plaidamoosette

Night had settled over the valley hours ago. The kind of darkness that swallowed the prairie whole, broken only by scattered lanterns glowing in farmhouse windows.

Then, suddenly, the church bell rang three times. Not for Sunday service or for a wedding, but for them.

Immediately, the town went into lockdown mode. Lanterns were snuffed out one by one, doors bolted, and curtains drawn. Dogs that had been barking suddenly went silent, dragged inside by hurried owners.

Somewhere down the road, another bell answered the first, then another, until the whole valley echoed with warning.

Your mother didn't waste a second.

"Inside. Now."

She had already begun blowing out the oil lamps before either you or your little brother could move. The warm glow that had filled the farmhouse disappeared one room at a time until only moonlight filtered through the windows.

"Mama..." your little brother whispered, clutching the hem of her dress.

"It's alright," she lied, pulling him close. "Just stay quiet."

You had heard stories about the Blackwater Outfit bandits for as long as you could remember. Every ranching family within a hundred miles had. They rode wherever they pleased, took what they wanted, and were gone before the sheriff could gather enough men to trail them.

Some claimed they only stole from wealthy cattle barons. Others swore they'd rob anyone unlucky enough to cross their path. Whatever the truth was, no one wanted to find out firsthand.

The sound of hoofbeats grew louder with each passing second until they were just beyond the front fence. Against your better judgment, you crept toward the front window and peeled back the curtain just enough to see the lanterns.

A dozen of them, maybe more, swayed from saddle horns as riders passed through the darkness. Their faces remained hidden beneath the brims of their hats, little more than silhouettes against the pale moonlight. The only sounds were the steady rhythm of horses' hooves and men hollering.

Your hand instinctively reached for your father's Winchester, still resting above the hearth where it had remained since the day he died. Before your fingers could wrap around the stock, your mother caught your wrist.

"Don't be a fool, girl," she whispered, her grip surprisingly firm. "One rifle ain't stoppin' twenty men."

"They're on our land."

"And they'll still be on it after they bury you."

You clenched your jaw, your eyes never leaving the riders outside. Every instinct in your body screamed to do something. To scare them off or to fire a warning shot, just to prove that this farm wasn't defenseless just because your father was gone.

Your mother stepped in front of the window, forcing you to look at her instead.

"Your pa knew when to pick a fight," she said quietly. "That's why he lived as long as he did."

You swallowed hard.

"Tonight ain't one worth dyin' over."

When dawn finally broke, the sun began painting the fields in soft shades of gold that would've been beautiful under any other circumstance. The farmhouse still stood, smoke lazily curling from the chimney, and the rolling pasture stretched just as it always had.

Then you noticed the silence. No rooster announcing the morning. No impatient bleating from the goat pen. No low, familiar call from the pasture beyond the barn. You were out the front door before your mother had even finished tying her apron.

The gate to the pasture hung crooked on one hinge; the latch splintered clean in two. Deep hoofprints had churned the earth into thick mud, leading away from the property in a trail so obvious it was almost insulting.

"No..." you breathed. You broke into a sprint then. The heifer was gone, and so were both milk goats.

You rushed toward the chicken coop, throwing the door open so hard it slammed against the side of the shed. Only a handful of hens scattered at your feet, squawking in protest. The rest had simply vanished.

They hadn't taken everything, though.

The old mare remained in her stall, too lame to fetch much at market. A stubborn old rooster strutted across the yard as if nothing had happened, accompanied by a few scrawny hens they'd apparently deemed not worth the trouble.

They hadn't stolen blindly; they had taken exactly what would hurt the most.

The heifer your family had planned to sell before winter. The goats that supplied milk, butter, and cheese. Nearly every laying hen that brought in enough money each week to keep flour in the pantry and to pay taxes on time.

You crouched beside the broken gate, running your fingers through the fresh hoofprints pressed into the dirt. They hadn't just stolen livestock, no. They had stolen the coming winter.

Behind you, your mother stepped onto the porch, one hand covering her mouth as she looked across the empty pasture. She took in the empty fields, the splintered fence, the open barn doors. Everything your father had spent a lifetime building.

She didn't say a word. Her shoulders sank almost imperceptibly before she turned and walked back inside, quietly closing the door behind her.

Anger carried you into town faster than your horse ever could.

The reins were barely tied outside the sheriff's office before you were shoving through the front door, boots thudding across the worn wooden floor. Sheriff Hopper looked up from the stack of papers spread across his desk, his spectacles perched low on his nose.

He regarded you for a long moment before leaning back in his chair. "I was wonderin' when you'd come."

"You knew?"

"I knew they rode through last night."

"They cleaned us out." Your voice was tight enough to snap. "They took the heifer, both milk goats, and nearly every good hen we had."

His expression hardened, though not with surprise. "I'm sorry to hear it."

"'Sorry' doesn't put food on my family's table."

"No," he admitted. "It doesn't."

Finally, Hopper rose from his chair and wandered toward the window overlooking Main Street. "They knew your father was gone."

"They knew that the farm lost its backbone the day he died. Figured it'd be an easy mark."

Your jaw clenched. "So what're you gonna do?"

"Nothing."

"They're the Blackwater Outfit," he sighed. "Outlaws, sure. But they ain't the sort that burns towns or leaves bodies behind just because they can. They take what they're after and keep ridin'."

"They still robbed us."

"They did."

"And you're just letting them?"

Hopper met your gaze. "I've got five deputies and a town full of families I'd rather not bury."

You looked away, shaking your head. "So that's it."

"Sometimes," he said quietly, "keeping folks alive means knowing which fights not to pick."

"Where are they?"

His eyes narrowed. "I wouldn't advise it."

"Where?"

Another sigh. "They rented the rooms above McCready's Saloon. They'll likely leave come morning."

You didn't say another word. You simply turned on your heel and walked out, the door slamming behind you hard enough to rattle the windows.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, your mind had already been made up. If the sheriff wasn't willing to do anything, you would.

You stood in front of the small mirror hanging beside your bedroom window, smoothing your palms over the nicest dress you owned. It wasn't extravagant by any means, just a deep blue cotton dress reserved for Sunday services and the occasional town social. Your mother watched quietly from the doorway as you pinned your hair back.

"You're headed into town."

You nodded, fastening your father's silver necklace around your neck. "I'll be back."

"Just...come home."

By nightfall, McCready's Saloon was alive with music spilling through the open doors, piano keys carrying into the street alongside bursts of laughter and clinking glasses. Horses lined the hitching posts outside, and every window glowed warmly against the cool prairie evening.

You tied your mare outside and climbed the steps. The moment you stepped through the swinging doors, the familiar scent of whiskey, tobacco smoke, and sawdust washed over you.

"Evenin', miss."

You smiled at the bartender, an older man named Walter who'd known your family since before you were born.

"Evenin', Walt."

He looked you over, eyebrows lifting ever so slightly. "Don't think I've seen you in here dressed like that."

You offered a small shrug. "Figured I deserved a drink."

"Hell of a day for one."

"You could say that."

Walter poured your usual without asking, sliding the glass across the polished bar.

"On the house."

You thanked him quietly before letting your eyes drift across the room. It wasn't hard to find them.

They occupied nearly an entire corner of the saloon, boots propped on chairs, cards spread across a table littered with whiskey bottles and coins. Laughter came easily between them, drawing more than a few curious glances from the locals, who were careful not to linger.

And in the middle of it all sat the man you assumed was Eddie Munson. He looked nothing like you'd imagined. You'd expected someone older. Meaner.

Instead, he couldn't have been much more than a few years older than yourself, his dark curls spilling beneath a black hat as he laughed at something one of his men had said. Rings glinted beneath the lantern light as he shuffled a deck of cards with practiced ease, entirely at home in a town that had hidden from him less than twenty-four hours earlier.

As if sensing your stare, his head lifted, his eyes meeting yours from across the room. He smiled slowly, almost confidently. You looked away first, lifting your whiskey to your lips.

Walter caught the exchange immediately. "Oh, don't tell me."

You feigned innocence. "Tell you what?"

"You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The one that says you're about to do something that'll have me patchin' bullet holes in the wall."

A laugh escaped you despite yourself. "I'll try not to make a mess."

"You never do."

Across the room, Eddie murmured something to the man beside him before pushing back his chair. He crossed the saloon with an easy confidence that suggested he'd never once questioned whether someone wanted him nearby.

By the time he reached the bar, you could feel Walter trying very hard to look busy polishing the same glass he'd been holding for the last minute.

Eddie rested an elbow against the bar. "Evenin'."

You took another sip before finally looking at him. "Evenin'."

"I don't reckon I've seen you around before."

"I reckon you haven't been lookin' in the right places."

That earned a grin. "No?" he asked. "Seems I've been missin' out."

"So I've heard."

He chuckled softly.

"They also tell me you've got a soft spot for pretty women."

"I've got a soft spot for interesting women."

You let the corner of your mouth twitch upward. "And which am I?"

He looked you over; not crudely, but with unmistakable interest. "I haven't decided yet."

"Well," you said, setting your empty glass on the bar, "I suppose you'll have to buy me another drink if you'd like the chance."

Walter's eyes flicked between the two of you.

Eddie smiled, already reaching for his coin satchel. "I was hopin' you'd say that."

Walter disappeared down the bar to tend to another customer, leaving the two of you alone beneath the warm glow of the hanging lamps.

Eddie slid the fresh whiskey toward you. "You always this hard to impress?"

"I haven't seen much worth impressin' me."

"Ouch."

"You asked."

"I did."

He rested one forearm against the bar, turning toward you with an easy grin that would've made most women blush.

You simply took another sip.

"So," he said. "You got a name?"

"You got enough names to remember already."

"I'll make room."

"I doubt it."

He laughed under his breath. "You've got quite the sharp tongue."

"So I've been told."

"I like it."

"I'm sure you do."

"You don't seem surprised."

"I imagine you say that to every pretty girl that walks through that door."

He pressed a hand dramatically against his chest. "You wound me."

"I was aiming lower."

That earned a genuine laugh, loud enough for a few of his men to glance over from their poker game.

"There it is," Eddie said, shaking his head. "Knew she was hidin' in there somewhere."

You looked at him flatly. "You always talk this much?"

"Only when I'm bein' ignored."

"I can fix that."

"Oh?"

"Beneath this bar..." you said quietly, keeping your eyes on your glass, "...I've got my father's Colt pointed right at your ribs."

The smile never left his face. If anything, it grew.

"I know."

Your fingers tightened around the grip beneath the counter. "What?"

"I said I know."

For the first time since he'd wandered over, Eddie's expression lost some of its teasing edge. His voice stayed low enough that only you could hear.

"I recognized you the second you walked in."

A knot formed in your stomach.

"I wasn't entirely certain at first."

His eyes drifted briefly to the silver necklace resting against your collarbone.

"Then I saw the necklace."

Your hand instinctively brushed against it.

"Your father's."

You stared.

"Folks in town talked."

"They've got nothin' better to do."

"They said there was a young woman out on the Miller place." His gaze returned to yours. "Long black hair. Pretty enough to turn heads. Mean enough to break 'em."

Despite yourself, your brow furrowed.

"They said after your pa passed, you worked that ranch like it was your own."

"It is my own."

"I stand corrected."

"You also weren't supposed to be home last night."

Your pulse skipped.

"We figured it'd just be your ma and little brother."

Rage simmered beneath your ribs. "You figured wrong."

"I reckon I did."

The music carried on around you. Glasses clinked, and someone cheered from the poker table. It felt as though the rest of the saloon had disappeared.

Finally, Eddie smiled again. "I gotta admit...You've got nerve, walkin' in here alone."

"I figured you'd appreciate it."

"Oh, I do." His grin widened. "I just didn't expect to."

Your thumb eased back the hammer beneath the bar with a soft, unmistakable click. His eyes flicked downward for only a second before meeting yours again.

"You really are pointin' that thing at me."

"I told you I was."

"I know."

"And you're still standin' here."

"Course I am."

"...Why?"

"Because," he said with a crooked smile, "you're the first woman who's ever threatened to shoot me before askin' my name."

You rolled your eyes.

"Not worth the ask."

His laugh came easily, warm enough to earn another curious glance from across the room.

"See?" He leaned in just enough that only you could hear him. "Now I'm even more interested."

The click of the hammer settling back into place was almost louder than when you'd pulled it. Slowly, you removed the revolver from beneath the bar and tucked it back beneath your skirt.

Eddie's eyes followed the movement. "Changed your mind?"

"For now."

You slid off the barstool and set a few coins beside your untouched whiskey. "I've lost my appetite."

"You just got here."

"And I've already had enough."

Without another word, you turned toward the swinging doors.

"You leavin'?"

You didn't answer.

Behind you came the scrape of Eddie's chair, then footsteps. The cool evening air hit your face as you stepped onto the boardwalk, boots carrying you down the quiet street without so much as a glance over your shoulder.

"You always walk this fast?"

You sighed. "You always this annoyin'?"

"I've been called worse."

"I can think of a few."

"I don't doubt it."

You kept walking.

"So," Eddie continued, hands tucked lazily into his pockets, "you got a habit of pointin' guns at every man who buys you a drink?"

"Only the thieves."

He laughed. "I was wonderin' when we'd get back to that."

"You robbed my family."

"I did." There wasn't an ounce of shame in his voice.

"You don't deny it?"

"What good would that do?"

You shook your head. "You're unbelievable."

"I've heard that, too."

"You ever stop talkin'?"

"I was hopin' you'd tell me more about yourself."

"I'd rather tell the undertaker where to bury you."

"You've given that some thought."

"You've earned it."

He smiled to himself. "You know...I usually have to work a little harder to keep a pretty girl thinkin' about me."

You stopped so suddenly that he nearly walked into you. "You listen here. I don't like you."

"I know."

"I don't think you're charming."

"I figured."

"I think you're a thief."

"That one ain't up for debate."

"And if you follow me another step, I'll put that Colt to better use than I did in the saloon."

For just a moment, the grin softened. "I believe you."

You turned and continued walking. He fell into step beside you anyway.

"You ain't much for discouragement, are you?"

"Nope."

"You oughta be."

"I've never been particularly good at takin' advice."

"You'll get yourself killed."

"Maybe."

"You oughta worry about yourself."

"I am."

You shot him a look.

"I'd hate for you to miss your chance to shoot me."

You groaned. "Lord, you're insufferable."

"So I've been told."

"You keep repeatin' yourself, Munson."

"I've noticed you keep listenin'."

Before you could fire back, his hand reached out, fingers closing lightly around your forearm.

"Hang on—"

You caught his wrist, twisted hard, and stepped beneath his arm, using his own momentum against him. In one smooth movement, Eddie stumbled forward until his shoulder met the hitching post with a dull thud, your hand still firmly controlling his wrist behind his back.

He blinked. "...Well."

You released him immediately, taking two steps back. "Don't."

He rolled his shoulder, more surprised than hurt. "I was just tryin' to get your attention."

"You had it."

"I can see that."

For the first time all evening, Eddie wasn't smiling while flirting; he was smiling because he was downright impressed. And a little turned on, but hey, can you blame him?

"You learn that from your old man?"

You said nothing, and that was answer enough. He rubbed his wrist absentmindedly before looking back at you.

"I've gotta say..."

You sighed. "What now?"

"I was interested before." He flashed that crooked grin again. "Now I'm downright fascinated."

You shook your head, muttering something about him being hopeless as you started back toward the road leading home.

This time, Eddie stayed where he was. He watched until you disappeared into the darkness beyond the last lantern on Main Street, grinning like a goddamn idiot.

The sun had barely cleared the horizon by the time you were already out in the barn.

The old Jersey stood patiently in her stall while you worked, her hide mottled with age and her hips more pronounced than they had been even a year ago. She'd given good milk once. Now, you were lucky to coax half a bucket from her.

It wasn't enough to keep a family afloat, not by a landslide, but it was something. You rested your forehead briefly against her side, letting out a slow breath as the steady rhythm of milk hitting the pail echoed through the quiet barn.

That was when you heard it, the sound of another horse.

You frowned. Your mare was already tied outside. The hoofbeats slowed, stopping just beyond the open barn doors.

"You know," a familiar voice called, "I was hopin' for a warmer welcome."

You closed your eyes. "...Of course."

Setting the bucket aside, you stood and turned. Eddie leaned casually against the fence, one hand resting on the reins of a chestnut heifer.

Your chestnut heifer.

Your heart lurched. "What're you doin' here?"

"Mornin' to you, too, Sweetheart."

You ignored him, brushing past to the animal instead. The heifer gave a soft, familiar low as you ran your hands over her neck, checking for injuries. She looked healthy, fed, and untouched.

"You brought her back."

"I did."

You looked up at him, suspicion settling in almost immediately. "Why?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Felt like it."

"I don't believe that for a second."

"Didn't expect you to."

You folded your arms. "So what's the catch?"

"No catch."

"You expect me to thank you?"

"I'd settle for you not threatenin' to shoot me before breakfast."

A reluctant huff escaped your nose before you could stop it, causing Eddie's eyebrows to lift.

"What?" You snapped.

"Nothin'. Just didn't know you had it in you to laugh."

You rolled your eyes so hard they almost hurt. "You're unbearable."

"And yet..." He gestured between the two of you. "Here we are."

You shook your head, leading the heifer toward the pasture.

"You know, most folks would've sold her by now."

You paused. "What?"

"The old Jersey."

His gaze drifted toward the weathered cow still standing patiently inside the barn. "She's got maybe another season left."

Your shoulders stiffened. "My pa raised her from a calf."

"I figured."

"You don't sell family."

You reached over the fence to scratch the heifer between her ears, smiling softly when she nudged your shoulder in return. "You gave me quite the scare, didn't you?"

Your voice had lost every ounce of the sharpness you'd used on Eddie. It was quiet and gentle, almost affectionate.

The heifer bumped your hand again, causing you to laugh under your breath. Only then did you realize someone was watching.

You glanced over, and Eddie hadn't taken his eyes off you.

"What?"

He shook his head slowly. "Nothin'."

"Mhm."

"I was just thinkin'."

"Dangerous pastime."

"It can be."

A crooked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I don't think you're nearly as mean as you pretend to be."

You snorted. "Are you forgetting I had you at point-blank range a day ago?"

"You did."

"I threatened to kill you."

"You sure did."

"I still might."

"I know." He pushed himself off the fence.

"But..." he said, nodding toward the heifer happily grazing beside you, "...I've got a feelin' you've got too soft a heart to actually pull the trigger."

Your smile vanished. "You don't know a damn thing about me."

"Not yet." He tipped the brim of his hat. "But I'm workin' on it."

Before you could think of another retort, he swung easily into the saddle. "I'll see you around."

"I sincerely hope not."

His laugh carried across the pasture as he turned his horse toward the road.

Your mother and little brother had left before sunrise, the wagon loaded with fresh bread, preserves, and the few eggs your remaining hens had managed to produce. They'd make the trip to the next town over, hoping to bring home enough money to stretch another week.

You'd stayed behind to mend fencing. The morning air was cool against your skin as you knelt beside a split fence post, hammer in one hand and a fistful of nails in the other.

You heard the horse long before you looked up. You smiled to yourself despite every intention of not doing so.

"Thought you were leavin'."

Eddie guided his horse through the open gate, a crooked grin already waiting for you.

"I was."

You drove another nail into the fence. "So what happened?"

He swung down from the saddle with practiced ease, dusting off his coat. "I found a reason to stick around a little while longer."

You snorted. "I can't imagine she's very bright."

"She's stubborn as hell."

"Sounds exhausting."

"It is." He looked directly at you. "I kinda like it."

You shook your head, trying very hard not to smile as you stood and brushed the dirt from your skirt. "So."

"So."

"You just wander onto people's property whenever the mood strikes?"

"Only pretty girls'."

"You've got a death wish."

"I've been told."

"You repeat yourself."

"I've noticed."

You couldn't help the small laugh that escaped you this time. It was barely audible and so barely there, but Eddie caught it anyway.

"There it is again."

"Oh, hush."

"I knew you could smile."

"I smiled at the thought of hittin' you with this hammer."

"I'll take what I can get."

You rolled your eyes. "You're impossible."

"And yet you haven't asked me to leave."

"I've considered it."

"But?"

You looked around the farm. "You can stay awhile."

His smile softened. "I appreciate that."

The two of you wandered without much destination after that. He followed while you checked fencing, refilled the water troughs, and gathered what little produce the garden had managed to offer.

"So..." Eddie glanced toward the weathered barn. "Your pa built all this?"

You nodded. "Every bit of it."

"It shows."

You looked over at him. "What d'you mean?"

"Nothing's fancy." He reached out, running his hand along one of the fence rails. "But every board's where it's supposed to be."

"He always said if you're gonna build something, build it once."

"He sounds like a smart man."

"He was."

Eventually, you wandered farther out into the pasture, where tall grass swayed with the breeze. Eddie bent down suddenly.

"What're you doin'?"

He plucked a tiny yellow wildflower from the ground. "Hm."

"You stealin' from me again?"

"This one's legal."

"I'm fairly certain it's still my field."

"I'll pay taxes on it."

He stepped in front of you, twirling the flower between his fingers before carefully tucking it behind your ear. "There."

You stared at him. "...What?"

"It matches."

"The flower?"

"No." He smiled. "The attitude."

You shoved his shoulder. "You are so full of it."

He stumbled back dramatically. "I've been assaulted."

"You'll live."

"I don't know..." He clutched his chest. "...That one might've cracked a rib."

"It barely touched you."

"I bruise easily."

"You're an outlaw."

"And?"

"And somehow a little shove's what does you in?"

"It's tragic, I know."

A laugh burst from you before you could stop it, so loud and so very real that Eddie could help but beam at the sound.

"What?"

"Nothin'."

"Mhm."

"I was startin' to think that sound was a myth."

Heat crept into your cheeks. "You aren't funny."

"I wasn't tryin' to be."

Embarrassed, you reached up to flick the flower from behind your ear. Before you could, Eddie caught your wrist. This time...gently.

"You can leave it."

His thumb brushed absentmindedly against the back of your hand before he seemed to realize what he was doing. He let go almost immediately.

You looked down at your hands.

"So..." you said quietly. "You really oughta get goin'."

"I probably should."

"You know," Eddie said after a moment, "I don't remember the last time I stood still this long."

"That because you're always runnin' from the law?"

"Nah."

He looked out over the pasture. "...Just never had much reason to stop."

You folded your arms across your chest, eyeing him with mock suspicion. "What a charmer you are."

"I've been called worse."

"Oh, I'm sure." You nudged a loose rock with the toe of your boot. "I reckon you find a pretty girl in every town, throw around that smile, tell her she's different, then ride off before sunrise."

Eddie let out a quiet laugh. "So that's what you think of me?"

"I think you're an outlaw."

"Fair."

"And a flirt."

"Guilty."

"You've probably got women waitin' on you from here to Montana."

He scratched at the back of his neck. "...Can't say I do."

You raised an eyebrow. "Really."

"Really."

"I don't believe you."

"I know."

You started walking again, expecting him to fall into step beside you. He, in fact, did.

"I've danced with girls," he admitted after a moment. "Bought a few drinks. Shared a kiss or two."

"A kiss or two," you echoed.

"Maybe three."

You laughed through your nose. "My, aren't you the heartbreaker."

"Nah."

"No?"

He shook his head. "I don't stick around anywhere long enough."

"Hard to court somebody when you're wanted in half the territory."

"You could always stop robbin' people."

"Where's the fun in that?"

"Oh, right."

He smiled again. "Exactly."

The two of you walked in silence for another minute before he spoke again.

"I meant what I said yesterday."

"Which part?"

"'Bout you."

You looked at him.

"I don't usually notice people."

You scoffed. "I find that hard to believe."

"I notice if somebody's dangerous."

His eyes met yours.

"Or interesting."

"And I'm both?"

"I think so."

You looked away first.

"You don't know me."

"I know enough."

"Oh?"

"You work harder than anyone else on this farm."

You frowned.

"You talk to the townsfolk more than you let on."

"I listen."

He shrugged.

"They all said the same thing."

"And what's that?"

"That after your pa passed..." His gaze drifted toward the barn. "...most figured your family would sell the place."

Your jaw tightened.

"They also said you'd never let that happen."

A breeze stirred between you, carrying the scent of fresh hay.

"I saw you mendin' that fence this mornin'."

"So?"

"You didn't replace the whole rail."

"There wasn't enough lumber."

"You carved a new notch and made the old one fit."

You blinked.

"You noticed that?"

"'Course I did. I notice a lot of things."

He smiled softly. "I noticed you've got calluses on your hands."

You instinctively tucked them behind your back.

"I noticed you always look over your shoulder before you leave a room."

You swallowed.

"I noticed you still wear your pa's necklace every day."

His voice had lost every trace of teasing.

"And..." he said quietly, "...I noticed you talk to every animal on this farm like they're old friends."

Heat crept into your cheeks. "I do not."

"You called that old Jersey 'sweet girl' this morning."

"I did not."

"You scratched her behind the ear and said, 'C'mon, sweet girl. Give me just a little more.'"

"...You heard that?"

"I was standin' ten feet away."

You groaned, covering your face with one hand. "That's mortifying."

"I thought it was adorable."

"It was not adorable."

"It absolutely was."

You peeked at him through your fingers. "You really don't quit, do you?"

He smiled that crooked, lopsided smile that somehow looked more sincere than cocky this time. "Not when I find somethin' worth stayin' for."

Word had spread quickly after the Hollow Creek Gang rode in late one autumn evening, expecting an easy score. By sunrise, they had turned tail and disappeared over the state line with fewer horses than they'd arrived with.

Nobody in town had missed who chased them out. It became something of an unspoken arrangement after that.

Sheriff Hopper remained the law, collecting taxes, settling disputes, and locking up the occasional drunk who got a little too friendly after payday. But whenever strangers with bad intentions started asking too many questions about the valley, they were met with a much simpler warning.

"Munson's territory."

It wasn't official; Hopper would've rolled his eyes if anyone suggested it was, but it worked.

The Blackwater Outfit still rode where they pleased. They still robbed railroad payrolls, wealthy cattle barons who squeezed every last penny out of smaller ranchers, and the occasional card game if Eddie was feeling particularly lucky.

Funny enough, the valley never seemed to lose another cow. Your farm changed, too. Not all at once, but little by little, day by day.

A bundle of fresh lumber appeared beside the barn one morning. A week later, Eddie showed up, claiming he had "accidentally" bought too much fencing and needed somewhere to put it.

Then, he painted the new chicken coop a bright shade of blue before realizing he'd used house paint instead of barn paint.

Your mother had stopped asking questions sometime around the third delivery. Instead, she'd simply shake her head whenever Eddie rode up the lane.

"That boy's impossible."

"He is," you'd agree. Then you'd walk outside to greet him anyway.

It became just as common to see Eddie's horse tied outside your barn as it was to see your own. Sometimes he'd help mend fences.

Other days, he'd spend hours pretending to help while somehow accomplishing very little besides distracting you from your work.

"You missed a spot."

You glanced over from where you were whitewashing the side of the barn. "I ain't painted there yet."

"Oh." He nodded thoughtfully. "...Carry on."

You laughed. "I've never met a lazier man."

"Lazier?" He pressed a hand against his chest. "I am deeply offended."

"You've been sittin' on that fence for near an hour."

"I've been supervisin'."

"You've been napping."

"They're remarkably similar."

One evening, you found Eddie sitting atop the split-rail fence overlooking the pasture, lazily spinning your father's old pocketknife between his fingers.

"You know that's mine."

"I was holdin' it for you."

"You stole it."

"I borrowed it."

"You've got a funny definition of borrowing."

"I've got a funny definition of lots of things."

You climbed onto the fence beside him, and after a moment of appreciating a day's work, he cleared his throat.

"I been thinkin'."

"That sounds dangerous."

"It usually is."

He smiled to himself before growing uncharacteristically serious. "I don't much care for ridin' anymore."

You turned to look at him. "What?"

"I used to think if I stayed in one place too long..." He shrugged. "...I'd become someone easy to catch."

"And now?"

"Now..."

His eyes wandered across the fields, the barn, the farmhouse. Your mother hanging laundry across the clothesline, your little brother chasing chickens he'd never catch.

Then, they found you. "...Now I think I'd rather be easy to find."

"Eddie..."

"I ain't sayin' I'll stop bein' me."

"I wouldn't ask you to."

"I know." He reached over, absentmindedly taking your hand. "I just..."

He laughed quietly. "...I like comin' home." Home.

You looked down at your joined hands before squeezing his fingers. "I've got somethin' to tell you."

"Oh?"

"You were right."

His grin appeared instantly. "I usually am."

"I did smile in the saloon."

He laughed. "I knew it."

"But..."

You leaned over just enough to kiss him, slow and soft, sweet enough to stop every clever remark he'd been about to make.

When you pulled away, he looked genuinely speechless. "...Well."

"Speechless?"

"You might've finally managed it."

"I'll cherish the moment."

He laughed again before pulling you back for another kiss.

eddie fr.

i hope you all enjoyeddddd<33

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“Welp,” Dean sighed, taking another swig of his beer. “I’d say we’ve earned that day off—or, well, the six hours before we meet up with Bobby.” He continued, rambling basically to himself as Sam’s gaze drifted past Dean’s shoulder. “Whad’ya say? Little daylight pub crawl?”

At the resounding silence, Dean finally noticed his brother. 

Brown eyes wide. Mouth slightly opened. Hand stalled mid air with his glass.

“Sammy?” Dean waved in his little brother’s face. “You listen to a word I said?”

Sam was still frozen, eyes glassy and fixated on something across the bar. “She’s beautiful...” His voice trailed off, breathless and entranced. 

If Dean hadn’t turned to see what the hell he was watching, he might’ve thought Sam had been under some spell. But he looked—at the corner booth over near the pool table—and nearly choked on beer.

Two women were sitting across from one another. Relatively young, late twenties at most, and fucking gorgeous—both of them. Maybe that should’ve been the first warning, but who was Dean Winchester to not notice some pretty girls?

One kinda fluttered in her seat, hands animatedly moving. Around her shoulders was a dainty purple cardigan, and the equally pretty smile she wore practically glittered under the bar lamps. Meanwhile the other seemed to have a perpetual smirk, listening intently to what the purple girl was rambling about as she leaned back languidly into the vinyl. 

As bright and shiny as the first girl was, this one drew him in. Even from across the bar, Dean could see the dozens of puzzling layers that he wanted to spend hours unwrapping—or, more likely, undressing. He couldn’t help it as his eyes trailed across her form. Focus landing squarely on her chipped nails tracing lazy shapes in the glass’s condensation. Then, almost painfully slow, one hand wrapped around the glass, lifting it up to her lips. A single drop of her drink slid down her mouth. 

Slack jawed, Dean watched as her tongue chased the droplet. Her lips still pulled up in a slight smirk.

Dean whistled low. “That.” He enunciated by gesturing the bottle neck towards the woman. “Is trouble. You aren’t messing with that.”

Sam whipped his head around, trance broken and a thin pout now pursed on his lips. “What the hell does that mean?”

His older brother grinned, glancing back at the table just in time to see the smirking one peel off her jacket, revealing a tight green v-neck hugging just the right places. 

“Sorry, Sammy. But you can’t possibly handle all that.”

Sam’s brows pinched, pouting further as he saw exactly where his brother was looking. “Wha—I was talking about the other girl.”

“Purple sweater?”

Sam aggressively nodded, reminding Dean of the time when Sam was twelve and he had a deadly crush on the public pool’s lifeguard.

