S. Reid

Spencer Reid ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky Barnes ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Fred Weasley ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

George Weasley ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Draco Malfoy ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Sebastian Sallow ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Lip Gallagher ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Stiles Stilinksi ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Steve Harrington ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You smiled politely. “Mr. Barnes?”

He blinked. “Bucky.”

You nodded, moving closer, scanning his chart. “Okay, Bucky. I see you took quite the hit. Mind if I take a look at those ribs?”

He didn’t answer right away. He was still staring—trying not to, really, but failing. The clinical lights behind you made your features glow soft, warm. You looked like safety.

Like something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have.

“Sure,” he rasped, voice low and a little hoarse. “Go ahead.”

You were careful when you touched him. Gloved fingers pressing gently along the side of his ribcage. He winced, breath hitching, but didn’t flinch away.

“You’ve got at least one cracked rib, maybe two,” you said gently. “No punctured lung, though. That’s good.”

You leaned back, stripping the gloves off, and reached for the gauze.

“You’re the new trauma physician,” Bucky said, voice quieter now. “They brought you in after that mission in Prague, right?”

You looked surprised. “I didn’t realize you kept tabs on us doctors.”

“I don’t,” he said quickly. “I mean—I didn’t. Steve mentioned you.”

That wasn’t exactly true. He had kept tabs. Or rather, he’d asked. Once. Maybe twice. There was something about the sound of your voice over comms during emergencies—steady, reassuring—that had stuck with him.

“You’re good,” he added, awkwardly. “At this. The patching people up thing.”

You smiled again, and this time, it reached your eyes.

“Thanks,” you said, wrapping the gauze gently. “I’ve had practice.”

There was a beat of silence. You focused on your work. Bucky focused on not watching you like you were something untouchable. He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—the pain in his side or the flicker of warmth he hadn’t felt in years.

When you were done, you stepped back and gave him a small nod.

“You’ll need to rest. No combat for at least a week. I’ll write it up, but you’ll have to fight Stark on enforcement.”

“I’ll manage.”

You lingered at the door for a second longer than necessary.

“If you need anything—pain management, help sleeping—just page me. Night or day.”

And then you were gone.

Bucky exhaled. Slow. Controlled.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Three days later, Bucky was back in the med bay. Not because he had to be—he could’ve lied through his teeth and walked it off—but because he hadn’t stopped thinking about you.

Well, that and his ribs still ached like hell when he breathed too hard.

You noticed him the second he stepped inside, wearing that same vaguely annoyed expression he used to mask discomfort. You set down your tablet and tilted your head.

“Didn’t expect to see you so soon,” you said lightly. “Did something feel off?”

“No,” he said too fast. Then, after a beat, “Maybe.”

You approached, expression softening. “Let’s take a look.”

He climbed back up onto the exam table, slower this time. Less bravado, more honesty in the wince he didn’t quite hide. You noticed.

“You’ve been resting?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He gave a dry little laugh. “Define ‘rest.’”

You let out a small sigh, not scolding, but not amused either. “Bucky, cracked ribs don’t just vanish because you decide you’re fine. They need time.”

“Time isn’t something I usually have.”

You were quiet for a moment, fingers ghosting over the edge of the wrap you’d done days ago. “If you keep pushing your body like this, eventually it’ll stop keeping up. You know that, right?”

He did. God, he did.

But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he stared straight ahead—at the sterile cabinets, the neatly coiled IV lines—anything but your eyes.

You didn’t press. You just began to unwrap the bandages, gentle as ever.

He hated how aware he was of your touch. It wasn’t even like that—not really. It was just… it had been so long since someone touched him with care. With intent that wasn’t violence or protocol.

Your hands paused briefly on his skin. “You’re still bruised pretty badly. There’s swelling. I can feel a lot of tension in your back too—are you sleeping?”

“Yeah.”

“Honestly.”

“…No.”

You didn’t react. No surprise, no pity. Just a soft nod.

“Do you want something to help?”

He hesitated.

“I don’t like meds,” he said. “Too many bad memories.”

You nodded again, slower this time. “Okay. Then we find another way.”

That startled him.

“You don’t have to fix everything tonight,” you continued. “You’re not a machine, Bucky. You’re allowed to heal.”

It hit harder than it should’ve.

He turned his head away slightly, jaw clenched. You didn’t apologize for saying it, and that mattered more than he could explain.

You redressed the injury in silence, and he let you. Trusted you, without realizing that’s what he was doing.

When you were done, you didn’t walk away right away.

“I’m here late most nights,” you said gently. “If you ever want to come in. No pressure.”

He looked at you then. And something in his chest shifted.

A tiny breath of warmth in the cold room he’d gotten used to.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Later that night, long past midnight, Bucky found himself standing just outside the med bay again. He didn’t go in.

But the light was still on.

You were still there.

And that was enough.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

There wasn’t a set schedule to when Bucky stopped by the med bay.

Sometimes it was under the guise of a follow-up. Other times he claimed he “just happened to be passing through.” You didn’t call him on it. You let him come and go as he pleased, offering only what he’d take.

A cup of water.

An offered seat while you updated charts.

Silence, sometimes. Comfortable silence, if a little weighted.

You learned quickly that Bucky wasn’t the type to fill a room with words. He spoke like every sentence was a test, like he was measuring the safety of every truth before it left his mouth. But when he did speak—really speak—it meant something.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Day Twelve

He sat quietly while you reset the cabinet locks and muttered under your breath about new inventory codes.

“You’re too calm for this place,” he said, after a long silence.

You glanced over your shoulder. “You think I should be yelling at the walls?”

He shrugged. “Everyone else does.”

You chuckled. “Well. Someone has to keep the temperature down.”

You didn’t see it, but he smiled.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Day Seventeen

He brought you a coffee.

Didn’t say much about it, just handed it over with a quiet: “You looked tired last time.”

You didn’t ask how he remembered your order. You just took it, fingers brushing his glove.

“Thanks, Bucky.”

He looked away like the words had more weight than he could handle.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Day Twenty-Four

You caught him in the hallway. He wasn’t heading to you this time—he looked like he was trying to disappear.

“Rough day?” you asked gently.

His eyes were a little darker. The circles under them deeper.

He paused. Then gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Just tired.”

You didn’t push. But you did say: “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

And then he disappeared into the elevator, the doors closing too quickly for you to read his face.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Day Twenty-Five

2:46 a.m.

The knock was soft.

You weren’t even sure you heard it at first—just the faint shuffle of movement past the glass. You were reviewing scans, half-asleep on your feet. But then it came again. A gentle knock, barely there.

You opened the door.

And there he was.

No jacket. T-shirt damp with sweat. Left hand gripping the doorframe just a little too tightly.

“Bucky,” you breathed. “What—”

“I just—” he cut off. Voice hoarse. Strained. “Can I sit here? Just for a bit?”

You stepped aside immediately. “Of course.”

He walked in like someone unsure of the floor beneath him. Sat on the edge of the nearest chair, back stiff, jaw clenched. His metal hand flexed in his lap.

You didn’t ask. You didn’t need to.

You just turned on the electric kettle you kept for late shifts and moved quietly around the room, giving him space to breathe. The quiet wasn’t awkward—it was fragile. Sacred.

After a while, you handed him a mug of tea. Chamomile and peppermint. He didn’t drink it at first. Just stared into the steam like it held back a tide.

“It was a dream,” he said finally. Voice rough. “Same one I’ve had since Bucharest. Different sometimes. But it always ends the same.”

You sat down across from him. Close, but not too close. You didn’t speak. You let him have the silence.

“I was fine for a while,” he said. “But I—I heard something this morning. On the radio. Russian. Just a word. And it was like…”

He trailed off. Breath catching.

You waited. Patient. Steady.

“I know it’s stupid,” he muttered. “It’s just a sound. But it stuck in my head, and then I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t—” He broke off again, jaw clenching harder. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Those last words barely registered above a whisper.

You felt your heart ache.

“You did the right thing,” you said softly. “You’re safe here.”

His hands shook a little, just a tremor, but enough for you to see it.

You reached out—slow, careful—and rested your fingers over his. Not gripping. Just there.

“Let’s just breathe for a while, okay?” you said. “You don’t have to talk. Just stay.”

And he did.

He didn’t let go of your hand.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Morning crept into the med bay like it was afraid to disturb the peace.

You sat on the edge of the couch across from the chair where Bucky had finally fallen asleep—not deeply, but enough to soften the lines around his mouth, to let his shoulders drop a fraction. The tea sat untouched. His hand, the one you’d gently held for a while before he drifted off, had gone still in his lap.

He looked younger like this. Or maybe just less haunted.

You didn’t wake him. You just sat in silence and watched the early light settle across the floor like a blanket.

When he finally stirred, it wasn’t abrupt. No sharp startle or swinging reflex. Just a slow blink, the kind that comes after too many sleepless nights finally surrender to exhaustion.

His eyes found yours immediately.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He looked around like he wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there. Then he ran a hand through his hair and exhaled, long and low.

“I didn’t mean to stay,” he muttered. “I thought I’d leave after a few minutes.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” you said, with a small, honest smile. “You needed the rest.”

He didn’t answer that. Just looked down at his hands. One flesh, one metal. Both trembling slightly.

You reached for your thermos on the table and offered it toward him. “There’s still some coffee left. It’s not great, but it’s warm.”

He took it like it weighed more than it should.

“You okay?” you asked, voice still low. Still careful.

“Not really,” he admitted, almost immediately. It surprised both of you. “But I’m… here.”

It was the kind of statement that sounded simple, but wasn’t.

You nodded slowly. “That’s enough for today.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

After that night, something changed.

Not dramatically. Not with fireworks or declarations. But it was there—in the way Bucky lingered a little longer when he came by. In the way he let his guard down in pieces.

Sometimes he’d bring you news from the field—briefings, updates, occasional sarcastic commentary on Stark’s latest upgrades. Other times, he’d just sit and read in the chair by your desk while you charted vitals or typed notes. Once, you caught him watching you with an unreadable expression when he thought you weren’t looking.

You never called attention to it. You never asked him to explain.

Instead, you built something with him in the quiet.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Week Six

You found a small packet of Turkish delight on your desk. No note. Just the candy, wrapped carefully.

He wouldn’t admit it was him, but he watched your reaction with a flicker of pride in his eyes when you opened it.

You smiled. “You know this stuff’s addictive, right?”

He shrugged, feigning innocence. “Thought you liked challenges.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Week Seven

He walked into the med bay with blood on his temple and a gash across his arm, and instead of brushing it off like usual, he sat down without a word and let you clean the wound.

“Wasn’t even a mission,” he muttered. “Just an accident. Barnes Classic.”

You stitched in silence for a moment, then glanced up at him. “You know, it’s okay to come here even when you’re not bleeding.”

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But close.

“I know.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Week Eight

He brought you a book. Worn cover, dog-eared pages. A spy thriller from the ’40s.

“It’s kind of dumb,” he said. “But I read it before… everything. Figured you might like it.”

You looked down at the cover, then up at him. “You brought me a piece of who you used to be.”

“Yeah.”

“You trust me with that?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The next night, he showed up again. No injuries. No mission. Just him.

You were surprised, but you didn’t let it show.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked gently.

He nodded, then hesitated. “Can I sit with you again?”

You smiled and patted the seat next to you. “Always.”

And this time, when he sat, his shoulder brushed yours. Deliberately.

He didn’t move away.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky didn’t come to the med bay every night.

But when he did, it was different now.

He sat closer. Let you read over his shoulder. Once, he fell asleep on the little couch while you worked, head tilted back, arms crossed, metal hand unclenched.

You’d covered him with your spare hoodie and turned the lights down low.

You weren’t sure he noticed that you always made tea when he arrived. Or that you kept his favorite mug—the navy one with the chipped handle—tucked away in the back corner of the cabinet, just for him.

But maybe he did.

Maybe he noticed everything. Just like you did.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t think anyone else had picked up on it. The tower had its own rhythms, its own chaos. People passed in and out of the med bay all the time, and Bucky always slipped in with quiet ease. Never too long. Never too loud.

Until one afternoon, when Natasha Romanoff walked in.

You were finishing up a routine exam—Bucky had taken a minor blow to the ribs again, and while it wasn’t serious, you insisted on checking him out. He’d given in with the usual half-sigh, half-smile that had started creeping into his visits lately.

He was sitting on the table, shirt off, arms loose at his sides. You stood in front of him, gently palpating his ribs, speaking softly.

“Any sharp pain when I press here?”

“No. Just a bruise.”

Your hand lingered a second longer than strictly necessary.

That’s when Natasha stepped through the door.

You didn’t hear her at first. Neither did Bucky.

She leaned against the doorway with her arms folded, one eyebrow arched.

“Well, well,” she said casually. “Should I come back later, or are we having a moment?”

Bucky flinched. Just slightly. His spine straightened like a snapped cord.

You stepped back, suddenly very aware of the space between you.

“Nat,” you said, clearing your throat. “Didn’t see you.”

She smirked. “Obviously.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Natasha gave him a long, amused look. “Sure it isn’t.”

You turned away, trying to compose yourself, but Natasha’s voice followed.

“You’ve been in here a lot lately, Barnes. Didn’t realize you were that prone to getting injured. Or… maybe the doctor’s just good company.”

She wasn’t being cruel. Teasing, maybe. But underneath it—curious. Watching.

You met her eyes, steady. “He’s been doing regular follow-ups. Standard protocol.”

“Mm,” she said, like she didn’t quite buy it. “Right. Standard.”

Bucky hopped off the table with more speed than necessary, grabbing his shirt.

“I’ll, uh… catch you later,” he muttered, avoiding both your gazes.

You watched him leave. The room suddenly felt too quiet.

Natasha’s voice softened. “Hey.”

You looked back.

“He trusts you,” she said.

You nodded slowly. “I know.”

She tilted her head. “You like him.”

It wasn’t a question.

You hesitated. Then answered, quietly, “Yeah.”

There was a beat of silence. Then:

“You’re good for him,” she said. “He needs someone who doesn’t treat him like a ticking bomb.”

You exhaled, tension easing a fraction. “Thanks.”

Natasha pushed off the wall and headed for the door.

“Just don’t let him run from it,” she added, glancing over her shoulder. “When it starts feeling real, he’ll want to.”

And then she was gone.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

That night, Bucky didn’t come by.

Neither did the next.

But on the third night, just as you were about to turn off the lights, there was a soft knock.

You turned.

There he was.

Eyes tired. Shoulders tense. But there.

“I didn’t mean to disappear,” he said, voice low.

You just nodded. “I figured you’d come back when you were ready.”

“I wanted to,” he said. “I just… I got scared.”

He didn’t say of what.

You didn’t need him to.

You stepped forward slowly, not reaching out yet—just being there.

He looked at you like he was still waiting for the sky to fall.

It didn’t.

“Come in,” you said softly.

And he did.

This time, when he sat beside you, his hand brushed yours.

And he didn’t pull away.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It had been twenty-two minutes since Bucky walked through the med bay doors again.

Not that you were counting.

He sat beside you on the couch like he belonged there now. Like the space wasn’t sterile and cold, but safe. His knee brushed yours—barely—but it stayed there. A silent anchor.

Neither of you had said much. The TV was on low—some late-night documentary about ocean currents that neither of you were really watching.

He hadn’t met your eyes since he sat down.

You waited.

When he finally spoke, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t confident. But it was honest.

“Nat cornered me.”

You looked over. “Yeah?”

“Said I was hiding.” He gave a wry, humorless chuckle. “She’s not wrong.”

You didn’t rush to respond. You knew better than to fill silence with fluff when something real was coming.

“She said I trust you,” he added after a pause.

You glanced at him. “Do you?”

He finally turned his head. Met your eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “Scares the hell out of me.”

Your breath caught. Not from surprise—but from the weight of it. The truth of it.

“Bucky…” you started, then paused. “I never wanted you to feel pressure. You don’t owe me anything. Not trust. Not time.”

His brow furrowed. “It’s not pressure. It’s just—new.”

You nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”

He shifted, fingers lacing together, then unlacing. Restless.

“I’ve spent years trying to be something safe. Something stable. Something not… broken.” He exhaled, sharp. “And then I met you.”

That made your chest ache in the best, worst way.

“You don’t have to be fixed,” you said softly. “You just have to be real.”

His jaw tightened, eyes flickering down to the floor.

“Sometimes I think if someone looks too close, they’ll see it. All of it. Everything I’ve tried to bury.”

You leaned closer, not touching, but close enough for him to feel your presence like a pulse.

“I see you, Bucky,” you said. “And I’m still here.”

His eyes lifted.

And for the first time in a long time, he believed you.

He swallowed hard. “Do you ever wonder what this is? Between us?”

You felt your heart skip. Then settle.

“I do,” you said. “But I think I know.”

He blinked, expression tight with uncertainty. “And what if I can’t be good at it? What if I mess it up?”

“You probably will,” you said gently, with a small, knowing smile. “So will I. But if it’s real, it’ll survive it.”

He let out a shaky breath. Then, finally, finally, let his hand rest over yours.

Not fleeting. Not tentative.

Certain.

“You make it feel… possible,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You turned your hand, lacing your fingers with his.

“Then let’s find out.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

That night, he didn’t leave when the lights dimmed.

He stayed. In the chair beside you, hand still in yours.

No kisses. No confessions shouted across rooms.

Just steady breathing.

Two people who had been broken by the world, quietly deciding to rebuild—together.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The call came in at 1:03 a.m.

An extraction in Slovakia had gone sideways. Bucky had been among the team deployed—standard recovery mission, in and out. Nothing unusual. Nothing that should’ve gone wrong.

But then the report hit your console:

“Unidentified triggers. Psychological compromise. Winter Soldier protocol proximity suspected. Barnes unresponsive during comm check.”

You dropped everything.

By the time the quinjet landed, you were already waiting in the emergency wing, heart thudding with a rhythm that felt too fast for calm, too slow for panic.

When the ramp lowered, Steve was the first off, looking grim. Natasha followed close behind.

Then you saw him.

Bucky was walking under his own power, but just barely. Shoulders rigid. Gaze unfocused. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were bloodless—one flesh, one metal. He didn’t speak. Didn’t even glance around.

Like he was still somewhere else.

Somewhere cold.

Steve approached first. “He won’t talk,” he said quietly. “Not to us. Not yet.”

You stepped forward without hesitation.

“Bucky?”

His head turned slightly. Just enough to see you.

His eyes locked onto yours—and something cracked.

He walked straight toward you.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t pause.

Just reached for you like he was drowning.

You caught him. Arms around his shoulders, grounding him. He buried his face into your neck like it was the only safe place in the world. His breath came in ragged gasps. Shaking. Silent at first—then not.

You felt the tremor before you heard the sound. A raw, muffled sob, choked into your shoulder.

You held tighter.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “You’re safe. You’re here.”

He didn’t answer. Just clung harder, like letting go would undo him.

Steve and Natasha backed away without a word, leaving you both alone in the hallway.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You guided him back to the med bay slowly, his weight leaning into you more than he realized. He didn’t say a word. You didn’t ask for one.

You helped him sit on the edge of the exam table and knelt in front of him, keeping your touch gentle.

“Do you want to talk?”

He shook his head, throat working like it hurt to breathe.

You nodded. “Okay. Then just sit with me.”

Minutes passed.

Then he spoke. Just a whisper.

“He said the words. The trigger ones. I knew they wouldn’t work. I knew—but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Just heard them echoing in my head. Like I was back there. Like I was him again.”

You reached for his hand. Waited for him to let you take it.

