ophelia's storage

Just a week ago, things were simple. Steve had Nancy Wheeler. Pretty, smart, the kind of girl everyone expected him to like.

But then there was you.

He didn't know much about you besides the fact that you sat behind him in history and would sometimes let him copy your notes after a long weekend. He didn't even remember the very first time he noticed you. He just remembered the moment he realized you were suddenly…everywhere. Already looking at him before he would look at you.

And Steve tried to ignore it. He tried to keep his head on Nancy.

Nancy, the safe choice. The obvious choice. The girl he had pined over for months, and the girl he should be happy with. 

But every time Nancy drifted towards Jonathan, every time she pulled away from Steve even a little, he found himself turning towards you instead. And you were always right there, offering kindness without asking for anything, laughing at his idiotic jokes, softening his edges until he forgot he had them…

But while Steve was sitting there, completely zoned out of this class, all he could think about was Nancy's argument over Barb going missing, Jonathan's stupid photos...

Seeing them sat together on her bed last night after she declined plans with him. Wearing his jacket. His arm around her. 

The bell rings, ripping him out of his thoughts, and he watches you start packing your things.  "Are you busy tonight?"  Steve blurts the words out before he could even stop himself.

You freeze, your hand halfway to your bag, the zipper caught between your fingers. The words hang in the air, sharp and unexpected, and for a second you wonder if you had imagined them. But Steve is looking right at you, his expression caught somewhere between nervous and determined, like he’s already regretting saying it but can’t take it back.

Your heart stutters. For weeks, you’ve watched him with Nancy, watched him smile at her in ways that made you feel invisible. And yet, every time she drifted toward Jonathan, every time she pulled away, his eyes found yours. You had noticed but, told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That you were just a classmate. That you were just…there.

But now, he’s asking you. Not Nancy. You.

You swallow, trying to keep your voice steady, though your pulse is anything but. “No,” You say softly, meeting his gaze. “I’m not busy.”

Steve's shoulders relax just a fraction at your answer, like he'd been holding his breath this whole time. He quickly looks away, suddenly very interested in adjusting the strap of his backpack, anything to avoid seeing how you're reacting.

"Cool," he says, trying way too hard to sound casual. His voice cracks slightly on the word and he mentally curses himself for it. 

He risks another glance at you while pretending to organize papers that don't need organizing. The classroom is emptying around them but Steve doesn’t move from his seat, like if he stands up now this moment might end.

A beat passes where neither of you speaks before Steve blurts out again, "Do...do you wanna maybe get food or something?" 

You let the silence stretch just long enough for him to squirm, then tilt your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Food sounds good,” you say, steady but soft, like you’re giving him permission to breathe again.

The tension in Steve's body uncoils all at once, his entire face lighting up with relief, like he'd been braced for rejection and now can't believe it didn't come. 

"Yeah?" he asks, voice too eager before he reins it back in. He clears his throat and attempts to play it cooler, "I mean...yeah. Great." 

He finally stands up, too fast, nearly knocking over his chair, and grabs both your bags without thinking (a habit from carrying Nancy's stuff). 

“Guess you’re full-service now,” you tease lightly, not snatching the bag back, letting him carry it if he wants to.

Steve blinks, momentarily stunned out of his nervous state, then grins sheepishly, his relief growing at your easy banter. 

"Yeah, well," he shrugs, readjusting both bags on his shoulders as he starts walking towards the door, "I'm a man of many talents."

You can’t help the laugh that slips out, shaking your head at his attempt to play it off. He’s trying so hard to sound smooth, but the sheepish grin on his face betrays him.

“Talents, huh?” you tease, falling into step beside him as the two of you head toward the door. “Carrying bags, tripping over chairs…what else you got?”

The hallway hums with voices and lockers slamming shut, but it feels like the world has narrowed to just the two of you

Steve pretends to think about it for a moment, rubbing his chin thoughtfully before a smirk spreads across his face. "Well, let's see...I'm a pretty decent basketball player," he starts, his steps falling into time with yours. "Great hair, obviously," He flashes a cocky grin, running a hand through his styled-to-perfection locks as if to emphasize the point. 

"And..." He lowers his voice and leans in close so that only you can hear, the hallway noise fading into background static. "I'm really good at making pretty girls laugh."

For a second, you almost laugh—because it’s such a Steve Harrington thing to say—but then the reminder hits you like a weight.

Nancy.

Your smile falters just a little, enough for him to notice if he’s paying attention. “Pretty girls, huh?” You murmur, tilting your head toward him. “Shouldn’t you be saving those lines for Nancy?”

Steve’s eyes flicker, caught off-guard by the sudden change in tone. He sees the subtle shift in your voice, the slight hesitation. The way you subtly pull back. The way you bring up Nancy. 

His cocky facade falters too, and for a moment he looks slightly guilty. He knows exactly what you're referring to. He lets out a humorless chuckle. "Yeah. Right. Nancy."

You feel the name settle between you like a stone, heavier than his laugh could disguise. The sharp edge of it cuts through the easy banter, reminding you of everything that still ties him to her.

That easy banter is gone now, replaced by an uncomfortable silence as you both walk down the packed hallway, surrounded by people oblivious to the tension between you. 

Steve glances at you briefly, his gaze flicking over you like he's trying to gauge your reaction. But your face is neutral, giving him no clues. He's not sure if you're mad or disappointed or...something else. 

His shoulders hunch a bit, and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his usual confident stride turning into something more like...guilt-ridden shuffle.

By the time the two of you push through the doors and the cool air hits, the noise of the hallway fades, replaced by the quiet hum of the parking lot. 

Steve seems to relax at the sudden absence of noise, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. He walks over to a shiny red BMW parked at the edge of the lot, glancing at you to see if you follow. 

He puts your bags in the backseat before turning back to you with a forced casualness, his hands jammed in his pockets again. "So, uh, any preferences for food?" 

There's a hint of hesitation there, the easy flow of banter absent now, replaced with an unspoken awareness of what you brought up. Of Nancy.

You shift your weight, crossing your arms as you look at him. “Anything sounds fine,” you say, steady but quiet, then add, “but Steve…you’re still with Nancy.”

The words come out softer than an accusation, but they carry the truth he’s trying so hard to ignore. You see the way his jaw tightens, the flicker of guilt in his eyes. He wants this to be simple, wants it to be easy, but it isn’t. Not when everyone knows Nancy Wheeler is still his girlfriend, even if she’s always with Jonathan now, even if she’s pulling further away.

You glance at the bags he tossed in the backseat, then back at him. “So what is this, really?” you ask, your voice low, not cruel but not letting him off the hook either. “A hangout because she’s busy…or something else?”

Steve lets out a sigh, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He knows exactly what you're getting at, what you're implying. And he can't argue with it. 

"It's not...I don't know," he grumbles, kicking a pebble in the parking lot, avoiding your gaze. "It's just..."

He looks back at you now, his eyes filled with conflicting emotions - guilt, frustration, confusion, something that almost looks like desperation. "Nancy and I..."

He trails off again, unable to find the words.

