DD

“Alright, Spiderman. There’s a bank robbery going on at 30th Avenue. Suspect is—uh, hello? Is this thing on?”

Peter laughs, already swinging through the tall buildings of New York City, zipping and flying through them faster than you can even say ‘Spiderman.’ While one arm is busy slinging out webs from building to building, his other arm holds onto a thick communications radio that looks like an amateur concoction of a walkie-talkie accompanied with old thick wires he found in a junkyard.

“Yep, I hear you loud and clear,” Peter says from his end. “I’m already a few blocks away. What does the suspect look like—”

“Spiderman? Hellooo?” Your voice cuts him off in a burst of static that makes his ears ring. “Ugh—is this radio even working? Are you still there?”

He needs to make a mental note to figure out a way for your voice to come through clearer—and preferably not through a brick of what feels like a tenth-century sad excuse for a cellphone that he has to clutch every time he wants to talk to you.

“I’m here!” Peter shouts through the mic, swinging around a corner.

“Ah! There you are!” you say, sounding like you’re smiling, if only Peter could picture what you looked like. “Missed your voice for a second.”

Peter’s face flushes under his mask.

“Detecting a sudden increase in body heat—specifically around the facial region—and a spike in heart rate despite no intense physical activity being performed—”

“Shut up, Evie,” Peter mumbles, hoping you didn’t hear him from the other end of the line.

He hadn’t gotten around to fixing the background noise integration yet, so the shitty microphone attached to the radio picks up almost everything. He hears you laugh on the other end, and he has to force down the rapid thumping of his heart before Evie calls him out on it again.

“Are you blushing, Spiderman?”

“What—no!” Peter immediately interjects, landing on top of a tall building on 30th Avenue. His eyes scan the windows of the bank directly across the street. “Just tell me what the suspect looks like, alright?”

You chuckle again. “Okay, the suspect is tall, wearing dark clothing, and probably handsome—if it weren’t for the ski mask covering his face.”

Peter rolls his eyes underneath his goggles.

“Now’s not the time to play around,” he says, already swinging through the entrance as innocent bystanders and employees run out in a panic.

He swings above the crowd in a perfectly prone position mid-air until he lands on his feet in the center of the bank. He doesn’t need your comms in here—he can handle whatever gets thrown at him at this point. His ears tingle with a warning that tells him the enemy is to his left. He turns his head to that direction, and…

“Spiderman!” A tall man in dark clothing and a ski mask holds up a rifle, pointing it directly at Peter. “You’re dead, kid!”

“Oh, jeez,” Peter says, slowly raising his hands in surrender.

“Oh, and I forgot to mention,” your voice statics through. “He’s heavily armed.”

“Yeah, good comms,” Peter scoffs sarcastically.

“Who the hell are you talking to?” the man shouts, pointing at the radio in Peter's hand. “Is that a bomb? Drop it!”

Peter furrows his brows, glancing at the object in his hand. A bomb? Seriously? The radio really looks that bad?

The man’s grip on the gun tightens, holding it in a way that lets Peter know he has clearly never held a gun before in his life. The panic among the people remaining in the building surges at the sight of the weapon, everyone shoving past each other toward the entrance.

“Come on, man. Don’t shoot—there are innocent people in here!” he tries to interject.

“Innocent dead people soon, if you don’t put that weapon away!” the man barks back.

“The police are on their way,” you explain, serious this time, through the radio. “Take care of that gun now, or he’ll start shooting like a madman once he sees the sirens. You have less than two minutes.”

“Okay,” Peter says. “Time me.”

“Starting now?”

“Starting now,” he confirms before switching off the radio’s microphone input.

The man takes the loud clicking sound as a threat, his finger hovering over the trigger with every intention to shoot—but Peter moves faster.

Extending his left hand, a thick layer of web covers the muzzle, trapping any potential bullet in the barrel. The poor man doesn’t even have time to react before Peter webs the gun, yanked it out of his hands, and tosses it aside. Just as the man turns to make a run for it, Peter pins his ankles together with a thick strip of webbing, sending him face first onto the floor before securing his wrists behind his back with another band of webs.

From where he still stands in the center of the room, Peter unclicks the microphone. “You got it, Static?”

He can practically feel you rolling your eyes at the stupid nickname. “That was fifteen seconds. Good job,” you applaud. “And are you seriously still sticking with Static? I hate that nickname.”

Peter chuckles, scanning the area for any signs of injuries, but finds none. The police finally arrive, pulling up with sirens blaring as they assess the crowd and begin scouting the area with weapons drawn. Seeing the suspect already bound by webs on the floor, they immediately move in with handcuffs.

Knowing the police will take it from here, Peter zips out of the building as if the entire fight—if you would even call it that—was just a quick pit stop.

“Well, that’s just what I’m gonna have to keep calling you, because your voice always comes through staticky,” he says, the wind picking up through the microphone and making it harder for you to hear him. “Unless… you wanna give me your actual name. Then maybe I can call you that instead.”

You pause at the other end of the radio, the silence between you filled only by the harsh wind and the snap of spiderwebs on his end.

As Peter swings his way back to his apartment, his heart pounds wildly in his chest with anticipation.

This isn’t the first time he’s teased you to get you to give up your name, and you’ve asked for his name more times than he can count on his fingers.

“Very funny,” you muse from the other end, your voice drawing out with a teasing tilt. “I could say the same thing to you.”

Peter smiles, landing on his apartment rooftop with a huff. “I don’t know—I think I like the way Spiderman rolls off your tongue.”

For the very first time since you two found each other through a stroke of pure luck—when Peter spent a night building a radio to hijack police comms and accidentally connected to you, a woman doing the exact same thing—you find yourself completely at a loss for words.

He doesn’t even know where the sudden boost of confidence came from to blurt out a flirtatious comment like that. Maybe it’s the suit, or maybe it’s that flutter of excitement he gets every single time he talks to you.

But that confidence slowly teeters away the longer you stay quiet. He grimaces, feeling like he overshot his mark big time.

Finally, he hears a slow draw of breath from the other end.

“That’s a shame,” you tease. “I would’ve loved to hear the sound of my name in your voice.”

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, his body tensing as your words travel down his spine and straight to his heart. It was the way you said it—that sultry little rasp that even the static couldn’t mask. An awkward silence takes over the both of you, and for once, Peter is grateful for how poorly he configured this radio, since he can use it as an excuse for a faulty mic.

“Dramatic increase in heart rate detected. Body heat has increased an additional two degrees, and your suit—specifically around the groin region—appears to be tighter. I am also detecting a heightened state of arousal—”

“Evie!” Peter barks suddenly. He hears your laugh come through the other end, and the sound definitely doesn’t help his situation at all.

“Got you to blush twice today.” You taunt. “I think that’s a record, Spidey.”

“I wasn’t blushing,” Peter lies. “Anyway—enough of that. Are you seeing any other criminal activity in the area?”

You hum, and he hears a faint clicking noise on your end. “Nothing,” you say. “But what’s the rush? You’re given the opportunity to relax. You should take it, considering how hard you’ve been pushing yourself.”

Peter hops onto the ledge of his building and starts idly pacing back and forth, smiling under his mask as he holds the radio close to his ear. “Aw, you don’t have to worry about me. I have Evie for that.”

You blow a raspberry, and Peter’s smile widens.

“Yeah—well, Evie is an artificial intelligence. She can only care so much. Plus, she can’t make as many good jokes as I can.”

Peter’s tongue pokes the inside of his cheek as he kicks a tiny stray pebble off the ledge, watching it fall ten stories to the ground. “Are you getting jealous of my assistant now?”

A garbled noise leaves your lips, and he chuckles as you stammer over your own words.

“God—you’re so full of yourself, aren't you?” you huff. “I’m your partner—so it’s only natural for me to look out for you.”

“We’re partners?”

“Haven’t we been this entire time?”

Peter pauses, glancing up at the sky, where the orange sun is starting to set behind several towers of buildings.

Partners. He hasn’t had anyone he could call a partner since everything happened—since he made the whole world forget who he was. He hasn’t had a real, caring partner since… them. Ned and MJ.

And now, after all that time spent in solitude, he’s finally found someone to call his partner again. Someone he’s never even seen, whose name he doesn’t even know. All he knows about you is that you’re smart—smart enough to build a radio and link up to his frequency—and that you live in New York. He could’ve passed you on his way to buy groceries, or seen you on the subway. Hell, you might even live in his building. Maybe you’re even that girl he accidentally swapped laundry with the other night.

“Spiderman? You still there?” you ask, snapping him out of his daze.

Despite your usual spunky attitude, in that moment, you sound so… small. Like you don’t want to hang up, even if there aren’t any crimes to report.

“I’m here,” he breathes, his voice coming out softer than he expected. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You smile at that. He can hear it. “Okay. Good.”

The microphone picks up shuffling noises on your end—judging by the sound, he pictures you rolling over in bed and getting comfortable.

“How about we play a game?” you ask before the radio falls into silence again.

Peter raises a brow under his mask. “A game?”

“Yeah—every time you complete a successful mission, we trade a fun fact about each other.”

He hums, taking a seat on the ledge and letting his feet dangle over the edge. “Okay, sure. And since I just finished one—does that mean the game starts now?”

You chuckle softly at his enthusiasm to play along. “Sure. Want to go first?”

Peter cranes his neck back to look at the sky. Although neither of you has ever brought it up, he has a feeling you’re both on the exact same page when it comes to secrecy. Neither of you wants to give away too much and blow your identity, but you share just enough to keep things interesting.

And by letting him go first, it feels like you’re giving him the chance to set the tone.

“Hm. Let me think.” He rubs his chin through his mask. “Okay—I’m ready. My favorite coffee is a hot Americano.”

You snort. “The first fun fact you want to share is your coffee order?”

“Hey—coffee can be fun!” Peter interjects. “Now tell me yours.”

A little laugh escapes you, and he can hear you shaking your head. “Fine. I get an extra-hot almond milk latte, with one pump of sugar-free vanilla, one pump of regular hazelnut, and two scoops of vanilla bean powder.”

The white lenses of Peter’s goggles widen, and he lets out a brief, disbelieving laugh. “Oh—so you’re pulling my leg because I started us off with a lame fun fact? Is that it?”

“What?” You giggle along. “I’m not! That’s my actual order—especially on chilly days. You should try it sometime.”

Peter imagines it: a girl—a pretty one, judging by your voice and personality—ordering that ridiculous concoction at a coffee shop while the barista rolls their eyes at how long it takes to recite. For some reason, the visual warms his chest.

“Sure. And I’d tell you to try a hot Americano—but based on the order you just gave me, I don’t think you’d like it very much,” he jokes.

You chuckle. “No, probably not.”

Silence fills the space again, and Peter kicks his legs over the edge of the ledge, trying to think of something to say before he loses you.

He clears his throat. “So, uh—”

“Can I ask you something?”

You both talk over each other, and his face warms with embarrassment. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Okay,” you continue. You let out a shaky breath, and he instinctively braces himself for whatever you’re about to ask. “I’ve noticed that your receiver is always on. Do you forget to turn it off?”

Peter pauses, confused by the question. “No. It’s on twenty-four seven—just in case something happens, you know?”

You hum softly. “I get that. But I guess what I’m trying to ask is… don’t you have other things in your life to worry about, instead of fighting crime behind a mask?”

Peter stays quiet for a moment.

In truth, there’s a bigger reason he keeps the radio on besides his duties as Spiderman. He could easily listen in on reported crimes just fine without your help, but he keeps it on twenty-four seven in the hopes of hearing your voice ring through—just in case you might… need him.

There have been several nights since meeting you where he tosses and turns in bed, reaching for the radio to see if your receiver is on. It usually isn’t during consistent parts of the day—meaning you’re either at work or in class. It’s usually off at night, but sometimes around three in the morning, he’ll see your receiver light up and you’ll call in, your voice completely wide awake, proving you can be a real night owl.

Ever since meeting you, it feels like he finally has a friend to talk to. The worst part of it all is that he doesn’t even know your name. And he can never meet you, no matter how badly he wants to.

Peter finally found someone he cares about—and he isn’t going to risk losing you.

“I… I guess I do,” Peter says, trying his best to tread carefully. “I always keep an earpiece in, just in case something happens. You can never be too careful.”

You hum again, and Peter knows that answer wasn’t enough to buy it.

“And I guess I also keep it on… just in case you ever want to talk.”

Shit, Peter curses to himself. If his half-assed answer just now wasn’t enough to make you switch off the line, this one definitely takes the cake. You’re quiet on the other end, and each passing second makes him want to do you both a favor and turn it off himself.

“In that case,” you speak softly, “I’ll keep my receiver on in case you want to talk to me.”

His heart stutters in his chest, feeling as though all the air has been sucked straight out of his lungs.

Peter hasn’t felt this way since high school. He’s grinning ear to ear—a smile so wide it hurts the muscles in his cheeks. He lets out a chuckle, a raspy, disbelieving sound at the realization that there’s a chance you might feel the exact same way about him.

“Don’t say that,” he says before he can stop himself, trying to inject some humor to cover up his flustered state. “You’re gonna get annoyed with me.”

“Who’s to say I’m not already?” you joke back.

And for the first time in a long time, Peter feels like the happiest man on Earth.

He looks up at the sky, watching birds fly across the orange hues as he kicks his feet like a high schooler who just scored a date with the prettiest girl in class. His heart is racing so fast in his chest and he feels so giddy that he’s actually surprised Evie hasn’t called him out on it yet.

He wants to make this last—to say something, anything, to keep this moment from ending.

Suddenly, a series of sharp beeps emits from your end of the radio. It's a sound he knows all too well, a reminder that duty calls before anything else.

“Oh, God,” you mutter quietly.

Every hair on Peter’s arms stands on end. He leaps to his feet, ready to launch himself toward whatever is happening. “What is it, Static?”

“There’s an alarm triggered at Grand Central Terminal,” you explain. “NYPD comms just flagged it—there are a bunch of hostages. It looks bad, Spiderman. Multiple armed men have barricaded the main concourse.”

Peter wastes no time, shooting a thick web line toward the nearest building and flinging himself into the sky. “How many hostages are we talking?”

“At least fifty. Commuters, staff—they were trapped during rush hour,” you answer, the clack of your keyboard clattering over the staticky connection. “I’m tapping into the security feed right now. They’re holding guns, and… it looks like there’s a heavy grade explosive right in the center, attached to the information booth.”

The wind roars through Peter’s mic as he accelerates through the air. “How much time is on the clock?”

“I’m trying to zoom in—eight minutes,” you say. “They’ve blocked all the major exits with deadbolts and wired the perimeter. It looks pretty half-assed, Spidey. If SWAT breaches the doors, or if even a piece of rubble hits that rig, the whole thing will blow.”

“Alright, no breaches,” Peter takes a mental note, his mind racing through entry points as the massive arched roof of Grand Central comes into view. “You’re my eyes in there, Static. Find me an entry point that skips the doors.”

“The skylight above the west balcony has an old grate,” you reply instantly. “It leads directly into the ventilations—high enough to keep you out of sight, but close enough to drop in.”

“Got it,” Peter replies, landing silently on the glass roof. He peers through the skylight, his eyes adjusting to the interior where dozens of terrified people are huddling on the floor, held at gunpoint by masked men with automatic rifles.

Right in the center, duct-taped to the information booth and blinking with a harsh red timer, sits the bomb.

“Okay, I’m in position,” Peter breathes through the radio. “Time me?”

He hears a soft click on your end, signaling that your timer is already running.

“Be careful, Spiderman.”

He tucks the radio against his thigh, securing it with a thick band of web.

Peter moves exactly in the direction you tell him to—he wedges his body into the dusty vents, moving with the practiced speed of an arachnid that takes him from point A to point B in the blink of an eye. He slowly lifts the grate, the poor thing held up by only a flimsy screw, and sets it down softly beside him to avoid any loud noises.

He lands gently right in the center of the terminal—but his plans for discretion don’t last when a hostage looks up and yells, “We’re saved, everyone! It’s Spiderman!”

Immediately, all the armed threats spin around, several barrels abandoning the hostages to point straight at the man in the red-and-blue suit.

“Oh,” Peter smiles. “Making my job a lot easier. Thanks.”

Before giving them the chance to shoot, Peter fires off thick strings of web into every single barrel, clogging up the firearms. With every weapon bound, he tangles the web lines together into one big knot and yanks them all out of their hands.

The guns crash into each other in a tangled mass of spiderwebs and steel. With the firearms rendered completely useless, he tosses the mess aside to focus on the men—who are now charging at him with combat knives and sidearms.

Peter quickly makes short work of the pistols, disarming the men with his webs before a stray bullet can even graze the bomb. One by one, he takes them down, firing webs with every intention of keeping them bound and completely immovable.

When Peter gets down to the last guy, slinging a thick web to pin him flat against the wall, your voice rings out from where the radio sits tucked against his thigh.

“SWAT is moving in—mind the doors and tripwires!”

“Shit,” Peter curses, whipping his head toward the exits—but it’s already too late.

The SWAT team breaches fast, shouting and gesturing for the hostages to run. Panic surges through the crowd, and every frantic step from the civilians echoes like thunder in Peter’s ears. One misstep, even one piece of falling debris, could set this entire place off. Peter snaps his head back to the bomb. Four minutes remain on the digital clock, but suddenly the numbers freeze—and a sharp high pitched frequency fills the room.

It’s quiet to everyone else, but to Peter's heightened senses, it might as well be an air siren.

“Wait!” Peter shouts, turning to vault himself away before the bomb sets off.

But it’s too late.

“Spiderman! Get out of there!” you cry out through the radio—right before a brilliant flash of red and white blinds the entire building.

Pressure and heat slam right into Peter’s chest, throwing him backward through the air and showering him in flying stone like a ragdoll. Glass shatters overhead, raining down thousands of sparkling fragments as the information booth detonates into a massive cloud of fire and smoke.

Peter crashes hard against the far wall, the impact knocking every last drop of air from his lungs. He coughs up blood, staining the inside of his mask, before sliding down a broken slab of marble. He wheezes violently as dense gray smoke fills the room. His ears ring loudly, drowning out the shouting SWAT officers, the screaming crowd, and the creaking support beams above.

Evie’s voice sings in his ear like a taunt.

“Detecting bone fractures near the lower hip. Internal bleeding. Labored breathing—”

Then, your voice comes cutting through the static.

“Spiderman! Answer me!” Your voice cuts in and out, and despite being crushed under rubble with smoke filling his lungs, he reaches for the radio at his thigh.

He lifts it with a trembling hand, and his heart stops. It’s broken, snapped open with electricity sparking near the wires.

“Please—are you there? Spiderman! Check in!”

“Time, Static,” he manages to croak out.

Even through the static, the sheer panic in your voice is unmistakable. “The ambulances are on their way. Just hold on for a little longer—”

“What’s the time, Static?” he repeats with a wet cough.

You suck in a sharp breath. “Four minutes and twenty-three seconds. Now save your breath and stop talking!”

“Peter,” he croaks, coughing up more blood.

“W-what?” you stammer through tears. The sound makes his chest hurt more than the slab of concrete resting heavy on his ribs. “You’re breaking out.”

“Our little game—remember? Every successful mission, we exchange a fun fact,” he wheezes, fighting for air. “My name is Peter Parker.”

A broken, sobbing gasp escapes you. He glances down at the radio, watching the little light that indicates his microphone is working flicker in and out.

“Static? Are you still there?”

“I can’t hear you, Spiderman.”

The blue glow of your television screen is the only source of light in your dim apartment. Outside your window, New York City keeps moving, but inside, time feels like it has been frozen for seven agonizing days.

On the screen, a news anchor stands outside Queens Hospital Center, her face grave under the studio-lit broadcast.

“…we return to our top story tonight regarding Spiderman,” the reporter’s voice echoes through your quiet room. “It has been one week since the explosive incident at Grand Central Terminal that left the vigilante in critical condition. Authorities and medical staff at Queens Hospital Center have kept tight-lipped about his recovery.”

You pull your knees tighter into your chest, your fingers trembling as they wrap around a lukewarm mug of tea you haven’t touched.

“In a shocking turn of events earlier this morning, hospital administrators confirmed that Spiderman is no longer in their care,” the reporter continues. “According to sources, when attending nurses entered his private room to adjust his IVs and monitor his severe injuries, they found the hospital bed empty. There is no security footage explaining how or when the injured hero managed to slip past guards, leaving NYPD officials baffled—and deeply concerned given the extent of his internal trauma.”

Your eyes widen, and you press a hand over your mouth as a shaky exhale spills past your lips.

He woke up.

He survived.

You keep watching, waiting to see if the reporter will expose his identity. A part of you is already annoyed that these attention-hungry journalists would stoop so low now that he’s been admitted to a hospital. But another part of you desperately wants to know—because you felt like that might’ve been what he was trying to tell you over the radio right before the line cut out.

A heavy breath escapes you when the reporter doesn’t mention a name, and the broadcast switches to a story about local stray animals. You’re not even sure if the sigh you let out is one of relief or frustration.

You glance over at the radio resting on the couch beside you.

Your receiver light blinks green—it has been on this entire time.

For the past seven days, you’ve been sleeping with the radio clutched in your hands in hopes that you’ll hear his voice one more time. Even as you walk through the hallways of your university, moving from lecture to lecture, you keep an earpiece tucked in your ear so you won’t miss him if he calls.

A few more days pass, and you’re sitting at your desk with heavy eyes. A lamp at the corner of your desk emits a warm glow over the pages of your notebook. You feel like you’ve been awake for days, running on far too little sleep and not nearly enough caffeine to keep you going.

Your head rests heavily in your palm. A quick glance at the clock tells you it’s 3:41 in the morning.

With a tired sigh, you start to push your chair back—but the sudden sound of familiar static stops you in your tracks.

A sound that is usually so grating to your ears suddenly sounds like heaven.

You quickly scramble back to your desk, your hand swiping up the radio and lifting it to your ear.

“Hello?” you say, your heart racing. “Hello? Is someone there?”

The static cuts out for a second, and you pull the radio back to check the lights. Both indicator lights are glowing green, showing that you—and whoever is on the other line—are connected. The static crackles through again, and you press the receiver tight against your ear, holding your breath as you wait for them to speak first.

“—atic?”

That voice—so familiar, so gentle—rings out. You feel your heart leap straight into your throat. You’ve been waiting for days to hear him again, but you aren't prepared for what to say now that he's actually here.

“Sta—t—ic,” Peter’s voice cuts in and out before suddenly coming through crystal clear—clearer than the very first time you ever connected with him. “This is Spiderman. Are you there?”

Your heart swells with a profound wave of relief. Tears prick at your eyes, spilling down your cheeks before you can even stop them.

“Oh my God,” you breathe, your hand trembling as you press the radio against your forehead. “You’re okay. You’re here. Thank God. I—I thought I lost you. I was keeping up with the news, and when they said you fled the hospital—I hoped you were okay. I’ve been waiting for your call all week. I—”

“Hey, hey,” Peter coos softly on the other end. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. I’m not going anywhere.”

You hear him rustling around on the other line, the soft friction of sheets sounding like he’s lying in bed. The thought of him resting comfortably in his own room rather than trapped in a sterile hospital bed makes your heart melt.

“Where have you been?” you ask, your voice cracking as you wipe a stray tear from your cheek. “Why didn’t you call sooner?”

“I know, I know… I’m sorry,” Peter says softly, his breath catching in a faint, painful wince that he tries to cover up with a dry laugh. “My suit was pretty much trashed, and the radio got crushed in the blast. It took everything in me just to crawl over to my workbench, and a few more days to rebuild the transmitter from scratch.”

A shaky breath leaves his lips. “With the radio broken, I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to find you again. I spent all this time rebuilding it—I even fixed the signal integration so both our voices would come through clearer.”

You let out a wet, teary laugh. “So that’s why you sound like that.”

You can picture him grinning on the other end. “A lot better, huh?”

That familiar, teasing tilt in his voice sends a wave of butterflies straight to your stomach. A soft laugh escapes you, and he chuckles in return. Then, as if savoring the sound of your joy, he breathes out softly.

“I missed hearing your voice.”

Your feet carry you over to the comfort of your mattress, and before you even realize it, you’re collapsing onto your bed, kicking your feet like a giddy, hopeless romantic.

“I missed hearing you, too. You’d better not let that happen again. If I can barely handle losing you for a week, I definitely can’t bear losing you forever,” you say, trying to pass it off as a joke, but the tremble in your voice betrays you.

Peter’s grin widens where he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ll make sure to be extra careful from here on out, just so you don’t lose me.”

You smile into your pillow. “Good.”

A comfortable silence settles between you two—not the awkward kind from when you first met, but a warm one, wrapping around you both like a blanket despite the distance. You set the radio down on the empty space beside your pillow, and he does the same. With the microphone improvements, you can hear his steady breathing on your end, and he can hear yours.

“Were you able to hear anything I said... the last time we spoke?” Peter asks softly.

You shake your head, the friction against your pillow rustling over the mic. “You were cutting out too much.”

He pauses, the soft sound of sheets shifting as he pulls his blanket up over his shoulders.

“It was about our game—the fun facts one,” he says, his voice careful, like he’s walking on eggshells.

You couldn’t catch much before the line broke down completely. Pet... That was all you had managed to hear. But a deep feeling in your gut tells you that whatever he said was a precious piece of himself—a piece he wanted you to have in case he didn’t make it.

You hold your breath, waiting to see if he’ll offer it up again.