He did.

“You’re not him,” you said. Firm. Clear. “You’re here. You’re with me. That part of you isn’t in control anymore.”

He swallowed hard. “But it still lives in me.”

“So does the part that came back. The part that fought to come back.”

He looked at you like he didn’t deserve that truth. Like it hurt more than the memory.

“I don’t know how to carry it.”

“Then don’t carry it alone.”

His breath hitched.

You stood, moving slowly, and without asking, gently eased him back onto the table. He didn’t resist. Just followed your lead, eyes flickering between fear and something deeper. Something more vulnerable.

You sat beside him and curled one hand around the back of his neck. The other rested against his chest—right over his heart.

It was racing.

“You’re not broken,” you said, barely above a whisper. “You’re hurting. That’s not the same.”

He closed his eyes. And for the first time, let himself fall into you fully. Head resting against your shoulder, breathing shaky but steadying.

You stayed like that for a long time.

No words.

Just presence.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The med bay was still and quiet when you woke.

It took a moment to remember why you were even lying on the small cot near the wall—why your arm was sore, why the fabric of your hoodie was slightly damp against your shoulder.

And then you turned your head.

Bucky was there.

Curled in the recliner beside you, long legs awkwardly bent, arms crossed, eyes closed. His hair was a mess of waves against his face, one lock falling across his brow. He looked… peaceful.

And so heartbreakingly tired.

But more than that—he looked safe.

You shifted slightly, and his eyes cracked open.

There was no panic this time. No tension.

Just the quiet settling of recognition.

“Hey,” you said, voice low and husky with sleep.

He blinked once, then rubbed his face with his metal hand. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to crash here.”

“You didn’t crash,” you said gently. “You rested.”

He swallowed, jaw flexing. “I should go. Didn’t mean to—”

“Stay,” you said, before he could finish. “If you want to.”

He hesitated.

And then—slowly—nodded.

You sat up and passed him the coffee you’d poured earlier from the machine in the hallway. It had cooled slightly, but he took it anyway, cradling it between both hands like it meant more than warmth.

There was silence for a moment.

Then: “I don’t usually let people see me like that.”

You glanced over. “I know.”

“But I didn’t feel… ashamed,” he added, almost to himself. “That’s new.”

You smiled. Not big. Not smug. Just soft. “Good.”

He looked at you then—really looked. The gaze that lingered. That pressed its weight gently into your chest and made it harder to breathe.

“You make it feel… okay. Just existing.”

“I’m glad.”

Another silence. But this one had tension in it.

Not the bad kind. Not fear.

Possibility.

Bucky turned his mug slowly between his hands. “I’ve been trying to figure out what this is. What’s happening. Between us.”

Your throat went dry.

“And?” you asked, quieter now.

His eyes met yours.

“I think I care about you.”

The words hung there.

Fragile. Exposed. Heavy with truth.

You let them settle. Let them breathe.

Then you reached over and took his hand again. That same quiet gesture he’d come to recognize as safety.

“I care about you too.”

A long breath escaped him—like he hadn’t known he’d been holding it.

He nodded once. Then leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours.

Not a kiss. Not yet.

But a promise.

And it was more than enough.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You started seeing him in the daylight now.

Not just during late-night panic spirals or quiet graveyard shifts in the med bay, but during actual hours of sunlight. He’d knock on the door like he always had—soft, almost hesitant—but when you opened it, there was a little less tension in his shoulders. A little more light in his eyes.

Today was one of those days.

He stepped inside, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. He’d shaved. His hair was damp, like he’d just showered.

“You busy?” he asked.

“Never too busy for you,” you said, not even thinking about it.

And for once, he didn’t flinch at your honesty.

He smiled.

“Can I stay a while?”

You gave him a look. “You don’t have to ask that anymore.”

He nodded, then walked over to the couch and dropped onto it with a quiet sigh. He looked tired in a way that wasn’t haunted—just… human.

You sat beside him.

Close.

Your knees touched.

He didn’t move away.

In fact, after a minute, he shifted slightly. His thigh pressed against yours. Then his arm—warm, solid—brushed your shoulder. You turned your head, heart skipping a beat.

He was looking at you. Really looking.

“You always smell like tea and antiseptic,” he murmured.

You huffed a laugh. “Occupational hazard.”

He didn’t smile this time.

He reached up, slowly, and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered for a second too long. Barely there. But enough.

The silence between you stretched and pulsed.

“I keep thinking about that night,” he said quietly. “Not the part where I broke. The part after.”

You waited.

He looked down. “The way you held me. Like I wasn’t dangerous. Like I wasn’t… a mess.”

“You weren’t,” you said, just as softly. “You were hurting. That’s not the same thing.”

His throat bobbed.

“I keep wondering if I can ask for more.”

Your breath caught.

“More?”

His hand moved—hesitating—then rested over yours on the couch cushion. His thumb brushed the back of your knuckles.

“More of this. Of you.”

You turned your palm slowly, letting his fingers intertwine with yours. “You can always ask.”

He leaned closer.

Not all the way.

Just enough that you could feel the question between you. On his breath. In the slow, deliberate way his forehead came to rest against yours again.

“I want to kiss you,” he whispered. “But I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You won’t.”

You saw it in his eyes before he moved.

That flicker of courage.

Then, finally, finally, his lips touched yours.

Soft. Careful. Like he was afraid you might vanish if he held on too tightly.

You kissed him back with the same reverence.

Not rushed. Not hungry.

Just present.

When he pulled back, he rested his head against your shoulder and exhaled shakily.

“I didn’t think I’d ever have something like this again.”

“You do,” you said, threading your fingers into his hair. “You have me.”

He didn’t speak after that. He didn’t need to.

He just curled closer into your side, hand still in yours, heart steadying against your ribs.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky didn’t mean to fall asleep.

He hadn’t even realized he’d drifted off until the pale light of dawn slipped through the blinds and warmed the back of his neck. The med bay was quiet—too quiet for how often he used to wake up in places just like it, sweating and gasping, the world blurring between then and now.

But not this time.

Because he wasn’t alone.

He was on the narrow cot, one arm draped around your waist, his metal fingers resting gently over the curve of your ribs. Your hand was tucked against his chest, and your breath moved steady beneath his collarbone.

Safe.

Real.

His first instinct was to move. To pull away before he made it strange or uncomfortable. Before the fragile spell of last night broke in the daylight.

But then you shifted—just slightly—and your arm tightened around him.

“Mornin’,” you mumbled into his chest.

He relaxed again instantly.

“Morning,” he said, voice scratchy from sleep.

You tilted your chin up to look at him, your hair a little messy, your eyes soft and still half-lidded with dreams. You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned closer.

“How long have you been awake?” you asked.

“A few minutes.”

“You okay?”

He paused.

Then nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think I am.”

You smiled, and it was brighter than any sunrise he’d ever seen.

He watched you for a while in the quiet. The way your fingers traced small circles on his shirt. The way you didn’t look afraid of him—didn’t look like you were waiting for him to disappear.

“I never thought I’d get to wake up next to someone like this again,” he said suddenly. “Like I wasn’t some weapon stored on a shelf between missions.”

“You’re not,” you said gently. “You’re a person. You always were.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just leaned in and pressed his lips to your temple.

It wasn’t a hungry kiss. It wasn’t desperate.

It was home.

“I want more mornings like this,” he said, words muffled against your skin. “With you.”

You looked up at him, and the way you smiled—it cracked something open in him, something tender and unguarded.

“You can have them,” you whispered. “As many as you want.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Later, you sat together on the edge of the cot, coffee in mismatched mugs, your knees bumping. The tower was slowly waking up, the distant sound of Tony arguing with someone echoing faintly through the floor.

“You ever think about the future?” Bucky asked suddenly.

You glanced sideways at him. “Sometimes.”

He hesitated. “Does it ever… include me?”

You reached over and linked your fingers through his again.

“It always did.”

He looked at your joined hands. Then back at you.

And for once, he didn’t look afraid of the future.

He looked like he was ready to live it.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The sun filtered through the kitchen window, casting long golden lines across the hardwood floor. It was quiet—just the low hum of the fridge, the faint chirp of birds outside the balcony, and the occasional soft clink of a spoon against a mug.

Bucky stood barefoot at the counter, shirt rumpled from sleep, hair falling into his eyes. He was stirring sugar into your tea the way you liked it—two spoonfuls, not stirred too long, always in that chipped navy mug.

He didn’t need to ask anymore. He just knew.

He turned around and found you leaning against the doorway, arms folded, smile blooming sleep-slow and soft.

“You watching me again?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

You shrugged. “It’s a good view.”

He huffed a laugh and handed you the mug, brushing a kiss across your temple as you took it.

“You sleep okay?” he asked, voice low, gentle.

You nodded. “Yeah. No nightmares.”

“Me either.”

It still felt a little like a miracle when he could say that. And mean it.

You moved to sit at the little table by the window—the one he’d insisted on fixing himself when one of the legs got wobbly. The sun warmed your back as he joined you, sitting sideways so his knee pressed against yours under the table.

You watched him watch the light play across the surface of your tea.

“Y’know,” he said after a long moment, “for a long time I thought I didn’t get to have stuff like this. Mornings. Kitchens. You.”

You reached for his hand. His flesh hand. Warm and calloused and steady.

“You do,” you said. “You fought for it. You let yourself want it. That counts for something.”

He looked at you like you were still a little unreal. Like you were the first good thing that hadn’t slipped through his fingers.

“Every morning I wake up next to you,” he said, voice quiet and clear, “I remember that I made it out.”

You leaned over and kissed him—slow and familiar and home.

When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, just like he had the first time. Only this time, there was no fear behind it. Just love.

“Stay with me,” he whispered. “Not just here. Always.”

You smiled.

“Try and get rid of me.”

Because the tears were already falling.

The lyrics blurred behind the swell in your throat. You tried to blink them away, keep singing, but the sob broke free mid-line. Your chest heaved, and your hand flew up to your mouth as emotion overtook you. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t embarrassment.

It was joy. Pure, overwhelming, holy crap I made it joy.

The crowd began to cheer louder, and you let it out. You’ve earned this.

From the third row, Bucky watched with a hand clamped over his heart.

Your voice, trembling but radiant. The way you clutched the mic with both hands like it was the only thing grounding you. The tears shining on your cheeks, lit by the spotlight.

He was crying, too.

The proudest man in the arena.

He’d watched you fight for every step of this. All the nights you fell asleep in the studio with your lyrics in your lap. The mornings you woke up hoarse but still humming. The times you cried against his chest, wondering if it would ever be your name on a billboard. And now?

Now you were glowing.

After the final note, the arena exploded with applause. The tears were unstoppable now, mascara tracking down your face in smudgy rivers of happiness.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Backstage was a blur of hugs and congratulations. But your heart was only looking for one person.

Then you saw him.

He was already rushing toward you, eyes glassy, arms wide open.

“Bucky—”

He caught you in a full-body hug that nearly lifted you off the ground. His arms wrapped around you like he was trying to protect you from everything—when really, you were weightless.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, voice thick. “You were… God, baby, you were incredible.”

You sobbed against his chest, fingers gripping the back of his shirt. “I couldn’t stop crying—on stage—I thought I’d mess it all up, but I just—”

“Shh, no. You didn’t mess up anything,” he murmured, pressing kiss after kiss into your hair. “You did everything right. Everyone saw how much heart you have, how real you are. That’s what made it beautiful.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes red-rimmed, nose pink. “You saw me?”

“I saw you,” he said, framing your face in his hands. “The woman who worked her ass off to get here. The love of my life, lighting up the whole damn stage.”

You burst into tears again. Happy, exhausted, completely overwhelmed. Bucky kissed your cheeks where the tears had fallen, soft and slow. He kissed the tip of your nose, your temple, your lips.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he said, tugging you close again. “You made it. And I’m gonna keep reminding you of that for the rest of your life.”

You buried your face in his shoulder, arms wrapped around him like a lifeline.

Out there, the lights were dimming.

But in here—in his arms—you were still glowing.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The door shut behind you with a soft click.

You stood still for a moment, just inside the hotel room, letting the silence settle around you like a blanket. Your shoulders sagged. Not with defeat—no. This was release. Relief. The sheer emotional comedown after flying higher than you ever had before.

Your skin still glowed faintly from stage lights and stardust, but your eyes felt heavy with happy tears, and your throat ached from holding back sobs through smiling lips.

Bucky watched you with a soft expression, keys still in one hand, the other already reaching for you. “Come here, doll.”

You didn’t even have to think. You crossed the plush carpet and melted into his chest.

For a while, you just stood like that—arms around his waist, cheek pressed against his heartbeat. He swayed you gently, like music was still playing even though the room was silent.

“I can’t believe that really happened,” you murmured against him.

He leaned down and kissed your hair. “I can.”

You let out a breathy, tear-laced laugh. “I cried through half the song.”

“And it was perfect.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, brushing a thumb under your eye where a smear of mascara still lingered. “You were real. That’s what made it magic.”

“You cried too,” you teased, even though your voice cracked.

“Damn right I did,” he said without shame. “Saw you up there, all lit up, singin’ your heart out and I lost it. You were shinin’, baby.”

You looked down, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I still feel like I’m dreaming.”

“You’re not.” He tipped your chin back up. “You did this. You climbed the mountain. Tonight was yours.”

A few quiet seconds passed. Then Bucky gently peeled the jacket from your shoulders, guiding you to sit on the edge of the bed. “Let’s get you comfy, sweetheart.”

He found the softest hoodie in your suitcase—his, actually—and slipped it over your head. Helped you into fuzzy socks. Then he sat behind you on the bed, legs on either side of yours, and picked up your hairbrush from the nightstand.

“You don’t have to—” you started.

“I want to,” he said softly. “Let me take care of you now.”

You exhaled, shoulders loosening. “Okay.”

He brushed your hair in slow, careful strokes, working through tangles with the same gentleness he used when holding broken things he wanted to heal. Every pass of the brush seemed to calm the leftover storm inside you, grounding you in this safe, quiet moment.

“You remember,” you said eventually, voice small, “back when I played that open mic in Brooklyn? And there were only like seven people there—including the barista?”

He smiled. “And one drunk guy who kept yelling for Free Bird.”

You laughed again, watery and warm. “You said someday I’d sing for a full house.”

He kissed the back of your neck. “And I meant it. I always believed in you.”

Tears welled again, unbidden. You turned toward him, crawling into his lap, straddling his thighs and pressing your face to his chest. “Thank you. For every ride to rehearsal. Every pep talk. Every time you listened to me sing the same verse ten times.”

His arms wrapped tight around you. “Thank you, for not giving up. For keeping your dream alive.”

You pulled back just enough to kiss him—slow and deep and grateful.

When you finally parted, he cupped your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye. “You feel it now?” he asked softly. “You believe it’s real?”

You nodded, more tears slipping free. “Yeah. I think I finally do.”

He smiled. “Good. ‘Cause this is just the beginning, baby.”

You fell asleep wrapped in his arms, still wearing his hoodie, head tucked under his chin. Outside the window, the city pulsed on. But in that room, everything was still. Soft. Safe. Yours.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You woke slowly.

The kind of slow where sleep clings to you like a second skin, where the sunlight filtering through the curtains feels soft enough to be music. You were still in Bucky’s hoodie, the faint scent of him wrapped around you like a shield. Your body was sore in the way that meant you lived something big. Voice rough. Eyes puffy. But your heart?

Your heart felt weightless.

You rolled over to find the other side of the bed empty—but warm. And then you saw the note.

A little torn page from the hotel notepad, placed neatly beside the pillow.

“Good morning, superstar. Coffee’s brewing. Don’t move until I get back. I have something for you. — B”

You blinked at the note, heart doing a quiet flip. His handwriting was always a little crooked—like it was in a rush to get to the part where he got to say your name.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open, and Bucky appeared—his hair still damp from a shower, sleeves pushed up, holding a tray with two mugs and something tucked under his arm.

“You’re awake,” he said, smiling softly.

“I’m never sleeping again,” you mumbled, sitting up with a yawn. “Might miss something perfect.”

He set the tray down on the nightstand and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You’re such a sap.”

“You love it.”

He chuckled, pulling something out from under his arm. “Okay, okay. Before coffee, I need to give you this.”

You looked up as he handed you… a small, hardcover book. Handmade. The kind where every page had been carefully chosen, arranged, and loved into place.

You blinked. “What is this?”

“Open it.”

You flipped the cover back and nearly gasped.

It was a scrapbook. Your journey.

Photos of your first tiny shows. Your lyrics scribbled on napkins. A picture of you rehearsing in your pajamas, hair a mess, mouth wide open in mid-note. Concert posters. Ticket stubs. Every little moment leading up to last night.

At the back, there was a QR code printed neatly on the last page.

You looked up at him, stunned. “What’s this?”

“It’s your playlist,” Bucky said, voice suddenly a little tight. “I made it for you. Every video I’ve ever found of your performances. From the bad audio clips in cafés to last night—it’s all there. The whole journey.”

You stared at him, tears filling your eyes. “You made me a time capsule?”

“I made you a love letter,” he said, kneeling on the bed in front of you. “Because I want you to remember how far you’ve come. When things get hard again, and they will—you’ll have this. Proof that you’re magic.”

You launched into his arms so hard he nearly fell backward.

“Thank you,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t deserve you.”

He pulled back, brushing a thumb over your cheek with a look so full of love it made your chest ache. “Sweetheart, if anyone’s the lucky one—it’s me.”

He handed you your coffee with a wink, then slid under the covers with you, one arm around your waist as you opened the scrapbook again. You scrolled through the playlist on your phone as the audio of your first recorded performance crackled through the tiny speaker.

It was off-key. It was raw.

It was you, at the beginning.

Bucky kissed your temple. “Look how far you’ve come, my star.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s POV

There’s something wrong.

It starts small. A flicker in your periphery, a breath of movement that vanishes when you turn your head. The feeling crawls up your spine in the dark, in the quiet. You tell yourself it’s paranoia—too many crime shows, too many overactive thoughts.

But then your door is unlocked when you know you locked it. Your coffee cup isn’t where you left it. Your books shift on the shelves.

And tonight, you feel it stronger than ever.

A presence.

You walk faster, breath tight in your chest. Your apartment building is just ahead. You don’t run. Running makes you prey. You don’t look back. Looking back makes it real.

Your fingers tremble as you key in the code. The door clicks. You push inside, shutting it behind you, locking it—twice. The silence presses against your ears.

You let out a slow breath. Maybe you’re imagining it. Maybe—

The shadows move.

And then a hand clamps over your mouth.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky’s POV

She fights.

She’s small, but she’s fast, sharp, fierce. Her elbow connects with his ribs, and it stirs something inside him that Hydra buried deep—something close to admiration. But she’s hurt now, a jagged cut on her temple from when they grappled against the table.

He should end it.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he stages it. A broken lamp. A shattered window. Blood smeared across the floor. He makes it look like a struggle, like she fought and lost. Like she’s dead.

And then he takes her.

She’s unconscious when he slings her over his shoulder, when he disappears into the dark.

He tells himself she’s just another mission. That it doesn’t matter if he kills her here or later.

That it doesn’t matter at all.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s POV

The first thing you feel is cold. The second is pain.

A sharp, dull ache throbbing at your temple. You groan, shifting, but your hands are bound—loose, but enough to make your heart hammer against your ribs.

You open your eyes.

The room is dark, barely lit by moonlight filtering through a dirty window. There’s a mattress on the floor, a chair in the corner. A figure sits there, silent, watching.