Dean looked towards the booth again, right on time to seen the green subtly glance back. She locked eyes with him, just once, and then casually resumed her conversation—as if she hadn’t just sent a perfect volley right into his court.

“Bingo.” Dean slammed his empty bottle down, arms now free to wrangle his little brother by the scruff. “C’mon, Sammy. Show time.”

Sam’s eyes widened, fiercely fighting the pull. “Dean—absolutely not.”

But his brother was still grinning wildly as he manhandled the lanky giant. It was far too late for any of Sam’s excuses anyways, as Dean had swiftly parked them right in front of the corner booth. Perks of being in some rundown dive bar in butt-fuck nowhere, this place was smaller than a shoebox.

“Dude—,“ Sam protested right before his brother swiveled him to face the table.

Dean cleared his throat, putting on his signature honey-sweet tone. “Ladies, I was wondering if you could help me and my brother out, we’re in a bit of a pickle here.”

Both girls turned towards them, but Dean instantly watched the green. 

It was like as soon you’d looked at him, smirk mirroring his own, there was nothing else he could see. Blinders on. A hazy vignette perfectly framing your face.

Up this close, however, you looked familiar somehow. But being Dean, he simply swatted it off as the growing buzz of booze and the moment.

Instantly, you perked up. Voice more chipper and bubbly than he was expecting. “Well, we can’t have that now, can we?” Eyes trailing down Dean as you not so subtly leaned forward, arms pushing your cleavage together.

Well, Dean was in for a world of trouble tonight—and he was ecstatic. 

“What angels.”

This time, your smile glinted as you giggled. “Are you just gonna stand there?” Painted nails gesturing to either side of the booth.

Across from you, the other girl was fidgeting with her hair, far more afraid of holding Sam’s eye contact than you were with Dean. Sam didn’t look put off in the slightest though. In fact, he looked like the place could catch fire and he’d still be staring at her, equally as entrance as the moment he first spotted her across the bar.

Gulping a little, Sam attempted a calm, easy tone. “This seat taken?”

The purple girl smiled sweetly as she fiddled with the long sleeves of her cardigan. “Not at all.”

You grinned. “Well, ain’t that peachy?” Holding Dean’s eye contact as you slid farther into the booth, making a suggestive amount of space for him.

Hell of a way to top off a hunt.

Over the next ten minutes, you’d told the boys all about the roadtrip—your little sister’s graduation present. The names you gave were believable enough, even if Dean had a sneaking suspicion you were fibbing. 

It honestly made him even more intrigued, reflexively leaning closer with every giggle and teasing squeeze you gave to his bicep. Your aura was intoxicating, increasing by the second—so much so that he didn’t pick up on the ways you kept popping in to answer every question, especially the ones thrown your sister’s way. Under normal circumstances, Sam and Dean’s alarm bells would’ve been ringing to hell. But staring at you two had all sense silenced from their minds.

All according to your plan.

Across the table, your sister coughed. “Um, it’s almost half past.”

You pouted dramatically in your seat, Dean’s eyes still trailing your every minor movement. “Gosh darn! I’m sorry boys, we’ve gotta head back. We walked here and our motel’s almost twenty minutes away.”

A lightbulb flickered behind Dean’s eyes, glancing excitedly at his brother. “Walk? At this time of night?” He shook his head at you chastisingly, still smirking. “We can’t have that, I’ll be tied up in knots wondering if you’re safe. How ‘bout we give you both a ride? Our motel’s not far off either.”

In fact, Dean knew there was only one motel in town.

You batted your lashes at him, running your nails down his leather jacket. “As long as it’s not too much trouble.”

Dean leaned his smirk closer, eyes darting down to your lips. “I’d say the only trouble here is you.”

Your eyes flared as another high pitched giggle bubbled out. Dean just thought he was just real funny tonight and you were real into it. It only made you laugh harder, positively tickled by how clueless he was by the ironic joke he’d accidentally made.

“Don’t worry, I don’t bite.” Your fingers now fiddling with the collar of his jacket.

“What a shame.”

Sam coughed awkwardly, giving your sister a ‘sorry for my brother’ kind of smile when she rolled her eyes at you two. 

“That okay with you?” He asked so tenderly it made your sister visibly gulp.

“Um, yeah, absolutely. Thank you.”

He only nodded, still locking eyes with her. They’d been doing that for the past thirty minutes, basically silent save for your conversation. It was so nauseating you almost forgot yourself and allowed your eyes to roll. Instead, you leaned more into the ditz bit and giggled next to Dean’s ear.

With a grin, Dean clapped his hands, relishing in the feeling of your manicured hand resting on his bicep. “Well, Shall we?”

After parking the car, Dean had an arm draped across your shoulder whilst he showed off Baby—off course, only since you insisted on the full tour. Like you said, you don’t know anything about cars, but they look so darn cute! 

And would you look at that? His car was parked around the back. No one in sight and barely any windows facing that way. Dean, however, didn’t pick up on the fact that there weren't any cars in the parking lot—at all—except his.

“Fixed her up myself.” Patting Baby’s trunk like as slap on the ass.

Your eyes were wide as you stared in awe at Dean. “Goodness gracious! So what do you and your brother do for work? Seem real capable.” The exaggerated giggle making your sister now roll her eyes. 

Dean couldn’t give a shit about your borderline desperate flirting, he’d done far more embarrassing things to sleep with a chick. He was just happy to be at the receiving end of it. 

“We’re mechanics. It’s a family business.” The other arm going out to hook around Sam’s neck. “I do most of the heavy lifting, though.”

Dean somehow grinned even wider as she giggled again. “I bet.”

Beside him, Sam grunted awkwardly. His elbow roughly poking Dean in the rib, hands clawing to remove the around from around his neck. “I don’t feel so good, man.”

Past Sam’s shoulder— and thankfully out of their eyeline—your sister’s head whipped up. Angry recognition flitting across her face as she stared at you. 

Dean shoved Sam’s hand away, glaring out the side of his eye. “You’re fine. Drink some water or something.” However, the sudden motion seemed to remind him of how many beers he must’ve had that night. Head spinning for a moment before he twisted back to you.

Still smiling, you also ignored his brother—and the sniper dot practically appearing on your forehead from your sister’s glare. “You travel a lot?”

Dean squinted, the dizziness whirring around his vision once more. Voice coming through muddy and warped. 

He coughed, “Sorry, I’m, um—a little. Here and there for jobs.”

In an instant, your smile sharpened. Bubbly tone snuffed out. “That why you got stolen plates?”

“Wha—fuck.” 

Dean was slumped over in a second, dropping at the same time as Sam. Whatever they’d been given was strong, but it certainly wasn’t meant to knock them out cold. Still, they were both beyond dizzy, uncontrollably groaning from the piercing squeeze contracting their abdomens.

Not sparing a second, you leaned down and plucked the keys out of Dean’s pocket. “Night night, pretty.”

“Did you really have to do that?” Your sister whined, boots stomping on the pavement as she trailed behind you back to Baby. “All we needed was his wallet!” 

But even with her fussing, you sister quickly scurried into the passenger side. Heart drumming through her ears as she watched Sam doubled over in pain.

You cackled with unbridled glee. Flipping the keys around your pointer as you slid into the driver’s seat. “You need more whimsy, bug. Bit of a flourish here and there ain’t gonna kill you.”

“But it could kill them!”

Casually, you leaned out the car window, peering over at both brothers still groaning on the ground. Dean’s eyes caught your own, still keeled over from the stomach pain, and you smirked—far more supicious and fox-like than he’d realized. 

“They’ll live.”

Through a groan, Dean barked out, “I’m gonna find you, bitch!”

You mockingly laughed as the engine fired up. “Oh I hope so, pretty boy.” 

Baby’s tires smoked as they peeled away from the motel, high tailing it to the interstate.

Now, in the pervading silence, all that was left was the two of them double over and stupidly moaning in pain. The infamous Winchester boys, brought down by a pretty smile and a perfectly placed trap. 

Sam choked on a cough, “Dean, we—jesus—we need’a call Bobby.” A fist coming up to nudge Dean’s shoulder.

Thankfully, you hadn’t been so cruel as to take all their belongings. Still, when Dean messily fished out his wallet and phone with shaking hands, even he was stunned to find them both there. The leather was definitely lighter, all of the cash swiftly slipped from the folds—but everything else was there, even the credits cards.

You could’ve robbed them blind and they’d have no way to follow you for hours. So why not? 

In a more sane and less poison-full state, Dean would wonder what the hell that was about. 

Dumbly, Dean continued groaning on the ground. Fumbling with the buttons as he dialed Bobby’s number.

He grunted in relief when the receiver immediately clicked. Barely letting a second go by before he was grumbling out through gritted teeth, “Bobby, we need’a ride—frickin hell.”

Notes: I giggled uncontrollably writing the last bit, hoping y'all like it!! ;p

Taglist: OPEN

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“Oh, honey… You look beautiful.”

You trust your mother, you really do, but you don't really feel beautiful at the moment. Or at least, you don't truly feel like yourself as you eye your reflection in the mirror, your form covered in a long-sleeved glittery gown. The sequins on the fabric itch, and you have to stop yourself from constantly readjusting it so as not to irritate your skin.

Standing in your spacious bedroom filled with antique furniture, you feel as though the dress makes you look just as dated as the place. Everything around you is ancient, and now you look old too, in your old gown and your old shoes. No twenty-one year old would be caught dead wearing this. 

“Uh, thanks, mom,” you mutter, unconvinced.

She sighs from her spot on the bed, her green eyes filled with empathy. “Look, sweetheart, I know you didn't want this… But your father… He’s just trying to do what's good for you—for us. It's election year, we have to support him and stand together.”

“Right,” you scoff in barely contained sarcasm, “because hijacking my birthday to invite sponsors is us standing together.”

“Honey…”

“I know, I know. Big smile and calm posture,” you huff, parroting the words she always repeats.

She shakes her head with a fond smile before standing behind you, squeezing your shoulders reassuringly. “You will do great, sweetie. You always do.”

Heels click on the marble tile of the long hallway as you approach the president whose back is facing you. Your mother links her arm around yours, pulling you forward before calling out a soft ‘honey’ to the man.

He turns, expression neutral, though there is a coldness in his blue eyes that you have come to learn never leaves him. “Barbara,” he mutters in acknowledgment. “There you two are—you had me waiting.”

“You said seven,” you retort in a grumble. “It is seven.”

The look he gives you has the blonde woman beside you intervene in a soft murmur. “Alright, you two, don't start.”

You raise your hands in surrender, refusing to meet his gaze, before he finally turns to lead the way. The three of you walk until you reach the double doors of the East Room, two staff members ready to open the gate at the president’s signal.

He nods, gesturing for them to do so, but not without throwing a quick glance your way. 

“Behave.”

It’s simply infuriating. He didn't even wish you a happy birthday yet, only muttering orders of what you should and shouldn’t do during this joke of an event. You wish you could argue, snap, or flat out refuse to do as he says, but you know the consequences would be so dramatic, you would rather not poke the bear.

You’re met with warm lights, quiet chatter, and classical music once you enter the room, the guests turning their attention towards your family as you make your way inside. Very quickly, the onslaught of greetings and small talk begins when the invitees call for your attention one by one. 

You move from one group to another, from businessmen to politicians alike, all present under the guise of attending a private, casual dinner when it is anything but. The worst part is you weren't even allowed to invite your friends, even though it's supposed to be your birthday. So now you're forced to entertain guests, internally cringing at every tone deaf joke and inappropriate gaze from old men that have nothing in common with you.

When you grab a second flute of champagne after finishing the first one, hoping that alcohol will soothe your nerves, your mother gives you a stern look from across the room that has you setting the glass back down. In that case, you’ll just settle for food.

You smile politely to random people whose names you don't know as you weave your way through fancy suits and expensive gowns, until you reach the long, elaborate buffet table. Hors d'œuvres, amuse bouches, and every other fancy fucking french word for bite sized treats are piled on ornate silver plates. Your hand hovers, unsure of what to pick, when you let your eyes trail to the chocolate fountain set on the far end. Maybe sugar will do.

Walking over, you grab a sliced strawberry from a fruit plate, then dip it into the cascading melted chocolate. Your mouth is already watering, but before you bite into it, you turn your back to the party so no one witnesses the possible mess of smudged dessert on your face—you’re self-conscious enough already.

Once certain no one is paying too much attention, you shove the entire berry in your mouth, filling your cheeks with sweet and tart goodness. You exhale from your nose in contentment, bringing a finger to wipe at the stained corners of your lips, when you suddenly pause at the feel of eyes on your profile.

You turn your head slowly to face the onlooker with the demeanor of a child who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar, only to choke on the damn strawberry down your throat at the sight of the person.

It’s him. The hot blonde dude from the previous night. The one that rejected you and bruised your ego in a way you're sure will never recover. 

Why the hell is he here? Is he some important guest too?

He notices your wide eyed look of confusion and responds with one of curiosity, a ghost of smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. You swallow hard and reach for a napkin, dabbing your chin in preparation to start your slew of questions, only to suddenly be hit with realization.

Wait…

The suit, the spiraling wire by his neck, the barely concealed gun, and the stance—the fucking clasped-hands-at-the-crotch stance… He’s Secret Service.

“Wh— What is this?” you ask in a scoff once you throw the cloth on the table, marching towards the man in a determined step. 

His smile widens, though you catch him quickly biting the inside of his mouth as he feigns ignorance. “What is what?” 

“Why are you here? You work here? You’re Secret Service?”

“You could say I am,” he nods with his impassive poker face.

Huffing, you cross your arms in irritation as you come to stand even closer. “What kind of answer is that? Just say yes or no.”

He stares at you for a moment, the annoying little twitch of his mouth starting again, when he lifts a hand to his own lips, tapping the corner where they join with his finger. “You have a little…”

Goddamnit. 

You immediately feel your face heat up as you unceremoniously scramble to wipe your mouth of leftover chocolate with the back of your hand. Why does every interaction with this man result in your humiliation?

“Yeah, thanks,” you mutter sarcastically before returning to your accusatory tone. “Why didn't you tell me you’re an agent yesterday? I made a fool of myself talking to you...”

He shakes his head in the picture of innocence, a small pout on his plump lips as he tries to soothe your concerns. “Oh, I assure you you didn't, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?!” you scoff suddenly in a gasp. 

It’s the dress isn't it? It’s making you look old as shit in front of the hottest guy you ever met, who also probably thinks you're an idiot by now.

“I— You’re older than me,” you point out, cheeks warm with embarrassment. “Don't call me that.”

“Isn't that what all security detail call you?” he quirks an eyebrow.

Well, he does make a good argument. Your mortification only increases, however, and you throw a glance around just to make sure no one else is witnessing your shame. Behind you, the party continues, people seemingly oblivious to your little conversation. Although, you do catch your father’s icy eyes across the room, and you already know he's internally berating you for not mingling more with guests. 

You turn back to the man, your head bowed when you mutter an answer. “Yes…”

He appears to have caught the president’s lingering gaze as well as he straightens his posture, his voice dropping an octave. “So then it shouldn't be a problem… Ma’am.”

Sighing in defeat, you're about to leave when you pause, squinting your eyes in suspicion. “What's your name anyway?”

“Leon S. Kennedy, at your service.” He offers a curt nod.

“Kennedy,” you huff in irony. The name is familiar, of course, the very history of the walls surrounding you imprinted with it. “Alright then, agent Kennedy... Just so you know, I’m going to be asking around about you… Because I don't like this.” You make a vague gesture towards him, gaze filled with skepticism.

He smirks lightly again, before nodding in total ease. “By all means, please do.”

You observe him for a moment before clicking your tongue. “Unbelievable,” you huff as you turn on your heels, ready to join back the party. But before you go far, you hear him throw another comment at your back.

“Happy birthday, ma’am.”

With your eye twitching and your shoulders tense, you walk away in irritation, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

By the end of the night, your feet hurt like hell in your heels, and your dress itches so bad you wonder if it didn't scratch your skin raw. But none of the physical discomfort compares to the absolute mortification simmering inside you from your previous interaction with Kennedy. 

He's so rude, you wonder how he ever managed to land this job. Although, he does look rather young, so maybe he's a rookie. Then again, his demeanor screamed anything but. He was so unfazed by your skeptical questions, it was a bit intimidating the way he stood his ground. Because of that, you made a conscious effort to avoid him for the rest of the party, and it thankfully worked. Though, you also did not get a chance to ask the other agents about him, too busy entertaining elites. 

The thought of him keeps you awake longer than necessary when you finally slip under the sheets in comfortable pyjamas, the events of the two previous meetings replaying in your mind over and over again. It feels so unfair that you never go out to party, and the one time you do, this happens? Life is a cruel joke.

The next morning, you sit at the breakfast table in a simple outfit and barely styled hair. You know your mother might say something about choosing more ladylike clothes, but after masquerading as a middle aged housewife dressed for a holiday party the previous night, you could not care less for her comments.

Opening a text from Maya on your flip phone, you're happy to see her confirm your plans to go for a swim together in the backyard pool later. It's been so terribly hot this summer, and you hope you can hang out to cool down and forget all about last night's stupid event. 

“‘Morning,” your father announces lowly as he enters the room, the staff responding with a slew of ‘good morning, Mr. President.’

“G’morning,” you answer between two bites of toast.

You watch him settle beside your mother, his coffee already waiting for him—black and piping hot, just how he likes it. He picks up his cup, his usual frown forever plastered on his forehead as he takes a sip. “We made good progress last night,” he begins, “hosting the party was the right call.”

Because of course he would praise his own decisions. You nearly roll your eyes.

“I’m so glad to hear that, honey,” Barbara chimes. “Everything went well—the food, the music—and, of course, everybody praised the little star of the show.” She looks your way, giving you an approving smile.

“Hm,” the president hums, making a single nod in response before he meets your eyes. “I saw you talk to one of the agents.”

You freeze, feeling caught in a moment of panic, before remembering there is nothing inherently wrong in talking to a member of the security detail. It's just that everything your father says always feels like an accusation.

“Yeah, I did,” you answer simply.

The grey-haired man checks his watch, verifying the time. “In the afternoon I have a meeting with him and other staff. I’d like you present.”

It's not even a question—you know you’re not afforded a choice. 

“When?”

“Two-thirty, Roosevelt Room.”

Great. Fuck your swimming plans, then.

“Okay,” you answer quietly, sighing in defeat.

“Miss Graham, sir,” Davis’s deep voice speaks through his radio, and another responds shortly after to give the all clear.

The door opens and you’re led inside, finding most of the meeting’s attendees already sitting in their spots at the long table, about a dozen people gathered.

“Ah. You’re here.” The president motions for you to settle to his left, and as you do, you feel the eyes of the room follow your every movement.

But it's a particular pair that has your breath stuttering when you sit, as you find yourself directly facing Leon S. Kennedy. You're a bit taken aback by his position at the table—only senior staff are afforded the spot directly on your father’s right.

Just who is this guy?

“Agent Kennedy, I believe you have already met my daughter.”

“I have, sir,” he nods curtly, throwing you a knowing glance. “We were able to make light introductions.”

“Good. Then I’ll get straight to the point.” Without wasting time, the president turns to you with a serious expression. “Due to some recent… events, I have decided to make changes to your security detail. Including hiring new professionals that will ensure your safety.”

Frowning in confusion, you look around the room of men and women in suits in search for anyone as clueless as you. But, alas, it looks like you're the only one left out of the loop.

“Wait, what kind of events?” you inquire with tense shoulders.

President Graham exhales sharply through his nose, like he wishes he didn't have to explain things but is left with no choice. “I did not want to talk about this amidst your birthday festivities. But, three days ago, we received alarming threats… And some of them pertain to your safety specifically.”

You feel a chill run down your spine, his words making a knot grow in your gut. Threats aren't exactly something new, every prominent politician receives multiples in the morning mail. But if it's something serious enough—real enough—your father is taking precautionary measures, it means it's a lot worse than usual.

Swallowing hard, you ask the question sitting on your tongue. “So, what's gonna change for me now?”

“You will be more closely monitored, for a start. More agents at campus, more communication with the White House about your schedules and whereabouts…” he pauses, letting his words register before motioning to the blonde on his right. “But most importantly, Agent Kennedy will now be the Detail Leader of your security.”

You throw a glance at the man in question only to find him already observing you. You're starting to grow tired of his piercing stare that he keeps on shamelessly.

“He’s replacing Davis,” you conclude bitterly. The latter is standing by the door, his face as stoic as ever even as he gets demoted after years of service.

Kennedy frowns at your tone, and he looks like he wants to say something but decides to ultimately stay quiet as your father speaks.

“Yes, but only temporarily… We didn't bring Mr. Kennedy here for a random reason. He’s not a regular agent—not Secret Service. Rather, he's someone a lot more equipped to face the threats that have been placed concerning you.”

You were always told the agents surrounding you are the best at what they do, so it's in utter confusion that you ask your next question. “What does that even mean?”

This time, it's the agent himself who answers, a familiar acronym falling out of his mouth; “BOWs.”

“What?”

“You heard him right,” the president nods, his eyes flickering between you both before addressing the room. “As you all know, election year is always particularly tense, so with the addition of these threats, there is simply no way we can stand idly by while things around us change.”

Nods and hums of agreement fill the room as your father continues to speak, explaining how security will increase all around from the White House to Congress. His words slowly grow into mumbled jumble in your ears as you truly process the newly acquired information.

People out there—you don't know who—have been making serious threats about you that involve bioweapons. So now, your every move will be scrutinized and secured under the oversight of an agent you only just met recently in the most embarrassing situation ever. 

You feel irritation internally fester inside you. You don't want this guy with the piercing eyes and smug smirk. No, you want Davis, or Morales, or anyone from the team you grew up with over the past four years and who are now like family to you. Calm and composed middle aged men who let you get away with the lack of protocol every now and then. Not the guy who's still very much staring you down every chance he gets even with a room full of professionals and your very own president of a father next to him.

By the time the meeting is adjourned, you have done everything possible to avoid the blonde’s gaze as you absentmindedly listened to the others speak. Finally, you're cleared to leave, so you stand and exit the room, not looking behind as you do.

Except, there is nowhere to run from the man, because he quickly appears by your side once you’re out in the hallway, like some kind of soundless ghost. You nearly jump at the sight, clutching your chest in surprise. “Jesus Christ! You scared me…”

“My apologies, ma’am, that was not my intention,” he murmurs sympathetically, but the little shit has that teasing mirth in his eyes again. He can’t fool you.

Scoffing under your breath a sarcastic ‘ma’am,’ you don't wait for him as you begin to walk, with him effortlessly matching your steps. “I’m not even going out today, you don't have to follow me.”

“Well, I know you’ve delayed your previous plans for the afternoon by an hour, and using the outdoor swimming pool still counts as outside,” he chides, tilting his head curiously. “I believe your friend Maya will be here soon, if I’m not mistaken?”

You freeze in your steps, turning to him with wide, furious eyes. “How the heck do you know all that already?”

“Oh, I’ve spoken to staff and went through your entire schedule for the upcoming days,” he answers confidently, before his voice gains a teasing lilt. “I will say, it's mostly empty.”

Feeling your pride get wounded at the implication that you're leading a boring, lonely life, you cross your arms defensively. “Well, it's not like there's much to do for the First Daughter anyway. I’m not the one people voted for, I’m fine staying home.”

“Of course,” he answers professionally, but you clearly see the twitch of his lips. 

You sigh and quicken your strides, then when you reach the elevator meant to take you downstairs, he motions for you to enter it first, already moving to stand beside you. “I know you're supposed to be a super bodyguard or whatever, but I hope you know I’m not exactly happy about this change,” you announce once the doors shut.

“Oh, trust me, ma’am, I can tell,” he huffs out a low chuckle, before turning to you with a more serious expression. “Nonetheless, I hope to make it clear that moving forward, you are my priority. That means I am there wherever you go, whatever you do—when you go out, eat, sleep—I will always be no more than one door away, and I will know of your location and activities at all times…” he drawls the last words, letting them linger in the confines of the lift. “I hope that you and I can work well together, Miss Graham.”

“Great.” Sarcasm drips from your tone. “So long as you're honest about who you are—unlike last time—I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

You expect him to laugh, nod along, or even ignore you. But instead, he quips right back with a cocky smile that makes you seethe. “And so long as you fix your dress straps before flirting with strangers at bars, we’ll be just fine.”

The elevator dings with your cheeks on fire, and you hurry out before he can revel in the look of embarrassment on your face, muttering a barely audible 'whatever’ past your shoulder.

Next chapter coming soon.

and he was a bodyguard 😝

The first days of anything new always suck. But the first day of school during your senior year in a small town where everybody seems to know everyone and everything? That shit blows. 

So, naturally, when you walk into your first-period English class, you keep your eyes down and your appearance small. You kept your focus on the rows of desks instead, searching for an empty seat that wouldn't require you to introduce yourself to anyone before eight in the morning.

You slid into the chair, setting your backpack on the floor with a quiet sigh of relief. If you could just make it through today unnoticed, you'd consider it a win.

You knew the routine by now. Keep your answers short; don't volunteer any information people didn't ask for; smile just enough that you don't come across as rude; and, above all else, don't give anyone a reason to remember you. 

If everything went according to plan, today would be painfully uneventful. By the end of the week, you'd just be another student sitting in the back of the class, and eventually people would stop wondering where you came from altogether.

That was the goal. Unfortunately, fate had apparently taken one look at your plan and decided it could use the laugh.

"I love your shirt."

The voice came so suddenly from beside you that your shoulders jerked, your hand flying to your chest before you turned toward it.

A girl with short, feathered hair was looking at you with a genuine excitement that couldn't have been faked, even if she tried. She leaned sideways in her chair, chin resting against the back of it as though she'd been waiting for the right moment to say something.

"Sorry," she said immediately, though she didn't look particularly sorry. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"No, you're fine." You let out an embarrassed laugh. "I just... wasn't expecting anyone to talk to me."

"Fair." She nodded once. "But that's a killer Fleetwood Mac shirt."

You glanced down instinctively, smoothing a wrinkle from the faded black fabric. "Thanks."

"They're my favorite."

"You've got good taste."

"I've been told."

Her grin widened, pleased with herself.

Up close, she noticed the rest of you almost by accident. The silver hoop through your nose. The dozens of piercings tucked along your ear. The random, pointless tattoos littered across your skin. 

"Holy shit."

You blinked. "What?"

"I just realized you're, like..." She gestured vaguely in your direction. "Cool."

You couldn't help the small laugh that escaped. "I don't know about that."

"No, seriously. We don't really..." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "...get a lot of variety around here."

You looked around the classroom. That, you could believe.

"Polo shirts," she continued, counting on her fingers. "Pastels. The occasional denim jacket if somebody's feeling rebellious."

"I wore flannel."

"I like you," she decided.

"You've known me for, what, thirty seconds?"

"Thirty very informative seconds."

Before you could answer, the classroom door swung open.

"Made it before the bell," a voice announced. "That's gotta be some kind of personal record."

You looked up just as a guy stepped through the doorway, dark curls tucked beneath a bandana, a worn leather jacket hanging over a faded Dio shirt. A handful of silver rings flashed as he adjusted the backpack slung over one shoulder, scanning the room with practiced ease before his eyes landed on the two of you.

More specifically...you. He slowed just enough to be noticeable.

"There he is," she muttered, mostly to herself.

The guy wandered over, stopping beside her desk before hooking a thumb in her direction.

"I leave you unattended for five minutes, and you're already recruiting?"

Robin looked offended. "I am making a friend."

"You've said that before."

"And sometimes it's even true."

His attention drifted back to you then. He took you in, eyeing you up and down, quickly assessing what to say. 

"...Hi."

You smiled politely. "Hi."

"I'm Eddie."

You gave him your name. He repeated it once under his breath, as if testing how it sounded, then nodded to himself. "Cool."

Robin watched the exchange with poorly concealed amusement.

"You had something else," she prompted.

"I did."

"You forgot it."

"I absolutely did."

"You do that a lot."

"I know."

He rubbed the back of his neck, giving you an awkward grin before looking back at you.

"Uh..." He cleared his throat. "Your shirt's cool."

Robin snorted. "I literally just said that."

"Oh," Eddie replied, refusing to look at her. "Then, I'm agreeing."

By the time first period was halfway over, your plan to remain invisible had been thoroughly dismantled.

It wasn't entirely your fault, though. Robin had an almost supernatural inability to whisper, and Eddie seemed physically incapable of letting the room stay quiet for more than five minutes.

Most of it wasn't even directed at you. It was little observations muttered just loudly enough for the two of you to hear whenever the teacher turned toward the board.

"...That's the third metaphor in ten minutes."

Robin didn't bother looking up from her notebook. "You're counting?"

"I have to entertain myself somehow."

Five minutes later…

"If Shakespeare wanted us to understand him, he would've written in English."

"He... did," you murmured.

Eddie frowned. "...Oh. Yeah."

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

By the time Mrs. O'Donnell called on someone to read aloud, you had already made the mistake of glancing toward Eddie whenever he sighed dramatically or whispered another running commentary under his breath. 

Every time your shoulders shook with another laugh, he caught it from the corner of his eye, fighting a grin of his own before pretending to pay very close attention to whatever was happening at the front of the room.

Robin leaned toward you just enough to murmur, "Careful. He gets encouraged way too easily."

"I heard that," Eddie whispered.

"You were supposed to."

"I know."

The bell finally rang before Mrs. O'Donnell could assign anyone another passage, and the room erupted into the familiar scrape of chairs and conversations picking back up where they'd left off forty-five minutes earlier.

Robin was already slinging her backpack over one shoulder. "Lunch?"

You blinked. "Already?"

She nodded. Eddie appeared beside the two of you, adjusting the strap of his own bag. "Cafeteria cuisine awaits."

"I'm almost afraid to ask."

"You should be."

The three of you filtered into the hallway with everyone else and were immediately swallowed by the rush of students moving from every direction. 

Lockers slammed shut in uneven rhythms, teachers called after kids who'd forgotten homework, and somewhere farther down the hall, someone was already arguing about Friday night's basketball game. The cafeteria wasn't much quieter.

You had barely stepped through the doors before Robin angled toward an empty table tucked near the windows.

"That's us."

"You have an assigned table?"

"We're creatures of habit."

"And deeply unpopular," Eddie added cheerfully.

Robin shrugged. "That too."

As the three of you crossed the room, a voice cut through the noise. "Well, would you look at that."

Tommy Hagan leaned back in his chair with an amused smirk, Steve and Nancy sitting across from him. Steve looked up first, following Tommy's line of sight before immediately realizing where this was headed.

"The Freak found himself another lost puppy."

A few nearby tables snickered, but Eddie didn't even slow down. "Morning to you, too, Hagan."

Tommy's grin widened. "Didn't realize Hawkins was taking transfers for the circus."

Before Eddie could answer, Nancy sighed loudly enough for everyone at their table to hear. "Tommy."

"What?"

"You don't have to be an asshole every time someone walks into a room."

"I'm just making conversation."

"No," Nancy replied evenly. "You're making yourself annoying."

Tommy rolled his eyes but finally shut up. Steve, who looked like he'd rather be literally anywhere else, offered Eddie the smallest apologetic nod.

Eddie answered with one of his own before continuing toward the empty table as though nothing had happened.

You glanced back once, surprised. Nancy caught your eye for only a second before giving you an almost embarrassed smile, one that seemed to apologize for the entire exchange without saying a word.

