sam

The knock on the door came after two in the morning, three spaced-out taps you barely hear over the telly being on some random channel you stopped paying attention to hours ago, eyes glazed over at nothing while the sofa sinks under your weight and the cold coffee mug on the coffee table's already left one of those brown rings you'll have to scrub off later (if it ever matters cleaning anything ever again).

No one came looking for you at that hour, no one could come looking for you anymore, not since the missing poster got taken down from the lamppost on the corner because "it's been a while, love, we need to move on", not since you stopped answering his mum's calls because hearing her cry made you want to vomit from guilt, and for a second you think about ignoring it, about letting whoever it is knock until they give up and go away, but your feet are already moving on their own across the rough hallway carpet, the robot vacuum's strap catching on your middle finger and you nearly fall, swear quietly in a voice that doesn't sound like yours, reach the door with sweaty hands and a heart beating so deep in your chest it seems to echo through the empty flat.

You look through the peephole and the whole world seems to pull the rug out from under your feet because it's Bobby, not just any Bobby but the Bobby, way too thin and way too pale with the "End Apartheid" shirt you gave him in the second month of dating now torn at the shoulder and stained with something dark that could be dirt or could be dried blood, greasy hair stuck to his forehead like he's just climbed out from underwater, eyes sunken and red with bags so deep they look painted on, and he's standing there on the landing of your building's staircase like he's just appeared out of nowhere, no car, no backpack, nothing but his own bruised body and a look of desperation you'd never seen before, the kind of desperation that wouldn't even be capable of screaming anymore.

You open the door without remembering unlocking it, without remembering turning the key, and he's there so close you can smell him, a strange smell of damp and sweat and something that reminds you of the bottom of a basement no one's set foot in for years, and your throat closes up because part of you was still hoping it was a mistake, that the poster was wrong, that he'd just disappeared for a while and would come back like nothing had happened, but the truth is you'd already given up, you'd already cried every tear you could cry and then stopped because crying didn't bring him back and also because, deep down in that dirty, selfish place you wouldn't even tell your therapist about, there was a little voice whispering that maybe it was better this way, that maybe you were free, that maybe now you could finally end things without having to actually end them, and that little voice is now silenced because he's alive and he's here and he's looking at you like you're the only thing in his world.

"Hi," Bobby says, and his voice comes out hoarse and small and cracked in the middle like every letter costs him a piece of his throat, and he tries to smile but the smile is a strange twitch at the corner of his mouth, and he says "hi" again like he doesn't know what else to say, like he rehearsed this for days or weeks or months in the dark of that yellow place and now all the words have run away.

He takes a step forward and falters, his right hand slapping against the doorframe with a dry sound that makes you jump, and he holds on there like the world's tilted and he'd fall if he let go, and you see his fingers — the fingers that used to doodle on your shoulder when you watched films on the sofa, the fingers that used to squeeze yours when you were nervous — they're now caked with dark dirt under broken nails, with little cuts on the knuckles that look infected, and you feel your stomach turn not just from disgust but from something that feels like anger but isn't quite anger, it feels like frustration, feels like injustice because you'd already decided, you'd already prepared yourself, you'd rehearsed your speech in the shower and in front of the mirror and in the sleepless early hours, and now he's here all broken and vulnerable and asking without asking, just with that look of a hurt dog that makes you want to hit him and hug him at the same time.

"Can you let me in?" he asks, and his voice falters in the middle of the last word like he already knows the answer and is scared of it, and you think about closing the door, think about saying no, think about saying "Bobby, we need to talk, there's so much I needed to tell you before you disappeared", but the words won't come and your hands won't obey either and you step back making space for him to come in without even having decided to do it, your body moving on its own while your head screams this is a mistake, this is a mistake, you don't owe him anything but it's too late because he's inside your flat, crossing the living room you haven't tidied for weeks with a strange way of moving like he's forgotten how to walk in a straight line, his wobbly legs knocking against the corner of the table and knocking over a pile of bills you haven't paid, and he doesn't even apologise, just keeps going toward the sofa like he already knows where the furniture is, like he dreamed about this place every night in the yellow hell and is now following a map etched into his soul.

He sits down slowly, so slowly he looks like an old man, and when his back finally hits the cushions he lets out a sound that's a deep, tired noise from his chest like he's been holding his breath since he fell into that hole and only now has permission to let the air out, and you stand there in the middle of the room looking at him with your arms crossed and your jaw clenched, trying not to remember the last time he sat on that sofa, trying not to remember that's where he said "you're being dramatic" when you tried to talk about how lonely you'd been feeling, that's where he turned his back and picked up his camera and started laughing about how good the footage with his mates had turned out while you swallowed your tears alone in the bathroom, that's where you swore to yourself you were going to end it, that you deserved more, that you weren't going to spend another year being treated like a supporting character in someone else's life who barely noticed you existed.

Now he's here again, but different, so different it hurts, and you don't know if this Bobby is the same one who hurt you or if the hole took that Bobby away and gave you back a different one, and that doubt is worse than any certainty because if he's the same then you need to end it, need to be brave, need to say the words you swallowed for so long, but if he's not the same — if he's really changed, if the fear of death made him see what he lost — then ending it now would be Cruelty with a capital C, would be kicking a dog that just got hit by a car, and you're not that kind of person, you never were, but you've also never been in this position before, never had to choose between your own happiness and the sanity of someone you once loved.

He lifts his hurt hand with trembling fingers, and makes a small gesture for you to come closer, and your feet move before you can think, and suddenly you're sitting next to him on the sofa, so close his leg touches yours, so close you can feel the strange heat of his body mixed with that smell of damp and dirt, and he doesn't say anything, just tilts his head slowly until his forehead rests on your shoulder, and you feel his weight, the weight of everything, of every day he spent lost, of every time he must have thought about you, of every promise he made to himself that he'd be better if he got out alive; and your hand rises on its own, your fingers sinking into his dirty hair without your permission, and you want to believe this gesture is affection but you know it's not, you know it's guilt, you know it's fear, you know it's the same dirty part of you that felt relieved when he disappeared now trying to make up for it so you don't feel like a monster.

"I thought about you," he mumbles against your shoulder, "where I was I thought about you, about how much of an idiot I was, about how you deserved more, about how I didn't tell you I loved you the last time we saw each other because we'd argued because I was being a prick and then I ended up in that hole and thought I'd never get to say it again," and the words all come out run together, without pause, like he's been saving up this speech for weeks and now needs to vomit it out before the chance passes, and every word is a punch to your stomach because you remember that last argument, remember every detail, remember you had your coat on ready to leave and he didn't even get up from his chair, remember you said "Bobby, I can't live like this anymore" and he answered "then don't", and you left slamming the door and swore you weren't coming back, that you'd put his things in a box, that you'd change your number and disappear from his life like he disappeared from yours long before the hole swallowed him.

But you didn't do any of that because by the next morning he'd already vanished, because Clark rang desperate asking if you'd seen Bobby, because the police showed up at your door with photos and questions and a look of "another young one disappeared without explanation", and you stood there with the box of his things in the middle of the living room waiting for the right moment to give it back and the right moment never came because the grief came first, because the guilt came first, because everyone started treating you like the grieving girlfriend before its time and you let them because it was easier than admitting that the two of you had already finished long before he disappeared.

Now he's here, alive, saying he loves you with a wobbly voice, and you can't say anything because the truth — the rotten, ugly truth you swept under the rug of grief — is that you didn't miss the Bobby who left, you missed someone, you missed not being alone, but not him specifically, not that 22-year-old lad who made jokes at the wrong time and forgot your things and made you feel like you were always the last priority on his list, and the worst, the worst of it all, is that you caught yourself thinking, in the darkest nights of grief, that maybe it was better this way, that maybe you could finally start over without needing to have the difficult conversation, that the universe had done the dirty work for you, and that thought ate away at you from the inside, made you cry with disgust at yourself, made you drink alone in the dark kitchen while repeating "I'm not a bad person, I'm not a bad person" like a mantra that didn't work.

He lifts his head from your shoulder and looks at you with red, watery eyes and asks:

"did you miss me?" and the question is so simple, so direct, so full of a vulnerability that the old Bobby would never have allowed himself to show.

Your answer gets stuck in your throat like a bone, and the silence stretches on for too long, for seconds that turn into an eternity, and you see his face change slowly, see the hope dying in his eyes in slow motion, and when you finally manage to open your mouth to lie — because lying would be easier, because lying would be kinder, because lying would let him sleep in peace tonight — he shakes his head like he already knew, like the answer's been written on your face since the moment he knocked on the door, and he whispers: "it's alright, I get it, I deserve it", and looks away at the floor of your messy flat, and what hurts isn't seeing him sad, what hurts is realising that part of you — a part you hate, a part you want to tear out with your fingernails — feels relieved that he finally understood.

You stand up first, not out of your own will but because the silence after that "I deserve it" got too heavy like the air in the flat had turned to water and you needed to move so you wouldn't drown, so you reach your hand out to him without thinking, without planning, and Bobby looks at your open palm with an expression that hurts it's so vulnerable, his red eyes glistening in the middle of the room dimly lit by the kitchen light you forgot to turn off hours ago, and he hesitates for a second that feels like a whole lifetime before placing his cold, hurt fingers on yours, the touch so light it barely exists, like he's scared of squeezing too hard and breaking something or maybe like he thinks you're a ghost who'll disappear if he holds on too tight.

"Come on," you say, and the word comes out drier than you meant, like you're talking to a stranger on the street and not the boyfriend who came back from the dead, but you can't adjust your tone now, can't fake sweetness when your head's still spinning with all the things left unsaid, all the arguments left hanging, so you just pull him up off the sofa with a sharp movement that makes him groan quietly — somewhere in his shoulder, maybe his back, maybe some bruise you can't see under the torn shirt — and you feel a pang of guilt, but it's a tired guilt, the kind that doesn't really hurt anymore, just weighs you down.

"You need a shower," you say, not a suggestion.

Bobby agrees with a nod so weak it looks like his neck can barely hold up his own skull, his eyes fixed on some point beyond your shoulder like he's still half trapped in that yellow place, half floating between the world of the living and something else he can't quite name.

The walk to the bathroom is short but feels like it takes an hour, every step Bobby takes dragging and uncertain, his hand gripping yours with a strength that contradicts the fragility of the rest of his body, and you notice he's looking at everything — at the narrow hallway of the flat you used to share before the disappearance, at the photo frames on the wall you couldn't bring yourself to take down, at the half-open bedroom door showing the messy bed where you slept alone for so many nights — and every thing he sees seems to hurt in a different way, like he's redrawing the map of a place that was once his and now doesn't know if it still is.

You turn on the shower before letting him into the small, damp bathroom, the water taking ages to heat up because the building's old and the heater's always been rubbish, and while you wait you stand there in the middle of the shower stall with your hand under the cold water feeling the drips run between your fingers, and it's funny because at some point in your life taking a shower was such an automatic thing you didn't even think about it, and now every second feels stretched out by the awareness that Bobby is there behind you, leaning against the bathroom wall with his eyes closed, breathing deeply like the steam from the hot water is the first good thing to touch his skin in weeks.

