You’re such a child

Year 2:

Soulmates were a tricky business.

No one fully understood the magic behind it—how the universe could possibly decide, from the moment you were born, that there was one person out there meant specifically for you. Even now, it remained one of the greatest mysteries of the magical world. There were no rules you could study, no spells to influence it, no way to predict it.

All anyone really knew was this: somewhere out there existed a person whose magic matched yours so perfectly that the universe itself would one day intervene and make it known.

How it chose to do that, however, was entirely unpredictable.

Some people were born with timers on their wrists, ticking down to the exact second they would meet the person meant for them. Others lived their entire lives in muted shades of grey until they met their soulmate and the world burst into colour all at once. Some carried their soulmate’s first words etched permanently into their skin, waiting for the moment they would finally hear them spoken aloud.

For others, it came later.

Marks that appeared on first touch. Marks that only revealed themselves after years of friendship. Marks that didn’t appear at all until it was far too late to matter.

There was no pattern. No certainty. No way to guess what form your own bond would take—or when it would appear, or who it would tie you to.

And so, by your second year, you had stopped thinking about it too much.

Well... not entirely.

Like any other girl, there were nights when you lay awake staring at the ceiling, letting your mind wander to the inevitable moment when it would happen. You imagined the first meeting in painstaking detail—how everything would fall into place like the final pieces of a puzzle, how suddenly the world would make sense in a way it never had before, as if you had finally found where you were meant to be.

You imagined what it would feel like to be close to them.

To hold their hand. To kiss them. To run your fingers through their hair and feel them do the same to you.

You imagined quiet moments and laughter, whispered words meant only for the two of you, a future that felt certain in a way nothing else ever did.

And sometimes, buried into your pillow so no one could hear, you’d find yourself smiling—giddy with anticipation for a life that hadn’t even begun yet.

But it was easy not to dwell on it too much.

None of your friends had found their soulmates yet—not Hermione, not anyone—and that made it easier. It meant you weren’t falling behind. It meant there was still time.

When it happened, it would happen.

And when it did, everything would make sense.

Until then, your biggest problem remained your exams.

The Great Hall was silent in that suffocating, unnatural way it only ever was during exams.

Rows upon rows of desks stretched endlessly beneath the enchanted ceiling, each one placed with careful precision—far enough apart to make cheating impossible, close enough to remind you that you weren’t alone in your misery. The usual warmth of the hall felt stripped away, replaced by something rigid and tense.

The only sound was the uneven scratching of quills against parchment, echoing faintly in the vast space like a hundred tiny clocks ticking out your time.

You hunched over your Transfiguration paper, brow furrowed in concentration, your hand moving quickly but carefully—fast enough to keep up with your thoughts, slow enough to avoid smudging the ink.

You were on the last question.

Finally.

Relief flickered through you as you exhaled quietly, adjusting your grip on your quill. You leaned in slightly, beginning to write your answer, already thinking about how quickly you could leave once you were done—how good it would feel to be free of the stifling silence, the pressure, the weight of it all.

A shadow fell across your desk.

Your quill stilled mid-word.

“Miss (Y/N).” Came Professor McGonagall’s voice, low and composed.

You looked up sharply, your pulse jumping.

She stood just behind you, posture as straight as ever, hands folded neatly behind her back. Her expression gave nothing away—no irritation, no warmth, just that familiar, impenetrable calm.

“Yes, Professor?” You whispered, instinctively lowering your voice to be mindful of your fellow classmates. The last thing you needed was Hermione scolding you after the exam for making a ruckus while she was trying to focus.

Her gaze flicked briefly to your paper, lingering for just a moment, before returning to your face.

“I’ll need you to come with me.” She said quietly.

Your stomach dropped.

“Now, please.”

For a second, you just stared at her.

Confusion hit first—sharp and immediate.

Had you done something wrong? That didn’t make any sense. You hadn’t even finished your exam yet. Your eyes darted down to your parchment, then back up at her.

“…my exam—?”

“I will take it with us.” She replied smoothly, already reaching forward.

Before you could protest, she lifted the parchment from your desk, your unfinished answer still drying on the page. You stared up at her in surprise, your quill still clutched in your fingers, ink well sitting open on the desk.

Something wasn’t right.

Slowly, you pushed your chair back, the scrape of its legs against the stone floor sounding far too loud in the heavy silence. A few heads turned at the noise—quick, curious glances—but just as quickly snapped back down to their work.

After all these were your final exams, they didn't have the time for their focus to be broken.

Your heart began to beat a little faster as you stood, a faint, uneasy feeling settling in your chest.

“Follow me.”

You trailed after her down the narrow aisle between the desks, acutely aware of every step you took, every eye you could feel flicking toward you before darting away again.

The large doors of the Great Hall loomed ahead, growing closer with every step, and with them, that strange, creeping sense that something had shifted.

You didn’t know what you had done.

Still, you bit down hard on the inside of your cheek and clenched your fists at your sides, willing yourself not to cry from sheer anxiety. The past few weeks had already left your nerves stretched painfully thin.

Between late nights revising, early mornings spent cramming information into your head, and the constant pressure hanging over every second-year student during exam season, it felt as though every nerve ending in your body had been stripped raw.

Even now, as you followed Professor McGonagall through the corridors, you could feel your heart hammering painfully against your ribs. You dug your nails into your palms until they hurt, desperately trying to ground yourself, but the growing lump in your throat refused to disappear.

Professor McGonagall led you into an empty classroom adjacent to the Great Hall and quietly shut the door behind you. The click of the latch sounded far louder than it should have.

"Sit."

You obeyed immediately, lowering yourself into the nearest chair while she remained standing. For a long moment she simply looked at you, her expression unreadable save for a distinct note of disappointment that made your stomach sink even further.

"Miss (L/N)," She began, her voice calm and measured, "students are made aware at the beginning of every examination period that cheating results in an immediate Dreadful. Your parents will be notified and the staff will need to discuss whether you will be permitted to sit a reexamination or whether further disciplinary measures are necessary."

For a second, you genuinely thought you had misheard her.

The words didn't make sense.

You stared up at her blankly.

"Professor... what?"

Her expression remained unchanged.

"You were found in possession of examination materials during your Transfiguration exam."

"I wasn't copying."

The denial left your mouth before you could stop it.

McGonagall's gaze lowered pointedly and, confused, you followed it.

The moment you saw your leg, your entire body went cold.

Written across the skin of your calf in cramped black handwriting were notes. Definitions. Theories. Entire sections of information taken directly from your textbooks and condensed into neat little sentences. There had to be dozens of them, stretching across your skin in dense clusters of writing.

Your breath caught painfully in your throat.

"What the hell?"

Your mind immediately began scrambling for an explanation. Had someone done this while you slept? Had ink somehow transferred from your notes? Had you absentmindedly written on yourself during a revision session? None of it made sense. You had showered the night before.

In your panic, you failed to notice that this wasn't even your handwriting.

"No."

You immediately started rubbing at your skin.

"No, Professor, I didn't write this."

You scrubbed harder, panic making your movements frantic.

"I swear I didn't."

The notes didn't budge.

Your palms were beginning to sweat, but the ink remained exactly where it was, stubborn and unmoving.

"It's not even coming off!"

The last few words came out dangerously close to a sob.

You looked back up at McGonagall, your vision beginning to blur around the edges as tears gathered in your eyes. Everything suddenly felt horribly unfair. You had spent weeks preparing for these exams. You had stayed up late memorizing definitions, quizzed yourself until your head hurt, worried yourself sick over every possible outcome.

"I swear I didn't do this, Professor," you said, your voice wobbling despite your best efforts. "I promise. Please don't fail me. I studied so hard."

The tears escaped before you could stop them.

One moment you were trying to hold yourself together and the next you were crying outright, fat tears rolled down your cheeks while the tiny amount of mascara you'd put on that morning in an attempt to look slightly less exhausted began smudging around your eyes. The embarrassment only made it worse. You couldn't remember the last time you had cried in front of a teacher, but now you couldn't seem to stop.

It was only through your tears that you noticed something change in McGonagall's expression. The disappointment that had been there moments ago had vanished completely, replaced by something that looked remarkably like realization. Her eyes flickered briefly from the notes scrawled across your skin back to your face and you watched as the pieces seemed to fall into place behind them.

"Miss (L/N)," She said, her voice considerably gentler than it had been a moment ago, "it would appear that I owe you an apology."

You blinked up at her through watery eyes, still struggling to catch your breath.

"What?"

"I believe there has been a misunderstanding."

For a moment you simply stared at her, the words refusing to make sense. A misunderstanding? Five minutes ago she had been discussing whether you would be forced to repeat the year.

"Once you've composed yourself," McGonagall continued, clearing her throat and smoothing a hand over her robes, "You may return to the examination hall and complete your exam."

The room fell silent.

You looked down at the notes still covering your skin and then back up at her, trying to understand what had changed. The writing was still there. The evidence hadn't disappeared. If anything, it seemed even more obvious now than it had before. Yet whatever conclusion McGonagall had reached was apparently enough to completely alter the situation.

Before you could ask any further questions, however, she was already moving toward the door.

By the time you had managed to stop crying and make yourself somewhat presentable again, your eyes were still red and your cheeks still blotchy. You clutched your exam paper tightly against your chest as you made your way back toward the Great Hall, still trying to piece together what had happened.

The corridor ahead was empty save for two approaching figures.

At first you barely paid them any attention.

Professor Snape was walking briskly in your direction, his dark robes billowing dramatically behind him as they always seemed to. Beside him walked another student, hands shoved into his pockets and expression thunderous enough to make most people step out of his way.

Mattheo Riddle.

At first, you barely paid attention. Then your eyes caught on the black smudges beneath his eyes—dark, uneven streaks that clung to his lashes and marked the skin beneath them. Mascara. Your mascara.

You stopped walking.

Mattheo stopped too.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The corridor around you felt strangely distant, as though everything else had faded into a muffled blur while the two of you stood suspended in something sharp and disorienting.

His gaze moved over your face, lingering on your red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks. Slowly—almost visibly—understanding began to settle across both of your expressions at the same time, like the final pieces of a puzzle clicking into place.

The notes that hadn’t been written by you but had appeared on your skin anyway.

The mascara that hadn’t been applied by him but was now smeared across his face.

The reason Professor Snape was escorting him down the corridor.

His expression darkened first.

Yours followed not long after.

You had never met him before. Never spoken to him.

And yet somehow, within minutes of discovering he was your soulmate, Mattheo Riddle had nearly gotten you expelled.

As he continued to glare at you from across the corridor, looking every bit as offended by the situation as you felt, you came to one very simple conclusion.

The universe had an absolutely horrific sense of humour.

Year 6:

It was quiet in the dormitory—far too quiet for a weekday morning.

You frowned slightly, still half-asleep as you burrowed deeper beneath your blankets, turning your face further into the pillow. Usually by now the room would already be alive with noise: drawers slamming shut, sleepy complaints about unfinished homework, someone inevitably losing a sock five minutes before class. But there was none of it. No chatter. No rushing footsteps.

Which could only mean one thing.

You had woken up too early.

A pleased little sigh escaped you as you snuggled further into the warmth of your bed, already drifting back toward sleep. Maybe you had another hour left. Maybe—

“(Y/N) (L/N), FOR GODRIC’S SAKE, WAKE UP! YOU’VE ALREADY MISSED BREAKFAST!”

You bolted upright so fast you nearly headbutted the bedpost.

“WHAT?!” You shrieked, voice rough with sleep as panic shot through you all at once, “Hermione, why didn’t you wake me?!”

“I DID, YOU TEA TOWEL!”

The insult barely registered as you threw your blankets off yourself and stumbled out of bed in a frenzy, hair a complete mess and heart racing with the immediate horror of being late. Your bag was still unpacked from the night before, half your books hanging out of it as you rushed around the room trying to pull yourself together.

“Why didn’t anyone shake me harder?!” You complained, yanking your uniform shirt over your head inside out before realizing and swearing under your breath.

Hermione, already fully dressed and exasperatingly put together, didn’t even look up from stuffing parchment into her bag, “I did! It's not my fault you sleep like the dead.”

You huffed, grabbing your skirt and tugging it on crookedly as you rushed toward the mirror, mentally planning the fastest possible route to class. If you skipped properly brushing your hair and just fixed it on the way—maybe if you brushed your teeth in the bathroom nearest the Charms corridor—

And then you looked up.

Your stomach dropped so suddenly it felt like the floor had disappeared beneath you.

For a moment, all you could do was stare.

Your own reflection stared back at you in equal horror, pale and frozen and impossibly awake now, but you barely noticed the expression on your face because your eyes were locked on the red mark pressed against your cheek.

A lipstick stain.

Bright. Smudged.

Unmistakably shaped like the imprint of someone’s mouth.

Your breath caught.

There was another near the corner of your lips, blurred slightly like it had been kissed there carelessly. One against your jaw. Another lower down, just beneath your ear.

Dread began settling into you slowly, horribly, piece by piece.

“No.” You whispered.

Your hands started shaking.

“No, no—”

You turned slightly toward the mirror, fingers fumbling desperately with the collar of your shirt as you pulled it aside.

More.

Faint red marks scattered across your skin, disappearing beneath the fabric of your clothes. Some were clearer than others; some were smeared, dragged slightly, as though whoever had left them behind had done so thoughtlessly. Casually.

You stared at them, your reflection blurring around the edges as tears began burning in your eyes.

Your throat tightened painfully.

The room suddenly felt too small, too warm, your chest caving inward as realization settled fully over you.

“)Y/N), come on, class starts in—”

Hermione stopped mid-sentence.

You didn’t turn around, but you saw her expression shift in the mirror from annoyance to shock. Her eyes caught on the marks scattered across your neck and collarbone, and the look on her face softened so quickly it made something inside you crack further.

“Oh.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

A heavy silence settled across the room. Then you heard Hermione approach slowly, carefully, like she was afraid one wrong movement would shatter you completely. She stopped just behind you, her reflection appearing over your shoulder, and when you finally forced yourself to look up again you saw nothing but sympathy written all over her face.

“Oh, (Y/N),” She said softly, and somehow the gentleness in her voice hurt worse than the marks themselves, “I’m so sorry.”

You swallowed hard and forced yourself to inhale, then exhale, trying desperately to hold yourself together.

“It’s fine,” You said immediately, too quickly, your voice unnaturally flat, “It’s not like I liked him anyway.”

The second the words left your mouth, your chin trembled.

Hermione’s expression crumpled.

And suddenly you couldn’t do it anymore.

A broken sound escaped your throat before you could stop it, and then the tears were falling all at once, hot and uncontrollable as the ache in your chest finally split wide open. You covered your mouth with your hand like that could somehow hold the sobs back, but it was useless. Your knees nearly gave out beneath you as weeks and months of buried hope came crashing down all at once.

Hermione caught you before you could fall properly, pulling you into her arms immediately.

And the second she did, you broke completely.

You cried into her shoulder so hard it hurt, fingers clutching desperately at the fabric of her jumper while humiliation and heartbreak tore through you in waves.

Your soulmate had slept with someone else.

A few mornings later, when Hermione sat down at the Gryffindor table for breakfast, she wasn't remotely offended when the eyes of her friends immediately flicked over her shoulder.

It had become something of a routine.

Every day for the past week, someone would look up when she arrived, expecting to find you trailing behind her. Every day their faces would fall when they realized she was alone.

Just as she was today.

Harry was the first to break the silence, "She still won't come down?"

Hermione's grip tightened slightly around her spoon.

The concern on his face mirrored exactly how she felt.

You hadn't attended a single class all week. The first two days had been the worst. You had cried until you physically exhausted yourself, until your body finally gave out and sleep claimed you against your will. By the following morning, you'd developed a fever bad enough that Hermione had practically dragged you to the Hospital Wing herself.

Madam Pomfrey had taken one look at your blotchy face, red-rimmed eyes, and dangerously high temperature before ordering you into a bed and refusing to hear arguments.

Hermione had stayed beside you for as long as she'd been allowed.

She remembered watching you sleep fitfully beneath white sheets, occasionally stirring only to curl further into yourself. She remembered the way your hand would sometimes move unconsciously toward your neck, fingers brushing against skin where the marks had long since faded.

Eventually Madam Pomfrey had forced Hermione out, insisting there was nothing more she could do.

Now several days later, the fever had broken.

But you still hadn't left your room.

Hermione shook her head, "No."

Hermione sighed, reaching for her tea, though her attention was nowhere near her breakfast. Her gaze swept across the Great Hall, not aimlessly skimming over the hundreds of students filling the room, but locking onto its target almost immediately like a heat-seeking missile.

Mattheo Riddle.

He sat at the Slytherin table with his friends, laughing at something one of them had said, completely at ease, looking every bit like he hadn't a single worry in the world. The sight of him sitting there so carelessly, smiling like life had handed him every reason to, made Hermione irrationally want to march across the hall, grab him by the ears, and squeeze his head until it popped like an unsightly pimple.

He had absolutely no idea.

No idea that his soulmate hadn't left her bed in days.

No idea that she'd cried herself into a fever.

No idea that Hermione had spent hours sitting beside her, listening to her sob until she had nothing left in her, only to watch her stare blankly at the canopy above her bed as though she'd forgotten how to exist.

Her jaw tightened.

"Look at him," She muttered bitterly, her eyes boring so intensely into the side of his head that she was almost disappointed when he didn't spontaneously burst into flames, "I spent half the week consoling her, and he's sitting over there like he's the bloody king of the world."

Then, she looked back down into the untouched cup of tea in front of her, watching her own furious reflection ripple across its surface. The anger was still there, burning hot beneath her skin, but it had long since become tangled with something far more unbearable.

Helplessness.

Because no matter how angry she was, it wouldn't undo what had happened.

It wouldn't stop you from shutting yourself away in your dormitory, curtains drawn around your bed, convinced that facing four wooden bedposts was somehow easier than facing the rest of the world.

She felt the sting behind her eyes before she realized she was blinking a little too often.

"I can't believe someone like her is supposed to end up with someone like him." She murmured, her voice losing all of its earlier bite.

She absentmindedly stabbed at her pancakes with her fork, skewering a lone berry in the process without even noticing.

"She's the sweetest, kindest, most selfless person I've ever met," Hermione continued quietly, swallowing around the lump that had formed in her throat, "She'd do absolutely anything for the people she loves, and somehow..." She gave a humorless laugh, shaking her head, "Somehow he's the person the universe chose for her."

Finally, Hermione let out a slow, defeated sigh.

"How could the universe be so cruel?"

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance, but neither of them answered.

Because what could they possibly say?

Afterall, they had no idea what it was like to be rejected by your soulmate.

Your head felt impossibly heavy.

When you'd finally cried yourself to sleep the night before, you'd hoped that maybe—just maybe—you'd wake up feeling even a little bit lighter.

Instead, it felt as though someone had stuffed your head full of damp cotton.

Everything was muted.

You could see the familiar shape of your dormitory around you, the sunlight spilling lazily through the windows, painting warm patches across the wooden floor, but none of it felt real. If someone had asked you to name half a dozen things in your own room, you weren't entirely convinced you could have done it. Your thoughts drifted in and out without ever quite settling long enough to grasp them.

Outside, Hogwarts carried on as though nothing had happened.

Somewhere below the tower, students laughed as they crossed the courtyard on their way back from breakfast. Every so often, a shrill whistle carried in through the open window, followed by the distant roar of voices from the Quidditch pitch.

Life went on.

It always did.

But inside your dormitory, it felt as though time itself had stopped.

Like you were sitting inside a vacuum, sealed away from the rest of the castle, where even the sound of your own breathing seemed impossibly far away.

You hadn't even realized someone was knocking.

The sound barely registered through the haze clouding your mind, so faint and distant that you mistook it for part of a dream. It wasn't until the door slowly creaked open that you finally stirred, letting out a weary sigh without even bothering to look up.

"Hermione," You mumbled into your pillow, your voice hoarse from days of crying, "Please... I don't want breakfast."

There was a brief pause.

"Well," Came a decidedly unfamiliar voice, "It's a good thing Chocolate Frogs aren't considered breakfast."

Your eyes snapped open.

Slowly, you pushed yourself upright, blinking through the fog in your head until the figure standing sheepishly in your doorway came into focus.

Messy ginger hair.

Hands buried deep in his pockets.

A crooked smile that looked like it wasn't entirely sure whether it belonged there.

"...Fred?"

The way you said his name made him chuckle softly.

Not because it was funny, exactly, but because your tone carried that slight undercurrent of cautiousness, like you were trying to work out whether you were looking at Fred Weasley or his identical twin.

"It's me," He assured you with an easy grin, "George is considerably uglier."

Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched.

Fred caught it but, to his credit, didn't point it out. He simply closed the door quietly behind him and wandered further into the dormitory, his hands still buried in the pockets of his jumper as though he were only stopping by for a casual chat.

Although, you knew better than to believe that.

He was here for something.

You just couldn't work out what.

Had Hermione sent him? Had she somehow decided that Fred's ridiculous sense of humour might succeed where she had failed? More importantly, how in Merlin's name had he even managed to get into the girls' dormitory in the first place?

"...What are you doing here?" You asked.

The question left your mouth more out of politeness than genuine curiosity.

Truthfully, you didn't really care.

Whether Fred was here or not, whether he'd come to cheer you up or drag you to breakfast or simply stare at you until you spoke, all you wanted was to be left alone again. So you settled back against your headboard, waiting for whatever explanation he had prepared so you could nod absentmindedly, mumble something about still being tired, and hope he'd take the hint.

Fred scratched the back of his neck.

"I don't really know," He admitted after a moment with a small shrug, "I heard Hermione talking about you downstairs."

He finally pulled his hands from his pockets.

A handful of Chocolate Frog boxes tumbled into his palms.

"I heard she was worried." He looked down at the collection of sweets before giving one shoulder another little shrug, "Next thing I knew, I was standing outside your door."

