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They had lost. 

After years of dealing with monsters that crept through the night, sneaking through portals and gates, abducting children, possessing bodies and minds, raising the town's death rate by plenty, and introducing an unlikely group of people to a world that existed just below their own reality⸺they had lost. 

The return back home had been quiet and heavy with grief and halted realization. All of their efforts, all their plans, all of their sacrifices had fallen and shattered like fragile glass to the rigid surface. Max Mayfield's body lay unmoving and broken in a hospital full of friends and doctors who didn’t know how her heart rate held stable or why she hadn’t awoken. Eddie Munson, slain by flying monsters in a first and final act of bravery for a town that would never see him as anything but a murderer on the run. 

Hawkins had been shaken to its core, split by some undeniable evil that seeped through the cracks that now ran in four directions throughout the town. Haunting them with questions of what is it and what’s to come from or out of it. The answer lied with a group of misfits of all capacities, an odd team that were forever linked by the truth of the matter. A truth that would never slip past their lips unless a dire situation called for it, a secret that they kept to keep people from fear, to keep people safe⸺especially those closest to them.

You could still remember returning from your battle with Vecna, a frown solidified on your face as you stared down at Max’s body in a hospital bed, connected to countless tubes and covered in casts and bruises. It was your first stop after your return. You had to see her, her letter burning a hole through the fabric of your pocket, begging to be read, but you wouldn’t. You couldn’t. Instead, your fingers reached into the pocket and traced shapes over its scratchy texture, as if to ease its burning desire to be read into a dull yet heavy sensation. You kept your face hard under the hospital light, comforting Lucas as he slouched over in aching love and hurt. 

You tried to turn your feelings into a drive to push you forward, whispering that it wasn’t over and that they couldn’t give up. Not yet. Your voice steady against the opposing voices in your head at the reminder of your greatest loss yet that left you feeling uncertain and scared. Your heart aching as you watch as your friends shake under the feeling of defeat and sadness. You tried to stay strong for them. 

But that strength crumbled as you tried to return to the safety of your home, your heart sinking as the deeper you drove toward it, the more visible the crack into the Upside Down grew. Steve had tried to reassure your silent figure that maybe it would branch off and turn toward a different direction of Hawkins. It’s okay, it’s okay, the boy would mutter for you even though the closer he drove, the more his reassurance dissolved. His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach as he stopped the car just before your house, his mouth falling open and worry scrunching in between his eyebrows. His eyes flickered toward you, as you sat like a statue, eyes set on the sight before you. So still in your spot in the passenger seat that he couldn’t be sure if you were still even breathing. His words came up his throat in jumbled noises, your name mixed with the sounds as his brain stumbled over what he could possibly say. 

His mouth slammed shut as you suddenly moved, quietly, your hand slowly shoving the door open as you pushed yourself up from the seat to walk closer to your childhood home. Your legs shook as you walked alongside the crack into another world, following it until it sliced through the center of what once felt like the safest place in this godforsaken town. 

Your home was destroyed. 

All of your childhood memories were shattered and torn apart within the house that succumbed to the pressure and exploded after your missteps in defeating Vecna. Your vision blurred, the sight of your home barricaded by the tears that gathered in your eyes. It was all gone. The furniture destroyed, the carpet burnt and curling into itself, the wallpaper shedding off the wall, and the foundation of the home crumbling. The memories of the home floating through the air around it. Twisting and fluttering like a dance of reminded despair, and tragedy. Little you running down the hallways with a childish laugh, the arguments over who got to shower first, the awkward phases of puberty, the same spot in the dining room where your mother took pictures of you for every first day of school, and the disappointment in your parents' voices when you refused to go with them on a family vacation for spring break. They couldn’t understand why you wanted to stay. They would never know what you truly endured during this time, and they would never be able to return to their home the way they left it because it was barely even standing. 

Being struck with the grief and crushed by the weight of the situation led to your legs buckling beneath you, the tears that you had been holding back since the beginning pushing past your eyelashes and racing down your face. Gravity pulls you and your tears toward the concrete below, welcoming you with open arms. However, before your body could fully make contact, arms wrapped themselves around your body and lifted you up and into a warm chest. 

Steve held your body into his own, his words coming out breathlessly and his eyes wet as he listened to your sobs and spoke into your hair, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m here. You can stay with me. You can stay with me, okay? I’m here.”

The rest of the night had been a blur. Steve holding you until you pulled away. His eyes focused on you as you walked into the broken home, his body just a few steps away from you the entire time in case you needed him. Anything you picked up to take would disappear from your grasp as the Harrington boy refused to let you carry any more weight than what you had already endured from today. The drive to his house would be filled with a quiet lull of music from the radio, his eyes bouncing from the road to your figure, with what he could only hope was discreet concern. The boy helping you out of the car and grabbing your things before placing a firm and stable hand on your back, leading you to the front door of his home. He had called out to his parents as he opened the door, but only his own voice echoed back to him. You could remember Steve sucking his lips into his teeth at the lack of response before looking back at you, offering you a comforting smile, then showing you the guest bedroom⸺which he pointed out, many times, was right next to his room in case you needed anything. 

He started the shower for you, letting you go first as he set up the guest bedroom to feel more comfortable than polished. He silently cursed his mother for adorning the room with expensive decor, flaunting their guest with objects that begged to be seen for their obnoxious, flashy display. Shoving some of them into the closet, Steve then grabbed one of his favorite blankets from his room, threw it over the top of your bed, and set out clothes and extra towels for you, wanting you to feel safe in an unfamiliar place. 

You had been to the Harrington home on multiple occasions, but never in a situation as heavy as this. The majority of the visits here had been in passing: Robin needing to use the bathroom, Steve forgetting his jacket, Dustin complaining about being hungry, then raiding the pantry with the rest of the party as Steve yelled at them to take it easy. All of those times had been light-hearted and convenient⸺now you stood in the upstairs bathroom with a thudding heart of regret and a mind swirling with the bigger question of what’s next to come?

Sleep was coming to you like waves on a shore, exhaustion creeping in after the battle of today. Your fingers caressed the soft material of the throw blanket that rested on top of the comforter, sighing as your body fell deeper into the bed. Steve had done all but tucked you in. After his turn in the shower, he returned with wet hair and the same gentle smile he always had when it came to you, asking if you were okay and if you needed anything in the softest tone. Against your wishes, your eyes grew wet as you fought to offer him a smile, his voice making you feel safe enough to be vulnerable about the terror that lingered in your body⸺the boy entering the room fully to sit in front of you on the bed, his arm reaching across your body to hold onto your arm comfortingly. A small gesture to say I’m here for you, without having to utter the words aloud. 

Placing your hand on top of his, you squeeze it lightly, causing Steve to twist his hand ever so slightly so that his thumb could caress your knuckles⸺a fight over who can reassure and comfort the other more. Smiling more to himself at your touch and warmth, the Harrington boy cleared his throat, realizing he hadn’t said anything since he entered the room fully, “Uh, did you—did you need anything? Another blanket? Water? Warm milk?”

His last offer trailed off with an awkward chuckle, his eyes shifting away from yours as he realized he didn’t know how to make warm milk. Did it go in the microwave? Or in a pot on the stove? Did he even have milk in the fridge downstairs? 

The softness of your laugh brings him back to where the two of you sat, a smile creeping back onto his own face as he watches a little bit of light return to your eyes, “I’m okay, Steve, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” The brunette boy whispered, his eyes looking down at your hand on top of his own. When he looks back up at you, his eyes soften, deeper in a way that didn’t seem possible, memorizing the way you look sitting in front of him. The soft light from the lamp on the bedside table rests against the side of your face, showcasing all of the dips and curves of your beauty. Even with the lingering melancholy of your situation, you still burned bright against the darkness, guiding warmth back into his heart. 

He almost jumped at the sudden connection of your body against his own, your arms circling under his, and your face burying itself into the crook of his neck. With wide eyes and his mouth open and at a loss for words, the boy slowly brings his arms to pull you deeper into him, his hands smoothly running over your back, leaving behind a trail of warmth. You readjust your face, just slightly, your lips near his ear as you speak sincerely, “Seriously. Thank you, Steve.”

His only response was his eyes closing and his own head dipping down until his nose was on your shoulder, nodding silently as he pulled you even closer, as if you could merge into one body before taking a deep breath. The scent of the soap you used in the shower lingered on your skin and invaded his senses as it mixed with the natural smell of you⸺a scent that Steve could pick up anywhere if he needed to. 

Who would have thought?

There was once a time when the only connection between you and Steve Harrington had been that you were in the same grade and enrolled in the same school. Slowly, invisible threads started pulling the two of you closer and closer together. The connection evolved into being tied together by your friendship and his relationship with Nancy Wheeler. Together in school activities until Will Byers went missing, and then started the first battle against creatures from a world beneath your own. As years passed, you somehow found your place at Steve’s side whenever the creatures of the other world collided with your reality. 

Dustin dragging you through the Wheelers' front yard and into Steve’s beamer, talking about finding his new discovery and pet, Dart. The young boy forcing the two of you into confinement and conversation before the two of you routinely fell into protective roles, the babysitters, as Dustin’s lost discovery led to the reemergence of monsters that were meant to be forgotten. The following summer you had been in the mall in search of a job when Dustin and Steve informed you of a Russian inception, introducing you to Robin and then finding a secret elevator that led you to Steve’s face getting a beating, you to get a couple of scratches and bruises, and the three eldest in the group being injected with drugs labeled as truth serum. The finality of the fourth of July ending with fighting the mind flayer at the Starcourt mall and watching Billy Hargrove take his final breath. 

This year, it wasn’t circumstance that brought you and Steve together, not a flick of chance or fate. But a connection, a genuine one. He had grown into a different person over the years, just as you had, and now the two of you were quick to call each other a friend, best friends, even. You would frequently stop by Family Video, sometimes returning films and searching for new ones, while other times you lingered in Steve’s presence just to talk and spend time with him⸺he never minded you being there, even if it was until they closed, and sometimes staying after. He couldn’t put a number on the amount of times you had stayed to help him close, putting movies back where they belonged and tidying up the store for the openers, laughing at his jokes from aisles away, and holding prolonged eye contact before the energy would disperse from Robin’s voice calling from somewhere else in the store. 

