★shae Maria★

The first thing you did as Gryffindor Head Girl was take ten points from your own House.

“Five points from Gryffindor,” you announced sharply.

George blinked.

Fred looked positively delighted.

“And another five for laughing.”

“You can’t deduct points for laughing,” Fred protested, grinning as though this were the best thing he’d seen all week.

“I just did.”

Around the common room, several first years immediately buried their faces in homework, not wanting more points to be taken for simply breathing too loud 

You closed your leather notebook with a snap.

“You set off Portable Swamps.”

“They’re decorative.”

“They’re flooding the corridor outside the library.”

“They’re beautiful.” He paused

“Much like you”

“They’ve tripped Professor Flitwick.”you ignored his second comment. 

“He tripped while being in awe of their beauty”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

Merlin.

One day.

One.

Single.

Day.

That was how long you’d managed to hold the title of Head Girl before Fred Weasley had turned your life into a disaster.

“You’ll be cleaning it.”

Fred leaned casually against the fireplace.

“I think that’s beneath my talents.”

“I don’t.”

“You wound me.”

“I was aiming lower.”

George actually snorted.

Fred laughed.

Actually laughed.

Like you’d just told the funniest joke he’d ever heard.

“You know,” he said, “I think we’re going to get along brilliantly.”

“We are not.”

“I disagree.”

“You don’t get to.”

“Oh, I absolutely do.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

He smiled wider.

Merlin.

His smile was infuriating.

The kind that belonged on someone who had never experienced consequences in his entire life.

“You’ve got lovely eyes when you’re threatening me.”

You stared.

“…Excuse me?”

“I said—”

“I heard what you said.”

“Excellent.”

“You’ve lost your mind.”

“A little.”

George muttered, “More than a little.”

Fred ignored him completely.

“I just thought you should know.”

“You thought wrong.”

He shrugged.

“I’ll tell you again tomorrow.”

“You won’t.”

“I absolutely will.”

“You’ll be in detention.”

“I’ll flirt from detention.”

“You’ll lose House points.”

“Worth it.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“I’ve heard handsome before.”

“I said unbelievable.”

“I heard handsome.”

“You need hearing aids.”

“I need your attention.”

“You have it.”

“Splendid.”

“I wish you didn’t.”

⸻

The staff meeting was worse.

Professor McGonagall sat at the head of the table, looking as composed as ever.

“As Head Girl,” she said, “your priority is maintaining order.”

You nodded.

“I understand.”

“Particularly regarding certain students.”

Every professor looked in exactly one direction.

Fred smiled innocently.

“I don’t know why everyone’s looking at me.”

Professor Snape looked as though he regretted surviving the last sixteen years.

Professor Sprout sighed.

Professor Flitwick rubbed his temples.

McGonagall simply folded her hands.

“Mr. Weasley.”

“Professor?”

“If Miss Y/L/N tells you to stop.”

“I stop.”

You nearly laughed.

McGonagall raised one eyebrow.

Fred sighed dramatically.

“…Eventually.”

⸻

It didn’t improve.

Tuesday—

A hallway full of enchanted rubber chickens.

Wednesday—

Fireworks in History of Magic.

Thursday—

A charmed suit of armour that proposed marriage to passing students.

Friday—

An entire staircase that meowed.

You spent half your week apologising to professors.

The other half chasing Fred through the castle.

“You cannot run away from disciplinary action!”

“I absolutely can!”

“Iam head girl!”

“Exactly!”

“I should be setting an example not chasing you!”

“You are.”

“WHAT EXAMPLE?”

“Cardio.”

⸻

By Saturday evening you were exhausted.

You escaped outside with a book, settling beneath the giant beech tree by the lake.

Finally.

Peace.

Silence.

You’d barely managed two pages.

“So.”

You closed your eyes.

“…Go away.”

Fred dropped onto the grass beside you anyway.

“I was hoping for a warmer welcome.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You look lovely today.”

“I look tired.”

“Still lovely.”

“I’ve been yelling at you since Monday.”

“I noticed.”

“So why are you here?”

He thought about it.

“I like talking to you.”

“You can’t possibly.”

“I can.”

“I mostly insult you.”

“They’re creative.”

“They’re not meant to be compliments.”

“I take them as affection.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I will.”

You glared.

He grinned.

Merlin.

That grin.

“You know,” he said casually, “I’ve never met anyone who glares quite like you.”

“I’ve never met anyone who deserved it more.”

“I feel special.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I do.”

He reached over and quietly plucked a leaf from your hair.

The movement was so unexpected that you froze.

“There.”

His voice was unexpectedly softer.

“You had a leaf.”

You blinked.

“…Thank you.”

His grin returned instantly.

“You’re welcome.”

“I still don’t like you.”

“I know.”

“I probably never will.”

“I know.”

“You aren’t changing my mind.”

“We’ll see.”

“There is no ‘we.’”

“There will be.”

“You are incredibly arrogant.”

“I prefer optimistic.”

“You should prefer realistic.”

He leaned back on the grass.

“I’ve got all year.”

You looked at him.

He wasn’t joking.

Not even slightly.

He genuinely looked as though he had every intention of wearing you down one conversation at a time.

“You’ll give up.”

“No.”

“I’ll keep giving you detention.”

“I’ll keep showing up.”

“I’ll ignore you.”

“I’ll talk enough for both of us.”

“You are impossible.”

“So people keep telling me.”

A comfortable silence settled between you.

It irritated you.

Silence wasn’t supposed to be comfortable with Fred Weasley.

After several minutes he stood.

“I’ll let you read.”

You frowned.

“…That’s it?”

“Thought I’d surprise you.”

“You actually are leaving?”

“See?”

He smiled over his shoulder.

“I’m already improving your opinion of me.”

“It isn’t.”

“It moved half a percent.”

“It moved backwards.”

“I’ll make it up tomorrow.”

He winked.

Then walked away.

You watched him disappear across the lawn.

Only after he was gone did you realise something.

For the first time all week…

He hadn’t caused any trouble.

And somehow—

Somehow—

You almost missed hearing him talking.

“…Merlin,” you muttered to yourself.

“This is going to be a very long year.”

And somehow you think you might find yourself enjoying it 

—•

The first time you stepped onto the Going Merry, you were talking.

Not just talking—rambling, laughing, pointing at things no one else cared about, asking questions faster than anyone could answer.

“Wait, wait—so you guys just decided to be pirates? Like that? No paperwork? No application process? That feels wildly unregulated—”

“You don’t apply to be a pirate,” Roronoa Zoro muttered from where he leaned against the railing, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded.

You turned to him like a sunflower finding the sun. “You don’t? That seems like a missed opportunity.”

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t look at you.

Didn’t move.

But you didn’t miss the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

You were loud.

You were bright.

You filled every quiet moment with chatter, humming, questions, and observations that ranged from weirdly insightful to completely ridiculous.

And for some reason…

Zoro was always nearby.

—

“Zoro!” you called one afternoon, practically skipping across the deck.

He didn’t open his eyes. “What.”

“Do you think swords have personalities?”

“…No.”

You crouched next to him anyway, undeterred. “Because I feel like yours is very… grumpy. Like you.”

His eye cracked open just enough to glance at you. “Get lost.”

You grinned. “That’s not a no.”

“It was.”

“You just said get lost.”

“That’s a no.”

“Feels like a maybe.”

He sighed, closing his eye again like you were the biggest inconvenience in the world.

But when you stayed there—just sitting beside him, swinging your legs and humming under your breath—he didn’t tell you to leave again.

—

Later, when you tripped over a coil of rope and nearly face-planted—

Zoro caught you before you hit the deck.

One hand. Fast. Firm.

Like it was instinct.

You blinked up at him, wide-eyed. “Wow. That was very heroic of you.”

“Watch where you’re going.”

“Or what, you’ll catch me again?”

“…No.”

You smiled, still in his grip. “You will.”

He let go like your skin burned him, turning away. “You’re annoying.”

“Yeah,” you said brightly. “You like me anyway.”

There was a pause.

A very small one.

“…Don’t push it.”

But he didn’t deny it.

—

The others noticed.

Of course they did.

“You know,” Nami said one evening, leaning against the mast beside you, “he only sharpens his swords on this side of the deck now.”

You blinked. “Why?”

She smirked. “Because you’re usually over here.”

You turned, watching as Zoro sat a short distance away, methodically running a whetstone along his blade.

He didn’t look up.

Didn’t acknowledge you.

But he was close enough to hear every word you said.

