‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾Claire’s Galaxy☽༓･*˚⁺‧

He instinctually brought his arm to wrap loosely around her waist as she got closer. “Admire? What exactly are you admiring?” 

“I was admiring this,” Y/N smiled, hand squeezing his waist watching as he smirked at that idea. “And these awfully big arms of yours.” 

She gave a playful squeeze on his biceps and shoulder, stopping where she saw an old scar from years ago. Leon’s eyes followed her hands, smirk falling a bit as she stopped, he knew what she was looking at. Y/N’s smile fell into one of stillness, neither sad nor happy, perhaps endearing as she thought about how he got this particular scar. Her sweet boyfriend doing whatever he could to protect someone.

“What about this one?” She quietly asked, the fog of just having woken up confusing him. 

He muttered out a sound, prompting her to explain what she meant. 

Her index finger traced over the round shaped scar, as she spoke. “You’ve told me about how you got some of your other scars; tell me about this one.”

Leon’s thumb begins to stroke softly against the skin of her back, where her shirt had ridden up. “This one was uh…” He sighed, mind returning to that moment as if it had been yesterday. “It was back on my first day as a police officer, when the whole outbreak happened.”

He pauses, watching as Y/N’s eyes lift from his scar to stare up at him. She doesn’t say anything, however, giving him plenty of time to either finish his thought or stop it right there.

Though the memories feel fresh, he continues, “Ada and I were in the sewers. We came across a doctor there who was in possession of some rather…well say, “nasty bacteria.” She didn’t seem happy to have a supposed FBI agent and an officer after her so she shot at us.”

Leon raises the hand that was placed on Y/N’s waist, trailing it up the sensitive skin of her arm until he softly grasps her wrist, and pulls her palm to lay flat on his chest, right over his steadily beating heart. “Ada was in the direct line of fire so without thinking, I dove in front of her and got shot in the shoulder.” 

Y/N stays silent, letting him breath in the quiet as he opens his mouth to continue. 

“I told her to go after the doctor before she got away then I passed out. Next thing I knew, I woke up with my shoulder patched up and Ada’s coat over me.” He removes his hand from Y/N’s to let her fingers, once again, wander across his skin, battered and scarred from his work as a DSO agent. 

He watches her eyes study the long-healed bullet wound on his shoulder, her finger tracing a circle around the shape before lightly grazing the scar itself. The sensation caused the slightest shiver to run through him causing him to tense and pull her closer. 

“She saved my life, more than once.” He whispers in the small space between their bodies. 

Y/N finally looks up at him, the sun casting a glow to her face that made him suck in a sharp breath almost like it was the first time he was seeing her. She then leans up to place a soft kiss right over the scar, pulling back to lay back in her spot. 

“I’m glad she did.”

Leon smiled at that, raising his hand to cradle her cheek. “I’m glad she did too, otherwise I wouldn’t have met you.”

That made Y/N giggle, face beaming with complete, unadulterated devotion for the man in front of her. The man who has risked life and limb to protect others, to make sure that they got to go home at the end of the day, and she knew she was blessed that she got to be a home for him every time that he came back from a mission. 

Nothing compared to the sensation of Leon’s tense muscles relaxing under her touch as he pushed himself as close to her as humanly possible. 

She leaned forward, pressing her lips into his, moving slowly; savoring the delicious warmth that radiated from him.

It was quick, but filled with everything that words failed to convey.

“Are you hungry?” She asked once pulling back, hand tracing invisible patterns into his arm. “I can make waffles if you want.”

Leon let out an airy laugh, shaking his head. “Not yet. I just…want to lay here with you a little longer.”

“That’s fine with me.” She pecked his cheek, tucking her face into his neck while he completely encircled her in his arms. 

It wasn’t too long that the pair once again fell asleep. For the moment, there was nowhere to be, nothing to worry about, it was only the peace of domesticity. A once distant yearning becoming something real over the years.

Leon never thought that he would live very long in his line of work, let alone meet someone who filled the emptiness in him and he was grateful for it everyday.

________

“It will be okay,” Steve whispered, even though you couldn’t hear him. Even though the words weren’t for the pain, there would be none, but it was an assurance for what was about to bloom. For the way nothing ever stayed the same once the heart opened.

He drew the bow, and the world inhaled.

And when he released-

The arrow flew across the air.

Light rippled outward in a soft, expanding pulse, washing the night in pink and gold. The air thickened, glowing like dawn caught mid-breath. 

Magic hummed low and warm, not sharp or commanding, but gentle;

An invitation rather than an order.

Inside, you gasped.

The sensation began in your chest, a warmth unfurling slowly, like petals opening beneath your ribs. 

It didn’t hurt. 

It didn’t overwhelm. 

It simply spread, threading through you until even your fingertips hummed with it.

The arrow dissolved before it ever touched you.

Golden feathers scattered into light, melting into your skin, sinking into your heartbeat. 

For a moment, you were weightless.

Untethered.

As if the air itself was holding you upright.

Your eyes fluttered shut, and when they opened again, the room was no longer quite the same.

Everything was softer.

Edges blurred. Colours deepened.

The glow didn’t fade; it lingered, wrapping around you like a half-remembered dream. 

Your breath came slow, steady, as if you were moving through water.

And then you saw him.

At first, he was only light.

A shape formed beyond the window, suspended in the glowing air. Gold and rose and ivory, shifting and coalescing, until wings unfurled, vast and impossibly gentle, feathers catching the glow like spun glass.

Then his face came into focus.

He was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

Not in a sharp, blinding way, but in the way sunsets undid you. In the way certain songs ached in your chest before you knew why. His curls caught the light like they were made for it, eyes wide and shining, mouth parted as though he had forgotten how to breathe.

Steve didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

Because you were looking right at him.

Not past him.

Not through him.

But at him, eyes soft, unfocused, lips parted in wonder, as though you were seeing something you were always meant to see but never thought you would.

“Oh,” he breathed.

The sound reached you like it was carried on the glow itself, warm and intimate, vibrating somewhere deep in your chest. You didn’t question it. Nothing about this moment asked for logic.

You rose from where you sat, movements slow and dreamlike, feet barely touching the floor as you drifted closer to the window. The glow followed you, curled around you, painted your skin in gold.

Steve watched, transfixed, as the magic settled, not frantic, not binding, but listening.

Waiting.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

The arrow should have made him invisible the moment it took hold. You should have been looking past him now, heart open and searching, unaware of the hand that guided it.

Instead, your gaze locked onto his like gravity had shifted.

Your heart didn’t race.

It recognized.

Something inside you tilted, slow and irreversible, like a compass finding north.

“You’re…” Your voice was quiet, reverent, as though speaking too loudly might shatter him. “You’re beautiful.”

The words hit him harder than any arrow ever could.

Steve’s wings twitched, feathers shedding light, the glow brightening around you both. His breath stuttered. “Oh um…that’s not…” he said, disbelief threading every syllable.

You smiled faintly, still caught in the haze, eyes tracing the curve of his wings, the soft strength in his shoulders, the warmth in his face. He looked less like a God now and more like something heartbreakingly real, like someone standing on the edge of a mistake he never meant to make.

“Who are you?” you murmured, hand lifting to the glass without realizing it.

Your palm pressed against the window.

The magic answered.

The air between you shivered, pink and gold deepening, humming louder now, not with command, but with resonance.

Steve drifted closer, helpless to stop himself, until he was hovering just beyond the glass, his own hand lifting in an unconscious mirror of your own.

Your palms didn’t touch.

They didn’t need to.

The warmth between you was enough.

“This is not right,” Steve whispered, but his voice lacked conviction. His eyes never left yours. “You are not- this should not- You should not be able to see me.”

You smiled, slow and soft, like you were waking into something rather than out of it. “You’re the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen,” you said. “Whatever you are.”

That was what broke him.

Because love magic wasn’t supposed to feel kind. It was supposed to ignite, to compel, to pull.

This didn’t pull.

It opened.

The glow began to fade at the edges, settling into you, sinking into your pulse. The night exhaled. The city noise crept back in. But the warmth remained, steady and sure.

Steve realized, with a jolt of quiet awe, that the arrow hadn’t chosen for you.

It had given you sight.

And what you saw, what you were still seeing, eyes clear now, awareness sharpening without losing its softness, was him.

“Hi,” you said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Steve swallowed.

“Hi,” he replied, voice low, reverent, already ruined.

Somewhere deep in your chest, your heart finished opening.

And without being told-

Without being forced-

Without magic pushing at your back-

It still chose love.

You stayed pressed lightly to the window frame, feeling the warmth settle into your chest, spreading slow and steady. It was not frantic, not urgent, but insistent.

The kind of warmth that made your skin tingle and your stomach ache in a way that was almost sweet, almost unbearable.

You were aware of it, aware of him, aware of the quiet hum of something between you that was not quite magic, not quite reality, but entirely alive.

Steve remained outside the window, wings folded close now, feathers catching faint silver in the moonlight.

He was not moving closer, not yet, and the distance was excruciating and tender all at once.

You wanted to lean forward, to bridge the space between you, but there was something careful, something respectful, that stopped you. 

This was not the arrow pushing you anymore. This was a choice.

And choice required patience.

He swallowed audibly, running a hand along the railing as if to steady himself. You could see the slight tremor of his fingers, the tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell too fast, too loud in the quiet night.

He was beautiful in a way that made your chest ache, not like a sunburst or a photograph, but like something alive and breathing, like a flame you could almost reach without touching.

“I am not sure what to do now…” He began, feeling the soft breeze of the night run through his feathers, the coldness doing little to calm his nerves, instead, they caused goose bumps.