Him.

The man from your apartment.

Panic surges. You try to move, but your body protests. His gaze drops to your side—to the bandage wrapped around your ribs, to the warm blanket draped over you. The details slam into you all at once.

He tended to you.

Your throat tightens. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer.

But he’s listening.

You test the waters. “You could have killed me.”

His jaw shifts. A muscle ticks.

“You didn’t.”

Nothing.

The silence stretches, thick as smoke. But he hasn’t hurt you beyond what happened in the apartment. He bandaged you. Kept you warm. There’s food on the floor beside the mattress—bread, a bottle of water.

You’re not sure what this is.

You only know one thing.

This man was sent to kill you, but he didn’t.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky’s POV

She should be afraid of him.

She was at first. But now—now she watches him differently. Still cautious. Still careful. But not just with fear. With something else. Something soft.

She touches him.

Little things. Fingers brushing his wrist when he sets down water. A light press of her hand when he adjusts her bandages. At first, he flinches. He doesn’t understand why she does it, why she tries to reach him.

No one reaches for him.

But she does.

And the worst part?

He lets her.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s POV

You learn his patterns.

He doesn’t talk much, but he listens. You test the boundaries, offering small words, small moments. Thanking him when he brings you food. When he tends to the wound he gave you.

And every time you touch him—just a brush of fingers, a fleeting press—something in him pauses.

Something cracks.

You don’t know who he is.

But you know one thing:

He wasn’t supposed to keep you alive.

And yet, here you are.

And he keeps coming back.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s POV

You don’t ask for his name.

You want to. The question sits on your tongue, waiting for the right moment, but something in you knows he won’t answer. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

So instead, you give him a piece of yourself first.

“You know my name.” Your voice is quiet, steady. “I don’t know yours.”

The soldier—your captor, your savior, the contradiction you don’t understand—stills.

It’s the first time you’ve seen real hesitation in him.

Your heart pounds, but you don’t push. Instead, you press your hand to the bandage on your ribs, letting the sting ground you.

“Can I call you something?” you ask.

Nothing.

Your fingers trace the blanket he left for you, gathering the courage to try again.

“I could just call you ‘Ghost.’” You meet his eyes. “You never make a sound. You barely exist.”

Something flickers in his gaze.

You swear, for half a second, the corner of his mouth twitches—just a ghost of a smirk before it’s gone, buried beneath whatever cold, brutal force is keeping him locked away.

Then, he stands and leaves.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky’s POV

She’s smart.

Too smart.

She doesn’t push, but she doesn’t cower either. He expected her fear to last longer. Expected her to keep her distance, to shrink from him.

But instead—

Instead, she reaches.

Touches.

Watches him like she sees something inside him worth saving.

And it’s dangerous.

Because the more she looks at him like that, the harder it is to remember why she’s here.

Why he took her.

Why he didn’t finish the mission.

He should leave her. Let her be a body in the past, just like all the others. But his hands won’t obey the command. Every morning, they bring her food. Water. Bandages when her wound needs tending. And every night, they curl into fists at his sides as he watches her sleep, trying to understand what the hell he’s doing.

She’s just a target.

Just a mission.

But he hasn’t reported back.

And if Hydra finds out—

No.

He won’t let them find out.

He won’t let them have her.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s POV

The first time he lets you touch him without pulling away, it’s barely anything. A featherlight press of your fingers against the back of his hand when he sets down your food. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at you.

But he doesn’t leave.

So you try again.

A week passes. The wound on your ribs is healing, the stiffness fading. You still don’t know where you are, but you know him—at least, more than before.

He doesn’t speak, but he listens. He watches, always watches, like he’s expecting you to break.

But you won’t.

And if you can’t leave, then you’ll find a different way out.

So when he kneels to check your bandages, you reach again. Not your fingers this time. Not something small.

Your hand, curling over his metal wrist.

His whole body goes rigid.

You don’t grip, don’t force it. Just hold. Let your warmth seep into the cold steel, let him choose whether to pull away.

He doesn’t.

And that’s how you know.

Something is changing.

Something has changed.

And whatever happens next—

It’s already too late to go back.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky’s POV

He should pull away, but he doesn’t.

Her hand is warm against the metal, her fingers soft where they curl over his wrist. It’s a gentle thing—careful, patient. Like she’s waiting to see if he’ll shatter.

Like she knows that he might.

He should shove her back, should snap at her for touching what doesn’t belong to him—what belongs to Hydra, what has always belonged to Hydra.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he kneels there, frozen, his mind fractured between instinct and something else. Something unfamiliar.

She doesn’t let go, so neither does he.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s POV

The silence stretches between you.

His arm is heavy beneath your touch, the metal smooth, cool. You trace your thumb over the ridges where steel meets synthetic muscle, where his body has been reforged into something terrifying.

But he’s not terrifying now.

Not in this moment.

He’s still as stone, his breath slow, deliberate. You can feel the tension in him, like he’s waiting for himself to recoil, waiting for the part of him trained to kill to wake up and tear itself free from your touch.

But he doesn’t move.

And that means something.

Carefully, you shift on the mattress, your ribs still aching, and press your other hand to his shoulder—not forceful, just there. Solid. Present. His flesh-and-blood arm twitches, like he’s unsure what to do with the contact.

“It’s okay,” you murmur.

You don’t know why you say it. Maybe for yourself. Maybe for him. Maybe for whatever part of him that still believes he’s the weapon Hydra wants him to be.

His jaw tightens. His gaze flickers.

Then, just as quickly as it started—

He stands.

And this time, when he leaves—

You don’t feel afraid.

You feel something else, something more dangerous.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky’s POV

He doesn’t sleep that night.

Not that he ever really sleeps, but this time is different. This time, it isn’t because of the ghosts in his head, the echoes of commands and missions and kill orders.

It’s because of her.

Because of her hands.

Because she touched him.

Not out of fear. Not to fight.

Not even to manipulate.

Just to touch.

And for the first time in as long as he can remember—

He let her.

His fingers twitch at the memory, something burning in his chest, something he doesn’t know how to name.

Hydra would kill her if they knew.

And they’d reset him.

Erase the part of him that let her live.

Erase the part of him that stayed.

That keeps staying.

His fists clench, breath coming sharp through his nose.

He won’t let them take her.

Even if it means betraying everything he’s ever known.

Even if it means running.

Even if it means breaking the only leash that’s ever held him in place.

Because he isn’t sure he can kill her.

But he’s starting to realize—

He can’t let her go, either.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s POV

You’ve seen his face before—almost.

Flashes of it in the dark, beneath the dim light filtering through the cabin’s single window. The sharp cut of his jaw. The stubble shadowing his cheeks. The deep blue of his eyes, colder than winter, sharper than ice.

But never fully.

Never without the mask.

He never takes it off in front of you, like it’s a shield between what he is and what he used to be. Like he can keep himself separate from this—this thing Hydra made him into—if he just hides enough pieces away.

But you don’t want pieces.

You want him.

Whoever he really is.

You don’t plan it. Maybe you should have. Maybe if you thought about it, you wouldn’t have the courage to do it at all. But he’s sitting close, closer than usual, his body a solid, unmoving presence beside you. His hands rest on his knees—one flesh, one metal. Silent. Watching.

And for once, you’re not afraid of what might happen if you try.

So you reach.

His muscles tense the second your fingers graze the edge of the mask. He doesn’t stop you, but his breath comes slow and careful, like he’s waiting to see what he will do, not just you.

You hesitate, giving him a chance to pull away. To shake you off.

He doesn’t.

So you move again, sliding your fingers beneath the fabric, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath it.

And then—

You lift.

The mask peels away, slow and deliberate, revealing what he’s hidden from you since the beginning.

And God.

He’s beautiful.

Not in a way that feels polished, not in a way that looks safe. He’s all hard lines and bruised knuckles, jaw clenched like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His lips are chapped, his cheekbone shadowed by an old, fading bruise. His hair is longer than you expected, a dark wave curling against his forehead.

And his eyes— They’re tired. Haunted.

And yet, beneath all of it, beneath the sharp edges and the unspoken words, there’s something else. Something human, something real.

You swallow. Your fingers twitch. You don’t even realize they’re still touching him until you try to pull away—

And his metal hand catches yours.

Your breath stutters. He doesn’t grip you hard, doesn’t force it. Just holds you there, pressing your palm against the roughness of his stubbled cheek.

Like he needs it. Like he needs you.

Your heart pounds, but you don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just let him decide.

He leans into it.

Just a little. Just enough that you feel the shift, the warmth of him beneath your touch. His eyes close for a fraction of a second, like he’s letting himself have this moment. Like he’s letting you in.

And when he finally speaks, voice rough, barely a whisper—

It’s not a command.

Not a threat.

It’s just your name.

Like it means something.

Like you mean something.

And for the first time—

You start to believe that maybe, just maybe—

He was never meant to be your captor.

Maybe he was meant to be yours.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky’s POV

She should be afraid.

She should have been afraid from the beginning.

But now—now she touches him like he isn’t a weapon. Like he isn’t the thing Hydra sharpened into something lethal. Her hand is still warm against his face, her fingers barely trembling.

And she doesn’t pull away.

She should.

But she doesn’t.

His grip on her wrist loosens, but he doesn’t let go. Just holds her there, letting the warmth of her skin sink into the cold metal of his palm. Letting himself feel it.

Letting himself want.

The feeling is foreign. Unstable. Want has never belonged to him. He has never been given the luxury of choice.

But now, with her— She’s giving him a choice, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. So he doesn’t move.

Not until she whispers his name.

Not the one Hydra gave him.

Not Soldier.

Not Ghost.

His real one.

“Bucky.”

And just like that—

Everything falls apart.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s POV

He’s still. Too still.

You don’t know what he’s thinking, but you know he’s feeling. You can see it in the way his breath tightens, the way his grip on you hesitates, like he’s afraid of what might happen if he holds on too long.

Like he’s afraid of what happens if he doesn’t.

You say his name again, softer this time. Not demanding. Just… offering.

And that’s when he moves.

It’s slow, hesitant, as if every instinct in him is screaming to retreat. But he doesn’t. He leans. Just a fraction, just enough that you can feel his breath ghost across your lips.

Your pulse jumps.

But you don’t move.

You wait.

Because this—this—needs to be his choice.

His decision.

And when he finally, finally speaks, voice rough, almost a whisper—

“Sit still.”

Your breath catches.

He says it like a warning. Like he might break apart if you shift even a little. But his fingers are careful when they brush against your jaw, his touch hesitant, uncertain.

And when his lips finally press against yours—

It’s not forceful. Not desperate.

It’s soft.

A slow, searching thing, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to have it, but he wants to try anyway.

You let him.

You sit still, just like he asked. Letting him explore, letting him figure out what it means to want something, to take something without it being stolen, without it being forced.

And when he pulls back, just slightly, his forehead resting against yours—

You don’t open your eyes.

You just breathe.

And so does he.

Like for the first time in a long, long time—

The forensic scientist in question—you—wobbled but managed to right yourself before disaster struck. You shot him a glare as you readjusted your Jeffersonian ID badge. “Not my fault this crime scene is a swamp. And it’s not luck, it’s physics. Slippery surfaces, unstable ground, and a lack of proper traction—”

“That sounds an awful lot like an excuse for bad luck,” Spencer countered.

You huffed but couldn’t argue. You were a forensic scientist, not a field agent, and being thrown into an active crime scene with the BAU was not in your usual job description. You were used to working in the pristine, controlled environment of the Jeffersonian Institute—not chasing serial killers through the backwoods of Virginia.

And yet, here you were.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It all started with a body—or rather, bodies. Multiple skeletal remains had been discovered in various locations across the D.C.-Virginia border, the work of a particularly meticulous serial killer. The BAU had been called in due to the pattern of abductions matching an existing profile, but given the advanced state of decomposition, the FBI had reached out to the Jeffersonian for forensic assistance.

That’s how you ended up here—cold, wet, and questioning all of your life choices.

Agent Hotchner, ever the professional, barely batted an eye at the tension between you and Reid. “Dr. (L/N), thank you for assisting us. Dr. Brennan recommended you personally.”

You straightened your back. Temperance Brennan doesn’t recommend people lightly. “I specialize in isotopic analysis and forensic taphonomy. If your unsub is moving bodies across state lines, I can determine where they were before they ended up here.”

Hotch nodded approvingly. “That would be extremely useful.”

Reid, however, still looked skeptical. “That’s assuming there’s a pattern in the body disposal locations. If the killer is deliberately choosing random drop sites—”

You crossed your arms. “Then I can still tell you about the soil composition, insect activity, and post-mortem damage, which could help narrow down a timeline. It’s basic forensic science, Doctor Reid.”

A small smirk twitched at the corner of Hotch’s lips as he turned away. “Work with Dr. Reid and see what you can find.”

You and Reid stared at each other for a beat too long before sighing simultaneously.

“Fine,” you said.

“Fine,” he echoed.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Back at the Jeffersonian, you had the advantage. This was your turf, your lab, your meticulously organized work environment. And Spencer Reid—despite his genius—was a little out of place.

“Don’t touch that,” you warned as he hovered near a set of isotopic samples.

“I wasn’t going to,” he shot back, shoving his hands in his pockets.

You raised a brow. “I literally just watched you reaching for it.”

“It was a reflex!”

“Uh-huh.”

Despite the bickering, you had to admit—Reid was sharp. He picked up on patterns even before you finished running tests, and while his knowledge of forensic anthropology was limited, he had an uncanny ability to connect seemingly random details.

Together, you started to piece together the unsub’s movements. The isotopic analysis revealed that the victims had spent time in an area with a unique mineral composition—suggesting an underground water source near limestone deposits.

Reid’s encyclopedic brain immediately pulled up a connection. “There’s an abandoned mining town about twenty miles west of the last body dump site. It was shut down in the 1980s, but the underground aquifers match your analysis.”

Your eyes widened. “If the bodies were stored there first, that could explain some of the inconsistencies in decomposition rates.”

He nodded excitedly. “Exactly. We need to check it out.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The abandoned town was eerie. Old buildings, rusting equipment, and an unsettling silence. You were with Reid, Morgan, and Booth—because of course Booth had insisted on coming along.

“What are the chances the unsub is actually still here?” you asked, glancing around nervously.

“Statistically?” Reid started, but before he could finish, a gunshot rang out.

“DOWN!” Morgan shouted, pushing you behind cover as bullets ricocheted off the crumbling brick walls.

Your heart pounded as you scrambled for safety. “I am so not cut out for this!”

“Yeah, well, welcome to our world,” Booth muttered, drawing his weapon.

Reid, crouched beside you, looked equally shaken but determined. “Stay close to me.”

“Not like I have many options!”

A tense firefight ensued, but the BAU and Booth’s tactical skills won out. The suspect was apprehended, and the nightmare was over.

Mostly.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Back at the Jeffersonian, you were still rattled. Lab work was one thing. Nearly getting shot was another.

“You okay?” Reid’s voice was softer than usual.

You exhaled. “I will be. Just… not used to being a target.”

“Statistically speaking—”

“Reid,” you warned.

He smirked. “Right. Not helping.”

There was a beat of silence before he hesitated. “For what it’s worth… I think your bad luck might just be situational.”

You gave him a look. “Says the guy who gets kidnapped at least once a year?”

His lips quirked. “Fair point.”

Despite yourself, you laughed. “Guess we’re both unlucky then.”

He nodded. “Yeah. But… maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I mean, we did solve the case together.”

You tilted your head. “Are you saying we make a good team?”

Reid shrugged, but there was a hint of a smile. “I’m saying… maybe luck isn’t the worst thing. As long as you have the right person to balance it out.”

You studied him for a moment before smirking. “Are you flirting with me, Dr. Reid?”

His ears turned red. “W-what? No! I mean—maybe? I just meant that—”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

As you walked away, you couldn’t help but smile. Maybe you were unlucky. But if it meant crossing paths with Spencer Reid?

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Great Hall was the perfect stage. You slid onto the bench beside George one morning, dramatically stealing a piece of toast from his plate.

“Darling, you know how I feel about you taking my food,” he sighed, loud enough for those around you to hear.

“You love me too much to stop me,” you shot back, smirking.

Fred nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. Across the table, Lee Jordan’s eyes widened. You and George? Since when?

A few days later, George draped his arm over your shoulder as you both strolled through the castle. When Angelina asked if you were coming to Quidditch practice, George answered for you.

“Sorry, love, we’ve got plans, don’t we?” He turned to you, eyes glinting with mischief.

You sighed dramatically. “Oh yes, a terribly romantic evening of watching you test new joke products on first-years.”

Angelina’s jaw dropped. “You two are serious, aren’t you?”

“Deadly,” George said solemnly.

Keeping a straight face had never been so difficult.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It wasn’t until the night of a Gryffindor common room party that the whole thing nearly came undone.

Fred had challenged you to a game of Exploding Snap, and George had settled beside you, watching with amusement. The room was loud, filled with laughter and the occasional bang from the game. At some point, you and George had gotten into a debate about who could pull off the best prank.

“Admit it,” you teased, nudging him. “I had Filch convinced his cat was talking to him for a solid hour.”

George snorted. “That was good, but remember when we switched Snape’s tea for Pepperup Potion? I swear, I’ve never seen someone’s ears steam like that.”

The two of you erupted into laughter, doubled over, tears in your eyes. The kind of laughter that made your ribs ache and your stomach hurt.

“I can’t remember the last time I laughed like this,” you gasped between breaths.

George wiped at his eyes, grinning. “Me neither, love.”

It was then you realized how closely everyone was watching. Fred and Lee exchanged glances. Angelina raised an eyebrow.

You and George looked at each other. And then, at the same time, burst out laughing again.

“Alright, alright,” George said, raising his hands in surrender. “We’re not actually dating.”

The room fell silent for half a second before it erupted into groans and exasperated sighs.

“I knew it!” Fred threw a pillow at George. “You absolute gits.”

“You mean I wasted two galleons betting on you?” Lee complained.

“Honestly, I’m more disappointed than surprised,” Angelina muttered.

You reached up, your free hand brushing his cheek, guiding him gently, forcing his eyes to find yours.

And when they did?

Something broke.

Because Eddie Munson was terrified.

Not of this place. Not of the monsters outside.

But of losing you.

“I can’t—” His voice cracked. His fingers dug into your skin. “I can’t—”

You swallowed hard. “You can.”

Eddie laughed. A breathless, wrecked thing. “You’re really something, you know that?”

You tried to smile. “You’ve mentioned.”

He exhaled sharply. “I don’t know how to do this.”

You tilted your head. “Do what?”

Eddie’s eyes flickered over your face, like he was memorizing you, like he was terrified this was the last time he’d ever get to.

Then—softly, brokenly—

“Hold on to something good.”

Your heart stopped.

Because there it was.

The truth.

This wasn’t just about the Upside Down. Wasn’t just about surviving.

This was about you.

You, who had been the one thing he hadn’t expected. You, who had let him pull you in, who had reached back when he was too afraid to.

You, who had made Eddie Munson realize what it felt like to be wanted.

And now, when everything was falling apart, when there was no more time to pretend—

He finally admitted it.

Your chest ached.

Because you needed him to know.

You inhaled sharply, then—without thinking, without overanalyzing, without giving him time to run—

You moved.

Stepped forward, pressed up onto your toes, and kissed him.

Eddie froze.

Then he broke.

His hands grabbed you, desperate, pulling you in, holding on. His lips crashed against yours, messy and needing, like he was trying to memorize you, like he couldn’t stand the idea of letting go.

