lovecumdumpy

It’s late.

The kind of late where everything outside the window looks like one big shadow, where the fan in your brother’s room clicks in fast, noisy circles against the ceiling but the air still feels thick enough to cut.

Anakin shifts on the floor, the controller warm in his hands, a soft electric blue glow flickering from the TV screen onto his face. He’s halfway through another round—some video game battle he’s too good at to lose—and the only other sound is the steady rhythm of your brother snoring on the bed behind him.

The whole room smells like sweat, dust, and the beginnings of summer.

Anakin’s not even sure what time it is. Two? Three? Doesn’t really matter. School’s out, no one works tomorrow, and this house has always been kind of a second home. The plan was to crash for the night, maybe sneak into the kitchen later, and finish the chips in the pantry before anyone else woke up.

Then his phone buzzes. He almost doesn’t look at it—probably just some dumb meme in the group chat—but something makes him check. Your name. Glowing across his screen.

He blinks. Stares at it.

Weird.

You shouldn’t be awake. You’re never one to call him directly, not like this. Not in the middle of the night. Not when you’re staying in your college town, just a couple of towns over, and haven’t been home in days, despite the academic year having ended. Anakin glances over his shoulder. Your brother’s still out cold.

He swipes to answer.

“Hello?” His voice is tentative, confused.

There’s muffled noise—a lot of it—on the other end. Music, voices, shouting, obnoxious laughter. And then your voice cuts through, suspiciously high and slurred.

“Heyyyyy Anii,” Your voice pours into the speaker, sweet and stupidly loud. Dripping with the kind of sugarcoated intoxication that makes his stomach drop.

Anakin’s eyes flick to your brother, still snoring, dead to the world, before he turns back to the glowing screen and turns it off completely. He lowers his voice.

“Hey,” he says carefully. “You alright?”

There’s a delay. Some guy shouts something muffled in the background, hawking obnoxiously, and you just… giggle.

“I’m fiiiiine,” you say, which is exactly what people say when they’re not. “But like… not really? I don’t wanna be here anymore.”

He sits up straighter at that. “What’s going on?”

You hum, distracted. “I dunno. I just don’t wanna be here anymore, Ani.”

Your voice lands softly in his ear. Vulnerable. No one calls him 'Ani' anymore.

“Where are you?”

There’s some shuffling. A creak. Then your voice again, quieter, like you’ve pulled the phone away from your mouth a little.

“Uhm… I’m in the closet. I’m hiding,”

He blinks. “No, that’s not— Wait, why are you hiding?”

Another laugh from you, and this one doesn’t even try to sound normal. “People keep being weird,” you say, and he can practically hear the little pout in your voice. “Guys keep, like… putting their hands on my waist when I walk past? And this one dude keeps trying to get me to go upstairs with him.”

You laugh again. But it’s not funny.

“I told him no. Like, no. But he won’t shut up. So yeah,” you drawl, voice wobbling on the edge of sing-song. “I’mmmmm in a closet.”

Anakin’s already on his feet, keys in hand, sneakers half-on. His jaw clenches.

“Where are you exactly? Text me the address. Now.”

“I think I did already?” you murmur, like you’re not even sure. “Or maybe I just meant to. I dunno.” A pause. The tiniest exhale from your end. “I’m really dizzy.”

He’s already out the door.

“Okay. I’m coming to get you,” he says, moving fast. “Right now. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t drink anything else. Just stay put.”

You sniff. “What if someone opens the door? I don’t want them to find me. They’ll call me lame.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He pulls the door shut behind him, strides down the driveway, teeth gritted. “You shouldn't give a damn what they call you.”

Another breath from you. Wobbly.

“Thanks, Ani,” you whisper. “I just—I didn’t know who else to call.”

“You don’t need anyone else,” he mutters, slipping behind the wheel and turning the keys hard. “I’ve got you.”

The line goes quiet, but he doesn’t hang up. He leaves it open lets you breathe on the other end while he speeds toward you like his life depends on it.

The inside of the car is quiet now, just the low rumble of the engine and the rhythmic click of the turn signal every few streets. You’re slouched in the passenger seat, head tipped back, eyelids heavy. Hair a little messed up, makeup smudged under your eyes. You’ve kicked your shoes off, and your knees are pulled up like you’re trying to disappear into yourself.

Anakin keeps his eyes on the road. He hasn’t said much since he pulled you out of that party. Didn’t need to. You weren’t really saying much either. You yawn suddenly, breaking the silence.

“Your car smells the same,” you mumble.

He raises a brow but doesn’t look over. “Cool.”

“Like gas station air fresheners and... anger...yeah.”

That gets him to glance sideways. (He doesn’t even try to understand what that means) “Don’t push it.”

You smile stupidly. “M’not pushing anything. Just sayin'.”

He doesn’t respond. Not really in the mood to banter. His fingers drum once against the wheel, sharp and impatient.

“I didn’t mean to ruin your night,” you say after a beat, quieter now.

“You didn’t.”

“You were prob'ly busy.”'

"Busy in a video game, I guess."

You snort. “Thrilling.”

Another silence. This one stretches longer. You shift, pressing your cheek to the window, voice drifting. “Y’didn’t have to come get me.”

Anakin shrugs. “You called.”

“I knoww. But y’still didn’t have to…”

“Well, I did,” he mutters. “Not really the kind of thing I’d ignore.”

You don’t reply right away. Then, “You always get weird when you’re doing something nice.”

“Maybe you get weird when you’re drunk.”

You laugh again, softer, but it fades quick.

The porch light is off when he pulls into the driveway. The street is dead quiet, just the chirp of crickets and the low whizz of the engine cooling. Anakin puts the car in park and glances over.

You’re a mess, to put it kindly. Your eyeliner is smudged halfway to your temple. There’s a sticky ring of something dried on your thigh, probably someone else’s spilled drink. And you’re blinking at the door like you forgot how to use arms. He exhales slowly, scrubs a hand down his face.

“Alright,” he mutters, getting out.

By the time he’s on your side, you’ve somehow managed to open the door and plant your feet on the ground. You immediately sway, gripping the frame for balance.

“I’m fine,” you mumble. “I got it.”

“You’re wearing one earring and no shoes.”

You look down, confused. “Shit… when did that happen?”

He doesn’t answer. Just gently grabs your arm and slings it over his shoulders like he's done this before. You don’t fight it. Too tired, too drunk, too whatever. You just lean into him, warm and damp with summer air and sweat and sugar.

The front door creaks open without resistance. He remembers where your parents keep the spare key. Remembers the way the floors creak if you step wrong, and which areas to avoid. He doesn’t even have to think about it.

You stumble once on the stairs. He catches you, and you laugh like it’s funny.

“You’re stronger than I remember,” you say.

“That’s because last time I carried you, you were twelve.” He grumbles, clearly unamused and growing increasingly irritated.

“You carried me?”

“Sprained ankle. Water park.”

“Oh.” A beat. “That was nice of you.” You definitely don't remember.

He doesn’t answer.

Your bedroom’s the same, a little older, maybe. New sheets. Fewer posters. Same sickly strong smell of that scented perfume you always overuse. Anakin eases you down onto the bed, and you flop backward with a fwump and a dramatic groan.

“This is the worst I’ve ever felt,” you moan, arm flung over your eyes.

“Probably because you drank like a moron.”

“Don’t be mean to me. I was vulnerable.”

“You hid in a closet.”

“For safety!”

He snorts. “Yeah. How’d that work out?”

You don’t respond. Just lie there, half-sprawled, breathing heavy.

And then, muffled: “I feel gross.”

He sighs. “You want to wash your face?”

“Mmmmhhmmmm.”

Anakin disappears for a second, grabs a towel from the bathroom, and wets it under the tap. He comes back and finds you sitting upright, barely, dress half-off one shoulder, and eyes glassy. You blink at him, lashes crusted with mascara. “You’re, like… a good guy, huh?”

“Don’t start,” he says, crouching down and starting to wipe the makeup from your cheeks.

Your skin’s warm. Still damp. You’re breathing unevenly.

“Why’d you come, Anakin? Seriously,” you whisper suddenly.

He stops. Looks at you. “What?”

“I could’ve called, like, literally anyone. You didn’t have to show up.”

“I know,” he says.

“So why’d you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just wrings out the towel, folds it, presses it gently to your jaw. Your eyes flutter.

“I guess I don’t like the idea of you hiding in closets to feel safe.”

You hum. Lean a little closer. Too close, maybe, but he doesn’t move.

You’re close enough to see each detail of his face. You’ve seen it all a hundred times before already, but even in your drunkenness, you know where every line is. Every dimple, every freckle. Where the blue of his eyes turn grey. Over the years, you’ve come to memorize every part of his face.

Not in a weird way, though. Definitely not. You’re just... observant.

Yeah, observant.

“You’re really pretty, you know that?”

It’s airy and matter-of-factly. Like an observation rather than a compliment. Anakin freezes. His hand stops mid-motion, the towel stills in his grip. He looks up, and your eyes are glued on him—heavy-lidded, glassy, murky with exhaustion and alcohol.

You smile, just barely. “Like… annoyingly so.”

He stares at you, now seriously concerned about how much alcohol you've consumed tonight.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Time for sleep.”

“I’m serioussss,” you whine.

“You’re drunk.” As fuck, he thinks but doesn't say.

You shrug against the pillow. “Doesn’t mean I’m blind.”

His jaw tightens, uncomfortable (and nervous?) with his best friend's little sister telling him this to his face. “You’re not thinking straight.”

You hum. “I’m thinking very straight.”

He stands too fast. The movement jerks the towel in his hands, flinging stray drops of water your way.

You giggle at him—slow and hazy, a little mean in the way that only a drunk girl can be. “Why’re you so weird about compliments, Ani? Don’t girls tell you you’re hot all the time?”

“Okay, stop.”

“Touchy.”

He turns away, muttering, “You have no idea what you’re saying.”

“I do, though.” Your voice follows him like a needle, threading itself around his spine. “I’ve been thinking about your hands for, like, twenty minutes.”

He halts halfway to the door, utterly mortified now.

“You’re just—tall,” you slur, fingers lazily fisting in the comforter. “And your arms are stupid. I don’t know. You look good. Even when you’re mad. I've always thought that,” you stupidly confess, "but it's a secret, so don't tell!" You press a shushing finger to your lips to really emphasize your hypocrisy.

His breath catches somewhere between disbelief and something worse.

You sink deeper into the mattress, eyes fluttering. “You always look at me like that, too…”

He wishes you would just stop talking. (He wishes he didn't want to hear you say more)

“Like what?” It slips out before he can stop it.

You don’t answer right away. Just breathe. One slow inhale, one slower exhale. Then:

“Like you’re trying not to.”

He closes his eyes, just for a second. Then looks at the door, and back at you. You’ve rolled face down in your bed now, mere moments from unconsciousness swallowing you whole. Ankin takes in the weirdly beautiful but messy sight of you, and resolves to take everything you've word-vomited with a grain of sand. There's no way even you know what you're babbling about. You'll probably be just as mortified as he is come morning. If you even remember anything, that is.

“Ani? Can you stay with me?” You mumble into your sheets. He’s not even sure you know you’ve said anything at all.

Anakin turns and leaves. He doesn’t slam the door—doesn’t even make a sound.

But he doesn’t sleep, either.

-

The next morning, you're up like normal.

You wake up on time, scream into your pillow and die inside because you 100% do remember the previous night, clean yourself up, and make it to the breakfast table without a hitch. Not bad for a girl with a hangover and a night full of horrifically regrettable moments.

You’re not overdressed, not underdressed—just comfortable. Hair hidden beneath a too-big hoodie, eyes still a little puffy, but alert. Present. Balanced unsteadily on the edge of normal.

With all the nonchalance in the world, you eat your pancakes—smothered in syrup and butter, just how you've always liked them.

To the untrained eye, you're just a girl eating breakfast.

To Anakin’s eye, you’re trying too hard to look like you didn’t call him last night from a closet, slurring your way through nervous giggles and asking to go home.

He watches from across the table as you take another bite, nod along to something your brother’s rambling about—some plan for the afternoon, maybe a pick-up game later—and hum around your fork like you’re totally engaged.

It almost makes him roll his eyes. Almost.

Instead, he just cuts into his own pancakes. Dry. Butterless, syrupless, bland. You’ve teased him about it before, wrinkling your nose and calling him a sociopath for eating them that way.

He thinks about that, about you, every time he has pancakes for breakfast.

You sneak a glance at him—just a flicker—and catch him already looking. Your eyes widen for half a second, then drop back to your plate.

The thing is: he’s always been around. Summers like this always blur together. You in the kitchen at midnight, stealing popsicles. Him on the porch, nodding off while your brother talked at him for hours. So maybe you've harbored the tiniest crush on him for forever now, but you’ve been background noise to each other’s lives for years. And maybe you've also just ruined that precarious balance in one stupid, drunk night.

This morning doesn’t feel quite the same, and that terrifies you. You definitely fucked up.

“Hey,” your brother says, elbowing Anakin. “You down to hit the court later? Mikey and them said they’d be at Lincoln by three.”

Anakin nods, slow. “Yeah. Sure.”

Then he glances your way again, just for a moment. You’re drinking apple juice, eyes glued to your plate, like you didn’t hear anything—but he can see it in the twitch at the corner of your eye. You did.

You’re hyper-aware of him. Just like he’s suddenly hyper-aware of you. He clears his throat and turns back to his plate. Takes another bite. Still dry.

He wonders if you remember everything you said last night—how your voice caught when you called him pretty, the way you leaned so close, the way your fingers twisted in your comforter while you watched him from your bed like he was made of questions you couldn’t stop asking.

This morning, it’s all clean slates and syrup.

It’s nothing, really.

But it lingers.

Your dad gets up first, muttering something about the garage. Your mom follows. Your brother trails behind a second later with his empty plate and a lazy promise to come back for the dishes.

Which leaves you and Anakin. Still seated. Still quiet. Still not looking at each other.

You reach for the syrup again, even though your pancakes don’t need more. He shifts like he might stand, then doesn’t. So you just finish your breakfast in this awkward silence.

Eventually, you sigh. Get up. Start gathering plates. He moves at the same time. It’s too practiced to be accidental. You’ve done this dance before.

The radio hums from the windowsill. Something low and vaguely nostalgic. The faucet squeaks on. The soap smells like lemon. The silence is louder now, in the empty kitchen.

You rinse. He dries. Routine.

For a while, that’s enough.

Then, finally:

“So,” you say without looking at him, “gonna judge me forever or just for the rest of the week?”

Anakin glances over, towel draped across his shoulder, plate in his hand. “What makes you think I’m judging?”

“You keep looking at me like I’ve got ‘caution: biohazard’ stamped on my forehead.”

He smirks faintly. “That’s just your hangover talking.”

“My hangover says I was fun.”

He pauses—fingers stilled on the plate like he’s caught between a smile and something more cautious.

“You were something,” he says finally, looking off into nothingness, like he's remembering something.

You glance at him. “That sounds ominous.”

“I’m just saying…" he says slipping out of his trance. "I’ve never gotten a drunk call from someone hiding in a closet before.”

You snort. “It was safer in there.”

“Debatable.”

You rinse the next plate a little too thoroughly. More silence. He sets down the towel.

“You always get like this when you’re hungover?” he asks, casual.

You glance at him. “Like what?”

“All… defensive. Domestic.” He nods toward the sponge in your hand. “It’s unsettling.”

“Sorry I’m not wasted in a closet this morning,” you deadpan.

He chuckles under his breath.

“Seriously, though,” he says, quieter now, “you okay?”

Your face heats as you nod, then shrug.

“Sorry for calling you.”

He gives a shrug of his own. “You called. I came.”

“I know, but—”

“I’d rather you call me than stay somewhere you feel unsafe.”

You look at him then. Really look. And he doesn’t flinch this time.

You don’t say anything. Not out loud. But you pass him the next plate, and your hand brushes his in the exchange. His fingers are warm, yours are damp. You pull away quickly, but an embarrassingly sizable part of you wanted to linger. He doesn’t mention it, but the quiet that settles after is different than before. Not awkward anymore. Just… aware.

You hand him another dish, then toss a wet spoon at his chest without warning. He catches it in his other hand with a surprised grunt. “Are you serious?”

You grin. “Are you mad?”

“You’re annoying.”

“I’m endearing.”

“You’re a child.”

“Nuh uh.” You chuck another spoon.

He catches it again, smoother this time, and narrows his eyes. “I swear to god, I will hit you.”

You laugh, genuinely, for the first time that day. Anakin very poorly contains a grin that makes the corners of his eyes wrinkle in a way you saw way more as kids.

And for a few seconds, it’s easy to forget the things you said the night before. Easy to pretend you didn’t call him in the dark, slurring his name knowing it meant safety. Easy to pretend your cheeks aren’t still flushed from remembering the way his hands touched your face, your hair, your jaw.

You rinse. He dries. Just like always.

But something feels new.

And neither of you wants to look too closely at why.

-

Your annual family-plus-Ani-summer-vacay has finally arrived.