A phenomenon that Gods and Demigods did not feel.

Something is strange tonight He thought to himself.

But as he looked back into your eyes, he sighed.

Your eyes bright and wide as you stared at him.

If he looked close enough, he could see the faint love heart shape in your iris’

“This is not supposed to happen, okay? It probably cannot happen”

Steve almost winced at the frown on your face, caused by his words and hesitation.

“What isn’t supposed to happen?”

He gestured between the two of you, a look of regret planted all over his features that you didn’t pick up on.

“But it did…” You beamed “And I’m happy it did”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise, his mouth agape as he remained silent for a moment.

Too long of a moment, for you, it seemed-

“Are you not happy?”

Steve hummed to himself, biting his cheek as you leaned out of the window.

“Well-”

You reached your hand up to his face, the pads of your fingertips gliding and tracing over his plush skin.

His flesh was soft, almost glowy, moles drawn perfectly, scattered like constellations.

His jaw was well defined and his nose carved sharply, his eyes wide and pure, like he was touched by heaven.

The curls of his hair fell just right, just above his shoulders, hugging his neck, streaks of golden blonde highlighting the otherwise dark hair.

Running your hands down, your breath hitched, your eyes following every dip and curve of his body.

His torso was bare, smooth and warm to the touch, despite being free from clothes in the middle of winter.

His stomach was toned, tensing as your touch as your hands stopped at his waist.

A small wrapped loincloth around his hips, covering only his decency, barely.

You looked back up at him, almost gawking.

It made Steve nervous.

No one had ever looked at him like that. No one had ever been so gentle.

He felt his heart pump faster under your gaze, his palms, wrapped around his bow, started to sweat.

He slung it around his shoulder, the fear of dropping it and breaking it weighed on him.

“Please- come in, please” you almost pleaded.

Steve was conflicted.

This was never supposed to happen, you were never supposed to see him.

He wasn’t even sure it was allowed.

Though, he’s never heard of this situation being possible.

And in all of the centuries he’s been assigned the role of love, he’s never felt so unsure of himself.

But you stepped away from the window, letting him in, and he couldn’t refuse.

Because Cupid, the God of love, curer of loneliness, was the lonliest of them all.

He’s been banished to be alone almost all of his life, to create love.

But he himself did not love.

He was distanced.

Climbing through the window, Steve huffed, his foot catching the edge of the sill, causing him to fall on your floor face first.

You gasped, rushing to his side to help him up.

With your hands holding his arms, you let yourself squeeze at his biceps, humming to yourself at the feeling of his muscles tensing as he got up, groaning.

“Are you alright?” you pressed, letting your hold linger on him as he straightened, his wings flexing out before closing back up.

“I will be okay, do not worry” He responded, turning to the window to close it.

He had noticed your shiver, and the delicate snowflakes that fell upon you when you leaned out to see him, now melted.

He had them also, the residue racing down his body in tiny droplets of water.

You took the time to observe his back, pouting.

His body was mostly covered by his wings, but when he turned back to you, you caught the sliver of his shoulder blade, smiling to yourself.

He avoided your eyes, suddenly feeling insecure in your space.

“Does your face hurt?” You asked, stepping closer to him in a swift moment.

He stepped back like a flinch, frowning.

“M-my face?” He stammered, reaching up to touch his cheek softly.

“From the fall” You spoke worriedly, taking another step closer.

Your proximity made Steve freeze in his place, his eyes darting around the room.

“Uh- no…my face is fine, I assure you”

You nodded, stepping away from him.

“Good- well you can make yourself at home, we can do something! I have cards, and board games- or- we can just watch TV, whatever you want”

He winced at your wanting, not wanting to be rude as he shook his head no.

“I should probably go…I have more duties and assignments, so…” 

He watched as your whole body basically deflated, blinking sadly up at him.

“But you just got here” you whined, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Do you have to?”

You weren’t an idiot, you could tell what he was, he was not human.

But your brain didn’t comprehend who he was, all you knew is that you needed him with you, that he was the most perfect being to exist, and you needed to love him.

“Yes, I apologise”

“Will I see you again?”

He shrugged, tugging his bow off his shoulder as he went back to the window.

Before he could make an excuse, or respond before leaving, you cut him off, rushing over to his side.

“Come over tomorrow? Please” you insisted, batting your lashes his way in hopes to convince him.

You couldn’t have him leave.

You wouldn’t let him, not without confirmation that he’d come back.

“Sure” He smiled tightly, opening the glass and being careful this time as he climbed out into the night.

“Goodnight then, be safe” You wished him, sending a little wave before his wings spread out beautifully, catching the light of the moon and street light, making him glow a pretty gold.

He looked like a God.

“Have a good night” He bid you before flying off into the sky.

♡

The next evening, the city hummed quietly beneath the setting sun. 

You had spent the afternoon preparing. 

A small blanket was spread across the floor near the window where Steve had hovered the night before. 

On it, a modest feast of cheeses, grapes, thinly sliced cured meats, and a bottle of deep red wine waited. 

Nothing extravagant, only things you loved- and hoped he would, too.

You checked the window nervously, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. The glow of the streetlights was beginning to seep through the curtains. 

Your pulse quickened, anticipation thrumming in your chest. 

The night air carried the faintest chill, but you didn’t care. Tonight, he was coming back.

A soft rustle of wings made you freeze. Then, there he was, hovering just beyond the window, gold and rose catching the last light of dusk.

“Hi” you breathed, a smile tugging at your lips.

“Hi” Steve replied, his voice quieter this time, steadier somehow. 

His eyes took in the blanket, the spread of food, and for a moment, something like awe softened his usual scepticism.

“You… you did all this?” he asked, hovering a little closer.

“Yes,” you said simply, gesturing to the picnic. “I thought… maybe you’d like it.”

Steve blinked, tilting his head. 

His wings shifted lightly, brushing against the air, and for a moment, you could see the tiniest flicker of vulnerability in him. 

He had existed for centuries, moving through lives and hearts, orchestrating love and watching others embrace it. And yet here he was, unsure, unpracticed in the language of care being offered directly to him.

“I… I wasn’t expecting this,” he admitted, voice soft. “People don’t… usually do this for me.”

You smiled gently, stepping forward. “Then tonight, let it be for you.”

Steve hovered, hovering longer than he had to. 

His golden eyes scanned the spread, lingering on the wine, on the grapes, on the small care in every piece. Then, slowly, as if afraid it would vanish if he moved too fast, he descended. 

His feet landed lightly on the edge of the blanket, and you held your breath.

He didn’t sit right away. 

Instead, he just stood there, letting his wings fold around him, eyes wide and taking in the small feast you’d made. 

Be crouched down, his fingers brushing over a wedge of cheese, then pulled back. 

He glanced at you, searching for permission, and you nodded, soft and encouraging.

“Please, eat, it’s all for you” you said, voice quiet but warm.

With an almost imperceptible smile, he sank onto the blanket beside you, wings tucking gently behind him. 

His presence was at once immense and fragile, a living contradiction that made your chest ache with affection. 

You handed him a piece of cheese, and his hand took it, careful, almost reverent.

“This is… very thoughtful,” he said, tasting it slowly.

You shrugged, smiling. “You deserve the best”

He frowned at your words, his head tilting to the side. “Why?”

You snorted, looking up at him like he had two heads- like he was insane. 

“Because…You opened my eyes”

Your words caught him off guard.

And it was at that moment when he knew you loved him.

You chose him.

He nodded slowly, taking in the weight of the situation.

He needed to fix you.

He needed to undo his arrow.

Because you can’t love him.

That would be absurd.

For a while, you ate in complete silence. Comfortable and content for you, a little anxious for him, not that you noticed.

The city’s hum was the backdrop, the wine warmed your hands, and the grapes were sweet and cool between bites.

Steve’s gaze kept drifting to you, to the way your hair caught the soft golden glow of the streetlight, the way your eyes lit up when you smiled at him, the small gestures that seemed ordinary but in his eyes were extraordinary.

Steve tried to focus on the food.

He really did.

He took another small bite of cheese, chewed carefully, as if the act required concentration. 

The taste was rich, sharp, unfamiliar in a way that felt grounding. 

Mortal. 

It should have helped. 

It should have anchored him to the task he had been given, to the rules he had followed for centuries without question.

Instead, his attention kept slipping.

Back to you.

You sat cross-legged on the blanket, shoulders relaxed, fingers idly plucking grapes from the stem and setting them into your mouth one by one. 

There was no urgency in you, no expectation. Just a quiet happiness that seemed to glow faintly under your skin, like the echo of the magic that had touched you the night before.

That glow was his fault.

Steve swallowed, the wine warm as it slid down his throat. He was not meant to be here like this. 

He was not meant to stay. He was certainly not meant to be the object of anyone’s devotion. 

Love was something he delivered, something he nudged into motion from a distance. 

He never stood in its path.

Yet every time you looked at him, something deep in his chest tightened, unfamiliar and disorienting.

“You keep staring,” you said gently, not accusing, just amused, giddy.

He startled, eyes snapping back to his hands. “Sorry. I… I was not trying to.”

You smiled, soft and fond, and it felt like a blade wrapped in silk. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

That was the problem.

You did not mind his presence. 

You welcomed it. 

You looked at him like he belonged there, like he had earned a place on the blanket beside you simply by existing.

Steve shifted slightly, wings rustling behind him. “You shouldn't,” he said quietly.

You frowned. “Shouldn’t what?”

He hesitated, words catching in his throat. He had explained the mechanics of love to countless souls, but explaining it to you felt impossible. 

How could he tell you that what you felt was not meant for him? 

