how deep is your love?

The makeup artists carelessly tosses a packet of makeup wipes that would have hit you in the face had your reflexes not been what they are. 

You wish your reflexes weren’t what they are, maybe then you wouldn’t be here causing everyone so much grief. 

The next yank has the follicles of your hair audibly parting with your scalp. “Finally.” 

The hairstylist lets the last weft fall to the ground as she pulls out a bristled brush and carelessly rips at your hair. 

But the pain is nothing compared to the grief and shame that has made itself home in your ribcage, oppressive and expanding with every breath you don’t deserve to take. Your heartbeat thumps for every choice you made and every life you ended and every person you impacted. 

You’re a fucking abomination and you deserve all of the rough treatment and more. 

“That’s enough,” a sharp voice calls from the doorway, your neck twisting painfully when your head is forced in the direction that the hairstylist spins.

Finnick stands with his arms crossed and his firm glare bouncing between the two stylists. Your hairstylist’s grip loosens slightly for the first time since you sat down in her chair, though she still doesn’t let go of your hair.

“Fi- I mean, Mr. Odair,” she squeaks, clearly trying to sound chipper. You keep your gaze pointed to the package of makeup wipes in your lap. “We’re just finishing up.”

“No, you’re finished.” He steps into the room and only then does the stylist remove her fist from your hair. “Pack up and go.” 

The makeup artists seems embarrassed, trying to jump into action and muttering a quiet, “here, let me just-”

But his hands don’t make it to the package of wipes he tossed at you earlier before Finnick, louder this time, orders them out.

They listen.

You keep your gaze pointed at the wipes, snagging your thumb under the tab and peeling the lid open to expose the damp cloths inside. You wish you could thumb open the tab of your chest cavity and scoop out all of the darkness that has accumulated there over the past year or so, but you busy yourself with extracting a wipe instead. 

Only once the styling team has hastily packed their things and closed the door behind them does Finnick move; he’s slow, almost graceful in his movements, as he plants himself behind you and reaches for a wayward hair brush left by the mirror. 

You don’t look at Finnick’s reflection despite the way you feel his own gaze burning into yours. 

He’s been disturbingly good to you, too good. 

He’d treated you with nothing but care and respect leading up to your games and ensured you had everything you needed and more while in the arena. 

And you went ahead and disgraced him, disgraced your entire district though no one worse than yourself. 

You should have done everyone a favour and died in that arena. 

“You shouldn’t let them be so rough with you, honey,” Finnick murmurs as he gently works out the tangles and product from your hair, the touch so gentle that your sinuses sting in response.

You don’t respond, instead bringing a wipe to your eyes to hide the quickly gathering tears. 

Finnick finishes your hair in silence and gently plaits it before rounding your chair and pulling up the rolling stool the makeup artist once occupied. 

“Hey,” he whispers, one large hand gently circling your wrist while the other works to pry the wipe from your hand. “Give me that.”

He tosses the used wipe onto the vanity you sit in front of and pulls out another, cupping your jaw with one hand and working away the makeup with his other, far more gently than you’d been doing moments before. 

“You’re too hard on yourself.” The words feel like a spear to your chest and you squeeze your eyes shut. “You have to stop punishing yourself.”

You fold your lips between your teeth and offer a barely perceptible shake of your head, but your jaw in Finnick’s hand ensures that he feels it. 

“Yes, honey,” he counters emphatically. “No one—no one—blames you for surviving the games; you are the only one.”

That’s not true, you’re sure there’s a lot of people who blame you for surviving; your district partner’s family certainly wished their son had come home instead of you, the family of the tributes whose death you’re responsible for likely think much the same. You’re not a survivor, you’re a fucking-

“You didn’t choose this, Y/N,” Finnick pushes, pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger and forcing you to look at him. He blows gently at your eyes which encourages them to open. “You were shoved into that arena and the gamemakers forced your hand. You did what you needed to do to survive and I am proud of you.”

A sob forces its way through the clog in your throat, rubbing painfully against your trachea as your eyes slam shut again. 

“I’m proud of you. I know, I know it sucks and you had to resort to terrible things but you did what you needed to do to survive. You did what I trained you to do.”

You shake your head again, opening your mouth to say something, though nothing comes out.

Nothing ever comes out. 

Finnick pulls you into his chest instead, abandoning his job of wiping your face in favour of tucking you under his chin. 

“You did what I trained you to do,” he repeats, swiveling on the stool and rocking you gently. “So if anyone is to blame, it’s me.”

You shake your head again, and he raises his hand to cup the side of your head, keeping you tucked into him. 

“I’m at just as much fault for anyone’s death as you are, honey. So if you can forgive me, please– please try to find it in you to forgive yourself. Okay?” 

You can’t manage to shove it out of your throat, but something about the tension you try to release from your body must translate to okay, because Finnick accepts your agreement for what it is and sits you back up.

“Let’s get the rest of this off then.”

You’re bone achingly tired in a way you don’t think you’ve ever been before, but you manage a nod. Finnick’s brilliant smile and bright green eyes have you feeling like you’ve just accomplished something worth the effort it took to do it. 

You’re not sure you’ll ever forgive yourself for what you did to make it out of that arena. 

But you think you can find it in yourself to try.

“Sure.” 

“I signed us up for that club.” 

“Epigenetics?” 

“Molecular medicine,” he says. 

The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder. 

“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says. 

You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”

“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”

“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.” 

“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that. 

He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption. 

“When is it?” you ask, smiling. 

—

Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going. 

He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either. 

—

“Good morning,” you say. 

Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back. 

“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers. 

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.” 

“And that’s funny?” 

“When was the last time you wore a suit?” 

Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.” 

“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.” 

The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.

Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.

“You okay?” Peter asks. 

“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?” 

“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?” 

“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him. 

Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears. 

His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you. 

You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.” 

He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would. 

“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less. 

“I’m fine, why?” 

You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?” 

“I have too much to do.” 

You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?” 

His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.” 

—

The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse. 

You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me. 

You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks. 

You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away. 

“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.

You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival. 

“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot. 

“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?” 

After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible. 

You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks. 

He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?” 

“I can show you the webs?” 

You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.” 

Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine. 

“Can I walk you now?” he asks. 

“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react. 

“Nothing more important than you.” 

You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.” 

“Yellowstone Boulevard?” 

“That’s the one…” 

You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.” 

“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.” 

“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match. 

“I like walking,” you say. 

Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.

”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?” 

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.” 

He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.” 

“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.” 

“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says. 

“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.” 

He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away. 

You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back. 

—

I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies? 

The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood. 

Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise. 

Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says. 

The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida. 

You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says. 

“Did you cook?” you ask. 

“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.” 

“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.” 

“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove. 

You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries. 

“It’s for you,” he says casually. 

“It’s not my birthday.” 

“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?” 

You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?” 

“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?” 

“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.” 

“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.” 

“It must’ve taken hours.” 

“May helped.” 

“That makes much more sense.” 

“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time. 

He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.

“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.” 

You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back. 

“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth. 

Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.” 

“I guess I’ll keep it.” 

“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.” 

He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”

“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.” 

“Better than Harry?” 

“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.” 

“Eat your own.” 

Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.

To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder. 

“Have something to tell you.” 

“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw. 

“Is that surprising?” 

“Is that a trick question?” 

“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.” 

“Okay, so tell me.” 

Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.” 

“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”

“She’s going to England.” 

“She is?” 

“Oxford.” 

You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.” 

“But?” 

You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on. 

“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you. 

“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.

“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks. 

“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“ 

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.” 

“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”

“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch. 

“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.” 

“I know. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.” 

“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.” 

You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home. 

Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips. 

Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned. 

— 

He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby. 

“Spider-Man,” you say. 

“What’s that about?” 

“What?” 

“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.

“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it. 

“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.” 

You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm. 

Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.” 

His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.” 

You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.” 

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.” 

“No? Do I have to earn it?” 

“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.” 

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask. 

The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you. 

“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.” 

“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised. 

“A secret. That’s fair.” 

“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.” 

“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car. 

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?” 

He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.” 

You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on. 

“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.” 

“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy. 

“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”

“How come?” 

“It just hurts people.” 

You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road. 

“Tell me another one,” he says. 

“What for?” 

“I don’t know, just tell me one.” 

“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.” 

“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street. 

Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.) 

“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Oh, nowhere.” 

“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?” 

“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask. 

“Sure, for that secret.” 

You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it. 

“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.” 

“Why not?” he asks. 

He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed. 

You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.

“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.” 

“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t. 

“Thanks for telling me.”

The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be. 

“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind. 

“Just an hour.” 

“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.” 

“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”

“Is that the secret you want?” he asks. 

“I get to choose?” 

Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame. 

“If you want to,” he says. 

“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.” 

“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.” 

“When they lined up the cranes–”

“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts. 

“Like flying.”

You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do. 

“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.” 

“So tell me another one,” he says. 

—

Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other. 

It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard. 

You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person. 

You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you. 

Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy. 

“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.” 

“I’d hope so.” 

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.” 

“You did?” 

“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!” 

“I like to walk,” you say. 

“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!” 

“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.” 

“What’s wrong with staying at home?” 

“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.” 

“I don’t do this every night.” 

“Don’t you get tired?”

Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?” 

“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.” 

“Want me to do one?” 

“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.” 

“So where are you heading today?” he asks. 

There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.” 

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.” 

“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.” 

You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)

“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says. 

“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?” 

“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.” 

“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.” 

Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.” 

“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask. 

“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.” 

“Hi, Spider-Man.” 

“Hi.” 

“Can I ask you something? Do you work?” 

Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.” 

“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.” 

“Yeah, you could.” 

He sounds sure. 

“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.” 

“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.” 

You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?” 

Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks. 

“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.” 

“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof. 

Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.  

Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet. 

“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.” 

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.” 

“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?” 

You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?” 

“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.” 

“You love them–”

“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you. 

You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle. 

You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand. 

—

Winter 

Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company. 

One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!” 

Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.

He jogs toward you. 

You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you. 

“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?” 

You blink as fat rain lands on your face. 

“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!” 

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!” 

“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building. 

Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly. 

“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?” 

“No.” 

Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring. 

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.” 

“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs. 

You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in. 

Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same. 

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says. 

“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.” 

All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.” 

Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say. 

“About?” 

About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke. 

Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited. 

“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”

But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you. 

But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man. 

“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?” 

“So you didn’t need me,” he says. 

“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.” 

Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?” 

“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.” 

“Not that much.” 

“Not for me, no.” 

Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.

“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers. 

“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back. 

“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know, are we?” 

Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.” 

Peter… What is he doing? 

You let yourself relax against him. 

“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.” 

“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”

“What?” 

You can say it out loud. You could. 

“Peter, you’re…” 

“I’m what?” he asks. 

His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again. 

If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep. 

He’s Spider-Man. 

It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete. 

Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him. 

You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now. 

You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter. 

“I was thinking about you,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.” 

“Yeah?” you ask.

“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.” 

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand. 

“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain. 

“Yeah, please.” 

His thumb strokes your cheek. 

—

Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears. 

He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks. 

You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears. 

You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition. 

It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting. 

You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.

It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all. 

In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording. 

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?” 

“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts. 

“I’m fine up here!” 

“Are you really Spider-Man?” 

“Sure am.” 

“Are you single?” 

Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.  

Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button. 

“Hello?” Peter asks. 

You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.” 

“Hi, are you busy?” 

“Not really.” 

“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.” 

“Is Aunt May okay with that?” 

“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?” 

“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”

You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.” 

“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?” 

“Not yet, but–”

“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?” 

“I have to shower first.” 

“Twenty five?” 

You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?” 

“It’s a date,” he says. 

“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.” 

—

Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.” 

“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.” 

“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says. 

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?” 

“Pete, it’s fine.” 

“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.” 

“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.” 

“You said it wasn’t cold!” 

“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”

“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments. 

“I don’t like it,” you lie. 

“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

“Apparently, nothing is.” 

Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands. 

“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him. 

“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks. 

“May!” Peter says, startled. 

“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.

“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says. 

“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.” 

“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip. 

“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”

She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?” 

“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes. 

Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man. 

He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.

He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles. 

“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather. 

“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.” 

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.” 

“Concerned friend.” 

“Handsy loser.” 

”Shut up,” he mumbles. 

As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed. 

You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy. 

“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says. 

You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.” 

“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.” 

“I don’t want ice cream.” 

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks. 

“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.” 

“Because I’m adorable?” 

“Persistent.” 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands. 

“Peter…?” you murmur. 

“What?” he murmurs back. 

You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”  

You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?” 

“‘Cos I missed you?” 

“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.” 

Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.” 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.” 

“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?” 

You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.” 

“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.

“I’m not–”

“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask. 

Peter stares at you. 

“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.” 

“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”

Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.

After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall. 

Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?

When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept. 

You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck. 

“I’m sorry for being weird.” 

“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly. 

“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.

Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up. 

“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly. 

“I think so,” you say, quiet again. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.” 

Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.” 

You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?

You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead. 

You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs. 

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely. 

“Is it something else?” 

You don’t move. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. 

“No.”

Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.” 

You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh. 

He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?” 

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.” 

“I like thinking.” 

“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.” 

“I’ll try not to.” 

“Would you? For me?” 

You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.” 

You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”

May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms. 

“Door open,” she says. 

“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.” 

“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.” 

He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.” 

“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?” 

Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.” 

”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?” 

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs. 

“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.” 

“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.” 

“Peter Parker.” 

“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.” 

You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.  

—

To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it. 

You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it. 

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!! 

The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway. 

But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing. 

You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters. 

“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.” 

“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?” 

“You just dropped down twenty feet!” 

“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?” 

“Who said you’re a superhero?” 

“Nice. What are you doing down here?” 

“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.” 

“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently. 

“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.” 

“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.” 

“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.” 

“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.” 

“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot. 

“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.” 

“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.” 

Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.” 

He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life. 

“Are you having a good semester?” he asks. 

“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.” 

“It’s definitely for dorks.” 

“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.” 

“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely. 

“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?” 

“I love it…” 

“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter. 

He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him. 

Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?” 

“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped. 

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“It’s not, actually.” 

“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”

He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?” 

“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.” 

“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely. 

“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.” 

“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.” 

“No–”

“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.” 

“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?” 

“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto. 

“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.” 

“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.” 

“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.” 

“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.” 

You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.” 

Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.” 

“Peter,” you say, squirming. 

He steps back. 

“I have to go,” he says. 

“What?” 

“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises. 

And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.

—

You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen. 

You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?

Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before. 

But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time. 

—

You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose. 

You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest. 

The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you. 

Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.  

The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung. 

You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives. 

Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes. 

You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee. 

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly. 

His voice is gentle, but hoarse. 

You tense. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.” 

You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur. 

“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.” 

You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.” 

He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?” 

“Ten minutes,” you lie. 

“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.” 

“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating. 

“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.” 

You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored. 

Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.

“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.” 

You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing. 

He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck. 

You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.” 

“Was that disappointing?” 

“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?” 

“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.” 

“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.” 

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.” 

You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.

“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.” 

“I haven’t, either.” 

“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.” 

“You’re hard to say no to.” 

“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”

We do, you think morosely. 

“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.” 

“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”

His palm smells like smoke. 

“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says. 

You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.

“So tell me.”

The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks. 

“Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns. 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”

He tilts his head invitingly. 

All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.

“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?” 

“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”

“Sick?” he asks worriedly. 

You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…” 

“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?” 

You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.

It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down. 

“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours. 

You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest. 

Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”

“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.” 

“I can keep you warm.” 

He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown. 

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask. 

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow. 

You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.

“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.” 

You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly. 

Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that. 

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.” 

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?” 

“Harry doesn’t mind.” 

“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?” 

“That’s not funny.” 

You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.” 

Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.” 

Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?” 

“Peter!” 

“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips. 

“Alright,” you warn. 

He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.” 

“It’s an hour.” 

Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8. 

It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday. 

You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8. 

The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you. 

It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me. 

He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.

The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop. 

There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping. 

There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets. 

He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today. 

“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?” 

“Already?” 

“Tonight’s the June equinox.” 

“Who told you that?” 

“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.” 

You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.” 

“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.” 

You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?” 

Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.” 

You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain. 

“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.” 

The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed. 

It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes. 

Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs. 

“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge. 

“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks. 

You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers. 

“I’m trying to prepare myself.” 

“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says. 

“You’ll have to move.” 

Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold. 

Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways. 

“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says. 

“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck. 

Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.” 

“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.” 

“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.” 

The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River. 

He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says. 

You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?” 

“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.” 

“You’re decent enough, Parker.” 

“Maybe now.” 

“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say. 

You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface. 

He shakes himself off like a dog. 

“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes. 

“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”

“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes. 

Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back. 

A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”

“What kind of secret?” 

“A real one,” you insist. 

“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.” 

You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.” 

He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose. 

You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.” 

Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin. 

The sun warms your back for a time. 

Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist. 

“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests. 

He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye. 

You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face. 

“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands. 

“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs. 

Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.” 

He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed. 

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

“Perfect. Mind if I hitch a ride until seventy-ninth or so?” 

“Yeah, okay.” He glances at you. “Can I offer you some water for the ride?” 

“Do you have water?” 

His laugh is endearingly awkward, and the nervous energy crackling through you fades to a lower buzz. Like it’s taken on a different frequency, new and intriguing. “No. I don’t, actually, sorry. I’m Peter.” 

You tell him your name in return, sticking out your hand for a shake. 

Peter’s careful to keep the umbrella above you both as he takes it. “Very formal,” he notes.

“Sorry.” The crosswalk changes, so Peter misses your sheepish look as you both step off the curb. “I have a job interview in twenty minutes. I think I’ve practiced my handshake so much it’s taking over. Was it firm?” 

“Super firm,” Peter assures you. 

“Too firm?” 

“The right amount, I guess? I don’t think you have to worry.” 

You push out a breath. “I definitely have to worry. I didn’t check the forecast before leaving, and now I’m going to show up wet and probably almost late.” 

“Isn’t almost late just on time?” Peter muses. He looks at you again, a quick glance from the corner of his eye that threatens to liquefy your kneecaps. “You don’t look that wet. It could totally be worse.” 

It’s a kind softening of the truth. You’d felt the air growing misty enough to collect moisture in your eyebrows when you left your apartment, but your rush made you abandon the idea of going back upstairs for your umbrella and by the time you stepped off the subway it was pouring. Your blouse is clingy and see-through beneath your coat and though you’ve done all you can to protect your face you fear for the fate of your mascara. 

“I feel like this does not give a great first impression of preparedness and competence,” you joke. 

Peter makes a breathy sound of amusement. You turn your shoulder when the crowd thickens for a moment, twisting to stay under the umbrella. He loops his arm through yours and drives you both toward. 

“I don’t know,” he says, “if you show up on time even though you got caught in a storm, maybe that’ll show dedication or something.” 