You swallow, forcing yourself to hold his gaze even though it hurts. “Steve,” you say quietly, steady but not unkind. “If you don’t know where you stand with her…then you shouldn’t be standing here with me.”

The words taste bitter, but they’re the truth. You can’t be the distraction, the in-between, the person he turns to when Nancy isn’t there. And yet, even as you say it, you feel the pull—the way his eyes linger on you, the way his silence begs you not to walk away. 

And you should've said this back in the classroom, but you were so caught off guard, you didn't.

Your words hit him like a punch in the gut, the harsh truth of them landing right where it hurts. He knows you're right—he knows. 

He takes a step towards you, the space between you growing even smaller, his voice a pleading whisper.

"I know, okay? I know, but…I can't stop thinking about you. You're the one I look for in a crowd, the one I want to talk to when something good happens. Every time Nancy pulls away, every time I see her with Jonathan, it-"

“Steve…don’t you see?” you whisper, the weight of it pressing heavy between you. “She’s already halfway gone. Every time she’s with Jonathan, every time she chooses him over you - it’s not just friendship anymore. She’s giving pieces of herself to him that should still be yours.”

Steve flinches like you've slapped him, the words cutting deeper than he wants to admit. His throat works around nothing for a second, because yeah, of course he sees it. He's seen it.

He remembers Nancy laughing at one of Jonathan's stupid jokes last week, how her fingers lingered when she handed him his jacket back after wearing it all night. The way she used to save every smile for him and now...not so much.

His chest aches with something raw and painful that he doesn’t even have a name for yet, betrayal? Fear? The sinking realization that maybe Nancy stopped loving him weeks ago without bothering to tell him directly?

"I know," Steve finally admits in a hollow voice, staring down at the pavement between your feet like if looks hard enough there'll be an answer written there. "I just…didn't wanna believe it."

You shift slightly, the pavement cool beneath your shoes, and force yourself to hold his gaze even when he won’t look up. “Steve,” you say quietly, steady but not unkind. “You already know. You’ve known for a while. Pretending otherwise doesn’t change what’s happening.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair again, frustrated and overwhelmed by the harsh truth of your words. A part of him wants to snap back, to tell you to stop saying all this, to stop being so damn right all the time and just…let him be in denial for a little longer. 

But another part, a quiet little part that's been growing louder these past few weeks, knows you're right. 

He finally looks up, his gaze meeting yours again, weary and weary and desperate. "What the hell do I do?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You take a step closer, not unkind, but firm. “Figure out what you want. Figure out who you want. And then…be honest. With her. With me. With yourself.”

The silence that follows is heavy, his eyes searching yours for something

Steve's shoulders slump under the weight of your words, the harsh reality settling in. He opens his mouth to speak but the words seem lodged in his throat. You're right...he knows you're right. But the thought of confronting Nancy, of facing the truth that's been staring him right in the face…

He swallows hard, his gaze never leaving yours. There's a mix of resignation and something else, something he can't quite place.

"And what if I already know who I want?" he murmurs.

You shift your weight, arms tightening across your chest as you try to steady yourself. “Then you need to be honest about it,” you say softly, though your voice doesn’t waver. “With her. With me. With yourself. If you already know who you want, Steve, then stop pretending Nancy’s still the answer.”

Steve takes a deep breath, the simple truth of your words hitting him hard. He looks at you, really looks at you, the way you stand there, shoulders back, every inch of you strong and steady. 

He wants to protest, to find some reason to argue or dismiss it all, but he can't. He's tried so hard to hold onto Nancy lately, to keep things the way they used to be, but he knows it's hopeless. 

He lets out a bitter laugh, scrubbing a hand over his face. "When did you get so damn smart?"

You feel the corner of your mouth twitch, not quite a smile, more like a reaction to the bitterness in his laugh. His words hang in the air, heavy but edged with something almost tender, like he’s trying to deflect the weight of the moment with humor.

You shift your stance, arms still crossed, and tilt your head at him. “Smart? No,” you say quietly, steady but firm. “Just not willing to lie the way you’ve been lying to yourself.”

Steve takes another step towards you, closing the space between you further. He stares down at you, his gaze roaming your face. He's torn between wanting to argue and wanting to agree. Between wanting to hold onto the familiar comfort of Nancy, even if it's hollow now, and wanting to grab on to the solidity he sees in you.

"You've always seen right through me," he mutters, a hint of self-deprecating humor in his voice. "It's irritating."

Your voice softens as you speak, “You don’t get to pretend with me, Steve. Not about Nancy. Not about what you want. Not about any of it.”

Steve lets out a tired sigh, the fight slowly fading out of him. Your words cut through his defenses, straight to the core. He knows you're right. 

His gaze flicks to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and the conflict in his expression is almost palpable.

"I don't know what the hell I'm doing," he admits, voice raw with frustration and something that sounds like longing. "I feel like I'm losing my damn mind lately."

You don’t move, don’t break the silence, just let him stand there with it. Because in this moment, it’s not about fixing anything or giving him answers, it’s about the way he’s looking at you, like he’s searching for something solid to hold onto while everything else slips away.

Steve's gaze flicks over your face, taking in the details he'd never noticed before. The way your eyelashes flutter when you blink. The faint freckle near the corner of your mouth. Even the way your shoulders square, strong and unwavering despite the weight of his words. 

Without even realizing it, his hand reaches out, his thumb lightly brushing the freckle near your mouth. It hovers there for a second, just barely touching your skin, a silent question.

Your breath catches, the world narrowing to that single point of contact. The parking lot, the car, the noise of students spilling out behind you, it all fades until it’s just him, standing too close, looking at you like you’re the answer he’s been circling around but never brave enough to name.

You don’t pull back, not yet. Instead, you let the silence stretch, your eyes locked on his, making him feel the weight of the choice he’s reaching for. Because if he wants this, if he wants you - then he has to be the one to say it.

Steve's breath hitches when you don’t pull away. His thumb stills against your skin, as if he’s waiting for you to stop him waiting for any sign that this isn't okay.

But there isn’t one.

And the realization hits him like a freight train, you’re letting me do this.

His heart pounds so loud he swears it echoes in the quiet space between you two. He swallows hard, his chest tight with nerves and hope all tangled up together.

"You…" Steve starts, then stops himself. His hand trembles slightly where it hovers near your face, like touching someone who actually matters is scarier than anything else in his life right now.

“I…?” You prompt him. 

"You're…not stopping me," Steve whispers, the words tumbling out before he can even really process them. 

His brain is suddenly blank, all of his usual suave confidence gone in the face of the truth. Here you are, letting him stand closer than friends should, letting him touch you like he's got any right to, and you're just…letting him.

He's waiting for the other shoe to drop. He's certain you're going to push him away and walk off and call him an idiot. 

But you don't.

Your breath hitches at the way his words tumble out, raw and uncertain, and you let the silence hang for a beat before answering.

“Maybe I’m not stopping you because…part of me doesn’t want to,” you admit quietly, your voice steady but softer than before. You tilt your head just slightly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “But that doesn’t mean this is simple, Steve.”