You turn around and start taking his clothes off without asking, without ceremony, your fingers pulling the "End Apartheid" shirt over his head, what was once your gift now unrecognisable, torn and stained and smelling of damp, and when the fabric falls from his shoulders, you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself making any sound because Bobby's body — the body you knew so well, you touched and kissed and pressed against your own on nights when you pretended to love each other — is covered in marks that weren't there before, purple and yellow bruises scattered across his ribs and arms, long red scratches running from his wrist to his elbow like something tried to grab him and not let go, and on his right shoulder a round wound that looks like a burn but not quite, the skin wrinkled and pale like it was pressed against something very hot or very cold or very wrong, and you don't ask what happened, not yet, because you're scared of the answer and also because part of you — that selfish part you're trying very hard to ignore — doesn't want to know the details, wants to keep believing that the Bobby who disappeared was just a mediocre boyfriend who vanished by accident, not a tragic hero who survived unimaginable horrors and now deserves all the love and patience in the world.

You take off the rest of his clothes with your eyes down, focusing on the movements of your hands so you don't have to look at the marks, so you don't have to look at his face which is pale and tired and so different from the lad who used to laugh about his boss's misfortunes at the furniture shop, and when he's completely naked in front of you, shivering a little, looking away at the blueish bathroom wall, you say:

"Get in."

The word comes out more steady than you feel, and he steps into the water without complaining, without making a joke, and the absence of his dry humour hurts in a way you didn't expect because the Bobby you knew would have made some stupid comment by now, would have said something like "didn't know you had a thing for assisted bathing" with that crooked smile that was irritating and charming at the same time, but this Bobby just stands still under the hot water with his shoulders slumped and his head down, the water running through his greasy hair and washing away a layer of dirt and sweat and maybe blood, forming a brown circle in the shower drain that goes down slowly making a choking sound, and you watch him for a few seconds before sighing deeply, pulling off your own hoodie and pyjama bottoms and stepping into the shower behind him, because there's no way to wash him properly without getting wet and also because — you admit to yourself with a bitterness in your mouth — because part of you wants to be close, wants to feel the warmth of his body against yours even if it's only for a few minutes, even if it's just to remember what it's like not to be alone.

You soap his shoulders first, running the liquid soap slowly, making circles on his bruised skin with a gentleness that surprises you because this isn't how you imagined touching him again, not after everything, but your hands seem to have forgotten the anger and only remembered how to care, and Bobby stays still under your hands like a frightened animal that doesn't know if the touch will hurt or comfort, his breath coming out in little spasms every time you go over a bruise, and you feel it when he finally relaxes a bit, his shoulders dropping a few centimetres, his head tilting back against your chest without warning, and you let him, keep soaping his chest and his arms and his hands.

When you reach his ribs where the scratches are deepest he makes a quiet sound, and you feel your own eyes sting because it's so unfair, so deeply unfair, that you have to give your boyfriend a shower — the boyfriend you were planning to dump — like he's a sick child, that you have to pretend everything's normal when the only thing you want to do is shake him by the shoulders and scream you treated me badly, you made me feel so small, you made me believe I didn't deserve anything better, and now you come back all bruised and sorry and I can't hate you because that would be too cruel, because everyone's going to look at you like a hero who survived and if I leave you now I'm the villain of the story, I'm the girlfriend who abandoned her traumatised boyfriend, I'm the monster.

"What happened down there?" you asked, your voice coming out harsher than you meant.

Bobby takes so long to answer that you think he's not going to answer, that he'll pretend he didn't hear or that he's too tired to talk, but then he turns his head slightly, just enough for you to see his profile.

"You won't believe it."

His voice is so small, so tired, that you almost give up asking again.

"Try me," you answer, soaping his back in circular motions.

He sighs deeply before he starts talking, and while the words come out — about the rooms, about the rope that wouldn't let go, about the knot that pulled tighter and tighter while he tried to free himself — you remember last summer before the disappearance, Bobby came home late after "helping Clark with something" and you asked where he'd been.

"I told you, at work."

His bored voice meant you're being annoying, stop asking, but you pushed because his phone was off and Clark had said he hadn't seen him all day.

"Stop interrogating me, for God's sake. I don't have to account for every step I take."

He shouted, and you remember the sound echoing through the walls of the small flat, remember the bedroom door slamming so hard the picture frame fell off the wall and the glass broke, remember spending the whole night picking up the shards off the living room floor while he slept like nothing had happened. The next morning he apologised with that smile you loved and you accepted like you always accepted because it was easier than fighting again, easier than admitting it hurt, easier than accepting you deserved more than crumbs of attention and outbursts of anger.

Now he's here, under the shower, telling you about how he felt something grab his ankle while he tried to climb back up, and you listen to every word with a dry mouth and a tight heart, but at the same time a dissociated part of your brain is comparing this vulnerable, sorry Bobby with the Bobby who called you "dramatic" when you said you'd been feeling depressed, with the Bobby who laughed when you suggested couples therapy.

"If you're not happy, no one's keeping you here."

You remember that Friday night, him playing video games without even looking at your face while you cried in the bathroom.

He talks about the yellow place, about the endless hallways and the lights that don't flicker but also never turn off, about the things that move in the dark of the side rooms and how he learned to walk in silence, to hold his breath, to not make a sound even when the despair squeezed his chest, and while he talks you rinse his hair carefully, running your fingers through the wet strands to get all the dirt out, and he shivers under your hands.

"I thought I was going to die alone," he says, his voice starting to crack. "On some random Wednesday, with no one knowing where I was."

His voice finally breaks and he starts crying, ugly and convulsive, shaking his whole body, sobs that seem to tear at his throat.

"Came back for you," he murmurs against your shoulder between one sob and the next, the words wet and jumbled. "Thought about you all the time, about how badly I treated you, about how much of an idiot I was, about how you deserved someone better. And I swore that if I got out of that place I was going to be better… that I was going to deserve you."

Every word is a knife in your ribs because you wanted to hear this six months ago, a year ago, long before he ended up in that yellow hole, you wanted him to wake up and realise he was losing you, but not like this, not with the weight of a near-death experience on his back, because now you'll never know if he's really changed or if he's just clinging to you like a shipwrecked sailor clings to a plank hoping not to drown again.

You don't answer, don't know what to answer, just keep rinsing his hair and running your fingers along the back of his neck with a tenderness that isn't exactly genuine but also isn't completely fake, it's somewhere in the middle, in the grey area where everything in this relationship seems to have lived from the start.

When the water finally runs clean from his hair, you turn off the shower and get out first, grab the fluffy towel that was hanging on the door and wrap him in it like he's a child, drying his arms and his back and his hair with gentle movements while he stands there shivering, his eyes red and swollen from crying so much, and you notice he doesn't try to touch you back — doesn't pull you close, doesn't grab your waist, doesn't do any of the gestures the old Bobby would have done in a moment of intimacy like this — and you don't know if this is respect or fear or exhaustion, but you're silently grateful because if he tried anything now, if he tilted his face to kiss you, you don't know if you'd be able to push him away or if you'd just let it happen out of guilt, out of pity, out of that desperate need to feel something that isn't this suffocating mess of love and anger and relief and regret.

"Let's sleep," you say, reaching your hand out to him with a small smile on your face.

He nods, takes your hand, and follows you to the bedroom dragging his bare feet on the cold floor, and when you turn on the bedside lamp — because you know, without needing to ask, that he won't be able to sleep in the dark, not after spending weeks or months or god knows how long in that place where the only light was that sick, eternal light — he lets out a sigh so deep, so heavy with gratitude, that you feel your eyes sting again, and you hate yourself a little for it, for being so weak, for still feeling something for someone who treated you so badly for so long.

You lie down side by side, you with your back to him at first because you can't face his face right now, can't look him in the eyes and pretend everything's fine, but he doesn't complain, doesn't ask you to turn around, just lies there breathing slowly on the other side of the bed like he's scared of taking up too much space, scared of touching without permission, and this new caution in him is so strange and so sad that you end up turning over after a few minutes, turning to face him and pulling his arm until he's wrapped around you, his face buried in your neck, his warm, uneven breath against your skin.

One of your hands rises on its own to stroke his damp hair while the other rests on his back, feeling the scratches and bruises under your fingertips, and you realise you're doing exactly what you've always done — looking after him, calming him down, putting his needs above your own — and a small, fierce part inside your chest wants to scream, wants to say why is it always you? why am I here comforting you when you spent months ignoring me, putting me down, making me feel like I wasn't important enough even for a proper conversation? but your mouth doesn't move, doesn't make a sound, and the silence stretches out between you like a third person in the bed, heavy and uncomfortable.

"Will you stay?" he asks after a long time, his voice so low it sounds like a thought spoken out loud.

You don't know if he means will you stay with me now, tonight or will you stay with me forever, after everything, but either way the answer that comes out of your mouth is the same because you still haven't learned to say no to him, still haven't learned to prioritise your own pain over his.

"I will."

You whisper against the top of his head, and you feel his body relax immediately against yours, his shoulders dropping, his breath starting to steady, and you lie there staring at the bedroom ceiling with your eyes open in the yellow dimness of the lamp, listening to his heartbeat against your chest and your own heart beating in a completely different rhythm, like the two of you are no longer in sync, like maybe you never were.

The clock on the wall shows half two, three, half three.

You realise you don't have to decide anything right now, that you can put it off, that you can push this decision further and further until you yourself become unsustainable; you close your eyes finally, and the sun's already high, but the room stays dark because of the drawn curtains, those curtains you bought in your first month living alone, before Bobby moved in, when you still liked waking up to the morning light coming through the gaps. Bobby's lying on his stomach in bed, his face turned toward your side, his arm stretched out to where you were before like he tried to reach you while he was sleeping and couldn't.

You sit on the edge of the bed, slowly, so you don't wake him, and watch his face, the dark bags under his eyes that look painted on, the pale skin that's lost the tan of someone who worked at the shop and ran off to uni meetings, his jaw more defined because he lost weight in the yellow place, his cracked lips that you put Vaseline on last night without him noticing, and you think he looks older now, something in him has gone and not come back, something that might have been that ability he had to not take anything seriously, which was annoying most of the time but was also part of him, the part that made you laugh when you didn't want to laugh. Now he looks like every day in the Backrooms hell left a brick on his back, and you wonder if he'll recover, if one day he'll go back to making crap jokes at breakfast, if one day he'll forget enough to be able to sleep in the dark again, and the answer that comes doesn't exist, because no one knows, because trauma isn't a broken leg where the doctor says "six weeks and you'll be fine", trauma's a guest that moves into your house and decides when it's leaving (if it ever does).

You're so focused on his face that you don't notice the change in his breathing until he starts to move, first a small tremor in the fingers stretched out on the sheet, then a sharper movement in his leg, like he's trying to run in his sleep.