“That’d be nice. I am going to great lengths.” 

Peter grins. You’ve reached seventy-ninth street, but when you open your mouth to thank him for the help he says, “Where’s your interview?” 

You tilt your head to your right. “Down on first.” You grin. “Figure I can duck under awnings for a couple blocks and make it okay.” 

“I’ll take you,” Peter offers easily. 

“Oh, that’s—” 

“Come on, aren’t you going to be late or something?” He starts walking, tugging you along with him. “I can afford a detour.” 

He’s right; you can’t afford to waste time arguing. You settle for trying to cram as much gratitude into your heartfelt, “Thank you,” as you can. 

“I’m not gonna risk ruining your chances. Besides, maybe I can tell them about how you hijacked strangers’ umbrellas just to get there on time.” 

“Please don’t,” you say. 

It really is only a short walk, but you manage to thank Peter twice more before you get there. You use the couple of minutes you have to spare to take out a tube of lipstick and hastily reapply. 

“Can you be honest with me? Do I look crazy?” you ask Peter, who’s standing by like he can sense that you need the emotional support. “Like, is there mascara running down my face or anything?” 

“You don’t look crazy,” Peter promises you, smiling in the easy way of someone who has no reason at all to be nervous. You envy him. “You look good. Your makeup looks—well, actually…do you mind if I…?” 

“Whatever you have to do,” you say quickly. 

Peter sets a hand on your face to keep you in place, but it’s needless; you go still the moment he reaches for you. His thumb wipes under your bottom lip, at first gently, then with more certainty as he cleans up the lipstick you just applied. You think you’ve stopped breathing. 

The weight of his thumb lingers for a moment after it stops moving before Peter’s hand falls away. “There,” he says. You can only just hear him over the pounding of raindrops around you. “Perfect.” 

“I look okay?” 

“No, you do. Really, you look—” He smiles like it’s reflexive, like he can’t help himself. “You look perfect.” 

When your heart starts beating again, it does so seemingly just to send a rush of blood to your face. “Okay, thanks.” You start backing towards the door. “Thank you so much for this, seriously.” 

“Don’t mention it—hey, wait.” Peter starts digging in his pockets, pulling out something that shines dully in the low light. “Sorry, just one second.” 

“What?” You waver between him and the door as he finds a pen, pulling the cap off with his teeth. You can see the receptionist watching you through the window. Your interview is supposed to start in a minute. 

“I know, I know, one second.” He scribbles quickly, before holding the thing out to you. “Here. In case you need an umbrella service back home.” 

You let him place the thing in your hand. A phone number, written on a crumpled-up gum wrapper. 

“Or if it’s sunny when you leave, or if there’s, like a gust of wind.” Peter shrugs, grinning. “Or if you want food ever, or…” 

“Yeah.” You can’t help smiling back at him, even with nerves buzzing in your fingertips. “Thanks.” 

“It was nice to meet you, y/n.” 

Your fingers twist in the material of his jacket. You wonder if he takes your trembling for a traumatic response. It might be, you don’t know; your heart is hammering, but it’s also just cold in here. 

“How am I supposed to do that?” you ask. 

“Just like this.” One corner of Remus’ mouth lifts, just a little. You think of the classic good-cop-bad-cop routine from TV shows. You doubt they bother doing that with witnesses, but Remus seems so approachable you’re half wondering when his worse half will come in. “Chatting. Coming down from the adrenaline. Letting me get you tea.” 

“I’m really okay,” you say, doing your best to return his small smile. 

Remus’ warms in response. “As you like. Let’s start from the beginning, yeah? We can take breaks whenever you want.” 

You nod, preparing yourself. 

“What were you doing at the supermarket?” 

“I was…shopping?” Your response seems so obvious you turn it into a question unintentionally. Remus’ expression conveys understanding. He leans forward, setting his elbows on the desk casually. 

“I know it seems unimportant,” he says, “but I’m trying to get a full picture. What were you shopping for?” 

“Oh. Um, I was out of peanut butter.” 

“Was it raining when you went in?” 

You frown. He has to know the answer to that; it’s been raining all evening. “Yes.” 

“What did you do once you got there?” 

“I went to find the peanut butter. I was just barely going to the till when I…when the robbery happened.” 

You don’t realize you’ve mirrored Remus’ posture until his finger touches yours. You’re sitting with your elbows on the desk also, your hands millimeters from his. 

“How did you know it was happening?” Remus asks gently. “Did you see it, or was there a sound?” 

“A sound,” you confirm, your voice wavering a bit. The tip of his forefinger brushes against yours again. “The woman at the till shouted.” 

“What made her shout?” 

“I guess because he showed her the knife.” 

“Did you see that as well?” 

“Yeah. But not right then. She’d already opened the till by the time I got there.” 

The images in your head are already hazing over, memory fading into fiction. The way the employee’s short, frightened cry had made you look up from your phone, freezing you in your tracks just outside the refuge of an aisle. The man hadn’t known there was anyone else in the store. That was clear by the way his eyes widened above his surgical mask, swiveling impulsively to point the knife at you, wavering between two targets. The three of you caught together in a mess of panic. 

You don’t remember doing it, but later you found you’d set your jar of peanut butter down on a random shelf, as though that simple offering would appease the robber and save you any further trouble. 

“What was the person with the knife wearing?” Remus asks. 

“He had a blue jacket, like a windbreaker.” You put your chin to your shoulder, feeling the slick material of the jacket draped over your shoulders. A thoughtless, sleepy movement. “Sort of like this one. Without the police logo, obviously.” 

“About how tall would you say he was?” 

You shrug. “Taller than me. He wasn’t huge, but he was…I don’t know, he had a knife.” 

Remus hums, his finger stroking across your knuckle. He must have moved his hand closer without you noticing. “That must have been frightening.” 

You shrug again. 

He lets you stew in another long, heavy silence. Your face begins to feel hot. 

“Are you alright?” he finally asks, softly. 

“Yeah.” You clear your throat. “Sorry. Just, you’re right, it was scary.” 

“You don’t have to apologize.” Remus’ gaze is warm. Compassionate. “I’m sure you’re tired, I don’t mean to keep you here any longer than necessary. You’ve been a big help. If it makes you feel any better, we’ve been following a robber matching this description for a while, and he doesn’t tend to repeat within the same neighborhood. So you shouldn’t worry.” 

Oh, he’s so kind. He thinks you’re all quiet and shy because you need comfort. And of course, you are rattled still, but it’s got a thing or two to do with that low voice, with those lovely, deep hazel eyes that seem soldered to yours. If Remus wants to improve your memory, he should probably stop touching your hand like a Victorian gentleman testing the bounds of propriety. 

“Do you have any more questions for me?” you ask. 

“A few,” he says, apology in his tone. “Are you sure you wouldn't like anything warm to drink? You’re shivering terribly.” 

Your slicked-back hair was slicked back to the point of a pain, your black dress that your mother insisted you wore was tight enough that you were already struggling to breathe, leaving you more than a little worried about actually sitting your arse down in the pews, and you could already feel one blister breaking in your heels as you made your way to the front of the church. 

“Does mother know you’ve dressed like a whore to her husband’s funeral?” Your brother drawled, earning him a punch to the gut as you reached around him to hug Remus first. 

“I’ll have you know that mother specifically chose this dress, thank you very much.” You sneered at Sirius as you accepted a chaste side kiss from him as well. 

“She’s probably still hoping you’ll find one of our distant cousins more desirable than your current boyfriend.” Regulus murmured as he slid in beside you, not bothering to greet your other brother and his fiance. 

“No better place to peacock than a funeral, hm?” You asked as you watched Bellatrix laugh rather theatrically in a ruse to place a perfectly manicured hand on Tom Riddle’s well-pressed suit under the guise of steadying herself.

“What a beautiful day.” James all but cheered from the other side of Regulus, sharing enthusiastic waves and smiles with you, Remus, and Sirius. 

You hummed in agreement, but it was Sirius who responded. “Yes, all's right with the world now that evil has been defeated.” 

“Sirius!” Your mother screeched, causing Sirius to jump nearly a foot off the pew he was sitting on. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, she’s bloody everywhere.” Sirius breathed with a hand on his chest, earning him a chiding “Sirius! We’re in a bloody church!” for the blaspheme from his fiance and a muttered “looks like some of the evil won” from Regulus. 

“They put the flower arrangements from colleagues in front of the flowers from family members!” Walburga howled at Sirius as though he may have had something to do with it.

“I- what?” Sirius started incredulously. “Who’s they?”

“The church staff!”

“You mean the nuns?” You asked then, earning you a scathing look from your mother. 

“Don’t be smart with me, Y/N.” 

You shared a look with Remus behind Sirius’ back as he tried to reason with your entirely unreasonable mother. 

“Okay, but…what is the issue?”

You could see the vein in your mother’s forehead protruding, threatening a stage five meltdown. 

“The issue, Sirius, is that the flowers from your father’s family are meant to be front and centre.” She hissed menacingly.

“Right, well, easy fix that; I don’t think dad gives a shite whose flowers are front and centre.” Sirius offered simply, causing you to suck in a steadying breath. 

“I’ll go talk to them, mother.” Regulus placated, shooting Sirius a withering glare that rivalled your mother’s. 

“Well, now that that unpleasantness is out of the way.” Sirius murmured as he dusted off his hands for a job well done, only to groan as Barty slid into the pew beside you.

“Hey Treasure, what’d I miss?” He asked, waving to Remus, flipping Sirius off, and completely ignoring Regulus’ husband sitting on the other side of him. 

“The flowers are in the wrong order.” You informed him solemnly, nodding towards the front of the church where Walburga was berating the priest whilst Regulus tried to do damage control with the nuns. 

“Just as God intended; hey, look what I found.” Barty announced with a flourish before pulling his hand out from where it had been hidden in his suit jacket to reveal a large and ornate chalice - clearly the chalice - filled with red wine. 

“Junior you didn’t.” Remus moaned as he looked at your boyfriend in horror.

“What? What’d I do?”

“What’d he do?” Regulus parroted as he reclaimed his seat between Barty and James.

“Barty stole the blood of Christ.” James explained tattled. 

“Barty, you didn’t.” Regulus repeated, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Well if it’s so fucking important why’d they leave it lying around?”

“Where did you even find that?” You finally asked, causing Barty to gesture to the back of the church with a flippant thumb.

“It was just sitting back there. There were a bunch of wafery type crackers too but they tasted like cardboard.” 

You followed his line of sight to see a few altar servers whispering feverishly to one another as they scanned the area in search of something. 

“Son of a bitch, Barty.” You hissed as you plucked the chalice from his hands and hid it under the pew. 

“You know, Junior, I’m surprised you managed to step over the threshold without simply bursting into flames.” Sirius taunted from your other side. 

“Oh please. As if this entire row doesn’t contain every bloody colour of the fucking rainbow.” He retorted over your frame before falling back into the pew with a petulant huff, though his comment earned him a booming laugh from James. 

“He’s got a point; look at us!” He laughed, either ignorant or dismissive of the way various dutiful mourners sneered at him as they walked past your pew. 

“Sirius, you’re really not one to talk.” Remus pointed out then, causing Sirius to let out a derisive scoff.

“I’m very familiar with the Catholic church, okay? That box over there” he started, pointing towards the confessional across the room “is where I get on my knees and say I’m sorry, daddy, I’ve been a very bad boy.”

“I can’t bloody take you anywhere.” Remus groaned into his hands as you and Sirius snickered. 

“Laughing at your own father’s funeral? Does your disrespect know no bounds?” Your mother huffed with a glare as she took a seat in the pew in front of you. 

“This is how we process our emotions, mother. Grief looks different on everyone.” Sirius explained facetiously. 

“And how nice of you three to show.” Walburga drawled sarcastically as she eyed Remus, Barty, and James. “I was beginning to think all three of my children had concurrently been divorced.”

“Can’t be divorced if you’re not married yet, mother.” Sirius murmured.

“Can’t even call off an engagement.” You added, pointing at your ringless finger. 

“Walburga,” Remus greeted warmly, sparing you and your brother a wary glance, “it’s always a pleasure.” 

“You’d be wise to show a little more respect when attending the funeral of your significant other’s father.” She spat, not even able to bring herself to acknowledge Sirius’ sexual preferences in her place of ass kissing worship. 

“Jesus Christ,” Barty muttered as he leaned over you to look at Sirius, speaking as though your mother was no longer there, “if you thought I’d go up in flames, what’d you think was going to happen to her?” 

“Explode.” Sirius replied easily, causing your mother to let out a sound between a squawk of protest and a blood curdling scream as Regulus snorted a laugh and hid his face in James’ shoulder. 

“The absolute disgrace, you wretched, wretched man! How dare you speak of me in such a manner!”

“Mother, please, you’re creating a scene.” You drawled as you waved at your Uncle Alphard and cousin Andromeda who took only one look at your mother before choosing seats on the opposite side of the church. 

“I am a grieving widow; I’m allowed to behave any which way I want.” She hissed; nails digging into the back of the pew she was gripping so roughly that her knuckles were turning white. 

“I hardly see how that’s any different from every other day of the year, Walburga.” Barty offered, bored gaze pointed anywhere else in the church.

With this, your mother let out a strangled sound before she went storming off in the direction of the rectory to no doubt take out her frustration on some poor unsuspecting priest. While you felt sort of bad for him, you figured it was better him than you; wasn’t dealing with the wicked sort of his expertise? 

“Holy shit, I need a drink.” James murmured as he stretched languidly, jolting in surprise when three identical flasks materialised in front of him alongside one pilfered offertory chalice of wine. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” Remus groaned into his hands, bending over his knees as though praying for patience as you, Sirius, Regulus, and Barty threw back your drinks of choice. 

The lot of you managed to make it through the funeral service with little fuss after that, only earning withering glares from your mother twice for snickering at the priest's “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to honour the memory of Orion Black; faithful husband and dutiful father” and then again when the preparation and presentation of the offertory wine was clearly performed with some back up chalice. 

“Barely made it through with my own life.” Sirius murmured at you over his shoulder as the group of you filed out of the pews and made your way to the back of the church.

You stole a quick glance to ensure none of the church greeters currently bidding the congregation goodbye noticed as you quickly took out the (now empty) chalice from your purse and placed it on a table.

What you didn’t know at the time was that the chalice had hardly made contact with the decorative tablecloth before Barty - walking directly behind you - reached out to pluck it back up and tuck it into his suit jacket. 

You found it later that night in your dishwasher.

Not the kind of rain that arrives with spectacle and fury. Not the dramatic sort that rips through the clouds like a wound or makes the house tremble with thunder’s weight.

But a quieter sorrow. A gentle and ceaseless drizzle that feels older than memory, as if it began long before the sky turned grey and will linger long after the world forgets what it means to be dry, to be warm, to be whole.

Grimmauld Place breathes in that rain like it knows what’s coming, like it has always known, and the halls are colder than they’ve ever been. Not because the hearth has gone dark or the embers have died, but because something unseen is curling into ash in the walls. Something made of shared secrets and childhood echoes and the paper-thin thread of love that once bound a family, now fraying with every breath, every step, every silence.

There is no shouting now. Not anymore. Not since the voices collapsed into exhaustion, into finality.

And even though it might have been an hour ago or maybe two, or maybe longer than that, the house still hums with it, still remembers the shape of the words, the violence of the vowels, your mother’s voice cutting through the air like something sacred and profane all at once—a blade you’ve heard so many times your bones flinch on instinct, and your ears have begun to confuse cruelty with comfort, with home, with love.

You sit on the stairs, knees drawn up and head pressed to the banister, half-swallowed by shadows like the house is trying to hide you or keep you from breaking, and you listen even though it hurts. Listen because it’s the only way you know how to say goodbye without saying it, without naming it.

And down the corridor, your mother’s voice rises again, shrill and bitter and full of rot. But Sirius does not raise his voice in return. Not tonight. Not this time. And that silence is worse than any screaming. That silence is a goodbye carved in stone. It is a decision made in a place too deep for you to reach.

You do not know where Regulus is. Only that he is not here. Not in this moment that has changed everything. And maybe that’s his gift—to disappear when it matters most, to tuck himself into corners and shadows and silences so precisely that not even grief can find him.

Maybe he is in the library with the door shut and the curtains drawn, pretending that thunder doesn’t exist and neither does rain. Maybe he is curled so tightly into himself that to unfold him would be to shatter him completely.

But you are not Regulus. You never were. And silence does not fit in your mouth the way it fits in his—soft and seamless and sharp. You are not good at pretending you don’t feel the world falling apart around you. You are not good at swallowing the scream that’s lodged in your throat or the ache that is blooming beneath your ribs like something alive and vengeful and unspoken.

You are not good at pretending you don’t care.

And tonight, as the rain keeps falling and the house holds its breath and Sirius walks away without looking back, you feel something in you break in the exact shape of him.

You rise when you hear the trunk click shut. You move before you think, your bare feet slipping across the floor as if your body already knows it has to chase him before your mind catches up.

You don’t remember crossing the corridor, only the way your breath falters when you see him at the door—one hand on the handle, the other curled tight around the strap of his bag.

His hair is damp with sweat or maybe rain, eyes bright with something that is not joy, not quite sorrow either, more like finality, like he’s standing on the edge of something and has already decided to jump.

“Sirius,” you breathe, and the name comes out small and frightened, like it used to when you were six and couldn’t fall asleep without his hand wrapped around yours.

He turns, and for a moment you almost forget how to speak.

“Don’t,” you say, and your voice cracks halfway through. “Please don’t go.”

“I have to,” he says, gentle but firm, like he’s already rehearsed it, like he’s already said goodbye to you in his head.

“No you don’t,” you say, stepping closer, arms trembling now. “You don’t have to leave me, Sirius, please. You can stay. We can fix it, I’ll talk to her, I’ll try harder, I swear I’ll—”

“You can’t fix this,” he interrupts, and his voice is rough around the edges, like it’s been scraping against his own ribs. “You shouldn’t even be trying. None of this is your fault.”

Your hands are shaking now, reaching out without permission, fingers grasping for something to hold on to, something steady in a world that’s coming undone.

“But you’re my brother,” you whisper, and your voice breaks entirely, like it’s never learned how to carry this kind of goodbye. “You’re my favourite person in the world. You always were.”

“I know,” he says, and this time his voice shakes too. He drops his bag. Takes a step toward you. “You were mine too. You never had to earn that.”

You want to laugh, or fall to your knees. “So don’t go.”

“I have to,” he murmurs, but softer now, like he’s hoping you won’t shatter if he says it gently enough. “I’ve stayed for as long as I could. But staying... it’s not living anymore.”

“But I need you,” you say, almost like a child, almost like a prayer. “You’re the one who made it bearable. You’re the reason I could stay. If you go—Sirius, if you go, I don’t know who I’ll be without you.”

He’s closer now, so close you can see the shine in his eyes and the way he’s biting the inside of his cheek, like he’s trying not to fall apart.