The reality check slams into him. He knows damn well it isn’t simple. Not with Nancy still technically his girlfriend, not when she’s probably off with Jonathan right now wearing his jacket again.

“Dinner,” he says finally, the word almost too casual, but his voice betrays him. There’s a heaviness there, a quiet shift that makes it clear this isn’t just about food anymore.

He nods toward the passenger side of his car, his BMW, shiny and stupidly expensive, something that usually makes people look at him with awe. But right now? He couldn’t care less about impressing anyone.

"Get in?" It comes out more like a question than an invitation. Like he's giving you one last chance to say no, to walk away before this goes any further down a road there's no coming back from.

Steve pauses, his hand hovering over the passenger door handle. He hesitates for a brief, almost panicked moment, his mind racing with doubts and excuses and a hundred reasons why this is a bad idea.

But then his eyes land on you, on the way you're looking at him. On the way you're so goddamn steady while everything else is crumbling around him. 

DEAN GOT OUT OF THE BACKSEAT, STRECHING HIS LEGS and letting out a low groan, clearly grateful to be out of the backseat. Dean got out of the backseat, stretching his legs and letting out a low groan, clearly grateful to be out of the cramped backseat. Sam followed suit, his expression was serious and focused.

"Right, let's see what we can find." he agreed, his eyes scanning the surroundings.

The three of them headed towards the entrance of the carnival, passing by people in bright costumes and groups of children and their parents. The place was lively, music playing and laughter everywhere they looked.

Dean's gaze flicked around the crowd, looking for anything out of the ordinary. "So, you mentioned a 'clown' the little girl saw." he said to Ophelia. "Any idea what it looks like?"

Ophelia shook her head slightly. “When the cops interviewed her, she said he just looked like a friendly clown.” She paused at the ticket booth, looking back at the two men. “Clearly she was wrong.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance, both of them thinking the same thing. Dean spoke up first, "This is gonna be fun." he said sarcastically. Sam rolled his eyes, clearly used to his brother's tendency for sarcasm. "Yeah, real fun." he retorted, his expression slightly exasperated.

The man behind the ticket booth looked skeptical as she explained her situation. "I'm sorry ma'am, but only paying customers are allowed in." He seemed to be the kind of worker who was strictly following the rules, not budging at her mention of being a private detective or working with the police.

She looked back at Sam and Dean, muttering, "Can you believe this guy?" She turned back, sighing. "How much for the three of us?"

"Thirty." the ticket booth worker said simply.

Dean rolled his eyes, digging into his pocket for cash. "Thirty bucks for us to walk around and look for creepy clown? What a great deal." he muttered sarcastically

Ophelia tried not to snicker, but her lip twitched up into a slight smile at Dean's comment. She dug three ten dollar bills out from her pocket. 

Sam nodded at the guy, saying a simple "Thanks." Ophelia said nothing, as she took the tickets and got her hand stamped. Then, she walked in. 

Dean followed her inside, his eyes darting around at the sights and sounds around them. Sam closed the gap between them, a worried expression on his face. "You get the feeling this place is off?" he whispered to her.

"Well yeah," Ophelia said with a slight scoff. "some killer clown followed a family home and killed them. I'd say that's off." She was looking around.

"Yeah, I guess that's a fair point." Sam agreed, his gaze shifting to scan the area as well. Dean, however, seemed to be a bit distracted. He was watching Ophelia curiously, almost admiringly.

"I suppose we should go talk to the owner." She didn't seem to notice Dean's gaze, or maybe she just didn't care.

Sam nodded in agreement. "That seems like the logical first step." Dean finally broke his gaze from her, trying to appear more serious now "Right, yeah." 

The three of them began making their way through the crowded carnival, looking for any sign that could lead them to the owner. Ophelia spotted a knife thrower next to a few other carnival booths. She gestured to the guy to Sam and Dean. "He can't see yet I haven't seen him miss the target once."

Sam's eyes snapped to where she was gesturing. He studied the knife thrower for a moment, noticing how he never seemed to miss. "That's...impressive." he said, his brow furrowing in thought. Dean, on the other hand, seemed more amused tan anything else, "Or suspicious." he added, his expression showing a hint of skepticism.

Ophelia keeps her eyes on the blind man for a few moments before catching up to Sam and Dean, who were now a bit aways from her - trying to find the owner. "I swear, this entire place feels..." Sam trailed off, his expression uneasy.

Dean nodded, his eyes scanning the area. "Yeah, there's something off about it."

"Should we scan for spirits?" Sam suggested, keeping his voice down - Ophelia still was catching up to them. Dean agreed. "Keep it hidden from detective hottie-" He looked over his shoulder at Ophelia walking up to them, she looked focused.

Dean's comment hung in the air for a moment, and Sam shot him a disapproving glance - clearly not approving of his use of terms to describe their temporary partner.

As Ophelia caught up to them, Sam quickly changed the subject. "Any ideas where to start looking?" he asked, his gaze scanning the area.

"I'd guess back at the trailers?" She suggested. "Worth a shot." Sam nodded in agreement.  

Dean shrugged, "Might as well."  

The three of them made their way towards the trailers at the back of the carnival. The sounds of screams and laughter from the rides and games faded as they entered a quieter, less crowded area.

As they reached the trailers, they saw a few staff members going in and out of the trailers carrying boxes and supplies. There were several trailers, all of them bearing different numbers.  

"Let's split up and ask around," Sam suggested. "We'll cover more ground that way." Dean nodded, "Right, we can regroup here in about twenty. That sound good?" he inquired. Ophelia seemed slightly hesitant but, she agreed in the end. "Fine. We'll meet at the ferris wheel when we're done." And she headed back in the other direction. 

Sam nodded, "Alright, sounds like a plan." Dean watched as Ophelia walked away, his eyes roaming over her figure for a brief moment before Sam nudged him with his elbow, "Keep it together, man." "I'm fine." Dean grunted, his expression shifting.

Ophelia made her way back into the bustling carnival - she squinted at a bell that rang right next to her. She was headed right back to the blind man. She knew he was suspicious. As Ophelia approached the blind knife thrower, he seemed to sense her presence, turning his head in her direction. "I was wondering when you'd come over here.” he said, a small smirk on his lips.

He chuckled, an amused expression on his face. "You've been watching me, haven't you? It's not very polite to stare, you know." He chided gently. "I wasn't taught manners, really." She retorted quickly. The blind man chuckled again. "I can tell." He said, his smirk growing wider. He seemed to be taking her bluntness in stride. "You're quite different from the rest of the people here, you know that?"

“How do you figure?” 

"Oh, I can sense it." he replied simply, his expression still holding the smirk. "You have a certain energy about you, something that sets you apart from your...human companions."

Ophelia looked over her shoulder, she knew Sam nor Dean were behind her but - she was slightly worried that she had even let them come with her. She turned back to the blind man - but didn’t say anything.

The blind man chuckled at her reaction. "Don't worry about your...friends." He said, his tone holding a hint of amusement. "I won't hurt them, if that's what you're worried about." He paused, tilting his head slightly as if listening for something.