He crossed the room and sat down carefully on the edge of your bed.

Instinctively, you tugged your cocoon of blankets out from beneath him, unwilling to surrender even that small comfort. Fred pretended not to notice. Instead, he simply dropped the Chocolate Frogs into your lap one by one.

"I figured," He said, "if nothing else, chocolate rarely makes things worse."

You stared down at them for a second before absentmindedly picking one up and peeling open the box.

"Whatever Hermione's worried about..." You murmured, carefully unfolding the cardboard, "...it isn't going to happen."

The chocolate frog immediately sprang from your hands.

You watched it bounce across the dormitory floor, disappearing beneath someone's bed but you paid no heed, fishing the card from the now-empty box instead.

Helga Hufflepuff.

Nice.

"I just wanted some time to be alone," You said quietly, your thumb tracing absent circles over the edge of the card, "Some time to think. You wouldn't understand."

Fred's smile faded.

"Oh," He said, leaning back on his hands, "Believe me."

His eyes drifted toward the window for a moment.

"I know exactly what that's like."

You froze, your thumb absentmindedly tracing the edge of the Nicolas Flamel card as you silently cursed your own stupidity.

Of course.

You had completely forgotten who you were talking to.

Everyone knew Fred Weasley's story.

It had been impossible not to.

It had spread through Hogwarts like wildfire the day the twins turned sixteen and discovered, to the absolute bewilderment of the entire school, that they shared the same soulmate mark. The same name inked onto both of their wrists.

Angelina.

No one had known what to make of it. How could the universe make a mistake? It wasn't supposed to.

Yet somehow, two brothers had been promised the same girl.

In the end, Angelina had chosen George.

No one blamed her. She'd simply followed her heart.

And just like that, Fred had become the boy without a soulmate.

What followed had been painful to watch.

Every passing week seemed to chip away at something that had once felt unbreakable. Fred and George had always existed as a pair. Joined at the hip, people liked to joke. Before that, joined by an umbilical cord. There had never been one without the other.

It had been heartbreaking watching the distance grow between the twins afterwards. Not all at once, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, until people realized Fred no longer occupied the seat beside George in the Great Hall. They stopped seeing them sneaking through corridors together after curfew. Their jokes became less frequent, their laughter less shared.

Fred simply couldn't bear to watch the girl he'd spent years believing was destined to love him fall into his brother's arms instead.

Eventually, time had done what time always did.

The sharp edges had dulled.

The twins laughed together again. They pulled pranks together. They looked, from the outside at least, like themselves again. But anyone paying close enough attention could tell they were never quite the same.

How could they be?

Their seemingly inseverable brotherhood had been eclipsed by an ineffable bond.

Soulmates.

It was no longer Fred and George, the terrible terrors. Now, it was George and Angelina, the star-crossed lovers, and Fred, who had been left behind.

"I'm sorry." You whispered, the apology slipping out before you could stop it.

Fred's eyes met yours.

"So am I."

He didn't elaborate.

He didn't have to.

And for the first time in days, you felt the glass jar you had trapped yourself in begin to crack.

This whole time, you'd convinced yourself that hiding in your dormitory was helping. As long as you stayed within these four walls, you could pretend the world outside had stopped moving. Pretend that morning had never happened.

Reality settled over you with unbearable clarity.

That was what this was, wasn't it?

Rejection.

Mattheo had known exactly who you were. He'd known that every mark left on his skin would bloom across yours. He'd known you would wake up wearing the evidence of his choices.

And he'd done it anyway.

The thought hollowed you out.

Your entire life, you'd been told that soulmates were certainty. That somewhere in the world there was one person who would choose you above everyone else because the universe itself had decided you belonged together.

So what did it mean when they didn't?

If even your soulmate could look at you and still choose someone else...

Where exactly did that leave you?

Slowly, you lifted your eyes from the card to Fred, who was sitting beside you now, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed, his gaze already fixed on you.

Your heart ached.

Because the answer to your unvoiced question was written all over his face.

He was every bit as heartbroken as you were.

Just as lost.

Just as unsure of where he fit into a universe that had promised him one thing, only to hand him another.

It hurt him every time he saw George with Angelina. You knew it did. No matter how much he loved his brother, no matter how genuinely happy he wanted to be for him, there had to be a small part of him that wondered why it hadn't been him.

Why fate had bothered writing her name onto his skin at all.

And you knew, with sickening certainty, that the next time you saw Mattheo...

It would tear you apart in exactly the same way.

Fred's expression softened as he noticed your eyes beginning to fill again.

He offered you a small, sympathetic smile.

"Well..." He said, giving one shoulder an exaggerated shrug, "At least we've got each other."

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. It was watery and quiet, immediately chased by the tear that finally slipped down your cheek. Fred grinned a little wider, looking entirely too pleased with himself for managing to get even the tiniest laugh out of you.

"I suppose the reject bin isn't completely empty."

"No," Fred agreed, "Turns out it's got surprisingly good company."

Turns out misery really did love company.

It was almost pathetic, in a way.

The only reason you had finally been able to leave your room, to walk back into the Great Hall, to sit through classes without feeling like the walls were caving in around you, was because you'd discovered you weren't the only person carrying around this strangely specific kind of heartbreak.

Your chest still tightened whenever Mattheo walked into a room. Every accidental glance across a corridor still left you feeling hollowed out from the inside, wondering how someone who was supposedly destined to love you had found it so easy to choose somebody else instead.

But sitting beside Fred somehow made it easier to breathe.

You supposed anyone watching from the outside would've found it to be the most obvious outcome imaginable.

Birds of a feather.

Two people who had somehow fallen through the cracks of destiny naturally gravitating toward one another.

Before long, spending time with Fred stopped feeling like something you consciously chose to do and instead became part of your routine. You'd find him waiting outside your classroom without either of you having planned it, or he'd drop into the empty seat beside you at breakfast as though it had always belonged to him.

Sometimes you talked about soulmates.

Most of the time, you didn't.

And somehow, those were your favourite conversations.

You hadn't realized just how grateful you'd become for his presence until one morning at breakfast when Harry slid onto the bench opposite you, looking unusually flustered and whispered, "I met my soulmate last night."

Thankfully, Hermione's excited gasp and Ron's loud, "You what?!" completely drowned out the sound of your breath catching in your throat.

For a brief, horrible second, it felt as though you had left your own body.

The conversation continued around you in muffled voices while you watched it all unfold from somewhere far away, like you were observing it through thick glass. Hermione was already peppering Harry with questions. Harry, red-faced and grinning despite himself, tried unsuccessfully to answer them both at once.

You just... watched.

Until something warm wrapped gently around your hand beneath the table and your attention snapped back. Without saying a word, you laced your fingers through his beneath the tablecloth, hidden from everyone else.

The knot in your stomach loosened.

Not completely. But just enough so that when you turned back to Harry, the smile on your face no longer felt so forced.

"Congratulations, Harry," You said softly, "I'm really happy for you."

Harry's smile faltered.

Only then did it seem to occur to him what he'd just blurted out—and who he'd blurted it out in front of.

A flicker of guilt passed across his face behind his glasses.

"Oh, (Y/N), I didn't—I wasn't thinking—"

You shook your head before he could finish, "It's okay."

And surprisingly...

It was.

Harry relaxed, offering you a small, grateful smile before Hermione immediately launched into another question, successfully stealing his attention once more.

Only then did you turn your head.

Fred was already looking at you.

Your joined hands still rested beneath the table, his thumb absentmindedly brushing across your knuckles.

"I just can't believe how much time I've wasted."

Your voice was quiet as you stared up at the canopy of Fred's bed, watching the afternoon sunlight dance lazily across the faded red fabric. Beside you, Fred lay with one arm tucked behind his head, the other dangling over the edge of the mattress. He turned his head slightly.

"Hm?"

It wasn't often the conversation drifted back to soulmates anymore.

Somehow, the two of you had become remarkably good at avoiding the very thing that had brought you together in the first place. But every now and then, usually when the castle had gone quiet around you, one of you would bring it up again.

And somehow it was always easier talking to Fred than anyone else.

"I've never even been on a date," You admitted with a humourless laugh, "Can you believe that?"

Fred's eyebrows lifted.

"I just... wasted so much time." You sighed, picking absentmindedly at a loose thread in the blanket. "I kept thinking there was no point. Why bother dating when the universe was supposedly going to hand me the perfect person eventually?"

You shook your head.

"I was so convinced that one day everything would just... happen."

A small smile tugged at your lips.

"I suppose, in retrospect, that's a rather ridiculous way to live."

Fred was quiet for a moment.

Then he nodded.

"I get it."

You looked over at him.

"Before my soulmate mark appeared," He continued, "I never really bothered trying either. I always figured I'd meet my soulmate eventually, so whoever I dated beforehand wouldn't really matter."

He let out a small breath through his nose.

"And after..." His smile turned a little sad, "Well, there wasn't much point then either."

You understood immediately.

"Everyone already had someone they were meant to end up with."

"Exactly."

He shrugged, "It felt like borrowing someone else's future."

Silence settled comfortably between you.

"I know exactly what you mean," You murmured, "Even if I'd somehow found someone I actually liked. It would've only been a matter of time before they found their soulmate."

"And then I'd just be..." You trailed off, "Temporary."

Fred didn't say anything.

He didn't have to.

Because he'd spent the last year feeling exactly the same way.

You groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over your eyes, "I just want to go on a date for once."

Fred snorted.

"Is that too much to ask?" You bemoaned.

"I don't even want anything extravagant," You continued, finally sitting upright since the topic had become important enough to warrant an actual discussion. You gestured vaguely with your hands, trying to paint the picture in the air between you, "Just… one completely ordinary date."

Fred turned his head to look at you.

"I want to wear a pretty dress," You admitted, counting on your fingers, "I want to spend far too long doing my hair, even though it'll probably end up looking exactly the same as it did before. I want someone to bring me flowers."

The last part made Fred's eyebrows climb.

"...Flowers?"

You frowned at him as though he'd just said something outrageously offensive.

"Yes. Flowers."

"You've just spent the last minute insisting you don't want anything extravagant."

"They're flowers. It's the bare minimum."

A comfortable silence settled over the room again. You flopped back against the mattress with an exaggerated sigh, staring up at the canopy above while Fred continued looking at the ceiling beside you.

"I just..." You murmured after a while, your voice softer now, "I wish I knew what it felt like."

"What?"

"To have butterflies."

The admission felt oddly embarrassing.

"To get excited because someone asked me out. To spend the whole day wondering what they're going to think when they see me. To hold someone's hand because they wanted to hold mine." You laughed quietly at yourself, "I don't even care whether it's life-changing anymore."

You swallowed, the words catching slightly in your throat.

“I just wanted to know what normal feels like.”

For a moment, Fred didn’t respond.

He just lay there beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes fixed lazily on the canopy above as though he were turning your words over somewhere quieter than conversation. The pause stretched longer than you expected it to—long enough that you almost convinced yourself he wasn’t going to answer at all, that the moment had passed and you’d said too much again.

Then, almost absentmindedly, he spoke.

“So let’s go on one.”

You frowned, turning your head slightly, having forgotten how the conversation had even ended, “...Go on what?”

“A date.”

That made you sit up a little more properly, the word feeling strangely out of place in the softness of the room, “A date?”

“Seems like the obvious solution.” He added, as though he were suggesting something as simple as going for a walk.

You blinked at him, trying to make sense of his expression, “...With who?”

Fred looked almost insulted.

"With me."

Silence.

Not the comfortable kind this time.

The air between you shifted—just slightly. You became acutely aware of the space between your shoulders, the way your fingers were curled into the blanket, the way Fred didn’t seem to notice any of it at all.

He, meanwhile, looked completely unconcerned with the fact that he had just suggested something that felt like it should be impossible to say out loud.

“I mean…” He continued after a beat, shrugging one shoulder as if it were obvious, “Think about it.”

You hesitated, “I am.”

“We’re both sitting here complaining we’ve never really dated anyone.”

“Yes…”

“We’re both catastrophically single.”

“Unfortunately.” You muttered, despite yourself.

“We both want to know what all the fuss is about.”

“I suppose.”

“So…” He spread his hands slightly, palms up, as though presenting the most logical conclusion in the world, “Why don’t we just take each other? Scratch the itch a bit.”

You looked away for a second, down at your hands where they were picking absently at the edge of the blanket, “I don’t know…” You admitted quietly.

Fred didn’t push. He rarely did.

Instead, he shifted slightly closer—not enough to crowd you, just enough that his presence was harder to ignore.

“You said you wanted to wear a pretty dress.”

“I did.” You murmured.

“You said you wanted a normal date.”

That made you glance back at him again.

Your voice came out softer this time, almost uncertain, “I do.”

A pause.

The kind that felt like something was being decided inside it.

Fred’s expression didn’t change much, but his voice gentled.

“So let me take you on one.”

Even though you were almost entirely certain Fred had suggested the date as a joke, you found yourself surprisingly nervous when the day finally arrived.

Not because you expected anything to happen.

It wasn't really a date, after all.

Not a real one.

Just two rejects pretending, for a few hours, that the universe hadn't forgotten about them.

Still, you couldn't deny there was something undeniably exciting about getting ready for it.

You stood in front of the mirror for far longer than you cared to admit, smoothing invisible creases from your clothes before immediately finding new ones to fuss over. Your hair had already been redone twice, and you were currently debating whether it looked better tucked behind your ears or left loose around your shoulders.

You had practically licked your lips dry, wanting to put on just a little bit of gloss, if not to look good then at least to stop you from worrying them so much.

But third year had taught you that makeup simply wasn't worth the argument.

The memory still made you grimace.

You had gotten a tube of cherry lip gloss as an impulse purchase from Hogsmeade. The bottle was just so cute and the colour was just right and it smelt like a cherry pie.

You'd worn it exactly once before Mattheo had cornered you in a corridor, positively livid over the matching sheen that had mysteriously appeared on his own lips.

The argument had been spectacular.

You'd shouted.

He'd shouted louder.

By the end of it both your cheeks had been burning, partly from anger and partly from the sheer humiliation.

After that, you'd quietly switched to glamour charms.

You shook your head, willing the memory to leave your mind. A light spritz of perfume followed, and then another after you convinced yourself the first one hadn't been enough.

This wasn't a date.

You reminded yourself of that several times while changing outfits.

And yet, by the time you finally slipped out of Gryffindor Tower—carefully timing your escape before Hermione and the others returned from lunch so nobody could make a spectacle of it—you couldn't deny the flutter of anticipation low in your stomach.

Your first date.

Fake though it may have been.

Fred was already waiting beside the Black Lake when you arrived. The moment he spotted you, his face broke into an easy grin. He awkwardly straightened where he stood before holding out a small bouquet of hand-picked wildflowers.

A smile spread across your face before you could stop it.

You accepted them carefully, bringing them close enough to catch their sweet scent, asking with a teasing lilt to your tone, "Now whose Herbology project did you ruin by nicking these?"

Fred clutched dramatically at his chest.

"I would never."

"No?"

"I'll have you know these were ethically sourced. Well, a bit of unpaid labour." He said, showing you the slight dirt that was still left on the tips of his fingers.

You grinned, leaning to give him a quick peck on the cheek, "There, paid for in full."

"So..." You said, looking up at him, "What's the plan? It isn't swimming, is it? Because I spent entirely too long on my hair."

His eyes flicked over said hair for only the briefest moment.

"It looks nice."

You blinked.

"...Thank you."

The words came so casually that he didn't even seem to realize he'd said them aloud. Then his usual grin returned, "And don't worry. I've got something much more special in mind."

Rather than reassuring you, that somehow made you considerably more suspicious.

Fred simply laughed before turning on his heel and beckoning for you to follow. He led you around the edge of the Black Lake and toward a dense cluster of trees you'd never paid much attention to before.

"I thought we'd collectively agreed wandering into mysterious forests was a terrible idea after the centaurs last year." You remarked as you ducked beneath a low branch he held out of your way.

"We did."

"And?"

"We also established I was the worse student between the two of us."

You rolled your eyes, "Can't argue with that."

A few moments later he stopped.

Nestled between several thick tree trunks was what appeared to be nothing more than a tiny tunnel woven entirely from vines and ivy.

Before you had time to question it, Fred crouched down and disappeared inside.

You stared after him.

"...Bit brazen of you to expect a girl to get on her knees on the first date, don't you think, Weasley?"

His laugh echoed back through the tunnel.

"Oh, come on."

"I'm simply making observations."

"Get in here, (Y/N)."

Still muttering dramatically under your breath, you crouched down and crawled after him. The tunnel only lasted a few feet.

The first thing you noticed as your head emerged from the other side was the sunlight. Bright summer sunshine spilled across your face exactly as expected.

The second thing you noticed was the cold.

A sharp, winter chill immediately kissed your cheeks and nipped at the end of your nose.

You blinked.

Then looked up.

Your breath caught.

Hidden away beyond the curtain of vines was a tiny clearing unlike anywhere else on the Hogwarts grounds.

Wildflowers carpeted the earth in every imaginable colour while rabbits darted lazily through the grass, entirely unconcerned by your arrival. Golden afternoon light poured through the canopy overhead, making the entire place glow like something lifted straight from a fairy tale.

But none of that was what stole your breath.

At the very centre of the clearing lay a lake.

Perfectly still.

Perfectly frozen.

A sheet of flawless ice sat beneath the blazing summer sun as though winter itself had been trapped inside this tiny corner of the world.

"...What on earth..."

"Amazing, isn't it?"

You turned to find Fred watching you rather than the lake.

His grin was quieter now. There was still that unmistakable stretch of pride across his face as he took in your gobsmacked reaction, but beneath it lingered a hint of fondness that sent a slight flush to your cheeks, one you stubbornly insisted was caused by the cold.

"I was mucking about here in second year," He admitted with an embarrassed scratch at the back of his neck, "George and I were trying to invent a product that could make it snow indoors."

"And?"

"And... I may have perpetually frozen the entire lake."

You stared at him, "You may have?"

He shrugged, "I got scared I'd be in trouble if anyone found it."

"So you..."

"So, I never told anyone."

As he spoke, he reached out and absentmindedly cast a quiet Scourgify over your clothes, brushing away the bits of moss and leaves that had collected while crawling through the tunnel.

His fingers paused near your shoulder.

"There."

He gently plucked a tiny twig from your hair before tucking a loose strand behind your ear with absent familiarity.

"So..." You looked back at the lake, "You've never shown anyone this?"

"No."

"...Not even George?"

Fred's smile softened.

He shook his head.

"No."

Something warm unfurled low in your chest.

Warmer than the summer sun beating down on you.

You felt it.

The butterflies.

Walking back toward the castle felt strangely bittersweet.

Like stepping out of a storybook.

The hidden clearing disappeared behind the curtain of vines the moment you stepped through it, swallowed once again by the forest as though it had never been there at all. If you hadn't still felt the lingering chill clinging to your clothes, you might have convinced yourself you'd imagined the entire afternoon.

Your nose stung from the cold.

Your cheeks, however, had turned pink from hours spent laughing beneath the summer sun.

The two of you had spent hours on that frozen lake.

By the time the sun had begun sinking below the treeline, painting the ice in shades of amber and gold, the two of you had been too exhausted to do much more than sit side by side on the frozen shore, talking until the growing darkness reminded you that professors generally frowned upon students disappearing into enchanted forests after curfew.

Now, the familiar warmth of the castle wrapped around you as the heavy oak doors swung shut behind you.

The sudden change in temperature made your fingers tingle unpleasantly as feeling slowly returned to them.

A comfortable silence settled between you as you wandered through the entrance hall.

Students passed around you in little groups, chatting animatedly over dinner plans and unfinished essays, but neither of you made any move toward joining them.

Eventually, you reached the foot of the marble staircase.

You turned toward Fred.

He'd been unusually quiet for the last few minutes.

The easy confidence he'd carried all afternoon had somehow disappeared somewhere between the lake and the castle, replaced instead by something unexpectedly hesitant. His hands had found the pockets of his jumper again and he rocked back slightly on his heels before clearing his throat.

"(Y/N)..."

"Hm?"

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"So..."

You waited.

"I know..." He let out a small, awkward laugh, "I know this wasn't exactly a date-date. But…" His eyes found yours again, "I had a really good time."

Something in your chest fluttered.

"And unless I've completely misread today..." He continued carefully, "I think maybe you did too."

You did.

Far more than you'd expected to.

"So..." He took a small breath, "Unless I've made an absolute fool of myself here, I was wondering if maybe—"

"Let's go on a second date, Fred."

The words escaped before your brain had the chance to stop them.

You hadn't meant to interrupt him.

Truthfully, you'd been rather enjoying the exceedingly rare spectacle of Fred Weasley stumbling over his own words. It was oddly endearing watching someone who always seemed to have a joke ready suddenly become hopelessly tongue-tied.

Unfortunately, your own anticipation had won the race.

Silence settled between you. Fred simply stared. For one wonderfully long moment, he looked completely dumbfounded.

Then, slowly, a grin began tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It spread across his face before he could stop it, bright enough that you watched him actively try to suppress it.

"Well," He drawled, folding his arms as though he hadn't just been struck speechless, "Someone's certainly getting ahead of herself, isn't she?"

You folded your own arms in mock offence.

"Oh?"

"I hadn't even finished asking yet."

"You were taking too long."

He took one thoughtful look at you before his grin returned in full force.

"...So," He tilted his head ever so slightly, "Same time next week?"

Fred was always good at date ideas.

You knew that much by now.

Every time you met him, there was something planned—something a little ridiculous, a little exhausting, and always, without fail, something that made it impossible for you to think about anything else except how much you were laughing.

But with the July heat pressing down over Hogwarts like a heavy, unrelenting spell, even Fred’s usual energy had begun to soften at the edges.

The castle itself felt sluggish. Corridors held onto warmth long after sunset, windows stayed permanently open, and even the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall seemed stuck in an endless stretch of pale, hazy blue.