“And since I completed a successful mission,” he continues, swallowing hard. “I thought I’d continue with that trade.”

You brace yourself, your heart clawing in your chest as you wait for the confession—for him to finally drop his guard and lay his identity on the line, just like you plan to do with yours.

Peter draws a slow, quiet breath.

“Do you… have a boyfriend?”

You blink.

The silence stretches for a long second, the sudden change in direction catching you so off guard that your mind does a hard reset. Of all the things you expected him to say—a big secret, a superhero revelation, a tender confession about his life—that was not on your bingo card.

“What?” you squeeze out, your voice squeaking slightly.

Over the line, Peter clears his throat awkwardly, a sudden rustle of sheets betraying how fast he just sat up to bury his face in his hands.

“O-or girlfriend! Sorry—I shouldn’t have assumed! I mean, you don’t have to answer! It’s just—it’s a fun fact! A personal fact! That’s how the game works, right? You tell me something, I tell you something… or—”

A helpless, snickering laugh bubbles up from your chest, breaking off his ramble.

“Spiderman,” you giggle, burying your blushing face deeper into your mattress.

“Yeah?” he yelps, sounding like a man standing on trial.

“No,” you answer, a wide grin spreading across your face. “No boyfriend. No girlfriend.”

A long, almost dramatic exhale breezes through the speaker, followed by the soft thud of Peter flopping back down onto his mattress.

“Oh, thank God,” he mutters, trying to keep it quiet enough so the microphone doesn’t catch it—but you hear it anyway. “I mean… cool. That’s cool.”

You snort. “Okay. You know how the game goes. Now it’s my turn to ask.”

“Do I have a girlfriend?” he prompts.

You shrug, taking the opportunity to tease him. “Or boyfriend. I don’t judge.”

A playful scoff leaves his lips, and you can already imagine him rolling his eyes. He’s quiet for a few seconds, making you think he’s just too flustered to answer. But when his voice comes through shaky, almost hesitant, you feel an unfamiliar tug at your heart.

“I—um… I used to have this girl,” he murmurs. “We were dating for a while—but it didn’t work out.”

The tone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. He speaks like a man who’s been broken again and again, carrying a profound heartache you couldn’t even begin to measure. A small, selfish twinge of jealousy tugs at you, but you know it’s not your place.

“What happened?” The words spill out before you can stop them.

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, and you wince with regret for pushing too far.

“Well, that’s something you’re gonna have to ask the next time I complete a successful mission,” he says, trying to ease the tension with a playful tone, and you’re more than happy to fall right back into it.

You roll onto your back, looking up at your bedroom ceiling. Across the city, Peter does the exact same thing.

“Deal. But let’s not jump back into all that too soon, okay? Whatever crime happens out there, let the police handle it,” you say, pulling your blanket up to your chin. “I just want to keep you all to myself tonight.”

You want to slap yourself for how ridiculous you sound. He just opened up about a painful past relationship, and you immediately turn around and sound like a clingy girlfriend.

But Peter laughs—a full, rich sound that doesn't sound at all like he just survived a traumatic experience a week ago. It’s a laugh that never fails to make you smile.

“Usually, I’d oppose the idea of ignoring crime,” he says softly. “But for you? I’ll stay. For as long as you want me to.”

You smile, nuzzling your nose into the soft fabric of your blanket. “Good. Goodnight, Spiderman.”

“Goodnight, Static.”

And for the remainder of the night, neither of you switches the radio off, letting the quiet and comforting sound of each other’s breathing lull you to sleep.

It’s a brand new day, and Peter is running around New York getting his errands done. Laundry run, check. Grocery run, check. The last thing on his list is to pick up some flowers for Aunt May.

Right next to the small bodega where he always buys his flowers sits a busy coffee shop.

The front window is large enough to see everything and everyone inside—which is exactly why he has to do a double take at the person standing near the cashier.

He stops dead in his tracks, causing a hurried pedestrian to bump into his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbles, but the man just shoots him a dirty look and keeps walking.

Standing inside the coffee shop is a face that’s all too familiar—someone he hasn’t seen in a long, long time.

Ned.

Peter’s feet are moving before he even realizes it. He hovers near the entrance, stepping aside for a few exiting customers before pushing the door open. Slipping into an empty seat near the front, he watches Ned chat with the barista. But Ned isn’t alone.

He’s standing next to a girl—a pretty girl, at that. And one he doesn’t recognize.

Peter smiles to himself, a swell of pride washing over him seeing his best friend doing well, and scoring a pretty girlfriend to date.

“And for the missus?” The barista holds up a paper cup, pen hovering over the cardboard as she waits.

You glance up at the menu board, though you don’t really need to. You know your order like the back of your hand.

“Can I get an extra-hot almond milk latte with one pump of sugar-free vanilla—”

Peter’s heart stops.

“—one pump of regular hazelnut…”

That voice. That familiar, sing-song cadence he hears every night through a staticky radio. The last voice he listened to when he nearly died just a few weeks ago.

“And two scoops of vanilla bean powder,” Peter mumbles to himself like a mantra.

“…and two scoops of vanilla bean powder?” you finish, flashing the barista a harmless, innocent smile.

The barista gives you a disbelieving look, and you chuckle awkwardly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement gives Peter a clear view of a small earpiece nestled right inside. Everything playing out before his eyes matches the picture he’d built in his head—except for you. You being this stunning was far beyond anything he could have imagined.

The barista finally finishes jotting your order down, and you and Ned turn to search for an open table. Peter holds his breath, watching your easy smile and the natural way you interact with his once best friend.

The pang in his chest is a feeling he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. Two people he cares about more than anything... so close, yet entirely out of reach.

His heightened spider-sense gives him the ability to hear almost anything, even from across the room. Yet right now, the ringing in his ears and the heavy thumping of his heart drown out every other sound. You and Ned approach an empty table with only a single chair, but you glance around and spot the unused chair across from Peter.

“Hey,” you smile politely—a soft, courteous tone reserved strictly for strangers, not your partner in crime. “Are you using this chair?”

This is it.

Finally, for the first time, he can introduce himself to you properly. He could bring both you and Ned back into his life with a single, simple greeting.

Hi, I’m Peter. Peter Parker. The guy you’ve been talking to over a flimsy radio these past few months.

Peter looks up at you, completely frozen where he sits. Your smile fades into a faint frown when he hesitates. Then, your eyes flicker briefly to the earpiece resting in his ear—identical to yours, worn for the exact same reason.

Just in case either of you calls in.

Before he loses you, Peter clears his throat. His hand subtly moves up to scratch his ear, hiding the earpiece with his knuckles before slipping it into his palm. When he finally speaks, he deliberately drops his voice a few pitches deeper—adding a slight rasp for good measure.

“No, go ahead.”

That polite smile returns, and you pull the chair away from his table. “Cool, thanks.”

You slide the chair up to the table you’re sharing with Ned, and just like that—unaware that you’ve completely flipped his world upside down and inside out—you fall right back into conversation with him.

The barista calls out your order with your name, and the sound of it is like music to his ears.

He repeats it quietly under his breath. It sounds natural, like a name that was always meant to be spoken in his voice.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t reveal his identity to you. Telling you his real name that night—when he was trapped under rubble and bleeding out—was just a lapse in judgment brought on by desperation. But now that he’s here, looking at you and his best friend in broad daylight, he knows he can’t risk letting you into his world.

Anyone who knows Peter Parker is Spiderman is a person bound to be lost. And Peter can’t afford to lose you.

Yet as he watches you sit across from him, tossing your head back with a laugh that is painfully familiar, it feels like he’s already lost you anyway.

“So, tell me more about this party.”

“Well, it’s a housewarming party,” you explain, tucking your hands into your pockets as you walk through the night streets of Queens. “Two of my friends moved into an apartment recently—so we’re celebrating tonight.”

Peter hums, leaning back in his chair and staring mindlessly at his screens. He folds a piece of paper, fiddling with it as his mind wanders to who those friends could be. Ned? And if so, he wonders who else he could be moving in with—if not him.

“That’s… cool,” he finally answers in an indifferent tone.

You round the corner, the sounds of the bustling city nightlife picking up on your microphone. “Yeah. And since I’ll be busy socializing tonight, I won’t have my receiver on all night. But I’ll try my best to check in with you.”

Peter huffs a laugh through his nose. “I’m a big boy. You don’t need to check up on me.” He glances at the window. “I’m more worried about you, though.”

You step aside for a pedestrian who’s rushing past. “What for?”

Peter pushes himself out of his chair with a grunt, stepping up to the small window and looking down at the city street below. “Well, you’re a woman walking all by yourself at night. I hope your friends at least know where you’re at.”

You chuckle, pulling open the door of the small corner grocery store and being welcomed by a soft bell jingle.

“Don’t worry your head, Spiderman. If I constantly worry about my well-being just because I’m a woman, then I’ll never get anything done in this city.”

You’re greeted by a frail, older lady behind the counter, and you offer her a polite smile as you walk past. Making your way to the coolers in the back, you weigh your options between beer and seltzers.

“Do you think two cases of Budweiser is enough?” You ask Peter.

The bell chimes again, and a large man with a dark hoodie pulled over his face enters. You glance at him, and he holds your stare. You look back down.

Peter’s cackle draws you back in. “And you’re drinking?”

You can’t help but grin at the worry in his voice. Grabbing two cases—one in each hand—and shutting the refrigerator door, you head to the front counter. “Yes, because I’m an adult and should be enjoying myself. And you should be, too, Spiderman. It’s Friday night.”

A bitter smile dances on his lips. He should be enjoying himself—a night out with you, instead of being cooped up in his apartment, worrying about you getting wasted at a house party surrounded by men your age with grimy hands and bad intentions.

You set the cases on the counter, and the lady begins to ring you up. The man in the dark hoodie falls in line right behind you, holding just a pack of gum in his hand.

“Okay, I gotta head out. I’ll check in with you later tonight—”

The lady at the front counter has her attention locked on the man behind you, and she sharply gasps, ducking down immediately. Your head whips around, and you find yourself face to face with the black metal of a handgun.

“You know Spiderman?” the man before you asks in a deep gravelly voice, finger poised right above the trigger.

A pathetic, broken sound escapes you. You still have Peter on the line, and you hear the sudden panic in his voice the minute your microphone picks up your heavy breathing and whimper.

“Static? Who is that? What’s happening?”

“You must be mistaken,” you raise your hands in surrender, shoulders timid, as a bead of sweat rolls down your temple. “I—I don’t know Spiderman—”

“Bullshit!” the man shouts, backhanding you with the grip of the gun.

You cry out in pain, your body collapsing hard onto the floor as your hand flies to your cheek. Your earpiece falls out, Peter’s voice ringing out loudly in sheer panic. The man huffs an incredulous laugh as he crouches down to pick it up and lift it to his ear.

“Tell me your location—where are you? I’m coming—!”

“103rd Street,” the man answers with a grin. “That’s where your little lady is at—on the floor, bleeding outta her lip.”

The wind whips loudly through the earpiece, audible even from where you’re prone on the ground.

“Don’t lay a fucking hand on her,” Peter’s voice crackles through the wind and speaker. “What do you want from me?”

The man only chuckles, turning the small earpiece in his fingers, unfazed by the threat of a friendly neighborhood superhero.

“That’s the thing with people like you who try to play hero,” the man says, his tone dripping with bitter resentment. “You stop guys like us, but what you fail to realize is that we aren’t the bad guys at all, Spiderman. While you sit in your fancy little apartment, the rest of us are out here fighting for scraps just to survive—and it’s people like you who keep stopping us.”

He looks down at you, lying on the cold floor with a trembling hand pressed against your bleeding lip.

“We’re just trying to eat,” the man spits into the receiver. “So if a guy like me has to take a little collateral to get your attention, or to get a quick payday—that’s not evil. That’s just survival. There’s a lot of money on your head, Spiderman. Money that can help an average person like me tremendously.”

The sharp thwip of a web fires through the speaker, followed by the harsh gust of the open night sky.

If it were anyone else being held hostage, maybe Peter would extend the courtesy of hearing him out. But he’s not holding just any person. He’s holding you—the only person Peter has opened his heart to in years. The only voice he looks forward to, the one that gives him hope to push through to a brand-new day. Right now, there isn’t a single shred of restraint left in Peter’s mind—not when your life is on the line because of him.

“I don’t give a shit about your excuse,” Peter spits, whipping around a sharp corner as he flies onto 103rd Street. “If you hurt her again before I get there, I swear to God—”

“It’s too late, Spiderman.”

From high above, Peter spots the grocery store below. The white lenses of his mask widen as he peers through the large front windows, catching sight of you scrambling backward in fear, hands raised in surrender.

The man above you stands straight and lifts the gun. Peter’s eyes lock onto the finger resting against the trigger. With one launch off the side of a building, he catapults himself straight through the glass windows.

The explosion of glass shatters in time with the gunshot. As the bullet travels through the barrel of the gun, Peter collides into the man, sending him flying sideways and the gun tilting upwards. The bullet hits the ceiling, the fluorescent lights exploding with electricity as the roof panel falls. You quickly scramble away so it doesn’t hit you.

Peter sends the man flying from one window to another, rolling around on the pavement outside until he lands on top. There is no amount of webs he can use to convey his anger—so he settles with his fists.

One punch after another, one hit after brutal hit. Blood flies out of the man’s face, tainting Peter’s suit with red. It splatters across his knuckles, and he delivers a hit so violent that it sprays right over the white lenses of his mask.

“Spiderman, stop!”

You shout, but the ringing in his ears is louder.

Tears prick at his eyes behind the mask as he continues raining down punches. The man lost consciousness long ago, but Peter isn’t done. He can’t rest knowing anyone who threatens to hurt you is free to walk these streets.

He can’t rest until he knows, for certain, that you’re safe from danger.

He cocks his fist back one last time, with every intention of putting this guy down for good—until your body crashes into his, your arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. His arm freezes mid-air, suddenly weighing a ton.

“Stop! It’s over—it’s done,” you try to reassure him but your voice comes in a panicked and rushed tone. Sirens sound in the distance. “The police are coming.”

Peter looks around, his chest heaving.

Several bystanders have stopped to stare, hands covering their mouths after witnessing such a brutal act by a man who was supposed to be a savior to all.

He curses under his breath, one arm wrapping tightly around your body.

“Hold on,” he says, before slinging a web to the highest point of the building next to you and launching you both into the night sky.

You bury your face in his chest, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as you hold on to him for dear life. You’re too terrified to look down. So instead, you glance up at the man holding you—the very man you’ve dedicated your life to assisting these past few months.

He doesn’t look like the friendly Spiderman you see on television or in the newspapers.

Blood lays over his mask like a veil, and you can feel his heart racing against yours from how tightly you’re holding him.

He doesn’t say a word until he finds a discreet alleyway. Then, finally, he sets you down gently.

Your eyes don’t leave his face even as you release your grip on him. You stand in front of him, eyes wide and lips parted as you stare at the man you’ve been dying to meet for what feels like years. But while this is your first time seeing him, it isn’t his first time seeing you.

There are so many things you wanted to say, but none of them come out. You never expected your first meeting to be like this—under circumstances where he tarnishes his reputation and your face bloodied and bruised.

“I…” your voice wavers, desperate to say anything, terrified he might swing away at any second.

Peter swipes his bloodied hand against his thigh to clean it before stepping forward, gently cupping your face in both hands. The lenses of his mask are so expressive, shifting with every furrow of his brow. Even behind it, his expression is wrecked.

“Look at what he did to you,” his voice cracks, sounding so broken, like it’s all his fault.

You huff a soft laugh, resting your palm over his knuckles as you lean into his touch. “If I’d known I was going to see you tonight, I probably would’ve worn more makeup.”

You try to joke, but he doesn’t laugh. His thumb gently brushes over the torn skin at your cheekbone, then down to your busted lip.

“I can’t believe you’re right here,” he breathes. “And I’m holding you.”

Peter should get your injuries fixed up, take you somewhere safe, or even take you home, but doing that means he’ll have to say goodbye—and he doesn’t know when he’ll give himself the chance to be this selfish again.

For the first time in years, it feels like he’s found salvation. After everything, he tries to convince himself he deserves this—even if it's just for a few minutes.

“You know what I look like,” you smile painfully. “Yet, I still don’t know a single thing about you.”

Peter bites the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking down. “I’m sorry.”

You step closer, your hands slowly finding the hem of his mask resting around his neck. With trembling fingers, you slowly lift it up—giving him every opportunity to pull away if he wants to—holding your breath as you raise it over his nose. Brown curly hair decorates the nape of his neck.

As you try to tug it up higher, his hands find your wrists, gently stopping you. “I can’t.”

With a quiet nod, your hands fall back down to his cheeks, cupping them softly. Your thumb traces the curve of his cheekbone, his jawline, and the plump of his bottom lip.

The press of your thumb against his lower lip makes his breath hitch. He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch—the first grace of warmth he’s felt in forever.

His white lenses open again, and his gaze drops to your lips—bruised, bleeding, and parting softly. The tension between you two suffocates him, and without waiting another impatient second, Peter tilts his head down and kisses you.

His lips press against yours, gentle and soft. And when you return the kiss, he feels like he’s in heaven. He takes his time with you, his lips exploring yours and savoring the quiet sweetness of the moment. Your hands are warm against his cheeks, and his hand finds your waist, respectfully holding you close as his heart beats as one with yours.

You kiss until you both run out of breath, finally pulling away to rest your foreheads against each other.

Peter shuts his eyes, breathing in your scent. “I wanted to do that from the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

“I am detecting a sudden increase in heart-rate and body warmth—”

“Shut up, Evie.”

You chuckle, your teeth catching your bottom lip while heart beats wildly in your chest.

“A successful mission,” you smile up at him. “You know what that means.”

He chuckles at that, the sound sending butterflies to your stomach now that you’re hearing it up close for the first time.

“You’re right. You go first.” He prompts.

You tell him your name, but he doesn’t react the way you thought he would after hearing it for the first time. He smiles—almost boyish, with kiss-swollen lips. It feels as though he’s known your name all along.

Peter repeats it softly. “It’s beautiful,” he says.

Warmth fills you from head to toe. You were right. You loved hearing the sound of your name in his voice.

You tilt your head, leaning in until your nose grazes against his. “What’s yours—”

Frantic footsteps echo just outside the alleyway.

Peter’s senses tingle and reverberate through his entire frame. Everything in his body is screaming at him to do one thing: run.

Two people turn the corner, and he freezes at the sight.

“Oh my god, there you are!” Ned shouts frantically, catching his breath. “We were wondering why you weren’t answering our calls—then someone at the party said there was an accident happening on 103rd Street—which is where you were going—and wait, is that Spiderman?”

Standing right behind him is MJ.

“You scared us!” she yelps, running to you with a hug. You turn around with a weary smile and a relieved sigh.

“I’m okay, you guys shouldn’t have left to come find me. It was dangerous back there, and yes,” you motion behind you, “this is—”

Peter doesn’t even let you finish. He pulls his mask down and, without another word, zips up and out, moving through the dark like a ghost in the night. All the warmth vanishes like the gust of wind he leaves behind as he disappears into the air.

“God,” Ned breathes, the three of you standing dumbfounded in the alleyway as you watch him disappear around the corner. “See! It’s like I told you, MJ! He’s like Peter Pan—if you really believe in him, he’ll show up!”

“Okay—you know, your fanboying really freaks me out,” MJ says, making a face. She looks back at you. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay—”

A shudder passes through your body.

My name is Peter Parker.

“Peter,” you whisper with a sudden realization.

📝 first time writing for peter parker kinda nervous !! "all these things that i've done" by the killers was on repeat while writing this. for the first time in a while, i've had a lot of fun and passion writing a marvel fic again, and i hope you can feel it when you read this fic. if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them! I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

Logan’s older brother Jeff was leaning against the workshop desk and sipping on a can of Coke when he saw you strut in. He sighed, “Here comes Lottie.”

The nickname was a running joke between the brothers. Jeff had muttered it under his breath when you first visited the shop and asked a question about diesel gas. He took one look at you and knew you were a clueless, rich girl who shouldn’t be visiting garages such as theirs.

Logan hadn’t entertained the nickname so much. He thought it was unnecessarily mean. Besides, Lottie was always a sweetheart in Princess and the Frog.

Jeff turned on his heels and disappeared into the garage’s office, leaving Logan to deal with you on his own.

Logan put down a spare part he was working on and turned around, leaning back against the counter.

You waved excitedly with a cheerful grin. “Hi, Logan!”

He smiled politely, “Hey…”

“Did you save my girl?” You asked, batting your lashes.

Logan nodded, “She’s all fixed up for you,” he said, walking over to the wall of car keys hung on hooks to retrieve yours.

You clapped your hands, “Yay!”

He chuckled whilst shaking his head. You got happy over the simplest of things. He thought it was endearing.

You walked over to your car. Nebula, as you called her. A fitting name for a sleek, black convertible with dark purple leather upholstery and shiny silver rims.

Logan came over and handed you your keys. “You wanna try her out?”

You nodded and unlocked your car before opening the driver’s side door. No beeping. Perfect.

You beamed at Logan. “You did it!”

He smiled with an easy laugh, feeling proud of his work. In reality, your car issue was a minor one; the door sensor just needed a replacement. Nothing about it required a lick of rocket science, and yet you looked at him as if he hung the stars in your galaxy.

You put your designer bag into your car and bent over to fish out your wallet. Logan stared at your body for a second before he caught himself, clearing his throat and looking away respectfully.

You stood up straight, holding your leather wallet between both hands, looking at him with a doe-eyed expression.

He scratched the back of his neck and gestured for you to follow him to the counter. The gritty sounds of his boots crunching the gravel below and the rhythmic click click click of your heels echoed through the garage.

Logan went around the counter and pulled out a receipt and wrote down the service you needed with the price. He slid the piece of paper to you but you just kept looking at his face with a smile. He blinked before realizing you didn’t care for the price. Right, he thought. Rich girls don’t worry about those things.

“Cash or card?” He asked.

You held up your metal black credit card.

Logan pursed his lips and nodded as he pulled out a card reader. You tapped your card without even glancing at the screen and clapped your hands when the machine beeped in satisfaction.

“Thank you, Logan,” you told him kindly.

He shrugged politely, “It’s no problem.”

You smiled at him. He returned it, “Do you want your recei—“

Before he could even hand you your proof of service, you were walking back to your car. He nodded to himself and stuffed the receipt into the cash register.

He watched as you exited the garage, waving at him enthusiastically as you drove by. He gave a small wave back.

+

A week later, your BMW pulled into the garage whilst Logan was working under a car.

He didn’t hear the sound of your heels this time as he had headphones in, blasting a classic rock song. He felt a shadow looming nearby so he turned and saw your heels appear. He paused and rolled out from under the car, meeting the sight of your broad smile peering down at him.

“Hi, Logan!”

“Hey…” He sounded confused. His eyebrows furrowed and he glanced around, “Didn’t you pick up your car last week?”

You nodded. “Yep. But my AC is broken now…” You pouted.

Hm, Logan thought. He sat up, “Oh, I didn’t see that when I did the diagnostic last week—“

“Must be a new issue, then. These foreign cars are all funny,” you replied, tilting your head.

He cleaned his hands with a rag before standing up. He had oil stains on his shirt and just a little smudge on his face. You thought he looked so ruggedly handsome.

“Let me take a look,” he said and you stepped out the way for him to crank open your hood and inspect the situation.

As he got to work, you leaned against your car and watched. After a moment, you asked, “How was your weekend?”

People don’t usually talk to Logan when he repairs their cars. Especially not pretty, rich girls like you.

“It was good, played hockey, worked here in the shop,” he responded casually.

You nodded along even though he couldn’t see you.

“Did you win?” You asked.

He laughed, an amused sound. “Yeah…yeah, we won.”

You clapped your hands, “Yay!”

Logan laughed again. It was cute, he thought, how you always clapped at good news.

“You like hockey?” He asked, looking over your hood to meet your eyes.

You hummed, “I only recently got into it. My family prefers watching polo, golf, or tennis.”

Rich people sports, he wanted to say. That made sense.

“Recently, huh?” He said instead, ducking his head to keep working. “Who should I thank for putting you onto hockey?” He joked.

You smiled shyly and said, “You…”

His hand paused. The parts of your car suddenly looking like alphabet soup moving in jumbled letters. He lifted his head to meet your gaze again. But before he could manage a reply, you changed the subject. “Is it broken beyond repair?” You asked, turning your attention to your car parts.

He snapped out of his daze and shook his head. “Uhh, no. No, you just need AC coolant.”

“Is that an easy fix?” You asked.

He nodded, “Yeah, the easiest.” He said.

You smiled in relief. “Thank goodness I have you fixing my car,” you told him.

He smiled at that.

He fixed your car, you chirped out a “Thank you, Logan!”, you paid without looking at the bill, and waved goodbye as you left.

“That the BMW girl again?” Logan’s dad asked as he stepped out the office.

“Yeah,” Logan replied, wiping his hands.

“Lottie back again so soon?” Jeff teased. Logan rolled his eyes at the jab.

“You overcharge her?” His dad asked.

Logan looked at him, “Why would I do that?”

His dad shrugged, “Luxurious car fee?”

Logan squinted his eyes, “We don’t do that.”

Jeff piped in, “We could. She doesn’t even check her receipts.”

Logan looked between his dad and brother, “So what? We charge her fair and square.”

His dad shared a looked with Jeff before he went back inside the office.

