Loud And Off Key

Then one night he passed the common room and saw Sam, Natasha, and Bruce sitting in unusual silence. No banter. No TV noise. Just concern.

“She barely touched dinner,” Bruce murmured.

Natasha leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowed toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “She flinched when I asked if she was okay.”

Sam sighed. “I tried joking with her. Nothing.”

Steve stood in the doorway, unease settling deep in his chest.

Natasha looked at him. “You’ve noticed too.”

It wasn’t a question.

Steve nodded once.

“She’s withdrawing,” Bruce said carefully. “That kind of isolation can get dangerous.”

Steve hated how fast the word dangerous made his mind race.

The next morning, you were gone before sunrise. Friday informed him you’d left for a supply run downtown. He stood in the kitchen for several minutes, coffee untouched in his hand, staring at nothing. Then he set the mug down and walked to your room.

He knocked first. Once. Twice. No answer. “Y/N?” he called. Silence. He should have turned around. He knew that. But something in his gut—something old and sharp and soldier-instinctive—kept him rooted there.

“Friday, unlock the door.”

“Access granted, Captain Rogers.”

The room beyond was neat in the deliberate way messy people cleaned when they were trying to feel in control. Your bed was made too tightly. Books stacked in perfect lines. Laundry folded. Desk cleared except for six envelopes laid carefully side by side.

Steve’s pulse stuttered.

Each envelope had a name written in your handwriting. Tony. Natasha. Bruce. Clint. Thor. Steve. He crossed the room in three strides and stopped short at the desk, suddenly afraid to touch anything.

“No,” he whispered to the empty room. His own name stared back at him. With fingers that felt clumsy and numb, he opened the envelope. Inside was a folded letter.He recognized the tremor in the pen strokes immediately.

Steve,

If you’re reading this, then I couldn’t figure out how to stay.

His vision blurred. He sat heavily in your desk chair and kept reading.

You wrote about exhaustion so deep sleep no longer touched it. About smiling because people worried less when you smiled. About standing in rooms full of heroes and feeling invisible anyway. About shame. About loneliness. About not wanting to be another burden added to shoulders already carrying the world.

You apologized for things no one had ever asked you to apologize for. You thanked him for kindnesses he barely remembered doing. You said he made people feel safe.

And then, at the bottom:

I just didn’t know how to save myself.

Steve pressed a hand over his mouth. He reached for Natasha’s next. Then Sam’s wasn’t there—no, Sam wasn’t one of the six. Tony’s. Bruce’s. Each one different. Each one carrying the same ache.

By the time he finished, his breathing was uneven and anger had begun to mix with the fear. Anger at himself. At the team. At you. At the fact that you had been suffering close enough to touch and none of them had broken through.

He was still standing there, letters clenched in his fist, when the bedroom door opened. You stepped inside carrying two grocery bags. You froze. Your eyes moved from Steve—to the open envelopes—to the letters in his hand.

The bags slipped from your fingers. A jar shattered on the floor. For one long second, the room was silent except for rolling glass.

Then your face hardened. “You went through my things?”

Steve took one step forward. “What the hell are these?”

“My room,” you snapped. “My desk. My business.”

“Your business?” His voice rose despite himself. “You write goodbye letters to everyone you care about and call it your business?”

“Give them back.”

“No.”

Your jaw clenched. “I said give them back.”

“And I said no.”

You stormed forward, trying to snatch them from his hand. Steve lifted them out of reach on instinct. The movement humiliated you. Your eyes flashed with fury. “Of course,” you said bitterly. “Captain America decides what’s best for everyone.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” you shouted. “Concern? Guilt? Some noble rescue mission because you finally noticed I exist?”

The words struck hard.

Steve’s expression changed. Hurt, immediate and raw. “You think I only just noticed?”

“Yes!” you yelled back. “Because nobody noticed until now!” Your voice cracked on the last word.

The anger in the room turned suddenly thin and brittle. You were trembling.

Steve lowered his arm slowly. “I noticed,” he said quietly. “I noticed you stopped laughing. I noticed you stopped eating with us. I noticed you looked tired all the time. I noticed you kept saying you were fine when you weren’t.”

“Then why didn’t you do anything?”

Because he hadn’t known how to help without pushing. Because he’d been afraid of making it worse. Because sometimes even good people wait too long. His silence answered for him.

You laughed once—a broken, ugly sound. “Exactly.”

You turned away, scrubbing at your eyes with the heel of your palm. “I’m tired, Steve.”

The fight drained out of him at once. He set the letters down on the desk and crossed the room slowly. “Tired of what?” he asked gently.

“Everything.” Your shoulders shook. “Waking up tired. Pretending I’m okay. Feeling guilty for not being okay. Watching all of you save strangers while I can’t even manage myself.”

“You are not failing because you’re hurting.”

“It feels like failure.”

“It isn’t.”

You spun back toward him, tears spilling now despite your obvious hatred of them. “I didn’t want to be one more thing wrong in this tower!”

The confession echoed between you.

Steve’s face crumpled. He reached for you carefully, giving you time to pull away. You didn’t. The second his hands touched your arms, you broke. All the rage, all the pride, all the frantic defensiveness collapsed at once. You folded into him with a choking sob, clutching the front of his shirt like it was the only solid thing left.

Steve caught you instantly. One arm wrapped around your back. The other cradled the back of your head.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, though his own voice shook. “You don’t have to hold it together right now.”

“I’m sorry,” you cried into his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

“No.” He held you tighter. “No apologizing for pain.”

You wept hard enough your knees gave out. He guided you both down to the floor amid spilled groceries and broken glass, sitting with you curled against him.

Minutes passed. Maybe longer. He stayed quiet except for the occasional soft reassurance, hand moving slowly over your hair and back.

When your crying finally eased into shaky breaths, Steve tilted his head down. “Look at me.”

You did, reluctantly. Eyes swollen. Face wet. Exhausted beyond words.

“We’re going to get help,” he said, steady and certain. “Today. Not tomorrow. Not eventually. Today.”

You swallowed. “What if I’m too much?”

His answer came without hesitation. “Then we carry it together.”

Fresh tears welled in your eyes.

“I’m angry with you,” he admitted softly. “Because this scared me. Because I hate that you were alone with this.”

“I know.”

“I’m angrier at myself.”

You shook your head weakly. “You don’t get all the blame.”

A small, sad smile touched his mouth. “Fair enough.” He stood, then offered you his hand.

When you took it, he pulled you gently to your feet. “Come on,” he said.

“Where?”

“Kitchen first. You still need groceries.” He glanced at the broken jar and sighed. “Then we talk to the team. Then we make a plan.”

You hesitated. “You’re staying?”

Steve squeezed your hand once. “As long as it takes.”

“I might need tactical support.”

Natasha’s laugh crackled in his ear. “For confessing feelings to your best friend of twenty years?”

“Seventeen,” Steve corrected automatically.

“Cute that you know the exact number.”

He sighed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “This was a mistake.”

“It was a mistake when you let yourself pine for nearly two decades,” Natasha said. “Knock on the damn door, Rogers.”

He stared at the wood like it had personally insulted him. Then he knocked.

A few seconds later, the door swung open. You stood there in socks and one of those oversized sweaters you always stole from thrift stores, hair messy, face bare, and somehow you looked exactly the same as the girl who used to split her lunch with him in Brooklyn and nothing like her at all.

“Steve?” you blinked. “Why do you look like you’re about to deliver bad news? What's with the flowers?”

He glanced at the flowers. “That obvious?”

“Very.” You stepped aside. “Come in.” Your apartment smelled like cinnamon candles and coffee. There were books stacked on every surface and a blanket tossed over the couch. Homey. Warm. You.

Steve stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room while you eyed him.

“You’re sweating,” you said.

“I don’t sweat much.”

“You are now.”

Natasha snorted in his ear.

Steve yanked the comm out and shoved it in his pocket.

You frowned. “Were you talking to yourself?”

“No.”

“Interesting answer.”

He handed you the flowers like a shield. “These are for you.”

Your expression softened immediately. “Steve…”

“I know they’re not great flowers. The guy at the store said they were cheerful.”

“They are cheerful.” You smiled, and it hit him straight in the chest. “Thank you.”

You set them down carefully and turned back to him. “So,” you said slowly. “What’s going on?”

This was it. He had rehearsed speeches. Thoughtful speeches. Charming speeches. A few dignified speeches. Instead, what came out was, “I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

Your face went blank. Then your eyes widened. Then you froze completely.

Steve felt every bit of confidence leave his body in one violent rush. “Oh,” he said quietly.

You still didn’t move.

He took a step back. “Right. Okay. I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sprung that on you.” Still nothing. His chest ached. “I just thought… Nat said I should stop waiting for the perfect time and I guess she was right, but maybe this was the wrong time and—”

“Steve—”

“You don’t have to say anything.” He was already backing toward the door now, panic making him ramble. “Really. Forget I said it. We’re fine. We’re still us.”

“Steve.”

“You don’t feel the same, and that’s okay, I just—”

“Steven Grant Rogers.” That stopped him dead. You were staring at him now like you wanted to shake him. “I froze because I’ve imagined you saying that to me since I was sixteen,” you said.

He blinked. “What?”

You crossed your arms, cheeks pink. “I froze because I thought I was hallucinating. Or having some kind of stress-induced episode.”

Steve’s mouth opened. Closed. “You…” He swallowed. “You imagined me saying it?”

“For years,” you said. “Which is humiliating now, so thanks for that.”

“I thought you didn’t—”

“I thought you didn’t.”

“I’ve been in love with you since you punched Tommy Garrison for calling me shrimp.”

You gasped. “I was nine!”

“It was very romantic.”

“I chipped a tooth.”

“You were magnificent.”

You made a strangled laugh and covered your face with your hands.

Steve was still staring at you like the world had tilted. “So…” he said carefully. “You feel the same?”

You peeked through your fingers. “Unfortunately, yes.”

He crossed the room in three strides. “Unfortunately?”

“Well, now I have to deal with the fact that my best friend is Captain America and annoyingly handsome.”

He smiled so hard it almost hurt. “Sounds difficult.”

“It’s a burden.”

Then his expression softened. “Can I kiss you?”

You dropped your hands. “Took you long enough.”

The kiss was warm and careful at first—years of friendship handled like something precious. Then you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. He made a surprised sound against your mouth. When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, you pressed your forehead to his.

“You know,” you murmured, “Natasha absolutely knows about this already, doesn’t she?”

Steve sighed. “Probably.”

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table. You picked it up and snorted. “What?”

You turned the screen toward him.

Natasha: Finally. He owes me twenty bucks.

Steve groaned. You laughed, grabbed his hand, and tugged him toward the couch. “Come on, Rogers.”

“What now?”

“The one near your eye. Means you’re thinking murderous thoughts.”

“I’m driving with you in my vehicle. Murderous thoughts are natural.”

“It’s not your vehicle. Dean stole it.”

“Borrowed,” Dean called from the backseat.

“Grand theft auto with confidence is still theft,” Sam muttered beside him.

You turned in your seat, lowering your voice into an atrocious imitation of a posh accent. “Arthur, darling, perhaps unclench. You’ll wrinkle prematurely.”

Dean barked a laugh.

Ketch’s jaw flexed. “That accent is offensive on multiple levels.”

“Cor blimey,” you said solemnly. “The poor bloke’s upset.”

“I’m going to leave you on the roadside.”

“You’d miss me.”

“I assure you, I would not.”

You grinned and kicked your boots up on the dash.

He hated that grin most of all. Because it made him want to smile back.

The case was in rural Ohio: a string of disappearances, livestock drained of blood, locals whispering vampire.

It wasn’t vampires. It was worse. A nest of ghouls had moved into an abandoned cannery outside town, and by nightfall everyone was bruised, irritated, and covered in something foul.

Dean and Sam went around back. You and Ketch were sent through the front.

“Try not to stab me by accident,” you whispered as you moved through the dark corridor.

“I’d never do it by accident.”

“Aw. You do care.”

“Quiet.”

You flashed your light over rusted hooks and broken machinery. “You know, for a trained assassin, you’re very grumpy.”

“For a hunter, you’re shockingly unserious.”

“Humor keeps me young.”

“Your impulse control keeps me aged.”

You snickered, then something moved above you. Ketch shoved you hard. A ghoul dropped from the rafters where you’d been standing, claws slicing through empty air. You hit the floor hard, breath knocked out of you. Ketch had his blade out before you’d blinked. Efficient. Brutal. Three clean strikes and the creature collapsed twitching.

You stared.

He offered you a hand up like nothing had happened. “Well?” he said.

“You pushed me.”

“To save your life.”

“You do care.”

His ears went pink. “No,” he snapped. “I care about mission success.”

“Mhm.”

He turned away so quickly he nearly tripped over the corpse.

Later, in the motel room, you found him in the bathroom cleaning blood from a cut on his cheek. The fluorescent light was cruel. He still looked unfairly handsome.

“You’re bleeding,” you said.