Because he wouldn’t. Not now. Not ever.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Eddie didn’t let go.

Not when the kiss broke. Not when your foreheads pressed together, both of you breathing hard, the weight of everything hanging in the space between.

His hands were still on you—one curled around the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist like he was afraid to loosen his hold. Like if he did, you’d slip through his fingers.

And you? You weren’t letting go either.

Silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, full.

Then—Eddie exhaled, a breathless, almost disbelieving sound.

And he laughed.

Not loud. Not forced. Just a quiet, shaky thing, like he couldn’t believe this was real.

You swallowed, chest tight. “What?”

Eddie shook his head, barely pulling back enough to look at you. His thumb brushed over your cheek, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing you.

Then—softly, almost helplessly—

“I’m so fucking gone for you.”

Your breath caught.

Because it wasn’t just an admission.

It was everything.

The way he’d been looking at you for weeks. The way he had pulled you into his world without meaning to, the way he had fought this—fought himself—until he couldn’t anymore. Now he was done fighting.

Your fingers curled into his jacket, pulling him closer. “Then don’t go anywhere.”

Eddie inhaled sharply.

Then he kissed you again.

Softer, this time. Sweeter.

Like he was promising something.

Like he was all in.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The others found you minutes later.

Steve groaned. “Oh my god—seriously? Now?”

Nancy ignored him, stepping forward. “We have a problem.”

Eddie sighed, still very much holding onto you. “Oh, great. More problems. I love problems.”

Robin frowned. “We think Vecna knows we’re here.”

Eddie stiffened.

Your stomach dropped.

Nancy’s expression was grim. “We need to move. Now.”

Silence.

Eddie exhaled sharply. Then—reluctantly, reluctantly—he pulled away, his fingers brushing yours one last time before he turned to the group.

And just like that, the moment was over.

But as you followed them out of the trailer, as the storm in the distance rumbled louder, as you felt the wrongness in the air watching—

Eddie reached for you.

Slipped his fingers between yours.

And held on.

Eddie didn’t let go.

Not when the group started moving, slipping through the trees in a tense, breathless silence. Not when the sky overhead rumbled, deep and wrong, a storm of red lightning flashing through the thick clouds.

Not when Vecna’s presence pressed against the air, like a weight settling over your chest, thick and suffocating.

His fingers were wrapped tightly around yours, calloused and warm, his grip unyielding.

Like he was afraid to loosen it.

Like if he let go, something would take you from him.

Nancy led the way, flashlight beam cutting through the dark. Robin and Steve followed close behind, whispering back and forth about their next move, about what the hell they were supposed to do now.

But you barely heard them.

Because Eddie was still holding your hand.

And every so often—just for a second, just barely—his thumb brushed over your knuckles, like he needed to remind himself that you were still here.

Still with him.

Your stomach tightened.

Because it was hitting you now—really hitting you.

This wasn’t just about getting out of here.

This was about Eddie.

Eddie, who had spent his entire life being overlooked. Who had convinced himself that no one ever stayed, that nothing good ever lasted.

And now, after all of it, after the fights and the fears and the almosts

He was finally holding onto something.

You weren’t going to let him lose it.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You reached the clearing near the gate.

Nancy hesitated, lifting her flashlight. “We should be close.”

Eddie exhaled, squeezing your hand once before finally—reluctantly—letting go. “So, uh. What’s the plan, exactly?”

Robin huffed. “Oh, you mean besides the don’t die part?”

Steve sighed. “We get back through the gate, find Dustin and the others, and figure out how the hell to kill this thing.”

Eddie snorted. “Right. Easy. Love that for us.”

Nancy frowned. “We just have to get across the clearing.”

You didn’t like how she said just.

Because the clearing?

It wasn’t empty.

The flying creatures—the bats—were swarming.

Dipping and shrieking, circling the clearing in an endless, twisting pattern of teeth and wings.

Your stomach dropped.

Robin swallowed hard. “Okay. I vote not dying by demon bat.”

Nancy tightened her grip on her gun. “We run.”

Eddie stared at her. “Through that?”

Nancy exhaled. “We don’t have a choice.”

Steve pulled a rusted metal lid from the ground—a makeshift shield—before glancing back at the group. “We go on three.”

Your pulse hammered.

Eddie shifted closer, his fingers brushing yours—just barely, like he wanted to grab your hand again but didn’t trust himself to hold on too tight.

Like he knew he wouldn’t let go.

Steve took a breath. “One.”

The bats shrieked.

Eddie’s hand curled into a fist.

“Two.”

Your heart pounded.

Eddie glanced at you, just once.

And then—

“Three!”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Through the dirt and the wind, through the screeching and the chaos, you ran. Steve swung his makeshift shield at anything that came too close. Nancy fired into the dark, guiding the group forward, her face hard with determination.

Robin stumbled, nearly going down—but Eddie grabbed her, shoved her forward before she could fall behind.

He was right beside you.

Breath hot, fingers skimming yours but not grabbing, like he was forcing himself to let you run on your own.

Like he wanted to hold on but couldn’t.

Then—

A shriek.

A sharp, sudden pain—

And something ripped into your side.

You choked on a gasp.

Because shit, it hurt.

A flash of pain, white-hot and searing, knocking the air from your lungs. You stumbled, your legs giving out beneath you—

And Eddie caught you.

“No—”

His arms wrapped around you, the momentum knocking you both to the ground. The world spun.

Bats dived from the sky, closing in—

Eddie’s arms tightened.

And then—

Steve’s shield slammed into the ground beside you, knocking a bat out of the air. “Get up!”

Eddie hauled you up.

Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think.

Just grabbed you, one arm around your waist, pulling you forward.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You made it through the gate.

Fell through the crack in reality, hitting the ground hard, gasping for air.

Robin tumbled beside you, Steve and Nancy scrambling up behind her.

But Eddie?

Eddie was on you before you could even move.

“Hey—hey—” His hands were everywhere, searching, pressing, checking—his fingers skimming over your ribs, sticky and wet, pulling back to reveal—

Blood.

Your blood.

Eddie’s face went white.

You tried to sit up. “I’m—”

Eddie pressed down, keeping you still. “Don’t—don’t move, okay? Just—shit—just breathe—”

His hands shook.

His eyes flickered up to Steve, panicked. “She’s—fuck—she’s bleeding, Harrington, what do we—”

Steve was already moving, pulling off his jacket, pressing it against your side. “She’s okay—you’re okay,” he said, voice tight, rushed. “It’s not deep. Just—just a scratch.”

Eddie let out a wrecked breath.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t let go.

Didn’t breathe until your fingers curled around his wrist.

Eddie’s gaze snapped back to you.

You swallowed hard, forcing your voice to steady.

“I told you not to go anywhere.”

Eddie let out a broken, relieved laugh.

Then he dropped his forehead against yours.

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Eddie didn’t let go.

Not when Steve pressed his jacket against your side, trying to slow the bleeding. Not when Robin and Nancy hovered nearby, whispering about what to do next. Not even when you winced—his grip only tightened, like he could keep you together by holding on.

Your head was spinning, the pain sharp but distant, like your body hadn’t fully caught up to what had happened yet. But Eddie?

Eddie felt it all.

You could see it in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his breath shook, in the way his fingers curled against your skin like he was desperately trying to keep himself from breaking.

Like if he let go for even a second, this whole thing would slip through his fingers.

And you couldn’t let him think that.

So you reached up, slowly, brushing your fingers against his cheek.

His breath hitched.

Your voice was quiet, weak but firm. “I’m okay.”

Eddie laughed.

A breathless, wrecked thing, like he didn’t know whether to believe you.

“You almost weren’t,” he whispered.

Your chest tightened.

Because that was it. That was what had shaken him.

Not the monsters. Not the gate.

But you.

The idea of losing you.

You swallowed. “But I am.”

Eddie exhaled sharply, like he was trying to believe you, trying to let the words sink in.

Then—without warning—he dropped his head against your shoulder.

His arms wrapped around you, careful but firm, like he needed to feel you there, solid and real and alive.

His breath was shaky against your neck.

“I can’t—” He stopped, shaking his head. “I can’t do this without you.”

Your heart ached.

Because Eddie Munson, the boy who had spent his whole life expecting people to leave—

Was asking you to stay.

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Eddie let out a shaky breath.

Then—softly, desperately—

“Promise?”

You tightened your grip on him.

“I promise.”

Eddie exhaled.

And for the first time since stepping into hell, he finally—finally—let himself believe it.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Eddie didn’t move.

Not even when the others shifted around you, whispering about what to do next, about getting back to Hawkins, about what comes after.

Because right now?

Right now, you were the only thing that mattered.

His arms were still around you, careful but unrelenting, like if he let go, the world might take you away. His breath was uneven, his heart hammering against yours, the weight of what almost happened settling between you both.

And you felt it.

The fear. The helplessness.

The absolute certainty that Eddie Munson would never recover if he lost you.

Your fingers curled against the fabric of his jacket, grounding both of you. “Eddie,” you whispered.

He inhaled sharply.

But he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t lift his head.

Just held on.

“Give me a minute,” he murmured, voice raw. “Just—just a minute, okay?”

Your chest ached.

Because this wasn’t for you.

This was for him.

For the boy who had spent his whole life expecting people to leave. For the boy who had never been given something good without it being taken away.

For the boy who had spent weeks trying not to want you—only to realize he couldn’t survive losing you now.

You exhaled softly.

Then—without hesitation, without fear—you wrapped your arms around him.

Holding him this time.

Eddie’s breath hitched.

Like he hadn’t expected it.

Like he hadn’t realized how much he needed it.

Then, slowly, carefully, he melted into you.

His grip tightened. His fingers curled against your back. His forehead pressed into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

Like he was memorizing you.

Like he needed this moment to be real.

And you let him have it.

Because Eddie Munson had never had something worth holding on to before.

But now?

Now he did.

And he was never letting go.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Eddie hadn’t let go of you in over an hour.

Not fully, anyway.

Even after the bleeding had stopped. Even after Nancy and Steve had agreed that you were okay. Even after the group had packed up and started moving again, heading back to Hawkins, back to whatever came next.

His hand was always on you.

A steadying touch at your back when you stood. His fingers brushing your wrist as you walked side by side. His knee pressed against yours when you sat down to rest.

Small things.

Things that no one else would notice.

But you noticed.

And every time?

Your chest ached.

Because Eddie Munson, who had spent weeks keeping you at a distance, who had convinced himself that letting you in would be a mistake—

Was holding on to you like he couldn’t survive letting go.

And you weren’t going to let him.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The group made it back to Steve’s house just before dawn.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

No one spoke much as they filtered inside, exhaustion heavy in the air.

Robin and Nancy crashed on the couch. Steve disappeared upstairs, muttering something about needing a shower before he “lost his goddamn mind.”

But Eddie?

Eddie didn’t let you out of his sight.

Even now, as you sat on the basement couch, his fingers were curled around yours, his grip tight. His leg bounced restlessly, his face unreadable, like his mind was still stuck back there.

Stuck in the almost.

The what if I lost you.

You squeezed his hand.

Eddie inhaled sharply.

Then—quiet, wrecked—

“I need you to say something.”

You frowned. “Like what?”

Eddie huffed a breathless, almost helpless laugh, shaking his head. “Like—fuck, I don’t know. Tell me I’m losing it. Tell me this whole thing isn’t real. Tell me I didn’t just—” He stopped, running a hand through his curls. “Tell me I didn’t just fall for you in the middle of a goddamn horror movie.”

Your stomach flipped.

Because there it was.

The thing he had been holding back. The thing he had fought for so long.

But now, after all of it—after the running, the fighting, the fear—he wasn’t fighting it anymore.

You swallowed hard. “Eddie.”

He stilled.

Slowly, hesitantly, his eyes lifted to yours.

And you saw everything.

The fear. The exhaustion.

The need.

And, most of all, the certainty.

Because Eddie Munson wasn’t running anymore.

Not from you.

Not from this.

You exhaled. Then—softly, steadily—

“I wouldn’t have let you.”

Eddie’s breath hitched.

Then, before he could say anything else—before he could overthink or panic—you reached up, fingers curling in his jacket, and pulled him in.

And when his lips met yours?

It wasn’t desperate.

It wasn’t panicked.

It was steady.

It was certain.

It was a promise.

Because this wasn’t about almosts anymore, this was real.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Eddie kissed you like he meant it.

Like he had been meaning to for weeks, like it had been building and building, waiting for the moment he finally let himself have it.

And now that he had?

He wasn’t letting go.

His hands slid up, fingers tangling in your hair, his grip careful but firm, like he was grounding himself in you. Your fingers curled into his jacket, pulling him closer, until there was no space left between you, until his breath was your breath, until the only thing in the world was this.

Not the danger. Not the running. Not the things waiting in the dark.

Just you and Eddie.

And when he finally—reluctantly—broke away, he didn’t go far.

Just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath uneven, his heart hammering beneath your hands.

Silence stretched.

Then—soft, wrecked, real—

“I think I’m in trouble.”

Your chest ached.

Because you knew what he meant.

This wasn’t just some heat-of-the-moment thing.

This was Eddie Munson, falling for you, completely and irreversibly, in the middle of the goddamn apocalypse.

And you weren’t going to let him do it alone.

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling tighter in his jacket. “Then we’re both in trouble.”

Eddie inhaled sharply.

Then—before he could second-guess it, before he could panic—you kissed him again.

And this time?

Eddie melted.

Because there was no more pretending.

No more almosts.

No more running.

Just you.

Just this.

And when the world finally stopped falling apart—when the danger was over, when Hawkins was safe again, when Eddie Munson wasn’t a fugitive anymore—

You knew he’d still be holding on to you.

Because this?

This was real.

And Eddie Munson?

Now, you sat on the basement couch, legs tucked beneath you as everyone whispered about Vecna, about gates, about the upside-down things you barely understood. But you weren’t really listening.

Because Eddie was sitting across from you, pretending to be focused on the conversation, but his leg was bouncing, fingers twitching against his knee.

And every so often—just for a flicker of a second—his eyes would land on you.

Like he was making sure you were still there.

Like he wanted to say something.

But he never did.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

That night, when everyone was settling in—Nancy and Robin taking the upstairs couch, Steve muttering something about needing his own bed, thanks—you found yourself back in the basement with Eddie.

Just the two of you.

Again.

He stretched out on the couch, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting against his stomach. You were on the floor with a blanket wrapped around you, curled up in the corner like you were trying to take up as little space as possible.

It should’ve felt normal.

But it wasn’t.

Because Eddie hadn’t looked at you since you came downstairs.

And you hated that you noticed.

You cleared your throat. “You okay?”

Eddie huffed a laugh, staring at the ceiling. “I mean, let’s see—I’m wanted for murder, I just watched a guy levitate and snap like a twig, and now I’m hiding out in Steve Harrington’s basement like some stray dog.” He turned his head, finally meeting your eyes. “So, yeah, y’know. I’m great.”

You tried to smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “At least the couch is nice?”

Eddie snorted. “Yeah. Fancy as hell. Figures.”

Silence stretched between you. Not awkward, but heavy. You could feel it again, that same tension from before. The thing neither of you were acknowledging.

And maybe it was because you were exhausted, or because Eddie looked so damn tired—but you spoke before you could stop yourself.

“You can talk to me, you know.”

Eddie blinked.

You swallowed. “If you need to.”

He exhaled, staring at you for a long moment.

Then—carefully—he shifted, swinging his legs off the couch so he was sitting instead of lying down. His elbows rested on his knees, fingers clasped together as he studied you.

“You always this nice to murder suspects?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You hesitated. Then, without thinking, you answered honestly.

“Just you.”

Eddie froze.

His fingers twitched. His breath hitched, just slightly, but you caught it.

And suddenly, the air felt too warm.

You hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t meant to make it sound like—like more. But Eddie’s face had shifted, something unreadable behind his eyes, something that made your pulse hammer.

Like he knew.

Like he was realizing it too.

You were about to backpedal, about to say never mind, about to run

But then, Eddie did something you didn’t expect.

He sighed. And then, before you could stop him, before you could even process it—

He reached out, just for a second. Just long enough to hook his pinkie.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Eddie’s fingers barely brushed yours.

It wasn’t an accident.

It wasn’t like the times before, when he’d grabbed your wrist in a panic or held your hand without thinking. This was intentional. Deliberate. A quiet, cautious reach.

And you didn’t move away.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

His pinky hooked around yours, just barely—so barely that if you pulled away, if you pretended it hadn’t happened, maybe he wouldn’t stop you. Maybe he’d let it slip between you like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing.

Eddie swallowed hard. His eyes flicked up to yours, like he was checking, like he was giving you time—and for a moment, just a single, fragile moment, you thought he might actually say something.

Might acknowledge this thing that had been hanging between you for days.

Might say I see it too.

Then—

Footsteps upstairs.

The creak of a door.

A voice.

“Eddie? You awake?”

Steve.

Eddie jerked back like he’d been caught, yanking his hand away and rubbing it over his face like he could erase the last thirty seconds from existence.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

Your stomach twisted.

Steve clomped down the basement stairs, oblivious. “Dustin just called. Said they’re coming back in the morning with an actual plan, which—about damn time.” He frowned at you both, standing at the bottom of the stairs with his arms crossed. “You guys good? You look weird.”

Eddie let out a too loud laugh, shaking out his hands. “Pfft—yeah, man, totally. Just, uh, processing my tragic fall from grace. You know how it is.”

Steve gave him a look, but didn’t push. “Right. Well, try to get some sleep. This whole shitshow’s just getting started.”

He turned and disappeared up the stairs, leaving you and Eddie alone again.

But it wasn’t the same.

Because Eddie wouldn’t look at you now.

He stayed on the couch, legs stretched out, fingers tapping restlessly against his knee. The easy, quiet moments from before were gone, replaced by something tense and unfinished.

You wanted to say something.

Wanted to ask if he’d felt it too.

But instead, you swallowed hard, curled up tighter in your blanket, and let the silence swallow you both.

Because Eddie Munson had almost crossed the line.

And he’d pulled back.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Eddie avoided you the next morning.

Not obviously. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But you noticed.

Noticed how he kept his distance. How he cracked jokes with the others, threw himself into whatever half-baked plan Dustin was explaining, but never once looked directly at you.

Like if he did, something might break.

You hated it.

The worst part? You didn’t know what to do. You weren’t used to this—to whatever this was. The shift. The weight of the thing sitting between you, unsaid but there.

Before, it had been easy.

Eddie had always been the one pulling you in, closing the space, making you feel seen when you never expected to be. But now?

Now he was holding himself back, and you didn’t know how to pull him back in.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Hours passed. Plans were made.

You barely kept up.

Nancy and Robin went off to investigate Victor Creel. Steve and the kids left to gather supplies. That left you and Eddie alone again, waiting in the basement for word from the others.

It was the first time you’d been alone since last night.

And Eddie still wasn’t looking at you.

You sat on the couch, knees pulled up to your chest, watching as he paced—fidgeting with his rings, drumming his fingers against his thigh.

Finally, you broke.

“Are you mad at me?”

Eddie froze.

Then, slowly, he turned to face you. “What?”

Your throat was tight. “You’re acting weird.”

His fingers twitched. “I’m always weird, sweetheart.”

You frowned. “Eddie.”

Something in his face cracked at the way you said his name. But he just ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Look, it’s—it’s not you, okay? It’s just—”

He stopped himself, shaking his head.

Your chest ached. “Then what is it?”

Silence.

Thick, heavy, unbearable.