The sun’s low in the sky, just starting to bleed orange across the windows of the hotel. June heat clings to everything—the railings, the stucco walls, the itchy pool towels slung over plastic chairs. The hum of vacation lingers in the air: laughing kids, the splash of cannonballs, and nearby music playing something faint and summery.

Anakin’s sprawled across a lounge chair at the edge of the pool deck, hoodie unzipped halfway, hood pulled up like it’ll shield him from the last rays of the sun. His sunglasses are too big for his face, probably stolen from your brother, and he’s chewing idly on the drawstring.

He’s not really paying attention to anything.

Until you walk out.

He only glances up at first. Just a reflex, a flick of the eyes to check who’s coming through the gate. And then—

Oh.

That’s not what he was prepared for at all.

You’re in a bikini—nothing scandalous, truly, but somehow the sight of you in golden sunlight, breeze-filled hair, and sun-kissed skin (so much of it holy-) knocks the breath right out of him. You’ve got a towel looped over one arm, sunglasses pushed into your hair, flip-flops clapping lazily against the concrete. Casual. Confident. Like you belong here.

And the worst part is—you do.

You’re not some wide-eyed kid anymore, tagging along, interrupting video games and stealing chips. You look… older. Different. Beautiful.

And he hates the way it makes his stomach twist. He hates the way he's only just now feeling flustered and confused.

You don’t even notice him looking.

You just toss your towel onto a chair and stretch—arms above your head, body arching with the lazy elegance of someone who doesn't know they’re being watched.

He forces himself to look away, feeling something akin to shame for seeing you in such a way. You, who he's known the majority of his life. You, who's just been background noise to him until very recently. You, who is definitely not a kid anymore.

Your brother barrels past a second later, nearly clipping your shoulder with a pool noodle.

“Last one in’s gotta buy ice cream!”

He’s already halfway into the pool before you even respond, and Anakin’s grateful for the distraction—until you start walking toward the edge of the pool too.

You pause. Turn slightly toward him.

“What, you’re not swimming?” you ask, raising a brow. “What kind of vacation guest are you?”

He shrugs, playing it off. “Don’t wanna get chlorine in my eyes.”

“Lame-o.” You flash him a grin, then jump in. The water swallows you whole.

Anakin sits still for a minute, sunglasses sliding down his nose.

You resurface, laughing. Your brother splashes you immediately, and you retaliate like a menace. The two of you start bickering in that familiar way you always do—loud and competitive and just natural. He should be annoyed.

He’s not.

He’s still watching you.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. You’re you. You’ve been in his peripheral vision for years—whining about cereal, hogging the backseat on road trips, falling asleep with your mouth open on movie nights. You’re his best friend’s little sister.

But now?

Now you’re swimming in the hotel pool with the sun turning your skin into gold, water catching in your lashes like diamonds, mouth curled up in a smile that’s not really meant for him—but feels close enough to count. And suddenly, he doesn’t know where to look.

He leans back and pulls his hood further over his head like an idiot.

Eventually, you swim to the edge near where he’s sitting.

“You sure you’re not getting in?” you ask again, chin resting on your arms as you grip the concrete ledge.

He shrugs. “Pool’s full of germs.”

“You’re full of excuses.”

Your smile lingers just a little too long. Your eyes flick over him, assessing—maybe teasing. Maybe nothing at all. But it lands. God, it lands.

He feigns nonchalance and tosses his sunglasses onto the lounge chair beside him.

“You’re gonna turn into a raisin if you stay in there much longer.”

“Jealous?”

“Of raisin girl?”

You splash water at him.

It hits his knees. He jerks back in exaggerated offense, grabbing a rolled-up towel like a shield. You’re already swimming away, laughing, disappearing under the surface again.

And Anakin watches, heart ticking faster than he wants to admit, jaw tight, fingers curled loosely around the frayed edge of the chair. This trip was supposed to be a break. A week of beach days and bad hotel breakfast and sunburns. A week of sleep and nothing.

But something feels different.

You’re not the girl in the room across the hall anymore. And he doesn’t know what to do with that.

Hours of splashing and treading pass. The sun sinks lower. The pool clears out. A few little kids are herded away by their parents. The music fades. Your brother's long gone—ran back inside for snacks or a charger or something he forgot—and suddenly, it's just you and Anakin and the slow churn of the water against the tile.

He hasn’t moved from his lounge chair.

You’re still in the pool, arms resting on the edge near where he sits. The water drips from your hair, beads on your collarbones, trails down your skin in ways he doesn’t mean to notice but keeps noticing anyway. You tilt your head up at him.

“You’re still not gonna swim?”

He looks down at you. Shrugs. “Didn’t bring trunks.”

You scoff. “What, they don’t sell shorts in this city?”

“I didn’t come here to swim.”

“Then what’d you come for?” The question hangs.

It’s not flirtatious—not really. But it lands wrong. Or right. Or somewhere in between. Anakin’s throat tightens.

He could say he came because he always comes. That your parents like him. That he needed a break. All of it would be true. None of it would answer why he hasn’t stopped watching you since the minute you walked out here.

You raise a brow, waiting.

Anakin looks away. “Came for the dry pancakes,” he says finally.

You laugh, soft and breathless. Then—slowly—you push yourself out of the pool.

He shouldn’t look.

He absolutely shouldn’t look.

He does.

Water clings to you. Your legs are bare. Your swimsuit hugs tight in ways that make his fingers flex against the chair arms. You move so painfully naturally—like this is all nothing, like you’re still just his best friend’s little sister who steals fries and punches his arm when he teases you.

But that’s not who you are anymore.

He knows it. His body knows it. And it’s driving him insane.

You grab a towel from the back of a chair and start drying your hair. “You’ve been weird lately,” you say over your shoulder, like it’s nothing.

He stiffens. “Weird how?”

“You’re quieter.”

“I’m literally always quiet.”

You turn to face him, still toweling off. “No. You’re…watchful.”

His jaw twitches. You don't even realize how right you are.

He doesn’t know when it started. Maybe today. Maybe the night he picked you up from the party. Maybe longer ago than that. He thinks about the way your voice had cracked on the phone, the way your fingers had brushed his, how easily you’d leaned into him without hesitation, even drunk. He thinks about the way your mouth had formed his name in the dark.

Ani. No one calls him that anymore.

Except you.

You drop the towel onto your chair and sit beside him, damp and unbothered, knees brushing his. You’re close. He doesn’t move. He can smell your lotion now—something floral and sweet that makes his head spin.

You sigh. “You never used to look at me like that.”

He turns to you. “Like what?”

You shrug, searching his face, looking for what that is exactly.

“I don't know.”

His pulse skips.

You meet his gaze, and for a second it’s too much. The way your lips are parted, your eyes all lit up and curious, the heat still clinging to your skin from the sun. He wants to say something. Push you away. Pull you closer. Something.

Instead, he looks away. “You should head back in,” he says.

You frown. “Why?”

“It’s late.”

You lean forward slightly. The shift in weight brings you even closer. “You’re uncomfortable.”

He huffs a laugh, sharp. “Not really the word I’d use.”

“What would you use?”

His eyes flick to yours. Steady. Quiet. Loaded.

You blink, maybe realizing how close you are now. How little space exists between you. How long he’s gone without answering. But before either of you can say anything else—

Your brother’s voice cuts through the air. Loud. Careless. “Yo, they’ve got free nachos at the bar!”

And just like that, it breaks.

You flinch back. Anakin’s already standing, too fast, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie like it’ll hide the tension coiled through his entire body. You don’t say anything more. Neither does he. But he doesn’t follow your brother toward the lobby, not yet.

And you don’t meet his eyes again for the rest of the night.

The pool’s supposed to be closed.

You know that. The sign says 9PM in big block letters, and it’s well past midnight. But no one’s around. No front desk staff. No other guests. Just you—curled up in a hoodie and shorts in one of the plastic lounge chairs, knees tucked to your chest, chin resting on the fabric.

The night air is cool and still, the kind of quiet that makes every little sound feel loud. The pool lights glow faint blue under the surface, the ripples catch the light just right, dancing up the walls and ceiling like living glass. It’s peaceful. Hypnotic. You’ve been staring at it forever, just watching the little waves flicker against the sides. Watching the way light bends in water. Watching how beautiful something can look when it’s just barely still.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been back out here when the door creaks. You glance over your shoulder—and there he is.

Anakin steps through the pool's gate, not even surprised to see you. Like he knew (maybe even hoped) you’d be here. He’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair messy, posture loose. There's something about him that always seems half-tensed, never fully at rest. Like he’s always bracing for something.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he says.

You blink at him. “You’re psychic now?”

“No,” he says. “Just observant. You’ve been slipping away every night since we got here.”

You shrug. “It’s quiet.”

He walks over and drops into the chair next to you without asking. “It’s also not allowed.”

“That’s your problem,” you say, smiling faintly. “You always follow the rules.”

Anakin snorts. “You serious? You know how many rules I’ve broken just this week?”

You glance at him, and something about the curve of his mouth makes your stomach twist. He looks different in this lighting. Softer. More real. Like someone you’re not supposed to see this way. Someone who was never meant to be a secret.

You hesitate, then ask, “Why’d you come out here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just leans back, looking at the water.

“I guess I wanted to make sure you weren’t in a closet again,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “That was weeks ago.”

“And yet,” he mutters, “I think about it every other night now.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you sit in the quiet. The silence stretches, but it’s not awkward.

It’s charged.

The two of you have existed like this before—like you’re in the same orbit but different galaxies. Like you only ever get glimpses when the angle’s just right. And lately? The angle’s been right a lot more often.

“I used to think you didn’t like me,” you say, voice low.

Anakin turns in surprise to look at you, brow quirked. “What made you think that?”

“You were always… polite. Almost friendly but never just quite. I was just the dumb little sister. Always in the way.”

He furrows his brow. “You weren’t really in the way.”

You look back at the water. “I mean, you just never really saw me, I guess—or something I don't know,” You trail off, mumbling and embarrassed.

There’s a pause. An acknowledgement. A consideration.

“I see you now,” he says, finally landing on the right thing to say. Because you were right. Maybe he looked at you without actually seeing you. But it seems like that's all he's been doing these days—seeing you— and it's consuming his entire mind.

Something stutters in your chest.

You don’t know what to do with that. With the way he says it. With the fact that you believe him. How could he not mean it when he's looking at you like this? The pool lights made his eyes look even more stunning. Magical, even.

You look at him again—and he’s looking at you in a way that makes the air feel stifling. Makes the whole world tilt just a little. Like maybe he’s been seeing you like this for a lot longer than you realized now, and maybe he’s just as scared of what it means.

You break eye contact first and clear your throat.

Then, like it’s nothing, like you’re not about to blow the night wide open, you say: “Let’s go swimming.”

Anakin blinks. “It’s closed.”

“So?”

“So that’s illegal.”

You smile. “Thought you didn’t follow the rules.”

“I didn’t say that. I said I break them sometimes. With reason.”

“This is a reason.”

He scoffs, crossing his arms. “What reason?”

“Because I want to.”

He opens his mouth to argue—but you’re already pulling your hoodie off.

Underneath, you’ve just got on your underwear and the tank top you slept in. Nothing scandalous. No different than a swimsuit, really. But the second the hoodie’s off, something in the air shifts.

Anakin’s eyes catch on you. Not completely in a checking-you-out kind of way—at least not at first. More like he’s trying to figure out when this started. When you became someone he had to look away from. Someone he couldn't just file under little sister energy anymore.

“You coming?” you ask, standing up.

He doesn’t move.

Then—“You’re insane.”

You smirk. “Scared?”

He shakes his head once, slow. But he still doesn’t stand.

You raise a brow, teasing. “You know, I always thought you were cooler than this.”

That gets him.

He sighs—long, slow, resigned—and mutters something under his breath that sounds like a curse. Then he pulls off his shirt, kicks off his sweats, and stalks toward the pool.

You try not to react to the sight of him like that—bare-chested, jaw tight, black boxer briefs clinging to his thighs like sin, muscles tense like he’s fighting every instinct he has.

You fail. Spectacularly.

The water’s cold but not unbearable. You slip in first, body shivering from the initial shock, but it feels good—refreshing, almost electric. The surface breaks with a soft splash as you sink in.

Anakin hesitates at the edge for a beat too long. Then he’s in the water too.

At first, you stay on opposite ends. He’s quiet, leaning against the wall like he’s not sure what to do with himself.

You splash water at him.

He blinks at you. “Are you five?”

You grin. “Maybe.”

But you’re moving closer.

One minute, you’re laughing. Next, the space between you shrinks until there’s nothing but water and tension. You’re not touching—but it would take practically nothing to change that.

“You always do this?” he murmurs.

You tilt your head. “Do what?”

“Pull people into pools after hours. Tempt them into getting arrested.”

“Only the special ones.”

He doesn’t laugh. He just watches you. Eyes steady. Breath shallow.

This moment—right now—it shouldn’t be happening. But it is. It’s happening and it’s real and neither of you moves to stop it.

You reach out, barely brushing his wrist under the water.

He freezes.

Your voice is quieter now. “You look like you’re about to say something.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Then say it.”

The water ripples gently between you, glowing with that otherworldly blue that makes everything feel faraway and too close all at once. Moonlight slides off your shoulders, casting silver over skin and shadow into every soft dip of your frame.

You’re face to face now. Nowhere to look but at each other.

And Anakin’s sure—positive, actually—that if he breathes wrong, he'll do something he'll regret. That if he says what he really wants to say, there’s no pulling back. No walking away. No playing the older brother’s friend who only ever saw you as a kid in pajamas and messy hair.

Because you don’t look like that now.

Now you’re here, soaked to the skin, lips parted, waiting. And he realizes, with a dizzy sort of clarity, that this isn’t the first time he’s looked at you this way—it’s just the first time he let himself notice.

He doesn’t even think when his hand moves.

Just reaches out and brushes your cheekbone with the backs of his fingers, slow and deliberate. Water beads there—dripping down from your hairline, collecting in a trail along your jaw. He catches one with his thumb. Wipes it away like it makes a difference.

It doesn’t. The water’s everywhere.

You’re barely breathing now, staring up at him with a look that should be illegal—wide-eyed and unreadable, soft-lipped and too still. A look that dares him to keep going.

A look that says I want you to.

And Anakin—Anakin fucking Skywalker, who’s supposed to be your brother’s best friend, supposed to know better, supposed to treat you like you’re just a kid in his periphery—he’s starting to realize that the only thing holding him back right now is how much he knows this would ruin him.

“You’re really pretty too,” he says—quiet, raw, reverent.

It’s not smooth. It’s not clever. It’s not even the full truth—pretty isn’t the word for you right now.

Your brows twitch upward—surprised. But you don’t laugh. You don’t tease.

You just say, soft and steady, “Too?”

His lips part. That was the mistake. He walked straight into it.

You remember.

You remember the night. The drunken words. The messy bedroom and his careful hands and the tension that was thick then, but manageable. Containable.

It isn’t now.

Now it wraps around the two of you like a current, buzzing and electric and pulling you closer with every second you hold eye contact.

He opens his mouth—maybe to deny it, maybe to say your name—but the words tangle on his tongue. His thumb brushes down, catches the edge of your mouth. A thoughtless motion. Painfully careful.

His breath shudders. It’s involuntary.

You smile, slow and dangerous. “So you do remember.”

“I remember everything,” he says. It’s not a boast. It’s not even a confession. It’s a warning. "I was the sober one, remember?"

You tilt your head just slightly into his palm.

It’s nothing.

It’s everything.

Anakin's thumb brushes up and down your jaw like it's second nature.

Your voice is quieter than it’s ever been.

“Then why haven’t you done anything about it?”

He pulls in a breath like he’s about to lose his mind.

“You don’t want me to answer that,” he says, voice sharp and thick with restraint. “Not when you’re this close.”

“Try me.”

He stares at you. Really stares.

And for one second—just one—he does lean in. Enough to skim his nose along yours. Enough to make your lips part, your breath hitch, your body freeze. You can feel his breath against your mouth.

But he stops just short.

Just enough to not kiss you. Just enough to leave you wanting.

Just enough to save himself.

His eyes flutter shut, jaw clenched so tight it aches. And when he pulls back, it’s not gentle. It’s like ripping teeth out.

“Get out of the pool,” he says, rough. “Before I do something stupid.”

You blink. Your heartbeat's in your mouth. Your whole body electric. But you feel like you’ve won. Because something just changed. And you both felt it.

Even if he walked away. Even if he didn’t kiss you. Even if he told you to get out—

He saw you.

He saw you.

You affected him, and that makes your heart soar

-

The next night the hotel hosts a "family mixer" on the private beach. It’s low-effort—cheap tiki torches, a few fold-out tables, and a firepit dug into the sand surrounded by lawn chairs. There’s music playing from someone's Bluetooth speaker. S’mores kits. Cold sodas. Half of the parents have already gone back to their rooms. Just older teens and twenty-somethings lingering, laughing.

You show up late, barefoot, the sleeves of your hoodie pulled over your hands, legs still damp from rinsing off the afternoon pool chlorine. You weren’t going to come. But your brother texted “everyone’s here. don’t be lame.”

You’re not here for “everyone.” But you pretend you are.

Anakin’s already there. Of course he is.

