Creepycanopy

Ward Cameron x stranger!reader

A/n; proof you don't have to be blood for it to spill

Content warning; betrayal, gaslighting, mention of fear of water, Ward's typical unnecessary grabbing of the general chin area, mentions of heat stroke, violence, swearing, lots of guns, mentions of throwing up, and usual cowardice

Summary; a foreigner turns up on your side of the water with an offer you won't refuse. Now when the tides turn, where is he with a striking deal?

Set in season 3 episode 10

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You flip the camera on before you’re even fully ready.

“Hi,” you whisper, grinning at your own reflection in the screen. “It’s Valentine’s Day. And I’m taking you with me.”

Behind you, you hear the low, familiar rumble of a truck engine idling in the driveway.

You angle the phone toward the window. “He’s outside.”

You don’t say his name yet. You don’t have to.

You step out into the cool evening air and the camera catches him leaning against the driver’s side door, all broad shoulders and quiet intensity. When he sees you, his entire face shifts. Softer. Warmer.

Rafe Cameron pushes off the truck and walks toward you like he’s been waiting all day for this exact second.

You lower the camera just enough to show him clearly.

“Hi,” you say to him, not the vlog.

“Hey,” he answers, eyes already dragging over you like he’s memorizing every detail.

He hands you the flowers first. Big, dramatic, very him. You beam, lift them to your face, then lean in and press a slow kiss to his cheek.

The camera tilts slightly as your hand slides up his chest to smooth his collar. You fix it like it’s instinct.

“Can’t have you lookin’ crooked,” you murmur.

His hand finds your waist immediately. Not possessive. Just grounding. He keeps it there even while you keep talking to the camera.

“He did good,” you tell your viewers softly. “Very handsome.”

He ducks his head like he’s embarrassed, but he doesn’t let go of you.

You slide into the passenger seat and prop the phone against the dashboard.

“Okay,” you whisper conspiratorially, leaning toward the lens. “Step one of the date.”

Rafe climbs in, shuts the door, and the world goes quiet except for the engine and the soft click of your seatbelt.

Before he can reach for the radio, you connect your phone.

“I made a playlist,” you say casually.

His eyebrow lifts. “You did?”

You nod and hit play. His favorite song fills the cab. Not yours. His.

You don’t look at the camera this time. You look at him.

His fingers flex on the steering wheel.

You reach over and lace your fingers with his free hand.

He exhales through his nose, almost like he didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath.

You keep holding it. Even when he shifts gears. Even when he turns. Your thumb rubs lazy circles against his knuckles.

“You look nervous,” you tease.

“I’m not nervous.”

“You are.”

He glances at you, jaw tight, but his hand squeezes yours like he needs the contact.

You lean over and kiss his shoulder. Then his jaw. Just quick, easy affection. Like it’s nothing.

The camera catches the faint pink in his ears.

“Step two,” you murmur to the vlog, still holding his hand. “Drive with dramatic music and a hot boyfriend.”

He huffs. “You’re ridiculous.”

You grin. “You love it.”

He doesn’t answer, but his thumb strokes the inside of your wrist the rest of the drive.

When you pull up to the restaurant, you turn the camera back to yourself.

“We’ve arrived.”

He gets out first and comes around for you. When he opens your door, you reach for him immediately, hands sliding up his arms as you stand.

“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning in close.

Your fingers fix his collar again. Then you smooth down the front of his shirt, flattening invisible wrinkles.

He watches you like you’re doing something sacred.

“You good?” you ask softly.

He nods.

You kiss his cheek again before stepping back, then hook your arm through his.

Inside, everything is warm light and soft music. You keep the vlog low and discreet now, narrating quietly.

“He made reservations,” you tell the camera. “Look at him being all romantic.”

He pulls your chair out for you. When you sit, you reach for his hand across the table instead of your menu.

He doesn’t even pretend to read his.

Your fingers trace the veins on the back of his hand. Slow. Thoughtful. Absentminded, like you’ve done it a hundred times.

You talk to the camera about the drinks, about how pretty the place is, about how he refused to tell you where you were going.

But every time you stop speaking, your hand is on him.

On his arm.

On his shoulder.