Now, here the two of you were, embracing in comfort in his house, in the room beside his own⸺your eyes closed and your arms tight around his body as he became intoxicated by your scent and presence, one of his hands rubbing your back slowly, his nails lightly scratching at the material of your shirt. He could’ve stayed like that forever, wrapped in your warmth and offering his body as a means of protection for you; however, his eyes shot open as his heart fell deeper into his chest, as if reaching out to yours. Steve pulled away; it felt too urgent, but it happened slowly, his head lifting off your shoulder and peeling himself away from you, his brown eyes wide and full of emotion as he scanned every inch of your face. One of his hands reaching forward to push the fallen strands of hair away from your eyes, selfishly wanting to see them before gently smiling and letting his hand fall back at his side. You return the small smile to the Harrington boy, your own heart pounding against your rib cage as if to push you back into his embrace, but you stay where you are. Sighing quietly, the boy looks down before pushing himself off the bed, turning around at the door as if to prolong this moment with you, “I’ll let you get some rest. But if you need me–.”

“You’re right next door,” You finish his sentence with a soft smile, your features glowing against the warmth of the light in the room. Steve stares at you, maybe just a second longer than he should, before chuckling and nodding, “Yeah, yeah. I’m right next door. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Steve.”

His presence lingers in the doorframe, his hand on the knob, knowing that he’ll eventually have to shut the door. But for just a moment longer, he stares at you with those beautiful brown eyes, soft and gentle as ever, as he captures this moment in his brain⸺not wanting to forget the way you looked, the way your eyes held onto his, or the way your voice sounded when saying his name. With one final nod, he closes the door, not knowing that this was the first of many moments between the two of you that you would share in his home. 

As days turned to weeks since the loss of your battle against Vecna, many things had changed in Hawkins, Indiana. The Byers had returned from California with a powerful, driven El and a walking-dead man⸺Jim Hopper. 

The group finally reunited and was ready to turn their sorrow and tragedy into armor and strategy⸺an approach that remained slow yet urged forward regardless. Many of the towns' residents had fled after their home had parted into four sections, running away from the potential danger that lingered beneath the unknown cracks. Refusing to stick around to see what arose from it. Others remained in their homes, some due to money purposes, while others stood beside pride. The military arrived soon after, building chained fences along the town's perimeter and trying to cover the portals to the Upside Down with multiple different barriers. Placing the remaining families under a quarantine⸺no one came in or out of the town without military approval. As for what caused the tears of the earth, the town had collectively agreed, whether through delusion or avoidance, to accept the military and scientists' claim that Hawkins had experienced an earthquake of the highest degree. 

The final change in Hawkins was much more subtle and only occurred within the Harrington home. What was once a vacant guest room filled with expensive knick-knacks and forgotten paintings Steve’s mother had bought simply because she had the money to, had become yours.

Steve had been the one to call it your room first⸺he had said it offhandedly, a quick answer to a passing question. You had been looking everywhere for your rings, having taken them off in the kitchen when you were cleaning your dishes, and had long forgotten about them. Now, they had seemingly vanished in thin air, you had taken to searching the entirety of the kitchen, even going as far as checking inside the microwave, twice⸺just in case, before realizing there was only one other place you hadn’t checked in the room.

Shining a flashlight down the dark hole in the sink, you let your face scrunch up as you shift your eyes haphazardly. You had leaned down closer just as the Harrington boy entered the kitchen, his gaze finding your figure immediately, confusion twisting upon his features. 

“What are you doing?”

You had jumped at the sound of his voice, cursing under your breath at the boy's sudden appearance. A sigh pushed past your lips as a pout started to form on your own face, “I lost my rings.”

“Your rings,” The boy questioned with raised eyebrows, his finger pointing toward the last direction that you had seen them. You let your eyes widen as you followed the tip of his finger to the very spot you knew you had placed them, seeing that it was just as empty as before. Turning back to him, hopefulness blooms in your tone, “Have you seen them?”

“Yeah, I put them in your room,” Steve shrugged casually as he walked further into the kitchen, passing you to walk into the pantry and grab a peanut butter bopper from the top shelf. You tried not to let the warm feeling that spread through your chest show on your face as flushed cheeks at the new term that held a sense of endearment, “My room?”

Opening up the candy bar, the brunette nodded and took a bite out of it before offering you some, his mouth full as he spoke, “Yeah, I didn’t want them to fall in the sink or anything, y’know? So I just put them on your dresser in your room,” 

From then on, the guest room had been formally changed to your room. A place now filled with light and life and purpose. Your books on the nightstand, your rings on the dresser, your clothes stacked on the chair beside the door, and your body typically sprawled out across the mattress. Steve had also never spent much time in the room before it became yours, his mind normally ignoring that the room even existed unless he needed to throw something in there that he hadn’t wanted anyone finding in his own room. Now, he was a frequent guest, his voice bouncing off the walls, his laugh mixing with yours and dancing down the hallway of the usually silent home, and his body stretched out just beside your own on the bed.

Your lives had changed under the worst circumstances, yet the two of you had undeniably found solace within a newly shared routine. Nancy had muttered to Johnathan jokingly that the two of you spent so much time together that you were bound to grow sick of each other eventually. Robin took it upon herself to take the opposing bid as she watched you and Steve move in sync throughout the day. It had been weeks, and nothing between you had changed. The two of you awaken in the same home and spend the majority of the time together when adventuring through tunnels and watching the military from afar, just to return to the same home and talk for hours on end on your bed before Steve would retreat to his own room to sleep and do it all again the following day. 

It wasn’t until tonight that a change in the routine would occur. 

You knew it was only a dream, you knew that once your body shot up from its sleeping position, your heart racing and your hands shaking. However, you couldn’t tame the lingering fear that Vecna’s presence in your nightmare brought to you. His voice haunting you even as you attempted to soothe yourself back to sleep⸺your eyes fighting against the darkness behind your eyelids, anxiety buzzing through your body and keeping you awake and alert. 

It’s this looming fear that carries your body down the hallway to stand before the closed door that leads to Steve's bedroom. You’re hesitant to knock, standing in the dark hallway between the feelings of longing for comfort and running from the confession to terror. It was three in the morning, and a part of you felt bad about waking up the boy who had already offered you a place in his home and a portion of all of his resources⸺who were you to now take his sleep away from him as well?

Amidst the internal battle of longing and guilt, your hand balled into a weak fist, rising and lightly tapping the knuckle of your pinky finger against the dark brown wooden door⸺an action so soft that nearly no sound erupted. Your hand falls back to your side quicker than your hand had taken to form a fist and knock, your body already turning to walk yourself back to your room. You had barely taken a step when the doorknob twisted and the door was pulled open with a small creak, stopping you in your tracks. 

Steve’s body stood slumped against the door, his hair sticking up in many different directions, some of the pieces falling in front of his tired eyes. He looks the same as he always did, just a little more unraveled than usual⸺an unraveled beautiful man. Concern swirls with exhaustion in his deep brown eyes, a hand reaching up to rub at them as he spoke against a raspy voice, “Hey—hey, you okay?”

“I’m sorry. Yeah, I don’t mean to wake you. I just, um, I just had a bad dream and I–.” You’re stuttering and shaking your head, realizing how silly and juvenile it sounded as you rambled awkwardly. Rubbing a hand down your face, you attempt to laugh it off, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for waking you. I’m just gonna go back to bed.”

You go to turn away from his focused gaze, but Steve’s hands on your upper arms stop you. He’s emerged from his door frame, his body behind yours as he now moves to guide you into his room.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it, just sleep in here tonight.”

“No, Steve, it’s okay. I shouldn’t have bothered you. I’m okay—.”

The boy simply shushes you, his hand dropping to your lower back as he walks you to the side of his bed and pulls back the covers for you. He waits patiently as you climb under the covers, the two of you pulling the blankets over your body before Steve walks to the other side of the bed, rubbing his eyes tiredly as he lies down beside you. His eyes closing instantly, and his body relaxing easily⸺feeling content and comfortable knowing you were now safe and within reaching distance of him. 

Your two bodies faced one another, your eyes open and examining his resting figure. The pool light reflects off the side of his face and body, the movement of it against him lulling you back into a calm feeling. Close enough to him to feel his body heat from beneath the blankets. His face looked soft and at peace, the usual lines on his expressive forehead smooth as he breathed quietly through his nose. You're staring, almost shamelessly, capturing this image in your head as the fear that once shook your core now fills with warmth and safety from the familiarity of Steve Harrington. 

As if he could feel your eyes on him, the brunette boy opens one of his eyes, smiling as the two of you make eye contact. You smile back shyly, biting back your embarrassment and hoping that the room is dark enough to hide the redness that was inevitably creeping its way onto your face. Shuffling softly, you watch as Steve closes his eyes, tilting his head up to be level with you, before opening both his eyes and staring deeply into your own. Silence settled around you, only the thudding of your heart in your ears as you fought against a magnetic pull that wanted you closer to the boy. 

“I’m sorry for waking you up,” Your whispered voice cracked lightly in the dark. Clear that his actions held a significant weight in your mind and that you were thankful for it. 

“Don’t be sorry. I’ll always wake up for you.” The statement hung heavy in the air, as if it were more of a quiet confession than a whispered reassurance. Feeling as if his words were holding him down, and your eyes keeping him in place, Steve quickly picked up his head and shifted his pillow vertically so he could hug it into his chest⸺trying to find some way to break the tension between his words and your silence, “Just know if I have a bad dream and I come to you, I expect you to share that twin sized bed in there.”

The sound of a chuckle coming from your side of the bed causes Steve’s tense shoulders to relax, your voice softly following the sound, “Deal.”

The next few minutes had been filled with light conversation before the Harrington boy's eyes scanned your face as he spoke softly, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Your eyes shift down at your hands that had been tucked into your chest. Pulling at the skin beside your nail beds, you shrug as flashes of the night terror come back harshly⸺anxiety shimmering at a low heat at its return. Your throat grows dry as you become hot under the spotlight of Steve’s eyes on you. 