“I’m aware.”

“Sit.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sit down before I manhandle you.”

He looked scandalized. “You couldn’t.”

You raised a brow. He sat. You wet a towel and stepped between his knees. He went very still as you tilted his chin toward the light.

“This from the ghoul?” you asked softly.

“Yes.”

“You should’ve let me handle it.”

“You didn’t see it.”

“I usually see everything.”

“Clearly not.”

You dabbed the cut harder than necessary.

He hissed. “Vindictive.”

“You love it.”

“I assure you, I do not love anything about you.”

“Liar.”

His gaze lifted to yours. For once, there was no sharp remark waiting there. No smirk. No polished disdain. Just something quieter. More dangerous.

Your hand slowed.

The room seemed suddenly smaller.

“You infuriate me,” he said, voice low.

“I know.”

“You’re reckless.”

“I know.”

“You mock me constantly.”

“You make it easy.”

“And yet,” he murmured, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth, “I look for you whenever you leave a room.”

Your breath caught. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“It is.”

You should have stepped back. Instead, you leaned in slightly. “You’re not nearly as charming when you’re honest.”

“And you’re not nearly as insufferable when you stop speaking.”

“Rude.”

Then he kissed you. No warning. No hesitation. One hand braced on your hip, the other cupping the back of your neck as if he’d been restraining himself for months and finally decided restraint was overrated. You made a startled noise against his mouth. Then kissed him back harder.

The towel dropped to the floor.

When you finally pulled apart, both breathing unevenly, he looked almost annoyed by it. “Well,” he said stiffly.

You laughed. “Did you just well me after that?”

“I’m regrouping.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are. It’s adorable.”

“Don’t say adorable.”

“Sorry.” You kissed him again, quick and wicked. “Devastatingly adorable.”

He groaned and hauled you back in by the waist.

—

The next morning, Dean walked into the motel room and froze. You were wearing Ketch’s shirt. Ketch was making tea.

Sam slowly backed out into the hallway.

Dean pointed between the two of you. “No.”

“Yes,” you said cheerfully.

“No.”

Ketch sipped from his mug. “Terribly sorry.”

“You’re not sorry at all.”

“Not remotely.”

Dean looked personally betrayed. “I leave for eight hours.”

And then, The guy beside you. Taller than Steve. Broader. Easy smile. The kind of guy who doesn’t look like he has to try to exist.

Steve’s stomach drops. He looks away fast, like he’s been burned.

“Don’t,” Bucky mutters beside him, not even looking up from his drink.

“Don’t what?” Steve says too quickly.

“Do that thing where you pretend you don’t care.”

Steve scoffs, but it’s weak. “I don’t— Buck, she’s just—she’s dating. That’s… normal.”

Normal. Yeah. Normal for someone like you. Not for someone like him. Across the room, you laugh at something your date says—and it’s not even a big laugh. Just a small one. Polite. Careful.

Steve knows your real laugh. That loud, unguarded one you try to hide behind your hand. The one that makes your shoulders shake. You’re not doing that now.

But the guy doesn’t notice. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he look that closely?

Steve’s jaw tightens.

“Go talk to her,” Bucky says.

“No.”

“Stevie—”

“No,” he repeats, sharper this time. “She’s… she’s got someone.”

Someone better. Someone who doesn’t look like they might get knocked over by a strong breeze. Someone who doesn’t have to hide how winded they get from climbing stairs. Someone who doesn’t have everything wrong with them. Steve grips his glass a little tighter.

“She deserves…” he trails off, shaking his head. “Not me.”

You notice too. You always do. It’s stupid, really. The way your attention drifts no matter who you’re with, no matter what they’re saying. Like there’s a magnet in your chest and it’s always—always—pulling you back to him. Steve. Sitting across the room. Small in his chair, like he’s trying to take up less space. Shoulders slightly hunched, hands wrapped around his drink like he’s not sure what else to do with them.

He looks… nice. He always looks nice. Soft. Gentle. Careful. The kind of person people overlook. The kind of person you notice too much.

“—and then I told him, I said, no way, man—hey, you listening?”

You blink, dragged back. “Yeah—sorry,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “Just… long day.”

Your date chuckles. “Yeah? You seem kinda distracted.”

Because you are. Because every time you look over, Steve looks away like he’s not allowed to be caught staring. Because earlier, you saw the girl Bucky introduced him to.

Pretty. Small. Everything you’re not.

Your stomach twists.

“Do you… wanna get out of here?” your date asks, leaning in slightly.

You freeze. Because this is the part where you say yes. This is the part where you prove you’re normal, that you can do this, that you’re not— Your eyes flick up again.

Steve’s already looking. And for a split second, neither of you look away. It’s quiet. Just for a heartbeat. Something soft and aching passes between you.

Then he drops his gaze. Of course he does. He always does.

You swallow. “…Actually,” you say, pulling back slightly, “I think I’m gonna call it a night.”

Your date frowns. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

You don’t wait for him to argue. You just grab your bag and turn—and walk straight toward Steve.

He doesn’t realize you’re coming until you’re there.

“Hey,” you say.

Steve looks up so fast he nearly knocks his glass over. “H—hey,” he stammers, scrambling to steady it. “I thought—you were—uh—”

“On a date?” you finish, a little wry.

“Yeah. That.”

You shrug, trying to play it off. “Didn’t really feel like one.”

Something flickers across his face. Hope. Quick and fragile. “Oh.”

There’s a pause. Awkward. Thick. God, why is this always so hard?

You shift your weight. “How about you? Your… uh… setup?”

Steve lets out a small, humorless huff. “Left. While I was in the bathroom.”

Your heart drops. “What? Why?”

He shrugs, but it’s too casual, too practiced. “Guess I’m not exactly—” he cuts himself off. Don’t say it. Don’t. “—what people are looking for,” he finishes quietly.

Something sharp twists in your chest. “Steve—”

“It’s fine,” he says quickly. “Really. I mean—look at me.”

And there it is. That self-deprecating little laugh. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s fact.

You stare at him. “Yeah,” you say slowly. “Look at you.”

Steve blinks, confused by your tone.

“You’re kind,” you continue. “And funny. And you remember stupid little things I say from weeks ago. You walk me home even when it’s out of your way. You—” your voice wobbles slightly, but you push through, “—you’re the only person who actually sees me.”

He goes very still.

“Why would anyone not be looking for that?” you ask softly.

Steve’s throat works. “Because,” he says, barely above a whisper, “that’s not enough.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I know.”

His eyes snap up to yours. “What?”

You laugh, but it’s small. Not your real one. “Every guy I go out with makes it pretty clear,” you say. “Too tall. Too much. Not exactly what they had in mind.”

Steve’s expression shifts—hurt, confusion, something deeper. “That’s— that’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” you shoot back, a little sharper than you meant. “Because it keeps happening, Stevie.”

Silence. Heavy.

Then, quieter he says, “You deserve better than them.”

You almost smile. “Funny,” you say. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

Steve frowns. “What?”

“You deserve someone who actually wants you,” you say, your voice softening again. “Someone who doesn’t walk out. Someone who—” You stop.

Because his expression has changed. Completely. “—someone who what?” he asks.

Your heart is pounding now. This is it. You can feel it. That edge you’ve both been circling forever. “Someone who doesn’t think they’re too good for you,” you finish, barely audible.

Steve stares at you. “You think that’s why I don’t—?” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “No. No, I don’t— I don’t think I’m too good for you.”

“Then why don’t you ever—?” you start, frustration slipping through.

“Because you are,” he blurts.

You freeze. “…what?”

“You’re too good for me,” Steve says, all at once, like it’s been trapped in his chest for too long. “You always have been. I mean—look at you. And look at me. I can barely— I’m not— I’m just—”

“Steve.”

He stops.

Your voice is steady now. “Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds?” He flinches slightly. “I’ve spent months thinking I wasn’t good enough for you,” you continue. “That you’d never look at me like that. That you’d always want someone smaller, prettier—”

“Prettier?” he echoes, genuinely baffled. “Are you serious?”

“Yes!”

“You’re—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head like he can’t even process it. “You’re the most—” He stops again. Takes a breath. Tries again. “You’re it for me,” he says, simply.

The world goes very, very quiet.

“…what?” you whisper.

Steve swallows hard. “You’re it,” he repeats. “Have been. For a while now. I just… figured you’d never want—” he gestures vaguely at himself, “—this.”

You step closer. Close enough that he forgets how to breathe. “You’re an idiot,” you murmur.

His lips twitch faintly. “Yeah. I’ve been told.”

“Good,” you say. “Because I’m apparently one too.”

And then—before you can overthink it, before he can talk himself out of it again— You kiss him. It’s soft. A little clumsy. Like neither of you quite believe it’s happening. Steve makes a small, startled sound against your lips, hands hovering awkwardly for half a second before settling—hesitant, careful—at your waist. Like he’s afraid you might disappear. You don’t. You lean in closer instead. And when you pull back, just barely— He’s looking at you like the world just rewrote itself.

“Hi,” you whisper.

Steve lets out a shaky breath. “…hi.”

Across the room, Bucky slams his hand on the table. “FINALLY.”

Sam leaned against the doorframe, a grin tugging at his lips. “Well, technically, it was nine, but the clocks sprung forward. You know… daylight saving time.”

“I hate it,” you muttered, flopping back down. “Every year. Why do they do this to us?”

He stepped closer, setting the tray on the bedside table. “Because misery loves company? Or maybe because you make it so much fun to bribe out of bed,” he teased, holding up the pancakes like a tiny trophy. “Maple syrup. Extra butter. And—” he dug into his pocket and produced a single chocolate truffle, winking—“chocolate.”

You peeked one eye at him. “You bribing me now?”

“Always,” he said, voice bright. “And honestly? It’s spring cleaning day. I could use a partner. We’ll play music, dance a little… you’ll like it. I promise.”

You sighed, flopping sideways dramatically. “Fine. But only because… chocolate.”

“Chocolate and pancakes? That’s all I need.” He plopped onto the bed beside you, nudging you gently. “C’mon, grumpy. Let’s turn this crappy time change into a fun morning.”

You raised an eyebrow, circling him like a predator. “A surprise, huh? That’s your big incentive? I’ve wrestled tougher than you.”

Pietro’s smirk deepened. “Oh, I don’t think you have.” He straightened, rolling his shoulders, those long legs stretching effortlessly. “But I’ll let you try. It’s cute watching you try.”

The first lunge was quick—too quick. Pietro slid to the side, dodging your grasp with a flick of movement that made your heart stutter. “Fast enough to dodge, slow enough to be caught,” he teased, leaning just enough that your hands brushed his chest. A jolt shot straight to your stomach.

“Cocky,” you muttered, crouching, readying yourself for the next attack.

“Just confident,” he countered, springing forward. His hands were faster than your eyes, but this time you managed to hook an arm around his torso and drag him down. He landed on the mat with a soft grunt, eyes wide in surprise… and then that grin returned.

“You’re good,” he said, voice low, playful. “Better than I thought.”

You pressed closer, trying to pin him properly, and Pietro laughed—a sound that sent warmth curling through your chest. “Hmm… not bad. But you’re missing something.”

“What?” you demanded, straining against his shift in weight.

“The best part,” he whispered, “is seeing that fire in your eyes when you think you’ve got me.” His hand brushed your shoulder, lingering, making your pulse spike.

You groaned, squirming, trying to push him down, but he twisted with impossible agility, rolling so that now he was pinning you. “See?” he said, smirking, “I win this round.”

“No!” you gasped, kicking lightly, laughing despite yourself. “You’re cheating!”

“Cheating?” he echoed, leaning so close you could feel his breath. “I prefer… strategic advantage.”

You froze, heart hammering, as his lips hovered dangerously close to yours. “Surprise,” he murmured, that same teasing sparkle in his eyes.

Before you could think, his lips brushed yours—soft, teasing, a shock of electricity that made your knees go weak. He pulled back slightly, grin intact, but his hands didn’t move. They stayed on your arms, holding you steady, as if he wanted to see how you’d react.

“You’re… you’re cheating too,” you managed, breathless, trying to wriggle free.

“I call it… improvising,” he whispered, leaning in again. This time the kiss deepened, slow and teasing, just enough to leave you dizzy and wanting more. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently as if daring him to stop, but he didn’t.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you panting, grinning. “Next time,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I might give you another surprise.”

You rolled your eyes, heart still racing. “Next time, I’ll pin you faster.”

“Rogers.”

He blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the heavy drop of a familiar voice.

Bucky Barnes slumped into the chair across from him, coffee in hand, tie already loosened like the day had personally offended him. “You’re staring again,” Bucky said, not even looking.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Bucky cut in, finally glancing up, one brow raised. “At them.”

Steve flushed. Actually flushed. “I don’t stare.”

“You’ll sketch them from memory later,” Bucky shot back. “Which is worse.”

Steve hated that Bucky knew him that well.