That the arrow had misfired in a way that could not be allowed to stand?

“You feel… something,” he said instead, choosing each word carefully. “Because of the arrow.”

You nodded. “I know.”

“It’s supposed to pass through me,” he continued. “I’m not part of it. I never am.”

You set your glass down, turning fully toward him now. Your expression was calm, open, not defensive. “But it didn’t,” you said simply.

Steve closed his eyes for a moment. The truth of that pressed down on him, heavy and undeniable. It had not passed through him. It had stopped. It had bloomed. It had changed you, and worse, it had changed him too.

“I can try to fix it,” he said, more to himself than to you. “I will find a way to reverse it.”

The words sounded rehearsed, like something he had been telling himself since the moment your eyes had met his.

Your heart sank, but you did not pull away. 

Instead, you scooted a little closer, close enough that your knee brushed his thigh. 

The contact was light, almost accidental, but Steve went very still.

“I don’t want you to fix it,” you said softly.

“You do not understand,” he replied, opening his eyes to look at you. “This is not… fair to you. You are feeling something that was never meant for me.”

You studied him then, really studied him. The careful way he held himself, like he was afraid of taking up too much space. The way his hands fidgeted with the edge of the blanket. The way his wings stayed tucked tight, as if he had learned long ago that spreading them invited trouble.

“I understand more than you think,” you said. “I know it started because of the arrow. But what I feel now… that’s mine.”

Steve shook his head slowly. “You would not choose me if the arrow had not-”

“I would,” you interrupted, voice steady. “I am choosing you. Right now. Again.”

The words hit him harder than any confession ever had. 

He had seen love declared in a thousand ways, dramatic and desperate and fleeting. 

This was none of those things. 

This was quiet. 

Certain. Unmoving.

He looked away, jaw tightening. “You do not know what you are choosing.”

“Then stay,” you said, not pleading, not demanding. “Stay long enough for me to know.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and heavy. 

The city hummed on, uncaring. Somewhere below, a car horn sounded, distant and sharp, but it felt like it belonged to another world entirely.

Steve’s fingers curled into the blanket. 

He had been alone for so long that company felt like a foreign language. He did not know how to accept it without suspicion, without the instinct to leave before it could be taken away.

But you were not asking for forever.

You were asking for now.

“I do not know how to do this,” he said finally. “I do not know how to be… wanted.”

Your chest ached at the honesty in his voice. You reached out slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wanted to. When your fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, he flinched, then stilled.

“That’s okay,” you whispered. “I know enough for both of us.”

Your thumb brushed over his pulse. It was strong. Fast. Human in a way he had never fully allowed himself to be.

Steve looked down at your joined hands, something like wonder crossing his face. He had spent centuries guiding hearts, yet he had never stopped to consider what it would feel like to have his own laid bare.

“Do you not understand who I am? What I am?” He wondered aloud, taking you in.

You only shrugged, taking a grape to your mouth with your free hand.

The action made Steve pull away from you, bouncing his leg anxiously.

“I am being serious”

You looked up, chewing softly and swallowing before you responded.

“I mean…I guess. I’ve had my speculations, thanks to your wings and bow’n’arrow”

He sighed, opening his mouth to speak, his words falling short as you kept going.

“But you’re so much more than that… I mean- is- that’s not your actual name, is it? Cupid?” You whispered the last part, leaning in closer to him like it was a secret.

And maybe it was. 

He thought for a moment before shaking his head.

“So what’s your name then?” 

“Steven” he answered, the name sounding foreign on his lips.

No had called him that in centuries, and he had almost forgotten it- well- he’s surprised he remembered, it’s been so long.

It almost makes him feel…right. 

“Pretty” You mumbled, beaming as you extended your hand for him to take, telling him your own name for a formal introduction to each other.

He took your hand reluctantly, not fully sure what you were going to do, but when you waved your palms together up and down, he felt his heart skip a beat.

You shook his hand for a beat before letting go “Nice to meet you”

“Nice to meet you” He repeated back to you, feeling himself smile back.

♡

The first week rushed by, and suddenly, you felt as though you were celebrating something special.

One week of Steve.

He had come over every night, spending time with you, warming up to you- you could feel it.

But tonight felt different

There was no rush in the air, no trembling anticipation humming through your bones as you set the blanket out again. 

You did it anyway, out of habit, out of hope. 

The spread is smaller this time. Leftover fruit. The same bottle of wine, half empty now. But you threw a few nuts this time, almonds and cashews.

You did not expect him to stay long this time.

Some part of you already knew that.

But you were happy regardless, because if he showed up, he showed up, and that’s all that mattered.

When Steve appeared at the window, there was no hesitation in his movements. 

No hovering. 

No wide-eyed wonder. 

He stepped through the open air like someone who has rehearsed this moment over and over until it no longer scares him.

He looked beautiful, as always. But there is something else wrapped tightly around him now. 

Resolve.

“Hi,” you said, softer than the other times.

“Hi,” he repeated, and the word feeling heavier this time.

You noticed it immediately, the way his bow was already in his hand. Not slung over his shoulder. Not forgotten by the door. 

Held, firm and deliberate, the gold of it catching the light like a warning.

Your smile faltered.

“You came back,” you stated anyway, because it still mattered.

“I told you I would,” he replied. His tone is gentle. Careful. Almost kind.

That hurt more than anything else.

You sat together on the blanket, but the space between you felt wider than it ever had. 

Steve did not reach for the food. He did not let his knee brush yours. His wings were tucked tight, not relaxed, not tentative. 

Closed.

“I figured it out,” he said after a moment.

Your stomach dropped. “Figured what out?”

“How to undo it,” he answered quietly. “The arrow. The misfire.”

You stared at him, the words not quite settling. 

Undo it. 

Like it was a knot that can simply be loosened. Like what you felt is something borrowed, temporary, wrong.

“Oh,” you hummed

Steve watched your face closely, golden eyes searching, and when his mouth curved upward in a faint, relieved smile, something inside you splintered.

“It will be okay,” he assured, echoing his words from the first night. “You will feel like yourself again. Free. I promise.”

Free.

You laughed once, breathless and sharp, before you could stop yourself. “Is that what you think this is? Me not being myself?”

His smile faltered, just a little.

“You are bound by magic,” he insisted. “That is not love. Not real love.”

“It feels real,” you fought, voice trembling despite your effort to steady it. “It feels like the first honest thing I have ever felt.”

Steve looked away, avoiding your piercing eyes.

“That is exactly why it has to stop.”

Silence pressed down on you, thick and suffocating. Your chest ached, not with panic, but with something slower and deeper. Loss, already blooming before anything had even been taken.

“You seem happy about this,” you said finally.

He hesitated. “I am… relieved.”

The word landed like a bruise.

“I do not want you to suffer,” he continued. “You deserve a love that can stay. That can grow old with you. I cannot give you that.”

You swallowed, hard. “You did not even ask me what I wanted.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “I know what you want.”

“No,” you whispered. “You know what you are afraid of.”

That hit closer than he wanted to admit. His wings twitched, feathers shivering faintly.

“I have never been chosen like this,” he informed you. “Not without magic involved. I would not know how to keep it. And if I broke you because of it-”

“You would not,” you interrupted, tears blurring your vision now. “You make people whole. That is what you do.”

“For others,” he pressed. “Not for myself.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, and you understood. 

Not just the rules he followed, but the loneliness he had mistaken for safety. The way he had convinced himself that love is something he was allowed to create but never touch.

You loved him enough to see that.

And enough to let him go.

Your hands curled into the blanket. “If this is what makes you happy,” you breathed quietly, “then… do it.”

His eyes snapped back to yours. “You are sure?”

No. 

You were anything but sure. But you nodded anyway, forcing a smile through the ache. “I just want you to be okay.”

Steve exhaled, a sound that borders on relief. 

He stood, lifting the bow, already slipping back into the role that has defined him for centuries.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “For understanding.”

You do not answer. You do not trust your voice.

Steve did not rush it.

That was the first thing you noticed, even through the dull ache spreading through your chest. 

He took his time, as if reverence alone might make this gentler. 

He moved to the centre of the room, away from the blanket, away from you, placing careful distance between what he was about to do and what he could not allow himself to want.

The bow was already warm in his hands.

It pulsed faintly, responding to him, to his intent. 

Magic stirred like a sleeping thing being coaxed awake, not violent, not loud, but ancient and attentive. 

Steve closed his eyes and lowered his head, curls falling forward as he whispered words you did not understand.

They sounded old. 

Not sharp or commanding, but worn smooth with use, like a prayer that had been spoken too many times to still feel holy.

Then the air changed.

It thickened, drawing inward instead of blooming outward the way it had the night he shot you. 

The warmth in your chest began to tug, subtle at first, like a memory being pulled loose. 

You inhaled sharply, fingers curling into the fabric beneath you as something inside you shifted.

But you did not cry out.

You refused to give the moment that satisfaction.

Golden light seeped from your skin in thin, trembling threads. 

It gathered slowly, reluctantly, like it did not want to leave.

Your vision blurred at the edges, the room warping as the magic pulled back toward its source.

Steve opened his eyes.

His breath caught as he watched the arrow reform in the space between you, incomplete and fractured, light bleeding from its cracks. 

It looked wrong.

Broken in a way that felt personal. His jaw tightened, guilt flaring hot and sharp in his chest, but he pushed through it.

“It is almost done,” he said softly, though his voice wavered. “You may not be able to see me afterwards.”

You barely heard him.

The warmth inside you dulled, sinking deeper, muffled but not gone. You felt suddenly exhausted, like the love had been folded inward instead of taken away. 