He doesn’t pry, ready to abandon the conversation completely if you had asked. He also remained patient, in case you’d finally want to admit to the nightmare that chased you out of your bed and into his.

Sniffing and rubbing at your nose, you don’t look at the boy as your voice shifts and shakes, “He was there. Again. He had come back for us. To finish us off. To take everything.”

Vecna.

Steve shuffles his body just slightly toward your own, every nerve fighting the urge to pull your rigid body into his own in an act of comfort and protection. Blinking harshly, you recall the man using his powers to kill everyone around you before turning to you and sealing your fate in the same bone-breaking, eye-crushing way as everyone else. 

“It just felt so real. Watching him⸺do that to everyone I love. Killing them.” You shake your head as if it would rid the images from your mind, “My parents, my siblings, the kids⸺you.”

“Me?” Steve whispers as his eyebrows pull together, his eyes searching your face, begging you to look up at him⸺begging for anything to connect to you further. 

Your eyes stay glued to your hands, bringing one of them to your teeth to bite at your nails in a bad habit sort of way, to comfort yourself. Your name sounded like velvet falling past Steve’s lips as his hands reached out to engulf your hands in his own, bringing them into his chest, and dipping down to brush his lips against your knuckles. At the new sense of contact, you finally look at the boy, your eyes swimming with worry as Steve’s met yours with steady reassurance, “I’m not going anywhere, okay? We’re gonna get our strategy down, we’re gonna find Vecna, and we’re gonna end this, right? We’re gonna be okay. Okay? Come’ere.” 

Steve’s hands pull you closer to him until your body collides with his⸺your head resting on his chest, listening to the pace of his heart as one of his hands cradles and scratches your head. Your body nearly on top of his as he pushes a firm hand into your back, urging your own arms to wrap around him to deepen the embrace. Resting his head on top of yours, the boy whispers promises of a better future and confirms his place beside you would be unmoving through whatever came next. The rest of the night was spent like this⸺you in Steve’s arms, listening to his heart until it lulled you into a restful sleep. The Harrington boy let the sounds of your soft, deep breathing ease him into a comfortable peace, squeezing you tighter as warmth spread, his body sinking into the bed and into an equally heavy sleep. 

That would be the first night you had slept in Steve Harrington’s bed. From then on, your knocks were not so hesitant, you weren’t as awkward, and you didn’t apologize for being in Steve’s presence after dark. You would easily climb into his bed, bringing in a book or a story to tell. You wouldn’t always sleep in his room, but when you did, Steve would sleep better and more comfortably with you at his side. While on the nights you resorted to your own room, he’d find himself reaching for you on the cold side of his bed, huffing at the emptiness and half-glaring at the wall that separated you. 

More time would continue to pass, and Robin was winning in her bet that you and Steve wouldn’t grow tired of one another. If anything, you’d grown more fond of the routine and habits that bloomed from the seeds of tragedy that brought the two of you closer together. Wherever you went, there was a reserved spot beside you for Steve. Within the Harrington home, you’d accompany each other in a dance that only the two of you knew the steps to. Moving with a type of gracefulness and delicacy that came with trusting a partner. Everything moved fluidly and just right, and everyone would watch⸺some in awe while others in silent envy as the two of you moved through life as a pair. Nothing was gonna break the habit, nor was anything gonna throw you off balance. 

Until Nancy and Robin had persuaded you away for the evening. In talks of needing a ‘girls night’ away from the boys, away from the planning, and away from the busy home that collided the Wheelers and Byers into one. It had been Robin’s idea after her gaze was pulled away from the closeness of you and Steve and fell on the rigid, tense Nancy, who snapped instead of responded and glared instead of gazed. The Buckley girl had stumbled over her offer to the Wheeler girl, knowing that Nancy needed time away from the weight of their situation, but also understanding that the smart girl wouldn’t be easily swayed in careless fun as her anger and fear drove her motivations to find and destroy Vecna before he could fulfill the vision that he forced Nancy to see. 

The Wheeler girl was hesitant at first, her lips curling into a pouted form as she weighed out the options in her head, her fingers twirling the phone cable as she thought about it. It was the sound of shouts over who got to use the bathroom next and doors slamming throughout the home that pushed Nancy to agree⸺wanting to escape the home that was slowly chipping away at her patience. 

You were the next person Robin had reached out to. The phone in the Harrington home ringing loudly within the space as you and Steve sat together in the living room⸺the two of you sharing a look of concern before racing toward the phone. Worried that someone was reaching out with bad news or an update on how they were going to find the man who haunted the town. The boy answered it with a tense face, his eyebrows pulling together before rolling his eyes at whoever was on the other end of the phone, “Yeah, yeah, fine. Alright. It’s for you.”

Steve passed the phone to you, leaning against the wall as he watched you bring it to your ear in confusion, your features relaxing as Robin’s voice and suggestion to join her and Nancy for a night away bounced against the static of the phone. You had agreed before the girl could begin begging and listing her reasons for your presence. You had also noticed Nancy growing restless as her space was constantly invaded and her thoughts always interrupted by Mike, or Will, or Johnathan, or her parents, and sometimes Joyce. The brunette girl had a tell, and after years of friendship, you knew them all⸺so after multiple times of seeing her sucking in her cheeks and pursing her lips, you were on board for operation Give Nancy a Break. The phone call ended with Robin saying she and Nancy would be there within the hour to pick you up, so you were quick to fill in Steve before retreating to your room to pack.

Steve now sat slouched against your headboard, his face at a half grimace as he fiddled with the blanket you had slept with every night since he had lent it to you on your first night in this room. You paced around the room, shoving clothes into an overnight bag and going over the checklist in your head, not wanting to forget anything. Your expression shifted as you pondered what else you needed before remembering and grabbing it, then repeating the process again. 

Steve’s brown eyes followed your figure around the room, the corner of his lips being tugged down as an unfamiliar feeling swirled from within. Holding down a sigh, the boy scratched at his jaw as his feet began to twitch, “Why don’t you guys just have your little get together here? I mean, there’s food and a TV, and I have enough blankets for all of you.”

Peeking at the boy on your bed, you offer him a humored smile, “Because it’s a girls' night, no boys allowed.”

“I can stay upstairs. The house is big enough⸺I can stay out of the way.”

You walk toward the boy who has resorted to picking lint off the blanket, his voice warm and small as he becomes aware that he’s partially begging for you not to leave. Sitting in front of him, you begin to explain, “I normally would agree, but Nancy needs this. She needs to get away from it all, you know? She needs space from everyone and not have to even think about boys.”

Nancy needed space away from everyone, but did you? Steve cursed at his mind as soon as the thought manifested and rooted itself into his beliefs. Had you grown tired of him? You had been so quick to agree, so quick to come upstairs and start packing. Were you needing space from everyone? Space from him? Had he leaned too heavily on you and invaded your space one too many times? Steve dropped his head as his thoughts spiraled out of control.

It was your soft hand resting on top of his own that caused him to look up, the heavy fog of insecurity clearing as you looked at him with that beautiful, gentle smile. You squeeze his hand lightly, as if to silently reassure him of his thoughts that you could only pick up from the shift of his facial expressions, “But maybe the next one, we can have it here? Me, you, Nance, and Robin⸺and Johnathan, if you guys can get along. Or maybe even with the kids?”

Your suggestion brings a glowing warmth to Steve’s chest as you make plans as a we, as a collective, as a pair. You wanted to do it with him, you wanted to make plans together. The Harrington boy smiled and nodded, holding eye contact with you, “I think Byers and I can get on for one night. And if not, we can take on the kids.” 

Your laugh floats through the air like falling confetti, filling the room and capturing Steve’s earnest attention⸺his own laugh syncing up with yours in a harmonized melody. There’s a comfortable silence that follows with soft smiles that is quickly shattered by the doorbell ringing once, twice, then a third time before the door opens and Robin’s voice echoes down the hallway. The Harrington boy releases a heavy sigh and rolls his eyes, his voice low and sarcastic as he rises from the bed and follows you downstairs to see your shared slightly invasive friend, “Sure, come on in.”

The two of you don’t stick around for long, Robin starts to ramble the moment her eyes land on you about how Nancy was waiting in the car and what the plans of the night were going to be, she quickly greeted Steve with a dangling insult causing the boy to cross his arms and suck in his lips as you shake your head and chuckle shortly and start guiding her out the door. Before shutting the door fully, Robin promises to bring you back tomorrow, while you send the boy one last smile and shut the door behind you. The sound of the door latching echoes in the now-empty home, only Steve occupying the space in a sudden silence.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, the boy turns around and looks around the room as he slowly walks through the home. He whistled lowly and heard it bounce off the walls, creep down the halls, and come back to him as a response. He had almost forgotten what it was like to be in an empty home. It wasn’t necessarily unfamiliar to him⸺he had spent the majority of his childhood in an empty home. His parents were always away on business trips or out with friends, who only came together to brag and see who could spend the most money. 

Steve couldn’t count how many times he had returned home after battling monsters and had to tend to his own wounds in the dark because his parents hadn’t even considered leaving the porch light on for him. It was something he had done since childhood. If he had injured himself outside, he’d have to come home and pull a chair to the hall closet to reach the first aid kit⸺after leaving the chair in the hallway once and getting scolded by his mother, rather than questioned on what he needed the bandages for, he just kept the kit in his room.

During his high school years, he filled the void in his home life by inviting his friends over whenever his parents were away. They’d always come, especially after Steve picked up that if he provided free cigarettes and alcohol, anyone would show up. On nights that his friends wouldn’t come, the boy would turn to charming any girl in his grade to spend the night with him. If they couldn’t come to him, he’d go to them. He never told any of these people the real reason he had invited them over, or why he’d asked to spend time together⸺never uttering aloud that he didn’t like to be alone. 