Across the room, you were mid-conversation with another professor, something about archival inconsistencies. Your hands moved when you talked—not dramatic, just enough to emphasize, to underline your thoughts in the air.

Steve’s fingers twitched.

He could already see the lines. The curve of your wrist. The way your brow furrowed when you were trying to make a point.

God.

“Just talk to them,” Bucky said, taking a sip of his coffee.

Steve scoffed softly. “Yeah, okay.”

“No, seriously,” Bucky leaned forward now, tone shifting—less teasing, more intent. “They’re not gonna bite, Stevie.”

“They’re—” Steve swallowed, glancing back at you like you might somehow hear him. “They’re brilliant. And I teach intro-level art to freshmen who still think shading is optional.”

Bucky snorted. “You’re an award-winning artist.”

“I’m a temporary placement,” Steve corrected quietly.

That always sat between his ribs like something heavy. Not permanent. Not secure. Not… enough. 

Across the room, you laughed softly at something your colleague said. It wasn’t loud, but it carried. It always carried.

Steve felt it like a pull in his chest. “I wouldn’t even know what to say,” he admitted.

Bucky watched him for a second. Really watched him. Then sighed, like this was inevitable. “Okay,” he said, standing up.

Steve froze. “Buck—”

Too late. Bucky crossed the room with that effortless confidence Steve had never been able to fake, sliding seamlessly into your conversation.

Steve’s stomach dropped.

He looked down at his sketchbook, suddenly very interested in the half-finished drawing on the page. His pencil hovered, unmoving.

Don’t look. Don’t—

“Steve?”

His head snapped up.

You were standing there. You. Up close, you were somehow worse. Better. Your eyes were warmer than he expected. Curious. Not intimidating—just focused.

Bucky stood just behind you, smug as hell.

“Uh—hi,” Steve managed, immediately hating how small his voice sounded.

“I’ve seen your students’ work,” you said, and Steve blinked.

“That’s—uh—sorry?”

“They talk about you,” you added, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “A lot, actually. You make them feel like they’re… capable. Like their voice matters.”

Steve stared at you like you’d just said something impossible. “I don’t— I mean, I just—”

“You care,” you said simply.

And it wasn’t said like a compliment. It was said like a fact. Something in his chest shifted. Bucky, traitor that he was, clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Steve here also does portraits,” he added casually.

Steve nearly choked. “I—Buck—”

Your eyes lit up just slightly. “Do you?”

“Not— not really, I mean, not professionally—”

“I’d love to see your work sometime.”

Oh. Oh.

Steve’s brain completely stalled.

“Yeah,” Bucky cut in smoothly, because of course he did, “he could show you after hours. Studio’s quieter then.”

Steve turned to him in horror. Bucky just grinned. You hesitated for half a second—just enough to make Steve’s heart stutter—before nodding.

“I’d like that,” you said. And then, softer—almost like you were letting him in on something— “I think you’re underselling yourself, Professor Rogers.”

You walked away before he could respond.

Steve stood there, frozen, staring after you.

Bucky leaned in, voice low. “See? Didn’t kill you.”

You let out a little growl before continuing “.... and Loki already left for the job in the Bahamas so sorry about your luck. You’re going.” Clint heard what sounded like you slapping a file into Bucky’s chest as you started walking back towards the lounge. When Bucky's door slammed immediately after Clint sighed, turned off his hearing aids and rolled towards the back of the couch. 

You stomped through the lounge glancing briefly at Clint asleep on the couch. He swore up and down he had an apartment, or house, or some sort of dwelling with a bed but most days you found him crashed out in the lounge. You huffed when you saw him still agitated after your argument with Bucky, 

“Clint! I literally bought you a murphy bed for your office, go sleep there.” You grumbled at him, kicking the corner of the couch to get his attention. Clint lifted his head briefly looking at you and pointed at his ears to tell you his hearing aids were off. You rolled your eyes, stomped your foot a little and pointed towards his office, communicating your desires wordlessly. He just waved you off, grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch and took his hearing aids out completely for good measure. 

“UGHHHHH” you screamed quietly through clenched teeth. Tash had taken some ‘personal development time’ whatever that meant and had left you alone with these three idiots for two weeks. Her absence and lack of communication had you and Bucky both a little on edge. Clint wasn’t worried, she did this occasionally, and he knew she had about 75 different ways to get in touch if something was actually wrong. 

But you and Bucky had been fighting like cats and dogs lately. If asked you both would say it was because you were tense about Natasha being incommunicado for so long, or that the other was impossible. Everyone else in the office knew you two just had too much unresolved sexual tension and were taking bets on how it was going to explode resolve. Tash had $150 on you caving first, Clint knew his little booger was fueled mostly on spite so he had $350 on Bucky caving first, and Loki was fairly confident you had an undiscovered murderous streak so he put $500 on you killing Bucky rather than inviting him into your bed. 

Two hours later you were sitting in the lobby catching up on some paperwork, still grumbling under your breath about insufferable men when Loki came flying through the door slamming it behind him. He quickly locked it, pulled the rolling shade down over the window and pressed his back up against the door while reaching for the light switch, breathing heavily like he just ran several miles. 

“Loki! What the fuck you’re supposed to be…” He cut you off, shushing you with a finger to his lips. With three large strides he was at your desk.

“Cameras, quickly.” he hissed under his breath. You froze for just a second before your brain kicked in and you pulled up the interior and exterior cameras you had insisted on installing shortly after starting. There were three large men in tactical gear slinking through the alley towards the back of the building. 

“Who the fuck are they?” you whispered 

“That would be the lovely man you dispatched me to take care of and his brothers I believe.” 

“You missed?!” You hissed incredulously, briefly looking at him when he turned to give you a withering look. 

“The plane didn’t get off the ground, the whole thing was a setup.” He hissed. 

“Okay,” you said, your mind whirling, “what do we do?” 

“Nothing,” he replied quickly. “I engaged some extra security measures on my way back. The only way they get in is if they hack down the exterior door with an axe.” 

“Okay… okay. Yeah. That’s good because who brings an axe to an assasination attempt.” You chuckled weakly, mind still reeling a bit. 

“Exactly.” Loki replied. You both turned back to the computer screen only to see the largest of the three assailants hand his gun to one of the others and start rigging explosives to the door.

“Uhhhh… Loki?” You squeaked out as you both watched the men set a few charges on the door and take a few steps back. “I think explosives beat axe.” you continued with a thin voice.

“Well this is inconvenient isn’t it.” Loki drawled, before pulling you down behind the desk and attempting to shield your body with his as the door exploded inwards. 

Bucky was stomping around his office packing his bag to go to fucking Sibiera, well technically the Yukon, but same difference it was going to be cold and full of snow. 

“Oh Loki, please take this job with the sun and the sand” Bucky said in a high whiny voice, intentionally mocking you. “Yeah don’t worry about Bucky he can fuck off to the snow like always.” he muttered as he continued to pull weapons and gear out of his hidden wall safe. 

He stopped short when he heard what sounded like an explosion in the lobby. His only thought was you, out there completely unprotected. He quickly grabbed a rifle and a handgun out of the still open safe before hurtling towards you.

Dust and debris from the explosion was just starting to settle when he reached the lobby. He glanced around quickly assessing the situation. Just as he was about to call out for you the distinctive hiss and clink of a smoke bomb sounded to his right. Turning quickly he kicked the smoke bomb back towards the opening in the wall where the door should be. 

He quickly took a couple of steps towards the desk and hissed your name. Like a meerkat you popped up from behind the desk quickly followed by Loki. 

“I’m okay,” you said “We have a situation,” Loki said at the same time. 

“I can see that” Bucky hissed as he jumped over the desk and crouched down behind it. He squeezed  your hand quickly and gave you a once over as if to assure himself that you were telling the truth. All three of your heads swiveled towards the hole in the wall at the sounds of guns cocking. “You” he pointed, “get to tash’s office now and lock the door, stay low.” He said urgently as he handed a spare weapon to Loki. 

You started crawling towards the back offices, “Quickly” Bucky shouted at you as bullets started flying over your head. If you weren’t so scared for your life you would’ve had some sassy retort you were sure of it. As soon as you got to the kitchen you stood up and sprinted towards Natasha’s office, locking the door behind you as instructed.

Clint woke again, based on the light in the room he figured it was probably close to 3 at this point, a much more respectable time to get up for the day. Plus he really had to pee. He caught the barest glimpse of you running by as he sat up. He shrugged to himself and headed towards the bathroom. 

He patted down his pockets, looking for his phone, as he exited the bathroom. When the search of his pockets came up empty he headed back towards the lounge assuming it was on the couch somewhere. He wandered down the hallway so lost in his thoughts he totally missed you waving at him urgently through the window on Natasha’s door. 

After trading gunfire for a bit the assailants grew impatient and threw aside their weapons in favor of hand to hand combat. They were fairly evenly matched for Bucky and Loki. 

Trading punches and kicks, Bucky was finally able to get his hands around his opponent's neck and quickly snap it. As he was dropping the body he heard Loki cry out behind him followed by a thud, but before he could turn around he was violently thrown to the side as the other assailant cracked one of the lobby chairs across Bucky’s torso. 

From where he fell Bucky was able to spin around quickly and kick out his assailant's knees. They both began scrambling for the gun that Loki had dropped a few feet away. Bucky’s fingers just brushed the grip of the gun as his attacker kneed him hard in the ribs right where the chair had just connected. 

“Oof,’ he grunted as he continued to grapple for the gun despite all the air being knocked out of his lungs. Finally getting the upper hand Bucky swung the gun into his opponent’s temple knocking him unconscious. 

Loki groaned as he regained consciousness, rolling over onto his back he glanced at Bucky taking stock of the two attachers. “There was a third. Where did he go?”

Getting back to the lounge Clint shoved his hearing aids in his pocket and shook out the blanket he was previously using on the couch still looking for his phone. Tossing it aside before grabbing the cute little throw pillows you had purchased and throwing those on the floor too.

“Where the hell did it go,” he started talking to himself. He pulled out all the couch cushions thinking it slipped between those. When he still couldn’t find it he started looking all around the lounge. 

“Bingo,” he whispered, his whole body pressed to the floor looking under the couch. His phone was just barely visible under Catserole’s paws, she must have pulled it under the couch while he was sleeping. Clint felt the floor vibrate twice as if two heavy things had suddenly fallen to the ground, he looked around briefly but not seeing anything just shrugged and started trying to extricate his phone from under the sleeping cat. 

He stretched as far under as his arm would go and his fingers were just brushing the edge of his phone. He grumbled and scooted infinitesimally closer to try and extend his reach. 

You huff a breath as Clint walks by totally oblivious to your shouting and waving at him. Not a big deal, you think, he’ll totally notice what's going on when he gets back up front. Deciding you had nothing better to do you headed over to Nat’s bookshelf, slid aside the copy of ‘Worlds Deadliest Weapons’ and grabbed the romance novel you knew she kept stashed back there. 

Just as you were settling into the couch a shadow fell over the window. You had only seconds to pull the book up in front of your face gritting your teeth as small shards of glass bit into your arms, luckily the book protected you from the worst of it. You leapt off the couch backing towards the door as the largest of the three masked men clambered through the window. Once inside he slowly started walking towards you spreading up the closer you got to the door. 

Before you could reach the handle he was on you, grabbing your arm and roughly pulling you back towards the center of the office. “Not a chance bitch.”

You quickly twist your wrist and pull, easily breaking out of his hold. As soon as your hands were free you grabbed his wrist with one hand pulling him towards you, with your other hand you reached up behind his neck and pulled down while driving your knee up into his nose twice before letting go, just the way Nat had taught you. 

His hands automatically came up to grab his face as he cried out in pain. You dashed around him heading for the door and skidding out into the hallway, you started running for the lobby as fast as you could with your now, slightly disoriented, attacker hot on your heels. 

“Yes!” Clint shouts after finally extricating his phone from under the couch. He starts scrolling through his missed notifications as he heads towards the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. his eyes widening as he reads the missed text from Nat. 

N: Company is coming, be ready. Send booger home. 

You close your eyes and promise the universe to do more cardio if you survive this, and run right past Clint as you dash towards the lobby. Your eyes slam open at the sound of Bucky shouting your name. 

“Down!” he yelled, setting his feet and raising the gun in his hand. Without thinking you dropped and slid into the lobby like you were sliding into home plate then crawling quickly to the far wall. Bucky fired three times in quick succession each one hitting the man chasing you, two in the chest, one in the head. He took a few automatic steps backwards from the force of the bullets before falling and going still. 

“You okay?” Bucky asked, worriedly eyeing you as you slowly slid over so your back was against the wall. 

You nodded, eyes closed resting your head against the wall. You cracked one eye open and turned towards Bucky who was slowly tying up the unconscious attacker. “Hey Buck?”

“Yeah?

“I’m going to send Clint to Siberia, okay?”

He chuckled lightly as he made his way over to you. “Sounds good Doll.” 

