freaked out grandpa

It was a promise.

From the moment you were strong enough to lift a blade, you were taught to wield it. Every lesson, every scar, every sacrifice served a single purpose: protect House Atreides until your final breath.

It was the only life you had ever known. It was the only purpose you ever had.

Until it all burned.

Your parents are dead. The Duke is dead. Caladan is a memory, and Arrakis has become a graveyard.

Only two members of House Atreides remain, and one sole survivor to carry the next generation of House Sahir.

Now, with an empire hunting them and the desert threatening to swallow what little is left, your oath has never mattered more.

But neither has the truth.

Because the blood that runs through House Sahir is older than any oath ever sworn.

And when the desert calls your name, you’ll be forced to decide which legacy you were truly born to uphold.

He sat next to you, still as ever. His eyes bored into the TV as you waited for the EMT.’s to arrive. You wondered what was going through his mind.

Was he happy his mom died? Maybe she didn’t do much but shoot up drugs and yell at you, but at least with her alive, you had a place to live.

But then again,  maybe he was upset because now you both had nowhere to go.

You could put your money together, maybe skip town, find his father if he—

BANG BANG BANG

The sharp sound of a fist pounding against the door ripped you and J from your thoughts.

A second later, the EMTs walked into the apartment carrying bags and equipment that clinked loudly against each other, their voices too calm for a room that felt seconds away from collapsing on itself.

Instinctively, you shifted closer to J, your shoulder pressing against his as you made space for them to move around his mother’s body.

One of the paramedics knelt beside her.

“What’s she taken?”

The question hung in the air for a second, almost cruel in its normalcy. Like, there was still time to fix this, as if the right answer could somehow rewind the last few hours.

J swallowed hard,” Uh…heroin.”

The paramedic nodded and immediately got to work while you stared straight ahead at the TV across the room, focusing on the meaningless flicker of colors bouncing across the screen.

It wasn’t that you were unfamiliar with this kind of thing.

Growing up in certain parts of Oceanside meant learning early that overdoses, fights, sirens, and grief blended into everyday life like background noise. But no matter how often death brushed past you, it never became easier watching it take people you knew.

Especially not someone who had once made you grilled cheese sandwiches at two in the morning because you and J refused to sleep.

Your eyes drifted back toward his mother.

She still looked strangely peaceful. Like she was sleeping through the chaos unfolding around her.

You hoped wherever she ended up now would treat her kinder than the world ever had.

From what J had told you over the years, his uncles and grandmother had practically erased her from the family long before you were ever born. Nobody visited, no one called except for meaningless happy birthday messages for J.

She existed like a stain they pretended wasn’t there.

You never knew exactly what she’d done to deserve that kind of exile.

Maybe nothing at all.

Maybe she was just another person Oceanside swallowed whole before she ever had the chance to become anything else.

But sitting here now, listening to latex gloves snap and muted medical jargon fill the room, you couldn’t help but think that whatever destroyed her had started long before the heroin did.

Long before tonight

Long before J.

The sound of dishes clinking softly against each other filled the silence hanging over the house.

You stood at the sink washing whatever plates had been left behind, your hands moving on autopilot while J sat at the kitchen table finishing your math assignment like the world hadn’t just split open a few hours ago.

Pencil against paper.

Sponge against ceramic.

It was almost enough to pretend things were normal.

Just almost.

Your chest tightened as you stared out the small window above the sink, watching the sun dip lower across Oceanside. The orange glow spilling through the neighborhood felt wrong now. Too warm, too alive for a day like this.

You couldn’t stop wondering where the two of you would end up after tonight.

The system?

Absolutely not.

The thought alone made nausea crawl up your throat.

You and J spent your entire lives attached at the hip. There was no universe where strangers could split you apart and expect either of you to survive it.

Ever since his mom died, you’d barley spoke.

The air inside the house felt thick with death and misery, heavy enough that even opening your mouth seemed impossible. Like if you spoke too loudly, the reality of what happened would finally crush you completely.

But the silence was becoming unbearable, and the question eating at your stomach refused to stay buried any longer.

“J…” you whispered.

His pencil stopped moving immediately.

He looked up at you from the kitchen table, exhaustion sitting heavy beneath his eyes.

“I know this is an obvious question, but my stomach is literally gonna turn inside out if I don’t ask.”

You let out a shaky breath, your shoulders sagging as your fingers pressed against your temples, trying to dull the headache building behind your eyes.

“Where are we gonna sleep tonight?” Your voice cracked slightly. “I mean…I doubt they’re gonna let us stay here, and who knows if CPS is already on their way, and I literally have nowhere for us to go, and I just…”

The words started spilling too fast after that.

Panic clawed its way up your chest until breathing itself became difficult.

Before you could spiral any further, J stood up so suddenly his chair scraped harshly against the floor.

Then he crossed the room and pulled you into him. The hug hit harder than you expected.

One arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders while the other cradled the back of your head, pressing you against his chest like he was trying to hold both of you together at once.

And that was it. The second he touched you, everything shattered. Your shoulders began to shake violently as sobs tore out of you before you could stop them. Tears streamed endlessly down your face, hot and overwhelming, soaking into the front of J’s shirt while you clung to him, like letting go would kill you.

Outside, the rest of Oceanside kept moving.

Cars drove past, people laughed, and the sun still burned gold against the sky.

But inside that tiny kitchen, the two of you finally fell apart.

J stood outside the apartment with his back pressed against the wall as he stared out at the parking lot below.

In front of him, your bags sat piled messily near the railing while your legs dangled through the gaps beneath it, your sneakers knocking softly against the metal every few seconds.

Everything you owned was packed into two duffel bags and a backpack.

But none of this felt real.

A few hours ago, this place had still been a home. Messy, loud, imperfect, but a home. Now the apartment behind you felt hollow, stripped of warmth, the second J’s mother stopped breathing inside it.

J had called his grandmother sometime after the EMTs left. If you could even call her that.

From the stories he’d told you growing up, she sounded less like family and more like a ghost lingering at the edges of their lives. Present enough to judge, absent enough to never actually help.

Still, she told him to pack your things and wait outside.

So that’s what you did, even though a part of you wanted to hate her already. You wanted to direct every ounce of anger and grief sitting heavy in your chest toward the woman who had abandoned J’s mother long before the drugs ever did.

But another part of you knew better than to bite the hand currently offering you both somewhere to sleep.

Even if that hand arrived years too late.

The sound of heels clicking against concrete echoed through the stairwell.

J immediately strengthened beside you. You looked up behind you just as he pushed himself off the wall and reached down to help you to your feet.

Then she appeared.

J’s grandmother rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, slowing almost immediately when she saw the two of you standing there surrounded by bags.

For a second, nobody spoke.

Then, slowly, she removed her sunglasses.

“Is that all you got?” 

Her voice was calm. Flat even.

J turned to look at you as you nodded in response, and so did he.

“Uh, yeah. My bike is downstairs.”

The woman in front of you didn’t respond immediately. She just studied both of you like she was measuring what was left of both of you

“Come here,” she said to you both, almost as if it were a command,” Give me a hug.”

For a second, neither of you moved. You both took small steps towards her before embraced you both.

A brief, grounding squeeze. Not exactly warm or grandma-like, but…real. Human, in a way, the last few hours hadn’t been. She gave you both a peck on the cheek, before she let go, as if she was sealing your futures shut. 

And just like that, she turned and disappeared into the apartment, leaving you and J alone again with your bags and the weight of everything that happened.

You rested your head on J’s shoulder, letting your eyes close to feel a moment's peace. For a second, the world stopped asking things of you. No decisions, questions, or aftermath.

Just silence.

J’s shoulder rose and fell under your cheek, steady enough that your breathing started to match his.

It almost felt like peace.

Almost.

“Yo!”

The voice cracked through the air like a thrown bottle.

Your eyes opened as you lifted your head immediately. J exhaled through his nose like he already knew what was coming. 

A man was walking toward you from the side of the building. Familiar in the worst way, where that kind of presence didn’t belong near anything stable.

You couldn’t quite place his name, but your brain filled in the blanks. 

J’s mother’s dealer.

He stopped in front of you both like he owned the space.

“Julia up there?” he asked, glancing toward the building

J sat up with a grunt,” No.”

A beat.

Then the man scoffed.

“Your mom owes me 90 bucks.” He said, standing in front of J. His tone was casual, almost bored.

” That taste I gave her yesterday wasn’t a handout.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes as your mouth moved to speak before you could shut it,” Then why give her a taste?”

Clearly, he was having a bad day as he moved to stand in front of you, his eyes glaring into you.

“You got 90 bucks?” he asked J first, then his eyes flicked to you, narrowing.” What about you, princess? Huh, you got 90 bucks?”

You didn’t answer.

You shook your head no, knowing that whatever words you were going to say were most likely going to give you a bloody nose.

He stepped closer to J, ignoring you now, digging one hand into his pocket.

“Tell her I don’t get paid,” he muttered. ” I’m coming back tomorrow, dragging her by her hair out to the corner.”

AT the same moment, the man stepped back as footsteps were heard on the stairs.