He never understood it when people would talk about being homesick, expressing their longing to be home, or how much they missed it when they were away. The first time he had heard the term was during a sleepover in middle school; one of the boys started crying in the middle of the night, saying he wanted to go home, that he missed his mom, his room, and his bed. Steve hadn’t understood the strong emotion, asking everyone why he was crying over that⸺the boy's parents had simply called it being homesick. Yet no one explained what that feeling entailed. He didn’t get it; he never understood it. He had never felt homesick before; his house was simply a place he stayed, but he could stay anywhere, sleep anywhere, and he never missed his home when he was away. If anything, he tried to stay away from it for as long as possible. It was a dark, cold, and empty shelter that he had lived in his whole life, but he never missed it. He never felt homesick. 

That night, Steve tossed and turned in his bed. The darkness of the home seemed to grow, emphasizing the loneliness that came with it. He had thought that the wall between the two of you had been bad, but now that you weren’t even within the home, Steve wasn’t sure he would be able to sleep. He huffed out in annoyance and turned his pillow to the cold side, his eyes closing in an attempt to sleep⸺but it was no use. Opening his eyes again and looking over at the clock, the boy rubs a hand over his face and frowns. He didn’t understand the feeling that was settled at the pit of his stomach, a sort of longing and yearning tugging at his heart and mind to make the final connection to what was happening.

He missed you. 

Steve Harrington had never been homesick until he met you. Your presence lit even the darkest corners of this house, your smile easing the loneliness, and your voice and laugh filling the silence. The house that once held no meaning to him had become a place he couldn’t wait to return to because it meant returning to you. He missed his room, even though he was in it, because it’s not his room unless you reside in it. He missed his home, even though he was inside of it, because you were in another. He had finally felt what he had seen many people go through. He finally knew what it meant to be homesick. 

Sitting up in his bed, Steve let his mouth gape at the realization of his feelings. It wasn’t something that happened overnight; it wasn’t something that happened suddenly. It was a slow change, a new growth, like watching one season fade into another or watching a seed bloom into a plant. It had so many different factors, so many contributors. But now it was obvious, it was in front of him, and he couldn’t ignore it any longer. You had been the very reason that the Harrington house had felt like home. You had been the only reason Steve returned here every day. Now you were away, and it was so apparent that he couldn’t ignore it any longer. Your absence left him wanting you back, his heart and body missing you and longing for you to return soon. He suddenly felt the need to get in his car, drive to Robin's house, and fall asleep next to you like he had done every night since the lost battle against Vecna⸺even if it meant he had to sleep on the couch in the Buckleys’ living room. 

The sound of static and beeping brought the boy out of his realization, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion before his name came from the walkie-talkie in the corner of his room, your voice low and mixing with static as you tried reaching out to him, “Steve? Are you awake? Over.”

Jumping out of his bed, tripping over the blankets that had wrapped around his feet, the boy rushed to the device. He quickly pulls at the antenna and holds down the button on the side, “Yeah, yeah, hey. Hey! You okay?”

Steve releases the button and holds the walkie-talkie close to his ear, but he only hears static. The pause feels too long, and the boy begins to wonder if he had imagined your voice. Had he missed you so much that he had conjured up your voice to come from nothing? Had he been dreaming? He pulls the device away from his ear with a frown and sighs. He walks back to his bed, sits down, and lets his body slump over in disappointment. 

“You didn’t say over. Over.”

The boy jumps up at the sound of your voice emerging in the silence again. He holds the device in his hands so delicately, as if he might break it, as he brings it closer to his ears so he can hear you,  “Dustin would be so disappointed. It was the first thing he taught us. That we had to say over. Over.”

Steve smiles to himself and laughs, he holds down the button so you could hear the end of his laugh, a smile growing on your features at the familiar sound, “Right, right, sorry. Don’t tell Henderson that I forgot, please. I don’t want another lecture from the kid. Over.”

“Alright,” You sing the word slightly, making sure your voice is low enough to not wake up the girls that slept beside you, “I guess we can keep it between us. Over.”

“I appreciate it,” The Harrington boy's tone is steady with humor, before smoothing out into subtle concern, “Are you alright? How’s it going over there? …Over.”

“I’m alright. Everyone fell asleep, and I couldn’t sleep, so I just thought I’d try my luck in seeing if you were up. Were you? Up, I mean? I didn’t wake you up, did I? Over.”

Steve answers you immediately, not wanting you to feel any guilt or feel like an annoyance, “No, no, I was awake. I can’t sleep either. Over.”

Your finger caresses the button as a thought rushes through you. Had he been up thinking about you the same way you had been up thinking about him? Had the two of you shared the longing to be under the same roof, within reaching distance of one another? Had the two of you missed the usual routine of spending time together and talking before falling asleep? 

Pressing the button, you're silent for a moment before speaking with a deep honesty, “I think I couldn’t sleep without our usual nighttime talk. Feel like I couldn’t fully sleep well unless I got the Harrington goodnight that I’m used to. Over.”

It’s silent for a moment. From Steve’s room, the boy's features had softened, and his eyes swirled with adoration as he thought of you and your shared routine that the two of you had made together. With his heart overflowing with a new sense of endearment, his voice comes out tender, “Yeah, I think I couldn’t sleep without hearing your voice either. Guess I got pretty used to it being the last thing I hear before going to bed…over.”

The two of you had resorted back to lying down, your bodies relaxing as you follow through with your normal routine. You talk softly to one another until your eyes grow heavy, sleep sneaking up on you as you become comfortable with the lull of conversation.

“You falling asleep on me,” Steve whispers into the walkie-talkie, smiling because he already knew that you were. Before you could answer, his voice sweetly floated through the air of the room, “I’ll see you tomorrow when you come home. Goodnight, honey. Over.”

⋆˚꩜｡

Rain fell like bullets from the sky with a heavy aim on a moving target. Lightning cracked across rolling dark clouds, accompanied by a rumbling of earth-shattering thunder.

Headlights pushed through the onyx night, the vehicle's destination set, yet shaky with confirmation of its state of safety.

The windshield glass fogged up in the corners as the four passengers panted with fear and anticipation. They were in over their heads. All of their plans had withered away, forcing them to think on their stumbling toes. They were losing—and they knew it—but they still fought to keep him safe.

Stiles.

The bags under his eyes had turned darker by the minute in contrast to his paling skin. His lips were cracking under the constant anxiety-induced swiping of his tongue. His usual light brown eyes had grown heavy and stilled with focus as he gauged for actions and reaction—seeing if they mirrored his own.

With his eyes flickering from the road to the rearview mirror then out the window at the following storm, it didn’t take long before his eyes fell onto you. Your eyes meeting as a lightning bolt slammed above in the clouds, lighting the inside of the jeep with a flash. You take in a sharp breath at the sudden harshness of light and the reminder of Stiles’ changing appearance.

They were coming, their promise of following you, finding you, and trapping you rolled and cracked above within the sky.

The jeep skidded to a stop in the veterinary clinics parking lot, the four teenagers jumping out with a frightened quickness. Thunder boomed and flashes of light revealed the arrival of who they long spent running from.

Rain clung to your eyelashes and flew off the ends of your hair as you whipped your head around to find a gathering of black smoke transform into sword wielding beings. Your eyes burned against the pouring rain in a radiant yellow hue, your gums aching slightly, causing you to bare their new sharpened form and growl at the approaching figures. Subconsciously, your body moved to block the Oni from Stiles, who creeped backwards toward the back exit of the clinic. His voice could barely be heard above the pounding rain as he called out your name—beaconing you to follow him inside.

Momentarily, you were torn between fighting alongside Scott and Kira and staying near Stiles as a means of protection. The boy called out your name again, causing you to turn and look at him, his eyes visibly shining pleadingly through the sheets of rain. Looking back at Scott, the alpha nodded as his face transformed for his preparation to fight, “Go with him! Make sure he’s safe! We can handle them!”

Sparing a glance at Kira, the girl gave confirmation by wielding her own sword, slicing it through the rain before falling into a fighters stance. Nodding to yourself, you turn and run toward Stiles’ outreached arm that ushered the two of you inside the dark clinic.

Stiles broke away from you instantly, his hands moving quickly as he rummaged through drawers and let his eyes scan every label. With the table between the two of you, you watch him closely, “What are you looking for?”

Your voice comes out firm—accusatory, even. It causes Stiles to pause, so shortly that an untrained eye wouldn’t have noticed it, but you were once Derek’s beta, and he would never let you live down forgetting or missing a single detail that could change everything. The Stilinski boy frantically carried on, searching through cabinets, “Anything that can help us, anything that can stop them! Mountain ash, wolfsbane, magical beans—anything!”

You don’t respond, nor did you move. Your eyes stayed hard and focused on Stiles’ form. Your senses locked in on every aspect of the boy. His shallow breathing, the slight shiver of his body from his rain soaked skin meeting the AC filled room, the smell of panic and exhaustion seeping from his pores, and finally—his heart. It’s beating, though increased, wasn’t slamming against his rib cage as it normally did when Stiles was in the face of danger.

Narrowing your eyes, you watched as his movements slowed before coming to a complete stop. The dropping of his arms at his sides caused his final facade to fall. His body stopped shivering, his breathing suddenly steady, and his smell transitioning to something strong and dark—something that Stiles had never smelled like before.

Twisting his head to look at you over his shoulder, darkness appeared to loom over his body, possessing him and the area around him. Outside, lightning flashed and lit up the entire room, revealing that Stiles’ once amber eyes had turned onyx and insidious. The side of his lip twitching upward humorously as he slowly turned his body to face yours, “You are a lot smarter than you give yourself credit for. You know that?”

Your core shakes at the change in the boys voice—raspy and rough as if he had screamed too loud and strained his vocal cords. You try not to wonder if somewhere deep within his body, Stiles wailed for release and control over his physical self again. Could he see you? Could he hear you? Would he remember this if he returned to his body?

The nogitsune crept toward you with an eerie slowness. He didn’t circle you like a predator to a prey, no—he moved with an intention of soaking in every emotion that his presence caused to rush through you. He took a deep breath in through his nose and let his eyes roll slightly, as if your lack of movement and charge of feelings were intoxicating to him.

“I have to admit,” He held eye contact with you intensely, “Out of everyone who I thought would figure it out—I only partially considered you.”

You stood your ground as he grew closer allowing you to clearly see the tricksters spirit spiraling in his eyes. The table remained between you, and you wondered at what point would your body react and would your strength crumble. When would you break? When would you step back and away from him out of fear?