Your head lolled back against the couch, eyelids heavy, body refusing to obey you anymore.

Steve stepped closer without thinking.

He caught you as you slumped, his arms firm and steady around you as he lowered you carefully to the floor. 

Your weight against him sent a strange ache through his chest, unfamiliar and frightening. 

You were warm. 

Alive. 

Too real.

“I am sorry,” he murmured, almost to himself.

He reached out and grasped the arrow.

It trembled in his hand.

For a long moment, he hesitated. His fingers tightened around the shaft, knuckles whitening as doubt surged. This was the last chance to stop. 

To leave it unfinished. 

To accept the impossible thing you were offering him.

Instead, he snapped it cleanly in two.

The sound cracked through the room, sharp and final. 

Light flared once, briefly blinding, then collapsed inward. The fragments dissolved into nothing, magic scattering like dust before vanishing completely.

The pull ceased.

Steve staggered back a step, chest heaving as the magic settled. 

The room returned to normal, the glow gone, the air ordinary again.

Yet you laid still.

Your breathing was shallow but steady, eyes unfocused, lashes fluttering faintly as if you were slipping in and out of sleep. The openness you had worn so effortlessly was gone, replaced by something muted and distant. 

You looked empty in a way that made his throat tighten.

He watched you carefully.

Waiting.

You blinked once. Then again. Your gaze drifted past him, unfixed, as if you were looking through fog instead of at him. The absence hit him like a physical thing.

It worked.

Relief flooded him so suddenly it left him dizzy.

“You will be alright,” he said softly, though he was no longer sure who he was reassuring. “You just need rest.”

You did not answer.

You did not reach for him. 

You did not look at him the way you had before, like he was something precious and chosen. 

Whatever magic had bound you to him was gone.

That was what he had wanted.

He stood slowly, forcing himself not to linger. 

Staying would only complicate things. 

Staying would only tempt him into mistakes he did not know how to survive.

“I am glad I met you,” he said quietly, voice thick with something he refused to name. “Even if you will not remember why.”

You did not stir.

Steve stepped back through the window and into the night, wings catching the air as he took flight. 

And he did not look back.

♡

The sickness did not announce itself all at once.

It arrived quietly, deceptively gentle. 

At first, it was only fatigue. 

A heaviness that clung to your limbs no matter how long you slept. You woke up feeling unrefreshed, your body slow and uncooperative, your chest aching with a pressure you could not place.

Then came the heat.

A low fever settled into your bones, leaving you flushed and shivering by turns. 

You tried to ignore it, tried to go about your days as usual, but even small tasks left you breathless. 

Food lost its appeal. 

Wine sat untouched where you had left it.

You stopped setting out the blanket.

There was no point.

He made it clear he wasn’t coming back.

The dreams began soon after.

You dreamed of gold light and soft wings, of hands that hovered close but never quite touched. 

You dreamed of a boy with tired eyes and too much responsibility, standing at the edge of something he wanted but did not believe he was allowed to have.

You woke with his name on your lips, heart racing, sheets damp with sweat.

The love did not fade.

It stayed.

It curled inward, settling deep in your chest like a second heartbeat. 

Without magic to guide it outward, it had nowhere to go. It pressed and pressed, quiet and constant, until your body began to feel like it could not hold it all.

Days blurred together.

You grew weaker. Dizzy. You took to staying in bed, the world narrowing to the space beneath your blankets. Every breath felt like effort. Your thoughts drifted, circling him again and again, tender and aching and unwavering.

You still loved him.

No matter what he had done. No matter what he thought he had fixed.

—

High above the city, Steve felt it.

Not at first. Not clearly.

It started as unease. A persistent wrongness humming beneath his skin, his magic restless and out of rhythm. He expected the familiar sense of completion that followed a correction, the quiet certainty of balance restored.

It never came.

Instead, there was an ache. 

Low and insistent. A pull that made his chest tighten without warning. He faltered mid-flight one evening, wings stuttering as he sucked in a sharp breath.

“What is this?” he muttered to himself.

He pressed a hand to his sternum, confusion giving way to something colder. Fear.

The arrow was gone. 

He knew it was. He had destroyed it himself. He had watched the magic dissolve.

So why did it feel like something was still tethered to him?

Steve hovered there for a long moment, scanning the city below, heart pounding. A name surfaced unbidden, heavy with memory.

He swallowed and forced himself onward.

It had to be his imagination. Residual magic. Guilt.

Anything but the truth.

Far below, you lay fevered and trembling, clutching the empty space beside you as if it might still remember the shape of him.

And though Steve believed he had undone the impossible-

Love, once chosen freely, did not answer to spells.

The sickness deepened the way winter did, not with violence, but with persistence.

It crept further into you day by day, settling into places you did not know could ache. Your limbs grew heavy, then useless. Standing left you dizzy, vision dimming at the edges until you learned not to try anymore. 

You slept more than you were awake, and when you were awake, the world felt distant, muffled, like it was reaching you through layers of fog and water.

Your apartment grew quiet.

Not peaceful. Just empty.

The food in your fridge spoiled, untouched. 

The blanket by the window stayed folded where you had left it, gathering dust. You stopped opening the curtains. 

Light hurt your eyes now, sharp and intrusive, as if the sun itself were offended by your devotion to the dark.

Your chest hurt the most.

Not sharply. Not in a way that begged for attention. 

It was a slow, constant pressure, like something blooming where your lungs should have been. 

Every breath felt borrowed. Every inhale came with the strange sense that you were making room for something that did not belong entirely to you.

You knew what it was.

Love did not fade just because it was inconvenient. 

It did not vanish simply because someone decided it should. Without magic to move it along, to guide it outward, it had turned inward instead, folding itself into you, pressing against bone and blood and breath.

You wondered, dimly, if this was how stars collapsed.

You dreamed constantly.

Sometimes the dreams were kind. Steve standing at your window again, wings glowing softly, expression unsure but open. 

Sometimes he smiled. 

Sometimes he reached for you. 

Sometimes you woke with tears on your cheeks and his name tangled in your throat.

Other dreams were cruel.

You dreamed of him turning away. 

Of him snapping the arrow again and again, each crack echoing through your chest. 

You dreamed of trying to speak and finding your voice gone, your body heavy and rooted to the bed as he disappeared into light.

You woke from those dreams gasping, heart racing, fever burning hot beneath your skin.

Still, you loved him.

You loved him in the quiet moments when pain dulled to an ache. 

You loved him when the dreams faded and left only the memory of his face behind. 

You loved him without resentment, without bitterness, without blame.

You loved him because it was yours to choose.

♡

Steve felt the pull grow stronger.

It was no longer subtle. 

It no longer waited for quiet moments to make itself known. It tugged at him while he worked, while he flew, while he hovered unseen over strangers’ lives and nudged love into motion with hands that suddenly felt clumsy and wrong.

Every arrow he loosed felt heavier than the last.

Every success rang hollow.

The ache in his chest had sharpened, turning from discomfort into something close to pain. 

It struck without warning, a tightening beneath his ribs that stole his breath and left his wings faltering mid-flight. 

He had nearly fallen twice now, catching himself only by instinct and stubborn refusal.

He missed you.

The realization came quietly, devastating in its simplicity.

He missed the way you looked at him like he was something chosen. He missed the sound of your voice saying his name without reverence or fear. He missed sitting beside you in silence, the strange, grounding weight of being wanted without obligation.

He had told himself he was relieved.

That lie grew thinner every day.

The magic would not settle. It hummed beneath his skin, restless and insistent, like it was trying to lead him somewhere he refused to go. 

He began to dream, too, which was new and deeply unsettling.

He dreamed of you curled beneath blankets, pale and trembling. 

He dreamed of your breath coming shallow and uneven. 

He dreamed of reaching for you and finding his hands glowing uselessly, unable to fix what he had broken.

He woke from those dreams with his heart racing and guilt clawing at his throat.

Something was wrong.

Deeply wrong.

The breaking point came when an arrow shattered in his hand.

He had been steady. 

Careful. 

Perfect. 

He had never misfired in centuries of service. But that night, as he drew the bow and focused his intent, the magic resisted him. The arrow splintered, light fracturing violently before dissolving into nothing.

Steve stared at his empty hand, breath shallow.

That had never happened.

He landed hard on a nearby rooftop, knees buckling as the truth finally caught up to him. The spell. The reversal. The book he had used.

He had read it quickly. Too quickly.

He had trusted it because he wanted it to be true.

Steve turned and flew all the way back to his world.

The archives were older than cities, older than languages. Shelves stretched impossibly far in every direction, filled with books bound in leather, bone, and light itself. 

Steve moved through them like a man possessed, fingers skimming spines until he found the one he had used.

He tore it open, flicking through the pages like they meant nothing.

Only one mattered.

The page was the same. The spell unchanged. His breath slowed, relief flickering weakly in his chest until his eyes dropped lower.

Smaller text.

Cramped. Deliberate.

The kind meant to be overlooked.

Steve read it once.

Then again.

Then his knees gave out.

He wasn’t usually so careless, so reckless, when it came to those types of things.

So why was he then?

Steve could not breathe.

He snapped the book shut and was airborne before it hit the floor, needing to get to you. 

He never should have left, he realised.

It was a choice, it was always up to choice. 

♡

You were barely conscious when he returned.

The world had narrowed to heat and ache and the steady thud of your heart struggling beneath too much feeling. You floated in and out of awareness, breath shallow, skin burning.

The window burst open.

And he searched the house.

He had only ever been in the living room, so when he tore the doors open, he wasn’t surprised when he found your toilet, then your closet. 

Then lastly your bedroom.