J’s grandmother descended slowly, one hand trailing along the railing as her sharp eyes immediately landed on the three of you standing there.

The man glanced up at her, and something in his posture shifted instantly. Something less bold and loud.

Still, before walking off, he looked between you and J one last time.

“I want my money,” he muttered.

Then he disappeared down the sidewalk like he hadn’t just left something rotten lingering in the air behind him.

J’s grandmother stopped at the bottom of the stairs, arms folding tightly across her chest.

“Who was that?” The question cut cleanly through the silence

You quickly bent down and lifted your bags into your arms, letting out a quiet sigh as if exhaustion alone explained everything.

“It was nobody.”

J spoke right after you.

“It was just a neighbor.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly behind the sunglasses she’d put back on, gaze moving between the two of you like she was deciding whether or not to press further. But not because she cared to know, but to see if it should be her problem, or not.

You were almost certain she didn’t believe either of you. People like her probably learned a long time ago how to recognize lies on sight, but after a second, she simply nodded once. Not because she believed you, but because whatever truth sat underneath your answers was clearly none of her concern for now.

Before J’s mom passed, it was always just you and him.

Two halves of the same world that were against you from the moment you were born. Tightly stuck at the hip that it became impossible to tell where one of you ended and the other began. You grew up side by side, carrying every version of each other along the way.

From your most embarrassing  Discord phases to his darkest moments of grief that hollowed him out from the inside, but neither of you looked away.

No matter how messy things got, or how much trouble you got yourselves in, you both stayed.

Mainly because you both knew too much information about yourselves not to be able to be friends anymore, but because somewhere along the line, your friendship stopped feeling like a choice and started feeling like survival.

You knew J better than anyone else ever could. You knew the hidden anger in him before it exploded, the sadness before he could bottle it up, and the reckless decisions.

And J knew you, too. Every ugly thought, hidden fear, every part of yourself you swore nobody else would ever see.

The two of you weren’t just close, you were dependent on each other to see the next day.

Bound together by history, loyalty, and the terrifying understanding that if one of you finally let go, the other would fall apart right after.

Pope was already crouched at the side entrance, pulling a compact drill from the duffel. He didn’t hesitate. The bit met the lock with a sharp metallic whine.

You kept watch automatically, eyes scanning the dark windows across the street.

The lock gave with a hollow pop.

Pope caught the handle before it could rattle and slowly pulled the door open.

He gestured for you to move.

You slipped inside first.

The air changed immediately. Cooler. Stale. Thick with drywall dust. Plastic sheets hung from unfinished doorframes, shifting slightly in the draft like silent witnesses.

Deran wheeled the trolley in carefully. J followed, glancing over his shoulder once before Pope shut the door and reset the broken lock just enough to make it look intact.

“It’s this way,” Pope murmured.

You followed him down a narrow hallway lit only by faint spillover from a single work light left plugged in somewhere. Your boots crunched softly over debris.

The room at the end was cluttered. Stacks of tile. Buckets of joint compound. Exposed studs and half installed cabinetry. Construction frozen mid breath.

You and Pope immediately began clearing space in front of the wall he’d marked earlier. J joined in, dragging scrap wood aside. Deran positioned the trolley near the doorway.

“Sledgehammer,” Pope said, holding out his hand.

You grabbed it from the bag and passed it to him. Deran took the second one.

You stepped back, gripping J’s arm and pulling him with you.

“Ready?” Pope asked.

Deran nodded once.

The first swing exploded into the drywall with a thunderous crack. Dust burst into the air, thick and choking. The second swing punched through clean. Fragments rained down around their boots.

Within seconds, the wall caved inward, revealing metal framing behind it.

They kept going until the opening was just wide enough to squeeze through.

Dust hung heavy in the air. J coughed, waving it away from his face.

Pope turned toward him. “What? You afraid of asbestos?”

J shot him a look but stayed quiet.

Deran handed Pope a power cutter. “Don’t cut the wire,” he warned. “Could be live.”

You rolled your eyes. “I doubt it’s live. The place isn’t even finished.”

Deran ignored the jab, crouching to take the tool himself. He ducked through the opening first.

“Backpack,” he called. “Don’t forget the backpack.”

You grabbed it and tossed it to J before slipping through the jagged hole yourself. The metal edge scraped your sleeve lightly.

On the other side, the room felt tighter. Cleaner. More finished. This was the real target.

“All right,” Deran whispered. “Where’s the safe?”

You spread out, scanning corners, checking behind temporary partitions.

Nothing.

“Where’s the safe, Pope?” Deran asked, tension creeping into his voice.

Pope looked around again. “I don’t know.”

Deran turned toward you. “y/n?”

You lifted your hands. “Hell if I know.”

He let out a short laugh, half disbelief. “Neither of you knows where the safe is?”

You paused.

Then slowly lifted your finger, pointing straight ahead.

“It’s right there. Calm down.”

They both followed your gesture.

The safe stood flush against the far wall. Massive. Industrial. Easily five hundred pounds of reinforced steel.

You walked toward it, taking in its size.

“This thing’s a tank,” you muttered. “How are we moving it?”

Pope dropped to the floor beside it. “Bolted.”

You turned to J. “Backpack.”

He handed it over quickly. Deran unzipped it and pulled out the inflatable lifting bag.

You checked your watch. “We’re good.”

Pope slid the deflated bag under the safe and began pumping air into it. Slowly, the heavy box lifted off its bolts with a strained metallic groan.

You stepped back toward the entry, eyes locked on the small monitor wired into the building’s camera feed.

A figure entered the frame.

Your stomach tightened.

“Who is that?” you asked sharply.

“Come on!” Pope barked.

You tore your gaze away and rushed back, helping slide the reinforced tray beneath the floating safe.

Deran packed tools fast, shoving them back into the duffel.

Pope released the pressure valve. The safe dropped onto the tray with a heavy, echoing thud.

“Move,” Deran urged.

Pope shoved the tray forward. It scraped loudly against the concrete.

J followed close behind, pushing with both hands. You stayed near the back, glancing once more at the monitor.

Two figures now.

Closer.

Pope forced the tray through the broken wall. Deran and J climbed through first.

You and Pope stayed behind, angling the safe toward the opening.

It jammed halfway.

A thick vertical beam blocked the top corner.

“Pope, it’s not gonna fit. Let’s go,” Deran hissed from the other side. “They’re coming.”

“Use the saw,” you snapped immediately. “Make it bigger.”

Deran looked up at you, incredulous. “You want me to cut this wire? I’m not cutting that.”

You dropped down in front of him.

“I want you to cut the wire,” you said, voice low but blazing. “You will cut that goddamn wire.”

Footsteps echoed faintly down the hallway.

“They’re coming!” Deran shot back.

“Then stop hesitating!”

Before he could argue again, J lunged forward, grabbed the saw, and sliced through the metal beam and wire in one aggressive motion.

Sparks spit into the dark.

The beam snapped free.

“Go!” Pope ordered.

He motioned for you first.

You slipped through the hole quickly. Pope shoved the tray hard, forcing the safe through the widened gap. It scraped, metal shrieking against metal, but it cleared.

He climbed through after it.

The safe dropped heavily onto the trolley outside the wall. J grabbed the handles and started pushing immediately.

You fell into step beside him. Deran and Pope flanked the sides.

Behind you, a door somewhere in the building slammed open.

Voices.

Too close.

Your pulse remained steady.

Focused.

You shot Deran a sharp look as you moved.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered.

He didn’t answer.

You didn’t slow down.

The warehouse smelled like rust and old rain.

One dangling bulb swung slightly overhead, throwing long, restless shadows across concrete floors. The safe sat in the center of the room like a captured animal.

Pope crouched in front of it, tools laid out neatly beside him. Focused. Calm. Like this part was the easiest thing in the world.

Deran paced near the loading bay door, blunt between his fingers, agitation rolling off him in visible waves. J leaned against the wall, arms folded, trying to look unaffected.

You stood a few feet from Pope, watching him work the lock.

Metal scraped.

There was a final sharp click.

The door creaked open.

You stepped closer, anticipation tightening your chest. This was the moment. The justification.

Pope reached inside and pulled something out.

A stack of VHS tapes.

You blinked.

He turned one over in his hand.

Porn.

Your face twisted instantly. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Pope tossed them aside. They clattered across the concrete, plastic cracking.

He reached in again.

This time his arm came out loaded.

Cash.

Thick stacks of it.

Rubber banded. Neat. Real.

The air shifted immediately.

You dropped down beside him, heart kicking a little harder now. This was worth it.

Pope looked up at J, money still in his hands.

“What do you think, J?” he asked evenly. “We split this three ways.”

He pointed between himself, you, and J.

You picked up one of the discarded tapes and tossed it toward Deran.

“You can keep the porn.”

Deran let out a short, mocking laugh. “Yeah, if you had cased the place—”

“Oh, please,” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “Save us the sob story. The job was solid. We had time.”

“I’m sorry,” Deran shot back, pointing at Pope. “That idiot is on parole. You get caught, it’s a twenty year bid.”

Then he turned his attention to you, smoke drifting from his mouth.