Robin noticed. "Huh."

"What?"

She pulled out her chair. "I don't think I've ever heard Nancy Wheeler willingly tell Tommy to knock it off."

Eddie dropped into the seat beside her. "Maybe Hell froze over."

Robin snorted. "Or maybe she's finally realizing he's exhausting."

You looked back one last time. Nancy had already gone back to her lunch, though something about the way she'd frowned down at her tray made it seem as if her mind were somewhere else entirely.

Lunch came and went quicker than you'd expected. Maybe it was because Robin had managed to carry ninety percent of the conversation on her own, effortlessly bouncing from stories about her mom to complaining about Hawkins High's criminal lack of decent music programs. 

Eddie chimed in whenever the opportunity arose, usually with dramatic commentary that had you laughing into your milk carton before you could stop yourself. Somewhere between the cafeteria mystery meat and Robin's passionate argument that The Breakfast Club was wildly overrated, you realized you'd almost forgotten why you'd been so anxious that morning in the first place.

By the time the bell rang, the cafeteria erupted into organized chaos. Chairs scraped across the floor, backpacks were slung over shoulders, and students poured into the hallways as if someone had kicked over an anthill.

"You've got chemistry next, right?" Robin asked as the three of you spilled into the crowd.

You nodded. "I've gotta stop at my locker first."

"We're headed the other way," Eddie said, hooking his thumb down the opposite hall. "Government. Which, by the way, is a completely made-up subject. They already have a government. Why do I have to learn about it?"

Robin rolled her eyes. "You say that every week."

"Because every week it's still true."

She looked back at you. "We'll see you after? You have gym, right?"

"Yeah."

"Cool."

The two of them disappeared into the stream of students, Robin nudging Eddie after he nearly walked into a sophomore because he wasn't paying attention.

The corridor was quieter now, most everyone already filtering into their classrooms. A few lockers slammed shut somewhere behind you, followed by hurried footsteps echoing against the linoleum. 

You spun the dial, worked the stubborn latch open, and reached inside for your chemistry notebook. Something white fluttered forward and landed at your feet, causing you to frown.

It wasn't notebook paper; it was heavier, folded neatly into thirds. Slowly, you unfolded it. Inside, there were only two sentences.

You can change your address, but you can't outrun what happened. Welcome to Hawkins, bitch. — A

The blood drained from your face then. No. No. Nobody here knew; they couldn't.

The newspaper articles had disappeared. Every report, every interview, every mention of your name had been scrubbed before you'd even left town. The police had called it a gas leak; the government had made sure of it. Your aunt had promised you, over and over again, that it was over. 

Your fingers tightened around the paper until it crumpled in your hand. Someone fucking knew.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur.

Mrs. Halpern called on you twice in Chemistry, and although you answered both questions correctly, you couldn't have recalled a single thing she'd actually taught by the time the bell rang. The folded note sat heavy in your backpack, tucked inside your notebook, where you kept catching yourself checking to make sure it was still there.

By the time you reached the girls' locker room for gym, you were still trying to convince yourself there had to be a logical explanation.

Someone from your old town moved here. Someone overheard something. Someone was playing a cruel joke. Anything was easier to believe than the alternative.

The locker room hummed with the usual pre-class chatter, metal doors clanging open and shut as girls changed into oversized gym shirts and tied their hair back.

Robin dropped her backpack onto the bench beside yours with an exaggerated groan. "If Coach makes us run the mile, I'm transferring."

"Can you even afford to transfer?"

"I'll transfer emotionally."

You laughed quietly, grateful for something that felt normal. "I think that's just called giving up."

"It's called self-care."

Robin spun the combination lock on her locker. "You'll learn."

The latch popped open. Almost immediately, something slipped free and drifted onto the bench between you.

"Huh." Robin frowned.

You glanced over. "What is it?"

"Probably another announcement." She reached down casually, unfolding the piece of paper without much thought.

The smile disappeared from her face. It wasn't obvious, but it was just gone. Like someone had flipped a switch behind her eyes. Her gaze stayed fixed on the page for only a second before she folded it again so quickly you barely caught a glimpse of the handwriting.

"You okay?" you asked.

Robin blinked. "What?"

"You just... froze."

"Oh." She let out a tiny laugh that didn't quite sound real. "No, it's nothing."

She crumpled the note into her fist. "Just some idiot."

"What kind of idiot?"

"The anonymous kind."

She shrugged, forcing another smile as she shoved the balled-up paper into the pocket of her bookbag. "You know. Hawkins High. Thriving intellectual community."

Robin was talkative, almost relentlessly so. But for the rest of the time she changed, she barely spoke at all. Only once the two of you started toward the gym doors did she finally clear her throat.

"So..." she said, her usual brightness returning just a little too deliberately. "If Coach says 'give me two laps to warm up,' we fake our own deaths, right?"

You laughed. "I thought you were transferring emotionally."

"I've decided that's too much paperwork."

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, and Robin smiled back.

The note remained crumpled in Robin's backpack. She didn't look at it again until long after the final bell. When she finally unfolded it in the privacy of a bathroom stall, the words were exactly where she'd left them.

You can hide behind jokes all you want. Doesn't change who you look at when she isn't paying attention. How long before Hawkins notices, too? —A

By the time the final bell rang, Hawkins High emptied itself into the parking lot in waves.

Engines turned over one after another, buses hissed as their doors folded shut, and clusters of students lingered on the sidewalk, stretching out conversations they could've easily continued tomorrow. Eddie took his usual route toward the far corner of the lot, keys spinning lazily around his finger as he walked.

"You coming?" Robin called after him.

"In a second."

She narrowed her eyes. "You said that yesterday."

"And I meant it yesterday, too."

She snorted. "See you tomorrow, Munson."

He threw her a lazy salute before peeling away toward the battered van sitting by itself beneath the chain-link fence. Most people parked as close to the school as they could.

Eddie had learned pretty quickly that giving everyone else a little extra space saved him from finding mysterious dents and spit on his windows. He dug through his pocket for his keys, already fishing out a cigarette with the other hand when something caught his eye.

There was a folded piece of paper tucked beneath his windshield wiper.

He frowned. "Seriously?"

Probably another parking warning, or some freshman trying to be funny. He pulled it free, flattening the crease against the van's hood. 

Guess the apple didn't fall very far from the chop shop. Wonder what Uncle Wayne would think if he knew what you and your daddy really did during your father-son “bonding.” —A

The cigarette slipped from between his fingers, landing forgotten on the pavement. No.

He read the note again anyway, then a third time. By the fourth, he realized his grip had tightened enough to wrinkle the paper.

"Eddie?"

Robin's voice carried across the parking lot, and he looked up.

She was halfway out of her own car, watching him. "You good?"

He glanced back at the note. Without thinking, he folded it once, then again. By the time Robin reached him, it had disappeared into his pocket. 

"Yeah."

She studied him. "You don't look 'yeah.'"

He forced a crooked grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just realized I forgot I have homework."

Robin stared at him for a beat before laughing. "That might be the worst lie you've ever told."

"I've told worse."

"I know."

She gave him one last suspicious look before climbing into her car. "See you tomorrow."

"Yeah."

He waited until her taillights disappeared out of the parking lot before climbing into the driver's seat. For a long time, Eddie just sat there, staring at the folded note resting in his lap. 

By the time Nancy stepped through the front door, she was already mentally sorting through calculus homework and college applications.

"Kitchen!" Karen called from somewhere down the hall.

Nancy slipped off her backpack. "I'm home."

"There was something in the mail for you."

Nancy paused. "What kind of something?"

"I don't know." Karen appeared around the corner, drying her hands on a dish towel. "Large envelope. I put it on the kitchen table."

Nancy's stomach gave a hopeful little flip. Emerson, it had to be. She'd been waiting all week. She crossed into the kitchen, already smiling to herself as she spotted the manila envelope sitting neatly beside the fruit bowl.

No return address, strange. She picked it up anyway. It wasn't heavy enough to be a packet. No school logo, no crest, nothing.

Her smile faded as she slipped a finger beneath the seal and pulled it open. A photograph slid onto the table.

It took her a second to understand what she was looking at.

It was her. Jonathan stood across from her beneath the pavilion at Lover's Lake, the two of them caught in the soft glow of a lone flashlight. She was smiling at something he'd said, one hand resting lightly against his arm while he looked at her with an expression she knew all too well.

The moment right before someone leaned in.

Another photograph. Same night, but closer, their faces inches apart. Then another. And another. Each one taken from somewhere in the darkness beyond the light. Someone had been watching them.

At the bottom of the envelope was a folded index card. Nancy unfolded it with suddenly trembling hands.

Poor Stevie. He still thinks he has you all to himself.  —A

"Nancy?"

Karen's voice floated in from the living room. "You okay?"

Nancy's eyes never left the photographs. Someone had followed them. Someone had stood in the dark, close enough to capture every glance, every smile, every hesitation she hadn't even admitted to herself. She hurriedly gathered the photographs into a pile just as her mother stepped into the doorway.

"What was it?" Karen asked.

Nancy forced the envelope shut and tucked it beneath a stack of textbooks before looking up.

"...Nothing."

Karen frowned. "I thought it was from Emerson."

"So did I."

"Maybe tomorrow," Karen offered gently.

Nancy managed a smile that felt brittle around the edges. "Yeah."

Karen returned to the kitchen. Nancy waited until she was gone before pulling the photographs back out. 

Jonathan didn't get home until well after dark.

The grocery store had been busier than usual, and by the time he pulled into the driveway, every light in the Byers' house except the one over the stove had already been turned off. Joyce had left for her night shift an hour earlier, and Will had almost certainly gone to bed.

He killed the engine and sat there for a moment, rubbing his eyes tiredly before climbing out. Something sat in front of the screen door: a cardboard box, no bigger than a shoebox. No shipping label, no postage stamp. 

Just his name written neatly across the lid in black marker.

Jonathan frowned. "...Mom?"

He glanced toward the road, but nothing greeted him.  He picked the box up and carried it inside, setting it carefully on the kitchen table. For a second, he considered leaving it unopened, but curiosity eventually won, and he peeled back the tape. Inside was a thick stack of photographs. His stomach sank before he'd even picked one up.

Steve. Nancy. The photographs from the school's developing room, the ones he'd sworn he'd thrown away. One after another.

Steve with his arms around Nancy. Nancy lifting her shirt. Steve kissing her neck. Every single picture he'd secretly taken through the trees that night.

His breathing slowed. "No..."

He knew these; he knew every frame. Hands suddenly unsteady, Jonathan thumbed through the stack faster. They were all there, every single one. Even the negatives. Tucked beneath them was a folded piece of paper.

Poor Johnathan. Can’t have her all to himself, so he settles for watching from the outside. Would be a shame if Nancy saw these, wouldn’t it? —A

Steve didn't think twice when he got home.

His parents were gone, as usual. The house sat in complete silence, the only sound coming from the grandfather clock ticking somewhere deeper inside. A note rested on the kitchen island in his mother's handwriting, letting him know dinner was in the refrigerator if he wanted it.

He tossed his keys into the bowl by the front door. "I'm home," he called anyway.

No answer.

"Shocking."

He took the stairs two at a time, already reaching for the collar of his polo to tug it over his head. By the time he pushed open his bedroom door, he was thinking more about tomorrow's basketball practice than anything else. Then he stopped.

There was an envelope sitting in the middle of his bed. Cream-colored, perfectly centered against the navy comforter.

Steve frowned. "...What the hell?"

He crossed the room and picked it up. Steve.

He slid a finger beneath the flap. A single photograph slipped into his hand. Nancy. Jonathan. Lover's Lake.

She was smiling at him. Not the polite smile she gave strangers, not the one she wore in yearbook pictures. The real one.

Steve stared at it. Then another photograph. Jonathan was looking at Nancy like she was the only person in the world. Another. Their hands brushed as they walked. Another. The distance between them disappearing.

Steve's jaw tightened. Folded beneath the photographs was an index card.

Funny thing about second choices... ...they never know they're second until someone better comes along. —A

His first instinct was to laugh; it had to be fake. Some asshole with too much time on their hands. Nancy loved him.

Didn't she?

The next morning, you told yourself yesterday had been a fluke. One note, one sick joke, and nothing more.

You repeated it in your head while getting dressed. On the drive to school. Walking through the front doors. Even as you smiled at Robin when she waved from farther down the hallway.

Normal, everything was going to be normal. You reached your locker before first period, balancing your chemistry book against your hip while you worked the combination.

The latch clicked, and you pulled the door open. Something slid forward. It didn't flutter to the floor like yesterday's note; it hit the tile with a dull slap.

A newspaper clipping, yellowed around the edges, and folded in half. Slowly, your knees bending almost without permission, you picked it up. The headline stared back at you: 

LOCAL TRAGEDY LEAVES DOZENS DEAD

No. No, no, no.

Your hands shook as you unfolded the rest. The article had been blacked out in places with thick marker, entire paragraphs disappearing beneath uneven strokes, but one grainy photograph remained untouched.

At the bottom of the clipping, written across the photograph in neat black ink: 

Still think it was an accident? Run all you want. It’ll find you anywhere; I’ll make sure of it.  —A

You burst through the side doors, the crisp morning air hitting your face like ice water as you crossed the practice field without looking back. The grass was still damp with dew, soaking through the canvas of your sneakers as you headed toward the line of trees bordering the property.

Only when the school disappeared behind the branches did you finally stop. Your hands found your knees. Your chest tightened until it felt like someone had wrapped steel bands around your ribs.

"This is not happening," you whispered to yourself. "It's not happening."

The clipping was still clenched in your fist, crumpled beyond recognition. You squeezed your eyes shut.

"Hey..." The voice was so soft you almost missed it. "...Sweetheart?"

Your head snapped up.

Eddie stood a few yards away, one hand still holding the cigarette he'd apparently forgotten to smoke. His backpack hung lazily from one shoulder, concern replacing the easy grin he usually wore.

"You okay?"

You immediately wiped at your face with the sleeve of your flannel. "Yeah."

He looked at you for a long second. Then, with the smallest shake of his head, he started toward you.

"Usually," he said carefully, "when girls are crying and tell me they're fine..."

A corner of his mouth tugged upward. "...they're generally not."

A watery laugh escaped you before you could stop it. "Is that right?"

"It's one of the few things I've actually learned in nineteen years."

You looked down at the ground. "I just... needed a minute."

"Mhm."

"I'll be okay."

"Mhm."

"You don't believe me."

"I believe that you think you'll be okay."

He shifted his weight, glancing toward the school before looking back at you.

"But I also think whatever made you sprint into the woods before first period probably wasn't a pop quiz."

"...Hey."

You looked up.

"You don't have to tell me what's wrong." His voice stayed quiet. "But... whatever happened back there scared the hell outta you."

You swallowed. "I know."

"And I know we've known each other for..." He checked an imaginary watch. "...roughly twenty-four hours."

A weak laugh escaped you.

"So maybe I'm overstepping."

"No."

"I just..." Your voice caught before you could finish.

"There are..." You paused, searching for words that didn't sound completely insane. "There are things that have happened in my life that..." You shook your head. "Nobody here is supposed to know."

Eddie's brow furrowed. "Okay."

"I mean nobody. But somehow, someone else does.”

Eddie looked away for a second. "...When you say 'someone else'..."

"...You mean..." He stopped himself. "...Things nobody should know?"

You stared at him. "...Yeah."

Eddie reached into the inside pocket of his vest. He didn't say anything; he simply unfolded a wrinkled piece of paper he'd been carrying around since yesterday and held it out toward you.

You looked down. The handwriting. The black ink. The signature. Your stomach dropped.

You looked back up at him. "...You got one."

"I got one."

"When?"

He gave a humorless laugh. "Yesterday."

Your heart started racing all over again. "You didn't tell anybody?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

Eddie rubbed a hand over his face. "I figured somebody was screwing with me."

"I thought..." You looked back toward the school. "...I thought somebody had followed me here."

"I don't even know who'd know mine." He sighed. 

Your fingers tightened around the crumpled newspaper clipping. "...Mine shouldn't exist."

Eddie looked at you. "What do you mean?"

You hesitated. Then slowly opened your hand just enough for him to see the edge of the yellowed newspaper.

Not enough to read it, just enough for him to realize it wasn't from yesterday. His eyes flicked from the clipping to your face.

"...Jesus."

You nodded once. "I wasn't lying."

"I know."

"No, I mean..." Your voice cracked. "I really don't know how they know."

"...Are you kidding me?" Robin's voice carried through the trees a second before she did. She pushed through the brush, hands thrown up in disbelief as she looked between you two.

"What the hell, guys?"

Eddie looked over. "Oh. Hey, Rob."

She blinked. "'Hey, Rob?'" she repeated. "Why aren't either of you in class?"

You instinctively wiped beneath your eyes.

"...Were you crying?"

"I'm okay."

She narrowed her eyes. "I don't believe either of you."

Eddie pointed at you. "See? I told you."

"Told me what?"

"That whenever somebody says they're fine while actively crying..."

Robin finished the sentence with him. "...they're usually not."

She looked between the two of you again. "I went to English."

Neither of you said anything.

"I figured maybe one of you overslept." She shrugged. "Then neither of you showed up."

"So I told Mrs. O'Donnell I had to use the bathroom."

"You skipped class?" Eddie asked.

"I skipped five minutes of class."

"You've changed."

"Oh, shut up."

Robin's gaze drifted to the folded paper still hanging loosely from Eddie's fingers. "...What's that?"

Eddie looked down, then back at her. For a moment, it looked like he was weighing whether to answer. Finally, he held it up.

Her eyes scanned the page, the color draining from her face.

"...Where'd you get that?"

"On my van."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"You... never said anything."

"I wasn't exactly eager to advertise it."

Robin swallowed. "...It was signed, wasn't it?"

Eddie frowned. "...Yeah."

Robin let out a slow breath through her nose. "No way."

"What?" Eddie asked.

She stared at the ground for a second before reaching into the pocket of her jacket.

"I thought..." she muttered. "I thought somebody was just being an asshole."

She unfolded a wrinkled piece of notebook paper. The black ink matched Eddie's perfectly. The same sharp handwriting, the same signature at the bottom.

—A

"You too?" you asked quietly.

Robin nodded once. "I found it yesterday."

"You didn't tell anybody?"

"I was kind of hoping if I ignored it, it'd magically become somebody else's problem."

Eddie gave a humorless laugh. "How'd that work out?"

"...Poorly."

Neither of you asked what the note said; Robin was grateful for that. She folded it back up before either of you had a chance to read it, stuffing it into her pocket with a practiced shrug that fooled absolutely no one.

"It was..." She searched for a word, eyes fixed on the dirt beneath her shoes. "...Personal."

Eddie looked from Robin to you, then back toward the school barely visible through the trees. "I don't think this is a coincidence anymore."

Robin shook her head. "No."

You tightened your grip around the crumpled newspaper clipping still hidden in your sleeve. "...Neither do I."

You made it back before second period ended, after Eddie insisted on walking you to the side entrance, the two of you agreeing, without ever really saying it aloud, that whatever was happening would stay between the three of you for now.

At least until you understood it.

By seventh period, you hadn't retained a single thing your teachers had said. Every unfamiliar face in the hallway made your stomach tighten. Every folded piece of paper you saw sticking out of someone's notebook caught your attention for just a second too long.

When the final bell rang, you waited for the hallway to thin before ducking into the girls' bathroom. Maybe splashing some cold water on your face would make you feel less like your heart had been living somewhere in your throat all day.

Someone stood at the sinks with their back to you, shoulders rigid beneath a pale blue sweater. You recognized the chestnut curls before she turned around. Nancy Wheeler.

She startled at the sound of the door closing, hastily folding a piece of paper in half. 

"Oh."

Nancy quickly wiped beneath one eye, forcing the kind of smile that only made it more obvious she'd been crying.

"Sorry," she said quietly. "I... didn't know anyone else was in here."

You shook your head. "It's okay."

You'd spoken exactly twice before. Once when she'd apologized for Tommy in the cafeteria. Once in Chemistry, when she'd handed you a pencil after yours rolled beneath a lab table.

"...It's Nancy, right?"

She nodded. "...Yeah."

"I'm..." You gave her your name.

"I know."

Nancy looked down at the folded paper in her hands, almost instinctively trying to hide it behind her sleeve.

Your eyes followed the movement. Then slowly, very carefully, you asked, "That’s from A, isn’t it?"

Nancy's head snapped up, the color draining from her face. "...What?"

"You heard me."

"...How..." she whispered. "...How do you know that?"

You reached into your backpack. Without saying a word, you unfolded the now-soft newspaper clipping you'd carried around all day.

Nancy's eyes flicked from the article to the black ink scrawled across the bottom, then to your face. 

"...Oh my God."

You nodded once. "I'm not the only one."

Nancy looked back at the letter in her own hands. "You too?"

"Me."

"My friend."

"...Actually..." A humorless smile tugged at your mouth. "...Four of us."

Nancy looked up quickly. "...Four?"

You nodded. "Eddie, Robin…"

"And now..." Your eyes settled on the paper still trembling in her hands. "...You."

Nancy leaned back against the sink as though her knees had suddenly forgotten how to work.

Nancy barely had enough time to fold the letter back into its envelope before the final bell echoed through the building. Students spilled into the hallway in every direction, conversations overlapping into one constant wall of noise.

She looked at you. "...I don't think I can do this by myself."

"You don't have to."

The two of you stepped out of the bathroom together and were immediately swallowed by the crowd.

"Nancy!"

The voice cut through the hallway sharply enough that people nearby turned to look. Steve.

He was pushing through the crowd, jaw tight, one hand clutching something so tightly it had crumpled around the edges.

He stopped in front of her. "What the hell is this, Nance?"

Nancy frowned. "...Steve?"

He held up a photograph. Even from where you stood, you recognized Jonathan's jacket. Nancy's eyes widened.

"...Where did you get that?"

"So it's real?"

"Steve, let me see it."

He pulled it back before she could reach it. "No."

His voice wasn't angry so much as... hurt. "You tell me why somebody left this in my locker."

Nancy's face went pale. "Locker...?"

Steve flipped the photograph around. On the back, written in thick black marker, were three words.

Ask your girlfriend. —A

Nancy felt the blood drain from her face. "...No."

Steve stared at her. “‘No' what?"

"No, I mean..." She shook her head frantically. "Steve, somebody's doing this."

"Doing what?"

"They—"

"They what?"

"They've been sending—"

"Nance." His voice cracked. "It's a picture."

He turned it back over. This time, you saw it clearly: Nancy and Jonathan, standing beneath the pavilion, Jonathan's hand cupping her cheek, and Nancy kissing him.

"Were you ever gonna tell me?"

The hallway had gone almost completely silent around them. People slowed as they walked by, and the whispers started. 

Nancy took one desperate step toward him. "It wasn't—"

"What? What it looks like?"

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Steve let out a hollow laugh. "I defended you."

His eyes shimmered with disbelief more than anger. "When Tommy started running his mouth yesterday, I told him to shut up."

He looked down at the photograph again. "I thought we were okay."

"We are."

"Are we?"

Steve didn't say another word. He looked at Nancy for one long, unreadable moment before turning on his heel and shoving his way through the crowd.

"Steve!" Nancy hurried after him. "Steve, wait!"

By the time the three of you spilled out into the afternoon sun, Steve was already halfway across the parking lot, moving with long, determined strides.

"Steve!" Nancy called again.

Then Steve stopped, not because of Nancy, but because he'd spotted Jonathan. Jonathan had just stepped out of the school, camera bag slung over one shoulder, as he headed toward the student lot.

Steve changed direction without hesitation.

Your stomach dropped. "Nancy..."

Jonathan looked up just as Steve reached him. "What—"

His sentence was never finished; Steve's fist connected squarely with his jaw. Jonathan stumbled backward, crashing into the side of a parked car before sliding onto one knee.

The parking lot erupted while Nancy shoved past you. "Steve!"

Jonathan wiped at the blood already forming at the corner of his mouth, looking up in complete disbelief. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Steve was breathing hard, and his hand was still clenched into a fist. "You wanna tell me?"

"I don't even know what this is about!"

Steve barked out a bitter laugh. "No?"

He reached into his backpack and yanked out a thick manila envelope. "You don't recognize this?"

Before Jonathan could answer, Steve threw it at his chest. The envelope burst open the second it hit him. Photographs scattered across the asphalt, dozens of them.

Nancy instinctively looked down, her face draining white.

She recognized herself immediately. Standing in Steve’s bedroom, shirt rising over her head, then another of them kissing, then her bra…

Jonathan stared at them, his entire body going still. "...No."

Nancy slowly bent down, picking up one of the photographs with trembling fingers. Then another, then another. Each one felt worse than the last.

She looked up at Jonathan. "...You took these?"

He couldn't answer. "Nancy..."

"You were watching us?"

"It wasn't—"

"You were watching us."

Steve shook his head, chuckling in disbelief. "This is the guy you cheat on me with, Nance?"

Nancy's eyes never left the photographs in her hands; there were simply so many. So many moments she'd never known someone else had witnessed.

Then, something caught your eye. Another folded piece of paper had slipped from the envelope, drifting beneath Jonathan's shoe. You reached down before anyone else noticed and unfolded it. The now-familiar handwriting stared back at you.

Smile for the camera. Everybody loves a good love triangle. —A

"What the hell's going on?" Robin's voice carried over the crowd as she and Eddie hurried across the pavement, weaving around students who had already formed a loose circle around the fight.

"Move, move—excuse me—"

She squeezed between two juniors just as Eddie stepped around the edge of the crowd.

His eyes found you immediately. "Hey."

He reached your side, his expression pinched with concern. "You okay?"

You looked at him, still clutching the folded note, but before you could answer, his gaze dropped to the photographs scattered across the asphalt.

Nancy. Steve. Jonathan. Dozens of them. Some half-crumpled beneath students' shoes, others fluttering in the breeze.

"...Oh. Oh fuck."

Robin finally reached the front of the crowd beside him, her eyes darting from Steve, who was still glaring at Jonathan, to Nancy standing frozen with a photograph in her trembling hands.

"What..." She bent to pick one up. "...the hell?"

She looked up at you. "This..." she said quietly. "This isn't..."

You gave the smallest nod. "...Yeah."

Eddie's eyes narrowed. "It's them."

You nodded again. "The same person."

Robin's stomach dropped. She looked back toward Steve and Jonathan, neither of whom had noticed the three of you yet.

"...They don't know."

"They have no idea," you replied.

Eddie watched Steve shove Jonathan back another step before looking down at the photographs littering the ground.

His jaw tightened. "...This is exactly what they wanted."

Robin frowned. "Who?"

Eddie looked between you and Robin. "The person sending the notes."

It wasn't just three separate secrets anymore; it was one game. And somehow, all of you had been invited to play.

A fr.

well, I hope you all enjoyed :)))) part two will be out soon, promise.

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You opened your mouth to dispute this and found, with some irritation, that you could not.

“It is not a punishment,” your father continued, setting down his quill at last and regarding you with the particular weariness he reserved for conversations he had clearly anticipated and dreaded in equal measure. “It is sense. You are not merely my daughter. You are the future of this kingdom, whether you have yet reconciled yourself to the fact or not.”

“I am perfectly reconciled to it,” you said. “I object only to being treated as though I cannot be trusted to walk from the library to my own chambers without incident.”

“You were trusted to do precisely that,” he said, “and the incident found you regardless.”

There was, in this, an unfairness you could not easily forgive, that danger should be permitted to exist independent of fault, that one might behave with perfect reason and still be met with consequence.

You had no ready answer for it.

“There is also the matter,” your father went on, more gently now, “of what is to come. The council grows impatient for an announcement of your betrothal, and impatience of that kind has a way of making men careless of propriety, and occasionally of safety. I will not have you exposed to whatever foolishness ambition might inspire in a man who fancies his prospects improved by your absence rather than your hand.”

You felt something tighten, faint but insistent.

“You speak of it as though it were already decided,” you said quietly. “The betrothal.”

“It is not decided.” He held your gaze with the steadiness he had always shown you, even as a child, even when the truth he carried was not a comfortable one. “But it will be decided, in time, and you know as well as I that the kingdom’s future does not rest on my shoulders alone forever. It will rest on yours. I would have you carry that weight prepared, and whole, rather than diminished by some misfortune I might have prevented with a single guard at your side.”

Prepared.

Whole.

Words so reasonable they admitted no argument, and yet so heavy they left little room for anything else.

You looked away from him, toward the window, where the grey morning light fell without particular warmth upon the stone floor. You knew he was not wrong. You had known it, in truth, before you had ever opened your mouth to argue, for arguing with your father on matters of the kingdom had become, in recent years, less a matter of conviction than of habit, a small assertion of will in the one arena where your will was still permitted to assert itself at all.

“Very well,” you said, with the particular grace of the thoroughly outmanoeuvred. “I shall submit to your guard. Though I make no promise of submitting gracefully.”

The faintest suggestion of a smile crossed your father’s face, the first softness he had shown all morning. “I would expect nothing less of you.”

It was then that the door opened, announced by nothing more than the soft click of the latch, for the man who entered did not seem given to announcing himself in any other fashion.

You had heard of him, of course.

One could not spend a fortnight in that castle without hearing of him.

The servants spoke his name in the hushed, half-admiring, half-wary tones usually reserved for weather that might yet turn violent. Leon Kennedy. A man, it was said, who had survived things that ought not to have been survivable, and who had returned from each of them a little less inclined to speak of it. There were rumours of villages emptied of something worse than soldiers, of nights he would not account for even to his commanding officers, of a composure so complete that some among the staff had taken to wondering, in whispers never quite low enough, whether he felt anything at all.

You had dismissed most of it.

Men were often made into legends when silence left room for invention.

And yet-

He was younger than you had imagined, though nothing in his bearing suggested youth. He crossed the hall with the economy of movement of a man who had long ago decided that no step ought to be wasted, and when he reached the dais, he went down on one knee before you with a precision so absolute it seemed less an act of courtesy than one of architecture.

“Your Highness.”

His voice was low, unhurried, entirely without inflection.

“I am assigned to your protection, by order of the King.”

You looked down at the crown of his bowed head and felt, absurdly, as though you were the one being inspected.

“You may rise,” you said, because it seemed expected of you, and because you found you did not much like the sight of him kneeling, though you could not, at that moment, have said why.

He rose.

And here you waited, as one does, instinctively, upon meeting a stranger, for some small softening of the face, some token gesture of goodwill, however practiced or false. A smile, perhaps. The sort every courtier in that castle had perfected before the age of ten, the sort your father himself had just shown you, brief as it had been.

None came.

His expression remained as it had been throughout: composed, watchful, entirely unreadable, his eyes meeting yours with a directness that was not quite insolence but came near enough to it that you felt your spine straighten of its own accord.

There was nothing cold in it, precisely.

It was simply closed.

In the manner of a house with all its shutters drawn, giving no indication of what might be occurring within.

“I have not asked for a guard,” you said, rather more sharply than courtesy strictly permitted, your father’s words still fresh enough to sting rather than soothe.

“No, Your Highness.”

Nothing in his tone suggested this troubled him in the least.

“I was not given to understand that you had.”

You waited.

For explanation. For apology. For anything that might make him less immovable.

He offered nothing.

He simply stood, some careful distance away, with the patient stillness of a man entirely accustomed to being unwanted in rooms he was nonetheless required to occupy.

It was, you would later admit, the stillness that unsettled you most.