In the kitchen Clint quickly shoved his hearing aids back in and ran out toward the lobby yelling.

“Hey guys, we’ve got company coming…” His eyes widened as slid into the destroyed vestibule. 

Clark’s eyes go wide. “I—You—Hi.”

“…Hi.”

There’s a beat. A long one.

Then you violently turn around. “I DID NOT SEE THAT.”

“I think you did.”

“I DIDN’T PROCESS IT.”

“I think you’re processing it right now.”

“SHUT UP, CLARK—”

There’s a blur of motion (too fast, always too fast), and suddenly a shirt is on him. You turn back, slowly. He’s red. Like, really red. You’re probably worse.

“…You should start knocking,” he mumbles.

“You should wear shirts in your own home.”

“…That feels unfair.”

“…Yeah, okay, that’s fair.”

—

The second time is less accidental. Not that you’ll ever admit that. You tell yourself you’re just returning a book. You tell yourself you’re just being a good friend. You absolutely do not tell yourself that you’ve been thinking about his shoulders for three straight days. You knock this time.

There’s a pause. “Come in!”

You open the door. Clark is in the kitchen. Still shirtless. Holding a mug. Like this is normal. Like he isn’t actively ruining your life.

“Oh,” you say, incredibly intelligent. “You’re—”

“—still shirtless, yeah.” He winces. “Sorry, I didn’t think—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “You live here. You can—exist.”

He nods, awkward. You nod, awkward. Neither of you looks directly at his chest. You both fail.

Clark clears his throat. “You, uh… needed something?”

You hold up the book. “Return.”

He takes it, fingers brushing yours—warm, steady, grounding.

“You could’ve just dropped it off at work,” he says.

“…Yeah.”

Silence stretches.

He shifts. You notice. Of course you do.

“Do you—uh—want coffee?” he asks.

You blink. “Are you going to make it like that?”

Clark looks down at himself. Then back at you. “…Is that a problem?”

Your face heats. “No.”

A pause.

“…Is it a distraction?” he tries, a little more quietly.

You swallow. “…Maybe.”

Clark smiles. Soft. Small. A little shy. “Then I’ll put a shirt on.”

“…Or,” you blurt, then immediately regret it, “you don’t have to.”

Clark goes very still. “…Okay,” he says.

And he doesn’t.

—

The third time is not an accident. And it’s definitely not on him. You show up with takeout. Late. Rain-soaked. Clark opens the door, already halfway through tugging off a damp shirt. You walk right into it. Like, physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. Your hands hit his chest as you stop yourself from colliding with him. Warm. Solid. Very real.

Clark freezes.

You freeze. “…Hi,” you say, voice suddenly very small.

“Hi,” he echoes.

Neither of you moves. Your hands are still on him. You should pull away. You don’t.

“…You’re soaked,” he says softly.

“So are you.”

“…Yeah.”

Another beat.

“You didn’t let go,” he murmurs.

Your heart stutters. “You didn’t move.”

“I didn’t want to.”

That does something dangerous to your lungs.

You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes. “…Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“…Are we both just pretending this hasn’t been happening for weeks?”

His breath catches. “…Probably.”

“…Do you want to keep pretending?”

Clark looks at you like you’ve just handed him something fragile. “…No,” he says.

Your fingers curl slightly against his chest. “Good,” you whisper.

And this time, when you step closer it’s on purpose.

Clark’s hands find your waist, gentle but certain. “You still didn’t knock,” he murmurs, just before your foreheads touch.

You huff a quiet laugh. “You still didn’t wear a shirt.”

“…I might stop doing that less.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Clark smiles. And when he kisses you, soft and warm and a little awed, you think maybe this is your favourite version of him.

Luckily, it was the express train so your stop came quickly. You rushed out of the train car and dashed up the stairs, never noticing the man behind you. He’d been keeping tabs on you since you had left your job an hour ago.

He watched as you stopped at a small bodega and grabbed a few late night snacks. He watched patiently from across the street as you smiled at the young cashier. He even watched as another man had crept up behind you.

He didn’t like that.

So in the shadows, he followed you and the man behind you. He dipped between alleyways and storefronts, staying in the shadows. Once, he knocked into a damn trash can and cursed to himself. 

But you were listening to music, so you didn’t hear him. But the other guy? Oh, he heard the noise. And looked back swiftly. 

But he quickly lunged at your fated killer, thrusting a blade into his throat. 

He didn’t stay too long to watch the bloodied mess. He had glanced up; you were standing at a traffic light, waiting for it to turn green. He snuck back into the shadows again. You were only a few storefronts away from your apartment.

He snuck behind the palace and quietly climbed up the fire escape where he knew you resided. He waited patiently in the shadows for you to enter the house. It took one minute less than usual -- thanks to him fixing your door lock while you had gone. A neighbor of yours had seen him fishing it from the hallway. He had brushed the neighbor away and claimed that he was your family friend.

You didn’t notice that he’d fix the locks. He finds himself becoming annoyed. You should be thanking him on your hands and knees - no. He wouldn’t think of you like that. You’re not a chew toy for him.

You’re the person he wanted to be with. You’re the person he’d had his eyes on ever since he’d helped you out of that panic attack at the sporting event three weeks ago.

You had talked to a handful of men. But none of them were worthy enough to meet in person. One had sent dick pictures straight away after receiving your match. Another had messaged you only in the middle of the night asking if you were giving it up yet. Another man only talked about himself when you had finally agreed to meet up.

You had almost given up. Until you met this guy. His name was Steve. He was a total sweetheart, though his height was on the shorter side. His deep blue eyes had caught you off guard when you met hi for the first time in person. You learned that he was a sickly man, having a ton of health problems. 

But then, just as you were putting your wine glass to your mouth, you felt a presence behind you and sniffed a too-familiar cologne wafting in the air.

He was walking towards your table when you had turned around fully. His jacket hung open, collar loosened, and that unbothered facade he wore so well was already cracking at the edges. His drink stayed untouched. Every time you smiled, his jaw ticked.

You’re moving on. He told himself it was fine. You deserved someone who made you happy. Someone who didn’t risk their life going on these damned suicide heists... Someone who wasn’t made of secrets and violence. But watching you there, with some polished guy in a tailored suit, made something ugly rise in his chest.

He wasn’t sure how he came to be standing in your view. Or when he started walking toward your table. Maybe it was the alcohol cruising in his system. Maybe he missed you. Maybe he didn’t want you to be happy while he was still brooding over you.

The air between you and Nick went tight. You hadn’t seen him in months, and somehow he looked even sharper — dangerous in a quiet, deliberate way.

“Nick,” you breathed.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Didn’t know you were into places like this. Guess things change fast. Could have fooled me, huh.”

Steve started to speak, but Nick’s gaze didn’t leave yours. That intense, storm-dark stare you’d spent months trying to forget.

“Mind if I say hello?” he asked, already pulling out the empty chair beside you.

You gave him a warning look. “Nick, don’t—”

He leaned closer, voice low, quiet enough that only you could hear. “You can pretend all you want, sweetheart, but I know that look. You’re trying too hard to seem happy.”

“Maybe I am happy,” you said. “I’m happy to finally be rid of you and your bullshit.”

He laughed under his breath but he was anything but entertained. “Then why are your hands shaking?”

You pulled them into your lap, glaring at him, but his words sank in like hooks. Your date said something about calling security, but Nick didn’t even glance at him.

He stood, finishing what he came for — not peace, not closure, just the simple act of reminding you he still existed. He will always exist in your mind. No matter how hard you tried to move on from him. He will always be in your line of sight.

“Enjoy your dinner,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the back of your chair as he passed. “But next time, pick somewhere less predictable. I always did have a thing for expensive tastes.”

When he walked away, you realized your heart was pounding loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear.

The night air was sharp when you stepped out of the restaurant. Steve had gone to call a car, and you told him you needed a moment. You knew it was a lie, but one that gave you the space to breathe.

You should’ve known Nick would still be there, waiting around for you just like always.

He was leaning against a sleek black car, hands in his coat pockets, city lights catching in his eyes. The kind of image that could be mistaken for calm — until you saw how tight his jaw was.

“Couldn’t even wait until I got home to start stalking me again?” you said, crossing your arms. “I’m sure the loneliness of your house misses you more than I do. I suggest you don’t keep it waiting much longer.”

Nick gave a quiet laugh, but it sounded hollow. “Stalking? That’s a strong word for checking on someone I used to care about.”

“Used to.” You threw the words back at him like they might sting. “Exactly.”

He stepped closer, the scent of whiskey and expensive cologne hitting you all at once yet again. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend it’s over for you,” he said softly, almost pleading. “I saw your face when I approached you. You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

“Maybe I did.”

That smirk of his tugged at his mouth. “You still wear my ghost, sweetheart. Every damn look, every breath. For fuck’s sake, your pupils still dilate when you look me.”

You tried to move past him, but his hand caught your wrist. Not hard, just enough to make you stop. The warmth of his touch was a mistake — it burned too familiar.

“Let me go, Nick.”

He didn’t. Not right away. His voice dropped low, rough with something between jealousy and longing.  “You really think that guy inside knows you? What was his name, ‘Steve’? The way you hate mornings but love thunderstorms? The way you hum when you’re nervous? The way you pick at your fingernails when your anxious, just like you’re doing now?”

Your throat tightened. You hated that he was right as you looked down at your hands.

Nick’s hand loosened, fingers brushing over your pulse before he let go. “I’m not here to ruin your night,” he said, quieter now. “I just… I had to see if it was real.”

“If what was real?”

“That look in your eyes,” he said. “The one that says you still think about me.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Cars passed. The restaurant buzzed behind you. Somewhere, Steve was probably wondering where you went.

Nick finally took a step back, forcing a smile that didn’t hide how wrecked he looked. “Guess I got my answer.”

You wanted to say something-- to tell him he was wrong, that you’d moved on — but the words wouldn’t come.

He opened the car door, hesitated just long enough to meet your eyes again. “Take care of yourself, yeah?” Then he was gone — taillights fading into the night, leaving you in the quiet, heart hammering, wondering which of you was lying more.

While other seasonal celebrations were approached with variously eager engagement, all the villages in the area went beyond reason to organize this night. To show deepest kind of gratitude to the best hunter of past seasons.

The Hunt happened only once a decade, taking into consideration all of young and older hunters who provided for all the villages throughout the seasons. Elders chose the one most worthy of the title and bountiful benefits.

Each household provided a gift for the Hunter, from a barrel of mead, to a roll of silk.

The greatest prize, however, was a bride.

Each village appointed a female of age, ripe for the taking. It was considered an honor and, to be quite honest, was a position desired by many women.

Any of them could say no; they could decline the offer and wouldn't be forced to participate. They simply never wanted to say no.

You admitted you were one of those women, as well. To be wed to a husband who is strong, hard working and respected; to have your pantry and chests filled with gifts at the start of your married life.

Truly, you gasped in disbelief, then almost jumped in joy, when the elders picked you as one of the betrothed to choose from. Perhaps the honor of being chosen was enough, as it also put additional value to you as a wife for any other men who would be looking for a bride once The Hunter rejected you.

But then, as you stood in a semi circle with few other young women and The Hunter stepped into the light cast by the biggest bonfire, your elation skittered into fear.

The elders chose Curtis.

It shouldn't come as a surprise. He was the one who brought the biggest prey, who showed inhuman endurance during long, freezing winter hunts. He protected your villages from Wilford's raids and got rid of the tyrant permanently.

Yes, Curtis definitely deserved the title and the gratitude.

And a dutiful bride to share a life with him and ease his burdens.

But staring at him as he walked out of the shadows, you felt yourself cowering away. Curtis was big and intimidating. His naked chest bore scars, his corded muscles flexed as he clenched and unclenched his fists. Wolf pelt was thrown over his shoulders, the hollowed head of the animal resting atop Curtis' head, shiny animal teeth glinting right above Curtis' astonishingly blue eyes.

He was a quiet and brooding type, rarely smiling for anyone. You couldn't imagine sharing a warm, soft moment with him.

Though you certainly could imagine a rough and heated communication of bodies...

When Curtis stopped in front of you and offered you his hand, you felt like fleeing that very moment. Yet your trembling fingers slipped into his large hand; your world narrowing to the brutal shades dancing on Curtis' face, as everyone else disappeared from your peripheral vision.

A cup of mead was given to Curtis and he took a sip before lifting it to your lips. Without taking your eyes off of him, you swallowed the thick, sweet drink; felt it's heat fill your veins.

Then you were led to the edge of the clearing where a line of torches and flower garlands were forming an entrance into the woods.

For The Hunt to be complete, The Hunter had to chase his prey and claim victory.

It was mostly a formality nowadays: a joyful chase through the forest, until the couple reaches the prepared spot where they were supposed to consummate their bonding.

You followed the expected motions, running into the woods toward suggested direction. Lush greenery soothed you, for a moment you even felt a spark of excitement.