“And you? You’re not even supposed to be on a job. I was looking out for you two.”

You ignored the tone and started counting stacks with Pope.

“J has more balls than you,” Pope said casually, cash in his hands.

Deran huffed. “Oh, give me a break.”

Pope pointed at J. “He has more balls than you do.”

“What a hero,” Deran scoffed. “He cut a wire. Yeah. He’s just as stupid as you two are.”

The temperature in the room shifted.

Pope stood, offering you a hand. You took it, rising smoothly to your feet.

Deran looked between the two of you.

“What?” he said. “You really want to go back to prison? For ten grand?”

“Some of us,” you said quietly, stepping closer, “aren’t looking to suck off Mommy’s tit for the rest of our lives.”

Deran took a step forward, jaw tight. “You could’ve fooled me.”

Pope stepped in until their foreheads nearly touched.

“Go ahead,” Pope murmured. “What are you gonna do?”

You moved before Deran could respond. Your hand shot up, gripping his jaw, fingers pressing into his cheek hard enough to make a point.

“What are you so mad about?” you asked, voice low and dangerous. “You mad because J’s more of a man than you? You mad you’re not gonna be Mommy’s favorite?”

Deran’s breathing sharpened.

“What is it, Deran?” you pressed.

“Let’s just split it four ways.”

J’s voice cut through the tension like a blade.

Your grip stayed for a second longer before you released him. You turned slowly toward J.

He stood straighter now.

Calmer than the rest of you.

You threw your hands up.

“Okay, J. If you really want to.”

Pope looked at Deran. “You should thank him.”

You smiled faintly. “You’re only getting paid because of a seventeen-year-old. Pay your respects.”

“You should say,” Pope continued, eyes locked on his brother, “‘Thank you, J, for actually having some genuine balls.’”

You stepped back into Deran’s space again, pressing your fingers into the side of his head.

“Go on,” you said, voice rising. “It can’t be that hard.”

You shoved lightly against him.

“Say it. Say, ‘Thank you, J, for actually having some balls.’”

Deran smacked your hand away.

“I’m not saying shit, y/n!”

Pope shoved him from the other side.

“Say it. Say, ‘Thank you, J, for actually having some balls. I got scared in there.’”

“Shut up, Pope!”

Deran pushed him back hard.

For a split second, it felt like it might tip.

Four bodies in a dusty warehouse. Ten grand on the floor. Years of resentment thick in the air.

J stood frozen, watching.

You glanced at the money.

Then at Deran.

Then at Pope.

It wasn’t about ten grand.

It was about who got to move without Smurf’s permission.

And who couldn’t handle it.

They didn’t move at first.

They just stood there, blinking at the truck like it had appeared out of thin air.

“Uh… okay,” J said slowly.

Pope jerked his chin toward the back of the truck. “Come on. Throw your bike in.”

There was no room for negotiation in his voice.

You could feel J hesitate from here.

“Let’s go,” you said, sharper this time. A thin edge of frustration slicing through the air.

J finally peeled himself away from Nicky and walked around the truck. He lifted the bike into the bed with a hollow metal clank. The sound echoed down the street.

But instead of climbing in, he drifted back toward her.

Of course he did.

They stood too close. Whispering. Smiling like there wasn’t a clock ticking somewhere.

You watched from the passenger seat, jaw tightening slightly.

They kissed.

Longer than necessary.

Your fingers tapped against your thigh. Once. Twice.

Pope’s patience ran out before yours did.

“J!” he barked.

The sound carried. Nicky jumped slightly.

J pulled back just enough to murmur something into her ear. She laughed softly, brushing her hair back like this was sweet. Like it was normal.

You let out an irritated sigh, leaning your head back against the seat.

“Seriously?” you muttered.

Pope’s hand flexed against the steering wheel.

“Let’s go!” he called again, louder now.

J gave Nicky one more quick kiss before jogging to the truck and climbing into the back seat. The door shut harder than it needed to.

You twisted slightly in your seat to look at him.

“Comfortable?” you asked coolly.

He didn’t answer. Just stared out the window.

You turned back around and gave Nicky a final wave as Pope pulled away from the curb. She stood there watching the truck disappear, arms wrapped around herself.

The neighborhood blurred as you picked up speed.

Inside the cab, the air shifted.

No more teenage softness. No more sidewalk sunlight.

Just family.

You glanced in the side mirror, catching J’s reflection. He looked smaller back there than he probably realized.

“You’re not on vacation,” you said calmly, eyes forward. “When we call, you come.”

Pope didn’t add anything.

He didn’t have to.

The truck kept moving.

The truck idled outside the surf shop, engine humming low like it was waiting for something to happen.

You and J sat inside while Pope stepped out, slamming the door shut with enough force to rattle the mirrors.

Deran pushed through the glass doors of the shop a second later, sunglasses on, board shorts still damp at the hem. He stopped short when he spotted the truck.

“What’s he doing here?” he asked, jerking his chin toward the back seat where J sat.

Pope rounded the hood, stopping directly in front of Deran. Close enough that neither of them had to raise their voices.

“Leave your car,” Pope said evenly. “I’ll drop you off after.”

Deran’s brow furrowed. “After what?”

Inside the truck, J leaned halfway out of his open window. “Hey, I’ve got an English essay to write. I can just take my bike—”

Neither Pope nor Deran acknowledged him.

You flipped a page in your magazine lazily, like this was background noise.

“Don’t bother,” you said without looking up. “This won’t take long.”

J sank back into his seat with a huff.

“Do I really need to be here for this?”

You slowly closed the magazine, the glossy paper snapping softly as it shut. You turned around in your seat to face him fully, one arm draped over the headrest.

“Well,” you said with a small, measured smile, “we wouldn’t be wasting your time on purpose. Would we?”

The smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

J held your stare for a second, then looked away first.

Satisfied, you twisted back around and rested the magazine on your lap.

Outside, Pope kept his voice low as he filled Deran in.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. Just facts.

Quick job. Clean. In and out.

Cash.

Deran’s posture shifted as he listened. Skepticism gave way to calculation.

“And Smurf?” Deran asked finally.

Pope didn’t hesitate. “She doesn’t need to know.”

That hung in the air heavier than the heat.

From inside the truck, you watched Deran’s jaw tighten. Not fear. Not exactly. Just awareness.

Going around Smurf wasn’t small.

It wasn’t impulsive either.

It was deliberate.

You stepped out of the truck then, shutting the door quietly behind you. The sun bounced off the pavement, sharp and blinding.

“She doesn’t need to know,” you echoed calmly, coming to stand beside Pope. “Not yet.”

Deran glanced between the two of you.

“And this is your idea?” he asked.

You tilted your head slightly. “It’s our opportunity.”

Pope stayed silent.

Deran studied you longer this time. Measuring. Wondering how much of this was ambition and how much was something else.

“You’re helping?” he asked.

You gave a single nod.

“If everything goes the way it’s supposed to,” you said evenly, “this puts us back where we belong.”

Back in the rotation.

Back in the decisions.

Back in the rooms where plans were made instead of overheard.

Deran exhaled through his nose, glancing toward the truck where J sat pretending not to listen.

“And him?”

“He’s part of it,” Pope answered.

J shifted visibly in the back seat.

You looked at Deran, eyes steady.

“Life went on while we were gone,” you said quietly. “We’re just catching up.”

The unspoken truth lingered between you all.

If this worked, you and Pope weren’t just back.

You were undeniable.

The truck rolled to a stop in a near empty lot that smelled like hot asphalt and fried grease drifting from somewhere unseen.

You stepped out first, stretching your arms over your head as a yawn slipped past your lips. The sky was dipping into that in between hour where everything looked washed in copper.

Deran rounded the back of the truck and tossed you a folded vinyl sign.

You caught it easily.

“Don’t wrinkle it,” he muttered, already peeling the backing off the second one.

You held yours up, smoothing it against the side of the truck. The adhesive stuck with a quiet, final press. Temporary branding. Temporary identity.

Pope didn’t waste time. He crouched near the bumper, screwdriver in hand, swapping out the license plates with slow, methodical precision. Metal clicked against metal.

The sound carried.

From the bed of the truck, he dragged out a heavy duffel bag and dropped it at your feet. The zipper rasped open.

Inside, neatly folded uniforms.

Matching. Clean. Anonymous.

He tossed one to Deran. Then one to you. Then one toward J, who barely caught it in time.

“You vet this place?” Deran asked, eyes cutting between you and Pope as he stripped off his shirt without ceremony.

“It’s solid,” Pope replied.

Two words. No embellishment.

Deran studied him a beat longer before nodding and pulling on the uniform.

J stood there awkwardly, holding the outfit like it might bite.

“What are we doing here?” he asked.

You stepped closer, reaching out to tug the fabric from his hands and shake it open for him.

You smiled.

It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t cruel either. Just knowing.

“Ready to have some fun?”

His expression didn’t shift.

“This doesn’t look like fun.”

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice so it didn’t carry past him.

“Fun is relative.”

Behind you, Pope slammed the truck door shut after finishing the plates. The sound echoed through the lot like a starting gun.