Then he’s kneeling in front of you, as if to make the leaving softer. As if to make sure you remember his face from this angle too.

“You’ll still be you,” he says, and his hands come up to cradle your face, as if he could hold all the years you’ve shared between his palms.

His thumbs brush the tears from your cheeks, slow and reverent. “You’ll still have the stars in you. You’ll still sing in the morning when you think no one’s listening. You’ll still make Regulus eat when he forgets. You’ll still be light, even here.”

Your lip trembles. “I don’t want to be light. I just want you.”

“I know,” he says again, and this time it sounds like it hurts. “I want you too. But I can’t stay. Not when staying is killing me.”

You press your forehead to his, tears dripping between you, breath shared like it used to be when the world was smaller and kinder.

Sirius’s breath hitches. He leans in and presses his forehead to yours, just like he used to when you were children afraid of thunder.

For a moment, you are six again, hiding under blankets while he told you stories about stars and carved tiny moons into the wood of the headboard. For a moment, there is no family name, no blood purity, no war waiting at the doorstep. Only the brother you loved first.

“Take care of Regulus,” he whispers, voice like wind through a dying tree. “He’s going to need you. Even if he doesn’t know how to ask for it. Even if he pretends he doesn’t want you near.”

“He hates me,” you say, and it stings because part of you believes it. “We don’t talk anymore. We’re twins but we’re strangers.”

“Then love him anyway,” Sirius says, pulling back just enough to look at you again. “Because this house is going to eat him alive. And you’re the only one left who can remind him what a soul is.”

“No,” you say, stepping forward. “No. You can stay. Please. I’ll—I’ll talk to Mother. I’ll make her stop. You don’t have to leave me, Sirius. Not you. Not you too.”

He shakes his head, and for a moment something in his eyes breaks, softens, just slightly, but then it’s gone again and his mouth sets into that line you’ve come to dread—the one that means he’s already decided.

“She’s never going to stop,” he says, voice low and bitter. “She doesn’t know how. This house will never stop. And you—you don’t understand, you think this is just noise, but it’s not, it’s poison, and it’s been inside us since the day we were born.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until he lifts a hand to brush your tears away, gentle like always, like you’re still little and he’s still the one who could fix things just by being there. “I want you to stay,” you whisper. “You’re my brother. You’re the one person I—”

Your voice breaks, and you fold forward, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt like if you hold tight enough, he won’t go.

“You’re the one person I feel safe with.”

Sirius exhales sharply, and for a second you think maybe—maybe—he’s going to change his mind. That he’ll sit down, put the bag away, crawl back into the twin bed down the hall and wait for morning. But instead he presses a kiss to the top of your head, slow and lingering.

“You were my home long before I knew what that meant,” he says quietly. “But I can’t live in a place that only wants to break me.”

“I don’t care about the house,” you cry. “I just care about you.”

“I know,” he says, and his hands are trembling now too. “That’s why I have to go. Before I forget who I am. Before I become what they want.”

You look at him and realize this is the last time he’ll ever be your brother here. The last time he’ll be Sirius Black of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. After this, he’ll belong to somewhere else. To someone else.

And still—still—you whisper, “Don’t go.”

He closes his eyes. And this time, he doesn’t say anything at all.

He just reaches for the trunk, fingers curling around the handle like it’s an anchor, like if he doesn’t hold on he might shatter entirely. And then he turns, and he walks. Like he’s already gone.

You stumble after him, barefoot and unraveling, your voice rising into something feral, something half-child, half-grief.

“Sirius, please—don’t do this. Don’t go. You can’t leave me here. Not with them. Not alone.” The words come out wrong, cracked and too loud, but you don’t care.

You’d burn yourself down to keep him in this hallway if it meant he’d stay. You reach for him — just his sleeve, his hand, anything — but the world shifts.

You don’t know if it’s the mist curling under the door or your own shaking limbs, but your feet slide out from under you. The marble rushes up and meets you with no softness at all.

Your knees hit first, a dull, ugly sound echoing through the corridor. Then your palms, scraping raw against the cold. A flare of pain licks up your legs and into your chest, sharp and immediate — but not worse than the ache already blooming beneath your ribs.

Blood beads along your skin, tiny red betrayals of how fragile you are. You cry out before you can stop it, a startled, broken sound. Not for the fall, but for what’s walking away.

That’s when he turns. When he finally looks.

His eyes find you — crumpled on the floor, bloodied and shaking, your face wet with tears you can’t seem to stop. For the space of a single breath, he doesn’t move. And you see it then — the boy he used to be. The boy who held your hand through thunderstorms. The boy who carved moons into your bedframe because you were scared of the dark. The boy who always came back for you.

For a moment, just one, he looks like he might come back again. Like he might run to you, drop everything, fall to his knees and pull you into his arms and promise you the world won’t win. That he won’t let it. That he won’t let them.

But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t run back. He doesn’t kneel beside you and press his forehead to yours. He doesn’t reach for your hands or wipe the blood from your knees. He only stands there, soaked in silence, the storm rising behind him like the breath of something ancient and cruel. His mouth opens, just barely, and the words come soft and weightless, as if he already knows they won’t be enough.

“I’m sorry.”

Then the door yawns wide and swallows him whole.

Rain pours in, cold and relentless. It soaks the marble, the hem of your nightclothes, the trembling shell of your body. You don’t rise. You don’t call his name again. You crawl. Fingertips dragging against the stone, knees splitting open with every inch, the sting lost beneath the throb of something deeper. You reach the threshold on hands and knees, soaked and shaking, and watch the place where he used to be.

You wait for him to turn back. To look over his shoulder. To see you the way he always used to, like you were the only part of this house worth saving. You wait for the sound of footsteps, for the thud of the trunk being dropped, for the whisper of his voice promising that he didn’t mean it.

That he’s still your brother. That he’ll stay.

But the silence is complete. And he is already gone.

You kneel there as the blood from your knees stains the rainwater pink, as the storm creeps into the house, into your lungs, into your bones.

You stay until the cold makes you numb and your arms are too tired to hold you upright. You stay because you do not know where else to go. Because nothing feels real anymore, except for the way your chest keeps breaking open in slow, quiet pieces.

You are thirteen years old, and you have never known this kind of silence. Not even in the dead of night. Not even in your mother’s shadow. You will remember this silence for the rest of your life. You will carry it like a second skin, like a wound that never quite closes.

That night, you will wash the blood from your knees in water gone lukewarm.

You will not cry again. Not then. Not in front of the mirror. Not where anyone can see. But the ache will settle into your spine, deep and wordless, and it will never let you go.

You will grow into silence like it’s the only thing that ever wanted you. You will wear it like a second skin, learn its contours, let it fill the spaces where love used to live.

You will master the art of stillness, of holding your breath when you want to scream, of smiling when your throat burns with grief. You will stop reaching for people who walk away. You will become so good at pretending you don’t need anyone that even you begin to believe it.

You will teach yourself to cry only behind locked doors. You will carry sorrow in your ribs like a splinter, sharp and invisible, a secret that hums when it rains. You will speak softly and laugh rarely and wonder, always, if you are too much or not enough.

You will look for Sirius in the curve of strangers’ hands, in the way someone tilts their head when they listen, in every boy who calls you brave without knowing why. But no one will ever be quite him. No one will ever hold your name like it’s sacred.

You never spoke to Sirius again.

Not after that night. Not after the front door of Grimmauld Place slammed like the end of the world. Not after your knees stopped bleeding and your voice forgot how to say his name without splintering.

Not after you wrote that letter two weeks later, alone in the dark, words trembling like a heartbeat you couldn’t hold still. You didn’t send it. You couldn’t. So you folded it and slipped it into the lining of your trunk, where it still waits.

1981

You are sixteen now.

You wear Slytherin green like silk-wrapped steel and walk the halls like the castle owes you something. Your mother calls you her softer one, the quiet twin, but there is nothing soft left in you. Not really.

Not after everything you’ve learned about silence and what it costs. You’ve mastered the art of holding your breath, of keeping your voice still, of curling your fingers into fists behind your back. Regulus watches you sometimes like he almost remembers who you used to be. But you don’t look back.

And yet here you are — beneath the Quidditch stands at midnight, with your tie crooked and your shirt coming undone, with James Potter’s hands at your waist and his mouth pressed to your throat like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

You shouldn’t be here. Not with him. Not with someone who makes the world feel brighter than you know how to bear. But your hands won’t listen. They tangle in his hair, slide over his jaw, trace the freckles across his shoulder where his sleeves are rolled, where his skin is warm and golden and too much.

“Someone will see us,” you whisper, the words barely formed, lost against the breath between you.

James just smiles, that crooked, reckless smile that should not feel like safety. “Let them.”

Your heart stutters. He always does this. Knocks the wind out of you with nothing but his grin and the impossible tenderness in his eyes.

“You Gryffindors are all the same,” you murmur, but the words are an echo, stripped of bite.

“And you Blacks are all trouble,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like a warning. It sounds like a promise. Like worship.

His fingers brush your hair behind your ear, soft, reverent, and you freeze for half a second. Not because you want to pull away. Because you don’t. Because when he touches you like that, something in you splinters. Something buried and locked.

You look at him, and he’s still there — real, impossibly real — and you don’t know how this happened. How someone like him ended up here, with someone like you. How he looks at you like you’re not something broken.

And still, you stay. Still, you let him touch you. Because no one else knows you like this. Because with him, you are not a name or a legacy or a weapon in the making.

James doesn’t ask why. He never asks. Maybe that’s why you keep coming back — because he touches you like you’re not broken, like you’re not a Black, like your blood isn’t dripping with secrets that could ruin everything it touches.

He doesn’t flinch when you go quiet. Doesn’t fill the silence with questions or pity. He just waits. Steady. Warm. Like he has all the time in the world to watch you come undone and still choose you after.

“Do you ever think about what would happen if your brother found out?” he asks, his voice low, careful. Not a threat. Not a warning. Just a wondering.

You scoff, sharp and breathless. “Which one?”

He looks at you then, really looks — the way he always does when you try to be cruel and fail. His eyes never waver. “Both.”

You don’t answer.

Because the truth is, you do think about it. You think about it more than you want to. You think about Sirius finding out and looking at you like you’ve become someone else, someone dangerous, someone he can’t save. You think about Regulus finding out and looking at James like he’s something to destroy. A danger. A betrayal. A boy who dared to love the wrong part of you.

Sometimes you think about dying before they ever find out. That would be easier. Cleaner. You could keep this — this secret softness, this impossible thing — untouched by consequence.

James shifts closer, and when he speaks again, it’s not words, not really. It’s warmth. It’s the space between heartbeats. “You’re not your family, you know.”

The sentence cracks something open. You swallow around it. The air tastes like smoke. Like ash.

“Yes, I am,” you say. Quiet. Final. “That’s the problem.”

But you kiss him anyway.

You kiss him like it’s a prayer with no god left to hear it, like it’s the last thing keeping you tethered to the world.

Because here, under the stands, in the dark, with his mouth on yours and his hands at your waist, you are not a name or a legacy or a shadow waiting to fall. You are not a sister, not a secret, not a danger.

You are a girl. Wanting. Wanted.

His fingers thread through your hair, and you let him. You let him touch you like you’re real. Like you matter. Like he doesn’t see the ruin clinging to your bones or the storm sitting in your chest waiting to tear everything down.

And that’s enough. It’s not safe. It’s not smart. It’s not forever.

You always know when he is near.

The air changes first — grows thin, almost reverent, like the world itself remembers. Like the stone corridors remember. Like the dust in the windowpanes and the cracks in the floor still carry his name beneath them.

The sound softens, dims around him. Laughter hushes. Footsteps falter. It’s the kind of silence that used to fall over you both when you stayed up too late, whispering stories by the fire, your shadows dancing on the walls like they had lives of their own.

There was a time when his presence meant warmth. Hearth-smoke and moth-eaten blankets. Winter pressed against the glass while you curled into each other like the last two embers in the world. He would talk about stars — draw them with his voice, sketch them in the dark with words that made you believe escape was possible, that the night sky could make you brave. You would fall asleep to the rhythm of his breathing and wake to find his hand still wrapped around yours.

But all of that is gone now.

Now there is only stone beneath your feet and a bone-deep cold that doesn’t leave you. You are ruins, both of you. You are the silence after a song. You are what’s left when the fire goes out.

You see them just as you’re turning the corner out of the library, a book held tight to your chest like it can keep your ribs from cracking open. Defensive Magical Theory, something dense and forgettable, a shield made of ink and false comfort.

Your knuckles are white. Your fingers ache. Your robes are perfectly pressed, every pleat a performance. Because since he left, you have had to become flawless. You have had to become iron.

And there he is.

In the center of them like a flame, Sirius with his head tilted back in laughter. It is the same laugh that once made you believe the world could be beautiful. The same laugh that stitched broken hours into joy. And now it’s a blade.

Now it cuts. Because he laughs like nothing was lost. Like he didn’t tear himself out of your life and leave you to bleed in the quiet. Like he doesn’t remember the night you screamed his name until your throat gave out and your knees went red on the marble.

He laughs, and you want to tear the sound out of the air.

You remember it all too clearly — the way the front door slammed like a gunshot, the way you chased after him with shaking hands and a voice that couldn’t carry the weight of your grief. You begged him not to go. You begged like a child, raw and ragged and terrified. And he looked back, once, with something like pity.

Now you are ghosts in the same castle. Passing shadows. No nods. No glances. No names.

You walk past each other like graves being dug on opposite sides of the world. And you do not look back. And he does not turn around.

But your heart still breaks in your chest, quietly, every single time.

They round the corner and time thickens, slow as honey spilled on cold stone. His eyes find yours first—piercing through the crowd, through the clatter of footsteps and whispered names.

For a breath, the corridor dissolves. No James, no Remus, no ticking clocks or careless breezes—just you and him, two children once again, sharing a room heavy with secrets and the soft crackle of an old record player spinning lullabies.

But this time, he does not smile. He does not speak your name. He only looks at you as if trying to recall a face buried beneath years of silence, like the memory itself has fractured and turned to glass too sharp to hold.

Your heart clenches, a sudden, fierce knot, because you remember everything—the way his fingers braided tiny plaits into your hair when exhaustion pulled at your lids, the way your small hand reached for his in the dark before Regulus could even string words together, the way he whispered that you were his favorite, that he would never leave you behind.

But he did.

He burned the letters you wrote, one after another—long, trembling confessions stitched with apologies you never owed. Letters full of Regulus, school, a house growing colder and quieter, a mother retreating into silence, and a brother who refused to eat. You signed each with love, fierce and stubborn, because even after the cracks, even after the distance, you loved him still.

Regulus told you he saw the letters in the fire, unopened. Your handwriting curled into ash like a voice that never mattered. And you cried—not in front of Regulus, but later, submerged in the bathwater, where no one could hear.

You cried as if something sacred had been ripped from your chest, as if your brother had died and left only a hollow shell behind, wandering with someone else’s heart inside.

Now he passes you in the hall, silent and cold. Your fingers twitch, aching with memory, yearning for the ghost of his palm that once cradled your cheek—the night he left, trembling breath promising strength, begging you to protect Regulus when he could no longer do it himself.

You nodded through your sobs, because you were always the older twin by a single minute, and he said it meant something—that you were meant to keep him safe.

You have tried. But Regulus does not want your protection anymore.

You pass him in the corridors too—your twin, your mirror just slightly cracked, a shard drifting farther with every passing year. His eyes have grown colder, sharper, his mouth set like a blade forged from quiet bitterness.

Sometimes he speaks, brief and clipped, syllables sliced thin—news, reminders, fragments of a life you once shared but now only touch through echoes. There is no laughter, no whispered confessions in the dark, only the vast, cold distance measured in the space where hurt has settled deep and unmoving.

And still, you ache for the warmth you once knew. You ache when you see Sirius throw his arm around James like it costs him nothing, when he leans in close and laughs against his shoulder, calling him brother with a light that never shone for you.

You hate yourself for it, for the ugly bloom of envy rising in your chest, a bitter flower twisting through your ribs, because James gets to have him.

James gets to be near him every day, to tease him, to bicker with him, to follow him into trouble and hold a place beside him like it was always meant to be that way.

You used to be that person. You used to be the one Sirius reached for first.

Now you walk past them with your chin lifted, your stomach hollow, wondering if he ever thinks about that night.

Does he remember your hands clutching his sleeve? Your voice cracking as you called after him? Does he think of the blood staining your knees and how long you sat on the steps of Grimmauld Place, shivering long after he was gone?

He does not look back now.

But James does.

His eyes find yours and hold you there, a quiet tenderness breaking beneath the weight of unspoken things. He sees the ghosts too, the empty spaces where love was stolen. Maybe he even feels the ache when Sirius talks about his sister as if she never existed, or only existed in shadows and silence.

James tries to reach for your hand beneath the table, tries to make you laugh in the soft places where the world feels less heavy—but it is not the same. It will never be the same.

Because you are no longer the girl you were when Sirius left. You have spent too many nights wondering why love was not enough to make him stay.

And he is not the brother you remember.

The wind moves gently through the willow branches, like fingers combing through hair. The sunlight glimmers through the gaps in its leaves, casting thin golden lines across your cheek as you lie curled against James beneath the canopy of green.

You should not be here. You both know it. This is not the kind of softness your life has been shaped to allow. But here, in this sliver of stolen time, you forget the weight of your name and the way your chest has ached since you were old enough to know that in the Black family, love always came with locks and keys.

His arm is wrapped around your waist, and your head rests just below his chin. Your fingers are loosely entangled on the warm grass. His heartbeat is steady against your back, a rhythm you are slowly teaching yourself to trust.

You don't speak at first. Just listen—to the breeze, the rustle of willow limbs, the distant laughter from the Quidditch pitch.

And you try not to think about how long it’s been since you laughed like that with someone, without feeling like you were stealing it from a world that was never meant for you.

He shifts slightly, runs a hand through your hair, and you feel his lips brush the top of your head. There is something so gentle about him tonight, and it makes your ribs ache.

You know he is about to ask you something. You always know when James is thinking too much.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, voice barely more than a breath, hesitant and fragile, like he’s afraid the sound might shatter the space between you. “Can I ask you something?”

You nod, your head heavy against his chest, eyes shut tight as if the darkness behind your lids might keep the world at bay. You already know what’s coming.

“Have you ever thought about talking to Sirius again?”

The words hit you like ice water spilled over skin. Your whole body stiffens, every nerve on fire, the warmth of his arms suddenly burning too bright, too close.

You sit up with a sharp movement, pulling away like his question has scorched you, like it’s a wound you thought had scabbed over but still bleeds when touched.

His brows knit together in confusion he reaches out, as if to catch you before you fall apart, but you shake your head fiercely, as if to say don’t. Don’t reach for me here.

Your voice comes out sharp, brittle, colder than you expected, words clawing their way from a place you’d hoped was buried deep beyond reach.