Every laugh.

Every ramble.

“…Oh,” you said softly.

—

It got more obvious after that.

At least to you.

—

“You talk too much,” Zoro muttered one night.

You gasped dramatically. “I do not.”

“You do.”

“You’re just jealous you don’t have this level of conversational skill.”

“I’m not jealous of anything about you.”

You leaned closer, grinning. “Not even my charm?”

He glanced at you, expression flat.

Then—quietly, almost under his breath—

“…Didn’t say that.”

Your smile faltered for just a second.

Because that wasn’t a denial.

—

Another time, you were sitting cross-legged on the deck, trying (and failing) to tie some complicated knot Sanji had shown you.

“Stupid rope,” you muttered. “Why are knots so… knotty?”

Zoro snorted.

Actually snorted.

You whipped your head around. “Was that a laugh?!”

“It wasn’t.”

“It was!”

“It wasn’t.”

“You think I’m funny.”

“I think you’re incompetent.”

“Same thing.”

He shook his head, but there was that look again—that almost-smile he never let fully happen.

“Here,” he said suddenly, crouching beside you.

His hands moved over yours, guiding the rope into place. His touch was steady, warm, careful in a way you hadn’t expected.

“Loop it like that,” he murmured.

Your brain short-circuited a little.

“Oh.”

“You’re not even paying attention.”

“I am! I just—uh—forgot how hands work.”

He huffed, finishing the knot for you before pulling away a little too quickly.

“Hopeless.”

You looked down at the rope… then back at him.

“Thanks, Zoro.”

“…Yeah.”

But he stayed sitting next to you.

Even after the knot was done.

—

The moment it really clicked?

Was when you got hurt.

Nothing serious—just a cut along your arm from a rough landing during a fight.

You brushed it off immediately. “It’s fine! I’ve had worse—probably. Maybe. I don’t actually remember but—”

“Sit down.”

Zoro’s voice cut through yours, sharp and low.

You blinked. “I’m okay—”

“I said sit.”

You sat.

Immediately.

He crouched in front of you, jaw tight as he grabbed your wrist, turning your arm to inspect the cut.

“It’s not deep,” you said, trying to lighten the mood. “Very dramatic though. I might faint.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

His grip was firm but careful as he wrapped the wound, movements precise.

You watched him quietly for once.

“…You’re being nice to me,” you said softly.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He tied the bandage a little tighter than necessary.

You winced. “Ow.”

“Then stop talking.”

“…You’re worried.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He finally looked up at you then, properly.

Eyes steady.

Unapologetic.

“…You don’t pay attention to anything around you,” he said. “Someone has to.”

Your heart did something weird in your chest.

“Oh.”

A pause.

Then, softer—

“…Can’t have you getting hurt.”

—

From then on, his “annoyance” didn’t fool you anymore.

Not when he always stood just a little closer to you in a fight.

Not when he passed you food without looking at you.

Not when he made those quiet, almost-compliments disguised as insults.

“You’re less useless than usual today.”

“Wow. High praise.”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.”

“…Idiot.”

“Your idiot.”

Silence.

Then—

“…Yeah.”

No one understood why Clarisse La Rue hated you.

You hadn’t done anything.

You were just… you.

Daughter of Apollo. Golden-haired, golden-voiced, golden-shot. The kind of demigod who glowed faintly in the sunlight and could hit a target blindfolded.

You didn’t mean to be liked.

But you were.

The Hermes cabin loved your stories.

The Aphrodite girls adored dressing you up.

Even the Athena kids admitted—grudgingly—that you were smarter than you let on.

And Clarisse?

Clarisse looked at you like you’d personally offended her existence.

Day One

You’d been at camp exactly fourteen minutes when it started.

You were still holding your duffel bag when Clarisse sized you up from across the clearing.

“Great,” she muttered loudly. “Another glitter princess.”

You smiled politely. “Hi.”

She scoffed.

Later, when you got claimed—bright golden light above your head, a bow symbol blazing in the sky—there had been cheering.

Clarisse didn’t cheer.

She rolled her eyes and walked away.

You told yourself it didn’t bother you.

It absolutely did.

The War of Words

It became a routine.

Archery range?

“She compensating for something?” Clarisse would call.

Arena training?

“Try not to break a nail.”

Campfire?

“You done serenading half the camp yet?”

You fired back just as hard.

“Careful, La Rue. All that brooding might cause wrinkles.”

“Does Ares teach charm, or just shouting?”

“You’re staring again.”

That last one always made her flush.

Not that anyone else noticed.

You did.

The Thing No One Else Saw

Clarisse watched you.

Constantly.

But not in the way people thought.

She wasn’t glaring.

She was memorizing.

The way you pushed your hair behind your ear when you focused.

The way you bit your lip before taking a shot.

The way your laughter made your eyes crease at the corners.

And she hated herself for noticing.

Because Clarisse La Rue did not get flustered.

Clarisse La Rue did not get distracted.

Clarisse La Rue definitely did not feel her stomach flip when you smiled at her.

But she did.

So she turned it into anger.

Because anger was easy.

Anger made sense.

The warmth in her chest did not.

The First Crack

It happened during sparring.

You were paired together.

Of course you were.

The entire camp gathered like it was a scheduled event.

“Try not to cry,” she said, twirling her spear.

“You first,” you replied sweetly.

The fight was brutal.

She was strength. Raw power. Controlled chaos.

You were speed. Precision. Light on your feet.

You ducked a swing and knocked her balance just enough to send her stumbling.

The crowd gasped.

Clarisse recovered fast, tackling you before you could react.

You hit the mat hard—her hovering over you, pinning your wrists.

Breathing heavy.

Too close.

Her hair brushed your cheek.

“Yield,” she growled.

You swallowed. “Make me.”

For half a second, neither of you moved.

Her eyes flicked to your mouth.

The air shifted.

Then someone wolf-whistled.

Clarisse shoved herself back like she’d been burned.

“Pathetic,” she snapped—though she looked more shaken than victorious.

You sat up slowly.

For the first time, you wondered if this wasn’t hate at all.

Capture the Flag Night

The forest pulsed with energy.

Torches flickered. Armor clanked. War cries echoed.

You and Clarisse stood on opposite sides again.

“You nervous?” you called.

She smirked. “About you? Please.”

But her grip tightened on her spear.

The game exploded into chaos.

You moved through trees like sunlight slipping through branches—quiet, deadly.

You were three yards from the Ares flag when a spear embedded into the bark beside your head.

You didn’t need to turn around.

“You’re predictable,” Clarisse said.

“You’re dramatic,” you shot back.

You spun, drawing an arrow.

She deflected it.

You lunged. She countered.

You circled, breathing hard, leaves crunching underfoot.

“You think you’re better than everyone!” she snapped, knocking your bow aside.

“You’re the one obsessed with beating me!” you yelled.

She grabbed your wrist.

You twisted, using her momentum to slam her into a tree.

Now you were chest to chest.

Pinned.

The battle noise faded behind the pounding of your heart.

“You hate me,” you whispered.

Her jaw clenched.

“I don’t hate you.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You don’t get it,” she said roughly. “You walk in here and everyone loves you. You don’t even try.”

“I do try,” you shot back. “You just don’t see it.”

Her hands slid to your waist, almost unconsciously.

“I see everything,” she said quietly.

The words hit harder than any spear.

“You smile at them like that,” she continued, voice dropping. “And I just—”

“Just what?”

Her eyes darkened.

“I want it to be me.”

Silence.

You stared at her.

“That’s why you’ve been picking fights?”

“I don’t know how to… do this.” Her voice cracked, barely. “I know how to fight. I don’t know how to…” She gestured helplessly between you.

Your anger melted.

“You could’ve just talked to me.”

She barked a short laugh. “Yeah. ‘Hey, sunshine, I secretly think you’re the most distracting person I’ve ever met.’ That would’ve gone great.”

You smiled softly.

“You are,” she muttered.

Your chest tightened.

“You’re the one who makes me nervous,” you admitted.

She blinked. “What?”

“You think I don’t notice you? The way you look at me? The way you train harder when I’m watching?”

Her grip faltered.

“You don’t scare me, Clarisse.”

She searched your face like she expected mockery.

There was none.

“You drive me insane,” she whispered.

“Good.”

And then you kissed her.

It was messy and breathless and months of tension snapping all at once a clash of teeth and tongue.

She froze for half a second—then kissed you back like she’d been waiting forever.

Her hands tangled in your shirt slowly sliding down your waist.Yours slid into her hair.