You slipped off your top and pulled on the uniform shirt, buttoning it carefully. You tied your hair back tighter than usual. Cleaner. Less recognizable.

Deran adjusted his collar, glancing toward the building across the lot.

“You sure about this?” he asked again, quieter this time.

You met his gaze evenly.

“If it wasn’t worth it, we wouldn’t be here.”

J hesitated a second longer before finally changing. He looked younger in the uniform. Smaller.

Pope zipped the duffel shut and slung it over his shoulder.

The truck no longer looked like yours.

You no longer looked like you.

Perfect.

You stepped back, scanning the scene once.

“Remember,” you said lightly, eyes flicking to J, “confidence makes people lazy.”

He swallowed but nodded.

Pope started walking first.

Deran followed.

You lingered half a second longer beside J.

“Stick close,” you murmured. “And don’t overthink it.”

Then you moved, falling into step with the others as you headed toward the building.

The evening air felt charged.

If everything went according to plan, this wouldn’t just be a job.

It would be a statement.

He made a sound that lived somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle at your question.

“Yeah. Maybe,” he said. “Kinda like when you point a gun at someone.”

You swung your legs over the post and hopped down, the boards warm under your shoes. You walked toward him, eyes on the shark’s still body.

“It’s up to them,” he continued. “Either stand still… or swim away.”

You hummed softly. “Hmm. I guess so.”

You leaned back against one of the beams, crossing your arms as the sun swallowed you whole. The air smelled like salt and iron.

If you were a fish, would you swim?

Or would you freeze?

Would instinct win, or would resignation?

It was a stupid thought. A childish one.

But it lingered.

If you had known, all those years ago, what your life would look like now, would you have taken Smurf’s hand?

Or would you have stayed on the ground. Stayed small. Stayed drowning.

The quiet stretched between you and Pope, heavy but comfortable.

Footsteps approached along the dock.

You didn’t turn right away.

“You gonna eat that thing?” a man asked, nodding toward the shark sprawled across the wood.

Pope glanced at him briefly, then back at the body. He shook his head.

“Nah. Sharks piss through their skin,” he said flatly. “Tastes like bleach.”

The man made a face.

Pope stepped away from the table, wiping his hands on his jeans. Then he looked at you.

“y/n, why don’t you head home,” he said evenly. “I think Smurf said she was bringing Lena over.”

Your eyes lifted slowly to his.

You weren’t stupid.

You could read tone. Posture. The way his shoulders shifted slightly toward the stranger. Protective. Closed off.

This conversation wasn’t for you.

You let out a quiet breath through your nose.

For a second, you considered staying. Testing it. Forcing the issue.

Instead, you pushed off the beam and walked toward him.

You stopped close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin.

“Okay,” you said simply.

You placed your hands on his shoulders. Solid. Grounding. You pressed a kiss to his cheek, quick but deliberate.

When you pulled back, you held his gaze a second longer than necessary.

Not a question.

Just a reminder.

You stepped away, giving the stranger a short nod as you passed him.

He didn’t nod back.

You walked down the pier without looking over your shoulder, the ocean glittering violently beside you.

Behind you, the shark lay still on the boards.

It hadn’t swum away.

Maybe it never had a chance.

“Come on, Lena. You got this, baby.”

You sat at the edge of the pool, hands braced behind you, heels knocking lightly against the tile. Lena’s small arms windmilled through the water, face scrunched in fierce concentration as she pushed herself up.

She broke the surface with a gasp and a grin.

“There you go!” you laughed. “See? Easy.”

The back door slammed open.

Cath came rushing out barefoot, eyes wide like she’d heard a scream instead of a splash. She hurried toward the pool, heart clearly three beats ahead of her body.

“Jesus, you two.”

She reached down and grabbed Lena under the arms, pulling her close like the water had teeth.

“Come on, okay, splash,” Smurf said lazily from her lounge chair, not even lifting her sunglasses. A drink sweated in one hand, a magazine draped across the other.

“Lena, baby! Come here,” Cath urged, already hauling her out.

You stood, brushing water off your legs. “Oh, calm down, Cat. She’s doing great.”

Cath didn’t look at you. She crouched in front of Lena, scanning her face like she expected to find bruises forming in real time.

“Are you okay?”

Lena nodded, confused more than scared.

Cath turned sharply toward you and Smurf. “She can’t swim without floaties.”

You tilted your head. “She was swimming.”

“She was barely above water.”

“She was learning,” you corrected, dropping back into a chair.

Cath kept asking Lena if she was okay, as if she’d just been dragged from a rip current instead of a backyard pool.

“We’re gonna have you on a surfboard in no time, my little Lena roo,” Smurf cooed, taking a slow sip from her drink.

You smiled at Lena as Cath ushered her toward the house to change. “Such a good girl. Don’t be surprised when she makes it to the Olympics, Cath.”

“Janine.”

There it was.

You didn’t even have to look at Smurf to know she’d felt that one.

Cath’s neck snapped toward you. “y/n. I would really appreciate it if you would call me before you do something like that.”

You rolled your neck once, stretching out the tension. “Like what?”

Smurf lowered her sunglasses just enough to peer over the top. “Like what?” she echoed sweetly.

“She’s a California girl,” Smurf continued. “I was younger than her when I knew how to swim. It’s ridiculous that she can’t.”

“We’re teaching her,” Cath shot back. “You cannot just throw her in.”

“That’s how I learned,” Smurf said smoothly. “Hell, that’s how I taught y/n.”

You nodded once, meeting Cath’s stare. “I don’t get what you’re worrying about. I was right there. If anything happened, I would’ve grabbed her. Nothing happened.”

The words were calm, but something in your chest tightened anyway. A flash of sunlight on water. Kicking feet. Silence.

Cath let out a frustrated breath, realizing she was outnumbered. “That’s not the point.”

It was always the point, though. Fear. Control. Who got to decide what was dangerous.

As she turned to go back inside, Smurf’s voice floated after her.

“Are you coming tonight? Baz really missed you, honey.”

You watched Cath’s back stiffen.

“Oh,” you said lightly, feigning surprise. “He didn’t tell you? Well. Good news then, huh?”

Smurf leaned forward slightly, predatory in silk. “I’m making ribs. Bring the baby.”

“I’m working,” Cath replied instantly.

Smurf shrugged. “Call in sick. Do you need cash?”

Cath shook her head. “I can’t get my shift covered this late.”

She turned toward the house. “Quick like a bunny, Lena!”

You stood, stepping closer to her before she could fully retreat inside.

“Why don’t you leave her with us today?” you offered. “I know Baz would like it.”

The suggestion hung between you.

Cath didn’t soften.

“She’s got a doctor’s appointment,” she said tightly. “Maybe next time.”

She disappeared inside, the door closing with a finality that felt louder than it was.

You stood there for a moment, staring at the empty doorway.

Behind you, Smurf settled back into her chair as nothing had shifted at all.

You crossed your arms, eyes drifting to the water.

Teaching someone to swim meant letting them struggle a little.

The trick was knowing when to pull them out.

Not everyone did.

You walked down the hallway just as the front door opened.

Pope stepped inside, shoulders tight, jaw set, the smell of salt and blood trailing in with him. You didn’t hesitate. You leaned up and pressed a small kiss to his lips. Brief. Grounding.

He handed Smurf a plastic bag filled with chopped shark.

“For Craig’s dogs.”

Smurf took it without flinching, as if sons bringing home butchered sea life was as ordinary as groceries. She tucked it neatly into the fridge.

She plated food with the same efficiency she used for everything else and slid two dishes toward you and Pope.

“Here’s your plate, baby.”

“We ate before he went fishing,” you said, already sitting beside Pope at the island. You took the plate anyway.

Smurf didn’t look up as she wiped down the counter. “Just have a little protein, you two. Keep up your strength.”

Across the room, Deran turned, keys already in hand. “It’s head high. I’m gonna head out before the kooks finish brunch.”

“Stop by Tao’s on your way,” Smurf called smoothly. “They’re late with the rent.”

Deran gave a tight nod and slipped out.

You took a bite out of habit more than hunger. The food sat heavy on your tongue.

“I feel like shit,” you muttered, words muffled as you chewed. “I can’t keep anything down.”

You pushed the plate away.

Smurf’s attention sharpened instantly. She moved closer, heels clicking softly against the tile.

“You know,” she said, voice dipped in honey, “you two might feel better if you got a little sleep.”

Her hand settled on Pope’s shoulder.

“We got you a beautiful suite.”

Pope glanced at you before answering. “I can’t sleep there. It’s noisy.”

Smurf straightened slightly, recalibrating.

“Hey,” she said, shifting her focus. You turned your head toward her slowly. “You know J hasn’t been around as much since Baz went to Mexico, huh?”

Pope shrugged like it meant nothing.

“And?” you asked, chin resting in your palm.

“You haven’t noticed?” Her eyes flicked between the two of you, measuring.

“I don’t care,” Pope said flatly. “And I doubt she does.”

You gave a small smile. “I don’t either.”

Smurf’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly.

“I’m not sure that’s the smartest position to take.”

She leaned onto the island, bringing herself closer to eye level. The kitchen felt smaller suddenly.