“You understand the duty,” your father said to him, “is not a temporary one. Wherever the princess goes, you go. Whatever is asked of her, you are to anticipate before it is asked of you. I will have no repeat of past incidents.”

“Understood, Your Majesty.”

If the weight of such a charge affected him at all, nothing in his bearing betrayed it.

“I will not fail in it.”

There was no boast in the words. Only certainty.

“See that you don’t,” your father said, though not unkindly, and returned his attention to the parchment before him with the satisfied air of a man who considered the matter closed.

“Very well,” you said at last, for there seemed nothing else to say. “We shall see how long you last.”

Something flickered, very briefly, at the corner of his mouth. You were quite certain it was not a smile. But it was gone before you could determine what it had been.

“Yes, Your Highness,” he said.

He took up his position by the door, as though he had occupied that exact spot for the whole of his life and intended to occupy it for the whole of what remained.

You did not look at him again before quitting the hall.

You told yourself this was indifference.

You did not, at that time, consider the possibility that it might instead be caution, for there was something in Sir Leon Kennedy’s presence that suggested not intrusion, nor even authority, but inevitability.

And inevitability, you had long suspected, was far more difficult to resist.

It did not take a fortnight before you began to suspect that Sir Leon Kennedy had taken the measure of your life with greater thoroughness than you yourself had ever troubled to attempt.

At first, it presented itself in such small and reasonable ways that to remark upon it would have seemed an indulgence of vanity.

The mornings began, as they had always begun, with chapel, that small grey hour before the rest of the castle had fully woken, when even the servants moved more quietly, as though unwilling to disturb whatever fragile peace lingered between night and day. You knelt upon the cold stone and offered up whatever prayers seemed owed that particular morning, sometimes with sincerity, sometimes with habit, and sometimes, with the vague hope that the act itself might suffice in place of belief.

You had expected him to wait without, as guards customarily did, the business of God being no concern of swordsmen.

Instead, he took up a position just inside the door.

Not obtrusive, nor even particularly noticeable, but placed with such deliberate unobtrusiveness that he might, at a careless glance, have been mistaken for part of the wall itself. He did not shift, did not sigh, did not betray the smallest sign of impatience. He existed in that quiet space with the same composed stillness he brought to every other, and in time you found that his presence did not intrude upon your prayers so much as disappear within them.

More mornings than not, you forgot he was there at all.

Until you rose.

And found him already risen before you.

As though he had anticipated, not merely the conclusion of your prayers, but the precise moment at which you would abandon them.

“You needn’t come in,” you told him, on the third such morning, not unkindly. “It is hardly the sort of place that wants guarding.”

“It is the sort of place a man might wait outside a window,” he said, “and I have known worse men to attempt worse things in better-guarded rooms.”

He did not say this as though it troubled him. He said it as a man reporting weather, inevitable, impersonal, not worth remarking upon beyond acknowledgment.

“I will remain, Your Highness, if it is permitted.”

It was permitted.

You found, in time, that nearly everything he proposed was the sort of thing one permitted without quite recalling having agreed to it.

From the chapel you proceeded to the council chamber, where you were not yet entitled to speak but were entitled, by your father’s long-standing insistence, to observe, that you might learn, he said, the shape of governance before you were ever asked to wear it.

Leon took his place along the chamber wall among the other guards, indistinguishable from them in posture and dress, and yet not, somehow, indistinguishable at all.

There were other men there, older, broader, louder in their breathing, more visibly alert in the manner of men who wished it to be known they were so. And yet your eye, against your own intention, did not seek them.

It sought him.

You told yourself this was merely because he was new.

It did not, you found, cease with familiarity.

When some lord’s argument grew sufficiently tedious as to test the limits of your composure, when the language of treaties and tariffs began to blur into something dangerously resembling sleep, your gaze would drift, quite without instruction, toward that particular corner of the wall.

And find his already upon you.

Not with curiosity. Not with reproach. Not even, precisely, with concern.

But with the quiet attentiveness of a man who had marked, perhaps, how long you might be relied upon to hold your tongue before the holding became a visible effort.

It was an observation so precise it bordered upon intrusion.

He never once, in all those mornings, looked away first.

The correspondence came after, in your private study, where the business of governance became less public and no less tiresome. Letters requiring your hand were answered; those that did not were passed along. It was solitary work, requiring more patience than you often possessed by that hour.

And yet,

You noticed, slowly, as one notices the shift in a season rather than the arrival of a storm, that the room was always prepared before you entered it.

The fire built, not too high, not wasteful, but sufficient to ease the particular chill that study held in the mornings. The window latched against the draft that troubled the left-hand side of the desk and no other. The ink refreshed. The chair placed at precisely the angle you preferred, though you had never, to your knowledge, articulated that preference aloud.

You had mentioned the draft exactly once, weeks prior, to no one in particular, in the manner of idle complaint that expects no remedy.

You had not mentioned it since.

You did not need to.

“Did you ask the steward to see to this?” you asked him once, gesturing vaguely at the latched window, the laid fire.

“No, Your Highness.”

“Then who-”

“I have hands,” he said.

It was not quite an answer.

And yet it was the only one you received.

You found yourself, against some inclination to press further, simply accepting it.

There was something in his manner that rendered further inquiry… unnecessary. Or perhaps futile.

The gardens, in the early afternoon, were where you took what little freedom your days permitted, a walk among the roses, ostensibly for air, though you suspected your father permitted it chiefly because it kept you from brooding indoors.

Leon walked some several paces behind you there, as was proper.

You came to notice that he never once allowed you to round a corner of hedge before he had already glanced beyond it. Nor permitted you to pause beside the fountain without some small, unhurried repositioning of himself that placed his back to whatever direction posed the greater risk.

You did not ask him how he had determined which direction that was.

You suspected, by then, that he simply knew, in the manner that some men know the hour by the slant of the light.

It was in the gardens, too, that he first revealed, though you could not afterward recall having told him, that you preferred the white roses to the red.

“You have not looked at the red ones in three days,” he said, when you paused, once more, beside the pale blooms.

“And that constitutes preference?” you asked.

“It constitutes pattern.”

“And pattern is enough?”

“For me,” he said.

You regarded him then, more directly than you had in some days.

“And my tea?” you asked, as though the question had only just occurred to you.

“Without sugar,” he said.

“You have seen me take it so?”

“No.”

You waited.

He added, after the smallest pause, “You do not finish it when it is prepared otherwise.”

There was no pride in the observation.

No suggestion that he expected praise for it.

Only the quiet certainty of a man who had noticed,and remembered.

Your studies followed, in the long afternoons,history, statecraft, the dry particulars of treaties signed generations before your birth, delivered by a tutor whose patience for distraction was, at best, theoretical.

Leon stood near the door through these hours as well.

You found, on the days your concentration faltered most badly, that some quiet word from him, offered low enough that the tutor did not hear it, had a curious way of returning your attention to the page.

“You answered that question correctly a fortnight ago, Your Highness,” he murmured once, as you faltered over a passage you had no wish to recall. “You have only forgotten that you know it.”

It was not encouragement, precisely.

He did not seem a man given to encouragement.

But it accomplished, somehow, what encouragement was meant to.

The charity audiences, last of all, taxed you more than any other duty of your day, the long line of petitioners, each with some grief or want too small for the council’s notice and too large to bear alone, each requiring of you a patience and a tenderness you did not always feel equal to summoning by that hour of the evening.

Leon never spoke during these audiences.

When some petitioner’s story ran longer than the hour allowed, or grew distressing enough to test your composure, he had a way of stepping forward.

Not to interrupt.

Never that.

Simply to be present at your shoulder.

A quiet, unspoken reminder that you were not entirely alone in the bearing of it.

It was not comfort.

It was something steadier than comfort.

By the second week, he required no instruction as to where you would be, nor when.

He arrived before you at the chapel door each dawn, and stood ready at your study each forenoon, and matched his pace to yours in the gardens without once being told the hour you preferred to walk them. He adjusted to you, not with the obsequiousness of a servant, nor the presumption of an equal, but with the careful, unwavering attention of a man to whom your movements had become, quite simply, the central fact of the world.

He had learned the whole architecture of your days.

Not from any account given him, for you had given him none, but from simple observation, patiently and silently accumulated, as a man learns a country he intends never to leave.

You found this, in those early weeks, faintly unsettling.

You did not yet understand that you would come, before very long, to find it something else entirely.

For there is a particular kind of loneliness in being known only in part, in being admired for what is seen, and overlooked for what is not.

And there is, perhaps, something far more dangerous in being known… completely.

Even when the man who knows you has never once smiled.

It was, you came to think, rather like attempting to draw water from a well whose depth you could not determine, every question lowered down into him returned, more often than not, with nothing attached to it at all.

And yet, the absence itself became its own kind of answer.

You had not set out, precisely, to know him.

It had begun, as idle curiosities often do, in one of those unclaimed hours of the afternoon when duty loosened its hold just enough to allow the mind to wander without quite daring to rest. Your tutor had been called away on some matter of greater urgency than your education, your correspondence sat finished before you, and the room, so recently occupied by ink and obligation, had settled into a quiet that felt almost… permissive.

Leon stood, as he always stood, some careful distance from your chair.

Not near enough to intrude. Not far enough to neglect.

His attention was fixed upon that middle space between yourself and the door, in that manner peculiar to men who have trained themselves never to be taken unawares, and who therefore learn to look not at what is, but at what might yet be.

“You are from the south,” you said.

It was not quite a question, for something in his vowels betrayed it, however carefully he had smoothed them.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

You waited.

Nothing further came.

There was, you began to suspect, an art to his silences.

“And your family,” you tried again, leaning back slightly in your chair as though the posture might lend your question greater casualness, “are they-”

“I have none living that concern Your Highness’s safety.”

The answer was delivered with the same composure he brought to all things, which was to say: it did not feel like an answer at all, but rather the careful redirection of one.

It did not escape your notice that he had not said they did not exist.

Only that they did not concern you.

You might have abandoned the attempt entirely, had you been a princess of less obstinate temperament.

But obstinacy had long been remarked upon as your particular fault, by every governess you had ever exhausted, by every tutor who had mistaken compliance for understanding, and you found that you were not yet prepared to surrender the field to a man who would not so much as grant you his county of birth.

“You needn’t treat every question as an interrogation, Sir Kennedy,” you said. “I am not attempting to extract state secrets. I am attempting to make conversation.”

Something passed behind his eyes then.

Not quite discomfort, for he did not seem a man easily discomfited, but something adjacent to it. The look, perhaps, of a man recalculating a distance he had thought already measured, and finding it… altered.

“I was not aware Your Highness required conversation of me,” he said. “I was given to understand my duty was protection.”

“Your duty,” you said, “is whatever I determine it to be, within reason, and I have determined that I would like to know something of the man who stands three paces behind me at every hour of my waking life.”

There was a pause then.

Not long. Not dramatic.

But deliberate.

He considered your words with the same gravity he seemed to bring to every decision, however small, as though each one might alter something essential if mishandled.

“There is little to know, Your Highness.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him.

“I find that very difficult to believe.”

“Nonetheless,” he said, “it is so.”

You regarded him a moment longer, the set of his jaw, the careful neutrality he wore as other men wore armour, and wore, you suspected, for much the same reason.

It occurred to you, then, that his silence was not merely habit.

It was construction.

“Very well,” you said at last, with the air of one conceding a single battle while making no secret of her intentions toward the war. “Then I shall simply have to discover it for myself, by whatever means remain to me.”

“Your Highness is, of course, at liberty to attempt whatever she wishes.”

There was something in his voice then.

Not quite amusement, for he did not seem a man given to amusement either, but some faint cousin of it, something dry and fleeting and gone again before you could be certain you had heard it at all.

“I would only caution,” he added, “that Your Highness may find the effort poorly rewarded.”

“I have never yet been deterred by poor odds,” you said. “I do not intend to begin with you.”

He said nothing further to this.

But you noted, carefully, as one note the smallest shift in a horizon long studied, that the corner of his mouth had not quite returned to its customary stillness.

You did not abandon the campaign in the days that followed, though you altered its strategy somewhat, having learned that direct assault gained less ground than patient siege.

You took to asking him smaller things.

Not the great, unanswerable questions of family and history, but questions a man might answer without feeling himself undone by the answering.

“Do you prefer the rain,” you asked him once, walking the gardens beneath a sky that threatened it, “or its absence?”

He seemed, for a moment, faintly surprised to have been asked something so unburdened by consequence.

“Its absence,” he said. “Rain makes for poor visibility. A man cannot watch what he cannot see clearly.”

“That is not an answer about preference,” you said. “That is an answer about duty.”

“They are not always different things, Your Highness.”

“They are tonight,” you said. “For I am not asking the guard. I am asking the man.”

He was silent long enough that you thought he might not answer at all.

The wind stirred lightly through the hedges. Somewhere, a branch creaked. The first promise of rain lingered in the air without yet committing itself.

“I have not been asked to distinguish between the two in some time,” he said finally.

There was something in the admission, quiet, almost reluctant, that told you it had cost him more than the words themselves suggested.

You did not press him further.

“Then I shall ask you again, another day,” you said, “until you grow accustomed to the distinction.”

And you did.

You asked him again, and again, and again.

Small things. Harmless things. Questions that might pass, to any observer, for idle conversation, and yet were, to your mind, carefully placed stones in the slow construction of something not yet named.

Whether he preferred the company of dogs or horses.

What manner of meal he found least objectionable among the castle’s offerings.

Whether he had ever, in all his years of service, been so unfortunate as to find himself genuinely afraid.

To this last he did not answer at all, for a long moment.

You thought, then, that you had pressed too far, that you had reached, at last, the edge of what he would permit, and perhaps gone a step beyond it.

Quietly, without quite meeting your eye:

“Once or twice.”

You did not move.

“Will you tell me of it?”

“No.”

Not unkindly. Simply, finally. As a door closing.

It was not victory, precisely.

You understood enough of sieges, from your studies, to know that a single conversation rarely won them, nor a fortnight of conversations either. Walls built over years do not fall for want of a question well-placed.

But you had found, you thought, the first hairline cracks in what had seemed, on the morning of his arrival, an entirely seamless wall.

He still did not smile at you, not properly, not in the open, easy way the courtiers smiled, with nothing behind it but the wish to be liked.

But you had begun to notice the things that came near to it.

The held glance that lingered a fraction longer than duty required.

The almost-twitch at the corner of his mouth when you said something that amused you, swiftly suppressed but never quite swift enough.

The particular stillness that came over him when you asked, for the third or fourth time, some question he had no intention of answering, not the stillness of irritation, you had come to understand, but something closer to a man holding very carefully to a wall he was no longer entirely certain he wished to keep standing.

You did not yet know how long that wall would take to fall.

Nor what it would cost him when at least it did.

But you found, in those weeks, that you had stopped minding the wait at all.

Indeed. You had begun, quite without intending to, to look forward to it.

The argument began, as so many of your arguments with your father had begun of late, over a matter that ought to have required no argument at all. “I am not suggesting you rule imprudently,” your father said, with the particular tiredness of a man repeating himself for the third time within the same conversation, his hand resting flat upon the table as though to steady not the discussion but his patience. “I am suggesting you cannot rule alone. No queen has done so in this kingdom’s history, and I will not have you be the first merely to prove a point.” You felt the familiar spark of resistance rise within you at once, sharp and immediate, though it carried with it something heavier than defiance alone. “Then perhaps it is time,” you said, “that someone was the first.” The words left you more forcefully than you had intended, though you did not regret them, and as you spoke you became aware that you had risen from your chair without quite meaning to, as though the argument itself had drawn you upward into it.

“This is not a matter of pride.” “Is it not?” you replied, stepping closer to the table, your hands resting against its surface as though you required something solid to press against. “You speak of history as though it were scripture, Father, immovable and beyond question, but history is only what men have permitted to happen, and I do not see why I must be bound by what other women were never permitted to attempt.” Your father regarded you steadily, and though there was no anger in his expression, there was a firmness that had never yet been moved by argument alone. “Because the council will not follow a queen without a king beside her,” he said, “because the neighbouring houses will smell weakness in it, whatever weakness may or may not exist in truth, and because I have spent the whole of my reign securing this kingdom’s borders, and I will not see it unravelled in a single generation for the sake of your pride.” The word stung, not for its harshness but for its imprecision. “My pride,” you said, the syllables tightening despite your effort to keep them even, “or my judgment? For I begin to wonder, Father, whether you have ever once considered that I might be capable of the thing you insist I require a husband to accomplish for me.”

“I have considered it,” he said, and though the words were immediate, there was something in his tone that softened them, a note you might have recognised had you not already been too deep within the argument to hear it clearly. “I have considered it more than you know, but I am asked to weigh what I believe of you against what the realm will accept of you, and those are not always the same arithmetic.” “Then the realm’s arithmetic is wrong.” “Perhaps,” he allowed, though the concession did not alter the conclusion, “but it is the arithmetic I must govern by until the day it is yours instead to govern.” You felt then the frustration sharpens into something closer to anger, not at him alone but at the quiet inevitability of the position itself. “And on that day,” you said, your composure faltering not in weakness but in the strain of being perpetually almost believed, “will I be permitted to govern it as I see fit, or will there be some husband standing beside me even then, decided for me before I had so much as a say in the choosing?” Your father did not answer, and the absence of his answer carried more weight than any words he might have spoken, settling into the space between you with a finality that left no room for argument.

You did not remain to hear what might have followed it. You turned and left the chamber with as much dignity as the trembling in your hands permitted, the echo of your own footsteps too loud in the corridor beyond, as though the castle itself had taken note of your departure. By the time you reached your rooms, your anger had begun to cool into something heavier and more difficult to bear, and the familiarity of the space, the same walls, the same quiet, the same unchanging arrangement of objects that had witnessed every small concession of the past years, felt suddenly intolerable. It was not rest you required, nor solitude of the kind those rooms offered, and before the thought had fully formed, you had already turned toward the hidden passage behind the tapestry of your grandmother’s hunting party, descending the narrow stair with the certainty of long memory guiding your steps.

You did not stop until you reached the old garden wall at the castle’s eastern edge, where the stones had long ago given way to ivy and neglect, and where, as a child, you had sought refuge from expectations you had not yet been old enough to name. The night air was cold and clear, and the stillness of it might have been called peace, had it not seemed instead to magnify every thought you had hoped to escape. You stood there for some time, uncertain how long, before the sound of footsteps on the gravel reached you, unhurried and unmistakable even before you turned. “You ought not to be here alone,” Leon said, his voice carrying neither reprimand nor urgency, but something steadier, as though he were stating not a command but a fact. “I am aware,” you replied, not fully turning toward him. “I find I do not much care, tonight, what I ought to do.”

He did not insist that you return, nor did he move to guide you back toward the castle as you had half expected. Instead, he came to stand beside you at a respectful distance, his gaze directed outward over the darkened garden, and for a time he said nothing at all. The silence was not uncomfortable, though you could not have said why, and when he spoke again it was with the same quiet deliberation he brought to all things. “I heard the argument,” he said. “Through the chamber door. I was not eavesdropping. The walls in that hall are not what they ought to be.” You let out a quiet breath. “Then you heard my father tell me I cannot be trusted to govern without a husband beside me.” “I heard him say the realm would not accept it,” Leon replied. “Those are not the same thing.” The distinction was offered so plainly that it startled you, and you turned to look at him properly then, for it was the first time he had spoken on a matter so far beyond his duty.

“No,” he said, after a moment’s consideration, “they are not.” He spoke then more fully than you had ever heard him speak before, his words measured not by hesitation but by care. He told you what he had seen of you in the council chamber, of your memory, your judgment, your understanding of the men who surrounded your father and the decisions they struggled to shape, and he spoke without ornament or flattery, as a man stating what he believed to be true and nothing more. There was no performance in it, no attempt to comfort you for its own sake, and perhaps for that reason it reached you more deeply than comfort might have done. When he said at last that you did not require a husband to govern well, but only the chance to attempt it, the words seemed to settle into you with a weight that was not burden but steadiness.

“You have never said so much to me at once,” you said quietly when he had finished, and he inclined his head slightly, as though acknowledging a fact rather than a remark. When you asked him why he had chosen to speak now, he did not answer at once, but when he did it was with the same quiet honesty that had marked the rest. He told you that you had looked, upon leaving that chamber, like a woman who had been told her judgment did not signify, and that he found he could not stand by and allow you to believe that, whatever else his duty required of his silence. It was not a declaration, nor anything so easily named, but there was something within it that altered the air between you all the same.

You thanked him, though the words felt insufficient, and when he answered that he was assigned to your protection, the phrase did not carry the same distance it once had. There was something else within it now, something unspoken and perhaps unintended, that neither of you chose to examine too closely. You remained there together for some time, saying little more, until at least the sky began to pale toward morning, and when you returned to the castle, it was with the quiet understanding that something between you had shifted, not suddenly, nor dramatically, but in that gradual and irrevocable manner by which a single loosened stone may, in time, bring down an entire wall.

The council chamber, that particular morning, was fuller than you had grown accustomed to seeing it, the long table lined with lords who rarely troubled themselves with your father’s smaller business, now present in full ceremonial dress, their expressions arranged into the careful neutrality of men who believed themselves about to witness something of consequence and wished, above all, to be seen witnessing it properly. The air itself seemed altered by their presence, heavier, more deliberate, as though the room had been prepared not merely for discussion but for decision, and you understood, the moment you crossed its threshold, precisely what manner of consequence they anticipated.

“Three names have been put forward for Her Highness’s consideration,” your father said, once the customary formalities had been dispensed with, his tone composed, almost impersonal, as though he spoke not of his daughter but of a matter already half removed from the realm of feeling. You felt the words settle over you with the particular weight of a sentence long anticipated and no less dreadful for having been expected. “Lord Aldric of the eastern provinces. The second son of the Duke of Verrow. And Prince Hael of the neighbouring kingdom, whose father has expressed considerable interest in the alliance such a match would secure.” You sat very still through the recitation of each man’s particular merits, their lands, their armies, their bloodlines, each quality weighed and discussed before the full council with a precision that would have done credit to any negotiation of trade or treaty, and you answered what questions were put to you with the composure your years of training had instilled, though you were aware, beneath that composure, of a hollowing sensation that had opened within you the moment the first name had been spoken, as though something essential had been quietly removed and no one in that room had thought it necessary to remark upon its absence.

It was only later, in the privacy of the corridor beyond the chamber, that the composure began to slip, not all at once, but in that gradual and treacherous way by which control gives way first at its edges. “You needn’t decide tonight,” your father said, falling into step beside you, his voice gentler now, as though the conclusion of the formal proceedings permitted him some return to the role of father rather than king. “These matters are rarely settled in a single sitting.” “And yet they will be settled,” you said, your gaze fixed ahead, unwilling to look at him lest the steadiness you had maintained thus far abandon you entirely. “Whatever grace you extend me in the timing of it.” “They must be,” he replied, and though there was no harshness in the words, there was no yielding either. “You know this as well as I.” You did know it. You had known it, in truth, your whole life, had understood since girlhood that your hand would one day be weighed and traded as every princess’s hand was weighed and traded, for the good of borders and bloodlines that had nothing whatsoever to do with your own preference in the matter, but knowing a thing in the abstract, you discovered, was a very different burden from hearing it spoken aloud, in a chamber full of lords, as though it were already as good as decided.

You did not see Leon until you had nearly reached your own chambers, where he fell into step beside you as he always did, silent, precise, unannounced, and yet you noticed, that evening, that his silence held a different quality than its usual stillness. It was not the absence of speech alone, but the presence of something held back, something contained with effort rather than simply unspoken, and it altered the air between you in a way you could not immediately name. “You heard,” you said, for there seemed little purpose in pretending otherwise. “I was present, Your Highness,” he replied, his voice even, too even, you thought, the particular evenness of a man exercising care not merely in what he said, but in how much of what he felt might be allowed to reach his tone. “I could hardly have failed to hear.” “And what do you make of it?” you asked, turning the question upon him more directly than you might once have done.

He did not answer at once, and the hesitation, brief though it was, struck you more sharply than any immediate refusal might have done. You had grown accustomed, in the weeks since the night at the garden wall, to a certain ease that had crept, almost unnoticed, into the spaces between you, a quiet allowance of small truths and smaller observations that had made his company something less rigid than it had been at the outset, but that ease seemed, in this moment, to have withdrawn again, leaving behind something more guarded in its place. “It is not my place to make anything of it,” he said at last. “You said as much to me once before,” you replied, “and then told me precisely what you made of it regardless. I would ask the same honesty of you now.” At that, something in his jaw tightened, the small movement visible despite the discipline he applied to every other part of himself, and you understood, with a clarity that unsettled you, that whatever answer he held was not one he found easy to give.

“Lord Aldric is reputed a hard man with his tenants,” he said at length, selecting, you understood at once, the safest path available to him. “The Duke’s son is young yet and untested. The Prince-” He stopped there, the unfinished thought hanging between you with more weight than any completed sentence. “The Prince?” you prompted, more softly now. “I have heard nothing ill of him,” Leon said, and the careful flatness of the admission told you that it cost him more to say than any criticism would have done. “Which is, perhaps, the worst that can be said against him, for a man with nothing ill said of him is usually a man no one has yet troubled to look at closely.” You almost smiled, despite the heaviness sitting in your chest, for there was something so distinctly him in the observation, dry, precise, and edged with a truth he did not quite permit himself to state outright. “That is hardly a fair accusation to level against a stranger.” “No,” he agreed, “it is not.”

You walked some distance in silence after that, the torches along the corridor casting long shadows that shifted with each step, and you found yourself, against your better judgment, unwilling to let the matter rest entirely where it lay. “You told me once,” you said, “that I did not require a husband to govern well. Did you mean it?” “I meant it,” he said, without hesitation, the answer immediate in a way none of his others had been that evening. “Then why,” you asked, more quietly now, “does no one else appear to believe it?” He did not answer at once, and when he did, his voice had changed, lowered not in volume but in restraint, as though something within it pressed closer to the surface than he was accustomed to allowing.

“Because it is easier,” he said, “for men who have never had to prove themselves equal to anything to believe that no woman could be equal to everything.” He continued then, more fully than you had expected, his words gathering not speed but weight as he spoke, each one set with care and yet carrying more feeling than he had ever permitted himself before. He spoke of what he had seen of you in the council chamber, of your patience, your memory, your understanding of the men around you and the decisions they struggled to make, and there was no flattery in it, no attempt to soften or embellish what he said, only the steady certainty of a man stating what he knew to be true. “You do not require Lord Aldric, nor the Duke’s son, nor any prince of any neighbouring kingdom to tell you how a realm ought to be governed,” he said at last. “You require only that the men deciding your future might, for once, trust the judgment they have spent three years watching you exercise.”

You stopped walking entirely, the force of his words arresting you more effectively than any command might have done, and he halted beside you, seeming, in the silence that followed, faintly aware of the distance he had stepped beyond his usual restraint. “Forgive me, Your Highness,” he said, the careful evenness returning to his voice as though he were drawing some loosened part of himself back into place. “That was not mine to say.” “I asked you to say it,” you replied, and found, to your own surprise, that the words came not in irritation but in something closer to gratitude. “You asked my opinion of the suitors,” he said. “Not a sermon on the injustice of your circumstance.” “I am glad you offered the sermon regardless,” you said, and you meant it.

He did not answer, and the silence that followed was not the easy quiet you had come to know, but something heavier, as though the words that had been spoken could not easily be set aside again. You noticed, as you resumed your walk toward your chambers, that his hand, which usually rested easy near the hilt of his sword, had drawn slightly inward, the fingers curling into something nearer a fist before slowly, almost reluctantly, loosening again. You did not understand, that evening, the full shape of what troubled him, nor the extent to which the conversation had unsettled something he had long kept firmly in place. You understood only that something in him had strained against whatever wall he maintained so carefully, and that the strain, however brief, had not gone unnoticed by you, even if its cause remained, for the moment, just beyond your reach.

You would understand it soon enough, and with that understanding would come a clarity neither of you had yet begun to reckon with. Still, as you reached your chamber door and turned to dismiss him for the night, you found that the weight in your chest had shifted, not lessened, but altered in its nature, as though it had been joined by something else entirely, something quieter, steadier, and perhaps, in its own way, far more dangerous.

The news arrived before dawn, carried by a rider whose horse had been ridden nearly to ruin in the carrying of it, the animal lathered and trembling beneath him as though it understood, as keenly as its master, the urgency of what had been borne upon its back. A border garrison overrun in the night, the eastern villages exposed, and every able commander of the King’s guard summoned to ride within the hour, these were the words that passed from mouth to mouth before the sun had yet risen fully above the horizon, and though none had been spoken to you directly, you felt their weight all the same, settling into the fabric of the castle with a swiftness that permitted no ignorance.

You learned of it not from your father, who was already closeted with his war council before you had risen, but from the unmistakable sound of armour being readied in the courtyard below your window, the sharp, metallic rhythm of it carrying upward through the cold morning air. It was a sound you had heard all your life without particular thought, a necessary accompaniment to a kingdom maintained by steel as much as by law, and yet that morning it struck you differently, each fastening and adjustment echoing with a significance you had never before been required to consider. You found, with a clarity that unsettled you, that you dreaded it entirely.

You found Leon in the armoury, the low, stone-vaulted room beneath the eastern tower where the household guard kept their gear, and where you had never once before had cause to enter. The air within was cool and faintly metallic, the scent of oiled steel and leather lingering heavily, and for a moment you remained just inside the doorway, unobserved, watching him as he worked. He did not hear you at first, his attention fixed upon the buckles of his breastplate, his movements possessed of a brisk, economical efficiency that told you this was not the first such morning of his life, however much it might be the first you had witnessed. There was nothing hurried in his actions, and yet there was no wasted motion either, every fastening completed with the certainty of long practice, as though the act itself required no thought beyond the execution of it.

“You are to ride within the hour,” you said at last, and he turned, and something flickered across his face at the sight of you there- surprise, you thought, and beneath it something else you could not immediately name, gone again before you could fix upon it. “Your Highness ought not to be here,” he said, though he did not ask you to leave, his voice steady despite the interruption. “The armoury is no place for-” “I am aware of what the armoury is no place for,” you said, crossing the space between you with more determination than grace. “I find I do not much care this morning, either.” He held your gaze for a moment, as though weighing whether to press the argument further, and then, with a small inclination of his head that served as both acknowledgment and surrender, returned to the work of his buckles.

You found yourself, without quite deciding to, stepping closer still. “Allow me,” you said, reaching for the strap at his shoulder that sat slightly askew beneath his hand, his attention divided between the fastening and whatever protest he had half prepared. “Your Highness need not-” “I am aware of what I need not do,” you replied, echoing his own words back to him, and for the briefest instant something shifted in his expression, a near-shadow of that almost-smile you had come to recognise, though it faded as quickly as it had appeared. He let you finish the strap. He did not protest further.

You worked in silence for some moments, fastening what remained to be fastened, your hands steadier than you felt entirely capable of, given the particular tightness that had settled in your chest since the courtyard’s first clamour had woken you. It was strange, you thought, to see him thus prepared, not merely as the man who stood quietly at doorways and walked some careful pace behind you through gardens, but as what he had always been beneath that quieter duty: a soldier, a man who had ridden to wars before you had ever known his name, and would ride to this one whether you wished it or not. The knowledge of it seemed, suddenly, intolerably real.