“I mean, his dad? His only living parent. Scott? His best friend. That is who I suspected the most. So I’ll admit—this is—striking,” His lips curled into an impressed smirk, tilting his head as his eyes raked over your body before letting his eyes possess yours again.

“I mean, I guess I should’ve figured. You were always sort of—there. Always a lingering thought or concern. Always a memory. Always a repeated name. Always used as a light in the darkest of nightmares. I’d try to get him alone, get him scared, and there you’d be,” The nogitsune chuckled at the recollection of seeing you appear in Stiles’ dream not once, or twice, but many times, “Like he would manifest you into a dream—out of nothing! Even when he lacked control over it.”

Stiles had spent many weeks enduring night terrors, and in many of them, his mind would try to ease him by bringing him something to calm him. Something like you. Something that Stiles knew and was familiar with. Something to make him forget that he was in a dream at all. You’d appear at his side, in his bed, kneeled in front of him—all to comfort him. The nogitsune doesn’t add that he started using your figure as a means to terrify the boy. Using your body and appearance to speak to him in riddled sign language, or say eerie things and beg for his warmth at your side. Even going as far to have your cold dead body appear at his feet in many instances.

Your presence set Stiles up for success and for failure. Even though humans have many weaknesses—you were one of Stiles’ strongest ones, “You are quite a powerful being to him.”

Snickering to himself, the fox let the lightnings flash smash against his features and the thunder add to his demeanor—he remains moving at a sickly pace, feeling too close yet seemingly still far away, “If I’m being honest, I thought the entire essence of your role in his life was merely one-sided. I guess not, huh?

Your silence is revealing. There were no words that could begin to deny that you had a deeper love for Stiles than friendship—but you had never guessed he had felt as deeply about you. You weren’t aware that your presence was demanded as a figure of calm in his dreams and that you were a stable thought in his endlessly racing mind. For the first time—you cracked in your stoic stance in front of the nogitsune. It was subtle—just a crease in between your eyebrows, but he saw it. Of course he did—his eyes were unmoving and stuck to your form since he stopped portraying the Stilinski boy.

“Oh. You didn’t know,” He laughs, and it's darker than how Stiles usually laughed. Whereas it normally came out from his stomach and was full of air and sqeakiness, the nogitsune had transformed it into a deep chest laugh with darkness echoing within its bass, “Tell me, if you couldn’t pick up on that—how were you able to decipher this?”

The grin had slid off of his face as his anger seeped in. He had done everything perfectly—he had perfected Stiles Stilinski. He spoke with a panicked tone and was sporadic in his movements and let his words come out in a quickness that was hard to follow. He had acted human, he acted scared at the sight of blood and guilty over the fact that it was his fault. He shook with the cold and mimicked all of the boys usual movements of fear and of gratefulness. He played confused and hurt and acted like he wanted to help. He was able to trick Scott. He was able to trick his father. He was able to subdue the alpha twins. But you—you had somehow slipped through the cracks of his act and saw to the truth of his performance. Someway, somehow.

The agony of knowing what he did wrong echoed throughout his being. How does the trickster fail at his trick? When had he slipped up? What, in his act, was so profound that you had picked up on his deceit?

You shook your head, only slightly, scared that if you moved or took your eyes off of him for one second he’d grow too close to bear. Attempting to keep your voice from shaking, you take a deep breath before whispering, “I don’t know.”

It was the truth. You didn’t know what caused you watch the boy so closely, not trusting that he was the same as he was before he disappeared. It was a tug, a voice in your head telling you to watch closely and move with caution. He just didn’t feel like Stiles—and every muscle, bone, and cell in your body told you not to run from that feeling, not to turn a blind eye for the sake of having him at your side again. You just knew. It wasn’t something to decipher—it was something that seemed almost viciously apparent.

The fox took in a shaky breath to contain his rage, his leg involuntarily taking a long stride toward you and slamming his hands on the metal table in between you two to keep him looking more composed, “Yes you do! Tell me! Tell me when you knew I wasn’t him! Tell me!”

Your body tensed at his closeness to you, just the table and a few paces away from you now. The sound of his hands smacking on the table matched the clash of thunder and swords connecting just outside. Licking your lips, your voice betrays you with a small tremble, “In the basement. At the school.”

At the school? At the very beginning of this? From the start? You had known it wasn’t him from the start? He recalled the way all of them looked at him in the school’s basement, the twins had gone to attack him, but you and Scott had held them back from their plan. Scott had been the one to keep them tame, his eyes, though hesitant, were willing to trust that his best friend was there and telling the truth. You hadn’t made any indication that you were suspecting him. When his eyes originally met yours he saw the relief at his return and the worry of what he had done while he was gone. He saw that you watched him, but it was the same as how you always watched Stiles. Maybe that was his mistake. Maybe his mistake wasn’t with his portrayal of Stiles, but his reading on your commitment to the boy.

Moving slowly again, he inched his way around the table, gaining closer by the minute. A smile ghosts across his lips as he speaks with his unusual raspy tone that you still hadn't grown accustomed to, “I thought I did a pretty good Stiles.”

“You were. You were fine. You were almost–almost him,” You still stood frozen in your spot, too stubborn to back away as his face grew clearer and closer to your own. Just a few paces away from you now. He looked so much like him, he was him—but he wasn’t, “You were almost Stiles.”

“Almost Stiles?”

The answer made a laugh bubble within his chest. It felt like a silly thing to say. His trick hadn’t gotten to you because he was only almost the boy. Tilting his head with a funny smile on his face, the nogitsune mocked you, “Are you saying you know him—wholly?”

Your silence falls onto listening ears, and it speaks volumes to what this small answer had provided for his leverage. You did know Stiles—because you were in love with him. It’s why you spent the entire time he was gone in the woods searching for him, why you kept checking your phone for messages about him or from him, it was why you answered all his calls at the first ring, why you remained worried about him even when he was near you, and it was why you knew that the man you loved wasn’t standing before you. The nogitsune filled with the thrill of knowing the amount of pain that this had caused you, because he knew how much pain it equally caused Stiles. Deep from within, he was continuously fueled by the pain that Stiles felt seeing you worried, hurt, or scared. The fox felt tipsy with the power and longed for more.

Sensing the being getting closer and growing unnerved by his wicked grin and intense eyes, you spit out, “It doesn’t matter, I just know that you’re not him, and I’ll always know.”

He now stood toe to toe with you, his breathing fanning your face, but you refused to back away now. You had something over him—you had seen past his trick and saw his truth, not many could say the same.

Smiling, the fox runs his fingers up your forearm and soaks up the goosebumps of fear that rise at his touch. Looking up at you through his eyelashes, he speaks lowly, “Well did you know that the nogitsune feeds off of chaos, strife, and pain.”

You almost have enough time to be confused by his statement. You almost have time to react to it. You almost thought that you had watched him closely enough, but you missed the second it took him to grab Deaton's hidden blades from the drawers upon arriving. You almost scream as he plunges two of the daggers into your sides.

Pain ripples through your body, already weak from spending the entire day taking the pain away from others. You grab onto his wrist to keep yourself upright but it only applies pressure to the wounds causing you to cry out. The boy shushes you softly as though to comfort you, leaning his head forward so that your foreheads meet—he wants your attention, “I may have underestimated Stiles’ role in your life, but I couldn’t ignore your influences in his. Any pain and conflict that you go through—Stiles embodies it as well. Why do you think the people who have gotten hurt got to where they are now? Hm? By chance? By coincidence? No.”

He pulls his head back and uses one hand to push hair out of your face so that you’d look at him before putting it back onto the blade, pushing it in slightly causing you to groan, “Isaac, your fellow little beta brother—the only other one remaining from your former pack. I knew you’d feel inclined to take most, if not all of his pain—you’re too close, too connected, and you did it blindly.”

Laughing softly, he pauses before watching your face as he twists the blades from left to right. Your teeth clenching and tears gathering in your eyes at the agony.

“And Coach, everyone knows he’s your favoite. The man that gives unlimited retest, resourceful study materials, and extensions on deadlines as long as you stay his track star. The man that gave you validation, not just when you wanted it, but when you needed it—even when you were just a human. You would never want him to feel pain.”

You thought back to earlier in the day, how Stiles had led everyone hunting for an unknown trap. It had led to an arrow being pierced through Coach’s abdomen and leaving him screaming that he was going to die. You hadn’t thought much of it, your eyes wide and your voice soft as you eased the man through the pain, holding his hand as you transferred it from him to you. Stiles had urged Scott to take over when you began to sway at the amount of pain rushing through your body. You're suddenly brought back as the fox twists the daggers again and pushes them in deeper, his hands coated in your blood.

“And those poor officers at the police station—you just couldn’t let them suffer. You’re just too good, but now—you’re full of all of their pain, and all of your pain,” The boy took in shaky deep breaths of pleasure and excitement as he felt Stiles internally screaming in agony at the sight and feeling of you crumbling around him, “and I can feel all of Stiles’ pain from seeing and causing you suffering.”

Your body began to shake, your wounds attempting to heal around the blades before being reopened by the nogitsunes constant twisting of them. A tear finally slipped past your eyelash and the fox released his holds of the blade, and moving to grip your face in his hands. His thumbs caressed your cheeks, mocking comfort as he leaned in and spoke harshly, “But I want more.”

Clouds swirled poetically yet strategically over the glade.

After nearly three weeks without rainfall, the gardeners had begun to worry for their crops and what they could do to save them. But alas, a storm brewed just in time to prevent the plants from withering away from dehydration. Some would call it a miracle, others may say it was foreseeable.

Why wouldn’t it be?

It had always rained when they needed it to.

Blue skies had quickly faded to a darkening grey, rain slapping harshly against every surface, turning dry land into swampy mush. Everyone had run for cover from the rain, gathering under tents and huddling together to avoid being alone during the storm.

But not you.