“You know, you’ve been gone a long time, baby,” she said to Pope. “Life went on out here. Your brothers did a lot with Baz calling the shots.”

Her gaze shifted to you.

“A lot without y/n joining them.”

There it was.

You held her stare evenly.

“Now that you’re back,” she continued, “you and y/n are gonna have to work your way back in there.”

Her fingers drummed lightly against the countertop.

“But J… J is new. J is up for grabs.”

Silence settled between the three of you.

You leaned back slightly in your chair, studying her like she was a puzzle you’d already solved once before.

“So this isn’t about sleep,” you said quietly.

Smurf smiled.

It didn’t reach her eyes.

“It’s about positioning.”

You glanced at Pope.

Up for grabs.

Like he was a tool. Or territory.

You picked up your fork again, spinning it idly between your fingers.

“J’s not a dog,” you said calmly. “You don’t just whistle and see who he runs to.”

Smurf tilted her head. “Everyone runs to someone.”

You held her gaze a second longer than necessary.

“Yeah,” you replied softly. “But not always the person who expects it.”

The summer air that day had felt thick enough to chew. Sun blazing overhead. Popsicles melting faster than the kids holding them. Music crackling from a radio propped on a patio table, whatever was popular that year bleeding into the sound of splashing and shouting.

Your father had dragged you and Baz to one of his friends’ houses. You didn’t know the man. You never did. They rotated in and out of your life like background noise.

Baz kept his distance from your father the second you arrived. That was his survival tactic. Blend into the walls. Watch. Wait.

You stayed near the edge of the pool.

Kneeling first. Then sitting. Your legs dangling in, toes testing the temperature like it might bite.

The water shimmered bright blue, almost fake-looking under the sun. Kids jumped in without thinking. Cannonballs. Screams. Chlorine thick in the air.

You gripped the metal railing and lowered yourself in slowly.

Waist deep.

Breathing carefully.

Staying near the steps where your feet could still find solid ground.

“You gonna sit there all day?” your father called from a lawn chair, beer sweating in his hand.

You ignored him.

“Don’t be such a baby,” he added, loud enough for the other adults to hear. A few chuckled. Not cruel. Just amused.

Heat climbed your neck.

You moved a little farther out.

The water reached your ribs. Your heart thudded against them like it was trying to retreat.

“You’re fine,” he called again. “It’s just water.”

Just water.

A group of older kids barreled past you, splashing hard. One of them clipped your shoulder. You lost your footing for a second but grabbed the railing again.

“Go deeper!” your father shouted. “Swim!”

You shook your head slightly.

The kids were rough. Pushing each other under. Grabbing ankles. Shriek laughing.

You tried to shift away from them.

A hand caught your arm.

Not cruel. Not intentional. Just careless.

Another body slammed into you from behind.

Your grip slipped.

Suddenly, there was no step beneath your foot.

You went under.

The world changed instantly.

Sound disappeared into a muffled roar. Sunlight fractured above you in blinding pieces. Water flooded your nose and your mouth. You opened your eyes and saw nothing but legs. Kicking. Thrashing.

You tried to push up.

A heel struck your shoulder. Another grazed your cheek.

You swallowed water.

Your chest burned. Panic erupted, wild and animal. You flailed, but your arms met resistance. Bodies. Movement. No one noticing.

Above the surface, the music kept playing. Laughter carried on.

You tried to scream.

All that came out were bubbles.

Your lungs spasmed. The edges of your vision started to blur into white.

And then—

An arm hooked under yours.

Strong. Familiar.

You broke the surface in a violent gasp, coughing, choking, clawing at air like it might disappear too.

Baz dragged you toward the steps, half-lifting you out of the water. You collapsed against the hot concrete, coughing until your ribs ached.

The world rushed back in pieces.

Music. Laughter. Someone saying, “She okay?”

Your father’s shadow fell over you.

“Jesus,” he scoffed. “All that over nothing?”

Nothing.

You curled slightly onto your side, water pouring from your hair onto the concrete. Baz’s hand stayed on your back, firm and steady.

No one scolded the kids.

No one turned off the radio.

The party didn’t pause.

You lie there staring at the sky, the sun a blinding white circle overhead.

That was the first time you understood how easy it would be for the world to keep going without you.

Now, years later, you lie beside a different pool.

The moon instead of the sun.

Your hand trailing lazily through water that no longer terrified you.

Smurf had forced you back in after that summer. Held you by the shoulders. Made you float. Made you swim. Again and again until your body stopped locking up.

“Fear is embarrassing,” she had told you. “You don’t let it show.”

So you didn’t.

Now the water felt almost friendly.

Almost.

Pope stood next to you, bare and naked. He shifted slightly, close enough to hear your breathing change if it did.

“One day, I think I’ll touch the moon.” Pope doesn’t respond, instead wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

The night wrapped around the house like it was listening.

You sat still, elbows resting on your knees, eyes on the water as it shifted under the moon. The surface looked clean. Peaceful. Like nothing ugly had ever happened near it.

You almost laughed.

You found it funny how almost everyone in this family thought they were the exception to death. Like it was negotiable. Like it respected skill. As if a clean plan or a loaded gun made you immune.

Baz thought he was smarter than the ending. Pope thought he could outrun it if he hit hard enough first. Smurf acted like she had a contract with it.

Even J, in his quiet way, carried that same delusion. Like proximity to chaos meant control over it.

You weren’t innocent either.

You all walked around like you were too significant to be erased. Too aware. Too prepared.

But death didn’t care about awareness.

It wasn’t personal.

And that was the part that unsettled you most.

You tilted your head back, staring at the sky.

“We all think we’re inevitable to the consequences we’ve built for ourselves,” you said softly. “Like we get to be the exception because we understand the rules.”

Your voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t dramatic. It was almost curious.

“We build these lives out of bad decisions and then act shocked when they collapse.”

A breeze brushed against your skin, cool and indifferent.

“I’m not against whatever the universe has lined up for me. I’m not naive enough to think there isn’t something waiting. I just… want to see it coming.”

You swallowed.

“I want the decency of knowing when the ground’s about to give. I don’t want it quiet. I don’t want it subtle. I don’t want to be mid sentence and then nothing.”

The thought lingered heavier than you expected.

“But who am I to want that?” you continued. “I’ve taken things from people who didn’t deserve it. I’ve stood by while guilty people kept breathing because it served us better.”

You flexed your hands slightly, remembering the weight of a gun. The hesitation. The choice.

“I don’t get to pretend I’m clean. None of us do.”

Your gaze drifted toward the house.

“I’d take a bullet for every single one of them. Not because they deserve it. That’s the part people don’t understand. It’s not about deserving.”

It was about love.

Messy. Illogical. Ruinous love.

“I’d take it because I couldn’t sit there and watch them fall. I’d rather be the one on the ground than the one standing over it.”

You let that settle.

“I’d risk everything I have if it meant protecting them. Every plan. Every exit. Every ounce of self preservation I’ve built.”

Your jaw tightened slightly.

“And maybe that’s where I’ll die. Not in some grand betrayal. Not in a dramatic shootout. Just stepping in front of something meant for someone else.”

The pool water shifted again, reflecting the moon in broken fragments.

“And maybe that’s fair,” you said quietly.

You thought about your father. About the near drowning. About all the times you survived something that should have marked you permanently.

“You don’t get to live like this and ask for softness at the end.”

Your eyes softened, but your voice didn’t.

“We’re not the exception. None of us. The only thing we actually control is how we meet it. Head down. Or eyes open.”

A small breath left your chest.

“I don’t plan on looking away.”

Silence returned, thick but not suffocating.

For now, that was enough.

The day had been nothing but this. Moments slipping through your fingers, coming in fragments rather than wholes. Hallways stretching too long. Bells ringing too sharp. Faces moving around you while you stayed suspended somewhere behind your eyes, slowly turning into a ghost of yourself.

Your gaze lifted without permission, and you immediately wished it hadn’t.

Jonathan stood across the cafeteria, half-lost in the crowd and shadows. His shoulders were rigid, his posture folded inward like he’d been struck somewhere tender and never quite recovered. For half a heartbeat, you thought he was looking at you. Hope flared before you could stop it, a fragile thing, and a small smile tugged at your lips.

Then you followed his line of sight.

Nancy Wheeler.

She was talking to Steve, unaware at first. Jonathan wasn’t. His eyes were locked on her, unblinking, as if the rest of the room had thinned into nothing. Like she was the only solid thing left.

The cafeteria noise drained away, replaced by a heavy pressure in your ears, deep and suffocating.

Nancy looked up.

Their eyes met.

It lasted only a second. But it was a second too long. Too still. Too full.

Something inside you didn’t break so much as shut down. Not pain. Not yet. It felt like a window closing, a door clicking softly into place. You thought about standing, about moving toward him, but your body refused. You felt glued to the bench, weighed down by everything you hadn’t said and everything you couldn’t undo.

Your fingers curled into your palms. Nails dug in hard enough to sting, then burn. You hissed quietly, pulling your hand back as a thin line of red welled up against your skin.