And then—quiet, reluctant—

“You scare me.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

Eddie huffed, pacing again, rubbing the back of his neck. “You—this—whatever the hell is happening here—” He gestured wildly between you. “It’s throwing me off, okay? Because this isn’t how it’s supposed to go.”

Your pulse hammered. “What do you mean?”

Eddie let out a dry laugh. “I mean—I’m me, and you’re you. I’m loud, and ridiculous, and a goddamn trainwreck, and you’re—” He stopped, looking at you. “You’re not.”

You swallowed hard. “That’s not a reason to avoid me.”

Eddie ran both hands down his face. “Jesus Christ.” Then, suddenly, he was in front of you, dropping onto the couch beside you, close enough that your knees nearly touched. “You don’t get it,” he muttered.

Your breath caught. “Then tell me.”

Eddie let out a slow, shaky breath. He was looking at you now. Really looking at you, like he was seeing the weight of what this had become—what it had always been.

Then, voice rough—almost helpless—

“I don’t know how to not want you.”

The world stopped.

You swore your heart forgot how to beat.

Eddie’s expression flickered, like he regretted saying it, like he wanted to shove the words back in his mouth and pretend they’d never happened.

But they had.

And there was no taking them back.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, slowly, carefully, you reached out—mirroring what he had done the night before.

Your fingers brushed his. And this time? He didn’t pull away.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Eddie didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Your fingers were barely touching—just like last night, just like that first tentative reach that neither of you had acknowledged. But this time, there was no pretending it hadn’t happened.

Because he’d said it.

I don’t know how to not want you.

And you hadn’t run.

Eddie’s breath was uneven. His fingers twitched against yours, like he was debating something, like he was right there—

And then, quietly—almost brokenly—

“This is a bad idea.”

Your heart clenched.

“Why?”

Eddie huffed a dry laugh. “Do I really need to list the reasons?”

You swallowed. “I want to hear them anyway.”

Eddie finally looked at you, really looked at you, his dark eyes full of something you couldn’t quite name. “Because I’m not safe to be around right now,” he said, voice rough. “Because I’m a goddamn fugitive, and the entire town thinks I’m a murderer. Because I’m probably not making it out of this in one piece, sweetheart.”

His fingers curled slightly around yours, like he shouldn’t be doing it but couldn’t help it.

“And because,” he added, voice quieter now, “if I let this happen—if I let myself happen—I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

Your pulse pounded.

Because that was it. That was everything.

This wasn’t just him hesitating because of the situation. This was him. Eddie, who had spent his entire life being too much, too loud, too big for the world around him. Who had probably convinced himself that if he wanted something too much, if he held on too tightly, it would slip through his fingers.

He was scared.

Scared of you.

Scared of this.

And something inside you snapped.

Before you could overthink it, before he could talk himself out of this any more, you moved.

You turned your hand over, fingers slipping between his, fully holding him this time.

Eddie inhaled sharply.

“Then don’t stop,” you whispered.

For a second, just a second, you swore the entire world stopped spinning.

Eddie was looking at you like he didn’t know whether to run or pull you in. His fingers tightened around yours, his breathing uneven, his eyes flickering down to your lips—

And then, suddenly, there was a noise upstairs.

Eddie flinched.

You both jerked back like you’d been caught doing something forbidden, breaking apart just as Steve’s voice drifted down the stairs. “Hey, Munson, you decent?”

Eddie ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. Then, before you could say anything—before you could pull him back in—he was on his feet.

Like he was escaping. Your chest ached. Because it had almost happened. Almost.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Eddie avoided you.

Again.

Not in a way that anyone else would notice—he still talked to you, still joked, still acted like himself—but you weren’t stupid.

You saw the difference.

The way he never let himself sit too close. The way his fingers twitched when yours were near, like he wanted to reach for you but wouldn’t let himself. The way his eyes flickered down to your lips when he thought you weren’t looking—

And the way he always looked away.

Like he was forcing himself to forget.

Like he was trying to pretend that what happened in the basement hadn’t meant anything.

It pissed you off.

Because he could run from this all he wanted, but you knew the truth. You’d felt it. The weight of his hand in yours, the way he had frozen when you told him then don’t stop.

So fine.

If Eddie Munson wasn’t going to stop running, you were going to make him.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The opportunity came later that night.

Steve had taken the others out to gather supplies. It was just you and Eddie in the basement again—alone, like the universe was handing you this moment on a silver platter.

And you weren’t going to waste it.

Eddie was sitting on the couch, flipping through a magazine, pretending to be totally fine. But you saw how his knee was bouncing, how his jaw was tight, how he kept glancing at you like he was waiting for you to say something.

So you did.

“You’re doing it again.”

Eddie stiffened. “Doing what?”

You turned to him, arms crossed. “Pretending.”

Eddie let out a dry laugh. “Sweetheart, you’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

You ignored his sarcasm. “You’re acting like nothing happened.”

Eddie’s fingers twitched on the magazine. But he didn’t look at you. “Because nothing did.”

Your chest tightened. “You don’t believe that.”

He flinched.

And that was it. That was the final straw.

Because you were done letting him run from this. From you.

So, before he could say anything else, before he could throw up another bullshit excuse, you moved.

You crossed the room and stood in front of him, close enough that his knees brushed yours. Close enough that he had to look at you.

He did.

And oh, he was panicking.

You could see it in the way his throat bobbed, in the way his fingers gripped the magazine now like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

And then, softly—

“Say it.”

Eddie blinked. “What?”

You exhaled. “Say it didn’t mean anything.”

Eddie’s mouth opened—then closed.

He looked wrecked.

Because you both knew he couldn’t say it.

Not without lying.

Not without breaking.

Silence.

Thick, unbearable silence.

Then, finally—almost defeated—

“You’re killing me, sweetheart.”

Your breath caught.

Eddie exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face like he was mad at himself. “I can’t—” He stopped, shaking his head. “This isn’t a good idea. You know it’s not a good idea.”

Your chest ached. “Why?”

Eddie let out a broken laugh. “Are you kidding? Because you deserve better than—than this.” He gestured at himself. “I’m a goddamn mess. I have nothing to give you. And even if I did—” His voice cracked. “We might not make it out of this.”

Your throat was tight. “Eddie—”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “You don’t get it. If I let this happen—if I let you happen—I won’t be able to let go.” His voice was raw now, barely above a whisper. “And I can’t lose you.”

God.

You felt like you couldn’t breathe.

Because this was it.

This was Eddie Munson, who filled every room he entered, who talked too much and laughed too loud and made you feel something you’d never felt before—

And he was terrified.

Not of dying.

Not of the monsters.

But of loving you.

So you made the choice for him.

You reached out, fingers curling around his—gently, firmly—and held on.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Eddie didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away.

Didn’t do anything except sit there, fingers curled around yours like he was afraid that if he let go, this whole thing would disappear.

His breathing was uneven. His eyes were locked on your hand in his, like he couldn’t believe it was real.

And then—soft, raw, barely above a whisper—

“You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Your chest ached.

Because he meant it.

He wasn’t pushing you away to be cruel, wasn’t trying to hurt you—he genuinely believed that this was a mistake. That you’d wake up one day and regret this, regret him.

And you couldn’t stand it.

So you did something reckless.

Something you’d never done before.

You moved closer.

Slow, deliberate—so there was no mistaking it, no pretending it was an accident. You shifted until your knees brushed his, until you were close enough to see the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers tightened around yours.

Then, carefully—so, so carefully—you reached up with your free hand and touched his face.

Eddie froze.

Your fingers barely grazed his cheek, but it was enough. Enough for him to feel it. To feel you.

You swallowed. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Eddie’s eyes darkened.

For a second, he just stared at you—like he was searching for something, waiting for you to hesitate, to take it back.

You didn’t.

So he broke.

The tension snapped all at once.

Eddie moved, his hands coming up to cradle your face as his lips crashed into yours, desperate and messy and so overdue that it made your head spin.

He kissed you like he was starving for it. Like he had been holding this in for weeks, fighting it, running from it—

And now he was done running.

His fingers curled into the back of your sweater, holding on like he was afraid you might slip away. His rings were cold against your skin, a contrast to the warmth of his hands, the heat of his mouth on yours.

And god, he kissed you like he meant it.

Like he was terrified of losing you.

Like he never wanted to stop.

By the time you broke apart, both of you were breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, hands still tangled in each other’s clothes.

Eddie let out a shaky breath. Then, barely above a whisper—

“…Shit.”

You huffed a breathless laugh, hands still fisted in his shirt. “Yeah.”

Eddie pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes flickering over your face like he was still trying to believe this was real. “You’re sure about this?” he murmured.

You didn’t even hesitate.

“I’ve never been more sure.”

Eddie inhaled sharply.

Then he smiled—soft and real and so full of something you couldn’t name—

And pulled you in again.

Because this time? There were no more almosts.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t let go.

Not when Eddie kissed you again, slower this time—like he was memorizing it, like he couldn’t believe this was real. Not when his fingers curled into the back of your sweater, keeping you close, like he was afraid you might disappear.

And not when he finally pulled back, breathless and wide-eyed, staring at you like you’d just rewritten the entire goddamn world.

Silence stretched between you, thick and heavy and electric.

Then—Eddie exhaled sharply, letting his head drop forward until his forehead pressed against yours.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

Your breath hitched.

Because he meant it.

This wasn’t just some heat of the moment thing, wasn’t just because the world was falling apart around you.

This was Eddie.

Who had spent weeks making space for you, coaxing you out of your shell, watching you when he thought you weren’t looking.

Eddie, who had tried to hold himself back—who had been terrified of wanting this too much, of wanting you too much.

But now?

Now, there was no more pretending.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, grounding yourself. “Then don’t fight it.”

Eddie’s breath stuttered.

And then—god—he laughed.

A real, genuine laugh.

It was a little breathless, a little wrecked, like he couldn’t believe you, like he didn’t know what the hell he had done to deserve this—but he wasn’t fighting it anymore.

When he finally pulled back enough to look at you, his expression had softened, the lingering tension in his shoulders gone.

His thumb brushed against your jaw, slow and reverent, like he was still convincing himself you were real. “Yeah?” he murmured.

You nodded.

Eddie inhaled sharply—then let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Fuck it.”

Then he kissed you again.

Softer this time. Sweeter.

And god, he kissed you like he meant it.

Like he was all in.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Eddie didn’t let go.

Not after the kiss. Not after he whispered a breathless fuck it against your lips, like he’d finally surrendered to something he’d been fighting for too long.

And not now—when reality came crashing back down around you.

Because the moment was over. The heat, the weight, the soft, desperate edges of whatever had just happened between you—gone, replaced by the sharp edge of the real world.

Because upstairs, the front door opened.

And Steve’s voice called down.

“They found another gate.”

Eddie’s grip on you tightened.

Not in fear. Not in hesitation.

But because you both knew what this meant.

This wasn’t just about surviving anymore.

It was about going back in.

About fighting something that had already taken too much.

Eddie inhaled sharply, then finally—reluctantly—pulled back. His hands slipped from your waist, his fingers brushing yours for just a second before he clenched them into fists.

His walls were back up.

Not because he regretted it.

But because Eddie Munson had just let himself want something.

And now he was terrified of losing it.

You swallowed hard, resisting the urge to pull him back in. To tell him this didn’t have to change anything. That you weren’t going anywhere.

But you didn’t have time.

So instead, you reached for his hand—one last, fleeting touch before heading for the stairs.

And Eddie?

He let you.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The living room was tense.

Nancy had spread out a map on the coffee table, her finger tracing a path across Hawkins. Robin was pacing, arms crossed, while Dustin and Lucas sat on the couch, whispering furiously between themselves.

Steve was the first to notice you. His brows raised slightly as he glanced between you and Eddie—like he knew, like he could see whatever had shifted between you.

But, to his credit, he didn’t say anything.

“Alright,” Nancy said, exhaling. “We found a gate.”

Robin ran a hand through her hair. “And guess where it is.”

You frowned. “Where?”

Dustin sighed. “Skull Rock.”

Eddie swore under his breath.

Of course it was Skull Rock.

You knew the place—everyone did. It was an old Hawkins legend, a giant rock formation deep in the woods that the high schoolers used for bonfires and sneaking around.

And now?

Now it was another crack in the world.

Eddie scrubbed a hand over his face. “So, what’s the plan? We just walk up to this thing and hope it doesn’t eat us alive?”

Nancy’s jaw tightened. “We’re going to investigate it first. See if there’s a way through.”

Steve frowned. “And if there is?”

Nancy didn’t hesitate.

“Then we go in.”

Silence.

Eddie shifted beside you. His fingers brushed against yours just barely, like he was still checking, like he needed to feel you there.

You weren’t sure if he even realized he was doing it.

But you did.

And you curled your pinky around his, just for a second.

Eddie inhaled sharply.

Then—softly, just for you—

“I hope you know what you’re doing, sweetheart.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I do.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Skull Rock felt different at night.

You had been here before—once, years ago, when some older kids had dragged you along to a bonfire you spent the whole night trying to disappear from. But now, with the woods stretching into endless darkness, with nothing but flashlights cutting through the trees, the place felt wrong.

Like it was holding its breath.

Like it was waiting.

Eddie was next to you. Close, but not touching. Not like before. His hands were shoved in his jacket pockets, his shoulders tense. But you caught the way he kept checking for you—his flashlight lingering on you just a second longer than it needed to, his body shifting toward yours whenever something rustled in the distance.

Like he was ready.

Ready to step between you and whatever was coming.

You weren’t sure if you hated that or loved it.

Nancy led the way, keeping her voice low. “It should be just up ahead.”

Steve sighed. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

Robin huffed. “Oh yeah, I love voluntarily walking up to an interdimensional horror hole. Super fun.”

Eddie let out a quiet chuckle. “See, this is why I like you, Buckley. You actually get it.”

Robin smirked. “Aw, does that mean I’m your favorite now?”

Eddie nudged her. “Don’t get cocky.”

You didn’t say anything.

Because, even though he was joking, even though the others were still them, still making cracks about how screwed you all were—you felt it.

The shift.

The way the ground almost seemed to hum beneath your feet. The way the air felt wrong, thick with something heavy and watching.

And then—

Nancy stopped walking.

“Shit,” she whispered.

Your stomach dropped.

Because there it was.

The gate.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It looked worse than the last one.

It was jagged and angry, cracked into the side of Skull Rock like a wound that refused to heal. Red light pulsed from its center, flickering between the torn edges like a second heartbeat.

Like something breathing.

Steve sighed. “Well. That’s terrifying.”

Dustin took a shaky breath. “So… who’s going in first?”

Silence.

Then—Eddie.

“Me.”

Your heart stopped.

Everyone turned to look at him.

Nancy frowned. “Eddie—”

“I’m serious.” His voice was steady. “I—I need to do this. I can’t just sit back while the rest of you risk your lives.” His hands were clenched at his sides. “I’ve been running this whole time. It’s gotta stop somewhere.”

Something in your chest ached.

Because you knew what this was.

This wasn’t just about the gate. This was Eddie. Eddie, who had spent his whole life being the outsider, the coward, the guy everyone assumed would cut and run.

And now?

Now he was ready to walk straight into hell just to prove that he wasn’t that guy.

Your stomach twisted.

Because you couldn’t let him do it alone.

You swallowed hard. “Then I’m going with you.”

Eddie’s head snapped toward you. “What? No—”

You held firm. “I am.”

Eddie stared at you. “Sweetheart—”

“Don’t.” Your voice was steady. “Don’t tell me to stay behind. Not after everything.”

His jaw clenched.

And you knew.

Knew that he wanted to fight you on this, knew that part of him wanted to keep you safe—but he couldn’t.

Because you weren’t letting him do this alone.

Because you never would.

Eddie exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

Then—soft, quiet, resigned—

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

You tried to smile. “You’re just figuring that out?”

Eddie huffed a breathless laugh, shaking his head. Then, before he could second-guess himself—

He reached for your hand.

And held on.

Nancy looked between the two of you, her face unreadable. Then, finally, she nodded.

“Alright,” she said. “We all go together.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The last thing you felt before stepping through the gate was Eddie’s grip tightening around yours.

The last thing you heard was his voice, low and certain—

“I’ve got you.”

Then—

Darkness.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Falling through the gate felt like drowning.

One second, you were gripping Eddie’s hand, the world tilting as the gate pulled—the next, you were crashing onto cold, wet ground, air ripped from your lungs.

You barely had time to get your bearings before—

“Ow, Jesus—”

Eddie hit the ground beside you with a thud, landing hard on his back. He groaned, rolling onto his side, curls falling into his face. “That was not fun.”

Steve landed next, swearing as he hit the dirt. Robin and Nancy followed, a tangle of limbs and gasps as the group scrambled to their feet.

Then—silence.

Because you weren’t in Hawkins anymore.

You were in the other place.

The Upside Down.

The sky was wrong—dark and swirling, red lightning flashing in the distance. The trees were twisted, the air thick and wrong, filled with a low, humming noise that made your skin crawl.

And the worst part?

You weren’t alone.

Steve gritted his teeth. “Shit—”

Because the creatures were here.

Not demogorgons, but something worse.

Flying things—winged and hungry, their shrieks echoing through the air.

Nancy inhaled sharply. “Bats.”

Robin gaped at her. “Bats? You’re calling those things bats?”

“Move,” Nancy ordered.

No one argued.

You ran.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The woods were a blur.

Branches whipped past your face, your lungs burned, and Eddie was still holding your hand.

He wasn’t letting go.

Not when the creatures shrieked behind you, not when Steve shouted for everyone to move faster, not even when you stumbled over a tree root and almost went down.

Eddie caught you, yanking you back up.

“Not today, sweetheart,” he panted, gripping you tighter. “You and me? We’re making it out of this.”

Your heart pounded.

Not from fear.

But because he meant it.

Because Eddie Munson, who had spent his whole life running, who had almost let himself believe he wasn’t worth saving—

He was fighting for this.

For you.

You didn’t stop running until you reached the trailer park.

The other trailer park.

Eddie dragged you inside his trailer, slamming the door behind you. The others followed, panting and swearing, backing away from the windows as the shrieking outside grew distant.

Silence.

Then—Steve exhaled. “Okay. That sucked.”

Robin wheezed. “That really sucked.”

Nancy leaned against the counter, catching her breath. “We need a plan.”

But you barely heard them.

Because Eddie hadn’t let go of you yet.

His hand was still wrapped around yours, tight, his breathing uneven. His skin was cold, his fingers trembling slightly—like the adrenaline was wearing off, like it was hitting him all at once.

Slowly, carefully, you squeezed his hand.

Eddie exhaled sharply.

And when he looked at you?

You saw it.

Not fear.

Not panic.

But realization.

That he couldn’t lose you.

That he wouldn’t.

Not here. Not like this.

Not ever.

It started small. A few glances from across the room, his dark eyes flicking toward you whenever he was in the middle of an exaggerated monologue for Hellfire Club. Then came the nods in the hallway, casual, like he was acknowledging an old friend instead of someone who barely spoke.

You weren’t sure why.

Maybe it was because you sat behind him in English, quietly scribbling notes while he ignored assignments in favor of doodling song lyrics in the margins of his notebook. Maybe he saw you watching his campaign speeches in the cafeteria, not judging like the others but listening, even if you never had the courage to join.

Or maybe Eddie Munson was just the kind of person who noticed people that the rest of the world ignored.

“Y/N, right?”

Your brain short-circuited. Eddie was standing in front of you, talking to you.