“Why would I do that?!”

James blinks slowly, the calm in his gaze unwavering, gentle but not naive.

“Because he’s your brother.”

You laugh then, a sound bitter and quiet, like broken glass scraping against old stone. It catches in your throat and leaves a raw ache in its wake. You stand abruptly, arms crossing over your chest as if to hold yourself together, and you turn away, facing the shimmering lake instead, the silver-blue water reflecting back a fractured version of your own haunted eyes.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

The silence that follows is thick, heavy with all the things left unsaid. You feel the weight of his gaze burning into your back, soft but relentless.

And somewhere deep inside, the fight inside you trembles—part pain, part stubborn hope—that maybe if you don’t speak his name, you can keep the memory from unraveling completely.

But the truth is a jagged stone lodged in your throat. You’ve thought of him every day since he left—the brother who once braided your hair and whispered promises like a sacred lullaby. The brother who vanished like smoke, leaving only echoes and cold silence behind.

You want to believe that love could have held him here, that if you’d been enough, he wouldn’t have slipped away. But love in your world is never simple.

James sighs deeply, sitting up beside you with a careful softness that somehow feels like it might break under the weight of your silence. “I just think maybe it would help. You’re hurting, and he’s—”

“Don’t.”

The word cuts through the air sharper than you meant it to, like glass breaking in a quiet room. Your voice trembles, but the edge is there, raw and fierce. “Don’t defend him. Don’t pretend you understand.”

James’s brow furrows, confusion and hurt flickering in his eyes. “I’m not pretending. I just know Sirius. He didn’t mean to hurt you. He was hurting too. You know what that house did to him.”

You laugh, but it’s not a laugh. It’s a bitter crack, like a blade scraping bone. “Do I? Do I know what it did to him? Because last I checked—” Your voice catches, then steadies, voice sharp and jagged — “I was there too. I lived it. I breathed the same suffocating air. I walked those same cold hallways. I heard the same poisonous words about blood and duty and silence that built a prison around us all.”

You turn slightly, hands clutching the grass beneath you until your nails dig into dirt. “I watched those cursed portraits scream their curses night and day, felt the walls shrink closer, trapping my breath. I watched my brother—the only one who stayed—fade, twist into someone I barely recognized, someone swallowed by shadows and cold.”

You swallow hard, the memory like a stone lodged in your throat. “And yet, somehow, he’s the one who gets to hurt? The one you all rush to protect? The only one whose pain matters?”

James shifts uncomfortably, voice quiet but earnest. “That’s not what I meant. Not at all.”

But you shake your head, bitter tears burning the edges of your eyes. “No, James. That’s exactly what you meant.”

Your voice cracks, ragged and breaking, revealing the wounds you’ve fought to hide. “You all look at him like he’s some kind of hero. Brave Sirius Black—the runaway, the rebel who escaped the nightmare of that cursed house. The one who got to find Gryffindor, friendship, love. The one who got to build a new life from the ashes.”

Your chest heaves with the weight of everything left unsaid. “And what did I get? What did Regulus get? We got left behind.”

Your hands ball into fists, digging deeper into the earth, grounding yourself to the pain you can still touch. “I begged him to stay. I cried until I had no tears left. I chased after him on bleeding knees, desperate and small, and he left anyway. Left like I was nothing. Like we were nothing.”

You swallow, voice raw, “He never looked back. Never answered a single letter. Never came home. Not for me. Not for Regulus. And I waited. I waited years, hoping maybe one day he would come back. And you want me to just… talk to him now?”

Your breath catches, broken by the shuddering ache in your chest. The world feels hollow, cruel, and empty around you, and the distance between you and Sirius stretches wider than any words could ever cross.

James’s voice drops, soft and cautious, like stepping on fragile glass. “He was just a kid. He was doing what he had to do.”

You laugh, bitter and broken, the sound splitting the silence like a wound. “And I wasn’t?” The words shatter on your cracked lips, voice cracking with the weight you’ve carried far too long. “I was a kid too. Barely thirteen. And I had to stay. Had to sit at that cursed table and swallow every poisonous word Mother spat about the purity of our name. Had to learn to bite my tongue until it bled, lower my eyes until they almost forgot how to look. Had to be perfect — or at least pretend.”

Your hands tremble as you clutch your knees, the ache raw and alive beneath your skin. “I had to watch Regulus vanish into silence, buried under pressure and cold that no one—not one soul—asked if I was okay. No one ever tried to save me.”

James’s hand reaches for you, slow and hesitant, but you recoil like his touch burns you.

You fall back against the tree, the rough bark pressing into your spine, your palms clutching your eyes as if the darkness can swallow the ache whole. The tears come harder now, hot and unrelenting.

“You think he hurts? You think he cries?” Your voice breaks, raw and ragged like a shattered song.

“Because I do. I do every time I see him walk the halls like nothing happened. Every time I watch you two laugh like you’ve known each other forever, and I wonder if he ever laughs like that for me. If he ever remembered me.”

You choke back a sob, voice barely more than a cracked whisper, “I sit in a common room full of snakes and secrets, keeping my head down, swallowing my pride and my pain, because I’m still there. I never left. I never got out.”

“You don’t get it,” you whisper, but the whisper breaks halfway, splintering like thin glass. You’re shaking now, fists curled into the grass as though it can hold you together. “You never will.”

James doesn’t speak. He watches you the way someone watches a dying star—helpless, reverent, a little afraid.

“You were always allowed to be human.” Your voice wavers, rough with disbelief and years of swallowed words. “You were allowed to get angry, to mess up, to fall apart and still be loved. You don’t know what it’s like to live in a house where love is a chain. Where affection only comes after obedience. Where silence is survival.”

You laugh, but it’s not really laughter—it’s the sound a wound might make if it could scream.

“You have people. People who would tear the world apart if you broke. You have a mother who kisses your cheek and a father who’s proud of your name. You have friends who call you home, James. You’re the sun, don’t you see that? You’re the sun and everyone else just gets to grow around you.”

You’re crying harder now, tears streaking down your cheeks in thick, aching lines. You try to wipe them away, but they keep coming.

“You got to love Sirius without bleeding for it! You got to become his brother in the safety of a dormitory, with warmth and laughter and stolen butterbeer. You didn’t have to earn it in that house. You didn’t have to survive it!”

Your voice rises now, shrill with grief. “You got the best parts of him. The jokes, the loyalty, the fire. I got the version who left. The one who didn’t even look back.”

You gasp for breath between sobs, pressing your palms against your eyes until you see stars.

“Do you know what it feels like to scream for someone as they walk away? I begged him. I begged him not to go. I ran after him barefoot in the cold, my voice going hoarse. And he left anyway. He left me there.”

You pull your knees to your chest, rocking slightly. “He chose to leave. And then he chose you. He chose you over me. Over Regulus. Over every piece of his old life. You’re his brother now. You’re his family. And I—”

You look up at James then, face soaked, lips trembling. “I’m just a ghost he doesn’t talk about.”

The words fall out of you like stones from your mouth, one by one, and each one seems to hurt more than the last.

“You sit around the fire with him and laugh about pranks and broomsticks and I sit alone in the dark, wondering if he remembers the sound of my voice. If he ever thinks about the way I cried that night. If he ever sees my handwriting and feels guilt. Or if it’s just... easier. Easier to forget I existed.”

James moves again, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. He doesn’t touch you this time. He just listens.

You curl tighter around yourself. “You want me to forgive him. You want me to reach out. But you don’t know what it costs to touch someone who let you rot. You don’t know what it’s like to scream for someone and never hear your name again.”

Your voice drops to a whisper—ruined, splintered, soft.

“He’s your brother now.”

And then, the softest, most broken truth:

“But he was mine first.”

You fold in on yourself completely, hands trembling, heart heaving with grief too old for your bones, and the only sound left in the world is your breath—shattered, uneven—echoing in the hush beneath the willow branches.

James looks at you then like he finally sees the wound beneath your skin. Not something angry. Something abandoned. Something small and bleeding and still waiting on the floor of a house that swallowed you whole.

-

The year slips through your fingers like water, and you try to hold it tight, but it’s already gone.

It’s strange how time moves differently when you’re pretending everything is fine, the days bleeding at the edges into one another with a quiet rhythm of routine that softens sharp edges but never heals the cracks beneath.

You go to class, you study, you sit beside James under the willow tree and pretend not to ache when Sirius walks by laughing with Remus, a sound that feels like a sun you cannot touch anymore.

You watch Regulus drift further away, his shoulders straighter, his eyes colder, his voice a careful blade you no longer recognize—once a warmth you could finish, now a silence you cannot breach.

You used to finish each other’s sentences; now he barely finishes his own. He doesn’t talk to you much anymore, not really. At the long, silent dinner table, he sits across from you, nodding when spoken to, answering questions like they’re lines from a script he’s been forced to memorize but doesn’t want to perform.

He disappears into his room, each time returning quieter, more distant, as if someone has reached inside him and hollowed him out with a spoon, leaving only a shell that reflects nothing back but shadows.

You want to scream at him, to shake him until he remembers how to breathe, to pull him back by the collar like Sirius did when you were children and Regulus was about to climb too high in the trees, but you don’t.

Because you don’t know if he would let you catch him, and you don’t know if you still have the strength to hold on to what’s already slipping through your fingers.

So you keep your head down, your voice soft, your secrets close, like fragile embers you cannot risk exposing to the wind. And still the year ends.

There’s something about the last few weeks of school that tastes like dread, like metal pressed cold against your tongue, like the low rumble of a storm you know is coming but cannot stop. You walk the corridors counting how many times Sirius glances your way and how many times Regulus doesn’t, memorizing James’s grin like it might be the last warmth you touch for months.

You stop sending letters home because there is no one waiting to read them.

Because summer means going back. Not home. Back.

Grimmauld Place isn’t a home. It is a mausoleum, a cold, echoing archive of all the things you never got to say, the silence between your words etched deep into the walls.

It smells of wax and dust and something darker, something ancient and unforgiving beneath the surface. The portraits still scream behind their frames. The silver still gleams with a sharpness that cuts through the gloom. The curtains block out the sun like heavy lids refusing to open.

Your room remains untouched, waiting in suspended breath for you to return and pretend you don’t hate it.

You dread the silence most. The way it wraps itself around the furniture like cobwebs spun from forgotten sorrow, the way the house watches you with a patient, waiting hunger, as if it expects you to fold back into its cold embrace and fall in line with the shadows that have claimed it.

Regulus is already there. He has been slipping for a while now. You have seen it in the way he avoids certain topics, in the sharp flinch when someone utters the word “Mudblood,” in the way his fists clench so tightly at insults to the Dark Lord that his knuckles whiten, before he tries to play it off as nothing.

His robes darken with every passing day. His smiles become rarer, like a flame too weak to chase away the night. His wand is never far from his grasp, a silent threat held close, as if waiting for the moment he must become someone else—someone you barely recognize anymore.

So you pack your trunk slowly, each movement deliberate as if by folding your robes with care you might fold yourself back into a place that no longer holds you. You close your books with trembling fingers, the pages whispering secrets you cannot bear to carry anymore.

You don’t say goodbye to Sirius because his eyes no longer meet yours, and you don’t say goodbye to James because you know the pain would only unravel tighter if words were spoken.

You watch as Sirius swings his arm around James’s shoulders, already grinning at the thought of staying with the Potters for the summer, and something inside you twists — not anger, not sadness, but a sharp, aching envy that claws at your ribs like a hungry bird.

Because he gets to escape.

He gets to walk into a house that smells like sugar and laughter and freedom, a sanctuary where love is worn openly like a second skin.

He gets to sleep in a room where nothing screams at him in the dark, where the walls cradle him instead of closing in. He gets to sit at a table where voices rise and fall like music, where people eat too much and ask about your day as if it matters, where family is not a story told in fragments but a living breath around you.

And you get the house.

The house with your name carved deeply into the bannister, a cold reminder of roots that bind you to shadows. The house where every unspoken word drips from the ceiling like damp, settling into the cracks until the silence itself weighs heavy and thick.

The house where your mother waits, her eyes colder than winter and expectations sharper than knives, where portraits hiss and leer from their frames like silent witnesses to your undoing. The house where Regulus drifts through the halls like a ghost caught between worlds, already halfway gone, already fading into something you cannot hold.

The house where no one speaks Sirius’s name aloud, where you are still the older twin, and yet each day you feel smaller, as if your own shadow is shrinking beneath the weight of everything unsaid.

You step off the train, and the air already feels colder, a thin frost settling on your skin even though the season has only just begun.

The night tastes bitter with regret, heavy and metallic on your tongue, and Grimmauld Place waits like a patient predator, breathing you in as though you never left, as though it has been holding its breath for your return. It closes the door behind you with the hush of finality, a sound like a tomb sealing shut.

The silence settles on your shoulders like dust, thick and suffocating, a reminder that you belong here — even if you wish with every trembling heartbeat that you did not.

You try not to flinch when the wards hum around you. When the doorknob bites your palm. When the portraits blink awake at the scent of your return. They watch you with knowing, disapproving eyes, oil-painted mouths already ready to spit something cruel.

This house was never a home, but once it breathed — not warmth, not safety, but noise, presence, life. It used to echo with slammed doors and uneven footsteps racing up the stairs, with Sirius shouting something reckless and defiant down the corridor just to make someone angry enough to shout back.

It used to be full of Regulus’s low hum when he thought no one could hear him, that quiet little song he’d hum while reading in corners, while brushing his hair, while stitching up the tear in your sleeve when you’d come back from a duel pretending you weren’t crying.

It used to be full of voices, arguing and demanding and laughing and hurting and always, always living.

Now it is quiet in the way that makes your chest ache, the kind of silence that feels like a punishment rather than a peace. The air tastes like dust, like something lost and forgotten and left to rot behind velvet curtains and locked doors. The carpets still muffle your steps, but there's no one left to hear them anyway.

This is the first summer without Regulus.

Not the shadow version that’s lingered these past few years, the one who walks too quietly and listens too carefully and parrots the words of your parents with a voice that isn’t his. Not the stranger in dark robes who stops humming and starts watching. Not the version who still existed in some half-form, drifting down corridors without speaking, but still there.

No, this is the first summer without him, without the boy who used to read beside you in the library, his knee bumping yours under the table. The one who used to steal sweets from the kitchen and then blame you with an innocent blink. The one who tied your shoelaces together under the table at family dinners and bit back a grin when you tripped on your way out.

That Regulus faded the way ink fades in water — slowly, gently, irreversibly. You didn’t notice at first, only that he laughed less, and then not at all. That his hands stopped reaching for yours. That his voice grew thinner and his silences heavier. You lost him the way you lose something to illness, slowly and with a thousand tiny betrayals of the body before the final breath.

But this time is different.

This time, he did not come back.

No warning, no owl, no quiet knock on your door, no hurried explanation in a whisper only you would understand. Just silence. Just your mother’s lips pressed into a thin line when you asked, and your father’s eyes skimming past you like your question was a speck on his glasses.

You sit in his empty room. It smells like dust and lavender and something that aches in your teeth. The bed is still made. The books are still in their careful order, spines aligned like soldiers. His desk is untouched. His quill still leans in the inkwell.

The window is cracked just slightly, letting in the faintest breath of air, like the room itself hasn’t quite decided if it should keep holding on. There’s dust on the windowsill now — and there never used to be — and that tells you more than anything else. That the room has been waiting. That no one has come back.

This time, he is truly gone.

And you are alone.

You try to shrink yourself into corners. You keep your footsteps light, your voice quieter still. You tie your hair the way your mother prefers it and fold your napkin just so and tuck your wand out of sight at the table.

You speak only when spoken to. You say nothing when the family says things that hurt. You keep your grief compact and clean and buried deep in your chest like a well-folded shirt, like something shameful.

You make yourself smaller every day, and still, somehow, it is never enough.

But this summer — it’s different. This summer, they hand you your fate like a gift wrapped in silver and blood, gleaming like something sacred, rotting like something buried.

You sit at the long dining table, the one with claw-footed legs and too much silence, and you hear the words spill from your mother’s mouth like prophecy. Your father folds his hands, watching you without warmth, without softness, only the calm expectation of obedience.

They tell you the name.

He is a man older than both of them, old enough to have stood beside your grandfather, old enough to know better, but still willing. He is loyal. He is powerful. He will honor the purity of your blood.

He will preserve the name of the House of Black.

You are seventeen. He is not young. You do not need to ask his age. You already feel it sinking into your skin like ice.

Your stomach coils, tight and bitter.

“No,” you say. Soft at first. Like a breath you’re trying to swallow.

Your mother doesn’t even blink. “You will.”

“No.” Again, louder this time. Sharper. The air around you stills.

She lifts her chin, unbothered. “You are a daughter of this house. This is your duty.”

“Duty?” The word tastes like ash in your mouth. “You want me to marry a man three times my age so you can keep the family name alive like it’s something holy. You want me quiet and obedient and grateful.” You’re trembling, but you don’t care.

“I am not a vessel for your legacy.”

Your father rises. His voice cuts across the room like steel. “You will not speak to your mother with such—”

“You don’t get to speak for me,” you snap, voice breaking at the edges. “You don’t get to decide who I am just because you raised me to be afraid of you!”

Silence floods the room, thick and bitter.

“You want to talk about duty?” you say, your voice low, shaking with fury. “Let’s talk about Sirius. You pushed him out like he was nothing. You wrote him off, erased him, like he never belonged to you in the first place. And Regulus—”

You choke, just for a second. But it’s enough to taste the grief under your rage.

“Regulus is gone. And you didn’t even flinch.”

Your mother’s gaze turns to ice. “Sirius was a disgrace,” she says. “Regulus was loyal. We will not lose the last child we have left.”

You laugh. It sounds wrong. Crooked. Cracked open.

“You already did.”

You stare at them — these people who gave you their name and called it love.

“I’m not your child,” you say, the words leaving your mouth like a final spell. “I’m what’s left. After the screaming. After the silence. After all the sons you burned through.”

You do not cry in front of them. You never cry in front of them.

The house taught you early that tears are weakness, that silence is survival, that emotion is something to be buried beneath polished shoes and perfect posture.

But the moment the door shuts behind you, the weight drops. You press your back to the cold wood and slide down until you are curled on the floor, your body folding into itself like it’s trying to vanish. And you cry. Not the gentle kind. Not the cinematic kind.

You cry until your throat burns and your face is damp and your chest feels like it’s being carved open from the inside. You cry the way the walls might, if they could. With all the grief they’ve soaked up over the years spilling out through the cracks.

You cry for every year you were quiet. For every word you never said. For every version of yourself you buried to stay alive in this house.

You feel seventeen and seven and seventy all at once. You feel like a ghost of your own girlhood, flickering between doorframes. You feel the house watching. Breathing. Remembering.

