep,” you pop the p, absentmindedly twirling the straw in your drink. “Moved out as soon as he turned 18. Would see him twice a year at best, but we used to hear from him often. Then after I turned 18 we never heard from him again.” And he made sure you wouldn’t be able to find him, too. Changed his number, deleted all of his social media, cut ties with his friends, and vanished. Not that you were surprised, he hated the struggle you and your family went through after dad died. You had always known he’d leave at some point. 

But you stupidly held onto the hope he wouldn’t leave when you needed him most.

“Oh.” He frowns, trying to think of what to say, maybe even offer to help look for him. But what would that do? That’d just bring him back to the life he wanted to get away from. 

You flex your fingers in his hold, just to readjust your grip on him and hum lowly. “It is what it is.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Sometimes,” you admit, but it somehow feels wrong when you think about the last time you spent with your brother. The hurt he caused when you woke up and he was no longer there in the morning, only a single cupcake with a candle waiting for you on the kitchen counter. “Other times I—I don’t.” His thumb caresses the edge of your palm, barely grazing your wrist and you can’t help but let the negative feelings fade with his gentle touch. “What about you?”

“What about me?” he asks, soft with blue eyes staring into you. He knows you’re changing the subject, but he lets you. You don’t want to talk about JC anymore or even think about him, and it’s for the best.

“What’s your family like?” He looks at you as if you've grown another head and you flush slightly. “I meant your friends, Steve. You’re all like family, right?”

“Oh!” His eyebrows shoot up and he tenses for a moment before relaxing, smile worming its way onto his lip. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, we are. They’re great. A little out there, but they’re good people.”

He tells you all about them; from Tony and Bucky and how the were able to set aside their differences when the world needed it most and how they bonded over their love of science; Natasha and Wanda and their bond as sisters, including the fact that they could most likely rule the world if they tried; Vision and Clint and their strange friendship that was born from trying different food; Sam and Sharon and their newfound relationship that everyone likes teasing; to Thor and Bruce and their bromance born from fighting in a planet a la gladiator style—all of them, telling you things you wouldn’t hear from television or read from articles with interviews. And from the way his eyes light up and his voice lightens, there's no doubt in your mind that he loves his family just as much as you love yours.

Your aunt stares at you with barely disguised distaste before unpleasant eyes move to Steve, who stands close to you still wearing his hat and sunglasses. No matter how many times you told him to stay in the car, he wouldn’t listen. “If she’s willing to send someone to threaten you, who knows what she’s capable of,” he had said, grabbing onto your hand before letting you go to get out of the car.

The check is flat on her desk, but she doesn’t move to pick it up. “How did you get this?”

“Does it matter?”

She tutts, eyes boiling with restrained anger. “I don’t want stolen money.”

That’s rich coming from her. “It’s not.”

“I suggest you take it ma’am,” Steve speaks up, breaking his silence. “And consider the debt paid.”

She tilts her head, eyes taking over Steve properly, like a huntress on the prowl. “And who exactly are you?”

“That’s none of your business,” you answer for him, moving to stand in front of him and effectively cutting her gawking. “Just sign what you need to sign and we’ll be on our way.” And we won’t have to see each other again.

She stares unblinkingly at you before wearing a strained smile. She pulls out a file from behind her and flips it open to the correct page, signing it and stamping it along with the last page before ripping it out—a receipt—and handing it to you. 

You take it from her hands and scan your eyes over it—PAID. A giddiness bubbles in your stomach, but you hide it from her. “I would say it was a pleasure Magdalena, but it never is.” You turn on your heels and Steve is right behind you. “One more thing,” you pause at the door, Steve close enough to press his chest against your back. “Stay away from my family,” you warn before strutting out the door, smile curving your lips when you meet the disgruntled gaze of the man that had threatened you at your work.

He gives you a nod of acknowledgement as he makes his way into your aunt’s office.

“Say hi to Johnny for me,” she suddenly calls out just as he closes the door behind you, but it’s enough to throw you off guard. For your throat to close up and for you to stop in your tracks and for your hand to reach out for the hem of Steve’s jacket, barely caching the smirk she sends your way.

“Sweetheart?” Steve’s voice floats to your ears, warm and soft. “What’s the matter? Who’s Johnny?”

“My brother,” you say through a breath. He couldn't have come—wouldn’t have come back. There’s no way. JC made it perfectly clear he never would. You shake your head. “She must’ve been lying. Trying to get a rise out of me.”

“It worked,” he points out obviously and you sigh as he gently pries your hand from his jacket.

You don’t want to admit it, but… “It did.”

“Come on.” He slips his fingers between yours and tugs you out of the desolate building and back out into the streets of Queens. “Let’s get out of here.”

There’s a bubbling in the pit of your stomach, heart hammering as you glance over your shoulder back at your aunt, the small relief you had felt at getting her off your back tainted by the thought of JC being back, not even Steve’s warmth can ease your worry.