“Of course not, you get your power by-” Ophelia’s eyebrows furrowed as if she was thinking - she kept her voice quiet. “Rakshasa.” The blind man's smirk widened into a full smile now. "Smart." he said, clearly impressed. "Most people wouldn't be able to figure that out so quickly."

“Luckily I grew up on demonology.” She said, clenchning her jaw as if it wasn’t a pleasant memory. “Why don’t you make this easier and tell me who your next victim is so I can stop you?”

The blind man's smirk faded slightly, his expression turning more serious. "Straight to the point, huh? I admire your directness." He seemed to be considering his options for a moment before he spoke again. "Let me ask you a question first."

"Fine." She sighed, looking around for Sam or Dean - just in case. 

The blind man folded his hands in front of him, his smirk returning. "What are you exactly?" he inquired curiously.

There was a beeping noise off in the distance, it sounded like a metal detector - and then it stopped. Ophelia looked over her shoulder. She spotted Sam and Dean, and when she looked back to the blind man - he was gone. "Shit." She mumbled. 

She looked around, but the blind man had seemingly vanished into thin air, leaving no trace of his presence. Just then, Sam and Dean caught up to her, both of them giving her curious glances. Ophelia took a deep breath and turned to the two. “Find anything?”

Sam and Dean did find something, but they couldn’t tell Ophelia what they knew. She didn’t know they were hunters. Sam shook his head, trying to maintain a neutral expression. "No, nothing useful. How about you?" Dean, on the other hand, was studying her face, trying to get a read on her expression.

She looked back over her shoulder, the blind man had disappeared. She didn’t answer Dean’s question.

Dean noticed her looking over her shoulder. "Expecting something to pop out?" he asked, his tone sarcastic with a slight smirk on his face. He looked her over, while she was occupied.

"Sorry?" She turned back, though she was now searching the crowd of faces. Fuck. It was gone.

Sam caught her searching the crowd, his expression turning puzzled. "Looking for something or... someone?" he inquired, tilting his head as he watched her. Dean, on the other hand, had a slight smirk on his face. "You seem a bit distracted," he quipped, his gaze still on her.

Ophelia seemed more present now, turning her attention back to the men. "Just focused." She responded, hiding the confusion in her voice. She sighed. "I suppose this was a waste of time."

Sam nodded, "Seems so." he agreed, glancing around the carnival again. "Maybe we should take a break." Dean's gaze lingered on her for a moment before he looked away too. "Yeah, maybe get some food or something."

"Food sounds great, I'm starving." Sam agreed, running a hand through his hair.

Dean nodded in agreement. "There's a decent diner just up the road, I saw it when we were driving over." he suggested, already heading for the exit.

Ophelia seemed more herself now, from what Sam and Dean had. She started walking with them towards the exit. "What, you don't want to eat at the killer-clown-carnival?" Her voice dripped with sarcasm. Sam chuckled, "Funny, very funny." he said with a smile. Dean rolled his eyes at her quip, but there was a hint of amusement in his expression. 

 The three of them continued walking towards the exit of the carnival, talking and bantering as they went. Ophelia didn't speak much, Dean tried to pry into her personal life. "So, can I ask you something?" he inquired, his tone slightly sly. 

"No." She responded flatly.

Dean chuckled, "Wow, just like that? Can't even ask a little question?" Sam seemed to be amused but tried to hide it. "Come on, humor me." Dean teased.

Ophelia glared at him from the corner of her eye, as she approached her car. "Fine. But I don't want any follow-ups." She got in front of her car, and unlocked it. 

"Alright, fair enough." Dean leaned against her car, a smirk still on his face. Sam lingered by her opened driver's side door, watching the interaction between the two. 

Ophelia moved out of the way, so that Sam could get past her to get into the backseat - but her gaze never left Deans. He looked at her, confidence radiating from him. She was annoyed. "Ask me in the car? I'd like to eat." And then she plopped herself into the driver's seat.

Sam chuckled, getting himself into the backseat and closing the door behind him. Dean seemed pleased with the plan, "Works for me." he said as he folded himself into the passenger seat next to her.

She opens her door fully, to get in the car when she hears a child scream from excitement. Ophelia looks over to the family getting out of a car a few parking spaces down.

"Mommy! Look at the clown!" She points towards the entrance of the circus. Ophelia follows the child's gaze and looks back to the two brothers. "I don't see a clown, do you?"

Sam and Dean quickly exchanged a look, their expressions turning serious for a moment.

"No, kid must be seeing things." Dean chuckled nervously.

“Right.” Ophelia sounded slightly skeptical but kept it at that. She looked at the car, 2004 blue Honda Accord. She got back in the car a moment after and started it up, before beginning to back out of the driveway of the carnival. “What was your question?” She asked Dean. 

He seemed caught off guard for a moment, before remembering his initial question. "Uh, right." he said, his confidence slipping slightly as he leaned back in the seat. "I was just curious," he began, his gaze roaming over her face. "You seem pretty young for a detective. How old are you?"

“Twenty-six.” She answered quickly, now on the road to find the diner Dean had previously mentioned. Dean seemed surprised, expecting her to be a few years younger. 

Sam, from the back seat, spoke up. "Really? You seem younger," he commented with a lighthearted smile.

Ophelia glanced in front mirror to see Sam in the backseat. She then looked back to the road, not saying anything to the two brothers in return. 

Dean looked back at his brother giving him a weird look and shrugging.

Sam shrugged in return, as if to say don't ask me.

Dean looked back out the windshield, his gaze lingering on Ophelia for a moment longer before he spoke again. "So, how long have you been a detective?" he inquired, trying to make conversation.

Ophelia looked at him, almost annoyed. She felt like they messed up her job. If they hadn't distracted her that thing wouldn't have gotten away. "3 years." 

"Three years ain’t bad." Dean replied, nodding slightly. Sam chimed in from the backseat, now more interested in the conversation. "What made you want to be a detective?" he asked curiously.

2025 Ophelia. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be preproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author; except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and other noncomercial uses permitted by copyright law.

The sorority house bathroom is dimly lit, the fluorescent lights flickering slightly as steam rises from one of the shower stalls. You're already inside, the warm water cascading over you, washing away the stress of the day. You hum softly to yourself, the sound drowned out by the spray of the showerhead.

Suddenly, your gaze shifts to the corner of the stall—and you freeze. There it is. The enormous spider, its spindly legs moving slowly and deliberately, as if taunting you. You let out a blood-curdling scream, your voice echoing through the tiled room and beyond.

Lip is down the hall, engrossed in studying for an upcoming exam —a class where he and you constantly compete for top scores. The scream jolts him upright, and instinct takes over. Without hesitation, he sprints toward the source of the noise, adrenaline pumping.

He bursts through the bathroom door without thinking, stopping abruptly as he sees her, soaking in a wet towel and clutching at the edge of the stall. Recognition dawns, and his expression flickers between concern and awkwardness. “You’re the one who screamed?” he blurts, clearly taken aback.

Your finger trembles as you point at the spider. “Do something!” You yell, your voice laced with both fear and frustration.