Your chest tightened, that familiar ache stitching itself through everything you’d been carrying. Will’s voice. The flickering lights. The shape in the wall. Guilt layered over grief, wrapped so tightly it was hard to tell where one ended, and the other began.

You looked away first.

Your lunch became the most interesting thing in the world. Grease. Cold food. Anything but them.

The cafeteria slammed back into focus all at once, sound crashing over you like rough water. You stood abruptly, grabbed your bag, and dumped your untouched lunch into the trash without a second thought.

As you left the room, heart pounding too fast and too hard, you didn’t see the eyes watching you go.

But they lingered long after you were gone

“y/n?! y/n?!”

You didn’t turn around.

All you wanted to do was drive. Drive until the roads thinned into nothing, until the noise in your head finally burned itself out. Anywhere far away from the grief, the guilt, the jealousy that sat like poison in your chest.

You made it through the school doors and halfway across the parking lot before a hand caught your shoulder, spinning you around too fast.

“H–hey,” Jonathan said, breathless. “Are you okay? I was calling you, but… I don’t think you heard me.”

You adjusted your bag higher on your shoulder, forcing out a sigh you hoped sounded normal.

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry. I was just… in my head.”

Jonathan studied you, eyes searching your face like he was trying to read something written too faintly. You could tell he didn’t believe you. But he let it go anyway, and somehow that hurt more.

He nodded slowly. “Do you wanna come over? I’ve got more posters. I was gonna put them up.”

You looked away.

There was nothing you wanted more than to say yes. To help him. To do something that mattered. To stay close to him when everything else felt like it was slipping.

And yet a bitter, selfish thought crawled up your spine.

Ask Nancy.

She’d look better doing this with him. The right couple. The kind people expected.

Instead of you. The background girl. The afterthought.

“Um…” was all you managed.

Before you could force anything else out, voices cut in.

“Hey, man.”

Steve Harrington slid off the trunk of Jonathan’s car like he owned it. Carol and Tommy closed in beside him, loose smiles plastered across their faces like warning signs.

“What’s going on?” Jonathan asked, instinctively stepping closer to you.

“Nicole here was telling us about your work,” Steve said casually.

“We’ve heard great things,” Carol added, fake sweetness dripping from every word.

“Yeah,” Tommy said. “Sounds cool.”

Your brows pulled together. None of this made sense. Steve and his little army didn’t just wander over to compliment people.

You let out a sharp breath. “Is there a point to this?”

Steve’s eyes flicked to you, narrowing. “Yeah. We’d love to take a look.” His gaze slid between you and Jonathan. “You know. As connoisseurs of art.”

Jonathan sighed, fingers lacing with yours like it was instinct, like muscle memory. Your heart jumped at the contact, then immediately sank.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, trying to move past them.

Tommy grabbed his bag.

“Hey—!” Jonathan protested as Tommy tossed it to Steve.

“Please,” Jonathan said, voice cracking. “Just give it back.”

Something inside you went cold and sharp.

Steve unzipped the bag. “Man,” he said, smirking. “He’s shaking. Must be hiding something good.”

“Here we go.”

Photos spilled into Steve’s hands.

“Just give them back, Steve,” you said, gripping your own bag tighter. Your voice didn’t shake. That surprised even you.

Steve made a dismissive noise and kept flipping through them.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Totally not creepy.”

“I was looking for my brother,” Jonathan said quietly.

Steve laughed. “No. This is called stalking.”

You were already moving in your head, planning how fast you could snatch the photos and run, when another voice cut through the tension.

“What’s going on?”

Nancy.

Steve lit up. “There’s our star.”

“What?” Nancy asked, confused.

“These two creeps were spying on us last night,” Carol said.

“Oh yeah,” Steve added. “They flock together. Just spreading the creepiness.”

Laughter erupted behind them.

You stared at Steve, hard and unblinking. A violent thought crossed your mind, vivid enough to scare you. For a split second, you wanted to hurt him. Really hurt him.

“He was probably saving this one for later,” Carol said, handing a photo to Nancy. Then she turned to you, grin widening. “Isn’t that sad? Your little boyfriend doesn’t even wanna jerk off to pictures of you.”

That one landed.

You knew Jonathan would never. You knew it. But doubt slipped in anyway, cruel and quiet. You claiming something that was never really yours.

Steve clicked his tongue. “See? He knew it was wrong. That’s the thing about perverts. It’s wired into them.”

He reached for Jonathan.

Your hand came down hard, slapping his away.

“Don’t touch him.”

Steve froze, genuinely surprised.

He scoffed, turning back to the bag. “Guess I’ll take his toy.”

“No,” Jonathan pleaded. “Please. Not the camera.”

“Stop!” you yelled.

Steve stepped closer, holding the camera out like bait.

Then he dropped it.

The sound of plastic and metal cracking against pavement was loud enough to make you gasp. Rage surged through you, hot and blinding. You lunged at Steve, nails scratching, fists flying, before hands grabbed you from behind.

Tommy threw you to the ground.

The impact knocked the air from your lungs.

Jonathan was there instantly, crouching, helping you up. Your hands burned. Blood dotted your palms from the gravel, bright and real.

Steve and the others walked off, laughing as if nothing had happened.

You knelt beside Jonathan in silence, helping him gather broken pieces of the camera and scattered photos, your hands shaking too badly to hide anymore.

And for the first time, you realized how close you were to breaking something you couldn’t put back together.

Noise meant life.

The only nights you reached for the headphones were the nights sleep refused to come. The nights your mind dragged you back to memories you would have given anything to forget.

Millions of voices.

Millions of lives.

A planet full of people who had trusted their queen.

All gone.

Because you had not been there.

Your fingers pressed lightly against the cool glass of the apartment window as you looked up at the sky, a habit you could not break no matter how much time passed.

On Tovern, the sky had always answered you.

The planet’s energy had lived inside your veins, humming through you like a second heartbeat, constant and alive. You had never needed to wonder if it was there. You could feel it in every breath.

But Earth’s sky was quiet.

Empty.

And inside your chest, there was only silence now.

Where Tovern’s energy once sang through your blood, there was nothing but the steady, hollow rhythm of a heartbeat that no longer belonged to a world.

“You good to go on that end?”

“Yes, Tony, the rest is up to you,” you answered, voice carrying through the comms as you and Tony Stark burst out of the water and shot into the sky toward Stark Tower.

Wind tore past as the city rushed up beneath you, the skyline of New York City glittering in the afternoon sun.

“You two disconnected the transmission lines? Are we off the grid?” Pepper Potts asked through the headset, her voice sharp with concern.

“Stark Tower’s about to become a beacon of self-sustaining clean energy,” Tony replied smoothly.

“Well… assuming the arc reactor takes over,” Pepper said. “And it actually works.”

You rolled your eyes mid-flight.

“You should have listened to me,” you muttered, shaking your head as you kept pace beside him. “You would not have this issue if you followed my plan.”

Tony turned his helmet slightly toward you. Even through the metal, you could practically feel the smirk.

“Oh yeah? The one where you casually suggested wiping out half the planet?”

“It was a logical solution.”

You both banked around a corner, the tower rising rapidly in front of you.

Pepper’s voice cut in again.

“y/n, honey, I love you a lot, but we cannot kill half of the population to help with climate change.”

Another slow roll of your eyes.

Humans.

You huffed quietly under your breath as you angled downward beside Tony.

On Tovern, people would have volunteered. Sacrifice for the survival of the world was not considered cruel there. It was considered honorable.

Earth, however, had… different priorities.

“Well, let’s assume. Light her up,” Tony Stark said.

A second later, the power surged through Stark Tower, its lights roaring to life floor by floor like a rising constellation.

“How does it look?” Pepper Potts asked through the comms.

Tony slowed in the air beside you, the glow of the tower reflecting across his armor as a smug grin practically radiated through his voice.

“Like Christmas…” he said, pausing just long enough for dramatic effect. “But with more me.”

You both streaked over an overpass and curved upward along the glass side of the tower, wind tearing past as the city of New York City rushed beneath your feet.

“We’ve got to go wider on the public awareness campaign,” Pepper continued. “You both need to do some press.”

You immediately shook your head, the answer coming before she had even finished.

“No. Absolutely not. The people on this planet are incompetent and do not understand me.”

Tony snorted beside you.

“To be fair,” he said, “almost half of your solutions for, like, everything involve wiping out half the world.”

You flicked your hand toward him, sending a sharp gust of wind slamming lightly against his armor.

“Population reduction is efficient.”

“See? Exhibit A.”

Pepper continued talking like the two of you weren’t bickering mid-air.

“I’m in DC tomorrow. I’m working on the zoning for the next three buildings.”

You and Tony touched down smoothly on the landing pad of Stark Tower.

“Pepper, you’re killing me right now,” Tony said, stepping forward as the mechanical gantries whirred to life around him. “Remember. Enjoy the moment.”

Metal arms descended, beginning the familiar process of dismantling the Iron Man suit piece by piece.

You walked beside him along the platform, rolling your shoulders as your own armor dissolved away in ripples of dimming light, the energy folding back into your skin until only your regular clothes remained.

“Then get in here and I will,” Pepper replied sweetly through the headset.