Your knee pressed against his under the table.

When the waiter brings dessert, you lean over and kiss him full on the cheek just because.

“For planning everything,” you say softly.

His jaw flexes like he’s overwhelmed by it.

After dinner, you step outside and flip the camera toward him again.

“Okay,” you say, excitement bubbling. “Gift exchange.”

He hands you a small box first. Nervous now for real.

You don’t open it immediately.

Instead, you step into him.

Your arms wrap around his waist and you squeeze.

He melts. Completely.

You bury your face against his chest for a second before pulling back.

“Okay,” you laugh. “Sorry.”

You open it and your eyes go wide. You gasp, then throw your arms around his neck.

“It’s perfect,” you tell him against his skin.

You kiss him once. Twice. Three times. Soft, grateful, lingering kisses that leave him a little dazed.

Then you step back and reach into your purse.

“My turn.”

You hand him a smaller box. He looks confused.

“Open it.”

He does.

Inside is something simple. Personal. Thought out. Something that says you pay attention.

He looks up at you slowly.

“You remembered,” he says quietly.

“Of course I did.”

You step closer again, hands sliding up to cup his face this time.

You kiss him gently, slow and steady, like you have nowhere else to be.

When you pull back, you keep your forehead against his.

The camera is still rolling, but neither of you are looking at it anymore.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His hands come up to your hips, firm and warm, anchoring you there.

“I love you too.”

You reach back blindly and turn the camera toward yourself one last time, your cheek still pressed against his shoulder.

“Best Valentine’s ever,” you tell it softly.

And when you stop recording, you don’t move away from him.

“I mean it,” he mutters, the words clipped, lazy, too casual for the weight in the room.

You narrow your eyes. “You just lied.”

That makes him look up, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s about to deny it, but his fingers give him away. That small, telltale motion flicking his knuckle at the tip of his nose with a closed fist, avoiding eye contact. It’s a habit you’ve seen a hundred times.

Rafe’s brows draw together. “How do you even know that?”

You exhale slowly, the tension leaving your shoulders. “Because I know you.” Your voice isn’t sharp, it’s quiet, sure. The kind that lands deeper than shouting ever could. “You do that thing with your hand when you’re lying. Every time.”

He pauses. Really looks at you. The smirk fades, replaced by something slower, softer. There’s a flicker in his eyes, not embarrassment exactly, but a kind of vulnerability that sneaks up on him.

“You know me, huh?” he says, voice rough now, no longer trying to win the argument. It’s not sarcasm, it’s disbelief mixed with a little awe.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Better than you think.”

Something shifts in him then. The fight drains out, his posture uncoils, and he steps forward before you can say anything else. His hand finds your arm, gentle but certain, pulling you into him. The hug is wordless but heavy, his chin resting against your head, breath uneven like he’s trying to let go of whatever pride he had left.

“I didn’t mean to,” he mumbles into your hair, voice barely there.

“I know,” you say again, the words steady against his chest.

Your day started with a good night's rest and your usual 10 a.m. coffee that your teacher had snuck you from the break room.

Then you met up with Ethan, who walked you to class every morning. You suspected he secretly had a crush on you, but he insisted he was just being a good friend. You didn’t argue; it wasn’t a big deal.

During first period, you sat in your seat in the back row by the window, ignoring Presley, who once put gum in your hair as a “prank.” You had to cut your hair that day and rock headbands and scarves for the rest of the year.

Being seated by him was your luck since Mr. Dunlap didn’t like you that much, not since you corrected him on literature he quoted like a dog with lockjaw.

You leaned your chin into your palm, staring out at the bus parked out front, watching the band kids board with their instruments. “Can anyone tell me the relevance of this theory?”

You barely registered the question.

Marsha, who played the trumpet, set her case down and tugged at her ponytail, making sure it sat high so her bow wouldn’t slip. Someone waved a baton too close to another kid’s face, but their laughs cut over the hum of the bus engine, and you assumed it was fine.

That looked fun. Skipping class to go on a field trip to OuterRidge High and bring home another trophy for the coach to brag about. Wasn’t even her class, but she cheered the loudest.