But it seemed the unbearable heat had given Fred an idea for another date.

Which was how you found yourself standing at the edge of the Black Lake in a cute bikini you’d been waiting all summer to wear, your shoes discarded somewhere in the grass behind you, watching him attempt to skip stones across the water.

He managed one bounce.

The stone immediately sank.

“Hm,” Fred said thoughtfully, staring at the ripples like they had personally betrayed him, “I’ve gotten considerably worse at that.”

“You were never good.”

“I distinctly remember being excellent.”

“That’s the heat talking. It’s cooked your brain.”

He gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offence.

“You wound me.”

“I try.”

He looked at you, a sinister smile on his face that gave you a feeling that he was planning something, “Well, I try harder.”

You barely had time to process the warning in his grin before you felt it—a sharp splash against your shoulders, cold water exploding across your skin.

“Fred!”

You sputtered as you broke the surface, hair dripping into your eyes just in time to see him double over laughing.

And then, before you could retaliate, he cannonballed in after you.

Every moment of calm dissolved into splashing, laughter, and half-hearted attempts to dunk one another beneath the surface. Fred succeeded exactly once before you retaliated by grabbing his ankle and dragging him under with you, emerging seconds later breathless and triumphant.

By the time the chaos finally eased, you’d drifted farther from shore, your limbs heavy with exhaustion and your sides aching from laughing too hard.

For a moment, there was nothing but gentle movement. Water lapping softly against your shoulders. Sunlight scattering across the surface in broken gold. Fred floating nearby, hair plastered to his forehead, grinning like he didn’t have a single thought in his head except this.

You turned slightly, your gaze catching on something in the water near your hands.

It glimmered faintly beneath the surface.

“Oh—wait—” You said, reaching out instinctively, “I think that’s a shell or something. It's pretty."

Before you could even finish the sentence, Fred was already diving.

He disappeared beneath the surface without hesitation.

"Chivalry is dead, they say."

The words died in your throat when he resurfaced a moment later, shaking water from his hair.

In his hand, he held the shell out proudly, grinning at you, “Ta-da.”

You smiled automatically, already reaching for it, already preparing some teasing comment until your eyes slipped past his hand.

Past the shell.

To his wrist.

Angelina.

The name sat against his skin like it belonged there.

Like it had always belonged there.

Your fingers stopped mid-air.

Fred was still talking, still smiling, still looking at you with that easy warmth that had become so familiar you didn’t even think about it anymore. His voice blurred slightly at the edges, like it was coming from farther away than it actually was, and the lake around you suddenly felt quieter, heavier, as though it had decided to hold its breath with you.

You couldn’t look away from it.

Angelina.

It wasn't wasn't the first time you were seeing it. It definitely wasn't new.

And yet seeing it like this—so close, so real, so casually visible between moments of laughter—made something inside you tighten in a way you hadn’t been prepared for.

The universe’s choice.

Not you.

Never you.

A strange stillness settled in your chest, not sharp at first, just heavy, like the slow sinking of something you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your thoughts began to slip before you could catch them, drifting in directions you couldn’t stop.

Would they make a good couple?

Did she ever think about him when she looked at George?

Did she ever wonder what it would’ve been like if she’d chosen differently, if she’d taken a different path, if she’d looked at the wrong twin and hesitated just a second longer?

And worse—did Fred ever think about it too?

The shell in his hand suddenly felt irrelevant, something from a different moment entirely, like it didn’t belong in this one anymore. Like it had been part of a version of the world where you weren’t thinking about this. Where you weren’t standing in the middle of a lake watching the evidence of a future you didn’t belong in wrapped around his wrist.

You weren’t even fully aware of the shift until it had already happened.

One moment you were here, in sunlight and laughter and water that still clung warm to your skin.

The next, everything felt distant.

Muted.

As though you had stepped just slightly outside of yourself.

“…(Y/N)?”

You blinked, forcing yourself back into your body, into the moment, into the lake and the shell and him.

Fred was closer now, his expression no longer playful. The smile had faded without him even seeming to notice, replaced by something quieter, more attentive.

“You alright?”

For a second, you forgot how to answer.

Then you managed something that almost resembled normal.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

His eyes didn’t leave your face.

“You sure?”

Too quickly—too automatically—you nodded.

“Just cold.”

Even as you said it, you knew it wasn’t convincing.

Fred didn’t push. He rarely did when it mattered.

Instead, he moved closer through the water until his arm brushed yours, steady and grounding, and then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—he slipped it around your waist to keep you from drifting too far with the current.

“Yeah? Well,” He said softly, almost lightly again, as though trying to pull you back without forcing it, “We can fix that.”

And for a moment, you let him.

Just a moment.

A final moment.

In all honesty, you hadn’t meant to avoid him.

Really, you hadn’t.

It wasn’t like you actively chose to turn around every time you saw Fred in the corridors, or pretend you hadn’t received his notes because you’d gone to bed early, or slip out of a room the second you heard his boisterous laughter drawing closer—the same laughter that used to send a wave of warmth flooding through you.

But every time you saw him—his warm brown eyes, shadowed by long lashes—you felt that sinking pit open up in your stomach, swallowing everything else whole. It ruined your day before it had even properly begun.

And even though all you wanted was to be near him, you couldn’t help but turn away every time his eyes searched for you.

You really should have considered the fact that Fred wasn’t going to take it lying down.

And that he knew all about the secret passageways scattered around Hogwarts.

So you really shouldn’t have been surprised when he appeared in the corridor that had been empty not even a second ago—grabbing your wrist and stopping you in your tracks.

“Fred.”

“This push-and-pull bullshit isn’t going to work with me, (Y/N),” He said immediately, “If you want to break up with me, you better look me in the eye and do it.”

Ironic.

Because you couldn’t.

Your gaze stayed anchored to his wrist—specifically, to the inked name along his pulse, peeking out from beneath his sleeve.

And just like that, the pit in your stomach returned.

“This isn’t going to work, Fred.”

His brows twitched, his grip tightening just a fraction—like he was afraid you’d slip away again if he loosened it.

“Why?”

You let out a breath, shaking your head like the answer should be obvious.

“Because you’re not meant to be with me,” You said, “You’re already… destined for someone else.”

A flicker of confusion crossed his face.

“My brother’s soulmate?” He said, almost incredulous, “I would never do that to him. And she’s already made her choice.”

“And if she didn’t?” You pressed, your voice tightening, “If she changes her mind tomorrow? If she decides you’re the one she’s meant to be with… would you change yours?”

The question hung between you.

Fred didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, his gaze sharpened.

“Well then what about you?” He shot back, “If Riddle suddenly realizes how badly he messed up—comes crawling back, begging you to take him—would you go?”

The edge in his voice hit harder than you expected.

Suddenly, you were back in your dorm room again, staring at lipstick marks you hadn’t chosen, feeling that same hollow, awful ache in your chest.

Except this time—

he wasn’t your soulmate.

You had no claim to Fred.

If he turned around tomorrow and chose Angelina, you couldn’t fault him for it.

After all… she was his soulmate.

And if he wasn’t by your side—

If Mattheo came back, asking for your forgiveness—

Would you really be able to go back to him like nothing had happened? Could you let him touch you with the same hands that had touched someone else, pretend you didn’t know exactly where they had been? Could you stand there in his arms and still feel that sense of certainty you used to dream soulmates would bring—the feeling that this was your place in the world, that you were chosen, needed, loved completely?

“No,” You said, your voice barely above a whisper as the realization settled in, “I wouldn’t.”

Your voice steadied as you continued.

“I don’t want someone who would hurt me on purpose,” You said quietly, “I don’t want someone who makes me feel like I’m something they can come back to when it suits them. Like the only reason I’m with them is because someone out there decided it.”

Your eyes lifted to meet his.

“I want you.” You admitted, your voice tightening as you realized just how true it was.

These past few weeks with Fred had been the happiest you’d been in a long time. When you were with him, it felt like you’d finally found your place in the universe.

And that terrified you.

Because he wasn’t yours.

Not really.

And if those lipstick marks had broken your heart, then watching Fred walk away from you and go back to Angelina the second she called would destroy you.

“But I want you to want me too,” You finished, “Not just because I’m there. Not just to fill some empty space.”

Silence settled between you.

Fred’s grip loosened—not letting go, just sliding from your wrist to your hand, holding it instead.

“I’ll admit it,” He said after a moment, “That’s how it started.”

Your chest tightened.

“Just… something to make it hurt less,” He continued, quieter now, “Something to not feel so bloody lonely all the time.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you.

“But it’s not that anymore, (Y/N).”

And when you met his eyes, all you saw was sincerity. It hit you in a way you couldn’t quite explain—like the two of you weren’t just standing in a corridor anymore, but somewhere else entirely. Somewhere smaller. Quieter.

Just the two of you in the entire universe.

“I’m falling for you,” He said, like it scared him a little to admit it, he'd been burned before and he was scared he was going to be again, “And I want to be with you. Soulmate or not.”

You wanted to believe him.

You really did.

But the tattoo of her name lingered in your mind—a ghost between the two of you you didn’t know how to exorcise.

“But what about—”

“Fuck Angelina, alright!”

Your eyes widened and he dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated, desperate, “There isn’t a single part of me that wants her right now,” He said, “I thought I did. I thought I was supposed to. But I don’t.”

His voice dropped.

“Not like I do when I’m with you.”

You stared at him, that pit in your stomach beginning to dissipate, just slightly.

“(Y/N), please.” He said, taking your hand in both of his and pulling you closer, guiding your palm to rest against his chest.

His heartbeat was fast.

Almost as fast as yours.

“If you don’t feel the same way about me, that’s okay,” He said softly, “But don’t push me away because you think I’d rather be with anyone other than you. Because there is no one else, and there never will be.”

Something in you shifted, quiet but undeniable, and before you could second-guess it you stepped closer, your hand coming up to rest against his shoulder as you rose onto your toes, leaning in with the simple intention of pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

But at the last second, he turned his head.

Your breath caught, your lips just a hair away from meeting his, so close you could feel the warmth of him, could see your own reflection in his blown out pupils. Your gaze dropped, almost involuntarily, to his mouth for just a moment and before you knew what was happening, you had closed the distance.

You had always thought your first kiss would be with your soulmate. You had saved it, carefully, stubbornly, building it up in your mind during sleepless nights—imagining electricity in little jolts rushing through your body, feeling inexplicable heat where he would've grabbed the dips of your waist, imagining certainty, imagining that unmistakable feeling that would tell you, without question, this is it.

You thought you would feel boundless joy rush through you, a state of euphoria that made you feel tethered and floating at the same time as you kissed the person you were meant to be with for the very first time.

As your arms slid around Fred’s neck and pulled him closer, as he kissed you back, his arms looping around your waist as he began to lose himself into you, blurring the lines between where you ended and he began.

You realized—

It was everything you had ever dreamed it would be.

The Gryffindor common room was rarely this quiet.

It almost felt like you had managed to catch your foot in the rug and slip into some kind of alternate dimension. Normally, it was chaos in its purest form—laughter spilling over armchairs, someone shouting about Quidditch from across the room, first-years getting shushed for the tenth time in five minutes. But tonight, the fire crackled softly instead of roaring, and even that felt like it was trying not to disturb the peace.

You were curled up in Fred’s lap like it was the most natural place in the world, one of his arms loosely around your waist while the other lazily traced patterns against your knee. You, meanwhile, were fully invested in a crossword puzzle like your life depended on it.

“Six across,” You murmured, brow furrowed, “Ten letters. ‘An ingredient in Pepper-Up potion—’ oh, this is easy.”

Fred hummed behind you, amused, “You say that about every single clue.”

“Because I am right every single time.”

“You absolutely are not.”

You glanced up at him over your shoulder, squinting, “Are you challenging my intellectual superiority?”

He shrugged, though that infuriating smirk was still on his face, “Not at all. Oh look—twelve down. Another word for humility. Quick, how many letters in 'not (Y/N)'?”

You clicked your tongue, rolling your eyes, and moved on to the next clue, solving it just as quickly as the last one. You leaned back against him with a satisfied little grin—and Fred tightened his arm around you just enough to make you tilt into him again.

“Show-off.” He murmured.

You solved another clue, and without thinking, pressed a quick kiss to his jaw.

Fred paused.

Then, like it was nothing at all, he kissed the top of your head in return.

It became a rhythm after that—clue, answer, kiss; clue, answer, kiss—soft and absentminded, warm in a way that made the rest of the world feel very far away.

Until it didn’t.

“You two are adorable.” Came a voice behind you.

You both turned slightly.

Lavender Brown stood a few steps away, arms folded, her expression somewhere between pity and smug satisfaction. Her gaze flicked pointedly between you and Fred, lingering just a second too long on the way you were sitting together.

“It’s just…” She continued lightly, “such a shame, isn’t it?”

You blinked, “What is?”

“That you’re not actually soulmates.” Her lips curled, “It’s such a shame you’ll never know what it feels like to be in your soulmate’s arms.”

Silence settled for half a beat.

Fred’s hand stopped moving on your waist.

You slowly closed the crossword book.

Then you looked up at her properly.

“Well, I actually take a lot of pride in that,” You said, voice sweet as honey, “At least I’m not like some people who the big man in the sky clearly knew wouldn’t be able to land a partner with that face and personality… so he had to shackle some poor bloke to them just to make it work.”

Fred made a sound that suspiciously resembled a cough hiding a laugh.

Lavender’s face went red instantly, “That’s— I didn’t—”

“Mm.” You tilted your head, “Anyway, good talk.”

She opened her mouth again, clearly searching for something to salvage her dignity, but nothing came. After a second of flustered silence, she spun on her heel and walked away far faster than she’d arrived.

The moment she was gone, Fred let out a low whistle.

“Good job, sweetheart.”

“Well,” You said with a small shrug, “I am the funny one in this relationship.”

Fred hummed quietly—the sound vibrating through his chest where your back was pressed against him.

“Oh yeah?” He murmured.

There was something in his voice now—lower, slower, warmer.

“S'that so?”

Something about it—the depth of his tone, the way his words seemed to slur like they were weighing on his tongue, the way he looked at you like he was genuinely drunk on you—made your stomach drop in a way you’d never felt before.

The crossword book slipped from your lap and fell to the floor.

And then you were turning fully in his arms, grabbing the front of his jumper, and kissing him properly.

Fred made a sound of surprise that quickly melted into something far more pleased. His palm slid to your back, pulling you in, and you felt yourself go slightly hollow with it—like every thought had been knocked clean out of you. Your hands moved up to frame his jaw as he kissed you back with growing desire.

And for a moment, the rest of the world didn’t exist at all.

Ron Weasley chose that exact moment to walk into the common room like he had impeccable comedic timing and absolutely no sense of mercy.

The door swung open with a creak, letting in a burst of cold corridor air—and Ron, flanked by a couple of his friends, froze mid-step.

Ron physically recoiled.

“For God’s sake,” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, “Can you guys stop this disgusting display of affection?"

Fred didn’t even look embarrassed. If anything, he looked mildly offended that Ron had interrupted his very important work of being glued to your lips.

You, still slightly breathless—and also slightly offended—were actually a little relieved he’d walked in. Because if you’d been allowed to carry on, you were fairly certain you’d be expelled for public indecency.

Ron gestured vaguely at the scene like it physically pained him, like he was about to wretch up his guts at the thought of one of his best friends with his brother, “It makes other people who haven’t found their soulmates feel bad.”

Your eyes flicked to Fred.

And before you could stop it, you both shared the same secret smile.

Ron hadn’t even realized what he’d implied.

Still, something warm and oddly sweet curled in your stomach anyway.

Fred noticed it too. Of course he did.

“Right,” He said lazily, looking back at Ron, “We’ll make ourselves scarce then. Wouldn’t want to traumatise poor, lonely Ronald.”

“Oi—”

But Fred was already standing, pulling you up with him in one smooth motion like it was second nature.

You barely had time to steady yourself before his hand found yours.

And just like that, he was leading you toward the staircase.

You glanced over your shoulder at Ron one last time, sending him a mischievous smile and a quick wink.

He responded with a face of pure disgust.

It made you laugh—but the sound faded as you climbed higher into the tower, Fred still holding your hand like he had no intention of letting go.

epilogue: (lowkey the og plan was to kill off freddie but i changed my mind lol)

Eventually, Mattheo Riddle became very good at pretending.

It was a skill he perfected over the years in the same quiet, miserable way people learned to live with old injuries—carefully, stubbornly, until the pain became less of a sharp wound and more of a permanent ache woven into everyday life.

At first, it had been difficult. Mattheo had always been a man of candor. When he wanted something, he took it. When he felt desire, he showed it, and more often than not the world bent willingly into his hands. When he felt anger, disgust, hatred—he made sure everyone around him felt it too.

But heartbreak?

Guilt?

Regret?

Those emotions sat strangely on him, like clothes tailored for someone else entirely.

For a long time, he found reminders of you everywhere. Every couple passing him in the street felt like a mockery of something he had ruined with his own hands.

But time had a cruel way of dulling even the sharpest pain.

Eventually, Hogwarts became memories instead of places. The castle faded into nothing more than fragments in the back of his mind. He stopped dreaming about you eventually. Or perhaps he simply stopped remembering the dreams by morning.

He learned how to fill his days well enough.

Work helped.

Noise helped.

Women helped sometimes too, though never for very long. He became frighteningly good at moving from one distraction to the next without ever lingering long enough for silence to settle around him properly.

Because silence was dangerous.

Silence was where you lived.

People stopped mentioning your name around him after a while.

That helped.

Or at least, that was what he liked to believe.

Years passed that way.

Quietly. Pathetically.

And eventually, he became good enough at pretending that even he almost believed himself.

Until one morning, long after he had stopped allowing himself to think about soulmates at all, Mattheo woke to faint silver lines stretching across the skin of his stomach.

For a long moment, he simply stared at them in the mirror.

Then, silently, he swallowed the pain.

And pretended he never noticed them.

To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee @notslaybabes @writers-whirlwind @paankhaleyaaar @superlegend216 @kaisupremecy @ilovefictionallmenn @aviwritessometimes @devilslittlehelper @notfckincreative @workof-a-rr-t @insideoutjulie @tikitsune @booklover2503 @whoreforfictionalmen18 @hzdhrtss @noonasoul @echolovesspidey @potatoheartsyou @chevelledahuman @33shadowhunters @goodvibesonlyxd @maradcrs @pluto-9456

Harry Potter Taglist:

At first you assumed construction or flooding because of the weather, but then smoke curled upward through the rain and your stomach dropped immediately.

Cars sat mangled across three lanes of traffic at impossible angles. One SUV had spun into the median while another sedan looked almost folded around the back of a delivery truck, its front end crushed so badly it barely resembled a vehicle anymore. Hazard lights blinked weakly through the storm while people stumbled across the interstate in shock.

Your body moved before your brain fully caught up.

“Oh my God.”

You were already unbuckling your seatbelt before the car completely stopped.

Adrenaline sliced straight through your exhaustion hard enough to make your hands shake as you reached for the trauma bag in the passenger seat. Rain hit you instantly the second you shoved the door open, cold water soaking through your clothes within seconds while distant screaming echoed somewhere through the storm.

Someone yelled that a driver was trapped.

Another voice screamed for a medic.

A woman near the shoulder sobbed hard enough she could barely breathe, blood running down the side of her forehead while a man beside her stood completely frozen, staring blankly at the wreckage like his brain had stopped processing reality altogether.

You were already running.

“I’m a doctor,” you shouted over the rain. “Move back and give me some room.”

People listened immediately.

The trapped driver looked somewhere in his forties, pinned awkwardly behind the wheel of the crushed sedan. Blood streamed from a scalp laceration down the side of his face while the airbags hung deflated around him. His breathing came too fast beneath the sound of rain hammering against twisted metal, panic beginning to sharpen around the edges of every inhale.

You crouched carefully beside the shattered driver’s side window, ignoring the glass biting through your scrub pants into your knees.

“Hey,” you said, forcing calmness into your voice despite the adrenaline roaring through your chest. “Can you hear me?”

The man blinked slowly toward you, dazed. “Think so.”

“Good. That’s good.” You adjusted the flashlight between your fingers while quickly checking his pupils. “What’s your name?”

“Leon.”

“Okay, Leon. I’m Dr. Y/L/N.” Your voice stayed steady automatically, years of emergency medicine taking over before panic had a chance to settle in. “Don’t move your neck for me, alright?”

A shaky breath of laughter escaped him. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

Despite everything, you smiled a little.

“You’re doing great,” you assured him quietly. “Stay with me.”

And he did.

His eyes kept finding yours every few seconds like you were the only stable thing left in the middle of the chaos.

Your hands moved automatically after that.

Pressure against the head wound. Monitoring responsiveness. Keeping him conscious and talking while you assessed what you could from outside the vehicle. Rainwater mixed with blood beneath your fingers while traffic backed up for what looked like miles behind you, headlights glowing dimly through the storm.

Leon kept looking at you every few seconds like you were the only stable thing left in the middle of the chaos.

“You work at the PTMC?” he asked weakly after spotting the hospital logo embroidered onto your soaked jacket.

“Unfortunately.”

That got a real laugh out of him, brief and pained but enough that relief loosened slightly in your chest.

“You always this calm when you see a car crash?”

You let out a tired breath through your nose. “No. I’m panicking beautifully internally.”

That made him laugh again.

Patients relaxed faster once they laughed. It was something you learned early in residency, fear loosened the second people felt human again instead of helpless.

So you stayed with him.

Even after the paramedics arrived.

Even after they started finishing the extrication, peeling back what remained of the driver’s side door while rain poured endlessly over the wreckage.

You stayed crouched beside him talking him through every step because shock was already creeping in around the edges of his expression, and every time panic threatened to overwhelm him again, his eyes found yours immediately.

“You’re okay,” you kept saying quietly. “Stay with me. You’re okay.”