You gagged loudly and dramatically.

“Must I remind the two of you,” you said dryly, “that I am also on this channel… listening.”

Tony laughed as another plate of armor lifted away.

“Relax, Your Majesty. If things get too romantic, I’ll mute you.”

“You will do no such thing,” you replied flatly.

The last piece of Tony’s armor slid free just as you glanced toward the skyline again.

You sat across from Tony, one leg thrown over the other, watching as he paced back and forth across the floor of his lab like a man trying to run with his thoughts.

“The…what?” you asked slowly, your brow furrowing.” The Tessacrat?

Tony stopped his mumbling and pacing mid-step.

“Tesseract,” he corrected, pointing a finger at you before beckoning you over,” Big glowing cube. Unlimited energy. Currently, the scientific world’s favorite cosmic headache.”

You stood up, tilting your head, trying to process the word.

“And you believe this…cube…has something to do with Tovern?”

“Maybe,” he said.

Tony dragged a hand through his hair before facing you fully.

“It’s putting off readings I’ve never seen before,” he continued. Energy output that doesn’t follow anything we know about physics. It’s stable, it’s ancient, and it’s familiar.”

Your eyes narrowed at him slightly.

“Familiar how?” you questioned.

Tony took a step closer, his usual sarcastic expression long gone.

“Kinda like the energy you use,” he said. “The same kind of signatures your body gives off when you’re doing the whole glowing space-queen thing.”

Silence drowned the room.

If someone had dropped pins made for dolls, it would have echoed like thunder.

And thunder was exactly what you felt on your skin. Your fingers twitched next to you.

“That is not possible,” you said quietly.

“Yeah,” he replied. “That’s what I thought too.”

He took a step away from you to lean against the table behind him, arms crossed.

“But here’s the thing. The Tesseract has most likely been floating around for decades. Maybe centuries. Nobody really knows where it came from.”

Your chest felt tight, and your skin felt prickly.

Tony continued.

“So I started wondering…what if it didn’t come from Earth…at all?”

Your voice came out softer than you intended.

“...You believe it came from Tovern.”

For all of the time that you knew Tony, you had never seen him look so uncertain.

“I’m saying,” he said, choosing his words carefully,” that if there’s even a tiny chance the energy from that cube is connected to your planet…then whatever destroyed Tovern might be connected to it too.”

The room went still.

If what Tony was saying was true…then the thing that had taken your world and people from you had already been on Earth.

That meant it had been waiting.

You lifted your gaze from the floor, realization crashing through you so suddenly that your breath caught.

“Tony…” you said, your eyes widening. “ If any part of what you are saying is true…then whatever destroyed my planet was no accident.”

Across from you, Tony frowned slightly.

“Well, yeah,” he replied. “It’s kinda hard to accidentally blow up a planet and all the people on it.”

You shook your head quickly.

“No. Listen to me.”

You crossed the space between you before he could blink, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him closer. He had no choice but to meet your eyes.

“If anything you have said is true,” you continued, your voice tight with urgency,” then my coming to Earth was no coincidence.”

Tony’s confusion deepened as his brows furrowed.

“What’re you saying?”

You paused, the thought settling into place like a terrible puzzle piece finally finding where it belonged.

“Whoever destroyed Tovern didn’t just wipe it from existence,” you said slowly. “They planned it.”

Your grip tightened on his shoulders.

“They waited until I was gone.”

The silence in the room felt heavy.

“Tony,” you whispered, the weight of the realization settling into your chest like stone.

“They didn’t just destroy my world.”

Your eyes flickered toward the skyline beyond the lab windows, toward the glowing top of Stark Tower.

You turned your head back to Tony, your words a whisper.

“They made sure I survived it.”

“Guy’s all over the place,” Natasha mutters from the Quinjet, lining up another shot.

“Agent Romanoff, you miss us?” Tony replied smoothly over comms as you rolled your eyes.

You and Tony dropped from the sky in tandem, cutting through the air before he fired a black at Loki, which took him to the ground.

“Make a move, Reindeer Games.”

Your brows immediately pulled together in confusion as you hovered slightly above the pavement.

“Reindeer…games?” you repeated, turning your head toward Tony. “Why are you comparing him to an animal? And what games would it be participating in?”

Tony pretty much refused to look at you this time. He just sighed like a man carrying the burden of explaining Earth to a cosmic being.

“It’s a reference,” he said flatly. “Long story. Festive. Not important right now.”

Your gaze shifted back to Loki just as he slowly raised his hands in surrender, something theatrical in the way he did it.

You tilted your head, your eyes glowing a bright purple.

“He does not seem intimidated,” you observed quietly.

Tony’s helmet turned slightly toward you.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s because he’s not the surrendering type.”

A strange feeling settled in your chest as you continued to stare at Loki closely. There was something in the air around him. Something familiar yet distant.

Not the same as Tovern, but close enough to make your pulse spike.

Your fingers twitched at your side, faint energy flickering across your skin. The air around you bent, like heat rising off pavement.

“Tony…” you said under your breath.

Tony took in the sight playing in front of him. He knew you were worrying, and that meant if you saw worry within him, you’d worry even more.

“Okay, this is different. Please tell me you’re about to say something helpful,”

The glow spread. Up your arms. Across your shoulders.

Your clothes shifted, dissolving into strands of light that wrapped back around your body.

Your eyes didn’t leave Loki.

“He is not alone.”

Tony opened his mouth to say something, probably another joke, but it died in his throat the second he spotted Captain America approaching through the wreckage.

The shift in him was immediate. Sharp, focused, real.

He turned toward you just as quickly, his hand coming to your shoulder, firm enough to ground you but not restrain you.

“Listen,” Tony said, breath tight, words faster now. “We’re going to handle this. For now–”

He gestured vaguely at you, at the faint light beginning to bleed through your skin.

“ –try and handle this.”

His touch lingered for half a second longer before he pulled away, already stepping back into the chaos.

Across from you, Steve slowed slightly as he took you in, confusion flickering across his face before it hardened into focus.

A part of you tensed and relaxed at his eyes.

“Mister Stark,” Steve says, nodding his head at Tony, while his eyes flicker over to you.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless. “You good?”

You press your lips together briefly before you nod.

“I will be.”

His gaze lingers for half a second longer, like he knows that’s not entirely true, but he lets it go.

Inside the cockpit, it’s eerily quiet except for the voice of Fury filtering through Natasha’s headset.

Static crackles between his words, sharp and controlled, like he already knew how this was going to end.

You sat near the back, your hands resting in your lap; however, nothing about you was relaxed.

Across from you, Loki sat restrained, far too composed for someone trapped in chains. There was a stillness to him that nerved you, like a storm choosing not to move.

An enormous part of you wanted to burn him into his seat.

You knew you could.

The thought of it came easily. A single shift of focus, a single thread of energy that lingered deep within you, and this entire lump of metal could be reduced to nothing but falling silver and fire.

The realization didn’t frighten you.

Your finger twitched in your lap as a faint shimmer flickered beneath your skin, gone as quickly as it appeared.

However, you knew better.

Your people had not built their world on meaningless destruction. Power was not meant to be used for vengeance.

But…your gaze still lingered on him.

If Loki had any finger in what happened to Tovern…

You would not destroy him here. Not yet.

But you would never give him the chance or ability to call anywhere home again.

You had been restless.

Your robe trailed behind you as you paced the length of his chambers, silk whispering over obsidian floors. The constellations beneath the glass ceiling dimmed and brightened in response to your agitation, mirroring the unease coiling inside you.

Morpheus lay against the carved headboard of his bed, one arm draped lazily across the dark sheets, watching you with the quiet patience of someone who had witnessed centuries of storms.

“You are wearing a trench into my floor,” he observed.

You stopped mid-step, turning sharply.

“There is something wrong.” The words barely left your lips, as if the air itself resisted them. You pressed a hand to your chest. “I can feel it.”

His gaze sharpened.

You pointed a finger at him. “And do not tell me that I feel everything. I know that is what you are thinking.”

He lifted both hands in surrender, an almost-smile ghosting his mouth. “I have not said anything.”

“Yes,” you replied, stalking toward him, “which is precisely why I said that.”

He could never quite hide his amusement with you. You were chaos braided with starlight, and he had long ago decided not to tame it.

You reached the bed and stood over him, stars flickering faintly beneath your skin. He caught your wrist gently and tugged.

You fell forward with a soft sound of protest that dissolved into a laugh as he pulled you down beside him. His hand slid into your hair, long fingers combing through violet and blue strands as if searching for constellations there.

“There is always something wrong in the waking world,” he said quietly. “War. Grief. Desire. Mortals unravel themselves daily.”

You shook your head against his chest. “No. This is not distant. It is not mortal.” You lifted yourself on one elbow, searching his face. “It is closer. It feels… targeted.”

For a flicker of a second, something unreadable crossed his expression.

Then he reached up, tilting your chin with careful fingers, grounding you in the weight of his gaze.

“Whatever it is,” he said, voice low and steady, “it shall be nothing that concerns either of us.”

You wanted to believe him.

You truly did.