“Goddamnit,” he mutters under his breath, quickly assessing the situation. He takes a step forward, his gaze fixed on the spider. It's a big one, and you can see the tension building in his shoulders as he approaches the creature.

"Alright, stay calm. I'll-" His words are cut off as the spider unexpectedly scuttles towards you, causing you to let out another horrified scream.

Lip glances at the spider, rolling his eyes slightly. “Jesus christ, it’s just a tiny house spider. It’s completely harmless.” Despite his apparent indifference, there’s a hint of annoyance in his voice.

He rolls his eyes again, clearly amused at your overreaction. "Alright, fine." He grabs a towel off the rack and nonchalantly smacks the spider into oblivion. "There. It's gone. No need to freak out." He turns back to face you, trying to suppress the half smirk on his face.

You were about to say thanks but, that was when you realized it was Lip Gallagher. You had almost every lecture and class with him. And you hated each others guts. You, rich and privileged and him, from the Southside.

His smirk vanishes. He clearly recognizes you too. You two have been at odds since freshman year, constantly competing for top grades and engaging in petty squabbles. The tension between you is palpable.

"You've got to be kidding me." You shift the towel you were holding. It was completely soaked, considering you grabbed it to wrap yourself when you started screaming.

"I could say the same about you," Lip shoots back, his eyes flickering down to the soaked towel in your shaky hands. The sight of you in your current state, half-naked and clearly rattled, seems to be affecting him more than he would care to admit.

He swallows hard, his gaze locking with yours for a moment. There's an intensity there, a flicker of something else underlying the tension. But then he shakes his head slightly, as if to snap himself out of it.

"Can't even handle a damn spider, eh?" He can't resist the dig, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Some academic you are.”

He narrows his eyes, taking a step towards you. The room feels suddenly smaller, the already-thin air between you crackling with a mix of tension and something else.

"Oh, come on. You can't handle a little competition?" He jabs back, challenging you with a smirk. "Afraid I'll beat you again in Professor Andrews' class?"

"Can you let me put some clothes on before I kick your ass?" You tried to sound tough...but your collier earrings gave you away.

He lets out a scoff, his smirk softening into a slight smirk. "Oh, sure, princess. Wouldn't want you kicking my ass while you're dripping wet." He crosses his arms, his gaze lingering a moment too long on your towel-clad form.

You roll your eyes at him and carefully walk into a toilet stall. You weren't about to change in the regular shower stall.

He snorts, his eyes following you as you disappear into the stall. "Chicest toilet in the house, huh?" he mutters to himself, leaning against the edge of the sink.

As you change, he fidgets with a loose thread on his sleeve. His thoughts are a whirlwind, torn between the satisfaction of seeing you in such a vulnerable position and a growing curiosity about what's hiding under that towel.

He leans against the door nonchalantly, the smirk back on his face. "Maybe I'm hoping to catch another glimpse of you in that towel." He teases, knowing it would irritate you.

His comment causes you to pause for a moment, a flush of heat rising to your cheeks before you manage to respond.

"Dream on," you scoff, finally emerging from the stall, clothed but still damp from the shower.

He lazily pushes off the wall as you walk out, his gaze roaming over you. The sight of you, dressed in silk pajamas.

"Looks like you've recovered from your little spider trauma," he remarks, his tone casual yet mocking. "Back to being the preppy princess, huh?"

"I'm going back to studying, bye." You shuffled past him.

He watches you walk past, his gaze lingering on the way your silk pajamas swish around your hips. A part of him wants to say something, to prolong this little encounter, but he holds back.

As you begin to step out of the bathroom, he calls after you. "Hey, Princess?"

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Why? Can't handle a little nickname?"

He slowly stalks towards you, closing the distance until he's towering over you. His gaze locks with yours, a challenge in his eyes. "You love it, admit it."

He laughs, watching you walk off, amused by your stubborn determination to end the interaction. But there's something else beneath that smirk, a curiosity he can't quite shake.

As you turn the corner, disappearing from sight, he runs a hand through his tousled hair, a small sigh escaping his lips. Despite everything, he finds himself strangely disappointed that you were gone.

As you make your way back to your room, you feel a strange mix of emotions. The memory of the spider incident combined with the unexpected encounter with Lip swirls through your mind.

The silence of the sorority house wraps around you, broken only by the soft sounds of your footsteps. As you reach your room, you can't help but feel a sense of turmoil, torn between the usual academic rivalry with Lip and a growing intrigue that refuses to fade away.

As you close the door to your room, you lean against it, your mind still replaying the events of the evening. The image of Lip's smirk, his eyes flickering over your damp form wrapped in a towel, refuses to leave your thoughts.

With a sigh, you run your fingers through your damp hair, the silk of your pajamas gliding against your skin. Despite your attempt to dismiss the incident, there was a small flutter of something else, a hint of excitement and anticipation that you couldn't ignore.

You open your textbook, the words swimming in your vision as your mind struggles to concentrate. Despite your efforts, you find yourself rereading the same sentence multiple times, your thoughts stubbornly drifting back to that smirk on Lip's face, the way he had taunted you.

As the hours ticked by, a sharp knock on your door suddenly snapped you out of your focus. Startled, you look up from your textbook, confused about who could possibly be at the door at this hour.

You sigh, irritated that you have to get up and open the door. With a grumble, you make your way to the door and open it, expecting to find one of the sorority sisters.

However, your eyes widen in surprise as you see Lip Gallagher standing on the other side.

Lip leaned nonchalantly against the doorway, a half-smirk on his face. "You're still awake." He drawls, his gaze roaming over your damp hair and silk pajamas.

You cross your arms. "What the fuck do you want?"

He pushed himself off the doorway and sauntered inside, his presence suddenly filling the room. "I have a proposition."

He walked over to your desk, picking up a pen and idly toying with it. His gaze remains fixed on you, studying your expression. "You and I are constantly neck and neck in our classes. Always competing, right?"

You move to sit on your bed. "And?"

He continues to toy with the pen, his gaze drifting towards your bed before returning to your face. "It's tiring, isn't it? Constantly trying to one-up each other. Wouldn't it be better if we just...teamed up?"

The words that came out of his mouth didn't even sound like his own.

You felt the same way. His proposition was unexpected, and it took a moment for you to register it fully. Teaming up? With Lip Gallagher? The guy you had spent so much time and energy trying to one-up?

He could see the incredulity on your face, and he let out a lazy smirk. "Don't look so shocked. Working together is actually a pretty logical solution if you think about it. We could combine our notes, study together. It'll maximize our chances of getting the top spot."

He leans against the edge of your desk, his eyes never leaving yours. "Look, you and I are the two smartest in every goddamn class. We're the only ones who can really keep up with each other. So why not use that to our advantage?"

You thought about it in your head for a few seconds. "Fine." You paused. "But this doesn't make us friends."

He chuckled, amused by your insistence on maintaining some distance. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it. We're still enemies, princess. This is just a temporary truce for academic benefit."

You nod in agreement. "Glad we're on the same page." You pause and glance at him -he's still looking at you with those eyes. "What?" Your voice had a type of hostility to your voice.