You had been preparing to leave the library when he appeared like some chaotic apparition, rings glinting as he drummed his fingers on the table. The question was casual, like he wasn’t shattering your entire routine by acknowledging your existence.

“Uh—yeah.” Your voice came out quieter than you wanted, and you mentally kicked yourself.

Eddie grinned like you’d just said something hilarious. “Knew it. I don’t forget a face.”

That wasn’t true. You’d heard him confidently call Dustin “Darwin” once and insist Steve Harrington’s name was actually “Stan.” But you let it slide, because your brain was still stuck on the fact that Eddie Munson was talking to you.

“You’re in Ms. O’Donnell’s class with me,” he continued, rocking on his heels. “You always look like you wanna be anywhere else.”

You did. English was a nightmare when participation counted, and your voice never seemed to work properly when put on the spot. But you hadn’t realized Eddie noticed.

“I, uh—I like the books,” you admitted, gripping the strap of your bag. “Just… not the talking part.”

Eddie’s smile softened. “Yeah, that tracks.” He cocked his head, studying you in a way that made your stomach flip. “So, if you’re into books, what’s stopping you from joining Hellfire?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I see you watching,” Eddie said, smirking as he leaned in conspiratorially. “You think I wouldn’t notice? You’re always listening when I’m giving my grand, Shakespearean-level speeches in the cafeteria.”

Your face burned. Had you been that obvious?

Eddie’s grin widened at your reaction. “So, you like stories. You like fantasy. That tells me you’d probably love Dungeons & Dragons.” He paused, then added dramatically, “And yet, you never come sit with us. Tragic, really.”

You fiddled with the hem of your sweater, struggling to find words that wouldn’t make you sound ridiculous. You had thought about it. More than once. But joining Hellfire meant attention, meant speaking up, meant being looked at. And that terrified you.

Eddie seemed to sense your hesitation because his voice turned softer, teasing but not unkind. “Tell you what—I won’t force you. But if you ever get tired of being a background character, there’s a seat at the table for you.”

You swallowed hard.

A part of you wanted to say no, to retreat back into the safety of anonymity. But another part—the part that secretly loved fantasy worlds and the idea of being part of something—held onto Eddie’s words a little too tightly.

Because Eddie Munson had noticed you.

And maybe… just maybe… you wanted to be noticed.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You thought maybe Eddie would forget.

People talked all the time—offhand invitations, casual offers that didn’t really mean anything. You figured that’s what his words had been in the library. A moment of whimsy, a fleeting thought from someone who didn’t actually expect you to take him up on it.

But Eddie Munson wasn’t most people.

So when Friday rolled around, when Hellfire Club took over the cafeteria for their weekly game, Eddie saw you.

You were sitting in your usual spot, book open but unread, fingers fidgeting with the worn edge of the page. You could hear them—the boisterous laughter, the dramatic voices, the excitement of a world unfolding in dice rolls and storytelling.

And then, his voice.

“Still in the background, huh?”

Your stomach flipped before you even looked up. Eddie was standing in front of you again, hands braced on the table, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You blinked, unsure what to say. You hadn’t expected him to follow up.

“Not even a little curious?” he pressed, tilting his head, his curls falling into his face.

You hesitated. Of course you were curious. But curiosity meant risk—meant walking into a world where you couldn’t just blend in, where you’d have to speak, to engage.

Eddie, as if sensing your internal debate, softened his approach. “Alright, new deal. No commitment, no pressure. Just come watch. Sit at the table, listen in. You don’t have to say a word.”

Your fingers tightened around your book.

It was a trap. A cleverly disguised one, because you knew Eddie wanted you to speak, to participate. But the offer was tempting. No pressure. Just watching.

You exhaled. “Just watching?”

Eddie grinned. “Scout’s honor.”

You seriously doubted Eddie Munson had ever been a Scout, but still…

You nodded.

His eyes lit up like you’d just agreed to marry him. “Hell yeah, okay—come on.”

Before you could second-guess yourself, Eddie grabbed your wrist, tugging you toward the Hellfire table. His rings were cold against your skin, his grip firm but not forceful, like he half-expected you to change your mind and run.

You didn’t.

Instead, you let him pull you into the chaos.

Dustin, Mike, Jeff, Gareth—faces you recognized but had never spoken to—glanced up in mild surprise as Eddie dragged you into a seat beside him. “Alright, gentlemen, we have a guest,” he announced, spreading his arms like he’d just unveiled a great prize.

Dustin looked delighted. “You recruited someone?”

“Not recruited,” Eddie corrected, slinging an arm over the back of your chair. You tensed at the proximity, and he must have noticed because his voice dropped into something softer. “Just watching tonight.”

The others accepted this without question, diving back into their game, and you found yourself quietly observing as their campaign unfolded. The excitement, the stakes, the way Eddie controlled the room with his voice alone.

And maybe, just maybe, you started to see what he saw.

Because for the first time in a long time, you weren’t just watching from the outside. You were there, included, and Eddie Munson had made sure of it.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You hadn’t meant to come back.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

But the next Friday, when Hellfire Club met again, you found yourself hovering just outside the cafeteria doors, heart hammering, fingers twisting in the fabric of your sweater. You weren’t sure why you were hesitating.

Eddie had invited you. No—more than that. He had wanted you there. And nothing bad had happened last time. No one had forced you to speak. No one had laughed at you.

So why were you so nervous?

You were debating whether to turn around and flee when—

“Well, well, well. Look who’s lurking.”

Your stomach flipped. You knew that voice.

Eddie.

He was leaning in the doorway like he’d been waiting for you, dark eyes filled with mischief, lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smirk—too warm for that.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Eddie chuckled. “Y’know, for someone who’s really good at making herself invisible, you are terrible at sneaking.”

You huffed, heat creeping up your neck. “I wasn’t sneaking.”

His grin widened, like he was delighted to hear you defend yourself. “No? What were you doing then?”

You hesitated. “…Thinking about coming in.”

He tilted his head. “And what’s stopping you?”

You bit your lip. Everything. The usual anxieties, the weight of being seen, the fear of looking ridiculous. But saying that out loud felt impossible.

Eddie, as if sensing your internal war, took a step closer. Not enough to be overwhelming—just enough that his voice dropped into something softer, something meant just for you.

“You don’t have to be scared,” he said, his tone light but real. “It’s just a game. Just us nerds sitting around a table, rolling some dice. No stakes. No pressure.”

You wanted to believe that.

And yet—

“You’ll sit next to me again,” Eddie added, like it wasn’t a question but a promise. “I’ll help you if you want. And if it sucks, I’ll personally walk you out and never bother you about it again.”

Your heart clenched.

It was such an Eddie thing to say. Loud and dramatic and yet… sincere. Because he meant it.

And somehow, that was what made you move.

You swallowed hard, then nodded.

Eddie lit up like you’d just made his entire week. “That’s what I’m talking about. Come on, shy girl, time to throw you into the fire.”

He didn’t grab your wrist this time. Just walked beside you, slow enough that you could change your mind if you wanted.

You didn’t.

The guys greeted you like last time—Dustin practically beaming, Mike offering a nod, the others grinning like they had already accepted you as part of the background.

You liked that.

You sat down next to Eddie, your pulse still racing, fingers tightening around the hem of your sweater. The energy around the table was different tonight—higher stakes, more tension.

“Perfect timing,” Eddie declared as he sat down beside you. “We’re entering the final stretch of tonight’s campaign. And you—” he tapped a ringed finger on the table in front of you “—are going to roll for us.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“You heard me,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “One roll. No character sheet, no stats—just luck. Our fearless warrior here—” he gestured to Dustin “—is in a tight spot. He needs backup. So, we’ll leave his fate in the hands of the newcomer.”

Your palms started sweating. Everyone was watching. Waiting.

Eddie saw your hesitation and leaned in, voice just above a whisper. “You got this. Just pick up the die and let fate decide.”

You took a shaky breath. Then, before you could overthink it, you reached out and grabbed the twenty-sided die in front of you. It was cool in your palm, heavier than you expected.

You let it roll.

It bounced across the table, spinning, spinning—

Then landed.

A natural twenty.

The table exploded.

Dustin shot to his feet. “Are you kidding me? That was a critical hit!”

Mike groaned, throwing his hands up. “She’s got beginner’s luck!”

Even Jeff and Gareth were laughing, clapping their hands as Eddie threw his head back, cackling like a maniac. “Oh-ho-ho, I knew it! I knew you had it in you!”

You blinked at the die, then at Eddie. “…That was good, right?”

Eddie grinned so wide it was blinding. “Good? That was legendary.”

And for the first time that night—maybe even the first time ever—you felt it, the feeling like you belonged.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Something was wrong.

You felt it before you understood it—an unspoken shift in the air, like the entire town of Hawkins had been holding its breath. It started small. Missing posters appearing overnight, whispers of kids seeing things that weren’t there, an electricity in the air that made your skin prickle.

Then Chrissy Cunningham died.

And Eddie Munson disappeared.

You heard the rumors before you heard the truth.

Murder. Occult rituals. Hellfire Club being a satanic cult. The kind of garbage Hawkins thrived on, spinning stories to explain away the things it couldn’t understand.

But you knew Eddie.

You knew the boy who noticed people when no one else did, who made space for you at his table without asking for anything in return. The boy who smirked at your shyness but never mocked it, who pulled you into the fire without letting you burn.

And there was no way Eddie Munson was a murderer.

Which was why, when Dustin Henderson pulled you aside between classes, frantic and breathless, you didn’t hesitate.

“You trust Eddie, right?” he asked, gripping your arm, eyes darting around like someone might be listening.

“Of course,” you said, heart pounding. “Where is he?”

Dustin hesitated. Then, after a sharp exhale, he said, “Come with me.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Eddie was hiding in Reefer Rick’s boathouse.

Dustin, Lucas, and Max had already found him, but now it was a waiting game—figuring out what the hell was happening, what had killed Chrissy, and how to keep Eddie from getting thrown in jail for something he didn’t do.

You barely had time to process before you were climbing through a boatyard window, heart in your throat, stepping into the darkened boathouse where Eddie was pacing like a caged animal.

He looked different. Smaller, somehow. His usual bravado was missing, his eyes wide and darting like he was waiting for someone to kick down the door and drag him away.

But the moment he saw you, he froze.

“…Shy girl?”

Your chest ached at how raw his voice sounded. “Hey, Eddie.”

He blinked like he wasn’t sure if you were real. “What—why—?”

You stepped closer before you could second-guess yourself. “Dustin told me what happened. I don’t believe any of it.”

Eddie let out a shaky breath. His shoulders slumped, just slightly, like he’d been bracing for you to look at him differently.

“You should,” he said, voice hollow. “You didn’t see what I saw.”

He told you then.

About Chrissy. About the impossible, horrific way she died. About the thing that had killed her—something wrong, something that shouldn’t exist.

And you believed him.

Because this was Hawkins. And in Hawkins, monsters were real.

You sat down beside him, slow and careful, like approaching a spooked animal. He looked exhausted—shaken down to his bones.

“You’re not alone, Eddie,” you said softly. “We’re going to figure this out.”

Eddie let out a wet, breathy laugh. “Shit. Never thought you’d be the one telling me that.”

You smiled, just a little. “Guess you’re rubbing off on me.”

He looked at you then. Really looked at you. And for the first time since you walked in, something in his eyes steadied.

He swallowed hard. “…That a bad thing?”

Your pulse jumped.

You weren’t sure how to answer, but for the first time, you didn’t feel like running away.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t leave, maybe you should have. Maybe it would’ve been safer to let the others handle this, to go home and pretend that Eddie Munson wasn’t sitting next to you in the dark, shaking from something that had shattered his entire world.

But you stayed.

You weren’t sure if it was because of the way he looked at you—wide-eyed and uncertain, like he was afraid you might vanish—or because, for once, you weren’t afraid to be seen.

Eddie had spent weeks pulling you out of your shell. Maybe it was your turn.

Outside, the others were whispering, trying to piece together what was happening to Hawkins. But in here, in this dimly lit boathouse where the air smelled like damp wood and old cigarettes, it was just you and Eddie.

He ran a hand through his tangled curls, exhaling sharply. “So, uh. What’s the verdict?”

You frowned. “On what?”

“Me,” he said, glancing at you sideways. His voice was forced light, a poor attempt at humor. “You sticking around because you believe me, or because you think I need a babysitter?”

Your chest ached at the way he said it. Like he was bracing for you to say the wrong thing.

So you answered carefully.

“I’m here because I want to be.”

Eddie went still.

His fingers curled against his knee, the rings glinting in the dim light. You had never seen him like this before—quiet. Uncertain. Eddie Munson filled spaces with his voice, his energy. But now, he just sat there, studying you like he wasn’t sure what to make of you.

“That’s new,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You swallowed hard. “What is?”

“You,” he said, tilting his head. “Not running. Not hiding.”

You hesitated. “You never let me.”

Eddie’s lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something, but for once, he didn’t. He just… watched you.

A strange, fragile thing settled between you. Something delicate, something that hadn’t been there before.

But before either of you could break it—

Thud.

You both jolted.

The noise came from the lake outside, something heavy moving through the water.

Dustin’s voice cut through the quiet. “Shit—guys, something’s out there.”

Eddie tensed beside you. His hand brushed yours—instinctive, unthinking—but it sent a jolt up your spine all the same.

You barely had time to process it before the world turned upside down.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The first thing you felt was Eddie’s hand gripping yours.

It wasn’t a hesitant touch, wasn’t careful—it was instinct, a desperate hold on to me as something big, something wrong, churned beneath the surface of the lake outside.

The others were scrambling, Dustin pulling at the tarp-covered windows, Max whispering a frantic what the hell was that? But all you could focus on was Eddie.

His fingers were locked around yours, cold from fear and the damp air, his rings pressing into your skin. You weren’t sure if he even realized he was holding onto you like that.

And you weren’t sure you wanted to let go.

Then the water exploded.

Jason Carver’s idiot friend—Patrick—had been out there, chasing after the other jocks. But now he was—lifted—yanked into the air like a puppet on invisible strings. His limbs snapped, his jaw wrenched open in a silent scream, and his eyes—

They caved in.

It was Chrissy all over again.

The second Patrick hit the water, Eddie yanked you back, shoving you behind him like he was the one protecting you. It was a ridiculous thought—what could either of you do against something like that?—but it made your throat tighten all the same.

Dustin swore. Lucas was shouting. And Eddie— Eddie was shaking.

His breathing had gone shallow, his entire body locked up. He looked like he was about to fall apart, like the walls were closing in on him.

And without thinking, without overanalyzing, you reached for him.

“Hey,” you whispered. Your fingers brushed his sleeve, just barely, but his head snapped toward you like you’d pulled him out of a dream.

His eyes found yours. Wild, frantic.

But yours were steady.

“You’re not alone,” you told him, voice firm despite the way your pulse was hammering. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”

For a second, he just stared at you.

Then, slowly, his breathing evened out. His fingers flexed like he wanted to hold onto you again, but he didn’t. Instead, he nodded.

And that was enough.

Dustin’s voice cut through the tension. “We need to go.”

Eddie didn’t hesitate. He grabbed your wrist—not as frantic as before, but still firm, like he was making sure you were real—and pulled you toward the door.

And as the six of you ran into the night, you realized something:

This wasn’t just Eddie pulling you out of the shadows anymore.

This time, you were pulling him back, too.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t stop running until your lungs burned.

Dustin led the way, weaving through the trees like he’d done this a hundred times before, Max and Lucas close behind. But you barely noticed them—your entire world had shrunk to the feel of Eddie’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, his grip still tight like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers.

He only let go when you reached the edge of the forest, doubling over to catch his breath. His hands found his knees, his wild curls falling into his face, his breath coming out in short, frantic bursts.

You wanted to say something—to do something—but before you could, Dustin spoke.

“We need to get Eddie somewhere safe,” he said, glancing over his shoulder like he expected half of Hawkins to come crashing through the trees. “It’s only a matter of time before the cops start combing the woods.”

Eddie let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Great. Just what I need. Another reason for the whole damn town to be out for my blood.”

Lucas frowned. “We could take him to my house. My parents aren’t home.”

Max shook her head. “Too risky. Carver and his goons probably already checked there.”

Dustin’s face lit up. “Steve’s house. His parents are home, but they’re clueless. He’s got a big basement—perfect for laying low.”

Eddie groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Harrington? Seriously?”

Dustin crossed his arms. “Dude, do you have better options?”

Eddie opened his mouth, then closed it. He had nothing.

You hesitated. You’d been quiet this whole time, still rattled by what had happened at the lake, but you couldn’t ignore the tension rolling off of Eddie in waves. He was still breathing too fast, still shifting like he was barely holding himself together.

And something about it hurt.

“…He shouldn’t be alone,” you said softly.

Eddie’s head snapped toward you.

You felt all four pairs of eyes on you, but you ignored them. Instead, you focused on Eddie, who was watching you like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right.

You swallowed hard, then pushed forward. “I mean—it’s just, you’ve been alone this whole time, right? Running. Hiding. And now you don’t have to.” Your fingers twisted in your sweater. “If we’re laying low, I can stay with you. Just until we figure things out.”

Eddie blinked, mouth slightly open, like his brain was buffering.

Dustin grinned. “That’s actually a great idea.”

Eddie made a strangled noise. “I—what—are you guys just making plans for me now?”

Lucas shrugged. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Max smirked. “Welcome to the club, Munson.”

Eddie threw his hands up in exasperation, muttering something under his breath, but when his eyes flicked back to you, something in them softened.

You weren’t sure if it was the way you’d said he shouldn’t be alone or the fact that you’d offered to stay, but something shifted between you.

And despite everything—despite the fear, the danger, the unknown—he gave a short, tired nod.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “But if Harrington tries to make me use his shampoo, I’m out.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Steve Harrington’s basement was nicer than you expected.

It wasn’t dingy or unfinished like Eddie’s trailer—there was carpet, old furniture, and a couch that looked way too expensive to be shoved in a basement. But the best part? It was hidden.

Which meant Eddie could finally breathe.

You sat on the couch, knees pulled up to your chest as the others argued upstairs. Something about supplies, about Nancy and Robin meeting up with them later. You weren’t really listening.

Because Eddie was pacing again.

His fingers twitched at his sides, his rings catching the dim light. He’d been quiet ever since you got here, chewing his thumbnail, his movements jittery and restless.

You exhaled. “Eddie.”

He didn’t stop. “This is insane. I’m hiding in Steve Harrington’s basement. This is actually my life right now.”

You hesitated. “It won’t be forever.”

He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You sure about that?”

No. You weren’t sure about anything.

But you hated seeing him like this.

So you did something you never would’ve done weeks ago.

You reached out and grabbed his hand.

Eddie froze.

His skin was warm, the metal of his rings cold against your fingers. You hadn’t really thought about it, hadn’t planned it—just acted on instinct, pulling him back to you the same way he had done for you.

His eyes snapped to yours, wide and startled.

You swallowed hard. “You’re not alone, Eddie.”

His breath hitched.

For a second, neither of you moved. Your fingers were still curled around his, but you didn’t pull away. And neither did he.

Then—slowly, carefully—his grip tightened.

Just barely. Just enough to hold on.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “God. You really don’t scare easy, huh?”

You huffed a soft laugh. “I do. Just not around you.”

Eddie went still.

Something shifted. The air between you thickened, the weight of your words hanging there, unspoken but understood.

His fingers flexed against yours.

And then—

The basement door swung open.