“You,” Mr. Dunlap’s monotone voice returned through the static you had tuned out. When you turned your head, you were staring down the end of a yardstick with splintered wood and faded numbers. “Relevance of this theory. Quick.”

“It provides an unreliable narrator and a mixed perspective meant to draw the audience’s attention away from the source of the material and instead focus on the chaos,” you stated dryly, letting your hand slip from beneath your chin as the room went still.

A few heads turned.

Mr. Dunlap’s jaw tightened, dog-with-lockjaw style. “Anyone else?”

You closed your notebook and stared back out the window, pulse thudding. Ethan twisted around from two rows up and gave you a quick grin. You rolled your eyes.

By the time the bell rang, your shoulders ached from being hunched all morning.

Classes carried on as usual. Calculus. History. Eventually lunch. It was uneventful, but at least the food was good.

You had a free period after lunch, so you headed to your personal sanctuary: the library.

Most of the student council occupied it during school hours, but they were a peaceful bunch.

You found your corner behind the sci-fi section and a cozy beanbag tucked into the corner. Perfect, you thought, pushing your glasses up.

Even though you were an excellent student with academic honors, your parents demanded more of you.

You plopped down and unfolded the study guide, a 300-page pamphlet disguised as a novel. Regardless, you popped the top off your highlighter and got to work.

About ten minutes in, the words started to blur. Sentences you had read twice already refused to settle in your brain. Your highlighter hovered, then slipped from your fingers. Your eyelids grew heavy as if gravity had doubled, and your forehead drooped onto the pages.

Just a quick rest, you thought. A second of recovery. Your arms folded beneath your head, study guide squished beneath your cheek, and the hum of the library became a lullaby.

Somewhere nearby, a soft scrape of a chair. Footsteps on the tile floor. You didn’t stir.

Rafe Cameron wasn’t supposed to be here. The auditorium was locked, rehearsal wouldn’t start for another forty minutes, and he had wandered the halls like a restless ghost until he found the library.

He knew you, or at least enough to recognize the girl who always had a book clutched like a shield, the girl who corrected teachers without hesitation, the girl who ignored Presley and his antics.

There you were, curled over your notes, asleep mid-sentence, pencil still in hand.

Rafe slowed at the end of the aisle, pretending to scan the spines of books while watching. The pencil teetered dangerously close to the edge of the beanbag. He crouched, carefully nudging it back toward you with his fingertips. You stirred slightly, murmuring, but your eyes didn’t open.

The library smelled like old paper and lemon polish. Rafe draped his hoodie, already loose around his shoulders, over you, careful not to wake you fully. You shifted under the warmth, letting your fingers loosen from the pencil.

He sat across from you, notebook open, doodling set designs in the margins. He could feel your breathing even from here, slow and even, and he let himself just watch for a minute.

Minutes passed, the quiet only broken by the soft rustle of pages and the occasional cough from another corner of the library.

Then a small chime from your phone woke you. Your head snapped up, eyes wide, cheeks flushed as you scrambled to sit upright.

Rafe looked up, eyebrows raised, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

“You… uh… were out,” he said softly, careful not to laugh too loud.

You blinked, trying to recover your dignity, fingers fumbling with your study guide. “I… I didn’t mean to.”

He shrugged, holding the hoodie in his lap. “I know. You looked exhausted. Thought I’d help.”

Your throat tightened. You held out the hoodie awkwardly. “Thanks.”

He took it, fingers brushing briefly. Something small, electric.

“You wanna… keep studying?” he asked. “Or I can just sit. Not talk. Very dramatic. Very quiet.”

You gave a tired laugh, the first real one all day. “That might actually be nice.”

Rafe stood over the stove, wooden spoon moving in slow half circles through a simmering pot of gravy. Steam curled up around his forearms. It was not until Althea let out her first broken sob that he registered her frustration over the soft hum of Silent Night.

“I hear you,” he said, turning the dial down to low.

Her cheeks puffed and eyes creased when he came around the chair, sleeves rolling up as he leaned in. “What’s the matter, baby?” he cooed, lifting her easily from her seat.

He pulled her against his chest, and whether it was the warmth of his shirt or simply being held, her cries shortened. He bounced her gently, letting her curl her arms around his neck.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured. “Daddy’s here.”