Seconds before the rain dropped against your skin, you had been the target of the boy's relentless teasing and scrutiny. It started small, a joke that could be laughed off and long forgotten, but they just couldn’t let anything be. They added more jabs, and it shifted from being part of the joke to becoming it. They weren’y always like this⸺the boys were normally protective and mindful when it came to you. If you were being honest, it could have been anyone, they had a knack for teasing and joking around with each other, not shying away from taking things too far, especially when the days were long or the nights were dull.

You’d also be lying if you said that you never participated in these same activities but on the otherside. You, too, had chuckled at the teasing jokes made about Winston or throwing in a jab or two at Gally to see how red in the face he’d get before he’d charge at the nearest boy to him.

However, this was different. Multiple restless nights of tossing and turning. Worry settling in your chest over some sort of looming doom that steadily crept its way to your mind. Something was coming, something big, something different⸺but you didn’t know when, or what, or who.

It was making you more irritable than usual. The lack of sleep, the constant anxiety of the unknown, and the absence of rain had you on edge and the relentless jabs were encouraging you to take a running leap off of it.

You had tried to distant yourself from the boys, continuing your work in the garden and attempting to ignore them, but your annoyance was louder than any words you could’ve spoken. It’s what fueled the boys further, chuckling, laughing, and adding on to previous jokes. You turned your back to them, looking as though you were busying yourself, but truly you were trying to hold the tears that lined your lashes back from escaping and revealing your vulnerability.

You knew that if they saw the tears, more teaisng would ensue. Names like crybaby, whiner, and moaner would be fast from their lips in mocking tones, hyena type laughs would be sure to follow and you’d earn a new reputation and nickname for the rest of your life here in the glade.

You had nearly lashed out at the boys as they started picking up small rocks and broken sticks and tossing them at your back. Hoping to get a reaction⸺trying to pull it out of you so they could continue on with this version of entertainment.

It was small droplets of water that fell haphazardly from the sky that hushed their laughter and chatter. You turned to them briefly, looking down at your arm that had been hit with rain before following their gaze up in the sky where the clouds were beginning to roll in.

Within seconds, the small droplets turned to sheets of rain freefalling from the sky. The boys all took off running to find shelter as you remained in your spot, closing your eyes and letting the rain soak through your clothes and cling to your hair. Licking your lips, you roll your eyes as the boys all screamed like women and took cover.

Were they not just calling you the weakest link and comparing your strength to their own?

You gathered your things and stomped through puddles to take cover from the rain alone in your own hut instead of going with the masses. You couldn’t bare the idea of being stuck in a place with the same people who were just taunting you, so you chose silent isolation over potential continued mockery.

Your hut was small, but it kept the rain from drowning you like the grass just outside. You shook your hands and rubbed them against each other to warm them from the sudden chill, your eyes searching for dry clothes. It felt useless to put on the dry clothes as your wet hair dampened your new dry top, but you were at least dryer than you had been. However, your annoyance over the feeling of a wet patch growing on your back and shoulders caused you to start wringing your hair out with more force than necessary.

The sheet that covered the threshold whipped against the wind and was pulled to the side, the sound of rain growing louder before quieting again as the cover was tucked into the creases of the hut, “I could’ve sworn I told you that you needed to tie this down or else the wind would take off with it.”

Pausing briefly in your movements, your eyes looked over your shoulder to find the boy with an accent inspecting the cover on your hut to ensure that it would stay put. Letting your hair go, your face tightens at the uninvited company, “What are you doing here?”

The attitude in your voice was easily detected by the pale boy, his eyebrow raised at your tone as he turned his body to look at you, your hair oddly tangled against your shoulders and an almost unnoticeable amount of water clinging to your skin, small patches of wetness on your shirt catching his attention, “It’s raining—stroming, really.”

“I’m aware.”

“And yet you’re alone,” It had been an unspoken rule in the glade that no one should ever be left alone for safety reasons. They boiled it down to there being strength in numbers, but it was only rain. It wasn’t like they all stepped into the maze, it was just water from the sky, yet Newt’s face remained serious as he spoke, “There’s potential danger in that.”

Newt had once believed that the rule was silly as well, of course he stood beside the rule and followed it. Never letting anyone remain alone and staying with the masses for protective purposes, but he never fully understood it until you showed up. He realized now that he never wanted you to be alone and potentially get hurt without someone near you to aid you or save you. He selfishly wanted it to always be him, but he never thought about that for too long, fearing that if he thought it then you might discover it.

Rolling your head in annoyance, your voice dripped with sarcasm as a tight smile stretched across your face, “Oh, well, I hope the rain doesn’t up and wash me away.”

The boy hummed humerously, a smile toying at his own lips at your sarcasm. He had always been so entertained by you. Setting the pan he used as a makeshift umbrella by the entrance, the boy walked further into the hut and closer to you, eyeing your face with a playful smirk, “So you’ve come in here to pout alone, eh?”

“I’m not pouting.”

You were betrayed by the huff that followed your statement, causing you to roll your eyes and Newt to grin at the sound. Feeling his eyes on you, you begin to move around your hut to look for things to start a fire in the tiny pit. With your back turned to him as you gathered things into your hands, you persisted, “I’m not.”

Newt takes notice of the things you had and immediately begins to help you gather more dry sticks and grass for the pit. Walking up to you, his hands softly caress your own as he takes the things from you to build the fire for you. You try to ignore the warmth that sprouts from his touch, the warmth that always flashed through you when his hands touched yours or your arms brushed in passing. There were times when even his eyes would cause a pang of heat in your chest, causing you to never hold his eye contact for too long.

As he squats down to start the fire, the boy looks up at you with a sly look, “Well, you should tell that to your extended bottom lip.”

He was teasing you, it was light hearted, you knew it was, but the tone still sent frustration rolling through your veins. You had come here to be alone, to be free of the teasing and now here Newt sat, doing exactly what you tried to avoid. Clenching your jaw, you tried to calm yourself down as you turned your back to him to attempt to make yourself look busy, “I just wanted to be left alone.”

The playful look on Newt’s face dropped as his eyes looked up from the fire and realizing he could only see the back of your head. Why had you turned away so suddenly? Standing up and brushing his pants off, the boys eyebrows furrowed, “Are you alright?”

“If I had wanted to continue to be teased, I would have joined the others,” You spoke quickly as tears began to form in your eyes. The burning sensation only made you more frustrated. Why must you cry when you were angry? It didn’t make sense to you, yet you always did it.

“The others were teasing you?” Newt questioned with a laugh attempting to escape his throat, “Thats what’s upsetting you? You know they’re all a bunch of lousy shanks.”

When you didn’t answer, the boy slowly began to approach you, tempting you to turn around and look at him, “Come on, we’ve all been a victim of it and we’ve all participated in it. Is that really what’s upsetting you?”

His tone was full of amusement, not fully understanding the weight that had been on your chest for the past week and a half. He knew that you usually were able to hold your own when it came to the others teasing you. Hell, you had even been a leader in the teasing against Gally just a few weeks prior, finding the freckled boys frustration to be a hilarious sight. He didn’t understand why something like this would set you off.

When you still didn’t turn around to face him, Newt placed his hand on your shoulder, “Hey.”

You turned your head and looked down at the boys hand, from this angle, the light from the fire reflected off the tears that shone in your eyes which caused the pale boys heart to drop. His smile was swept off of his face and he tugged slightly on you so that you were fully facing him. Your eyelashes were wet and just below your eyes were small puddles of tears. Searching your eyes frantically, the boy tried to push down the sudden fire that unleashed inside of him, “I’ll tell ‘em to lay off. I’ll tell ‘em right now.”

Newt turned on his feet and headed toward the cover, picking up the pan off of the ground as he began to untire the knot he made so that the cover wouldn’t blow away with the storm. Following closely behind him, you grab at his hands to stop him, “No, Newt, don’t–.”

“–No, they’re being too mean to you. They shouldn’t be making you cry. You shouldn’t be crying.”

“They didn’t! I’m not! I just–I’m just tired. I haven’t been sleeping very well.” You rub your hands over your face and wipe at the tears before grabbing Newt’s hands and pulling him back into the center of your hut and closer to the fire. You sit down and look at up at him with pleading eyes. Already understanding, the boy slowly sits down beside you. He nods for you to continue, letting you know he isn’t going anywhere and that he’s there to listen to you.

“I’m not sure why or what’s happening. I just–something doesn’t feel right.”

Shifting slightly to face you, Newt leans forward at your tone. He could tell by your frigid body that whatever you were going through, whatever you were feeling was real and frightening you into insomnia. He didn’t say aloud that he had noticed teh fire in your hut being lit throughout the night, or that he had heard from the others that you had been the first one up every morning and helping others with their work before they’re day had even started, “Feel right, how?”

“I just feel like something’s coming. Something big and I don’t know what it is. But it’s scaring me.” Your last statement came in a hushed tone, it was something that you were almost ashamed to admit. That something that you couldn’t see or feel or even truly know could scare you. You let your face fall causing your hair to shield you from Newt’s soft and empathetic eyes.

Hesitantly, Newt raises his hand and brushes your fallen hair from your face, his thumb lingering behind to softly trace lines into your cheek. Your eyes look up to meet his, even though you both sat next to the fire, goosebumps travel up your arms and your breath gets caught in your throat. His voice drops into a hushed promise, his accent dripping in honey to coat the fears of your own shaky voice, “You know I’d never let anything or anyone hurt you.”

He wasn’t asking if you knew, he was telling you what he knows. You search his eyes and only find a truthful and beautiful gleam shinning within them. Newt’s thumb pauses under your watchful gaze. The light from the fire caressed the other side of your face and allowed the boy to see every dip and curve, all your freckles and moles, and the shine in your eyes. His words had been nothing but the truth. He’d never let anything hurt you. He’d do anything to protect you. Even if it was from a little bit of rainfall. Even if it was keeping the wind from taking your tarp. Even if he had to tell the others to watch the way they spoke to you. Even if he had to run from the others in the middle of a storm and risk getting sick from the rain to make sure you weren’t alone.

“Newt,” His name dropped from your lips like sand between fingertips, so velvety, and so quiet. Eyes sliding from your lips to your eyes, the boy leaned forward just slightly, his voice just as soft and seemingly as out of breath, “Yeah?”