Cold air rushed in, sharp and clean, cutting through the stifling warmth of the room. Light followed, gold and frantic, and then hands were on you in an instant.

“Hey,” Steve whispered, voice breaking. “Hey, I am here.”

You stirred faintly, lashes fluttering. 

His presence registered somewhere deep inside you, a sudden easing of the pressure in your chest that made you gasp softly.

“Steve,” you breathed weakly, bearly registering his face

The sound of his name from your lips undid him completely.

“I am so sorry,” he said, hands trembling as he brushed damp hair from your forehead. “I did not know. I did not read carefully enough. I thought I was helping you.”

You couldn’t answer, whining at the pain instead.

“It did not work…I know that now, and I am sorry- It is all my fault”

You curled into yourself, a sharp turn in your stomach making you wince.

His hand that stroked your hair did little to ease you from the pain. Nothing would heal you from the sickness.

Yet, you did not blame him. 

You never would.

Your vision was blurry, but you could still make out the faint tears that brimmed his eyes, catching in his beautiful, full eyelashes.

“It was never going to work- the spell- not while you loved me- not while you continued to love me” He continued in a rush, his lip quivering.

“If I had read it close enough- I would have known- I- trying to break it would only make it worse…and- but-” He paused, licking over his lips.

He climbed onto the bed beside you, his hands cradling your face.

His wings closed against himself as his thumb brushed over your cheek, his voice shaking at the sight of you.

He closed his eyes, sighing.

Knowing he needed to man up, one hand slipped down to your hand, intertwining your fingers.

You felt the squeeze of his palm, the softness of his skin against yours.

He cleared his throat, feeling the lump in his throat.

“I love you” He spoke carefully, like he was scared you couldn’t hear him.

But you did. God, you did.

“I love you” He repeated with a smile, feeling proud of himself.

Feeling sure of himself.

For once, he let himself know the feeling, and he cursed himself for letting it come to this, risking your life.

Steve doesn’t let the thought cross his mind.

He couldn’t let the idea of him turning up later and you being…there…lifeless, all because of his foolishness.

“I love you, electus meus”

You frowned, not knowing what he said, but smiling anyway.

But as you closed your eyes, you felt his warmth, his body shifting closer to yours.

His thumb drifted down to your chin, softly pinching your skin.

“You will be okay” He whispered, his breath fanning over your face.

The last thing you felt was his plush lips on yours, leaning in for a delicate kiss.

♡

You woke up slowly.

Not the sharp, panicked kind of waking that had haunted you for days, but something gentler. 

Heavy. 

Like surfacing through warm water. 

Your body felt tired in a deep, honest way, the kind that followed real rest instead of fevered collapse.

Your chest rose.

Then fell.

The simple act startled you.

Breathing did not hurt.

The pressure was gone. 

Not vanished entirely, but eased, as if something immense had finally been given room to stretch outward instead of pressing inward. 

You swallowed, throat dry, eyelids fluttering open to a room washed in pale afternoon light.

The curtains were drawn halfway. Dust motes drifted lazily through the air. Time had passed. More than a night.

You shifted weakly, muscles protesting, and that was when you noticed the arm around your waist.

Warm. Solid.

Real.

Your breath caught.

Steve laid beside you on the bed, turned on his side, one arm draped protectively over your middle like he had been afraid you might disappear if he loosened his hold. 

His face was slack with sleep, lashes dark against his cheeks, mouth parted just slightly.

He looked exhausted.

There were faint shadows beneath his eyes. 

His hair was rumpled, curls flattened on one side as if he had not moved in a long time. 

He was still beautiful, heartbreakingly so, but not glowing now. Not otherworldly.

Just here.

You shifted again, carefully, and his eyes opened instantly.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough with disuse, already pushing himself up on one elbow. “Easy.”

You stared at him, disoriented. “How long have I been out?” you asked, your voice hoarse.

He smiled faintly, relief flooding his features so quickly it almost hurt to see. “A day. Maybe two. You scared me.”

You swallowed, eyes dragging over him again, grounding yourself in the sight. 

He was wearing a simple shirt now, one of yours, sleeves pushed up his forearms, you didn’t have time to question that before you scanned over him

His bow was nowhere to be seen.

Neither were his wings.

The realization landed slowly, horribly.

Your gaze flicked behind him, then back again. 

You pushed yourself upright, heart beginning to race. “Steve,” you whispered. “Your wings.”

His smile faltered, but he did not look away from you, not once.

If anything, he almost forgot he ever had wings.

“Yes,” he said fiercely. “I am here. I am not leaving.”

The words felt familiar, anchored, like something he had promised before you slipped back into darkness. 

He shifted closer, careful, one hand coming up to steady you when you swayed.

“What did you do?” you asked, voice trembling now. “Steve, what did you do?”

He exhaled, long and slow, like he had been preparing for this moment for a while. “I chose,” he said simply.

“That is not an answer” you whispered, eyes wide in shock.

“It is the only one that matters” he replied firmly, like there was no room for an argument.

He guided you back against the pillows, sitting beside you so he could see your face clearly. 

Without his wings, without the hum of magic under his skin, he seemed smaller somehow. 

More human. 

More fragile.

More real.

“I stayed,” he continued quietly. “I stayed because leaving almost killed you. And because fixing things from a distance was never going to work. Not when the problem was that I kept pretending I was not allowed to want anything.”

Your eyes burned. “You gave it up,” you said. “You were… you were a god.”

He shook his head. “I was lonely.”

The word cracked something open in him. You could hear it in his voice, feel it in the way his fingers trembled where they rested on the sheets.

“I spent centuries telling myself that love was a thing I delivered, not something I deserved. That wanting was dangerous. That choosing would only end in loss,” he said. “And then you looked at me like I was already chosen.”

“You did not get better because the magic fixed itself,” Steve went on. “You got better because I finally stopped fighting what was already true.”

You reached for him without thinking, your hand curling into the fabric of his shirt- your shirt. He leaned into the touch immediately, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Steve” You murmured

“Yes, Carissime?” He hummed, leaning in closer to you.

“You shouldn’t have done that”

“I had to give up the wings,” he said softly. “The magic. The bow. Everything that made it possible for me to stand apart instead of beside you.”

“But, you cannot just do that,” you whispered. “You cannot become mortal for me.”

“I did not become mortal for you,” he corrected gently. “I became mortal with you.” 

His hands find your face, cupping your cheeks as he leaned back to look at you.

You shook your head, overwhelmed. “What if you regret it?”

He smiled then, not relieved or careful, but sure. “I regret not doing it sooner.”

Silence settled between you, thick but not heavy. 

You could feel his heartbeat now, steady beneath your palm. You could feel the warmth of him, unguarded, unshielded.

Human.

“You are a stupid Cupid” you chuckled beneath your breath

“I am not Cupid, Amasiuncula, I am Steve”

You snorted at his correction, grabbing his side and squeezing teasingly “Yeah? Well, you are stupid, Steve”

He frowned, a quiet gasp leaving his mouth 

“Veni huc, mea care” 

You weren’t sure what he said, but you couldn’t care much when he leaned in, placing a kiss to your lips.

The kiss started slowly.

Not tentative, not unsure, but careful. Like he was relearning something sacred with hands that had never been allowed to hold it before. 

His lips were warm, softer than you expected, lingering just long enough for you to feel the quiet weight of choice behind it.

You made a small sound before you could stop yourself.

Steve froze for half a second, breath hitching against your mouth, as if checking whether he was allowed to continue. When you did not pull away, when you tilted your chin up instead, he exhaled shakily and kissed you again.

This time, deeper.

His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, thumb brushing just under your ear, grounding himself in the feel of you. 

There was no magic in it now. 

No glow. 

No pull beyond the one he was choosing with every careful movement.

It made it better.

You melted into him, fingers tightening in his shirt, tugging him closer until his chest pressed against yours. 

He tasted like sleep and wine and something familiar that made your chest ache. 

You parted your lips instinctively, and Steve made a quiet, startled noise before following the invitation, kissing you like he was discovering fire for the first time.

Slow. 

Then hungry. 

Then slow again.

When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath uneven, eyes dark and searching.

“Was that okay?” he asked quietly.

You laughed softly, still breathless. “You really gave up Godhood and you are asking me that?”

A shy smile tugged at his mouth. “I am new at this.”

You reached up, brushing your thumb across his lower lip, still warm from the kiss. “You are doing fine.”

His breath caught at the touch. You felt it everywhere.

Steve leaned back down, kissing you again, longer this time, more confident. 

His hand slid to your waist, thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric of your shirt, and the contact sent a pleasant shiver through you.

Not overwhelming.

Not consuming.

Just right.

Eventually, the kiss softened, turning lazy and sweet, until he pulled back and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead instead.

“You should rest,” he murmured. “You are still recovering.”

You groaned softly. “You sound like a doctor.”

He smiled. “I stayed awake for two days watching you breathe. I earned the right.”

Your chest tightened at that. You shifted closer, tucking yourself against his side, fitting there like you had always belonged. His arm wrapped around you immediately, instinctive and sure.

“You are really staying,” you said quietly.

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation.

“What about the others?” you asked. “The love you were supposed to make?”

He considered that for a moment, gaze drifting to the window where the sky was beginning to deepen toward evening. “Love will find its way. It always does. It does not need me hovering over it.”

You smiled into his chest. “You sound very sure for someone who just fell off a godly pedestal.”

He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Turns out, I like the ground.”

You yawned then, exhaustion finally catching up to you now that the pain was gone. Steve noticed immediately, shifting so you were more comfortable, tucking the blankets around you with careful hands.

“Sleep,” he said gently.