+

Week after week, you came by to the garage. First it was an oil change, then a rim replacement, then a loose window ribbon, then a tire with low air, and so on.

By week 7, Logan had had enough. It’s not that he didn’t like seeing you, no. Far from it. He actually enjoyed your company. He often looked forward to when you’d come by and say Hi, Logan! in that sing-song voice of yours, your joyful smile, and innocent questions.

But now he was noticing a pattern.

So when you rolled in that Thursday night like clockwork, he didn’t go up to you. He stayed by the workshop desk and watched you with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Hi, Logan!” You beamed with a gleeful wave.

But upon meeting his stern expression, your smile faltered and your hand slowly dropped back to your side. You looked around the empty garage before walking over to him in hesitant steps. The sound of your heels filled the space between the two of you. You stopped in front of him and flattened down your skirt, a nervous tic of yours that you never noticed before.

“Y/n,” he said, his tone serious. “This is the seventh time you’ve come to the garage.”

You nodded, “Nebula keeps acting up—“

“No, she doesn’t.”

You looked at your feet. No smile, no lively clapping.

His arms uncrossed and he stepped closer. He wasn’t angry. No, it wasn’t that. Logan isn’t an idiot. He knew. He knew you had a crush on him, knew the only reason you showed up time and time again was just to spend time with him. Why else would you come? He knew families like yours had their own repairmen at fancy dealerships who could fix any problem. You didn’t need to come into his family’s garage.

Yet, you did.

Logan figured it out by week 4. But truth be told, he never mentioned it because a part of him liked being around you too. He liked hearing your upbeat voice, the familiar tap of your heels, the sound of your laugh. So he stayed quiet, he fixed your tires, and refilled your car’s oil. He went along with it. Because he liked your company just as much as you liked his.

Unable to lie to him, you lifted your head and met his eyes. “I did those things to my car on purpose.” You confessed quietly.

Logan blinked. His stance eased at your admission and he looked at you with soft eyes.

“I watched a YouTube video on how to drain AC coolant,” you added. “And drove around until my tires lost some of its pressure, and—”

“Y/n,” he held your chin with his hand. “You didn’t have to do all that to see me.”

Your eyes widened as you stared at him. He smiled gently, “I…like seeing you. With or without Nebula.”

“You do?” You asked.

He nodded, “I do.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you the chance to pull away. But you stayed. His lips met yours in a gentle kiss. Not hungry or desperate, just a soft sealing; a mutual understanding—I like you and you like me.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. You looked at him with a honeyed, dazed expression. He smiled down at you and pecked your lips once more. You weren’t a spoiled, rich girl to him. Not clueless or ditzy. You were just…you. A sweetheart with a crush on a cute guy who would do anything to see him. You were Lottie.

He glanced behind you at your car. He pulled away with a reluctant sigh, “What did you do to her this time?”

You smiled sheepishly, “I jammed my gearshift…”

He chuckled softly, both amused and fondly exasperated by you. “Okay…let me take a look.” He said, lacing his hand with yours and bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss.

1. OVERVIEW

UNK-F-██/1 is an anomalous entity first documented approximately ██ months ago following a cluster of unusual incident reports from survey teams on Levels 2 through 5. The reports described a previously uncatalogued entity intervening in predator-wanderer encounters and, in every documented case, intervening on behalf of the wanderers.

This sentence should not require emphasis, but it does.

We have no record of any entity in any classification tier exhibiting sustained protective behaviour toward humans. Isolated incidents and exceptions exist (see Entity 974's passive non-aggression policy, filed separately). But UNK-F-██/1 is not passive. UNK-F-██/1 is actively, aggressively, and consistently defending human wanderers against hostile entities. She has been observed engaging and killing Howlers, Skin-Stealers, and at least one unclassified predator-type in direct combat to protect wanderer groups.

She does this on purpose. She does this repeatedly. She does this with a level of ferocity that would be alarming if it weren't directed at things we also don't mind being dead.

2. PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

UNK-F-██/1 maintains a humanoid female form. Apparent age, build, and identifying features have been redacted from this document at the request of Senior Research per Directive ██ (see Section 5: Origin Hypothesis). If Dr. ██████'s conversion theory is correct, physical descriptors of the humanoid form may correspond to the appearance of a real, formerly living individual. Publication of those descriptors within M.E.G. internal channels could compromise ongoing identification efforts. Relevant personnel with Level 4 clearance may request the unredacted physical profile from the Entity Research Division directly.

What can be stated: the form is notably well-constructed for an entity. Proportionally accurate. Expressively detailed. Lacking the common indicators of entity mimicry (uncanny stillness, symmetry errors, delayed micro-expression). To an untrained observer, UNK-F-██/1 would pass as human without question. Several field operatives initially logged her as a wanderer before corrections were filed.

NOTE: The quality of the human form is, in the opinion of this analyst, the single most significant data point in this dossier. Entity mimicry improves with age and practice or not at all. UNK-F-██/1 has existed for less than a year. Her form should be rudimentary at best. It is not. The form reads as though it was built from internal reference material rather than external observation. This distinction is significant and is addressed in Section 5.

True form has been partially observed on two occasions (see Incident Reports IR-████ and IR-████). Descriptions from surviving witnesses are inconsistent (standard for high-frequency entity exposure) but common elements include:

Significant spatial displacement (form is large)

High thermal output (witnesses report ambient temperature increase within a ██-meter radius)

Luminous qualities (one operative described "light that hurt but didn't burn")

Multi-limbed structure (count varies between reports: four, six, "too many")

The distinct impression of being "looked at from multiple angles simultaneously"

Witnesses were unanimously unable to hold visual contact for longer than ██ seconds. Both incidents resulted in temporary frequency-exposure symptoms (migraine, disorientation, emotional volatility) but no permanent cognitive damage.

NOTE: Both encounters occurred while UNK-F-██/1 was in active combat protecting wanderer groups. Her true form appears to manifest involuntarily under extreme duress or emotional provocation. She does not appear to deploy it willingly.

3. BEHAVIOUR PROFILE

UNK-F-██/1's behaviour is singular among documented entities and has generated more internal debate within the Entity Research Division than any subject since Entity 0 adopted the Franklin template.

3.1 Wanderer Protection

She patrols. Regularly. Across Levels 2 through 5, on routes that are consistent enough to map (see Appendix C: Patrol Route Overlay). She shadows wanderer groups, maintaining a distance of approximately ██ meters, and intercepts hostile entities before they make contact. Wanderer groups under her protection exhibit a survival rate of approximately 98%. The M.E.G. average for unassisted wanderer groups on these levels is ██%.

I'm going to write that again because I need someone in administration to read it: her protected groups survive at a rate of 98%. Ours survive at ██%. She is, statistically, more effective at keeping humans alive in the Backrooms than we are. She is doing this alone. She has been alive for less than a year.

Several rescued wanderers have provided testimony regarding direct interactions with UNK-F-██/1. Common elements across accounts:

She approaches in humanoid form. Speaks softly. Uses simple, reassuring language.

She checks for injuries. Has been observed providing basic first aid.

She guides groups toward known safe zones with apparent knowledge of exit routes.

She does not request compensation, reciprocation, or cooperation of any kind.

She leaves once the group reaches safety. Does not follow. Does not linger.

Multiple witnesses describe her as "kind." One described her as "the nicest person I met in this place." The witness was gently informed that UNK-F-██/1 is not a person.

3.2 Entity Interactions

She is hostile toward predatory entities. Aggressively so. Combat engagements documented in Appendix D indicate a willingness to engage targets significantly above her apparent power tier. She fights recklessly by entity standards, prioritising the protection of nearby humans over her own structural integrity.

She has been observed in non-hostile interaction with Entity 974 ("Mr. Kitty") on Level 974. The nature of this interaction is unclear. Field observation suggests a social relationship predating UNK-F-██/1's first documented appearance on Levels 2-5. Entity 974 has declined to comment when contacted via standard psychic-relay protocol. Entity 974 did, however, project the following statement into the mind of the operative who asked:

"She is my friend. If you bother her I will be disappointed in you. You don't want me to be disappointed in you."

3.3 Entity 0 Association

This is the section I was hoping I wouldn't have to write.

UNK-F-██/1 has been observed in proximity to Entity 0 on multiple occasions. The nature of these encounters is... contested. Body camera footage from Team ██ (Incident Report IR-████) captured what appears to be UNK-F-██/1 and Entity 0 engaged in pursuit behaviour through Level 0 corridors. Initial analysis classified this as predatory aggression (Entity 0 pursuing UNK-F-██/1 as prey).

Subsequent review has revised this classification. The pursuit behaviour is bilateral. Both entities are pursuing each other. On the footage, UNK-F-██/1 can be seen slowing her pace, glancing behind her, and in one instance laughing before accelerating again. Entity 0, for his part, is walking. With his hands in his pockets. He appears to be whistling.

Dr. ██████ has suggested the term "courtship behaviour."

I have suggested Dr. ██████ take a walk.

However. The evidence has continued to accumulate and it has become increasingly difficult to interpret it as anything else.

Entity 0 has restructured significant portions of Level 0 since UNK-F-██/1's arrival. Exit routes that previously dead-ended or looped have been straightened and connected to safe zones on adjacent levels. Two confirmed Howler dens within Level 0 have been sealed. The internal temperature of Level 0's central corridor section has risen by approximately ██ degrees, consistent with accommodation of an entity that runs warmer than the ambient environment.

He is renovating. For her. The apex predator of the Backrooms is renovating.

UNK-F-██/1 has been detected residing within Entity 0's territory for extended, continuous periods. Frequency monitoring equipment positioned at Level 0 access points has logged her presence for stretches of ██ to ██ days without exit. During these periods, the ambient frequency signature of Level 0 shifts measurably. Senior analyst Dr. ██████ described the new signature as, and I am quoting directly from her official assessment, "the whole level smells like a honeymoon suite." I do not know how a level smells like anything. I do not want to know.

More concerning: Entity 0 has adopted a permanent humanoid form. This is unprecedented. Entity 0 is the original shapeshifter. He has never, in years of documented history, maintained a single shape for longer than a few days by our estimation. He now holds what our files designate the "Franklin template" (a male humanoid form of ██ age, ██ build, with specific identifying features that are cross-referenced in a separate, sealed file) on a continuous basis. He built it. He is maintaining it. The energy expenditure required to hold a permanent human shape for an entity of his age and power is significant, and he is doing it voluntarily.

He is doing it because she likes the human form. This is the only logical interpretation. Entity 0 built a face and is wearing it permanently because the entity he is courting likes the way it looks.

Additionally, field teams have reported observing scent-marking behaviour consistent with territorial pair-bonding. Entity 0's frequency signature has been detected on UNK-F-██/1's humanoid form during two separate encounters with survey teams, and her signature has been detected on him. The cross-contamination of frequency signatures is, per Dr. ████████'s assessment, "a neon sign that says TAKEN in thirty-seven sub-vocal registers."

The Events of IR-████ (see separate file; Level 5 clearance; the footage is sealed and will remain sealed) confirmed that physical mating behaviour has occurred. The details are in the incident report for anyone with the clearance and the constitution to read them. This analyst has read them. This analyst would also like to un-read them.

What matters for the purposes of this dossier: if the courtship progresses to a full mating bond (seven-stage frequency lock, per Dr. ██████'s theoretical model), Entity 0 and UNK-F-██/1 will be permanently, irreversibly bonded at the frequency level. The combined output of two bonded apex-tier entities is beyond our current modelling capability.

4. THREAT ASSESSMENT

THREAT RATING: CONDITIONAL — PROVISIONAL

UNK-F-██/1 has exhibited zero hostile behaviour toward humans. Zero. Across ██ documented encounters and an estimated ███+ unobserved patrol interactions, not a single human casualty or injury has been attributed to this entity.

She is, to the best of our knowledge, on our side.

I am deeply uncomfortable writing this sentence. I am also unable to find evidence to contradict it.

The conditional threat rating exists for two reasons.

First: her association with Entity 0. Entity 0 remains classified as APEX-UNDEFINED with a threat rating of 9.7. If UNK-F-██/1's relationship with Entity 0 progresses to full mating-bond status (see Appendix E: Theoretical Bond Mechanics), the combined frequency output of two bonded apex-tier entities could destabilise multiple levels simultaneously.

Second (and in many ways more concerning): her growth curve. UNK-F-██/1 is not a standard entity. She did not emerge from the walls through the documented accretion process. Her power development does not follow any existing model we have. In the ██ months since her first documented appearance, her frequency output has increased by approximately ██% and shows no indication of plateauing. Standard entity growth follows a logarithmic curve that flattens within the first decade. UNK-F-██/1's curve is linear. Possibly exponential. We have insufficient data to determine which.

What this means in practical terms: we cannot predict how powerful she will become. We do not know if her growth has a ceiling. Dr. ██████ has noted, with visible unease, that if her current trajectory holds, UNK-F-██/1 could reach Entity 0's power tier within ██ years. An entity reaching apex status in under a decade is unprecedented. An entity reaching apex status from a suspected human conversion origin is beyond unprecedented.

It should be theoretically impossible.

Additionally, her power fluctuates in response to emotional stimuli in ways that standard entities do not exhibit. Emotional distress produces measurable frequency spikes that have been detected from adjacent levels. During the Howler engagement documented in IR-████, her distress-spike was powerful enough to partially restructure the corridor geometry of Level 4. She was not attempting to restructure anything. The restructuring was involuntary. A side effect of being upset.

An entity whose power output scales with emotional intensity, whose growth curve is unpredictable, and whose emotional state is directly linked to a courtship with the most powerful entity in the Backrooms... the modelling scenarios keep Dr. ██████ awake at night. They keep me awake too.

RECOMMENDED PROTOCOL: DO NOT ENGAGE. DO NOT APPROACH. DO NOT INTERFERE WITH WANDERER PROTECTION ACTIVITIES. If encountered, allow UNK-F-██/1 to complete her patrol and withdraw. Express gratitude if appropriate. Do not attempt to recruit, capture, contain, or study. Do not, under any circumstances, provoke emotional distress.

If she helps you, say thank you. Move on. Do not make it weird.

5. ORIGIN HYPOTHESIS (SPECULATIVE — LEVEL 4 CLEARANCE)

This section contains unverified speculation and is included at the request of Dr. ███████, who believes the hypothesis has sufficient evidential basis to warrant formal documentation.

UNK-F-██/1 may not be a naturally occurring entity.

The Backrooms generates entities through a documented process of slow accretion over extended periods (years to centuries). UNK-F-██/1 appeared in months. Her human form is too detailed for her age. Her behaviour toward humans is too empathetic for an entity. She eats (entities do not eat). She sleeps (entities enter stasis; they do not dream).

Dr. ███████'s hypothesis: UNK-F-██/1 is a converted entity. A human consciousness absorbed by the Backrooms and remade into entity form. The human form is built from memory, not observation. The protective instinct toward wanderers is residual human empathy surviving the conversion process. The eating. The sleeping. All residual. All human.

If this hypothesis is correct, UNK-F-██/1 is the first documented case of human-to-entity conversion in M.E.G. records.

If this hypothesis is correct, someone died in the Backrooms and the walls kept her.

A parallel research initiative (Project ██████, classified Level 4) has been opened to investigate UNK-F-██/1's potential pre-conversion identity.

The Entity Research Division is cross-referencing physical descriptors from the unredacted profile against missing persons databases, with particular focus on cases involving ██████████████ and proximity to known Backrooms entry points. The search parameters are, frankly, enormous. People go missing near threshold locations constantly. Narrowing the pool requires assumptions about time of death, geographical origin, and manner of entry that we cannot currently verify.

However, if the humanoid form is built from memory (and the evidence strongly suggests it is), then the form is her face. The face she had when she was alive. And if that face exists in a database somewhere, in a missing persons report, in a police file, in a family photograph pinned to a corkboard in a precinct that stopped looking years ago, we may be able to find out who she was.

Dr. ███████ has noted, for the record, that identifying her raises ethical questions we are not equipped to answer. If we find her name, do we tell her? Does she want to know? Does she already know? And if she was killed (the evidence from Entity 974's psychic assessment, obtained secondhand, suggests the death was violent and not accidental), does identifying her open a criminal investigation in a world that has already forgotten she existed?

These questions are above this analyst's pay grade. They might be above everyone's pay grade.

This analyst has no further comment on Section 5 at this time.

6. OPEN QUESTIONS

What triggered UNK-F-██/1's conversion, if Dr. ██████'s hypothesis is correct?

Does UNK-F-██/1 retain human memories? If so, how many? Does she know what she was?

What is the current status of the Entity 0 courtship? Has bonding progressed? (NOTE: No one wants to be assigned to investigate this. The last team that stumbled into Entity 0's nesting territory came back with footage that has been sealed and a debrief transcript that made the senior analyst leave the room.)

Entity 974 appears to have information regarding UNK-F-██/1's origin. Entity 974 has declined to share it. Entity 974 has also projected an image of a Hello Kitty sticker into the mind of every operative who has asked. The significance of this is unclear.

Can the conversion process be replicated? Should the conversion process be replicated? (Dr. ██████ has formally requested that this question be struck from the dossier. It has not been. It should be discussed.)

7. ANALYST'S NOTE

She saved twelve people last month. Twelve wanderers who would have died on Level 3 if she hadn't been there. She fought two Howlers at once and nearly died doing it and she still guided the survivors to a safe zone.

I don't know what she is. I don't know where she came from. I don't know if she's a converted human or an anomalous entity or something else entirely that doesn't fit any of the boxes we've built.

But I know she's the only entity in this place that has never hurt a human being. And I know she's protecting people we can't reach. And I know that whatever she is, whoever she was, she is doing more good in these walls than most of our field teams combined and she's doing it alone, and she's been alive for less than a year.

If she was human once, she was a good one.

Classify her however you need to. File her however the handbook demands. But if anyone in this organisation suggests containment, capture, or interference with her activities, they can take it up with me personally.

And then with Entity 0. Who will be significantly less polite about it I'd imagine.

END OF DOSSIER

ADDENDUM PENDING: Frequency analysis of potential mating-bond formation. Assigned to Dr. ██████. Dr. ██████ has requested a transfer. Transfer denied.

[Handwritten note pinned to the inside cover of the physical file, in handwriting that does not match any M.E.G. personnel:]

she's mine, but you already knew that.

leave her alone.

— 0

[Note is written on the back of a Hello Kitty sticker.]

▓▓ URGENT ADDENDUM ▓▓

ADDENDUM TO MEG-ENT-████-DOSSIER FILED: ██/██/199█ — 72 HOURS AFTER PRIMARY DOSSIER SUBMISSION CLASSIFICATION UPGRADED: LEVEL 5 — EYES ONLY FILED BY: Dr. ██████, Entity Research Division (Principal Investigator, Project ██████)

This addendum supersedes Section 5 of the primary dossier. Distribution is restricted to Senior Research and Division Heads only. If you are reading this without Level 5 clearance, close the file immediately.

we found her.

i'm breaking protocol. I know i'm breaking protocol. the handbook says addenda should follow the same structural conventions as the primary document but i'm choosing not to do that because I've been sitting at this desk for six hours staring at a missing persons file from 199█ and a police photograph of a ██-year-old woman who has been dead for ██ months. I can't write about this in clinical language. I won't. if someone wants to discipline me for tone they can find me in my office.

Project ██████ returned a match.

the unredacted physical profile of UNK-F-██/1's humanoid form was cross-referenced against missing persons databases in a ████-mile radius of all confirmed and suspected Backrooms threshold locations. the search returned over █████ potential matches. we narrowed by timeframe, physical descriptors, and circumstances of disappearance.

one case fit.

her name is ██████████████████████. she was ██ years old. she was reported missing on ██/██/199█ by ██████████████. she was never found. her case went cold within ██ months.

here is what we know.

she was in a relationship with a man named ███████████████ at the time of her disappearance. the relationship began approximately ██ months after the disappearance, and presumed death, of her previous partner, a man named Robert "Bobby" Franklin, who was last seen at San Jose, California under circumstances that remain unsolved. Franklin was reported missing by family in 199█ and was never found. no body. no evidence of foul play. he simply ceased to exist.

a note on Franklin's status: M.E.G. has not located Bobby Franklin within the Backrooms. this does not mean he is dead. time within the Backrooms is non-linear. a man who entered in 199█ could be wandering a level that runs six months behind the current date, or six years ahead, or in a temporal pocket that hasn't synced with the primary timeline in decades. he could be on a level we haven't mapped. he could be in the deep levels where our survey teams don't reach. the Backrooms are functionally infinite. we have mapped less than ██% of the estimated total structure.

the absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. not here.

what we do know is that the search for both Franklin and ███████████████ has not been abandoned in the real world. Franklin's twin brother, Brendan Bennett Franklin, has maintained an active missing persons campaign for years. he has contacted law enforcement in ███ jurisdictions. he has hired private investigators. he has, per our monitoring of threshold-adjacent civilian activity, come disturbingly close to identifying Backrooms entry points on at least two separate occasions.

the man is relentless, methodical, and operating with a grief that shows no signs of diminishing.

he is also searching for █████████████████. Franklin and █████████████████ shared a childhood friend, Terrence Wilson, who has been coordinating with Brendan Franklin on both cases. Wilson was the one who first connected the two disappearances, noting the geographical and temporal overlap. the civilian investigation is, frankly, closer to the truth than it has any right to be. neither Franklin nor Wilson has any knowledge of the Backrooms. they are operating on instinct and grief and the stubborn refusal to accept that people they loved simply vanished.

if Bobby Franklin is alive in the Backrooms, the implications for the Entity 0 courtship are significant and are addressed below.

she was grieving. she was vulnerable. by all accounts the new relationship was initially positive. friends and family described the new partner as "kind" and "patient" and "exactly what she needed."

the new partner is now the primary suspect in a string of ███ disappearances spanning ██ years across ██ counties.

██ of those victims have been recovered. the recovery sites share common characteristics: isolated locations, minimal forensic evidence, signs of prolonged captivity and extensive physical trauma prior to death. the coroner's reports (which I wish I hadn't read and can never unread) describe injuries consistent with sustained, repeated violence over periods of days to weeks. these were not quick deaths. these were inflicted by a person who took his time.

the remaining victims, including ████████████████, have never been found. no bodies. no forensic trace. no evidence of disposal through any conventional means.

our analysis, cross-referenced with Backrooms threshold mapping data, indicates that at least ██ of the unrecovered disposal sites correspond to confirmed or suspected threshold entry points.

he was using the Backrooms as a dumping ground. bringing them to the threshold and pushing them through and letting the walls do the rest. no body. no evidence. no crime scene. the perfect disposal method for a predator who had learned that the cracks in the world go somewhere and the somewhere doesn't give things back.

except once. once, it did.

she was alive when he left her.

the threshold data, the conversion timeline, Dr. ██████'s biological modelling: all of it points to the same conclusion. she was not dead when she entered the Backrooms. she was dying. based on the pattern established by the recovered victims (the ones whose bodies we found, the ones whose injuries we catalogued, the ones whose final hours can be reconstructed from forensic evidence I will be seeing in my sleep for the rest of my career), she had been held for an extended period. she had been hurt. badly and repeatedly. by a man who was patient about it.

and then he brought her to the threshold and left her in the dark. alone. dying. bleeding on the carpet in a place that has no sun and no exit.

she was still alive when the walls found her.

and the walls did something they have never done before.

in every other documented case, humans who enter the Backrooms injured and alone, die. this is a statistical certainty so robust it might as well be a law of physics here. the backrooms do not heal. they don't nurture.

the backrooms are an environment of attrition that strips living things down to nothing over time. that is what they do. that is all they have ever done.

except for her.

the walls found a dying woman in the dark and instead of letting her die they absorbed her. took the fading signal of a human consciousness and wrapped it in entity-matter and rebuilt it from the inside out. kept her face (the human form built from her own reflection, her own body, the body she died in, reconstructed with a fidelity that shouldn't be possible). kept her empathy. kept her instinct to protect. kept the her of her when they could have let it dissolve into the noise the way every other human signal has dissolved.

why?

this is not a rhetorical question. I am asking because I genuinely dont know and it's keeping me awake. the backrooms have existed for as long as we've been able to measure time, and in all that time they have produced entities that hunt and kill and consume. howlers. skin-stealers. smilers. things built for predation.

these walls make predators. that's what they do.

and then they found a woman dying and they made a protector.

they made something that fights predators instead of being one. something that shields the fragile things instead of eating them. something that carries the unmistakable, stubbornly human conviction that no one should die alone in the dark. because she did, and the walls couldn't strip that from her.

they rewrote her biology. gave her power that entities ten times her age would envy. gave her teeth and claws and a true form that can crack corridor walls. and then they left her humanity intact. her compassion. her grief. her capacity for love (see: Entity 0 association; see also: the written reports detailing how she looks at wanderer children).

the backrooms are not kind. the backrooms have never been kind. but they looked at this woman and they chose to keep her and they couldn't (or wouldn't) strip the kindness out.