Back at the stove, he dipped the spoon again, brought it to his mouth, and blew at the heat curling from it. “Try this,” he whispered, lowering it to her outstretched hand.

The crying stopped instantly. Althea broke into a wide, joyful grin, gums showing as she tasted. Rafe smiled back, letting her keep hold of the spoon a second longer than necessary.

You were in the back with your son, where getting napkins had quietly turned into something else entirely.

Joey had his head turned just enough to peer around the corner toward the living room.

“Joseph Cameron,” you said.

He froze mid step, eyes wide, guilt settling in fast. “I was just checkin,” he offered.

You crouched in front of him, lowering your voice. “Checking what.”

“The tree,” he said, then quieter, “the presents.”

You straightened his shirt, fighting a smile. “First Christmas as a big brother and you still cannot wait ten minutes.”

He grinned, sheepish. “I just wanna see if Santa knew I wanted the green one.”

“You will find out after dinner.” You handed him the napkins. “Now help me before your dad burns the gravy.”

When you came back into the kitchen, Althea was perched on Rafe’s hip, one chubby hand gripping the wooden spoon like a prize. He leaned his forehead to hers, murmuring nonsense while she babbled back, entirely pleased with herself.

Dinner passed in a warm blur. Laughter bounced off the walls. Joey talked nonstop. Althea dropped food and clapped for herself. Rafe stole bites from your plate and kissed your cheek when you pretended to scold him.

Then came presents.

Joey tore into his with reckless joy. Wrapping paper flew. A helmet. Gloves. Toys that made noise. Clothes he pretended not to like but immediately tried on. Althea’s gifts were softer. Plush animals. A tiny sweater. Something silver from Rafe that tightened your chest when you realized it was her first keepsake ornament.

She stayed mostly in your lap, wide eyed and overwhelmed, thumb tucked into her mouth.

Eventually, Rafe stood. “Alright. Shoes. Both of you.”

Joey’s head snapped up. “Why.”

“Just trust me.”

The cold hit sharp and clean when you stepped outside. Joey stayed glued to Rafe’s side, bouncing on his toes. Then he saw it.

The ATV sat in the yard like it had always belonged there. Smaller than Rafe’s, but unmistakably the same. Same color. Same stance.

“No way,” Joey breathed.

Rafe crouched beside him. “Figured it was time.”

Joey screamed and threw himself into Rafe so hard it nearly knocked him over. Althea squealed too, flailing her arms as if she understood something big had just happened.

They strapped her in carefully, tiny helmet wobbling as Joey climbed on in front of her. Rafe checked everything twice, hands steady, voice firm. You climbed on behind him, arms sliding around his waist without thinking.

The engines hummed to life.

They moved slow, circling the yard. Joey’s laughter carried into the trees. Althea sat stiff at first, then relaxed, eyes wide as the wind brushed her cheeks. She babbled happily, clutching the handle like she was born for it.

Rafe glanced back at you, grin wide and boyish, pride softening his eyes.

“Daddy, sit still.”

Her tiny palm pressed to his cheek, leaving behind glitter from some earlier craft. She lifted the plastic play scissors with deep concentration.

“I am still” he muttered. He did not dare move.

She frowned. “No. You are wiggling.”

She tapped his knee twice like she had seen hairdressers do on YouTube Kids.

Her soft little fingers combed through his thick hair. The too long bangs kept falling into his eyes. She tugged on them with a seriousness that made him laugh under his breath.

“You don't like Daddy’s hair?” he asked.

She shook her head without hesitation. “Nope. It is broken.”

Those bangs stuck to his forehead from sweat. They curled at the ends. She tried tucking them back again, growing frustrated.

“I fix it.”

He stayed perfectly still as she snipped the air dramatically.

Then she grabbed her chubby plastic razor. It was purple with peeling stickers. She began running it over the top of his head.

“Buzz buzz” she whispered with complete focus.

Rafe blinked at her. “Buzz”

She nodded. “You need buzz.”

When she finished, she clapped her hands.

“Daddy look handsome now.”

He kissed her forehead, glitter and all.