The interstate blurred around you in streaks of red brake lights and flashing hazards. Rain soaked through your jacket and scrubs completely now, damp fabric clinging uncomfortably to your skin while your hair stuck to the back of your neck. The adrenaline that had carried you through the crash scene was already fading, leaving behind an exhaustion so heavy it felt physical.

An EMT looked up from the stretcher and did a double take.

“Dr. Y/L/N?”

You snapped back into focus automatically.

“Male, approximately forty-two. Restrained driver. Brief LOC reported by witnesses. GCS fifteen currently. Complaining of left-sided rib pain. Possible concussion. Neuro status intact for now, but keep an eye on him.”

The EMT nodded once while adjusting the cervical collar. “Got it.”

They moved quickly after that, securing straps, checking vitals, loading equipment through the rain while Leon tracked every movement with the wide-eyed focus of someone trying very hard not to think too much about what had almost happened.

Your knees ached from kneeling on broken glass. Your hands had started trembling slightly now that nobody urgently needed anything from you anymore.

But you stayed beside him anyway.

Leon caught your wrist weakly just before the paramedics closed the ambulance doors.

“Hey.”

You looked up immediately.

His face looked pale beneath the blood and rainwater, eyes glassy with pain and adrenaline, but there was something steadier there too.

Gratitude maybe.

“Thank you for taking care of me.”

The words landed somewhere deeper than they should have.

You swallowed hard before giving his hand one quick squeeze.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Of course.”

For a second, you just stood there breathing.

The interstate still smelled like gasoline and smoke. Somewhere farther down the road another paramedic shouted instructions while tow trucks crawled through the rain toward the wreckage. Traffic in the opposite lanes slowed almost to a stop as people stared through fogged windows at what was left of the crash.

“You riding in with us?” one of the EMTs asked.

You glanced once toward your abandoned car still trapped in unmoving traffic nearly half a mile behind the accident scene. The thought of trying to get back to it right now felt impossible.

“Yeah,” you answered tiredly.

The ambulance doors shut behind you a second later, sealing you inside with the sharp smell of antiseptic, wet clothing, and adrenaline.

Leon talked for almost the entire ride to the hospital.

Nervous talking.

The kind trauma patients did when they were scared enough to fill every silence because silence meant thinking too hard about how close they came to dying. You’d seen it hundreds of times before. Some people cried. Some got angry. Some went terrifyingly quiet.

Leon talked.

So you let him.

He rambled about his job, about his daughter’s soccer game this weekend, about how his wife was going to kill him for wrecking the car because they still hadn’t finished paying it off. Every few sentences his voice shook slightly before he forced another joke out anyway.

You stayed beside him the whole ride, monitoring pupils and vitals while keeping him talking just enough to assess mental status without making it obvious you were doing it.

“You always pick up patients on the highway on your day off?” he asked weakly at one point.

You let out a tired breath of laughter. “Only the lucky ones.”

That earned another shaky smile from him.

The ambulance doors burst open, paramedics already rolling the stretcher down the bay entrance while rainwater dripped steadily from the wheels onto the floor.

By the time the ambulance rolled through the bay doors at The Pitt, you were freezing hard enough your teeth almost hurt. Your scrubs were soaked completely through, your shoes squelching against the floor while trauma staff moved around you in organized chaos.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Santos called across the ER the second she spotted you climbing out of the ambulance bay. “Always a pleasure seeing you this early, Iron Woman.”

You groaned immediately.

You earned the nickname after accidentally mistaking a patient for Robert Downey Jr. during a twenty-hour shift.

To be fair, the goatee had been identical.

“Dana,” you called immediately, falling into step beside the stretcher. “What’s open?”

Dana barely looked up from the nurses’ station. “Trauma Two’s clear.”

“Perfect.” You pushed damp hair back from your face before glancing toward the department. “Whitaker, Javadi, you’re with me. Perlah, can you help set up Two?”

Perlah nodded immediately and disappeared ahead of the group while Whitaker grabbed gloves from the wall dispenser on his way past.

“You look cold,” Whitaker informed you conversationally.

“Thank you,” you replied flatly.

Javadi appeared beside the stretcher while all of you pushed through the trauma bay doors together. “What happened?”

“Restrained driver, approximately forty-two,” you answered automatically. “High-speed MVA during the storm. Brief LOC reported by witnesses. GCS fifteen on arrival, complaining of left-sided rib pain and worsening headache. Possible concussion.”

“Vitals stable en route,” one of the paramedics added while helping transfer Leon onto the trauma bed.

Whitaker immediately started attaching monitors while Javadi pulled supplies from cabinets with the frantic efficiency of someone still trying very hard to look calmer than she actually felt.

Then Jack looked up from the computer station.

And somehow, in the middle of the packed emergency department, everything softened slightly around the edges.

You caught the exact moment recognition crossed his face. The exhaustion behind his eyes shifted immediately into concern as his gaze moved slowly over you. Soaked scrubs, blood smeared across your gloves, rainwater dripping steadily from your hair onto the floor beneath you.

Jack crossed the trauma bay almost immediately.

“You okay?” he asked quietly. “What happened? I thought you went home.”

His voice grounded you in a way almost nothing else could anymore.

Maybe it was because he always sounded calm even during chaos. Maybe it was because after years together your body recognized him before your brain consciously caught up. Or maybe it was simply that exhaustion hit harder the second somebody else arrived to help carry it.

“I’m fine,” you answered automatically while stripping off your soaked gloves and replacing them with clean ones. “Probably need a head CT.”

Jack’s expression tightened instantly.

“For you?”

You blinked at him before realizing what you’d said. “What? No. For the patient.”

Behind you, Perlah had already started cutting away Leon’s soaked shirt while Whitaker attached cardiac leads to his chest.

“BP’s holding,” Whitaker called.

“Sinus tach at one-ten,” Javadi added while checking another monitor. “Probably pain and adrenaline.”

“Good,” you answered automatically before stepping back beside the bed.

“Where’s Robby?”

“Overdose in Four,” Dana answered from the doorway.

You nodded once and reached for your penlight again, checking Leon’s pupils carefully while rain continued tapping faintly against the ambulance bay doors behind you.

Santos wandered into Trauma Two looking personally offended. “Why does huckleberry and crash get invited? I can help.”

“You can stand there and look pretty while actual doctors save lives,” you shot back immediately.

Santos gasped dramatically. “Dr. Abbot, your girlfriend is bullying me again.”

“She bullies everybody,” Jack muttered.

But there was no heat behind it.

His eyes lingered on you a second too long.

You knew that look by now.

Jack had spent years in emergency medicine learning how to bury concern beneath sarcasm and exhaustion, but you still caught it every time. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes. The slight tremor beginning in your hands now that the adrenaline was wearing off. The way your shoulders sagged whenever you thought nobody was looking.

“You’re freezing,” he said quietly.

“You are correct. I am freezing.”

Without another word, Jack pulled his hoodie off the back of the nurses’ station chair and draped it carefully around your shoulders before you could protest. It was still warm from him, smelling faintly like coffee, antiseptic, and the cologne he only remembered to wear maybe twice a month.

Something in your chest tightened stupidly at the gesture.

Behind him, Santos gagged theatrically. “Oh my God. Romance in the trauma bay. I’m going to throw up.”

“Go chart something,” Jack said flatly.

Whitaker looked up from the monitor leads. “Actually, I think it's very sweet."

“You’re all miserable,” you informed them while pulling the hoodie tighter around yourself.

“No,” Javadi corrected while checking Leon’s blood pressure. “You two are just aggressively in love in public.”

Jack looked genuinely offended. “Aggressively? I don't get it."

Despite yourself, you laughed softly while stepping back toward Leon’s bedside.

Leon noticed the interaction immediately.

“That your boyfriend?” he asked weakly from the trauma bed.

“Husband to the emergency department,” you corrected while snapping fresh gloves on. “Boyfriend in real life.”

Jack rolled his eyes while typing orders into the computer. “Don’t encourage her, Leon.”

Leon grinned despite the pain. “You guys are disgustingly cute.”

Under the brighter trauma lights, bruising had already started blooming dark purple across his ribs beneath the rain-soaked skin.

“Headache worse?” you asked while checking his pupils again.

“A little.”

“You nauseous?”

“Not yet.”

“Good,” you answered. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Javadi palpated carefully along his left side while Whitaker adjusted the blood pressure cuff.

“There’s something strangely comforting about you people,” Leon admitted weakly after a moment.

“You say that now,” Javadi muttered.

That earned another tired laugh from him before he winced sharply afterward.

“There it is,” you said softly. “Still joking. Good sign, buddy.”

There was something oddly comforting about patients who stayed conversational. After years in emergency medicine, you learned to appreciate moments where humanity still existed between procedures and bloodwork and trauma assessments.

Sometimes those tiny conversations mattered almost as much as the medicine itself.

Jack stepped beside you while reviewing Leon’s vitals, his shoulder brushing yours briefly in the cramped trauma bay. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, damp fabric, and rainwater now that Leon’s soaked clothing had finally been cut away.

“You should change,” Jack murmured quietly while adjusting one of the monitor leads. “I got this, baby.”

You barely glanced at him, still focused on the chart. “Don’t worry. I’ll survive.”

A tired look crossed his face immediately.

“That’s usually what people say right before passing out.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder, though exhaustion dulled most of the energy behind it. “You’re dramatic.”

“You’ve been awake how long now?”

“Eighteen hours.”

Jack stared at you flatly. “That’s not comforting.”

“You stopped at a major accident scene after an eighteen-hour shift?” Javadi asked incredulously.

You shrugged slightly.

And that alone made Jack’s jaw tighten, because that was exactly the kind of thing you always did.

The adrenaline carrying you through the crash scene had almost completely faded now, leaving behind exhaustion so heavy it felt physical. Your wet clothes clung coldly to your skin beneath Jack’s hoodie while every muscle in your body ached now that the immediate crisis had passed.

Jack exhaled softly through his nose before lowering his voice.

“You don’t always have to run yourself into the ground trying to save everybody.”

The words landed harder than they should have.

You focused instead on adjusting Leon’s blanket over his chest, smoothing the fabric carefully just to give your hands something else to do.

Jack knew you too well by now to push after saying something like that.

That was part of what made loving him dangerous sometimes. He noticed things you worked very hard to hide from everybody else.

He noticed the way your hands trembled after bad trauma calls once the adrenaline wore off. How you skipped meals without realizing it during difficult shifts. How every patient death stayed with you longer than you ever admitted aloud.

Jack had spent years in emergency medicine learning how to compartmentalize just enough to survive it, which somehow only made him better at recognizing when you weren’t doing the same.

His hand brushed briefly against the small of your back as he moved toward the monitors again.

“Don’t worry, Leon,” Jack said easily while checking the cardiac tracing. “You’re in good hands.”

Leon looked toward him before his gaze drifted back to you.

“I figured that out already,” he said softly. “She stopped on the interstate for me.”

You glanced up from the chart, slightly surprised by how steady his voice sounded now despite everything.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” Leon continued quietly.

You shrugged lightly, pushing damp hair away from your face. “Part of the job.”

“Maybe,” he answered softly, still watching you carefully. “But most people would’ve kept driving.”

Something warm and uncomfortable settled low in your chest at that.

Most patients never saw the moments in between all of this. They saw calm voices and steady hands. They saw competence because that was what they needed from you in moments like these.

They never saw the aftermath.

The exhaustion. The panic doctors swallowed in real time just to keep functioning. The way people occasionally locked themselves in supply closets for thirty seconds after bad cases just to breathe before walking back out like nothing happened.

But Leon had seen you kneeling beside twisted metal in freezing rain with blood on your hands while traffic screamed past only feet away.

He’d seen the human part too.

And somehow that felt far more exposing than expected.

Before you could answer, something shifted.

Subtle.

Small enough most people in the room probably would have missed it entirely.

But after years in emergency medicine, your body noticed changes before your brain consciously caught up.

Leon’s breathing changed.

One second it was slow and uneven with postictal exhaustion.

The next it caught strangely in his chest.

His eyes lost focus somewhere over your shoulder while every muscle in his body tightened beneath the blankets all at once.

Your stomach dropped instantly.

“Leon?”

Jack looked up from the monitor station at the exact same moment Leon’s entire body stiffened violently against the mattress.

“He’s seizing!”

Everything exploded into motion.

The seizure hit hard and fast, violent enough that the entire trauma bed rattled beneath him. His back arched sharply while his arms convulsed uncontrollably, knocking equipment sideways as monitors erupted into sharp screaming alarms throughout the room.

“Clock started,” Perlah called immediately.

“Two minutes on the seizure pads,” Whitaker added while grabbing suction.

“Turn him,” you ordered.

You and Javadi moved together automatically, carefully rolling Leon onto his side while his body continued jerking violently beneath your hands. Blood appeared at the corner of his mouth where he’d bitten through his tongue while every breath came in horrible choking gasps between convulsions.

“Airway’s clear,” Javadi said quickly, though her voice still sounded tight with adrenaline.

Across the room Jack was already pulling medication from the crash cart while Dana called CT from the doorway ahead of transport.

Then finally, slowly, the seizure broke.

Leon’s body slumped heavily back against the mattress drenched in sweat while ragged breaths tore unevenly from his chest. The room fell briefly into that strange silence that always followed emergencies, where everybody still moved quickly even though the worst part had passed.

For now.

“Let’s get a CT stat,” Jack said immediately.

You nodded once, trying to ignore the tremor beginning in your hands now that the adrenaline spike was crashing again.

“I’ll stay with him until transport.”

Jack hesitated.

Only briefly, but long enough for you to notice.

Something unreadable crossed his expression while his eyes flicked from Leon back toward you.

Concern maybe.

The same quiet tension he always carried after particularly violent trauma cases.

“You sure?” he asked softly.

You frowned slightly. “Yeah.”

Whitaker glanced briefly between both of you like he noticed something too, but before he could say anything Dana appeared in the doorway again.

“Trauma Three needs help now.”

Jack’s jaw tightened.

His fingers brushed briefly against your wrist before he stepped away toward the hallway, disappearing almost immediately back into the noise and chaos outside the trauma bay.

The room quieted afterward.

Machines beeped steadily while rain tapped faintly against distant ER windows somewhere down the hall. Whitaker and Javadi had already been pulled into another room, leaving you alone beside Leon while he lay motionless in exhausted postictal confusion.

You dimmed the overhead light slightly before adjusting the blanket higher over his chest.

“Hey,” you said gently when you noticed him beginning to stir. “You’re okay. You had a seizure.”

No response.

His eyes stayed fixed upward, unfocused and confused.

Postictal.

You had seen it hundreds of times before. Disorientation. Confusion. Agitation sometimes. Patients waking terrified because their brains had not fully caught up to reality yet.

Your shoulder ached dully now that exhaustion was settling deeper into your body again. You reached absentmindedly for the chart at the foot of the bed, mentally running through differentials and imaging priorities while waiting for CT to call back.

You missed the shift in him by less than a second.

One moment Leon lay motionless against the mattress, the next his eyes sharpened violently.

Not recognition.

Fear.

Pure terrified instinct.

Your stomach dropped.

“Leon—”

He surged upright before you could finish the sentence.

His hand closed around your throat with terrifying force, slamming you backward into the cabinet hard enough to knock the air violently from your lungs. Pain exploded across the back of your skull as your head cracked sharply against metal.

“Leon!”

The sound came out broken and strangled.

But he wasn’t seeing you.

That was the horrifying part.

His eyes looked completely wild now—unfocused, terrified, empty all at once. Pure neurological panic stripped entirely of recognition.

For one terrible second, training overrode fear.

“Leon,” you gasped desperately, grabbing his wrists instinctively instead of striking him. “Listen to me. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”

Nothing reached him.

His grip tightened harder around your throat.

Air stopped.

Panic slammed through you instantly now, sharp and animal and overwhelming in a way you almost never allowed yourself to feel. Your vision flickered violently while you clawed uselessly at his hands, trying desperately to drag in even one full breath.

You needed help.

Safe word.

Your mouth opened automatically.

“H—”

Nothing came out except a rasp.

Leon shoved you backward harder, your skull slamming against the cabinet again hard enough that white exploded across your vision.

The hospital safe word.

You just needed to say it.

“Hula—”

The sound collapsed into another strangled gasp as his fingers crushed tighter against your airway.

Your lungs burned.

Tears blurred your vision from pain and lack of oxygen while movement echoed faintly somewhere outside the trauma bay. People were still moving through the ER completely unaware of what was happening behind the curtain.

Your body was weakening fast.

You forced one shredded breath into your lungs and screamed:

“HULA HOOP!”

The entire department reacted instantly.

The trauma bay doors burst open hard enough to slam against the wall while voices shouted over each other.

Hands grabbed Leon, trying to drag him backward while he fought wildly in blind confusion and terror.

But before anyone could fully pull him away, he shoved you violently across the room.

Your shoulder struck the edge of the cabinetry with a horrible crack before the rest of your body collapsed hard onto the tile floor.

Pain tore through your arm instantly, sharp and wrong enough it barely felt real.

You couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

The room blurred violently while alarms screamed overhead and people shouted your name somewhere nearby.

And through all of it, through the pain and chaos splitting apart around you, your brain found one thing instinctively.

Jack.

You thought about the way he always found you in crowded trauma bays without even trying. The way his hoodie still smelled faintly like coffee and antiseptic around your shoulders. The quiet brush of his hand against your back only minutes earlier.

You wondered irrationally if he was going to blame himself for leaving the room.

That thought hurt almost as badly as the pain itself.

Your eyes slipped closed just as the world dissolved completely into noise.

Jack was halfway through finishing a chart when he realized he had not seen you in several minutes.

He looked up automatically, scanning the department for you out of habit more than anything else. Usually he could spot you immediately no matter how crowded the ER became. You moved quickly when you worked, sharp and focused and impossible to miss once he knew what to look for.

But you were nowhere.

“Hey, Javadi,” he called while signing off medication orders. “Have you seen Dr. Y/L/N?”

Javadi looked up so quickly, like she was a deer caught in headlights. “Uh… no,” she answered quickly. Too quickly. “I haven’t seen her since I left Leon. Sorry.”

Then she disappeared almost immediately toward another patient before he could ask anything else.

He pushed himself upright from the workstation, the familiar ache radiating faintly through his prosthetic. Long shifts always made it worse. The socket rubbed raw after enough hours on his feet, especially during busy trauma nights when he barely sat down.

Normally he ignored it.

Right now he barely felt it at all.

“Dana,” he called, already moving toward the nurses’ station. “Have you seen Y/N?”

Dana barely looked up from the chart she was reviewing. “Pretty sure she’s still with Leon. Why?”

Jack turned the iPad slightly toward her. “They haven’t gone to CT.”

That got her attention.

Her eyes flicked quickly toward the tracking board before settling back on him. “They’re probably backed up upstairs.”

“Maybe.”

But something still felt wrong.

Dana sighed softly. “Jack, she’s a big girl. She can handle herself.”

He knew that.

God, he knew that better than anybody.

You were one of the strongest people he had ever met. Smarter than most attendings twice your age. Calm during trauma activations that made residents freeze completely. You handled combative patients, pediatric codes, catastrophic MVCs, and grieving families with a steadiness that still amazed him after all these years.

But that feeling in his chest would not go away.

Dana pointed down the hallway. “I actually need you in Central Fourteen. Chest pain rule-out and Dr. Garcia wants another set of eyes before she calls cards.”

Jack exhaled through his nose, still staring at the tracking board.

“Right,” he muttered distractedly. “Yeah. Okay.”

He turned reluctantly toward the direction of Central Fourteen, adjusting his pace automatically as the prosthetic clicked softly against tile beneath his scrub pants. Fatigue had settled deep into the joint hours ago, making his gait slightly uneven now that the adrenaline from earlier trauma activations had worn off.

Then he heard it.

“HULA HOOP!”

Everything in his body stopped instantly.

The voice was barely recognizable.

Raw. Ragged. Strangled around obvious pain and panic in a way that made every hair on the back of his neck stand upright immediately. For one horrible second his brain refused to process it properly because it did not make sense. Not your voice. Not like that.

And then recognition hit him all at once.

The hospital safe word.

Trauma Two.

Jack’s heart dropped so violently it almost hurt.

No.

The thought hit him before anything else.

No no no.

Adrenaline detonated through his bloodstream hard enough to make him dizzy.

Then instinct took over completely.

“No,” he breathed aloud, already moving before the word fully left his mouth.

He pivoted so sharply pain shot violently through his prosthetic, the sudden turn grinding pressure through the socket hard enough that under normal circumstances it would have staggered him. But right now he barely felt it beneath the sheer overwhelming panic flooding his system.

Fear swallowed everything else whole.

Not the controlled fear he knew from trauma medicine. Not the clinical kind that sharpened your focus during codes and mass casualty calls.

This was different.

This was personal.

Jack shoved past a stretcher hard enough that the wheels screeched across tile while people all around him started reacting at the exact same time. Nurses turned toward Trauma Two instantly at the sound of the safe word. Dana’s head snapped upward from the nurses’ station. Santos was already running before half the department fully understood what was happening.

But Jack got there first.

The curtain outside Trauma Two jerked violently as shouting erupted from inside the room. Monitors screamed overhead loud enough to echo through the entire department while equipment crashed hard against the floor somewhere beyond the drapes.

“Get him off her!”

The words barely registered through the roaring in Jack’s ears.

His pulse was so loud now it drowned everything else out.

He hit the doorway hard enough that the curtain ripped halfway off the track as he shoved inside.

And then he saw you.

Lying on the floor.

Motionless.

For one horrifying second his brain simply stopped functioning.

You were crumpled unnaturally against the tile beside the cabinets, one arm twisted wrong beneath you while blood streaked across the side of your face from where your head had struck something hard enough to split skin open. Jack noticed everything all at once in the brutal hyperclarity trauma doctors developed after years in emergency medicine.

The bruising already forming around your throat.

The abnormal angle of your shoulder.

The way your chest barely moved.