I don't know what that means. I don't know if it means the walls have a will. I don't know if it means the backrooms are capable of mercy. I don't know if it was chance or design or some glitch in the substrate of a place that shouldn't exist.

and now the thing I've been circling around for the last two hours.

bobby franklin.

her previous partner. the one who disappeared. the one she was mourning when the killer found her. bobby franklin, santa clara, california. vanished without a trace.

vanished in a way that is, upon review, entirely consistent with a backrooms threshold event.

we don't have confirmation. we may never have confirmation. but the circumstances of franklin's disappearance match the profile of an involuntary threshold crossing: sudden, total, no forensic evidence to speak of, no body, no real explanation.

if bobby franklin fell into the backrooms, the backrooms would have absorbed his signal, his physical data. his face. his voice. his biological template. the walls remember everything that passes through them. every wanderer, every victim, every screaming terrified human that ever stumbled through a crack in the world. the walls keep them. filed away in the frequency substrate like prints in wet concrete.

entity 0 built a human face. a male humanoid form. sandy hair. blue eyes. a specific jaw, a specific nose, a specific grin. he built it from scratch and he has been wearing it permanently.

for UNK-F-██/1. for the entity he was courting. the entity whose human form is built from the memory of a woman who was in love with a man named bobby franklin.

the face entity 0 is wearing is bobby franklin's face.

I need to be very careful about what I am and am not claiming. I am not claiming entity 0 did this consciously. I am not claiming he accessed franklin's file in the frequency substrate and thought "ah yes, this is the face she loved, I will use it."

neither entity 0 nor UNK-F-██/1 appears to be aware of the connection. she has never called him by franklin's name. he has never referenced franklin or indicated knowledge of her pre-conversion history beyond what she's shared voluntarily.

but.

entity 0 is the backrooms, or close enough. the first thing the walls ever produced (by our belief). the oldest signal in the substrate. if any entity has passive access to the walls' stored data, it's him. and when he reached into the frequency archive and pulled out the best face he could find, the face most likely to attract this specific entity, the face she would be drawn to without understanding why, the face that would feel safe and familiar and right to a woman who lost the love of her life and was remade into something that can't quite remember his name...

he pulled out bobby franklin.

maybe he knew. maybe the walls whispered it. maybe the substrate nudged him toward a template that would resonate with her residual human memory. maybe it was pure coincidence, a random selection from a vast archive, and the face just happens to belong to the man she grieved so deeply the grief survived her death.

I don't believe in coincidence. not in the backrooms, and not with entity 0.

the implications of this are staggering and I'm not going to pretend I know what to do with them. if entity 0 is wearing the face of her (possibly, unconfirmed) dead boyfriend (even unknowingly), then everything about their courtship takes on a different valence.

her instinctive attraction to him. her willingness to stay. the way she traces his borrowed features with a tenderness that looks, in field footage, less like a new lover memorising a new face, and more like a grieving woman touching the face of someone she thought she'd lost forever but forgot.

does she know? does some fragment of the human memory recognise the jaw, the eyes, the crook of the grin? is she drawn to entity 0 because of what he is, or because he's wearing the only face she ever loved?

does he know? does the oldest thing in the backrooms understand that the mask he built is a former lover's face? that the reason it works, the reason she softens when she sees it, the reason she presses her face into his copied throat and breathes, is because the throat smells like something older than entity-hood? something human? something named Bobby?

I don't have answers. I have a missing persons report and a police photograph and a man with sandy hair and blue eyes and a grin that matches, feature for feature, the face the oldest entity in the backrooms constructed to court a woman who died loving him.

the backrooms remember, and somewhere in the space of that vast unknown, bobby franklin's face lives on. borrowed. worn. loved again by the woman who lost him, in a place that was never supposed to give anything back.

the moral question is obvious.

do we tell her?

do we find her and hand her a missing persons report with her own face on it and say: this is who you were. this is what happened to you. this is the name of the man who killed you. his name is ████████████████ and he is still free and there are ██ other families who will never find their daughters because he found a crack in the wall and learned to use it for his evil.

she doesn't remember all of it. we know this from the fragmented data Entity 974 provided (indirectly, reluctantly, with a psychic addendum that translates roughly to: if you use this information to hurt her I will make you regret your existence). she has pieces. impressions. the emotional residue of a violent death without the full narrative. enough to make her build a security blanket out of a human shape and refuse to take it off. not enough to give her the name of the man who put her here.

do we give her that name?

dr. ██████████ says no. emphatically no. "she has rebuilt herself. she has found purpose. she has found a mate. she is doing more good in these walls than the thing that was done to her. giving her the name doesn't heal the wound. it reopens it and hands her a target she can never reach because the target is in the real world and she is here."

dr. ██████ says yes. "she has a right to know. she has a right to her own history. and the families of the other victims have a right to closure and if she can provide information about the threshold locations, if she remembers anything about how she entered, we might be able to find the remaining bodies. we might be able to catch him."

I say I don't know. I say this is above my clearance and my competence, and even my emotional capacity.

I say that I have been staring at her photograph for six hours and she's smiling in it. she's smiling and she's young and she has her whole life in front of her and the man standing next to her in the photograph (Bobby, the one who disappeared, the one she was mourning when the killer found her) has his arm around her shoulder and they look so happy and neither of them knows what's coming.

I say that she is out there right now, saving people, and the last time someone tried to save her, nobody came.

the decision on disclosure is being escalated to the Director. pending that decision, UNK-F-██/1's identity remains classified Level 5. no field personnel are to be informed. no contact is to be made regarding her pre-conversion history. no changes to the non-engagement protocol.

she is not a case file. she is not a research subject anymore.

she is a woman who died horribly and came back with teeth, and she's using them to protect the people nobody else can reach.

whatever we decide, we owe her better than what she got.

[final note, found inserted into the physical addendum approximately ██ hours after filing. the paper is unmarked M.E.G. stock taken from the supply room. the handwriting matches the previous note pinned to the dossier cover. the pen strokes are deep enough to tear through the paper in places. the note was found inside a sealed filing cabinet in a locked room near a threshold point. there is no record of entry.]

give me his name.

give me the threshold he used to enter my domain.

I cannot cross into your world, but he crossed into mine.

give me the entry point and let me do what the backrooms do best.

you have 72 hours. after that, I stop asking politely, and you will learn very quickly that my patience with her is not my patience with you.

— 0

His eyes glared at the water as if he could command the fish to bite by sheer noble decree.

“They won’t bite if you keep scowling at them,” a bright voice chimed from behind him.

Aerion stiffened, his jaw tightening. He turned his head sharply, expecting a person sent by his father to drag him back to his lessons.

Instead, he saw you.

You were the daughter of Maekar’s most trusted ally, having arrived only an hour ago.

While the adults spoke of their business, you had wandered out into the sun, your heavy skirts already trailing in the damp grass.

You looked entirely out of place among the solemn guards, a little burst of warmth against the grey stones of summerhall.

“Go away,” Aerion snapped, turning back to the water, “You’ll frighten them.”

“You’re the one frightening them,” you retorted easily, completely unbothered by the venom in his tone.

You marched right up to his rock, your slippers squelching in the mud, and plopped down beside him without asking. “My father says that fishes can sense when someone is angry. They don’t like the energy.”

“Your father is a fool, and so are you,” he hissed, expecting you to cry or perhaps run back to the castle.

But you didn’t seem bothered as you tilted your head, watching the bobber dance on the ripples. “You’re doing it wrong anyway. The bait is too high.”

Aerion opened his mouth to deliver a cutting remark—something about how a dragon did not take lessons from a silly girl—but before the words could leave his lips, your smaller, warmer hands brushed against his.

You reached out, bypassing his defensive posture, and gently adjusted his grip on the handle, lowering the tip of the rod so the bait sank properly into the water.

The prince froze. No one touched him without permission. No one dared.

Yet, as the silence stretched between you, the bobber suddenly dipped aggressively. A heavy tug yanked the line down, nearly pulling the rod from his hands.

“See!” you gasped, your face lighting up with a blinding grin. “Pull, Aerion! Pull!”

Forgetting his pride, Aerion yanked the rod back with all his boyhood strength. A massive trout broke the surface, thrashing wildly and splashing mud and lakewater directly across his pristine tunic, and right into your face.

Aerion braced himself for the screaming. Noble girls and boys always screamed when they got dirty.

But then a bright laughter echoed across the banks. “Look at the size of it! We caught it!”

Aerion looked from the wiggling fish to your mud splattered face. His lips twitched, fighting a smile before he forced his features back into a proud mask.

“I caught it,” he corrected, though his voice lacked any real bite. “You merely watched.”

“We caught it,” you insisted, bending down to take a closer look at the trout.

Your father’s visit ended shortly after, and the brief, strange kinship evaporated into memory as the years pulled you both down separate paths.

Years slipped by like water through fingers, and when you finally returned to court as a young woman, the boy by the lake had become a man feared by the entire realm.

Aerion was breathtakingly beautiful, and notoriously cruel. He walked through court with a sharp tongue and a sharper temper, but that did not faze you.

From afar, Aerion watched you navigate the treacherous nature of court. You were a vision of light, offering warm smiles to the guards, listening patiently to the older women, and showing unfaltering kindness to everyone you crossed.

To him, it was grating. All noble ladies were trained to be sweet, performing acts of grace to secure a good match or win the favour of higher lords.

He waited for you to finally lose your cool.

But the day never came. No, the reality of your kindness crashed directly into him one afternoon near the small council chamber.

You were walking down the corridor with a butterfly that had landed on your arm when the doors of the chamber burst open.

A flurry of lords tumbled out into the hall, fleeing in terror. Among them was the master of coin, frantically wiping dark ink from his doublet with his bleeding hands, his face pale as death.

“Seven hells,” one of the other lords whispered hoarsely, scurrying past you. “The prince has lost his mind entirely!”

You stopped, watching the chaotic retreat. Instead of turning back like any sensible person would, you set the butterfly on a nearby branch and stepped through the heavy doors.

An iron candelabra laid overturned on the floor, dark wax spilling across the polished wood, and an inkwell had been shattered against the wall.

Aerion stood by the high window, his back to you. His shoulders were incredibly tense, and his chest was rising and falling with heavy, angry breaths.

“I thought I made it clear,” Aerion growled without turning, “The next soul to disturb me will lose their tongue.”

“Then it is a good thing I am capable of writing. I do not need my tongue.” you responded lightly, closing the heavy door behind you.

Aerion went still. He turned slowly, his stormy eyes dark with lingering rage. When his gaze landed on you, he let out a harsh, bitter scoff.

“Come to play the saint for me too?” he sneered, maintaining his distance. “Save your sweet smiles for the lords in the hall. I have no patience for your endless charity.”

You took a few measured steps into the room, keeping a respectful distance yourself.

“I don't think they don’t understand how stressful it can be,” you said softly, ignoring his cruel words. “they whisper and push, expecting you to sit quietly while they try to manage your family’s rights. It makes sense that you’d lose your patience when they refuse to listen.”

He stared at you from across the room, his mind struggling to process what he was hearing. He had expected an admonishment, or at the very least, fear.

“They are parasites,” Aerion muttered, his posture unlocking just a fraction. “They look at me as if I am mad because I refuse to let them dictate my bloodline’s terms.”

“I can see that,” you replied gently, giving a small smile. “They may be stressed as well, but no one should have to bend to their whim.”

The room went silent before you spoke again.

“Whenever the court gets too loud for me, I find that walking around the gardens helps. The fresh air is always calming.. maybe it would help you too. It’s quiet out there.”

The fire in his eyes flickered, clearly caught off guard by the suggestion. He stared at your face, the lines of his memory remembering the specific curve of your smile.

A breathless laugh escaped him.

“The gardens?” Aerion repeated, his voice dropping the edge it possessed just moments ago.

He took a step forward, assessing your form. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? Years ago at Summerhall, you told me the fish wouldn’t bite because of my ‘anger.’ Now you’re trying to herd me into the bushes to calm down.”

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, a soft laugh bubbling up. “You remember that?”

“I remember a girl pushing my hands around and getting me covered in mud,” he murmured.

He then let out a soft click of his tongue, turning to look at the doorway. “Fine. We will walk the gardens. But only because your previous method somehow worked.”

“Of course,” you smiled.

As the weeks progressed, a unique friendship blossomed between you.

Aerion still remained difficult as ever to the rest of the world, but your presence seemed to simmer that down.

The shift did not go unnoticed by the ladies of the court, leading to an afternoon that they wouldn’t stop gossiping about for days.

You were walking through the outer courtyard with a small retinue of noble ladies, the daughters of prominent lords from the Reach. They were talking endlessly, giggling as they spoke of whatever irrelevant topics crossed their minds.

“You must be careful, my dear,” one of the ladies said, leaning in closer to you. “Prince Aerion may be amused by your novelty but once he grows bored of playing with his new toy, you will be left with nothing but yourself.”

“He is a prince of the blood,” another lady chimed in, her voice tight. “They take what pleases them for a moment and cast it aside. Do not mistake a tyrant’s passing curiosity for actual regard.”

“Aerion simply values sincerity,” you replied, offering an unbothered smile. “There is no game being played.”

“You are far too gullible–” the former lady was cut when Aerion walked out from the room beside.

The ladies instantly adjusted their posture, immediately dropping to curtsies as he approached, each of them desperately hoping to catch the prince’s favour despite their previous warnings to you.

Aerion ignored them, his eyes locking firmly onto you.

Without a word of greeting, and completely disregarding decorum, he walked into the center of the group and stepped right into your space, his frame towering over you.

“You’re late,” his voice was low—meant strictly for you, though it carried across the hall.

“Late for what, my Prince?” you asked, tilting your head up to meet his gaze with your beaming expression.

“I am going to the cliffs, and you are coming with me,” he stated flatly.

Behind you, a collective intake of breath echoed from the ladies. Here he was, actively seeking you out, his attention consuming you and utterly shattering their spiteful claims that you were just a passing game.

You looked back at the girls, giving one last smile before parting from them. “Very well, my Prince, if you insist.”

“I do,” Aerion tilted his head, turning on his heel to fall into step right beside you, his side brushing against yours as he guided you out of the yard.

That would not be the first or last time the court would witness the two of you separating from the rest of the world.

During one evening, after failing in your search for Aerion through the whole castle, you found him alone in the secluded parts of the library.

He was sitting alone, staring dead at a massive volume of ancient Valyrian history.

“I am not in the mood for company,” he hissed out, “leave.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in worry before approaching and setting down a small plate of pastries on the corner of the table. You pulled out the empty chair beside him and sat down despite his request.

Reaching over the plate, you picked up a small pastry and held it right in front of his face, completely disregarding his brooding glare.

“Eat,” you insisted gently as Aerion still refused to acknowledge you. “You always go for these specific ones. I know you like them.”

His fingers that had been gripping the edge of the book twitched, and he finally turned his head to look at you.

The weight on his shoulders gradually disappeared as he looked at the pastry, then up at your fond expression.

Aerion didn’t move to take it from your hand. Keeping his intense gaze locked firmly onto yours, he leaned slightly forward.

Then, totally unprompted, he took a bite right out of the pastry while it was still held between your fingers.

A tiny giggle slipped past your lips, a bright warmth blooming all the way to the tips of your ears at the sheer intimacy of it.

You tried to bite your lip to hide your surprise, but your shoulders shook with quiet amusement as you looked into his smug face.

Aerion chewed slowly, the corners of his lips twitching at your giddy reaction.

“You are ridiculous,” he murmured as he swallowed.

“Maybe,” you agreed, your heart fluttering as you set the remaining half down onto the plate. “But it worked. You feel better already, don’t you?”

Aerion stared at you for a moment, drinking in your presence. He did feel better—the tight, suffocating knot in his chest had already unraveled. But it was certainly not because of the pastry.

Slowly, he hesitantly reached out across the small space between your chairs. With one deliberate movement, he dragged your chair until it hit his.

Then, his hand moved to flip over on the table with his palm facing up, his fingers sprawling open in a silent, stubborn invitation.

You, on the other hand, did not hesitate. You slid your hand into his palm, your fingers easily weaving through his.

Aerion squeezed your hand, his rings pressing firmly against your skin, though his touch was surprisingly careful.

However, the true demonstration of expanse that you two had built played out before the entire court during a grand feast, where Aerion’s attempt to maintain his reputation crumbled.

The feast was deafeningly loud.

You were seated next to Aerion by Prince Maekar.

Aerion had spent the first half of the feast interacting with other lords while you conversed with other ladies.

He was glaring at a group of lesser lords when he noticed your sudden silence. Just then, some of the lords he had been talking to earlier called out to him and he tried to force his eyes back on them.

Aerion was aware that you two were the topic of conversation as of late. He couldn’t let the people of court think he had gone soft. At least that was what his pride told him.

But the sight of your fragile form pulled at him like a physical anchor, shattering his resolve. His demeanor instantly changed.

He turned fully in his seat toward you, his cold stare evaporating.

“You’re pale,” Aerion murmured, voice stripped away of anything harsh. “What is it?”

“Just… a headache, Aerion,” you whispered softly, giving him a tired smile. “The noise is particularly loud tonight.”

Aerion didn’t waste a second as he gently used his hand to cradle the back of your head.

His fingers began combing through the loose parts of your hair, his thumb tracing circles down your temple to ease the pressure.

The chatter around the surrounding tables died down, dozens of eyes tracking his movements, yet no one dared to disrupt. They watched as Aerion paid no mind to everything else the moment you showed discomfort.

You leaned into his touch, a smile returning to your face. “Aerion… everyone is watching.”

Aerion let out a defeated sigh as he grinned. “Let them stare,” he concluded, his fingers tucking in a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve broken me anyway.”

Shifting his broad shoulders, he blocked the rest of the room from view, shielding you from prying eyes.

“You are tired,” he paused, “if anyone breathes a word about that, I will have their heads.”

“You can’t murder the entire court,” you teased, lifting your head up for a moment.

The party was at full swing at the hockey house. Everything should be perfect. Garrett hadn’t yet changed the music playlist, Tucker prepared the perfect snacks, everyone was having fun. Well, judging from Garrett’s slightly off attitude, not everyone.

A girl was chatting up Garrett on the couch, who in return merely smiled with a nod before his gaze would surreptitiously wander to the staircase again. It made them suspicious. Garrett’s body was relaxed, with his arm slung over the couch, but he wasn’t actively doing anything.

Logan played into Dean’s commentary. “I couldn’t agree more, Di Laurentis. The adversary leans forward, hoping he’ll take the bait, but Graham remains civil and uncaring, evading yet another aggressive maneuver in the evening. What do we think of this play?” He turned his head towards him, awaiting his review.

“Very bold, very bold.”

Garrett slowly stood up from the couch, sending her a tight-lipped smile. And another girl was turned down for the evening.

Both let out groans of disappointment. Dean continued, “And now he’s extracting himself from the situation, doing something totally unheard of. Logan, I can’t believe what we’re seeing.”

Tucker shook his head behind them. A delicious smell of Quesadillas emanated from the oven he just opened. “You guys are idiots.”

Mischief was dancing in Dean’s eyes. “Lo and behold, a team colleague sees method to the madness. Maybe we can get an interview from the very much esteemed Forward after the break. John Tucker, talk us through the process.” Logan didn’t waste a second when he copied Dean’s stance, holding the bottle around Tucker’s chin.

Tucker eyed the two of them, taking his time in barely tilting his head to speak into the makeshift microphones. “Maybe tonight’s not about a game.”

At the hint that there was more to it, Logan lowered the drink. Stepping forward, he asked with a lowered voice, “Wait, do you actually know something?”

Dean crossed the kitchen island and slung his arm over Tucker’s shoulder. “Buddy, have we told you yet how much we love and appreciate you?”

Tucker pursed his lips in thought. “Hmmm, not today.” Ignoring their antics, he decided to get back to the food when he sidestepped Dean’s embrace and put the dish on a cooling rack.

“And you look so handsome,” Logan added, vaguely waving his drink at him. “There’s a certain glow about you.”

“Totally.” Dean nodded.

Tucker offered a sage nod. “I’m aware.” He paused, “But it’s nice to be appreciated.”

Hearing Garrett’s voice yanked them out of their attempt to extract information out of their roommate when he entered the kitchen area. “What’s happening over here?”

Logan leaned his hip against the counter. “We could ask you the same thing.”

“What?” Garrett’s focus was more on fetching two water bottles from the fridge than to notice their detective investigations into his behavior. “What are you talking about?”

“Dude, what’s up with your game tonight?” Dean exclaimed, yet he couldn’t help chuckling at witnessing it.

“My game?”

Logan gestured to the living room in disbelief. “You would’ve brought someone upstairs, like three times already.”

Garrett grimaced at the image that evoked. “I’m not a sex fiend. Unlike…” He left the sentiment in the air while eyeing Dean, knowing his friend had way more sex in a single day, also because Dean was always doing it out in the open for the rest of the house to know.

Dean clutched his chest, offering a radiant smile.“Aww, and I wear this badge with pride.” He heaved a pitiful sigh.“It’s not easy being me.”

Garrett curiously leaned over Tucker’s shoulder.“Is it-”

“Done? Yes.” Tucker confirmed, putting a small batch on a plate.

“Thanks, man. Later, dudes!” Armed with the snack, he moved away from the group without looking back, taking two steps at a time up the staircase.

“What the fuck?” Dean waved his hands in the air, confused by his attitude like they were invisible already, still not understanding what was going on.

“(Y/N)’s upstairs,” Tucker explained, without any further ado. Sounds of understanding echoed around him. “She showed up during prep.”

As soon as Garrett opened his bedroom door, he eyed you through the small opening. He offered a small smile as a greeting, not wanting to spook you. “I’ve come bearing reinforcements.”

You were laying over the covers of his bed, only feeling slightly bad at Garrett’s night turning out differently than he expected. “I’m sorry for taking you away from your sexual exploits. I could’ve just as easily hidden in the room of one of the boys.”

“Don’t even finish that thought. There’s a sleepover tradition for a reason. You need me? I drop everything, sexual exploits included.”

First, he offered you the promised food before joining you on the bed. A soft smile tugged at Garrett’s lips when he fluffed the bunch of pillows behind him, remembering the time when you made fun of them for being super fluffy. With his body relaxing, all the air finally exhaled from his lungs.

“You poor thing.” You sent him a playful smirk once you imagined Garrett having to endure a night without sex. Absentmindedly, you laid your head on his shoulder and took a bite from the cheesy-chicken goodness called Tucker’s cooking to ease and maybe fill your stomach after the absolute ordeal of your day.

Garrett rolled his eyes while chuckling. “I think I’ll survive.”

The warm cheese melting in your mouth was a welcome distraction. With your mouth half-full, you hummed with absolute joy and couldn’t control yourself from taking another bite. “Oh my God, this is so good.”

There was a soft expression taking over his face when you held your food inches from his lips, wanting to share it with him. No longer surprised by your strange antics, he merely lifted his chin without averting his unblinking stare. “Really good,” he grunted in agreement, while nodding.

“Why do you always spoil me with Tucker’s home-cooked meals?” You almost didn’t expect him to answer when you continued digging into the little snack.

“Because you deserve it.” Garrett had uttered it with such a quiet voice that you wondered if you heard him right and not your mind playing tricks on you.

The mere affirmation made your stomach feel really fluttery with a nervous energy. Sometimes when Garrett said stuff like that, it felt unbearable to look at him. Not knowing whether you wanted to know the truth, if he said it just because he was such a great friend … or something else. Just like now, you did the next best thing and rested your head on his chest.

“Oh, you are such a sweetheart.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Garrett grumbled.

His heart was thumping erratically before it became normal again after a few seconds. There was something truly soothing about him stroking your hair before his fingers rubbed up and down your back. Garrett softly whispered against your forehead. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then we talk about anything else. Or nothing at all. I could tell you about Logan putting his foot in his mouth around some psychology major. Or Dean being absolutely adorable training the Hurricanes. And Tuck-”

You interrupted him, “-is perfect.”

All too aware of your partiality for his friend, Garrett sighed, “Tuck’s perfect. I know.”

Once you felt safely in this bubble, with Garrett talking about the most mundane stuff about your common friends, you felt your body relax against his chest.

Even if you were still nervous how he would react. Well, better to just rip it off like a band-aid.

“He said, he was tired of me being a frigid bitch.”

Garrett’s body language told you more than words ever could. His hand hovered over your shoulder, frozen. Garrett sat up at the revelation. You didn’t need to be close to his chest to hear the growl emanating deeply from his chest when he opened his mouth. “What?” Inhaling deeply for a few moments, his voice sounded a bit more normal but it was still strained. “What was his name again? Dick?”

You didn’t know why you bothered anymore, but you still corrected him, without enthusiasm. “Nick.”

Garrett muttered under his breath. “Same thing.” He returned to his previous position when he leaned back again, willing to hear you out.

“I’m just tired of explaining myself to a guy. When I literally have other things on my mind than to constantly be glued at a guy’s side. I’m swamped with projects, studying for midterms while trying to balance it all by hanging out with friends.” You shook your head. “Maybe I was an idiot for thinking I could have a relationship as a cherry on top.”

You felt him lean closer when he replied with a hoarse voice, “It’s not idiotic.” To prove how serious he was, you felt his fingers carefully touch your knuckles. Craving that small bit of solace, you revealed your open palm until you let Garrett’s fingers lace through yours.

Like two puzzle pieces fitting together.

The food long forgotten, you disentangled from him and laid next to him. “Is it fucked up that my mind is more devastated by his last words than the end of a relationship? We weren’t even together that long.” At the inkling of the first teardrops sneaking in like the traitors they were, you grimaced, feeling taken aback. With your knuckles drying your cheeks, you felt so strange that incredulous chuckles left you. “I don’t even know why I’m crying.”

You felt Garrett’s unyielding stare on the side of your face. “Listen to me, he did that to hurt you. Dick’s not worth your tears.”

“Nick.”

God, why did you keep doing this? This is really the hill you want to die on?