“And you’ll be here when I wake up?” You asked, needing the assurance.

“If you’ll have me, I’ll be here. Do you need me?”

You hummed, nodding lazily “always need you”

Steve held you a little tighter at that, heart steady, certain, finally at peace.

For the first time in his very long life, love was not something he delivered.

It was something he got to keep.

“How old are you again?” You wondered suddenly, frowning at the thought “Like an estimate?”

He only laughed.

જ⁀➴ ♡

Translation:

Electus meus: My chosen one

Carissime: My dear

amasiuncula: Darling/sweetheart

veni huc, mea care: Come here, my dear

MAMMON

Using Goldie. He won’t let you take her out and about, per se, but he put Goldie on your Akuber account.

“If ya want a late night snack, order using this. Don’t leave in the middle of the night without me and definitely don’t ask anyone else to get ya food.”

When you giggled about it to Simeon and Satan between classes, they told you that Mammon would throw you under the bus the moment Lucifer got his hand on Goldie’s credit card statement. 

But the credit card statement came and went. Mammon was the only one strung up by his ankles in the living room. You went to Lucifer to try and shorten his sentence, explaining that you were to blame for some of the charges.

“Oh, so that was your account. He didn’t tell me whose it was. Not to worry, though. Your food ordering didn’t even account for 1% of what that idiot charged on that damnable card. So he will dangle and wail for as long as I want him to. Off you go.”

 You immediately brought Mammon snacks and water, hand feeding him and shooing away whatever brother had come to gloat. Needless to say, he did not learn his lesson and was not the least bit remorseful.

LEVIATHAN

Going outside. It started when you asked him to go to a new store, or cafe, or restaurant with you because you didn’t want to go alone. He made a fuss, but relented so as to have the opportunity to make the others jealous. It was… fine. Better than he expected, not that he’d admit it aloud. 

A few weeks later, there was an event to support The Magical Ruri Hana: Demon Girl that was IRL that he really wanted to go to. He barged into your room with a scowl and asked (i.e. told) you to join him.

“I went outside to do that stupid thing with you, so now you have to return the favor and come with me to support Ruri-chan.”

“Sure, Levi, I’d love to go with you.”

“...” 

Thankfully, he didn’t flood the House of Lamentation but it was quite the struggle. You went with him happily, letting him yammer on and on. 

Now that he unlocked you as a travel companion, he could go to way more events to support all the things he loved! And if it was too much, you were an expert at maneuvering out of somewhere and taking him back to the safety of his room. Or going up to booths and asking for something on his behalf while he hovered silently (and a bit nervously) behind you.

And no! He did NOT like going outside now. But it was more bearable with you.

SATAN

Moving his books around. Somehow, nothing you do (or at least, very little) irritates him. Whenever you want to borrow a book, you: text him to let him know you’re going to his room, list the books you’re taking, and let him know if you’re reading in there. You don’t try to reorganize them or pack them onto the shelves. You even made a system where you put sticky notes or pieces of paper on the shelf or sticking out a stack where the book had originally been.

“You tread so carefully in here that sometimes I won’t even know you borrowed a book until I look at my messages. With my idiot brothers, I can hear them messing things up all the way from RAD. You are welcome to come in here anytime. Don’t ask to come over, just tell me you are.”

Unfortunately, Levi heard him say this and made the foolish mistake of laughing and giving away his location.

One very loud smackdown and one very long lecture later, the pair of you were stacking the books and placing anything damaged in a specific place to be repaired once all the missing pages or chunks of binding were found.

“I meant what I said. And if Levi ever comes in here, kick him out for me.”

ASMODEUS

Using his private bathroom. Your room has a half bath in it for you to brush your teeth and such, but you have to follow the established order of baths with the other boys in the communal bathroom. After a few nights of having to stay up later than you wanted to bathe after the brothers goofed around for too long, you knocked on Asmo’s door. You had your pajamas, your toiletries bag, and your hands clasped together in pleading.

“I won’t be long, not even half an hour. I just want to shower real quick!”

To your surprise, Asmo ushered you in and pulled out a bunch of things for you to try. If you shooed him away while you bathed, he would tease but oblige, resolving to simply pounce on you with skin and hair care once you exited the bathroom. If you let him stay, he chats idly and gives you a review on basically every item in his bathroom, making a pile of things you’ll try that evening.

Once cozied up in your pajamas and a silk robe Asmo loaned you, he gives you a full bedtime makeover. You fell asleep during the pampering, and you got several comments from the other brothers the following morning at breakfast of how nice you looked and smelled.

From that day on, Asmo promised he’d let you use his bathroom whenever. And rubbed it in the face of all the others that he was the only one who shared a bath with you now.

BEELZEBUB

Sharing food with you. You always offered him the first bite of your meal when you all went out. Now, you weren’t stupid: you prepared a normal sized bite for him and gave it to him, rather than letting him get his own bite. The first couple of times you offered it to him, he ate about half of your burger or plate or meal in one bite. You didn’t make that mistake again.

But he was touched. You always let him have the first bite. So he started offering you the first (or second or last) bite of his meal.

“Here, try this. Taste alright?”

You opened your mouth while you were stirring something on the stove, and Beel fed you a spoonful of the sauce he was making, his hand under your chin to catch any spill and his eyes fixed on your face.

“BEEL!” shrieked Mammon and Asmo from the doorway. “You put that spoon in your mouth just a second ago! You just indirectly kissed them! You pervert!”

Levi and Satan bellowed from the dining room, and Beel chased his older brothers from the kitchen. A pause as he looked at you expectantly.

“Did it taste alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah. Maybe a little more heavy cream, but yeah, it’s good, Beel.”

BELPHEGOR

Doting on him. As one of the younger brothers, he is often the victim of teasing, baby-talk, and obnoxious cheek pinches.

However, he pretends to not hear when you giggle to Beel about how cute he looks with his cheek smushed while sleeping. When you wake him up gently, whispering and rubbing his back, he takes his time in stirring. He’ll roll into your lap and let you scratch his scalp in the evening while everyone is winding down. Where Asmo would get attacked for cooing at him napping somewhere ridiculous, he would twitch the tip of his tail when you did the same.

When Mammon brags that you brought him snacks when Lucifer was punishing him, insisting that you saved all your affection for him, your “first”, Satan corrects him.

“You’re stupider than you look, Mammon. Haven’t you seen the picture of Belphie in their lap? They dote on him like he’s a kitten.”

Normally, he would snap at Satan and make sure he never went near you again to avoid that nonsense. But this time, he scoffed. “They treat you like that because they pity what an idiotic scumbag you are. They treat me like this because they actually like me.”

“... Man, you guys are so mean t’ me.”

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Okay, realistically, it could be worse. A lot worse. 

Unfortunately, knowing that doesn’t make it feel any less shitty.

You glance around, clasp your fingers together, and hope the ground will just swallow you whole. The odds are low, sure, but in your line of work, they're never zero.

The floor does look pretty sturdy, though. About as sturdy as the fucking mess you walked into with your own two feet.

On second thought, maybe you should just grab a shovel and dig yourself a hole deep enough. Why wait for divine intervention when you can handle the burial yourself?

“Oh my God, I'm gonna be sick.”

Oh, look at that. Dean's here. 

"Oh–Jesus Christ!”

And Sam, of course. 

Already gathered here for your soon-to-be funeral. 

You do hope they brought a shovel. 

“Hey, guys,” you say, forcing a friendly chuckle. "What's up?”

Silence. 

Deafening silence. 

They’re just staring at the space next to you, eyes wide in complete horror. 

You start to shuffle away instinctively, trying to escape the crime scene. But you don’t make it two steps before Dean locks his eyes on you. “The hell happened to my car?”

“Uh… this is gonna sound stupid,” you say, laughing nervously. “But it was self-defense.”

Sam and Dean glance between your spotless self and the wrecked car, clearly not believing a word you're saying. 

“Look at her!” Dean exclaims, stepping closer. His hands hover over the shattered window, the side mirror dangling by a thread, literally.

“My poor Baby,” he whines, caressing the dented side, scratches running deep. A small whimper almost escapes him.

Sam, the only one still logical in this disaster, frowns at you, a hint of judgment in his voice. “What do you mean—self-defense?”

“Well… Baby tried to kill me.”

Sam frowns at you and looks back at the car, trying to figure out what he’s missing.

Dean, on the other hand… he’s too emotionally involved to hear a word. There’s a slight delay before the words finally register, and about ten seconds later, he turns back to you, still cradling his precious. “My Baby would never do that.”

You narrow your eyes because he’s indirectly calling you a liar. So, of course, you do the only reasonable thing: risk your life to prove a point.

You step closer to the car, daring it to strike again. Inch by inch, you get right up next to it, smug as hell. And... nothing happens.

You glare at the Impala, give it a half-hearted punch just to wake it up. And then another, stronger this time. 

Still nothing. Zero reaction.

Great. Now you look like a car abuser. 

Dean’s eyes land on you, horrified. “Would you stop hitting my car!?”

So, about that shovel… don’t you even worry. Dean will handle it himself.

—

Dean locks himself in the garage with the victim all day, and when he does get out, he's clearly in a mood, looking like a grieving widower. Not that you blame him… but, you know, you're the real victim here, and no one seems to care. 

His precious Baby will live. He will fix her up, give her a bath, pat her hood, whisper something tender, and she’ll be good as new. 

You, on the other hand, almost became a chalk outline on the ground. And Dean hasn’t even looked at you long enough to confirm you have all your limbs.

It's almost surprising when you hear a faint knock on your door, and Dean is the one standing behind it. 