“You will be careful,” you said at last, when the final buckle had been secured, and there remained nothing further to occupy your hands. “I am always careful, Your Highness.” “You will be more careful than usual,” you said, meeting his gaze directly, “on my particular instruction.” Something in his expression gentled then, the careful soldier’s composure giving way, if only for a moment, to something softer beneath it. “I will return,” he said. “You need not fear otherwise.” “I am not certain that is a promise within your power to make.” “No,” he admitted, “it is not. But I intend to keep it regardless.”

You looked up at him then, and found him already looking at you with an intensity that, on any other morning, you might have called him to account for, but the morning was not an ordinary one, and you found you had no wish to call him to account for anything at all. “Why must it be you?” you asked, more quietly now. “Surely my father has other commanders equal to the task.” “He does,” Leon said. “But I am assigned to your protection, Your Highness, and your protection does not end at the kingdom’s borders. If the eastern villages fall, the threat does not remain in the east. I would rather meet it there than wait for it to arrive at your door.” “That is not what I asked.” He fell silent then, his hands stilling at his side, and when he spoke again it was with a weight that settled differently than anything he had said before. “I am assigned to only you, Princess,” he said, low, and there was something in the saying of it that no longer resembled the recitation of duty you had once heard in those words, but something nearer to a vow, offered without quite intending it. “Wherever the danger lies that threatens you, that is where I am required to be. Tonight, that danger lies east.”

You did not trust yourself to answer this immediately. The horn sounded in the courtyard below before you were required to. “I must go,” he said. “I know.” He held your gaze a moment longer than duty strictly required, and then, with a final incline of his head that was not quite a bow and not quite anything else you had a name for, he turned and was gone from the armoury before you had gathered yourself enough to say whatever it was you had wished, in that final moment, to say. You did not know, watching from your window as the company rode out beneath a sky only just beginning to lighten, what that unsaid thing had been. You knew only that its absence sat in your chest like a stone, and did not lift for many days after.

The days that followed were the longest you could recall living through. You attended your duties as you always attended them, chapel, council, correspondence, the gardens you no longer walked with any particular pleasure, for every guard who now flanked you in Leon’s stead was competent, and courteous, and entirely unable to fill the particular silence his absence had left behind. You found yourself listening, at every hour, for news from the east, and receiving, for the better part of a week, nothing more substantial than rumour, a skirmish here, a garrison reclaimed there, nothing that named the men involved nor confirmed which among them yet lived. You did not sleep well, those nights, and told yourself this was concern of a general nature, the natural worry any sovereign’s daughter might feel for soldiers riding to defend her kingdom’s borders, though you suspected, even then, that the explanation did not bear the weight you placed upon it.

It was on the eighth day that the company returned, dust-worn and diminished in number, and you were standing in the courtyard before you had entirely decided to go there, drawn by some instinct stronger than reason, your eyes moving across the returning riders with a desperation you made no particular effort to disguise. The gates had scarcely finished opening when the first of them passed beneath the arch, their banners dulled with road-dust, their armour marked with the quiet evidence of use, and there was, even before you began to count, a wrongness to their number that settled low and heavy in your chest. They rode not as men returning in triumph, nor even in simple order, but in that particular subdued formation that spoke of losses acknowledged but not yet named, their silence more telling than any shouted report might have been.

You searched for him without admitting, even to yourself, that it was him you searched for, your gaze moving from face to face with increasing urgency as each unfamiliar figure resolved itself into someone else entirely. It was only when your attention reached the rear of the company that you found him at last, upright in his saddle, his posture as composed as it had ever been, and your relief at the sight of him was so immediate and so complete that it seemed, for a moment, to rob you of breath entirely. He had returned. Whatever else had been lost, he had returned.

It was a moment before the rest of it followed.

The dark stain along his side. The way he held himself too carefully, as though each movement had been measured in advance and approved only with reluctance. The pallor beneath the dust and sweat of the road, visible even at that distance once you knew to look for it. You felt the relief shift within you, not vanish, but alter, sharpen into something far less steady.

“Leon-”

Whatever composure you had carried through eight days of careful waiting abandoned you entirely in that moment. You did not recall crossing the courtyard, only that you were suddenly there, moving past startled attendants and guards who did not dare to restrain you, the sound of your own footsteps loud against the stone, your attention fixed entirely upon the one figure who seemed, even now, determined to stand as though nothing at all were amiss.

He dismounted as you reached him, though not with his usual ease, and you saw, in the brief hesitation as his boots met the ground, the exact moment at which his body failed to obey him without question. His knees did not quite give way, but they considered it, and that was enough.

“You are wounded,” you said, your hands finding him without thought, at his arm, his shoulder, anywhere that might steady him, though you were not entirely certain whether it was he or you who required the steadiness more. Your voice, despite your effort, did not hold. “Why did no rider come ahead to say so?”

“It is not so grave as it appears, Your Highness,” he replied, and even now he attempted the same careful composure he always wore, though it sat rather more poorly upon him than it ever had before, the words shaped by habit rather than strength. There was a tightness to his breath that betrayed him more surely than any outward sign.

“It is grave enough that you can barely stand,” you said, your grip tightening before you could think to moderate it. “Do not attempt to manage me, Leon Kennedy. Not tonight.”

It was only later that you would realise it was the first time you had spoken his name without title, but in that moment, the distinction did not occur to you at all. He seemed to register it, nonetheless, something flickering across his face, brief and unguarded, as though the sound of it had reached him somewhere beyond exhaustion, before the effort of remaining upright reclaimed his attention, and he said nothing to correct you.

“Come,” you said, more quietly now, though the urgency had not lessened. “You will not walk there alone.”

“I am capable-”

“You are not,” you said, and there was something in your tone that did not invite argument. “Not today.”

He did not argue further.

You saw him to the physician’s rooms yourself, dismissing with a look any attendant who attempted to relieve you of the duty, your hand remaining at his arm as though it had forgotten how to release him, guiding rather than supporting, though you felt, more than once along the way, the subtle shift of his weight toward you when his strength wavered. He bore it in silence, as he bore all things, but you did not mistake the effort it cost him.

The hour that followed stretched longer than any you had lived through in the preceding eight days. You remained beside him as the physician worked, the wound laid bare, cleaned, and stitched with a precision that admitted no haste, though you would have hastened it if you could. You did not look away, though there were moments you thought you might, your hand finding his and holding fast to it, not as a courtesy but as something nearer necessity. You could not afterward have said which of you had reached for the other first. You knew only that once found, neither of you let go.

He did not cry out, not once, though there were moments when his grip tightened around yours in a way that spoke plainly enough of what the silence concealed, and you felt each of those moments as though they had been inflicted upon you in equal measure. The room smelled faintly of iron and tinctures, the low murmur of the physician’s instructions filling the spaces where neither of you spoke, and still you remained, unwilling to leave even for a moment, as though your absence might undo something the physician’s skill could not mend.

When at last it was finished, when the bandages had been secured, and the physician had withdrawn with assurances you only half heard, the room settled into a quiet that felt, after the long hour, almost unreal.

He did not release your hand.

“You ought not to have come,” he said at last, his voice roughened by exhaustion and the strain of holding himself together through more than he would ever willingly admit. “A princess in a physician’s room, at a guard’s side. It will be remarked upon.”

“Let it be remarked upon,” you said, and found that you meant it entirely. “I find I have very little care left, tonight, for what is remarked upon and what is not.”

Something in his expression shifted at that, not quite a smile, not quite anything so easily named, but something that acknowledged, if only for a moment, the shared abandonment of whatever rules had governed you both before this day.

He was quiet a moment, his gaze resting not upon the room but upon you, with an openness that would not have been permitted him under any other circumstance.

“I thought of you,” he said quietly, the words emerging not with hesitation, but with the inevitability of something that had been held back too long to be contained any longer. “More than I ought to have, in the east. A soldier who thinks of anything beyond the battle before him endangers himself, and those beside him. I have known this all my life.” His fingers tightened, faintly, around yours. “And yet I found, each night, that I could not keep myself from it.”

You did not interrupt him. You did not trust yourself to.

“I am not telling you this to burden you with it,” he continued, though there was something in his voice that suggested the burden had already been shared, whether he intended it or not. “Only that I came nearer to not returning than I have allowed the physician to report, and I find I cannot account, any longer, for keeping every true thing from you simply because it is what duty requires.”

The candle beside the bed guttered faintly, its light unsteady, and in that small, shifting glow the distance that had existed between you since the morning of his arrival seemed, at last, to falter.

“I am glad,” you said at last, softly, “that you did not keep it from me tonight.”

He did not answer, not in words. But his hand tightened, very slightly, around yours, and you understood, sitting there in the low, unsteady candlelight, that whatever wall had stood between you on the morning of his arrival had, in that moment, been brought very near to its end.

What remained of it, you thought, would not stand much longer at all.

He had been a fortnight recovering, and a fortnight, you had observed with some private despair, was apparently sufficient time for a man to rebuild every wall he had allowed to fall in a physician’s candlelit room. The slow hours you had spent at his bedside, the quiet confessions drawn from him by exhaustion and pain, the unguarded way in which his hand had remained in yours as though it had forgotten entirely the careful discipline that governed every other aspect of him, might have been imagined, so thoroughly had he resumed the composure that had defined him before the east. He returned to his duties the moment the wound permitted it, and resumed alongside them the measured distance, the unfailing propriety, the particular stillness that gave away nothing of whatever he had said to you that night, nor whatever you had revealed in return by the simple act of remaining. You did not entirely blame him for it, for you understood, better perhaps than he credited you for understanding, that a man who has said too much in a moment of weakness will spend a great while afterward attempting to restore himself through silence alone, but understanding it did not prevent you from resenting it, nor from finding yourself, a fortnight on, rather determined to see that unguarded man again.

“I should like to ride this morning,” you informed him, on a day bright enough to render the request entirely reasonable, though the intention behind it was anything but casual, “and I should like to ride without the whole of the household guard trailing behind me as though I were a parcel requiring delivery.” “Your Highness’s safety requires-” “Your Highness’s safety,” you interrupted, with a firmness that permitted little room for negotiation, “requires precisely one capable swordsman, which I am reliably informed you remain, wound notwithstanding. The rest may remain behind and trouble themselves with whatever else guards trouble themselves with in my absence.” He began, as you knew he would, to object on grounds of propriety, and you fixed him with a look that had, over the course of three years, proven more effective than argument in silencing such objections. “One hour,” you said. “The eastern meadow. I will not be dissuaded, Leon, and I would rather you accompany me than discover, an hour hence, that I have gone without you.” He regarded you with an expression that suggested he understood perfectly well when a battle was already lost, and after a brief pause that served as his final protest, he inclined his head slightly. “One hour,” he said. “And Your Highness will remain within sight of the tree line.” “I make no promises,” you replied, already turning toward the stables, “but I shall consider the suggestion.”

The eastern meadow lay gold and open beneath a sky so clear it seemed almost a defiance of the grey that had hung over the castle for so much of that season, and you felt something within you loosen the moment your horse’s hooves left the confines of stone for the softness of open ground. Leon rode beside you with the same careful watchfulness he brought to every outing, his gaze moving not with the easy appreciation of the landscape but with the measured assessment of a man for whom every open space must first be considered for its dangers, and you found, after a fortnight of his restored composure, that you had very little patience left for it. “You are meant to be enjoying this,” you informed him, turning slightly in your saddle. “Not surveying it for threats.” “I am capable of doing both, Your Highness.” “I do not believe you are capable of the first at all,” you said, “which is precisely the difficulty I intend to remedy this morning.” Before he could inquire what remedy you had in mind, you had already urged your horse forward, the sudden freedom of speed drawing laughter from you before you had fully registered it, the sound carrying back across the meadow as the distance between you widened.

“Your Highness-” His voice followed, sharper now with something between alarm and reluctant amusement, and you heard the thunder of hooves behind you as he gave chase, closing the distance with an ease that told you he had been holding himself carefully in check all along. “You will have to catch me first,” you called back, the wind tugging loose strands of your hair free from their careful arrangement, “before you may scold me for it.” He did catch you, of course, his horse faster, his control surer, and you suspected that even now he was permitting you more advantage than strict ability required, but when he drew alongside you there was something in his expression that had not been there when you set out, something lighter, less guarded, as though the simple act of pursuit had unsettled the careful discipline he had spent the past fortnight rebuilding. “That was reckless,” he said, though the words carried far less censure than their meaning implied. “It was glorious,” you corrected, breathless, your laughter not yet fully spent. “Admit it, Leon. You have not ridden like that in a great while.” “I have not been permitted to,” he said, “given that my duties generally require me to remain upright and watchful, rather than racing a princess across an open meadow with no thought for what might lie beyond the tree line.” “Nothing lies beyond the tree line but more meadow,” you said, “and I have had quite enough of men who think only of what might go wrong. I should like, for one hour, the company of a man who remembers what it is to do something simply because it pleases him.”

Something in his expression shifted then, subtle but unmistakable, the rigidity in his shoulders easing by degrees as though he had, without quite intending to, permitted himself to set something down. “And what would please you this morning, Your Highness?” he asked, and there was, at last, a trace of something warmer in his voice. “This,” you said, gesturing lightly to the meadow, the sky, the absence of walls and watchful eyes. “This pleases me a great deal.” You did not allow him time to retreat again into formality, but set off at a slower pace, letting the horses wander as they pleased, and he followed beside you without protest, his attention no longer fixed so entirely upon the unseen dangers at the edges of the world but, at least in part, upon the moment itself.

It was near the far edge of the meadow, where the grass grew long beneath an old oak that had clearly stood longer than the castle itself, that you drew your horse to a halt and slipped from the saddle before he could assist you. “Your Highness ought not to dismount without-” “Leon,” you said, looking up at him with a steadiness that carried more intent than the words alone. “Come down. Just for a moment. No one is watching. No one will ever know.” He hesitated, and in that hesitation, you saw the full weight of the discipline he had imposed upon himself since his return, the instinct to refuse warring with something quieter but no less insistent, until at last he yielded, dismounting with a reluctant grace that suggested he had chosen, knowingly, to step beyond what he considered safe. You sat first, the grass soft beneath you, and when he remained standing a moment longer, you reached up without ceremony and caught at the sleeve of his arm. “Sit,” you said, “or I shall consider it a personal insult.”

“You are entirely insufferable, Your Highness.”

“And yet you remain,” you returned lightly, tilting your head back to look up at him where he stood over you beneath the oak. “One begins to suspect it is less duty than poor judgment that keeps you in my company.”

“My judgment,” he said, with that dry steadiness you had come to recognise as the closest thing he permitted himself to humour, “has kept you alive on more than one occasion. I would hesitate to condemn it so readily.”

“Ah, but that is precisely the difficulty,” you said, shifting slightly in the grass, propping yourself on one elbow. “You apply it to everything. There is not a single moment in which you allow yourself to forget it. Not even now.”

“Now,” he said, “is precisely when it is required.”

“There is no one here to require anything of you,” you said. “No court. No council. No father. Only me.” You paused, studying him with a deliberateness that was not entirely playful. “And I am asking you, for once, not to be reasonable.”

“That is a dangerous request,” he replied, though there was something in his voice, faint, reluctant, that suggested the danger was not entirely unwelcome.

“Then refuse it,” you said. “You are very good at refusing things.”

“I am good at refusing things that ought to be refused.”

“And this ought to be?”

He did not answer at once, and the hesitation alone was answer enough to encourage you. You shifted again, reaching without ceremony to tug at his sleeve. “Sit,” you said. “Or must I drag you down beside me like some unruly recruit?”

“Your Highness would find that more difficult than anticipated,” he said, though he did not step away.

“Would I?” You caught his sleeve more firmly and gave it a sharper pull. “Shall we test it?”

There was a moment in which he might still have refused. Instead, with a faint exhale that was not quite resignation and not quite amusement, he allowed himself to be drawn down, though not without upsetting your balance in return, and you found yourself shifting backward into the long grass.

“You see,” you said, breath catching slightly with the movement, “perfectly manageable.”

“You have unbalanced the situation,” he returned, settling beside you. “It is not the same thing.”

“It is precisely the same thing,” you said. “You are seated. You have not perished. I consider the matter resolved.”

“I was not aware it was in dispute.”

“It is always in dispute, with you.”

“Not everything,” he said quietly.

You glanced at him, but whatever followed that thought did not come, and the moment slipped instead into something lighter.

“You are too serious,” you said. “I do not believe you were always so.”

“You have no knowledge of what I was always.”

“I have three years’ worth of observation,” you replied. “It is quite sufficient.”

“And what judgment have you formed?”

“That you are the most relentlessly disciplined man I have ever known,” you said. “And that I should very much like to see what you might be if you were not.”

“I do not believe that is a condition I have ever experienced.”

“Then it is long overdue,” you said, and before he could anticipate it, you reached across and pushed lightly at his shoulder.

It was not enough to topple him, but it was enough to unsettle him, and in the movement, he caught at your wrist to steady himself, the momentum carrying both of you sideways into the long grass.

“You will regret that,” he said, though there was unmistakable laughter beneath the words now.

“I regret nothing,” you returned, already attempting to escape, rolling away with a breathless laugh that felt entirely unfamiliar and entirely necessary.

He followed without thought.

There was no calculation in it, no restraint, only instinct, swift and unguarded, and you found yourself caught again a moment later, his hand closing briefly around your wrist, not roughly but with a certainty that stilled you all the same. The laughter between you rose unchecked, unrestrained, the sound of it carrying across the quiet meadow in a way that felt almost foreign, as though neither of you had remembered, until now, that such a thing was permitted.

It faded slowly.

You turned your head, still catching your breath, and found him already looking at you.

Not the measured gaze he allowed himself in corridors and council chambers, but something open, unshielded, entirely without its usual restraint. His hair was disordered from the grass, the trace of laughter still softening his mouth, and for a single, fragile moment, there was nothing guarded left in him at all.

“Leon,” you said, very softly.

Something flickered across his face, clear, unmistakable. Want. It was there and gone again almost at once, overtaken by the instinct that governed him so completely, and you watched, with a sudden, sharp awareness, as that instinct reasserted itself.

The wall came back.

“We shall return,” he said, his voice lower now, the ease gone from it, his gaze breaking from yours as though it cost him something to do so. “Your Highness will be missed.”

The words landed harder than they ought to have.

For a moment, you said nothing. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible shift, the warmth that had filled the space between you cooled, replaced by something far less steady. You pushed yourself upright too quickly, brushing at your skirts with hands that were not quite as composed as you would have liked, unwilling, suddenly, sharply, to remain where he had just refused you.

“Of course,” you said, too lightly. “We should not neglect our duties.”

You did not look at him again.

You turned instead toward the horses, crossing the meadow with a speed that might have passed for purpose, though it was something nearer to retreat, the echo of his restraint settling somewhere uncomfortably beneath your ribs.

Behind you, he did not follow at once.

Leon remained where he was for a moment longer, still in the grass where you had been, as though the act of rising required more from him than he had yet gathered. Slowly, almost without conscious thought, his hand drifted outward, brushing lightly over the place where you had lain moments before. The grass bent beneath his touch, springing back again in its wake, and he stilled there, his fingers lingering just long enough to betray what the rest of him refused to.

Then, with a quiet breath that did not quite steady him, he closed his hand and rose.

By the time he reached you, his composure had returned.

You mounted without assistance. He did not offer it.

You rode back to the castle in silence, the easy laughter of the meadow replaced by something heavier, something neither of you named, and as the walls rose once more before you, closing in around that brief and unguarded hour, you understood, though you did not yet wish to, that something had shifted irrevocably between you.

And that neither of you, now, would be permitted to forget it.

It was Prince Hael, in the end, the choice your father had made with the particular practicality of a man weighing alliances rather than affections, and the choice, you suspected, that had been least objectionable to the council from the very first sitting, however carefully its presentation had been delayed to preserve some illusion of consideration. You learned of it formally on a morning indistinguishable, in every outward respect, from a hundred mornings that had preceded it, the same council chamber, the same gathered lords, the same careful ceremony that had attended the first reading of the suitors’ names some weeks before. Only this time there was no list of three, no pretence of deliberation still underway; there was only the single name, spoken with the particular finality of a decision already made and merely awaiting its public declaration. “The contracts have been drawn,” your father said before the full assembly, his tone measured, composed, entirely removed from the personal consequence of what he announced, “and will be signed within the fortnight. The wedding itself shall take place in the autumn, once the formalities between our two houses have been properly observed.” You sat very still through the whole of it, your hands folded in your lap with a composure you had spent your entire life cultivating for precisely such occasions, and you did not, you were reasonably certain, betray to the watching lords the hollowing sensation that spread through your chest at the sound of the words autumn and signed, spoken so plainly, as though they described nothing more consequential than the turning of a season.

You did not look toward the chamber wall, where Leon stood among the other guards in his customary place. You did not trust yourself to look at him at all, for you suspected, with a clarity that unsettled you, that if you did, the composure you had so carefully maintained would fracture in a way no training could conceal. It was only afterward, in the privacy of your own chambers, that the restraint you had carried through the announcement finally abandoned you, not in tears, for you had never been a woman much given to weeping, but in a stillness that felt heavier than any outward grief. You sat for a long while at your window, looking out over a garden you no longer had any particular desire to walk, and felt the full weight of what had been decided settle over you like a stone long anticipated and yet somehow still unbearable in its arrival. You thought of the meadow, of grass-stained laughter beneath an old oak tree, of a hand that had not released yours even under the sharp insistence of a physician’s needle, and of a voice, low and unguarded with exhaustion, confessing that it had thought of you more than it ought. You thought of all of it, and understood, with a clarity that offered no comfort whatsoever, that whatever had grown between you across three years of quiet observation and one reckless hour of honesty now possessed an ending already written for it, however unwritten its beginning had felt.

You did not see Leon again until the following evening, when he resumed his post outside your chamber door as though the world had not, in the space of a single morning, rearranged itself entirely around you both. He said nothing of the announcement when you first passed him in the corridor, and you said nothing of it either, for there seemed, in that first raw day, nothing adequate to the scale of what had been lost. But you noticed, because you had grown exceedingly skilled at noticing the smallest deviations in him, that something in his bearing had altered. He stood straighter, if such a thing were possible, his composure drawn tighter than you had seen it even on the morning of his arrival, as though he had taken every loosened stone of the wall between you and set each one, with great and deliberate care, back into its place, sealing it not merely against intrusion but against collapse.

It was you, in the end, who could not bear the silence. “You have said nothing,” you said, finding him at his post one evening when the castle had quieted for the night, the corridors empty save for the faint echo of your own footsteps. “Of the announcement.” “It is not my place to say anything of it, Your Highness.” His voice was even, too even, the particular evenness you had learned, by now, to recognize as effort rather than ease. “The matter is decided. My opinion of it changes nothing.” “It would change something to me,” you said, more softly, “to hear it.” He did not look at you. His gaze remained fixed somewhere beyond your shoulder, as though the act of meeting your eyes might undo whatever discipline he had summoned to contain himself. “Then you already have it,” he said at last, quietly. “You have had it since the meadow, Your Highness, if you were attending closely enough to hear it.”

“Leon—” “Prince Hael is, by every account, an honourable man,” he said, cutting across your words with a precision that felt less like interruption and more like defence, his tone gaining a brittleness that betrayed the strain beneath it. “He will treat you well. He will give the kingdom the alliance it requires, and give you, in time, whatever security a crown can offer a woman who has spent her whole life being told her judgment requires a husband’s confirmation before it may be trusted. It is, by every reasonable measure, a good match.” “You have not answered what I asked you.” “I have answered what I am able to answer,” he replied, and there, finally, you heard it, the fracture beneath the composure, the effort with which he held himself within its bounds. “What more would you have of me, Your Highness?”

“The truth,” you said, quietly, though the word carried more weight than any raised voice might have done. “As you gave it to me in the physician’s room. As you gave it to me beneath the oak tree, before you thought better of it.” Something in his face broke then, briefly and unguarded, not into anything so simple as tears, for he was not a man who permitted himself such expressions, but into a rawness you had glimpsed only twice before, and each time watched him retreat from it as swiftly as though it had burned him. “The truth,” he said, low, “is not mine to give you. Not now. Perhaps it was never mine to give you at all, and I was a fool to permit myself, even for an hour in a meadow, to forget it.” He drew a breath, and when he spoke again, the careful composure had reasserted itself, though it sat upon him now with a visible strain. “You are to be married, Your Highness. I am your guard. Whatever passed between us was a kindness I did not deserve, and one I have no right to ask you to remember once your wedding day has come.”

“And if I do not wish to forget it?” The question left you more quietly than you had intended, and yet it seemed to strike him harder than anything you had said before. For a moment he said nothing at all, and in that silence, you saw, with painful clarity, the full measure of the restraint he held upon himself. “Then I would ask,” he said at last, his voice nearly breaking despite every effort to contain it, “that you not tell me so. For I am not certain, tonight, how much more of your kindness I am able to bear without forgetting myself entirely.” He said nothing further after that. He returned his gaze to the corridor, his posture once more the careful, watchful stillness of a guard at his post, as though the conversation had not taken place at all, though you noticed, before you finally turned away, that his hand, resting near the hilt of his sword, did not entirely cease its trembling.

You did not sleep that night either. You lay awake long after the candles had burned down to nothing, staring into the dark and thinking of an autumn wedding already contracted. Of a man standing guard outside your door who loved you, there was no longer any use in denying it, exactly as much as he had no right to, and exactly as much as you could no longer pretend you did not wish him to. There seemed, in that quiet hour, no path forward that did not end in grief for one of you, or both, and though you did not yet know how soon the choice would be forced upon you, you understood, with a certainty that settled deep and immovable within you, that when it came, it would not be a choice either of you would be permitted to make freely, nor one either of you would escape unbroken.

You had not wanted, that evening, to take any particular care over your appearance. There seemed little purpose in it, a ball held in honour of an alliance you had not chosen, attended by a court that would spend the whole of the evening regarding you as something already settled, already spoken for, a treaty in silk rather than a woman within it, and yet your maid had insisted, with a quiet determination that was difficult to refuse, and you had not the heart, that evening, to deny her the small satisfaction of her work, and so you had stood through the long hour of lacing and pinning with a patience you did not entirely feel, your hands resting lightly against the table as she worked, your reflection taking shape in increments that felt increasingly distant from anything you recognised as your own. The gown, when it was finished, was finer than any you had worn in recent memory, pale as moonlight and worked through with silver thread that caught the candlelight at every turn, the skirts falling in a manner that restored, if only outwardly, the image the court expected of you, the image your father required, the image that had already been promised elsewhere, and you looked, you thought, precisely as you were meant to look, composed, adorned, and already given.

You opened your chamber door to find Leon waiting, as he always waited, in the corridor beyond, and you watched, with a small and private satisfaction you were not entirely proud of, his composure falter for the briefest of moments at the sight of you, the shift so slight that no one but you would have marked it, and yet unmistakable all the same—the faint widening of his eyes, the near-imperceptible pause in his breath, the momentary stilling of a man who had forgotten, for a single heartbeat, how to guard himself. He recovered almost at once, the careful stillness returning with the speed of long practice, but not quite quickly enough to conceal what you had seen, and the knowledge of it lingered between you, unspoken and dangerous. “Your Highness,” he said, his voice even but not untouched by effort. “You look—” He stopped, correcting himself, replacing whatever truth had risen unbidden with something safer. “The gown becomes you well.” “Thank you,” you said, and the smile that answered him came more easily than you expected, though it carried with it something more fragile than it once might have done. “Shall we?”

He offered his arm, and you took it, and he escorted you through the long corridors toward the ballroom with a correctness so absolute it might have convinced a stranger that nothing at all lay between you, though you felt the strain of it in every step, in the deliberate distance he maintained, in the way his arm remained steady beneath your hand without ever once shifting closer than necessary, as though the smallest deviation might betray something neither of you could afford. The ballroom itself was already ablaze with candlelight and conversation when you entered, the court gathered in its full splendour, the air thick with anticipation and satisfaction in equal measure, and you moved through it as required, accepting greetings, offering replies, stepping into dances with the composure that had been expected of you since childhood, though throughout it all you remained aware of him without ever needing to look.

He had taken his place against the far wall, as he always did, removed from the movement of the room, present only in the manner his duty required, and though he did not approach, did not speak, did not permit himself the smallest deviation from his role, you felt his attention as surely as if it had been placed upon your shoulder, steady and unrelenting. You danced with one lord, and then another, smiled when expected, spoke when required, and still your awareness of him did not waver, and when at last your eyes did find his across the crowded room, you saw not the composure he showed the rest of the court, but the effort beneath it, the quiet strain of a man holding himself in place by force alone, and it unsettled you more than you had prepared yourself to be unsettled.

It was he who left first.

You did not at first understand what you were seeing, only that the space he occupied against the wall was suddenly empty, that the careful stillness that had anchored your awareness of the room had vanished without warning, and it was only when you turned, subtly, too quickly to be entirely concealed, that you caught sight of him at the edge of the hall, moving toward the doors with a purpose too controlled to be mistaken for anything but deliberate retreat. He did not look back. He did not hesitate. He simply left.

You endured, perhaps, a handful of moments more, though you could not afterward have said what was said to you or what steps you completed, only that the absence of him altered something fundamental in your ability to remain where you were, and when the next opportunity presented itself, a shift in the music, a distraction among the gathered guests, you took it without hesitation, withdrawing from the floor with a composure that held only until you were beyond the immediate attention of the court, and then not at all. You did not think, not in any structured sense; you followed.

The corridors beyond the ballroom were cooler, quieter, the sound of music fading with each step, and you moved through them with a purpose that bordered on urgency, guided less by sight than by certainty, and when at last you reached the gardens, the night air meeting you with a sudden and welcome clarity, you slowed only enough to find him already there, standing some distance along the gravel path, his back to you, his posture rigid in a way that spoke less of duty than of restraint worn thin.

“You left,” you said, and your voice carried farther in the quiet than you had intended.

He turned then, not startled, he was never startled, but with the measured awareness of a man who had known, perhaps, that you would follow. “Your Highness ought not to be unescorted,” he said, though the words lacked any true reprimand, worn thin by whatever had driven him from the hall in the first place.

“I am not unescorted,” you replied, coming to stand before him. “You have only chosen to arrive first.”

Something in his expression shifted at that, subtle but unmistakable, and for a moment neither of you spoke, the faint music from within drifting out to meet the quiet of the garden, distant enough to feel almost unreal, and when you looked at him fully, without the interference of candlelight or courtly expectation, you saw more clearly than you had in the crowded hall the strain he had attempted to conceal, the effort it cost him to stand before you now with any semblance of composure at all.

“You never dance,” you said at last, your voice softer now, though no less steady.

“It is not my place,” he replied.

“There are a great many things you tell me are not your place,” you said, “and yet you say them to me regardless, when the night is dark enough and no one else is near to hear it.”

He did not deny it.

“What would Your Highness have of me tonight?” he asked, and there was something in the question, quiet, restrained, and yet unmistakably open, that made the answer feel inevitable.

“A dance,” you said. “Just one. No one will see us here.”

He hesitated, and you saw it plainly, the struggle between restraint and something far more dangerous, something that seemed, for a moment, to root him to the spot as though the simple act of reaching for you required more resolve than any battle he had faced, and you thought, just for that fleeting instant, that he might refuse you, might retreat once more behind the wall he had rebuilt so carefully, might deny both of you even this small defiance of the world that had already decided too much for you, but then, slowly, as though the motion were drawn from him against his better judgment, he extended his hand, and you took it, your fingers fitting against his with a familiarity that sent something unsteady through your chest before you could think to stop it, and he drew you closer, into a hold that felt less like something learned for courtly display and more like something instinctive, something remembered from a life neither of you had ever lived, his hand settling at your waist with a steadiness that betrayed none of the tension you could feel beneath it, your own coming to rest against him as though it had always known its place there, though such closeness would have been unthinkable within the crowded brightness of the hall.