"No," he murmurs. "No, no, no, no..."

You reach out your hand to touch his shoulder, but he thrashes so hard your hand slips, and he turns onto his back suddenly, his arms coming up like he's trying to protect himself from something, and you hear your name, and it breaks something inside you, something you didn't know was still intact.

"Run," he whispers, and now his voice is louder, and his hands clench into fists by his sides like he's getting ready to fight. "Run, run, don't look back, run for God's sake, run..."

You stay sitting on the edge of the bed, your hand hovering halfway to his shoulder, and you listen to him beg you to run while he sleeps, and you understand that at some point in the Backrooms, he saw you, maybe in every room you were there, and in every one he was trying to save you, except you didn't ask to be saved, didn't ask to be the reason he keeps fighting, didn't ask to be the centre of anyone's universe, especially not his, especially not now, when you already had your bags packed to leave before he even ended up there.

"Run, go, I'll hold him, I'll hold him, just run..."

You finally find the strength to touch his shoulder, to shake him gently at first, then harder when he doesn't respond, and his eyes snap open with dilated pupils, his chest rising and falling in uneven waves, and it takes him a few seconds to understand where he is, to understand that you're here, alive, whole.

"You're here," he says, his voice cracking in the middle.

"I'm here," you answer, giving a small smile while stroking his face. "It's okay, we're home."

He sits up in bed suddenly, and his arms grab you, his fingers digging into your back like he's scared you'll dissolve into the air, and he buries his face in your neck and breathes deeply.

"It felt so real," he murmurs.

"It was just a nightmare," you say, and the words are empty, they're the words everyone says, the words that mean nothing, because you know that for him it isn't "just" anything, that the line between nightmare and reality is so blurred now that he probably can't even tell the difference anymore, that he'll wake up every day for weeks or months or years not knowing if he's back in the real world or if he's still trapped in that place, and you don't know if you have the patience for that, don't know if you have the strength for that, and just thinking about it makes you feel exhausted, makes you feel that deep tiredness that sleep doesn't fix, that only leaving would fix.

You hold him until the tremors stop, until his breathing returns to an almost normal rhythm, your fingers making circles on his back while he calms down and his body relaxes against yours, and you go back to that night, two weeks ago, when you still thought he was dead, when you were sitting on the same living room sofa with a glass of wine in your hand and absolute silence inside the flat, and you caught yourself thinking for the first time in two years, I don't feel guilty about being alone, and the thought scared you so much you nearly fell off the sofa, because you realised that his absence wasn't a hole in your life, but a relief.

You could go to bed without having to wait for him to finish gaming, could cook what you wanted without hearing complaints about the food, could watch the films he hated without having to negotiate for the remote, could exist in your own space without being treated like a piece of furniture, and the worst, the worst of it all, is that you didn't miss talking to him, didn't miss touching him, didn't miss absolutely anything except the idea of what you could have been, and that idea had been dead for a long time, buried under all the arguments and all the silences and all the times he made you feel small.

You wanted him to stay missing.

The thought comes now, in bed, while he shudders against your chest, while the smell of his freshly washed hair rises and you can't pretend you didn't think it, can't hate yourself enough to erase it. You wanted him to stay missing, and the guilt of that desire is eating away at everything inside you, because how can you wish for someone to disappear? How can you look at him, all broken and hurt and dependent like a newborn baby, and think I'd rather you were dead? What kind of monster does that? What kind of person sits in their own bed with their boyfriend who survived hell and wishes, in the darkest depths of their heart, that he hadn't come back? But you can't lie to yourself.

He lifts his face and looks at you with eyes still watery, and asks: "Are you okay?"

Even though he's just woken up from a nightmare where you died, even with his hands still trembling, he asks if you're okay, and that breaks something because you wanted him to ask that before, wanted him to look at you before with that same concern, wanted him to notice before that you were drowning in silence while he lived his life like you were just part of the scenery.

"I'm okay," you lie.

He looks like he wants to say something, but you get up before he can speak.

"It's getting light, you need to eat something," you say without turning to him. "You're too thin."

"You don't have to look after me," he answers. "I know you're not obligated."

Of course you're not obligated, and yet here you are, making coffee, giving showers, holding hands, lying about staying, because the alternative — leaving him alone, abandoning him when he's at rock bottom — is so unbearable to imagine that you'd rather be unhappy yourself than carry the weight of knowing he fell apart because you left.

"I'll make a sandwich," you say, and you leave the room without waiting for an answer, without looking back, and in the kitchen you lean against the sink and breathe deeply several times, trying to hold back the wave of nausea rising in your throat.

You open the fridge, take out the cheese, the ham, the bread, start making the sandwich, hear his footsteps in the hallway before you see him, and when he appears in the kitchen doorway, he's wearing an old, baggy shirt he always liked to wear, and the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

"You don't have to do this," he says, looking at the sandwich you're making.

"I know I don't have to," you answer, and the laugh that comes out is bitter, so bitter it even surprises you. "But I'm going to do it anyway. It's what I do, isn't it? I look after you, even when I shouldn't."

You finish the sandwich, cut it in half, put it on a plate and push it toward him.

"Eat," you say. "Please."

He sits in the same chair as before, takes the sandwich with trembling hands, and you watch him eat like you're watching a documentary about the life of someone you don't know anymore.

"I'm so sorry," he says between bites, and the phrase is so repeated now that it's lost all meaning, become just a set of sounds his mouth makes when he doesn't know what else to say.

"Stop apologising," you answer, exasperated. "Sorry doesn't fix anything. You've said sorry a million times in the last twenty-four hours, saying it more won't make a difference."

"Then what do I do?" he asks. "Tell me what to do and I'll do it. Anything. I swear."

You think about what you'd say if you were being honest, if you didn't have to walk on eggshells.

You leave me alone, is what you want to say. You disappear from my life like I'd already decided you would. You give me the breakup I didn't have the courage to ask for and the disappearance I didn't have the courage to wish for.

But the words that come out are different.

"You start therapy," you state. "You deal with the nightmares. You learn to sleep alone. You find a job, any job, and you start building a life that doesn't depend on me to exist."

"And us?" he asks, and his voice cracks in the middle of the word. "What happens to us?"

Nothing, you think. We were already finished before you ended up in that hole. We just forgot to tell each other.

"I don't know," you say out loud, and that's the truth, the only truth you have the courage to admit. "I don't know what happens to us, Bobby. I just know that I can't be the only thing holding you together, because if I am, and if one day I decide to leave... you won't have anything left. And I don't want to be responsible for that."

He lowers his head, and the tears drip onto the plate, mixing with the crumbs of the sandwich, and you look at him and see a broken man, a man who lost everything and is clinging to the only thing left, and you know, with a certainty that squeezes your lungs like a too-tight belt, that he won't survive if you leave. Not in the physical sense — you don't think he'll kill himself — but in the deeper sense, that the person he was before will die for good, and what's left will be an empty shell, a survivor who never learned to live, only to exist.

And you don't want that, in truth, you never wanted that. You just wanted to break up with him, slowly and painfully, and move on, and forget, and one day find someone who looked at you like you mattered, and now you're trapped in this purgatory of guilt and fear and a responsibility you never asked for, never wanted, that was dumped in your lap like a child that isn't yours but will die if you don't look after it.

"Lie down," you say. "I'll finish up here and come to the bedroom."

He gets up slowly, takes the plate, carries it to the sink, and for a moment the two of you stand side by side, you with your arms crossed and him with wet hands dripping into the sink, and he whispers "thank you" before leaving, and you stand there, staring at the window.

You finish washing the plate, dry your hands and go to the bedroom, where you find him sitting on the bed with a photo of the two of you from the day you met.

"Did you sleep well?" he asks, because he doesn't know what else to say.

"More or less," you answer, watching him stroke the corner of the photo. "Only a few minutes, probably. You're basically a ghost to me, I thought you were asleep."

He doesn't ask why you didn't take sleeping pills, doesn't complain, and that's different too because the old Bobby would have complained, would have said something like "you could've taken that crap they gave me to sleep, you know? Then you wouldn't be bothering me at this hour" in that tone of someone making an accusation disguised as a joke, but this Bobby just lowers his head and murmurs "you could have woken me up, we could have talked about it" and you really want to ask why he decided to change, because fear alone wouldn't be capable of that.

"Bobby," you begin, sitting down next to him. "We need to talk."

He lifts his head slowly, and his eyes meet yours, and you see the fear that this is the conversation, the fear that you'll say the words he must already know deep down.

"That's fine," he says, and his hands are shaking a little. "Go ahead."

"Before you disappeared," you say slowly, "we weren't okay."

"I know," he whispers.

"You know?" and your voice rises a bit. "Because I tried to talk to you so many times. I tried to sit here and say that something was wrong, and you... you ignored me. Or worse, you made me feel like I was making up problems."

"I know," he repeats. "I know, and I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for everything."

"Sorry doesn't fix a damn thing," you say, and the sentence comes out harsher than you meant, but it's true, it's a truth you swallowed for so long. "Sorry doesn't erase the nights I spent crying alone in the bathroom while you played video games in the living room. Sorry doesn't erase the times you called me dramatic because I wanted to talk about us."

"I was an idiot," he says, and his hands are so trembling now. "I was an idiot and I didn't deserve you and I knew that down there, every time I thought about you and remembered the way I treated you."

You want to believe him. God, how you want to believe him.

But there's a part of you — a cynical, hurt, deeply tired part — that whispers he's only saying this because he nearly died, he's only saying this because he needs someone to hold his hand while the world falls apart, and when he feels better, he'll go back to being the same as always, and you'll be there, trapped again, waiting for crumbs.

"Remember the fight we had about kids?" you ask, and you see his face change and his eyes widen a little.

"Please," he begs, his voice so low it sounds like a prayer. "Not now."

"Why not now?" you insist, and you feel the anger rising hot in your chest. "Why do we always have to wait? Why can we never talk about the difficult things?"

And you go back to that night like it was yesterday.

It was a Saturday, and you'd been to a friend's birthday, a friend who'd just had a baby, and the house was full of people and noise and children running from one side to the other, and you caught yourself looking at the baby in its mother's arms, a small, pink, fragile being, and you felt something, not necessarily a desire to have children, but a desire to at least think about the subject with him, to know what he felt, to align your dreams or at least understand where each of you stood.

You waited for the party to end, waited to get home, waited for him to finish watching the footage he'd taken while sitting on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table, and when you finally found the courage, you sat down next to him and said:

"Bobby, what do you think about us talking about... the future?"

He didn't even take his eyes off the borrowed camera.

"What kind of future?"

"Family, you know? Kids. Whether you think about it, whether you don't... I just wanted to know."

That's when he laughed.

"Kids?" he repeated, like you'd suggested they move to Mars. "We can barely pay the flat's bills, and you want to talk about kids?"