He shuffles on his feet and almost doesn't meet your eyes when he speaks. “You should stay away from the car," he says. 

You stare at him for a beat.

Really?

After everything today, that’s his opening line?

You’ve officially reached your limit, and you start closing the door, firmly ending this ridiculous conversation.

But he stops it with his hand and looks right at you. “I mean it,” he repeats. “Don’t go near her.”

Your patience snaps just a little.

“So help me God, I will kill both of you if you don’t let go of this door.”

Dean blinks at you, clearly taken aback. “…Why are you angry? I'm just saying-”

"I won’t touch your stupid car ever again,” you snap. “Next time she tries to kill me, I’ll just let it happen so you can hold her hand at my funeral.”

He looks so perplexed that you actually manage to shut the door. Briefly.

Then it swings open again with a lot more strength.

“I’m not done,” he says, trying to step closer. 

You make a break for the hallway, but he catches you without even trying, bracing his arms on either side of you. Not rough. Just firm. Inescapable.

“Would you listen to me for one damn minute?”

Okay… if he keeps holding you like that, maybe you'll listen. 

You do have your principles, strong ones, but you're also very weak when he's towering over you like that, so strong and so close. 

Your resolve falters just enough to allow him to continue. 

“Baby’s cursed,” Dean says, and you almost can’t believe he actually said it out loud. “I’ve been trying to figure out why she’d attack you all day long. And… uh… the artifacts we carried last week—I think one of them touched the car.”

You gape at him. Not just because he’s holding you, but because he believed you enough to spend the whole day digging for answers. Your chest tightens a little.

“I need you to stay away from the car, all right?” He repeats. 

His hands leave your sides, and your sanity returns just enough for the most important question.

“Why? Why is she trying to kill me?”

He swats your question away, but doesn't quite meet your eyes when he replies. “Just – I dunno. Doesn't matter,” he says curtly. Then he softens a little as he continues, “Listen… how’re you feeling? You okay?”

Well, you do feel better now that he asked, so you nod.

Dean exhales, sounding relieved. “Good. That’s good. Now get some sleep, alright? Lemme know if you need anything.”

—

You’ve been avoiding the Impala for weeks now. Every hunt, every town, every dusty stretch of highway… you steer clear of her. And yet, the longer you’re on the road alone, the more you feel the ache. It’s not just the car itself; it’s what she represents. Home. Safety. Memories of road trips, laughter bouncing between the front seats, quiet moments in the backseat when the world outside starts to fade.

Driving alone is hollow. The road stretches endlessly, gray and lonely. You miss Dean in the front seat, his occasional glances from the rearview mirror, the way he hums along to a song he knows you secretly love. You miss Sam too, with his endless facts and gentle prodding that makes the hours pass faster.

Sometimes, you catch yourself staring at the empty passenger seat, wishing to be elsewhere, wishing the road could carry you back to those little pockets of comfort, those small moments that felt like everything.

And yet… you resist. Patience, you tell yourself. One day, you and the Impala will be reunited. One day, you’ll slide into those leather seats, close your eyes, and let her hum you to sleep. 

One day.

---

When Dean walks into the motel room, you’re already buried in research, eyes skimming pages for any clue about the creature haunting this town.

“Anything?” you ask without looking up.

“Nah. Maybe Sammy’ll be luckier,” he replies, leaning against the doorframe. Then his gaze drifts to your hand, clutching your neck. “You still in pain?”

“My neck’s killing me,” you murmur. “Must’ve slept wrong.”

Dean slides closer, voice soft, a faint edge of concern threading through it. “C’mon… stand up straight. Just like that…” His fingers replace yours on your neck, pressing into the tense muscles with deliberate pressure. The heat from his hands spreads down your shoulders, loosening you up, teasing out knots you didn’t realize were there.

You catch your breath at the sudden relief. It’s intimate without words, the way his thumbs glide along the tight lines of your neck, the gentle stretch as he nudges your shoulders back. Every touch is firm and careful, but there’s something personal in it, a closeness that makes your chest tighten and your thoughts stumble.

“Relax… that’s it,” he murmurs, voice low. The warmth of it drifts down your spine as he works through the stubborn knots, each press sending shivers across your nerves. You hum softly, eyes fluttering closed, letting yourself sink into the moment, into him. The world shrinks to the press of his fingers, the heat radiating from his palms, and the quiet intimacy of being cared for like this.

Then—a roar.

The Impala’s engine. Full blast.

Your eyes snap open. Dean yelps, stepping back, hands raised like he’s negotiating with someone holding a gun. “Baby! Hey! Calm down! Nothin’ happened!”

She revs again. Louder. More insistent.

Dean throws his hands in the air. “Oh, for crying out loud!” He rushes outside, crouching beside the car, patting her hood, whispering in a voice so soft it’s almost reverent. “Easy… yeah, I get it. I'm sorry, okay? Just… calm down.”

You press your face to the window, watching the absurdity of it all. 

Dean’s knees hit the asphalt as he pleads with her. 

Finally, the engine dies, and he staggers back inside, running a hand over his face, eyes avoiding yours. “Alright… I’m taking another room. I don't think she wants me here.”

You stare, dumbfounded, no words coming out. 

You can’t even glare at the cursed car for ruining your massage. Not yet. Not when she’s still clearly in charge.

—

Hours pass before Sam heads back, and in the meantime, Dean has moved the car across the street and is now texting you from the next room. 

Sam steps inside, looks around the space, then drops into the chair across from you. “Where’s Dean?”

“Uh, the room next to ours," you reply. “Baby was a bit upset." 

Sam tries and fails not to look at you like a criminal. “Why? What were you two doing?" 

"Nothing." 

He snorts and shakes his head. “Yeah, sure. Because that’s totally how this works. He’s supposed to stay away from you. He knows that.”

What?

You don't want to cut this conversation short, so you nod at him in agreement. "Right, he does know that.”

“Listen, whatever it is—just… don’t do it again, alright? Not until it’s over.” His voice is half big-brother, half exhausted-babysitter. And before you can demand to know what “it” even is, he barrels on into case talk, flipping open a lore book with all the enthusiasm of someone who hasn’t slept in two days.

The real issue is, it never seems to be over. Whatever spell they're trying to reverse this curse, it needs the most impossible ingredients, and it's already been more than a month with no changes. 

You’d suggested Dean park Baby in the garage for now, use a different car until they fix things. He’d looked at you with this tragic expression and whispered, “I tried... She didn’t like that.”

The man said it like Baby had keyed the other car in retaliation.

— 

A couple more days go by, then a couple more, and you finally work up the nerve to knock on Dean’s bunker door. When he opens it, the first thing he does is whip a glance down the hallway, like Baby’s about to come barreling around the corner with murder in her headlights.

Then he seems to realize how ridiculous that would look, shakes his head, and focuses back on you. “What’s up?”

“I haven’t seen you in three days.”

You pout because, at this point, your pride is dead and buried. “Are you avoiding me now? Because of the car?”

He shrugs, but his eyes flick back to the hallway again. Then he takes two entire steps backward. “Just in case,” he says.

Right.

You’re so fed up with this whole mess, you could scream into a pillow. 

“Why does she want to kill me, anyway?” you demand. “I’ve never done anything to her—well, besides that one time. Maybe I should just talk to her.”

“No,” he says instantly, and even moves toward you before catching himself. “Just—no. Stay away from her, okay? Lemme handle it.”

“You keep saying that,” you mumble, frustration and sadness mixing into something embarrassingly pathetic. “But I just…”

You feel lonely. Pathetically, achingly lonely. He used to always be there, a steady presence in your life. Now you’re lucky to spot him across the hallway once a day.

Your shoulders drop. You cast your eyes down. “Whatever,” you breathe, then turn away before your voice can crack, retreating toward your room as quietly as you can manage.

—

A few more days pass, heavy and quiet, and then, suddenly, everything goes wrong and you find yourself sprinting through the woods, lungs burning, legs shaking.

Branches tear at your clothes as you run towards the only thing that can help. The only thing that can save him. 

The trees break suddenly, and there she is.

The Impala.

Your heart stumbles at the sight of her, gleaming black in the dim light. 

The instant she registers you, her engine roars to life, low, furious, almost wounded. A sound that vibrates through your ribs.

You freeze, breath shaking.

Fear coils tight in your stomach, but you move anyway.

Hands raised, palms open, you slowly step toward her. “Listen,” you begin, and your voice cracks instantly. “Please… just listen.”

The engine growls again. She could crush you in a heartbeat. 

But she waits.

“You care about Dean,” you say, your throat thickening. “I know you do. And that's why I'm here.” 

Another step.

Your legs tremble, but you keep going.

“I know you don’t like me. I know you don’t want me near him.” A harsh breath escapes you as you keep moving. “But he’s in danger and he needs help... I need what’s in your trunk, and I can’t get it without you letting me.”

“Please.”

A whisper. A prayer.

“Please, Baby. I’m begging you. Whatever this curse is doing to you, whatever it wants you to do to me, you know I’m not lying. We don’t… we don’t have much time. Please. Dean needs you.”

For a long moment, there is nothing.

The forest holds its breath.

So do you.

Then—

A soft mechanical click.

The trunk unlocks.

It rises slowly, as if it takes effort… as if she’s fighting something inside herself to let you in.

Your chest tightens until it hurts, and you step forward carefully, reverently, to gather everything you need. 

The trunk never wavers, the hood never drops. She does not threaten you.

She chooses not to.

When you have everything, you stop. You look at her, really look, and your throat tightens. Because this isn’t her. Not truly. And she’s trying, she's fighting. For him.