The floor beneath you is cold and unkind, and still you cling to it because it's the only thing solid left. You think of Sirius, and the way he used to laugh so loudly it shook the curtains. You think of him sleeping now in a house full of warmth and sugar and safety, a house where love isn't earned but given, where no one flinches when he reaches for joy.

You think of Regulus, not the boy they mourn in stiff silence, but the boy who once left crooked notes in your textbooks and stared out windows like he was already halfway elsewhere.

You think of the way he disappeared — not all at once, but slowly, like a tide pulling further and further out until you could no longer see where he ended and the darkness began.

And you think of James.

James with his easy smile and his steady hands, who never asks for more than you can give, who touches your shoulder like it means something, who holds your gaze when the room is too loud.

James, who looks at you like there is still something worth saving, like you are not the ruin this house has made of you, like you are more than a name etched into silver and expectation.

You wonder what he would say if he saw you now, curled like a child, broken open in the hallway like a spell gone wrong. You wonder if he would still look at you like you matter. If he would still believe you could be more than this.

But the truth is: you are not Sirius, brave enough to run and let it all burn behind him. You are not Regulus, quiet enough to disappear without a sound. You are not even James, bright enough to belong to a world that doesn’t hurt like this.

You are just you — the one who stayed.

The one who held her breath while the house tore itself apart. The one who learned how to fold pain into politeness, how to wear duty like perfume, how to live without taking up too much space.

You stayed because someone had to. Because someone had to carry the name. Because someone had to keep the silence from swallowing everything.

And now, you are the last one. A girl with no room left to run, with a dress being stitched by house-elves who won’t meet your eyes, with a fate wrapped in silver and blood and sealed with your mother’s satisfaction. A girl being handed over like an heirloom. A girl they call duty. A girl they call legacy. A girl they will call wife.

And you cry not because you are weak — but because you were strong for too long. Because this house eats daughters and calls it honor.

Because deep down, you are still waiting for someone to come back. Or take you away. Or give you a reason to leave. But no one comes. And so you cry.

So you give in. Not to the marriage — no, that would be too clean, too final — but to something slower, heavier, something like gravity or grief.

You give in to the house. To the quiet. To the truth you’ve always known but never dared to say aloud. You let it wrap around you like ivy, creeping in through the cracks in the walls and the bruises you keep hidden under your sleeves. It isn’t sudden. It isn’t cinematic. It’s the kind of surrender that looks like silence.

Each day becomes a ritual of forgetting. You wake late, eyes heavy with sleep you never earned. You push food around your plate until it cools and congeals and no one bothers to tell you to eat. You wander from room to room like a ghost, dragging your fingertips along the wallpaper as if it might remember you.

You reread the same book, the same page, five times, and the words never stick — they slide through your brain like oil through a sieve. You braid your hair tighter and tighter each morning until your scalp stings, until the ache becomes something solid you can carry. You stop speaking at meals.

You stop asking where Regulus went. You stop writing letters to Sirius, because no one writes back and ghosts don’t send owls.

And then one night, when the wind wails like a child outside your window and the rain lashes against the glass with the fury of everything you’ve swallowed, your feet carry you where your mind dares not go.

Up the stairs. Down the hallway. To the door you haven’t touched since he left. Sirius’s room.

You shouldn’t go in. The house groans like it’s warning you. But your hand is already on the handle.

The room is a battlefield.

The bed is splintered, cracked in the middle like a snapped spine. The posters are slashed, half-hanging like open wounds. The wallpaper is clawed down to the plaster. His name, once spelled in bold ink across the wall, is a black smear now — a wound too scorched to read. The air smells like old fire and bitter memory. You step inside.

You lower yourself to the floor with slow, trembling hands, and that’s when it breaks.

The scream tears from you before you can stop it — low and ragged and real.

You cry for Sirius, who ran and burned and somehow found something close to freedom. You cry for Regulus, who disappeared into silence and shadows and never looked back. You cry for James, whose laughter doesn’t belong in this house, whose kindness is a bruise you keep pressing. But mostly, you cry for yourself.

And when there are no more tears left to cry, your eyes catch something under the bed — a soft flicker of gray, tucked away like a shy secret waiting patiently.

Eventually, with trembling fingers, you take up your quill and smooth a sheet of parchment across your desk.

You’ve written to him a hundred times before—maybe more. None of them ever came back. None of them were ever answered.

And this one, you know, will be the last.

Dear Sirius, I do not know if this will ever reach you. I imagine it will not. And even if it did, I cannot picture you reading it. Perhaps you would glance at the ink, then turn away, pretending not to know the hand it came from. Perhaps you have already taught yourself to forget. Still, I write. I write because I do not know what else to do with my hands, now that they have nothing left to hold. Regulus is gone. They will not say how or where or why, only that he vanished, and everyone speaks of him now in the same tone they used when they stopped saying your name. He is gone, and I feel something in me beginning to follow. This summer has been long. There is sun in the air and dust in the curtains and no one speaks above a whisper. They say I am to be betrothed by autumn. He is pure of blood and proper of name and perfectly forgettable. I have already begun practicing how to look content beside him. Everyone tells me how lucky I am. No one asks if I am well. The house is colder than I remember. I think you were the last warm thing in it. Since you left, it has not once felt like home. The corridors are quieter now. The portraits turn their eyes away. Today I found your old toy — Buttons, the little grey dog with the floppy ear. He was under your bed, asleep in dust, but still whole. I pressed him to my face and thought I might fall apart from the scent of him. Smoke and summer and boyhood. I found Honeybell too. Her stitches are split and her eye is gone. But I held her anyway, the way you hold something that remembers what you cannot say aloud. Regulus’s was still in his room. Mister Wisp. The black raven. He was soaked through with rain. His wings sagged. His thread was fraying. He looked like something abandoned. He looked like someone who had waited too long. I placed them on your bedroom floor. Buttons. Honeybell. Mister Wisp. The three of us, in our own way. I sat with them until the sun went down and the house forgot me again. I hope you are safe. I hope there is laughter where you are. I hope someone brushes the hair from your eyes with tenderness. I hope you never once feel as forgotten as we did when you vanished. I want to hate you, but I never could. This is the last letter. Not because I have stopped loving you. That would be easier. No, I am stopping because love should not be sent into silence forever. And I have been silent for too long.

Ta Sœur, Pour Toujours

You fold the letter and press it to your heart, feeling the weight of every word settle deep inside you.

You sit there in the broken room, cradling the worn plushes as the first pale light of morning spills through the cracked window, soft and hesitant, like forgiveness that always comes too late.

The summer stretches endlessly, longer than any before, a slow and quiet rot rather than rest—a soft unraveling that steals breath and hope alike. Time does not move but lingers, thick and suffocating, pressing down on your bones like a heavy secret.

Outside, the war no longer whispers but rumbles beyond the horizon. Names vanish like ghosts, smiles falter under the weight of dread, and the sun mourns openly, bleeding orange into clouds as if the sky itself knew the darkness to come.

Grimmauld Place waits in silence. Its walls have always been cold, but now they hold a quiet deeper than stillness, a silence like held breath, like a house on the edge of swallowing you whole.

And then Sirius returns.

He had never meant to come back, not truly.

But something pulls him through the shadows, not duty, not family in the way you understood it. Perhaps it was memory, haunting and relentless. Perhaps regret, bitter and sharp. Perhaps it was you—the echo of your voice that chased him through sleepless nights, the image of you at thirteen, trembling and begging him to stay, a scar etched deep across his ribs. 

So he came back.

By the end of summer, Sirius Black stood before the house he had sworn never to return to, and this time he did not knock. This time he did not wait. The door groaned open as if it had been waiting for him all along. Dust hung heavy in the air, the stench of magic—old, burnt, and wrong—clinging like smoke caught deep in his lungs.

Something had happened here. Something violent. The house was not quiet. It was hollow. Empty. Ruined.

And that was when he found you.

Not sitting in the drawing room, not wrapped in a blanket with a book and tea, not curled in the window seat staring out at a life that had never been yours.

But lying on the marble floor, exactly where he had left you.

You did not die screaming. There was no flash of rage, no final incantation on your tongue, no defiant end befitting the fire that once lived inside you.

You were simply still. Folded into yourself, as if the world had leaned too hard on your ribs and you forgot how to fight it. Blood pooled around you like petals from a ruined bloom, soft and red and blooming in silence.

Your hair fanned around your face like something sacred — a fallen halo, a crown undone — and your limbs lay slack in a kind of surrender that spoke not of weakness but of exhaustion. Like the house had finally exhaled, and you let it take you with the breath.

Sirius dropped the moment he saw you. Not with ceremony, not with noise — just gravity doing what grief always does.

The way your knees once buckled when he walked away.

The way your voice had cracked, trying to stretch the word “stay” into something that could bind him.

The way your chest must have caved in, not from a curse, but from absence. He fell in the way people fall when something inside them has been waiting to shatter for years.

He reached for you. What else was there left to reach for, if not the girl who once braided red ribbons through his coat sleeves, who lined his pockets with honey drops and letters that smelled of ink and lavender, who sat beside him on staircases and said nothing, simply stayed.

He had run for so long — from this house, from this name, from everything that shaped him — but no one ever told him that ghosts have longer arms than memory. That your voice, the soft echo of it, would find him across every burning bridge.

And now you were here. Not thirteen anymore, not crying in the hallway where he left you. But also, not gone from that moment either.

You had never truly moved past the marble floor. He saw it in the way your fingers still curled inward, as if clinging to something invisible. In the tilt of your head, angled just like the night you begged him not to go.

He saw the years between then and now, every one of them, stretched like threads between your ribs — unravelled, fragile, frayed.

He saw the waiting. The tea that went cold on windowsills. The letters that never found their way past trembling hands. The summers that rotted slowly around you while everyone else grew up.

The stuffed animals lined like offerings beneath dust-heavy light. Buttons. Honeybell. Mister Wisp. Childhood turned reliquary.

He saw it all and understood too late that grief does not knock — it carves its name into your skin and waits. It waited for him here.

He pressed his forehead to yours and whispered your name like a prayer never answered. He had lived, but not really. Not in any way that mattered.

You had stayed, but not whole. You had waited so long for someone who was always running, and now that he was still, you were gone.

The sun began to rise, golden and slow, creeping through the cracks like a forgiveness that had missed its hour. It lit the marble floor like a chapel.

But it could not touch you. It could only fall across your shoulder, warm and useless. The kind of light that arrives after the room has already emptied.

And Sirius stayed there. Not as the rebel or the Black heir or the boy who broke free. But as a brother.

A brother who came home too late. A brother who looked at the cost and could not look away.

Time passed for him. He found love. Friends. A family not built of blood, but of choice. He laughed again. He dreamed. He lived. The world opened for him, and he stepped through — a boy turned man, a soul scraped raw but mending, slowly, beautifully. There were hands that held him.

Voices that called him home. Places where the sky was wide enough to forget. And he let himself forget.

And you stayed.

You stayed in the house that swallowed your name like a secret. In halls that knew only how to echo orders and lock away softness. With a father who spoke in sharp edges. A mother who carved obedience into you like scripture.

A twin who disappeared — not all at once, but in whispers and footsteps and doors that no longer opened. You stayed among portraits that scowled at your breath. Among books that weighed more than comfort. Among silences that wrapped around your throat until you mistook them for lullabies.

You stayed. Right where he left you. And the world, as it always did, looked away.

Except this time, the blood wasn’t from scraped knees or childish scuffles.

It was from the war that bloomed like rot through every crack in your home. From the letters you weren’t allowed to send. From the screams you weren’t allowed to make. From the spells you learned not to cast. From the hope you were forced to smother before it ever took its first breath.

And Sirius wept.

Not the kind of weeping that shatters in public. Not the kind that can be soothed by arms or words or tea gone cold.

This was the kind of weeping that hollowed. That stripped him to the marrow. That made him reach for a version of you that no longer breathed.

He wept for the sister whose hands once clutched his in the dark, when the storms rattled the windows and the world felt too big.

He wept for the girl who tucked notes into his pocket when Mother screamed. He wept for the ghost of you still sitting on the staircase, waiting for a brother who never turned back.

He wept for the birthdays you spent alone. For the letters he never wrote. For the words he never said. For the child you were — bright-eyed and bruised and so full of belief.

For the woman you could have been — fierce and aching and free.

For the way you died in the exact place he left you.

And for the way he only came back when there was no breath left to forgive him.

Time seemed to pass, though slower now — not measured in calendars or seasons, but in aches. In absences. In the small betrayals of memory.

For Sirius, time lost its rhythm. It did not tick or toll. It bled. It staggered. It sighed through floorboards and doorways and walls that still remembered the sound of your footsteps.

Time became the color of mourning — the dull grey of ash, the deep bruise of regret, the cold white of hospital sheets that never warmed beneath your weight.

It moved in the dust he could not bear to sweep, in the scent of your perfume fading soft on a pillowcase, in the broken music box that no longer turned, in the echo of your laughter — not in reality, but in the cruel trick of dreams.

He searched for you in everything, in the corners of rooms, in the backs of crowds, in the shadowed silence of the old stairwell where you once sang lullabies to the dark.

And when he found the letter — the one you never sent, crumpled at the back of a drawer, ink smeared as though you’d tried to erase your own voice — he pressed it to his lips and sobbed like a boy again. Like the child who promised he’d take you with him. Who swore you’d never be left behind.

Three plushes laid neatly beside each other, like a shrine to what was once whole. Not toys anymore, but gravestones — soft and worn and sacred.

They should have meant nothing. Just fabric, stuffing, thread. But Sirius could barely look at them without his chest caving in.

His own — hadn’t moved in years. You must’ve thought he’d come back for it. That if you left it untouched, just as he left it, maybe it would bring him home.

Yours was different. It was torn down the middle, the seam split like a scar, like a scream frozen in time. The stuffing spilled out like spilled insides, like something wounded and left to rot. It looked like it had tried to hold itself together for too long, and finally failed.

And Regulus’ — pale blue-grey, delicate in a way only he had been — soaked through and warped from rain. It lay slumped over, waterlogged and forgotten, as if the storm outside had wept it into surrender. The window above had cracked open, and the sky had poured in for hours. Sirius liked to think the heavens had mourned with him that day. That even the sky had broken, just a little.

You never knew, but Sirius never let them go.

Not once.

Even when the world fell apart. Even when the Order returned and war carved new hollows into their lives.

Even when Azkaban loomed like a ghost at his shoulder. He kept them — hidden, at first, under floorboards and false bottoms of trunks. Then folded into boxes labeled with things like “storage” or “old keepsakes,” as if a name could make them matter less.

But they always came back out. Back to his bedside. Back into his hands on sleepless nights. Because they weren’t just toys. They were the last soft things left. The only parts of his childhood that hadn’t turned to ash.

They were what remained of the real family he had chosen — not the one etched into tapestries or carved into rings, but the one built in whispers and quiet dreams.

You, Regulus, and him. Three children clinging to hope like a secret. Three hearts hoping that if they held each other tightly enough, they could outrun their legacy. They could be something else. Someone else. Someone free.

But grief is not kind. It is greedy. It takes and takes and keeps on taking.

So it took Regulus, too.

No goodbye. No body. Just whispers in the dark — that he had gone beneath the water, chasing a kind of redemption Sirius hadn’t known his brother still believed in. That he had died trying to undo what he never had the power to fix. A boy with the name of a star, drowning in a sea too vast to name.

And Sirius had hated him, once — for his silence, for his compliance, for surviving the home that killed you. But when Regulus vanished, Sirius understood he’d been wrong. Regulus hadn’t survived. He’d only delayed the dying. Now it was just him, and the plushes — three relics, three ghosts, three pieces of a family no one ever thought to grieve.

Because what were children like them, if not warnings? What were Black children, if not cautionary tales?

1994

Years later, Sirius will stand before a boy with too-bright eyes and a scar that speaks of wars no child should remember. And in the boy’s grin — wide, reckless, full of sun — Sirius will see James, not as memory, but as marrow, as instinct.

But it's not James that makes him ache, not really.

It’s the quiet moments, the in-between ones — when the boy furrows his brow in thought, or stares too long at the stars, or speaks with a gentleness he doesn’t even know he carries.

That’s when Sirius sees Regulus, not in likeness but in the ache of being too young for so much weight.

And most of all, he sees you.

He sees you in the boy’s stubborn defiance, in the way he fights for others before himself, in the way he loves — fiercely, awkwardly, with every unguarded part of him. He sees you in the boy’s eyes when he reaches for Sirius without hesitation. He sees the child you once were, all scraped knees and wild dreams, asking impossible questions and believing in things too big to name.

And it undoes him. Every single time.

Because this boy, this Harry, carries all the pieces of the ones he lost — but he carries you most of all.

Sirius will not know how to name that kind of grace. Only that it feels like standing in the past and being forgiven by it. 

And in that child, in the fragile miracle of his existence, Sirius will understand that love does not end. It threads itself into blood and bone and story. It survives. Even when nothing else does.

And that understanding — that impossible, aching recognition — will be the cruelest grace of all. Because by then, the war will have come and gone, carving its tally marks into the bones of everyone left standing.

He will have buried too many. James, Lily, and names he once spoke with laughter now spoken in silence, in dreams. The fire will have gone out, and Sirius will have learned to live in the smoke. A man half-built from memory, half-held together by loss. He will carry it all, quietly.

The old house on Grimmauld Place will still stand, but he will not return. Some ghosts are too sacred to disturb, and some rooms still remember how to bleed.

Yours will remain untouched — the air thick with dust and song, the bed still hiding three plush toys like relics of a time when the world had not yet shattered. The scent of childhood still clinging to the curtains, as if waiting for someone to come home.

And though the world will move forward without him — blooming and burning and beginning again — Sirius will remain quietly stitched into the edges of it, in every reckless laugh, every act of love carved in defiance, every child who believes that family is something you choose.

Because what he lost cannot be measured in names or battles or years. It is deeper than that. It is a wound shaped like a sister’s lullaby, a brother’s silence, a best friend’s grin. It is the kind of grief that builds a home inside your ribs and dares you to live with it.

And even when there is no one left to speak your name aloud, Sirius will. Not out of duty, but because somewhere within him, the boy who once held your hand still waits in the dark.

He still listens for the echo of your laughter through silent halls, still glances at the doorway like you might walk through, still dreams of a world where everything broken might find a way to mend.

There is a quiet place in him that never grew older than sixteen, still caught in the house where you stayed behind, still curled beside you in the dark, still whispering stories of escape to the ceiling.

That part of him hears your voice when the world forgets how to be kind. 

It sees your eyes in every child who refuses to stop hoping, every child with bright eyes and a scar on their forehead — especially the one who looks at him like he is something good.

It believes, even now, that the love you gave was too bright to vanish, too true to ever fade. 

Sirius Black remained — not because he survived, but because love, once given, does not know how to leave, and grief, once born, does not know how to die.

And then, years later, it was his cousin who ended him — blood of his blood, born of the same ruin, raised on the same silken lies, sipping from the same poisoned cup. Bellatrix did not strike like chance, but like prophecy, like the final breath of a story written long before they ever lived it.