"I'm not saying I want to have kids now," you answered, feeling your patience starting to wear thin. "I'm saying I want to know if you want to have them at some point. It's a normal conversation, Bobby. Couples talk about this."

He finally put the camera aside, but the look he gave you was cold, like you were a problem he always needed to solve.

"Look," he said, and his voice had that tired tone that said you're being annoying again, let's get this over with, "I don't know, alright? It's not something I think about much. And frankly, the way things are, I don't know if it's a good idea to bring a kid into the world right now. The world's shit, we're poor, we don't even know if we'll still be together in two months."

You swallowed hard.

"What do you mean 'we don't even know if we'll still be together'?" you asked, your eyebrows knitting together.

He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, made that face of here we go again with the drama.

"I'm just being realistic, couples break up, it's normal. You can't plan a whole life based on 'what ifs'."

You remember how your chest hurt in that moment.

"So you can't even imagine us together in five years?" you pushed, because you were a masochist and needed to hear it.

"I don't know," he repeated, and got up from the sofa, stretched his arms, yawned. "Look, maybe yes, maybe no, we'll see, you can't keep thinking about that right now."

He went to the bedroom and turned on the telly, and you sat on the sofa for a long time before going to bed, where you lay staring at his back while he snored softly, seeming perfectly fine with the fact that you were never a priority, and that was the first time you thought about leaving.

"You said you didn't even know if we'd still be together in two months," you remind him. "You said it like I was disposable."

"I didn't say that," he argues, his eyes filling with tears.

"You did," you retort, pushing your hair out of your face, like a hysteric, exactly like he used to call you. "You said 'we don't even know if we'll still be together'. And I sat there thinking, Bobby, trying to understand how someone who says they love me can say something like that."

"I was being immature," he says, and the words come out fast, desperate. "I was being a prick, I didn't think about things. I didn't... I didn't realise what I had."

"You never realised," you answer, and your voice cracks in the middle, but you keep going because you need to, because these words have been stuck in your throat for months. "You never realised anything, Bobby. I told you about my day and you barely looked up. I asked for us to do something together and you said you were tired. I tried to talk about feelings and you called me dramatic. And I kept accepting it, kept accepting it, kept accepting it, until one day I woke up and thought 'I don't know who I am without him anymore, but I also don't know who I am with him'."

The silence that follows is deafening.

"I wish I could go back in time," he says finally, his voice so small it sounds like it's coming from very far away. "I wish I could erase everything I did and start over, be better, treat you the way you deserved from the beginning."

"But you can't," you say, and it's just a fact, a truth you both already know. "You can't go back in time. Neither of us can."

"Then what do I do?" he asks, and the desperation in his voice is so raw, so naked, that you feel your own anger retreat just enough to make room for that painful thing that lives in the middle of your chest, that thing that is still love or maybe just the memory of love. "Tell me what to do, because I don't know. I don't know how to fix a whole person when I can barely fix myself."

You could say you go to therapy, you get treatment, you learn to be a decent person on your own before trying to be part of someone else's life, but the words don't come, because you know he won't do it, that he'll promise and even try for a few weeks and then go back to his old habits because it's easier, because the comfort of mediocrity is a trap he always falls into.

"I don't know," you answer, and it's the most honest thing you've said in a long time. "I don't know what you do, Bobby. I don't know what I do."

He lifts his eyes to you, and for a moment you see the boy you met back in your teens, the Bobby who made crap jokes but was always there when you needed him, that boy who held your hand in the cinema without even realising he was doing it, that boy who said "I love you" for the first time with a trembling voice and ears red with embarrassment.

He's still in there somewhere, buried under layers of neglect and immaturity and fear, but you don't know if you have the strength to dig anymore.

"You're going to break up with me, aren't you?" he asks.

You open your mouth to say yes, that yes, that's what you want, that's what you need, that's what you rehearsed for so long, and suddenly you're crying. Bobby pulls you into a hug and you should push him away, should say don't touch me, but your body doesn't obey, and you bury your face in his shoulder and cry everything you didn't cry in the months he was gone, cry the anger and the guilt and the relief and the fear and that horrible, confusing thing that isn't love.

"I'm not going to break up with you today," you say, and your voice is hoarse from crying. "I don't know if we're going to be able to fix this," you continue, the words coming out slowly. "I don't know if I want to fix it. I just know that right now, today, I can't tell you to leave."

"I don't want to leave," he says, too desperate. "I want to show you I can be better."

"Showing isn't the same as being," you answer, and finally lift your eyes to him. "You can show me for a week, for a month, but I need to know if you are, Bobby. If deep down, when the fear passes and life goes back to normal, you'll still be the person I need. Or if you'll go back to who you were."

He doesn't have an answer for that, but the truth is neither do you.

You lie down together in bed and he strokes your hair, closing his eyes, but you don't pretend you've forgotten anything, you remember everything perfectly, every argument, every insult, every scream, every bit of crap you lived through under that roof, but there's still a part of you, small and stubborn and deeply stupid, that still believes he can be the man you always needed him to be, even knowing that hope isn't a plan and that loving alone was never enough.

Every. Single. Morning.

Without fail, his bedroom door would creak open just enough for him to hear the soft shuffle of your footsteps. Half-asleep, he'd crack open one eye and catch a glimpse of you moving through his bedroom like some sort of fitness-obsessed ghost. Always dressed in workout clothes. Always carrying that absurdly large water bottle that was practically the size of a small child.

Where the hell were you going?

Because nobody willingly woke up at six in the morning unless they were being paid, chased, or clinically insane. Yet there you were. Every day. Gone before sunrise. By the time Dean finally dragged himself out of bed at a reasonable hour, you’d already returned. Usually flushed from exertion, a light sheen of sweat still clinging to your skin as you tossed your keys onto the counter.

Your leggings and fitted tank top would be slightly damp, strands of hair escaping your ponytail and sticking to your temples. And you always, always, had that weird green drink in your hand. The thing looked radioactive, Dean swore it practically glowed. "What the hell is that?" He'd asked one morning, staring suspiciously at the cup in your hand. "Matcha." You muttered taking a sip through the straw, eyebrows raised.

"It looks like liquid grass."

"It's tea, Dean."

"It's toxic waste, babydoll."

A laugh escaped you as you shook your head, completely unbothered by his judgmental stare while taking another sip. Sometimes you'd head out alone. Other mornings, Dean would hear even more movement in the hallway before dawn. Additional doors opening. Muffled voices. The unmistakable sound of people who should absolutely still be asleep. Then later that day, Garrett would stumble into the hockey house looking personally victimized.

"Wellsy left at six this morning." Dean barely glanced up from his phone. "Tragic." He teased, lips quirking up in his well-known cocky smirk. "I woke up and she was gone, all I know is that she took Grace and Y/N with her." Now that got Dean's attention. "Where?" Garrett groaned dramatically and collapsed down onto the couch. "I don't know." Across the room, Logan snorted into his coffee cup. "Join the club, G."

"Grace ditched you too?" Garrett pointed accusingly as Logan nodded. "Six fifteen," Logan confirmed darkly dropping down onto the couch beside Dean with all the suffering of a man personally betrayed, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I woke up because she kissed my forehead like she was shipping off to war." Dean looked between them, then slowly lowered his phone.

"Wait," Both men turned toward him, brows raised in silent question. "You both don't know where they're going either?" Both hockey players exchanged a look. Then Logan shrugged as Garrett shook his head. Dean stared at them, then started laughing. Because suddenly this wasn't just his mystery anymore, it was a goddamn conspiracy. Three women. Three clueless boyfriends. Zero explanations.

And suddenly the fact that all of them were somehow managing to sneak out before dawn without providing answers made Dean's curiosity became an obsession and made him even more determined to figure out what the hell was going on. Whatever was dragging you out of bed at six in the morning had to be really fucking important. Or incredibly weird. Either way, he was going to find out.

Which is why on Friday afternoon after multiple rounds of hot, mind blowing sex, is when he finally found the courage to ask. The two of you were sprawled across his bed, tangled in rumpled sheets that had long since been kicked down to your waists. The room smelled faintly of sweat and his cologne, what was left of the evening sunlight streaming through the partially closed blinds and painting lazy golden stripes across the mattress.

“Babydoll?” He asked, his hand halting from tracing absent-minded shapes on your bare back. You hummed softly in response, lifting your head from where it rested on his naked chest. Your chin settled on top of your folded hands as you peered up at him, still looking pleasantly dazed and entirely too comfortable. Dean shifted so he was facing you more directly, propping himself up on one elbow.

"Where do you go every morning?" You blinked, expecting anything but that question. "At a ix a.m.," He stated matter-of-factly. "Every day." The fact that you looked entirely too pleased with yourself made him even more suspicious. The corners of your mouth twitched as if you'd been expecting this conversation for weeks. "See? That right there, that's the face of someone hiding something." Dean pointed a finger at you.

"I'm not hiding anything." You caught his hand before he could continue accusing you, lowering it to the mattress between you. "You absolutely are." You laughed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear while trying to pull off an expression of complete innocence. Unfortunately, Dean knew you far too well. His gaze narrowed further, there it was again: that smug little smile.

The one that usually meant you knew something he didn't. And Dean hated not knowing things. Especially when those things involved you. "You leave before sunrise," He continued dramatically. "You come back sweaty carrying that suspicious green drink and you've even somehow convinced Wellsy and Grace to join your secret society." At that, you actually snorted. "A secret society?" Your eyebrows shot upward in amusement.

"That's currently my leading theory." You folded your arms across your chest, trying, and failing, not to laugh. The smile threatening to break free gave you away instantly. Dean took that as encouragement. "Either that or you're all secretly training for the Olympics or preparing for some kind of a heist." He delivered the line with complete seriousness, making it impossible for you to hold back any longer.

You finally lost the battle and laughed outright, the sound filling the room. Dean tried not to smile but ultimately failed miserably. Because he loved making you laugh, even when you were laughing at him. "Dean, it's not a secret." Your voice carried the familiar warning that always appeared whenever he was being ridiculous. "The tell me.”He practically whined, green eyes narrowing. You bit your lip in response, a sure sign you were debating whether or not to answer.

However, instead of speaking, you reached over and patted his cheek, thumbs sweeping over his cheekbones. "Babydoll." His eye twitched. God, how you loved riling him up. "Yes, Dean?" You smirked, batting your eyelashes flirtatiously. "You're testing my patience." Your grin turned positively wicked. Then you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, making sure to linger and slip in some tongue just long enough to be distracting. And the worst part? It almost worked.

Almost.

Dean caught your wrist before you could pull away completely, his fingers wrapping loosely around it as he shook his head. "Nice try." Your laughter softened, fondness replacing some of the mischief in your expression. "You're really that curious?" He groaned dramatically, dropping his head back against the pillow. "At this point? It's consuming my life." You stared at him for a second, studying his expression as if trying to determine whether he was serious.