You leaned into his touch, your powers dimming instinctively under his calm. The restless current inside you softened as his thumb traced the curve of your jaw.

“You are too certain,” you murmured.

“I am certain of very little,” he replied. “But I am certain of this.”

You studied him then.

Ancient. Endless. Beautiful in the way voids are beautiful. He wore confidence like a second skin, not arrogance, but inevitability.

You exhaled slowly and let yourself fall back against him. Your body curved into his naturally, as if gravity favored him alone. He wrapped an arm around your waist, drawing you close, the gesture possessive but gentle.

Your fingers traced idle patterns over his bare chest, mapping him the way you mapped planets. He felt solid. Unmovable. Eternal.

“You worry,” he said after a moment.

“Of course I do,” you answered softly. “I carry worlds. It is what I do.”

His lips brushed the crown of your head. A rare, quiet intimacy. “You carry too much.”

“And you do not carry enough?”

A pause.

Then, softer than starlight:

“I would carry you.”

The words settled into you like sunlight on soil.

You shifted, propping yourself over him now, your hair falling like a curtain around his face. The stars in your skin glowed faintly, responding to the warmth blooming in your chest.

“You already do,” you whispered.

His hand slid up your spine, steady and reverent. Not hurried. Never hurried. With him, time folded obediently.

You kissed him then.

Not fierce. Not demanding.

Slow.

Intentional.

A promise neither of you knew you were making.

Outside the chamber, the Dreaming hummed peacefully. No alarms. No fractures in the sky. No mortal rituals clawing at the edges of existence.

Just the two of you.

You rested your forehead against his when the kiss ended, breathing him in, memorizing the shape of his silence.

Some part of you, deep and ancient, still trembled.

If you had listened harder to that tremor…

If you had acted…

Perhaps the glass would have shattered before it ever formed. Raven may still perch where they once did. A century may not have been carved from your lives.

But that night, wrapped in him, feeling invincible in his certainty, you chose love over fear.

And in the morning, the circle was waiting.

“Summoning the Three-in-One?” you repeat, incredulity curling through your voice as you sit upon a fractured slab of stone like a queen forced to hold court in ruins.

Lucienne mirrors your expression. “Surely it has not come to that.”

“The Fates see past, present, and future,” Morpheus says evenly. Even now, with the Dreaming crumbling around him, his voice carries the weight of inevitability. “They know all.”

You huff, rolling your shoulders as faint constellations flicker beneath your skin. “Yes, of course they do. They also speak exclusively in riddles and half-truths. Riddles that even I struggle to untangle, and I was present for most of creation.”

Lucienne nods. “They never tell you what you want to know. Only what you should never have asked.”

You rise and drift toward Morpheus, hovering just slightly above the broken marble, your bare feet never quite touching the dust. The air hums faintly with your agitation.

“Perhaps,” you say carefully, “just this once, you could ask one of your siblings for assistance.”

His posture stiffens almost imperceptibly.

You kneel before him anyway, brushing dust from his shoulder as if he were still seated on his throne and not a fractured remnant of it.

“Destiny would know where your tools are. He always knows.” Your fingers trail upward, tilting his chin so he must meet your eyes. “And Desire… well. They adore involvement.”

Morpheus removes your hand gently but firmly. “My siblings have their realms. I have mine. We do not interfere.”

You blink at him.

Then scoff.

“Then what a cosmic joke it is that you must call each other siblings for eternity.”

Lucienne’s lips twitch despite herself.

“You may claim not to meddle,” you continue, standing and pacing in a slow circle, “but they certainly have been known to.” You glance back at him. “At the very least, you could inform them what happened to you. To us.”

You crouch again, softer now, taking his hands in yours. His skin is cool. Familiar.

“If not for pride,” you murmur, “then for the century we spent caged. Naked. Observed. Treated like artifacts instead of rulers.”

Your voice does not rise this time. It lowers.

More dangerous that way.

Morpheus’s thumb brushes across your knuckles.

“I am quite certain they know what happened,” he says quietly. His gaze shifts, something shadowed passing through it. “To me. To you.”

Your jaw tightens.

“And not one of them came.”

The words settle heavily between you.

You sink down beside him, shoulder brushing his. You never knew the Endless well enough to lean on them. They were distant constellations to you, bright but unreachable. Still, you had expected something. A ripple. A search. A question asked in your absence.

Nothing came.

Lucienne clears her throat gently. “The Fates are not easily summoned. They demand… payment.”

You glance at her. “Define payment.”

“A bloody fortune,” she answers plainly.

Morpheus exhales softly. “And I do not yet possess the strength to call them. Let alone compensate them.”

You rest your head briefly against his shoulder, staring out at the skeletal remains of his once-vibrant realm.

“Unless…” he begins.

You lift your head at once. “Unless what?”

His gaze sharpens. Calculating. Determined.

“Is there anything of mine that remains intact within the Dreaming?” he asks. “Something I created.”

Lucienne looks around at the devastation. “You created all of this.”

“No,” he says immediately. “Something singular. Untouched. That retains a fragment of my essence.”

He turns to her fully now. “Something I can reclaim. Absorb.”

The word lingers.

Absorb.

You feel your own power stir instinctively at the concept, as if your nature understands it intimately. You have absorbed light from dying stars. Storms from collapsing atmospheres. You know what it means to take something back into yourself.

Lucienne hesitates.

“There is one thing,” she says slowly.

The air changes.

You straighten, violet hues beginning to shimmer faintly beneath your skin.

“Well,” you say, eyes brightening with anticipation and something far sharper, “do not keep your king waiting.”

And somewhere in the distance, something ancient and forgotten pulses, as if it has been listening for his call all along.

You wept starlight as Morpheus absorbed Gregory’s life.

The sound Cain made will echo in the Dreaming for centuries. Abel’s quiet devastation was somehow worse. You knelt between them both, hands warm against their trembling shoulders, whispering that sacrifice is never meaningless in a realm built on story.

You hoped you were not lying.

Now you stand with Lucienne at the edge of the dark waters, where the Fates must be summoned.

The shoreline of the Dreaming is not gentle anymore. What was once a reflective, silver tide now rolls thick and ink-black, swallowing light instead of returning it. The surface barely ripples, as though something beneath it is breathing slowly.

“Do you think you are quite ready for this, Your Majesty?” Lucienne asks carefully.

Your skin shimmers faintly, constellations pricking to life beneath the surface. Not bright. Watchful.

“It has been some time since you’ve navigated these waters,” you add, your voice softer than the tide but edged with concern.

Morpheus does not turn at first. He stands at the pier’s edge, coat stirring in a wind that does not touch you.

“Do you believe I have forgotten how?” he asks.

“No,” you answer immediately. You step closer. “But time changes currents. Even for you.”

He finally looks back at you.

There is exhaustion there. And something harder. Something sharpened by captivity.

“I cannot ask the Three-in-One for guidance without payment,” he says. “There is nothing left in the Dreaming of sufficient value. I must gather offerings from the dreams of mortals.”

Lucienne nods grimly. “We understand, sir. It is only that these waters have grown… darker.”

You glance at the tide. It does not reflect you.

That unsettles you more than you let on.

Morpheus moves closer to the edge, crouching at the lip of the pier. “These waters are as much a part of me as I am of them.”

You join him, resting your hand on his shoulder. Your touch steadies him, and in response your glow warms slightly, not blazing, but protective. A halo of distant galaxies held tight beneath skin.

“Then let them remember who you are,” you murmur. “And let Gregory’s sacrifice not be in vain.”

For a brief second, his hand covers yours.

Then he opens his palm.

Golden sand slips through his fingers and falls into the black water.

The surface shifts.

Spreads.

Flattens into something unnaturally still.

A mirror forms where the sand touches, brightening until it reflects him perfectly. Not distorted. Not rippled. Perfect.

You lean forward slightly.

The reflection moves a fraction of a second too late.

Your stars flare sharply.

“Morpheus—”

The water fractures upward.

A pale hand bursts from the mirror-surface and seizes his wrist.

The pier groans as he is dragged forward.

You move before thought catches up.

Your body ignites, violet deepening, constellations blazing to full brilliance. The air splits with the scent of ozone and wet earth. Roots crack through the stone beneath your feet, anchoring you as you lunge, grabbing hold of him just as the water swallows his legs.

The tide is not liquid.

It is thick as ink and cold as absence.

Another hand claws upward.

Then another.

You see their faces in the water.

Three.

Wrinkled. Young. Ancient. All at once.

Their voices overlap in whispers that scrape like bone against bone.

“Payment.”

Your hair lifts around you as gravity bends slightly inward. The sea around the pier begins to churn, responding to your fury. Storm clouds spiral above, drawn from nowhere.

Lucienne calls your name from behind you, but you do not look away.

The Fates tug harder.

The water climbs to Morpheus’s waist.

He does not struggle wildly. He meets your gaze instead.

Steady.

Commanding.

Trusting.

Your glow intensifies, stars burning so bright they cast shadows across the ruined shore.

“I will not lose you to water after losing you to glass,” you warn the dark.

The sea recoils for half a heartbeat.

But the Fates do not release him.

Not yet.