It was not kindness that undid them, nor mercy. It was inheritance — a name carved too deep, a legacy that devoured its own.

In the end, nothing could tear down the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Except itself.

For those whose fate was never their own,

for the one who bore the weight alone,

for the one who stayed,

so ends the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

-

And then, inevitably, there are the ones who stay. The ones who take root. Friends who become fixtures in our hours, our patterns, our very way of moving through the world. These are the companions who anchor us, shape us, and sometimes save us.

But of all the categories of human interaction, the most treacherous—by far the most damaging—are those who fall into that final, cruel compartment: the ones we spend a great deal of time loving, and even longer trying to forget.

Unfortunately for you, there are not one but two such individuals who haunt that particular category. 

The first is your mother, a woman of remarkable cruelty and unrelenting spite, whose presence in your life has left wounds no healing spell has yet managed to erase. Her voice remains embedded in the back of your mind, an echo that resurfaces in moments of quiet, and most especially in moments of fear. 

She is, by all accounts, what one might imagine the devil would send if he himself were otherwise detained.

And then there is Regulus Black.

Your ex-lover.

He occupied your heart for six brief months, and has plagued your memory for over a year since. In the hierarchy of harm, he should rank second; he did not raise you, did not abuse you, did not imprison you in your own home. 

And yet, in certain hours of the night, it is his name that claws to the surface first, his voice that revisits you in your dreams, not with cruelty—but with absence. With silence. With the terrible emptiness of what might have been.

You do not know which wound is more exhausting: the one left by the mother you were born to, or the one left by the boy who told you he loved you and then disappeared so thoroughly it felt like grief. 

What you do know is that you have, at the very least, escaped one of them. Your mother is not here. Hogwarts, for all its horrors, is mercifully free of her presence.

Regulus, however, is another matter entirely.

You see him no fewer than three times a day. Sometimes across the Great Hall, his expression unreadable beneath the sweep of dark hair. Sometimes in the library, hunched over his parchment with the same precision he used to study you. 

And sometimes—like now—you find him walking directly toward you, claiming proximity with the casual grace of someone who does not feel the ground shift beneath your feet when he appears.

He is here for a book. That is all. A book Remus happens to have tucked under his arm. The corridor is quiet, the class bell not yet rung. You had been mid-conversation with Remus, about Arithmancy of all things, when you felt the air change.

You did not need to look to know it was him.

And yet, of course, you did.

Now he stands before you, perfectly composed, as if he does not know the state of your hands, the sudden sweat on your palms, the weight in your chest. 

As if you are no more significant to him than any other girl waiting beside her friend. As if he has not occupied every corner of your memory for the past twelve months.

“Lupin,” he says, his voice smooth and quiet, carrying just enough weight to command attention without raising its volume. “You still have that copy of Magical Theory I lent you last month?”

Remus adjusts the strap of his bag. “I do,” he replies, with an expression that flickers between casual politeness and something more watchful. “Was wondering if you’d ever come for it.”

“I meant to earlier,” Regulus says. “Life interfered.”

His eyes shift momentarily toward you, too fleeting to be called a glance, scarcely more than a subtle movement. 

Yet somehow, it ignites a warmth within you. You lower your gaze to the floor, as though it might provide a refuge from the weight of that silent acknowledgement.

Remus reaches into his bag and withdraws the book. “Here,” he says. “Try not to annotate the margins next time. Some of us actually care what the author meant.”

Regulus takes the book with a quiet nod. “Noted.”

You wait until he turns the corner before your shoulders finally drop, teeth clenched so tightly your jaw begins to ache. 

You exhale harshly through your nose, then turn on your heel, your shoes hitting the stone floor with unforgiving purpose.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter, storming ahead, your robes flaring behind you. “Why the hell is he everywhere I go?”

Remus hurries after you, a half-confused, half-amused expression tugging at his mouth. “Is it my fault Regulus wanted a bloody book?”

“Oh, don’t act innocent,” you snap, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him down a side corridor. “Why are you even talking to him?”

He blinks in surprise. “Because he’s at Hogwarts, in the same school, studying in the same halls and library? I am not twelve, severing ties as if cutting a frayed thread. Some connections persist whether we want them to or not.”

You stop short. “Well, you are breaking the biggest girl code ever.”

Remus blinks, confused. “Pardon? Girl what?”

“You heard me. Girl code.”

He raises a brow. “I’m not even a girl!”

“You’re gay!” you fire back without missing a beat. “Girl code applies.”

He throws his head back and laughs, hand over his chest as if you have just confessed your undying love. “I cannot believe this is happening.”

You glare. “You are not supposed to associate with your friend’s ex. Especially when he’s an emotionally constipated bastard who left me without a single decent explanation. What’s next? You going to lunch with him and chatting about his new broomstick?”

“I’m sorry!” he says, still chuckling. “But in all seriousness, you’re acting like he cursed your name into a grave.”

“Remus,” you hiss, pulling him closer by the edge of his robe. “You don’t get it. Every time I think I’m okay, every time I’m having a semi-decent day, he appears. He just slinks in like some bloody ghost and ruins everything.”

“You hate him that much?”

“I hate that he’s still here. I hate that I spent six months giving everything to someone who couldn’t give me one sentence of honesty in return!”

There’s a long pause. Remus watches you carefully now, the humor softening into something gentler.

“You know,” he says quietly, “it bothers you that he doesn’t look bothered.”

You freeze.

“That’s what this is,” he goes on, his voice not unkind. “You’re mad because he ended it, and he walks around like he doesn’t regret it.”

You scoff, though it sounds brittle in your throat. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve moved on.”

“Have you?”

“I have,” you say, too quickly. “He ended things because of his own issues or whatever, which, by the way, he never even told me about. Just decided I didn’t need to know, like I wasn’t worth the effort.”

Remus sighs, eyes flicking toward the stained glass window at the end of the corridor. “He didn’t think he could make you stay.”

“I would’ve stayed,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies. “But Regulus doesn’t believe anyone stays.”

You feel something hot sting the backs of your eyes, but you blink it away. 

You’ve cried enough over Regulus Black to fill every basin in the castle.

“Well,” you say, lifting your chin, “he was wrong, because now I’m gone. And this time, I’m the one who’s staying gone.”

“Well,” Remus began, his tone far too casual for your liking, “I’m afraid I must tell you that you do share a class with Regulus Black. Defense Against the Dark Arts, to be precise.”

You blink slowly, dread blooming like a headache. “I feel like this entire week has been designed to ruin me.”

Remus offered a small nod, watching as you turned and made your way toward your classroom. You exchanged a brief glance, an unspoken understanding passing between you, before each of you vanished into the corridors leading to your separate lessons.

The classroom is already half-full by the time you arrive. Pandora catches your eye and gestures to the seat beside her near the front. You gratefully accept and settle in. 

Moments later, the chair behind you scrapes against the floor, and without needing to turn, you know who it is. Of course it is him. Regulus Black. The universe never misses an opportunity to mock you.

The professor strides into the room with a quiet authority, his robes flowing behind him as he surveys the class.

“Wands out,” he commands without preamble. “Today we continue our practice of spell deflection and countering dark magic. If you failed to revise over the weekend, I advise you remain silent and take diligent notes. This lesson will be entirely practical.”

A few students murmur in quiet protest. You share a brief glance with Pandora, who offers a small, knowing smile.

Pairs are assigned swiftly. Pandora finds herself paired with Dorcas, while you are left with a boy whose uncertain grip on his wand betrays his inexperience, as if he cannot quite discern which end poses the true danger. 

The duel begins with harmless exchanges. Spells burst into vivid flashes of light, Protego charms shimmer and ripple like liquid glass, and stunning spells bounce in practiced arcs. 

You move through the motions with practiced detachment—cast, block, repeat—finding solace in the rhythm that dulls the edges of your anxiety. Your partner flinches at every near miss but perseveres. 

Gradually, you settle into a steady cadence, grateful for the distraction it provides from the presence a few feet behind you: Regulus Black, undoubtedly observing your every move with an inscrutable gaze.

And then something shifts.

It happens so fast you almost miss it — a wand flicks too hard across the room, a shield charm is cast too late. A spell that was meant to be redirected suddenly veers off its original path. 

It slices through the air with a sound that’s too loud, too sharp. The kind of sound magic makes when it goes wrong.

You see it out of the corner of your eye. A bolt of deep violet light, spiraling toward you in a jagged line. 

Before you can react, it hits.

The curse slams into your side like a live wire. You stagger backward, your wand slipping from your fingers as your entire left side lights up with blinding heat. 

Your shoulder crashes into the desk behind you. The air tears from your lungs.

There’s a split second of silence before the chaos.

You collapse to your knees. The floor feels far too cold beneath your palms. A ragged breath escapes you, but it catches halfway. 

Pain spreads through your ribs like someone’s carving fire through them, sharp and hot and crawling beneath your skin. You press a hand to your side and it comes away wet.

Red, bright, and vivid red.

Your name rings out, repeated more than once, but the sound feels distant, muffled, as if heard from beneath water.

“Do not move!” the professor’s voice commands, cutting sharply through the noise. You flinch at the sudden intensity. “Everyone, step back.”

Yet before the room can obey, firm hands grasp your shoulders—steady, anchoring. For a moment, you believe it to be Pandora, but then a gentler touch brushes your hair aside, and your name is spoken once more, quieter this time, urgent.

The world around you bursts into chaos.

Voices rose in panic. Footsteps thundered against the stone floor. The professor’s sharp commands cut through the chaos, urgent calls for help echoing around you.

You curled on the cold floor, your side burning with a fierce, unyielding pain.

Hands reached for you hesitantly, some too firm, others too gentle. Shadows flickered in the candlelight as the heat and noise closed in—too much, too close.

And suddenly, your mind is no longer in the classroom.

You are nine years old again, backed into the far corner of the drawing room. The wallpaper is peeling. The curtains are drawn. The air smells like ash and liquor and old perfume. 

Your mother’s voice is a velvet snarl, sweet and poisonous. Her wand is steady, raised like a promise, and you are not fast enough to run this time.

The spell hits your shoulder. You remember the way it felt—the tearing heat, the way your skin split without bleeding, the way she looked bored as you screamed. 

You remember the way no one came.

Back in the present, your chest heaves. The pain in your side is spreading, but it is nothing compared to the one cracking open inside your skull. 

You shove at the hands reaching for you and hear yourself cry out. 

“Get off me,” you sob, though no one is holding you anymore.

You clutch your side with trembling hands, shaking your head, rocking forward, trying to escape a memory you cannot outrun.

“She is in shock,” someone says, far away and echoing.

“I need everyone to back away,” the professor’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and commanding. “Now!”

You are sobbing uncontrollably now, your entire body convulsing with it. It is not the pain of your wound that has undone you. It is memory. It is fear so old and familiar it has worn grooves into your bones.

“Can she hear us?”

“Merlin, she is bleeding through her robes—”

“She is panicking—she is not breathing right—”

You want to tell them to stop. You want to scream until the noise stops, until the hands disappear, until your mother’s voice fades from the corners of your mind.

But all you can do is cry.

Cry and tremble and bleed.

Cry and fold into yourself like you used to, like you always have, like it is the only thing that has ever kept you safe.

And for the first time in a very long time, you feel utterly, irrevocably powerless.

Regulus reaches you first. His presence carves through the panic like a blade through water, sharp and inevitable, silencing the rush of footsteps and the flurry of voices.

“Move,” he says, his voice low yet carrying an authority that makes the crowd hesitate. 

When no one obeys quickly enough, his tone sharpens into something unmistakably furious. “Move the fuck away from her!”

He drops to his knees beside you, the wool of his robes brushing the stone floor, and for the smallest moment his hands hover, trembling slightly, before he gathers you into his arms. 

The movement is careful, protective, and almost desperate, as though he fears you might dissolve into nothing if he holds you too tightly.

Your cheek finds the sharp line of his shoulder, and you feel the rise and fall of his breathing, quick and uneven. 

His hand presses lightly to your back, the other cupping the side of your face as though to anchor you.

“Breathe,” he murmurs gently by your ear, his voice soft and laden with unspoken affection. The fury from before fades into a trembling vulnerability, as if your pain unsettles him to his core. “Please, just breathe for me. It is done now. You are safe in my arms—no one will ever hurt you again. I swear it. I will not let go.”

You cling to him without thought, your hands fisting into his robes so tightly that you feel the fabric strain. He holds you just as fiercely, his head bowing until his temple rests against yours.

“She needs space!” he shouts suddenly at the few students who dare step closer, his voice snapping like a whip. “Do not come near her!”

The professor’s voice calls for Madam Pomfrey, hurried and strained, but you hardly hear it over the pounding of your heart. 

Regulus rocks you slightly, murmuring in low tones that you cannot entirely understand, only catching fragments. “Stay with me… just a little longer… you are here, not there…”

You are trembling so violently that your teeth ache from the force of it, and still you do not loosen your grip. 

Your mind flickers between the present and the past until it becomes unbearable, and the last thing you feel is the steady, protective cage of his arms before everything fades to black.

***

When you open your eyes, the air smells faintly of antiseptic potions and the crisp, laundered sheets beneath you are unfamiliar. The ceiling is high and white, the room softly lit. Your side throbs with a dull, persistent ache.

Regulus is sitting beside your bed. His elbows rest on his knees, his hands clasped loosely, his head lowered in thought. He looks nothing like the cold, distant boy you have seen for the past year. 

There is a rawness in his expression, a weight in the shadows beneath his eyes that makes him appear older, thinner, almost as though the worry has been consuming him for longer than you can comprehend.

The moment you stir, his head lifts sharply. His eyes, dark and searching, find yours, and in that instant, he is on his feet. 

Without a word, he strides to the door and calls for Madam Pomfrey, his voice edged with relief and urgency.

The matron sweeps in with brisk efficiency, her wand already in hand. “You gave us quite a scare,” she says, moving to your side and inspecting the area where the curse struck. 

Her wand hovers, emitting a faint golden glow. “You took a direct hit from a poorly cast Stinging Hex. Normally it would leave only a welt, but the spell was overcharged, which accounts for the severity of your pain. The student responsible has been assigned two weeks’ detention, and your professor was furious enough to petition for expulsion. The Headmaster intervened, so it will not come to that, but rest assured it will not happen again.”

You nod faintly, the words slipping over you like water without truly sinking in.

Madam Pomfrey continues, “You will feel discomfort for several days. The damage to the muscle has been repaired, but it will remain tender. Avoid strenuous movement, and come back for a check-up tomorrow morning.” 

She sets a small vial on the table. “For the pain. Do not take more than two sips at a time.”

Once she leaves, the room is silent again except for the faint rustle of the sheets as you shift. Your gaze drifts back to Regulus.

“You stayed,” you murmur, your voice quieter than you intended.

The moment the curtain shuts behind Madam Pomfrey, he crosses the short space between your bed and the chair he had been occupying, his movements sharp with urgency. 

“Are you in pain? Does anything still hurt?” His eyes move across your face and shoulders and down to where your side is bandaged, his expression tight with something between fear and anger.

You shake your head, though the dull ache in your ribs remains. It is not the pain that feels unbearable now, but the fact that he is here, leaning over you, close enough for his breath to brush your cheek. 

“Regulus,” you murmur, your voice scratchy from the earlier screaming, “what are you doing here?”

His eyes flash, the crease between his brows deepening. “What am I doing here? What kind of question is that?” He pulls his hand back, as though your words have burned him. “You were lying on the floor, shaking, barely breathing. Of course I am here.”

Your lips press together, the faintest tremor in your jaw. “You have spent a year avoiding me. I thought you made it clear that my wellbeing was no longer your concern.”

He exhales through his nose, sharp and incredulous. “That is what you think? That I could watch you suffer and simply walk away?”

“Is that not exactly what you did before?” Your tone sharpens without your meaning to, the words tasting of months of hurt. 

“You left, Regulus. You left without a word, and now you appear out of nowhere, acting as though you have the right to stand here and—”

He cuts you off, his voice suddenly louder. “Do you think I wanted to leave? Do you think I did it lightly?” His hand runs through his hair, the gesture breaking the perfect composure he used to guard so jealously. “I had reasons. You would not have understood.”

Your gaze hardens. “I would have understood if you had given me the chance!  I would have stood beside you, no matter what, but you never gave me the choice. You just vanished.”

His voice drops to something quieter, almost desperate. “I thought I was protecting you.”

You shake your head, your voice shaking now. “You were protecting yourself. You decided I could not handle the truth, or that I was better off without you, and you did not even let me fight for us.”

There is a silence so heavy it feels as though the room itself is holding its breath. His eyes do not leave yours, and in them you see the glimmer of something painfully familiar, something you have not seen in a year.

When he speaks again, the words seem torn out of him. “I never stopped caring for you. Not for one day. I stayed away because I thought it was safer.”

Your own breath hitches, the anger still burning but tangled now with something warmer and far more dangerous. “You cannot say things like that, Regulus. Not after everything.”

His voice softens, but the intensity in it remains. “I am saying it because it is the truth. I still—” He stops, his jaw tightening as though the admission is almost too much. “I still love you. And I can’t help that.”

Your voice cracks when you finally say it. “What do you mean you still love me, Regulus?”

His head jerks back slightly, as though the words hit harder than any hex. “You heard me,” he says, his tone sharp, almost defensive. “Do not act surprised.”

“How could I not be surprised?” Your fingers knot into the blanket, your chest rising too fast. “You walked away and you never looked back.”

He takes a step closer, his expression tightening. “And you think that means I stopped caring?”

“It means you stopped everything!” The pitch of your voice trembles. “You stopped writing, you stopped meeting me, you stopped—” Your throat closes. 

Something flashes behind his eyes, frustration sparking like flint. “I never stopped.”

The heat in the room becomes unbearable. You swing your legs off the bed, the urge to escape flooding your body, but as soon as your feet touch the ground, pain lances through your side and you stumble forward.

In a heartbeat his arms are around you, one hand braced at your waist, the other steadying your back. 

He lifts you effortlessly, setting you down again with such precision it feels almost angry.

“Would you just listen to me, woman?” His voice is low and fierce, his face only inches from yours. You can feel the rush of his breath against your cheek, the tension humming between your bodies.

Your heartbeat rattles in your ribs. “Then talk.”

“Why do you think I pretend to want Lupin’s wretched annotated books?” His tone grows sharper with each word. 

“Why do you think I force our schedules to match? Why do I visit the Gryffindor tower under the excuse of seeing Sirius? It is because I bloody care about your well-being! I always have. So do not, for one moment, question me.”

His gaze holds yours with an intensity that steals your breath. Slowly, deliberately, he closes the distance between you. When his lips meet yours, it is as if all the years of silence, pain, and longing have been building toward this one desperate, fervent moment—fierce, unyielding, and weighted with all the words he never found the courage to speak.