Someone in the distance shouted, “Are they seriously making out?!”

You pulled back, laughing.

“We’re supposed to be enemies.”

Her thumb brushed your cheek.

“You were never the enemy.”

Your heart nearly stopped.

“Next time,” she said softly, “we fight on the same side.”

You grinned. “Deal.”

Behind you, someone screamed that the Apollo team had stolen the flag while you were distracted.

Clarisse glanced toward the noise, then back at you.

“Worth it.”

This time she kissed you.

And for the first time since you arrived at camp, Clarisse La Rue didn’t look at you like you were something she had to defeat.

She looked at you like something she wanted to protect or devour to be honest. You didn’t really mind. 

The studio lights are warm and bright, cameras already rolling as you slide into your chair beside Finn. On your other side sits Noah, while Gaten and Caleb are across from you, already laughing at something off-camera.

Finn leans in slightly.

“Ready to expose your deepest secrets?” he murmurs, just for you.

You tilt your head. “Only if you are.”

He smirks. Game on.

The interviewer claps their hands together. “Alright, guys — we’re doing Truth or Dare today! We’ll be doing it in rounds 2V2 or whoever the dare applies to”

Gaten immediately lights up. “YES.”

Caleb folds his arms. “Someone’s getting embarrassed today.”

Noah points between you and Finn. “My money’s on them.”

Finn doesn’t even deny it. He just glances at you sideways. “Wanna start?”

You grin. “Truth or dare?”

Finn doesn’t hesitate. “Dare.”

The interviewer laughs. “Okay, Finn. I dare you to maintain eye contact with the person of your choice for thirty seconds.”

Finn slowly turns to you.

Your heart does a very inconvenient little flip.

“Oh come on,” Noah groans. “Of course.”

Finn shifts his chair just enough to face you fully. His knee brushes yours under the table, and you swear he doesn’t move it away on purpose.

The countdown starts.

At first, it’s easy. You raise a brow, challenging him. He smirks back. But then his eyes soften just slightly — that quiet, focused look he gets when he’s really paying attention.

Your breath slows.

Ten seconds in, he leans closer.

Fifteen — you’re painfully aware of how close he is.

Twenty — his lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile.

Twenty-five — your pulse is loud.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” Gaten interrupts. “They’re about to kiss on camera.”

Finn doesn’t pull back right away.

“Your turn,” he says quietly.

You swallow. “Truth.”

The interviewer glances at their cards. “Okay… who in this group do you flirt with the most?”

You don’t even think about it.

“Finn.”

The room explodes.

Noah: “NO HESITATION.”

Gaten: “Not even a pause.”

Caleb: “That was scary fast.”

Finn’s ears go pink. “Wow. Just like that, huh?”

You shrug. “You flirt back.”

He grins. “Fair.”

Finn crosses his arms. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

He doesn’t even look at the interviewer. “I dare you to sit in my chair for the next round.”

You blink. “That’s not—”

“Scared?” he teases.

You stand up anyway. “Move.”

He does — but instead of you sitting in his chair, he sits first… and then gently pulls you down so you’re half on his lap, half on the armrest.

The room goes dead silent.

Noah’s jaw drops.

“Are we still filming??” Gaten asks.

Finn’s voice is low. “Relax. She fits.”

Your face is on fire.

You whisper, “Finn.”

He smiles sweetly. “Yes?”

Caleb just shakes his head. “You two are ridiculous.”

The interviewer clears their throat. “Okay… uh… Finn, your turn again.”

Finn doesn’t move you. “Truth.”

The interviewer grins. “Do you have a crush on anyone here?”

You feel his breath shift against your hair.

“Yes.”

Silence.

You tilt your head up. “On who?”

Finn looks down at you, eyes warm, teasing.

“Take a wild guess.”

Gaten points. “IT’S HER. IT’S SO HER.”

Noah leans forward. “Just say it, man.”

Finn finally does.

“Yeah. It’s you.”

Your heart stops.

The interviewer laughs nervously. “Well—”

“Truth or dare?” Finn asks you softly.

You don’t look away from him.

“Truth.”

He studies your face. “Do you like me back?”

You smile.

“Maybe more than I should.”

Noah screams into his hands.

Gaten stands up. “I CANNOT BE IN THIS ROOM.”

Caleb laughs. “So… are we interrupting something?”

Finn gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Probably.”

You lean closer. “Still filming.”

He smirks. “Worth it.”

The interviewer cuts in quickly. “Okay, final dare! Finn, I dare you to kiss the person you like… on the cheek.”

Finn doesn’t hesitate.

He tilts your face toward his and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek — close enough to your lips that your breath catches.

He pulls back just enough to whisper:

“Later, I’m aiming better.”

Your smile says everything.

And the internet?

You didn’t come back to Hawkins for Steve Harrington.

You came back for Dustin. For your mom. For the house that still smelled like burnt toast and laundry detergent. For the town that refused to move on, even if you had or at least tried to.

So when you walked into Family Video and saw him leaning against the counter like he was on the cover of a discount action movie or a supercheap magazine,your first thought wasn’t oh no.

It was you have got to be kidding me.

Same stupidly perfect hair. Same broad shoulders. Same posture that said the world was supposed to adore him.

Golden boy. King of Hawkins High. Former resident playboy with a god complex.

And apparently still breathing.

You stop short in the doorway, arms folding automatically.

“Wow,” you mutter. “They let just anyone work retail now.”

Steve looks up.

Freezes.

“Y/N?” he says. “Dustin’s—”

“—Sister,” you finish flatly. “Unfortunately.”

Dustin beams beside you. “Steve! I told you she was coming back!”

Steve straightens like he just remembered he has a spine. “You didn’t say she hated me.”

“I didn’t say I hated you,” you reply sweetly. “That would imply you’re important enough to inspire emotion.”

Dustin winces. Steve blinks.

“…You’re still like this?”

“Still allergic to bullshit?” you shrug. “Yeah. Chronic condition.”

He leans an elbow on the counter, studying you in that slow, irritating way. “You look… different.”

“So do you,” you say. “Less hair gel. More customer service trauma.”

Dustin snorts.

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Steve tells him.

“You called her hot last week,” Dustin blurts.

You choke. “He what?”

Steve’s ears go red. “That was before I knew it was her!”

“Oh, devastating,” you deadpan. “I’ll need time to recover.”

Steve exhales sharply. “You used to be quiet.”

“And you used to be a rude, entitled playboy who thought every girl in Hawkins existed to orbit him.”

His jaw tightens.

“Still holding onto that?”

“Hard to forget,” you say. “You made sure of it.”

The air goes tense. Not loud. Just charged.

“I’m not that guy anymore,” he says quietly.

You meet his eyes. “Prove it.”

You don’t mean to keep running into him.

You really don’t.

But Hawkins is small. And Steve Harrington is apparently everywhere.

At the grocery store. At the arcade. In your driveway, because Dustin invited him over without telling you.

“You invited who?” you hiss at your brother.

Steve’s standing awkwardly behind him, holding a six-pack of soda and looking like he’s waiting to be executed.

“Steve,” Dustin says. “He’s helping me with my science project.”

“Good,” you smile thinly. “He can help you from the porch.”

Steve raises his brows. “Wow. Warm welcome.”

“Don’t mistake honesty for warmth,” you reply.

But he comes inside anyway.

And somehow, slowly, irritatingly… he starts to change.

He doesn’t flirt with your friends.

Doesn’t talk over you.

Doesn’t smirk when you insult him—just takes it.

One night, you catch him sitting on the floor helping Dustin cut cardboard for a model rocket, tongue sticking out in concentration. He doesn’t even notice you watching.

“You’re gonna glue your fingers together,” you say.

He looks up. “Already did. Twice.”

You scoff. “Of course you did.”

But you sit down anyway.

The real shift happens at the quarry.

You’d gone out there alone, needing air. Needing quiet. Needing to not be in Hawkins for five minutes.

Steve follows you.

“Dustin said you were out here,” he says, hands in his pockets.

You don’t turn around. “He really needs to stop telling you things.”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“That’s unfortunate for both of us.”

He steps closer. Not too close. But close enough.

“You think I was some kind of monster in high school.”

You laugh softly. “No. Just a stereotype.”

His jaw tightens. “I was a kid.”

“So was I,” you shoot back. “And you treated people like accessories.”

He exhales. “You never liked me.”

“You never noticed.”

Silence.

Then, quietly: “I notice now.”

You turn to him. For real this time.