He shrugged. “Still a dick. Fuck him for wanting even more of your attention. Especially if he can see how stressed you are. That’s no relationship. That’s just a damn push-and-pull. He can’t just dictate that you spend less time with your friends.” Garrett raked his fingers through his already tousled hair, appearing nervous all of a sudden. “You guys did break up, right? Your text only said code sleepover.”

“Don’t worry. When someone thinks they can change my mind into having sex and just turns into a misogynistic pig, I don’t go for a break.”

“Good to know. I can have a few choice words with the preppy asshole if we cross paths.”

You snickered. Leave it to Garrett to being unwavering in calling your ex a preppy asshole, even while you were still dating. You snuggled up to the warmth of his side. “No, better not. I don’t want him to think I’m consumed by him. But if you do see him, wouldn’t you mind sending him one of your trademark Garrett Graham death stares?”

Garrett nodded once, not needing any more incentive. “Got ya. I’m gonna treat him like my fiercest hockey nemesis.”

The rest of the boys were not so secretly watching Garrett and you from the kitchen window while you were snuggling up under a blanket by the fire pit outside. The party was coming to an end and there were a few stragglers eating leftover food in the living room area. It was left unsaid how you were wearing a familiar green hoodie which was usually seen on their captain’s torso.

“What’s the latest update?” Dean asked.

With a sympathetic tone, Tucker admitted, “Break-up.” Remembering the almost blank expression on your face when you revealed the tidbit upon your arrival.

Dean groaned. “Fucking jerk. He’s a business major, right?” He crossed his arms. “Think we’re allowed to give him a noogie?”

“Maybe ask Garrett what he wants to do,” Logan replied, trying to be sensible. You were one of them and they hated that you had to go through this. If one of them got hurt, they all got hurt. Even if they wanted to kick Garrett’s butt for not getting off his damn butt.

“Sounds like a plan.” Dean agreed.

Garrett had his arm slung over your shoulder, with your face nestled into his neck, keeping you close. While his hand stroked down your arm, his lips briefly met your forehead in a blink and you miss it moment.

Before they could react on any level - Dean was on the brink of holding his breath to release a dramatic gasp - Garrett turned his head before his eyes zeroed in on them. Like he was conjured by the uttering of his name.

In an almost knee-jerk reaction, Dean and Logan ducked their hands until they were literally on their knees hiding under the window sill. Unlike Tucker, who was too focused on putting away some stuff from the counter when he saw Garrett flipping them the bird, frozen in place.

A wide-eyed Dean nervously switched his gaze between Logan and Tucker. “Do you think he saw us?”

Tucker waved a hand at Garrett, almost compelled, like he couldn’t control the movement. “I think he did.”

“Everything alright?” you asked, sensing Garrett’s focus shifting. You lifted your head from his chest and noticed him ruffling his fingers through his hair.

He cleared his throat, putting on a small smile. “All good. For what it’s worth, your ex is an asshole. Never did deserve you.”

“You know what I just realized? I just don’t know how to be other than this person. And how I’d need to sacrifice one thing to achieve everything else.”

“You don’t need to sacrifice anything. You love to study. You know when to de-stress with friends and where your limits are. I don’t really know why you want a boyfriend, but that’s just me.”

“Of course you do,” you retorted dryly. It was known all across campus how Garrett was not the type to even date. Sometimes you envied his constitution for just going for it, needing only that physical release. As much as you were an analytical person, it still made you anxious that you were still a smidge of a romantic and that the mere intimacy in a purely sexual relationship would trick your brain into believing you were harboring feelings. Damn oxytocin.

Garrett smiled charmingly, bringing you back. “As I was saying … Because you never really needed those guys. And they know it. You’re way too independent for them and they hate that.”

You exhaled heavily, kinda hating him for being right. Barely turning your head to see his reaction, in case he didn’t want to believe you. “Maybe it’s time I stop dating. You know, go for the Garrett way - just have tons of sex and only think of myself. No conditions.”

He tilted his head, deep in thought. That was before he turned back to his confident self. “I’m not sure if you’re trying to insult me. Because objectively it sounds awesome.” His gaze turned pensive. “But only if this is truly what you want.”

You sat up, already missing Garrett’s warmth when you let go of him. “What I want is some good sex.” Your hand caressed your neck, imagining someone touching you who knew what they were doing. “Unfortunately, there are only boys here who have no idea what they’re doing. Sometimes I just want that fulfilling climax.” You threw your head back, moaning quietly. It’s been too long since you had a good orgasm unless it was done by your own fingers. Great, now you were getting horny.

That embarrassed feeling only lasted for a few moments when warmth grew in your cheeks. “And usually every single one gets all pissy when I dare to say I’m not in the mood. What I want is to think of my needs first.”

Hopefully, you didn’t share too much. Typically, Garrett didn’t mind when you talked openly about your sexual needs. Sometimes it just felt really freeing to talk to another sex-positive guy. You wouldn’t have thought after getting to know Sabrina as your roommate that you’d be here now. Having someone like her in your corner certainly did wonders to just outright voicing your wants and frustrations without shame.

Garrett cleared his throat. And coughed for good measure. He did seem a bit awkward the more you talked. He swallowed after taking a sip from his drink. “Maybe you just haven’t found the right one. No hard feelings, but you get a lot of duds.”

Truer words have never been spoken. The mere thought made you stare into the distance. “I am a dud magnet.”

Garrett rubbed the back of his neck, eyeing you warily. “Then,” he paused before muttering the rest in one breath, “let me help you get laid.”

“What?”

“That’s not-” He closed his eyes with a grimace. Giving off the impression that he just blurted out the first thing on his mind before his mouth could stop him. Garrett chuckled. “Let me be your wingman. The moment you want to have sex again, let me know and I’ll double-check all the potential guys you’re into. No more duds for you.”

“Maybe my mind is either in a break-up funk or this one beer is getting to my head. For some reason I think that idea doesn’t sound bad. Or maybe it’s because all after-midnight ideas sound fascinating.”

“See?” Garrett raised his eyebrows, having another sip.

“And how would you ascertain which ones are studs and which ones the duds?” You pointed your finger guns at him, mumbling ‘pew pew’ under your breath.

He groaned from deep within his chest. He closed his eyes, throwing his head back. “Oh my God. I’m going to mentally write down ‘must tolerate (Y/N)’s corny jokes’. It’s called instinct. With most guys you can just tell if they’re good in bed or have the patience to take care of the clit.”

“Oh wow, someone’s very sure of themselves.”

Confidence was emanating from him in waves when he smirked. “Hell yeah, I guess I’m just good at stuff.”

“Prove it.”

His frown was the first hint to the uneasy feeling taking shape. “… Okay.”

“Take Dean for example.”

Garrett made a mournful sound. “I don’t want to think about my friends having sex.”

“So, if you’re not divulging your clit instinct, I’m gonna assume that skill is very selective. Therefore, I can’t fully trust your expertise,” you retorted, mockingly tilting your head in speculation.

Garrett narrowed his eyes. “That’s evil.”

“I guess that’s why we’re such good friends.”

With an exhaling breath, Garrett succumbed to his fate. “Fine, my instinct tells me Dean … loves the clit. Absolutely perverted, nay, unhinged for it.”

You giggled, liking where this was going and leaned the side of your face against your hand. “Tucker?”

Garrett huffed a breath, needing a moment. “Might not know as much but is definitely willing to learn.” He beat you to it when he continued with a pensive air, “Logan … somehow has the hair for it.”

You nodded. “He does.”

“Could be into it. Or at least might be into how much the girl’s into it.” Garrett inhaled deeply. “And yours truly-” He tipped his head back, like he was a drama major about to deliver a monologue.

“Here we go,” you muttered under your breath.

“Absolutely adores the clit. Best friends with the clit. Would marry her if he could.” Garrett nodded playfully, clutching his chest. If you would describe the sound he just made, the words ‘sighing blissfully’ would come to mind. “We’re in a very committed relationship.”

“And she’s very lucky to have you,” you said, shaking your head with a smile before leaning your head against his chest.

The first sensation you felt was warmth. All-encompassing heat at your back as you were lying in bed. Early morning light calmly dancing through the room to rouse its inhabitants to start a new day. In between the precipice of awake and slumber, your body still felt sluggish and wanted to stay where it was. Snuggled into Garrett’s broad frame.

As the thought of Garrett hit you, you couldn’t help wondering if the vague memory tickling your brain was a true recollection of last night or just a very imaginative dream. The hazy memory of Garrett saying “Not a word” and hearing the boys collectively retort “Didn’t say a thing!” when you were half asleep. After you couldn’t remember walking back upstairs and judging by the non-hallucinated words, it made you wonder what happened after you closed your eyes by the fire.

The sheets rustled behind you as you felt Garrett’s arm stir around your stomach.

“G’ morning,” you mumbled all gravelly. You kept your eyes still closed to remain in that relaxed headspace.

“Morning.”

Using his half asleep mentality to your advantage, you spoke up. “Did you carry me all the way upstairs?”

His warm breath ghosted over the back of your neck. “You can’t prove that, counselor.”

You lightly jabbed him into the abdomen. “Don’t call me that.” And instantly hated him (and specifically his muscles) that he barely even reacted, and thus making him the perfect specimen. “Analyst, not counselor. You’re such a smartass in the morning.”

A dramatic gasp left his mouth. “You’re so violent.” The uncontrollable chuckles proved the opposite before he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m sorry. And here I was always priding myself on sharing the bed with a budding lawyer.”

You snorted. “Then you can share the bed with Dean.”

Garrett grunted, needing a few seconds to recover. “The cuddling could get very crowded in there. Unlike here.” For good measure, his hand tightened around your stomach.

You chuckled, shaking your head, remembering Dean’s tendency for female company. “What a charmer.”

“You want to stay for some coffee?”

“I need to borrow some books from the library at the other end of the campus,” you grumbled.

Garrett sought your warmth again when he mumbled into your shoulder. “I can drive you.”

“Don’t you have training?”

Chuckling, he wriggled your body after hearing your list of reluctant excuses. “Will you stop finding reasons not to hang out and take it easy? Maybe say ‘Oh Garrett, I can’t stand to be apart from you’ to make up for my hurt feelings?”

Snorting with laughter, you refused to cave to the typical Garrett flattery. He already had enough of that. “I’m not a Victorian woman or a member of your fan club.”

With a wry sense of humor, he tsk-ed. “Not with that attitude.” Garrett was already looking at you when you shifted your body until you were facing him. His voice lowered into a whisper, like he was sharing a secret with you. “How are you feeling this morning?” For good measure he stroked a few hairs out of your face.

“Better.” You shrugged. “It’s a new day. I think our clit conversation last night lifted me right up.”

His eyes lit up at the memory. “Good. Any time you need a pick-me-up, just let me know and I’ll pull out the female genitalia talk.”

You nodded jokingly. “Cool, dude.” Garrett reciprocated instantly when he saw you lifting your palm and high-fived you.

“Cool. Let’s get you that coffee.”

At a certain point there were only a handful of people in your life you felt comfortable around to appreciate the silence with. Garrett was one of those people. The two of you were sitting at a table while just enjoying the calm of the morning. Tucker was quietly helping himself to some coffee in the corner. Almost like your thought process summoned a karmic balance, Garrett’s remaining roommates came barging in.

“Would you look at that?” Dean squinted his eyes, like he was staring into the sun, before facing Logan next to him. “Are my eyes deceiving me? Did Garrett finally bring you out to society or was he afraid we’d steal you away from him?”

“Almost didn’t recognize you without G’s hoodie,” he mumbled under his breath, but low enough for you to understand.

Garrett kept his hands around the mug and put on a crooked grin. “Funny.” But not before glaring at him.

“Don’t worry, Dean. You’re still my second,” you paused and mentally debated your ranking, even if it was just for fun, “or third best friend.”

Touching his chest, Dean took a seat by the kitchen counter. “Aww, I made the list.”

“We’re picking up (Y/N) along the way before we get to practice.” Garrett phrased it in a mere statement. He patiently stared at his friends until they’d submit, like he was daring them to.

After hearing echoes of “Cool” and “Sounds fun”, you frowned at Garrett’s attitude. “Did I miss something?” You turned your head, confusedly eyeing his friends to guess the truth from their body language.

“Nope.” This answer was more definitive.

Okay, now you were officially suspicious.

“It’s not my birthday, right?”

“It’s not you.” Logan assured you.

Dean smirked. “G just gets testy when he doesn’t get laid.”

Tucker didn’t play their game when he covered his face, shaking his head, sending you a sympathetic smile.

“Okay, be weird then. I’m calling shotgun. I’ll be picking the music if no one stops me.” You brought your mug to the sink, only hearing rustles and harsh whispers behind you when you grabbed your bag from the living room.

“-can’t believe-” Garrett hissed, followed by Logan’s words.

“Dude, you’re the one being weird.”

When you turned around, you saw Dean open the door with an exuberant energy before you could analyze their conversation. He waved with his arm and leaned against the door structure, with his broad frame hiding whatever Garrett and Logan were doing in the background.

Dean smirked. “Puberty hits some people differently, you know what I mean?”

You merely rolled your eyes at their antics and whatever they were keeping from you. Quick steps rushed behind you as soon as you moved outside. You barely had time to react when an arm slung around your shoulder. With nimble fingers Garrett took your bag to carry it for you.

You narrowed your eyes while glancing at the side of his face. “I’m not even gonna ask.”

The relief was visible on his expression when Garrett sighed. “Good.” To complete the actions of a kind guy he opened the car door for you at the front.

It took you less than a few seconds to appreciate Garrett’s offer to get a ride. This way you could lean back, let the music of the radio station wash over you while Dean leaned forward until his head was inches from your headrest, letting his fingers drum against the sides of your seat.

Dean was being his jovial and carefree self and talking about your upcoming internships for the political science class you were taking.

Logan mirrored Dean next to him when he leaned forward until his gaze caught the side of Garrett’s face. “Don’t you ever wonder sometimes what would have happened if those two had met the first time?”

Dean sighed dreamily. “Talk about a dream team.”

Garrett smiled. “More like dangerous.”

You turned your head, patting Dean’s cheek, mere inches from your face. If possible, his smile grew even more. “Don’t worry, I’d never want to fight Beau on taking his spot.”

With a faraway look, Dean voiced, “That’d be kinda hot. Two of my friends fighting for my affection.”

You chuckled. “I can’t believe these guys are letting you leave the house. You’re a literal menace to society.”

Dean gasped. “How dare you? I’m a delightful member of society.”

“She’s right.” Tucker spoke up. Nodding along with Logan. “Absolutely unhinged.”

“Illustrious,” Dean corrected.

Garrett added, “Infamous.”

“Don’t listen to them.” Dean leaned his chin on your shoulder. “We both know you secretly love me.”

“I’m still waiting for the day when you finally elope with me.” You sighed dramatically. “But, alas, I couldn’t stand to look at you. You’re just too pretty for me.” You sighed, imitating a fainting woman, with the back of your hand shielding your forehead.

Garrett rolled his eyes, chuckling. “There’s no elopement happening.”

Dean drew in a breath. “So, we are star-crossed lovers. I can’t believe you’re keeping us apart already.” Seeing Garrett’s glance in the rear-view mirror, he sat back with a small smirk.

“I doubt it would have mattered anyway. Since I met the two of you in the same week.”

Garrett chuckled into his closed hand. “I still can’t believe you didn’t even know the guy before you decided to heckle him.”

It felt so surreal that you still remembered your first encounter with him during orientation week. Even after all this time. It was still clear as day, being in that crowd of freshmen, with Garrett standing a few rows behind you.

“Hey, positive heckling. I could tell he was nervous.”

“What did you call out during his comedy act again? That he looked handsome?”

You sighed in mock defeat, even if the memory always lit you up from the inside and your very rare impulse for heckling. Or to inspire someone you’ve never met. “‘You’re fucking awesome, man!’ I still can’t believe I did that.”

“I just loved that you did. Just had a feeling that I really needed to get to know this girl.” His hand dropped on your thigh in comfort.

Him putting it into perspective like that was a reassuring sensation that if you hadn’t done that, you wouldn’t have met Garrett and found a friend for life. Or who knew? Maybe you’d have met him over time through Dean.

“Did you really needed to spill your drink on me to catch my attention though?”

“Wait, that’s what happened? Someone left an impression, huh?” By instinct, Logan reached forward to clasp Garrett’s seat.

“I was – Just shut up, man.” His laughter sounded flustered when he was reminded of the little mishap upon meeting.

“He was very adorable,” you assured him and the boys when you stroked his shoulder.

Garrett mockingly hummed along. “Oh, would you look at that? Guess we’re here already.”

The car slowed down until you stopped near the steps of the library building. His brows rose. “No more mortifying stories to tell in front of my friends.”

You loosened the seat belt. “There are always more where they came from. Don’t worry, boys.”

“Can’t wait,” Tucker replied, all easy-going.

Garrett sighed, glaring at his so-called friends sitting in the backseat. He was too focused on them and working on maintaining his remaining dignity when Dean jumped out to open your door before he can.

Dean bowed. “My lady.”

Logan snickered at seeing Garrett narrow his eyes while mouthing “What the fuck?” and throwing his hands in the air.

Taking his offered hand, you stepped outside while looking back over your shoulder at Garrett. “You do have gentleman friends, Garrett.”

He feigned a smirk. “Clearly.”

“And before I forget…” You leaned against the lowered car window, letting an old-timey voice break forth. “Oh Garrett, how I can’t stand to be apart from you.”

Garrett chuckled. Rolling his eyes, he called after you as you walked away. “Don’t play with my feelings like that.”

Still, he tried to ignore it when he heard Logan mutter under his breath, “Not my girlfriend, my ass.”

You always found the steady drizzle of the Pacific Northwest to be comforting. But after three centuries of wandering the earth as a nomad, a quiet exhaustion had settled deep into your cold bones. Lately, life had become entirely lacklustre. Staring out at the monotonous, heavy grey skies and the permanently drenched terrain, the magic of the endless forest had faded. Everything mostly just felt damp and dreary.

As a nomadic vampire, you didn't belong to a coven. You preferred the absolute freedom of the open road, answering to no one but yourself, though you shared the strict "vegetarian" lifestyle of your "cousins," the Cullens and the Denalis. Because you chose to abstain from human blood, you occasionally dropped by the rainy town of Forks to hunt the abundant wildlife and exchange pleasantries with Carlisle and Esme, who always welcomed you with open arms.

But even a welcome guest had to respect the rules. Because of the ancient treaty established between the Cullens and the local shape-shifters, you knew the exact layout of the boundary lines down to the millimetre. You stayed strictly on the Cullen side of the Hoh River whenever you came to visit, and you never tried to push your luck. You had lived for three hundred years by being smart, and poking a pack of giant wolves was never on your itinerary.

Until this particular grey afternoon.

You had been tracking a particularly meaty mountain lion for miles, the thrill of the chase briefly cutting through your dark, existential boredom. The large cat was fast, and the adrenaline of the hunt sent you tearing through the brush, matching its speed stride for stride. But your excitement had made you careless. The chase pushed you entirely too close to the treaty line, and just as you braced your legs to spring and make the kill, the mountain lion panicked. It bolted straight across the invisible border line, disappearing into the forbidden Quileute territory.

You skidded to a sudden halt right at the edge of the tree line, the damp earth groaning under the sudden force of your boots. Your bright topaz eyes, glowing with the hunger of a vegetarian vampire who hadn't fed in days, tracked your escaped meal as it vanished completely into the dense, foggy thicket of the reservation.

You let out a long, irritated sigh, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. As hungry as you were, you weren't about to instigate a problem over a snack. Carlisle would be disappointed, and honestly, you just didn't want to deal with the headache of fighting off a pack of wolves.

But just as you turned on your heel, preparing to leap back into the mossy canopy and find another trail, the heavy air shifted.

The wind blew from the west, and a sudden, overwhelming scent hit you like a physical blow. It was thick, intoxicating blend of woodsmoke, crushed cedar, and the distinct, muskiness of a wet dog. It was a smell so strong, it was nearly overwhelming, making your long dead heart give a strange, phantom twitch.

Before your brain could even fully process the frantic, heavy snapping of thick branches, the underbrush exploded.

A massive, silver-grey wolf burst from the thicket, its colossal paws tearing up the damp earth as it skidded to a violent halt just feet away from you, right at the precipice of the treaty line. The beast was easily the size of a horse, its powerful muscles bunching beneath a thick coat of silver fur. Its dark lips were pulled back in a vicious, terrifying snarl, exposing a row of razor-sharp, dagger-like teeth. A lethal, vibrating growl rumbled deep within its chest, a sound so low and resonant that it caused the small pebbles by your boots to tremble against the dirt.

You didn't flinch or stumble back, like most would when faced with such a creature. You were a three-hundred-year-old vampire; fear wasn't really a concept that existed in your emotional vocabulary anymore. Instead of fleeing, you merely tilted your head to the side, your bright topaz eyes sweeping over the creature with genuine, unbothered fascination.

So, the shape-shifter legends Carlisle mentioned are actually real, you thought to yourself, a spark of true interest finally breaking through the dull boredom that had plagued you for years.

You knew, conceptually, that beneath the wild, predatory exterior of the animal laid a human man. But looking at the wolf before you, you couldn't deny that he was truly majestic, a perfect specimen of raw nature and power. As your awe-struck, curious gaze lifted to meet his, you watched a sudden, inexplicable shift overtake the beast.

The wolf froze instantly, locking up as if he had been turned to solid stone.

The low, menacing growl died abruptly in his throat, cutting off into a sudden silence. The fierce, dark eyes dilated so completely that the irises nearly swallowed the whites. The massive beast stumbled backward a step, his front legs buckling slightly beneath his weight as if he had just taken a physical, crushing blow directly to the center of his chest. He stared at you, his chest heaving with shallow, ragged breaths. Even trapped in a wolf's form, he was particularly expressive, and you watched in utter fascination as the blinding, lethal hostility completely melted away, replaced by a look of profound, paralyzed shock.

You raised a single, perfect eyebrow, entirely unaware of the ancient, cosmic magic taking place right in front of you. You had no idea that the universe had just snapped its fingers, or that this boy’s entire world had just re-centered itself around the very breath in your lungs. You just thought he looked incredibly confused.

"Did I break a rule just by looking across the river, puppy?" you asked, breaking the heavy silence. Your voice came out as a smooth, melodic, if not slightly taunting purr, that rang clearly through the damp forest air.

The sound of your voice seemed to snap the wolf out of his trance instantly. A violent, chaotic shudder ripped through his massive frame from head to tail, his fur bristling in a sudden panic. He gave you one final, deeply conflicted glare before he whirled around with a desperate burst of speed, tearing back into the deep woods and vanishing into the fog as quickly as he had arrived.

You stood alone at the riverbank for a moment, listening to the distant, frantic thudding of his heavy paws fading into the distance.

"Well," you muttered softly to yourself, a slow, entertained smirk finally tugging at the corners of your cold lips as you looked back toward the empty tree line. "That was interesting."

The moment Paul’s paws hit the damp earth in a frantic, desperate sprint, his mind exploded.

He was running blind, tearing through the thick underbrush of the Quileute forest, his powerful chest heaving as he tried to put as much distance as humanly possible between himself and the treaty line. Between himself and you.

But he couldn't run from his own head. The second his focus cracked, the pack telepathy slammed back into his consciousness, loud and overwhelming and too chaotic for Sam and Jared to make of.

“Paul?! What the hell is going on? Paul, answer me!” Jared’s voice echoed in his mind, sharp with sudden panic.

Paul didn't answer. He couldn't. His thoughts were a chaotic, swirling vortex of images he couldn't control, and because of the pack bond, Sam and Jared were seeing every single one of them.

Through Paul’s eyes, they saw the flash of flawless skin. They saw the curtain of hair catching the dim forest light, the impossibly graceful tilt of a head, and worst of all, the striking, brilliant glow of topaz eyes.

“Is that... a leech?!” Jared shouted mentally, his thoughts recoiling in disgust. “Paul, did a bloodsucker cross the line? Did you fight—?”

“No!” Paul roared back in his mind, a deafening, mental snarl that made Jared wince within the bond.

“Then why does your head feel like it’s imploding? Let me see, Paul,” Sam commanded, pushing past Paul’s chaotic mental walls.

Sam didn't just see the memory; he felt the echo of what had happened to Paul the exact millisecond his eyes had locked onto the vampire. The sudden shift of Paul's universe. The way the gravity of the earth had suddenly detached from the center of the world and re-anchored itself entirely to a beautiful, cold monster standing across the river.

The telepathic link went dead silent.

“Oh shit,” Jared breathed, his voice dropping into a shocked, hushed whisper. “Oh, man. No way. Paul…”

“It’s not happening!” Paul screamed internally, his paws digging viciously into the mud as he pushed himself to run faster, trying to outrun the literal laws of physics. “It’s a mistake! She’s a parasite! She’s dead! I don't—I don't feel anything!”

But he was lying, and the pack knew it. They could feel the terrifying, absolute devotion that had just taken root in Paul's soul. They could hear the echo of her voice ringing in his head like a beautiful chime, “Did I break a rule just by looking across the river, puppy?” and they could feel the agonizing, furious heat of Paul’s humiliation and desire.

“Paul, calm down. Come to the clearing by the old mill,” Sam ordered, his mental voice surprisingly gentle now, filled with a heavy sympathy that only made Paul angrier. “We need to talk about this.”