The answer was obvious, he absolutely was. With a small shake of your head, you finally relented. "Fine." Dean immediately perked up, his head snapped back up so fast it nearly gave you whiplash. “If you’re so curious, just come with me tomorrow. Find out for yourself." For a moment, Dean just stared. Then a slow grin spread across his face. After weeks of wondering, and developing increasingly ridiculous conspiracy theories, he was finally going to get answers.

The following morning, Dean was drooling on his pillow when he felt you shift. The room was still dark, the early morning sunlight barely beginning to creep through the gap in the curtains. His brain hadn't fully booted up yet, leaving him somewhere between sleep and consciousness as he instinctively reached for the warm body beside him. Letting out a groan, he tried to pull you back into his chest, burying his face deeper into the pillow. But it was no use, you were already awake.

"Up and at 'em, Di Laurentis." He could practically hear the smirk in your voice. Dean responded with another groan, dragging the pillow over his head in protest. For a brief moment, he considered pretending to be dead. Unfortunately, you knew him too well. A second later, the pillow was yanked away. "Don't make me get the spray bottle Tucker keeps in the kitchen." His eyes cracked open. "You wouldn't." The grin on your face told him otherwise.

With a sigh worthy of an Oscar, he finally pushed himself upright, rubbing a hand down his face. That was when his eyes nearly bulged out of his head. You were bent over tying your shoes, already dressed and ready to go. The fitted workout set left very little to the imagination, the leggings hugging every curve while your matching top disappeared beneath one of his old hockey hoodies.

Your hair was already pulled back into a ponytail, looking far too awake and put together for an hour that should've been illegal. Dean stared, brain completely short-circuited. He was half tempted to drag you right back into bed and forget this entire mystery existed. Curiosity, however, was the only thing stronger than his desire to go back to sleep or have hot morning sex.

Barely.

Sluggishly rolling out of bed, Dean shuffled toward the bathroom. The floor was cold, his eyes burned, and his soul hurt. Five minutes later, after splashing water on his face enough times to resemble a functioning human being, brushing his teeth, and throwing on a pair of gym shorts and a fitted black t-shirt, he emerged from the bathroom looking considerably more awake. Not happy, but awake.

You looked up from screwing the lid onto your giant water bottle, your gaze traveling slowly. Dean immediately noticed. The tight black shirt stretched across his shoulders and defined the muscles in his chest and back, while his shorts sat low on his hips, exposing powerful thighs built from years of hockey practices, conditioning drills, and games. You blinked. Once. Twice.

"You're droolin', babydoll." The smug grin that followed was absolutely insufferable. Snapping out of your thoughts, you rolled your eyes and grabbed your freshly refilled water bottle from the counter. "Please. Your ego doesn't need any more encouragement." Dean gasped dramatically. "That was rude." You simply headed toward the door. "Come on, Dean." You coaxed, hand firmly on your hip leaving absolutely no room for discussion.

He followed behind with another exaggerated sigh, shoving his feet into a pair of sneakers as quickly as possible. "They'll charge us if we're late." That made him pause. One hand still on his shoe, Dean slowly looked up. "Hold on." You were already opening the apartment door. "What do you mean they'll charge us?" A suspicious feeling settled in his stomach. For the first time all morning, Dean wondered if maybe, just maybe, following you had been a terrible idea.

Sure enough, when you led him through the doors of The Pilates Lab, Dean knew he was fucked. The realization hit the second he stepped inside. The studio was bright, spotless, and somehow intimidating despite the soft instrumental music drifting from hidden speakers. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined one wall, reflecting rows of sleek reformer machines arranged with military level precision.

Natural light poured through massive front windows, illuminating polished hardwood floors and cream-colored walls that somehow made the place feel both welcoming and terrifying. Terrifying mostly because every person inside looked like they belonged there. Dean, however, did not. The scent of eucalyptus and expensive cleaning products hung in the air. A small reception desk sat near the entrance beside shelves stocked with water bottles, protein bars, grip socks, and enough workout accessories to bankrupt a small nation.

You, meanwhile, looked completely at home. "Morning!" The receptionist greeted cheerfully as you approached. "Morning, Claire." Dean glanced around while you checked in. Women. Everywhere. A few men too, but mostly women. All of them looked suspiciously fit and flexible. Very, very flexible. One woman was casually stretching with her leg resting on a barre at a height Dean was pretty sure violated several laws of physics.

His hockey injuries hurt just looking at her. Then to make matters worse, he noticed the reformers. Rows and rows of reformers. Metal frames, straps, springs, moving platforms. They looked less like exercise equipment and more like devices designed specifically for torture. Dean pointed toward one. "The hell is that?" You followed his gaze, biting back a smile. "A reformer." You replied nonchalantly. "It looks dangerous." The smile at your lips widened at his tone which oozed discomfort.

"It's really not."

"You hesitated."

"I didn't."

"You absolutely did."

You laughed, reaching for his hand and tugging him farther inside to where you usually worked out. Only the deeper you ventured into the studio, the worse his feeling became. As you set your water bottle down beside your reformer and tugged off his sweatshirt, revealing your fitted workout top underneath, Dean stood there questioning every decision that had led him to this moment.

Then his gaze landed on the instructor, the woman looked approximately five feet tall, and somehow absolutely terrifying. The kind of terrifying that came from smiling too much while planning your demise. "Good morning, everyone!" Her voice carried easily across the room as the class immediately began moving toward their reformers. Around him, people adjusted springs, grabbed resistance bands, and clipped straps into place with the confidence of seasoned veterans.

Meanwhile, he was still trying to figure out what half the equipment even did. You noticed the shift in his demeanor next to you as you offered his forearm a reassuring squeeze. His eye twitched, which nearly made you laugh again. "You're going to be fine, Dean." The confidence in your voice wasn't nearly as comforting as you intended. Dean looked around the studio one more time. At the springs. The straps. The weights. The machines. The terrifyingly cheerful instructor. Then finally back at you.

"Babydoll, I think we have very different definitions of fine." It's not like he could leave. Not now. Not when half the class had realized a six-foot-two hockey player was standing in the middle of their Pilates studio looking like he'd accidentally wandered into enemy territory. Huffing, he turned towards the rack of weights lining the mirrored wall, barely hesitating before reaching for the heaviest pair available. The movement immediately caught your attention.

"You're gonna regret that." Dean scoffed, looking personally offended by the suggestion. "Babydoll, please, I bench two-thirty. I can easily handle twenty-pound hand weights." As if to prove his point, Dean was too busy rolling his shoulders and casually curling one of the dumbbells, looking far too pleased with himself. You looked at the weights, then at him, trying, and failing, to hide a smug smile since you already knew exactly how this was going to end for him.

The first five minutes weren't terrible. At least, that's what Dean told himself. The instructor began with slow, controlled movements that looked deceptively simple. Around the room, springs clicked softly against metal frames while reformers glided back and forth with smooth precision. Dean found himself settling into the rhythm quickly enough, or so he thought. Then, the shaking started. It began in his thighs. A subtle tremble at first, barely noticeable.

Then came the burn. The kind of deep, relentless burn that didn't make any sense. He was a Division I hockey player. He spent hours in the gym. He could squat absurd amounts of weight. Yet somehow a tiny movement performed on a sliding carriage had his legs vibrating like he'd just skated three periods back-to-back. Across the room, you looked annoyingly graceful. Dean, meanwhile, was fighting for his life.

Thirty minutes in, the black t-shirt clinging to his back was soaked through. His hair stuck to his forehead. Every muscle seemed to have discovered entirely new ways to suffer. The instructor floated around the room like an executioner disguised as a yoga mom, offering gentle corrections that somehow made every exercise twice as difficult. Whenever Dean thought a set was ending, another variation appeared.

Another hold. Another pulse. Another ten seconds.

Those ten seconds felt like years. At one point he became convinced time itself had stopped moving. The mirrors surrounding the studio only made things worse. Everywhere he looked he could see himself struggling. See the tremor in his arms. The shake in his legs. The tightening of his jaw. And every time he considered lowering a weight or taking a break, his gaze inevitably landed on you. You looked focused. Determined. Completely in your element.

There was a concentration on your face he rarely got to see outside of moments that truly mattered to you. That alone kept him going. That and his pride. Mostly his pride. Because there was absolutely no chance he was quitting before any of the women around him. By the forty-five minute mark, however, Dean was beginning to reconsider several core beliefs. Including his understanding of physical fitness. And maybe even reality itself.

The studio had grown warmer as class progressed, bodies moving continuously beneath the bright overhead lights. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck, his shirt felt suffocating. Eventually he gave up. During a brief transition between exercises, he grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head before tossing it toward the cubbies lining the wall. A few heads turned. Not many. Most people were too busy suffering.

However, your attention certainly did, so much so that for the briefest moment, your focus slipped. Your eyes tracked across his broad tanned shoulders, defined abs, and muscles earned through years of hockey training. The sight was familiar, yet somehow still distracting. Heat immediately crawled up your neck, luckily Dean didn't notice seeing as he was far too busy trying not to collapse. The distraction lasted only seconds before the instructor was directing everyone into another movement.

The class continued and somehow got harder. The final thirty minutes became a blur of shaking muscles, controlled breathing, and pure stubbornness. At that point, Dean's arms trembled. His core burned. His legs felt like overcooked noodles. Several times he caught you sneaking amused glances his way. Several times he returned them with a look that promised revenge. By the final series, every movement required concentration. The studio had fallen quieter now seeing as no one had energy left for anything else.

When the instructor finally announced the last stretch, a collective sigh swept throughout the entire room. Dean nearly collapsed onto the machine. His entire body felt spent. Not the satisfying exhaustion of hockey. Not the familiar ache of lifting. Something entirely different. Every muscle felt worked. Even muscles he hadn't known existed. As everyone began cleaning equipment and gathering their belongings, Dean remained exactly where he was for a few extra seconds, staring at the ceiling.

Humbled. He was completely, utterly, humbled.

Humiliated by a workout he'd walked into thinking would be easy. Yet despite himself, despite the suffering, despite the shaking, despite the fact that he probably wouldn't be able to sit down tomorrow, a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. Because somewhere between the torture, the challenge, and stealing glances at you throughout the last ninety minutes, he'd actually had fun. Only he would never admit that part to you out loud.

As a chorus of applause rang out throughout the studio, Dean stayed flat on his back atop the reformer, bare chest glistening with sweat as he fought to catch his breath. The bright overhead lights blurred slightly above him while every muscle in his body protested the simple act of existing. Around the room, people began climbing off their machines, gathering water bottles and towels while chatting casually as if they hadn't just endured ninety minutes of pure torture.

Dean genuinely didn't understand how they were all standing. "You did it!" Your smile was warm and impossibly proud as you leaned down, pressing an encouraging kiss to his sweaty forehead. The simple gesture somehow felt more rewarding than surviving the class itself. You handed him your water bottle and for once, Dean didn't make a single joke about it. He simply took it immediately, drinking like a man who'd just crossed a desert. Cold water hit his throat as he gulped down several desperate mouthfuls.