When you finally drew back, the space between you was narrow enough for his breath to brush against your cheek. 

“I owe you an apology,” he said at last, his voice softer now but still unwavering. He reached up, gently cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing lightly against your cheeks. 

After a heartbeat, he leaned closer, closing the small space between you just enough to let his breath mingle with yours. “For every moment I left you to wonder whether you mattered to me, for allowing you to believe that you were a passing sentiment instead of the one truth I have carried with me all these years.”

He paused, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “I was a coward in the way I walked away, and I will regret it for as long as I live.”

You parted your lips to answer, but before the words could form, the curtain at your bedside was suddenly pulled aside. Sirius and Remus peeked in, their eyes immediately taking in the quiet intimacy between you and Regulus.

Sirius’s voice cut through the stillness with a teasing edge. “Hi!—wait—what exactly is going on here?”

Remus’s hand shot out, grabbing Sirius by the collar and pulling him back. “Let them have their moment, will you?” he muttered, dragging Sirius away gently but firmly.

“Oww! Fine, fine,” Sirius grumbled, shooting you a cheeky grin as he retreated.

As the curtain swished closed behind them, a short laugh escaped you both, the tension easing as your conversation resumed.

With a sly smile, you tilted your head and leaned in just enough to catch his attention. “Now that I realize…” you began, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

Your fingers slid up to the collar of his robe, tugging him gently but deliberately closer until the space between you vanished.

“Does that mean you were sneaking books from Remus just to see me?” you teased softly, your voice dripping with playful accusation.

Regulus’s cheeks flushed a shade deeper, an almost imperceptible crack in his usual composed facade. “Stop it,” he muttered, half embarrassed, half amused.

“Oh, come now,” you coaxed, your grin widening. “You must have known I’d find out eventually. Was I your secret motivation to studying all along?”

He swallowed, then tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours with something softer, hopeful. “Does that mean… I can be your boyfriend again?”

You feigned hesitation, arching a brow with theatrical deliberation. “Hmm. I don’t know, Black. Does that mean you’ll get all depressed and disappear on me again?”

His lips quirked into a pout, the vulnerability both infuriating and endearing. “I thought you liked your boys a little depressed.”

You laughed quietly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Only if it’s you.”

His smile was genuine now, a rare and precious thing. “So, I am forgiven?”

“Absolutely,” you said softly, squeezing his hand. “But only if you promise to stick around this time.”

He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “For you, I’ll try very hard.”

A gentle smile curved your lips, warmth radiating from your gaze. “Good,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. “Because there is something I need to hear from you.”

Slowly, you lifted your hands to cradle his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw as your eyes locked with his. “Promise me this,” you murmured, your tone both tender and resolute, “no more secrets between us. No more disappearing without a word. I want all of you, completely, without reservation.”

His smile softened as he leaned into your touch. “All of me is yours, amour.”

For a moment, you simply held each other’s gaze, the world outside fading into quiet stillness. 

Then, with deliberate gentleness, he leaned in slowly, his breath warm against your cheek as his eyes searched yours for any hesitation. 

When none came, he pressed his lips softly to yours, a kiss that held both promise and forgiveness, tender and unwavering.

As he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, he whispered, “Just don’t die on me, alright?”

You chuckled softly, the sound bubbling up effortlessly. “I’ll try not to.”

A mischievous glint sparked in his eyes as he smiled. “Je t’aime.”

You rolled your eyes with a playful grin. “Gosh, I missed your French accent.”

But this was the first time you’d watched something happen to your boyfriend. And somehow that made everything feel slower.

One second Noah had been yelling at one of his teammates to back off after a shove near midfield. The next, he was trying to separate two players before things escalated. Then someone from the other team swung.

You still remembered the sound. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just sickeningly solid.

Noah stumbled backward immediately, hands flying to his face as blood started pouring between his fingers almost instantly.

Training took over before your brain did.

By the time you reached him, you already had gloves on and gauze pressed firmly against his nose. Noah was swearing under his breath while blood soaked through the first pad almost immediately.

“Don’t tilt your head back,” you snapped automatically when he tried to lean his head upward.

“I know that,” he muttered, voice thick and congested.

“You’re literally doing it right now.”

One of the other sports med girls was already radioing for EMS while the coach tried, and failed, to calm down the screaming players still arguing near midfield.

“Think it’s broken?” Noah asked.

You gave him a look.

His nose was visibly crooked already.

“I think you should stop talking.”

That earned the tiniest laugh from him before he winced hard and spit blood onto the grass.

Okay. Cool. Awesome.

Your stomach turned a little at that.

The paramedics arrived quickly after that, kneeling beside Noah while you gave a rushed report automatically.

“Male, seventeen, punched in the face during an altercation,” you said, still holding pressure to his nose. “Brief dizziness immediately after impact but no loss of consciousness, no vomiting, pupils equal and reactive. Heavy epistaxis initially but slowing with pressure.”

One of the paramedics glanced at you, impressed.

“You planning on med school?”

“My dad works in an ER,” you answered automatically.

That somehow explained everything.

They transferred Noah onto the stretcher mostly because of the amount of blood and the dizziness, though everyone seemed pretty confident it was a nasal fracture more than anything life-threatening. Still, facial injuries could be tricky, and they wanted imaging done to rule out anything worse.

You barely even registered following the stretcher toward the ambulance until one of the paramedics opened the doors.

“Family only, sweetheart.”

“Oh.” You blinked quickly. “Right.”

Noah reached for your wrist before they could close the doors.

“Meet me there?”

“Obviously.”

One of the paramedics told you they were heading to PTMC, and you nodded quickly before jogging toward your car.

The entire drive there, adrenaline buzzed uncomfortably beneath your skin. Not because Noah was dying. Rationally, you knew he wasn’t. But because this was going to become a whole thing the second your dad found out.

So here you were pulling into the staff parking lot, because Jack got tired of hearing you complain about the walk from visitor parking months ago and added your car to the access list, and speed-walking toward the ambulance bay entrance of the ED.

You checked your phone while you moved quickly towards PTMC.

6:34 p.m.

Perfect.

Robby was still here and Jack wasn’t on shift yet. Which meant you could probably explain the situation to him first before having to explain to your father that you’d had a boyfriend for six months and somehow forgot to mention it.

That felt manageable. Slightly humiliating, but manageable.

Before you knew it, you were pushing through the sliding ambulance bay doors, immediately getting hit with the familiar noise of the ED. Phones rang nonstop somewhere near the nurses’ station, monitors beeped in uneven rhythms, and someone down the hall was loudly asking for a psych consult.

None of it really phased you anymore. You’d spent enough time in this department growing up that it almost felt normal. Which was probably concerning.

You moved through the chaos quickly toward the hub, hoping to spot either Dana or Robby. Usually at least one of them was hovering somewhere nearby trying to keep the entire department from collapsing in on itself.

Neither were there.

Great.

You glanced around before looking up toward the patient tracking board overhead, scanning for Noah’s name among the list of room assignments and triage notes.

“Excuse me, you can’t just come back here.”

The voice came from beside you.

You turned to see a tall, lanky guy with shaggy light brown hair and an expression that somehow managed to be both smug and exhausted at the same time. Scrubs. Badge clipped crookedly to his waistband. Probably a med student or resident.

Definitely new.

“Oh, I’m just looking for my boyfriend. He just got brought in by EMS—”

“You still need to get a visitor pass,” he interrupted. “I can show you to the front desk.”

You let out a short breath somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “I know where the front desk is, I—”

“Good,” he cut in again, already gesturing toward the waiting room. “So let’s head over there, get you checked in properly, and then you can go find your boyfriend.”

“No,” you said plainly, turning back toward the board. “I’m gonna go see him right now.”

The guy blinked at your tone before letting out an incredulous scoff.

“Look, if you don’t come with me to get a visitor pass, I’m gonna have to call security to—”

“Do what?”

Robby’s voice cut cleanly through the conversation.

You looked over immediately to see him approaching from the sink area near the trauma rooms, still rubbing sanitizer between his hands as he walked over. His expression already carried the exhausted irritation of someone who’d dealt with three separate disasters in the last ten minutes and was prepared for a fourth.

The guy beside you straightened slightly.

“Dr. Robby, this girl just came in through the ambulance bay, and I told her she needs to get a visitor pass, but she’s refusing, so I think we might need security—”

“‘This girl,’” Robby interrupted calmly, “is Dr. Abbot’s daughter.”

You watched the man’s face change instantly.

Robby continued before he could recover. “And she also happens to be my niece.”

The guy’s entire posture shifted into immediate panic.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you said, unable to help yourself.

Robby finally looked over at you fully now, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

“You came through the ambulance bay again?”

“You gave me the code.”

“That was your takeaway from that sentence?”

You shrugged.

“Where’s Noah?” you asked quickly before he could start lecturing you.

Robby’s expression softened slightly at the genuine concern in your voice.

“South fourteen. Probably getting sent for imaging soon.” He paused, giving you a once-over. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

You nodded once. “I’m fine. He got punched in the face, not hit by a bus.”

“Good,” Robby said. “Because your dad is already having a bad enough day, and if I have to add ‘teenage relationship reveal during shift change’ onto it, I might actually quit medicine.”

You winced.

“Can we maybe… not tell him yet?”

Robby stared at you for a long second.

Then he sighed heavily. “Oh, this is gonna be a disaster.” He motioned with his head toward the hallway. “Come on, I’ll walk you over there.”

“I know where South Fourteen is—” you started.

“I know,” Robby interrupted, softer this time. “But I haven’t seen you in a while.”

The slight sentimentality in his voice caught you off guard enough that you decided not to make fun of him for it.

Barely.

You just nodded and moved over beside him so the two of you could walk together through the department. As you did, Robby glanced back toward the guy from earlier.

“Ogilvie, go check on your patient.”

The man, apparently Ogilvie, immediately pivoted and disappeared toward one of the rooms without another word.

You looked back at Robby. “He’s new?”

Robby let out a long sigh through his nose. “Yeah.”

“That explains a lot.”

“He means well.”

“He threatened to call security on me.”

“He threatens to call security on everybody.”

That actually made you laugh a little.

The two of you continued down the hallway, weaving around nurses, stretchers, and an environmental services cart parked halfway in the middle of the corridor for absolutely no reason. A trauma alert was being called overhead somewhere nearby, and you instinctively stepped closer to the wall to let a team rush past.

It was strange how normal all of this felt to you now. Most people your age would probably find the ED overwhelming. Loud. Chaotic. Maybe even scary. To you, it just smelled like antiseptic wipes and bad coffee.

“So,” Robby said after a moment, “you haven’t told him yet?”

You shot him a look immediately.

“Hey, I’m just asking,” he defended. “You guys have apparently been dating for, what, six months now?”

“About that.”

“And Jack has no idea?”

You exhaled slowly, already annoyed by the conversation. “I mean, it’s not like he’s ever home.”

“That’s not true,” Robby said automatically, instinctively defending him.

You gave him a look. A very pointed look.

Robby sighed.

“Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe not the best argument.”

“Exactly.” You crossed your arms tighter over your chest as you walked. “He’s either picking up extra hours here, doing SWAT stuff, asleep because he worked a night shift, or off doing something with Samira.”

Robby stayed quiet.

“And now that I’m a senior,” you continued, “it’s like he thinks I can just handle everything myself.”

“You can, though,” Robby pointed out carefully, clearly very familiar with your aggressively independent personality.

“I mean, yeah,” you admitted. “But that’s not the point.”

Robby glanced sideways at you but didn’t interrupt this time.

“The only time I see him is if I make time for him,” you said, voice quieter now but sharper somehow. “It’s never him making time for me.”

You shrugged like it didn’t matter. Like you hadn’t clearly been thinking about it for months.

“So honestly,” you finished, “it’s not really his business.”

The bitterness in your voice lingered between you.

Robby was quiet for a few steps. When he finally spoke, his tone had shifted completely.

“You know he loves you, right?”

“That’s not the point,” you shot back almost immediately.

Robby looked over at you for a long moment as the two of you slowed near the South hallway rooms.

“So what is the point?”

The question hit harder than you expected.

You glanced away quickly, eyes drifting around the department instead of looking at him. A nurse pushed a portable monitor past you. Someone laughed loudly from behind the nurses’ station. Overhead, another page echoed through the ED speakers.

Anything was easier to focus on than that question. Because the annoying thing was that you didn’t even fully know the answer yourself. You knew your dad loved you. Objectively, logically, unquestionably.

Jack Abbot wasn’t exactly great at talking about feelings, but he showed up when things mattered. He remembered stupid little details about you even when he forgot to sleep. He made sure your car always had gas in it. He texted you reminders to eat before exams even when he was working fourteen-hour shifts.

But somewhere along the line, it had started feeling less like having a parent and more like having a really overworked roommate who occasionally checked your location. And admitting that out loud felt cruel. Especially because you knew how hard he worked. Especially because everyone else in the hospital constantly reminded you how amazing he was.

“Oh look,” you said suddenly, spotting the room number ahead of you. “It’s South Fourteen.”

Robby narrowed his eyes immediately, recognizing the escape attempt.

“Bye, Robby,” you continued quickly, already stepping away from him toward the room.

“You know you can’t avoid the conversation forever,” he called after you.

You grabbed the door handle, turning back just long enough to flash him a quick smile.

“Bye, Robby!”

Then you slipped inside the room before he could say anything else, letting the door swing shut behind you.

The noise of the department dulled instantly.

Noah was sitting upright on the stretcher with an ice pack balanced awkwardly against his face while dried blood stained the front of his jersey. His nose was swollen enough now that the crookedness was even more obvious.

And somehow, despite all of that, the first thing he said when he saw you was:

“You look stressed.”

You stared at him. “You got punched in the face.”

“Yeah, but you look stressed.”

“I mean this is probably the day my dad is gonna find out about you so,” you said flatly.

Noah’s expression shifted immediately into understanding. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” You dropped into the chair beside the stretcher. “And I’m not exactly sure how it’s gonna go, Robby said it’s gonna be a disaster.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

Noah winced slightly, though this time it was probably emotional rather than physical.

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool.”

You snorted despite yourself.

Princess walked in a second later carrying supplies for bloodwork, glancing between the two of you before looking at Noah.

“Radiology should be ready for you soon,” she explained while tying the tourniquet around his arm. “CT maxillofacial without contrast. Dr. Langdon wants to rule out any orbital fractures.”

You relaxed slightly at that, at least Frank was the one working on him.

Standard imaging. Precautionary. Nothing sounding immediately catastrophic.

Noah, meanwhile, looked horrified by the needle now approaching his arm.

You blinked at him. “You literally got punched in the face and this is what scares you?”

“I contain multitudes,” he muttered.

“Uh huh,” you said skeptically, shifting your chair closer so you could take his free hand before the nurse stuck him with the needle.

Noah immediately relaxed a little at that.

“You are such a baby,” you informed him.

“Says the person who almost started a fight with hospital staff ten minutes ago.”

“He started it.”

Princess snorted softly under her breath while labeling the blood tubes.

“Vitals are stable,” she said after glancing at the monitor again. “Dr. Langdon will probably come by after CT.”

“Thanks,” you said automatically.

Princess gave you a quick smile before leaving the room, and Noah immediately looked back at you.

“So,” he said carefully, “how bad is this gonna be with your dad?”

You leaned back in the chair dramatically. “I genuinely don’t know.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“I mean, he’s either gonna be weirdly calm about it or become emotionally constipated and avoid the conversation for three months.”

Noah considered that. “The second one sounds worse.”

“It is.”

He squeezed your hand lightly. “For what it’s worth, I’m not scared of him.”

You stared at him for a second.

“He literally works trauma medicine, is a SWAT medic for fun, and was in the army.”

“Okay, I’m a little scared of him.”

“That’s smarter.”

— — — — —

“Well, this is gonna be great.”

Robby sounded deeply unenthused as he approached the hub where Dana had finally returned.

“What is?” Dana asked, looking at him over the top of her glasses while scrolling through something on her tablet.

Robby dropped into the rolling chair behind the counter with the exhaustion of a man who had already worked twelve hours too many.

“Y/n just came in,” he started, rubbing a hand over his face, “with her boyfriend Jack doesn’t know about.”

Dana looked up immediately. “Noah’s here?”

Robby froze mid-spin in his chair. “You know about Noah?”

Dana blinked at him. “Of course I know about Noah.”

Robby looked genuinely offended by that.

“She talks to me,” Dana continued simply. “That girl needs somebody normal to discuss her life with.”

“I thought she only told me,” Robby muttered.

Dana’s mouth twitched. “What? Jealous?”

Robby just stared at her.

Dana laughed quietly to herself before looking back down at the tablet in her hands.

“Why’s he here?”

“I don’t know,” Robby admitted. “Apparently he got punched in the face during a soccer game.”

Dana grimaced sympathetically. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. Sounds like probable nasal fracture. Maybe orbital involvement, so they sent him for a CT.”

Dana nodded once, unsurprised. Then her expression shifted slowly into amusement again.

“Oh, Jack is gonna lose his mind.”

Robby pointed at her immediately. “See? That’s what I said.”

“No,” Dana corrected. “You said this was gonna be a disaster. I said it was gonna be entertaining.”

“What’s gonna be entertaining?”

Jack Abbot’s voice cut into the conversation as he walked toward the hub, stopping a few feet away from them. Dark scrubs on, coffee in one hand. Already looking exhausted before his shift had even technically started.

Robby reacted immediately.

“Brother, hey,” he said quickly, standing up so fast his chair rolled backward into a cabinet. “Ready for shift change?”

He moved toward Jack almost aggressively, grabbing onto his shoulder and steering him slightly away from the desk in what was possibly the least subtle distraction attempt in human history.

Jack narrowed his eyes instantly.

“What’s gonna be entertaining?” he repeated.

“Um—”

Robby visibly searched for literally anything else to say.

“Y/n’s here,” Dana answered calmly from behind the desk.

Robby whipped around to stare at her. Dana just shrugged without looking up from her tablet.

“What?” she said. “He was gonna find out eventually.”

Jack’s attention snapped back immediately. “Why is she here?”

The exhaustion disappeared from his face in less than a second, immediately replaced with alertness. Concern. That very specific ER-doctor hyperfocus that made people start answering questions before he even asked them.

“She’s not hurt or anything,” Robby said quickly.

Jack raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for the rest of the explanation.

Robby hesitated just a fraction too long. Which, unfortunately, was enough.

Jack’s expression shifted immediately into suspicion. “Robby.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“That sentence has literally never once been true.”

Dana snorted quietly. Robby ignored her.

“She came in with someone,” he admitted carefully.

“With who?”

Another pause.

Jack’s eyes narrowed further.

“With her boyfriend.”

Silence. Complete silence.

Even Dana looked up for this one.

Jack blinked once. Then again. “…Her what?”

“Oh boy,” Dana muttered under her breath.

Robby held both hands up immediately like he was trying to de-escalate an active hostage situation.