His gaze flicked over your form, his smirk growing. "Oh, nothing. Just admiring the view." His eyes lingered on your silk pajamas for a moment longer, appreciating the way they hugged your curves.

You shook your head at him. "That's not happening." You stated simply. You knew where he was trying to go with this.

He chuckled, a lazy smirk spreading across his face. "Can't even take a little harmless flirting?" He pushed himself off the desk and walked over to the edge of your bed, standing right infront of you.

You looked up at him, shifting your weight on your bed - almost awkwardly. "I hate you."

He chuckled softly, his gaze locked with yours. "The feeling is mutual, princess." Despite his words, his eyes continued to roam over your form, taking in your damp hair and silk pajamas. "But you can't deny there's some kind of chemistry between us."

You rolled your eyes. "No, there isn't." You denied...but was that really true?

He stepped a little bit closer, narrowing the distance between you. "Oh, come on." He scoffed, his gaze fixed on your face. "You can't tell me you haven't felt it. The tension, the thrill of our constant one-upmanship."

He leaned in slightly, his breath ghosting over your cheek. "Tell me you haven't thought about how good it would feel to finally give in to it. Just once."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you swallowed hard, your gaze fixed on his face; so close to your own. You hated the way your body reacted to his closeness, the way your heart beat a little faster at his words. His eyes gleamed with a mix of challenge and desire, and you knew in that moment that he knew. He knew the affect he had on you.

"It's just academic rivalry." You said weakly.

He chuckled, an arrogant smirk tugging at his lips. "Is it?" He brought a hand up to your face, gently tucking a strand of damp hair behind your ear. "Or is it something more than that?" His touch was soft, yet possessive at the same time. His nearness was dizzying, and you felt your resolve crumbling.

You grab one of the textbooks off of your bed and shove it into his hands. You got up off your bed, with one of your notebooks in your hand before you moved back to your desk. "I have to study for this test."

He let out a low laugh, catching the textbook in his hands. "Oh, always focused on academics. Can't blame you, though. We both know that's what we do best."

He watched as you moved back to your desk, his eyes roaming over your figure in the silk pajamas once more. "Alright, let's get to studying then." He moved to a nearby chair, taking a seat next to your desk.

You glance at him. You couldn't beleive you were teaming up with him - this was going to be a long night.

He catches your gaze and grins. "Eyes on the book, princess."

The evening begins quietly. You're sitting in your living room, the warmth of a soft blanket draped over your shoulders and the aroma of tea wafting from the mug in your hands. The rain taps against the windowpane rhythmically, providing a soothing backdrop. It's a rare moment of peace, and you're grateful for it.

But then, there's a knock at the door. It’s late—unexpectedly so—and you feel a pang of concern. Setting your mug down, you rise and make your way to the door. As you open it, you're greeted by the sight of your friend, James - soaking from the rain and looking like the weight of the world is crushing him. His face is pale, his eyes glassy, and his shoulders slumped in a way that tells you something is very, very wrong.

“Can I come in?” he asks, his voice barely audible, and you nod without hesitation, stepping aside to let him enter.

You watch him enter your apartment and close the door behind him. He's not his usual self, and that was apparent from the way he looked. He was still wearing his white coat from the hospital meaning, he either came straight here after a late shift or...

James stands in the entryway, his gaze fixed at the floor, droplets from the rain falling from his dark hair. There’s an air of despair about him, a stark contrast to the typical optimistic demeanor you’re used to. You notice he's drenched and that he’s still donning his white coat, making it clear he either just got off a late shift at the hospital or rushed here straight after a significant event.

Taking a few tentative steps further into the apartment, he stands in the midst of the living room, looking at the floor.

"You can sit down." You stated gently. You never had to tell him he could sit before, he usually just made himself at home whenever he visited you.

He doesn't respond at first, lost in his own thoughts, it takes your gentle prompt for him to finally move. He slowly makes his way to the sofa and gingerly sits down. He seems almost robotic, as if on autopilot, a far cry from his usual demeanor. The couch creaks softly beneath him as he sinks into the cushion, his wet clothes leaving a trail of dampness. He doesn't speak, just stares blankly into space.

You realized he hadn't said anything since he had been at the door. "I'll get you some tea, before we talk?" You offered gently.

As you mention tea, his eyes flicker towards you for a moment, a hint of relief in his gaze. He nods weakly, acknowledging your suggestion. "Tea... that'd be nice," he manages to reply, his voice devoid of its usual warmth. He doesn’t look at you as he responds, just continues staring into space - his mind preoccupied with his thoughts.

You nod and head into the kitchen as you boil the electric kettle, you watch him from the counter. He didn't move, other than shifting to put his head in his hands.

From your vantage point in the kitchen, you observe him still sitting on the couch, head in his hands. It’s rare to see him so deeply troubled that he doesn’t even move. The silence is almost suffocating, broken only by the sound of the electric kettle beginning to boil. You know he's wrestling with something heavy, and you feel a pang of helplessness, wanting to offer comfort but unsure of how.

"Sugar and milk?" You call out gently towards him, to which he finally lifts his head.

He lifts his head as you ask about sugar and milk, and a tired sigh escapes his lips. "Just milk, please," he replies, his voice heavy. It's as if the effort to speak takes a toll on him.

You can see the exhaustion etched on his face, the lines on his forehead deepened with worry. He looks up, his gaze meeting yours for a brief moment before dropping back to his hands again.

You nod, letting the teabag steep in the cup for a few seconds before removing it and adding in some milk. You take the hot cup, and head towards him on the sofa. "I'll get you a towel too..." You said handing him his mug of tea.

He takes the mug with a murmured thank you, his hands wrapping around the warm ceramic. The faint steam rising from the tea seems to comfort him a little, but the troubled expression on his face doesn’t fade. He sips the tea slowly, the warmth traveling through his body.

As you mention getting him a towel, he nods weakly, as if he's just realizing how drenched he is. "That’d be great," he responds quietly, the tension in his shoulders relaxing a tad.

When you return, you drape the towel over his shoulders and give him a short hug. Not for any particular reason, other than knowing something had happened. "You wanna talk about it?"

When you return with the towel and give him a hug, he stiffens at the first moment of physical contact. But your comforting gesture seems to have an effect, and he relaxes a bit, accepting the towel and wrapping it around his shoulders. As you ask if he wants to talk about it, he hesitates, staring into his mug. His knuckles turn white as he grips the tea cup tighter.

"I...I found out my wife has been cheating on me," he finally spits out, the words coming out like a bitter admission.

You take in a sharp inhale, and let out a sigh before you settle on the couch yourself. "Wow." Is all you can manage.

He nods slowly, his gaze still fixed on the mug in his trembling hands. The pain is evident in his expression, a mix of hurt, betrayal, and disbelief. "Yeah, ‘wow’ is right..." he huffs out, the bitterness in his voice palpable.

"What can I do?" You ask. "I mean...if you need a place to stay, I don't mind."

He considers your offer for a moment, the weight of his recent discovery settling heavily on his shoulders. Your words of support seem to provide a small measure of comfort, even if the pain he's experiencing feels all-encompassing.