There was nothing left to say. Only the gravital pull between the two of you that you’ve long ignored raged forward in the small hut. Your lips brushed at first, almost cautious that something would happen to pull you two apart. But only soft sounds of rain persisted outside and lolled into the background as your hearts pounded loudly against your chests. After a second of soft touches between lips, you pushed yourself forward to deepen the kiss. Newt fell back slightly, shocked by the action, but quickly straightened his back and brought his hands to cup your face. The fire in the room didn’t burn nearly as fiercely or as bright as the longing within the two of you. Something that had always been unspoken now turned into a free forest fire of affection and security.

The kiss is slow, yet full of unuttered confessions. How long had the two of you danced around one another? How many times did he fall naturally beside you in a group setting? How many times did you go to him with any and all questions even if you knew someone was more equipped to answer it? How many times had your hands ghosted over each others skin? How many soft touches and longing looks were shared between the two of you? It couldn’t have been a coincidence, not all of those times, not any of those times.

Pulling back breathlessly, Newt rests his forehead against yours, he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. Lifting his face, he scanned the features on your face, letting his thumb trace over some of them. Turning toward the door, the boy smiled, “It stopped raining.”

You look up and listen closely, only hearing the birds and the boys outside now. Smiling softly, you put a hand over Newt’s, bringing his attention back to you, “Thank you for making sure I wasn’t alone during the storm.”

Newt smiled and tilted his head humorously, “Yeah, well, I couldn’t let it wash you away now could I?”

The stars that hung in the sky on the night you spent with Igby would tell the tale of true warmth and delicate feelings for the rest of their burning lives. Echoing the comforting words the two of you shared. Encapsulating every touch, hug, and graze of fingertips against skin. They’d speak of the screaming color that wrapped itself around the two of your colorless lives while trying to recount the secret language of your understanding of one another.

And even if they could remember every intricate detail of that night⸺it still wouldn’t serve justice to how powerful the night truly was for you both.

That night replayed in your heads for days later, you didn’t speak about the looming presence of his family or your secret that could destroy the last lingering connection you had to your own. Instead, you held onto each other, words of comfort falling past lips and promising potential future harmony to each other. You had fallen asleep tangled in each other's presence and promises, letting reality slip away from your grasp as you soaked in the golden moment between the two of you.

However, reality would make itself apparent again. It had to⸺Igby, and you had known that from the moment he arrived at your apartment that night. But it didn’t make this day any easier.

The cold chill that had once been present in New York had allowed the graces of a warmer day to make itself known, the sun dancing across the sky with a watchful gaze. Igby glanced at it as he walked the familiar path to your apartment; his movements were more dreadful and slow than they had previously been. A part of him cursed this day away; he once wished for a warm day in this cold city, and he hated the irony that was a warm evening in this damnest of times.

He paused when your building came into his view, his eyes trained on the very window he first saw you. The memory of your body being haloed by the sun and your teasing voice irking his soul as you purposely called him the wrong name. He found you annoying and never imagined a world where your voice would become his beacon of light and liveliness.

Letting his hazel eyes rise up to where you two had shared countless joints and stared down at the passing people below, his eyes met your figure, and he had half a mind to turn around and forget what he had to do. Or he could join you and refuse to let reality capture him and swallow him whole. He wasn’t sure⸺he just knew he didn’t want to do this.

Any thought of running was banished from his mind as you leaned against the brick railing of your roof, looking down at his body that stood across the street. You tilt your head, watching the boy stand frozen in the middle of a frenzy of moving bodies. Even at a distance, even with many people standing between you, it somehow felt like it was just the two of you as your eyes locked on one another. Sucking in a breath, Igby drifted across the street toward your apartment as if he was a moth to a flame, unable to think of anything but getting to you and enjoying the burn of your light.

Pushing open the door to the roof, his eyes take only seconds to find you. Your body is in the exact place it was the first time you had invited him up to the roof. Your legs dangling on each side of the building as you turn to look at him, a small smile growing on your face. Igby takes this moment to let this image of you burn into his memory forever, the sun grazing against your features and your smile directed only toward him. Even though he dreads his future words, your smile feels so welcoming that he begins to form one of his own. Your impact on him showing clearly as he allows the warmth of the day to finally touch his own skin without cursing it away.

Approaching you slowly, he leans his body against the space just beside you⸺just as he had the first time and every time after. You watch as he stares at the people passing below, his eyes conflicted as his mouth twitches. You knew the day would come and that he’d dread it, but you couldn’t help but feel honored that he had come to see you one last time. There was a tiny amount of fear in you that he’d just leave⸺take off, running away from his family or returning to them without saying goodbye. Yet here he stood, needing you more than anything before he made his final decision.

Igby once believed that poverty was the only thing keeping him in New York, in that ratty apartment and this cold city. Yet as he stood there, he realized that now the only reason he’d ever want to stay⸺was for you.

He realized that every moment with you was warm; every time you looked at him, he could see the golden light he had always craved. Maybe he didn’t need to go somewhere new, maybe you were enough to save and free him from the icy curse of his family. He wasn’t sure how he was going to say goodbye to you⸺or if he’d even be able to.

“You decided to go home?”

Igby’s face screwed up at the term. He hadn’t called the house where his family lived home in a long time. He couldn’t even be able to recall the last time he even referred to it as such. Tearing his gaze away from the people on the sidewalk, Igby glanced at you before picking at the scarf he still had wrapped around his neck, “Got to make sure my mother actually croaks this time around.”

You don’t respond to his crude statement, you just continue to watch him struggle internally with the war in his head. Leaning forward, you catch his eyes and place your hand over the one that pulled relentlessly at a string on his clothing, “Are you going to be okay?”

He blinks fast at the question, still unfamiliar with the affection and genuinity of your voice. Suddenly, his decision to return to his mother's side doesn’t make any sense. Why would he ever return to such a horrid situation when someone as gentle as you existed? How was he supposed to leave you behind? Maybe he didn’t have to, “We should leave.”

Your eyebrows raise at his quickened words, his eyes turning to yours pleadingly as he continued almost frantically, “You and me. We can pack our bags and leave New York. It can just be us; we won’t have to worry about anything else.”

“Igby-.” You whisper, but the boy can’t stop as the words push past his lips. His fear of being in the same room as his mother and brother only increased his reasons for fleeing⸺except now he couldn’t do it unless you joined him. Shaking his head, the brunette stumbles over his words, “My family doesn’t care about me, and yours—yours keeps you locked away in this apartment! We could just leave and go and be happy without their constant weight! We could—We could–.”

The boy worked himself up so much that he resorted to pacing before you, causing you to remove yourself from the roof's edge to grab the boy's hands and keep him in place. He stops his rambling to look at your calm eyes.

“You know I can’t do that, Igby,” You whisper softly, searching his eyes to ensure that your words don’t come off as a rejection and instead a retelling of your familial situation. Truthfully, you would love to join the boy on his adventures, yet the pull of being the perfect child for your parents was too haunting and embedded for you to leave behind.

Scoffing, the boy shakes his head, not accepting the reasoning for your words. Your name falls from his lips in an exasperated tone as he speaks again, “Can’t you see that your parents are never going to let you out of here? They’re going to keep you locked away in this prison for the rest of your life, and you’re just letting them!”

“Igby-.”

“No! They have you! They already have you here! What makes you think they won’t have you locked away for the rest of your life? You need to get out of here, even if it’s not with me! Either way, I just–I just need you to get away from here, away from them,” The boy rants with frustration rising over your current issue, the truth of his feelings about it coming to light.

Sighing lightly, you can’t help but understand his words and his fears about your parent's future plans for you. You had thought about it many times before, yet you had already decided on these thoughts long before you met Igby. Now, your only concern was making sure the boy before you would be okay and escape in ways you’ve never been able to. Bringing a hand up to hold his jaw, his hazel eyes burn as they meet yours, listening carefully to every word that leaves your mouth, “With what money, Igby? How could either one of us live a life without money? Would we just share a couch and sell drugs around the city for Russel? Is that really what you want?”

Igby shook his head and looked down at his feet. He didn’t know how he’d get the money, he just knew he wanted to be with you. Closing his eyes, the boy knew that he had to return home if he wanted to escape life as a couch-surfing drug delivery boy. Taking a deep breath, he grabs your wrist gently and looks back up at you, “I can go back to my family, get the money, and come back for you. I can come back, and we can go anywhere we want. Just the two of us.”

A part of you wants to accept his offer, but you remember every story he told about this very moment. The moment that he had enough money to be happy and alone, you knew that it would be selfish to piggyback off his escape and claim it as your own. You just can’t do it to him, so you decline his offer again, “You’re going to go to your family, see your mom away, get your money, and then you’re going to be free. Without me.”

Igby shakes his head, his eyes closing in pain as his head drops, but you’re quick to pick it back up. His eyes are misty as he looks to you again, “Please.”

Your heart aches at his pleas, but you know he needed this. He needed to find himself without looking over his shoulder for his family or carrying you, “You have to get out of this city, away from your family. You have to be free and live without anything holding you back or causing any distractions. I need you to do that. I need you to let the light in, Igby. Please, if you do anything for me, I need it to be that.”

The Slocumb boy searches your eyes for any cracks in your words, but you mean every word. It hits Igby that you’re the only person who ever wanted him to do something for himself instead of moving in a way to please someone else. Letting his fingers rub up and down your arms, he stares deeply into your eyes as he admits in a whisper, “I think you’re the only real friend I’ve ever had.”

Tears well up in your eyes as you smile at the boy, “I think you’re mine as well.”

The two of you sit silently at your confession, knowing that what the two of you felt was something much deeper than friendship, yet it didn’t mean that the hushed words weren’t true. However, Igby can’t refrain himself as his hands cup your face and his lips connect to yours softly. Warmth and comfort wash over the two of you as your bodies press against each other in a gentle action of intimacy. Pulling away slowly, your foreheads lean against one another, and the boy raises his thumbs slightly to caress your cheek. You offer him a smile, which he returns before you whisper, “I’ll be expecting a postcard.”

Laughing lightly and shaking his head at your callback to his previous words, he breathes out, “I’ll send you a whole damn plane.”