“Before you react—”

“How long has she had a boyfriend?”

Robby glanced at Dana briefly like maybe she wanted to take over now.

Dana absolutely did not.

“About six months,” Robby admitted.

Jack stared at him. “Six months.”

“Roughly.”

“And everybody knew except me?”

“Not everybody,” Dana corrected. “Just us.”

“That is not helping, Dana.”

Jack rubbed a hand over his face slowly, looking somewhere between offended and genuinely confused now.

“She has a boyfriend,” he repeated, like he still couldn’t fully process the sentence.

“She’s seventeen,” Dana pointed out reasonably.

“I’m aware of how old my daughter is.”

“Questionable based on how surprised you seem right now,” Dana said.

Robby actually had to bite back a laugh at that.

Jack ignored both of them completely. “Where is she?”

Robby hesitated.

Jack pointed a finger at him immediately. “Don’t do that thing where you hesitate because then I assume it’s worse.”

“She’s in South Fourteen.”

“With the boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to him?”

“Soccer fight,” Robby answered. “Probably broken nose. CT’s pending.”

Jack exhaled sharply through his nose. Then, without another word, he turned and started toward the South hallway.

Robby watched him go.

“…Should we warn her?”

Dana considered it for half a second.

“Nah.” She took a sip of coffee. “This feels educational.”

— — — — —

You had been alone in the room for maybe five minutes.

Noah had just been taken down for his CT scan, leaving you behind with the uncomfortable plastic chair, the faint smell of antiseptic, and hospital Wi-Fi that apparently operated using pure spite.

You frowned down at your phone as Instagram attempted, and failed, to load for the third time.

“How does this place have million-dollar CT scanners but the world’s worst internet connection?” you muttered to yourself.

The loading circle continued spinning mockingly.

You let out a sigh and slumped farther down in the chair, one leg bouncing restlessly against the tile floor. Honestly, now that Noah was gone for imaging and you weren’t actively distracted anymore, your brain had started circling back to the real problem here.

Your dad.

Because there was absolutely no way Robby and Dana had managed to keep this from him for long.

Right as that thought crossed your mind, the door swung open. You glanced up only halfway at first, expecting a nurse or maybe Noah coming back from radiology.

Instead, you nearly launched yourself out of the chair.

“Oh my God—”

Jack stood in the doorway, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Not yelling. Which somehow felt more threatening.

“Hey, Dad,” you said quickly, instinctively holding your hands up a little like that would somehow help. “Are you starting your shift in a bit, or—”

“You have a boyfriend?”

Straight to it.

Cool.

You let out an awkward laugh immediately.

“Um… yeah.” You shifted your weight uncomfortably. “Surprise?”

Jack just stared at you. You knew that look. It was the exact same expression he used on patients who insisted they “accidentally” fell onto obviously dangerous objects.

“You’ve had a whole relationship for six months and didn’t think to mention it to me?”

“Well, now it sounds bad when you phrase it like that.”

“How else is there to phrase it?”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it again.

Fair enough.

Jack looked around the room briefly before looking back at you.

“So where is he?”

“CT.”

“What happened?”

“Soccer game fight,” you answered automatically. “Got punched trying to break it up. Possible nasal fracture, maybe orbital involvement, but he was neurologically intact at the scene. No LOC, no vomiting, pupils equal and reactive—”

Jack held up a hand.

“You gave EMS report?”

You shrugged a little. “I was already there.”

Of course you were.

Jack’s expression softened for exactly half a second at the reminder that you’d probably been helping on the field before it shifted right back into full Dad Mode.

“You should’ve told me,” he said firmly. “At least asked for permission.”

You stared at him.

“Permission?” you repeated incredulously. “Dad, it’s not the eighties anymore. If I want to date someone, I’m gonna date someone.”

The second the sentence left your mouth, you regretted the wording. Because now it sounded way more confrontational than you’d meant it to.

Jack looked irritated immediately. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Really?” you shot back. “Because I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what you said.”

“I said you should’ve talked to me.”

“And when exactly was I supposed to do that?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest. “Between your extra shifts or before you disappeared for another SWAT call?”

Jack’s jaw tightened instantly. “That’s not fair.”

“No, actually, it is.”

“You think I want to miss things?”

“I think you do miss things,” you snapped back. “Constantly.”

Jack looked taken aback for a second before frustration replaced it just as quickly.

“I am working to provide for you.”

“I know that!”

“Then stop acting like I’m choosing not to be around.”

“But you are!” you shot back louder now. “Every single time you pick this place over literally anything else!”

The words echoed harder than you intended in the small exam room. Jack stared at you. Outside in the hallway, a monitor alarm sounded somewhere distant before abruptly shutting off again.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, voice low and controlled in that way that somehow made it worse.

You laughed sharply. “Oh, I don’t?”

“No.”

“You missed parent night.”

“I was working.”

“You missed Senior awards.”

“I was working.”

“You forgot my interview for college counseling because you picked up someone else’s shift!”

Jack rubbed a hand down his face, visibly trying not to lose his temper now too.

“And you think I don’t feel bad about that?”

“You never even talk about it!” you argued. “You just act like everything’s fine because I’m ‘independent’ or whatever.”

“You are independent.”

“Because I had to be!”

The second that left your mouth, the room went completely still.

Jack looked like you’d slapped him. And honestly, maybe you had.

You were breathing too fast now, adrenaline and anger mixing together in a way that made your chest hurt.

“I’m not saying you’re a bad dad,” you said quickly, though your voice still shook. “But you don’t get to act surprised that I didn’t tell you about Noah when half the time it feels like you’re barely home long enough to know what’s going on with me anyway.”

Jack opened his mouth immediately.

But before he could respond, the door swung open.

“Alright, we’re back from CT—”

Princess stopped mid-sentence as she helped Noah back into the room.

Noah still had the ice pack against his face, dried blood faintly visible near the collar of his shirt, but he looked significantly more alarmed by the tension in the room than by his possible broken nose.

His eyes moved between you and Jack instantly.

“Oh,” he said carefully.

Princess looked between all three of you exactly once.

Then immediately turned to Noah.

“…You did not mention the dad worked here,” Princess said carefully.

“I didn’t know he was here yet,” Noah muttered back.

Jack straightened slightly, visibly trying to pull himself back together now that there were other people in the room. You, meanwhile, looked away immediately, blinking hard a couple times because your eyes suddenly burned in the worst, most embarrassing way possible.

God. Great.

Now you were crying.

Fantastic.

Noah glanced awkwardly between the two of you, immediately noticing both the tension and the noticeable amount of space now between you and your dad.

“Um… hi, Dr. Abbot,” he said carefully.

He stepped forward a little, awkwardly balancing the ice pack against his swollen nose with one hand while sticking the other out for a handshake.

“I’m Noah.”

You let out a shaky breath as one tear slipped down your face.

And then Jack just…

Stared at Noah’s hand. Arms still crossed. Not moving. The silence lasted maybe two seconds. But it felt way longer. And suddenly the anger that had already been building in your chest flared right back up again.

Seriously?

You wiped at your face quickly, glaring at your dad now.

“Are you kidding me?”

Jack looked over at you immediately.

“What?”

“He’s trying to be nice!”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Then shake his hand!”

Princess took one very deliberate step backward toward the computer in the corner of the room. Noah still looked horrified, hand awkwardly half-extended between the two of you.

Jack finally uncrossed his arms with a frustrated sigh before giving Noah a quick handshake.

Too quick. Barely even a handshake.

Noah immediately pulled his hand back.

“Sorry,” Noah muttered. “This is probably a bad time.”

“No, apparently this is a great time,” you snapped before Jack could answer.

“Y/n—” Jack warned.

“No, because what is this?” you demanded, gesturing between him and Noah. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I didn’t say he did.”

“You don’t have to say it!”

Your voice cracked slightly at the end, which only made you angrier. Jack noticed immediately, his expression shifting. But you were too upset now to stop.

“He got punched in the face tonight and still somehow has better manners than you do right now.”

Princess physically turned away at that point, very obviously pretending to check Noah’s blood pressure so she didn’t have to witness the argument directly.

Jack exhaled sharply through his nose.

“I’m not doing this in front of your boyfriend.”

“Oh my God,” you laughed incredulously. “You can barely even say the word.”

“That is not the issue here.”

“Then what is the issue?” you shot back. “That I didn’t tell you? Or that I have a life you don’t know about because you’re never around long enough to actually see it?”

The room went quiet again. Noah looked like he wanted to disappear into another dimension entirely. Jack’s jaw tightened hard enough you could see the muscle move.

“That’s enough.”

“No, it’s not enough,” you said immediately. “You don’t get to walk in here and act like I betrayed you because I didn’t tell you about Noah when you barely know anything going on in my life lately!”

Jack looked genuinely angry now too. “I know plenty about your life.”

“Really?” you challenged. “What colleges did I apply to besides Pitt?”

Jack opened his mouth.

Stopped.

Your chest hurt.

“There it is,” you said quietly, tears falling faster now no matter how quickly you tried wiping them away. “Exactly.”

Jack looked genuinely stunned. Not defensive anymore. Not angry. Just stunned. And somehow that made everything hurt worse. Because it proved your point.

The room had gone painfully quiet around you. Even the usual ED noise felt distant now.

Noah shifted awkwardly near the stretcher, still clutching the ice pack against his face while Princess stood frozen beside the monitor like she was trying to decide whether this counted as a medical emergency.

You laughed once under your breath, shaky and miserable. “You didn’t even know I applied to UCLA until Robby brought it up at dinner.”

Jack finally found his voice again. “That’s not true.”

“It literally is.”

“I knew you were applying out west.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“Y/n—”

“No, because you keep acting like I shut you out for no reason!” you interrupted. “I stopped telling you things because every time I do tell you something, you’re either too tired to listen or halfway out the door.”

Jack’s expression hardened slightly again. “That’s unfair.”

“How?” you demanded. “Tell me how.”

“I am doing my best.”

The words came out sharper this time. More frustrated. More exhausted. And for some reason, hearing that finally snapped something in you.

“I know you are!” you shouted back immediately. “That’s the problem!”

Jack blinked at the sudden volume.

“You think I don’t know why you work this much?” Your voice shook violently now. “You think I don’t get it? Mom died and you buried yourself in work because it was easier than being home!”

The second the words left your mouth, the room went dead silent. Complete silence.

Noah looked absolutely stricken. Princess slowly lowered the blood pressure cuff from her hands.

And Jack went completely still.

You could actually see the moment regret hit you. But you were too upset to stop now.

“You act like I’m supposed to understand everything all the time because you’re helping people,” you continued, crying openly now. “And I do understand it. I understand it all the time.”

Jack’s face had lost all color.

“But sometimes I wanted you to stay home with me instead of picking up another shift!” you admitted, voice breaking completely now. “Sometimes I wanted my dad more than I wanted some amazing trauma doctor everybody else gets to brag about!”

“Y/n,” Jack said quietly.

But you kept going anyway.

“And then you started acting like I didn’t need anything anymore because I got older and handled things myself and—”

“Enough.”

The word cracked through the room hard enough that even you stopped talking immediately. Jack almost never raised his voice at you. Which made it worse when he did.

His chest rose sharply with one uneven breath, eyes glassy now in a way you’d almost never seen before.

“You do not get to stand there,” he said, voice tight with emotion and anger and grief all tangled together, “and act like I stopped loving you because I was trying to survive losing her too.”

Your breath caught instantly.

Jack dragged a hand over his face hard, clearly trying to pull himself back under control.

“You think being at work fixed any of that?” he asked, quieter now but somehow more intense. “It didn’t. It just kept me moving.”

You couldn’t even answer. Because suddenly all the anger had crashed into guilt so hard it made you feel sick. Jack looked at you for another long second before glancing away completely, jaw tight.

Then, finally, he spoke again.

“I need a minute.”

And without another word, Jack Abbott turned and walked out of the room. The door swung shut behind him with a soft click. Silence followed immediately after. Heavy silence.

The kind that pressed against your chest and made everything feel too warm and too tight all at once.

You just stood there staring at the closed door, breathing unevenly while tears continued sliding down your face faster than you could wipe them away.

God. What had you just done?

“I’ll be back in a little while,” Princess said gently after a moment, clearly trying to give you space. “Dr. Langdon should be coming in soon to go over the CT results.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t really answer. You just kept staring at the door like maybe your dad would walk back through it if you looked long enough.

Beside you, Noah gave Princess a small apologetic smile and a nod.

“Thanks.”

Princess squeezed his shoulder lightly before slipping out of the room quietly, leaving the two of you alone.

More silence.

Then:

“It’s okay.”

Noah’s voice was soft, slightly congested from the swelling in his nose as he lowered the ice pack from his face and sat back against the hospital bed. You shook your head immediately at his words.

“No, it’s not.” Your voice cracked completely.

You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes hard, trying unsuccessfully to stop crying.

“I’m horrible,” you muttered.

“No, hey,” Noah said instantly. “No, you’re not.”

You laughed weakly through your tears.

“I just threw my dead mom into an argument.”

“You were upset.”

“I said horrible things.”

“You said honest things.”

“That doesn’t make them okay.”

Noah watched you quietly for a second before holding his hand out toward you carefully.

“Come here.”

You finally turned to look at him fully.

His nose was bruised purple now beneath the swelling, gauze still tucked loosely beneath one nostril in case the bleeding restarted. He looked exhausted and uncomfortable and probably concussed enough to not even fully be processing what had just happened.

And somehow he was still worried about you.

“Come on,” he said again gently.

This time, you moved. You crossed the small space between you and sat carefully beside him on the edge of the hospital bed. Noah immediately wrapped an arm around you, pulling you against his side as carefully as he could considering his face was probably in agony.

The second he did, you broke again. You buried your face against his shoulder, crying quietly while Noah held you without saying anything for a minute.

Outside the room, the muffled chaos of the ED continued on like normal. Somebody laughed down the hall. A monitor alarm beeped repeatedly. Overhead paging echoed faintly through the ceiling speakers.

Meanwhile your entire chest felt hollow.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you whispered finally.

“I know.”

“I know he loves me.”

“I know.”

You pulled back just enough to look at Noah.

“He looked so hurt.”

Noah nodded slowly.

“Yeah.”

Fresh guilt twisted painfully in your stomach.

“When my mom died,” you said quietly, voice shaky, “everybody kept telling me how hard it was for him. And I remember thinking that I had to make everything easier because he already looked like he was barely surviving.”

Noah stayed quiet, letting you talk.

“So I stopped asking for things,” you admitted. “I stopped complaining when he missed stuff. I stopped crying in front of him because every time I did, somebody would look at me like I was making things harder for him.”

Your throat tightened painfully.

“And I know that sounds selfish—”

“It doesn’t,” Noah interrupted immediately.

You swallowed hard.

“It just felt like everyone gave him grace because he lost his wife,” you continued softly, staring down at your hands now. “Which, obviously they should’ve. I’m not saying they shouldn’t have.”

Noah nodded once.

“But nobody ever really talked about me like that,” you admitted. “People would ask if he was okay. If he was eating. If he was sleeping. And I’d just be standing there.”

Your voice cracked again.

“And I know he was hurting. I know he still is. But I lost my mom too.”

The words came out quieter than everything else. Smaller. Like admitting it still felt wrong somehow.

“I was a kid,” you whispered. “And everybody acted like I was supposed to understand why he disappeared into work all the time because he was grieving, but nobody really stopped to think maybe I was grieving too.”

Noah’s arm tightened around you carefully.

You laughed weakly through the tears slipping down your face again.

“I think after a while I just got really good at being ‘easy,’” you admitted. “Like if I handled everything myself, then nobody had to worry about me.”

Noah looked at you sadly.

“That’s a lot for anybody to carry around.”

You shrugged even though your chest hurt.

“And now whenever I get upset about him missing things or not noticing stuff, I feel guilty immediately because I know why he’s like this.”

“That doesn’t mean your feelings stop mattering.”

You looked away.

“But it feels like they’re supposed to.”

Noah was quiet for a second before speaking carefully.

“You know two things can be true at once, right?”

You frowned slightly.

“He can be a grieving husband who tried his best,” Noah said softly, “and you can still be hurt by the fact that you needed more from him.”

The two of you sat quietly with his words for a moment. The steady beeping of the monitor beside the bed filled the silence while the chaos of the ED carried on outside the room like nothing life-altering had just happened in here.

You wiped at your face again, exhausted now more than anything.

“You guys will be okay,” Noah said gently after a minute.

You nodded slowly against his shoulder, tears still slipping down your face even though they’d finally started slowing.

Because you knew he was right. You and Jack loved each other too much not to be okay eventually. That didn’t magically fix everything. But it mattered.

“But seriously,” Noah added after another beat, “do you think he actually hated me or…?”

You immediately pulled back enough to punch him lightly in the arm.

“Ow—”

“Oh my God, shut up,” you muttered, sniffling. “That is not important right now.”

“I mean,” Noah said, clearly trying to make you laugh now, “I personally think it’s extremely important.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“Your father looked at my handshake like it offended him.”

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escaped you.

Noah pointed immediately. “There it is.”

“Don’t.”

“You laughed.”

“I did not.”

“You literally did.”

You rolled your eyes, scrubbing at the last of the tears on your face.

Noah smiled a little at that, though he winced immediately after because apparently smiling hurt his broken nose.

“Okay, ow,” he muttered, pressing the ice pack back against his face.

“That’s what you get.”

“I’m injured.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I got assaulted protecting the integrity of high school soccer.”

“You got punched because Tyler can’t regulate his emotions.”

Noah gasped weakly. “Way to minimize my trauma.”

You snorted softly, shoulders finally relaxing for the first time in the last twenty minutes. Noah looked disproportionately proud of himself for managing to make you laugh even a little.

Then his expression softened again.

“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “your dad definitely doesn’t hate me.”

You raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“He shook my hand eventually.”

“After staring at it like he was considering putting you back in the ambulance.”

“That’s basically approval from a trauma doctor dad.”

Another laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Noah smiled again, gentler this time.

“He was scared,” he said quietly. “Not about me. About realizing he missed something important.”

Your expression faltered slightly.

“And honestly?” Noah continued carefully, “you scared him too.”

You frowned. “How?”

“You yelled at him like somebody who’d been holding all that in for years.”

The words hit a little too accurately.

You looked down at your hands. “I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“I know.”

“But I did.”

Noah was quiet for a second.

“Sometimes hurting somebody’s feelings and being honest aren’t the same thing.”

You let out a slow breath. “Robby says things like that too.”

“Robby’s emotionally intelligent. It’s upsetting.”

You smiled faintly again. “He’s only emotionally intelligent sometimes, don’t give Robby so much credit.”

Then the room fell quiet once more, though this time it wasn’t suffocating. Just tired.

Eventually Noah nudged your shoulder lightly. “So… hypothetically.”

“Oh no.”

“If your dad does kill me, do you think Dana would testify that I was charming?”

You groaned loudly. “Please stop talking.”