And somehow that was the part that terrified him most.

You were not moving enough.

Leon was still screaming somewhere nearby while Ahmed and two nurses fought to restrain him against the opposite wall, his face wild with postictal confusion and terror. Somebody was yelling for sedation meds. The entire trauma bay had dissolved into complete chaos.

But Jack barely registered any of it.

Because you were on the floor.

And you were not getting up.

Something inside his chest seemed to cave inward violently.

“Oh, honey.”

Then he said your name, and the sound that came out barely resembled the steady, composed voice Jack used during traumas and codes and every impossible shift the hospital threw at him.

This was different.

There was no clinical calm left in him now.

Only fear.

Pure terrified fear.

He dropped beside you so fast pain tore sharply through his prosthetic as his knee hit tile, but he ignored it instantly. His hands shook hard enough he almost missed your carotid pulse the first time he checked.

Then finally.

There. Weak, but there.

Relief hit so hard it almost made him nauseous.

“Oh my God,” he whispered shakily, one bloodstained hand cradling the side of your face carefully while the other pressed against your neck searching for injuries. “Hey. Hey, stay with me. Come on.”

You did not respond.

Jack’s stomach turned violently.

Training forced itself back online in fragmented pieces despite the panic threatening to choke him alive. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. Neuro. He assessed automatically even while his brain screamed at him that this was you beneath his hands.

Not a patient.

You.

Blood pressure crash from trauma? Concussion? Cervical injury? Shoulder dislocation? Fracture? Internal bleed?

His eyes flicked instantly toward your throat again and rage flooded him so suddenly it nearly stole his breath.

Finger-shaped bruises were already darkening against your skin.

He hurt you.

The realization nearly made Jack physically sick.

“Jack,” Dana’s voice cut sharply through the chaos as she dropped beside him. “We need to move.”

But Jack could barely hear her.

Your eyelashes fluttered faintly for half a second before falling closed again and something inside him broke completely at the sight.

“No no no,” he whispered frantically, brushing damp hair away from your face with shaking fingers. “Stay awake. Baby, stay awake for me.”

His voice cracked hard on the last word.

That terrified him almost as much as the sight of you bleeding on the floor.

Because Jack Abbot did not lose composure.

Not during traumas, not during mass casualties, not while pronouncing deaths.

But right now panic was tearing straight through him so violently he could barely breathe around it.

And for the first time in years, he had absolutely no idea how to separate being a doctor from being the man who loved you.

“What the hell happened?”

Robby’s voice cut sharply through the chaos as he pushed into Trauma Two with Mohan directly behind him, but for half a second, both of them stopped cold.

The room looked catastrophic. Leon was still fighting violently against security near the far wall, his movements frantic and disorganized while Santos shouted for more sedation. Equipment littered the floor around the trauma bay, overturned trays and scattered supplies crunching beneath people’s shoes as alarms screamed overhead loudly enough to make the entire room feel claustrophobic.

And in the middle of all of it, you were lying motionless on the floor with Jack kneeling beside you.

Blood streaked down the side of your face and disappeared beneath the collar of his hoodie still hanging around your shoulders. Bruising had already started darkening visibly around your throat, ugly fingerprints blooming beneath the fluorescent trauma lights, while your left arm rested at an angle that made Mohan’s stomach immediately drop.

“Jesus Christ,” Mohan breathed.

“Security’s got the patient,” Dana snapped, already dropping beside you with Santos. “Probably postictal aggression after the seizure. He went after her.”

Robby moved instantly after that, years of trauma medicine overriding shock the second he reached your side. “Get her on a gurney now. C-spine precautions. Santos, I need vitals. Dana, page CT and tell them we’re coming immediately. Mohan, get me neuro and ortho on standby.”

Everybody moved except Jack.

He stayed frozen beside you on the tile floor, one hand still cradling the side of your face like he physically could not force himself to let go.

“Jack,” Robby said.

No response.

Jack was staring at you with an expression Robby had never seen on him before. Not panic exactly. Worse than panic. Helplessness, maybe, like his brain had short-circuited somewhere between doctor and boyfriend and now could not figure out how to function as either.

“Jack,” Robby repeated more firmly.

That finally seemed to pull him back enough to blink.

“She isn’t breathing right,” he said hoarsely, voice rough enough it barely sounded like him anymore. “He had her by the throat. Her head hit the cabinet, probably. Possible LOC. Shoulder’s definitely dislocated, maybe fractured too.”

The words came out clipped and automatic, pure trauma assessment forced through panic, but his hands were still shaking.

Dana and Santos carefully slid a backboard beneath you while Mohan cut away the remains of the hoodie around your shoulder to assess the injury better. The second the fabric moved, Jack saw the full extent of the bruising spreading across your throat, dark purple already beneath your skin.

“He squeezed hard enough to leave petechiae,” Santos muttered quietly while examining your neck. “Shit.”

Robby’s jaw tightened immediately. “We need airway monitoring. Neck trauma protocol.”

You stirred weakly then, letting out a broken sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper as Dana stabilized your shoulder. Jack moved instantly at the sound.

“Hey,” he said, voice softening so fast it almost hurt to hear. “Hey, don’t move. You’re okay.”

Your eyes fluttered halfway open for barely a second before unfocusing again.

“She’s awake,” Jack breathed.

“For now,” Robby answered grimly while checking your pupils with a penlight. “Possible concussion. We’re not ruling anything out yet.”

Jack knew that tone. It was the same one they all used when things might be much worse than they looked initially.

Around them, the room was finally beginning to settle into controlled chaos instead of outright panic. Security had Leon restrained now while Santos pushed sedatives through an IV line with tight, controlled movements. Leon’s terrified shouting dissolved into confused, exhausted mumbling as the medication began taking effect.

“He didn’t know what he was doing,” Mohan said quietly, mostly to fill the horrible silence hanging over the room.

Jack did not answer. Rationally, he already knew that. Postictal aggression, neurological confusion, severe agitation after seizure activity. They had all seen it before. But none of it mattered right now, because every time Jack blinked, he saw your body hitting the floor again.

“On my count,” Santos said firmly while positioning herself near your head. “One, two, three.”

They lifted you carefully onto the gurney, and the second they moved your shoulder, a sharp cry tore from your throat despite your barely conscious state.

Jack physically flinched.

Robby looked at him immediately. “Jack, I need you with me here.”

But Jack still looked frozen. His prosthetic locked slightly as he stood too quickly, pain shooting sharply through the joint while exhaustion and adrenaline crashed violently together inside his body. Normally, he compensated automatically for it. Years of physical therapy had taught him exactly how to move through pain without thinking.

Right now, he barely noticed it. All he could see was you strapped to a trauma gurney instead of standing beside one, and somehow that felt profoundly wrong in a way his brain could not fully process yet.

Dana squeezed his arm briefly as she passed him. “She’s alive,” she said quietly, firmly enough that it sounded almost like an order. “So stay with us.”

Jack swallowed hard, then finally nodded once.

The second the gurney locked into place beside the trauma bed, the room shifted fully into trauma mode. Controlled chaos. Fast hands. Sharply clipped orders. Monitor alarms blending into the constant noise of the ER outside while everybody moved around you with the kind of practiced coordination that only came from years of emergency medicine.

“BP dropping,” Santos called from the monitor station. “Ninety-two over fifty-six. Heart rate one-forty. Pulse ox ninety-four.”

Robby swore quietly under his breath before stepping beside the gurney. “Dana, I need another large bore IV. CBC, CMP, coags, type and screen, lactate. Full trauma panel.”

Dana was already moving before he finished speaking.

Mohan carefully stabilized your cervical spine while Perlah adjusted the collar more securely around your neck. Blood stained the side of your face now, dark against pale skin beneath the fluorescent trauma lights, while bruising continued spreading visibly across your throat.

“She’s tachycardic from pain and adrenaline,” Mohan said quickly while palpating carefully along your ribs and clavicle. “Left shoulder deformity obvious. Could be anterior dislocation, maybe proximal humerus fracture too.”

“She hit hard,” Dana added grimly while cutting away the sleeve of your scrub top completely. “Look at the swelling already, poor baby.”

Jack forced himself closer finally, though every instinct in his body screamed at him to stop looking entirely.

Your shoulder looked wrong. Not subtly wrong, catastrophically wrong. The joint sat visibly displaced beneath skin already darkening with bruising while your arm rested protectively against your torso in unconscious guarding. Even barely responsive, your body was trying to protect the injury.

“Y/N?” Robby called firmly while shining the penlight into your eyes again. “Hey, stay with me.”

Your eyelids fluttered weakly, and your lips parted slightly before a small broken sound escaped you, more pain than words.

“There you go,” Dana said softly. “That’s good, hey sweetie.”

“She’s responsive,” Mohan confirmed. “Pupils reactive bilaterally.”

“Any obvious neuro deficits?”

“Hard to assess until she’s more alert.”

Jack swallowed hard. Normally those words would have sounded clinical. Routine. Hearing them about you made him feel sick.

Robby’s fingers moved carefully along your scalp before stopping near the back of your head. “She’s got a laceration here. Probably where she hit the cabinet.”

“How bad?” Jack asked immediately.

Robby looked up briefly. “Needs staples. I’m more concerned about intracranial bleed.”

Jack felt the room narrow sharply around him as his brain supplied every possibility instantly. Subdural. Epidural. Contusion. Diffuse axonal injury. Years of trauma medicine suddenly felt less like a skill and more like torture because now he knew exactly how bad this could become.

“BP’s still dropping,” Santos called sharply.

“Hang another liter.”

Dana connected fluids immediately while Mohan checked your abdomen carefully for rigidity and tenderness.

“She guarding?”

“Little bit.”

“Could just be pain response.”

“Or internal injury,” Robby answered grimly.

Jack closed his eyes briefly. Only twenty minutes ago, he had been teasing you for refusing to change out of wet scrubs. Twenty minutes ago, you had been standing beside him alive and exhausted and rolling your eyes at him. Now you were strapped to a trauma gurney while your coworkers discussed possible brain bleeds.

The trauma bay doors pushed open again.

“What do we have?”

Garcia entered already pulling gloves on, clearly expecting another routine consult before her eyes landed on the gurney. Then she froze.

“Is that...?”

Nobody answered immediately because suddenly saying it aloud made everything feel horrifyingly real.

Garcia moved closer automatically, surgical instincts taking over even while shock still flickered visibly across her face. Her eyes swept quickly across your injuries, taking in the bruising around your throat, the unstable shoulder, and the blood matted into your hair.

“Oh my God.”

Jack looked away sharply at the sound in her voice. He could handle panic, trauma, blood, failed resuscitations, and catastrophic injuries. But he could not handle hearing pity directed at you.

“What happened?” Garcia asked quietly.

“Postictal assault,” Robby answered while reviewing your vitals. “Patient seized after MVC. Became combative during recovery.”

Garcia’s jaw tightened immediately. Her eyes flicked briefly toward Jack, and somehow that made everything worse. Everybody in the hospital knew about the two of you. Not because either of you talked about it much, but because some things became obvious after enough years working together. The way Jack unconsciously searched for you in crowded rooms. The way your voice softened around him even during impossible shifts. The way both of you somehow always ended up side by side during difficult traumas without discussing it first.

And now everybody was watching him try not to fall apart while you lay bleeding in front of him.

“Y/N,” Garcia said gently while stepping closer to assess your airway. “Can you hear me?”

Your brow twitched faintly at the sound of your name.

“Good,” she murmured softly. “Stay with us.”

Jack finally moved closer again until he stood directly beside the gurney. For a second, he just stared at you. Really stared. At the bruises darkening beneath your jaw, at the trembling rise and fall of your breathing, at the blood drying against your temple.

Then very carefully, he reached down and took your hand.

Your fingers twitched weakly against his palm almost immediately.

Tiny movement. Huge relief.

“Okay,” Robby said firmly, forcing the room back into focus. “Let’s move. I want CT angio head and neck immediately. We’re ruling out intracranial bleed and carotid injury.”

Garcia nodded once beside him, already assessing your airway with practiced hands. “Neck swelling’s getting worse.”

Jack saw it too now that she said it aloud. The bruising around your throat had spread darker beneath the fluorescent lights while swelling gathered visibly beneath your jawline. Every breath you took sounded wrong now. Wet. Shallow. Strained enough to make every survival instinct in his body start screaming.

“Pulse ox is dipping,” Santos called sharply. “Ninety-one.”

“Jaw thrust,” Garcia ordered immediately.

Dana repositioned carefully at your head while Garcia leaned closer, studying the bruising around your airway with growing concern. “She may need to be intubated before CT if the swelling progresses.”

The word hit Jack like a physical blow. Intubated. His brain immediately supplied images he did not want. Ventilator settings. Sedation drips. ICU monitors. Neurological checks every hour.

“No,” he said automatically before he could stop himself.

Everybody looked at him.

Jack swallowed hard immediately, realizing too late he had said it aloud.

Robby’s expression softened slightly. “Jack.”

He hated the way Robby said his name right now. Carefully. Like he was one bad second away from falling apart completely.

“I know,” Jack muttered quickly, dragging a shaky hand down his face. “I know.”

But he didn’t. Not really. Because his brain kept splitting violently between two impossible realities. One side of him catalogued injuries automatically. Airway trauma after strangulation. Possible cervical instability. Hypoxia. Concussion. Internal bleeding. Shoulder fracture-dislocation. The other side could barely process the fact that you were lying here at all.

Your breathing suddenly hitched sharply.

Jack’s head snapped toward you instantly.

Your eyes fluttered weakly before opening. Confusion crossed your face immediately while you tried weakly to move, but pain flashed across your expression so fast it made Jack physically tense.

“Don’t,” he said immediately, stepping closer. “Baby, don’t move.”

Your gaze drifted slowly around the trauma bay like you were trying to understand where you were. The bright lights. The people surrounding you. The monitors beeping overhead. Then finally, your eyes landed on Jack.

Relief flickered there instantly. Small. Barely there. Enough to nearly destroy him.

“Hey,” he said softly, gripping your hand tighter without realizing it. “Hey, I’m right here.”

Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came out at first except a weak breath.

Jack leaned closer immediately. “What?”

Your brow pinched faintly in confusion.

“...Leon?”

The room went quiet for half a second.

Even now, barely conscious and injured and terrified, your first instinct was still the patient. Something inside Jack cracked painfully at that.

“He’s restrained,” Robby answered gently before Jack could. “You’re safe.”

Your eyes shifted again, slower this time.

“Hurts,” you whispered faintly.

Jack looked immediately toward your shoulder. “I know,” he said quietly, voice finally cracking despite how hard he tried to control it. “I know, sweetheart.”

Garcia’s eyes flicked sharply toward him at the sound. Jack almost never lost composure at work. Not like this.

You tried to swallow and immediately winced.

Garcia noticed too. “Throat pain?”

A tiny nod.

“Difficulty breathing?”

Another weak nod.

Garcia looked immediately toward Robby. “Airway’s worsening.”

Robby swore quietly under his breath. “We tube here or risk losing it in CT.”

The room shifted instantly again. More movement. More urgency. Dana reached for airway equipment while Santos prepared sedation meds with visibly tighter movements now. Mohan adjusted oxygen flow quickly while Garcia moved toward the head of the bed.

Jack felt suddenly frozen all over again.

Your eyes moved back toward him weakly, panic beginning to flicker beneath the pain now that you were awake enough to understand pieces of the conversation around you.

“Jack,” you whispered hoarsely.

His chest tightened violently. “I’m here.”

Your fingers curled weakly against his hand.

“Don’t...” Your breathing hitched painfully. “Don’t leave.”

That finally broke him.

Because you sounded scared. You, the person who stayed calm during pediatric arrests and mass casualty incidents and catastrophic traumas that made residents physically sick afterward.

Jack leaned down immediately, pressing his forehead briefly against yours despite the blood and chaos surrounding both of you. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered shakily. “Okay? I’m right here.”

Then your heart rate spiked sharply.

“One-fifty,” Santos warned.

Your oxygen dipped again.

“Eighty-eight.”

Garcia looked up instantly. “That’s it. We’re securing the airway.”

Panic flashed visibly across your face, and Jack felt your hand tighten weakly around his.

“Hey,” he said immediately, brushing damp hair carefully away from your forehead. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

Your unfocused eyes found his again.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, even though his own heart was pounding hard enough to make him nauseous. “Just keep breathing for me.”

Garcia stepped beside him carefully. “Jack,” she said quietly. “I need room.”

And suddenly he realized there was nothing else he could do. No medication to order. No procedure capable of fixing this himself. No trauma protocol separating him from the overwhelming terror flooding his chest.

All he could do was let go of your hand and watch other people try to save you, and somehow that felt worse than anything he had seen in his entire career.

And somehow that felt infinitely worse than any injury he had seen in his entire career.

The intubation blurred together afterward in fragments Jack knew would probably stay with him for the rest of his life.

Garcia’s voice turned sharp and clinical the second she stepped fully into procedure mode. “Etomidate ready?”

“Ready.”

“Succinylcholine?”

“Ready.”

“Pulse ox?”

“Eighty-seven and dropping.”

The room moved quickly around you after that. Packaging tore open, monitors screamed softly overhead, and Santos pushed medications through your IV with controlled precision while Dana stabilized your cervical spine at the head of the bed.

Jack stood rooted beside the wall, feeling completely fucking useless.

He had watched hundreds of intubations in his career. He had performed them himself during impossible traumas, with blood filling airways and families screaming outside the room. Usually, the procedure grounded him. Medicine always grounded him because medicine made sense. Algorithms. Protocols. Airway, breathing, circulation. Find the problem and fix it.

But this was you, and suddenly none of it felt clinical anymore.

Your eyes found his one last time before the sedatives fully took effect. Fear still flickered there beneath the exhaustion and pain, but so did trust. Complete trust. The kind that made his chest ache violently because you were still looking at him like he could somehow fix this.

Then your body relaxed beneath the medication.

Garcia moved immediately. “Going in.”

The room fell quieter for a second except for the ventilator alarms and the sound of Jack’s own pulse hammering violently in his ears. He watched Garcia guide the laryngoscope carefully while Robby monitored your vitals from beside the bed.

“Visualized.”

“Tube.”

“Advancing.”

Jack swallowed hard enough that it hurt.

You looked so small suddenly. That was the thought that kept repeating in his head while he stared at your motionless body beneath trauma lights that suddenly felt much too bright. You had always seemed larger than life somehow. Loud when you wanted to be. Brilliant. Sharp-edged. Impossible to intimidate. The kind of doctor residents followed instinctively because even during disasters, you carried yourself like you could handle anything thrown at you.

Now you were lying completely still while somebody else breathed for you.

“Tube’s in,” Garcia confirmed.

Relief swept through the room instantly, subtle but collective.

“End tidal color change confirmed.”

“Breath sounds bilateral.”

“Secure it.”

Dana taped the ET tube carefully into place while the ventilator connected with a soft mechanical hiss. Your chest finally began rising in slow, controlled breaths afterward, steady and artificial and horrifyingly impersonal.

Jack hated the sound immediately.

The ventilator transformed you from injured into critical in a way his brain could no longer avoid.

Robby was already moving again. “Okay, we transport now. I want CTA head and neck, cervical spine imaging, chest CT, trauma series. Somebody call ortho and tell them she’s likely got a fracture-dislocation.”

“She’s still hypotensive,” Santos warned while adjusting fluids.

“Pressure?”

“Ninety systolic.”

“Hang another liter.”

Everything continued moving around him after that, but Jack could barely process any of it fully anymore. The room had narrowed into snapshots burned violently into his memory. Blood staining the collar of your scrub top. Finger-shaped bruises spreading darker around your throat. Your hand slipping weakly from his when they rolled the gurney toward the doors.

He followed automatically beside the bed while they rushed you toward imaging. His prosthetic protested immediately beneath the sudden pace, sharp pain radiating through the socket with every uneven step, but he barely registered it now. His entire body had narrowed itself into one singular instinct.

Stay close. Do not lose sight of her.

Hallway lights blurred overhead while the gurney rattled violently across tile. Nurses moved aside instantly when they recognized who was lying on the stretcher, and somehow that silence hurt worse than panic would have.

People stopped talking when they saw you.

A respiratory therapist physically froze near the elevators before whispering, “Oh my God.”

Jack looked away immediately. He could not handle watching other people realize how bad this was.

Then suddenly, he was left standing alone in the hallway.

The silence hit him all at once.

He stared numbly at the closed doors for several long seconds before finally turning back toward Trauma Two because he genuinely did not know what else to do with himself.

By the time he returned, the room was mostly empty again. The chaos was over. Only the aftermath remained.

One overturned tray still sat abandoned near the wall where it had been kicked over during the struggle. Wrappers and syringes littered the floor beside shattered plastic packaging while a monitor continued beeping pointlessly beside an empty bed.

And blood.

Your blood was still everywhere.

Jack stopped walking.

For a second he just stood there staring at it. Tiny streaks across the tile floor. Smears against the cabinets where your head had hit. Dark fingerprints dried against the bedrail.

His stomach twisted so violently he thought he might actually throw up.

Because the only thing left of you in this room now was blood.

Not your laugh echoing across the nurses’ station during overnight shifts. Not your sarcasm when Santos annoyed you on purpose. Not the warmth of your body curled against his after impossible shifts when both of you were too exhausted to even speak properly anymore.

Just blood.

Jack looked down slowly at his own hands. There was still dried blood caught beneath his fingernails from where he had held your face trying to keep you conscious. More stained the sleeves of his scrub top in dark rust-colored smears that made his chest tighten painfully every time he looked at them.

You were intubated upstairs while trauma surgeons searched your brain for bleeding.

The thought cracked something open inside him.

If he had stayed. If he had trusted his instincts. If he had checked sooner.

“Jack.”

Dana’s voice came softly from the doorway behind him.

He did not turn around immediately. For a second, neither of them spoke while she took in the scene around him. Dana had worked in emergency medicine long enough to understand what trauma aftermath looked like, not just physically, but emotionally too.