“Yeah? You think so, baby?”

She nodded like she had never doubted anything in her life.

“Mhm. You look like you fight monsters.”

He would take that any day.

---

Later That Day

He caught his reflection in the mirror. Bangs hanging into his eyes. Glitter smeared across his jaw from her little hand. And all he could hear was her small serious voice saying:

“You need buzz.”

He grabbed the clippers.

Took one steady breath.

And ran them straight through the middle of his hair.

Hair fell in clumps into the sink. It felt like shedding a second skin. He kept going until he reached that clean fresh buzz. He felt lighter. Sharper. More himself.

When his daughter padded into the bathroom with her stuffed bunny under her arm, she gasped louder than he had ever heard.

Her hands flew to her cheeks.

“Daddy. You did the buzz.”

Rafe crouched down so she could pat his head.

“I did the buzz” he said softly.

She beamed, giggling as she rubbed his freshly shaved head like he was her lucky charm.

"It feels funny," she whispered like she was sharing top secret information.

He swallowed every emotion at once and pulled her into his chest.

Your little one, yours and Rafe’s, kept tugging at their paper feathers, cheeks puffed with nerves. You caught their eye and mouthed, You have it. They straightened their shoulders and lifted their chin like they had just inherited the world.

The lights dimmed. The kids shuffled. The music teacher hit play on a too-loud instrumental track.

And the door behind you clicked.

You did not turn at first. You were too focused on filming your kid’s part. But the whispering around you shifted in a way that made your skin prickle. Soft gasps. Oh my god from somewhere to the left. A shaky sniff near the aisle.

Then a voice behind you, low and familiar, whispered, “Hey sweetheart.”

Your heart stumbled.

You turned so fast your phone nearly slipped from your hand. And there he was.

Rafe. In uniform with a duffel bag over one shoulder. His tan was deeper. His hair was shorter. His eyes were softer than you remembered. He looked tired and proud and like he had sprinted off a plane straight here without stopping.

“Rafe,” you breathed as you stood up.

Before you could touch him, a burst of sound from the stage cut through the room.

“Daddy?”

Your kid froze mid-line. Their paper feathers trembled. The teachers tried to keep the play going but it was useless. Every kid on stage stared at him.

Your child, your brave and sweet child, jumped off the stage without hesitation. You gasped and your hands flew to your mouth, but Rafe was already moving. His arms opened wide.

The collision was loud. There was a laugh and a sob mixed together as the cafeteria erupted into applause. Your kid wrapped their arms tight around his neck and their legs around his waist. They clung like they would never let go again.

“You are home?” they asked through a shaky breath.

“I am home,” Rafe murmured into their hair. His eyes glinted with emotion he rarely let anyone see. “I could not miss your big debut.”

He finally looked at you while still holding your child. Something inside your chest broke and rebuilt itself at the same time.

You stepped into his free arm and his hand found your waist instantly. He pulled you in close. He kissed your forehead, long and slow, like he had been starving for the feel.

“I told the CO,” he murmured, “that if I missed this play he would have to answer to both of you.”

You laughed against his shoulder even though tears slid down your cheeks.

The teacher wiped her eyes and cleared her throat. “We can take a short break.”

Everyone laughed. A few parents stood and clapped again.

Your kid looked up at Rafe with tear streaks on their cheeks. “Daddy, I was almost a cranberry.”

Rafe nodded as if that were breaking news. “Then I got home just in time.”

He kissed their cheek and then kissed you. It was quick, but it was full of everything he could not say in front of an entire cafeteria.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he whispered.

You squeezed his hand.

“You are our favorite thing to be thankful for.”

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Rafe wasn’t even wearing his headset. That was the problem.

He was sprawled at the end of the bed, one knee bouncing, controller clicking nonstop while the sound effects blasted through the little TV like he was trying to host a tournament. Meanwhile you were curled under the blanket, face buried in your pillow, trying to rest.

“Rafe,” you whispered, voice already thin, “can you turn it down a little?”

He paused his game without looking back. “Babe… it’s not even that loud.”

“It’s loud to me,” you murmured.