"I...I don't know yet," he admits, sighing deeply and running a hand through his damp hair. "But your offer means a lot, really."

Then he looks at you, his eyes pained, "I just never thought she could do this to me...We've been together for so long, you know? I trusted her."

You nodded in an understanding sort of way though in reality, you had never gone through something like this. You could only imagine. "I'm here for you, whatever you need James."

He takes comfort in your words and your support, his shoulders slumping a bit as the tension eases. "Thank you," he says softly, his voice tinged with gratitude. "I just... I can't believe it."

He takes another sip of his tea, the warm liquid going down like a soothing balm. The rain outside continues to beat against the window, mirroring his inner turmoil.

He looks at you, vulnerability in his eyes. "I feel so betrayed, like everything we had is a lie."

His expression was filled with pain and a hint of disbelief. "I keep replaying everything in my mind, trying to make sense of it all. How could I have missed the signs? She seemed so happy, so in love..."

He takes another sip of his tea, the warmth doing little to soothe the ache in his heart. "And now I find out it was all a lie. Our marriage, our years together...it all feels like a huge, cruel joke."

You didn't know if you could say anything to comfort him. "I'm sorry."

Your sympathetic words hang in the air, and he nods in acknowledgment. "Thanks." There’s a brief pause, filled with the sound of the rain tapping against the windows.

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself, yet the storm raging in his mind won’t subside. "I just don't know what to do now. Everything feels shattered, and I don’t know how to pick up the pieces."

He sets the mug aside and buries his face in his hands, the weight of his emotions overwhelming him. "It’s like...I feel like I can’t trust anyone now, you know? If the person I thought I knew the best, the person I love...could do something like this to me, how can I trust anyone else?"

He looks up at you, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with pain. "I just feel lost, and alone, even though you're here."

That statement hurt your heart a tad bit. You cared about James, you considered him more than a colleague...a friend. You hoped he didn't mean it the way you had interpreted it.

He sees the brief flash of hurt in your eyes, and he realizes the impact of his words. His gaze softened, and he sighs deeply, a mix of remorse and raw vulnerability in his expression.

"No, no...I didn’t mean it like that," he quickly clarifies, shaking his head. "I mean, I’m glad you’re here, really. You’re the only one I feel safe talking to about this..."

He raked a hand through his damp hair, his gaze dropping to the floor. "It’s just that...I’m scared."

He nods, and his voice trembles slightly as he speaks, "Yeah, scared. It's just... all my life, I've been in control, you know? I've been the one making decisions, running the show. And now, all that control feels like it's slipping away."

He sighs deeply, his shoulders slumped in a rare display of vulnerability. "I mean, I thought my marriage was solid, my life was on track. But everything I thought I knew, everything I built... it's crumbling around me."

"Well...you have me. I'll always be here for you." You leaned into him a bit. "Always."

Your words of support seem to have an immediate effect on him. Just hearing your assurance that you'll be there for him makes his tense shoulders relax somewhat, and some of the panic in his eyes fades.

The Bridgertons and their family were very close, and they would always spend time with each other. Every other month, they would gather together in the countryside and enjoy the view of Aubrey Hall.

This time, the Sharmas joined the two families. Lady Mary and her daughters, Kate and Edwin, arrive at the manor with the Bridgertons. Your family arrived not too late after the Sharmas.

The families bond together, except for Anthony and Kate, who continuously bicker with each other with disdain.

Benedict was quite anxious because he applied to an art academy, and he went to Colin for help. This ended up in him throwing some unknown powder into his tea, which he found quite disgusting. Colin told him to use little of said powder to help him...relax, but Benedict threw the whole bag in anyway.

Later, the families joined together for dinner, and you noticed that Benedict was acting quite odd. He was giggly and clumsy.

"This room is exceptionally well-lit. Have you noticed, Col? The twinkle of the candles, it is as... It's as if... we sit among the stars." Benedict says, his eyes slightly hazy, that Violet, the mother of the Bridgerton family, was concerned for his... state of mind. Turns out that he got high from the powder that Colin gave him. Benedict reached over for his wine glass, but he tipped it over, the red liquid staining the white tablecloth. He giggles at his mistake, his hands on his face with that cute crooked smile.

You looked at him in confusion, taking small bites of your food as you watched him. You glanced up at the lights, as if they had changed from the last time you had eaten with the Bridgerton family...they hadn't changed. You looked back towards Benedict with an eyebrow raised and a slight whisper in your voice. "Are you quite alright?"

Benedict was snapped out of his thoughts, and he tilted his head to see a curious you. "Me? Oh! Oh yes, yes. I'm...perfectly fine." Benedict responded to you, but his voice gave off the opposite impression of what he was saying. As he sat there, trying to appear normal, Colin leaned in and whispered something in his ear, which made him laugh a little too loud.

You gave the two brothers a stern look. "You two, stop it now!" You shushed them quietly, trying not to draw any attention to the situation.

The two brothers quieted down, though Benedict had difficulty maintaining composure, and he let out a few giggles at your attempt to get them to behave. Colin tried his best not to laugh, but watching his older brother's goofy behaviour was amusing. Despite being told to behave, Benedict couldn't help but find the whole situation funny, and he stifled laughter as he tried to sit properly in his seat.

You glared at Colin, noticing he still seemed...normal. "What did you do?"

Colin realised that you were suspecting him. "What do you mean, 'what did I do'?" He tried to sound innocent, even though it was obvious that he was up to no good. He continued to maintain a straight face, though it was getting increasingly harder as Benedict's goofy behaviour became even more apparent. On the other hand, Benedict was struggling to control his giggles, and he had a hand over his mouth to keep from bursting out in laughter.

You rolled your eyes at Colin, leaning across the table to stay hushed. You made sure your elbows didn't touch the table to remain proper. "I've known you both for years. And I know you did something or-or gave him something."

Colin realised there was no sense in hiding the truth. He sighed. "Okay, fine. I gave him a special powder," he quietly admitted. "It's supposed to help him relax, but he ended up putting the entire damn thing in his tea instead of a little bit. That's why he's acting like this."

You shook your head, glancing between the two brothers. "We need to get him out of here before anyone else notices."

Colin nodded in agreement. "But how?" he whispered. "He's too high to walk on his own. If he stands, he'll probably fall flat on his face."

Benedict, who was listening to their conversation, let out a small giggle, finding the whole situation amusing.

"Well, you've been on all those special adventures. I'm sure you're strong enough to carry him." You stated, matter-of-factly, though you had a bite to your tone. "Besides, you got him into this mess - you need to fix it."

Colin rolled his eyes but knew you had a point. He was responsible for this situation, so it was only fair that he had to fix it. "Fine," he grumbled as he stood up and approached Benedict. "Come on, brother."

Benedict, who was still in his giggly state, stood up as well, though he struggled to keep his balance. "Oh, the room is spinning," he said, a dazed smile on his face.

Violet, from across the room, noticed her two sons were leaving. She seemed like she was interested and about to say something - but you were too quick. You put a gentle hand on the woman's shoulder. "Colin and I are just escorting Benedict out - he said he's not feeling well…too much wine?" You lied on the spot.