Then your feet stopped at the edge of the narrow clearing, where linens and pelts and adorning trinkets were splayed. You could imagine yourself there, naked and spread for your future husband. When your mind inserted the image of Curtis - a dark, rough shard in that fair, soft setting - you nearly squeaked.

"Will you lay down, or do you want me to help you?"

You jumped in place at his deep, low timbre resounding unexpectedly right behind you.

You didn't even sense him approach!

Not a snap of a twig, not a rustle of leaves. Not even your own instinct, which you considered to be quite good, warned you of the hunter's approach.

You turned around, nearly bumping your nose right into Curtis' naked chest. He smelled of sandalwood oil and earth.

You forced your eyes upward, meeting his gaze. He wasn't looking at you with anger; rather with curiosity. And a hungry gleam that caused your thighs to clench.

There wasn't a single logical though behind your action, but you simply bolted.

You ran through the woods blindly. Ferns licked the skin of your thighs, as your simple, short white shift lifted up. Moss made your feet slippery, the ground wasn't easing your moves either.

You slowed only for a split of a second, just to catch a breath and decide on direction. You forgot a single heartbeat was enough for a skilled hunter to strike. It was definitely enough for the best of hunters.

"I can hear you breathing."

Curtis' tone held a hint of amusement as he leaned against a tree trunk, opposite of the one you were braced against.

Before you made a single step to ran again, Curtis moved. He was so damn fast! Breath stuttered in your chest as he pinned you against the tree with his heavy mass.

"Was the chase for my benefit, doe?" He asked, tracing a single finger along your cheek.

"I-" you tried to regain steady breathing.

"I enjoyed it," though he didn't smile, somehow you sensed he was genuine, not mocking you. "Though to the mystic depths of the night forest, I'd rather enjoy sweet, moist caverns of my bride."

His other hand squeezed your thigh. Your pupils blew wide as Curtis slid it up, pushing it beneath your shift.

You clenched your legs, your hands landing on Curtis' bared chest. You didn't push him away; the heat seeping from him and the firm structure of his muscles made you pause.

The finger on your cheek disappeared. Curtis brushed the petals on the flower crown adorning your head.

"The other women," he spoke, "they looked excited and in bliss. But you-" he picked a single petal, then traced the delicate pad along your lips and down the column of your neck-

"You looked determined. So sure and ready for your future."

Curtis cocked his head, eyes holding yours as he dipped the petal into the valley of your breasts.

"What changed it?" He asked.

"I-" it was really hard to think of anything when Curtis' hands were touching you.

And he made the contrast between teasing tickle of a petal on your breasts and a massive hand pushing between your thighs maddening.

"I don't know," you sighed, spreading your legs a bit in defeat.

"I think I got a little scared." Your hands moved to Curtis' shoulders, your hold tightening.

"I can be scary." Curtis nodded. "But you have nothing to fear, doe. I will never hurt you."

He paused; his gaze dropping to the petal swaying on the swell of your breast as it rose and fell in quickened breath. Curtis bowed his head slightly, then blew the petal away.

"As long as you don't run from me," he lifted his head, stark blue irises sparking with mischief and lips curling into a wolfish grin.

Then his hand was tearing the top of your shift, exposing your breasts, while his other hand cupped your mound.

Calloused fingers squeezed your breast as Curtis' mouth claimed your lips in a hungry kiss. Oxygen seemed to stop flowing to your brain for a moment, your heart stopping in shock, when you felt the pressure of his power.

Was it how prey felt when a predator sank its teeth into their neck? A freezing shock that melted into surrender for the inevitable.

You tensed like a string, but your body quickly gave in. Lips parting obediently, you allowed Curtis' tongue to tease yours. Your hands pushed at the pelt on his shoulders, yanking the whole cover off of him, so your fingers were finally able to move to the back of his head.

A keen spilled from your throat into Curtis' mouth when a single, thick digit pushed into your core.

Curtis cooed softly, trailing wet kisses along your jaw. His teeth scraped your earlobe, drawing your attention to the sting of it as he rubbed a thumb against your clit.

"We have to sate the hunt, doe," Curtis rasped, pushing another finger in and thrusting them into you quicker.

You scraped at the back of his head, crying out at the intrusion. It was more, so much more, than your small fingers. He reached deeper, too; stretching you and touching spots that seemed to both hurt and be deliriously pleasant.

"A good hunt demands blood." His breathy growl made you shiver.

Curtis pulled his fingers out of you, suddenly; your wetness smeared on your skin when he gripped the back of your thigh.

The world twirled as he laid you down on the forest ground, quickly cutting off splashes of green of the tree crowns with the frame of his huge body hovering above you.

"Please!" You whined, hands clawing at Curtis' sides.

You weren't sure if you were pleading for mercy, or if your own need was so bloodthirsty.

He spread your legs wide, settling himself between them. Your shift was rolled up on your belly, your slick glistening on the thatch of curls around your folds.

Curtis' gaze was focused between your bodies and your own eyes shifted downwards too. You let out a strangled gasp at what you saw.

Curtis was palming his cock - big, like the rest of him. When he rested it over your mount, the tip of it reached almost your bellybutton.

He would be so deep...

Your fingernails pierced his skin as Curtis guided himself into your opening. He was barely in and it already stretched you impossibly.

Then he pushed more of his weight onto you, bracing himself on his forearms on both sides of your head. He looked down at you; drinking in the metamorphosis of grimaces on your beautiful face as he thrust into your virgin cunt.

Your cry echoed through the forest as the merciless slide split you in two. Every second felt like torment that dragged overwhelming pleasure along with the sting.

And he kept on driving in, even when you felt there's not an inch left inside you to fill.

"There you go, doe," Curtis moaned, rocking his hips and pushing his cock deeper and deeper. "That's a good girl. That's it."

When he finally stilled, buried so deep inside it felt nearly uncomfortable, your forehead was dewy with sweat and your thighs were shaking.

You felt so full. Wetter, too. Your arousal mixing with a dab of virginal blood.

"You're mine, doe," Curtis mouthed against your lips, nipping your bottom lip with his teeth.

"Yours," you mewled, feeling your walls fluttering.

Though Curtis didn't seem to mind you scratching his sides, as you tried to tame the tension and need bubbling inside of you, he yanked your hands off of him. He put your hands above your head, gripping your wrists with one of his hands.

And then he started moving.

The pace wasn't fast, but each thrust was rough and forceful, causing your body to jolt. Your untried pussy welcomed each stroke like the first one - resilient to the stretch and loving how Curtis made you take it anyway.

Curtis bent his head, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth. Was it the sucking, or the way his hips shifted and the head of his cock bumped into a special spot, but your knees drew up and your back arched.

You screamed into the night as your first orgasm shook every bone in your body.

Trickle of your juices, pinked with your blood, dripped into the ground beneath you.

A long while later (when your voice grew hoarse and your brain stopped registering anything beyond the feeling of Curtis owning every part of your body), Curtis' cum soiled the forest floor too.

He spilled deep inside, groaning against your lips as his dick twitched. He kept rocking erratically, pushing excess of his cum out of you.

You were a boneless mess when Curtis picked you up a few heartbeats later.

Your arms wrapped around his neck as he nestled you against his chest. His scent became headier, earth and musk overpowering the subtle sandalwood.

Curtis carried you back to the abandoned bedding. He laid you down on soft linens and you welcomed the clean, fresh fabrics.

"No rest yet, doe," Curtis rolled you onto your side and settled behind you.

He gripped beneath your knee and pulled your leg outward. He guided his cock between your folds, rubbing the head back and forth over your oversensitive clit.

He caught your hand when you tried patting him away in protest.

"Tradition of The Hunt is sacred," he said. "Evidence of the coupling is necessary for our betrothal to be officially binding."

In the back of your mind, you knew that. There were foggy memories of a hunt ten years earlier; a couple returning in the early morning from the depths of the woods and matrons of the elders going in to check upon the consummation evidence.

But you were sore and exhausted, your brain wasn't working in logical ways. You never imagined how draining sex would be.

And you happened to be chosen by the hunter known for limitless endurance.

"Besides," Curtis pushed into you, "I want you again."

He’s always kind of given you the ick, despite how handsome and charming he is. There’s just something about the way he looks at you, his eyes kind of empty but also glittering with something that has all the alarm bells in your head going off.

But sadly your usual self-preservation is lacking once you’re a couple of drinks in and everything after Bryce gets you your third drink is a blur.

You only remember snippets after that…

Feeling unusually off balance and heavy at the same time, like you were slowly losing control of your body.

Bryce pinning you to the bed in one of the guest bedrooms and shoving his hand up your dress despite the way you kept begging him to stop.

Ransom looming over you both with fury burning hot and wild in his gaze.

A scuffle between the two men and Bryce winding up with what looked like a broken, bloody nose.

Ransom being so soft with you as you quavered that you didn’t feel good and you were scared once it was just the two of you.

The way he held you in his arms until you finally stopped crying, petting your head and murmuring, “You’re safe now, kitten, I promise.”

How he let you follow him to his bedroom a little while later, because you didn’t want to be alone.

And the way he gave you this soft smile as you asked to sleep in your favorite sweater of his.

The warm way his eyes shone at you as you didn’t think anything of changing right in front of him, still drunk and swaying on your feet and oblivious to the way his gaze drank in every inch of you that he could get his greedy eyes on.

Feeling so safe and warm as you snuggled against Ransom in bed before finally falling asleep.

All these flashes hit you one by one the next morning when you wake in Ransom’s embrace, the embodiment of O_O as you remember and low key freak out and fall even a little bit more in love with him for protecting you as you try not to move too much and wake him up.

“On a scale of one to ten, how much are you freakin out right now?”

You jerk and squeak at Ransom’s quiet, smoky voice, peeking up to find him sleepily grinning at you.

And dear god, if you thought he was handsome before… he’s simply stunning first thing in the morning with his floppy hair and ruddy cheeks, a kind of warm openness to him that you’ve never witnessed til now.

It’s like all of his masks are completely down, and you think for a second how very few people get to see Ransom like this, and how grateful you are that you’re one of them.

He blinks at you slowly as you stare at him, his grin morphing into a smirk as he teases, “You keep looking at me with that dopey look, and I’m gonna have to do something about it.”

“Uhhh,” you manage in a high pitched wisp.

For some reason, Ransom takes that as a challenge—an invitation—and he moves so quickly you can do little more than gasp and gape up at him as he pins you beneath him.

“Ransom—“

“You’re the only one who looks at me like that,” he murmurs, settling his big body between your sprawled legs.

“Like what?” You whisper.

The smile that curls across his lips is sin incarnate, and you feel your pussy clench in response.

But there’s a softness to his features too as he dips low and hums, “Like you want me more than you’ve ever wanted anything in your life.”

“Ohhh boy,” you chirp, feeling humiliation flood your cheeks until you’re turning away to hide from Ransom’s intent look.

You don’t even bother trying to deny his observation, because you’re a shit liar, and this is something you don’t have the heart to deny, not to him.

“But it’s not just desire shining in those pretty eyes when you look at me, kitten,” Ransom continues.

Your breath hitches when his lips touch your too warm cheek.

“You know what else I see?”

His lips skim across your skin and up, until his next words are a hot rush against your ear that has you shuddering hard.

“I know you know.” He nips your earlobe before cupping your cheek and turning your guilty, terrified gaze his way.

“Say it.”

His command is simple, but it’s also a challenge, and more than that, it’s a request for validation that you can see reflected in his baby blues as Ransom looks at you with a bit of vulnerability seeping into his features for the first time ever.

“Love,” you give voice to your feelings for him, and Ransom’s grin shifts into a soft, genuine smile.

“So smart, my kitten.”

He boops your nose and you feel a wild bloom in your belly at his possessive descriptor of you, at the way he’s looking at you—like you mean just as much to him as he means to you.

“Yours?” you echo hopefully.

And it does smell like summer, too – salt, sunscreen, and charred wood wrapped in the feeling of everything about to end and begin all at once. 

Some kid even dragged down a boombox, blasting Jimmy Eat World, Weezer, and The Offspring off a burned mix CD, the sound warbling every time the batteries threaten to die. The crowd roars with it anyway, red cups lifted high, silhouettes dancing across the sand.

Dean shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, sand soft and shifting under his boots. His shoulders are hunched in his leather jacket, although it’s way too warm for it. The damn jacket is a shield, though, okay? Always has been. 

As he hangs back at the edge and watches the chaos unfold, it feels like someone else’s party, however. He doesn’t belong here anymore. Not with kids yelling over cheap speakers, red plastic cups littering the beach, and someone’s idiotic boyfriend trying to balance on a surfboard. Dean used to be them once. Now he’s… not. 

Sam’s the one graduating. Sam’s the one heading off to bigger things. Sam’s the one everyone’s slapping on the back. Dean’s just the older brother who’s still stuck in the same place he swore he’d leave but never did. 