You jumped, yanking your hand back as Steve clomped down the stairs, arms full of blankets. “Alright, Munson, you’re officially our problem now. Make yourself comfortable.”

Eddie didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just stood there, watching you like he was seeing you for the first time.

And something in your chest ached.

Because you both knew that something had changed.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t sleep.

Eddie didn’t, either.

The basement was quiet now—Dustin, Lucas, and Max had left, Steve had finally gone to bed, and the house above you was still. The only light came from a dim lamp in the corner, barely illuminating the space between you and Eddie.

He was sitting on the floor near the couch, leaning back against it, one knee bent, fingers twisting at his rings. You were curled up on the cushions, pretending to read a book you’d found on Steve’s shelf.

You weren’t actually reading it.

Because Eddie was acting weird.

Not loud, not animated, not filling the silence like usual. He was… watching you. Not constantly, not in an obvious way, but in these small, flickering glances, like he was trying to figure something out.

And it was killing you.

Finally, you broke the silence. “You’re staring.”

Eddie startled slightly, caught in the act. “Uh—what? No, I’m not.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He cleared his throat, shifting. “Okay, maybe I was. But only ‘cause I’m still trying to wrap my head around something.”

You hesitated. “What?”

His fingers drummed against his knee. He didn’t answer right away, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to say it out loud.

Then, finally—soft, careful—

“You stayed.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You could’ve left,” he said, watching you intently now. “Back at the boathouse. When you found out what I’d seen, what was happening—you could’ve run. Hell, most people would’ve. But you didn’t.”

Your throat tightened. “Neither did you.”

Eddie huffed a quiet laugh. “I didn’t really have a choice, sweetheart.”

The nickname sent something warm through you, but you ignored it. “That’s not true,” you said, voice softer now. “You could’ve run from us. Stayed hidden. But you didn’t. You let me find you.”

Eddie’s expression flickered. Like that hadn’t occurred to him.

Silence stretched between you. The air was thick, heavy with something unspoken.

Then, he exhaled.

“Shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “This is weird, right? Like—weird weird?”

You frowned. “What is weird?”

He hesitated. Then—“Us.”

Your breath caught.

Eddie must’ve seen something in your face because he backtracked immediately, hands flailing. “Not weird bad! Just—not what I expected? Like, I thought I had you figured out—shy, quiet, probably wanted nothing to do with a guy like me—and then boom, you’re here, riding this whole nightmare out with me, and I’m just—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “I don’t know. It’s messing with my head.”

Your heart was pounding.

Because you felt it too.

This thing between you. The way it had shifted, deepened. The way Eddie was looking at you now—not just like you were a surprise, but like he was seeing you differently.

Like he didn’t want you to be just another quiet observer in his life.

Like he wanted more.

You swallowed hard. “Eddie.”

He went very still.

You could feel the air shift again, thick and warm, something dangerous curling between you.

If you said something now, if you acknowledged it—

The line would be crossed.

But before you could open your mouth—

The phone upstairs rang.

Eddie jumped like he’d been electrocuted.

Then, almost immediately, he was on his feet, shaking off whatever had just happened like it hadn’t stolen the breath from both of you. “That’s probably Henderson. We should—uh—we should see what’s up.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

But as Eddie jogged up the stairs, leaving you standing there, hands curled into fists—

You knew that this wasn’t just in your head, and you knew that Eddie felt it too. And sooner or later, one of you would have to stop running from it.

Not when he turned to face the team, his body language bristling with danger. Not when Steve hesitated before stepping forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. And certainly not when you cautiously called his name, your voice softer than the others.

Instead, the Soldier moved between you and everyone else.

A shield.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Back at the Tower, you thought the episode would pass. That maybe, after a few hours, after enough familiar sights and sounds, Bucky would shake it off like he always did.

But the Soldier wasn’t leaving. And he had decided you were his mission.

Not to eliminate.

To protect.

At first, it was just hovering. You moved—he followed. You sat—he stood at your back, ever watchful. The others gave him space, exchanging worried glances when they thought you weren’t looking. Steve was tense, obviously trying to figure out how to break through, while Tony was less patient about it.

“This is a problem,” Stark declared after the first few hours, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. “I mean, I hate to be the one to say it, but we have a fully armed, brainwashed assassin in the Tower again, and we all know how that went last time.”

“He’s not attacking anyone,” Natasha pointed out.

“Yet,” Tony shot back.

You ignored the argument as best you could, focusing instead on cooking something for Bucky—something normal, something familiar, something that might ground him. His eyes tracked you the entire time.

Then you miscalculated the heat on the stove.

The oil in the pan hissed and spat, and a second later, you hissed too as a sharp sting bloomed across your palm. You barely had time to react before there was a sudden blur of motion.

Bucky was on you instantly.

His flesh hand gripped your wrist, his metal one hovering protectively over the stove, as if it had personally attacked you. His face was unreadable, but his grip was firm, his hold gentle as he examined the burn.

“I’m okay,” you assured him, but he wasn’t listening.

Instead, he took the cold pack you hadn’t even reached for yet and pressed it carefully to your palm, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed in focus. You exchanged a look with Steve over Bucky’s shoulder, and the Captain exhaled, something like relief flashing in his eyes.

He was still in there.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Soldier continued shadowing you for the next two days, much to Tony’s frustration. But as Natasha had pointed out—he wasn’t hurting anyone.

Unless they posed a threat to you.

That was something Steve learned firsthand during a sparring session. You had barely landed a hit before Bucky, watching from the sidelines, had moved. The next thing you knew, Steve was on his ass, blinking up at the ceiling, while Bucky stood between you like a human wall, eyes cold and calculating.

“For the record,” Steve grunted as he sat up, rubbing his ribs, “I was letting her win.”

Bucky wasn’t convinced.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It wasn’t until you needed a medical checkup that things really came to a head.

“Barnes, I have to actually examine her,” Dr. Cho said patiently, eyeing where Bucky stood between you and the med bay’s equipment.

“No,” he replied flatly.

“Bucky—” you tried.

“The room is secure.”

“That’s not the—”

“She does not require assistance.”

“I do require assistance,” you corrected. “Because I burned my hand and twisted my shoulder thanks to a certain super soldier overreacting in the gym.”

Bucky didn’t move.

You exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” you said, shifting tactics. “Then stay.”

That got his attention.

“If you want to make sure nothing happens to me,” you reasoned, “then you can stay here. But you have to let the doctor check me out.”

His expression was unreadable for a long moment. Then, after what felt like an eternity—

“…Understood.”

Progress.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

When it finally broke, it wasn’t dramatic.

There was no grand trigger, no huge revelation.

Just a moment of quiet.

You had fallen asleep on the couch, exhaustion finally winning after two days of Bucky’s overprotective hovering. When you woke up, it was to warm hands gently brushing over your wrist—both flesh and metal, but softer this time, as if relearning the feeling of touching you.

And then you heard it—his breath hitching.

A tiny, barely-there sound, but one filled with something raw.

You blinked sleepily, looking up.

Bucky was staring at you. Not the Soldier. Bucky.

His face was pale, his jaw tight, his eyes wide—his real eyes.

“…Doll?” His voice cracked over the word, like it had been caught in his throat.

You smiled sleepily, shifting so your fingers curled around his. “Hey, Buck.”

His exhale was shaky. His shoulders sagged. And when you tugged him down to you, he didn’t resist.

He just buried his face in your neck and held on.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“You scared the hell out of me, you know,” you murmured later, your fingers absentmindedly running through his hair as he rested against you.

“I know,” he admitted, voice rough.

“You threw Steve like a ragdoll.”

“…Yeah.”

“…Kind of hot, not gonna lie.”

A laugh. Quiet, but real.

He lets out a chuckle, his usual steel-hard exterior slipping as his gaze softens. “And you love it.”

It’s true. There’s something endearing about seeing the once-feared Winter Soldier, a man who had faced battles that would break most people, now wrapped around your finger. But it still made you laugh, watching him melt in ways only you had seen.

As you’re about to tease him more about it, his phone buzzes on the counter. Bucky glances down at it, and his expression falls slightly.

“What’s up?” you ask, sensing the sudden shift in his mood.

“The team. Steve’s calling a meeting.”

You arch an eyebrow, setting the coffee pot down. “You gonna tell them about me?”

Bucky hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. His expression is conflicted, but not out of shame. It’s more complicated than that. After everything he’s been through, he wanted something untouched by scrutiny, a part of his life just for him. He’d only let Sam and Nat in on the secret—because, well, they weren’t easily fooled.

“I will,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a hint of regret. “Soon.”

You nod, your heart understanding his need for space. You’re not in any rush to share this with the world.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Later, the day unfolds in a way you never anticipated. You're sitting at your favorite café, sipping your latte, when your phone buzzes with a text from Sam.

Sam: Come to the compound. Trust me.

You furrow your brow, looking at the message. Sam was never cryptic without a reason.

Without hesitation, you gather your things and head to the Avengers Compound, curiosity gnawing at you. When you arrive, FRIDAY greets you smoothly, letting you in without question. That’s a red flag in itself—Bucky must’ve given her clearance to let you in.

As soon as you step into the common room, a silence hits. The entire team is there, staring at you.

Natasha’s smirking, her arms crossed, while Sam’s wearing a grin that could rival a Cheshire cat’s. And Bucky... Bucky looks like he’s about to burst into flames, his face turning slightly red as he meets your gaze.

“Uh…” you start awkwardly, shifting on your feet. “Hi?”

Steve’s eyes narrow, his expression shifting from confusion to suspicion. “You have a girlfriend?”

Wanda’s jaw is slightly dropped, and Tony raises an eyebrow. “I thought Bucky was sneaking out for midnight brooding walks… but no, turns out he’s been sneaking out to you?”

Bucky lets out an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Okay, before anyone starts—yes, we’re together. Yes, I was going to tell you all. No, I didn’t because…”

“Because he’s a secretive little punk,” Sam cuts in, clearly enjoying the moment.

Bucky glares at him. “Not helping, Wilson.”

You suppress a laugh, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. “So… surprise?”

Natasha leans back, a satisfied grin on her face. “About time you met them. I was getting tired of being the only one who knew.”

Clint raises a hand. “I have one question. Why were we left out?”

You glance at Bucky, who shrugs sheepishly. “Didn’t want you all scaring her off.”

Tony gasps dramatically, hand over his heart. “Us? Intimidating?”

You snicker, shaking your head. “Maybe just a little.”

The room erupts into overlapping conversations, questions firing off from all directions. How long have you been together? How did you meet? Why the hell did Bucky think he could keep a secret like this from a team of superheroes?

Bucky pulls you closer, his arm wrapping around you, a sign of both protection and reassurance. “Guess the secret’s out.”

You grin up at him, squeezing his hand. “Told you they’d find out eventually.”

Sam slaps Bucky on the back with exaggerated force, clearly enjoying the drama. “Man, you really thought you could keep a secret from us? Rookie mistake.”

Bucky groans in frustration, but you just laugh, feeling more at home with these people than you expected.

“I’m just saying,” Wanda said, shoving her phone in your face as the three of you wandered through the grocery store, “we should do it.”

Natasha glanced at the screen. “Oh, the ‘Hear Me Out’ cake trend? That’s dumb.”

“Exactly!” Wanda grinned. “Which makes it perfect for us.”

You furrowed your brows, watching the TikTok she’d pulled up. The trend was simple: buy a plain cake, decorate it with pictures of celebrities or characters you found attractive, and then justify your crush by sticking ‘Hear Me Out’ in the middle.

It was stupid. But also hilarious.

“I’m in,” you said.

Natasha groaned. “Fine. But I’m not helping if this turns into another Tower-wide disaster.”

Wanda hummed, already making a beeline for the bakery aisle. “Oh, it definitely will.”

Back at the Tower, you sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter as Wanda set up her phone. The cake—a plain white-frosted one you’d grabbed from the store—sat in the center of the table, looking all innocent. It had no idea it was about to be used for nonsense.

“Okay,” Wanda said, grinning. “Time to put down our picks.”

Natasha went first. She taped a photo of Keanu Reeves onto a skewer and stuck it into the cake. Classic. No one would question it.

Then Wanda went. Pedro Pascal. Another solid choice.

And then you—

“Y/N,” Natasha deadpanned. “Are you serious?”

You hesitated, mid-skewer placement. “…What?”

Wanda started cackling.

Because instead of picking three different people like a normal person, you had, without realizing it, picked three different versions of Bucky Barnes.

One was a picture of him in his tactical gear, scowling like he was about to murder someone (hot). Another was of him in a hoodie and jeans, looking all soft and domestic (also hot). And the third? The one that really sealed your fate?

It was a close-up of his metal arm.

You winced. “Okay. I see how this looks—”

“This looks like a confession,” Wanda said gleefully, already zooming in on your picks.

“Oh my God,” Natasha muttered, running a hand down her face.

“I panicked!” you hissed. “I wasn’t thinking—I just grabbed the first ones that looked good!”

Wanda was shaking with laughter. “Oh, babe. This isn’t panic. This is obsession.”

You groaned, dropping your head onto the counter. “I hate you both.”

The video went up on Wanda’s account that night.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

By the next morning, it had one million views.

And the Tower was in absolute chaos.

Clint greeted you at breakfast with a slow, knowing grin. “So,” he said, spreading cream cheese onto his bagel, “should we start calling you Mrs. Barnes, or—?”

You threw a banana at his head.

Sam nearly fell off the couch laughing when he saw the video. “You put the metal arm?” he wheezed. “Oh, you’re down bad.”

Steve, who had clearly been dragged into this nonsense against his will, just gave you a long, unimpressed look over his coffee. “You could’ve just told him, you know.”

Tony, of course, had the most Tony reaction possible. “This is the most effort I’ve ever seen someone put into a crush. If I had known Bucky was your type, I would’ve set up an HR department just to make this more scandalous.”

You wanted the Earth to swallow you whole.

But the worst part?

Bucky.

Because by some miracle, he hadn’t seen the video yet.

Which meant you were living on borrowed time.

It happened later that night.

You were curled up on the couch, pretending to read a book but mostly trying to avoid eye contact with the entire human population, when Bucky strolled into the common room.

“Hey, doll.”

Your stomach flipped. “Hey.”

He sat next to you, arms stretched out over the back of the couch, his face unreadable. For a brief, fleeting moment, you thought—maybe he doesn’t know.

And then—

“So,” he said, far too casually. “You like my arm that much, huh?”

Your entire body locked up.

Your soul left your body.

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“I—what—who—?”

Bucky chuckled. “I saw the video.”

You shut your eyes. “Kill me.”

He hummed, like he was thinking about it. “Nah. ‘Cause then who’s gonna take me on that date you clearly want?”

You choked. “What—”

Bucky turned to face you fully, that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips. “If you wanted me so bad, sweetheart, you could’ve just asked.”

Your entire brain short-circuited. “I—That’s—You—”

Bucky leaned in, voice low. “Next time, maybe write my number on the cake instead.”

You exhaled sharply, heart hammering. “Are you—Are you flirting with me?”

His grin widened. “You tell me.”

You stared at him. Then at the door. Then back at him.

Finally, you sighed, rubbing your temples. “Fine. But if we go on a date, I’m making Wanda pay for it.”

It had started a week ago. After the whole Flag Smashers fiasco in Munich, John Walker and his annoying sidekick, Lemar, had started appearing more often. They were always just there, cocky and insufferable, flashing that stolen shield like they had any right to it. But that wasn’t what had been bothering Bucky the most.

It was Walker’s interest in you.

Ever since you’d first been introduced, Walker had made it painfully obvious that he found you attractive. The first time, it was a comment—something about how you were “too pretty to be running around with these two grumps.” You’d rolled your eyes, but Sam had snickered, and Bucky had muttered something under his breath that you hadn’t quite caught.

Then, it became touches—a hand on your lower back, a brush of fingers against yours when he handed you something, a lingering grip on your wrist after a mission. It was all casual enough that you couldn’t really call him out on it, but you weren’t an idiot. Walker was testing boundaries. And every time, Bucky got pissed.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

At first, you thought it was just his general hatred for Walker. But then you noticed other things.

Bucky started standing closer. His arm would “accidentally” brush against yours when you were walking. He’d place a firm hand on your back before Walker could, guiding you away without a word. And, most notably, whenever Walker so much as looked at you, Bucky’s jaw would tighten, his fists clenching like he was barely keeping himself from decking the guy.

Which led to this moment right now.

You, Bucky, and Sam were walking back to the safe house after a tense meeting with Walker and Lemar—one in which Walker had, yet again, spent way too much time trying to get your attention.

“You don’t have to act like I’m gonna drop dead if he talks to me, you know,” you said finally, breaking the silence.

Bucky didn’t look at you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on.” You stopped walking, turning to face him. “Every time Walker so much as breathes in my direction, you look like you’re about to rip his throat out.”

Bucky scoffed, looking away. “I just don’t trust him.”

Sam, who had been trailing a few steps behind, smirked. “Right. That’s what this is about.”

Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam just shrugged.

“Man, you’re jealous,” Sam said. “It’s written all over your grumpy little face.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You’re so jealous.”

“I—” Bucky cut himself off, taking a deep breath like he was trying to calm himself. “He’s an asshole.”

“No arguments there,” you said. “But if you don’t like him flirting with me, there’s a pretty easy solution, Barnes.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours. “Yeah?”

You smiled innocently. “You could just tell me why it really bothers you.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, blue eyes dark and unreadable. Then, with a sharp shake of his head, he muttered, “Let’s go,” and kept walking.

Sam sighed. “Man, you are hopeless.”

You didn’t disagree.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

A Game of Possession

The next time you saw Walker, things escalated.

It was supposed to be a simple recon mission—stakeout, gather intel, get out. But, as always, Walker found a way to insert himself where he wasn’t wanted.

“You know,” Walker said, sidling up beside you, “we’d work a lot better together if you ditched these two and joined Lemar and me.”

Bucky, who was standing just a few feet away, tensed immediately.

You sighed. “Not interested.”

“Come on,” Walker pressed, flashing that annoyingly charming smile. “I’d take good care of you.”

Before you could retort, a heavy, warm weight settled around your waist.

Bucky.

His metal arm wrapped around you in an unmistakably possessive gesture, tugging you snugly against his side. His fingers splayed against your hip, and when he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous.

“She’s already taken care of.”

The air went thick with tension. Walker’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered.

“Oh yeah?” he challenged. “By who?”

Bucky’s grip tightened. “Me.”

Your heart stopped.

Walker raised an eyebrow. “Huh. Didn’t peg you for the type to settle down, Barnes.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Maybe you don’t know as much as you think you do.”

Walker let his gaze linger on you for a beat too long before smirking. “Alright, alright. No need to get your vibranium arm in a twist.”

And with that, he strolled off.

Bucky didn’t move. Neither did you.

Finally, you found your voice. “So. That was… something.”

Bucky let out a breath through his nose. Slowly, his hand eased away, though his fingers brushed lightly against your side before leaving entirely. “Sorry.”

You turned to look at him. “Are you?”

He hesitated. Then, in a rare moment of honesty, he admitted, “No.”

You bit your lip, heartbeat unsteady. “So… am I actually taken?”

Bucky exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Do you want to be?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you stepped forward, closing the space he’d left between you.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you murmured.

Bucky swallowed hard. His eyes flickered to your lips. His fingers twitched at his side like he wanted to touch you again.

Before either of you could do anything about it, Sam’s voice rang out from across the way.

“Hey, lovebirds! We’ve got work to do!”

You pulled back, trying not to grin. Bucky just sighed.

“This is your fault,” he muttered.