“Get out of my head!” Paul snarled mentally, severing his conscious thoughts from them as best as he could, locking himself behind a wall of pure, unadulterated rage. He didn't go to the mill. Instead, he tore toward a secluded, deeply wooded ravine near his house where he knew he’d be alone. His silver-grey form was a blur of frantic motion until he finally collapsed into a dense thicket of ferns, his massive body trembling violently.

A choked, human sound forced its way out of the wolf’s throat. With a horrific, echoing crack of shifting bones, Paul forced himself to change back—a feat that nearly surprised him considering how volatile his emotions currently were. His body convulsed, muscles snapping and reshaping, fur retreating into skin until he was lying face-down in the wet dirt, entirely human, gasping for air as if he had been drowning.

He dragged himself up against the trunk of a massive cedar tree, still shivering—not from the cold, but from the raw, terrifying power of the imprint. He reached into a hollow in the tree roots, pulling out a pair of beaten-up denim shorts he kept cached there, shaking as he pulled them on.

His skin was burning hot, a fever pitching through his blood. He buried his face in his hands, his fingers gripping his short, dark hair so tightly his scalp ached.

He could still smell you. Even miles away, the scent of the forest seemed completely devoid of meaning compared to the memory of her. He could still see her perfect, mocking smile, could still hear that slightly taunting purr that had completely dismantled his entire existence in a matter of seconds.

"Damn it," Paul choked out into the empty forest, his voice shaking with a mix of fury and absolute helplessness. He slammed his fist into the dirt, leaving a deep crater. "Damn it, no."

He was a protector of his tribe. He was meant to hunt the cold ones, to rip them to shreds and burn the pieces. He was Paul Lahote, the pack's muscle, the one who hated them most.

And now, by some sick, cosmic joke, his soul belonged to a leech.

Two days later, you found yourself lounging on a thick, mossy branch near the treaty line, idly tossing a pinecone up and down in your pale hand. Ever since you had encountered the massive silver wolf, you had been dying to see him again. The lingering curiosity had been humming beneath your skin for forty-eight hours, until finally, the temptation was simply too much to resist.

You had only been waiting for about ten minutes when the sharp sound of approaching footsteps reached your ears. They were human steps, not the heavy, padded thuds of a four-legged beast, but the scent cutting through the rain was unmistakably the same—that scorching, intoxicating blend of woodsmoke, cedar and wet dog.

A few moments later, a tall, powerfully muscular boy stormed through the trees. He was wearing nothing but a pair of torn denim shorts despite the chilly Pacific Northwest rain, his bronze skin radiating a visible steam, due to his abnormally high internal temperature. His chest was heaving with erratic breaths, and his jaw was clenched so tight you could literally hear the bone grinding from twenty yards away.

Your head tilted much like it had the first time you saw him, but this time, you were studying his human form. He was remarkably handsome—not like vampires, who possessed a flawless, frozen perfection, but in a way that was entirely wild and rugged.

He stopped dead at the edge of the treaty line, glaring up at you in your tree with dark eyes full of fire.

"You," he spat, his voice dropping an octave into a gravelly, dangerous threat. "Leech."

The corners of your lips twitched into the ghost of a smirk, instantly amused by his explosive temper. "You must be the dramatic puppy from Tuesday," you said, your voice a smooth, melodic purr that drifted down from the canopy. "Are we jumping straight to pet names, or shall we make a proper introduction?"

He looked like he wanted to rip your head off right then and there, but beneath the mask of his fury, there was a bizarre, frantic desperation bleeding into his eyes that completely contradicted his aggressive posture.

"You need to leave," he commanded, his voice shaking with a strange, ragged intensity. "Leave Forks, leave Washington. Get out."

You leaned forward and leapt down from the branch, dropping through the damp air with absolute weightlessness. You landed soundlessly on your feet just inches away from him, separated only by the invisible boundary of the treaty line. Cocking your head, you met his blazing stare with an unbothered, glittering gaze.

"Why?" you asked, your tone light and conversational. "As far as I can see, I'm breaking no laws. I haven't hunted on your side, and Carlisle says I'm perfectly within my rights to be here."

"I don't care what Carlisle says!" he growled, the words tearing out of his throat.

A sudden tremor ran through his broad shoulders, and you felt the temperature in the small clearing instantly spike. The air around him grew incredibly hot, heavy with the suffocating warmth of a furnace as his body vibrated on the verge of a physical shift.

"You're a monster," he hissed, his chest heaving as he fought a losing battle against his own skin. "A parasite. You shouldn't exist, and you damn sure shouldn't be... shouldn't be doing this to me!"

Your brows furrowed slightly as you tried to piece together exactly what you could have done to him. Yet, absolutely nothing came to the forefront of your mind. He was the one who had hunted you down, after all. But naturally, seeing how easily he was unraveling, you decided to push his buttons.

“Well, that’s a little rude," you murmured, adjusting your stance and letting your lips form a perfect, exaggerated pout. "And here I thought this modern age was all about acceptance and inclusivity. Where are the manners, puppy?"

"Shut up!" he barked, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the quiet woods. His hands curled into tight, white-knuckled fists at his sides.

A dangerous, rhythmic ripple passed directly under his skin—the telltale sign of a shape-shifter on the precipice of exploding into a giant beast. The sheer heat radiating off him was making the damp mist around his bare chest evaporate into wisps of steam.

"Don't tempt me, leech," he threatened, his jaw locking so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. "I'll tear you to pieces, treaty or no treaty."

"I'd love to see you try," you dared softly, stepping a fraction of an inch closer to the invisible boundary line.

You flashed him a dazzling, flawless vampire smile, your perfect teeth glinting like polished porcelain in the dim, grey light of the forest canopy. You let your eyes trail slowly down his trembling, muscular frame before bringing your gaze back up to lock with his burning stare.

"I haven’t had a good tussle in a while," you purred, a wicked, teasing spark igniting in your topaz eyes. "And you know, they say hate sex is particularly appealing after a brawl. I’d be more than interested to try it if you are. Being mortal, biological enemies would certainly make it an interesting night to remember, don't you think?"

Paul choked on his own breath, the dark bronze of his skin rapidly darkening into a furious, deep crimson at your shameless offer but unlike him you were centuries old, shame was also another thing no longer in your emotional vocabulary.

"You—you fucking psycho," Paul stammered, his gravelly voice cracking under the sheer weight of his humiliation. He stared at you, his eyes wide and completely unhinged by your shameless teasing. "You think this is a joke?"

"Oh, come now," you laughed, the sound a bright, chiming cadence that mocked the heavy gloom of the forest. You shifted your weight, leaning hip-first against a massive, moss-covered boulder right at the water's edge, entirely comfortable in your own skin. "Don't tell me a big, bad wolf is afraid of a little experimentation. I'm just offering a creative solution to all that pent-up aggression you're carrying around. If you’re gonna hate me, we might as well make it fun with some benefits.”

"Get bent," he spat, though his eyes involuntarily flicked down to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes with a look of pure self-loathing. He took a sharp step backward, away from the tempting, intoxicating scent of your proximity. "I'd rather eat glass, leech. Keep your disgusting, cold mouth away from me."

"Your loss, puppy," you chirped, giving him a little wave of your fingers. "But if you change your mind, you know exactly where to find me. Clearly."

Paul let out a final, furious yell of pure frustration, turned on his heel, and stormed back into the dense foliage. He kicked a rotting fir log so hard the damp wood exploded into a shower of splinters and moss, his heavy, angry stomps echoing through the valley until he finally phased somewhere deep in the reservation.

You leaned your back against a cedar tree, a breathless, musical laugh escaping your chest. He was a puzzle, an explosive, dangerously hot puzzle, and for the first time in three centuries, you found yourself entirely cured of your boredom.

Oh, yes. Poking the wolf was going to be an exceptional way to pass the time.

Over the next three weeks, your little routine escalated into what could be considered an art form.

You quickly learned that Paul Lahote—the name belonging to your delightfully angry wolf—possessed the shortest fuse of anyone you had ever encountered in your three hundred years of existence, with the singular, spine-chilling exception of Caius Volturi himself. But unlike the ancient, genocidal Italian ruler, Paul’s wrath was loud, expressive, and incredibly fun to provoke. You made it your personal mission to light that fuse as often as humanly possible, finding a wicked thrill in watching how quickly his composure could disintegrate under the weight of a single, well-placed taunt.

As the days blurred together, you weren't the only ones attending these strange, borderline theatrical standoffs. The other wolves—the stoic, deeply burdened Alpha, Sam Uley, and the taller, lankier one you’d come to know as Jared—started showing up in the brush occasionally. They never crossed the line, and they never spoke a single word to you, keeping their distance. Instead, they would stand just inside the Quileute tree line, watching Paul's explosive, vein-popping tantrums with expressions of deep, utterly exhausted sympathy. They looked at Paul the exact way a tired parent looks at a toddler having a meltdown in the middle of a crowded grocery store. More than once, as Paul's body would begin to violently blur on the precipice of an involuntary phase, Sam would step forward, placing a heavy, grounding hand on Paul's shaking shoulder. You could practically feel the invisible weight of the Alpha's command cutting through the air, forcing the younger boy to forcibly calm his racing blood before he caused a catastrophic, treaty-breaking international incident.

And then, of course, there was Paul himself.

Despite his endless growling for you to leave, his colourful vocabulary, and his daily, incredibly detailed promises to rip you to shreds and burn the pieces, he never missed a single day. Not once. You started testing him, purposely showing up ten or fifteen minutes late to your usual spot on the riverbank just to see what would happen. Without fail, every single time you delayed, you would find him already there, pacing the muddy bank of the opposite side like a caged wolf. His dark, wild eyes would be scanning the high mossy canopy with a frantic, almost desperate urgency, his chest heaving as if he were physically suffocating.

But the exact millisecond your feet touched the branch, the very moment his eyes locked onto yours, the change was staggering. The borderline manic panic tightly gripping his chest would visibly ease, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch as a heavy wave of relief washed over his features. A beat later, he would remember himself, instantly settling back into his usual, comfortable mask of defensive rage and snap an insult across the water to cover up his slip.

You weren't stupid. You were an old, highly perceptive predator who had survived three centuries by reading the hidden motives of both humans and monsters alike. You knew with absolute certainty that whatever was truly happening between the two of you, it wasn't just simple, straightforward hatred. There was a tether. A thick, invisible cord pulled completely taut across the rushing waters of the Hoh River, binding your cold, unmoving, timeless existence directly to his scorching, vibrant, and fiercely chaotic life force. You weren’t entirely sure of the exact terminology or the ancient magic behind it, but you knew with a supernatural certainty that it had everything to do with the nature of the wolf beneath his skin.

You probably could’ve asked Carlisle for some clarity, but Edward was currently throwing a massive fit because some human girl in town happened to be his bloodsinger. The whole ordeal was causing an absurd amount of tension throughout the entire Cullen house, so you had been giving them a wide berth while they sorted out their dramatic coven issues.

"You know, for someone who hates me, you sure spend a lot of time staring at my mouth," you teased one evening, sitting gracefully on a moss-covered boulder right at the edge of the river.

Paul, who had been pacing like a caged animal on the opposite bank, froze dead in his tracks. In the dimming twilight, you watched the dark bronze of his face flush a deep, dark red. "I'm watching your fangs, monster," he snapped, his voice rough and defensive. "Making sure you don't try anything."

"Mhm. Sure," you murmured, a playful hum vibrating in your throat. "But there's just one little problem with that, puppy. We don’t actually have fangs. As someone who hunts vampires, shouldn’t that be a fairly crucial detail for you to know?"

You teased him ruthlessly, shifting your weight to slide down from the boulder and move even closer toward the invisible boundary line. Your eyes locked onto the rhythmic trembling of his broad shoulders. "You're shivering, Paul. And definitely not from the cold."

"I don't get cold," he growled, though his chest gave a heavy heave as his breathing suddenly became shallow and restricted.

You tilted your head, looking at him properly this time. Really looking at him. Beneath the layers of explosive anger, the harsh, venomous words, and the desperate masculine bravado, you could see the sheer, crushing exhaustion etched into every line of his face.

The relentless desire to poke the wolf suddenly evaporated, completely replaced by a strange, foreign pang of genuine concern deep inside your cold, unbeating heart.

“Are you alright?” you asked softly.

Paul blinked, completely caught off guard by your sudden, drastic change in tone. The venom vanished from his eyes for a split second, and he looked down at the rushing water separating the two of you, his rigid shoulders sagging just a fraction before he caught himself. His jaw tensed immediately. “I’m fine.”

“I’m over three hundred years old, darling. I’m filled with life experiences," you scoffed playfully, trying to ease the heavy, suffocating tension that had settled over him. "I’m practically offering you free therapy right now."

Paul let out a sharp, bitter breath that wasn't quite a laugh, but it lacked his usual venom. He didn't look back up at you, keeping his eyes firmly glued to the swirling eddies of the river.

"I don't think you have a license for that," he muttered, his voice barely carrying over the sound of the water.

You watched him silently, your supernatural vision effortlessly picking up the subtle, persistent tremor in his hands and the way the muscles in his neck were strained to the point of snapping. The teasing, lighthearted facade you usually wore around him began to feel inappropriate, slipping away to reveal the ancient, deeply observant creature beneath. You stepped right up to the very edge of the riverbank, the damp earth shifting slightly under your weight, your perfect posture loosening into something genuinely receptive.

"No license, but I have an infinite amount of time on my hands," you said softly, your voice cutting through the damp forest air like a soothing melody. "Come on, Lahote. What's eating you? Besides me, obviously."

Paul's jaw worked. For a tense second, you thought he was going to turn on his heel, shatter another log, and storm away into the fog like he usually did when his emotions overwhelmed him.

"I don't need therapy from a leech," he grumbled, though the insult felt half-hearted, lacking any real sting. It was an instinctual shield, a habit he was clinging to because he didn't know what else to do.

"Suit yourself," you said, crossing your arms and leaning your hip against a sturdy birch tree. "But 'fine' doesn't usually involve looking like you haven't slept since the turn of the century."

He lifted his head, his dark eyes burning into yours with a sudden intensity that made your playful banter die instantly on your tongue. The defensive anger was still there, but it was incredibly thin, cracking open right before your eyes to reveal the staggering weight he was carrying underneath.

The truth was, Paul’s life was a chaotic storm, and he was completely drowning in it.

When the shape-shifter gene had finally activated in his blood a few months ago, it had felt like an explosion. Out of the three shifters currently running the forests of La Push, Paul had supposedly taken to the wolf the easiest. Where Sam and Jared had deeply struggled with having to abruptly cut off and ignore the people in their lives to keep the tribal secret, Paul didn’t have that struggle. Phasing into a massive, silver-grey beast felt almost natural to him because he had spent his entire life carrying a baseline of nuclear-level rage. To Sam and Jared, he appeared to effortlessly embrace the unbridled, primal power of the spirit-warrior.

But the reality was a living nightmare. He was a teenage boy who had been abruptly stripped of his normalcy, forced into a supernatural pack bond that offered absolutely zero privacy. Every dark thought, every flash of insecurity, and every bitter memory of his failures was broadcast directly into the minds of his pack mates whenever they were in wolf form.

In truth, inheriting a sacred tribal legacy didn't magically erase the wreckage of his human life. It only magnified it.

His home life was its own quiet, miserable war zone. His father was a deeply bitter, abusive drunk—a man who spent his days drowning his own failures in cheap whiskey and his nights taking his frustrations out on whatever, or whoever, was within arm's reach. Before Paul phased, he had spent years taking those hits, absorbing the venom and building up a dark reservoir of hatred that threatened to swallow him whole. Now that he was a protector, now that he possessed the supernatural strength to tear a car in half with his bare hands, the dynamic at home had become a precarious tightrope. Every time his father stumbled home, slurring and swinging, Paul had to physically lock his entire body down. He would grip the edges of the kitchen counter until the wood threatened to snap beneath his fingers, utterly terrified that if he lost his temper for even a fraction of a second, he would accidentally murder his own father.

Because of that suffocating terror, he barely spent any time at home anymore. He practically lived on the run from his own house, taking refuge at Sam and Emily's place just to have a safe haven. On the nights when the shame and embarrassment of overstaying his welcome grew too heavy, he wouldn't even stay in a house at all; he would sleep out in the dirt and the damp woods as a wolf, letting the wild weather numb him.

He was entirely, utterly exhausted. He was so tired of the total lack of privacy between him and the pack, so tired of the lingering trauma of his childhood, and deeply weary of carrying the thankless burden of protecting a tribe that ultimately viewed him and the other boys as nothing but delinquent, good-for-nothings. He was a walking powder keg, and his hair-trigger temper felt like a bomb ticking away in his chest, waiting for the spark that would blow his entire world to pieces.

And then, to make a total mockery of his entire existence... there was you.

Paul ran a rough hand over his face, pushing his damp, dark hair away from his forehead. He looked at you—at your perfect face, the gentle curve of your mouth, and the bright gold of your eyes. He stared at how you seemed to stand so peacefully across the river, utterly unaffected by the biting rain, the freezing cold, or the crushing misery of the modern world. You were a creature of frozen grace, a timeless masterpiece carving a quiet space into his chaotic nightmare.

He hated how much he needed to be near you. He loathed the primal desperation that gripped his throat every single hour he spent away from this riverbank. But more than anything, he hated the terrifying truth that the endless, agonizing thoughts in his head—the fury at his father, the pack's telepathic intrusion, the burden of the tribal legacy— completely stopped the moment he was right here, standing across a river from a creature he had been born to kill. Your presence was an oasis of escape in his loud, violent world.

"You don't get it," he muttered, his jaw tightening so hard the bone beneath his bronze skin looked sharp enough to cut. He looked down at his own trembling hands, watching them clench and unclench into tight fists as if he were trying to physically hold his sanity together.

"I'm supposed to hate you," he whispered, his voice cracking violently under the staggering weight of the confession. He didn't look up, his gaze glued to his hands. "I try so hard to hate you. I can't sleep. I can't think. Every time I close my eyes, my head is full of your voice, your face, your stupid, mocking smile. I’m supposed to want to rip you to pieces. I’m supposed to want to kill you. Instead, I’m spending every single second of my day fighting my own body, making sure I don't cross this goddamn river just to be near you. It's making me lose my mind."

You stared at him, your ancient mind rapidly recontextualizing every single interaction you’d had over the last three weeks. The pacing, the panic when you were late, the heavy, sympathetic looks from Sam and Jared. You knew there was some kind of bond, but you didn’t realize how hard it had been on him. You didn’t know it was an all consuming need that his biology had forced upon him, and he was tearing himself apart trying to fight it.

A heavy, suffocating silence descended on the riverbank, save for the wild, rushing water churning over the jagged rocks below. For the first time in three hundred years of wandering the earth, through every empire you had seen fall and every coven you had seen break, you felt completely, utterly speechless. The wit that usually defined you, the clever, taunting armour you wore to keep the lacklustre world at bay, dissolved into nothingness.

"Paul..." you started, your voice barely louder than a whisper, stripped entirely of its usual taunting edge.

"Don't," he choked out, his fists clenching tight at his sides. He looked at you one last time, a look of profound defeat and agonizing longing warring on his rugged features, before he turned sharply and vanished back into the shadows of the Quileute woods.

You stood entirely frozen, staring at the empty tree line as the first heavy droplets of a gathering storm began to fall through the canopy, the cold rain washing over you as the echo of his confession rang in your ears.

"Paul..." you started, your voice barely louder than a whisper, carrying a soft, aching weight you hadn't felt in centuries.

"Don't," he choked out, his fists clenching so tight that his entire body began to tremble with that dangerous, pre-shifting heat. He lifted his head and looked at you one last time—a look of profound defeat, raw exposure, and agonizing, heartbreaking longing warring on his rugged features—before he turned sharply on his heel. With a desperate burst of speed, he vanished back into the deep, unforgiving shadows of the Quileute woods.

You stood entirely frozen, your immortal body locking into the stillness of stone as you stared at the empty tree line. The silence of the forest rushed back to fill the void he left behind, and the first heavy, freezing droplets of a gathering storm began to pierce through the high canopy, splashing unnoticed against your cold skin.

The turning point came on a night when the storm was loud enough to drown out the very sound of the forest. Thunder clapped in deafening, rolling waves, and the rain fell in thick sheets, blurring the world into a chaotic haze of grey and green. You were hunting a few miles out, tracking a deer, when the air suddenly carried something that made your entire body lock up—blood. Intoxicating, heavy, human blood, followed instantly by the sweet scent of a rogue vampire having moved through the area.

Your predatory instincts flared, but it wasn't hunger that seized you despite how tempting the human blood smelled. It was a cold, paralyzing jolt of panic. As you tore through the woods, tracking the fast-moving scent trail, you realized with growing horror that the vampire had already went straight across the Hoh River. The nomad had most likely attacked the hiker directly onto Quileute land.

And your very first, consuming thought went to Paul.

You crossed the river without a second thought, your feet barely skimming the rushing water as you launched yourself deep into the forbidden territory, driven by a desperate, frantic need to ensure he was safe.

By the time you burst into the hidden clearing, the brutal reality of the hunt was already unfolding. The human hiker was gone, likely fled or worse, but the clearing was a battleground. A massive, silver-grey wolf was locked in a horrific, snarling grapple with the red-eyed nomad. They were a blur of teeth and claws, tearing up the mud, but the rogue had gained the upper hand, pinning the giant wolf beneath his weight. In his pale, stone-like hand, the nomad gripped a heavy, jagged rock, raising it high and aiming it straight for the wolf's eye with lethal force.

A primal, deafening screech tore from your throat. You didn't think. You just launched your body across the clearing, tackling the rogue vampire off of Paul a split second before the rock could descend. The blinding velocity of your collision threw the nomad violently through the air, sending him crashing into a massive, ancient cedar tree with a force that cracked the thick trunk right down the middle.

Before the nomad could even hit the ground, you dropped into a low, lethal crouch directly in front of Paul. Your clothes were soaked, your posture was entirely feral, and your topaz eyes seemed to shine in the darkness as you shielded the silver wolf with your own body.

"Don't touch him," you hissed, the words vibrating with a venomous, unyielding threat that rang clearer than the storm.

The nomad scrambled to his feet, rubbing his chest where you had struck him. He straightened up to his full height, his dark crimson eyes darting from your protective stance to the panting, bleeding wolf behind you. A look of profound, sickening disgust contorted his pale features.

“You’re defending a mutt from your own kind?” he spat, his voice laced with utter disbelief.

Behind you, Paul let out a low, ragged rumble. He was struggling to push himself up, his heavy paws slipping in the slick, blood-stained grass. You could feel the intense, furnace-like heat radiating from his massive body, practically baking the skin of your back. Even injured, his instinct was to push past you, to put himself between the danger and his imprint. But you didn't give him an inch. You stood like a wall of solid marble, unyielding and fierce.

The rogue nomad narrowed his red eyes, assessing the situation. He looked at the cracked cedar tree, then at your lethal posture, and finally at the massive silver-grey beast snarling behind you. He was fast, but he wasn't stupid. He was outnumbered, outmatched, and facing a vampire who looked entirely ready to tear him limb from limb.

“Disgusting parasite,” the nomad hissed, backing up a step into the shadows of the ferns. “You’re a disgrace to our kind.”

With a sudden, fluid movement, the rogue whirled around and launched himself high into the canopy, vanishing into the blinding sheets of rain as he fled, tearing away from the reservation.

You pulled your phone out of your pocket, your cold fingers moving with supernatural speed to send a quick text to Jasper. You gave him a brief heads-up on the runner's description and where he seemed to be headed, knowing with absolute certainty that the Cullens would handle the rest. They wouldn’t want dangerous rogues hunting anywhere near their territory and drawing unnecessary human attention.

Silence descended on the woods, save for the heavy, laboured panting of the giant wolf behind you.

You turned around slowly, your vampire grace suddenly feeling incredibly clumsy. Paul was already shifting back, the gruesome, rapid sound of cracking bones echoing in the quiet night. He quickly pulled a pair of shorts from a hidden cache in a hollow tree and stepped into them.

You waited for him to yell at you. Your cold muscles tensed as you stood your ground, bracing for the inevitable explosion. You had broken the treaty. You had crossed the river. By all rights and laws of his tribe, he could try to kill you right now.

Instead, Paul walked right up to you. The anger that usually defined him was completely gone, replaced by a fierce, burning intensity. He stopped inches from you, his body heat radiating off him like a furnace, pushing away the damp chill of the night.

"You crossed the line," he whispered.

"He was going to take your eye out, Paul," you said defensively, crossing your arms over your chest as your chin tilted up to meet his gaze. "I couldn't just stand across the river and watch."

You looked at him, truly looked at him, and for the first time in three centuries, you felt a lump form in your throat. You swallowed hard, a purely human reflex that you hadn't needed in a regular conversation for a very long time, and shifted your gaze away from his. You couldn't bear the raw, bleeding exposure in his eyes. There was something about this shape-shifter, something about the searing warmth of his presence and the terrifying depth of his devotion, that made you feel human again. It was a feeling you had thought lost to time, a dangerous, beautiful spark breaking through the timeless numbness of your nomadic life.

“I broke your law," you murmured quietly, the words feeling heavy and hollow on your tongue. "If you want me to leave Forks and never come back… I will.”

It was all he’d been yelling at you to do since the exact moment you two had met. For three weeks, he had growled, demanded, and threatened you to disappear, and you were finally offering him exactly what he wanted on a silver platter. You figured that maybe with you gone, he might finally get some peace of mind.