And that’s how the debate started. Him insisting he was already on “like, volume fifteen.” You insisting fifteen might as well be fifty. Him offering to turn the bass down. You telling him the bass wasn’t the problem. Him sighing so dramatically you could feel it.

But he did it. He turned it down. Muttering under his breath about sensitive ears and “your whole thing.”

For about eight minutes, it helped.

Then the volume ticked up one notch. Not much. Nothing crazy. But enough that it brushed against your nerves like sandpaper.

Your eyes opened. “Rafe. Why’d you turn it back up?”

He didn’t look at you. “I didn’t. Must’ve glitched.”

“Rafe.”

“Baby, seriously, I didn’t even touch—”

You reached over, grabbed the cord, and unplugged the entire console with zero hesitation.

The screen went black. Rafe froze. Slowly turned his head.

“…Did you just—”

“I asked nicely.” You pulled the blanket up to your shoulder and turned to face the wall, your breath a little shaky from how overstimulated you were. “I can hear everything.”

For a moment, he was actually mad. Jaw tight, hand still wrapped around the dead controller like he was mourning it. He opened his mouth, then shut it, then tossed the controller onto the floor in defeat.

You didn’t look. You just curled in on yourself, trying to let the quiet settle in your chest.

A full minute passed.

Then the mattress dipped behind you.

Rafe slid in without a word. No huffing, no complaining now. Just warm arms sliding around your waist, his chest pressed to your back, his breath soft against your neck.

“You good?” he whispered, voice low like he was finally matching your volume.

You nodded.

“You sure? You never turn away from me unless you’re overwhelmed.”

Your throat tightened a little. “I just needed quiet.”

He tucked his face in your shoulder. “I can do quiet.”

His hand rubbed slow circles over your hip, grounding you. The game was forgotten. The irritation dissolved. He pressed a small kiss to the back of your head like an apology he didn’t know how to say out loud.

“Next time,” he murmured, “just tell me before it gets that bad. I’ll listen.”

And for once, he really meant it.

Content warning: hangover, mention of underage drinking, illusion to dizziness

Author's note: this is gonna be a little slow

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“Whe– di– go?”

Maddilynn winced as the static crackled through the phone, Hope's voice barely breaking through. She’d told her friend a hundred times to upgrade her service, but Hope insisted on sticking with her budget plan, leaving every conversation sounding like it was coming from an automated voice bot. At least the camera quality was decent.

“You’re breaking up,” Maddilynn said, cringing at how dry her voice sounded, like sandpaper against the speaker. “I’m poor, not deaf. No need to yell.”

Hope’s next words were clearer, a hint of amusement cutting through the crackling. “I moved downstairs,” she explained, her hand appearing on screen, holding up a modem like it was a trophy. “Meet my new friend, wifi.”

Maddilynn couldn’t help but laugh, despite herself. “Good to know we’re all making strides in life.”

After a few moments, the connection stabilized. Maddilynn shifted her phone, letting it rest against her knee, and the glare from the ceiling fan lit up her face just enough to block the usual cute glasses filter she always put on.

“Now, I can hear you,” she said, half-smiling, her tone quieter but still teasing.

“So, where did you go?” Hope asked again, her voice more stable now.

Maddilynn sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Some party Topper dragged me to.”

Hope snorted. “Topper. Does he have no friends of his own, or do you just get stuck as his plus one forever?”

Maddilynn paused, her mind drifting to the usual routine: Topper, her older brother, dragging her around to his parties, only to complain the entire time about having to babysit her. But to be fair, he did have a knack for finding the best parties, and she wasn’t one to complain.

“Nope,” Maddilynn deadpanned, her enthusiasm flat. “No complaints from me.”

Hope’s voice took on a teasing tone. “You sure? Because you sound like you partied real hard.”

Maddilynn sighed, letting her phone fall to her lap. “That’s because I did,” she said slowly. The alcohol, the bodies, the shots. Everything blurred together after that. She couldn’t remember much past the second round of tequila.

A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts.

Her mom stepped in, her ringed fingers resting against the painted wood, her tired eyes crinkled from the long hours of her weekend shift. Maddilynn immediately noticed the tightness around her lips, the way her nose turned up in that familiar, disapproving way.