"I'm so proud of you, baby, you completed your first Pilates class like a pro." He was almost certain you were fucking with him. There was absolutely no way he'd looked professional while shaking like a newborn deer for an hour and a half. Yet despite knowing that, he still preened under the praise. Because it was coming from you. And Dean was embarrassingly weak when it came to anything involving you. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he finally accepted your outstretched hand, fingers wrapping around yours while you helped haul him upright.

"So," You grinned, raking your nails through his sweaty blonde curls, pushing them away from his forehead. "Have I officially turned you into a Pilates princess?" Dean scoffed, yet his hands on your waist tightened as he pulled you closer, refusing to surrender what little dignity he had left. "Not a fucking chance, babydoll." He shook his head firmly, yet the look on his face made it clear he wasn't finished. "But, I wouldn't be opposed to seeing you in tight workout clothes more often." You instantly swatted his shoulder, which made his sore muscles jump.

The motion lacked any real force, mostly because you were trying not to laugh. Dean's grin immediately grew knowingly. The post-workout flush coloring your cheeks wasn't helping his concentration either. Not that he'd been concentrating much to begin with seeing as he made absolutely no effort to hide the way his gaze lingered. Not when you looked this good. Not when you were smiling at him like that. Not when you were still standing close enough for him to loop an arm around your waist and pull you closer.

You made no effort to move away as he dipped his head, pressing a playful kiss against your neck before blowing a raspberry against your damp skin. The sound echoed loudly enough that your laughter filled the studio as you swatted him again, the bright sound instantly pulling his attention back to you. And just like that, he realized something. He'd willingly gotten out of bed before sunrise. He'd survived ninety minutes of what could only be described as organized suffering. His entire body hurt. Tomorrow would probably be far worse.

The boys were absolutely going to roast him alive when they found out he willingly attended a Pilates class. Yet somehow? He didn't care, not even a little. Because throughout the entire class, every time he'd wanted to quit, he'd looked over and seen you. Smiling. Laughing. Thriving. Happy. And apparently that was enough to make him push through burning muscles, wounded pride, and an instructor who was definitely some kind of sadist in brightly colored workout clothes.

As you gathered your things and reached for his hand, Dean intertwined your fingers without hesitation, thumb brushing across your knuckles as you walked toward the exit together. Maybe he'd never admit that he'd actually enjoyed Pilates. But if it meant spending mornings with you? Dean would survive the teasing, the early alarms, hell, he'd even drink your radioactive green juice. Because when it came to you, Dean was hopelessly, irrevocably gone. And honestly, he wouldn't have it any other way.

“i’m not going anywhere, aerion,” you fire back, crossing your arms over your chest, but your voice has that wobble in it, the one he can always hear. “you’re the one who’s always trying to run first!”

“yeah?” he shoots back immediately, turning on you. “maybe because i should. look around. you think this ends anywhere good? you think i’ve got anything to offer you?”

he gestures out the window like the whole world outside is evidence. “it’s out there. in some guy’s fancy car. somewhere where people actually become something. anywhere but here. anywhere but stuck in this town with me.”

his jaw tightens, voice rising more now, less controlled. “i’ve got nothing. no future. no plan. just this dead-end life. and you’re standing here like it doesn’t fuckin’ matter.”

you feel the heat rise in your cheeks. you have your own temper, a spark to match his fire. “maybe you’re right! maybe i should find someone who doesn’t turn everything into a fight the second he feels insecure!”

it’s the wrong thing to say. you know it the second the words leave your mouth. you don’t mean it. you could never mean it. it’s just the heat, the horrible, suffocating heat of the moment.

he goes utterly still. the anger doesn’t leave him; it crystallizes, turns sharp and deadly cold. in two long strides, he’s in your space, his body blocking out the lamplight. his hands come up so fast you don’t have time to flinch. they grip your cheeks, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding your face in a vise. it’s not a loving touch. it’s possessive. hard.

“what,” he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet rasp. the blue of his eyes is almost swallowed by black. “what did you just say, baby?”

you try to shake your head, but he holds you firm.

“wanna repeat that?” he whispers, leaning in so close you can see the faint scar through his eyebrow, the shadow of stubble on his jaw. his breath is warm and smells like mint and misery. “go on. say it again. tell me how you’re gonna walk out that door and find some shiny, rich boy who’ll buy you a bigger dollhouse. you think he’ll want you? really want you? or just the idea of you? the sweet little dove to clean up his mess?” his voice is a blade, calm and sharp, slicing you open.

“you’re pathetic. you cling to me because you like playing savior. makes you feel bigger, don’t it? being around someone like me so you can tell yourself you’re not as messed up. makes you feel holy.”

he’s angry at himself. he’s so angry at himself. he wants to give you diamonds, a house on a hill, a life where you never have to look at a price tag. he wants to be the prince he was supposed to be, not this— mess he turned into instead. and because he can’t, he pours all that poison onto you. he has to make you ugly in his eyes, so it won’t hurt so much when you finally see the ugliness in him and run.

but then he sees it. he sees the way your lips tremble, the way your eyes have gone wide and wounded, the way the tears aren’t just escaping now—they’re pooling, catching on your lower lashes like shattered crystal. you’ve stopped talking back.the fight has drained out of you. you’re not arguing anymore. you’re just.. breaking. and he did this.

he’s gone too far.

the hands that were digging into your cheeks go slack. he drops them as if your skin has burned him. a quiet, shattered little sob escapes you, the sound so small it’s almost swallowed by the hum of the refrigerator.

his own heart doesn’t just break. it shatters.

in the next instant, he’s pulling you. not gently.he tugs you against his chest so hard you gasp, the breath knocked out of you. you stumble, but he’s solid, an immovable wall of muscle and heat. his arms lock around you, one hand cradling the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, the other a tight band across your back, pressing you into him like he’s trying to fuse you together.

“shit— shhh, shhh, angel, no, no, no,” he’s whispering into your hair, his voice a ragged, broken thing. “i’m stupid. i’m so fuckin’ stupid. i don’t mean it. i don’t mean a single word, you hear me? not one. i’m a liar.

you bury your face in his worn t-shirt, the one that smells like motor oil and him. you can’t be angry. not really.the anger is a luxury you don’t have, washed away by the tidal wave of his regret and your own aching love. you know he’s scared.

“i don’t wanna argue.. i just— i don’t wanna leave you” you mumble, your voice muffled against his chest, thick with tears.

“i know, dove, i know,” he hushes you, his voice trembling. he dips his head, his lips finding the side of your neck, pressing a kiss there. then another on your jaw, soft and reverent. “i swear to you. i swear on whatever’s left of my fucked-up soul. this is the last time.i won’t.. i won’t talk to you like that again. i can’t breathe when you look at me like that. i can’t breathe without you.”

he holds you for a long time, whispering sweet nothings—my girl, my angel, my only good thing—into your skin. you let him. you tell yourself you believe his promise, even as a cold part of you, the part that’s seen this cycle a hundred times before, knows it’s a lie

outside, the night is still, holding its breath. inside the little dollhouse, the dragon holds his treasure, begging forgiveness for the scorch marks he can’t help but leave behind, and you forgive him, because his fire is the only warmth you’ve ever really known.

You stared at the screen for a few seconds. You were wide awake, and you definitely didn’t have the energy to start on your own work.

You giggled at your own message before hitting send.

YOU: I sold it oops

The reply came before you could even exit the app.

UNKNOWN: stop fucking around man im not in the mood

YOU: I dont think this is the right number lol

A minute passed with the typing bubbles flickering on and off a couple times.

UNKNOWN: the fuck

YOU: If ur stuck on his class just check the 2022 archive

There was no response after that. You eventually drifted off to sleep, figuring that was the end of a weird interaction.

Four days passed, and you completely forgot about the random text until friday when you received a notification from the same number.

UNKNOWN: it worked

You blinked at the message, trying to remember who it even was.

YOU: Yeah

UNKNOWN: howd you know about that

YOU: I saw his desktop open with that site and took my chances

UNKNOWN: youre actually not michael?

YOU: No im pretty sure im not a guy

You thought the conversation would end there, but about ten minutes later, you got another text.

UNKNOWN: any other shortcuts u know about

YOU: Maybe

Over the next two weeks, the texts became a weird regular thing. It wasn’t a constant back and forth, but it turned into a daily routine.

You’d get a text in the middle of the afternoon about whatever, or you’d send a quick message about random things in your life.

You didn’t know each other. There was no pressure. You didn't have to put on a performance to try to impress whoever it was you were talking to.

UNKNOWN: what were u saying

UNKNOWN: just got to the gym

YOU: Tf didnt you just leave ur room

UNKNOWN: yeah

YOU: Is the gym right next to ur house or smth

UNKNOWN: the gyms downstairs

YOU: Oh you live in an apartment??

UNKNOWN: no

UNKNOWN: i have a gym in my house dumbass

YOU: Oh!!!!!

YOU: Different tax bracket

UNKNOWN: funny

You found yourself looking forward to those short, blunt messages. He was definitely arrogant, but he was always honest and that pulled you in.

By the third week, the conversations started stretching later into the night. You’d be lying in bed, messaging your friends, and a text would pop up at 1 AM.

👻: why the fuck are you awake

YOU: Im readingg

YOU: why are YOU awake

👻: driving

YOU: Ur gonna die

YOU: Get off ur phone

👻: You sound like my dad

👻: He’s the reason im driving

YOU: Shit is he at the hospital??

👻: no im clearing my head

YOU: Oh

YOU: You okay?

👻: family dinner was so fucking annoying

👻: just micromanaging my schedule like im some kid

YOU: I feel that, my parents keep controlling my life its so stupid

👻: exactly its pathetic

👻: honestly its weird talking to you

You: Ok whyd i catch a stray hello

👻: no i mean its off talking to someone who isnt trying to get something out of me

YOU: idek who u are so theres nothing to get

👻: keep it that way

Then during one morning, you walked into the lecture hall for Professor Davis’s class.

The room was already buzzing with students and you took your usual seat next to Tanselle who was busy drawing sketches on her paper.

“Did you finish the reading he gave last week?” Tanselle asked, not looking up from her page.

“Barely,” you muttered, pulling your laptop out of your bag. “I read like two pages.”

Down in the fourth row, right near the aisle, Aerion Targaryen was slouched back in his seat. He had his dark leather jacket slung over the back of his chair and was surrounded by his usual crowd.

One of them said something, and Aerion let out a short laugh. The guy looked around the group with triumph all over his face, proud that he managed to impress Aerion.

Just then, your professor began talking and it didn't take long for you to lose focus.

Bored out of your mind as Professor Davis started droning on about the text you guys were supposed to read, you pulled your phone out under the desk.

YOU: Im bored entertain me

You hit send.

You kept your eyes on your screen, but then out of habit, your gaze drifted back down toward the front of the room.

Down in row four, you watched Aerion reach into his pocket. He pulled out his phone, a small smirk tugging on the corner of his lip.