He’s leaned against the backrest of a half-buried beach lounger, one foot in the sand, Solo cup in hand, talking to your brother and two girls who you swear keep finding excuses to laugh too loudly. His profile is sharp in the firelight—strong jaw, loose hair falling into his face, a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He looks good. Too good.

You swallow it down and find a place on the other side of the fire.

He’s angled toward your brother, who’s talking fast and grinning, probably reliving some dumb surfboard fail.

Anakin’s not really listening, he's preoccupied.

You don’t even notice him watching.

You’re too busy standing near the firepit, laughing at something Caleb said—no, not your cousin Caleb, the tall guy from Room 308 with the faded tattoo and the vague I-play-guitar energy. He’s not your type. He talks too much. But he’s cute enough in the dark, and there’s something kind of freeing about letting someone else look at you that way for once. Someone you’re allowed to flirt with.

Anakin hasn’t said a word to you since you arrived. Barely looked your way since your little night swim yesterday. And maybe that shouldn’t bother you. But it does.

You smile more than you mean to. Let the conversation linger. Caleb offers to grab you another soda, and you nod. When he comes back, he sits close. Too close.

Anakin doesn’t move.

Caleb is louder than he needs to be. Keeps cracking jokes that land halfway. You genuinely laugh at some of them. And when he invites you to walk “a little further down the beach to see the stars,” you agree before you think better of it. You’re not even sure why.

Caleb leads you down the beach just far enough that the sound of the fire pit fades into the wind and the shush of waves against the shore. There’s no one else out here. Just dark, and sand, and the soft flicker of light in the far distance behind you.

You sit on an overturned canoe. Caleb sits beside you—closer than necessary.

He talks about stars at first. Sort of.

Really, he talks about LA. And his band. And the internship he’s totally about to land if his uncle pulls some strings. He uses words like “manifestation” and “alchemy” in the same breath. Calls you “introspective” because you said you like books. Looks at your legs when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

You let him talk. It’s not like you have anything better to do. And maybe… maybe part of you likes that someone sees you.

Not as your brother’s sister. Not as background noise to a video game lobby. But as something singular. Present. Desired. Even if he’s not great at hiding the way his hand keeps inching closer to your knee with every new topic.

“So what’s your deal?” Caleb asks eventually, leaning back on his elbows. “You’ve got, like, mystery girl energy.”

You snort. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re quiet, but not in a bad way. I bet you think a lot. Bet you’re one of those people who feels everything.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s… a line.”

He grins. “But it’s working, right?”

You don’t answer.

His hand brushes your thigh again. This time it lingers. Not forceful. Not terrible. But enough to make your shoulders go tight, and your stomach twist just a little. You shift. Scoot away.

Caleb notices—but doesn’t back off. Instead, he laughs under his breath and leans toward you.

“I mean, come on. We’re both here. The vibes are good. You’re looking at me like you want something.”

“I wasn’t—” you start.

And then—

“Hey.”

One word. Low. Cutting.

You twist toward the voice before your brain can catch up.

Anakin.

Standing just a few feet away, tall and furious-looking, jaw flexing hard enough to crack.

Caleb straightens, confused. “What?”

Anakin doesn’t answer him. His eyes are locked on you. And when he speaks again, it’s to you.

“Get up.”

You blink. “What—?”

“You’re leaving. Now.”

There’s no room for argument in his voice.

Caleb laughs like it’s a joke. “Dude, chill. We’re just talking.”

Anakin doesn’t even look at him. “She doesn’t want to be here.”

Caleb frowns, finally bristling. “She didn’t say that.”

“I don’t need her to,” Anakin says, voice dark. “I can see it all over her face.”

You’re still frozen, trying to process how fast this has flipped.

Caleb pushes up to his feet, half-defensive. “Look, I don’t know who the fuck you are, but—”

“I’m the one telling you to back off,” Anakin snaps, stepping in. “Right now.”

Caleb squares up, posture stiffening like he’s going to do something about it—but one look at Anakin’s face, and he falters.

Whatever he sees there makes him hesitate.

Good call.

Anakin’s always had this quiet rage in him, the kind that doesn’t scream—it just waits for permission to act. This? Might’ve been that permission.

You stand up—quickly.

Caleb mutters something behind you. Something like, “She can speak for herself, you know.”

But Anakin’s already putting a hand on your arm and steering you away, fast. His grip isn’t tight, but it’s not gentle either. Like he’s still trying to calm down. Like every muscle in his body is on high alert.

He doesn’t say a word until you’re almost back to the firelight. Then, without looking at you, he mutters, “You really think that guy wanted to stargaze with you?”

You don’t answer. He exhales hard, shaking his head.

“He just wanted to screw you,” he snaps. “That was his whole game.”

Your mouth falls open, scoffing, stunned, and slightly offended.

“Jesus, Anakin—”

“He had you half undressed in his head before you even said yes.”

“That’s not fair—”

“It’s not about fair,” he bites out. “It’s about obvious. He was waiting for you to say yes to something you didn’t want just so he could say it wasn’t his fault.”

You stop walking. Anakin keeps going another step—then realizes you’re not beside him anymore. He turns.

The wind tousles his hair, firelight flickering against the edge of his jaw. His eyes are wild, stormy, tired.

“You didn’t have to come out there,” you say, arms crossed. “You didn’t have to drag me away like some—some overprotective boyfriend.”

He flinches like you slapped him.

“I’m not,” he grits. “I’m mad because you deserve better than assholes who think ‘you’re quiet’ is a personality trait.”

The air goes still. Neither of you speaks.

Then, quieter now—tired, almost broken—he says, “And I’m mad because I should’ve come over before you went with him.”

And then he turns, walking ahead, back toward the flickering firelight. Hands clenched. Shoulders taut. Leaving you alone with your volatile feelings that you just can't control anymore.

The room is quiet when you get back.

You shut the door behind you harder than you mean to. Lock it. Drop your hoodie onto the floor and kick off your sandals with more force than necessary. The air conditioner hums. Somewhere down the hallway, someone’s laughing too loud, but it might as well be underwater.

You stand there for a moment, hoodie half-off your shoulder, staring blankly at the hotel art on the wall. Something abstract. Meaningless. You tug the sleeves off and drop the hoodie in a pile by the door. Your sandals come off next, kicked in an afterthought.

You sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees, staring at the floor. Mabe you're searching the ugly carpet for answers. Maybe you're just thinking about how ugly it is.

Your skin still feels warm from the firepit. Your mouth is dry from the soda you didn’t finish. Your stomach is twisted in a way that has nothing to do with sugar.

You’re not sure what just happened. Or—maybe you are. Maybe you just don’t know what it meant.

Anakin’s voice still rings in your ears.

“He just wanted to screw you.”

You hear the way he said it. Flat, bitter, like it tasted awful just to let it pass through his mouth. Like it was personal. Like you were his to defend. But he’s not yours. He can’t be. But God, do you want him to be. You're dragging your hands down your face and groaning when it comes.

A knock.

Sharp. Brief.

You freeze.

Your heart lifts without permission. You already know who you’re hoping it is. You pull yourself together in two seconds flat, crossing the room and unlocking the door, half-trying to keep your expression neutral even as your chest tightens.

You open it.

...It’s your brother.

“…Oh.”

He frowns. “Wow. That’s a warm welcome.”

“No—sorry. I just thought—” You shake your head. “Doesn’t matter. What’s up?”

He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, eyes scanning the room like he’s checking for ghosts. Or maybe just Anakin.

“Just wanted to see if you were good.”

You hesitate. “Yeah. Fine.”

He doesn’t believe you, obviously. But he doesn’t push either. He flops onto the other bed, arms behind his head, and lets out a long breath. “That Caleb guy's a douche.”

You sit across from him on the edge of the mattress. “Yeah. I got that.”

“Anakin almost decked him.”

“Jesus.”

“Not even joking. He was one second from swinging. I’ve never seen him like that.”

You glance at the wall, pulse tightening. Your brother looks at you a moment. Then—softer—he says, “You know, I used to think it was funny. You getting all flustered when he was around.”

You go still. “What?”

“Don’t act like you didn’t have a crush on him in high school. It was obvious.”

You glare. “Thanks.”

He shrugs. “I just thought it’d pass. Thought he’d always just be my dumb best friend to you.”

You wait. “But?”

“But lately… I don’t know. Something’s different. With you. With him. You’ve both been weird since we got here.”

You stay quiet.

He sits up, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not trying to freak out or get all big-brother about it. You’re adults. He’s just always been—mine, you know? Not like a possession, just—he was always my—and now…”

He trails off. Doesn’t finish the thought.

You don’t ask him to.

He gets up a second later. “Anyway. I’m not gonna be a dick about it. I trust you. I just... don’t want you to get hurt.”

Your throat tightens. “Thanks.”

He walks toward the door. Then pauses, hand on the knob.

“Also, uh—next time you sneak off to flirt with a walking SoundCloud account, maybe text someone first? Just so we know you’re alive?”

You throw a pillow at him. He laughs, dodges, and steps out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. You sigh and fall back onto the bed.

The second your head hits the pillow—

Another knock.

You groan as you get up and trek back across the room. “Oh my god, I literally just told you—”

You yank the door open, and it's not your brother.

It’s Anakin.

You stop mid-sentence. “—not to...”

And then you just blink.

He’s standing there barefoot, his sweater half-zipped, hair still tousled from the wind. There's a tightness in his jaw like he’s been pacing outside your room for twenty minutes, debating whether to knock or not. He looks at you like he wasn’t sure you’d open the door. Like he’s glad you did.

“…Hi,” he says.

You don’t say anything at first.

Then, finally: “If you’d knocked one second earlier, you’d have caught my brother in here.”

“Oh,” he says. “Should I… not be here?”

“No. I mean—yeah. You can—” You step aside before you can overthink it. “Come in.”

He walks in slowly, hands shoved in his pockets. You shut the door behind him. Silence falls like a blanket over the room. He doesn’t sit. He just turns to face you. Still tense. Still unreadable.

“I didn’t come to fight,” he says finally.

You fold your arms. “Could’ve fooled me back there.”

He sharply inhales a little.

“I’m not sorry for pulling you away,” he says. "I didn’t mean to make you feel like I was… I don’t know. Owning you or something.”

You look at him. “Then what were you doing?”

He’s quiet for a second.

Then: “Losing my mind, apparently.”

You blink.

“I saw him sitting that close and—” He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “I knew what he was trying to do. And I couldn’t fucking stand it.”

You swallow hard. He looks at you now—really looks.

“You’re not some stranger, okay? You’re not just someone I pass in the hallway anymore. You haven’t been for a long time.”

Your pulse thrums. You don’t know what to say to that.

So you just whisper, “You’re not either.” And he takes a slow step toward you.

Then another.

Your breath catches.

The air between you stretches—dense, electric, pulsing with everything said and unsaid. You don’t back away. Don’t shift. Don’t smile. You just watch him, eyes wide, shoulders squared like you’re bracing for a wave. Something crashing.

Anakin stops a foot from you.

Close enough to reach. Close enough to touch. Close enough that you can see every flicker in his pretty eyes—uncertainty, restraint, something deeper boiling just beneath the surface.

He doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

He just looks at you, trying to memorize the exact way you’re standing. The shape of you in this moment. Something about it must be important to him.

“I wasn’t supposed to feel like this,” he says quietly.

The words are heavy between you.

Your voice is a whisper as you jump to a hopeful assumption. “But you do? Feel something—I mean.”

He nods, just barely.

“I do.”

He finally lifts a hand—slow, careful—and brushes his knuckles down your arm, from your elbow to your wrist. A soft, shivering kind of contact, he’s still asking permission even as he’s already touching you. Your skin warms under the trail.

Your pulse jumps. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I wasn’t supposed to feel it. Not for you. Not like... this.” He lets out a breath, ragged and short. “I kept telling myself you were off-limits. That it’d pass. That I’d look at you one day and see the girl across the hall again.”

His fingers gently wrap around your wrist now, and you don't pull away.

“I haven’t seen her in a long time,” he adds.

Your throat tightens.

“I thought it was just me,” you murmur. “Thought I was being ridiculous—wanting something impossible.”

He tilts his head, eyes softening. “It’s not impossible.”

“But it feels that way. Doesn’t it?”

Anakin doesn’t answer right away. He glances down at your joined hands—because somewhere in all of this, your fingers found his. Neither of you remembers how. But you’re holding on now. Threaded together like you belong there.

When he looks back up, there’s a softness in his expression that borders on devastating.

“It shouldn’t,” he says. “Not when it’s this easy.”

You blink. “This is easy?”

“Being around you is,” he says. “Not wanting more is the hard part.”

You laugh quietly in disbelief. “So, you have been fighting it.”

“Every second.”

The confession hits in a cool wave of relief. A breath held too long, finally let out. You stare up at him, and this time, it’s you who steps forward. Close enough that your chest brushes against him. Close enough to feel the shift in his breath. Close enough that you wonder if he can feel you trembling.

“You’re not going to kiss me, are you?” you ask, low and daring.

He shakes his head slowly. “Not tonight.”

Your heart droops in fleeting disappointment. “Why not?”

“Because if I do…” His eyes flit down to your mouth, back up, to your eyes, and then down again. “I won’t stop.”

You don’t move.

“You want to stop?” you whisper.

His forehead presses to yours, his breathing wrecked. He’s so close. So warm. Just barely holding still.

“No,” he whines—raw and guttural, the sound rips straight from his throat like he hates himself for even saying it.

He doesn’t wait any longer. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t even think.

Anakin grabs you, hands fisting in your hair, pulling you in like it’s instinct. Like he’s starved. Like he’s been dying of thirst and just now remembered your mouth is the only thing that’s ever satiated him.

And he kisses you.

Hard. Rough. Devastating.

It crashes over you like a wave too big to stand under. Lips crushed against his, teeth dragging, breath stolen. His grip is fierce, almost punishing—cause if he doesn’t hold you like this, you might disappear. And he’ll lose the one thing he hasn’t let himself want out loud until now.

Your back hits the wall behind you, the wood cold against your spine, but you barely feel it. All you can feel is him. His body flush to yours, his hands possessive, mouth bruising as it moves over yours like he’s been waiting years for this—because he has.

And god, it shows.

He takes like a man at the end of his rope. No finesse. No strategy. Just hungry, desperate need.

The kiss breaks for half a second, just enough for him to breathe, and when he does, he pants against your lips, forehead still pressed to yours, eyes blown wide with disbelief and desire.

“I can’t stop,” he mutters, voice hoarse, bottom lip trembling. “I should—but I fucking can’t.”

"Then don't," you breathe out.

You kiss him again. Just as sloppy, just as starved. You're starving for one thing and it's always been him.

He groans into your mouth, low and strangled—the vibration travels through you straight to your core, spurring you on. One hand drops to your waist, gripping hard, dragging you against him so you can feel just how much he means it. So that you can both relieve the ache you're undeniably feeling. His hips press into yours, and it’s dizzying—the heat, the feel of his clothed erection, the years of pretending there was nothing under the surface.

The friction is euphoric. So mind-numbing you find yourself grinding against him harder and harder, chasing that high like a dog. Anakin breaks the kiss and trails down your jaw to find purchase on your neck, sucking and biting.

Claiming.

"Slow down," he chuckles warmly against your throat. "Don't wanna' go too fast."

He chokes as your hand suddenly snakes down to grab a firm hold of his hard crotch. Your eyes are half-lidded, dripping with lust as they look into Anakin's.

"I can't go fast enough," you whisper.

There's a beat of silence. A singular second of burning, mingling breath and pounding hearts.

And a tether snaps.

You're ripped from the ground like you're weightless. Your thighs wrap around Anakin's torso instinctively, and his hands grip your ass as he carries you across the room. In seconds, your back hits the plush sheets of the bed. You bounce once—breathless—before Anakin is on top of you, arms caging you in.

He barely gives you enough time to breathe before his mouth is smothering yours once more, like he couldn't stand being apart for a millisecond. Lips, tongue, and teeth. Swallowing you whole, conquering. Nothing about this or him is soft—gentle.

His tongue invades your mouth, tasting all of you. The hunger inside him is insatiable, a wild beast clawing its way out. His hands roam your body, taking no time exploring the dips and valleys of your frame. His fingers dig into your flesh, nails pressing into your skin. The sensation sends sparks shooting down your spine and you arch further into Anakin, igniting a fire in him.

You moan into his mouth, arching your back to push your torso completely against his. Your nipples strain against the thin fabric of your top, aching to be touched. You reach between your bodies, grabbing his cock through his pants. It twitches eagerly beneath your palm, and you give it a firm squeeze.

"You want me?" You pant against his lips. "Then take me."

A groan rumbles deep in his chest as he feels your hand grasp his length. His hips jerk involuntarily, seeking more friction. He rests his sweat-slicked forehead against yours, eyes squeezed like he's in pain.

"You're—" he manages through heavy breaths, "—You're supposed to tell me to stop."

Your eyes glimmer with mischief and wonder, your mouth gently hanging open as you take in his beautifully wrecked expression. Your hand finds purchase on the back of Anakin's neck as you whisper with a little too much amusement—

"Now, why would I do a silly little thing like that?"