But there’s no way—he wouldn't. There’s nothing left in Queens for him anymore, and there never will be.

next

[acabloe]

Soon Goodbye, Now Love: Chapter 2

chapter one

A/N wow I got way bigger a response than I thought I was going to and its pretty small ngl but I’m really glad you guys are liking this small baby I am creating. Thank u !! Also I’m kind of a newbie to the bechloe fandom n im rly curious if there’s a sort of home-base for all bechloe fics? sort of like how the phandom has @phanfic ? tyy thats all hope u enjoy :))

tw’s: abuse, swearing, depression, mentions of death, anxiety, trauma (motor accident, near death)

Chapter Two: Soon A Painting

Very slowly Beca began to gain more and more consciousness, beginning with a sharp tingling in her feet, fingers, and face. She became aware of the thick and muddy grass beneath her stomach that stuck uncomfortably and dampened her clothes. Her ribs ached from where she guessed she’d fallen on them. She took a breath in and coughed as she accidentally inhaled dirt. Attempting to push herself onto her knees, she brought her palms to her side and pressed upwards firmly, elbows and wrists smarting under her weight. Her head throbbed as she parted her eyelids but she forced herself to leave them open to adjust to the light and observe her surroundings. As she scanned the empty field, she struggled to remember why she was there. Unsure of how much time had passed while she had been unconscious, she reached reached into her pocket for her phone. When it wasn’t there her movements became more frantic, running her palms over the wet terf and blinking rapidly to attempt to clear her fuzzed vision in the dark. Then suddenly she realized that she didn’t even own a phone, and everything came back to her. Memories flooded her brain like rain after weeks of humid days and packed overcast skies.

She had died Beca had died and she had gone to heaven…sort of. In place of Chloe. Beca had pleaded with...someone, she didn’t know who, and had taken Chloe’s place. She’d woken in front of a giant grey building and ascended the stairs, and she had walked down the alpine-ceilinged hall lined with black and white marble-tiled flooring and flanking dark wooden desks. She remembered chuckling softly to herself thinking of how it had looked like the magical bank from Harry Potter, only without the goblins or flying papers. Pelen, her later Guardian-trainer, had been at the end of the hall, sat at the tallest desk, and he’d explained everything about her trade for Chloe’s life and about the payment for her actions by becoming a guardian angel for an infinitude and the necessity for the erasure of Chloe’s memories of their friendship and lives together. Then had come the months and months of guardian training, the pining and the anguish for endless, horrible nights on end. Oh, those nights, when she had been unable to sleep, distracting herself from the grief by plotting any conceivable way she could see Chloe for one last time. Whoever had agreed to let her trade places had clearly not anticipated Beca’s determination to reunite herself with Chloe by any means considerably possible.              When came the end of training and everyone’s human assignment, she had been stationed in Siberia to guard a local scientologist...Geoffrey? Jack? (She felt awful for not remembering his name.) But Beca obdurately broke into the human-assignment database (with ease; the process had oddly reminded her of using Garage Band, only with thin hovering bronze bars and colored beads, still sound waves though,) and changed, by hand, her human assignment to guard Chloe. While everyone had been in place to be dropped to earth, she had escaped unseen to the edge of the city to the closest region she could find in Chloe’s vicinity. And now she was here. In this field. This freezing, wet, scary-ass field.

She wasn’t even sure if she was in the right state. She didn’t recognize anything about her location and surroundings and her plans had only gone this far. She had simply assumed that somehow Chloe would find her shortly after Beca’s fall, welcome her into her home to nurture her back to health, and everything would return to the state it had been before all of this mess. Cursing herself for not planning ahead more, her anxiety began to spike and she forced herself to count as she breathed. Why had she thought that simply jumping out of heaven would be the best idea? She had no belongings, no clothes, nowhere to sleep, and worst of all, no money. 

She shakily stood and decided that the best thing to do right now would be to walk off the pins and needles in her legs and to scout out the area. She had also read somewhere that exercise stimulated the brain. Small steps Beca, small steps, She chanted to herself while she stretched her fingers and cracked her neck and back. As she checked her body for more serious injuries or broken bones, she realized that the clothes she was wearing were her own from the night she died and she groaned in annoyance at her past-self. Why didn’t you at least go out with style, moron? You planned your retirement to the most ridiculous detail but you couldn’t even die in a flow-y white dress or something? She was still damp from the grass and she was only wearing socks, no shoes. Her outfit from training had been simple white overalls and a grey, soft knit sort-of sweater. Everyone wore a variation of the same outfit, plus one pair of shoes of their choice (Beca had picked red sweade pumas because she had seen Blake Lively wearing a pair once) now she was beginning to miss those shoes. The only reason, she thought, that would have made simply following the rules a better choice of actions. As she trudged gradually around the perimeter of the field, she searched for any signs of life. She heard far-off cars and airplanes overhead and the path she had been walking was well-trodden and relatively flat. She spotted the glimmer of some distant lights, and decided that once she had relaxed her muscles and figured out some mode of transportation to get there, she would make her way in that direction. And then she thought better of it and realized that sleeping in one of the bushes would probably be safest. And easiest. With the least walking. And effort. 