“It’s Monday,” her mom said, like that explained everything.

Maddilynn shifted on her bed, eyeing the clock. “Is it?” she asked, her voice barely registering the question.

Her mom stood in the doorway, her gaze fixed on Maddilynn as if waiting for some explanation that never came.

Maddilynn dropped her head into her elbow, her hair spilling over her phone, blocking the camera. Hope held her breath on the other end, both of them waiting, frozen in silence. Not a single gust of wind stirred the air, and the stillness felt heavier than before.

“Okay,” her mom sighed, her tone carrying the weight of unspoken disappointment. The door clicked softly behind her, and the silence in the room lingered, thick and uncomfortable.

Finally, Maddilynn exhaled, realizing she’d been holding her breath for far too long. She adjusted her phone, focusing on Hope again.

“Sorry about that,” she muttered, her voice soft, more drained than apologetic.

“No worries,” Hope replied, the static all but gone now. “You good?”

Maddilynn leaned back, staring at the ceiling as her fingers traced the frayed edges of her blanket. “Yeah,” she said with a dry chuckle, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just... don’t think my mom’s thrilled I’m skipping school for a hangover.”

Hope didn’t respond immediately. Maddilynn could almost feel her friend's gaze through the screen, the weight of concern beneath her silence.

Finally, Hope’s voice was quieter, a bit more serious. “Does she know it’s a hangover?”

Maddilynn stared at the ceiling, her mind replaying the hazy fragments of last night, the music, the drinks, the fading memory. She tried to block out the thought of her mom finding out.

“I hope not,” she said slowly, her voice thick with uncertainty. “I don’t know. She’s a hound. Topper’s gotten caught before. I want to say she doesn’t know, but... I don’t know.”

Hope nodded, her expression softening, even through the bad connection. The quiet between them stretched out longer this time, neither of them rushing to fill it with words.

“So, what now?” Hope asked, her voice lighter but still carrying that underlying concern. “You going back to school, or just... gonna chill in your room all day?”

Maddilynn blinked, pulled out of her thoughts. “I don’t know,” she said, the frustration creeping into her voice. “Maybe I should go back. But why? It’s not like it’s gonna change anything.”

There was a long pause before Hope spoke again, her voice careful, measured. “Only your grade,” she said, a gentle but firm reminder. “But don’t get stuck in this, okay?”

Maddilynn glanced down at her phone, absently tracing the screen. For the first time that day, a flicker of something like hope sparked inside her or maybe just the desire for it. “I’ll try,” she said, the uncertainty still there, but it felt less oppressive than before.

“Good,” Hope said, her voice warming again, lighter. “Remember, it’s just Monday. You’ve got the whole week ahead. Do something with it.”

Maddilynn gave a small smile, even if it was just a ghost of one. “Right. The whole week.”

Hope chuckled softly. “Yeah. Who knows? Maybe you’ll find something to actually care about before Friday.”

Maddilynn rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Later, Mad,” Hope replied, her tone back to its usual teasing warmth.

As the call ended, Maddilynn sank back into her pillows, her mind swirling with the remnants of the weekend, her mom’s disappointment, and Hope’s simple, but somehow meaningful words. Maybe it was time to step off autopilot, at least for today.

The door creaked open again, and her mom’s voice cut through the quiet once more. “Maddilynn.”

She didn’t even need to look up to know the exhaustion in her mom’s voice. It wasn’t just about skipping school. It was something unspoken, something beneath the surface.

“Yeah?” Maddilynn asked, sitting up again.

Her mom hesitated for a moment. “Dinner’s at six. Don’t forget.”

Maddilynn nodded, already knowing the unspoken rule. “Okay,” she murmured, before her mom closed the door quietly behind her.

The room was quiet again, but this time, it wasn’t suffocating. It was just the quiet of the space between one day and the next. Her phone buzzed, breaking the stillness. Hope had sent a message.

Hope: Take some time, not too much ;)

Maddilynn stared at the words. The raw honesty hit her harder than she expected. Maybe Hope was right. Maybe it was time to let go of the chaos, take a step back, and carve her own way out of it.

She tucked her phone beside her, standing up and stretching her arms to the ceiling.