You yank him back in, smashing his lips onto yours again, kissing his with an intensity that steals the air from your lungs. His hands fumble with the hem of your shirt, desperate to get to the smooth skin underneath. When he finally succeeds, he pulls the garment off your arms and tosses it aside carelessly. His eyes rake over your exposed breasts, drinking in the sight like a parched man

"So fucking perfect," he breathes, cupping a mound in his large hand.

He rolls the hardened peak of your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, sending jolts of pleasure crackling through your body. Leaning down, he takes the other nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it teasingly.

A moan shudders out of you, and your back arches off the bed with the tingling sensation. Your nails dig slightly into his flesh, and it seems to ignite something primal in him. His lips release you with a wet sound. He steals a hard, claiming kiss from your mouth a last time—rough, wet, quick—before he's kissing down your sternum, between your breasts. Down, down, down, he trails.

You look down to meet his beautiful blue eyes. How could they look so innocent while his mouth teased at the waistband of your shorts? He starts to pull at them with his teeth, but he looks up at you, brows raised, eyes asking for permission.

You nod breathlessly, and he wastes no time in pulling them down until you're left in your underwear. Plain-Jane gray cotton. You didn't expect anyone but yourself to be seeing them. Let alone Anakin.

Your face flushes and you open your mouth, but before you even have time to be embarrassed, Anakin's tongue swipes across your clothed sex.

A gasp slips from your mouth, your hips bucking upward reflexively. He hums against your dampening core, the vibrations traveling straight to your clit. His hands grip your fleshy thighs, spreading them wider as he dives in deeper. He laps at you through the damp fabric, savoring your flavor. Then, hooking his fingers into the sides of your panties, he drags them down your legs slowly, revealing you to his hungry eyes.

Anakin's gaze lingers on your most intimate area—taking in every detail—but you don't shrivel underneath it. You flourish. His thumbs rub soothingly into the flesh of your thighs. His grip is firm but soft—maybe loving. You don't just feel lusted for, but you feel cared for

Seen.

And that excites you more than anything else.

Slowly, reverently, he lowers his head and presses a tender kiss to your clit. Then another. And another. Each one sends shockwaves of pleasure through your body. Your hands fly to his hair, tangling in the dark locks as you try to steady yourself against the onslaught of sensations. You can't remember the last time someone worshipped your body like this, with such care and adoration.

Anakin's tongue flicks out, tracing the sensitive bundle of nerves before he sucks it gently between his lips. The combination of the warmth of his mouth and the suction has you seeing stars. Your hips roll against his face, seeking more friction, more pressure.

"Please," you whimper, not even sure what you're begging for anymore. More of his touch, certainly. But also… something else. Something deeper.

As if sensing your desperation, Anakin slides two long fingers into your dripping cunt, and you cry out. His digits curve inward as he sets a deadly pace, stroking that spot inside you that makes your stomach clench. His name leaves your lips in a broken plea. His entire forearm moves at a sickeningly pleasurable speed. Back and forth and back and forth, leaving filthy slick sounds in its wake. He doesn't miss a beat, fingers curling perfectly inside you as he continues to work your clit with his tongue. Anakin moans into you, vibrating your entire body as he pumps his fingers. His free hand reaches up to thumb your clit, adding another layer to the overwhelming sensations.

You're gasping and writhing in his grasp, it's taking every last shred of your strength to contain yourself. To not scream and cry out and let everyone in the whole world know just how good Anakin Skywalker is fucking you with his mouth right now.

He watches your face as he works, eyes locked on your reactions. He wants to see everything—every twitch, every gasp, every tear rolling down your cheek.

You're rocking back and forth on his hand as your back bows off the bed, legs shaking as Anakin’s tongue works relentlessly around your clit. His fingers drive deeper, curling just right, hitting that sweet, sweet spot, blurring your vision.

“Fuck—Ani—I’m close,” you whine, squeezing your watering eyes shut, thighs clamping around his head.

The moment the words leave your lips, Anakin’s grip tightens. His fingers plunge deeper, fucking you with brutal precision while his tongue flicks your clit in quick, merciless strokes. The pressure builds like a storm. Too fast, too intense, until you’re arching so high off the bed, gasping his name. His free hand clamps over your hip, pinning you in place as he moans wetly against your skin, his breath scalding hot.

“You 'gonna come for me, beautiful?” he muffles from between your legs.

You nod frantically, nails raking up his back as pleasure coils tighter, threatening to snap and utterly break you apart.

And then, your orgasm tears through you like a live wire.

Violent, merciless, lighting every nerve ending on fire. You arch off the mattress with a choked scream, fingers clawing at the sheets, thighs trembling around Anakin’s head as he drinks you in, relentless, sucking your clit through the aftershocks until you’re damn near sobbing from oversensitivity.

He finally pulls back, lips glistening, chest heaving. The sight of him- flushed, wrecked, pupils blown black- sends another jolt of heat straight to your trembling core. His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away the tears from your lashes. His voice is wrecked but gentle.

"Still with me?"

You let out a breathless laugh, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

"Try getting rid of me now."

Anakin's grin is feral. He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head as he leans down to nip at your throat.

"Good." His free hand yanks at his belt, the leather whipping free with a sharp snap. Fabric rasps as he shoves his pants down just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, veins straining. You bite your lip at the sight, and he growls, pressing the head against your soaked folds. "Look at you," he murmurs, dragging the tip through your slick, coating himself. "Already dripping again." You whimper, hips lifting, seeking more. He chuckles darkly but doesn't give in yet. Instead, he leans closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Tell me you want it."

"Anakin—" His teeth graze your earlobe.

"Say it, pretty girl."

"I want you inside me," you gasp. "Now."

He pushes in—slow, careful, stretching you perfectly, whimpering as he does it. Your back arches, nails biting into his shoulders as he fills you inch by inch. The stretch burns just enough to make your toes curl.

"Fuck," he moans, forehead dropping to yours. "You feel..." You swallow his words with a kiss, rocking your hips to take him deeper. His control snaps. Hands gripping your thighs, he drags you down onto him with a deep, slow thrust. The slap of skin echoes as he sets a quicker pace, each snap of his hips driving him deeper. His mouth finds your neck, sucking bruises into your skin between ragged breaths.

"Harder," you beg, legs locking around his waist.

And he obeys, pounding into you with enough force to shake the bed. Every thrust hits that sweet spot, drawing broken moans from your throat. His fingers tangle in your hair, tilting your head back to claim your mouth again, swallowing every sound.

Anakin’s thrusts are deep, unforgiving, his hips slamming into you with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs. Your fingers claw at his back, nails biting into his skin as you arch into each punishing stroke. His rhythm is relentless, the bed creaking beneath you, sweat-slick skin sliding together with filthy, wet sounds. But then—he slows. His forehead presses to yours, his breath ragged, blue eyes locked onto you with an intensity that burns hotter than any physical touch. The shift is dizzying. His next thrust is deliberate, deep, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes you gasp. He holds himself there, buried inside you, muscles trembling.

“Look at me,” he rasps.

But you're long gone, thrown back so deep into the pillow you can hardly hear anything but the sickly sweet sounds of him sliding in and out of you.

"I said look at me," he grunts, sharply thrusting into you once more and taking hold of your jaw to force your face to him.

You look. His pupils are blown, his lips parted, every ragged breath whispering over your mouth. The connection is electric—more intimate than anything you've ever felt before. His hips roll, grinding deeper, drawing a broken moan from your throat.

Your eyes lock onto his, the world narrowing to just this—his gaze piercing through you, raw and unyielding. Anakin's hand stays firm on your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip as he holds you there, refusing to let you drift away. His cock throbs inside you, thick and unyielding, every slow grind sending sparks up your spine. You clench around him instinctively, and a low growl rumbles from his chest, vibrating against your skin.

"That's it," he murmurs, voice rough like gravel, his free hand sliding down to grip your hip once again, fingers probably digging in hard enough to leave marks. He pulls back just enough to thrust forward again, intentional and deep, his length stretching you wide, filling every inch until you feel him everywhere. The pressure builds, coiling tight in your core, your body arching to meet him despite the overwhelming intensity.

"Tell me how it feels," he demands, voice husky as he rocks into you again, the wet slide of his cock pulling a shudder from your frame. Your nails rake down his back, leaving red trails, and he groans pleasurably in response, the sound fueling the fire. He shifts his weight, angling deeper, hitting that perfect spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids—but you keep your eyes on his, trapped in that blue storm.

The intimacy of it all crashes over you like a wave, his dominance not just in the way he fucks you, but in how he claims every part of you, body and soul. His pace quickens just a fraction, thrusts turning sharper, his grip on your jaw loosening to burrow in your hair instead, tugging lightly to keep your gaze pinned.

"I'm yours," he breathes, the words punctuating another deep plunge, his balls slapping against your ass with the force of it. The bed groans under the strain, but nothing matters beyond this connection, this raw hunger binding you together.

Your legs tighten around him, heels digging into his thighs, urging him on even as your body trembles on the edge. He senses it, feels the way you flutter around him, and his eyes darken further, a predatory gleam flashing through. Leaning down, he finally captures your mouth in a bruising kiss, tongue thrusting in time with his hips, devouring your moans as he drives you higher, relentless and consuming.

And for a brief moment, through all the perfect chaos, you think you could stay like this with him all night.

Forever even.

You find yourself nestled in Anakin’s arms. His heartbeat has long since slowed, his breathing evened out, but he doesn’t move. You can feel the weight of him, the warmth, the solid reassurance of his presence. It wraps around you in a way that feels unreal—too good, already familiar. It's something you’ve missed more than you ever realized you could. But how could you miss something you've only dreamed of having?

“Ani?” you murmur, nudging him gently.

He hums in response, half-asleep, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him without thinking. You follow easily, curling into his side, your fingers tracing slow, lazy circles across his chest. His skin is warm beneath your touch.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” you whisper with a giggle, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

A quiet chuckle rumbles beneath your hand. His fingers find yours, threading together like it’s second nature.

“Me neither,” he admits, eyes flicking down to you. “I never thought that this would…that you would…”

You tilt your head up, studying his face. He looks so beautiful like this—unguarded, stripped of the tension he so often carries.

“Was it worth the wait?” you ask softly.

His answer is immediate. He smiles, small and private, before pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Absolutely.” The word settles deep in your chest, warm and steady.

You smile despite yourself, nerves fluttering in your stomach. “So,” you breathe. “What now?”

Anakin exhales slowly, his thumb brushing circles over your knuckles.

“Now we stop pretending this didn’t happen,” he says. “Now we figure out what happens next.”

The room falls quiet again, filled only by the soft hum of the air conditioning. You lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to his chest, right over his heart. It stutters beneath your lips, betraying him.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

He stiffens just slightly before shifting onto his side, fully facing you. His brow furrows as his fingers trace your jaw with careful attention. “Scared of what?”

“Us,” you admit. “What if this isn’t real? What if it fades? What if we hurt each other?”

He studies your face, eyes steady, serious.

“We’ll deal with it,” he says. “Together. I’m not saying it’ll be easy—but I’m not walking away.”

Your throat tightens.

“But am I really what you want?”

“What do—”

“My brother probably won’t approve,” you rush on. “And I’m just the stupid little sister across the hall, and maybe this was a lapse in judgment, and you’ll wake up tomorrow and regret it, and you’ll never talk to me again and—”

“Hey.” The firmness in his voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts. You stop short, startled, and meet his gaze—icy blue, intense, but softened now by something unmistakably sincere.

He opens his mouth, then closes it, visibly searching for the right words. “No,” he says again, quieter. “Listen to me.”

You nod, heart pounding, and settle closer to him, your head resting beneath his chin. His arm tightens around you, grounding you there. “I’ve spent most of my life pretending I didn’t feel things,” he admits. “Or that I could control them if I just thought hard enough. That wanting something meant I was going to ruin it.”

His thumb moves slowly along your arm. “But you were never something I could turn off,” he continues. “I noticed you long before I ever let myself admit it. I told myself it was off-limits. That it was easier not to want you than to risk hurting you.” His eyes finally meet yours.

“This wasn’t a mistake,” he says firmly. “It wasn’t a lapse in judgment.”

You shake your head weakly. “There’s no way—”

“No,” he interrupts gently. “I don’t wake up and forget things that matter to me. And you matter... you always have,” He confesses, just barely above a whisper.

Emotion swells in your chest, thick and overwhelming.

"Even if it’s complicated?” you ask. “Even if my brother loses his mind?”

A faint, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “I’m not scared of complicated. And I can handle your brother.” His expression softens again. “What I can’t handle is pretending this didn’t mean something. Pretending you didn’t mean something.”

Silence stretches between you, but it’s no longer heavy. You rest your cheek over his heart, listening to its steady rhythm.

“Okay,” you resolve.

“Okay,” he echoes, pressing a kiss into your hair.

The night passes gently after that. You talk in low voices, sharing stories you never found the right moment for before. You speak about fears and hopes, about where you’ve been and where you’re afraid to go. Nothing feels rushed. Nothing feels hidden. At some point, exhaustion finally claims you.

When you wake again, pale morning light filters through the curtains. You’re still wrapped in each other, his arm secure around your waist.

“Still here,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. You smile, lacing your fingers with his once more.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”

You don’t know how or when it started.

You try to remember—try to trace the shift, name the moment things changed. When the snarky comments you spit at Ruby lost their edge. When the disdain in your voice softened into something quieter, almost uncertain. When the fire turned to embers. When your anger stopped feeling like conviction and started sounding more like deflection.

You used to hate her. You were supposed to.

She was a demon, after all. An enemy. A threat. You knew that—reminded yourself every time she smiled like she knew a secret you didn’t, every time she touched Sam’s arm or lingered just a second too long in a darkened hallway. You weren’t supposed to trust her. Not with your life. Not with your secrets. And certainly not with the fragile, feral thing clawing in your chest whenever she looked at you like you were next.

But somewhere in her sulfur-stained breath and bitter smirks, you found something you couldn’t name. A presence. A tether. An itch that only she could scratch. You stopped wishing she’d leave and started noticing the moments she didn’t. Started waiting for them.

Sam fell for her—hard and fast, swept away by her promises of saving the world and poison dressed up like purpose.

But you?

You fell slower.

Worse.

It wasn’t about belief. It was about need.

She never asked you to trust her. She just kept showing up. Kept letting you get close enough to think it meant something. Close enough to wonder if maybe—maybe—you were the one person she didn’t want to ruin. That maybe, despite what she was, there was something soft beneath her edges. Something like want.

You knew it was wrong. Knew what she was, what she was doing. But it didn’t stop you. It never stopped you.

Because she never had to lie to you. She just had to be near.

And somewhere along the way, you stopped resisting.

You let the wrongness settle into your bones like warmth. Like gravity.

You convinced yourself that what she offered wasn’t corruption—it was connection. That her hands weren’t breaking you; they were holding you.

They weren’t.

You were never in love. You were addicted.

Sam got her blood. You got something harder to name.

The way she touched you—light, thoughtless, practiced—meant nothing. And still, it lit your nerves like static. Her fingers would graze your wrist, your shoulder, your spine, and linger just long enough to make you wonder if it meant something. Just long enough for you to feel ridiculous for thinking so.

Her eyes tracked you sometimes—too sharp, too long—and you’d feel them, even with your back turned. You started dressing like you weren’t sure if you wanted to be seen or not. Started walking slower when she was behind you. Started listening for the sound of her boots on cheap motel carpet.

She never said anything. Not directly. But she looked at you like you were hers.

And when Sam wasn’t around, her voice softened. Just a little. Just enough.

She never promised you anything. Never asked for anything, either.

But you gave her everything anyway—your time, your silence, your self. You didn’t know what you were to her. You still don’t.

But you know how it felt.

How it feels.

Like drowning in something sweet.

Like dying for something that never even touched you the way you wanted it to.

Like love, if love was built out of hunger and shame and a voice that always whispers, maybe this time she means it.

-

It didn’t happen all at once.

There was no buildup. No breathless moment of mutual understanding. Just a cheap motel room with flickering light, the meaningless banter you two dragged on with things still somehow being unsaid—a fight that wasn’t really about anything at all.

“Territory,” Ruby snapped, stepping in too close. “You need to learn how to stay in your own lane.”

You scoffed, eyes flashing. “Funny, coming from a demon who keeps pretending she belongs here.”

The words were reflex. The bark, automatic. You didn’t mean them. Not really. You just needed to push back, to keep space between you—because when there wasn’t any, you stopped thinking clearly.

Her gaze dragged over your face, deliberating, deciding. “Keep telling yourself that.”

And then she kissed you.

Not soft. Not tender. Rough and hard, just like everything else about her.

Her lips crashed into yours and swallowed whatever protest you might’ve had. There was no hesitation in her body, no question in her touch—like your mouth had always belonged to her. Like she’d just been waiting for the right moment to collect.

You froze.

But only for a second.

Then your body betrayed you—hands fisting in the collar of her jacket, mouth opening against hers. You didn’t know if it was instinct or craving. You didn’t care.

She pushed you, firm and relentless, until the backs of your knees hit the bed. Her mouth never left yours, devouring, commanding—until she finally broke the kiss and pulled back to look at you.

You were flushed. Breathless. Starved.