Twenty-two years old and what the fuck does he have to show for it? A job at John Winchester’s auto shop, one semester at community college before dropping out, a reputation for drinking too much and sleeping around, and just enough boyish charm to keep people from asking what the hell he’s doing with his life. It’s a dead-end routine in a small beach town most people only ever pass through on the way to LA. 

The crowd around the fire is a blur of faces he half-remembers from when he was in high school – kids who were scrawny freshmen back then are suddenly taller, louder, and older now. He feels older too, but not in the same fucking way. 

To Dean, the bonfire might as well be a damn funeral pyre. 

“Don’t tell me you’re already brooding.”

Sam appears by his side and claps him on the back, towering high like damn El Capitan. His shirt is a crisp white, his jeans are worn, and his sneakers already sport an overwhelming amount of Sharpie doodles. His face is flushed from the firelight and the million congratulations he’s already fielded. His little brother looks ridiculous and perfect at the same time. 

Dean grins on the outside but swallows hard on the inside. Brave face.

“I’m not brooding. I’m observing. Big difference, Sammy,” he replies. 

Sam’s brow scrunches. “Observing what, exactly?”

Dean smirks. “The tragic downfall of your entire graduating class. I live for watching teenagers get drunk off Smirnoff Ice and puke in the dunes. Give it ten minutes, and I guarantee someone’s gonna fall into the fire pit.”

Sam scoffs. “You’re impossible.”

“Nah, just realistic.” 

“I’m surprised you actually came,” Sam notes then, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. 

“What, you thought I was gonna leave you hanging? Please.” Dean huffs a laugh and hopes it sounds genuine enough. “Who else is gonna heckle your valedictorian speech, huh?”

Sam groans. “Don’t even start. I kept it short.”

“Yeah, because nobody wants to listen to a lecture about mitochondria at a graduation ceremony.”

Sam pushes him lightly. “It was about chasing opportunity, you jerk.”

Dean raises his brow. “Wow. Inspirational. Really nailed that whole ‘Hallmark card’ vibe.” 

Sam rolls his eyes, but his grin doesn’t fade. The brothers fall into step toward the fire, heat prickling their faces even before they reach the flames. Dean can feel Sam vibrating beside him like he’s already halfway gone – nerd mind in Palo Alto, Sasquatch body still stuck here for a few more weeks. 

It almost feels like a necessity that Dean steals glances at his little brother every chance he gets tonight, cataloguing every minute detail: the way Sam’s mop of hair curls at the collar, the faint sunburn across his nose and cheeks, and the look in his hazel eyes like the whole world’s already waiting for him.

Stanford. 

Dean feels the word like a third-degree burn every time it comes up. 

“So…” he starts casually, pursing his lips as he see-saws on his feet in the sand. “How long before you ditch us small-town nobodies for the land of palm trees and Ivy League wannabes, huh?”

“It’s not Ivy League, Dean,” Sam replies automatically. 

“Close enough, though. You’ll be rubbing elbows with a bunch of senators’ kids and learning how to sue people before you can even legally rent a car.” Dean grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Bet you’ll forget all about us losers when you’re out there changing the world.”

Sam shakes his head and lets out a sigh. “You’re not a loser, Dean.”

“No?” Dean snorts and raises a brow. “Dropped outta college before I even unpacked. Been working for Dad ever since. You’re going to Stanford, man. And I’m just… here.”

“That’s not true,” Sam counters, forcing him to meet the Golden Retriever eyes. His little brother might as well become a motivational speaker. “You got into LAFD. You’re moving to LA with Cas and Benny. That’s something.”

It’s true. The letter from LAFD came last week and has been burning a hole into the back pocket of his jeans ever since. It was a long shot, half-expecting a rejection, and now the idea of running into fires and wearing that uniform scares him almost as much as it thrills him. 

“Yeah, running into burning buildings. Real upgrade,” Dean retorts. 

“You make it sound like nothing, but you know how hard it is to get in, right?” Sam reminds him, always pushing. 

Dean gives him the infamous cocky smirk. “You don’t have to make me feel better, man. I get it, alright? I know you can’t wait to get outta this dump. Who wouldn’t wanna trade in the same three bars, that one sad movie theater, and Dad’s temper for sunshine and coeds? Hell, I’d run too.”

Sam rolls his eyes now, probably close to done with the pity party. “You’re not stuck, okay? You never were. You just… took the long way around.”

Dean swallows and watches the sparks of the fire jumping through the air. “Long way around, huh? Sounds like something a Hallmark card would say,” he jokes. 

Sam smacks his arm. 

In truth, though, Dean wants to tell his little brother that he’s scared. He’s already wasted too much time, and maybe he isn’t cut out for more. But his throat is too tight to say any of it. 

Instead, he looks down at his boots sinking into the sand. He wants to believe Sam. He really does. He wants to see himself as more than just the guy who couldn’t hack college and who crawled back to Dad’s garage with his tail between his legs. He wants to believe he can do this. But still, what if he fucking can’t?

Around him, the kids are reckless and golden as if summer can’t touch them. Lucky bastards, Dean thinks as he watches beers getting passed around and couples slipping into the shadows. 

They still got time. The world hasn’t disappointed them yet. 

Before Dean can launch into another self-deprecating spiral, however, there’s the infectious sound of laughter and a call of Sam’s name. The older Winchester turns just in time as three girls approach, arms linked as they stroll down the slope. 

He recognizes Charlie Bradbury instantly, her red hair catching the firelight like copper wire, while Jo Harvelle flashes a sharp smirk, but it’s the girl between them that makes him pause and causes his breath to stutter for a second. 

You. 

Dean squints his eyes, trying to place you. He should know you like he knows everyone else in this town, and maybe he does, but you seem… different. You’re not loud like Charlie or biting like Jo. There’s something easy in the way you move, as if you’re more interested in observing than performing. 

A denim jacket is tied around your waist, black Converse digging into the sand. The flames flicker against your hair, catching the outline of a smile that’s not for the crowd but for yourself, like you’re the only one in on some private joke.

And fuck, that smile hits him like an arrow straight to his chest, a spark igniting before he’s ready for it. 

“Valedictorian boy!” Charlie yells and barrels ahead, waving at Sam like she’s across a football field and not a few feet away. 

Sam brightens in an instant. “Hey, you guys made it!”

“Couldn’t miss the send-off,” Jo says casually and shrugs. “Whole town’s here. Figured we’d better be, too.”

“Yeah, it’s my fault we’re late,” you chime in without bravado. “I made them stop by the diner to line their stomachs with grease before coming here.”

Sam chuckles and nods. “Smart, considering how prom went.”

“Yes, we learned our lesson,” Jo says, laughing, and throws Charlie a raised look. “Right?”

The redhead groans. “I still can’t look at a bathtub the same way.”

You step forward a little, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Congrats, by the way, Sam. That was a nice speech.”

“Thanks,” Sam chuckles, cheeks blushing. “Couldn’t have made valedictorian without you, to be honest. You carried us through bio.” 

Dean watches the exchange, clocking how quick your wit is and how easy you make Sam laugh. It’s not forced or flashy. It’s just real and genuine. And for a moment, Dean sees Sam the same way you do – not as a little brother but as a peer, someone with his own stupid inside jokes and shared battles. 

“Yeah, I bet.” You smirk, sure and easy. “Your graphs looked atrocious.” 

“Hey!” Sam protests, barking a laugh. 

“God, don’t remind me, nerds. I barely scraped a C in that class,” Jo groans and yanks on your arm. “Enough about school, okay? It’s graduation, people. There’s beers to be had!”

“Right, right,” you laugh, letting her pull you toward the music. Charlie waves before following.

Dean can’t help it and tracks you with his eyes till the crowd swallows you. You don’t seem like the girl who tries too hard. No, you seem like the kind that already knows who she is, and he swears there’s an ember that escapes the pit and jumps right into his heart. 

“So,” he asks after a moment, too casually, “who’s that?” 

Sam’s brow furrows, already suspicious. “Her? She’s–… she was my lab partner in bio this year. Why?”

Dean twitches his shoulders, green eyes still flicking to you through the dancing silhouettes. “No reason.”

“Dean–” Sam frowns, already pulling out the typical little brother bitch face. “Don’t.”

“What?” Dean raises his brows innocently, hiding the fact that he doesn’t even know what the hell he means himself. “Just curious. I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” Sam says pointedly and narrows his eyes. “She’s actually nice, okay? Don’t be, you know… you about it.”

“Relax, Sammy.” He smirks because it’s the only defense he’s got. 

But the truth is, the spark already ignited a flame – the kind that doesn’t fizzle out easily. And Dean? Well, he’s never been good at ignoring a fire once it starts. 

The fire’s burned down to a steady orange glow, sparks floating through the dark night sky like fireflies when Dean finally manages to peel himself away. 

Kids are still shouting, dancing, laughing, and tossing a football around that keeps disappearing into the surf. Half of them are already drunk, retelling the same high school stories he never cared about the first time he’s heard them. The other half are girls he’s gone on a couple dates with back when he thought coasting through town in his dad’s old car was the height of cool. 

Needless to say, most of those people he’d rather avoid tonight. 

At least Cas and Benny have shown up, keeping him company on a driftwood log half-buried in the sand. Cas still looks like he came straight from Sunday service. That hasn’t changed since high school. 

Benny is easier, on the other hand, sporting a loose grin and a charming Cajun drawl, although he’s fairly new in town and doesn’t really know anybody. Dean’s only met him a year ago at the local watering hole, played a round of pool with him, and got him a job at his dad’s shop. They’ve been hanging out ever since.

Their friendship’s the only thing that gives him at least a little comfort as he’s running toward the great unknown. Benny’s gotten into the fire academy as well, and Cas is starting med school at UCLA, so the three of them decided to get a place together and do the whole roommate thing. Honestly, anything’s better than his dad’s garage turned half-assed apartment at this point. 

Privacy? No such thing when you’re living with family. Doors and knocking are only an illusion. 

The guys are talking about nothing as usual – cars, girls, new records – but Dean’s barely paying attention. And sure, he should be catching up, swapping stories, and maybe talking about the old haunts in town he’ll miss once they get to LA. But instead, his eyes can’t stop checking the other side of the fire since he first caught sight of you. 

“…and I told the guy,” Benny says, beer sweating in his palm, “you can’t swap out a carburetor like that unless you’re ready to replace the whole damn–” 

Dean’s pretending to be invested in Benny’s story, but his eyes flick across the flames once more. You’re standing with Charlie now, heads bent together over something in her hands. A Polaroid picture, maybe? He wonders what it shows because your smile breaks quick and easy – like it sneaks up on you instead of being put on.

He then feels a sharp jab in his ribs. 

“Dean.” Cas gives him a raised look as he snaps out of his trance. 

“What?” he asks, head swiveling back to the guys, who both meet him with grins so bright he wants to roll his eyes. 

Benny smirks. “Man, you even listenin’?”

Dean nods and nurses the rest of his beer. “Sure. Carbs. Whole damn thing. Got it.” 

Cas tips his bottle toward him, voice flat and factual as always. “You weren’t listening. You were staring.”

Dean groans and rolls his eyes for real this time. “Jesus, you two. You’re worse than my little brother.” 

“You’ve looked over there seven times,” Cas adds like he clocked a goddamn traffic violation. “You do know Charlie’s not playing for your team, right?”

“I know that,” Dean grits with diminishing patience. “I wasn’t staring at her.”

“But you were staring at someone,” Benny deduces all-too cleverly. 

“Whatever,” Dean huffs and takes one last gulp of beer. 

“Oh, I think I know who you’re staring at,” Cas says smugly, followed by your name. 

“That her name?” Dean lifts an eyebrow, beer bottle still attached to his lips, and tries to act cool about it. He thinks he's heard that name before but still can't remember from where.

“You’re staring at a girl whose name you don’t know?” There’s judgment in Cas’ voice. “Why am I even surprised?”

“Would you chill? It’s nothing like that. I just met her, okay?” he defends. “She was Sam’s lab partner.” 

Benny chuckles, shaking his head. “Man’s smitten.” 

“Shut up. I’m not smitten,” Dean scoffs defensively. He sets his empty bottle down a little harder than necessary. 

Across the bonfire, you’re laughing again, tipping your head back as Charlie gestures wildly, clearly in the middle of some animated story. Dean catches the bright sound even over the music.

“Eight times,” Cas states matter-of-factly. 

Dean frowns. “What, you keepin’ score?”

Benny leans in with a teasing grin. “Not smitten, huh?” 

Dean shakes his head and pushes off the log, heading for the coolers before his friends can say more, muttering something about grabbing another beer. 

The “bar” is a crooked folding table with four half-buried coolers in the sand. Dean crouches and rummages through melting ice and metal cans, trying to look busy. 

“‘M not smitten…” he mutters to himself, fishing out one of the last beer bottles. 

“Not smitten with what?”

Dean glances up, blinks, and there you fucking are – getting a Diet Coke next to him before flipping the cooler lid shut. There’s an amused smile tugging at the corner of your lips, eyebrows lifted in expectancy. 