As she trudged her way around the perimeter of the field, she searched for signs of life. She heard far-off cars and airplanes overhead and the path she had been walking was well-trodden and relatively flat. She spotted the glimmer of some distant lights, and decided that once she had relaxed her muscles and figured out some mode of transportation to get there, she would make her way in that direction. And then she thought better of it and realized that sleeping in one of the bushes would probably be safest. And easiest. With the least walking. And effort.

Beca and Chloe’s relationship had probably been the at the forefront of both of their existences before Chloe’s accident. They had often teased that Beca’s sophomore (Chloe’s senior) year of high school was the year they both properly became people. That statement was, for a plethora of reasons, relatively metaphorically true; It was the year when Beca’s mother passed away, and Beca’s father had left her because the grief had been to much to handle. Her mental health had spiraled, and she became closed off and for the most part unresponsive. Chloe had relocated all the way across the country from her home in Seattle, and had never really shared solid friendship with anyone. She also suffered abuse from her parents for being openly bisexual. As Beca and Chloe grew closer, their relationship became the most fundamental part of their lives. Wherever Chloe went, Beca followed. After a lot of convincing on Chloe’s part, together they joined an all girls a capella group at their university, where they became properly close with other people for the first time in their lives besides each other. Chloe had stayed two extra years in college, telling everyone the reason was that she could not bare to leave the group, but really the majority of her motivation came from the wish to see Beca through her junior and senior year, and then graduate with her. Beca had often come to family gatherings and holidays with Chloe, and vice versa with to visit Beca’s removed family, often in other parts of the world. Friends joked that they were so close anyone would guess they were married, and they would laugh it off or play along, jesting to boast engagement rings, or play fake surprise proposals.

But the matter of it was that Beca secretly abhorred these fake shows of romance and marriage. Because ever since her first year of college, she’d been madly in love with Chloe.

There was no need for her to ask or talk about the subject. Beca had known since the beginning of her feelings for her that Chloe would never feel the same way, and so absolved to ride it out until she simply did not feel anything other than close platonic intimacy for her. In spite of all her efforts, five years later she felt exactly the same, if not stronger than before, and it was miserable.

When Chloe was found eight miles from their home, unconscious on an embankment by the highway after her car had been hit by a drunk driver, Beca went into extreme shock. Chloe was rushed to the hospital but by the time they had arrived at the ER, it was too late. She had been hanging on by an already worn thread, and Beca had prayed for the first time in her life that night. She pleaded with all the higher powers she could think of to take Chloe’s place, and curiously enough, her requests were immediately taken into effect. Apparently, Beca Mitchel was an exception to the laws of prayer in most religions.

Eventually Beca neared the halfway mark of her third lap. Her anxiety had dwindled little, though her legs were mostly returned to a more natural and pin-free state. The deep and rather eerie quiet of the place was what she’d been strongly accustomed to since she’d woken up, so when someone behind her shouted loudly in her direction, she nearly sprinted into the bushes to her right. When she glanced behind her and saw the form of a woman waving and walking idly, she was set at a tiny bit more ease and waved back apprehensively. Shit, Becs what’re you gonna do now, you look like a maniac. Dude, you're not even wearing shoes. Just play it cool, act hostile and moody, the regular. It’s probably too dark to even see my clothes anyway right? She made a brief attempt to brush off some of the dirt and grass still on her clothes and ran her fingers through her hair a few times.

Rapid footsteps approached from behind her and suddenly the girl had caught up to walk alongside her. Beca sighed quietly in annoyance and scanned her mind for an explanation as to why she was out this late and wearing the bare minimum and no shoes in a 30°(F) field.

Beca turned to look at the girls face and had to promptly hold herself back from  shouting or even remotely outwardly responding. Even in the gloomy darkness, the shiny doe-eyed look of the girl next to her was painfully unmistakable. Beca had not planned or expected herself to react so violently as she did when she saw this face again.

“Hi.” She controlled her voice to the best of her ability, but the lack of recognition in Chloe's next statements and the sudden realization of her stupidity in mistakenly romanticizing and simplifying the entire situation around only her own desires was so painful that Beca doubted she could hold back tears. The sight of Chloe after months, years, of grieving was just too much. She did try, but they simply came, silently streaming down her cheeks, one after the other.

“It’s so chilly for this time of year, I don’t usually even come here while on walks. The mist is so spooky!”

Beca realized it was her turn to speak. She saw Chloe turn to look at her from her peripheral view and realized it was to late to do anything about her tears so she struggled to keep her voice even as she replied.

“yeah. Super spooky.”