Violet, being a mother, was understandably concerned for her son. "Oh, dear. Is he alright?" she asked, a hint of worry in her voice.

Colin interjected quickly. "Yes, Mother, he's fine. Just needed some fresh air." He helped guide Benedict towards the door, his arm around his brother's waist to keep him steady.

You politely excused yourself and quickly hurried off with Colin and Benedict down the hallway.

You, Colin, and the giggling Benedict made your way down the hallway away from the dining room. Colin supported Benedict, making sure he wouldn't trip or stumble. Benedict, in his high state, kept on giggling and looking around with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.

"Whoa," he said, as he looked at his surroundings. "The hallway looks so...so...pretty."

"You think everything looks pretty right now." You grumbled under your breath, holding onto one of Benedict's arms to support him.

Benedict giggled at your remark, finding even your grumbled words amusing. He looked at you with a goofy smile. "You're always so serious," he said, stumbling a little bit. "You could use some of this powder, too. It makes the world look so...so...colorful."

Colin rolled his eyes at Benedict's comment, knowing it was the drugs talking.

"I don't need any sort of...powder." You stated. It wasn't that you were serious all the time - it was more so that you were worried about him.

Benedict let out another burst of giggles at your firm response. "Oh, come on. Live a little." He said, his words slurring slightly. "This powder makes everything so much more...interesting."

Colin intervened, trying to keep the situation under control. "Benedict, please shut up. The more you talk, the more suspicion we'll raise."

You hummed in agreement with Colin. "We're almost to your room, just please - shut. up."

Benedict, still in his giggly state, tried his best to be quiet, but he couldn't help but let out a small snicker. "Alright, alright. I'll be quiet," he said, his voice still tinged with amusement.

As you finally reached his room, Colin guided Benedict inside and helped him sit down on the edge of the bed.

You decided decorum and rules were simply out the window at this point. You slid through the doorway behind Colin and shut the door quietly. "I can't believe you gave him that stuff! Why did you even take it, Benedict?!"

Benedict was sitting on the edge of the bed, still smiling and giggling to himself. Colin, on the other hand, was trying to maintain his composure. "I didn't think he'd use the whole damn bag," he said, running a hand through his hair.

Benedict, still under the influence of the powder, spoke up. "It seemed like a good idea at the time," he said with a shrug. "Everything is so...sparkly."

You rubbed your forehead in annoyance. "Benedict, look at me please." You waved your hand to get his attention. "How about you go to sleep, yes? I'm sure you'll have wonderful dreams." You tried to sound optimistic when in reality you just wanted him to sleep off the drugs.

Benedict, still in his drugged state, looked up at you with hazy eyes. He nodded slowly, a goofy grin on his face. "Yeah, sleep sounds nice," he murmured, his words slurring slightly.

Colin was relieved that you were handling the situation well. "That's probably for the best," he said, nodding in agreement. "He'll be back to normal tomorrow once the drug wears off."

Slightly relieved that he agreed to saying yes to sleep, you sighed. You looked at Benedict, who wasn't even quite on the bed. You threw a pillow under his head. That was the best you could do.

Benedict, still in his giggly, droopy state, flopped onto the pillow that you had placed under his head. He looked up at you with a goofy smile, his eyes heavy with the effects of the powder.

"You're so... so... kind," he murmured, trying to focus his gaze on you. "You're like an angel."

"Alright...just...go to sleep." You didn't know exactly what to say when he called you that.

Benedict let out another small giggle, his head sinking further into the pillow. "Okay, okay. I'll go to sleep...but you'll stay here, won't you?"

Colin, who was still standing nearby, rolled his eyes at Benedict's request. "Seriously?" he muttered under his breath.

"What? No. Absolutely not! I'm not even supposed to be in here at all."

Benedict let out an exaggerated pout, his eyes drooping even further as the drug continued to affect him. "But... I don't want to be alone," he protested with a whine.

Colin gave you a sympathetic look, knowing how difficult it was dealing with a drugged Benedict. "I think it would be best if someone stayed with him until he falls asleep," he said, trying to sound reasonable.

"Well then, you can stay with your brother." You protested quietly.

Colin shot you a look. "Me? Why should I have to stay with him?"

Benedict, in his drugged state, suddenly sat up on the bed, looking at you with pleading eyes. "No, no, no. I want you to stay," he said, reaching out and grasping your arm.

You shook your head again. "That's improper."

Benedict, still holding onto your arm, looked at you with sad eyes. "Please? Just until I fall asleep," he pleaded, his voice sounding almost childlike.

Colin, seeing the situation unfold, rolled his eyes. "Oh, for goodness sake. Just stay with him until he falls asleep. He's acting like a damn child."

"Fine." You stated harshly at Colin. "But if I get found, I'm not covering for you and I'm blaming you for the whole thing."

Colin held his hands up in surrender. "Fair enough. If by some insane miracle you get caught, you can blame me. But I doubt that will happen."

Benedict, still looking at you with pleading eyes, tugged gently on your arm, trying to get you to sit down on the bed next to him.

You looked down at Benedict as Colin left the room. "Um, no. It's bad enough that I'm alone in your room...let alone sitting on your bed."

Benedict let out a melodramatic sigh, his head falling back onto the pillow. "You're so...stubborn," he said, still slurring his words slightly.

He sat up slightly and patted the bed beside him. "Please? Just sit down for a minute."

You sighed and began sitting down at the edge of the bed.

Benedict's face lit up a bit as you finally sat down on the edge of the bed. He shuffled closer to you, still holding onto your arm.

"See? That wasn't so hard," he said, his voice still a little drowsy from the drug.

"Go to sleep."

Benedict, his hand still gripping your arm, let out another small giggle. "But I don't wanna sleep yet..." he protested, his words slurring even more.

He looked up at you with tired eyes, his gaze lingering on your face. "Can we talk first?"

You didn't know what else to do. You couldn't just leave him there - not until he was sleeping. You wanted to make sure he was okay. "What would you like to talk about?"

Benedict thought for a moment, his mind still fuzzy from the drug. He finally spoke up, his hand trailing down to hold onto your hand tightly.

"I don't know...anything. I just want you to talk to me. Your voice is pretty." He said with a small smile.

You smiled slightly in the semi-lit room at his words. "You took the drugs because of your recent applications, right?" You paused. "I remember you said they were supposed to come with news in the next week."

Benedict nodded, his expression a little melancholy.

He fiddled with your hand, his fingers running over the back of it. "But now I wish I hadn't taken so much of it. Everything is all fuzzy and I can't even think straight..."

"That's why you should sleep." You looked down at his hand, which was in yours.

Benedict, still holding onto your hand, let out a small whine. He tilted his head to look at you, his eyes slightly unfocused. "But I don't want to sleep yet. I wanna talk to you more."

He gave your hand a small, drunken squeeze. "You're so pretty..." he murmured, his gaze fixated on your face.

Despite Benedict's earlier protest that he didn't want to sleep yet, the effects of the drugs plus your presence seemed to finally take their toll on him. His grip on your hand loosened, and his eyelids grew heavy.