You reach out and rest your hand against her side, gentle, grateful.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice breaking. “Thank you, Baby.”

Then you turn, heart heavy but determined, and you run.

— 

A few hours later, you stumble back into that clearing, half-carrying Dean with Sam. His weight sags heavily between you both, his boots dragging through the dirt. He’s in bad shape, so bad your tears haven’t stopped since the moment you reached him. They blur your vision now, hot and constant, slipping down your cheeks as you hold him tighter.

His eyes are barely open.

His breathing comes in shallow, broken pulls.

There’s so much blood you don’t know where it’s coming from anymore… his shirt soaked through, Sam’s hands slick with it, your own arms painted red up to the elbows.

Sam tries to push you back the moment the car comes into view. “Stay here,” he pants. “Let me go first.”

But you shake your head, voice trembling. “Trust me. Keep going.”

Baby revs the second her headlights catch you– sharp, furious, like she’s ready to tear the clearing apart piece by piece. The ground hums under your feet as she growls, metal vibrating with warning, with something twisted by the curse.

But then—

Sam drags Dean forward.

And she sees him.

Her engine chokes mid-growl.

Then she lets out a sound you’ve never heard from her before… low, wounded, almost pleading. A sound that cracks something open inside you.

She whines again, louder this time, as if calling for him.

And then a soft yellow glow begins to pulse beneath her frame.

It spreads upward slowly at first… then faster… brighter… until her entire body is wrapped in a golden haze that flickers and swells like a heartbeat. The light intensifies, filling every curve of her metal, building pressure until suddenly—

It shatters.

A burst of warmth, wind, and color rippling outward across the clearing, washing over trees, leaves, dirt. It takes the air from your lungs, but it brings something else too. A sense of stillness. Of clarity. Of release.

And you know.

You don’t know how, but you know.

The curse is gone.

Baby fought it off.

For Dean.

Together, shaking, you and Sam lift Dean into the backseat. You climb in after him, pulling him onto your lap, cradling his head against your shoulder. Your hands press against his wound, desperate, pleading. 

Sam throws himself into the driver’s seat and steps on the accelerator so hard the world lurches.

There are no words in the car.

Only Dean’s shallow breaths…

your quiet, broken tears…

and the soft hum of Baby’s engine, steady and urgent, like a prayer whispered into the dark.

—

The weeks go by, and Dean slowly recovers, surrounded by the stark white walls of the hospital. In the meantime, you take it upon yourself to care for Baby because she deserves it.

There’s no curse anymore, and you know she’s just metal now, nothing alive pulsing inside her. But after everything that’s happened, you’ve grown incredibly attached to her, and you want to treasure her as she deserves, until Dean can do it himself.

You’ve always understood the quiet reverence he holds for her, Sam too. For most of their lives, that car has been more than a vehicle; she’s been home, the one constant thread tying them to something solid beyond each other. She’s always been there, right from the very beginning. 

Life to them has never existed without Baby.

And now, apart from the ties she has with the guys, you feel your own bond blooming quietly each time you look at her. You let her know in small, gentle ways… a soft pat to her side whenever you’re near.

Then the day comes. Dean steps outside the hospital, and his eyes immediately find her.

“Oh, Baby, I missed you,” he murmurs, hands reaching for her. And he inspects her with the sharp, assessing eye only he has. “Sammy, you’ve stepped up your game, man. She’s pristine.”

His brother chuckles from behind him. “I got nothing to do with it.”

Dean’s gaze finds you instinctively, eyebrows raised, waiting for confirmation.

“What can I say?” you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips. “She grew on me.”

He smiles back, genuine and half-surprised, and then hands you the keys Sam just gave him.

“What?” Your voice wavers with disbelief.

“Go ahead,” he says simply. “Always figured you’d drive her someday. Looks like that day’s today.”

Not once has he said this, not once have you driven her before. Tears prick at your eyes as you slide into the driver’s seat, Dean settling beside you. You take her in from this new perspective, seeing her as Dean does, feeling the weight of his trust. 

After a quiet pat to the steering wheel, you finally turn the key in the ignition.

—

“So… Baby’s curse. What was that all about anyway?”

It’s been long enough that Dean probably assumes the topic’s buried for good, but you’ve never gotten closure and it gnaws at you. Before that day when you’d been forced to hurt her, you’d always been careful, respectful. Of her. Of him. Never letting a scrap of food touch her seat, never leaving a mark with your shoes.

You’d even drunkenly kissed him once, right on those seats, to thank him when he came to pick you up after a night out. The image of Dean and Baby, waiting for you like that… it had done something inexplicable to your heart.

Maybe that’s what had upset her.

The point is, you need to know.

As soon as the question is out of your mouth, Dean almost chokes on his beer, and he lowers his legs from the table, looking for the stability of the floor. “...You know, just a normal curse.”

“How is your car trying to kill me normal?”

“You know Baby,” he says matter-of-factly, though his voice is just a little tight, “she cares about me. And the curse must have played with that. Made her think you were someone to watch out for, you know?”

“Why? Why would your car be upset if you give me a massage? That’s crazy ex-girlfriend behavior.”

His eyes widen, just for a moment, before he forces a normal expression back onto his face. “Does it really matter? I mean… It’s over now, right?”

And in most ways, it is over.

But a small thought lingers in your mind, persistent and quiet. While the curse is gone, something about Baby lately feels… alive.

Do you have proof? No, not really.

Has anything tangible happened to confirm it? Again, no.

But that feeling persists, stubborn, refusing to be ignored. It’s not a bad feeling, nothing like the curse; it’s innocent, teasing, as if she’s quietly reminding you that she’s still very much here. But, considering the severe lack of evidence, it’s probably entirely in your head.

Like the time the passenger door nudged you straight into Dean’s arms.

Like the time your seatbelt got stuck… until he came closer and put his hand on it to let you out.

Yeah, it must be your vivid imagination, and not the car trying to set you up with her owner.  

And then it happens again, just another totally random coincidence, when all the doors of the Impala refuse to unlock, trapping you and Dean inside at the worst possible moment. Right when you’re angry at each other, when the only thing you want is to get the hell away from him.

But the doors won’t budge. The car won’t start. And as the rain begins to drip down the windows, you’re forced into those seats with no escape.

Dean sighs long and loud, resting his head on the wheel after his last failed attempt. “C’mon, Baby,” he mutters, half-angry, half-pleading. “Don’t do this to me now.”

But the stubborn little thing doesn’t listen. You sit trapped on the side of some middle-of-nowhere road, arms crossed, staring everywhere but at him. The storm worsens, lightning flashing, thunder rolling in the distance, and you slide down the seat, resting your head against it.

And then the heater dies too, if Dean’s string of curses is any proof. 

Without a word, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over you as he settles beside you. You push it away, grumbling that you “don’t need his stupid jacket,” but he just sighs and lays it over you again, stubborn as ever. Eventually, you stop fighting it, glaring out the rain-streaked window from under its warmth.

“I don’t even know why you’re pissed at me,” Dean mutters, voice low. “You can go date that douchebag for all I care.”

“I’d love to, if I could actually get out of here,” you shoot back, purely out of spite. “I swear your car does this shit on purpose.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, well, you should be grateful. You could be stuck with Captain Grabby Hands right about now.”

“Well, at least he cares about me… not like someone else.”

That one hits. A flash of anger crosses his eyes, quick, sharp, matching the lightning outside. “Are you talkin’ about me right now? Why the hell would you say something like that?”

You turn your back on him again, slumping into the seat. “I don’t wanna talk anymore.”

Dean reaches out and grabs your arm, not hard, but enough to pull you back toward him. When you finally look up, there’s no anger left in his face. He looks… almost hurt. “Who said I don’t care about you? Have I ever said anything like that?”

You look at him from beneath your lashes, his jacket still pooled in your lap, and shrug. “You don’t care about me the way I want you to care,” you whisper. Then you try to turn away again. “Can you let me go now?”

He does. His hands fall away immediately. But when you risk another shy glance at him, he leans in and kisses you, soft at first, almost hesitant, like he’s giving you one last chance to pull away. The shock only lasts a heartbeat before you’re kissing him back, breathless.

Your heart jumps, your stomach twists, everything inside you is tightening all at once as his hands settle at your waist. He pulls you closer, closer still, until you’re practically on his lap, your back brushing the wheel, your fingers buried in his hair to keep him near.

“Been dying to do this,” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice low and rough, his hands gripping just a little tighter like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His nose brushes yours. Your breaths mix in the dim, rain-soaked air, and he’s breathing just as hard as you are, just as undone.

“Tell me you’re not goin’ back to him,” he whispers, his mouth barely a breath from yours.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you breathe. “Wanna stay with you.”

And the relief that breaks across his face is so raw, so unguarded, that he pulls you in and kisses you again, deeper this time, certain, almost desperate, like he’s been holding himself back for far too long and doesn’t plan on doing it another second.

The heater kicks back on… eventually, followed by the rest of the car, and you laugh against him in disbelief. “See? I told you she does it on purpose.”

He hums, kissing you softly. “At least she wants me near you now. You have no idea how much it sucked staying away from you.”

“Trust me,” you murmur, letting yourself melt a little against him. “I know.”

—

The Impala gets checked from wheel to wheel, top to bottom, and there’s nothing to be found. No curse, no ghost haunting her. She seems perfectly spotless, although you can swear the headlight winked at you after you and Dean had your moment in the car. 

That could be your vivid imagination, once again.

Or maybe… just maybe, Baby has grown fond of you, the same way you’ve grown fond of her. And, in her own quiet way, she’s looking out for you, keeping you safe and happy, just like she’s done for Sam and Dean all these years.

---