And she drank it in.

Her eyes scanned your face like a hunter savoring the kill. (Aren’t you the hunter here? No. You’re the prey) Black and bottomless, and still—still—you thought you saw something human in them. A flicker of want, maybe. Or worse: recognition.

You wanted to believe it was real. That something about you touched something in her that no one else could.

So you took her by her face and pulled her back in.

She laughed—low and dark—before shoving you backward. You hit the mattress with a bounce, breath knocked from your lungs. And she followed, straddling your lap, pinning you beneath her thighs like she owned you.

Her mouth moved to your neck, all bite and hunger, sucking and nipping at sensitive skin like she wanted to leave proof behind. You gasped, squirming, trying to hold on to something—sanity, maybe—but she burned through it like paper.

“W–Wait—” you choked out. “S–Sam…”

He wasn’t here, but he could walk in any minute. You weren’t even sure if you were warning her or yourself.

Ruby didn’t stop.

If anything, she sank her teeth in harder.

Pain bloomed sharp beneath your skin.

“Ah—!” you cried, jerking.

She lifted her head and looked at you—lips smeared with your blood. Your chest heaved, but the protest on your tongue died the second her hand slid between your legs.

She palmed you through your soaked underwear, and your whole body jolted.

“Don’t ever say his name in front of me again,” she said, voice low and razor-sharp. Her breath was hot against your cheek. “Not when you’re this wet for me.”

You couldn’t speak. You nodded, eyes wide, dazed from the rush of pain and arousal and shame.

She smiled—slow and cold—and pressed her hand harder against you. You whimpered, unable to stop yourself from bucking into her touch. Needing it. Needing her.

Despite knowing what she was.

The silence afterward stretches long and heavy.

The air is still thick with sweat and something unspeakable—like smoke that hasn’t quite cleared, clinging to your skin and lungs. Your thighs tremble faintly with the aftermath, and the sheets under you are tangled, damp with heat and breath and sin.

Ruby’s lying beside you, propped lazily on one elbow, her other hand drifting aimlessly over your bare stomach. Her touch is featherlight now. Reverent. A cruel kind of contrast to the bruises blooming across your skin, the sharp sting still throbbing at your throat where she bit down hard enough to draw blood.

Her fingers brush over that spot now—soft. So soft. Like she’s apologizing for it without saying a word. Or maybe she’s admiring it. You can’t tell. You’re not sure there’s a difference with her.

The room is dim, golden with lamplight. Outside, a truck rolls by, its low rumble barely audible through the motel’s thin walls. Inside, there’s only the sound of your breath. Unsteady. Shallow.

You try not to look at her. You try to pretend this is nothing.

But her hand keeps moving. Down your ribs. Across your side. Fingertips skimming along the curve of your waist with a patience that almost breaks you.

You hate how much you like it.

“Relax,” she murmurs, voice just above a whisper. “No one’s watching.”

That should make you feel safe. It doesn’t. It just makes you wonder if she wants someone to watch. (Maybe Sam?)

You tense under her hand. She notices, of course she does.

“Still thinking too much.” Her nails rake lightly along your hipbone, just enough to pull a shiver from you. “You always do.”

You shift slightly, eyes flicking toward the ceiling. “I’m not thinking.”

“Liar,” she says, and smiles. Not cruelly—worse. Fondly.

Her fingers curl around your wrist, dragging your hand to her bare chest and holding it there. You can feel the rise and fall of her breath. The warmth of her skin. It’s so human. She feels so human.

You almost don’t care that it’s not real. That she’s not.

It’s not fair.

Those hands had you writhing beneath her not ten minutes ago—fisting the sheets, sobbing into her shoulder, too far gone to know if what you were feeling was want or worship or just plain fear. And now they’re gentle. Careful. Loving, almost. Everything Ruby wasn’t.

She brushes a strand of hair from your face and tucks it behind your ear. The backs of her knuckles linger against your cheek like she’s memorizing you.

Like you’re hers.

You should pull away. You should ask her what this is. Demand clarity. Demand truth.

But when she leans in and presses her lips to your forehead—barely a breath of contact—you melt.

Not because you trust her.

Because you want to.

And that’s so much worse.

You don’t sleep.

Ruby does—or she fakes it well. Her breathing evens out, slow and deliberate, one arm still draped across your stomach like a warning. Like she knows you’d try to leave if she let you.

You stare at the ceiling.

The motel fan clicks overhead, lazy and uneven, pushing hot air around the room like it’s trying to suffocate you. Your skin still smells like her. Like sweat and smoke and iron. You should shower. You should get dressed. You should go.

But you don’t move.

Because the ache in your chest is growing louder. Curling up inside your ribs, sharp and pressing.

You bring your hand to your face to wipe at your eyes before you even realize they’re wet.

You’re crying.

-

You’re somewhere in the country part of Iowa, investigating a case that led you to an abandoned barn.

The air smells like mold and rot and old paper.

You step through the wrecked archway first, flashlight cutting a narrow beam through the dust. Sam’s close behind, EMF reader tucked in his hand, silent and alert. Ruby lags a few feet off to the side—unarmed, unconcerned. She walks like this is a field trip and not a salt-and-burn.

“She’s been here,” Sam mutters, scanning the cracked marble floor. “Three missing guys in a week. Same M.O. Burned eyes, scorched lungs. Angel maybe.”

“Or a demon with a flair for drama,” Ruby adds lightly.

You shoot her a glance. “I thought your kind preferred shadows and knives.”

Ruby smiles at you, slow and amused. “Oh, sweet thing, we like whatever gets the job done.”

Sam doesn’t catch the look she gives you, but you do. You feel it in your stomach—like heat pooling beneath your ribs, nauseous and electric. That same look she gave you the first time. The night it started. The night she crawled inside you and never really left.

You try not to react. You can’t give her the satisfaction.

You round the broken pulpit, boots crunching glass. Sam’s EMF reader starts whining—soft, steady.

You both freeze.

“Basement,” he says. “There’s a trap door behind the altar.”

You crouch, pulling at a loose plank. Beneath it, darkness yawns—a narrow stone stairwell descending into what smells like sulfur and bones. Lovely.

You glance at Sam. “You ready?”

He nods.

You go first.

The basement is colder than it should be. Lined with old pews, old sigils, salt circles long since broken. Someone tried to fight back down here. And lost.

Then you see her.

Not a demon—not Ruby’s kind, anyway. Just a witch, desperate and cracked around the edges. Her hands are black with blood and ash. Her lips moving in some long-forgotten dialect.

Sam moves fast.

You follow.

It’s over in minutes.

A knife to the gut. A Latin phrase. Her body crumples in a heap of blood and wasted power. You barely breathe through it.

But Ruby doesn’t move.

She watches the witch die with unreadable eyes. Something about her stillness makes your skin crawl.

“What?” you hiss.

She blinks, slowly, like surfacing from a dream. “Nothing.”

Sam doesn’t notice the tension. He’s too busy scrubbing the chalk sigils off the walls.

Ruby steps closer to you, too close.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, too sharp.

“I’m just wondering,” she murmurs, “how long you’re going to keep pretending you’re not like her.”

You stiffen. “Excuse me?”

“She was desperate,” Ruby continues. “Lonely. Messy. Wanted someone to save her. Sound familiar?”

Sam calls your name from across the basement. You ignore him.

“Shut up,” you say. “Don’t.”

Ruby tilts her head, studying you. Her voice softens. “I’m not judging. I like that about you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do,” she insists. “It’s cute. The way you still think this is about good and evil. Right and wrong. Like any of that matters anymore.”

You clench your fists.

Sam’s footsteps approach behind you. Ruby leans in close, lips nearly brushing your ear.

“Tell him,” she whispers. “Tell him what we’ve done. Tell him you let me fuck you in his bed while he was out getting holy water.”

You whip around, eyes wide.

Sam’s only just appeared in the doorway. “Everything okay?”

You swallow thickly, forcing a smile. “Yeah. She’s just being—her.”

Ruby’s smile is razor-sharp and silent.

Hours later, Sam’s asleep.

You’re not.

You’re outside, leaning against the motel’s concrete railing, watching rain smear the edges of the parking lot. The air is cool. Still.

Then you hear the door creak open behind you.

Ruby steps out, barefoot, zip-up sweater thrown over a tank top, like she’s pretending to be human again.

“You gonna tell me what’s eating you?” she asks, voice low.

You don’t look at her. “You know.”

She sighs. “Oh, come on. You’re not still mad about earlier?”

You don’t answer.

“I was only teasing.”

Again, silence.

She walks closer, close enough that her fingers ghost over your wrist. You don’t pull away.

“I just think it’s funny,” she says softly. “How fast you forget what this is.”

You clench your jaw. “What is this?”

A beat.

She doesn’t answer.

Of course she doesn’t.

“You make me feel insane,” you whisper.

She shrugs. “Maybe you are.”

Your chest burns. “I hate you.”

“No,” she says, stepping into your space. “You want to.”

Her lips brush your cheek. Barely there. You suck in a breath you don’t want to take.

“You’re going to keep doing this,” you murmur, “until there’s nothing left of me, aren’t you?”

Her voice is gentle. “I don’t know what you mean, baby.”

She kisses you.

Soft this time. Gentle. With hands that could kill you in less than a second and make it look like mercy.

And even now—even after everything—you let her.

Because maybe, for half a second, it feels like being wanted.

Even if it’s not real.

Even if she’ll be gone in the morning.

Even if she never says your name like it means something.

-

You hadn’t planned on riding in the same car as Ruby.

But Sam’s car wouldn’t start, and Ruby offered. Of course she did. And Sam looked at her like she hung the damn moon.

“Trust her,” he’d said as he handed you the EMF reader. “You two can clear the south wing while I cover the third floor.”

You wanted to say no. You almost did.

But Ruby was already smiling from the driver’s seat, one arm draped over the steering wheel like she had all the time in the world.

And it’s not like you could explain to Sam that something about her unsettled you—not without sounding jealous. Not without revealing whatever was going on between the two of you.

So you went.

The school is massive. Crumbling brick, rusting fences, thick vines choking the facade. It feels abandoned by time itself. Ruby pushes open the door unhesitatingly, unafraid.

She glances at you sideways as you both step into the dusty main hallway.

“You’re quiet,” she says.

You shrug, scanning the entryway with the EMF. “Just focused.”

She hums low in her throat, like she knows that’s a lie. “What’s wrong now?”

“Nothing,” you say, too quickly.

“Hmm,” she murmurs. “Sure.”

You keep moving.

The south wing is dark and claustrophobic. Hallways sag, and old dorm room doors hang open like broken mouths. Ruby walks ahead, deliberately keeping her back to you.

“Tell me something,” she says suddenly. “You ever think about leaving?”

“What, the life?”

“No. Me.”

You stop.

“I didn’t think I was… with you,” you say cautiously.

She turns, eyebrow raised. “You sure?”

The air tightens. You don’t answer. She smirks and starts walking again.

“Relax,” she says over her shoulder. “I’m not here to fight.”

You don’t believe her. But you follow anyway.

Room 214 is colder than the others. A chalkboard with faded writing, a row of ancient cots. Ruby steps in and says nothing for a moment. She’s still.

“This is the room.”

“What room?”

“The summoning happened here. A few years back. A failed one. But they didn’t close the portal right. That’s why people keep dying.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re just now telling us that?”

“I didn’t want Sam going off half-cocked. He’d screw it up.”

You cross your arms. “But you trust me?”

Ruby turns to face you fully now, walking closer. “You’re smarter. Sharper. You know how to listen.”

You shake your head, uneasy. “You don’t need me to listen, Ruby. You need someone to bleed for you.”

She doesn’t flinch. “If I told you I’d do it myself if I could—would you believe me?”

“No.”

She laughs quietly. “Good. I like you better when you’re not naive.”

You step back. “What’s the play here?”

“There’s a presence in the basement. It’s feeding off residual energy. I need a pulse. Something to lure it to the surface.”

You feel it before she even says it.

“No.”

“You don’t have to touch anything. Just stand in the summoning ring.”

“You want me to anchor the ritual?”

“I’ll protect you,” she says, stepping closer. “I always do.”

You should say no. You should leave.

But something in her tone—warm, almost reverent—makes your chest ache. Like she’s handing you a crown you didn’t ask for.

Like you want to earn her approval.

Even now.

Even after everything.

You step into the circle.

It’s subtle at first. A whisper, a static buzz in your jaw. Then it builds—pressure behind your eyes, something thick pressing into your chest.

“Ruby,” you start. “Something’s wrong—”

“Stay still.”

“It’s pushing through me,”

“Stay. Still.”

“No, no! I don’t think I can—!”

But she’s already chanting.

The circle pulses.

The thing that bursts through the floor isn’t human. Or demon. It’s something older. Black mist curling like vines, shrieking from a thousand mouths.

And Ruby’s chanting falters.

The barrier flickers.

She looks at you—dead in the eye—and you realize in one awful flash: She knew.

This wasn’t just a summoning.

It was a test.

The thing crashes against the sigils, and your nose bleeds. Your knees buckle. Ruby isn’t moving to help.

You yell, “Do something!”

She watches.

Finally, after what feels like forever, she closes the circle. The entity evaporates with a final shriek, and the pressure collapses.

You fall to the floor, trembling, ribs screaming.

You’re panting, desperately trying to swallow in air as she kneels beside you like she cares. One hand cups your face while the other rubs your back in an attempt to soothe.

“I told you you were strong enough,” she whispers.

You look at her, broken and furious. “We could’ve both died if you’d been wrong.”

She leans in, brushing hair from your face.

“I wasn’t wrong.”

Then she kisses your forehead.

Not soft. Not comforting.

Claiming.

Sam finds you outside twenty minutes later. You’re sitting on the hood of the car, hands still shaking.

“You okay?” he asks, helping you down.

“She didn’t tell you everything,” you say. “She put me in the circle.”

Sam frowns. “She told me it was already active when you went in. That you offered.”

“She lied, Sam.”

He gives you a strange look. Like he doesn’t know who to believe.

“Ruby saved people before we ever met her,” he says. “She’s trying. She trusts you.”

You want to scream.

Instead, you nod.

-

The motel bed smells like mildew and old cigarettes.

You’ve been lying in it for hours. Ruby hasn’t said a word. She’s perched at the table, one leg tucked under her, sipping coffee that’s long gone cold.

Your hands still shake when you reach for your water. You’ve barely eaten. You haven’t showered. Your skin feels like it’s been wrapped too tight around your bones since the thing in the summoning circle slammed into your psyche and left bruises no one can see.

Ruby hasn’t apologized.

She won’t.

“You’ve been crying,” she says finally, voice soft but unbothered.

You don’t look at her. “Of course I have. You used me.”

“No,” she replies. “I chose you.”

You laugh bitterly, staring at the stained ceiling. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

She stands. Crosses the room slow, barefoot, unhurried, like she has nowhere else to be but right here. You tense, but you don’t move.

She crawls onto the bed beside you, eyes never leaving your face.

“You think I could’ve trusted Sam in that circle?” she asks quietly. “He would’ve hesitated. Panicked. Screwed everything up.”

“And I didn’t?” Your voice cracks.

“No,” she murmurs, dragging her fingertips across your shoulder. “You didn’t.”

You try to pull away. She doesn’t let you. One hand drifts to your hip, anchors you there.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you whisper.

She leans closer. “Sure you can.”

Your breath catches. “I’m not your weapon.”

“No,” she agrees, her voice low. “You’re not.”

She kisses you.

It’s soft at first. Reverent. Like she’s worshipping your pain.

You freeze. She deepens it.

You should push her off. You should scream, get off of me, you should mean it.

But her hand slides under your shirt, warm and slow, and you can’t tell if you’re shivering from fear or need.

When you do finally speak, it’s hoarse. “I’m not okay.”

“I know,” she says, mouth ghosting against your neck. “Let me take it.”

She hikes your shirt up and kisses down your chest like she’s drawing the hurt out of you one touch at a time, like your trauma is hers to claim.

You’re not sure if you say yes.

But you don’t say no.

And that’s all she needs.

“Let me take it from you, baby.”

Your eyes flutter closed, head sinking into the flat motel pillow as she trails kisses lower and lower. Warmth blooms under your skin—her lips tracing slow lines down your breasts, your sternum, inching toward the waistband of your shorts.

She looks up at you as she slides them off of you, eyes dark and hungry, calculating.

Left only in your underwear now, you catch a glimpse of that sinful, predatory look, and your core throbs.

Ruby licks a long, slow stripe along your clothed slit. You shudder, thighs trembling and clenching against her mouth in anticipation. Your hips buck involuntarily, lips letting out a soft, desperate whine.

It’s undignified. It’s pathetic.

And it only fuels her more.

Her cold hands grip your thighs, pushing them over her shoulders, thumbs pressing deep, slow circles into the soft flesh.

Her dark eyes lock with yours, unblinking, merciless as she picks up the pace, tongue pressing with precision.

“Fuck,” she breathes, voice low, “you’re always so good for me like this.”

Her words wrap around you, a velvet noose tightening at your throat. You’re drowning in her touch and her control. You hate how much you need it. But you can’t pull away.