He looks… different. Less cocky. More real. Eyes searching your face like he’s actually trying to understand you instead of impress you.

“I was an idiot,” he says. “I hurt people. I know that. But that’s not who I am anymore.”

You cross your arms. “Then who are you now, Steve Harrington?”

He hesitates.

“…Someone who really wants you to stop looking at him like he’s still the worst version of himself.”

That hits harder than you expect.

“You make it difficult,” you admit.

“I know,” he says. “But I’m trying.”

You don’t answer.

But you don’t walk away either.

After that, the tension shifts.

Still sharp. Still sarcastic.

But now it hums.

He starts teasing you back.

You start noticing the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching.

Dustin definitely notices.

“You guys are gonna get married,” he announces one night at dinner.

You choke on your drink. “Absolutely not.”

Steve almost drops his fork.

“We are not—” he starts.

“—dating,” you finish.

Dustin squints. “Then why does he stare at you like you’re a demogorgon he wants to impress?”

“…What does that even mean?” Steve mutters.

The moment it breaks is stupid.

And perfect.

You’re at Family Video. Steve’s working late. You came in to drop off something for Dustin.

Some girl leans over the counter, smiling too much.

“So… what time do you get off?”

Steve glances at you without meaning to.

You raise a brow.

“I close,” he says flatly.

She pouts. “Maybe you could walk me to my car?”

He hesitates.

And you feel something twist in your chest.

“Relax,” you say coolly. “You don’t need permission from me.”

Steve’s eyes snap to yours.

“…That’s not what this is.”

He doesn’t walk her out.

Instead, when she leaves, he comes around the counter.

“You’re mad.”

“I’m unimpressed,” you correct.

“With her?” he asks.

“With you,” you admit.

Silence.

Then he steps closer. Not touching. But close enough that you feel him.

“I like you,” he says. “And you hate that.”

Your breath catches.

“I don’t hate that,” you whisper. “I hate that I still remember who you used to be.”

He softens.

“…Let me be someone better for you.”

Your voice drops. “You already are.”

He doesn’t kiss you right away even though he desperately wants to.

He waits.

And when you close the distance first?

Steve Harrington smiles like he’s just won something he never thought he deserved.

Hey, maybe Dustin was right after all. Maybe you would get married Steve certainly wouldn’t complain.

You’d gotten used to being at the Burrow.

It was chaos — noisy, warm, full of mismatched furniture and even more mismatched personalities — but somehow, it always felt like home. Being Ron Weasley’s best friend meant you spent half your free time there, especially during breaks. Mrs. Weasley insisted on it, and Ron never minded. The only problem?

Fred.

Fred Weasley, the embodiment of trouble, the human form of a smirk. He was everywhere — perched on countertops, sprawled across couches, always ready with a joke that left you groaning or blushing.

He teased you relentlessly. Constantly. You were convinced it was just his favorite pastime.

Like the first morning of the summer holidays.

You were sitting at the kitchen table, scribbling something in a notebook probably writing Ron‘s essay for him when Fred leaned over your shoulder, eyes scanning your writing.

“Blimey, Y/N,” he said, mock horror in his voice. “I can barely read that. Is this supposed to be English or a coded message for the Death Eaters?”

You turned sharply, nearly jabbing him with your quill. “It’s notes, Fred.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding solemnly. “From the looks of it, you’ll need a translation spell to read them later.”

“Go away.”

“But it’s fascinating!” He snatched the notebook from under your hand and held it up. “Look at this ‘g’ — looks like it’s running for its life.”

“Fred!”

He grinned, handing it back with an exaggerated bow. “Don’t worry, love. I still like you, even if your handwriting’s a war crime.”

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t like me.”

He smirked, and for a fleeting second — just a second — there was something softer in his eyes. “Don’t I?”

Before you could answer, George strolled in and smacked his twin on the shoulder. “Stop terrorizing Y/N, mate. She’s going to hex your eyebrows off again.”

You hid a smile behind your quill. Maybe you would. Or maybe this time you’d turn them pink.

It was the same kind of teasing at Hogwarts.

In the common room, Fred always managed to insert himself into your conversations with Ron. You’d be talking about Quidditch strategies or homework, and suddenly, a pair of long fingers would start combing through your hair.

“Fred,” you said one evening, trying to ignore the feeling of a braid forming behind your head. “What are you doing?”

“Helping,” he said innocently, still twisting strands between his fingers.

“Helping with what?”

“Your hair,” he said, his tone all too casual. “It was just sitting there, looking bored.”

Ron glanced up from his chessboard. “Mate, what are you doing to her hair?”

“Improving it,” Fred said.

“I swear, Fred,” you muttered, reaching back to swat his hand away.

He dodged it easily. “You’ll ruin my masterpiece, Y/N.”

“Fred,” you said again, warning in your voice.

He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “Relax. I’m an artist.”

You turned around — which only resulted in his half-finished braid falling apart. He looked mildly offended.

“Unbelievable,” he said. “You’ve destroyed it.”

“I didn’t ask for it in the first place!”

“Tragic,” he said dramatically. “My best work, gone before its time.”

Ron groaned. “You two are worse than mum and dad sometimes.”

“Oi!” you both said at once — and Fred broke into a grin at your synchronized outrage.

The teasing continued through everything.

At breakfast, he’d steal food off your plate, just to annoy you.

“Fred!” you snapped one morning as he snagged your toast right before you bit into it.

He just grinned, chewing obnoxiously. “You weren’t eating it fast enough.”

“That’s because you took it.”

“I’m saving you from cold toast, love. A noble act, really.”

“Then maybe save someone else next time.”

“Can’t,” he said, reaching for your pumpkin juice. “You’re my favorite victim.”

You huffed, shoving his hand away. “You’re impossible.”

But later that same morning, when you’d barely touched your lunch because you were upset about a Transfiguration essay, he quietly slid his plate over to you without a word.

You blinked down at the food. “Fred, you—”

“Eat,” he said simply. “Before Ron eats it for you.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he gave you a look — still teasing, but a little softer. You gave in.

It took everyone else about two days to realize that Fred Weasley was completely, hopelessly, and ridiculously in love with you.

Everyone except you.

To you, he was just Fred — the annoying twin who teased you about everything from your handwriting to your posture, who laughed when you got flustered, who seemed to pop up everywhere you went.

When Hermione hinted at it once, you’d laughed. “Fred? No, he just likes irritating me.”

Hermione had given you a look that was far too knowing. “You really can’t tell?”

“Tell what?”

She sighed. “Never mind.”

One rainy afternoon at the Burrow, you found yourself alone in the sitting room. The others were upstairs — Ginny doing homework, Ron and Harry probably playing chess, and Fred and George, you assumed, were plotting new inventions in their room.

You were curled up on the couch with a book when Fred appeared, leaning against the doorway.

“You look cozy,” he said, eyes glinting.

“I was,” you said without looking up. “Until you got here.”

“Ouch,” he said, clutching his chest dramatically. “You wound me.”

“Good.”

He came over anyway, plopping down beside you, far too close. You scooted away instinctively, but he just smirked. “I don’t bite, you know.”

“I’d argue that.”

He ignored that. “Whatcha reading?”

“Hogwarts: A History.”

“Thrilling.”

You looked up, finally smiling. “I like it.”

“Of course you do,” he said fondly. “You’d probably read a book about goblin tax laws and enjoy it.”

“I would not.”

“You would,” he said, grinning. “And you’d correct me if I said goblins don’t pay taxes.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help laughing. “You’re impossible.”

He watched you laugh, the teasing fading into something else — something quieter.

You didn’t notice.

Fred tilted his head, studying you for a moment, like he wanted to memorize every piece of that smile. “You know,” he said softly, “you’re a lot cuter when you’re not scowling at me.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He grinned again before you could answer. “Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re weird.”

“I prefer ‘mysterious.’”

“Sure you do.”

That evening, everyone gathered around the dinner table. Mrs. Weasley bustled about, Ron and Harry bickered over the last roll, and George was cracking jokes. You were sitting between Fred and Ginny when a sudden shout rang out from upstairs — followed by a loud bang.

“Fred! George! What have you done now?” Mrs. Weasley yelled from the kitchen.

George shot Fred a look. “You set it off too early!”

“I did not!” Fred said indignantly, jumping up from the table.

Mrs. Weasley pointed toward the stairs. “Upstairs! Both of you!”

Fred groaned, turning to you as he passed. “If I don’t survive this, remember me fondly.”

You smirked. “I’ll try not to.”