“Uh…” He clears his throat and straightens a little, rubbing the tension out of his jaw. “Not smitten with the, uh… music selection. It’s grotesque.”

“Grotesque. Wow,” you laugh, opening your can with a hiss. “That’s a strong word. Not a fan of Blink-182, huh?”

He shrugs. “Well, I prefer the classics.”

“What, like Mozart?” 

“No, uh–” Dean stumps for a moment. Somehow concentrating on words is real hard when you’re staring at him like that. “Classic… rock, you know?”

“Cool.” You nod and gift him a smile. “Like, what?”

“Uhm, you know, Led Zeppelin, Blue Öyster Cult, AC/DC…” he manages to list before his throat closes. 

Smooth, Winchester. Real smooth.

“Figures,” you say and eye his leather jacket. “Kinda the uniform, right?” 

“Hey now,” Dean says, mock-offended. “Don’t lump me in with every wannabe rocker who buys a leather jacket.”

“Alright, I’m sorry. You wear it well,” you say, smiling graciously. 

Dean smirks, satisfied, but it fades after a moment. He certainly feels his coolness factor sinking. He’s not the same guy he used to be in high school anymore. Back then, he had an abundance of swagger. Now? Not so much. 

“You listen to anything beyond the 80s, too?” you ask teasingly then. 

He barks a nervous laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “You making fun of me?”

You give a subtle shrug of your shoulders and grin. “Little bit maybe.”

He chuckles and nods in acceptance. “I’m–, uh, I’m Dean, by the way.”

“I know,” you say simply before following up, “Your Sam’s older brother. He talks a lot about you.”

Dean purses his lips. That could go either way now, depending on his little brother’s mood. “All good things, I hope?”

You press your lips into a tight line. Seriously, Sam?!

“Uhm… mostly, yeah,” you reply politely, biting back a grin. “A few complaints about you blasting your music too loud when he wanted to study in the car before school, which is forgiven now that I know you have great taste in music.”

Dean rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Oh, that little nerd. Shoulda let him walk to school,” he mutters, making you giggle. “Do you know what he’d listen to if I let him? Fucking country.”

“God, no,” you deadpan, playing a along. “That’s a crime.”

Dean chuckles before his brain malfunctions again, and the silence stretches. He blows a raspberry, fumbling with his fingers before he makes a panic move when he sees your feet shifting back to the roar of the crowd. 

“So, uh… Sam says you two were lab partners, huh?”

Oh God, someone shoot him already and put him out of his misery. 

“Word travels fast,” you quip, a hint of amusement back on your face. 

Dean smirks, masking the nervousness prickling in his blood. “Bet he was a blast.” 

You laugh softly. “Actually? He was. Kinda nerdy, but he always knew everything. He was kind enough to let me copy his notes.” 

Dean huffs a chuckle. “Figures. I swear the kid was born with a book in his hands. I’m still shocked he didn’t drag a microscope to prom.” 

That earns him a fuller laugh, and his heart swells like he’s scored a touchdown on the field. It’s been a while since he felt like this. 

“So what about you? You headed outta town, too?” he asks but already knows the answer. Bright kid like you? Of course you’d get the fuck out. 

You sip from your can, meeting his gaze. “I got into San Jose State. Journalism,” you tell him, and even though you’re trying to hide it, Dean can see the pride in your eyes.

“Yeah? Journalism,” Dean echoes, buying time. “Big-time reporter, huh? Gonna be the next Woodward or Bernstein?”

“Whoa, those are some big shoes to fill,” you counter, laughing softly. “I’d be fine with doing the weather, honestly.” 

Dean grins, nerves easing just a fraction and shoulders loosening. “I dunno. I think you’ll do fine. You’ve got the whole–, uh… the vibe for it.”

“The vibe?” You arch a brow, nursing your drink. 

He winces at his own words, clearing his throat. “Y’know,” he fumbles. “Smart, observant, kinda sharp…” 

You tilt your head, amusement gleaming in your eyes again like you’re more entertained by his idiocy than put off. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You–, uh, you should,” he adds and then finally finds his goddamn composure. “I bet my ass you’ll be writing exposés about shady government labs before the rest of us figure out how to work a DVD player.”

Your mouth quirks. “Or maybe I’ll just end up writing reviews about bad horror movies.” 

“Hey, nothin’ wrong with that,” Dean says, smiling. “Somebody’s gotta warn the world about a sequel to fucking Scream.” 

You laugh once more, shaking your head, and Dean feels like a winner. “You really have opinions about everything, don’t you?”

Dean grins. “Only the important stuff. Music, movies, where the best pie is. You know, life’s essentials.”

You hum, eyes twinkling. “And what do I fall under? Music, movies, or pie?”

For a split second, Dean blanks but then recovers with a crooked smile. “Pie. Definitely pie. Classic, sweet… kinda dangerous if you don’t pace yourself.” 

You lift a brow, amused again, and Dean’s heartbeat kicks up. Jesus fuck, he can’t believe he just said that. But you’re smiling and not walking away, so maybe, just maybe, he can fucking pull this off.

But then arms snake around his shoulders. A kiss lands on his cheek. A familiar perfume engulfs him. 

“Dean Winchester,” a voice purrs in his ear. 

Dean jerks and nearly drops his goddamn beer. “Cassie, hey…”

She beams, pulling him close and kissing him, but then her eyes land on you and widen. And you? You startle for a second before lighting up, too. 

“Cassie?!” 

Dean watches helplessly as Cassie’s face breaks into a grin. “No way! Look at you. I didn’t even recognize you!”

“Same,” you laugh and instantly hug her, Cassie letting go of him. “Oh my God, it’s been forever!” Cassie pulls back from you slightly but still holds onto your arms, giving you a once-over like an older sister would. “I can’t believe you’re here. I thought you were still in Chicago.”

“Graduated last spring,” Cassie explains breezily. “Moved back home for a bit before my new job starts in fall. San Francisco Chronicle, baby.”

Your eyes go huge this time. “Seriously?! That’s amazing. Congratulations!” 

Dean’s grip tightens on his bottle, quietly nursing his beer. 

“Thanks.” Cassie waves it off, but she’s glowing. “What about you? Sam told me you’re headed to SJSU?” 

“Yeah, journalism too,” you reply with blushing cheeks. 

Cassie claps, delighted. “I knew it! You always had the sharpest eye on the paper. You were the only freshman I could count on to actually edit copy instead of doodling on it,” she says, laughing, and then turns to Dean. “She was one of the freshman I mentored. Brightest one I ever had.”

“Oh, stop!” You brush it off with an eye roll and pink cheeks. “You’re the reason I joined the paper in the first place. Remember that Halloween issue you wrote? I still got it.”

“Girl, burn it,” Cassie laughs again. “Half the teachers hated me for it and wanted me expelled.”

“No, but it was brilliant,” you insist, beaming. “It made me want to do this for real.” 

Cassie squeezes your arm, voice earnest. “Listen, if you ever need anything – contacts, references, advice – you come to me, okay? Chronicle’s a big step, but I’ll always have time for my rookies.” 

Dean stands frozen, completely invisible. It’s like he’s been erased from the conversation, watching the two of you spiral into a world of inside jokes and shared ambition he has no way into. 

Cassie then loops her arm through yours, tugging you toward the fire. “Come on, catch me up. Tell me everything.” 

You glance back once, tossing an apologetic smile Dean’s way before vanishing into the crowd at Cassie’s side. 

Dean's left standing by the coolers, the words he almost said still caught in his throat as your laughter trails behind you like smoke he can’t chase. 

The party has thinned to embers, the wood in the fire pit collapsing to glowing red bones. The speakers have long gone silent, replaced by the hush of waves dragging against the shore. Now all there’s left are just couples whispering, kissing, and doing God knows what else, while the rest of the remaining crowd tumbles drunk through the sand. 

Dean still feels restless, though. Cas disappeared a while ago, probably having driven home while muttering about “pointless social rituals.” And Benny’s gone too – off somewhere with a girl Dean can’t remember the name of. 

As he strolls along the beach in search for Sam, that’s when he spots you instead, though. 

You’re sitting near the waterline, barefoot in the sand. The tide keeps inching closer and daring your toes while the moon paints the foam silver around you. 

Dean hesitates for a second but then shoves his hands in his pockets and saunters toward you. His boots crunch softly on the packed sand, which is why you glance up when he’s only a few feet away. 

“Hey,” he says softly and certainly uncertain. “This seat taken?”

You pat the sand beside you with a small smile. “All yours. Plenty of free real estate.”

Dean chuckles lowly and drops down beside you, stretching his legs out toward the tide. For a moment you both just sit, watching the ocean breathe in and out. 

“Quiet down here,” he says after a beat.

You giggle a little. “That’s the point.”

He snorts a small laugh. “What, too cool for the keg-stand crowd?”

“I’ll leave the keg stands to the professionals.” You grin in return.

“Fair enough.” He chuckles, leaning back on his palms. “Still, figured I’d rescue you from the riveting company of… no one.”

“Appreciated,” you say with a smile, hugging your knees. “Though the ocean’s been holding up a pretty good conversation.”

Dean narrows his eyes at the waves. “Yeah? What’s she saying?”

“That I should probably go home before I freeze,” you reply. “But I’m ignoring her.”

“Rebel,” Dean says and then smacks his lips. “So, what’s your poison? Movies? Music? Everyone’s got one.”

“Little bit of everything, I guess. Music, mostly,” you answer. “Rock, alternative, punk. The classics, some weird stuff.”

His smile widens. “Good answer. I would’ve lost respect if you’d said Smash Mouth.” 

You feign offense. “Hey, now. All Star is a cultural landmark.” 

There’s a beat of quiet again, just the surf rolling in and the faint murmur of the dwindling party up the beach. But it’s never uncomfortable. In fact, it feels the opposite. 

“What about movies?” Dean asks next. “Are you a chick flick girlie?”

“Am I a chick flick girlie?” you parrot, amused, hand on your chest. “Do I look like one?”

“Kinda, yeah.” He smirks teasingly. 

“No, I actually like a lot of horror movies,” you reply. “Especially the stupid ones.”

“Alright.” Dean gives you a challenging look. “Shoot. Favorite?” 

You think for a moment, humming, the sound spreading like warm honey in his ribcage. “Depends on my mood. But if I had to choose? Probably Evil Dead 2. It’s ridiculous and scary and brilliant all at once. Classic horror masterpiece.”

“No way.” Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. Then he grins, wide and bright. “Shut up.” 

“What?”

“That’s mine, too,” he says. “Dead serious. Chainsaws, bad one-liners – perfect fucking movie.” 

“Huh.” A mischievous smile tugs at your lips. “Guess you passed the test.” 

“Good. I was sweatin’ it."

“If you’d said Clueless or something, I would’ve made you leave,” you tease. 

“Phew,” Dean breathes jokingly. “Dodged a bullet. Though, full disclosure, I’ve actually seen Clueless.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, a grin splitting your face in two. “Really?” 

“Yeah, my excuse is that Sammy made me,” he says quickly. “My actual excuse is that Paul Rudd’s immortal.”

“Fair,” you agree, giggling, and then conspiratorially lean closer. “I’ve actually got this bootleg from my cousin. Some Japanese horror film. Totally brutal. Practically banned. No way it ever makes theaters.” 

Dean whistles. “You offering to loan me contraband?”

“Maybe.”

He lets out a chuckle, shaking his head in something close to disbelief. “Damn. You’re like… actually cool. Should’ve figured.”

You tilt your head curiously. “Why’s that?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs and then studies you for a moment. “I’ve never seen you around before. You sure you always lived here?”

“Afraid so,” you respond with a sigh and press your lips into a line. “You do know we’ve run into each other several times, right?”

You probably can tell by the surprised twitch of Dean’s eyebrows that he clearly doesn’t remember. What you can’t tell, however, is that he surely wishes he could.

“I was the one who interviewed you for the school paper during your senior year,” you add, and Dean’s jaw drops. “Back then, you said your favorite band was Iron Maiden.”

He cocks a brow. “That was you?” 

You nod patiently, biting back a smile. 

He remembers the interview, but he can’t for the life of him remember you. Cassie talked him into it back then. Something about him being the quarterback and the team going into a state championship. 

“Wait…” Dean’s brows draw together, taking a closer look at you. “Did you have braces?”

You snort a loud laugh, nodding. “Yeah, that was me.”

“You argued that Metallica was better while wearing an Alanis Morissette shirt.”

“Dude, they are better. Metallica wipes the floor with Iron Maiden. Master of Puppets alone destroys Maiden’s entire catalog. End of story,” you argue, laughing. “And Alanis rocks.”

Dean snorts. “You’re out of your mind. The Number of the Beast? Powerslave? Bruce Dickinson’s vocals make Hetfield sound like he’s gargling gravel.”

“Gravel?” You raise a brow. “Hetfield made metal accessible without watering it down. That’s why The Black Album sold like crazy.” 