She pulls away for a moment—a painful moment— yank your underwear down your legs and toss them aside. Before you even have time to mourn the absence of pleasure, she dives right back between your legs, tongue delving deep into your folds.

You gasp loudly at the wonderfully slick sensation.

"Oh god," you moan, hips rolling helplessly against Ruby's face as you lose yourself in the intense feeling. Your fingers tangle in Ruby's hair, pulling hard enough to bruise as you try to ground your amidst the overwhelming sensations.

Ruby hums against your wet heat, the vibration sending sparks through your body. She savors every taste, every scent, committing it all to memory. She knows she should be gentle, coaxing you back from the brink, but the primal hunger driving her won't allow it.

Instead, she doubles her efforts, tongue flicking rapidly over your clit before diving back inside. She sucks hard on the sensitive bud, nibbling just enough to edge you closer to the precipice without letting you tumble over.

One hand moves up to palm your breast, squeezing the soft flesh roughly as her thumb rubs over the nipple. The other grips your hip, fingers digging in as she holds you in place, grinding her face harder against your pussy.

"God, look at this pretty little cunt. So wet and perfect, just begging for my tongue.”

Her praise goes straight to your head and you scream.

“Come on baby,” you feel her fingers inside of you now, fucking into you relentlessly, her tongue never stopping on your clit. “Be my good girl, beg for me.”

Your back arches off the bed in a desperate attempt to be closer to Ruby, to melt into her, to merge with her. To become one.

“Ngh—oh! Oh, god, pleasepleasepleaseplease–Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby–” You’re stammering, gasping and babbling, trying to form coherent sentences. But your brain is melting right out of your ears. You’re chanting and crying out her name in sinful prayer. “I love you—!”

You miss the way her ministrations falter ever so slightly at that. The way her eyes flicker up at you, simmering with something you wouldn’t want to see.

“Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou—“ and you’re so gone. You don’t even know you’re saying it, and Ruby knows this.

But she also knows you mean it.

The tether snaps and your entire body wracks with tremors. Ruby’s tongue slows ever so slightly as she works you through your orgasm. Your thighs tremble around her head as it crashes and washes over you.

“That’s my good girl,” she coos over your slickness, her breath fanning over it deliciously. It’s all too much, too much.

You’re a whimpering, trembling mess by the time she shrugs your legs off her shoulders and slides up your body to straddle your hips. Her hands cradle your face with practiced tenderness, and she presses a kiss to your sweat-slick forehead like you’re something sacred.

You don’t resist when she eases you down into the pillows. You let her guide you—pull, position, fold you up like a doll. You’re too spent to move on your own, nerves frayed and limbs heavy. And in some twisted part of your mind, it feels like affection. Like care.

Like love.

You don’t say anything more as you come down from your high. You probably couldn’t even if you wanted to. So you’re silent as she climbs in beside you, tugging the scratchy motel blanket over the both of you. Her arms wrap around your body, holding you close as if you’re something fragile. Something cherished. She strokes your hair and whispers sweet things in your ear.

“You’re so pretty,” she whispers deceptively sweet.

“You’re my good girl.”

“You’re perfect.”

The demon says it like scripture.

But she doesn’t say I love you.

And maybe it’s lucky you’re too drained to notice. Too far gone to hear what’s really beneath all the sweetness. You fall asleep like that—wrapped in arms that claim to protect you, lulled by the soft poison of her praise.

And for a fleeting, tragic moment, you feel warm. Safe. Maybe even happy.

Maybe even happy.

Oh, how naive.

-

Another shitty motel, another too-springy and too-stained mattress that you ignore and sleep on anyway. There must’ve been hundreds of these you’ve been through by now. Maybe thousands. On the road with Sam and…Ruby, the weeks all seem to blend together. In the race to stop Lilith breaking the seals, you’ve all but lost your sense of time.

God knows that’s not the only thing you’ve lost these past couple months.

You’re alone, curled up in bed, still wearing Ruby’s shirt from the other night—the one she stripped off you, the one she told you looked better on you anyway. She’s gone, off doing… something. She said she wouldn’t be long. But she always says that.

You don’t know when you fell asleep, but the slamming door jolts you awake. You’re expecting to see Sam coming back from his usual late-night scouting, but you’re surprised to see the someone else entirely.

“What the hell is going on with you?” he hisses, cutting, sharp.

You blink, heart spiking.

Dean’s standing in the doorway, keys still clutched in his hand. His eyes are wild—not angry in the usual way, but something worse: scared.

“What are you talking about?” you ask. Not, ‘What are you doing here?’ or ‘Why are you here?’

“Don’t play dumb. You disappear with that bitch and Sam for days—“ a twinge of distaste pants in your heart at the dig at Ruby “—and every time you come back you look even worse than he does. You’ve got bruises and marks you won’t explain. You look like you haven’t slept in days. And now you’re wearing her clothes?”

You look down.

“It’s just a shirt.” It’s not just a shirt to you.

“It’s her shirt.”

You sit up, tugging it lower out of reflex. “Why does it matter?”

“Because she’s a goddamn demon, that’s why.”

The word hits like a slap, even though you know it’s true.

You turn away.

Dean steps forward, voice quieter but heavier. The reality of the situation is hitting him all too quickly now. You’re farther gone than he ever could’ve thought.

“She’s messing with your head. And you’re letting her.”

“She’s not—”

“She’s not what, huh?” Dean snaps, venom cutting through the air and slicing straight into you. “Not using you? Not lying to your face? Not twisting the knife when you’re too close to feel it?”

You stand now, blood pounding in your ears.

“She cares about me!”

“Bullshit.” He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s already been decided.

You want to scream.

“She stayed with me, Dean. She didn’t leave.”

“Because she needs you. Not because she gives a damn about you.”

Your hands curl into fists.

“You weren’t there. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean steps closer. His face is raw now, like this is physically hurting him.

“I’ve seen what you look like after she leaves. I’ve seen you puke your guts out because you’re so strung out you can’t eat. I’ve seen you cry in your sleep.”

You open your mouth—nothing comes out.

“I hear you talking to her when you think no one’s around. Like you’re begging her to stay. Like you know she won’t.”

That cuts. Deep. Because he’s right.

“It’s complicated.”

“No. It’s toxic.”

He runs a hand over his mouth, then looks at you like he’s searching for something—the version of you before all this started.

“Did she promise you something?” Your silence is answer enough. “Did she say she loved you?”

You look down.

“She doesn’t have to,” you mutter unconvincingly.

You want to believe that, you really do. But even you—as twisted around Ruby as you are—can see some of what Dean might be seeing right now. Dean laughs, but there’s no humor in it. Only disbelief. Only grief. The sound guts you.

“You think what you have is real? You think it means something?”

“It does mean something.”

“She’s a demon, not a soulmate.”

“She touched me like I mattered.”

Your voice cracks open, bleeding truth you didn’t mean to say. Dean goes still.

“She said I was good. She said I was enough. And she stayed.”

A beat of silence stretches between you, heavy with the glaringly obvious stupidity of what you just said. What about Sam? What about him? Dean’s jaw tightens. His voice drops.

“She used you.”

A beat.

“She held me.”

“She broke you and then played hero while you bled out.”

You flinch.

Dean’s voice softens, cracks.

“You’re not the same anymore. Even Sam sees it and he’s almost as hooked to this bitch as you are.”

Your throat tightens. “You think I don’t know that?”

Dean takes a step back, breathing hard. He runs a hand through his hair. Looks like he wants to hit something—or cry.

“This thing she’s got you wrapped up in? It’s not love. It’s a leash.”

He turns to leave.

Then he stops.

“She’s gonna leave you wrecked. Worse than now. And when she does…” He hesitates. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to fix what’s left.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

You sit back down on the edge of the bed, shaking.

You don’t cry.

You just pull the shirt tighter around you—like it means everything. Like it’s armor.

And when Ruby returns, hours later, sliding beside you like nothing’s wrong, you let her kiss you again.

Let her pretend this is something beautiful.

Let her pretend you’re not bleeding.

Because that’s the story you need right now.

And it’s the one she’s always happy to tell.

-

You’ve stopped keeping track of what city you’re in. It doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters is that Ruby’s here tonight, curled beside you, fingers idly combing through your hair while the flickering TV screen paints shadows across the walls.

It’s late, and Sam’s gone. Training. Drinking. Something. Ruby won’t say.

Neither of you talk much at first. You’re lying in her lap, watching static on mute. Her fingers tug gently at the roots of your hair, and you close your eyes like it soothes you. And maybe it does. Maybe it’s the only thing that does lately.

“You ever think about when it’s over?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

Ruby pauses. Her fingers still in your hair for just a second too long before resuming.

“Over?”

“This,” you murmur. “The seals. Lilith. The end of the world.”

Ruby hums low in her throat. “Every day.”

You shift slightly, look up at her. Her face is in shadow. You can’t read it.

“What do you think happens after?” you press.

She glances down at you, a small, unreadable smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “What do you want to happen?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know. Something normal. Something… safe.”

Ruby brushes a thumb across your cheek, almost tender. “You could have that.”

“Could I?”

She leans down and kisses your temple. “If we win. If Lilith falls. There’s a future on the other side.”

There’s a weight behind her words that should reassure you—but something about the way she says them makes your chest tighten. You try to hold onto the hope, but her phrasing gnaws at the edges of your mind.

Not we’ll have a future. Not you and me. Just there’s one. Somewhere. Distant. Vague.

You cling to the softness anyway.

“Would you stay?” you ask. You hate how small your voice sounds. But by now you’ve grown used to it.

Ruby doesn’t answer right away.

Her hand slides down your arm. She doesn’t look at you when she finally says, “If I could.”

If.

Not when. Not yes.

You swallow, throat suddenly dry.

“You want to, though, right?”

She smiles again, and this time it’s too smooth. Too easy.

“Of course I do.”

But it lands wrong. It’s too clean, too practiced.

You sit up slowly, watching her face.

“Why do you always say what I want to hear?”

Ruby blinks. “What?”

“You always know the right thing to say. Always know when to touch me, when to hold me, when to—” you gesture vaguely. “Make it feel like love.”

Key word: Like love.

Like.

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes. Irritation? Guilt? Fear?

“You think I’m lying?” she asks, voice lower now.

“I don’t know.” You look down. “Maybe.”

Ruby shifts closer. Her hand finds your jaw and tilts your face up to meet hers.

“I care about you,” she says, voice smooth as silk. “Is that so hard to believe?”

You hesitate. “Sometimes.”

She doesn’t flinch.

“I’ve done a lot of terrible things,” she says. “You think I don’t know that? But I chose to stay with you. That counts for something.”

You search her face. You want so badly to believe her. To believe that all of this meant more than just manipulation and timing. You nod, just barely.

Ruby leans in and kisses you slow, deep, like she’s sealing a contract. Like she’s swallowing your doubts one by one.

When she pulls away, she presses her forehead to yours.

“Trust me,” she whispers.

Your eyes close.

But somewhere deep down, some part of you still hears that pause. That hesitation.

If.

If she could stay.

If she meant it.

If this wasn’t just a game.

And even deeper down, in the quiet place you never speak from—

You already know she’s lying.

But tonight, you let yourself forget.

Tonight, you lie in her arms like she’s your future. And you don’t ask again what happens next.

Because some part of you already knows the answer.

-

Another motel. Another room without her.

You’re lying on the bed in silence, curled up in the shirt Ruby left on the chair a few nights ago—still faintly smelling like her, sharp and sweet and hellfire underneath.

She left again. You don’t know where. She said, “Back soon.” She always says that. You pretend it’s a promise. It’s not.

The clock ticks past midnight. You’re wide awake.

And then the knock.

Three sharp raps on the door. You sit up, startled. Not Ruby—she never knocks.

When you open the door, it’s Bobby.

“Get dressed,” he says, grim. “Now.”

Your mouth is already forming questions, but his tone leaves no room. “Sam’s with her. Something’s wrong. We have to move.”

The car ride is silent except for the sound of your heart hammering in your ears.

“She’s not who you think she is,” Bobby finally says.

You don’t answer. Can’t. You’re gripping the seat like it might fly out from under you.

“I know what you think you have with her,” he adds, not cruelly—but not gently either. “But it ain’t real.”

You don’t say, She held me when I couldn’t breathe.

You don’t say, She kissed me like she meant it.

You don’t say, She made me believe I wasn’t broken.

Because none of that matters now. Not if Sam’s in danger. Not if Bobby’s right.

But part of you—God, part of you still hopes she’ll be there, smiling like always, and you can pretend this was all some horrible misunderstanding.

The chapel door creaks open.

And you know.

Before you see anything—you know.

Sam’s standing at the altar. Pale. Shaking. His hand slick with blood. Lilith’s body is slumped beneath him, eyes wide open and unseeing, blood seeping across the floor like ink. A strange, horrific sigil glows on the ground, pulsing with something ancient and wrong.

And Ruby—

Ruby is smiling.

Grinning, even. Like everything’s going perfectly. Like she’s home.

Has she ever smiled like that with you?

“No,” you whisper.

She turns, eyes lighting up when she sees you.

“There you are,” she says softly. “You made it.”

You step forward. Slowly. Trembling.

“Ruby…” you say her name like a lifeline, like she might look at you and say, ‘No, this isn’t what it looks like. I’m still yours.’

She doesn’t.

“I told you there’d be a future after this.” Her voice is almost tender. “You remember that?”

Sam is breathing like he just ran a marathon. His eyes meet yours—bloodshot, confused. “I—I thought she was helping us.”

Your stomach turns.

“She is,” you say weakly. You look at Ruby. “Aren’t you?”

Ruby’s gaze doesn’t waver. But it sharpens. You’ve never seen her look more radiant. Or more not human. You’re gonna throw up.

“I did help,” she says, calm. “I got you here, didn’t I?”

“You said—” Your voice breaks. “You said you wanted a life with me after this.”

“I did.” Her tone stays so calm it makes your skin crawl. “Maybe I still do.”

Dean crashes through the door behind you, already yelling. “Move, Sam!”

No one moves.

“You used him,” you say, choking on the words. “You used me.”

Ruby tilts her head. Confused. “I thought that part was obvious?”

You laugh—shaky, bitter. “Yeah, I guess it was, wasn’t it?”

You always thought the worst thing would be dying.

But you were wrong.

It’s this.

She steps toward you. “You were never part of the plan.” Her voice softens, almost sad. “That was real. You were… a surprise.”

You flinch like she’s slapped you. “Then what was all of it for?”

She shrugs, eyes unreadable. “I liked the way you looked at me,” she says. “Like I was something good.”

You’re shaking.

“But you still lied,” you whisper.

She doesn’t deny it. That hurts more than anything.

“I kept you close because it made things easier,” she says. “But I didn’t fake it—”

A beat.

“—not all of it at least.”

The words tear through you like glass.

That was it. That was all it was.

She liked how you worshipped her.

She liked how easy it was.

She looks at you then, really looks. And maybe—maybe—there’s a flicker of regret.

But it’s too late.

Sam’s whisper cuts through the air like he’s finally remembered how to speak. “I broke the final seal.”

Ruby grins again. “Yes. You did.”

Dean lunges. The demon blade flashes.

You scream. “No—!”

But it’s over before you can reach her.

She gasps, blood gurgling in her throat, collapsing to her knees. Smoke begins to rise from her mouth, curling around her like serpents. Her eyes lock on yours, even as her body breaks.

You’re moving before your mind can even catch up. Your knees hit the ground so hard you feel the impact reverberate through your whole body, but you don’t care at all.

You’re scrambling, hands flailing over Ruby’s body as she slips away.

Right through your fingers.

There’s blood there’s smoke there’s so much blood—

You put all your weight down on her wound as if it’ll make a difference. As if it’ll change the outcome that you know is happening.

“Nonononono— Ruby, please—no! I—!” You’re choking and and breaking and sobbing and—

And she smiles.

She raises a bloodied hand to your cheek, smearing it red. She whispers your name one final time before her hand falls.

And then she’s gone.

No dramatic gasp. No warning. Just gone.

You fold in half.

And the screaming—God, the screaming—

It’s you.

Your body curls like it’s been stabbed through the gut. You slam your bloody palms over your mouth, as if that might stop the sound, stop the grief, stop the hole that’s opening in your chest and swallowing you whole.

It doesn’t.

You keep screaming.

Bobby’s voice is calling you. Dean’s too. Sam is shattering in the corner. The world is falling apart around you.

And none of it matters.

Because she’s gone.

And you still don’t know who you were to her.

-

That night, no one sleeps.

The Devil is rising.

-

He saw it all.

He saw the way you ran to her, hands shaking, body breaking. He saw the blood on your knees, the way you threw yourself down like you were the one who’d been stabbed.

And then the sound you made—

It wasn’t human.

It made the hair on Sam’s arms stand straight up.

He watched you crumble with her. And he knew.

He hadn’t known before. Not really. Not like that.

He knew you cared about Ruby. Sure. He’d seen the way you looked at her when you thought no one was watching. But he didn’t know it went that deep.

Didn’t know it was everything.

He sees you now, days later, and you’re quiet. Too quiet. Like your voice died with her.

You still haven’t asked him why he didn’t stop it.

You haven’t asked anyone anything.