Jack looked wrecked. Not outwardly hysterical. That almost would have been easier. Instead, he looked hollowed out from the inside.

“You should sit down,” she said gently.

“I’m fine.”

The answer came automatically, immediate and empty.

Dana almost sighed because they both knew it was complete bullshit. She stepped further into the room slowly, careful with him now in the same way people approached trauma patients who had not realized how badly they were injured yet.

“You’re shaking.”

His hands were trembling badly now that the adrenaline had started wearing off, small uncontrollable tremors moving through his fingers no matter how tightly he clenched them into fists.

“I left her,” he said quietly.

Dana’s expression softened immediately. “Jack.”

“I left her alone with him.”

The guilt in his voice nearly hurt to hear.

Dana moved closer. “You could not have predicted postictal aggression escalating like that.”

“But I should’ve checked sooner.”

Jack laughed once under his breath, but there was absolutely no humor in it. Just panic and exhaustion and guilt twisting together so tightly he could barely breathe around it anymore.

“She sounded scared,” he whispered roughly. “Do you know how bad it has to be for her to sound scared?”

Dana’s chest tightened painfully because she did know. Everybody in that hospital knew how terrifyingly calm you usually were under pressure. You were the person comforting other people during disasters. The doctor residents looked for during bad traumas because your voice never shook.

But tonight it had.

Dana stepped directly in front of him then and reached up without hesitation, gripping the back of his neck firmly enough to ground him.

“Listen to me,” she said softly but seriously. “She is alive.”

Jack swallowed hard. “She squeezed my hand before CT.”

“Then hold onto that.”

His eyes burned immediately at the words.

For a second, he looked terrifyingly close to falling apart completely.

“She was looking at me like she thought she was dying.”

Dana’s face crumpled slightly at the crack in his voice because Jack Abbot almost never sounded fragile. Not after everything life had already put him through.

But this was different.

This was you.

“You know her,” Dana said quietly. “You know how hard she fights.”

Jack closed his eyes briefly because somehow that made this hurt even worse. He did know. He knew the exact stubborn determination living inside you, the way you worked through exhaustion and grief and pain because your body physically did not know how to stop caring about people.

And suddenly, the idea of losing you felt so catastrophic he genuinely could not imagine surviving it.

When you woke up, the first thing you felt was pain.

Not sharp at first. Not localized enough to understand. Just heavy.

A crushing ache spread through your entire body like every bone had shattered somewhere deep beneath your skin. Awareness dragged itself slowly upward through layers of medication and exhaustion while fluorescent hospital light glowed faintly red through your eyelids. For one blissfully empty second, your brain stayed blank enough that you did not remember anything at all.

Then your chest tightened violently around the ventilator tube lodged in your throat.

Panic hit instantly.

Your eyes snapped open as your body reacted on pure instinct, trying desperately to fight the foreign object forcing air into your lungs. The movement sent agony ripping through your throat and jaw so violently it nearly knocked you unconscious again. A horrible choking sound escaped around the tube while pain exploded across the side of your head hard enough to blur your vision immediately.

The monitors beside your bed erupted into sharp alarms.

Then suddenly Jack was there.

He moved so quickly the chair beside your ICU bed nearly tipped backward onto the floor. One second the room felt empty and terrifying and unfamiliar, and the next his hands were hovering carefully near your face like he wanted to touch you everywhere at once but was terrified of hurting you more.

“Hey, hey, don’t fight it,” he said immediately, voice low and urgent. “You’re okay. Breathe with it.”

You could see his mouth moving. Could see panic written all over his face.

But you could not hear him properly.

Everything sounded distorted beneath the ringing in your ears, voices muffled and warped together like you were trapped underwater. The ventilator hissed rhythmically beside you while your chest rose mechanically against your will, and the sensation was horrifying enough to send another wave of panic crashing violently through your body.

Jack kept talking anyway.

You recognized the cadence of his voice more than the words themselves. Calm. Steady. But underneath it there was something rawer now, something desperate he usually hid much better than this.

Your entire body hurt.

Your throat burned every time the ventilator pushed another breath into your lungs. Your jaw ached violently from the intubation while your left shoulder throbbed with deep nauseating pain that radiated all the way down your arm. Even breathing hurt despite the machine doing most of the work for you.

Then memory came back all at once.

The trauma bay. Leon seizing. Hands crushing around your throat. Your head slamming violently against the cabinet. The floor.

You started crying before you even realized it was happening.

Tears slipped silently sideways into your hair while panic clawed straight up your chest hard enough to blur your vision again. You could not stop shaking. Every instinct in your body still screamed danger even though logically you knew you were safe now.

Jack’s entire expression broke the second he realized you were crying.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered hoarsely.

At least you thought that was what he said.

He sat carefully on the edge of the chair beside your bed before reaching for your hand, avoiding IV lines and bruises with practiced gentleness. The second his fingers touched yours, you grabbed onto him desperately enough that pain shot violently through your injured shoulder again.

You did not care.

Jack was here.

And somehow that meant alive. Safe.

Your grip tightened harder around his hand while your breathing turned ragged around the tube again. Jack immediately leaned closer, his thumb brushing shakily across your knuckles while he tried to calm you before you exhausted yourself further.

“It’s okay,” he murmured softly. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Only then did you really look at him.

And God.

He looked awful.

Dark bruising sat beneath his eyes like he had not slept once since this happened. His hair looked messy in a way that suggested he had spent hours dragging anxious hands through it, and there was something hollowed out in his expression now that made your chest tighten painfully.

You mouthed the question anyway despite the ventilator.

What happened to you?

Jack watched your lips carefully before understanding finally crossed his face. His throat worked once visibly while emotion flashed so openly across his expression it almost scared you more than the pain itself.

He still looked terrified.

Even now.

Instead of speaking, he carefully turned your hand over in his and began tracing slow letters against your palm with his thumb.

Patient attacked you.

The memory crashed back completely after that.

The pressure around your throat. Leon’s empty unfocused eyes. Your body hitting the wall. The terrifying realization that he genuinely did not recognize you anymore.

You jerked violently on instinct before you could stop yourself, panic surging through your bloodstream so fast your vision blurred instantly while the cardiac monitor erupted into another wave of alarms beside the bed.

Jack reacted immediately.

“Hey, hey, look at me.”

You could not fully hear the words, but you knew his voice. Knew the shape of it. The desperation underneath it.

Your breathing turned frantic around the ventilator while terror clawed violently through your chest again. You remembered thinking you were going to die. Not abstractly. Not distantly.

Really die.

And for one horrifying second, lying in this ICU bed unable to speak or breathe on your own, that feeling came rushing back all over again.

Jack kept one hand wrapped tightly around yours while the other hovered uncertainly near your face. He looked like he wanted to pull you against him and protect you from everything all at once but knew touching you too much would only hurt you further.

“You’re safe now,” he kept saying quietly. “He can’t hurt you. You’re safe.”

Safe.

Your eyes darted weakly around the ICU room instead. Machines. IV poles. Bandages. Your leg elevated and immobilized beneath blankets. Soft restraints loosely secured around your wrists so you would not accidentally pull the ventilator tube out while disoriented.

You felt trapped inside your own body.

The panic became unbearable.

Then your eyes landed on the PCA pump beside the bed.

Jack noticed immediately.

His entire face fell.

“Baby…”

You reached weakly toward the button anyway with trembling fingers.

Jack looked absolutely shattered watching you press it. Not angry. Not disappointed.

Heartbroken.

Because he understood immediately what you were doing.

You could not stop the fear. Could not stop the pain.

So you were choosing unconsciousness instead.

Medication flooded slowly through your bloodstream almost immediately afterward. Warmth spread outward in gradual waves, softening the sharp edges of panic first before the pain finally began loosening its grip around your body. The terror still lingered somewhere deep beneath everything else, but it no longer felt sharp enough to suffocate you alive.

Your grip weakened slightly around Jack’s hand as exhaustion dragged heavily at your eyelids again.

Jack stayed exactly where he was.

You could barely keep your eyes open anymore, but you still saw the way he looked at you while the medication slowly pulled you back under.

Completely devastated.

Like watching you choose sedation over consciousness hurt him almost as much as the attack itself.

Your fingers twitched weakly against his palm before your eyes finally slipped closed again.

The last thing you felt before unconsciousness dragged you under completely was Jack lifting your hand carefully toward his mouth and pressing one shaking kiss against your bruised knuckles.

The second time you woke up was somehow worse because this time you stayed conscious long enough to understand what had happened to you.

Pain existed everywhere now.

Not sharp anymore. Not even severe enough in one specific place to focus on. It had settled deeper than that, heavy and constant, wrapping itself around your entire body until even breathing felt exhausting. Every inhale pulled painfully against bruised ribs while your jaw throbbed in slow aching pulses that spread all the way into your skull. The medication dulled the edges enough to keep panic from swallowing you whole again, but not enough to make you forget.

Nothing let you forget for very long.

Garcia stood beside your ICU bed when your eyes finally opened again, flashlight moving carefully across your pupils while monitors hummed steadily around the room. The overhead lights had been dimmed sometime while you slept, leaving everything washed in pale blue-gray shadows that made the hospital feel strangely unreal.

“Hey,” Garcia said softly the second she noticed you were awake. “Welcome back.”

Your hearing still came and went in fractured bursts after the concussion. Some sounds arrived painfully sharp while others disappeared completely beneath the relentless ringing inside your ears. Voices felt warped and distant, like everybody speaking stood underwater somewhere far away from you.

You blinked slowly toward the doorway and spotted Santos hovering there awkwardly holding a bouquet of flowers that looked aggressively stolen from the hospital gift shop. Half the stems bent sideways beneath crinkled plastic wrap while one of the price tags still dangled visibly from the bouquet.

You stared at them for a second before a weak breath of laughter escaped you despite the pain immediately punishing the movement.

Santos looked so relieved at the sound she nearly seemed close to crying herself.

“You scared the absolute shit out of us,” she said quickly, like humor was the only thing keeping her from saying something genuinely emotional instead.

The ghost of a smile tugged weakly at your mouth.

Garcia stepped back after finishing the neuro assessment while Santos moved a little closer to the bed, still clutching the flowers awkwardly against her chest.

“Abbott threatened like six people,” she muttered after clearing her throat.

Your eyes shifted toward her slowly.

“He almost went through security trying to get back to Leon.”

Your stomach twisted instantly.

Leon.

For one horrible second you saw him again exactly as he looked before the attack happened. Pale and exhausted beneath ambulance lights while rain hammered against the windows around both of you. Laughing weakly through pain. Asking if you were always that calm. Looking at you like you were safe.

You swallowed hard against the sudden nausea crawling into your throat.

“What happened to him?” you asked quietly, each word dragging painfully through the ache in your fractured jaw.

Santos’ expression changed immediately. The sarcasm disappeared first. Then the humor.

“He’s okay,” she answered after a moment, voice softer now. “Physically, I mean.”

You closed your eyes briefly.

Santos hesitated before continuing more carefully. “He doesn’t remember anything after the seizure started. Robby thinks it’s the postictal state mixed with the head trauma.”

The room fell quiet after that.

Not awkward quiet.

Heavy quiet.

The kind that settled directly into your ribs and stayed there.

Because the worst part was that you believed her completely.

You knew exactly what postictal violence looked like. You understood the neurological confusion, the blind panic, the total loss of recognition that sometimes followed severe seizures. Rationally and medically, every part of your brain understood exactly what had happened inside Trauma Two.

But emotionally, it still hurt in ways you did not know how to untangle yet.

A strange grief wrapped itself around the fear sitting inside your chest because less than an hour before the attack, Leon had been sitting beside you in the back of an ambulance talking about his daughter and his wife and soccer games and stupid jokes while rain pounded against the windows. You remembered thinking he seemed kind, the sort of patient who apologized too much for being in pain.

You had liked him.

And then suddenly he became the person who nearly killed you.

Emergency medicine was cruel like that sometimes. One second somebody was human to you. The next they became trauma.

Santos stepped closer quietly before squeezing your foot gently through the blanket. “We’ll come back later, okay?”

You nodded weakly.

After they left, the ICU room felt unbearably quiet again. Machines hummed softly around you while rain tapped faintly against distant windows somewhere beyond the hallway. Pittsburgh looked gray outside the narrow ICU window, the city blurred beneath another storm rolling slowly across the skyline.

You drifted in and out for hours after that.

Sometimes nurses came in to check vitals and neuro responses. Sometimes transport arrived to wheel you toward imaging. Sometimes you only woke long enough to register pain before medication dragged you under again.

Then sometime deep into the night, consciousness returned slowly enough that you realized somebody was sitting beside your bed.

Jack.

At first you thought he was asleep.

His head rested bowed carefully against your hand where it lay on top of the blanket, broad shoulders slumped forward like exhaustion had physically crushed him downward into the chair. The dim ICU lighting softened the edges of him enough that for one brief second he looked strangely fragile.

Then you noticed he was shaking.

Your heart cracked instantly.

Jack was crying.

Quietly. Almost silently. But hard enough that his shoulders trembled every few seconds beneath the dim blue ICU lights.

The sight hurt worse than any fracture in your body.

You had seen Jack exhausted before. Angry. Burned out after impossible shifts and mass casualty nights and pediatric codes that left entire departments emotionally gutted afterward.

But you had never seen him like this.

Very slowly, ignoring the pain shooting through your ribs and shoulder, you lifted your fingers weakly toward his hair.

The movement alone was enough.

Jack lifted his head immediately.

His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed beneath exhaustion so deep it looked painful. There was stubble shadowing his jaw now like he had not even thought about himself since this happened, and the healing cut near his cheekbone stood out harshly beneath fluorescent light.

Destroyed.

That was the only word your exhausted brain could find for the way he looked.

Jack Abbott was always the steady one. The person everybody else leaned on during disasters because he never seemed to break no matter how catastrophic things became around him.

Until now.

“I should’ve stayed.”

The words came out rough enough they barely sounded like him at all. Raw. Torn open somewhere deep inside.

You frowned weakly despite the pain. “No.”

“I knew something was wrong.”

“You couldn’t know.”

“I did.”

Jack stood abruptly then, pacing once across the small ICU room before turning back toward you like he physically could not force himself to stay still anymore. His prosthetic clicked sharply against the tile beneath his scrub pants while one trembling hand dragged hard through his hair again.

“I left you alone in there.”

“Jack.”

His face crumpled so suddenly it stole what little breath your bruised ribs could manage.

“When they pulled him off you...” His voice broke completely for one horrible second before he forced himself to continue anyway. “You weren’t moving.”

Your own eyes filled instantly.

Jack pressed shaking fingers hard against his mouth, trying desperately to regain control of himself and failing anyway.

“There was so much blood,” he whispered finally.

The confession hollowed the entire room out around both of you.

You reached toward him carefully despite the pain.

Jack moved back to your bedside immediately this time, like he physically could not tolerate distance from you anymore, and leaned down slowly until his forehead rested carefully against yours.

For a long time neither of you spoke.

Machines hummed softly around the room while rain tapped gently against the windows again. Jack’s breathing still shook every few seconds no matter how hard he tried controlling it, and you realized with sudden aching clarity that he had been holding himself together by force ever since the attack happened.

Probably for everyone else.

For the department.

For you.

Until now.

Finally, through the ache in your jaw and throat, you whispered softly, “You saved me.”

Jack closed his eyes immediately like the words hurt almost as much as the memory itself.

For a long moment he did not say anything at all. His forehead stayed pressed carefully against yours while his breathing shook unevenly every few seconds, and you realized suddenly that he was trying very hard not to completely fall apart in front of you. The effort of it sat visibly in every tense line of his body, in the way his fingers curled tightly around yours like letting go might physically destroy him, in the way his shoulders remained rigid even now like some part of him still expected another disaster to happen the second he stopped bracing for it.

“You almost died.”

The words came out so quietly you nearly missed them beneath the hum of machines surrounding both of you.

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you again, and the expression on his face made something ache deep inside your chest because he looked terrified still.

Not panicked anymore. Not frantic.

Just deeply, genuinely terrified in a way you had never seen before.

“I couldn’t get to you fast enough,” he admitted roughly, eyes fixed on your face like he needed constant proof you were still here. “I heard the safe word and I ran, but by the time I got there...” His throat tightened visibly. “You were on the floor.”

You swallowed painfully.

Bits and pieces still came back in flashes more than complete memories. Leon’s hands around your throat. The cabinet slamming against the back of your skull. The overwhelming certainty that your body was beginning to give out beneath you.

Then Jack.

Your eyes drifted slowly across his face now, taking him in properly for the first time since waking up. The exhaustion. The fear. The sleepless hollowing beneath his eyes. He looked like somebody who had been surviving on adrenaline alone for far too long.

“You did get to me,” you whispered carefully.

Jack laughed once under his breath, but the sound cracked painfully in the middle. “Barely.”

“That’s not true.”

His jaw tightened immediately.

You knew that look. The same one he got after bad outcomes. After losses he carried around long after everybody else moved on. Jack had always been harder on himself than anyone else could ever be, especially when the people he loved were involved.

And God, he loved deeply.

Even when he pretended not to.

You shifted your hand weakly against his, ignoring the ache radiating through your shoulder and ribs.

“Jack.”

His eyes lifted back to yours instantly.

“I’m here.”

Something inside him seemed to break completely at those words.

Jack lowered his head again, pressing one trembling kiss carefully against your bruised knuckles before holding your hand against his chest. His heartbeat pounded hard and uneven beneath your fingers, fast enough that you could still feel the leftover adrenaline vibrating through him.

For a while neither of you spoke again.

The ICU remained dim and quiet around you while rain continued tapping softly against the windows outside. Nurses’ footsteps echoed faintly somewhere down the hallway, distant enough that it almost felt like the rest of the world existed somewhere very far away from this room.

Your eyelids had started growing heavy again by the time Jack finally spoke.

“You scared me,” he admitted quietly.

The confession sounded small somehow. Honest in a way that made your chest ache more than the injuries did.

You looked at him for a second before squeezing his hand as tightly as your exhausted body would allow.

“I know,” you whispered.

Jack nodded once, eyes never leaving your face.

Then very carefully, like he was handling something impossibly fragile, he leaned closer and pressed a kiss against your forehead while exhaustion slowly began pulling you back under again.

This time, when sleep finally took you, Jack’s hand never left yours.

You were like wind to his fire; you might amp it down or fuel it, but you were always there. Your snarky remarks and witty comebacks offered him the perfect challenge; he’d hit the jackpot. You two could joke and laugh without offence or insecurity, without late nights wondering if a joke had a hidden meaning behind it because you read each other effortlessly. He never thought he’d fall for a Slytherin, especially not one with a family like yours. 

You were part of the sacred twenty-eight and additionally were a very distant relative of Bellatrix Lestrange, Narcissa Malfoy, and Andromeda Tonks. They were your second or third aunts. Purebloods always married within their circle; people had complex relative histories. It even technically made you Draco’s distant cousin. The thought alone should’ve driven him away, but he wasn’t like that. Even if you were Bellatrix’s own daughter, he’d go up to you, because that’s how he is; what he does. He was fearless in a way that made one question whether it was rooted in stupidity, naivety, or maybe possible genius.

“Freddie,” you breathed, eyes soft with guilt. “I’m not sure I should, you know, your parents aren’t very fond of me,” you said softly.

It hurt you immensely that his parents had a distaste for you despite your best efforts. You saw it in the way Fred never showed you any letters his mother sent him unless he was sure you weren’t mentioned once in them. His mother wasn’t exactly subtle.

You couldn’t blame them for it, though a part of you was still bitter. Your family name was loud, your parents were sharp-tongued and prejudiced against anything that wasn’t a rich pureblood elitist. People heard your name and already drew conclusions that lingered; impressions of a cold-hearted, calculating, ruthless heir without empathy or tolerance. 

Because of these assumptions, no one bothered to disprove them, opting to avoid you instead. Everyone but Fred. People called it stupidity, a death wish. But all those whispers and anticipation of a hex hitting his chest were eliminated after you threw your head back in a cackle, not even ten minutes after he came up to you.

The image was broken as soon as your laughter was heard; saccharine and normal like any other girl in the castle. And just like that, people came up to you more, returned smiles in the hallways, and didn’t stiffen when you walked past. Hogwarts turned comforting, more like home than your own. Fred stuck to you through it all, and you slowly won over each and every one of his siblings over the past seven years. You won over Charlie before he graduated when you were in your third year, and Percy warmed up to you when he caught you tutoring the twins in your second year. Ron was the toughest to break, but you finally got him when he was in his second year and you in your fourth, right after you and Fred began to date. He had passed the courtyard on his way between classes and saw you and Fred sitting out there, together. You were going on a tangent, hands on your hips as you scolded him for something he didn’t hear, but what really did it was how Fred reacted.

Fred Weasley, his big brother, was affected by nothing, brushing off punishments and detentions like dust on a coat, was pouting, head hanging as he stared at the floor, hands behind his back in compliance as you chided him. Ron decided something that day; if Fred let someone do that to him, he was exactly where he wanted to be. Ginny was by far the easiest to connect with. The poor girl screamed and nearly cried when she saw you, yelping about finally having another sister. You didn’t dare correct her. You even charmed Bill when you met him at the 1994 Quidditch World Cup Finals between Bulgaria and Finland. 

You hadn’t realised Mr and Mrs Weasley themselves would be the toughest nuts to crack; they were stereotypical. It’s unsurprising given their age, but their persistence was staggering. Firmly written opinions sent to all their children about you, and long, long lectures Fred had to sit through about deceit and how people are images of their parents. It didn’t matter how much Fred defended you, how much his siblings vouched for your character; Molly was clear, and Arthur never opposed his wife.