His jaw set as he read something, and his thumbs immediately typed out a fast response before he shoved the phone face down on his desk.

Your phone vibrated in your palm.

👻: go entertain yourself

Your breath hitched. You stared at the screen, your heart doing a weird thud against your ribs.

No way, you thought. The lecture hall is massive. At least forty people were on their phones. It’s a coincidence.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. You needed to be absolutely sure. You typed out a reply, keeping your eyes glued directly on the back of his silver head.

YOU: Ok unkind

YOU: So ur actually paying attention to class?

The exact moment your text delivered, you watched as Aerion’s head tilted down. He picked his phone back up, scoffing under his breath. His thumbs moved around the screen, typing quickly.

Buzz.

👻: no im looking at my phone because a dumbass is texting me

A cold wave of panic hit you.

Your eyes darted from the screen to the back of his leather jacket. Your mind was short-circuiting, trying to connect the dots.

Aerion Targaryen.

Aerion Targaryen who had a reputation for being, well, himself— was the exact same person who had been texting you until midnight.

You spent the remaining minutes of that lecture staring into the wall. Every time Aerion shifted, your eyes snapped straight to him.

When the bell finally rang, the sudden noise of chairs scraping against the floor made you jump.

“Thank god,” Tanselle muttered, slamming her notebook shut. “You coming to the library?”

“I don’t think so,” you replied after a beat, shoving your things into your bag.

At the front, Aerion was already walking. One of the guys threw an arm over his shoulder and Aerion swatted him off with a grin.

He didn’t look back once. He had absolutely no idea.

For the next three days, every time your phone buzzed, your stomach did a flip. You knew exactly who was on the other side of the screen now, while he remained clueless.

During a late saturday night, you were eating with your friends when your screen lit up.

👻: this movies terrible

👻: why would you recommend this

You stared at the text. Knowing it was Aerion, reading the texts felt completely surreal.

YOU: Ok my bad ill just die

YOU: Its good tho idk what ur on

👻: its not

You: Lol turn it off then

👻: im already an hour in

👻: wouldnt wanna hurt your feelings

YOU: Aww how sweet

YOU: Stubborn bitch…

You bit your lip as you sent the second message. No one would dare to call him that in person, it was thrilling.

👻: lmao

👻: what are you doing anyway

YOU: Eating cheesecake

YOU: Wait have u done the assignment due next week

👻: nah im dreading the partner assignment on monday

👻: if i get paired with one of the idiots im doing it alone

You swallowed hard, grabbing your glass to drink the strain away.

YOU: Maybe youll get someone decent

👻: doubt it

You closed your phone and pressed it onto your chest. He was so different in real life.

When monday came, the room was silenced as Professor Davis tapped his microphone, turning on the massive projector behind him.

“Alright, I’ve randomized the pairings for the research,” he announced. “Check the board, find your partner, and spend the rest of the period discussing with them.”

Your eyes scanned the list, stopping as you found your name near the center column.

Your lungs locked up.

Aerion Targaryen was written right next to it.

“Oh, jeez,” Tanselle said, looking at you with worry. “You got Aerion… Good luck babe.”

Down in row four, Aerion didn’t even bother looking back to find his partner. He simply opened his laptop, ignoring the rest of the room while his friends started moving around. He clearly expected whoever his partner was to come to him.

You took in a deep breath, grabbing your bag.

Walking down the steps felt like walking a plank. As you got closer to his seat, a couple of his friends looked up at you. One of them nudged the guy next to him to clear a seat for you, leaving an empty chair next to Aerion.

You gave them a light smile before sliding into the seat, setting your laptop on the desk. Up close, he smelled like expensive cologne and musk.

“You’re my partner?” he asked, his voice a careless drawl. He still didn’t look at you, opening a blank document.

“Yeah.” You kept your voice as even as possible.

“Type in your email,” he said, turning the laptop just an inch so you could see the screen. “I’ll do the body and everything else. You do the outline and introduction.”

You blinked at him, the contrast hitting you like a physical punch. No jokes, no banter, no casualty.

You were aware he had a reputation for being a ‘womanizer.’ So why was he so cold to you?

“Okay,” you mumbled as you awkwardly reached out to type in your email.

He didn’t say another word to you for the rest of the hour. You sat right next to him, occasionally looking at the side of his sharp profile, realizing this was the same guy who had texted you about the miserable movie you recommended to him just two nights ago.

By 10 PM that same day, you were sitting on your bed, staring at the shared Google Docs. He had already finished his sections before you did.

Your phone buzzed on your blanket.

👻: just wrapped up that history project early so i dont have to deal with it later

You read his message, a sour feeling building up in your chest. You picked it up, your expression hardening.

YOU: Lucky, im still doing mine

You lied.

👻: thats sad

Chewing on your inner cheek, your thumbs moved before you could stop.

YOU: Hows ur partner

The typing bubbles appeared immediately.

👻: its some girl in my section i didnt pay attention

👻: she didnt mess anything up, shes whatever

She’s whatever.

Your eyes fixed on his message until they blurred. You had spent weeks listening to him, laughing at his texts, sharing personal concerns to each other—and yet in real life, you were just a boring, insignificant whatever to him.

The irritation flared up. You tossed your laptop onto your bedside table and sat back against the headboard of your bed.

YOU: Cool

A minute passed without a response.

👻: just cool?

YOU: Yeah

👻: youre acting weird

You left the text on read. Not like it mattered, his read receipts were off. Throwing the phone somewhere in your bed, you didn’t reply.

For the next few days, you struggled returning to how you normally were.

He didn’t text you the next morning but eventually did at night, and you left it unreplied for two hours before sending a short answer.

👻: you alive?

YOU: Yes

👻: ok whats wrong then

YOU: Nothing

👻: ???

YOU: What

👻: fine

It felt petty, but each time you looked at your phone, you remembered him sitting right next to you and not even glancing your way. You felt stupid, but his words hurt too.

If you were just a blank space to him in person, you figured it would be better if you were that way on every platform.

By the end of the week, the silence between your texts was heavy. He didn’t text you back after the last chat, and you definitely weren’t going to break first.

You were sitting in class when Tanselle walked in, settling in the chair beside you.

Professor Davis cleared his throat before speaking. “Alright, before we start today’s lecture, I’ve set up a group thread for the upcoming peer reviews. Click on the link and make sure you’re in it by the end of the day.”

You opened your phone to join the chat, then automatically shoved the phone back into your bag. You had no intention of participating.

The period of the lecture ended with a few minutes remaining and your phone started vibrating nonstop.

You tried to ignore it, but the constant noise was getting frustrating. You reached into your bag and pulled it out, looking to mute the group.

A new message popped up at the bottom of the chat. A classmate tagged your number directly because you hadn’t put your name on the sheet yet.

Too annoyed with the whole class to care, you swiped the app and locked your screen.

Then, your eyes subconsciously drifted toward Aerion. You watched as he pulled his phone out.

He was scrolling through the mass text thread when suddenly, he froze.

His head tilted slightly. Narrowing his eyes, he looked at the only text tagging a number. The number he’d been texting every day.

Up front, the classmate who had sent the message lost his patience. He turned around, looking up at where you and Tanselle were sitting.

The guy called out your name, his voice turning multiple heads in the quiet room. “I just tagged your number in the group, you need to upload your topic.”

The sound of your name echoed through the lecture.

Aerion’s head snapped up.

He didn’t look at the guy talking to you. His eyes darted straight up until they locked dead onto you.

The usual expression on his face dropped away. His eyes searched your entire face, his brows drawing in closer.

He saw the phone in your hand before going back to your face.

It clicked.

You stilled under his gaze, the blood rushing loud in your ears.

Beside you, Tanselle nudged your shoulder. “Babe. Babe? He’s talking to you?”

“Yeah,” you managed to choke out. Your fingers felt like wood as you uploaded the topic into the sheet. “Done. It’s in there.”

The classmate muttered a quick thanks and turned back around.

But Aerion didn’t.

He stayed shifted in his seat, his body turned toward your row. One of his friends said something, laughing and clapping him on the shoulder, but Aerion blindly shrugged the guy’s hands off without looking at him. His dark gaze remained on you.

You looked down at your screen, pretending to type, but you could feel the weight of his stare.

A quick glance back down confirmed it. He was staring at you like he was seeing you for the first time, his mind putting the pieces together.

Some girl in my section, she’s whatever. He finally understood why you had iced him.

When the bell rang, you instantly stood up, already packing your bag.

“Why are you in such a rush?” Tanselle asked, shaking her head with confusion.

You gave her a tight smile. “I just need to get back.”

You wanted to wait out the crowd, hoping he’d leave first, but Aerion was already standing by the row exit.

He leaned his back against the desk, ignoring his friends as they stood confused as to why he was still there.

Panic flared in your chest. You didn’t think this through properly.

Without thinking, you threw yourself into the small crowd shuffling through the other exit at the top of the hall.

You basically sprinted across the stone of the parking lot, your keys already clutched in your hand. Unlocking the car, you threw your bag into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut.

You slumped on the headrest, gripping the steering wheel as you finally let out a breath.

Then, your phone lit up with two notifications.

There were two missed calls and above them another notification popped up. It was a text.

y/n: baby’s first chella!!!!! can’t believe i headlined n1

liked by yourbestfriend, sabrinacarpenter, and 6,518,092 others

gracieabrams: so proud!!! you killed it

y/n: ugh ily

user74: you’re really made it 🥺

sabrinacarpenter: what’s between 7 and 9? you 8!

y/n: you’re so…. LMFAODIDJJS

sabrinacarpenter: wow… okay

yourbestfriend: you’re a star!!!!!!

y/n: ily!!!!!!

user91: this is so insane i rmr when you were posting covers on yt

luke5sos: evolved at coachella n2

liked by michaelclifford, calumhood, and 5,819,472 others

user87: so proud of you guys 🥹🥹

michaelclifford: 😎😎

calumhood: come a long way from the take me home tour

luke5sos: grateful for every minute man

ashtonirwin: proud of us boys!

user17: you guys were so good i was there!

republicrecords: 2 of our artists headlining.. pretty cool @y/n

y/n: hiiii omg yes! so cool

y/n followed luke5sos.

luke5sos: small world

Your face was damp, your pillowcase stuck to your cheek. Your throat felt like you’d swallowed sand, or maybe even glass. Your hair was a mess, some pieces stuck in your tear-streaked face.

You stared at the ceiling long enough for the darkness to start moving in your peripheral, for the shadows to look like something crawling. Something stretching its arms across your bedroom walls like the Upside Down had figured out where you lived.

It didn't. Not tonight, at least.

Tonight, it was just the dull ache in your heart and the sound of Steve's voice rolling around in your brain.

Your eyes stung when you blinked. Your chest kept doing that stupid thing, that tight, breathless ache like your body couldn’t decide if it wanted to sob or vomit.

You pressed the heel of your hand to your mouth to keep quiet. To contain the sobs that tried to escape past your lips and echo off your walls. To try and contain your own feelings, just for one more minute.