You don’t respond; you can only lift your head to place a gentle kiss on the boy's mole that sits perfectly on his cheek. His eyes close at the action, his body filling with gratitude and solace at your small yet impactful action. The two of you know that this won’t be the last time you see each other, not when the longing feeling to return home to one another was deep in your marrow. Maybe that was why Igby was able to pull his body away from yours and return to his own haunted house a few cities away, but not before leaving his scarf wrapped around the door handle of your apartment door on his way out. Something to remember him by, something to remember that escape was possible and that he’d always come back if you so much as thought of it.

It would be almost a week until you’d hear from the boy again. You’d be in your apartment, trying to return to how life was before Igby. It was proven to be a much harder task than anticipated. You had resorted to pacing the floor, chewing on your nails as you wondered and worried about the boy who ignited a fire within your soul. You could only hope that he had made it there, followed through with his plan, and escaped his life of running and hiding.

Your windows were cracked open, letting the warm breeze whisk away the smoke of your cigarette as you sat on your window seal. Flicking the ashes out the window, your eyes look curiously at the outside world. You had fallen back into the habit of people-watching as boredom filled your life at the lack of visits from a certain delivery boy.

It was the sound of ringing that pulled you from your thoughts. Stabbing your cigarette into the ashtray, you glide toward the noise and place the phone to your ear, “Hello?”

It’s silent on the other side of the phone for just a moment before a familiar voice rings out, “Hi, this is Jason Slocumb Junior.”

You can’t ignore the jump of your heart at the boy's voice that you could admit you were already missing. Furrowing your eyebrows, you smile humorously at the boy before speaking, “Your name is Jason?”

Igby hummed on the other side of the phone, glancing toward Oliver, who was watching him make his half of the calls. Smiling sarcastically to ensure that his brother didn’t know he was calling you, the boy continued without answering your question, “I just called to inform you that Mimi Slocumb won’t be answering any further invitations because she’s dead.”

The Slocumb boy waited for your response, hoping that you’d be selfish and ask for him to return to get you before fleeing. All you had to do was say the words, even just suggest it, and he’d come to you. No questions asked. No hesitation. However, you smiled to yourself and spoke warmly, “Go ahead and let the light in, Igby. I’ll be seeing you.”

The two of you sit silently for a prolonged moment, the boy relishing in your voice and promise, feeling comfort for the first time in days. Closing his eyes briefly, the boy pretends you are beside him with your beautiful smile and encouraging nods. A ghosting smile crosses his features before he hangs up the phone, not wanting his brother to know he still has you to keep promises with.

From your kitchen, you’d listen to the static sound of the dial tone before placing the phone back down with a small smile. Even though so much of you wanted him to return, you felt joyous over the fact that the boy was finally free from everything he had spent so long running from. You knew that your words were true. You would be seeing him, just not as soon as you’d hoped.

The next time you heard from Igby, it came in the form of mail.

Your tutor had entered your apartment, books and notes in hand, along with the mail the doorman had handed her when she passed. Setting up your workspace, she gives you the pile of envelopes, magazines, and newspapers, allowing you a moment to sift through them boredly. However, your attention perks as your fingertips graze the side of a single piece of thin cardboard.

GREETINGS FROM CALIFORNIA! THE GOLDEN STATE.

Looking over your shoulder, you excuse yourself from the dining room to the comfort and isolation of your room. Sitting on your bed, you place the other worthless mail beside you and cling to the most valuable object. Running your fingers over the enlarged font, you take a deep breath before flipping it over. Your heart leaped at the familiar handwriting that was scribbled on the back. At the top, your name was written clearly and sincerely, just as Igby remembered you. The only thing written on it was a new address, as well as a plane messily drawn near the bottom with a note below it.

Until I can send the real thing. -Igby

Smiling at the written promise, you bring the small piece of him you had to your chest⸺hugging what meant the most to you close to your heart. Taking a deep breath, you stand from your bed and place the postcard on your vanity where you can always see it. It becomes clear that out of every expensive piece of furniture and knick-knacks you had, this twenty-five cent piece of cardboard held the most value.

That would continue to ring true, except as the months went on, Igby would continue to write to you. His letters filled with what life in California was like; he’d write of the sun and the warmth, but he’d never admit that it didn’t compare to the warmth you had offered him. It wasn’t even close. It would beg to be written, but it would never reach the paper, the boy fearing that his confession would confirm how much distance there was between you. So, instead, he’d settle with leaving constant reminders that he’d return to get you and help you escape your parents' isolated prison. Your letters would contain what the weather was like in New York, as well as telling the boy that Russel had taken to delivering the drugs himself. The drug dealer not wanting for you to be left alone⸺he couldn’t do that to the tragic muse of his work. You’d sign off every letter with the same promise of seeing him when the time came. Eighteen was closer than it seemed. It had to be. It was a reminder you would write to him in hopes of reassuring yourself.

However, the shared fear of you and Igby would come true. Your parents would decide that letting you go at eighteen isn’t what’s for the best. They would continue to hold you hostage in the apartment, now sending in professionals to prepare you to work for your family company one day. Your once promising letters turned to ones full of misery and doubt. Igby’s remained optimistic, even going as far as offering to return to New York and bring you back to California with him. He knew you wouldn’t do it because, as he had told you on the rooftop the last time you saw each other, your parents' claws were too deep in you. They were too embedded for you to remove them without fatality. Yet, he needed you to know that his promise would always remain. He’d always hold you and the unbroken promise sacred.

Years would pass, yet Igby’s letters never slowed, and you kept every single one of them. There were occasions when the two of you would call one another, but timezones and your parents' distractions caused them to come to a predictable decline. On your twentieth birthday, you broke your own heart⸺sending him a letter of apologies and regret. You felt as though you were holding the boy back from living his life fully. It wasn’t fair of you to make him wait for you. It wasn’t fair for him to be free yet still be tied down by someone who couldn’t share that experience with him. So you offered him an out, telling him that he didn’t need to check up on you or keep your promise because your devotion to your parents had been controlling you and remained unmoving.

In return, Igby sent you the shortest letter he had ever sent to you. There was no talk about California, its weather, its glowing sun, or the new activities he had clung to within the time he received your last letter. It was just a piece of paper with three sentences scribbled on it.

My life here will never be complete until you’re here with me. I’ll wait for the rest of my life if I have to. I know I’ll be seeing you again. -Igby

These three sentences would sit with you for nearly a year. The letter would remain with you at all times, serving as a reminder that even when you’ve given up on yourself, there was someone out there who loved you enough to wait a lifetime. You’d read it once, twice, even three times a day. Letting his words ignite a bright and burning fire in your soul. Finally, on a random Wednesday evening, the fire would burn away the leash that your parents had you locked in. You had saved more than enough money on your own to live comfortably for years and enough experience to find a job elsewhere. So without warning, without so much as a notice, you walked away from your family's company, returned to the familiar apartment, packed your things, grabbed every single letter and postcard Igby had sent you, and left this life of despair behind. Not feeling an ounce of loyalty to return or shame to cower away from this moment.

After almost twenty-one years of begging and pleading for love from your parents, you finally walked away and toward the golden affection and tenderness that awaited your arrival on the other side of the country.

Igby never stopped thinking about you, wishing upon shooting stars and fallen eyelashes that you’d one day have the courage to cut the ties of your enclosure. He’d imagined on countless nights that you would call him or send him a letter that revealed that you were finally free. His mind would only ease itself to sleep if it thought of the one night you had spent together all those years ago. The night where he momentarily forgot about your shared pain and instead found light within each other. It had been the best sleep of his life⸺his body tangled against your own in a blazing flush of adoration and tranquility.

In the morning, the Slocumb boy would check his voicemail for any missed calls from you and check his mailbox for any letters. When there were none, he’d resort to continuing on with his day, his thoughts lingering around what you were doing, where you were, and if you were okay.

Reading a book you had recommended to him, Igby tried to pass the time. Eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he read. The boy's attention was broken by a knock on his front door. Pushing himself off the couch, he places the book down and approaches the door with a swiftness in his step. Without peering through the peephole, the brunette opens the door and pauses at the sight before him.

Your body stood frozen before him, your eyes scanning his before taking in every feature. He had grown since you had last seen him; his face was more mature, and his body was not as awkward against his posture. His slouch had disappeared after all these years away from his family, no longer looking over his shoulder or running from shadows that lingered for too long.

His hazel eyes held onto a stunned shine, taking in every part of you. His tongue darted between his lips as he tried to decipher if this was real or if his imagination had finally seeped into reality. You had looked different, yet exactly the same. The sun circling around your body, causing your new freedom to radiate off you in waves.

After a prolonged moment of shocked silence, you smile and breathe out, “Hi.”

That smile, your smile, and that voice, your voice. It was real, it was right here in front of him, you were right here in front of him. The warmth that California couldn’t supply Igby came rushing through him in waves of love as your eyes locked, a grin growing on the boy's face before his hands grabbed the sides of your head, pulling you into a long-awaited kiss.

The two of you smile into it, unable to stop laughs of disbelief from breaking through the moment. After all this time, after all the distance⸺this was happening.

You were real. He was real. This moment was real.

Pulling back slightly, the boys' thumbs caressed your cheeks softly, the two of you looking at one another with tear-filled eyes. Unable to say anything, he pulled your lips back to his own. This time, there was no laughter, there was no smiling. There was passion, there was gentleness, there was warmth, there was comfort, and above all else, there was love.

The two of you would continue to live your lives together in harmony. Knowing that no matter where you were, as long as you were together⸺everything would be okay. You’d grow together, you’d fight together, and you’d love together. There were times of hardship and disagreements, but never doubt when it came to each other or your relationship. In moments of weakness, you would uplift one another, and in times of remembrance of your estranged families⸺you’d remind one another how much love there was between the two of you, and there was no limit on it. Your love for each other was unconditional.

For so long, you two had been labeled as difficult. Difficult to obtain, difficult to tolerate, difficult to love. They said you two were too sensitive, too much to handle, too emotional. It was the universal curse of sensitivity. However, as time continues and your love grows stronger with Igby, it becomes clearer. You were not difficult to obtain or tolerate. And you are not difficult to love.