And Sam—he doesn’t know if he should be relieved that it’s over, or horrified by the look in your eyes.

That hollow, burning stare.

He should hate her. He does hate her.

But sometimes, late at night, he remembers the way your hand shook on her chest. The way you whispered her name like it was the last word you’d ever say. The way you begged.

And he wonders if, somehow, that demon really did love you.

Just a little.

The Temple kitchens were always quiet after hours. A few lingering droids hummed about, cleaning the chrome counters and sanitizing the few dishes left behind by late-night Padawans. You weren’t supposed to be here.

You sat at one of the corner tables, arms folded across your stomach as though to keep the gnawing ache from swallowing you whole. A cup of untouched caf sat in front of you, going cold.

You hadn’t eaten today. Not really. A few bites of fruit during training. That was all you had allowed. The rest had felt too heavy. Too much.

“Why does this feel like a punishment?” you whispered aloud, to no one.

“You tell me.”

You jumped.

Anakin stood in the doorway, arms crossed, cloak rumpled like he hadn’t been to his quarters yet. His eyes—sharp, sky blue, always too intense—were unreadable in the low light. You swallowed hard, guilt blooming like a bruise in your chest. You knew he’d find you eventually.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I’ve been looking for you.”

You shrugged, playing oblivious. “I needed air.”

If he sensed through the Force that you were lying somehow, he didn’t give any indication. He merely pushed off where he leaned and promptly made his way over to you.

You straightened up as he approached, trying to appear more awake, more alert. You wanted to look alive, though you certainly didn’t feel like it. You knew your dull, sleep deprived eyes revealed as much, so you avoided any eye contact the best you could.

Anakin took a seat at the table. Not directly next to you, but close enough to spark a nervous warmth in your blood. An effect he often had on you. Though, you subconsciously appreciated that heat now. You were always so cold these days…

“What did you need?”

“I have some… concerns,” he said, voice low.

You resisted the urge to groan. “Concerns?”

You knew what he meant. Of course you did. He didn’t answer immediately. Just studied you—brows furrowed, jaw set.

He opened his mouth, closed it, then finally asked, “Are you unwell?”

You gave a short, bitter laugh. “Wow. Every girl’s favorite compliment.”

Anakin didn’t smile.

“I’m serious.”

The attempt at humor evaporated from your face. Your fingers curled tighter against your ribs. Your vision wavered—edges fuzzing like your body was deciding it had had enough—but you blinked through it, trained in the art of denial.

“I’m fine,” you said. You weren’t.

“What do you mean?” You knew exactly what he meant.

The weak smile you wore faded as quick as it appeared. Your vision was beginning to darken around the edges again, and you ignored it. Just like before, and the time before that.

You started to shake your head no when he grabbed your flesh hand with his metal one. Your heart jumped, but you didn’t flinch with Anakin. Never with Anakin.

“You were awful during training today.” You lightly scoffed and moved to pull away your arm, but his steel grip held firm. “Have you been sleeping at all?”

You finally gathered the courage to look up and meet his gaze. He stared very intently at your face. Observing, scanning every detail. It made you want to squirm.

He wasn’t going to let this go easily. You knew him. Better than you knew yourself to be honest. Once Anakin was onto something, he was impossible to derail. Your mouth moved before your mind could catch up.

“I’m— I’m on my period,” you stammered, cheeks heating with the effort of the lie. “That’s all.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Oh,” Anakin said, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. He blinked, clearly not expecting that answer, and for once, it seemed to actually knock the wind out of his focus. His grip loosened on your wrist, just enough that you could have pulled away if you wanted to. You didn’t.

He glanced aside, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. You didn’t think you’d ever seen Anakin Skywalker look… awkward.

“Right. Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck with his metal hand. “I didn’t mean to— I just…”

You watched him flounder for a moment, and in spite of the nausea twisting in your stomach, it almost made you want to laugh.

He was flustered.

“I just noticed you’ve been… off,” he said eventually, softer now, eyes not quite meeting yours. “Didn’t mean to overstep.”

You shook your head. “You didn’t. Really.” Your voice was steadier than before, and you leaned into the moment, relieved he wasn’t pressing further. “Training just hit a little harder today, that’s all.”

He gave a small nod, still clearly uncomfortable with the whole topic. “You, uh… want me to bring you something? From the mess?”

You hesitated. The thought of food—warm, filling, real—made your stomach twist. But the last thing you wanted was for him to start hovering again.

“No, I’m okay. Just needed a minute.”

“Okay,” he echoed, and this time when he looked at you, his eyes had softened. “But if you start throwing training sabers at people tomorrow, I’ll assume that’s the hormones talking.”

You rolled your eyes. “So funny.”

A small smirk tugged at his lips, and for a moment, things felt lighter again. Not fixed, and maybe not safe. But less fragile.

He stood, cloak swaying with the motion, and looked like he was debating saying more. But he didn’t. Just nodded toward the caf. “That’s probably cold by now.”

“I wasn’t really planning to drink it.”

“Didn’t think so.”

He lingered there a second longer, then turned toward the doorway. “Get some rest, okay?”

You nodded once. “You too.”

He hesitated—one foot out the door—then glanced back at you over his shoulder. “And hey… if you ever need anything,” he said, the faintest edge of sincerity in his voice, “I mean it.”

“I know.”

He didn’t smile. But he looked like he might’ve wanted to.

Then he left.

And you were alone again, the silence folding back in around you like a blanket. You stared down at the cooling cup of caf, the bitter smell turning your stomach.

You pushed it aside.

..

Training you had never been boring.

Even when you were exhausted or sarcastic or pretending not to be nervous. Especially then.

Today wasn’t any different—at least not at first.

Anakin stood at the edge of the mat, arms crossed, watching you cycle through the sequence again. Your brow furrowed in focus, bottom lip pulled slightly between your teeth as your saber carved the air.

“You’re still stiff through the shoulders,” he called out, teasing. “You trying to impress someone or preparing for battle with a coat rack?”

You snorted—an undignified little sound that made the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

“I am relaxed,” you argued, resetting your stance.

“No, you’re tense.” He stepped forward now, his voice easing into something softer. “You’re fighting your own swing.”

“I’m not fighting—”

“You are,” he said, grinning now as he walked behind you. “You’re gripping like the saber owes you money.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t stop him when he moved in closer. He could feel the slight shift in your breath as he stepped into your space, one hand gently resting on your shoulder blade, the other brushing your elbow.

“Alright,” he said, keeping his tone low and measured. “Just breathe. Let me show you.”

You nodded, silent now.

He moved around you, wrapping his hand over yours on the saber hilt. His chest hovered just behind your shoulder, warm and steady. Carefully, he guided your hands through the motion.

“This is all it needs,” he said. “No brute force. Just follow the curve.”

You didn’t respond—but you didn’t pull away either.

And then, mid-motion, he noticed it. Gently, absentmindedly—he brushed his thumb over your knuckles.

There wasn’t much there to cushion it anymore.

Your hand under his felt… thinner. More fragile. And so cold. The ridge of your knuckles more pronounced than he remembered. His fingers brushed along your wrist, and he could feel the tendons shifting beneath skin that didn’t feel like it used to.

He stilled, only for a breath. It wasn’t something he meant to notice—it just registered.

His eyes dipped down briefly.

Your tunic sleeves had slipped slightly. Your shoulder looked sharper than it should’ve. He saw the hard line of your collarbone beneath the loose fold of your neckline. Had your robes always fit like that?

Anakin blinked, once. Let go slowly.

He stepped back without a word.

You didn’t seem to notice the change in his energy, though you glanced at him briefly—confused, maybe. Hopeful.

“Better,” he said aloud. It was true. Your form had improved. But his mind was somewhere else now.

He rubbed the back of his neck, uncertain. He didn’t want to overthink it. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe the lighting was weird. Maybe he was tired.

But he knew what he felt.

“Try again,” he said, more distant now. Still calm. But… cooler.

You obeyed.

You went through the motion, saber slicing cleanly through the air—elbow turned just right, shoulder loose. Technically, you’d nailed it.

“That’s more like it,” he said after a pause. But his voice lacked the usual warmth.

You turned, trying to catch his eye—waiting for the usual faint smirk, the little quirk of praise he gave when you impressed him.

It didn’t come.

“You’re letting me off easy,” you said, half-joking. “Should I be worried?”

Anakin looked at you again—your smile just a little too forced, your posture just a little too still.

He forced a smile of his own. “Call it a reward for finally listening to me.”

“You’ll ruin your reputation if you keep being nice.”

“I’ll risk it.”

You laughed, and it eased something in his chest. Just a little.

Still, as you powered down your saber and grabbed your things, Anakin found himself watching again. Not staring. Just observing.

Your sharp edges, your baggy sleeves, the faint way your frigid fingers curled in when you weren’t thinking about it.

It was probably nothing.

Probably.

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked as you headed toward the exit.

“Yeah,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Get some rest, alright?”

You raised a brow. “You too, Master Skywalker.”

He rolled his eyes at the title, but didn’t push further.

Once you were gone, he stayed there on the mat a moment longer, running a hand through his hair.

Something didn’t feel right. But not in the way he could name.

Not yet.

..

Wake up early. Earlier than anyone else. Run until your lungs burned and your legs went shaky. Meditate until the noise in your head thinned to static. Tea. Maybe fruit, if you’d earned it. Then classes. Then drills. Then solo saber forms when no one was looking. You pushed harder. Always harder.

You wanted to be smaller.

Not just in frame. In presence. In weight. In need.

You were already quiet. Already careful. But your body still existed—still betrayed you. Still demanded things like rest, food, help. You hated that. You hated being tethered to something so messy.

So you carved it down.

Bit by bit. Breath by breath.

You knew the numbers. Not just in the metrics of weight or calories, but in the feel of your clothes, the sharpness of your joints. The way your knees pressed together more easily. The way your hands looked more like bones when wrapped around your saber hilt.

Some days, the emptiness felt almost holy—like a secret power curled up just beneath your ribs. It made your thoughts clearer. Your movements lighter. Your focus tighter. It was hunger, yes, but it also felt like strength.

Other days, it knocked the air out of you. Your fingers would go numb, your heart would race for no reason, your knees would buckle too easily when you stood too fast. That was fine. That was manageable. It meant it was working.

Because if you didn’t control this—if you didn’t control something—what did you even have left?

You couldn’t stop the war. You couldn’t change the Council’s decisions. You couldn’t stop the nightmares or the pressure or the fact that no one ever really saw you unless you were bleeding for it.

But this?

This you could control.

And you would.

..

Anakin didn’t usually patrol the Temple halls this late. But ever since that last training session—since the feel of your bones under his hand, the way you looked jagged and sharper all around—something in him had changed.

He didn’t look for you, not deliberately. At least, that’s what he told himself. But still, every night, he wandered past the lower sparring rooms or the track facility. Just in case.

You were always there.

Tonight was no different.

You were running again. Not a casual jog. Not a warm-up. This was the kind of running meant to burn something away. Something internal.

Your expression never shifted. Eyes locked ahead, jaw tight, arms pumping in precise rhythm. You looked like you were at war with your own body—and determined to win.

Anakin watched from the doorway. Unseen. Not yet intervening.

He wasn’t sure when this had started, exactly. He just knew it had progressed fast. You used to complain when warm-ups lasted more than fifteen minutes. Now he’d seen you run past exhaustion, run until you limped.

And you were thinner. Not just leaner. Not just “training-season” focused. Hollow. Your features had sharpened. Your robes hung off your shoulders. You folded into yourself when you weren’t thinking. He’d seen your hands tremble when you reached for your lightsaber earlier that day.

And when you missed a step on the stairs yesterday—just a little stumble, nothing dramatic—it had hit him with terrifying clarity.

This wasn’t overwork. This wasn’t coincidence. You were hurting.

And no one else seemed to see it.

..

“Hey, has she been eating with the others lately?” Anakin asked casually, leaning over a stack of flight reports.

Ahsoka raised an eyebrow at him, a little smirk tugging at her mouth. “You’ve been asking about her a lot.”

He didn’t bite.

“I just want to make sure my padawans are taking care of themselves.”

“She’s not your padawan.”

“I didn’t say she was.”

Ahsoka rolled her eyes. “I mean, I see her with tea. Maybe fruit. But no full meals, not with the group. If she’s eating at all, it’s in secret.”

That sat wrong in his stomach.

“She’s… quiet lately, too,” Ahsoka added. “And tired.”

Anakin nodded once and didn’t say anything else.

..

The refresher lights were too bright.

You leaned against the cold sink, breathing slowly. Not from nausea. That had passed. This was the part after—when your body was trying to settle, and your mind wouldn’t.

You hadn’t meant to do it again.

You’d promised yourself—not this week. Not again.

But the portion was too big. And the food sat heavy. And your skin itched with shame just from swallowing it.

So you excused yourself. Casually. Like nothing was wrong. Like it was a normal thing to disappear into the ‘fresher after dinner and run the water so no one would hear.

Now, your throat burned. Your hands trembled faintly where they gripped the edge of the basin. You stared at yourself in the mirror and tried not to look.

Your eyes were bloodshot. Not terribly. Just enough. Your cheeks flushed. Hairline damp with sweat.

You look fine.

You didn’t believe it.

You looked like someone else. Like a stranger you were slowly chiseling down.

You rinsed your mouth, brushed your teeth with slow, robotic movements. Checked your reflection again. Tied your tunic tighter around your waist like it might hide the evidence of… something.

Then you pressed a hand to your stomach—flat, empty now—and exhaled.

There. Better.

You could breathe again.

..

Anakin started showing up more often.

Not in a suspicious way—at least, not at first. He just happened to appear wherever you were. Late in the training halls. In the Temple cafeteria. On quiet patrols that used to be yours alone.

You pretended not to notice.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asked casually, dropping his tray next to yours one afternoon.

You mindless nodded and blinked down at your own tray. A mug of tea. A slice of melon, untouched. A handful of dry crackers that you’d only moved around for appearance.

Anakin’s tray, by contrast, was full—nothing extravagant, just actual food. He didn’t comment on your plate. Didn’t say a word about it.

He just sat. Ate. Talked about nothing and everything—Council business, bad dreams, some snide comment Obi-Wan made that he still hadn’t forgiven.

It became a pattern.

Sometimes he’d ask, “You already ate?”

Sometimes he’d say, “I’m starving—hope you’re hungry.”

Sometimes he’d drop off a muffin next to you without comment and walk away.

You didn’t know how to fight that.

So you didn’t. But you didn’t stop running, either.

You pushed yourself harder. Longer sessions. Extra drills. Midnight laps. The ache in your legs became something you needed—proof of effort, proof you were trying.

You were still in control. Or at least, you thought you were.

Until the control slipped.

It happened at the top of the east stairwell—three steps from the landing. Your vision narrowed, the edges turning soft and grey, and then everything went quiet.

It wasn’t dramatic.

You didn’t cry out. Didn’t collapse like some fragile, broken doll. You just… folded.

When you blinked next, you were on the floor.

And Anakin was kneeling beside you.

His arms were under your shoulders before you could speak. One hand on the back of your head, the other bracing your spine. He said your name—sharp, urgent. Too real.

You pushed at his chest.

“I’m fine—just tripped—”

“You didn’t trip,” he said, voice low, furious. “You passed out. You were gone for at least ten seconds.”

“I’m fine,” you repeated, the words hollow even to your own ears.

He didn’t let you go. He carried you.

You didn’t protest again.

You didn’t go to the Healers. You wouldn’t let him.

Instead, he brought you to his quarters. Silent. Careful. Laid you on the couch and vanished into the kitchenette.

When he came back, he handed you something warm. A broth—simple, unassuming. You didn’t ask how he knew.

You held the cup with shaking fingers.

“I can’t keep pretending I don’t see it,” he said eventually, sitting across from you, elbows on his knees.

Your breath caught.

He didn’t accuse you. He didn’t even ask. He just looked at you with eyes too kind to bear.

“What’s going on with you?” he asked.

You didn’t say anything back. How could you?

Even you didn’t know.

After it became clear you had nothing to say, he crossed the space between you, knelt again, and took the broth from your hands—setting it gently on the table. Then, slowly, deliberately, he wrapped his arms around you.

You froze. Then melted.

He didn’t say anything else.

He just held you.

And for once, you let him.

..

“If she’s eating at all, it’s in secret.”

It echoed in his head as he made his way down the Temple corridor. His steps slower than usual. His thoughts louder.

The next time he saw Ahsoka, he pulled her aside.

“You said she drinks tea in the mornings,” he said. “With what?”

Ahsoka blinked. “I don’t know. Sometimes nothing. Sometimes crackers or a granola thing.”

He nodded slowly.

Ahsoka studied him a moment. “Okay, Master. What are you actually worried about?”

He hesitated. Just long enough for her eyes to narrow.

“She’s been off for a while,” he said finally. “And I don’t think it’s just stress.”

“You think she’s sick?”

“…Maybe. I don’t know.”

Ahsoka folded her arms. “Then ask her.”

“I have. She lies.”

Ahsoka raised an eyebrow again. “And you’re sure it’s food? Not something else?”

He didn’t answer. Because the truth was… he wasn’t sure.