The worst part about what Steve had said wasn't that he said it. No, Steve didn't really think before he spoke. It was how easy it was for him to say, how naturally it came.

You’d been talking about nothing. Literally nothing. The kind of conversation you had when you wanted the time to pass a little quicker. The kind of conversation most people would run from. Just small talk.

You’d said something about how boring Hawkins felt lately.

Steve had scoffed, soft and fond, like you’d just said the funniest thing in the world.

"Yeah," he’d said, smile tugging at his mouth, eyes drifting somewhere far away. "I don’t know. It wasn’t always like this."

Your stomach had fluttered, stupidly hopeful. "What changed?"

He’d shrugged. And then, like it was a confession he’d been carrying in his mouth all day:

"Nancy."

Just her name. Nothing else. Like that was the beginning and the end of it. Your smile had stayed on your face out of pure muscle memory.

"Oh," you’d said, trying to conceal whatever disappointment you felt. Like it didn't feel like swallowing a piece of glass.

Steve had laughed a little, like he hadn’t even noticed the shift in your voice. "I mean--not, like, now, you know," he’d added quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just.. I don’t know. It was.. different. When it was her."

Nancy Wheeler was perfect.

You couldn't even deny it. She was a perfect student, a great daughter, insanely pretty, incredibly and obnoxiously loyal, strong and resilient. Nancy Wheeler might've been proof God had favorites.

Stomach riddled with knots, you nodded anyways. Because you were good at being the person people talked to when they couldn’t have what they wanted.

Steve Harrington liked Nancy Wheeler like she was the air he breathed.

A creek from your window caught your attention suddenly, the sound unusual for a window that stayed closed unless it was summer. You froze for half a second, heart jumping like you’d been caught doing something illegal.

The window opened, and to your surprise, Jonathan Byers poked his head in.

"Hey," Jonathan’s voice came through, careful. "You awake?"

"No," you replied, wiping your tears away with your pillowcase before Jonathan could spot them.

His reply came quick. "Can I come in anyways?"

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The door pushed open a little more and Jonathan stepped in like he didn’t want to startle you. He didn’t turn on the light. He didn’t do that overly bright what’s wrong? voice that made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

"You left school early," Jonathan noted. Because of course he noticed. Jonathan was too observant for his own damn good. "You feeling okay?"

You swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might swallow you whole if you stared long enough.

"Yeah," you lied again, because lying was easier than saying Steve Harrington broke me in half and didn’t even notice that he did anything wrong.

Jonathan didn’t move for a moment. You could feel him standing there in the dark, the weight of his attention steady and quiet.

"Okay," he said finally.

The word didn’t sound like he believed you. It sounded like he was letting you have the lie without punishing you for it. You heard the soft shift of him sitting on the edge of your bed. The mattress dipped slightly from the weight of him sitting.

"I’m not here to interrogate you," Jonathan added, voice low. "I just… wanted to check on you." You blinked rapidly, trying to force the sting away. "Steve was worried when you didn't show up in last period."

Even the sound of someone saying his name made you feel like you were going to faint. "I bet."

The tone in your voice was enough to tell Jonathan something had happened with Steve to make you leave. He just knew you that well, the way someone knew another person when they've grown up together.

"What'd he do?" Jonathan's voice held a hint of something angrier than worry. In some ways, Jonathan wasn't fully trusting of Steve still.

Which, yeah. Fair.

"He was talking about.. her," you said, and even the word tasted bitter. "Nancy."

Jonathan didn’t flinch. He didn’t defend her. He didn’t insult her. He didn’t turn it into some dumb rivalry just because he got the girl in the end. He just listened.

You let out a small, shaky breath. "He said her name like.." you struggled, blinking away tears that refused to stop. "Like it was the only one that mattered."

Jonathan didn't push you to go on. He waited, shifted a little, but stayed patient, eyes trained on your face like he was watching your every miniscule movement.

You turned your head slightly, staring into the darkness until you could barely make out Jonathan’s outline.

"I think I’m in love with him," you whispered, the words stinging your tongue.

"Yeah," Jonathan said gently. "I figured."

Your eyes snapped open, horrified. "You--you knew?"

Jonathan made a small sound that might’ve been a shrug. "You’re not that subtle."

"I thought I was subtle," you croaked, obviously mortified.

"No," Jonathan said, almost fond. "You’re.. obvious. In a way that’s kind of painful to watch."

You let out a broken laugh that immediately dissolved into a sob. "Oh my God. Does-Does Steve.."

Shaking his head, Jonathan replied with a chuckle, "No. I don't think he has a clue."

"I hate it," you said, voice shaking harder now. "Because he’s--he’s nice to me. He’s sweet, and he makes me laugh, and he looks at me like I matter sometimes, and then he talks about Nancy like she’s the whole world and I feel like--"

"You're the second option when she's not around."

You blinked, staring at Jonathan with wide eyes. He'd just read your mind perfectly. It was a little bit jarring.

"Yeah," you softly said, "like I'm his backup when Nancy's not around."

"Steve’s a.. good guy," he said, and the way he said it wasn’t worshipful. It was careful. Honest, even if he hated that it was. "But he’s not careful with people. Not always. Not in the way you are."

Your kindness transcended life itself. The way you cared for everything and everyone, even if it was stupid Tommy Hagan or one of the kids. The way you thought about each word carefully before you spoke. The way you held yourself softly and gently.

"What do I do?" Jonathan turned to you like he didn't quite expect those words.

He thought for a moment, taking a slow, deep breath in. "Give yourself time. Give yourself space. You're more than whatever Steve makes of you. And he's just a stupid boy." You laughed at that, sniffling at the end. "Let yourself feel what you're feeling. Then pick yourself back up and be better. Not for him, for you."

"When'd you get so wise?"

"Probably when I learned there's a whole world under our own." He paused. "Listening to Nancy rant will also do that, too."

"Thank you," you whispered. "You're a good friend."

Jonathan’s eyes softened in the dark, like your words hit him somewhere he didn’t talk about.

He didn’t smile the way Steve smiled; big and easy and careless. Jonathan smiled like it was a privilege.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Well.. I’m trying."

Your throat tightened again, but this time it wasn’t grief that flooded you. It was gratitude. The kind that made you feel a little pathetic, because it shouldn’t have been this rare to be treated gently.

Jonathan stood up slowly, like he didn’t want to jostle the air. He hovered for a second, awkward in that way he always was when things got too tender. "Just get some sleep, okay? Nancy said she wants you to come over tomorrow to make sure you’re feeling better."

"Tell her I’ll use the door like a normal person," you teased, feeling a bit lighter. Jonathan chuckled, still deciding to exit out your window.

It shut behind him, and the room was quiet again. But it didn’t feel as empty.

Saturday morning came like a punishment.

You woke up with your throat still raw, your eyes swollen, and your stomach hollow like you’d been starved for years. The house felt too normal and bright. It made you want to scream.

You managed to wash your face and brush your teeth without looking too closely at yourself in the mirror, because the girl staring back just didn’t quite feel like your normal self.

Downstairs, you barely tasted breakfast. You barely heard your parents talking. You just moved like a shadow, pulling on your shoes, grabbing your jacket, stepping outside into the cold.

The air was sharp enough to wake you up fully.

Unfortunately.

Hawkins didn’t give you the luxury of staying in bed forever. Neither did the Wheeler’s’ front porch, where you found yourself standing, trying to use your jacket to shield you from the nip in the air.

You lifted your hand to knock, but the door opened before you even could.

Nancy Wheeler stood there in a sweater and jeans, hair pulled back, eyes alert like she’d been waiting for something terrible to happen. When she saw you, her gaze flicked over your face with that same sharp observation Jonathan had.

Something in her expression softened.

"Hey, I’m glad you felt up to come by," she smiled softly. "Come on in."

You hesitated for half a second, then walked in slowly, wiping your palms against your jeans like you could scrub the nerves away.

Then you saw him. Steve Harrington. The one person your heart yearned for, yet broke for. It was awfully poetic. It was also really, really bad timing.

He looked up when you walked in. And his face--his stupid face--lit up with relief? Or maybe a touch of warmth?

"Hey," Steve said, voice bright. "There you are."

Your chest tightened so suddenly it almost stole your breath.

There you are. Like you belonged to him. Like you were something he could count on.

Your mouth went dry. Nancy’s eyes flicked to Steve for a fraction of a second. Then back to you. It was no secret Jonathan had shared your words from last night with her. It was also obvious he did not tell Steve.

Steve took a few steps closer, brows drawing together in a look of confusion.

"Are you okay?" he asked, quieter now. "You weren’t at school yesterday. Jonathan said you--"

Your stomach sank at your name on Jonathan’s tongue, like it had passed through other mouths and become something public. You knew he wouldn't do that, but it still made you anxious. "I’m fine," you said automatically, then stopped yourself.

No. Jonathan told you not to do that.

You swallowed, forcing the truth out in a more real way. "I wasn’t feeling good," you said. "That’s all."

Steve’s face shifted, concern deepening. "Okay," he said. "Well.. I’m glad you’re here now."

The words shouldn’t have hurt. They did anyway. Because being glad you were here didn’t mean he wanted you. It just meant he liked having you near. And that was the problem. You didn’t want to just be near, you wanted to be everywhere he was. To invade his space like a parasite that he would welcome.

Nancy cleared her throat, stepping forward slightly like she was giving you an exit. "We were just going over everything again," she said. "Making sure we’re ready if.. anything happens."

Her voice didn’t tremble when she said it. But her eyes flicked to the windows, to the shadows beyond them. And you remembered, suddenly, that your heartbreak didn’t exist in a bubble.

There was an entire other world beneath yours. A place that didn’t care about Steve Harrington’s feelings. Or yours.

Jonathan appeared in the hallway, hair still messy, expression unreadable until his eyes landed on you. Then, he softened. Like he was proud you came anyway.

"You okay?" he asked again, but this time it wasn’t about Steve.

You nodded once, barely. "Yeah," you whispered. "I’m okay."

Jonathan held your gaze for a beat, like he was reminding you: Give yourself time. Give yourself space. Be better--for you.

Steve shifted beside you, glancing between you and Jonathan like he could feel the tension but didn’t know why. Then he did the thing that made your heart do something awful. He smiled. He leaned in slightly, voice dropping like it was a secret meant only for you.

"Hey," Steve murmured, almost shy. "Did I do something?"

Your breath caught. You just stood there, frozen, because the truth was a loaded gun in your throat. Because the answer was yes.

Yes, Steve.

You did.

But you didn’t do it on purpose. That almost made it worse.

You swallowed hard, forcing your face to stay neutral. "No," you said softly. "Just.. really don’t feel the best still."

Steve’s shoulders eased immediately, relief washing over him so fast it was insulting.

"Okay," he breathed out, smiling again like you’d just saved him from something. "Cool. Cool."

You hated yourself a little, because part of you was still happy to be the one who made him feel better.