“My love, light of my life, honeybear,” Fred continued, his hands travelling further up your arm as he pulled you closer to him. You let him with a lingering pout. “My parents can bugger off for all I care; they can’t do or say anything if I’m there. Trust me on that,” he continued, his eyes wide and pleading. He didn’t play with you; you were the most important thing in his life, and he made sure you were treated like such.

You went silent, thinking about it, but you were weak; you knew that. Fred Weasley, knowingly or not, was your weakness. You weren’t smiley, friendly, or easy; with him, you turned impossibly soft. It was almost a sickness; he calmed your rage within seconds, and you shut down his life-threatening pranks with a single look. “Okay,” you relented. He lit up completely with a gasp, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug, face in your hair.

“Ginny might cry when I tell her.” He said with a breathy laugh, making your heart swell. God, you loved that girl. “I’ll tell her myself.” You mumbled back, turning your head to kiss his neck before pulling back.

You were a bundle of nerves the entire train ride to the Burrow, everyone noticed. Ginny offered up her skincare, Ron passed you extra chicken from the lunch he packed from Hogwarts, even George didn’t try to slip you a nosebleed nougat; he had more sense than that.

Fred kept you close the entire time, tucked into his side. You saw the tension in the hard set of his jaw as he looked out the window. His hands flexed from where they were on your waist, squeezing the soft flesh every once in a while merely to assure himself of your presence.

When you reached, one thing became abundantly clear: Molly and Arthur had certainly not been told of your visit. You saw it in the way her beaming smile harshly fell from her face once she spotted you next to Fred. She grabbed him, pulling him away.

You felt nauseous, smiling politely at Arthur as he gave you a forced smile in turn, his hesitance to shake your hand only added to the twist in your stomach. Ron took your suitcase, and Ginny took your hand, squeezing it in support as she tugged you to the car.

You turned your head to see Fred now proper scowling at his mother before he simply turned and walked off in the middle of her rant, face changing when he saw you look over, giving you as soft a smile as he could manage.

It didn’t get better at the burrow. Molly never looked directly at you, spoke to you through her children. ‘Ginny, she’ll sleep in your room.’ ‘Is she going to eat, Fred?’ ‘Ron, will she need her very own sheets?’ You saw the way Arthur winced, but said nothing. He himself was incredibly awkward near you. 

You didn’t like it, Fred absolutely didn’t. Glaring and hissing a sharp “why don’t you ask her herself?” that Molly always promptly ignored. It went on for two weeks; Molly stopped laughing when you entered a room, and Arthur found excuses to leave. Whenever you were with their kids, something always came up. You and Ginny giggling and eating ice cream in bed? Molly needed her help sewing. You and Percy discussing the NEWTS? Arthur needed him to proofread something. 

Fred was the main victim. Suddenly, he was needed all around the house as soon as the two of you were able to be together. The dishes, setting the table, helping with lunch, and helping load the laundry. It was so targeted and so obvious.

It all shattered during dinner one night. Fred and George decided this was the perfect time to talk about the fact that they’d be dropping out to open their own joke shop. Everyone knew Molly wouldn’t support it; she’d faced poverty. The thought of her sons not completing their education to start a shop made her all kinds of angry.

So, on went the screaming. Arguing at the table as George and Fred quite literally fought for their business with their mother, while Molly kept screaming about homelessness and how they’d never succeed.

It reached a point where she looked at you for the first time since the railway station and growled a low “You.”

You stiffened; everyone did. “You did this, didn’t you? Think it’s amusing, girl, making these two believe they can make it? Without suppliers? Investors? Nothing? You’re ruining my son's life!” She hissed, screaming the last part. You flinched, eyes widening.

“M-Misses Weasley, I don’t– I just want him to be happy-” You choked, but she slammed her hand on the table with a scoff of outrage. 

“You don’t understand anything. People like you, sheltered, protected–you’ve never had to work for anything a day in your life, never struggled. ” She continued, the rage in her voice something no one at the table had ever heard before. “Rich, pompous, overconfident people like you are exactly the folk we don’t want to get mixed with—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, shut up!” 

Everyone whipped their heads around to Fred, the usually cheeky and unserious boy, now straight scowling. “George and I are doing this with or without your approval, Mum. I truly don’t care about what you say in accordance with the business, nor about your hopes for our success, but you will watch it when you talk to her.” He hissed, pushing back his chair with a harsh screech before throwing his napkin on the table, grabbing your hand to pull you up as well.

Molly was mortified, and Arthur looked like he’d been spat on. “Frederick Gideon Weasley, you will sit–”

“Mum, please!” Ginny huffed, making your heart clench. The poor girl looked close to tears. She sniffled, turning to hug George’s arm. Molly’s scowl broke at the sight of her only daughter in such peril.

Fred dragged you up the stairs to his room. He’d gotten his own ever since Charlie moved into his own cottage somewhere in Scotland, closer to the dragons had been his only justification before taking off.

Your eyes were wide, heart pounding horrifically loud in your chest. You looked at the back of his head the entire walk to his room until he finally slammed the door. “Fred!” You whisper-hissed, hands trembling with adrenaline. He dragged a hand down his face as he turned to you, the other wrapping around the small of your back. “This doesn’t help my whole image with your mother, she’s gonna think I’m manipulating you against her or something—”

“She’s not that manic.” He mumbled, ducking his head into your neck before taking a deep inhale. “Hopefully.” 

He hugged you around your waist, tugging you into him as he leaned into you. You could feel he was doing this more to calm himself than offer any comfort, but you didn’t mind much, dragging a hand through his hair. You felt the breath leaving him.

You could hear the thud of footsteps climbing up to his room, and feel the way his shoulders tightened. He nudged you behind him as he turned to the door, half expecting his mother to come bursting in, but all he heard was three soft knocks.

“Fred?” Came a soft, older tone. His father, Arthur.

He didn’t hesitate opening it, letting the lesser of two evils in. Arthur looks guilty, almost hesitant, when he steps in, mouth open, before he shuts it. “Fred, my boy, your mother— both of us, we want the best for you. The shop, I-I’m not saying you shouldn’t follow your dreams, but you can’t expect her to be okay with it.”

“That’s not why I stormed out of there, Dad.” Fred huffed in turn, narrowing his eyes as he grabbed your waist, pulling you to stand next to him. “You know that.”

His father clasped his hands together, glancing towards you for a moment. It was clear he was choosing his words as carefully as he could. “Freddie, she– she’s not what we had in mind for you.” He said delicately, you could see Fred’s shoulders tighten.

“Her family, people like her, haven’t been good to people like us.” He continued, you took Fred’s hand as a reminder to keep himself regulated. It was odd, having to regulate his anger instead of him regulating yours. “Do her parents even know about you?”

That made you stiffen, hanging your head. You hadn’t told your parents, certain they’d forbid you from seeing him. You’d talked to Fred. He understood. Still, admitting he was a secret boyfriend was degrading.

“It doesn’t matter whether she’s told her parents. I trust her, that’s my choice. She’s brilliant, dad, you and mum would know if you gave her a singular chance.” Fred muttered, venom dripping from each syllable. Arthur felt the bitter truth in his words, nodding solemnly.

“No, you’re.. You’re right. I know.” He relented, looking at you apologetically. “I’m sorry, dear.” He all but breathed. You just offered a soft smile, nodding. 

“It’s– We have lived through a lot, Fred.” Now it was Fred’s turn to stiffen. “Your mother lost Fabian and Gideon in the war. To people from families like.. Well, hers.”

Fred sighed, squeezing your hand. “I know about them. She’s told us. But, Dad, things are changing. Times are changing. She can’t be bitter forever. Your mother was Cedrella Black! Does that mean she hates that part of you?!”

Arthur stammered. That was enough. “Why is it different for y/n, huh? Haven’t you been cruel enough? I’d like you two grown adults to realise you’ve been bedevilling a girl who’s nearly three times younger than you!” Fred continued, finishing with a scoff. He knew he was loud—knew the whole damn house probably heard. He couldn’t find it in him to care; he almost hoped his mother heard.

Arthur just nodded, unable to gather the words to continue the conversation, exiting the room.

You shuddered, Fred pulled you in. 

Safe to say, no one minded if you spent the night in Fred’s room that night.

Morning rolled around, the tension still present like a living, breathing presence. Fred didn’t leave you for a single second, and no one tried. Neither Arthur nor Molly pretended he was needed anywhere; they knew Fred wouldn’t entertain it.

To his credit, Arthur really did seem like he was trying. Wished you good morning, offered you tea when he was making any, even went as far as to ask for your future job plans. Fred was already grateful, smiling whenever he heard it. He eased up on his father, let himself relax around you when his father was near.

But Molly was a woman on a mission. She made sure it was known that Arthur was alone in his acceptance. She let you serve yourself during meals, dramatically moved away from you like you had Spattergoit. You chose to ignore it, a smaller, pettier part of you made you extra nice to her in turn.

All of the Weaslings (apart from Bill and Charlie) were around the coffee table, playing exploding snap. The air was filled with hysterical giggles and pure orange-haired competitiveness. Arthur was off at work, and Molly was serving snacks, very pointedly placing the plates as far from you as she could. 

You shot her a smile dipped in honey. “Oh, thank you, Miss Weasley! You’re so good to me. I couldn’t be more grateful.” You cooed, making Fred stifle a snort. His mother looked appalled, muttering a quick ‘no matter’ before rushing back to the kitchen. 

You’d come to accept it, almost took it as a sad fact of life. Ready to fight Molly Weasley for the rest of your life.

Then came that fated night.

You couldn’t sleep. George thought it was genius to watch some low-budget horror movie. You crept down the stairs of the burrow to the kitchen to take a glass of water and, potentially, a cookie Molly made.

You filled the glass before the light flicked on from behind you, startling you. Damn you, George.

“Oh.” Molly mumbled when she saw it was you, hesitantly walking into her kitchen to grab something from the fridge. It was rather early, four am. You didn’t think she’d be up so early.

There was a horribly awkward moment where neither spoke; you simply drank your water at the counter. Then, the silence was shattered.

“I had brothers, you know.” She mumbled; you immediately knew where this was going. You looked over at her; her expression was something you couldn’t pick apart.

You nodded, she continued.

“They joined the order. First Wizarding War. I’m sure you’ve met Harry. They met his parents there. Young, stupid and ready to fight.”

Her voice thickened, your heart sank. 

“Twins. Like my Fred and George. Good people, amazing to me.” She kept going, unwrapping dough she got from the freezer. “Died when I was pregnant with Percy.” Her voice broke around the word died and you suddenly felt like a monster.

“Took five deatheaters to kill them. Antonin Volohov was the only one who was named in the report, the rest having taken their own lives once captured.” It was unsettling, the things this woman had gone through. It made your heart ache for her.

“Volohov worked closely with Bellatrix. I guess I just… can’t accept that a trace of what killed my brothers lives in you.”

You felt your throat tighten, tears stinging your eyes as the woman placed the small balls of frozen dough on a baking tray.

You cleared your throat, moving to wash your hands, drying them, then wordlessly assisting her. 

“My mum once killed my pet mouse because attachment was a weakness to her.” You mumbled, and she shifted to make room for you. Not to get away, but to make space. You noticed.

“I cried to my father, but he offered no solace. He said nothing should be important enough to bring me to tears.” You rolled the dough into a ball, passing it to her. “Met Bellatrix once. I was.. Maybe seven. She threw her shoes at me when I touched her wand, grabbed me by the hair and presented me to my parents like a fox she killed.”

Molly hummed in acknowledgement, but there was something softer. A sympathy.

“I may not hate her as much as you do, I may never will, but I truly despise and loathe her very being. She’s hurt you much more than she hurt me, but her cruelty to more and more people gives me more and more reason to be as different from her as I can.”

The room settled into comfortable silence after that. She put the cookies in the oven, and you washed your hands. 

As soon as you turned to leave, she took your hand. It was gentle, not like she was trying to restrain you. You turned, and she placed a kiss to your forehead before walking away. “Goodnight, dearie.”

You bit back the smile growing on your face, sheer joy filling your chest. 

“Goodnight, Miss Weasley.”

They say grief is the price of love. That sounds noble, until you're the one paying.

You used to believe in fate. In the idea that some lives were woven together on purpose. That souls found each other across time and war and pain. You used to think you and Harry were one of those stories. A story written into the stars.

But the stars did not blink out in protest. They burned on, indifferent. The prophecy, once whispered like gospel, dissolved into dust the moment he fell. And fate—faithless, fickle fate—let his hand slip from yours as easily as breath from lungs, as if it had never mattered at all.

Now there is only this: the stillness after everything has fallen apart. The breath that won’t come. The echo of a name you can’t bear to say aloud.

And a question that will never leave you.

If everything must happen for a reason—what was the reason for this?

What was the reason for Fred Weasley’s smile to have permanently fallen? For the light in his eyes to go out mid-laugh, mid-life, as if the universe simply decided joy was no longer needed?

What was the reason for Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks to die with their fingers just barely outstretched toward one another, doomed to watch their son grow up from wherever death had taken them?

How foolish, then, for Remus to name Harry as godfather. To lay that responsibility on the back of a boy he knew would throw himself into the fire if it meant sparing someone else. Harry was noble. Good to the marrow. But he was also broken. Already grieving a world he hadn’t yet lost. He wasn’t made for parenting—he was made for sacrifice. And Remus knew that. He had always known that. Maybe that was the most tragic thing of all.

What was the reason for every single body lining these hallowed walls, embellished with teardrops, screams, and question marks?

If there was a plan, you wanted to meet its maker. And ask them what, in all the stars and spells and sacred things, Harry Potter had ever done to deserve this.

---

He loved you like he was scared of it.

Like it was a secret he had to whisper into your skin, in case saying it too loud might bring the war crashing through the door. Like he couldn't believe he had been allowed to love something soft.

It started in stolen moments. A brush of fingers when passing the map, a shared cloak in the cold, the way he only smiled like that when he was looking at you. He would linger too long in your doorway. Let his eyes wander to your lips and then away, ashamed of wanting something in the middle of so much loss.

But you had kissed him first. Pulled him into your room one night under the guise of patching a torn sleeve, and then, with both of your hands trembling, pressed your mouth to his.

He melted into you like he had been waiting his whole life for someone to teach him that love didn’t have to mean pain. That it could be soft and aching and warm. He touched you like he was afraid you'd disappear, kissed you like you were a spell he couldn’t believe had worked.

He learned to smile into your collarbone. To laugh against your throat. You learned how to guide trembling hands, how to coax warmth into places that had gone cold with fear. There were nights the world disappeared, when all that existed was the shared breath between you, the slow undoing of armor, the quiet reverence of skin on skin. You whispered I love you into the hollow of his throat, and for a breathless moment, everything stilled—his pulse beneath your lips, the warmth of his skin against yours, the weight of the world beyond the walls. He clutched you tighter, like he could trap the words there, bury them beneath bone and blood, keep them from floating away into the air where death might hear them.

In those moments, he was just a boy. Just Harry. Yours.

But war eats love. And slowly, so slowly it was almost unnoticeable at first, he began to pull away.

The kisses turned to sighs. The laughter gave way to silence. He flinched more often. Spoke less. You reached for him and found only the outline of someone preparing to disappear.

He started waking up screaming and wouldn’t let you hold him. He stopped meeting your eyes. He stopped saying goodnight.

You begged him to let you in. He gave you half-smiles and said nothing was wrong.

But you knew the difference between a boy in pain and a boy who was already mourning something he hadn’t lost yet.

The breakup was not loud. It wasn’t cruel. But it broke something in you all the same.

It happened in the forest, by the dying light of a low-burning fire. Hermione was asleep. Ron had already gone. You and Harry sat beside each other but didn’t touch.

“I can’t keep you safe,” he said, voice hoarse.

You looked at him then, really looked, and saw the storm behind his eyes. “That’s not what I asked you to do.”

“I know,” he said, barely a whisper. “That’s why it hurts.”

There was no big fight. No door slammed. No names shouted. Just the weight of everything left unsaid collapsing in the silence between you.

You didn’t cry until he left your side. Until he crawled into the tent and turned away from you. Until you realized that wasn’t just the end of the night.

It was the end of everything.

---

The battle had taken everything out of you.

Your wand still hung in your hand, limp at your side, fingers stiff and burned. Smoke clung to your lungs. Blood—not all of it yours—painted your sleeves. You had screamed until your voice cracked and fought until your body shook. Now there was nothing left but the hollowed-out shell of someone who had loved, and lost, and lived through it.

While Harry had walked into the Forbidden Forest—while he had signed himself up for a death sentence you couldn’t stop him from—you had found your way inside. Into the castle. Into the Great Hall.

To say goodbye.

Goodbye to the ones you couldn’t save. Goodbye to the ones who died still fighting. Goodbye to the ones who would never get to rest their wands or hold their children again. You stepped around the bodies with the reverence of someone stepping through sacred ground, your knees aching, your chest refusing to rise evenly.

The silence inside was louder than the war outside. And you stood in the middle of it, surrounded by loss, waiting for the scream that would finally break you open.

You found the Weasleys by the far wall, gathered around Fred.

He looked too still, too quiet. Someone had closed his eyes. Someone had tried to smooth the blood from his face. But it didn’t change the unbearable fact of it.

George knelt at his side, one hand on Fred’s chest, the other fisted in his own shirt. His face was blotchy, soaked. He had screamed himself hoarse. There was nothing left but a rasping sob, raw and ruined.

You approached without words. You didn’t have any left.

You dropped to your knees beside him and slipped your hand into his. He didn’t look at you. But his fingers curled tightly around yours, shaking.

Mrs. Weasley was wailing, rocking back and forth beside Arthur. Ron was cupping Fred's face, swearing to make an unbreakable vow just for him to come back. Percy had buried his face in Charlie's shoulder. Ginny sat stiff and silent, clutching Bill’s hand like it was the only thing tethering her to the world.

You didn’t say goodbye out loud.

But your tears fell onto George’s hand as he held yours, and you let them.

A chill moved through the hall then—slow and certain, like someone had opened a door to the grave. It curled around your ankles, slithered up your spine. The kind of cold that came before a storm.

Ginny’s head lifted first.

Her eyes, wide and shining, went toward the entrance. Toward the darkness just beyond the ruined threshold.

She stood slowly. Tugged at Bill’s hand. Whispered something too soft to hear.

And then the Weasleys began to rise.

One by one, with aching limbs and shattered hearts, they followed her. George’s fingers slipped from yours, damp and trembling.

You didn’t ask where they were going. You already knew.

But you didn’t move.

You stayed.

Stayed in the quiet. In the ache. In the weight of it all. You stayed where it still felt like him. Where it still smelled like fire and blood and the end of things.

You stayed because once, you had loved him here.

And now, you would mourn him here too.

Then it came.

A voice, not from the Hall, but from the sky itself—magically amplified, splintering through the stillness like a crack of thunder. Cold. Echoing. Unmistakable.

“Harry Potter... is dead.”

The words didn’t make sense at first. They hung in the air, absurd in their finality, like someone had scrawled them in the clouds with blood.

“Harry Potter is dead!”

It came again.

You felt it before you understood it. The tearing. The breaking. The world slipping sideways on its axis. And then came the sound—the sound that didn’t sound like it came from you but did. A scream, primal and hoarse, torn from the deepest part of you.

You collapsed.

Your knees hit stone. Your spine curled inward. Your palms slapped against the floor as your stomach convulsed, as if the grief were something physical, trying to wrench itself out of you. A broken, animal sound ripped through your chest—again, and again, and again. A howl. A cry. A keening meant for a god who would never answer.

Your face pressed against the cold stone and you sobbed until you could not breathe, until your throat burned raw, until the taste of ash and salt and blood filled your mouth.

He had done it. He had gone where you could not follow.

Harry Potter is dead.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that.

Curled against the stone. Trembling. Shaking. Pleading into the cracks of the floor like they might widen and swallow you whole. You begged it—whimpered it like a chant into the ground beneath your cheek. Let it take you. Let it take you too. Let it all rewind. Let it all vanish.

But nothing happened. The stone did not open. The world did not shift. The silence did not break.

And then it did.

Somewhere in the distance—through the shattered windows, beyond the walls—you heard it. The boom of spells. The crackle of fire. The sound of war resuming.

The battle had started again.

And you were still here.

Alive, while he wasn’t.

Your body moved before your mind did.

Your legs carried you through the hall, over blood and rubble, down the corridors that used to lead to classrooms and laughter and life. Now they led only to noise. To chaos. To fire and ruin.

Your wand was in your hand again, you didn’t remember picking it up. You couldn’t feel your fingers, but spells burst from them anyway. Red light. Blue sparks. A shield charm thrown up on instinct. A curse screamed from a throat that still tasted like salt and stone.

You didn’t think. You didn’t feel. You fought.

What else was there to do?

You followed the noise until you were in the thick of it, until your robes were scorched and your lungs ached, until the line between fury and grief disappeared entirely.

Until you found yourself face to face with her.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

She grinned like a wolf who smelled blood.

“Well, well,” she purred. “Another little girl who thinks grief makes her brave.”

You didn’t speak.

You raised your wand.

And you fought like someone who had already lost everything.

Sparks erupted instantly, a violent clash of color and light. Red met green, blue clashed against silver, gold shot through like lightning. The air screamed with energy. It cracked, warped, exploded.

Bellatrix's laughter cut through it all—shrill, unhinged, delighted. She spun as she cast, her robes flaring like wings of shadow, her hair wild with electricity.

"You think you matter, little thing?" she howled, dodging a jet of violet light. "You think he died for you? Please. He barely lived for himself."

You threw another curse, and another, your wand an extension of your rage. Her shield shattered under the force of your grief.

"Touched a nerve, did I?" Bellatrix cackled. "Oh, you poor darling. Did you really think love could save him? That your pretty little fingers, your trembling little kisses, could anchor someone like him to this world?"

She hurled a bolt of emerald light. You twisted, barely dodging it. The heat seared past your shoulder.

You screamed a countercurse, slamming her back against a wall with a thunderous crack. Rubble rained down. She staggered, giggling.