He began to move with you, slowly at first, the rhythm uncertain only for a moment before it settled into something quiet and unspoken, guided less by the faint music drifting from the ballroom than by the measured awareness of each other’s presence, the muffled strains of strings and distant laughter softened by stone and distance until they seemed almost imagined, a ghost of sound rather than something truly heard, and yet it was enough, enough to carry the motion of it, enough to lend shape to the silence that stretched between you, broken only by the faint shift of gravel beneath your feet and the subtle cadence of shared breath.

The world beyond the garden seemed to fall away, reduced to the dim glow of candlelight spilling through tall windows and the occasional echo of voices that did not belong to you, and in its place there was only this, the steady warmth of his hand at your waist, the quiet strength of his other holding yours, the careful precision of each step taken as though he feared, not misstep, but the consequence of coming too close to something neither of you had yet named. You felt it in the way he held himself, in the slight tension that never fully left his shoulders, in the fraction of space he preserved even as he drew you nearer, as though he walked a narrow line between what he allowed himself and what he refused, and yet there were moments, brief, fleeting, impossible to mistake, when that distance faltered, when his hand tightened just slightly, when your steps aligned too perfectly, when the space between you ceased to exist at all.

You became aware, gradually, of the details that might otherwise have gone unnoticed, the warmth of him beneath your hand, the faint rise and fall of his breath, the way the fabric of his sleeve shifted beneath your fingers as he guided you through the turn, the brush of your skirts against his leg with each measured step, the quiet steadiness of his presence so close to you that it felt, for a moment, as though the years of distance and restraint had been something imagined rather than lived. The scent of him, clean, faintly metallic beneath the night air, lingered in the space between you, grounding and unsettling all at once, and you found yourself, without quite meaning to, drawing closer into it, as though proximity alone might answer something you had not yet dared to ask.

He did not speak, and neither did you, but the silence was not empty; it was full, charged with the weight of everything that had been held back, everything that had been said in fragments and half-admissions and careful restraint, and everything that remained suspended now between one breath and the next. His gaze, when it met yours, did not fall away at once as it so often did within the walls of the castle; instead it lingered, steady and searching, as though in the dimness of the garden he permitted himself, if only for this moment, to look without fear of being seen, and there was something in it, something unguarded, something that had nothing to do with duty, that made it suddenly difficult to remember how to breathe.

You turned with him again, slower now, the movement almost imperceptible, and the music, if it could still be called that, seemed to fade further into the distance, until it was no longer guiding you at all, until the dance existed only in the space between you, shaped by instinct and held together by the fragile, unspoken understanding that neither of you would allow it to last longer than it should. And still, for that suspended moment, it felt as though time itself had been drawn thin around you, stretched to accommodate something neither of you had been permitted before, something quiet and fleeting and dangerously close to everything you had both spent three years refusing to name.

And in that stillness, with his hand steady at your waist and yours resting against him, with the faint echo of music dissolving into the night and the warmth of him impossibly close, you understood, without needing to speak it, that this was not merely a dance, but a kind of surrender, small and temporary and already ending even as it unfolded, and that when it did end, as it must, you would carry the weight of it long after the music had faded entirely.

It was Leon who broke the silence, his voice low and rough, as though the words had long been waiting and had at last found their moment to be spoken. “Forgive me, Your Highness,” he said, “but I find I can no longer endure hearing that word spoken as though it ought to silence every misery.”

You stilled slightly in his hold, though he did not release you. “What word?”

“Forgive,” he said, his jaw tightening. “I have begged your forgiveness for so much, these past weeks, that I have nearly convinced myself the asking of it absolves me of whatever I have felt beneath it. It does not. I find, tonight, that it has never absolved me of anything at all.”

You did not interrupt him again. You did not trust yourself to.

“I have stood beside you for three years,” he continued, the words gathering strength not in haste but in inevitability, “and I have watched you surrender every wish, every freedom, every small happiness demanded of you in the name of duty, and each time you bore it with more grace than anyone has ever deserved of you.”

His hand remained at your waist, steady despite the intensity in his gaze as it fixed upon you without the usual restraint. “You are my princess. My sworn duty. I should sooner cut out my own heart than burden you with such feelings.” His voice lowered, almost breaking despite his effort to steady it. “Yet I find I cannot repent of them.”

The music drifted faintly on, indifferent to what had just been laid bare between you. You did not move. You did not dare to.

“But before I bury this forever,” he said, “you must allow me the selfishness of telling you that there has never been a moment, since the morning I first knelt before you, in which my heart did not belong entirely to you.”

The words settled over you with a weight that was both longed for and devastating, for here at last was the truth you had known, and here too was the certainty that it had come too late to alter anything at all.

“Leon,” you said, your voice unsteady despite yourself, “I am to be married within the season.” “I know it,” he said, and something in his expression seemed to fracture beneath the acknowledgement.

“I do not tell you this to alter what has been decided. I am not so foolish as to believe a guard’s confession could unmake a royal contract. I tell you only because I cannot stand before you, knowing what awaits you, and allow you to go to it believing yourself unloved.”

 “I have never believed myself unloved,” you said softly. “Only loved by the one man I could never be permitted to have.” His hand tightened, very slightly. “Then we are agreed, at least, in our misery.” “It is poor comfort,” you said. “It is the only comfort I have to offer,” he replied.

You stood together a long moment in the dark, neither moving to resume the dance nor to part from it, and when you searched his face for something more, for defiance, for refusal, for anything that might change what lay ahead, you found instead only the quiet resignation of a man who had long since accepted that loving you and keeping you were never destined to be the same thing.

“What would you have me do?” you asked, very quietly. “If I were free to choose it.” “Nothing,” he said, though the word cost him, “for I have no right to ask anything of you at all.” His hand rose, slowly, to your cheek, the first touch that was not born of duty, and it undid you more completely than any word he had spoken. “But if I permitted myself one selfish wish,” he continued, “I would wish only that you remember, whatever comes after tonight, that you were loved. Truly, and entirely, by a man who had no right to love you, and loved you regardless.”

You closed your eyes, leaning into the warmth of his hand for one unguarded moment. “I will remember it,” you whispered. “I do not believe I shall ever forget it.” Neither of you spoke again for a long while, the music fading, the candles within the ballroom burning low, and still you remained there, his hand at your cheek and yours resting lightly against his chest where you could feel the unsteady rhythm of his heart. You did not kiss him, though the desire to do so lingered between you with an intensity that might have undone you both entirely, and some last fragment of restraint held you back, a shared understanding that to cross that final distance would only deepen the wound already set to follow.

So, you stood instead, in the quiet and the dark, allowing the silence to carry what neither of you could bring yourselves to say, and understood, even then, that it was the closest thing to happiness you would ever be permitted with him, and that it would have to be enough.

The chapel was full to its very last pew, the autumn light falling gold and unremarkable through the high windows, as though the day itself had not the slightest understanding of what it asked of you, or of the particular cost it would demand before it was done. There was something almost cruel in the ordinariness of it, the way the light touched the stone as it always had, the way the murmured voices of the assembled court rose and fell in quiet expectation, the way everything continued precisely as it must, untouched by the weight that pressed so heavily upon your chest. You had dressed that morning in a silence you had not requested but had not the heart to break, your maid’s hands steady and practiced at your back as she laced you into a gown finer than any you had ever worn, finer even than the one you had worn on the night of the ball, though you found you could take no particular pleasure in the noticing of it. You had thought, in the weeks since the garden, that you had already grieved the whole of what this day would cost you, had believed yourself prepared, in some small and careful way, for the inevitability of it. You understood, standing at last before the great doors with your father’s arm offered beside you, that you had grieved only a portion of it, and that the greater part remained, waiting for you now beyond the threshold.

The doors opened. The assembled court rose. And you began, with your father’s steady arm beneath your hand, the long walk toward the altar where Prince Hael waited, an honourable man by every account, his expression composed into the easy warmth of one who stood on the advantageous side of this union. You did not look for Leon. You had told yourself, in the quiet of your chambers that morning, that you would not, that some mercies were better left untested, some composures better left unbroken by the sight of him. But resolve proved itself fragile against instinct, and somewhere between one step and the next your gaze lifted of its own accord, drawn not by will but by certainty.

He was there. He would always be there, wherever duty placed him, however dearly that duty might cost. He stood as he had always stood, straight-backed, composed, his hand resting near the hilt of his sword in that same easy readiness you had watched through three years of mornings and evenings, of council chambers and quiet walks, of all the small, unremarkable hours in which something far from unremarkable had taken root between you. To any other eye in that crowded chapel, he was precisely what he appeared to be: a guard at his post, dutiful and unmoved. But you had spent too long learning to read what lay beneath that stillness to be deceived by it now, and what you saw there in that single unguarded moment very nearly undid you.

His eyes were bright, too bright, held there by sheer will, and his composure, though outwardly unchanged, seemed thinner somehow, stretched to its limit. He did not look away. Nor did you. For the span of perhaps three steps, three steps that felt longer than the entirety of the three years that had preceded them, you held each other’s gaze across that crowded chapel, and in that silence, there passed between you everything that had ever mattered, everything that had ever been spoken and everything that had not. I remember, you told him without sound. I have not forgotten. And something in his expression answered you with equal certainty. Nor have I. Nor shall I ever.

Then your father’s arm guided you onward, and the moment broke, dissolving back into the steady rhythm of ceremony, the priest’s voice, the witnesses, the vows you spoke with a composure that cost you more than any soul present would ever understand. You accepted the ring placed upon your hand by a man who would, in time, perhaps come to know some portion of your heart, though never, you understood even then, the whole of it. You did not look toward the chapel wall again. You did not trust yourself to.

The day passed as such days must, through ceremony and celebration and obligation, each moment unfolding with the same relentless inevitability as the one before it. You fulfilled every expectation placed upon you, spoke every required word, offered every measured smile, and yet it seemed to you, even as you moved through it all, that something essential had been left behind in that moment between one step and the next, something that could not be reclaimed by any vow or duty that followed.

You did not see him that evening. Nor the next.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing, that duty had placed him elsewhere, that the rhythms of the guard had shifted as they always did, but there was a quiet wrongness in the absence that you could not ignore, a hollow where something constant had always been. Days passed, and still he did not return to his post outside your chambers, nor to the quiet spaces he had once occupied at your side, and it was not until the end of that first week that you understood, not by being told but by the careful silence of those who might have told you, that his absence was no accident.

He had been reassigned. It was done, you realised, with the same quiet efficiency that had arranged your marriage, with the same unspoken understanding of what must be removed in order for everything else to remain undisturbed.

The corridors felt different after that, emptier in a way no number of attendants could remedy, and the gardens, when you walked them, seemed altered without him, as though the very shape of them had changed. Still, you carried on as you had always been taught to do, fulfilling every duty, speaking every word, offering every measured smile, and if anyone noticed the quietness that had settled over you, they were kind enough not to name it.

At night, when the castle stilled, you found yourself listening for footsteps that would never come, for the familiar presence that had once existed just beyond your door, and it was in those quiet hours that the truth of it settled most fully, that there would be no farewell, no final word, no last moment granted to you beyond the one you had already taken without knowing it would be the last.

He was gone. Not dead, not lost, not beyond reach in any physical sense and yet more absent than if he had been.

And yet, in sleep, when the world loosened its hold on duty, and the careful shape of your life no longer pressed so tightly around you, you found him again. Not as he had stood in that chapel, distant and restrained and already leaving you, but as he had been in the quiet moments stolen between obligation and truth: beneath the oak, laughter unguarded; in the garden, his hand warm at your waist; in the dim light of memory, looking at you as though the world beyond you did not exist at all.

In your dreams, he did not turn away. In your dreams, there was no chapel, no vows, no distance placed between you by duty or decree. He remained where he had always belonged, beside you, close enough that you could feel the steady rhythm of his breath, the quiet certainty of his presence, the unspoken promise of a life that might have been.

And always, just as the moment lingered long enough to feel real, long enough to almost convince you that it had not all been lost, you woke.

You were always the one who gave people way more credit than they ever deserved. Not because you’re naive, but because you truly saw the good in absolutely everyone. 

Time and time again, you’d meet someone new, overlook every warning sign, excuse every bad decision, and convince yourself there was something underneath it all worth sticking around for.

That maybe they were just having a hard time. Maybe nobody had ever been patient with them before. Maybe all they needed was one person to believe in them.

And every single time, they proved you wrong.

Friends forgot about you the second something better came along. Partners made promises they had no intention of keeping. Family members disappointed you in ways that eventually stopped surprising you. It became a quiet sort of routine, collecting little heartbreaks until they stacked so high you almost expected them.

Still, you never seemed to learn. You'd swear this time was different. This person was different. They wouldn't leave. They wouldn't lie. They wouldn't make you regret trusting them.

Then they always did.

Your mother used to tell you that one day you'd have to stop looking for the best in people and start believing them when they showed you who they were.

You hated hearing it growing up; it sounded cynical and bitter. 

Now, years later, you wondered if she'd simply been trying to spare you. The funny thing was, you convinced yourself that you were used to it. 

You told yourself the disappointment didn't sting as much anymore. That you'd learned to expect it. That every broken promise and every person who drifted away had built up some invisible armor around your heart. It was easier that way.

If you expected people to leave, then they couldn't really surprise you when they did. If you kept your expectations low enough, maybe it wouldn't hurt so much when someone forgot your birthday, stopped returning your calls, or looked right through you like you'd never mattered all that much to begin with.

You got very good at pretending those things didn't bother you. You'd laugh them off, shrug your shoulders, and tell anyone who asked that it wasn't a big deal, that everyone has their own lives, and nobody owes you anything.

But every now and then, usually late at night when there wasn't anything left to distract you, you'd wonder why it always seemed to happen to you.

What was so fundamentally wrong with you that everyone else found it so easy to walk away?

By morning, though, you'd bury the thought somewhere deep enough that even you couldn't find it anymore. Then you'd wake up and give someone else the benefit of the doubt.

God, you wanted it to be Eddie Munson so bad.

Wanted him to be the exception. Wanted him to be the one person who proved every disappointment before him wrong.

It wasn't supposed to happen, honestly. If someone had told you a year ago that you'd end up falling in love with Eddie Munson, you probably would've laughed in their face. Not because there was anything wrong with him, but because Eddie had a way of keeping people at arm's length.

He made a joke out of everything, turned every serious conversation into a bit, and acted like nothing in the world could ever really touch him.

Most people stopped there, but you didn't.

You noticed how he always made sure everyone got home safely after a Hellfire campaign. The way he'd hand over his last cigarette without hesitation. The way he'd remember tiny, insignificant details about people and bring them up weeks later like they mattered.

Like they mattered. Like they mattered to him. And maybe that was what did it. Not some grand gesture or some dramatic declaration.

Just a hundred small moments that slowly convinced you that beneath all the noise, beneath the sarcasm and the theatrics and the reputation everyone loved to throw in his face, there was someone unbelievably good. Someone worth believing in.

So you did, and you believed in him with your whole heart.

Even when your friends warned you not to get too attached. Even when every instinct told you that caring this much about another person was dangerous. Even when a small voice in the back of your mind reminded you how every story like this had ended before.

Because this was Eddie. And God, you wanted it to be Eddie so goddamn bad.

It started small, one day while you were waiting outside of the drama room for Hellfire to end so you could bring Dustin home.

Eddie and Dustin came out last; Eddie's arm slung lazily around Dustin's shoulders while the younger boy looked up at him with the biggest grin you'd ever seen, talking so fast his words practically tripped over each other.

Eddie was listening. Not the distracted kind of listening where someone nods along until it's their turn to speak, but genuinely listening. Laughing in all the right places, asking questions, giving Dustin his full attention like there wasn't anywhere else in the world he'd rather be.

You remembered how upset Dustin had been when he and Steve started to drift apart. Something about Steve caring "more about women" and "breaking bro code," delivered with all the dramatics only a fourteen-year-old could manage.

You'd smiled and comforted him at the time, told him people got busy and that it probably wasn't as personal as he thought.

But watching Eddie now, ruffling Dustin's curls just to annoy him before immediately apologizing with a crooked grin when Dustin swatted his hand away, you realized Steve had left behind something Eddie had picked up without anyone asking him to.

You fully expected him to peel away from Dustin with a quick goodbye and disappear into the crowded hallway with the rest of the students.

Instead, he nudged Dustin forward with a light shove and wandered over to where you were leaning against the wall like he'd been planning to the entire time.

"You ever finish that book?"

You blinked. "What?"

"The one you wouldn't shut up about in English." He pointed at you accusingly. "The one with the... existential crisis or whatever."

You stared at him for a second before laughing. "You mean The Stranger?"

"That's the one."

"I finished it weeks ago."

"And?"

"And it was good."

He scrunched his nose. "That's it? You spent ten minutes arguing with Mrs. O'Donnell about symbolism and your review is 'it was good?'"

You couldn't help smiling. "I'm trying to avoid spoiling it."

"For me?"

"You were listening?"

He looked almost offended. "'Course I was listening." The words shouldn't have lodged themselves in your chest the way they did.

It had been weeks. One offhand discussion in a class Eddie barely seemed awake for half the time, and somehow he'd remembered not only the conversation but the specific book you'd been talking about.

It was such a stupid little thing. But nobody ever remembered the little things about you. And somehow, Eddie Munson did.

As the weeks went on, you suddenly became much more interested in waiting in the hallway for Dustin instead of the parking lot like you normally would. You told yourself it was because it was warmer inside.

Because sometimes he took forever to pack up. Because it saved him from having to look around for you.

It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Eddie Munson inevitably came walking out of the drama room a few minutes later. Absolutely nothing.

Somehow, the conversations became expected.

He'd see you leaning against the lockers and make a beeline over with that same lazy smile, asking about your classes or complaining about a teacher or launching into some dramatic retelling of Gareth doing something stupid during Hellfire.

And every single time he talked to you, it was like the rest of the hallway ceased to exist. He looked at you. Not over your shoulder. Not around the room. Not scanning for someone more interesting to interrupt the conversation.

When you made a joke, he'd laugh without hesitation, his whole face lighting up like he'd genuinely found it funny instead of politely humoring you.

Sometimes he'd laugh so hard he'd have to look down and shake his head before looking back up at you with that stupid grin that was becoming increasingly difficult to stop thinking about.

The first time he held eye contact for so long that you had to glance away first, he just smiled wider. It made your stomach do something embarrassing.

By the time Dustin finally wandered over with his backpack half-open and a handful of dice threatening to spill onto the floor, Eddie would always clap him on the shoulder, throw you a casual, "See you tomorrow," and head off toward the parking lot, like he already knew there'd be a tomorrow.

One afternoon, after Eddie disappeared through the front doors, Dustin buckled himself into the passenger seat with a look on his face that immediately made you suspicious. "What?"

He didn't answer; he just looked at you.

"What?" you repeated.

A grin slowly spread across his face. "Oh, my God."

"What?"

"He likes you."

You nearly missed the key trying to start the car. "Dustin."

"He does."

"He absolutely does not."

"He asked me if you had a boyfriend."

You turned so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. "He what?"

Dustin shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"We were at lunch yesterday. Just me and Mike. He sat down and was acting all weird, and then he goes, 'So... your sister seeing anybody?'"

Your face immediately warmed.

"And what," you asked carefully, "did you say?"

"I told him no."

"Dustin."

"What? It's true."

"Dustin."

He looked over with the most smug expression you'd ever seen on a fourteen-year-old.

"Then he goes, 'Huh.'"

"Huh?"

"Just 'huh.'" Dustin mimicked him with a terrible impression. "'Just curious.'"

You stared straight ahead at the windshield, trying very hard to pretend your heart wasn't threatening to beat its way out of your chest. Beside you, Dustin snorted.

"I can literally hear you smiling."

"I'm not smiling."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You totally have a crush on Eddie."

You finally looked over at him. “Shut up.”

His grin was so wide you could’ve worn his eyes would pop out of their sockets. “Never.”

The first time Eddie approached you when Dustin wasn't anywhere in sight, you were halfway convinced he had the wrong person.

You were standing at your locker, trying to force an algebra textbook that absolutely did not fit into a space that absolutely wasn't big enough, when a familiar voice sounded beside you.

"So."

You looked over to find Eddie leaning against the neighboring locker with his arms folded across his chest, rocking back on his heels with an almost suspicious amount of casualness.

"So?" you echoed.

"So..." He scratched the back of his neck. "You busy tonight?"

You blinked. "Tonight?"

He nodded once. Your brain, completely abandoning you, decided to stop functioning. 

"No?" It came out sounding far more like a question than an answer.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "No?"

"No," you repeated quickly. "No, I'm not."

He nodded to himself like he'd just confirmed a theory. "Cool."

You waited for him to elaborate; he didn't. Instead, he looked down at the floor, nudged the toe of his sneaker against the tile once, then looked back up at you.

"Meet me at the Hideout."

Your heart skipped so hard it was almost painful. "The Hideout?"

"Mhm."

"When?"

"Eight."

You stared at him for another second. "Why?"

His smile widened into something almost boyish. "If I tell you, it'll ruin the surprise."

"Eddie."

"C'mon."

"What if it's something weird?"

"It is something weird."

"That is not reassuring."

He laughed, a quiet one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. "I promise it's a good weird."

You narrowed your eyes. "I don't know..."

He placed a hand dramatically over his heart. "You wound me."

"I don't even know if this is a date."

His eyebrows shot up for the briefest moment before he covered it with another crooked grin. "I didn't say it was."

"You also didn't say it wasn't."

He took a tiny step backward, already beginning to walk away. "Eight o'clock."

"Eddie."

"No excuses."

"What am I even supposed to wear?"

He glanced back over his shoulder. "You'll look pretty no matter what."

And then, before your brain could catch up enough to formulate any kind of response, he turned and disappeared into the sea of students.

You stood frozen in front of your locker for another thirty seconds. When you finally managed to move, you shut it without grabbing a single one of the books you'd opened it for.

By seven-thirty, you had somehow managed to convince yourself not to go. By seven-thirty-five, you had changed your outfit again. By seven-forty-five, you were sitting in your car with both hands gripping the steering wheel, wondering if there was still enough time to fake a flat tire. By seven-fifty, you were pulling into the Hideout parking lot.

The building looked exactly the same as it always did, all faded neon and cigarette smoke drifting out every time someone opened the front door, yet somehow it felt entirely different. Your palms were sweating.

You caught your reflection in the rearview mirror for what had to be the twentieth time before taking a deep breath and climbing out. The second you stepped inside, Eddie looked up.

He'd been halfway through saying something to Gareth at the bar, but the moment he saw you, he stopped in the middle of his sentence and broke into a smile so genuine it almost made you forget how to walk.

"There she is."

He excused himself without another word and crossed the room toward you. "You came."

"You told me to."

"I was hoping you would."

There was something about the way he looked at you that made it impossible to hold eye contact for more than a few seconds.

Every time your eyes drifted away, you'd find him already looking back, smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing.

"You look..." He paused for a second, looking you over just enough to make your heart start racing. "Really pretty."

You laughed nervously, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "I almost didn't come."

"I'm really glad you did." The words came so naturally that you almost didn't know what to do with them.

He led you over to a quieter booth tucked against the wall, waving off a couple of people who called his name along the way.

Every conversation seemed to circle back to you somehow: your classes, your favorite music, what you wanted to do after graduation, stories from when you and Dustin were kids.

And every answer you gave was met with complete attention. No scanning the room. No waiting for his turn to talk. Just Eddie, chin resting against his hand, looking at you like every sentence was worth hearing.

At one point, you made some stupid self-deprecating joke under your breath.

He frowned. "Don't do that."

"What?"

"Talk about yourself like that."

You blinked. "I was kidding."

"I know." His expression softened. "I just don't think it's true."

The conversation moved on, but you couldn't. You were still thinking about it ten minutes later.

By the time the waitress came by with another round of drinks, Eddie had somehow managed to compliment your laugh, tell you your taste in music was "criminally underrated," insist you had "the prettiest eyes in Hawkins," and inform you that your opinions on horror movies were objectively correct.

"You know," you finally said with a suspicious smile, "you're awfully complimentary tonight."

He looked entirely unapologetic. "Should I stop?"

"...No."

"No?"

"No."

"Good." He grinned. "Because I wasn't planning on it."

You laughed again, shaking your head. He watched you for a second before reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulling out a pen.

"So."

"So?"

"You got a phone?"

You looked at him like he'd grown another head. "...Yes?"

"Good." He held the pen out toward you. "Need your number."

"My number?"

"Mhm."

"What for?"

He gave you the most incredulous look imaginable. "So I can call you."

"You could just ask Dustin where I live."

"I could."

He leaned a little closer across the table, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip. "But I'd rather have an excuse to hear your voice."

You could actually feel your pulse in your fingertips. Without another word, you reached over, took the pen from his hand, and scribbled your number across the back of a paper napkin.

He looked down at it, smiled to himself, and folded it with surprising care before tucking it safely into his wallet, like it was something worth keeping.

The drive home felt shorter than it ever had before.

You caught yourself smiling at a red light for absolutely no reason, quickly looking around to make sure no one in the car next to you had noticed before realizing there wasn't even another car there.

Every few miles, you'd replay another little piece of the night. The way he'd looked at you the second you walked in. The way he'd leaned across the table to hear you better, even though the music wasn't all that loud.

The ridiculous amount of compliments he'd managed to slip into completely normal conversations without making them sound rehearsed.

The napkin folded neatly into his wallet. God.

You actually had to grip the steering wheel a little tighter just to stop yourself from smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

By the time you pulled into your driveway, your face genuinely ached. You sat there for another minute with the engine still running, staring at nothing in particular and laughing quietly to yourself like a complete idiot.

It felt embarrassing. It felt juvenile. It felt like every cheesy romance novel you'd ever secretly read under the covers with a flashlight. And for the first time in a long time, it felt nice.

You'd barely made it through the front door before your mother called from the kitchen to ask how your night had been.

"It was good," you answered, hoping she couldn't hear the grin in your voice.

"Just good?"

You kicked your shoes off by the door, trying very hard to sound casual. "Yeah. Good."

She peeked around the corner, took one look at your face, and smiled to herself. You immediately looked away.

After a quick shower and far too much time standing in front of the bathroom mirror replaying every second of the night, you finally crawled into bed, still fully convinced you were making the whole thing up in your head.

Maybe Eddie was just naturally nice. Maybe he complimented everybody. Maybe asking for your number hadn't actually meant anything at all.

You'd just reached over to switch off your bedside lamp when the phone rang. The sound startled you enough that you nearly knocked the thing onto the floor trying to answer it.

"Hello?"

A familiar laugh came through the receiver. "Hey."

Your stomach immediately betrayed you. "...Hi."

"I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"No."

"Good."

Then Eddie cleared his throat. "I just wanted to make sure you got home okay."

You smiled before you could stop yourself. "I did."

"Good."

He could have ended the conversation right there. Instead, he asked what you were doing tomorrow. You asked what he and the guys had planned for Hellfire next week.

He somehow ended up telling you a fifteen-minute story about Gareth locking his keys in the van, which spiraled into another story about Wayne accidentally setting off the smoke detector while trying to make grilled cheese, which somehow became a debate over whether pineapple belonged on pizza. You found out your birthdays were only days apart. 

You couldn't remember the last time a conversation had felt so easy. There were no awkward silences to force your way through. No pressure to say the perfect thing. No moments where you felt like you had to perform some better version of yourself. You could just exist.

And somehow, Eddie seemed to like that version best. At one point you laughed so hard you had to pull the phone away from your ear, and through your own laughter you could hear him laughing too.

When the conversation finally lulled again, you glanced over at the digital clock on your nightstand.

1:43 a.m.

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"We've been talking for..." You looked again. "Almost four hours."

There was a brief silence, then Eddie chuckled quietly. "Huh."

"Huh?"

"I didn't even notice." Neither had you.

"I should probably let you sleep."

"...Probably."

"But I don't really want to."

You tucked your knees up against your chest beneath the blankets. "I don't really want you to, either."

The line went quiet again. You could hear him breathing. Then, softly enough that you almost thought you'd imagined it, "I'm really glad you came tonight."

You closed your eyes. "I'm really glad you asked."

When you finally hung up twenty minutes later, you set the receiver back into its cradle with more care than necessary and just sat there for a moment in the dark. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.

As you rolled over and pulled the blankets up to your chin, one thought drifted lazily through your mind before sleep claimed you. Maybe your mother had been wrong, maybe there really was someone worth believing in after all.

After that, it was almost impossible to remember a time when Eddie wasn't somehow part of your day. Sometimes he'd call before school just because he'd been up since six and was "bored out of his fucking mind."

Sometimes the phone would ring at eleven-thirty at night, and before you could even say hello, he'd say, "Hypothetically speaking, if a raccoon learned how to drive, do you think it'd obey traffic laws?" and the conversation would somehow last until nearly three in the morning.

He'd call just to tell you he heard a song that reminded him of you. He'd call because Wayne had made chili and insisted on putting cinnamon in it. He'd call because he wanted to know what you thought happened after people died. He'd call because he missed your voice.

He never actually said that last one. But sometimes he'd let the silence linger for so long that you knew.

The dates weren't really dates. At least, neither of you called them that. He'd show up outside your house with no plan whatsoever, and somehow the two of you would end up spending five hours together anyway.

He'd take you to the record store and spend twice as long watching you flip through albums as he did looking for anything himself.

You'd sit on the hood of his van in abandoned parking lots, sharing gas station snacks while he pointed out made-up constellations with complete confidence until you laughed so hard he couldn't keep the lie going anymore.

Once he drove for 30 minutes because you mentioned wanting to try a milkshake from some tiny roadside diner you'd seen in passing weeks earlier.

Another afternoon, you wandered around a thrift store with exactly four dollars between you, leaving with a hideous ceramic frog and an ugly orange sweater because Eddie insisted they had "character."

He made you try the sweater on. Then proceeded to spend the next ten minutes telling you that orange might actually be his favorite color now. You rolled your eyes so hard they almost got stuck while he just grinned.

Sometimes he'd come over just to sit on your porch steps. No music. No television. No plans.

The two of you would just sit there talking until the sun disappeared and the mosquitoes forced you inside. Every now and then, the conversation would run dry, and you'd apologize.

Eddie always looked confused. "For what?"

"I don't know... not saying anything."

He'd just shrug. "I like hanging out with you."

"...Even when we're not doing anything?"

He'd look at you like you'd asked the dumbest question in the world. "Especially then."

And slowly, so slowly you almost didn't notice it happening, Eddie became your first thought in the morning and your last thought before bed.

You'd catch yourself reaching for the phone to tell him something insignificant before realizing you hadn't even finished thinking it yourself.

You started noticing songs because he'd like them. Funny stories because you couldn't wait to hear him laugh. You started looking for him in every hallway without meaning to. The terrifying part wasn't that you were falling in love with Eddie Munson; the terrifying part was that it felt so natural.

When Eddie asked if you wanted to get dinner Friday night, you didn't even try to hide your smile. "Like... dinner dinner?"

He laughed through the phone. "Last I checked, yeah."

"What if I wanted breakfast?"