He winked. “That’s all I can ask.”

Later that night, when you were getting ready for bed in Ginny’s room, you heard a soft knock at the door. You opened it to find Fred standing there, hair tousled, still smelling faintly of gunpowder and soap.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry about dinner. Mum nearly hexed me into next week.”

You grinned. “You probably deserved it.”

“Probably,” he admitted. “But I did bring you something.”

He held up a small chocolate frog.

You blinked. “Is that supposed to be an apology?”

He grinned. “No. It’s a bribe.”

“For what?”

“ to get you to admit you like me”

You froze, the teasing tone in his voice only half masking something sincere underneath.

“I—”

He smiled wider, the charm flicking back into place before you could say anything. “Relax, Y/N. Just teasing.”

You rolled your eyes, heart pounding. “Of course you are.”

But when he handed you the frog, your fingers brushed — and for a second, neither of you moved.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said softly.

“Goodnight, Fred.”

As he walked away, you caught yourself smiling — and for the first time, you weren’t sure why.

You’d been at it for fifteen minutes. Fifteen long, humiliating minutes.

The rope slipped through your fingers again, the half-formed knot unraveling in your hands like it was mocking you laughing at the burns it was causing on your fingers. You let out a huff, brushing a loose strand of hair out of your face and glaring at the cord like it had personally volunteered to sponsor your death in the arena.

District 11 wasn’t known for their survival skills — at least not the fancy kind. You could set a few traps, handle a bow if you had to. But tying proper knots? That wasn’t exactly a part of daily life back home.

“Need a hand?”

You froze. You didn’t have to turn around to recognize the voice — low, lazy, smooth enough to make the Capitol swoon.

Finnick Odair.

Of course it was him.

You rolled your eyes and kept your back to him. “I’m fine.”

He chuckled softly, and you heard the click of his trident’s base against the floor as he walked closer. “Sure you are. That’s the third time you’ve tied what looks like a… very sad pretzel.”

You spun around. “Are you keeping count?”

“I keep count of everything,” he said, flashing that trademark grin — the one that probably made half the Capitol faint during his interviews. “Makes life more interesting.”

He stopped just in front of you, close enough for you to catch the faint scent of sea salt and something sweet — probably one of the Capitol’s expensive soaps. His bronze hair gleamed under the fluorescent training room lights, annoyingly perfect, and his eyes — that impossible sea-green — sparkled with mischief.

You tightened your grip on the rope. “Shouldn’t you be charming someone else?”

“I could,” he said easily. “But watching you struggle is much more entertaining.”

“Wow,” you deadpanned. “Such a gentleman.”

Finnick’s grin widened. “Oh, I can be. When I want to be for the right people.” He winked

You tried to go back to your knot, ignoring the way he lingered behind you. But his presence was hard to tune out — too confident, too self-assured. You tugged the rope again, and of course, it came apart in your hands.

“Alright,” he said with a sigh, stepping forward. “You’re going to get yourself strangled in the arena if you don’t learn this properly.”

You shot him a glare. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

He crouched beside you anyway, taking the rope from your hands like it was his now. “No,” he said, looping the cord around his fingers with practiced ease. “But I’m offering it. Consider it a kindness from District Four.”

You crossed your arms. “You mean the District of Arrogance?”

He laughed under his breath. “Careful. You might hurt my delicate feelings.”

He worked the rope effortlessly, his movements quick and sure — twist, loop, pull. The knot tightened neatly, solid and symmetrical. He held it up with a little flourish. “See? This one’s called a bowline. It won’t slip under pressure.”

You hated that you were impressed.

He caught your look and smirked. “You can admire me if you want. I don’t mind.”

“I’m admiring the knot,” you shot back.

“Of course you are.”

He held out the rope to you. “Your turn. Hands on mine.”

“What?”

“It’s easier to learn by feel,” he said, voice lowering just a touch — teasing, but not insincere. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite.” the look on his face told you he was lying. 

You hesitated, glaring at him for a long moment before finally placing your hands over his. His skin was warm and rough with calluses — from nets, not weapons. His fingers moved slowly, deliberately guiding yours through the motions.

“Loop under,” he murmured, his breath brushing your ear. “Over the top. Pull it through — gently.”

You followed, jaw tightening when the knot actually held together.

He grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “See? You’re a natural.”

You snorted. “You just don’t want me to die before I make you look bad.”

Finnick tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “I don’t think you could ever make me look bad.”

You pulled your hands away and stepped back, the rope falling loose between you. “You really don’t know when to stop flirting, do you?”

He grinned, all teeth and charm. “It’s one of my many talents.”

“Well, you can keep it.”

“I’d rather keep you,” he said smoothly.

You stared at him, incredulous. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Full of yourself.”

Finnick chuckled. “You think that’s all I am?”

You opened your mouth, but his tone — lighter than before, but edged with something genuine — stopped you. His gaze flicked briefly around the room — to where other tributes were sparring, throwing knives, climbing. For a second, you saw past the Capitol smile.

“People only see what they want to,” he said quietly. “I just give them what they expect.”

You didn’t know how to respond. The teasing mask slipped back into place almost immediately, his grin returning like it had never left.

“Well,” he said, tossing you the rope. “You’re better than I expected. Maybe I’ll have to watch out for you.”

You caught it, glaring to hide the faint warmth creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe you should.”

Finnick winked. “Good. I like a challenge.”

He turned to leave, the sound of his trident tapping against the floor echoing behind him. You rolled your eyes — but when you looked down, the perfect knot still held in your hands.

You hated to admit it, but maybe — just maybe — District 4 had taught you something useful.

And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t hate Finnick Odair as much as you thought you did you knew one thing for sure. You definitely didn’t hate that face or what was below it.

The rain hasn’t stopped in days. Jericho always feels heavier when it rains — like the clouds are trying to drown the town and wash away everything it’s seen. But some things don’t wash off.

You pull your sweater tighter, the sleeves still faintly smelling of cedar and the past, and try to focus on the sound of the storm instead of the thoughts clawing at you. You tell yourself you’ve stopped looking for him in the shadows — but when lightning cracks outside your window, your head still turns.

And tonight… there’s a shadow there.

At first, you think it’s your mind playing tricks. Then you see it again — a flicker of movement, limping, dragging. Your breath catches before you can stop it. You know that silhouette. You shouldn’t. You wish you didn’t.

By the time you open the door, he’s already there.

Tyler.

Soaked to the bone, bruised and bloodied, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them. There’s a gash on his temple, mud streaking his jaw, and his shirt clings to him like a second skin. The air between you crackles with something alive — something that shouldn’t be.

“Before you slam the door,” he rasps, voice rough, “just… please. Let me explain.”

You don’t move. You should — you should call someone, run, do anything but stare at him like you are. But the sight of him like this — broken, shivering, eyes glassy with something close to regret — roots you in place.

“What happened to you?” you whisper.

He laughs — a hollow, fractured sound that hurts to hear. “Wednesday the cockroach.She almost got me. Would’ve finished the job this time.” He looks at you like you’re the only thing holding him upright. “Guess I’m not as invincible as I thought.”

You hesitate. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah.” His lips twist, and he takes a slow step forward. “But I had nowhere else to go.”

The words sink like stones in your chest. You tell yourself you don’t care — that he’s dangerous, that you remember every scream, every lie. But when his eyes meet yours, you see something you weren’t ready for. Desperation. Loneliness. The kind that eats people alive.

“You shouldn’t pity me,” he murmurs, as if reading your thoughts. “I did this. All of it. The blood, the chaos, the lies. I don’t get to be forgiven.” He takes another step closer, close enough that you can smell the rain and iron on his skin. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your pulse stutters. “Tyler—”

“Don’t.” His hand lifts, trembling, like he wants to touch you but doesn’t trust himself. “Don’t say my name like that. It makes me forget what I am.”

You swallow hard. “And what are you?”

His lips twitch, a shadow of a smile — the kind that used to undo you. “A monster.” He exhales, eyes flickering over your face. “But even monsters need something to live for.”

You feel it then — the old pull between you, raw and magnetic. The same current that’s always been equal parts danger and desire. He’s close enough now that his breath brushes your skin.

“Tyler,” you whisper, “you can’t keep coming back.”

“I know,” he says softly. “But I don’t know how to stop.”

His fingers finally touch your wrist — light, almost reverent — and it burns like a memory you don’t want to let go of. You should pull away. You should slam the door. But you don’t. You just stand there, feeling his heartbeat race beneath the bruises.