“Exactly,” Dean says. “Maiden never needed to chase radio play. They stayed true to their sound, and fans respect that. Popular doesn’t equal better.” 

“Staying ‘true’ is just code for ‘never evolving,’” you counter. “Metallica took risks. Sometimes weird ones, yeah, but at least they didn’t just release the same galloping riff twelve times.”

“You take that back,” Dean says but can’t keep the laughs from spilling out. “If we’re talking musicianship, Maiden wins hands down. Steve Harris alone could run circles around half of Metallica.”

“Oh, really?” you challenge with a grin. “Kirk Hammett’s solos say hi.”

“Don’t even–” Dean can’t finish the sentence. His cheeks are hurting from smiling too hard. “Maiden is metal’s beating heart.”

“Guess we’ll just never agree,” you say, grinning. 

“Yeah, not until you admit Maiden rules,” Dean huffs. 

“And not until you admit Metallica’s king,” you add and then shake your head. “I can’t believe you actually remember that.”

“You kidding? ‘Course I remember. It’s all coming back to me,” Dean says, laughing. He can't believe he ever forgot the fifteen-year-old who argued him into the ground over heavy metal. “Even told Sam after to ‘ask out the cool chick in his class.’ Guess he never did.”

“Nope.” You grin. 

“Well, his loss,” Dean scoffs, shaking his head. Leave it to his little brother to have his nose buried in a book so deeply he ignores the coolest girl in school.

“Right,” you snort, nodding. “I had a lot of classes with Sam in freshman year. I actually used to hang out at your house a lot. You probably don’t remember since you were pretty busy playing video games and making out with your girlfriend all the time.”

Dean guiltily purses his lips. “Wasn’t all the time,” he mutters. 

“I mean, to be fair, it was a long time ago. Sam was still smaller than you back then,” you quip, giggling. 

He can’t help but laugh, rubbing his jaw. “Yeah, don’t know when exactly that happened. Guess Cassie was right. You guys did grow up,” he muses and feels old again. He can still recall how Sam looked up at him once like he hung the moon. 

“Luckily,” you huff. “Puberty was hard, man.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Dean chuckles softly and then glances at you sideways. “Guess you probably remember me as the dumb jock, right? Quarterback, letterman jacket, thinking I was hot shit.”

“What? No.” You shake your head in disbelief. “Dean, you were popular. High school royalty, king of the parking lot, girls leaving notes in your locker... You were the guy even the freshmen fainted over.”

His lips twitch slyly. “You saying you were one of those freshmen?”

You smirk, deliberately coy. “Maybe.”

“Huh.” His chest tightens at that, and his grin lingers with something boyish, but instead of basking in it, he shrugs it off with a wry snort. “Yeah, well, hate to disappoint, but that guy’s gone. Now I’m just part of the ‘peaked in high school’ starter pack.” 

You frown. “That’s not true.”

He kicks the sand lightly with his boot. “What, that I peaked in high school? Kinda fits the cliché, doesn’t it?”

You tilt your head, studying him. “You don’t actually believe that.” 

“Sure I do. Dropped outta community college after a semester, been workin’ at my dad’s shop ever since.” He forces a chuckle. “Livin’ the dream as your local grease monkey now.” 

“Sam told me you got into the fire academy in LA,” you note.

“Man, Sammy’s got a big mouth.” Dean groans, rubbing a hand down his face. “What else did he tell you? My social security number? My blood type?”

You laugh a little. “Firefighting is not nothing. It’s brave. Noble. You’re gonna save lives.”

Dean snorts, trying to play it off. “Yeah, guess we’ll see if I don’t trip over a hose first day.”

“I think you’ll be fine,” you say, voice gentle and sure. 

Dean looks at you, caught off guard by the sincerity in your voice. For once, he doesn’t have a joke ready. He just wishes he had that kind of certainty about his own life, too. 

For a heartbeat, you both just sit there then, watching the tide creep in, something unspoken stretching between you. The silence is electric and charged. You lean a little closer, and Dean shifts toward you without thinking.

His eyes flick to your lips, and for one reckless moment, his hand reaches out to touch your cheek, nose brushing yours, and then–

“DEEEEAN!” 

Sam’s voice slurs across the beach. 

Dean winces and closes his eyes. “Son of a bitch…” 

You cover your mouth, trying not to laugh as his little brother staggers down the sandy slope, arms spread wide, hair falling in his eyes. 

“There you are! Dude, I–” Sam stops dead in his tracks and squints at you. “Ohhh. Hey.” He then points a finger, swaying. “Careful with this guy.”

Dean jumps to his feet quickly, brushing sand off his jeans. “Sam. Nope. No. We’re not doing this.” 

Sam ignores him, though, wobbling closer. “He looks all charming, right? But Dean–… Dean’s troooouuuble. Big, big trouble.”

“Sam!” Dean growls warningly and grabs his arm, trying to steer him away. 

But his little brother digs his heels in like a stubborn mule the size of a moose. “M’serious! Don’t let him–” He hiccups. “–don’t let him trick you with his smile. He ate my leftover pizza last week. All of it.”

You burst into laughter right then and there, and Dean can’t even blame you, although his cheeks are scorching hot. 

He finally wrestles Sam upright, slinging his brother’s arm over his shoulders. “Okay, show’s over. Time to go, Sasquatch. Bedtime.”

Sam leans heavily against him, still babbling nonsense, though. “I swear to God he talks to his car more than to people. He even–… he even waxes the damn thing. Like–… like it’s his girlfriend.” 

You’re practically doubled over laughing now. Dean can see the tears stinging your eyes. Leave it to his little brother to be the biggest cockblock on this planet. 

“I’m gonna kill you tomorrow,” Dean mutters through clenched teeth, beginning to sweat under Sam’s weight. 

Sam resists weakly, still looking at you. “Just saying, you don’t stand a chance against the Impala. She’s the real love of his life.”

Dean shoots you an exasperated look, ears flushed red, but he can’t fight the smile. “Sorry about him. Guess I better get my drunk-ass brother home before he faceplants in the bonfire,” he jokes, clearing his throat. “Uh… rain check on that movie?”

You nod, eyes bright with amusement. “Rain check.” 

Dean finally manages to wrangle Sam away, pulling him into a half-headlock, and drags him back up the beach, muttering curses under his breath the whole way. But not before he steals one last glance over his shoulder at you.

And you? You’re still smiling after him. 

▶️ Chapter 2: Can't Wait Till Her Parents Go Out of Town

What did you think of their "first" encounter? Were you surprised about the Cassie of it all? More about that in the next chapter, friends. Told you it's a slow burn with a lot of ups and downs. It's all about the right timing sometimes, isn't it? Hang in there as I put on my Doc Martens to stomp on your hearts 😉

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Cassie’s words still ring in his ears when he finds you at the keg, wrestling with the tap. “Could be your last chance.” 

So, Dean gathers his courage and casually steps up beside you. “Need a hand?”

Surprised, you glance over your shoulder before recognition flickers in your eyes, and a grin spreads on your lips. “Depends. You know what you’re doing?”

“Sure do,” he says confidently, even when he fakes half of it.

You step aside and let him handle it. His fingers brush yours – warm, featherlight, and completely fucking intentional. You both feel the spark. 

“See,” he says, filling two cups with practiced ease, smooth and sure. He smirks as he hands one to you. “It’s all in the wrist. Gotta sweet-talk it a little first.” 

“Is that so? Didn’t realize beer kegs responded to flirting,” you quip, amused.

“Oh, they do. Just gotta know what to say,” Dean replies, his cheeks hurting from grinning too damn much. 

You arch an eyebrow, playing along. “Yeah? Like what?”

He smirks broadly. “‘Hey there, beautiful. Mind not spraying me in the face?’”

You laugh loudly, head falling back. Dean wants to bottle the fucking sound and take it with him like a souvenir. 

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“Ben,” you breathe, the word barely making it past your throat.

“I’m fine,” he snaps immediately.

Too fast. Too sharp. He sways a fraction of an inch anyway. There’s a tear just beneath his ribs, fabric shredded where something — a blade, you assume — got close enough to matter. The stain beneath it spreads steadily.

You step toward him slowly, like approaching something dangerous and hurt at the same time. “That doesn’t look fine.”

“It’s nothing.” He brushes past you, shoulder knocking yours without apology. “Just a scratch.”

It isn’t.

You see the way he favors his left side. The rigid set of his spine. The careful way he controls each breath so it doesn’t hitch. That’s how you know it’s bad — not because he’s bleeding, but because he’s pretending he isn’t.

He drops into one of the kitchen chairs like he’s daring it to argue with him.

You reach for your phone instinctively.

“Don’t,” he warns.

You freeze. “I’m not calling anyone,” you say gently.

“Good.”

“I’m getting the kit.”

There’s a pause. A flicker of something uncertain crosses his face — there and gone so fast most people wouldn’t catch it. You do. That’s all the permission you need.

—

The bathroom light is harsh and unforgiving. It shows everything. He refuses to lie down at first. “I can sit,” he says flatly.

“You’re bleeding on the tile.”

“I’ve bled worse.”

“I know.”

That makes him look at you. Not angry. Just wary. But he lets you guide him to the edge of the tub. He sits, shoulders tight, knees spread, hands braced against the porcelain like he’s bracing for impact.

You kneel between his boots and start peeling the torn fabric away from his side. His hand snaps around your wrist. Not hard. Just instinct. Your eyes lift to his. There’s no fury there. Just armor.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you murmur.

His grip loosens immediately, fingers sliding away like he burned himself. “I know,” he mutters. Like that’s the problem.

You ease the ruined fabric off him. The wound underneath makes your stomach twist. It’s deep. A clean blade caught him just beneath the ribs and dragged. Not fatal — not to him — but deep enough that anyone else would’ve collapsed before making it home.

You press antiseptic-soaked gauze to it.

He hisses. “Jesus. You’re worse than the damn fight.”

“Hold still.”

“I am holding still.” He absolutely is not. His fingers are bone-white against the tub’s edge.

You press firmer. His breath catches. And then — without thinking — he grabs your hip and pulls you closer between his knees.

Not control. Not dominance. Balance.

His forehead drops against your stomach. He’s shaking. Barely. But he is.

Your hand moves automatically to his hair. You smooth it back from his forehead, fingers slow and steady. He freezes. You expect him to jerk away. To reassemble the armor. He doesn’t.

Instead, he leans into it. “You should’ve called someone,” he says into your shirt, voice muffled.

“You would’ve left.”

A pause.

“Yeah.”

“I know.”

The quiet stretches between you — heavy but not hostile.

You begin stitching, careful and precise. He doesn’t complain this time. His breathing stays uneven, warm against you. Every now and then his grip tightens slightly on your waist, like he’s grounding himself.

“You ever think,” he says suddenly, voice low and rough, “that maybe I don’t heal right?”

Your hands slow. “What do you mean?”

“The outside does.” He gestures vaguely toward the wound with one hand before letting it fall. “Inside doesn’t.”

The words hang there. He never talks like this. Never.

“Ben—”

“Don’t.” His jaw tightens. “Don’t get that look.”

“What look?”

“Like I’m something you can fix.”

You set the needle aside carefully. You lift his chin so he has to look at you. “I don’t think you’re broken.”

His eyes search yours like he’s trying to catch you in a lie. “You should,” he says quietly. “You’ve seen what I can do. What kinda shit show I am.”

You nod. “And I’ve seen what you don’t let anyone else see.”

That hits.

You see it land. The way his breathing changes. Rougher now. Unsteady.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers. “Shouldn’t be anywhere near me, baby girl.”

“Then push me away.” You hold his gaze.

He could. He knows he could. Instead, his hands tighten around your waist. He doesn’t move you. He just holds on.

You finish bandaging him, smoothing the gauze carefully into place. Your fingers brush over his skin one last time.

He catches your hand before you can pull away. Holds it. Carefully. Like it’s fragile. “Don’t leave tonight,” he says. It’s not a command. It’s almost… afraid.

You step closer until your knees brush his. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He swallows. His thumb drags slowly across your knuckles, rough but careful. “I’m not good at this,” he admits.

“At what?”

“Needing someone.” The word sounds foreign in his mouth.

You lean in, resting your forehead against his. “You’re allowed to need me.”

Something in his face crumples — just slightly. Just for you. “I love you,” he says. The words are rough. Pulled out of him like they hurt. Like he expects you to flinch.

You don’t. You just inhale sharply, because it matters.

Immediately, his expression shutters — defensive. “Don’t make it a big thing.”

You smile, even though your eyes sting. “I love you too.”

His shoulders drop. All the way. The tension leaves him like a slow exhale he’s been holding for decades.

He pulls you into him — careful of his side now — and buries his face in your neck. His hands are warm and firm around your back, holding but not crushing. “You don’t tell anyone,” he mutters.

“I won’t.”

“This stays here.”

“Okay.”

A long pause.

Then, softer than you’ve ever heard him, “Stay.”

You wrap your arms tighter around him, fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulders. “I will.”