"Then you're about nine hours too late." You could practically hear him grinning, "I'll pick you up at seven?"

You tucked the phone closer against your ear. "Seven sounds perfect."

You spent half the next day thinking about it. The other half was spent trying very hard not to think about it.

By lunchtime, Robin had already asked you why you looked so distracted, and Dustin had spent an embarrassingly long amount of time making kissy faces every time your name and Eddie's ended up in the same sentence.

By five-thirty, you'd already changed twice. At six-fifteen, the phone rang.

You answered on the second ring. "Hello?"

"...Hey." His voice sounded different. Not bad, but just quieter. "So... listen."

You sat down on the edge of your bed without realizing it.

"I was thinking."

"Dangerous."

Usually he'd laugh; this time he just let out a small breath. "Can you come over instead?"

You frowned. "What about dinner?"

"I know." Another pause. "I just... I think we should talk first."

Your stomach sank so suddenly that you almost felt it physically. "...Okay."

"I don't want you freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out." You were absolutely freaking out.

"I just wanna talk."

"Okay."

"I'll see you in a bit?"

"...Yeah."

When you pulled into the trailer park twenty minutes later, Eddie was already sitting outside on the steps. He stood when he saw you, smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

For a long minute, neither of you spoke. He rubbed his hands together, then looked down at them.

"So..."

You tried to smile. "So."

He exhaled through his nose. "I've been thinking a lot lately."

Your heart was beating so loudly you wondered if he could hear it.

"And I..." He stopped himself, trying again. "You're leaving next year."

It took you a second to understand what he meant. "For college."

"Yeah."

"I'm only going an hour away."

"I know."

"I can come back whenever."

"I know."

He stared out toward the road. "I just don't think I'm looking for anything serious right now."

You felt something inside your chest quietly crack.

You nodded before he could see your face. "Okay."

"I really like spending time with you."

"I know."

"And I don't want to lose this."

"I don't either."

He looked over then, studying you carefully. "I just don't think it's fair to start something when you're leaving."

"I'm going an hour away, Eddie."

"I know."

"You act like I'm moving across the country."

"I know."

The repetition almost hurt more than anything else. He knew, and it didn't change anything.

He swallowed. "So..." His voice dropped almost to a whisper. "Would you be okay with just... this?"

You looked at him. "This?"

"What we've been doing."

"What are we doing?"

His expression faltered. "You know what I mean."

Long phone calls. Random drives. Accidental hand brushes. Stolen looks. Every conversation that felt suspiciously like a date despite nobody ever calling it one. Everything except the part where he'd actually choose you.

You wanted to say no. You wanted to tell him that it wasn't enough. That somewhere along the way you'd fallen hopelessly, stupidly in love with him, and pretending otherwise was becoming impossible.

Instead...You smiled. The same smile that had gotten your heart broken your entire life.

"I think I'd like that."

The relief that washed over his face was immediate. He looked like he'd been carrying something impossibly heavy and had finally been allowed to set it down. "Really?"

You nodded. "Really."

He stared at you for another second before quietly scooting closer. "So we're okay?"

You looked at him and lied without hesitation. "We're okay."

His hand found yours so naturally it almost made you forget what had just happened. His thumb brushed across your knuckles once, twice. Then he leaned forward so slowly that he gave you every opportunity in the world to pull away, but you didn't.

His lips met yours softly, cautiously, like he'd been wanting to do it for weeks but wasn't entirely sure he was allowed. It wasn't rushed, and it wasn't desperate, but it was gentle enough to make your chest ache.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours and laughed quietly. "I've wanted to do that for a while."

You smiled because he couldn't see your eyes. "I know."

He kissed you again. And because you loved him...you let yourself believe that maybe this was enough.

Maybe labels didn't matter. Maybe loving someone without asking them to love you the same way wasn't the worst thing in the world.

You'd spent your whole life convincing yourself to accept less than you wanted; it came as naturally as breathing.

The saddest part was that Eddie never asked you to settle. He simply offered you what he could, and you loved him enough to convince yourself it was everything.

A couple of days later, you found yourself curled up on the couch in Eddie's trailer with your legs tucked underneath you and absolutely no memory of how you'd ended up there.

One minute you'd been talking to Wayne in the kitchen while he made coffee. The next, Eddie had wandered in, stolen your spot without asking, and somehow convinced you to sit beside him instead.

Wayne took one look at the two of you, hid a smile behind his mug, and muttered something about needing to run to the store.

You were halfway through telling him about something Robin had said at lunch when you felt his fingers absentmindedly reach for a strand of your hair.

You stopped talking. "What?"

He didn't even look embarrassed. "Hm?"

"You're playing with my hair."

"Oh."

He glanced down like he'd only just noticed. "Sorry."

He made absolutely no effort to stop. Instead, he carefully tucked the strand behind your ear before lazily winding another piece around his finger.

You couldn't help smiling. "You know that's weird, right?"

"I've been informed."

"And yet..."

"And yet."

A few minutes later, after the conversation had drifted somewhere else entirely, you shifted to get comfortable.

Without saying a word, Eddie's hand found the center of your back. His thumb traced tiny circles through the fabric of your shirt, and you melted before you could stop yourself.

A smug grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You like that."

You looked away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar."

His hand moved again, gently rubbing across your shoulders. You sighed.

"There it is."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"No..." You smiled despite yourself, "I really don't."

He laughed quietly and kept tracing slow circles across your back while the conversation faded into nothing.

At some point, he started absentmindedly braiding tiny sections of your hair despite having absolutely no idea what he was doing.

You reached up to feel it. "Eddie."

"What?"

"This isn't a braid."

"It is spiritually."

"It is spiritually a knot."

"I prefer the term artistic interpretation."

You laughed so hard you nearly knocked into him. He just looked at you, and kept looking. Long enough that your smile slowly faltered into something softer.

"What?"

He didn't answer.

"Do I have something on my face?"

"No."

"What?"

Still nothing, just that impossibly gentle expression.

Then, almost quietly, "I think you're the prettiest girl I've ever seen."

Your face immediately warmed. "Eddie."

"I'm serious."

"You say that to everybody."

"I absolutely do not."

"You definitely do."

He shook his head. "I don't."

"You have to stop saying things like that."

"Why?"

"Because..."

You couldn't even finish the sentence because he leaned a little closer. "Because what?"

"It makes me nervous."

His smile somehow softened even more. "I know."

"Then stop."

"I'm not gonna lie to you." You looked down at your hands. "I don't think I'm anything special."

He was quiet for a second, then he reached over and gently tilted your chin back toward him.

"I do." With complete certainty,  "I think you're beautiful."

You could barely hold his gaze.

"I think you're funny." His thumb brushed softly across your cheek. "I think you're smarter than you realize."

Another pause. "I think you're kinder than anybody deserves."

Your chest hurt. Not because of what he was saying, because you believed he meant it.

He looked at you for another long second before smiling to himself.

"I also think your left eyebrow does this weird little thing when you're embarrassed."

"My what?"

He pointed. "There."

"It does not."

"It absolutely does."

You covered your face with both hands, and he laughed.

"Oh my God, there it is again."

From behind your fingers, all you could manage was a muffled, mortified, "Shut up."

Instead of teasing you more, he gently took your wrists and pulled your hands away from your face. "Hi, pretty girl."

Then, like it was the easiest thing in the world, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Not your lips, just your forehead.

The trailer was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the old couch springs as Eddie shifted beneath you.

His fingers had long since stopped pretending to braid your hair; they just stroked through it now, slow and absent, like he couldn’t help touching you. 

The forehead kiss from earlier still lingered on your skin like a brand.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges. His lips brushed your temple. “You okay?”

You nodded against his skin, not trusting your voice. Instead, you tilted your head and kissed the underside of his jaw. He exhaled sharply, fingers tightening in your hair.

“Yeah?” he asked softly, checking in like he always did. Like he could read every unspoken thing you tried to hide.

“Yeah,” you whispered, and kissed him properly this time; slow, a little desperate. He met you gently at first, then deeper, tongue sliding against yours with that careful patience that made your whole body warm. 

His free hand slipped under the hem of your shirt, palm warm against your lower back, holding you there like he was afraid you might vanish.

You shifted until you were straddling his lap, knees sinking into the worn cushions on either side of his hips. Eddie groaned quietly into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he breathed, breaking the kiss just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, but still so soft. “C’mere, sweetheart. Let me see you.”

He tugged your shirt up slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, but you didn’t. The fabric whispered over your head and landed somewhere on the floor. His gaze dragged over you, reverent and almost stunned.

“Goddamn,” he said under his breath, hands sliding up your ribs to cup your breasts through your bra. “Look at you. So fucking pretty for me.” 

His thumbs brushed over your nipples until they peaked, and you arched into the touch with a shaky breath. “That’s it… just like that. Let me hear you.”

He sat up a little, mouth finding your collarbone, then lower, kissing and nipping softly while his fingers worked the clasp of your bra. 

When it fell away, he pulled back to watch your face as he took one nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling, gentle suction that made your hips roll against him instinctively.

“Eddie—” His name came out broken.

“Right here, baby. I’ve got you.” He switched sides, lavishing the same attention on the other while one hand stroked down your spine, soothing the tremble in your muscles. “You’re shaking. You want this?”

You nodded fast, grinding down against the growing hardness in his jeans. “Please.”

He hummed against your skin. “Good girl. Arms around my neck—yeah, just like that.” He stood suddenly, hands under your thighs to hold you up, and carried you the short distance to his bedroom. 

The door clicked shut behind you. The fairy lights he’d strung up weeks ago (because you’d mentioned liking them once) cast everything in a soft, golden glow.

He laid you on the bed carefully, like you were something breakable, then stripped off his own shirt and jeans, never taking his eyes off you. When he crawled over you, the weight of him felt like safety and ruin all at once. His hand slid between your legs, cupping you through your panties.

“Already so wet,” he murmured, voice low and awed. He rubbed slow circles over the fabric until you were rocking against his palm. “All this for me? Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

He hooked his fingers in the waistband and tugged them down your legs, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered: your stomach, your hips, the inside of your thigh. When he settled between your legs, he looked up at you, chin resting lightly on your mound.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart. Want you to watch.” His breath ghosted over you, making you clench around nothing. Then his tongue was there—hot, slow, licking a broad stripe up your center before circling your clit with devastating patience. He talked the whole time, voice muffled but steady. 

“Taste so fucking good… That’s it, baby, just relax for me. Let me take care of you. You feel that? Right there?” He sucked gently, two fingers sliding into you with almost no resistance, curling just right.

You moaned, hand flying to his hair. He groaned in response, the vibration pulling you higher. He kept talking you through it, praise and instructions and soft curses, until your thighs were shaking and you came hard around his fingers, back arching off the bed.

He worked you through it, gentling his touch but not stopping until you were whimpering. Only then did he crawl back up, kissing your stomach, your ribs, the swell of your breast, your throat, your mouth. You tasted yourself on his tongue, and it made something inside you ache even sweeter.

“Eddie… please,” you whispered against his lips, hands tugging at his boxers.

He helped you push them down, kicking them away. He wrapped a hand around himself, stroking slowly while he looked at you. “You sure? We can stop—”

“I want you.” You reached for him, pulling him closer. “Please.”

He nodded, forehead dropping to yours. “Okay. Okay, baby. Breathe for me.” He lined himself up and pushed in; slow, so slow, inch by inch, whispering the whole time. “Fuck, you’re tight… so warm. Taking me so well. That’s my girl. Just a little more—there you go. You feel that? Feel how deep I am?”

You gasped at the stretch, nails digging into his shoulders. He stilled when he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, letting you adjust while he kissed your face; your eyelids, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth. 

“Breathe, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Not gonna move until you’re ready.”

You rocked your hips experimentally, and he cursed, burying his face in your neck. “Jesus Christ. You’re perfect. So fucking perfect.” 

Then he started moving, deep, rolling thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. One hand slid under your ass, tilting your hips to take him even deeper. The other braced beside your head, thumb stroking your cheek.

“Look at me,” he breathed. You did. His eyes were glassy, hair wild, face flushed with effort and something deeper. 

“Best fucking thing I’ve ever felt. Best sex I’ve ever had, baby. No one else—no one—makes me feel like this. Just you.”

The words hit like a spark to dry tinder. You moaned his name, legs wrapping tighter around his waist as the pleasure built again, sharper this time, edged with the ache of everything unsaid. 

He kept talking you through it, right there, just like that, come on, let go for me, until you shattered around him a second time, clenching so hard he groaned like it hurt.

He followed right after, hips stuttering, spilling deep inside you with a broken sound of your name. He collapsed over you, careful not to crush you, face tucked into your neck as you both caught your breath.

For a long minute, the only sounds were your heartbeats and the soft rustle of sheets. He pressed lazy kisses to your shoulder, your jaw, your lips, sweet and lingering. His hand stroked up and down your side like he couldn’t stop touching you.

“You okay?” he whispered eventually, brushing damp hair from your forehead.

You nodded, even as the familiar crack in your chest widened. It was painfully sweet, and almost perfect. And still not enough.

But you smiled anyway, because that’s what you did. “Yeah, Eddie. I’m okay.”

A week later, you had become embarrassingly good at pretending not to notice the things Eddie said. Not because they didn't mean anything, but because they meant entirely too much.

You'd be halfway through some rambling explanation about a fantasy novel you'd just finished, going on about world-building and obscure folklore and symbolism, and he'd just stare at you with the most hopelessly fond expression.

Then he'd grin. "God, you check every box."

You'd laugh it off. "What boxes?"

He'd shrug. "The boxes."

"Very descriptive."

"You know what I mean." You, in fact, did not, and he never elaborated after that. 

Another day, you were flipping through records in a shop when you found some obscure metal band neither of you thought anyone else in Hawkins had ever heard of.

You held it up triumphantly, and his face lit up.

"No fucking way."

"What?"

He looked at you like you'd just personally hung the moon. "You know them?"

"I literally told you about them."

"I know."

"So why are you acting surprised?"

"'Cause normal people don't actually listen when I talk."

You frowned. "I listen."

"I know." There was that goddamn smile again. "Trust me. I know."

It happened constantly. You'd steal one of his rings just because, and he'd spend the next ten minutes trying to figure out which finger fit yours best.

He'd absentmindedly tuck your hair behind your ear while talking to somebody else. If you got cold, he'd hand you his jacket before you even had the chance to say anything.

If someone interrupted you, he'd immediately turn back and go, "Wait, she was talking."

Little things, tiny things. The kind of things that didn't mean anything on paper, except they did.

One afternoon, the two of you were sprawled across the couch in his trailer, sharing a bag of pretzels while a movie neither of you was paying attention to played quietly in the background. You started explaining some random mythology fact you'd learned in class.

Halfway through your sentence, Eddie just looked over at you and laughed.

"What?"

He shook his head. "I can't believe you're real."

You smiled. "What does that even mean?"

"It means you're pretty."

"Eddie..."

"It means you're funny."

He nudged your knee with his. "It means you're a giant nerd."

"I'm aware."

"It means somehow every time I think I've figured you out, you say something that makes me like you even more."

You looked down at your lap before he could see your face.

He reached over and laced his fingers through yours without a second thought. "So..."

"So?"

This is it, you thought.

"If I had made a list when I was twelve of everything I'd think was cool in a girl..."

He squeezed your hand. "...you would've checked every damn box."

Your heart practically stopped; you didn't know what to say, so you didn't say anything at all.

You just sat there, letting him hold your hand while your mind raced a hundred miles an hour. Because people who didn't want anything serious didn't say things like that.

People who didn't want anything serious didn't look at you the way Eddie looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.

They didn't call just because they couldn't sleep. They didn't remember every insignificant detail you'd ever mentioned. They didn't introduce you to Wayne with this quiet sort of pride in their voice. They didn't reach for your hand automatically. They didn't smile every time you walked into a room.

So maybe...maybe he was just scared. Maybe he'd been hurt before, and maybe he just needed time.

Maybe one day he'd wake up and realize that what the two of you already had was everything people spent years trying to find.

And maybe then he'd ask. Maybe then he'd call you his girlfriend. Maybe then he'd look at you and say he'd changed his mind. 

The hope settled so naturally into your chest that you barely noticed it happening. You watered it with every lingering glance. Every compliment. Every soft touch. Every almost-confession.

You built an entire future in your head out of maybes.

So that’s why, when the shift came, you’d convinced yourself you were being dramatic.

At first, it was so subtle you could explain it away. He took an hour to call instead of ten minutes. He canceled one night because Gareth needed help with something. He seemed distracted once or twice, his mind somewhere else while you were talking.

Normal things, completely normal things. People got busy. People had bad days; you of all people knew that.

So when a conversation ended a little earlier than usual, you told yourself he was tired. When he forgot to call one night, you figured he'd fallen asleep. When he promised he'd ring you after Hellfire and didn't, you reminded yourself that he wasn't obligated to account for every second of his day.

You refused to let yourself become the kind of person who overanalyzed everything. Still...

You started noticing little things. He stopped absentmindedly reaching for your hand quite as often. The compliments didn't disappear, but they became less frequent, almost like he was catching himself halfway through saying them.

The pauses on the phone became quieter and longer. Sometimes they'd end not because either of you wanted to hang up, but because it felt like neither of you quite knew what to say anymore.

And every single time, you blamed yourself. Maybe you'd been talking too much. Maybe you were becoming annoying. Maybe you'd imagined half the chemistry in the first place. Maybe he'd realized you weren't nearly as interesting as he'd initially thought.

You never blamed him, not once. You blamed yourself so instinctively it didn't even occur to you there might be another explanation.

Every now and then, though, he'd do something that unraveled all your worries in an instant.

He'd look at you with that same impossibly soft expression. He'd brush your hair away from your face without thinking. He'd tell you you looked pretty. He'd laugh at one of your stupid jokes so hard he'd have to wipe tears from his eyes.

And you'd think: See? You're overreacting. He's still here. He's still calling. He's still kissing you. He's still choosing to spend his time with you.

Everything's fine, everything has to be fine.

Looking back, you'd eventually realize that the saddest part wasn't the shift itself. It was how desperately you wanted it not to be real.

Sometimes, usually on the nights when you couldn't sleep, you'd let yourself imagine another version of the story, one where Eddie really had loved you.

One where every compliment was genuine, every late-night phone call meant exactly what you'd hoped it meant, every lingering touch and forehead kiss and the whispered, you check every box had been as real to him as they were to you.

Maybe he got scared, or maybe one day it all stopped feeling hypothetical and started feeling dangerously real.

Maybe he'd looked at you and realized that if he let himself fall any further, there was no pretending it was casual anymore.

Maybe he'd remembered you were leaving in less than a year and decided it would hurt less to loosen his grip now than have you ripped away later. Maybe he'd convinced himself he was protecting both of you.

You thought about that possibility more often than you'd ever admit because it was kinder than the alternative.

Kinder than believing he simply woke up one morning and decided you weren't worth choosing.

But the truth was you didn't know, and you probably never would. Because one missed phone call became two. Two became a week. A week somehow became a month.

And somewhere in all that silence, neither of you reached across it. There was no screaming match. No cruel words. No dramatic goodbye. No slammed doors. 

Just the slow, almost imperceptible fading of someone who had once occupied every corner of your life. The kind that leaves you wondering if you imagined the whole thing.

Every now and then, Dustin would mention him in passing. Robin would ask if you'd seen him lately. Steve would look between the two of you from across a room with the unmistakable expression of someone who knew there was a story there but had enough sense not to ask.

You'd just smile, "Nah. Haven't talked in a while." 

Like it didn't still hurt to say.

Maybe Eddie Munson was just another person who left. Or maybe he was the first person who wanted to stay and got too afraid to try.

In another life, maybe one conversation would've changed everything.

Maybe if he'd been a little braver. Maybe if you'd been a little less willing to accept almosts instead of certainties. Maybe if one of you had simply looked the other in the eye and said what you were actually feeling.

But there was no other life; there was only this one. And in this one, the last thing Eddie Munson ever gave you wasn't a kiss.

It wasn't a promise; it wasn't even an explanation. It was a question you'd probably spend the rest of your life trying to answer:

Was it ever casual?

thank a very evil man for the inspiration for this fic.

taglist:

@lnnn1n @youngbrokefab @ludachrissy @sisteramycatherine @izzycstairs @britttzy267 @eddiemunsonsimpp @powerpuffedbjtch @sariahs-stuff @cciessuzi @lilyquinnmunson @julxsxx @kozume-ko @obsessed-eddie @doomdabss @leelei1980 @hexqueensupreme @ches-86 @plaidamoosette @bobiverses @meadows-of-asphodel @whitakerstorm @brrrainst3w @serendipdipity01 @hypersexytoptobottom @m-art000 @walleloveseve @camsmunson101 @flavorfullsteve @peachpuffs25 @micheledawn1975 @whitakerstorm @cciessuzi @blackqueenie-18 @ggdawgg @velvetdimond @enne02  @ludachrissy @izzycstairs

@abbysleftbicepp @britttzy267 @ssculker @eddiemunsonsimpp @powerpuffedbjtch

cw: sexual tension, drugging.

Eddy, not given the permission to kiss the agent, settles for nuzzling into the blonde’s neck with a hand stroking up and down his thigh. “I should’ve expected this from Barry’s cousin—that asshole is a freak,” he chuckles into Leon’s collar.

The latter is tenser than a rock, and you wonder how the drunk man can't tell how uncomfortable he must be. Which is why you don't refuse him when he reaches for your thigh for purchase, his fingers digging almost bruisingly into your skin.

“Yeah… Barry.” Leon feels his eye twitch when the other begins to trail his fingers over the buttons of his shirt, and he feels you lock up next to him. When he steals a glance your way, it's you who appears to be seething in jealousy this time. The murderous look you're giving Eddy almost makes him smile in satisfaction.

The redhead starts to unbutton Leon without missing a beat despite his drunken clumsiness. He then pulls back just to look at you both with a hungry grin. “You know, you two make a really hot fucking couple… You should come by for Swingers’ Night.”

“Swingers’ Night?” you both gasp in unison, and Eddy laughs at your synchronization again.

“Well, yeah, it was Barry who started it. We do one every month, and he's always the one going the craziest. Fuck, just thinking about it gets me worked up,” he groans, tightening his grip on Leon’s thigh, who in turn tightens his hold on yours. “You know how kinky he is, right, Mr. Crawford?”

Leon feels the urge to die on the spot out of cringe, but he knows he can't leave you in the presence of this fucker, so he attempts to keep his calm. How is he even supposed to answer that question? If this Barry dude is meant to be his cousin, shouldn't he not know about his kinks?

“Uh… Yes?” he responds awkwardly and feels you place a hand on his in reassurance. He can breathe slightly better now.

Eddy, who has loosened Leon’s bow tie and opened three of his buttons already, finally pauses as his inhibited brain seems to catch up.

“You don't fuck your cousin, do you, Logan?”

The room quiets into a tense silence and it's all you can do not to laugh—or cry—at the weirdest fucking question Leon must have ever received. You squeeze his hand in encouragement and watch him take deep breaths to steel himself.

“No.”

His answer is simple, but under it lies a very real threat to poor, oblivious Eddy who's just looking for a good threesome with hot strangers. He just so happens to also be a black market investor in illegal BOW business.

“Cool, cool…,” he nods slowly, “I mean, not that I would judge or anything. We’ve all been there.”

This time, you do laugh. Because fuck, how are you supposed not to laugh at that. It’s strained, and breathless, and you try to stop but you can't bring yourself to from the sheer craziness of the situation. Only when Eddy resumes unbuttoning Leon does your smile disappear and you abruptly reach for his wrist out of sheer instinct.

Both men turn to look at you expectantly, and you rack your brain for something to say then release him to finally speak. “Is Swingers Night what you meant by ‘where great minds meet and great things happen’?”

Please say no, please say no.

“What? No,” Eddy laughs, then places the cigar he had put on the ashtray into Leon’s mouth who takes it without protest—because at this point nothing fucking matters anymore.

You sigh of relief, then press further, “so what is it?”

The redhead seems to ponder in hesitation for a moment, but the sight of Leon blowing out smoke from his flared nostrils seems to do something to him—which you can definitely relate to.

“Okay, okay, I guess I can let you in on a little secret… See that tall cabinet over there?” He gestures with his chin to a set of double doors that blend into the walls. “There's no wine in there. In truth, it's actually a little elevator.”

“Elevator?” your eyes widen, and Leon frowns further.

“Yes. It takes you to a, um, you could say secret floor—where we hold private events, like the one that will start in a couple of hours… But, naturally, you can’t ride it without bypassing security measures, like a special code for example.”

Holy shit. Maybe Leon should seduce villains more often if this guy is spilling this much out just from a bit of groping.

“Ah, I’ve said too much, dad wouldn't like it,” Eddy chuckles, then shakes his head in exasperation. “Then again, that old schmuck isn't here to dictate everything I do with my life, is he?”

The blonde agent looks him over in something akin to pity, the taste of bitter tar lingering on his tongue. “No. He’s not.” 

At that, Eddy takes the cigar back from Leon, and lets out a small moan when he places it between his lips. “Let's not worry about all that right now. Him and my brother can be the perfect little father and son duo, while we should continue this in my room so we’re not interrupted.”

You exchange a look with your partner that says everything: we need to get that secret code. So, with a shared nod, Leon turns to the man with a determined expression.

“Where’s your room?”

Thankfully, it only takes about eight minutes for Eddy to take you to his suite, and only because he took forever drunkenly looking for his key card in all his fancy pockets.

Once inside the luxurious room, you're about to discreetly discuss with Leon the next step, when he suddenly shoves the man on the plush bed with a bit too much force. The latter gasps as his body bounces on golden pillows, but his surprise quickly subsides to make way for excitement.

“Getting impatient, handsome?”

“It’s ‘sir’ to you,” Leon grumbles, and you bite your lip to hold back a snicker—and maybe a moan too.

With an inconspicuous motion towards your purse, he shifts to cover your next movements with his broad chest as he climbs on the bed beside the redhead.

“You got a wife, Eddy?” he huffs as the other reaches to stroke the agent’s half uncovered chest.

“Divorced. She couldn't keep up with me.”

In the meantime, you move to stand at the french commode and place your bag and wine glass on its marble surface. You open the purse to take out a tube of lipstick that you unscrew to reveal a pale, yellow powder inside, grateful it went completely undetected earlier by security.

Stealing a quick glance at the men on the bed, you find Eddy’s hands on Leon’s waist, trying to pull him closer, and that only prompts you to move faster as an intense mix of jealousy and protectiveness floods through you.

You empty the sodium pentothal—colloquially known as a ‘truth serum’—into the wine glass you still didn't drink, and then swirl the liquid for the drug to mix in seamlessly. Its effects start rather quickly, and it makes a person relaxed, languid and talkative—which doesn't guarantee them spilling concealed truths, but it certainly helps.

“Is the pretty doll joining too or is she just gonna watch?” the aristocrat grins from his spot.

Leon forces himself not to snap, but you quickly come into view and join them on the bed. He lets out a low scoff at how the idiot looks like he’s having the time of his life between you both.

“I’m right here,” you murmur huskily and pretend to sip from your glass again, before bringing it to the redhead's lips. “You weren't kidding about the wine. Looks like you have excellent taste, Mr. Chastain.”

The latter giggles, then tilts his head for you to tip the drink back for him to ingest. Then when his mouth fills, he’s about to retreat when Leon’s hand grips the back of his hair and forces him to stay in place.

“Be a good boy and drink.”

That has you feeling things again, and a part of you can't help wondering if Leon ever gets like this domineering in bed—not that you're willing to find out after he completely broke your heart. You’re not ready to risk getting close to him again knowing he doesn't want you the same way.

Your sorrowful thoughts are interrupted by Eddy’s hand on your wrist when he's had more than enough gulps of the spiked drink, and you finally relent. He coughs a bit, and wipes his mouth with a clumsy hand.

“Do you two do this often?” he slurs with a chuckle.

“You mean two-teaming little freaks who like to bite more than they can chew? Yeah, more often than you’d think,” Leon rolls his eyes.

You give him a pointed look and he just shrugs in response when the other man giggles again. He seems to really believe the play you've orchestrated. 

“This is so great,” Eddy beams, then attempts to pull you both closer, though his arms are already growing sluggish. “I’m usually left in the cuck chair.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Leon scoffs, and this time you slap his bicep.

“Stop,” you whisper yell like a stern teacher.

He huffs at your berating gesture then shrugs. “What? He’s already pretty much out of it.”

“He doesn't need to know that!”

“What are you guys saying?” the man mumbles between you, and when you both look down at him, you see the ways his eyes are heavy-lidded and his body is completely relaxed.

He’s out of it alright.

“Hey, Eddy…” you begin with a husky voice, then tilt your head as you cut to the chase. “What was it you said earlier about the elevator in the private lounge? Something about a code?” 

“Hmph…” he answers with a grumble, “I want you to sit on my face, please.”

The scoff that leaves Leon is unabashed, and he suddenly wraps a hand around the man’s collar. “What the hell did you just say?”

Eddy moans, “y-you can fuck me at the same time,” his hips buck up into the air.

You watch the agent stare at the man in complete disbelief before he releases him and turns to look at you with incredulity. “I can't do this shit.”

At that, the redhead suddenly clings onto him with what little strength he has in his sluggish limbs, and he looks downright pathetic when he begs with pleading eyes.

“Wait, no, don't leave. You’re so— you’re so fucking hot, I-I’ll do anything, sir, please!”

“Anything?” you raise an eyebrow, your eyes flickering from his to Leon’s exasperated features.

“Anything,” Eddy reiterates with frantic nods. “Please just stay. Don't want daddy to leave.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Daddy?!” Leon recoils, “you’re like, older than me, dude, what the hell?!”

There is no force strong enough in the universe that could have stopped you from bursting out laughing, cackling loudly at his outraged expression paired with the other’s infatuated look.

Leon scowls, muttering a low ‘not funny’, though he can't help but feel his heart warm at the sound of your free laugh that he missed hearing so much.

“To his defense,” you strain between uncontrollable chuckles, “daddiness isn't really about age—more like a lifestyle.”

He narrows his eyes, his irritation shifting from the redhead to you, “and what the hell do you know about all that?”

You giggle some more at his face, and when your gaze drifts down, you find Eddy in the middle of falling asleep. “Oh, shit!” your laughter stops immediately as you reach to tap his face. “Eddy! Eddy, don't fall asleep, you need to tell me about the code!”

“Da…ddy…”

“Your old man really did a number on you, huh?” Leon mutters under his breath before hauling the man up by collar into a sitting position. “Alright, buddy, you want your daddy so bad? Well daddy’s here, and if you don't start talking he might leave again and love your brother more. Because unlike you, he doesn't disappoint the family.”

The redhead whines at that, scrambling to hold onto Leon, and with a broken whimper he whispers, “w-what… what do you want me to say?”

“The code, Eddy. Tell me the fucking code for the elevator.”

“Oh… that…” he chuckles sleepily in the agent's grip, and you hold your breath in hopes he will finally give you what you need. “It’s Pop-pop’s birthday… 0905, uh, 12… God, I miss Pop-pop.”

You immediately repeat the sequence in your head until you memorize it, and then watch as a look of relief washes over Leon’s face—it wasn't all for nothing.

He releases Eddy and lets him drop back down, then pulls the golden duvet over him with a sigh, “sweet dreams, asshole.”

And just like that, the man passes out to both your great reliefs.