“I don’t expect you to love me,” he murmurs, voice cracking. “Hell, I don’t even expect you to forgive me. But I needed you to know… even if everything I touch turns dark — you were the only thing that ever made me feel human.”

Rain lashes the windows. Thunder growls somewhere far off. You can’t tell if your heart hurts from fear or from the ache of what’s left between you.

He leans in, so close his lips barely graze your temple. “Even if I’m the monster,” he breathes, “I’ll always love you.”

Your heart’s racing more than you’d like to admit

“ we can be together. You’re the only person in this world I could never even think of hurting.” his words are barely audible as he brushes a thumb across your cheek

“ Tyler, how am I supposed to believe you”

He leans his head down his lips brushing yours

“ because you know me and let’s be honest I’m never letting you go”

You don’t know if you’re terrified or if you’ve fallen even more in love your heart shouldn’t be racing like you’ve just fallen from a skyscraper because the truth is

You’re in love with a monster 

The first time you realize Wednesday Addams has a strange way of caring for you, it’s over a scalpel.

Biology class is quiet, save for the faint scrape of blades against frog skin. Your lab partner is Enid, who looks like she might throw up if she stares at the frog for too long, and yet Wednesday keeps drifting toward your station like a shadow that refuses to leave you.

“Your technique is abysmal,” she says in that steady, flat voice, though her eyes don’t linger on Enid’s trembling hands — they find yours. “You hold the scalpel as if it were a pen. It should be a weapon.”

Before you can retort, she takes the scalpel from your fingers and adjusts your grip with cold precision. Her hand hovers over yours a second too long. Her touch is light, surgical. Deliberate.

You look up, and she’s already staring.

It should feel like a critique. Instead, it feels like something else entirely.

⸻

That’s how it begins — in pieces, in sharp little fragments of moments that don’t look like affection until you put them together.

Wednesday never says she likes you. She doesn’t even use the word like. What she does is slip a small, black velvet box into your hands a week later, outside the library. You expect jewelry. You get a dried tarantula leg, perfectly preserved.

“For you,” she says simply.

“Most people give flowers,” you murmur.

“Flowers rot,” Wednesday replies, her eyes unblinking. “This will outlast both of us.”

She leaves you standing in the hall, clutching it like it’s something priceless. And Maybe it is.

⸻

That’s only the beginning.

At fencing practice, you notice she cuts her opponents down mercilessly, but when she spars with you, her blade lingers, circles, teases. She lets you strike close enough that her breath hitches — not from fear, but from restraint.

When you brush past her in the corridor, her shoulder doesn’t yield; it anchors you. When your hair falls in front of your face during a late study session, she doesn’t ask — she simply tucks it back, fingers grazing your temple in a gesture so fleeting you wonder if you imagined it.

Even when her hand brushes yours when reaching for something she doesn’t pull away like you’ve burned her like you’ve seen her do before but never with you.

She looks at you like you’re a puzzle she’s already solved, but refuses to explain the answer.

⸻

And then there are the words.

To most, her tongue is sharp, unforgiving. To you, it cuts in different ways:

“You waste your time with them,” she says when she catches you walking with classmates she deems beneath you.

“You should wear darker colors. Light washes you out. I prefer you striking.”

“You eat too little. You’ll faint before anyone can kill you, which is unacceptable.”

“You should wear your hair down more often I must say I prefer it that way ”

Each one a critique, each one a kind of claim.

Each one lands deeper than any compliment could.

⸻

By the time you realize you’re not imagining it — that this is what Wednesday Addams looks like when she cares — it’s already too late. You’re in too deep, tangled in her contradictions, in the way her deadpan affections feel sharper, more consuming than anyone else’s declarations of love ever could.

And you don’t want out.



Sleep didn’t come easily after that night.

You lay awake, staring at the ceiling as the storm raged on, the memory of Tyler’s voice looping in your head like a curse you couldn’t shake. Every time you closed your eyes, you felt his hands against your skin, his body caging yours, the ghost of his lips hovering just above yours.

It wasn’t just the fear that kept you awake.

It was the way your heart had betrayed you, racing not just with terror but with something else — something far more dangerous.

Desire.

You hated yourself for it. You hated that when he whispered you’re mine, part of you had wanted to believe him. You hated that your body had shivered not just with dread but with longing. You hated that you still remembered what it felt like to love him.

And worst of all, you hated that you weren’t sure you ever really stopped.

The candle had burned down to a stub by the time you finally drifted into restless sleep.

Wednesday didn’t leave you alone the next day.

Her dark eyes followed you through classes, sharp and unyielding. She hadn’t said much after Tyler slipped through her fingers in your dorm — but you could feel the weight of her suspicion pressing down on you.

At lunch, she sat across from you, her fork untouched. “You’re hiding something.”

You froze mid-bite. “I’m not.”

“You reek of him.” Her tone was flat, her expression unreadable, but her words cut through you like glass. “His presence lingers on you like smoke. And you let him escape.”

You set your fork down, your throat tightening. “I didn’t let him do anything.”

Her gaze sharpened, studying every twitch of your face. “Then you froze. Which means you’re conflicted. Which means he’ll be back.”

A chill skated down your spine. You hated how certain she sounded. Hated how much you knew she was right.

It was two nights later when it happened again.

The storm had passed, leaving the night unnervingly still. You had slipped outside for air, your nerves restless, your dorm walls suffocating. The woods were quiet, moonlight dripping through the branches like silver blood.

You were halfway back to Nevermore when you felt it.

The prickle on the back of your neck. The weight of eyes. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but waiting.

“Out here all alone?”

His voice, smooth and dark, coiled through the trees.

You spun around, your pulse spiking. “Tyler.”

He stepped from the shadows like he belonged there, the moonlight catching in his wet curls, his lips curved in that maddening half-smirk. “Miss me?”

You backed up a step, but he moved forward, always keeping the distance small enough to make you feel cornered.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered.

“I told you I’d come back.” His eyes gleamed as he prowled closer. “Didn’t think I’d keep my word?”

Your fists clenched. “Get away from me.”

“Funny.” He tilted his head, his voice low and mocking. “ although you say that you don’t really it mean do you?”

Before you could move, he lunged.

In one smooth motion, your back hit the rough bark of a tree, his body pressing into yours, strong and unyielding. One of his hands pinned your wrists above your head, the other gripping your hip with a firmness that made your breath catch.

“You shouldn’t—” you began, but he cut you off, leaning in so close you felt his breath against your lips.

“I shouldn’t what? Touch you? Want you? Need you?” His smirk darkened. “Too late.”

You struggled against his grip, but he only held tighter, his chest pressed flush to yours, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “God, you drive me insane. Do you know what it’s like? To be locked away, beaten, chained, and all I can think about is you?”

“Stop—”

“No.” His hand slid from your hip up your side, slow, possessive, brushing the curve of your waist. “You can tell me you hate me all you want, but your body doesn’t lie. I can feel it.”

You gasped, furious at yourself, at him, at the heat pooling low in your stomach. “You’re sick.”

“And you still want me.” His mouth grazed your jaw, his tongue flicking lightly against your skin. “Say you don’t. Say it, and I’ll walk away right now.”

Your throat closed. You couldn’t.

His laugh was low, dangerous, triumphant. “That’s what I thought.”

For a moment, his grip softened, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth, achingly gentle.

“You remember, don’t you?” he whispered. “The nights we spent under the stars? The way you said my name like it meant something? The way you clung to me like I was the only thing keeping you alive?”

Your chest ached. The memories you tried to bury clawed to the surface, cruel and sweet.

“I still dream about it,” he confessed, his voice trembling just slightly, the obsession cracking to reveal raw need. “Even now. Especially now.”

“Tyler…” you whispered, torn, broken.

His grip tightened again, his forehead pressing to yours. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. And I don’t care if you hate me for it. I’d rather be your monster than nothing at all.”

His lips trailed down your neck, hot and desperate, his teeth grazing your skin. His hand slid down from your wrist, brushing along your thigh in a way that made your breath hitch violently.

“Do you know what I thought about every single night in that cell?” he murmured, his voice husky, darkly intimate. “Not freedom. Not revenge. You. How you taste. How you sound when I touch you.”

You shuddered, your knees weak, your body betraying you in ways your heart refused to accept.

“You still remember too,” he pressed, nipping lightly at your ear. “I can feel it. The way you’re trembling, the way your pulse is racing. You want me, even if you hate yourself for it.”

Your breath hitched. “Stop.”