The silence that followed your offer was deafening, stretching out between you even as the thunder rumbled overhead and the heavy rain continued to batter the ancient canopy. You kept your eyes trained on the muddy ground, watching the steam rise off his bare feet where they sank into the earth. You were bracing for the relief you expected to feel from him, the agreement that he wanted you gone.

But the relief never came. Instead, the air between you grew impossibly hotter, thick with a sudden, sharp spike of panic that was so potent you could practically taste it.

Paul felt his chest gave a sharp, violent heave, a ragged breath tearing out of his throat as if your words had physically struck him.

Instead, what you expected never came, he reached out. His large hand was trembling slightly, as he slowly, hesitatingly, rested his warm, calloused palm directly against your cold, wet cheek.

You gasped, a phantom shudder ripping through your unmoving veins. Your eyes snapped back up to his, wide and startled. His skin felt like liquid fire against your ice, a contrast so sharp, it nearly felt as if you were being burned, but it didn't hurt. In fact, it made you feel undeniably, beautifully alive. For three hundred years, you had walked the earth feeling nothing but the same boring cycle of a world that couldn't touch you. But right now, under the pressure of his hand, your entire universe shrank down to the singular point of his warmth.

“No. I’ve been an asshole to you," Paul muttered, his voice cracking as he forced the words past the tight knot in his throat. His dark eyes searched yours with an open, bleeding sincerity that laid him entirely bare. His thumb moved slowly, gently tracing the smooth, porcelain line of your cheekbone, wiping away the cold raindrops. "Every single day since I met you, I've done nothing but scream at you. I called you a monster. I called you a leech. And you just crossed the treaty line and risked your life to save mine."

Looking up at him now—completely exposed, completely stripped of the defensive, hot-headed bravado he used to shield himself from the wreckage of his life—the familiar, playful spark finally flickered back into your topaz eyes. You couldn't help it. The wit was your defence mechanism, your own way of handling the terrifying weight of what seemed to be blooming between you two.

"I told you before, Lahote," you whispered, your voice a soft, melodic purr that leaned into his warm touch just a fraction of an inch. "I like poking the wolf. I can't exactly let a rogue nomad break my favourite toy."

A breathless, genuine laugh broke from Paul's lips—the first real, untainted sound of amusement you had ever heard from him. It made his eyes crinkle at the corners, the harsh, severe lines of his face softening into something so breathtakingly handsome it made your dead heart ache.

"You are infuriating, you know that?" he murmured, the corners of his mouth lifting into a small, wry smile as he leaned his head down, resting his forehead gently against yours. Ice met fire in the middle of the dark, rain-slicked forest, and for the first time, there was no war.

"I've been told I have a certain charm," you replied softly, your pale, slender hands tentatively rising to rest against his bare, broad chest. Beneath your palms, you could feel the frantic, heavy thumping of his heart, a rapid, fiercely alive rhythm that seemed to echo in the empty space of your own chest.

"Yeah," Paul sighed, closing his eyes as he finally let go of the anger, the guilt, and the fear that had been tearing him apart for weeks. He wrapped his strong, trembling arms securely around your waist, pulling your cold body flush against his furnace-warm chest and you couldn’t help but relax into him. He held you like you were the only solid thing left in a world that was constantly shifting beneath his feet. "Maybe you do."

The storm raged on around you, the thunder shaking the earth and the rain washing the blood from the clearing, but as you stood there in the forbidden territory, wrapped in the arms of the boy who had been born to kill you, the dull grey of the world finally began to fade away.

Peter was older, a mutant who had been adapting to the institute's rhythm for much longer, so you decided to take his word for it. From then on, the headphones became indispensable; a tool you couldn't go anywhere without.

Charles's teachings helped, of course. They taught you to adjust your mind as if turning the knob of an old radio, isolating frequencies and tuning into white noise. But there were days when fatigue soaked into your bones and you didn't have the strength to be your own filter. You just wanted the murmur of humanity to turn off.

The Professor never stopped you from crossing the mansion's gates. After all, Westchester wasn't a prison and you weren't a captive; you were free to leave whenever you desired. That was why, upon communicating your wish to travel to the city, you only received an understanding look and a serene nod.

The truth was that not even you knew what you were looking for in Manhattan. Perhaps you harbored the childish hope that the rattling of the train would gift you a few minutes of sleep. You had been dragging heavy insomnia for weeks. At first, when your powers awakened, the nights were a nightmare of invisible screams drilling into your ears in the dark. But this time was different.

This time, the interference had an implicit name. A voice.

You couldn't stop listening to his thoughts: they were a tangle of crushing responsibilities, recent losses, and a pain so deep it bordered on devotion. Among the millions of minds fluctuating through the metropolis, his possessed a unique frequency that found its way to you, piercing through your defenses without asking for permission. It wasn't the loudest mind nor the most imposing. It simply... claimed you.

As the days went by, you stopped perceiving it as background noise. There was a painful familiarity in its echo. You felt like you had known him all your life, even if you had never seen his face. It was an inexplicable telepathic connection, an invisible thread completely escaping Charles's manuals and theories about the human mind.

Sometimes, with your forehead pressed against the pillow, you wondered if he felt that same pull on the other side of nothingness. If he sensed that, on his darkest nights, there was an unknown mind keeping him company in the silence. That doubt floated in the air until exhaustion overcame you, leaving you with the eternal question about who that stranger was inhabiting your sleepless nights.

You liked the city. It didn't have the peace of Westchester, but it possessed a brutal honesty. You thought about dropping by to see your parents, but dismissed the idea immediately. You didn't want to face their forced smiles nor the contained panic in their eyes every time you made a sudden movement. Your presence was an uncomfortable reminder of imperfection. It was better to leave them in peace; after all, they had your sister. She wasn't a mutant. She was the future they could boast about without whispering.

At the mansion, life was relatively peaceful. You got along well with most, though the relationship with the other telepaths was distant. They knew the history of your past breakdown and treated you like glass about to shatter, fearing a flaw in your mind would trigger a domino effect. Curiously, you found more comfort in the older ones: Maximoff's hyperactivity, Logan's protective cynicism, or the quiet conversations with Beast.

And then there was the Professor. Charles frequently sought you out after classes ended to evaluate your progress. There was no fear in his gaze... in fact, there was nothing. His mind was the only place in the universe where absolute silence reigned. Trying to peek into Xavier's thoughts was like trying to crack a safe using a cooked noodle: an absurd thing.

Inside your backpack traveled an object of personal cult: a worn copy of The Secret Garden. Even though it was a children's read, the story of that hidden, healing corner brought you an almost physical comfort. You understood all too well the imperious need to find a refuge where no one could reach you.

The book's origin was a haze. Maybe you had bought it for a couple of dollars at a street market, or perhaps it belonged to your family before everything broke. The pages wore that yellowish tone that nostalgics sigh for, and the corners of the cover were so worn that any bibliophile would have suffered seeing it. For you, however, it was irreplaceable.

On the first page, written in slightly faded ink but elegant calligraphy, you read a dedication:

For whenever you need a quiet place

— P.P

None of your relatives or acquaintances matched those initials. You always assumed the book had belonged to a stranger who forgot to claim his love note before selling it. After all, the world was full of lost memories.

You adjusted your back against the train seat and buried your nose in the pages, letting the smell of old paper dry your thoughts while your eyes scanned lines you knew by heart. Outside, the landscape transformed. The greenness of tall trees and gravel paths gradually gave way to the brutal architecture of civilization: small brick neighborhoods, clotheslines crisscrossing between windows, rusted rails, and graffiti shouting names on concrete walls.

Bit by bit, Manhattan's skyscrapers emerged on the horizon like glass giants claiming the sky. The train crossed the last metallic bridges and ventured into the guts of a city that never slept.

Stepping off, you began walking without a clear destination. The city was the antithesis of the isolation you usually sought: a hotbed of fragmented thoughts, financial anxieties, and absurd hurries clashing with one another. However, there was something liberating in that chaos. Among millions of voices screaming at the same time, your own cracks went unnoticed. Nobody looked at you. Nobody feared you.

To cross the streets you didn't need to look at the traffic lights; a light mental pulse was enough to switch the lights at your convenience, opening a path for yourself in a manufactured bubble of calm. Playing in your ears was the playlist Maximoff had built for you on Spotify. Although the concept of streaming seemed like an unnecessary modernity to him, he had taken the trouble to compile hours of classic and alternative rock.

You walked for hours until your steps came to a dead halt before the facade of a building.

Your old high school.

There was no logical reason to have ended up there, but the red brick walls triggered a pang in your stomach. You stood on the sidewalk, watching students pour out in flocks amid laughter, shoves, and innocence; that kind of carefreeness that only exists before reality crushes you.

You wondered what it would feel like to be one of them. What your life would have been like if your mutation had never awakened. If your only battles had been physics grades, prom, or deciding which college to apply to, instead of learning to contain an ability that threatened to destroy you from within.

You would have been an normal girl. Ordinary.

The word felt bitter in your mouth. Distant. Like a suit that belonged to someone else.

You searched your memory for a face, a name, anything to justify the nostalgia tightening your chest, but only found blanks. You vaguely remembered belonging to the debate club and the science club, but the faces of your classmates were unrecognizable. Time had taken care of that.

You thought about crossing the entrance, but immediately lost heart. It made no sense. A stranger lurking in the hallways would only draw suspicious looks.

You turned around and let your feet carry you aimlessly. It was then that intuition returned, this time with a magnetic clarity. It wasn't an external thought or a telepathic intrusion; it was a pull in the center of your chest, as if an invisible thread tied to your ribs were being tugged from somewhere in the city.

You boarded a city bus without looking at the route sign. The need to move forward flattened any doubt. You watched through the window as blocks of buildings succeeded one another, trying to convince yourself that it was just a neurotic impulse, a side effect of fatigue. But the pull didn't yield.

You got off a few stops later and started walking by inertia, turning corners almost instinctively, as if navigating a map engraved in your genes.

Until the thread slacked.

In front of you stood a small, humble café, almost invisible among the grandiosity of the main avenues. You remained on the sidewalk contemplating the reflection in the glass, overcome by the mathematical certainty that this was exactly where you needed to arrive.

In your headphones, the final chords of MGMT were playing. Oracular Spectacular was an album that seemed to evoke memories of a life you weren't sure you had lived, a mixture of psychedelia and melancholy that fit the moment perfectly.

Pushing the door open, the chime of a bell announced your entrance. The place was practically empty, an oasis of silence you were deeply grateful for. You took a deep breath, gathering the courage needed to slide the headphones down to your neck and prepare for the inevitable impact of mental noise.

“Hi, what can I get for you?”

Behind the counter, a girl with dark skin offered you a warm smile. Her nametag read Michelle, though your mind had already caught her name a second prior. However, when trying to go deeper, you bumped into a subtle wall; her mind was complex, dense, hard to decipher at first glance. Some people were just that unreadable.

You ordered a latte out of obligation. You hated coffee—caffeine usually triggered unbearable migraines—but needing to buy something was the price to pay to stay there.

That was when you noticed the boy on the other side of the counter: Ned Leeds, Michelle's friend. Ned's mind, unlike hers, was an open book. Both shared a vibe of contained nervousness, a low tension floating between them. It felt like something... work-related? No, academic.

“I'll bring it to your table in a moment.”

You nodded mechanically and settled at a small table next to the window. On the opposite wall, a turned-on television silently broadcast amateur video footage: Spider-Man swinging between skyscrapers. You remembered the events of last year, the cracks in the sky, and the multiversal threat everyone talked about. You also remembered Charles's blunt response when you asked why you all hadn't intervened: “It's not our fight.”

You looked at the screen with bitterness. And even if you had wanted to help... what on earth could you have done against the collapse of the universe?

You wondered if at any point the world would be ready for mutants. It was an open secret: the beloved figure Charles had lost years ago, a mutant so unstable he had been the worst calling card to society. Many of the mansion's residents had seen him on television as children; a few others knew him personally. You could only rely on rumors.

You stared at the street through the café's glass for a long while, wondering where all those people were heading, even though you knew the answer beforehand. You saw a girl walking hurriedly down the sidewalk, struggling to adjust the strap of a heavy bag slung over her shoulder. You wanted to believe in a gentle story: you imagined inside were a bunch of purchases she could finally, after a long time, afford. A birthday gift for someone special, some expensive creams, or maybe those shoes she had liked so much in some display window.

You entered her mind a second later.

Reality was much grayer. There were no gifts or new shoes. In the bag she only carried a change of clothes and the medical studies of her grandmother, whom she was going to nurse at the hospital during the night shift after working all day. In her head there was no excitement, but an accumulated fatigue of weeks, the worry of not knowing how to pay for the month's medications, and the faint hope that the old woman would recognize her for at least a couple of minutes before falling asleep.

You gently looked away, with a pang of bitterness in your chest.

Why was reality so sad? Was any of those passersby actually having a good day?

You moved your eyes across the sidewalk, almost desperately searching for a flash of light amid the tide of tired faces. And then you saw it. A little boy, no older than five, hopping along next to his mother. He held a green plastic dinosaur in his hands, and brushing his mind for an instant, you found no sorrow. Only a gigantic happiness because his mother had bought him the toy he had been waiting weeks for. In his universe, in that precise second, nothing bad existed.

You smiled to yourself and exhaled a breath you didn't even know you were holding. Somehow, that tiny thought comforted you; it was like a crack of sunlight amid a cloudy sky. Reality could be heavy, yes, but at least it wasn't entirely lost.

You heard the chime at the entrance, and your body responded before your mind did, turning you around to observe the newly arrived customer. A slender boy, with brown hair somewhat messy from the street wind and a sweet, incredibly expressive gaze, but with a distinct shadow of fatigue under his eyes. He wore a worn jacket that was a bit too big for him and had his hands buried in his pockets. He had that kind of noble, empathetic face that instantly conveys trust.

However, what left you dumbfounded was the fact that you heard absolutely nothing.

Not a single thought. Not the slightest murmur. His mind was in complete, inexplicable silence. It wasn't Professor Xavier's impenetrable and calculated barrier; it was something different, an absolute void, yet strangely warm. After spending the day submerged in the city's chaotic bustle, encountering such calm in a stranger left you breathless.

He didn't notice your presence; instead, his eyes were fixed on the waitress carrying your coffee.

“Enjoy,” she exclaimed kindly.

He didn't take his eyes off her, and you didn't take your eyes off him.

You stammered a thanks to the girl, and she returned to her position behind the counter. He, seeing her return, lowered his gaze and hurried to take a seat at one of the tables.

From your spot, you couldn't help but observe him. There was something subtle yet clear in his posture: the way his eyes sought the girl at the counter, the contained hesitation in his gestures... It was obvious he had gone to that café just to see her.

Upon reaching the counter, Michelle and Ned began chatting in a casual tone. After a few moments of fluid conversation, she leaned against the bar, looked at the boy waiting at the table, and asked what he was ordering.

He looked up and answered.

It was barely a short phrase, a simple response, but the timbre of his voice pierced the café's space with an overwhelming clarity.

Your heart took a violent leap. You froze in your seat, paralyzed mid-movement, while an icy shiver ran down your spine. That cadence, the exact intonation, the soft and worn nuance... You didn't need to read his thoughts to know. His spoken voice was enough.

It was the same voice that had been sneaking into your hardest nights for weeks. The lonely mind that found yours in the dark was just a few steps away from you.

That was why you had gone there. To find him.

Once again, you tried to venture into his mind. You launched your telepathy searching for that crack through which you used to hear him, but it was like running into an impenetrable wall; his mind remained in absolute silence. However, at the exact instant you brushed against his barrier, the boy flinched in his chair and went stiff all of a sudden, as if an electric shock had run up the back of his neck.

He turned his head instinctively until his eyes met yours head-on. He held your gaze for an eternal second, charged with a strange, alert tension. He hadn't just blocked you effortlessly; impossibly, that boy seemed to have felt that you were trying to enter his head.

He blinked several times as if trying to discard the idea, sure it had only been an illusion. He focused on a menu hanging above the counter despite having already placed his order, projecting a contained tension that made him look out of place. Worried, perhaps.

You looked toward the window, though now the stories of the passersby lacked meaning. You closed your eyes for an instant, searching in the silence for an answer to the enigma a few feet away, but found nothing.

Determined to end the uncertainty once and for all, you snapped them open and stood up, ready to cross the small space separating you from him. The unexpected part was that the stranger had the exact same idea. Before you could react, the two of you collided head-on. The impact made you lose your balance, and you fell backward onto the floor, letting out a stifled murmur of surprise.

He apologized immediately, visibly embarrassed. Then he crouched to your height and quickly extended his hand to help you up. Confused, you accepted his help, and at the exact instant his fingers closed around your hand, an electric shock coursed through your veins.

A memory flashed into your mind.

The afternoon sun hit your face fully when you heard his voice calling you. You had decided to go to the park to rest, silently celebrating that you had finally survived finals week. You lay on the fresh grass, letting the early summer heat envelope you.

“Do you think I'll do badly in English?” he asked, breaking the silence while looking at the treetops.

“A little, yeah. But not enough to get an F,” you replied honestly, turning toward him.

“Thank goodness. May would kill me.”

“You've never failed a subject, not since we were in kindergarten.”

“No,” he admitted, glancing at you. “That's why I know she'd kill me.”

You let out a genuine laugh, contemplating the comical face he made whenever a truth disguised as a joke escaped him. There was a lightness to those days that now felt like a distant dream.

“If I get bad grades, my parents will probably blame you,” you teased.

“And why's that?” he asked, feigning outrage.

“They'll say you're a distraction.”

At that moment, a white butterfly fluttered between the two of you and lightly brushed your cheek before flying away. He smiled tenderly and reached out, brushing with his fingertips the exact spot where the insect's wings had tickled you.

“That's not true,” he murmured, leaving his hand suspended near your face.

“It kind of is,” you confessed, shrugging as you felt warmth rise to your cheeks. “You spend all day in my thoughts. But they don't have to find out about that.”

Blush instantly stained his cheeks. He tried to hide it by looking down and breaking into a clumsy smile, but it was in vain. You were fascinated watching him get nervous. It was as if he couldn't fully process that you loved him with that blind, boundless intensity that only exists in first love.

“I could help you study for retakes,” he offered, clearing his throat.

“Yeah, sure. Because you're a nerd and all that.”

“No,” he corrected softly, searching your eyes. “Because you're my girlfriend. And I want you to get good grades so we can go to college together.”

“Please! Are you already thinking about college?” you laughed, covering your face with your hands. “We're barely starting high school.”

“Yeah, but it doesn't hurt to plan, right?”

“You worry too much about the future.”

“And you don't?”

“I don't care what the future holds,” you said simply, intertwining your fingers with his as the afternoon wind tousled his hair. “I only care about enjoying the present. About being here. With you.”

The warmth of the hand you were holding grew hazy with the memory of that day. Suddenly, a new scene rushed in headlong.

The whole school knew. It was the only topic of conversation in the hallways: they knew that because of you, that boy was in the hospital. During your constant trips to the principal's office, you had managed to overhear that his parents wanted to sue you, though at your age you weren't sure if that was legally possible.

You just wanted to scream at them that you couldn't help it. That you never wanted to hurt him in the first place.

Now everything hurt, but not in your body; the pain was entrenched in your head. You were sitting outside the principal's office for the hundredth time that week. You had missed almost every class, and when you tried to show up at the debate club meeting, they simply slammed the door in your face.

You wondered how much longer you could endure in this limbo. By that point, your expulsion was practically a done deal.

And then there was the torment of the minds around you. You didn't know how to silence them; they entered your head unfiltered, all the time, drilling into your ears until becoming unbearable noise.

Why on earth was this happening to you?

“Hey,” you suddenly heard.

You didn't know if the murmur came from inside your head or from the hallway, until looking up brought you back to reality: he was standing in front of you.

“There you are,” he said softly.

“Hi,” you whispered, looking at him with guilt. “What are you doing here? There's a club meeting today.”

“Yeah, but I didn't really feel like going,” he replied, shrugging.

Lie. He was fascinated by the debate club. But the worry of finding you had been stronger.

He took a seat beside you. You immediately avoided his gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you lied, tightening your hands on your lap. “They just summoned me again. You know... because of everything that's happened lately.”

“Yeah...” he sighed, resting his elbows on his knees.

Even though he kept quiet, you didn't need him to speak to know exactly what was crossing his mind. His mental pulse was a tide of fatigue, deep sadness, and a touch of pity. He felt afraid, yes, but not toward you or what you could do—rather, for what the world was going to do to you.

An interminable few seconds passed in which the noise of the school threatened to crush you again, until he seemed to gather enough courage to organize his thoughts.

“It wasn't your fault,” he blurted out, searching your eyes. “You know that, right?”

“The guy is in the hospital,” you replied with a broken voice, feeling tears fill your eyes. “I don't even know what I did or how I did it. It just... happened. People are right to be afraid of me.”

“They don't understand anything,” he insisted, turning his body toward you. “I know you. I know who you are. This is an accident, not something you wanted. I... I don't understand how you did it. But you're not crazy, and you're not bad either.”

“I feel like I'm going crazy,” you confessed in a thread of a voice, bringing your hands to your temples as the din of other minds began drilling into you from within again. “There are too many voices. I can't turn them off. It's killing me.”

He didn't hesitate for another second. He moved closer and wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you in a firm, warm hug that seemed to freeze time.

You pressed your face against his shoulder, clinging to his jacket as if it were the only anchor amid the storm. Suddenly, the chaos in your head seemed to dim. The contact of his arms didn't silence the voices of the world, but the certainty of his affection turned everything else into a distant noise, an insignificant echo.

“I'm not leaving you alone in this,” he whispered in your ear, squeezing you a little tighter against him. “We're going to figure it out. I promise you.”

You had closed your eyes for an instant, and when you opened them, the setting had changed completely.

He was watching you from the edge of your bed, with a mix of resignation and worry in his gaze.

“A boarding school?” he asked in a low voice.

“Yeah... It's like a school for gifted youngsters or something like that,” you murmured without looking up, focused on folding clothes and packing them into suitcases.

Every now and then, he stretched out to hand you an item of clothing left on the bed, trying to keep himself useful so as not to break down.

“And for how long will it be?”

“I don't know. A few months, I guess... Until things cool down around here.”

In the end, the hospital boy's parents hadn't filed the lawsuit, but they had taken it upon themselves to spread the rumor to every corner of the high school. The stares, the harassment, and the social pressure ultimately proved you right: expulsion had been inevitable. Your parents, overwhelmed by the situation and not knowing how to handle what was happening to you, had found that special place as a last resort to rid themselves of a problem beyond their control.

“Yeah, well... makes sense,” he commented, though the lack of conviction in his voice was glaring.

His mind was sending clear signals: he was holding something back. And you knew perfectly well what it was.

“Hey, I'll come back to visit you every now and then, okay?” you said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into the room. “And if I talk to the principal... maybe he'll even let me invite you over for a weekend.”

You dropped what you were doing and sat beside him.

“If you want to go, of course.”

“Of course I want to,” he answered immediately. He was completely sincere. “It's just that... Westchester is pretty far.”

“It's not that big of a deal,” you tried to encourage him, though you knew his real concern wasn't the distance, but the fare money.

You sought his hand on the mattress, intertwining your fingers while looking at him with a silent plea reflected in your eyes.

“We can video call every night. Text each other all the time... You'll see I won't feel that far.”

He smiled that sweet way he did when he really wanted to believe things would turn out fine, and nodded silently.

“Yeah, you're right. It'll work.”

You leaned toward him and stole a soft kiss from his lips. It was a brief gesture, but loaded with all the fear, love, and uncertainty you both shared.

“It'll only be a few months to see how they teach over there. And then I'll come back. I promise.”

A final series of memories surfaced. Though when your mind shifted to them, you immediately felt a tightness in your chest.

It hadn't been just a few months. The semester was consuming its final days, and you were still trapped in Westchester.

You weren't going to lie to yourself: you were starting to get used to the place. To the bucolic peace of the mansion, the warmth of your new peers, and the institute's teaching. It was an idyllic refuge. Professor Xavier had personally taken care of manipulating the threads of collective memory at your old school; he didn't erase the incident, but he wiped your face from everyone's memories. To the school board, it had just been an unfortunate physical altercation between two students whose names were better off forgotten. Your name was clean, but your soul remained chained to Queens.

To him.

You had sworn to write to him daily, to keep the flame alive against all odds. But at first, messages flowed like an overflowing river; later, reality turned into a dam. Classes demanded an almost superhuman level of concentration if you wanted to control the chaotic mass of your powers. Guilt devoured your chest with every hour that passed without replying to him.

When you finally managed to scrape a free weekend to return to the city, reuniting with him was a dagger to the heart.

Even without wanting to, you heard the bitter tide of his thoughts. Weeks ago, he had begged you to go to the high school dance with him, excited like a child, but Charles forbade you from going so as not to expose yourself.

“It's okay, I understand,” he had told you at the time, swallowing his disappointment.

But telepathy didn't allow you to deceive yourself. It wasn't just the missed party. It was the cruel taunts in the school hallways when he said he had a girlfriend, an invisible girl whom no one ever saw. It was the contempt of his classmates, the pity condensed in the teachers' gazes, the silenced disappointment of a boy who had to defend the existence of a love that seemed like a ghost.

You couldn't hold his hand in the street, or invite him out for ice cream, or be a living presence in his everyday life.

Those invisible wounds accumulated until they became an unsustainable mountain. And though he never uttered a single reproach—though he swallowed his tears so as not to make you feel guilty—you felt how he was bleeding out from within. He felt deeply lonely, desperately clinging to the sporadic visits of the ghost of the girl who was once his world.