After grabbing Eddy’s key card, you and Leon make your way back to the private lounge swiftly, and though he doesn't say a word you still notice the tension in his shoulders.

Once the door beeps and you're both inside, he strides straight to the earlier directed cabinet, and notices a barely visible card slot between the door gaps. He inserts the key there, still not saying a word, then watches as the doors open to reveal the elevator like promised.

“Update Hunnigan on the situation and go watch Adams, I’ll go check out what this thing’s all about.”

He begins to punch in the code on a number pad when you step closer. “You can't go alone. What if it's dangerous down there?”

Leon pauses with his thumb hovering over the buttons, and he turns to you with a stern look. “Kid, don't start,” he snaps.

Exhaling sharply through your nose, you cross your arms defensively. “No, no. You don't start. We’re not doing this again.”

He scoffs, mirroring your posture. “I don't think you get to make demands after blindsiding me like that.”

Feeling a mixture of guilt and irritation, the latter wins when you remember how his stubbornness almost cost you valuable intel. And all just for some stupid ego? No. You’re not accepting that after he wounded yours.

“Yeah, well, I don't think you can either after yesterday.”

Leon suddenly goes quiet, your words hitting like a gut punch, and he knows you’re right. He knows that he broke your heart, that nothing he ever does will ever fix it, and that you deserve so, so much better than any deficient apology he might attempt. But watching you stand before him in all your furious glory, he can't help but at least want to try. 

He will never understand why you have feelings for him out of all people. There's a voice screaming at him that it's because you were young, alone, and gullible, and that if you had met him as an adult you wouldn't look twice at him. And yet, a twisted part of him still relishes in your love, and he prays that when you hear him speak his heart’s truth, you will hopefully forgive him.

“I know… Look, Kiddo, I’m sorry, I didn't—”

He’s interrupted by muffled voices coming from the hallway, and you both freeze when realization hits.

“Fuck, they're here!” you whisper yell in panic.

Leon’s quick instincts come to the forefront when he finally presses the ‘enter’ key for the code, and the mirror-walled elevator slides open.

“Come on!” He hauls you along him by the waist and presses the button for the lower floor frantically.

Only once the doors glide shut that the both of you breathe, your adrenaline fueled hearts beating nearly in sync, and that's when you notice the position you are in.

With his arm around your waist, your own around his shoulders, fingers clutching his suit, you’re practically hugging in the cramped elevator, and when your eyes meet you feel you might actually faint.

“Hey,” he whispers, his ice blues roaming your features.

“Hi…”

A small smile etches on his lips from your shy reply, and he brings a tentative hand up to tuck a loose lock of hair behind your ear, not making a single effort to put distance between you.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Leon sighs at your clipped response, and then, like he can't help himself, his eyes drop to your lips. “You really are breathtaking, sweetheart…” he murmurs lovingly. “When I’m with you, I feel like I can hardly breathe.”

Your heartbeat stutters, and you notice how even he is surprised at how easily that confession slipped out of him without so much as a stammer. It’s one thing to whisper sweet nothing in the dark during the heat of sex, but this—this is different.

Leon leans closer until his forehead rests on yours and he closes his lids like he’s about to kiss you—or like the sight of your adoring eyes is too much to bear.

He doesn't kiss you, though. Not when you look so vulnerable and scared, like you're one confession away from begging him not to break your heart again. That's when he knows, if he wants to fix this, he needs to do it the right way. 

Not in a secret elevator on the way to a clandestine villainous lair.

He opens his eyes just to peer down at you with a pleading face. “When this is over, I hope we can talk. Really talk this time… Is that okay, kiddo?”

You gulp, already knowing you're done for from the sheer way you're melting like putty in his arms when he has barely done anything yet.

“Yeah, okay…” your agreement slips out as naturally as breathing.

Next chapter coming soon.

Keeping your eye pressed to the scope, you looked at the surrounding area. There was no one coming from the cliffs or the trees nearby. This is what you came here to do. After saving the President's daughter, your boss thought that Leon should have a partner. Someone to keep him out of trouble and make sure he returned alive.

Apparently, Leon Kennedy was an asset the government did not want to lose.

So you spent the last few months training under him, learning everything you could about your partner. His story was famous: a rookie cop who was late to his first day of work and uncovered the secrets Umbrella desperately wanted hidden. One of the handful of people to make it out of that city alive, Leon was quickly whisked away to be trained to do the government's bidding.

Like him, you weren't given a choice.

It was either this or jail. At the time, dealing with a sarcastic blond asshole seemed like the easy part. But as the months passed, you weren't so sure.

As Leon was your senior, you had to listen to him. It was smart to do so, but as the days passed, you only got more and more annoyed at his attitude towards things. Everything seemed like a joke to him, that was until your first mission with him.

Needless to say, you were impressed. There was a reason the government forced him to join, and you had the sneaking suspicion it was to keep him on their side. A man like Leon Kennedy was an asset everyone wanted. Focused, competent, strong, and determined, mixed with his pretty face and charming personality, Leon was not a threat to be taken lightly.

With him running point, and you watching his back, the agency had a lot less to worry about.

As long as you and Leon played nice, that is.

"Well, other than a few broken branches that could be counted as a tripping hazard and some buildings out of code, everything is quiet."

"You always this snarky, Birdy?" he chuckled. "Or is it because I'm around?"

Rolling your eyes at the nickname, you kept your focus on him as you watched Leon walk around the area. Birdy was the name he gave you after you settled on your code name. You refused anything related to a hawk, because you didn't want to be associated with a comic book character. Plus, you would never live it down.

Leon called you Birdy once, and it stuck, much to your dismay.

"You're always around Kennedy; maybe this is what it's like to get a taste of your own medicine."

You watched as Leon pressed a hand to his comm to respond, but he suddenly stopped and turned.

"Eagle Eye, check my six."

Doing as he said, you carefully maneuvered the scope of your rifle to get a look at the location he specified. Keeping both eyes open, you refused to blink. Blinking was risky and could be fatal in a situation like this. Narrowing in on the location, you watched for several moments. The bush in your sight rustled and shook. The thick brush of green leaves made it difficult to tell what was there, but that's what made you the best at your job.

You waited, Leon playing it off like he wasn't noticing, so he didn't tip off whatever was there.

If you strained your ears enough, maybe you could hear Leon's internal monologue about how this was taking so long. But as a government agent, he understood that everything was to be taken with the utmost precaution and nothing left to chance.

You watched the bush rustle again, a flash of something catching your eye. Before it had the chance to make another move, you fired a shot.

The sound echoed off the cliffs around you, alerting anything and anyone to your presence now. Lucky for you both, you never missed a shot.

Leon watched as the thing you shot—yet another zombified dog—rolled out of the bush with a hole through its head.

"Nice shootin', Tex."

"I never miss a shot, Kennedy."

"Is that a threat?"

"Take it as you will," you hummed. "Be on the lookout, where there is one, there is always another. These things travel in packs."

Leon shook his head. This was supposed to be a simple retrieval mission, but with this new development, things were about to get a lot harder. The appearance of this dog told him that not only was the t-virus present, but the person you were looking for was in fact here, releasing them. There was only one company responsible for this kind of thing, Umbrella.

Taking your warning to heart, Leon kept a hand on his gun. Knife strapped to his chest and a shotgun on his back, he was ready for whatever decided to show up.

The next few moments were tense, both of you waiting for the inevitable. Adjusting the range of your scope, you got a better view of the area around him while still keeping Leon in your sight. There was no way you didn't alert anything nearby to your presence with that shot you fired; it was only a matter of time before they all found Leon, or you.

You watched and waited, and sure enough, there was more movement around him.

"Watch your back, Kennedy. You have company coming."

"I thought you had my back?"

Another shot rang through the tropical area, as yet another zombified dog fell to the ground at his feet.

"I currently have your front, as you weren't looking." Shaking your head, you watched as he shot down a few more that pounced into the open area around him.

"Dumbass," you muttered.

"I heard that,"

Firing another shot, this one took out a dog snapping at his feet. "You were supposed to."

You could hear his disgruntled response; it was just an annoyed sound at your response. One he didn't want to dignify with an answer. You watched as he dispatched the last one, the body going limp as its tongue lolled out of its mouth.

"Everything good up there?"

Letting out a sigh, you sat up. "Need to find a new location, all those shots are bound to have someone find me soon." You began to pack up your rifle, slinging it over your shoulder before picking up the marker. "Don't do anything stupid, and for the love of God, stay out of trouble."

Leon chuckled. "Haven't you heard? Stupid is my middle name."

"And when you die because you were being just that, you get to explain to Hannigan and the higher-ups why their best asset died."

You began walking through the trees, a hand resting on your handgun. Just because you had the training didn't mean you were safe. With all the trees around you, anything could pop out, and you needed to be ready.

Leon's voice crackled through the comms again. "Come on, Birdy. You and I both know you're the best they've got. If something happens to me, they still have you."

"They only have me because I trained under you. Don't forget that you're important."

Leon chuckled, "I'm important because I'll do their dirty work, no questions asked."

Checking your surroundings, you made sure nothing was following you. "Don't underestimate your worth, Leon. How many global catastrophies have you thwarted?" you asked, pushing a branch out of your way.

"You called me Leon,"

Rolling your eyes, you stepped over a log. "Don't get used to it, wise ass. You're important because you are the best. I was just some kid they caught digging through their shit."

Leon was silent for a moment, a first since you landed. You weren't sure what he was thinking, but maybe he was lingering on your words. What you told him was the truth; you were just a barely twenty-something-year-old when you joined.

You'd never admit it out loud, but if Leon didn't vouch for you and your abilities, you would be rotting away in a prison cell.

"Careful, you're starting to sound like you care."

You heard the teasing tone in his voice, followed by a chuckle. Leave it to Leon Kennedy to avoid any sense of emotional vulnerability.

"Only because they sign my paychecks."

Leon laughed more; you could only imagine him leaning against a tree as he did. Following the edge of the cliff, you found a new vantage point within minutes and began to set up your stand and rifle.

Rolling your shoulders, you laid on the floor and adjusted your gun. Looking through the scope, you slowly cased the area until you found Leon's telltale blond head of hair.

"This is Eagle Eye to Condor One, I have secured a new vantage point. You are clear to resume your search."

Leon nodded and pushed off the tree he was in fact leaning against before continuing down the path.

"Do you see any signs of someone else nearby?"

Pulling out your binoculars, you looked around the area. Most of it was a dense, tropical area, with several abandoned buildings. Most of it was overgrown, something you would see in a post-apocalyptic story. Brick walls were covered in moss, roofs caved in, and windows broken by branches.

You were here looking for an old member of Umbrella, the company that seemed to never die. The scientist's name was Dr. Brennigan, a brilliant man who seemed to get away with a strain of the t-virus, and took shelter here in the jungles of Borneo.

"All I see are abandoned buildings. Some look to be in good enough condition, but not good enough for a secret lab."

"Well, don't forget these guys like their underground bunkers. We'll have to check these out one by one."

You shrugged, setting your binoculars aside and going back to watching Leon through your scope. "Sounds like a plan, just don't get lost."

Leon chuckled as he checked each building he passed one by one. He would start with casing the perimeter, trying to look in to see if there was anyone there. If no one was there, he would then kick the door open and then go in and clear it. So far, each building was empty.

Coming upon the last one in the trail, you both noticed that there were no windows, with only one door in or out. You watched as Leon glanced to where you were perched and nodded. A silent acknowledgment that he was going in and needed you to watch his back.

Kicking the door open, Leon was met with several zombies barreling their way out. Sure, they were slow, but they were strong. Not limited by life's restrictions, they didn't care what they did with their bodies so long as they got the flesh they craved.

Your eyes widened seeing the amount spill out, one by one, as Leon shot down each one in succession.

It was suspicious how many zombies were piled in there; if you didn't know better, you would think that it was just a coincidence. But you and Leon both did.

This was a trap, and Leon just triggered it.

Immediately, he began to back away while shooting the zombies down. One would fall, as another would stumble and walk over its body. There were too many for him to deal with at once. Taking a deep breath, you exhaled slowly before firing the first shot.

You watched through the scope as the zombie you were aiming at fell to the floor. Collapsing into the bodies in front of it, it caused a chain reaction of several falling and tripping over each other, slowing them down so Leon had a better chance.

Leon made sure to keep his distance, shooting each zombie in the head. With aimed precision, you shot down several more, keeping them from reaching him. Looking back to where he was, your eyes widened seeing Leon struggle with his gun.

"Fuck,"

You watched as he banged the magazine on his hand, before looking up at the zombies in front of him. It was jammed, and they were approaching him quickly.

Without wasting a moment, you aimed your rifle at the zombie closest to Leon and pulled the trigger. Landing in the middle of the zombie's skull, you watched as it landed at his feet with a solid thud.

You shot down several more before Leon managed to get his gun fixed. Pushing the comm, you heard his voice crackle through.

"Atta girl,"

"Someone's got to keep you alive, Kennedy," you grinned, shooting down another that got too close.

Leon chuckled before he finished shooting down the rest of the horde. Once the last zombie fell and gurgled its last sound, Leon let his shoulders drop as he sighed.

"Well, that seems to be the last of them."

"You're going to jinx it."

"This job alone is a jinx, Birdy."

Rolling your eyes, you weren't going to dignify him with a response. You watched through the scope as Leon put his gun back in its holster and began to look around. The odds of the one windowless building having tons of zombies within it, ready for you to stumble upon, were really low.

Leon slowly creaked the door open, tilting his head inside to get a look around. The building was relatively empty, beyond destroyed tables with what looked to be scientific equipment. Whatever was going on here, there was a good chance Umbrella was involved.

Looking towards the back, Leon's eyes landed on what seemed to be a trap door.

"Eagle Eye, I've found a trap door. I'm going in."

"The hell you are, not without backup."

"We are losing daylight, and I don't have time to wait for you to make it all the way down to me."

You knew he was right, and you knew that this building needed to be investigated. Nothing about this felt right, first the trap that he triggered, and now there was a hidden trap door in the back of this suspicious building.

"They paired me with you to make sure you stay alive. For some weird reason, they want to keep your crazy ass alive. I can't do that if I can't see you."

"In case you forgot, I have done plenty of missions without a partner, Birdy. I'll be okay."

"And how many of those did you almost die?"

"No comment."

You let out an aggravated groan. Leon was going to go in whether you liked it or not. Your best bet was to stay where you were and hope that Leon kept his crazy luck with him.

"Alright, fine, just keep your comms on. If we lose contact, we meet back at the rendezvous point."

"You got it, boss."

"Don't push it,"

Leon chuckled before he entered the building completely. Making his way to the back of the building, he opened the trap door and pointed his flashlight down. It didn't seem like too far of a drop, so the comms should be able to stay connected.

"So far, it seems to be just a tunnel underground. When I find where it leads, I'll radio back."

Before you could even argue, Leon dropped into the hole and made his way. You waited on the cliff, watching that building, waiting for him to respond. To you, no news was good news so far. Hopefully, it would stay that way.

It felt like hours while you waited. Leon kept silent, and you dared to say that you missed his dumb jokes. They helped keep the edge off when things got tough. You stayed in position, watching through your binoculars as the sun began to set. The jungle around you grew quieter as the animals around you began to settle in for the night.

What you weren't looking forward to were the ones that came out at night, and you weren't talking about the animals.

Nighttime was when the bioweapons were the most dangerous. They blended in with the dark ambience, their groans and snarls hidden by the calls of the nocturnal birds and the rustling of the trees and bushes.

You were about to contact Leon when his voice crackled through.

"I made it to the end of the tunnel. There was nothing inside but bugs and rodents."

"Oh, thank fuck, I was worried you got your dumbass captured.

Leon scoffed. "I do not always get captured,"

"You're right. That statistic has gone down significantly since I became your partner. But that's not the point. Was there anything at the end?"

You watched through your binoculars as Leon walked out of the building and looked in your direction, giving you a thumbs-up.

"No, it was just a dead end. Which leads—"

"Which leads to the question of why it exists in the first place."

"Exactly. Let's meet up at the rendezvous point and compare notes."

"Don't get lost, and stay safe."

"Could say the same about you, Birdy."

You rolled your eyes. "Don't push it, Kennedy. See you at the spot."

With that, you sat up and put your binoculars in their pouch before packing up your rifle. The stand was folded up with the gun strapped across your back, with everything else cleaned up. There was no sign you were ever there.

You walked through the thick jungle as the leaves on the trees rustled around you, putting you on edge. Even with the sun beyond the horizon and most of the wildlife around you asleep, you couldn't fight the unnerving feeling that you weren't alone. As you walked, you kept a hand on the gun strapped to your hip—a necessity in case of an emergency, and you couldn't use your rifle.

Flicking the fastener, you quietly pulled the handle out and switched the safety off. Something was wrong. Everything was suddenly silent; the animals, the bugs, even the trees seemed to go quiet. It was like they all knew something was there that you didn't. The sky was getting increasingly darker with each passing minute—the colorful sunset blending into those of the night sky. The only thing that illuminated your path was the moon above you.

Hearing a sound to your right, you quickly turned and pulled out your handgun and aimed. You weren't too far from the rendezvous point; if you were desperate enough, you could throw caution to the wind and run. But the possibility of this being something that could outrun you was high.

There was another snapping of a twig to your left, this one much closer and louder. Immediately, you turned only to jump at the bright light blinding you.

"Hey, is everything okay?"

Holding a hand over your eyes, you saw that Leon had caught up to you.

"What the shit, Kennedy? I could have shot you," you hissed quietly.

Leon looked mildly amused at your statement, like he doubted that you would actually shoot him. How wrong he was, especially when it was a bad day, and his jokes were not it.

Taking another look at you and your tense stance, his smile disappeared. "What's wrong? Did you see something?"

"I'm not sure. I heard something over there," you gestured to the grove of bushes to your right. "But then you showed up, so now I'm not so sure."

Leon aimed his flashlight at the bush you mentioned and leaned around you to look at it. "That one?"

You nodded.

Pulling out his gun, he nodded for you to move closer to him. Mimicking his movements, you both held your handguns with a flashlight aimed at the bush. You watched as it rustled again; something was indeed there.

Holding your breath, you watched as something small and green slithered out and past you. Staying still, the bright green pit viper made its way past you and Leon, minding its own business.

Once it was gone, you visibly relaxed.

"What? Don't like snakes?"

Turning your gaze onto him, you gave Leon a look. "And you do?"

He simply shrugged, with a slight smile. "Wouldn't you like to know. Come on, let's get back to camp."

You nodded and followed close behind. There were things far worse than a pit viper in the jungles of Borneo, and you didn't want to come across any of them. The crickets and frogs chirped and croaked around you, making the night anything but quiet. It was almost soothing, the soft rhythmic sounds of the jungle.

It didn't take long for the two of you to find the abandoned building you called base. Creaking the door open, you walked in and set your rifle against the wall. A sigh of relief left you, feeling the weight disappear off your shoulders.

A groan slipped out of your mouth, stretching your neck as you rubbed the sore spot on your shoulder from the strap. Carrying a fifteen-pound rifle through the jungle was not an easy thing, from the humid air to the beating sun.

Leon walked in behind you, barricading the door shut for the night. His eyes trailed over to you, watching as you dropped to sit on the floor, trying to rub the knot out of your shoulder.

"Here, let me help with that."

Looking up at him, you watched as Leon grabbed a chair and moved to sit behind you.

"What are you doing?" You craned your neck to watch, only to wince from the tight muscle.

"Just shut up and let me help," he chuckled, replacing your hand with his own.

The heat of his touch warmed the aching muscle, giving you instant relief. You couldn't fight the sigh as his rough hand began to work on the knot. It took everything in you to keep yourself sitting upright, not to lean back into him.

Closing your eyes, you dropped your head forward, letting him work his magic.

"Where the hell did you learn to do this?"

Leon chuckled, "That good, huh?"

"Shut up,"

Silence fell between you two as he continued. It was a comfortable silence, only filled by the sounds of your breathing and the lush jungle outside. You were only around for a few months, but you weren't entirely sure that Leon would do this for anyone else.

When you were both home, Leon was quite chatty. He talked with his coworkers, told jokes, and even attended the odd event once or twice. But you'd seen him in the moments where it mattered, you knew the soft smile and dumb jokes were all just to hide the weight he carried on his shoulders.

You saw it every time you came across civilians, and you saw it every time you were too late. The stoic expression on his face, the cracks in his facade where the pain and anger flared in his eyes. It's why you tried your hardest. Not just because he did, but you wanted to save as many people as you could. You tried so you wouldn't have to see the broken expression he let slip when he thought you weren't looking.

You'd never admit it to his face, but you cared about Leon. How could you not, after spending several months as his partner?

The creak of the chair behind you pulled you from your thought, jarring you back into reality with a jolt. The warmth of Leon's touch was gone, as he was now up and across the room, doing one last check.

"You alright? Zoned out for a minute there."

Stretching your neck, you nodded. "Yeah, just lost in thought, I guess."

Leon raised a brow, his mouth parting as if he was going to ask, but then he shook his head and turned away.

You noticed he did that a lot, too. He would move like he was about to say something, only to stop himself and get back to business. It was almost like he didn't want to get to know you better, in fear of losing someone else he dared to get close to.

But the distance was eating away at him; you could see it. There was a version of him, locked away somewhere deep inside. A version who loved to talk to people, to get to know them. A version hidden by the pain and suffering he experienced in the years before he met you.

A version you wanted to get to know.

"Orange,"

Leon turned to look at you, his face covered in confusion.

"What?"

"My favorite color," you continued. "It's orange. And not bright orange, but the soft, gentle orange. The kind that reminds you of the sunset, or gummy candy."

Leon's lip twitched into a smile at the last part, clearly amused by what you said.

"Gummy candy?

You chuckled. "Yeah. You know, like gummy bears, gummy worms, those seasonal shaped gummies that look like pumpkins in the fall?"

"I know what gummies are," he rolled his eyes with a scoff before looking back out the window again. "I wasn't born yesterday."

Taking this as your chance, you got to your feet and walked towards him. "When were you born?"

If he wasn't aware of what you were trying to do before, he was now. Leon was silent for a moment before he spared you a glance again.

"Blue,"

"Kennedy, I don't think that's a da—"

Leon sighed, "No, dumbass, that's the answer to your first unspoken question. My favorite color is blue."

You moved over to him, leaning your back against the wall on the opposite side of the window. Tilting your head, you watched him.

"What kind?"

"Dark blue, like a royal blue. It's the color the sky turns when the day turns to night."

You smiled more. "So sunset,"

Leon turned to look at you, finally. "Yeah, sunset."

His eyes were warm, warmer than you've seen them in a long time. He held your gaze, as if he was searching it for something. Something to tell him that everything will turn out right, that you will always be the one to make it out, and that he will be right behind you.

Leon tried to keep himself from doing this, from getting attached to someone else he could probably lose. But it was of no use. It was human nature to form those bonds and attachments with others, and he wasn't sure he was ready to unpack the way he felt learning that your favorite colors were found at the same time of day in the sky.

Letting out a sigh, he rubbed the back of his neck and looked around. "I'll take first shift; you should get some rest. We both know you need it after that snake scare earlier."

"Oh, so we're making jokes now?" you huffed, a laugh hidden behind it. "Remember that when we come across something that scares your socks off."

Leon chuckled. "When that happens, I'll be sure to tell you."

Rolling your eyes, you made your way to the other side of the room. There was a makeshift bed there, consisting of what looked to be a worn-down mattress and a chair cushion for a pillow. Pulling your handgun out of its holster, you laid on the mattress, not daring to think about what could have been living in it or on it before you found this rundown building to hole up in.

Making sure the safety was on, you slid your gun underneath the cushion and rested your head on it. You were surrounded by the soothing sounds of crickets, frogs, and birds as they communicated through the night. If you listened carefully, you could hear Leon fiddling with his knife as he played with it between his fingers before throwing it onto the windowsill next to where he stood.

You could feel the reaches of sleep taking over you, and it was then you realized Leon never told you when his birthday was.

The night shift came and went, Leon letting you sleep for a few hours before he switched out with you. Taking the second shift, you got to watch the sun rise over the horizon and canopy of trees, covered in the morning mist. It was a beautiful sight, one you wanted to remember forever.

It was only a few hours later that you and Leon were back trekking through the jungle, in search of this scientist who was, in fact, releasing BOWs, probably in a desperate attempt to stop the two of you.

Sticking to the plan, you made yourself a home on a nearby cliff. Rifle in position, watching Leon closely as he made his way through the humid jungle. Your handgun was resting in its holster, with binoculars beside you just in case.

Leon walked through the trees, gently pushing them aside so they didn't hit him in the face. Dealing with a hot, humid jungle was bad enough, and now with the confirmation of BOWs, everything was that much worse. He really couldn't think of a place to get sent to other than the jungle.

"Tell me why we got the jungle mission again?"

"Because we are the best they have, Kennedy." You answered. "Could be worse, though, at least it's not Antarctica."

Leon chuckled, nodding his head around. "That is a fair point.

Continuing forward, you watched as Leon avoided stepping on sticks and twigs, or worse, a snake. Thinking about the viper from the night before sent a shudder down your spine. You really hated snakes; everything about them made your skin crawl. Just the thought of one coming across you again made you want to run away and go home, where your warm bed was waiting.

Shaking the thought from your head, you put your focus back on Leon. Things were quiet on his end, thankfully so. Quiet meant that no one knew where you were, and that was good. It gave you the element of surprise. Something the two of you needed.

Watching closely, you kept Leon in your line of sight. You watched as he stopped and turned his head, looking to his right. Following his line of sight, you saw two zombies head his way. It seemed they were just wandering through, in search of fresh meat to consume. Without a second thought, you aimed and shot one right through the forhead. Not sparing a moment, you cocked the rifle once more and shot the second one. Both fell to the floor within seconds, Leon looking in your direction and nodding towards you.

You let out a sigh, pressing your comm. "Do that again, Kennedy, and I'll shoot you for giving away my position."

"I think headquarters would have some things to say about that."

"They would say I was well within my rights because you compromised the mission, so I took you out."

Leon went silent at that, not because he lost the argument but because there was no sense in arguing with you. Whenever he tried, right or wrong, he always ended up losing. He wasn't sure how you did it, but watching you be so sure about yourself, how could he tell you you were wrong?

His silence gave you a chance to listen to the sounds around you. Or the lack thereof.

Wait, that wasn't right. This was a jungle; they were never quiet. Not unless…

Before you could register another thought, something wrapped around your ankle and pulled hard.

"Shit!"

Looking back, you weren't sure what you were seeing, but it was well over five feet tall, covered in what looked to be vines, but had sharp jagged teeth. Whatever it was, it wasn't good, and it was dragging you.

Desperately, you tried to reach for your rifle, missing the strap by the tips of your fingers as you were dragged through the dirt and grass. You tried to grab something, anything, to try and give yourself a chance to pull yourself up and away.

Whatever this thing was, it was stronger than you. Reaching into your holster, you grabbed your handgun with your knife in the other hand. Rolling onto your back, you watched as the BOW pulled you towards it, leaning over you with a sickening sound coming from it.

Reaching down, you used your knife to cut off the vine wrapped around your ankle. The BOW screeched in pain, the sound grating on your ears.

"Fuck you!"

Without wasting a second, you aimed your handgun and shot three bullets into its skull as it lunged for your throat.

Hundreds of feet away, Leon walked through the trees and bushes, moving what he could out of his way. He stopped long enough to hear a crackling sound come through the comms before there were several grunts and a screeching sound that made his blood run cold. Before he could radio to you, he heard the gunshots echo off the cliffside.

Stopping in his tracks, Leon looked to where you were supposed to be.

"Condor One to Eagle Eye, what's your status?"

Silence.

Where you—no. He couldn't think like that. You were the one person who wouldn't die, who couldn't die.

Leon wasn't sure he was ready to address what would become of him if he were to lose you, the one person who seemed to not only understand him, but see him. Truly see him, not just who he was on the outside, but the man he kept hidden underneath.

"Eagle Eye," his voice had an urgency to it. It had been long, too long, since he heard your voice. "What's your status?"

Several seconds passed before he got a response.

"This is Eagle Eye. BOW is taken care of, but my position is compromised. Relocation to a new recon point, standby."

Leon let out the breath he didn't know he was holding at the sound of your voice. You were alive.

"Copy that, Condor One on standby."

Dropping your head back onto the ground below you, you let out a sigh before shoving the monster off of you. Looking down, you weren't sure what you were covered in, but it was disgusting and smelled even worse than it looked.

Rolling onto your knees, you propped yourself up and got to your feet. Everything in you protested, from the sudden jerking and pulling you just endured, along with the body of the BOW you killed, dropping its dead weight onto you.

Your position was compromised. There was no way something found you from where you were by chance. Someone was watching you, and that meant they were likely watching Leon as well.

"What happened?"

Letting out a chuckle, you grabbed your rifle and slung it over your shoulder.

"I don't even know, it was this weird plant-like thing. It wrapped a vine around my ankle and tried to drag me off. Hurt like hell, too. I shot it in the head; it looks like it's dead."

"Shit, it's not dead! You need to get out of there fast!"

"What?"

"That was an Ivy! You can only stop them with fire, and unless you have a blowtorch on you, a gun won't stop it!"

Turning to look behind you, sure enough, the thing was getting back up.

"Oh fuck me,"

"You need to get out, now!"

Not needing to be told again, you took off running. The ankle the Ivy grabbed was sore and throbbing. That wasn't a good sign. Forcing yourself to keep running, you quickly made your way down to where Leon was. Hopefully, you didn't come across any other unfriendlies on your way because you would be screwed.

"Where are you? I'm coming to meet you."

"I'm headed in your direction, this thing isn't giving up, and it fucked up my ankle."

Leon could hear the desperation in your voice, with exhaustion peeking through. "Fuck, I thought these things were all dead. What the hell is one doing all the way out here?"

"Why don't we—fuck—" you hissed as you stepped wrong and tumbled. "Why don't we ask the bastard we're tracking and see what he thinks?"

Looking up, you could see Leon not too far away. You weren't sure if the Ivy was still on your tail, but with it being slow, it would take a minute before it catches up to you. Forcing yourself to keep going, you caught up to Leon, who caught you before you could lose your footing.

"Where is it?"

"I think I lost it back there, but I'm not too sure," you gasped, bending over to catch your breath.

Helping you stand, Leon checked you over for any bites or open wounds. Ivys were dangerous; they didn't infect you with a bite. They infected you with a spore, and it didn't seem like you breathed in any or had any open wounds for it to infect.

"I liked it better when I thought those things were gone forever," he muttered, supporting your weight to help you move to sit on a rock. "Let me take a look at that ankle."

You were shocked to see how easily he could carry you. Leon, being ever the gentleman, let you keep your footing on the ground instead of sweeping you off your feet to save you the embarrassment. Setting you on the rock, Leon knelt before you and helped remove the boot.

Getting your boot off, you could tell immediately it was swollen. Its vines didn't seem to cut through the leather of your boot; that was a plus.

Wincing at the movement, you jumped back a little from the pain. Leon looked up at you with an apologetic expression.

"Sorry," he muttered.

Holding your heel in his hand, he pressed around the swollen joint only for you to hiss in pain and try to pull your foot away.

"Okay, so I don't think it's broken. Probably seriously sprained. Can you walk?"

You nodded, "Good news, I'm your backup. Running isn't usually in my job description."

Leon chuckled. "Yeah, that's usually my job. Blow shit up and run."

"We need to keep you off of this as much as we can, though. Do you think you need a med evac?"