You smirked. “If you say so, boyfriend.”

Bucky groaned, but the tips of his ears burned red. And you had a feeling that, jealous or not, he wasn’t going to let the title go.

And the thing is… he’s good. Like, really good.

You stop mid-wipe and stare at him. His voice is warm, smooth, a little playful. The kind of voice that belongs in a band, not stuck behind an ice cream counter wearing a sailor’s hat.

“What?” he asks, mid-verse, brows raising as he catches your expression.

“You can sing?” you blurt out, as if he’s just revealed he can juggle flaming torches.

Steve shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Yeah? I mean, it’s not like a thing or anything.”

“No, Steve, that is definitely a thing,” you insist. “How have you been hiding this? I demand an explanation.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Never really thought about it. I just—” He gestures vaguely. “Sing sometimes.”

You narrow your eyes. “Okay, but now you have to sing with me on our slow shifts. It’s a requirement.”

And that’s how it starts.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The next time the store is dead, you hum a tune under your breath while stocking the cones, and Steve jumps in without hesitation. You trade lines, laughing between verses when he gets overly dramatic, clutching his heart for the high notes. It turns into a game—picking songs, seeing how long you can keep it going before a customer ruins the moment.

But then, one night, it becomes something else.

It’s a particularly rough shift. Your chest feels tight, and the walls of the mall seem too close, the hum of the fluorescent lights too loud. You’ve been feeling off all day, a nagging kind of anxious you can’t shake.

Steve notices—because, of course, he does.

You don’t realize he’s watching you until you hear it.

Soft at first. A familiar melody drifting through the air. His voice—calm, steady, there.

You blink, looking up from where you’ve been staring blankly at the cash register. He’s leaning casually against the counter, arms crossed, singing just loud enough for you to hear.

“You good?” he asks gently, still keeping the melody going.

You exhale, some of the tightness in your chest easing. “Yeah. Just—” You gesture vaguely. “One of those days.”

He nods, like he gets it. And maybe he does.

“Alright,” he says, tapping his fingers against the register. “I’ll keep singing. You jump in when you feel like it.”

And so you do.

His voice weaves through the air, something solid, something safe. And when you finally find your voice again, it’s not just singing. It’s a lifeline.

From then on, it becomes your thing.

Steve doesn’t make a big deal out of it, doesn’t push when you don’t want to talk about why your hands are shaking or why you suddenly look like you want to disappear. He just sings, no questions asked.

And every time, without fail, he pulls you back.

“Okay, so I was thinking,” Stiles began as he pulled into your driveway on the night of your second date, “that since we did the whole group thing last time, this one should be more low-key. You know, something chill.”

You climbed into the Jeep, glancing over at him. “Like what?”

“Well,” he said, drumming his fingers nervously on the steering wheel, “there’s this spot just outside town. It’s kinda dorky, but I think you’ll like it.”

That was all he said before pulling out of your driveway, leaving you both curious and slightly apprehensive.

The “spot outside town” turned out to be an old drive-in theater that had been revamped into an outdoor movie night spot. A large screen stood in the middle of an open field, surrounded by cars, lawn chairs, and blankets. A few food trucks lined the edges of the lot, serving everything from popcorn to burgers.

“They’re playing a double feature tonight,” Stiles said, a mix of excitement and nerves in his voice. “The first one’s Back to the Future, and the second is The Empire Strikes Back.”

You raised an eyebrow, unable to hold back a smile. “Of course it’s Empire Strikes Back.”

“Hey, if you’re going to do a second date, you might as well make it legendary,” he said, grinning as he parked the Jeep.

Stiles had thought of everything. He pulled a plaid blanket out of the back, along with a cooler filled with snacks—because of course, Stiles Stilinski would never settle for just popcorn.

The two of you settled onto the blanket, the sounds of the pre-show advertisements humming in the background. As the first movie started, Stiles kept sneaking glances at you, clearly trying to gauge how you were feeling.

“You’re staring,” you said without looking away from the screen.

“I’m not staring,” he protested, though the way his cheeks flushed under the glow of the screen gave him away.

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, maybe a little,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “I just… I wasn’t sure you’d actually want to come. After the first date, I mean.”

You turned to him, caught off guard by the honesty in his voice. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugged, suddenly fascinated by the corner of the blanket. “I don’t know. You’re just… you. And I’m… me. This isn’t exactly a fair match.”

Your heart twisted at his words, and before you could stop yourself, you reached out and nudged his shoulder. “Hey. Give yourself a little credit. The first date wasn’t that bad.”

His face lit up, the doubt in his expression fading slightly. “Wasn’t that bad? Wow, Y/N, don’t get too sappy on me.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face was hard to hide.

The first movie flew by, the two of you sharing a bowl of popcorn while exchanging quips about Marty McFly and Doc Brown. By the time The Empire Strikes Back started, you’d moved closer, your shoulder brushing against his.

“You’re going to hate me,” you whispered halfway through the movie, your voice low so as not to disturb the other viewers.

“Impossible,” Stiles said immediately, his eyes glued to the screen.

“I’ve only seen this once,” you admitted, biting your lip.

That finally made him turn to you, his jaw dropping in mock horror. “What?!”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his reaction. “I mean, I know it. Everyone knows it. But I’ve only actually watched it once.”

Stiles shook his head, feigning deep disappointment. “This is worse than I thought. I have my work cut out for me.”

“Oh, please.”

“No, no,” he insisted, his tone playful. “I’m serious. I can’t date someone who’s only seen The Empire Strikes Back once. This is a crisis.”

“And yet, here you are,” you shot back, raising an eyebrow.

He paused, as if considering your point, before breaking into a grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and the moment they did, his eyes widened in panic. “I mean—uh—”

You blinked at him, startled, before breaking into a laugh. “Did you just call me cute?”

“Maybe?” he said, his voice pitching up nervously.

You leaned closer, smirking. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

That shut him up.

By the time the movies ended and the lot started clearing out, you found yourself lingering, neither of you quite ready for the night to end.

Stiles leaned against the hood of the Jeep, his hands stuffed into his pockets as he glanced at you. “So, uh… did you have fun?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. “It wasn’t bad.”

He groaned, shaking his head. “Not bad? Y/N, you’re killing me here.”

You laughed, stepping closer. “It was fun, Stiles. Really.”

His face lit up, and for a moment, you felt the same warmth that had surprised you on the first date.

“Good,” he said softly. “Because I’d really like to do this again.”

You smiled, letting the silence stretch between you before nodding. “I think I’d like that, too.”

His grin was wide and unguarded, and as he opened the passenger door for you and climbed into the driver’s seat, you realized something you hadn’t expected:

You were looking forward to the next one.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Beacon Hills High wasn’t exactly known for its subtlety when it came to gossip, and your relationship with Stiles Stilinski was proof of that.

It started small: a few people noticing the two of you sitting closer during lunch, walking to class together, or laughing over something only the two of you understood. But then, Stiles—Stiles, of all people—had decided to hold your hand in the middle of the crowded hallway between third and fourth period.

It was like setting off a firework in a quiet room.

By the time you made it to your next class, you could feel the whispers following you like shadows. And you didn’t need superhuman hearing to catch what people were saying:

“Wait—Y/N and Stiles? When did that happen?”

“Is she, like, okay? What’s going on here?”

“No way. That has to be a dare or something.”

“Honestly? Kinda cute.”

The lunchroom the next day was worse. You’d barely made it halfway to your table when you caught Jackson Whittemore’s unmistakable voice cutting through the chatter.

“Hold on,” he said loudly, standing up and gesturing dramatically as you and Stiles walked past. “Am I hallucinating, or are you two actually a thing?”

You paused mid-step, sharing a glance with Stiles. He looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole, but you straightened your shoulders, gripping his hand tighter.

“Not hallucinating,” you said simply, giving Jackson a tight smile before continuing toward your usual spot.

But Jackson wasn’t done. “No, seriously,” he called after you, ignoring Lydia’s warning glare. “Is this some kind of joke? Like, am I being punk’d?”

“It’s real, Whittemore,” Stiles said, his voice firmer than anyone expected. “Deal with it.”

Jackson stared, caught completely off guard. “Huh,” he muttered, sinking back into his seat. “Weird.”

At your table, Lydia and Allison were grinning like Cheshire cats.

“You guys are so cute,” Lydia said, leaning her chin on her hand. “It’s almost disgusting.”

“Almost,” Allison added, smirking. “But not quite.”

Stiles groaned, slumping down in his seat. “Please don’t make a big deal out of this.”

“Oh, honey,” Lydia said, her tone dripping with amusement. “It’s already a big deal.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a warmth to their teasing that made you smile. “You guys are the worst.”

“And you love us for it,” Lydia quipped, winking.

The comments from the lacrosse team started during practice that afternoon. Stiles had barely stepped onto the field before one of the guys clapped him on the back and said, “Dude, you’ve gotta teach me your secret. How the hell did you pull this off?”

“Uh, I don’t know,” Stiles stammered, his ears turning red. “She… likes me?”

“Yeah, why though?” another player chimed in, earning a sharp look from Scott.

“Hey, leave him alone,” Scott said, though he couldn’t quite hide his grin. “It’s not that shocking.”

“Yes, it is,” Jackson muttered from across the field.

Coach Finstock chose that moment to stroll by, his whistle swinging around his neck. He stopped, squinting at Stiles before glancing at you, standing by the bleachers waiting for practice to end.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Coach said, his voice loud enough to draw everyone’s attention. “Stilinski, how did you manage to score the prettiest girl in school? Did you blackmail her or something?”

Stiles froze, his face turning bright red. “No, Coach!”

“Hmm,” Coach said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “Whatever it is, keep doing it. Maybe it’ll improve your game.”

The team burst into laughter as Stiles groaned, hiding his face in his hands.

By the end of the week, the buzz around your relationship had reached a fever pitch. Some people were genuinely happy for you, while others—Jackson included—still couldn’t wrap their heads around it.

“Seriously,” Jackson said one day, cornering Lydia in the hallway. “You’re telling me this isn’t a prank? A long con? Some kind of social experiment?”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Get over it, Jackson. They’re happy. Isn’t that enough?”

“For who?” he shot back, crossing his arms. “For you? For me? I mean, come on. Stilinski? Really?”

“Yes, really,” Lydia said sharply, her voice leaving no room for argument. “And for the record? They’re adorable together.”

The truth was, you’d been bracing yourself for the judgment. Stiles wasn’t like the other guys in your social circle, and you knew some people wouldn’t understand what you saw in him. But none of that mattered when you were with him.

He made you laugh when you least expected it. He listened when you needed to vent. He treated you like you were the only person in the room, even when the entire school was watching.

And when he walked you to class, carrying your books and rambling about his latest Star Wars theory, you couldn’t help but think:

Let them talk.

The guy who spent more time warming the bench than actually playing had somehow been in the right place at the right time, scoring the game-winning goal. As the team hoisted him onto their shoulders and the crowd erupted in cheers, you stood on the sidelines with your friends, more baffled than anything else.

“Stiles Stilinski?” you muttered under your breath. “Seriously?”

But over the next few days, the school seemed to be collectively rewriting its perception of him. Suddenly, he wasn’t just the “weird” kid who couldn’t stop talking or tripping over his own feet. He was the underdog hero, the quirky player who’d saved the day.

That was how you found yourself sitting at your usual lunch table, staring blankly at Lydia Martin as she grinned at you like she’d just hatched a foolproof plan.

“Okay, hear me out,” Lydia began, leaning forward conspiratorially. “You and Stiles. It’s perfect.”

You blinked, fork hovering over your salad. “Come again?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Lydia said with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “You and Stiles. A date. Trust me—it’ll be fun.”

You frowned, shaking your head. “Lydia, he’s… not really my type.”

Lydia’s grin didn’t falter for a second. “You don’t have a type. And Stiles is sweet. Funny. Smart.”

“And kind of adorable,” Allison chimed in, smiling. “In that awkward-but-endearing way.”

“He’s also the weird kid who used to do that thing with the Jello during lunch,” you reminded them, raising an eyebrow.

Lydia waved a dismissive hand. “That was, like, freshman year. He’s changed. And honestly? You need someone who’ll actually treat you well. Stiles is exactly that kind of guy.”

“And if I say no?” you challenged, though your tone lacked conviction.

“Then I’ll remind you that I covered for you during that Chem lab incident,” Lydia said sweetly, her smile sharp. “Remember?”

You sighed. “Fine. One date. One.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The day of the date came faster than you’d expected, and before you knew it, Stiles was pulling into your driveway in his blue Jeep. You hesitated before climbing in, giving yourself a mental pep talk. This was just a group hangout. You could survive one night.

“Uh, hi,” Stiles greeted when you got in, his nervous smile immediately betraying how much this meant to him. “You, uh… you look really nice.”

“Thanks,” you replied, startled by the sincerity in his tone.

The drive to the diner was mostly quiet, though Stiles kept stealing glances at you like he couldn’t believe you were there. When you arrived, the rest of the group was already waiting at a booth near the back.

“Hey, you two!” Lydia greeted cheerfully, sliding over to make room.

You took the seat next to her, and Stiles sat across from you, flanked by Scott and Jackson. It wasn’t long before the group began its obvious—and borderline embarrassing—campaign to talk Stiles up.

“He’s basically the reason we won the game,” Scott said casually, nudging Stiles with his elbow.

“Not to mention he’s got this, like, weird savant thing with math,” Allison added.

“And he’s surprisingly good at trivia,” Lydia said. “He’s the reason we didn’t lose that trivia night at Jungle.”

Stiles was practically squirming in his seat, his cheeks flushed with a mix of pride and embarrassment. You leaned back, taking it all in with a raised eyebrow. “You guys are really going all in on this, huh?”

Lydia grinned. “Just trying to make sure you know what a catch he is.”

For his part, Stiles seemed determined to live up to their praise. He opened every door for you, pulled out your chair before you could even reach for it, and insisted on paying for your milkshake—despite your protests.

“You really don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said firmly, holding his ground. “It’s… I don’t know. The right thing to do?”

His earnestness caught you off guard. Most guys you hung out with didn’t bother with stuff like this, let alone insist on it.

At some point during the night, Lydia grabbed your arm and dragged you toward the bathroom, Allison and another girl following close behind.

“So?” Lydia asked the moment the door shut. “What do you think?”

You crossed your arms, shrugging like it was no big deal. “What do I think about what?”

“About Stiles,” Allison clarified, leaning against the counter. “You’re, like, actually having fun, right?”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t lie,” Lydia interrupted. “You were smiling when he told that ridiculous story about Scott falling off the roof. And you’ve been laughing at his jokes.”

“I smile all the time,” you argued weakly, though the flush in your cheeks betrayed you.

“Not like this,” Lydia said knowingly. “You like him, don’t you?”

“I—” You hesitated, looking between the girls as they stared you down. “He’s… different. I didn’t expect this.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

You bit your lip, unable to answer.

Back at the table, Stiles was in the middle of an animated Star Wars discussion with Scott and Jackson.

“And, like, there’s no way anyone can say Greedo shot first. It’s just—”

“Actually,” you interrupted, your voice cutting through the chatter, “the debate exists because Lucas changed it in the Special Edition. In the original 1977 release, Han shot first. That’s why people were so mad.”

The table went silent.

Every head turned toward you, and Stiles stared at you like you’d just solved the world’s greatest mystery.

“You… know that?” he asked, his voice almost reverent.

You shrugged, trying to act nonchalant despite the attention. “What? Just because I don’t wear a Star Wars shirt doesn’t mean I don’t know stuff.”

Stiles blinked, then blurted out, “Marry me.”

The table erupted into laughter, but you couldn’t stop looking at him—or the way his face lit up when you smiled back.

“Maybe ask me on a second date first,” you teased.

The grin that spread across his face made it clear: he absolutely would.

Sebastian winced at the sharpness in your tone but quickly regained his composure. “Oh, come on. Twenty Galleons hardly covers the number of times I’ve saved your life. Let’s call it interest.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but he stepped aside, letting you into the cozy yet slightly cramped Sallow home. “And what exactly do you expect me to do? Hold your hand and gaze lovingly into your eyes?”

“Would it kill you to try?” His grin returned in full force, mischievous and infuriating.

The truth was, Sebastian’s parents were visiting from the continent for the first time in years. And with his mother’s sharp tongue and his father’s endless questions, Sebastian had resorted to desperate measures. They had long since given up hope that he would “settle down,” but when his last letter home mentioned a “significant other,” they had demanded to meet the mysterious person.

That’s where you came in.

“You could have asked literally anyone else,” you muttered, setting your bag down near the hearth. Anne, seated in a rocking chair by the window, shot you a knowing glance but said nothing.

“Anyone else?” Sebastian scoffed, pulling you aside as Anne chuckled softly. “And miss out on seeing you squirm under my parents’ interrogation? Never.”

You were about to retort when the door swung open, and in strode Mr. and Mrs. Sallow, both clad in dark traveling cloaks.

“Sebastian!” his mother exclaimed, her voice warm but commanding. Her eyes shifted to you almost immediately, sharp and calculating. “And this must be the one we’ve heard so much about.”

You swallowed hard, plastering on a polite smile. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Sallow.”

The day wore on, filled with tea and polite conversation that felt anything but casual. Sebastian sat closer to you than necessary, his hand occasionally brushing yours as he leaned in to make some cheeky comment. His parents asked endless questions: How had you two met? What did you see in their son? Were you planning a future together?

You were mortified. Sebastian, on the other hand, was clearly enjoying himself, especially when you stumbled over your answers.

By the time dinner rolled around, you were exhausted, sitting beside Sebastian at the long wooden table as candles floated above, casting a warm glow.

“Thank you for indulging us, my dear,” Mrs. Sallow said, eyeing you with an unreadable expression. “I admit, I was beginning to think Sebastian would never find someone. He’s always been… selective.”

“Picky,” Mr. Sallow corrected, chuckling. “But it seems he’s made an excellent choice.”

You forced a smile, feeling your cheeks heat under their scrutiny. Beneath the table, Sebastian’s hand found yours. You turned to glare at him, but his expression was surprisingly soft. He gave your hand a small squeeze, his usual arrogance replaced with something genuine.

Later that evening, as the house grew quiet and the Sallows retreated to bed, you cornered Sebastian in the kitchen.

“This has been humiliating,” you hissed, jabbing a finger into his chest.

“I think you handled it brilliantly,” he said, grabbing your hand to stop your poking.

“Don’t try to charm your way out of this.”

Sebastian’s smile faltered, and for a moment, he looked serious. “I mean it. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

You sighed, tugging your hand away but not entirely angry anymore. “You owe me more than twenty Galleons after this, you know.”

“I’ll pay you back,” he promised, a teasing lilt returning to his voice. “With interest.”

You rolled your eyes, turning to leave, but his voice stopped you.

“If there was ever anybody meant for me,” he said quietly, “it’s you.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Turning back, you found him watching you, his usual smirk gone, replaced with a sincerity that made your heart skip.

“Sebastian…” you began, but he cut you off.

“I mean it. And not just for tonight.” He took a step closer, his gaze locked on yours. “Maybe you’ll hex me for saying this, but I don’t think I’ve ever cared about anyone the way I care about you.”

You were silent for a long moment, unsure how to respond. Finally, you gave a soft laugh, shaking your head. “You really are insufferable.”

“Maybe,” he said, his grin returning. “But I’m your insufferable idiot, aren’t I?”

“Unfortunately,” you muttered, though you didn’t protest when he leaned in closer, his hand brushing yours once again.