One night, while the moon bathed the roof in silver, the question pierced you like broken glass:

Did he deserve a half-life? Did he deserve to love a shadow?

No. Good heavens, no. He deserved the full light.

“You seem strange,” he said.

The two of you were sitting on the fire escape outside his window, with the cold night air sneaking through your clothes.

“Are you okay?”

“I am,” you murmured, clinging to the iron bars with white knuckles so your voice wouldn't shatter. “Hey... can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Do you really think us... is meant to work?”

“Of course it is,” he answered immediately, searching your eyes with a blind faith that broke your soul. “We've made it this far, haven't we?”

But the words didn't matter. Your mind drowned in the tide of his true answer: a desperate inner plea not to lose you, crushed by the overwhelming fear that you were already leaving.

“Why do you ask that?” he added, his voice trembling slightly.

“Because I'm not the girl you deserve.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” He turned abruptly.

His hands had already moved to your shoulders, holding you with the same gentleness he had for so many years.

“I... I love you. I don't give a damn about the distance! I don't care what happened with your powers or any of this. I mean it. I love you.”

“And I love you,” you sobbed, feeling tears held back for months threatening to choke you. “I love you in a way you can't imagine. But...”

“No. There is no 'but'. Don't do this to me. Please.”

His hand gripped yours, the desperation palpable in the touch. The silence was dense, heavy, drowned out by the distant noise of city traffic. But the sentence was already passed in the deepest part of your being. Because you loved him too much to destroy him.

Even though you both changed the subject, the tension remained. Shortly after, you went back into the room. He lay on the bottom bunk, defeated, his chest heaving with silent panic. You leaned over him, stopping mere inches from his face, wrapped in the dim light.

“You know I would never hurt you, right?” you whispered, caressing his cheek with infinite tenderness.

“I know,” he replied in a thread of a voice.

“And you know I'm going to love you no matter what happens, right?”

“I know.”

He surged forward and kissed you. It was a desperate, almost voracious kiss, a trench against destiny. He held you by the waist and the nape of your neck with a strength bordering on agony, pressing you against his chest as if sensing you were turning into water slipping through his fingers.

Tears spilled uncontrollably from your eyes, wetting both your cheeks. He started upon feeling you cry and lowered his hands, alarmed, but you didn't give him time to speak. You kissed him again. You kissed him until breath escaped your lungs, mixing the bitter taste of your tears with the warm breath escaping his lips. It was the kiss of a lifetime condensed into a few seconds.

Trembling, you brought your fingers to your temple. A stifled, heart-wrenching sob escaped your chest.

Would you be capable? Was your love so boundless, so destructive, as to commit this cruel mercy?

Yes. Because loving him meant saving him from yourself.

With a silent scream that tore your mind apart from the inside, you deployed your telepathy and ventured into his memory.

You began erasing yourself.

You gradually dissolved the stolen kisses, the laughs in the debate club, and the college promises, but also the childhood afternoons in his living room, the scraped knees, and an entire life growing up together. You erased every conversation, every glance, and every shared heartbeat, transforming a colossal love into a hazy fog, into a mere nameless void.

You exterminated over a decade of memories piece by piece, watching the light in his eyes grow dull as the connections severed in his brain.

Your own mind wailed at the sacrilege of erasing the only pure thing you had left in the world.

Feeling the weight of his body relax under the telepathic sedation, you laid his head on the pillow with infinite sweetness. His eyes, now serene and empty of you, closed slowly.

You leaned down one last time, brushing your lips against his cool forehead.

“Goodbye, Peter.”

Peter. That was his name.

“A-Are you really okay? Did you get hurt?”

You were already on your feet. You hadn't realized tears were streaming down uncontrollably until you ran your fingers across your cheeks. Your hands were trembling.

An excruciating doubt seized you inevitably: what had made you forget him? How could such a piece of your soul disappear from your life?

“Do you need me to call someone?”

You hadn't articulated a single word since he helped you up. Your absolute silence only fueled the confusion and concern growing in his eyes with every passing second.

He was so different. He looked older, mature, undeniably handsome... but there was no doubt: it was him. It was your Peter.

From his perspective, you must have looked completely terrified. Your fixed stare and ragged breathing made you look as though you were seeing a dead man brought back to life.

“No,” you managed to reply.

Stumbling, you backed away from him. You grabbed your belongings immediately and walked to the counter, leaving a bill that doubled the value of what you had ordered.

Then you walked out. Without looking back.

You’re seated on a twirly chair in front of the vanity, right foot up on the cushioned surface to better polish your toes. They’re a vivid coral, matching the ones on your fingers. Nami’s lying upside down on her cot across from you, hands behind her head and feet up against the wall like it’s nobody’s business. She's finished her toes already, all coated in a beautiful teal that compliments her hair.

Everything is perfect tonight. As perfect as being bountied pirates on a ship can get. The flower scented candles around the girls’ cabin run warm, making sweetness blossom around the room. Your beds are made perfectly, pillows fluffed up just the way you like it. You and Nami move with an unspoken understanding, of unwinding and finally taking time to yourselves after a day full of adventure. 

The sound of the sea has been quietly lulling the two of you into peace, though you have to delay your sleep for an extra hour of chatting away your complaints.

Girls night always welcomes honesty—when you and Nami can talk about everything the boys would never understand. And she’s being real truthful alright, hand enthusiastically waving around like a maestro to her own words. 

And of course, the current topic of conversation was the blonde, women-loving cook in your crew. 

Nami can be blunt, to say the least. It’s what you appreciate most about her, although you wish she’d soften her words up just a little bit. 

Or maybe try to see him the way you do.

“He’s a lot.”

She’s talking about typical Sanji behavior. The incessant flirting, the hovering and his I-live-to-serve-women attitude, which she’s convinced is some type of overcompensation. 

You definitely don’t think it’s annoying. If anything, you think it’s really sweet that he tries his hardest to impress Nami. 

Matter of fact, you love it when he tries to impress the girls on this ship. Fortunately for you, the only two available ones include an independent, no-bullshit navigator who doesn’t easily fall for his smooth-talking. Now that just leaves him to focus more of his affection onto you, and you absolutely love being the center of his attention.

You bite your lips, trying to hold back your laughter. “I mean, he’s intense for sure.”

She rolls her eyes at your attempts to soften her complaints, and she truly can’t find it in her to understand why you would defend the cook. “Annoying.”

“I think it’s kind of cute.”

A beat of silence. 

And then Nami literally whips her head to face you so fast you’d think you were a treasure made of a trillion berries.

The sight she’s greeted with is one she will never forget. And not in a pleasant way, because you look positively, 100%, absolutely sure about the words you just uttered out of your mouth.

You’re hugging both your legs up to your chest, lips still bitten in a silent restraint. You’re actually melting into yourself, lost somewhere in the clouds as you swing yourself right and left in your chair. 

Where do you even begin? 

From memorizing your likes and dislikes,—and not just about food—attending to your needs, whether you voice them or not, and genuinely wanting to know you for who you are. Sanji somehow manages to embrace who you were, who you are now and who you hope to become in the future, all in the same breath. 

He is never quiet with the way he loves. God forbid he doesn’t worry about others for even one day. He’s dramatic, over-the-top, theatrical. All the synonyms of spectacular you can find in the dictionary. But also grounded, selfless, and so genuine that it makes your teeth ache and your heart clench erratically. 

Sanji treats you with a kind of gentleness that makes you think you’re the most precious diamond in the Blue Sea. You are. To him. He never ceases to convince you of so. 

So it’s an absolute no-brainer that you think he is the one for you. If not the only man ever. And, the fact that you aren’t alone in this fortifies your belief. You and Sanji have your own thing. A quiet game that only you seem to understand the rules of. A kind of connection that isn’t defined by or bound to labels; one that grew from quiet glances and secret smiles. The others may not notice—for now. They’d probably brush it off as you being kind to Sanji and finding genuine friendship in him. 

But you like it that way, and you really, really like him. You don’t need to say it out loud, because you’re sure he knows you do. You’re content with what you have because you can feel it that he reciprocates. 

You are his just as much as he is yours. 

“Say that again.” Nami pumps out the sentence like she can’t believe her own ears. She’s fully upright now, propping her upper body with her hands. She leans towards you as if it’ll make her hear better. 

“I think..” you mimic her pose and lean your chest forward, palms resting on both knees as if preparing to tell her a secret, “—that he’s kind of cute.”

It’s he, now. Not it, anymore. 

God, you are hopeless. And crazy. 

“You’re kidding.” The navigator hits you with the most deadpan stare you’ve ever seen her muster in her life.

Nami tries to look back at all your past interactions with Sanji. From the first time you joined the crew to the most recent ones. Then it all clicks for her—like a puzzle piece to answer a question she’s never bothered to ask. 

It starts with the way you get quiet when Sanji’s around, a secret smile and an undeniable warmth seldom missing from your face. Gosh, you’re so shy when he talks to you sometimes. It’s crazy that it didn’t register to her because you’re typically always so sure of yourself. Then it’s how you never, ever brush off his attempts at flattery. How your sweet compliments always seemed to be drowned out by Luffy’s shouts and Zoro’s arguing. She looks back at the way you naturally gravitate towards him. It didn't matter if you were on the ship, jumping from island-to-island, in the middle of a fight or simply lounging around with the rest of the crew, you always found your way right beside him. 

Huh. 

It was all in her face the entire time. Loud and apologetic. She feels silly at the fact that she’s never thought to even look because she couldn’t fathom that any woman could genuinely put up with him. And you never denied anything either—not when there wasn’t anything to deny in the first place. 

Her words set you off like a pirate looking for the one piece. 

“Nami don’t you ever dream of a guy who’ll sweep you off your feet?”

You’re breathless, absolutely lost in your own daydreams as you twirl around your chair with a force that could blow the Going Merry across the Grand Line. There are stars in your eyes, genuinely. Your hands shoot up in a rainbow above your head, and your body melts further into the seat. 

Something’s definitely gotten into you.

“And Sanji’s that guy for you?!” She exclaims. You watch her go through all the 7 stages of grief in the span of 3 seconds. 

You laugh at her silliness, and then you’re back to swooning again.

It was as if she’d unlocked your inner beast. A lovesick, crazy girl who was spouting her dreams of romance and everything that was butterflies and rainbows. A woman who was absolutely mooning over Sanji.

From then on the navigator makes it her mission to uncover where this crush of yours came from. She can try asking the rest of the crew, but she’s 98% sure the boys are oblivious to this, or simply aren’t as perturbed as she is. (Because how has no one questioned this before?!)

Starting wasn’t hard. At all. Turns out you and Sanji are shameless. It just takes the right time for someone to pay attention and see how deep the connection runs between the two of you. 

It happens bright and early a few days later. Nami—by instinct or intuition—woke up to an empty cabin. Your bed looked freshly mussed, like you couldn’t be bothered to tidy it up before getting up. She looked through the small window, greeted by the sight of the barely peeking sun in the darkness of the horizon. Way too early for anyone to be up. Except for Sanji, who she knows is already prepping for breakfast in the galley. And conveniently, you seem to be missing in action as well. It doesn't take much to put two and two together. 

She catches you right as you are entering the kitchen.

Of course, Sanji is already busying himself on the counter, chopping an array of fresh fruits into—what Nami can’t see—hearts.

“Mon trésor.” 

It barely takes a second for you to enter before Sanji is calling out to you, gaze immediately snapping towards your figure. He doesn’t need his sight to know that it’s you. He can’t admit that it’s because he’s memorized the weight of your steps on the ship, and the sweet scent of your perfumed clothes. 

A lit cigarette hangs off from his lips, though he quickly puts it away when you make your way to the dining table. 

You rub your eyes tiredly, hand then moving down to hug yourself closer in an attempt to chase some warmth. “Hi, Sanji.”

He’s melting at the sight of you. 

This might just be his favorite part of the morning, second only to when you start talking to him. You’re in your pajamas still, shirt hanging loosely over your bare shoulders. Absolutely radiant, and so domestic. You can barely open your eyes in the morning sun, and the way you carry yourself feels heavier, but more honest. Relaxed. A good sign that you slept well. 

Sanji doesn’t fight off the small flush that makes itself known across his face.

“Do you know that every time you say my name an angel gains its wings?”

You grin at the early morning flattery while you settle down on your seat. You could look like the messiest thing on the ship and Sanji will find a way to compliment you regardless. “Heaven must love me,”

“Heaven would be a fool not to love you, darling.” It doesn’t take even a beat for him to answer, and the cook puts down his knife to come closer. He makes a point to lean his face down to yours to greet you with an open teeth grin. 

And that genuinely brings a giggle out of you, leaving Nami mildly disgusted. 

When he's finally seen your smile, he returns back to the stove, slathering butter over the surface of a pan. The familiar rich aroma and the oddly calming sizzling sound makes you soften into yourself. You slouch onto the countertop, folding your elbows into each other and laying your chin on top. “I take it that this is a good morning for you?”

“Everyday better when I see your beautiful face.” He curls his lips into a smile, sneaking a quick glance at you before winking. 

Thank goodness he goes back to focusing on the pan because you are already throwing your face away to the sea, pursing your lips in a barely restrained smile before burying yourself into the crook of your arms, releasing a hidden breath. 

Sanji, that sly man, takes a quick peek from his shoulders. Seeing you, confident you, turn into a flustered puddle from his words makes him puff up so quickly. He wears his pride so boldly on his chest. No one could tell him anything for the rest of the day, and it was insufferable. 

Unbeknownst to you, he’s already started on your breakfast. He knows that you’re an early riser, and that you will almost always seek him out first thing in the morning. So everyday he sets out your breakfast ingredients and preps as much as he can. He doesn’t start cooking them before he sees your face, because he only wants the most warm and freshly cooked meal for you.

You notice it though, the way he always serves you first, no matter the time and place. Dinner? A plate of the finest meat for you first (Luffy hates it.) Going over logs with Nami? All the snacks you like are immediately placed in front of you, and a drink to compliment it following behind. He always thinks about your needs first, and if that isn’t love then you don’t know what to believe. 

Just as you are in the middle of your daydreaming, Sanji interrupts with the sound of cutlery against porcelain. He’s plating up your mouth-watering breakfast, made to absolute perfection. 

“For you madam, golden brown honey toast with freshly whipped cream on top,” he dishes out the plate in front of you, and the aroma itself sends you straight to heaven. “—extra fruit, just the way you like it.”

You didn’t think it was possible to fall deeper in love with him, but you’re proven wrong once you see the fruits that decorate your toast, all of them heart shaped. Both hand-cut and perfectly uniform using the cutter he specifically bought to use for your meals. 

You gasp in exaggeration, though deep inside you’re aching about how sweet he is to remember your preferences. “You spoil me,”

“Only the best for my favorite Strawhat.” He answers, pouring you a glass of freshly brewed coffee. 

You’re in the middle of cutting your toast in half when you look up at him, teasing by saying, “Don’t let the captain hear you say that.”

Sanji exclaims back to you in all his confidence, turning away as he places the pot on the counter. “Bah! One sirloin steak and he’ll forgive me like it never happened.”

Your giggle is like the brightest melody in his ears, and the words that follow it could bring him back from the dead. “Thank you, my chef~”

“You know my heart can’t take it,” He playfully sighs out your name, clutching his chest. Sanji stands across the table now, resting his chin on his hand against the counter top. Just happy to watch you.

“Delicious!” You continue to shoot honeyed words at him, not just as a means for him to keep sweet-talking you, but also because you think Sanji deserves all the love and goodness of this world. 

“Sing me your praises, my angel of music,”

Nami can almost see him propel himself to the sky with giddiness. 

“So perfectly crunchy,”

“—and I’m yours forever.” He takes your hand in his from across the aisle, pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles as he looks up at you. 

Nami felt chills sweeping up her spine. 

You guys were so cheesy. But sort of.. cute. That was something she couldn’t deny. She’s never seen Sanji this genuine, and when someone actually reciprocates, it makes him look less like a fool. 

And the way you were bouncing back and forth on each other was like a sick game of ping-pong she couldn’t look away from.

She couldn’t figure out for the life of her why you two aren’t together already. It’s perfectly clear that you both feel the same way, and aren’t afraid to act upon it. A small part of her wants to meddle, and she’s halfway into a plan that’ll somehow get either of you to confess to each other, but then she abruptly stops.

Eh, you guys will sort that out yourselves. Eventually. You look like you’re exactly where you want to be. So, Nami shrugs and beelines into the kitchen, hoping to get a fresh plate of breakfast seeing that he’s already started with yours. 

The next time Nami catches a moment between the two of you wasn’t intentional. Right, because she wouldn’t be caught dead seeking the conversations you and Sanji had after that traumatizing event. 

It was late at night. For once a quiet one between all the chaos that seemed to follow the Strawhat Pirates. Luffy was snoring away somewhere with a full belly, Ussop tinkering away in his cabin, and Zoro likely in the crow’s nest. Nami decided to look for fresh air, feeling a little bit holed up inside her room. Between the gentle rocking of the sea and the soft melody of the waves, it was the perfect atmosphere to spend watching the horizon. 

She didn’t mean to overhear your conversation, but the door was open and a ship doesn’t exactly leave much room for privacy. She tried to leave the two of you alone at first, but found herself leaning against the galley wall to listen in in the end. 

When she takes a peek through the door, she finds you seated still and pretty on the stool close to him, cross-legged in your pajamas. Like a sous chef who wasn’t really a sous chef but boosted the cook all the same—if not a million times more. 

When you first got to the galley, you paid mind to his laser-focused expression. You didn't want to break his flow, so you stuck yourself against the counter at a distance. You were content with the picture of him from afar, but Sanji had absolutely none of it. He began your conversation of the night while silently dragging a stool and placing it right next to him by the stove. Safely away from getting blasted by the heat, but close enough to where he could feel you around him and talk to you without feeling a million miles away. 

He’s got on one of your top favorite get-ups: a classic blue striped dress-shirt unbuttoned just the right amount and his pink Doskoi Panda apron tied around the back. Sleeves deliciously rolled up to his elbows for a bonus. Though Nami isn’t attracted to him the way you are, she isn’t blind. She has to admit that the image of his forearms are a sight for sore eyes. Sanji can be quite charming at times, mostly when he keeps the talking to a minimum and does what he does best. 

You’re not even hiding it at this point, gaze tracking every languid move of his hands like you were hypnotized. 

It’s not hard for you to admire him when he’s deep in his element. You find yourself going quiet, not because you don’t want to talk to him, but because it’s mesmerizing to see the way he commands the kitchen like his own battleship.

There’s a small smile on your lips as you take in the passion he carries, and on your lap you fidget with the shiny silver ring on your thumb. It’s his ring—your favorite one that's shaped like a skull—that he gave to you for “safekeeping”, even though Sanji never ever takes them off. Even when he’s cooking. It’s incredibly intimate; a symbol of his trust for you.

He’s just finished cooking a dish of his own creation. A classic menu made of meat, but a little more experimental with the seasoning. You can only describe it as heaven in a plate, sweet and savory at the same time, with a hint of something that you can't fully describe with words. Yet, you enjoy it for all that it is, and the delectable fragrance isn't something to complain about, either. It’s almost shocking that Luffy hasn’t come running down the kitchen from the smell alone. Sanji isn’t technically done with the recipe, seeing as he’s trying to perfect the ingredients being used. He has his worn-out notepad by the counter, filled with endless scribbles and notes of improvement. The cook will come back to it once you’ve given your own comments on the taste.

Once finished turning down the heat, he takes a clean spoon out of the cabinet and offers you a small portion fresh out of the pan, where the dish was still simmering in the heat. 

You feel honored that you are Sanji’s unofficial taste-tester. The first time you came across the cook experimenting with new creations was a complete coincidence. That particular night you’d been restless in bed, stomach aching for a bite of food. You ended up pattering into the galley to get maybe a few crackers, a slice of bread or cheese or something that’d temporarily distract you. But you didn’t expect to feast on a five star meal once Sanji found out you were hungry. You? His precious princess starving? Not on this ship. 

What began as compliments to the chef turned into fully fledged reviews of each flavor profile, and eventually became something more intimate. A space for honesty just for you and Sanji. 

You like to think that’s where you found the real Sanji. The kind heart beyond the ladies man, the truths behind his endless honeyed words. 

You sought him out like a moth to a flame, and every night Sanji welcomed you with open arms. 

Most of the times you were there to actually be his taste-tester, which is just his excuse of having a private late dinner with you. But, other times he’s prepping meals for the next day and you’re simply there to keep him company. Either way, you’ll never skip out on an opportunity to spend time alone with Sanji.

Funnily enough, more than once you’ve caught Luffy sneaking in and rummaging through the pantry, already halfway stuffing his face with something that makes Sanji tick before he notices that the two of you are occupying the room. It’s a bit adorable that he doesn’t make a fuss about it. He never questions anything beyond “Hey… are you sneaking for snacks too?!” and then an “Okay!” followed by his high pitched laughter after Sanji kicks him out for offering you the stolen goods from his sticky hands. 

You take notice that he never lets Luffy get a bite of his cooking. Sure, if the captain asks, Sanji will make him something, but not from the same pan. A different dish all together. You think that maybe it’s because he isn’t open to someone tasting something he considers isn’t “perfect” yet, but another part of you just believes that it’s because he only trusts you to give him the honest truth. 

Still, you find it hard to believe he’d ever need one, considering everything that he makes turns out flawless. 

“More seasoning?” The cook watches as you chew on the meat slowly.

You shake your head in disagreement. “No, this is perfect, Sanji.”

“Not too sweet for you?” 

Nami sees you visibly recoil at his questions, body moving as if he was spouting blasphemy. 

He’s got his back turned to you while he rinses his hands over the sink, so he can’t see the flabbergasted frown on your face.

“This is quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.” You make an emphasis on the word “best”, sticking the wooden spoon back at him to signal that you wanted more.

“You flatter me, angel.” He grins, pulling the dish towel from his shoulders to wipe his hand. Then he goes straight to follow your command exactly and dips right back into the pan, scooping up a portion before blowing it softly to cool it down. 

You’re practically vibrating in your seat, legs bouncing and arms holding up the weight of your body as you lean towards him. 

“Nope. I’m just sayin’ the truth!” The words come with a pause as you’re swallowing your last bite, and the brightness comes right back up your face while you praise Sanji.

By the All Blue, he just wants to scoop you up and squeeze you in his arms for all eternity. You can be so shy around him, but also incredibly animated when expressing yourself. 

Once Sanji deems it the perfect condition for you, he motions the spoon to your mouth.

It’s a stupidly sweet gesture, and also his way of stopping you from eating the whole thing. You can just take the spoon from him and feed yourself, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like being pampered by Sanji. You’re not ashamed to admit that it makes you feel very special. If you truly weaponized your voice and asked him for the whole pan, he’d give it to you without a single doubt. But, it’d be a shame if he didn’t wait until he could properly serve it with some rice so you could have your very late dinner “date”.

He holds the spoon out for a beat longer to look down at the way your lips wrap around the surface, turning away only when you finish munching happily at the taste. After all, your satisfaction is his number one priority. Nami can’t see your face from where she’s at, but she can absolutely make out Sanji’s, and the way he’s staring is sensual, borderline debauched. It makes the navigator feel like she’s intruding on a private moment.

You are none the wiser to this, Sanji needs to get it together, and Nami’s very close to throwing up in front of the galley. 

Your eyes are closed as you hum contentedly once the flavors settle nicely in your stomach, and it’s then when you start to feel the weight of his stare. 

You’re only chin level on this short stool, so you have to look up to meet his eyes.

He's quiet and awfully still, taking you all in and leaving no part of you starving for his attention. There's an evident tension swimming around the kitchen, and it makes you acutely aware of just how close you are to him. Inches away. The position is a tad intimate, to say the least.

“What? Is there sauce on my face?” 

You know there isn’t anything on your face except for pure happiness, though you’re a tiny bit flustered by his attention. 

“Sorry, darling,” He's not sorry at all. He leans in to wipe the non-existent sauce, and for a second you think he’s going to deny his obvious admiration of you but then he pivots into something that is so Sanji it makes your brain melt. 

“Your beauty demands to be seen. I can’t deny you that.” He traces the back of his finger over your cheek before tucking a stray hair behind your ear. 

Time and time again, Sanji is able to surpass your every expectation. You continue to feel the weight of his stare, now much different than before because he looks at you with deep, unabashed, reverence. Not hidden, and not in halves. A softness he reserves only for you.

You’re speechless for a moment, but then he cups your face into his palms and it feels like everything just melts away. 

Now Nami understands. Why you adore him so much. Why you don’t need to scream it out to the world that you love him (although you would love to). The two of you aren’t “together” officially not because you don’t want to, or are too shy to say it out loud. But because you enjoy every part of who he is. The chasing, the teasing, the thrill; it’s everything in him that makes you feel alive. You don’t need words for him to understand that you love him, just as he doesn’t. 

Nami watches the way you look up at him, positively beaming. The silence is broken away when you start giggling to yourself, and it only makes Sanji move closer to you, his forehead bumping gently against yours as he sports an identical grin on his face.

She shakes her head, both astonished and happy to see you flourishing in his presence, before walking away with an affectionate eye-roll.

Yeah. You two are the lamest.

Mon trésor: My treasure

Aaah I couldn’t really decide which sanji to base this fic off of. I ended up doing a bit of both 🍽️