But the weight loss. The loose clothes. The way her steps dragged sometimes. The fact that she barely used her dominant hand in saber drills anymore, like her strength gave out halfway through. The way she disappeared between classes. The paleness. The trembling. The—

He shook his head.

He wasn’t sure.

But he was starting to be.

..

You left the refresher silently. The hallway was empty. Droids hummed in the distance. Temple life moved on around you, untouched.

But as you turned a corner, a shadow peeled away from the wall.

You froze.

Anakin.

His arms were folded, his cloak hanging loose around his frame. His expression unreadable—but sharp. Watchful.

You couldn’t be sure how long he’d been there. He said nothing.

Just looked at you.

You straightened your posture, blinked fast, pretended. “Master Skywalker,” you greeted flatly, voice controlled. Normal. “Did you need something?”

A pause.

His eyes dropped to your hands, your knuckles reddened from where they’d scraped against your teeth. Then your face. Then back again.

Say something, you thought. Call me out. Ask.

He didn’t.

He just nodded once, quiet. “Heading back to your quarters?”

You forced a smile. “Yeah. Long day.”

Another pause.

Then, softly, “Get some sleep.”

You nodded, pulse pounding in your ears. “You too.”

You walked away before he could say anything else. Behind you, he stayed in the shadows a moment longer.

Watching.

Thinking.

You disappeared around the corner, your footsteps soft against the Temple floor.

Anakin didn’t move. Not for a long moment.

He just stood there, jaw tight, arms folded across his chest like that would hold the discomfort in.

He hadn’t meant to see anything. Hadn’t meant to hear what he thought he just heard. He hadn’t been following you. Not exactly.

He just… happened to be there. Noticed the shift. The rushed exit from the dining hall. The delay in the ‘fresher. Too long. Too quiet.

And when you stepped out, you looked—

Not like yourself.

Your color was off. Eyes too bright, but also dull. Your voice too measured, too carefully normal.

And the Force around you—thin. Stretched. He’d felt it before in others. Sometimes after missions. Sometimes after grief.

But this… this wasn’t that.

This was man-made. Brutal, rigid control. The kind that came from desperation, not discipline.

He exhaled through his nose, the gravity of the reality dragging his heart to the depths of hell. Turning back into the quiet hallway, he didn’t yet go after you.

Because what would he even say.

“Did you throw up?”

“Are you starving yourself?”

“What the hell is going on with you?”

You would lie. Of course you would. Anyone would.

And it wasn’t just a hunch anymore, was it? He thought of your hands again, the way they felt smaller, bonier. The looseness of your robes. The way you drifted around people now instead of moving with them. Half-present.

And the hunger in your eyes, not for food—but for something else. Something colder.

Anakin swallowed hard and ran a hand through his hair. This wasn’t something he could fix with advice. Or training. Or a teasing comment to break you out of your head.

This was bad. He needed help.

But he didn’t want to betray you either.

He thought of Ahsoka’s voice—“If she’s eating at all, it’s in secret.”

And the part she hadn’t said: That’s not normal.

That’s not safe.

He looked down the hallway you’d taken, long empty now, and clenched his fists once at his sides.

No. This was it. The final straw.

This wouldn’t go on any longer. Not if he had anything to do with it.

..

You walked into the room with half your armor still undone, hair damp with sweat, and a headache pounding behind your eyes. You had run late—your own fault—but you hoped Anakin wouldn’t—

“Where the hell have you been?”

You froze mid-step.

He was already standing in the middle of your quarters like he owned the space, arms crossed, face tight with something way too close to fury.

“I was in the training—”

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice was sharp, slicing through the air. “You weren’t on the schedule. I checked.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’re seriously tracking me now?” you snapped. “That’s a little obsessive, don’t you think?”

“You wanna talk about obsessive?” He scoffed.

The gnawing hunger, the ringing in your head, the exhaustion that seeped into your very bones—it pushed you to a boiling point. Frustration spiked. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” he breathed, hard. Visibly trying—failing—to keep his anger at bay. “It means I’m sick of watching you lie to me every single day!” His voice cracked, raw and furious. “I’m not blind, okay? You barely eat, you look like you’re about to collapse half the time, and you keep telling me you’re fine. You’re not fine, and I’m done pretending like I don’t see it.”

“You’re being dramatic. There’s nothing—”

“I heard you.”

You froze.

His voice was low. Barely controlled. Dangerous. His glare was so intense it took everything in you not to flinch.

“I heard you,” he motioned with a shaking hand, as if to steady himself. “In—in the refresher. I heard what you… were doing,” he said, swallowing like it physically hurt to admit.

You were caught. Like an animal in a trap. The emptiness scraping at your insides fogged up your brain until all you could do was bite and bark like a wounded dog.

Your jaw clenched. “You have no right—”

“I have every right!” he roared. “Because you won’t talk to me! Because you won’t even look at me when I ask what the hell is going on!”

You turned away. “It’s none of your business.”

“I’m your best friend!” he shouted. “Of course it’s my business!”

“No,” you said, spinning on him. “You don’t get to use that card. Being my best friend doesn’t mean you get to police my life!”

“I’m not policing you—I’m trying to keep you alive!”

The room was spinning now. You didn’t have the energy to fight like this. But that didn’t stop you.

“Maybe I didn’t ask for that!” you snapped. “Maybe I don’t want your help!”

He stared at you like you’d slapped him. And maybe you had—not physically, but something worse. His jaw worked soundlessly for a second before he stepped back.

“You’d rather kill yourself slowly than let anyone care about you. That it?”

“Better than being pitied,” you spat.

He looked like you’d stabbed him. “You think this is pity?”

You laughed. Dry. Empty. “I think you like having a project. A broken little thing you can fix. Makes you feel needed.”

Nononono—everything was coming out wrong. You didn’t know what words you were spewing anymore, but Maker, you just couldn’t stop.

“Screw you,” he hissed. “You think this is about me? You think watching you destroy yourself has been easy? Every time you lie to my face, every time you pretend everything’s fine when you’re literally wasting away—you think I like this?”

“Then leave!” you yelled, voice cracking. “No one’s making you stay!”

“I stay because I care!” he screamed. “Because I love you, and I don’t know how to not care!”

The words hit the silence like a bomb.

You stared at him, breath gone.

He looked horrified the second they were out. Like he hadn’t meant to say it. Or hadn’t meant to say it like that.

“What…?” You broke the silence, voice smaller than you’d ever felt.

All Anakin could do was look at you, chest heaving.

“You’re not eating,” he said quietly—almost defeated. “You run yourself into the ground. You pass out and pretend it didn’t happen. You’ve lost weight and think no one notices. I do. I see you.”

Your chest tightened like a noose.

“And I don’t know what scares me more,” he continued, voice low. “The fact that you’re doing this to yourself… or the fact that you think I wouldn’t care.”

There was a brief pause.

“I didn’t want you to care like this,” you whispered, voice suddenly high and brittle. “Because it’s embarrassing, Anakin. I’m not proud of this. I didn’t want you to look at me and see—this.”

“What?” he asked, stepping forward. “See you struggling? See you human?”

You looked away, jaw trembling.

“You don’t have to be perfect around me,” he said, softer now. “You never had to be. I didn’t sign up to be your friend just when it’s easy.”

You said nothing. Couldn’t. The room swam a little.

He stepped closer. Not touching you. Not pushing. Just there.

“Talk to me,” he said again. “Yell. Scream. Cry. I don’t care. Just don’t shut me out.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. One breath. Two.

And finally, voice breaking: “I don’t know how to stop.”

There it was.

He exhaled, slow and deep, like something in him had finally released.

“Then let me help you figure it out,” he said. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

You didn’t answer. But when he reached out—slowly, gently—and pulled you into a hug, you didn’t pull away either.

You didn’t realize you were crying until you felt Anakin swipe away a stray tear.

“You… love me?” you asked after a short while of just standing there like that, not daring to look up from where your face was pressed into his neck.

His embrace tightened, his flesh hand resting on your head, holding it to him like letting go might break him too.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

And the way his voice cracked—like the words had splintered something deep inside—was what undid you completely.

“Yeah, I do.”

-

Neither of you moved.

Not at first.

You stayed pressed into him like the breath had been knocked from your lungs—his chest rising and falling against yours, slow and steady, like he was trying to lend you the rhythm of his own body. An anchor.

“I didn’t want you to care like this,” you said again, quietly this time. Not sharp. Not defensive. Just real.

“I know,” Anakin murmured. His hand was still on the back of your head, fingers brushing the curve of your skull. “But I do. I care this much whether you want me to or not.”

You let out a slow breath against his collarbone. It felt like the first real one in days. Maybe weeks.

“It’s hard,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I don’t eat because I feel like I don’t deserve to,” you admitted, eyes unfocused, staring at nothing. “And then I do eat, and I feel disgusting. Like I failed at something I can’t even name.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just listened. That was new. You weren’t used to people hearing the words and not rushing to patch them up, to fix, to lecture. But not Anakin.

“You didn’t fail anything,” he said eventually, his voice low, even. “You’ve been surviving. That’s not failure.”

You blinked, and for some reason, that nearly made you cry all over again.

“It’s just always there,” you said, barely getting the words out. “The noise. The shame. I hate it. I hate me.”

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his hand shifting to your jaw. “Don’t you dare say that.”

“I’m not trying to be dramatic—”

“You’re not,” he said. “But you don’t get to hate yourself in front of me. I won’t allow it.”

A broken little sound caught in your throat. You looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time since you walked in. And what you saw wasn’t pity. It wasn’t anger anymore, either.

It was love. It was love.

He meant it.

He meant all of it.

You shook your head, more from disbelief than disagreement. “You’re not supposed to love me when I’m like this.”

“I think I’ve only ever loved you like this,” he said, voice soft but sure. “Not in spite of the pain. But because I know it. I know you. And I still love you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time. It was full—but not crushing. Like something sacred was taking shape between you.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Anakin leaned in, pressing his forehead gently against yours. “Me too.”

You closed your eyes.

And somehow, that didn’t feel like the end of the world. Somehow, you weren’t alone in it anymore.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” he said again. “You don’t have to be fixed. You just have to stay.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic. Holding him there. Holding yourself there.

“I can try,” you whispered.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

And when he kissed your temple, so gently you barely felt it, you realized something else.

You were tired. Yes.

Still scared. Yes.

Still hurt in places no one could see.

But maybe—just maybe—you didn’t have to keep carrying it alone.

Not anymore.

And when he held you like that, with no demand, no pressure, just presence, you finally let yourself believe it.

You finally let yourself rest.

The halls chittered and buzzed with magic as Raven Queen walked through them—more than usual, and that was saying something.

The full moon sat heavy and bright atop Ever After High, casting its glow like a watchful eye. Its presence had incited a magical surge across the school. Enchanted objects were on the fritz, students’ powers flickered out of control, and nothing seemed quite... grounded. The air itself pulsed with a low thrum of electricity. Everyone felt it—students, staff, even the castle walls themselves seemed to hum. There hadn’t been a warning, no tell-tale omens or creeping build-up. Just... a shift. Sudden. Sharp. As if the universe had exhaled and forgotten how to inhale again.

And so, naturally, Raven had been chosen to investigate. Lucky her.

Headmaster Grimm, in his infinite wisdom, deemed her “qualified” thanks to her “magical aptitude”—which, let’s be honest, really just meant she was powerful and vaguely concerning. That’s how she found herself trekking through what felt like miles of polished tile and identical hallway walls, all to reach the most isolated wing on campus: the Ever After Archives.

The grand doors stood before her now—tall as a tower and just as old. Even in her heels, she’d have to crane her neck to see the top. The wood was blackened oak, carved with sigils long faded and covered in a fine film of dust that glittered faintly under the moonlight streaming through the stained-glass windows.

A warmth flickered to life in her fingertips as she reached for the doorknob. A shimmer that ran up her arm and sank into her bones. Ever since the moon reached its peak, her magic had shifted—still hers, but different. Warmer. Wilder. More... alive.

There was something in this room. Sure, the Archives were full of somethings—cursed objects, long-forgotten spellbooks, ancient enchantments humming in their slumber. But this was different. This something was awake. And it was reacting to her.

She wrapped both hands around the aged bronze handle, braced herself, and heaved. The oak groaned like a waking beast, releasing a puff of dust thick enough to make her cough. But the doors opened.

And she stepped inside.

The Archives were massive—larger than she'd imagined. Towering shelves stretched into the gloom above, packed tight with spell scrolls, sealed tomes, and relics encased in enchanted glass. The silence was heavy, not just quiet but waiting. Even the motes of dust in the air seemed to hang in place, as if they were listening.

Headmaster Grimm had told her to “make sure the room was stabilized.” Sure. No big deal. Just keep an entire ancient magical vault from tearing itself apart. She took a breath—and then coughed again when the breath filled her lungs with dust—and tried to center herself.

Start somewhere, she told herself. Maybe that bookshelf near the far corner—

Oh.

There it was again. That warmth inside her. Brighter this time. Hotter. Like a sun flare in her bloodstream. Her eyes flicked around, searching for the source, but her body was already moving. Her feet guided her, silent and sure. She didn’t need to think; her magic had already chosen a path.

Fingers trailing along spines of books and scrolls, past glittering lockboxes and crystalline baubles—she felt the pull intensify. Magnetic. Familiar. Hungry.

Then she saw it.

Tucked away in a forgotten alcove, barely visible behind a clutter of books and trinkets, sat an object veiled in a dusty cloth. It glowed faintly beneath the fabric, pulsing like a heartbeat. Her own magic surged in response—white hot, sparking beneath her skin.

She reached out.

The moment her fingers touched the cloth, a jolt ran through her arm like fire on ice. She pulled the fabric away and took hold of the glowing object. Dust spiraled into the air like disturbed spirits, revealing the mirror. What a small thing it was. Palm-sized, fitting perfectly in Raven's hand. It was gleaming. Polished. Seemingly untouched by time.

And in it… was her.

But not her.

The Raven in the mirror had the same pale skin, the same dark hair and purple highlights, the same everything. Well, almost everything. Her eyes, her features- everything felt sharper. Colder. Minute differences, yes. But jarring enough to make it clear that this was not Raven.

Not the girl trying to rewrite her destiny. Not the student trying to do good in a world that feared her name. This version stood proud in a floor-length gown of obsidian silk, her eyes dark and hard, a crown of thorns perched effortlessly in her dark waves. The Evil Queen.

A chill ran down Raven’s spine. The reflection didn’t mimic her movements anymore—it moved on its own, smiling ever so slightly, raising a regal, authoritative hand in silent invitation.

This is what you could be, the mirror seemed to whisper. This is who you were meant to be.

Her heartbeat drummed in her ears, faster than it should have been. Not fear exactly—something more like dread laced with recognition. That girl in the mirror wasn’t a stranger. She was a possibility.

She was temptation.

“No,” Raven whispered, breath catching. “That’s not me.”

But the girl in the glass tilted her head ever so slightly, like she’d heard, and disagreed. Her smile deepened. A cruel, knowing curve of lips.

The warmth in Raven’s veins was boiling now, her magic pulsing in sync with the mirror’s glow. It wanted her to reach out. To touch the glass. To accept. To remember what it felt like to have power without guilt, without hesitation. To stop running from what the world assumed she would become and just... become it.

Her free fingers twitched at her side.

“No,” she said again, louder this time. Her voice echoed off the high stone walls, brittle and thin against the silence.

The mirror’s glow flared.

Raven flinched, stumbling back into a low shelf that rattled with ancient scrolls, still gripping the mirror's frame. Something hissed and uncoiled behind the glass of a nearby lockbox. The entire room felt like it had awakened—dozens of magical artifacts humming to life, reacting to her fear, her power, her presence.

She needed to leave.

But her body wasn’t cooperating. Her feet were heavy. Her eyes locked with the ones in the mirror—malignant, regal, endlessly sure. Her throat felt dry.

“Raven?”

The voice came from behind her. Quiet. Familiar.

Her head snapped toward it—and for a moment, the spell broke.

Cerise Hood stood just inside the Archives, half-shadowed in the doorway. Her hood was pulled low, but Raven knew her anywhere—the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her voice could slice through fog without ever raising above a murmur. And now, her expression was caught somewhere between concern and caution.

Raven’s lips parted, unsure what she was about to say. Something between help me and you shouldn’t be here.

Cerise took a careful step forward. “Are you okay?”

“I—” Raven glanced back down at the mirror in her hand.

It was empty.

Just her reflection now. Disheveled. Pale. Wide-eyed.

The crown of thorns was gone. So was the gown. No smirking version of herself stared back at her from the glass.

Just her.

Raven swayed on her feet, the weight of what she’d seen—or imagined—crashing over her like a tide.

Cerise was at her side in an instant, steadying her with a firm, grounding hand on her arm.

"Raven, hey." Her voice was quiet, but sure. And just like that, the room stilled. Not humming. Not haunted. Just... still.

Raven met her eyes—deep, steady, dark like the woods she came from—and nodded once.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Without ceremony, she slipped the mirror into her coat pocket. It was heavier than it should have been.

She didn’t look back as Cerise led them out of the Archives. And the moment the doors creaked shut behind them, Raven felt the whispering stop.