“I can’t.” His voice broke, raw and desperate. “Not when it’s you.”

For just a heartbeat, the obsession faltered, and you saw him — not the Hyde, not the monster, but the boy you once loved.

His eyes shone with something softer, something broken. “You’re all I have left.”

Your heart clenched painfully. You hated him. You wanted him. You didn’t know where one feeling ended and the other began.

“Tyler…”

He leaned in, lips brushing yours, softer this time, a plea rather than a demand. “Please.”

Your lips parted, betraying you, the tiniest breath away from giving in—

“Y/N!”

Wednesday’s voice cut through the night like a blade.

You jolted, and Tyler growled softly, furious at the interruption. His grip lingered for one last second, possessive and desperate, before he pulled back, eyes burning into yours.

“This isn’t over,” he whispered, his voice low and dangerous. “Next time, nothing will stop me.”

And then he was gone, vanishing into the shadows before Wednesday appeared, her blade gleaming in the moonlight.

You slumped against the tree, your chest heaving, your lips tingling with the ghost of his almost-kiss.

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. “He was here again.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Could only feel the echo of his hands on your body, his words in your ears, his obsession seared into your skin.

Wednesday’s stare sharpened. “You’re going to have to choose. Hate him enough to kill him… or love him enough to let him destroy you.”

And the worst part was — you didn’t know which one terrified you more.

Isaac moved like a shadow across the cobblestone paths of Nevermore Academy, his boots whispering against stone. The campus was quiet at this hour, the lingering chatter of students retreating into dorms fading into an uneasy silence. He thrived in these moments — the gray twilight where the ordinary became almost malleable, bending beneath his will, where the edges of the world softened enough that someone like him could slip through unnoticed.

Isaac’s pale eyes scanned the dimly lit courtyard, not searching for faces or names he recognized. He wasn’t here for gossip or idle curiosity. He was here for the plan. He always had a plan. But even as he moved with purpose, he couldn’t help the way his attention occasionally drifted toward movement, toward life — toward something new, something unexpected.

And that’s when he saw you.

Not Wednesday. Not the girl who was already infamous for her darkness and biting wit the girl who his dark plan was revolved around. You. Standing beside her, speaking in low tones, tilting your head in a way that was entirely unselfconscious yet perfectly deliberate. Everything about you radiated an aura he couldn’t name, but it gripped him immediately, dragging his pulse into a frantic rhythm he hadn’t felt in a long time.

You were beautiful. Too beautiful. Dangerous in a way that wasn’t Wednesday’s calculated menace, but seductive and intoxicating all the same. Isaac froze, rooted in place as his gaze roamed over you like a predator appraising prey. Every motion you made — the slight arch of your brow, the curve of your lips as you whispered something — sent a shiver through him that was entirely physical, entirely primal.

Isaac’s thoughts darkened almost instantly, spiraling into places he knew were wrong, filthy, and yet entirely irresistible. He imagined the soft skin of your neck under his fingertips, the feel of your hair sliding between his hands, tugged just enough to make you whimper. He imagined the curve of your lips opening for him in ways you weren’t meant to, ways that would make your eyes widen with a mixture of fear and pleasure, your body pressed impossibly close to his own.

His breath hitched. He hated that he was already captivated, hated that his mind refused to obey the rules of decency or reason. And yet, the thought of you, so near and so achingly unaware of him, consumed him utterly.

Isaac’s hands twitched at his sides. He wanted to reach out, to take, to claim. Not violently — not yet — but with the kind of possessiveness that made his stomach knot. He imagined you leaning back into him willingly, your voice low, breathless, murmuring things that would only feed his obsession further. The image alone made his teeth clench, his pulse hammering in his ears.

The plan, the mission he had been so careful to rehearse, fell away entirely. All that remained was you. You, in your effortless beauty, speaking to Wednesday of all people, laughing softly, oblivious to the storm you had just ignited.

Isaac began to move again, silently, deliberately, keeping to the shadows as he followed your steps from a distance. Every gesture you made, every subtle tilt of your head, was cataloged in his mind, filed away and twisted into fantasies that were far too explicit to admit to anyone — even himself. He imagined tracing the line of your jaw with his fingers, tasting the smoothness of your skin, the gasp you’d make if he pressed you up against the nearest wall.

The way you laughed, the way your hair fell just so — everything about you was a siren’s call to him. Isaac’s thoughts grew more unrestrained, slipping into places where desire became hunger and obsession merged with a dangerous kind of worship. He imagined pulling your body close to his, feeling the soft weight of you against him, and hearing the little sounds you would make under his touch. He imagined the heat of your skin, the smell of you, intoxicating and irresistible, and he savored it in his mind like a dark feast.

Isaac’s eyes followed you relentlessly, drinking in every detail. Even when you shifted your gaze briefly toward him, as though sensing a presence — just a flicker of acknowledgment — he froze, heart hammering, not daring to reveal how aware he was. To be noticed, even for a second, was both a thrill and a danger he relished.

He began to calculate possibilities, subtle ways to close the distance without alarming you. Each option made his pulse quicken. He imagined brushing past you in the hallway, his hand grazing yours, watching the shiver run up your arm. He imagined whispering your name in a voice low and possessive, so that only you could hear it, pulling you into his orbit without resistance. His fantasies were explicit, indulgent, obsessive — every one of them spinning a tighter web of control around your image in his mind.

And still, he didn’t move too close. That would be reckless. The thrill was in the slow burn, in the careful, deliberate watching. Isaac thrived on anticipation, on the exquisite tension of what could be if he allowed his desires to stretch just a little further. He imagined you alone in a hallway, the dim light catching the shimmer of your hair, the curve of your body just so, and the thought made him ache. He imagined pressing himself against you from behind, your lips catching the shock of his touch, your body yielding in ways that were incomprehensible and thrilling all at once.

Isaac’s obsession deepened with every step you took. Every motion became a study — every laugh, every glance, every subtle tilt of your head cataloged and twisted into fantasies of intimacy and domination. He imagined cornering you against the cold stone walls of the academy, tracing the line of your body with his hands, tasting the swell of your lips, hearing the soft moans he had already planted in his mind.

And all the while, he never blinked. He never looked away. You were his, in every way that mattered to him — not yet in reality, but in every thought, every fantasy, every dark corner of his mind where you had already succumbed to him.

Isaac Night had always been patient, methodical, and dangerous. But now, with you in his sight, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time: a consuming, all-encompassing desire that blurred the lines between obsession and possession. He would wait. He would watch. He would let this hunger simmer until the moment he could finally act.

And when that moment came, you would be his.

The rain had been falling all evening. The kind of storm that seeped into your bones, that pressed against the ancient stone walls of Nevermore until it felt like the whole school was sighing under the weight of it.

You sat curled on your bed in your dorm room, candlelight flickering against the damp panes of glass. Books were scattered across your blankets, but you hadn’t been reading. Not really. Your eyes followed the words, but your mind trailed somewhere darker, somewhere you wished it wouldn’t go.

Somewhere with him.

Tyler Galpin.

The name still tasted like betrayal. Sweet, bitter, poisonous.

You remembered the warmth of his smile, the boy you thought he was, the boy who had made you laugh under the moonlight and held your hand like it was something fragile and precious. You remembered falling in love with him, every stolen glance, every whispered confession.

And then you remembered the Hyde. The monster. The way everything shattered when you realized he had been lying to you the whole time. planning on murdering your friends. 

Your chest tightened. You hated him. You hated what he’d done, what he was. And yet—

The thought of him still clawed at you in the quiet moments. A ghost that lingered even when you screamed at yourself to let it go.

You pressed your palms into your eyes, groaning softly. Get over it. He’s gone. He’s dangerous. He’s not yours anymore. If he ever was.

The storm rattled the window. You tried to ignore it. You tried to bury the ache in your chest. You almost succeeded.

Until you heard the soft scrape.

A sound that didn’t belong to the rain.

Your head snapped up. The window latch trembled, slow and deliberate, and then the pane creaked inward. A draft of cold air swept in, making your candle flicker violently.

And then—

A figure pulled himself through the window, dripping with rain, moving with the kind of confidence that froze the blood in your veins.

Your heart stopped.

Tyler.

He stood in the candlelight, taller, sharper than the last time you’d seen him. His clothes clung to him from the storm, dark curls plastered to his forehead. His eyes—those piercing, storm-gray eyes you had once trusted—locked on you immediately.

“Miss me?”

The words were casual, but his voice… God, his voice carried something that made your stomach drop. Low, husky, threaded with something dangerous. Something hungry.