"That's more like it!" she shrieked. "Give me your pain! Feed it to me! Let it make you strong, pet, because hope certainly won’t."

You advanced, step by step, wand blazing, heart hammering. Your magic burned through your veins like molten steel. You weren’t casting spells anymore—you were releasing something. Years of it. Fear, fury, heartbreak.

She danced away, twirling like a phantom, throwing curses that split the earth beneath your feet.

"He died believing in something pathetic! In love. In loyalty. In you!"

You sent a whip of fire lashing across her chest. Her laughter turned into a snarl.

"He died for nothing!"

You roared as your spell collided with hers—a tidal wave of blue-white magic that knocked her back, splintering the wall behind her. The world went white with the collision.

And when the smoke cleared, she was still standing.

Bruised. Bleeding.

Smiling.

"Now this," she whispered, eyes gleaming, "is fun."

And the duel raged on.

But something in you had begun to unravel.

Her words were poison, and they were working. They crept into the cracks in your chest, dripped down your spine. They sounded too much like your own thoughts. The ones you’d tried to drown in battle. The ones you couldn’t unhear now.

He died for nothing.

You were slowing down.

Your arms felt heavier. Your spells came with more effort. Your body moved, but your spirit was slipping.

What was the point?

You were alone. He was gone. There was no light at the end of this.

Bellatrix threw another curse. You blocked it, but your knees buckled. The stone scraped your skin. You staggered up again, barely.

She grinned wider. “There it is. The truth. You don't want to win, do you? You want to follow. You want to go where he went. Join your little savior in the dirt.”

And maybe she was right.

Because suddenly, the idea didn’t seem like surrender. It felt like relief.

Bellatrix stepped closer, her boots crunching over the debris between you, her wand loose in her hand like she didn’t even need to try anymore. She tilted her head, almost pitying. Almost gentle.

“You poor little thing,” she cooed, her voice syrupy and mocking. “So much heart. So little sense.”

You couldn’t raise your wand again. You couldn’t lift your head. Your knees gave, and you sank, shaking, blood on your lip and smoke in your lungs.

Bellatrix crouched in front of you, inches away, eyes gleaming with victory. “You fought well. But you were always going to break. He was your spine, wasn’t he? And now—” she smiled wider, “—you’re spineless.”

She stood, took one final step back, and pointed her wand at your chest.

“Avada Kedavra.”

The world flashed green.

And everything stopped.

---

They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes.

But it wasn't your life that came first. It was him.

It was the first time he smiled at you across the Gryffindor table, jam on his cheek and sunlight in his hair. The first time his fingers brushed yours in the common room, and you both pretended not to notice. The way he said your name—softly, like a spell he hadn’t mastered yet.

It was your first kiss in the rain, soaked through and laughing. It was sneaking into the library after hours just to sit near him while he studied. It was dancing together at the Yule Ball, his hands trembling where they rested at your waist. It was your last night together—before he left, before you broke, before the world did.

You saw his face in every memory, as if your soul had shaped itself around him.

And then came the rest.

The small things. A sunrise through the window at Grimmauld Place. The sound of Hedwig's wings against the glass. The way Hermione hummed when she read. Ron’s laughter. Mrs. Weasley’s cooking. Every moment that made life more than war.

Then—Fred. Grinning, brilliant, loud. A joke half-finished and a life half-lived.

Remus and Sirius, shoulder to shoulder in your mind, voices echoing in tandem. One with a smile that never quite reached his tired eyes. The other all bark and bravado, laughter like thunder, arms always open.

Colin Creevey, eyes wide and camera always ready, asking if you’d seen Harry, if you thought he’d sign a photo, if maybe you could help him write a letter.

Harry. Always Harry. Standing in every shadow. Breathing in every light.

And finally—the silence.

The great stillness of death. Not frightening. Not cold.

Just quiet.

You waited for him there.

---

"Have you seen Y/N?"

Harry’s voice was breathless, lighter than it had been in years. His cheeks were pink with wind and adrenaline, his barely-there smile catching on every word. He looked like someone reborn—scarred, yes, and trembling, but free.

He was asking anyone who passed by—Hannah, Dean, Kingsley, even George, whose eyes were still red. “Y/N? Where's Y/N?”

He was searching for you.

Because Voldemort was gone. The war was over. The weight had lifted.

And all he wanted now was you.

He weaved through the rubble with purpose, barely glancing at the wreckage. The possibility hadn’t even crossed his mind—not really. Not you. You couldn’t be—

“Potter.”

He stopped.

McGonagall’s voice was soft, nearly drowned out by the distant shouts of reunions and healing. But it hit him like a curse. He turned slowly, confusion already cracking through his smile.

She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t need to.

“No,” Harry breathed. “No, no, no.”

He was running before his heart could catch up. Stumbling over stone and broken beams, slipping on blood-slick marble, his eyes frantic.

“No,” he panted. “No. No, please.”

And then—

Your hand.

Just your hand at first, curled near a shattered column. Fingers slack. Your wand beside it.

The same hand that had held his beneath the table during Order meetings. That had patched him up after battles. That had pressed flat against his chest when he kissed you like he might never stop.

“No,” Harry whispered, collapsing to his knees.

But there was no waking from this.

He crawled toward you, shaking, broken. He reached for your hand and brought it to his lips. It was cold. Too cold. And it didn’t curl around his like it used to.

“Please,” he begged, his voice cracking. “Please, wake up. Please come back.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, sobbing now. Violently. Loudly. His cries echoing off the ruined stone.

“I was coming back to you. I was always coming back to you.”

He gathered you into his arms like a man who’d just remembered how to breathe only to drown. Rocked you like he could will your soul to return.

“You promised,” he whispered. “You promised you’d be there.”

And there, in the rubble of victory, Harry Potter broke.

Because saving the world meant nothing if it didn’t save you.

Because what good was destiny, was prophecy, was survival itself—if it led to this? If it ended with him on his knees, holding your stillness in his arms, whispering your name like a prayer that went unanswered?

The universe had offered him peace, and he would’ve traded it all back for one more heartbeat. For one more breath. For you.

Because you were the reason he fought in the first place.

And now, there was no fight left worth winning.

His heart thumps out of his chest, his sobs echoing in the ruins of his triumph. His blood continues to flow, yes, but for nothing.

Harry Potter is dead.

-----

It was still. So still, you felt like you were frozen in time. A cold so deep and piercing, it burned. An icy fire tingling up and down your body, seizing every muscle, every movement, every memory-

It was all consuming. Everlasting.

Dark.

So dark.

It was hard to tell where the depths of Lover’s Lake began and where your darkening vision took over. 

You imagine how you look right now, deep below the watery surface’s of Hawkin’s popular makeout spot. Former make out spot. Before the rumors about it being Eddie Munson’s sacrificial grounds began and the government took over. 

You’re sure you look a mess, hair floating like stalks on a windy day, face pale and lined with exhaustion. The cut on your cheek from running through the upside down is surely bleeding still, likely leaving a plume of red to stain your skin. 

You imagine you’re sinking. It’s highly likely, considering all the layers you were wearing. The brown leather combat boots Murray had smuggled in for you a few months ago, heavy and worn. The thick puffer vest, torn at the pocket; jeans and a sweater you’d borrowed from Steve. 

He’d insisted really, handing you the soft gray thing before you could argue.

“It’ll keep you warm. You look better in my clothes anyway.” 

It wasn’t warm now. It was freezing in fact, soaked all the way through, clinging to your skin. Weighing you down, down, down…

Despite your brain screaming at you to stop, to hold your breath, to keep fighting towards the surface, you breathe.

A deep gulp of lake water- fresh air- lungs burning as you try to find relief. You kick your legs upward, trying to push yourself towards the surface.

But you've lost all direction. Lost any sense of up or down, of life or death. Were you still breathing? Still thinking? Was this just the short space between one life and the next?

Was every breath leading you further down a path you weren't ready for?

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. 

You had plans. Big ones. A whole future mapped out with Steve. One you both had spent hours talking about in between crawl missions and shifts at the radio station. Hopes for a better future, one where you didn’t have to hold your breath every time you passed the MAC-Z, or where your little town wasn't fenced in. 

“We’re gonna get out of here someday.” 

“Oh yeah?” You smile. Steve nods, dipping his spoon into the tub of icecream you were sharing. Your legs were tangled together on the concrete floor of the station’s basement, your shoulders resting together. “And where are we going to go, Harrington?”

“Somewhere far from here. Where we don’t have to worry about any of this mess. Somewhere we can get a house together.”

“A house?” He nods. 

“A big one. Two stories, with a little white picket fence I’ll fix up, and a roof that creaks when it rains. A kitchen that’s a little too small but a living room big enough for company. Oh- and a backyard, spacious and green.” You laugh, stealing his spoon and scooping some ice cream for yourself.

“You want a fixer upper?”

“Of course. We can fix it up on the weekends. Make it our own.” Steve smiles down at you, thumb rubbing a circle into your shoulder as he holds you. “And maybe, some day down the line, we’ll have a few kids running around the house.” You raise an eyebrow.

“How many is a few?” He smiles guiltily.

“Six?” You laugh again, smile bright. 

“Alright, slow down Harrington. I’ve seen you with six kids and every time it just spells trouble.” He huffs, nose pressing into your temple as he kisses your cheek.

“So we compromise. Maybe start with three till I can convince you we need a few more.” You think for a moment, Steve giving you those big brown eyes you couldn’t resist.

“Alright Harrington, three to start. But I’m not giving you any kids till you marry me.” He chuckles, looking away.

“Yeah, well. I’m working on that…”

You can’t remember what else he had said. You’re trying but the burning sensation in your chest is becoming all consuming. 

You will your arms to move. Your feet to kick. 

But nothing happens. It’s all dead weight, pulling you further away from the surface. 

Away from your future. Further into your memories. 

“Gosh, it’s cold.” you shiver, leaning further into Steve’s side. The sheets of the bed were doing little to shelter you from the winter settling around his house. Steve tugs you closer, hand rubbing up and down your arm.

“I got you baby. Just use me as a heater.” 

“Heaters don’t talk.”

“Hey,” he pinches your side. You let out a tiny yelp, Steve laughing as he tucks you into his chest. “I make a great heater. Stop complaining.” 

“I’m not complaining.” You sigh, settling into him, head resting on his chest. “You make a nice pillow too.” Steve hums, fingers tracing shapes up and down your side. He’s quiet for a minute before speaking again.

“Do you think we’ll ever find him?”

He didn’t have to explain who ‘him’ was. You knew. You always knew. It was all anyone talked about. You sigh.

“I hope we do. We have to.”

“Yeah. But sometimes… I don’t know. Sometimes…” Steve trails off, searching for the right words. You shift to look up at him, his face soft in the dim shadows of the room. 

“What, Steve?” He takes a breath, rubbing a hand down his face. 

“Sometimes I wonder if we’re all killing ourselves for nothing. If Vecna really is gone and we’re just digging through the upside down for a ghost.” You hum, reaching up to run your hand through his hair. Steve sighs, closing his eyes at the feeling.

“I wish that were true. But until we find a body-”

“We torched him. We burned him to the ground. I- Vecna has to be dead.” You grimace, wishing you could agree with Steve’s sentiment.

“Steve… I can’t in good faith say he’s dead until we see Vecna’s body. Until I know that he won’t come after El or Will or any one of the kids ever again.” Steve sighs, looking at you through his lashes. You press a kiss to his shoulder, snuggling closer. “We’re being careful. Every mission is carefully planned out. We’re not killing ourselves.” 

“But-”

“Steve. For once I’d like to go to bed without dreaming about vines and Mike’s grating voice on the walkie. Can we talk about Robin’s terrible taste in jokes or you getting a haircut please?” Steve groans playfully, arm wrapped around you tight.

“Oh no, come on. That’s a nightmare in itself. My hair’s my best feature!”

“But you’d look so good,” you tease. “Come on-”

“Noo,” Steve laughs-

Your chest burns and you feel your body jerk. You were trying to find air. To find relief.

But everything was just so heavy. And you were so tired. Tired from fighting against the current. Tired from running through the upside down.

Everything had gone so wrong.

It’s funny really.

To remember how careful you’d both been, how alert and ready. Only for it to have never mattered in the end.

The mission was simple. A lap around the woods in the upside down, rendezvous with Hopper and Nancy back at the van and get home safe before bedtime. Steve had, of course, chosen you as his partner. He always did.

And it had been fine. The two of you walking through the Upside down side by side, being observant as always. Careful as alway. Eyes wandering occasionally to each other, a silent question.

You okay?

Soft smiles shared, elbows brushing each other. Maybe you hadn’t been careful enough. Maybe you’d let your guard down a little. Too used to the safety being around Steve provided. Too reliant on the fact nothing bad had happened before.

Until it did.

The single demodog Steve spotted first, his hand reaching out with lighting speed to yank your vest. You’d stopped, almost falling backwards into him. Eyes wide, fear beginning to course through you.

“Don’t make any noise.” Steve whispered, watching the demo carefully as it sniffed the mulchy ground. “Just back up slowly.” 

You had nodded, taking a careful step backward, eyes darting between the ground and the dog. Steve backed up with you, one hand on your back, the other gripped around his bat. 

Slowly. 

Too slow. 

The demodog had lifted its head, turning just as Steve’s boot came down on a rotten branch he hadn’t seen. The loud crunch echoing through the woods. 

And then running.

Your heart racing, pounding in your chest. Your throat constricts, keeping in the scream you wanted to let out. The scream which would just lead you quicker to an ugly demise. 

Steve ran as fast as he could beside you, his head in a state of limbo, half turned between you and the demodog scrabbling through the forest towards you.

“Run! Keep running okay?”

“Steve!”

“KEEP RUNNING!”

You gripped his hand as he’d pulled you down the hill, the demo running into a tree, buying you some time. Steve led you out of the woods, to the edge of the lake-

The dry lake of the upside down. Nothing but creeping vines and the stench of rotten fish. 

The lake which held the closest exit. An emergency call Steve had to make to save the both of you.

“You have to run. Go to the rift and swim out of here!”

“Steve- you know I can’t swim. I can barely hold my breath for long-”

“You have to try. I’ll be right behind you. I’ll get you out of there.”

“I can’t-”

“Yes, you can. You have to”

His dark eyes were wild. They were scared. His hand gripped your arm like a lifeline. Like he was willing you to trust him.

You trusted him. You always had. 

The growling of the demo had grown closer. Steve pressed a kiss to your temple, pushing you towards the glowing rift. You had run, glancing back to see Steve shifting into position, his bat at the ready as the demodog charged.

You ran to the edge of the rift, the tear in reality pulsing a red- orange. You glanced back once more, watching Steve as he swung, the bat tearing open the demo’s side as it lunged. 

Steve turns once yelling at you to dive. To get out.

And then you were diving head first into the rift, taking a deep breath before the water hit you like a cold wave. 

The darkness was blinding, the pressure building too fast, leaving you disoriented. 

And Steve. 

Steve still hadn’t come.

You want to close your eyes and sleep. Slip away into the soft dream that was calling you. Away from the darkness. Away from the cold. The pain. The confusion. 

But you had to hold on. Steve was coming. 

He had to be. He always came for you.

“I’ll be right beside you. Not gonna let anything happen to you.” Steve tightened the strap of his pack, giving you a soft look. You roll your eyes, gently pushing his shoulder.

“You’re such a romantic Steve.”

“What can I say? I’m always going to be here.”

You want to go home. To wash the stink of the upside down away and slip into bed next to Steve. Watch as he puts on those ugly sweatpants you hate but he loves, turn on one of those terrible tapes you both liked to rent. 

You wanted to go back to the Hawkins you remembered. The quiet streets and farm backroads, the town which once was lively and beautiful in a haunting way. The diner Steve liked to go for their flapjacks, the kind he drowned in syrup just so you could kiss the extra clean. The library where Steve had kissed you senseless in the study rooms, the two of you sneaking around like you were still kids. 

You want the arcade where you’d tag along on his nights out with Dustin and the other kids. Watching as he argued about everyday things, Steve’s smile brighter than the sun when he was able to make Lucas laugh. 

Nights spent playing board games in the Wheeler’s basement, not plotting the next crawl. Summer afternoons spent in the pool, teasing and kissing as the water lapped against your bare bodies, not sinking at the bottom of the lake. Waiting for Steve to rescue you.

Steve…

He’s the only thing you see besides the darkness. His face vivid against the back of your closing eyelids.

“Hey. Sleepyhead.” 

You mumble, rolling over on the station’s couch. You vaguely register Steve laughing, his hand warm against the back of your neck as he tries to shake you awake again. 

“Baby, you’ve got to wake up. It’s time.”

“For what?” You grumble.

“Time to go home.”

“Home?”

“Yeah. Time to go home.” You blink, a soft smile on your face. Steve smiles down at you softly, thumb brushing against your hairline as he looks at you with all the love in the world. 

“Okay. Okay, I’m ready.”

"You got everything?" He asks as he helps you stand.

"Just you. And that's all I need, really."

Steve… 

Steve breaks through the surface of Lover’s Lake with a sobbing gasp. It’s dark outside, the stars dim, the moon hiding behind the clouds. Like even the sky knew what they were about to witness was not something they wanted to see. 

“Come on baby,” Steve gasps as he grips your limp body. You were pale, lips blue, lashes still against your cheek. “Come on!” 

He says it more for himself. As a reminder he had to push. He had to get you to land. To safety. Steve had promised he’d come after you. He promised he’d get you out of the lake.

You'd already been under for too long. Steve had been too long in making sure the demo wouldn't follow, too slow in running towards the rift. The demo had pounced, leaving a terrible, bloody wound in his side.

But when he had dove in after you, heart racing, his side aching from a hit he’d taken, his heart had dropped.

The change in pressure had been disorienting. The water freezing, the cold washing over him like a shot to the heart. It was challenging for him, a well trained swimmer.

It was a catastrophe for you. You who couldn’t swim. 

Steve had never swam so fast in his life before.

The lake laps against his face, and he shakes his hair out of his face, grunting as he pushes through the water. You bob behind him, head limp against your shoulder in a painfully still position. 

“I’m here baby-” Steve pants as he finally reaches the shallow end of the lake, guiding your body towards the pebbly shore. He pulls you by the vest, the sound of your body dragging sickening. His hands are clammy as he checks your pulse, your skin frozen against his.

Steve’s heart practically stops when he realizes he can’t find your pulse.

“No, no. Hey, come on.” Steve peels off his wet sweater, tee shirt clinging to his skin. “Come on honey!” 

He begins chest compressions, hands working hard against your chest. Steve wishes he could look away. Wishes he could wake up from this nightmare; roll over and spoon you, tucking you into him in the way he always found comforting.

Steve yells your name out into the night air of the lake, his lips covering yours as he breathes air into your lungs. You had to wake up.

You had to.

“Steve. Have you seen my- is that an ABBA tape?”

“Uh… yes.” Steve laughs nervously, hiding it quickly. “You weren’t supposed to see this yet.”

“Why not?” You beam, coming beside Steve as he rifles through a box of things Murray had just delivered. “This is my favorite song on the album.” 

Steve sighs, giving you a look.

“It’s for a surprise. And you asking questions is going to ruin it.”

“Oh,” you nod, smiling. “Wouldn’t want that.”

“No, we wouldn’t nosy.”

“I’m not nosy.”

“You are if you’re still here trying to see what else I got from Santa Claus.”

“Well, I’m trying to see if my boyfriend got me those boots I wanted.”

“Of course I did. What kind of a boyfriend do you think I am?”

Of course Steve had. He never got anything for himself. Besides those stupid peanut butter boppers you hated but still shared with him because he insisted.

Of course he had gotten you that tape, because hearing you sing along in the car was one of the things that brightened his day. That made the nightmares a little less scary.

The one thing he had gotten for himself had still been for you. The little silver ring hidden inside the tape.

The one he was going to propose to you with. 

The one which glinted uselessly on the shore now, falling out of the pocket of his sweater as he had tossed it aside. 

“Honey, come on! I need you to wake up. Please wake up. I can’t- you can’t leave me. Not now. After everything-”

Steve presses his lips against yours again, trying to will the air into your lungs. Trying to pound the life into your heart as he presses down on your ribcage.

But it’s no use. 

You’re still at his touch. Lashes unmoving, lips still blue. Silent. 

Not even a breath left to whisper an I love you.

Had Steve told you he loved you? Did you even know just how much he cared about you, how much he needed you here. 

After everyone you'd lost, everything you both had been through. You couldn't just leave. Not like this. Your face wasn't supposed to become another ghost to haunt his dreams.

You were always in his dreams. The future he’d been planning, the thing that he held onto in the twisted routine of Hawkins, was just you. You were his future.

Steve was serious about everything. The house. The kids. The backyard.

But it was all slipping away, like the tide erasing footprints in the sand. Slipping away as he held your cold body, his throat raw and aching as he sobbed into your hair.

“Why are you crying?” 

Steve looks up, palm wiping his wet lashes quickly. You frown in the doorway of the bathroom, pajamas loose around your frame.

“I’m not crying.”

“What- and you always let a few tears go in the middle of the night?” You cross your arms.

“It’s nothing,” Steve mumbles, looking away. You shake your head, padding closer, your arms wrapping around his middle. 

“Steve… I trust you with everything. I have since day one. And I want you to know you can trust me too.”

“I do.”

“Then why are you crying.” Steve swallows thickly.

“I… had a bad dream. It’s silly really.”

You hum, cheek resting against Steve’s back. Your fingers rest on his stomach, the presence of your hands already easing the tension of the nightmare. 

“I’m sure it’s not.” Steve sighs.

“I dreamt you left me. One moment you were there and then, bam. You were gone.”

“That sounds awful. I just left you?”

“In the blink of an eye. And I couldn’t do anything to get you back.” You slip your arms out from around Steve, hand reaching up to cup his cheek.

“Honey, I’m right here. You don’t have to be afraid.”

“But-”