You stumbled off the bed, heart slamming against your ribs. “What—how—” Your throat tightened. “You’re supposed to be—”

“Locked up?” He smirked, stepping closer, water dripping from his jaw. “Yeah. Didn’t exactly suit me.”

You backed away, your legs bumping the edge of your desk. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“And yet,” he drawled, taking another step. His gaze dragged over you, shameless, deliberate, making your skin burn. “Here I am.”

Every instinct screamed at you to run. But your body betrayed you, frozen in place, shivering under his stare.

“What do you want?” you whispered.

His smile widened, slow and wolfish. “You.”

The single syllable hung heavy between you. You shook your head, pulse racing. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” He tilted his head, watching you like prey. “Or maybe I just know exactly what I want. And I always have you used to like that about me right? my quiet ambition.”

He moved closer, and you darted to the side, but he was faster. His arm slammed against the wall beside your head, caging you in. His body was dangerously close, heat radiating off him despite the rain clinging to his clothes.

“Get away from me,” you hissed, your palms pushing against his chest. His heart pounded hard under your touch, strong and unyielding.

He leaned in, voice brushing your ear. “Careful. Say it like you mean it.” His breath was warm against your skin, sending a shiver straight down your spine.

You swallowed hard, hating yourself for the way your body reacted. For the way part of you remembered exactly what it felt like to melt into his arms.

“I hate you,” you spat.

“Liar.” His laugh was soft, dark, curling around you like smoke. His hand slid down, wrapping firmly around your wrist, pinning it to the wall. “You can hate me all you want. Doesn’t change the way you’re shaking.”

You tried to jerk free, but his grip only tightened. “You’re a monster.”

“And you loved me anyway besides your no angel at least not on the inside” he ran a finger down your jaw His eyes gleamed, too close, too intense. “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you don’t still think about me when you can’t sleep.”

Your chest heaved. Anger warred with something you refused to name. “You don’t know me anymore.”

“Oh, I know you.” His free hand brushed against your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His thumb traced your bottom lip, slow, deliberate. “Better than anyone.”

You shivered. “Stop.”

He smirked. “ you tell me to stop But you’re not pulling away, are you?”

His voice dropped lower, darker. “Do you know how many nights I thought about this? About you? Locked up, bleeding, broken—and all I wanted was to see you again. To touch you. To remind you that you’re mine.”

“I’m not yours,” you snapped, though your voice wavered.

His grin widened. “That’s the cutest lie you’ve told yet.”

He pressed closer, his body pinning yours against the wall, his lips hovering just above yours. “I could make you remember. Every second. Every kiss. Every sound you made when you thought we had forever.”

Your breath hitched, heat pooling low in your stomach against your will. “You’re disgusting.”

“And yet,” he murmured, his mouth grazing your jaw, “your heart is racing like it used to when you wanted me.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, fury and longing tearing you apart. “I could scream.”

“Go ahead,” he said softly, lips ghosting down your neck. “See who comes first. Wednesday? We both know she won’t get here in time.” His tongue brushed your pulse, quick and wicked, making you shudder. “ she won’t be the one who comes first you will.”

His hand left your wrist only to slide down your side, firm, possessive, making you gasp. His other hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back.

“You can hate me all you want,” he whispered, his mouth brushing yours. “But I’ll always love you. Obsess over you. Break for you. You’re mine. Always have been. Always will be.”

Your lips parted, words failing you, your body betraying you with the smallest lean forward—

The door burst open.

“Y/N?”

Wednesday’s voice cut through the haze like a blade.

You gasped, shoving at Tyler’s chest, but he was already moving. He shot you one last burning look, a smirk that promised unfinished business.

Then he vaulted toward the window, slipping out into the storm with fluid, predatory grace.

By the time Wednesday strode across the room, blade in hand, he was gone.

Your chest heaved, your back pressed to the wall as though you could still feel his hands, his breath, his lips almost touching yours.

Wednesday narrowed her eyes. “He was here.”

You nodded, unable to speak, every nerve in your body still trembling with a cocktail of terror and longing you didn’t want to name.

Her gaze sharpened. “And you let him leave.”

You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms, trying to ground yourself. “I didn’t let him do anything.”

But your lips still burned. And your heart—traitorous, weak—was still beating his name.

Scene One — The Threat

The Gryffindor team was trudging off the pitch, sweat and grass stains painting their robes. You lingered at the edge of the path, scarf wound proudly around your neck, waiting for the right moment.

Fred Weasley, broom slung across his shoulder, looked like he didn’t have a care in the world. Typical.

You smirked as you passed him, eyes sharp as a blade.

“Enjoy the air while you can, Weasley. Tomorrow’s game will have you dead and buried.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and you’d only taken three steps before his voice, loud and lazy, carried after you:

“…And bricked.” he whistled 

You froze, blood rushing to your cheeks before you caught yourself. George barked a laugh. Fred just leaned against the wall, grinning like a wolf who’d cornered his prey.

You kept walking, forcing your lips not to curve—but your heart was beating far too fast for your liking.

⸻

Scene Two — Breakfast Banter

The next morning, you strolled into the Great Hall, head high, and deliberately slid onto the bench opposite him. Fred looked up from his toast, eyebrow raised.

“You lost, serpent?” he drawled.

“Just checking to see if you’d choke before the match,” you replied sweetly, reaching for a croissant. “Would be such a shame if you went down early.”

Fred leaned forward, eyes flicking down and then back up to your face, his smirk pure sin.

“Don’t worry, love. I’ve got stamina. Lasts me all night.”

“ besides” he continued shrugging innocently “I’m not usually the one choking”

You nearly dropped your fork. George coughed into his pumpkin juice. Across the table, Lee Jordan muttered, “Merlin’s beard.”

You only tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Shame no one’s willing to test that theory.”

Fred’s grin widened. “Careful. Sounds like an invitation.”

⸻

Scene Three — Potions Pairing

Of course Snape, in his infinite cruelty, paired you with a Weasley twin for the day. And not the tolerable one.

“Don’t mess this up, Weasley,” you muttered, sliding the powdered root his way. “Blow the mixture wrong and it’ll go off in your face.”

Fred’s eyes glinted, his voice pitched low enough for only you to hear.

“Not the first time I’ve had something blow in my face, sweetheart if you get what I mean.”

You nearly dropped the vial. “You’re vile.”

“Vile,” he repeated, smirking, “but you’re smiling.”

⸻

Scene Four — Hallway at Midnight

You caught him sneaking back after a prank gone sideways, soot streaking his jaw. Arms crossed, you blocked the corridor.

“You planning to clean yourself up,” you asked, lips twitching, “or do you always like looking filthy?”

Fred didn’t miss a beat. He stepped closer, until you had to tilt your chin to meet his eyes.

“Depends,” he murmured. “Do you like me filthy?”

Your mouth went dry. He winked and sauntered past, leaving you with a racing heart and no comeback.

⸻

Scene Five — Match Day

The Quidditch pitch roared with noise. House colors blurred in the stands. You locked eyes with Fred across the field, both mounted on your brooms.

“You’re going down, Weasley!” you shouted over the crowd.

His answering grin was wicked. “Funny, that’s exactly what I was hoping to do later” 

Throughout the match, he never missed a chance. Flying past you with a wink. Brushing just close enough your knees nearly touched. When you narrowly dodged a Bludger, he called, “Nice reflexes, sweetheart! Bet you’re that quick in bed too!”

You almost lost your grip on the broom.

⸻

Scene Six — After the Game

The match ended—Gryffindor won by a hair, thanks to Harry’s impossible catch. You were fuming, storming toward the exit when Fred appeared at your side, still flushed from the game.

“Careful, snake,” he teased, falling into step beside you. “You’ll give yourself wrinkles frowning like that.”

You shot him a glare. “Don’t flatter yourself, Weasley.”

“Oh, I don’t have to,” he said easily, leaning down until his breath brushed your ear. “You do it for me every time you look at me like that.”

You froze, caught off guard by how close he suddenly was—how serious. But then he smirked again, pulling back just enough to keep you guessing.

“You know,” he added, gaze dipping deliberately once more, “for enemies, we’re awfully good at flirting.”

Your stomach swooped, though you forced yourself to scoff. “In your dreams.”

Fred’s grin was pure challenge. “Every night, darling. Like clockwork.”

Just when you thought it was over, he turned to face you again

“ by the way, I was right with what I said earlier watching you on that broom totally bricked up”

You were sure your face blushed redder than his hair